From the Stolen Papers

Spiraling

2011-10-21T00:40:00.001-07:00

Into love
Into isolation
Into being
A moody song

I cannot bear.

2010-08-30T23:50:00.000-07:00

Now I’m awake

And it’s too late,

Now I’m awake

And the night is gone.

There was noise in the night

And I needed you to make it

Whisper,

Crooning sounds;

Holding my mind down,

But now I’m awake

And you’re too late.

I couldn't hear
the kaliedoscope speak,
It jangled and hummed,
But I wasn't in me.
Scared of beauty, words;

These erstwhile friends,

I fell asleep,
and so the night ends.

City Man

2010-08-02T12:11:00.000-07:00

Man, you fool.
You go away and leave me,
you come back and need me.
Your morning smile from my voice,
your sleeping sigh on my thighs.
Still you go, you fool,
my man.

Man, you fool.
You forget me now,
like a song that comes only with rain,
but it will thunder again
and you'll sing it from your heart.
Yet you soak the sun, you fool,
my man.

You love and love,
I do not know how
With the simplicity of breath,
And the inevitability of living,
Just love and no pause,
You're all heart, you fool,
my man.

The Cleaner

2010-07-18T11:21:00.000-07:00

Rip goes the photo of my
tear blotched sari,
Whooshing out is my guilty ache,
My mother kills herself
but never dies
I absolutely deny all blame.
Blood turned into muddy brown
Now it's blooming red,
The cobbler stitched up my torn shoe
And so my toe puffs out his chest.
My child has no home
she keeps running away
from all the things that live in it
the broken, the weak and the lame
Now she's gone forever away
She'll come back yet
You're here
and the junk is withering away.

Commitment

2010-05-11T05:36:00.000-07:00

Things don’t always tie in neatly and nor should words.

They should be fragmented,

discordant,

sta.cca.to,
fluid like neraids wearing flowing green silk doing the backstroke,

hollow,

empty,

leaping off

the page in

pogo-sticked

exuberance

shouting their mad joy

SMACK

in the reader’s unsuspecting face,

intimate as the nook in your lover’s neck where he smells the gentlest,

turbulent like the blood in your heart,

constant like you.

They should be what you are, who you are, where you are, how you are. When you give up on them, they give up on you.

How can you?

Emptiness

2009-12-08T01:37:00.000-08:00

(also called "a bit sloppy but it struggled out of me")

Fill it.

Mocking space

Midnight room

With you

Fingers, forearms

Shoulders, calves

Your chest, your breath

You

We haven’t met

But do you remember

The last time we parted?

I’m afraid I’ve forgotten

Where we promised to meet

But I’m waiting

In my

Midnight room

Mocking space.

Save Tonight

2009-11-10T01:43:00.001-08:00

Slap yourself silly

And a hut somewhere

Far away

Fell down

But you’re still

Sitting on the bed.

Albeit a bit red.

2009-10-27T02:12:00.000-07:00

Things I wish for today:

to hear a song that has every tune and beat and tempo in the world and that makes you swoon and lilt and cry and bop in frenzy.

to say "i'm popeyed with awe" and then laugh away the awe with the word popeyed.

to sleep in a room that's all blue and changes colour to a lemon yellow from my breath the longer I sleep. and then i wake up bright like a slow smile.

to live another life and remember it - russian spy, that girl with the fierce eyes and pugnacious lips, a sleek animal with silky pelt that doesn't care about anyone but itself and has no conscience, extinct human.

to feel like my heart's pulsing silver again and is shaped like a hotrod.

to have a easier system in place for travel. What's the world coming to when desire isn't enough to take you places?

Musica

2009-09-29T03:25:00.000-07:00

There's a reason to keep FTV playing. The music is fab!
Some songs I heard on the channel that I love:

1. Harvest Moon - Neil Young
2. Going back to 505 - Arctic Monkeys
3. Stitched Up - Herbie Hancock featuring John Meyers
4. Hometown Glory - Adele

The Thing With Dreams

2009-08-31T03:27:00.000-07:00

From the time we are children we have innuemrable dreams that we remember indulgently.

Like running a boarding school.

Like being Ms. Universe (ok.. some dreams you remember with a cringe)

Like dancing in a broadway show as the main lead.

Like being Head girl.

Like running a huge conglomerate with all your friends.

Getting a tattoo.

And some you fulfilled and some you gladly forgot you had and some slip away while leaving you happy that you had them. You enjoyed the process of building a dream, detailing it, agonizing over it so much, that you don't really mind when it vanishes to nothing. It was special even as a castle in the air. Hell.. it was special because it was a castle in the air.

So Nemesis, the day you called to share your good news, you must know that about 83% of my childhood dreams died.

Food the Leveler

2009-08-24T01:37:00.000-07:00

All my friendships have begun with food. A deep shared love for some kind of food. (Freud would comment on this.)

Paris, Alanis and I are different. We would never have hung out at the same clubs (if I ever went to a club at all). I would look on perplexed as Alanis hugged the same people every single day for straight 20 seconds as if she hadn’t just met them the day before. Paris would piss me off with her la-di-lah “I can’t go for a picnic coz I get carsick” ways. But we all loved our dal-chawal-bhindi. We didn’t just love it… it filled our soul. It bound us together in a way that only something that means home can. This shared meal at Mrs. H’s table was what made us sisters.

Another friend from my college days, Shade, was made over college vada pav. We marvelled daily at the sheer perfection of college anna’s vada pav. The chutney was so right… so suited to the vada pav that even I, who like my vada pav unadulterated, loved it. Every day we would wander over to the canteen without thought. Order our vada pavs like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally… “Anna, ek Vada pav, sambar nahin, chutney side mein or ek mirchi bhi.” Etc. We went on to share books, obsessions and a disregard for others.

Shade is now in NZ and I haven’t been back to that Vada Pav. Maybe I will one day.

In Bombay I met Harry. Or she met me. And in our apartment we bonded over oil slicked, takeout Indian Chinese. We were poor. We were struggling and we were stingy. Jimmies Kitchen was cheap and his servings were more than generous. So we patronized Jimmy. Or Jimmies. Grammar not being his strong point obviously. Harry and I also are like criminals who become friends because of a job done together. It started one day when Gaia was really in a temper and cooking. She was banging pans and vegetables around and we decided to cut our losses and get out before we were forced to eat food definitely not made with love. So both of us faked work calls and left 15 minutes apart. We then went to this shady joint on Carter road called Mezbaan and gorged on Alu parathas. It became our escape spot. Our place of flight in case of fight.

I’ve a friend at work. We have a quid pro quo relationship. I take her home cooked food and she ferries me around in her car as and when she can and I need.

Some of closest friends are also family. There are a lot of jumbled memories of growing up with them so I guess it’s not just about food… but certainly katha dal with talna, negia, labsi, kadi, badi, bhindi, mirchi, kat, teen belan dal, ghee is in our blood. It is the aroma that brings us home from wherever we may be. It is a flavour we are passing on to our kids and it is a spread that means togetherness. It's strange but friends who are as blood as blood love this meal too! hmm.

All relationships are about something basic I guess. So my friendships began with food – one of the base things on Maslow’s pyramid. And since then we’ve just been climbing right to the top of it.

Dear Diary

2009-07-06T05:52:00.000-07:00

One day:

There is joy in me. A helpless kind. The kind that makes you dig up Bryan Adams and bop in front of the mirror. Then kind that makes you buy lipstick and then pout to see the effect. The kind that I want to rein in because I’m scared to feel something that has no meaning.

There is joy in silliness that all the sense in the world cannot erase. It just comes and laughs inside you like a jester juggling in the midst of the King’s court.

One day and then some:

And then there’s sadness. Just like that. Just that helpless.

Baarish is different from Barsaat

2009-06-25T02:36:00.000-07:00

There’s something very peculiar about rain. It’s always got its own agenda. The rain that makes you want to snuggle in bed and read a book is distinct from the rain that wants you to snuggle in bed and watch a movie. Then there’s the rain that makes you go into you iTunes and dig out Janet Jackson or some other lost song from the past.

There are days when rain just wants to meet mud and play. The red smell of it draws you to the window and makes you look at a football with lust.

Dull throb rain means to make you as sad as it is. No matter how young or old you are it wants you to remember and pine.

There’s verandah rain and chai rain and sometimes the two go together. Rain that calls for lovemaking plays a softer tune than the one that makes you dance.

Some might think that it’s not the rain but the mind that has feeling. But that’s just silly. It’s a well known fact that Rain is a person and has moods and MPD like the rest of us.

Today Rain is just rain. She’s playing her cards close to the chest and won’t let me in on her plans. So I’m in office. Tomorrow maybe we’ll play hooky.

K.I.S.S

2009-05-08T00:30:00.000-07:00

I feel like writing for Paris.

A letter of love to her.

A poem.

A story.

An ode.

A book.

Something that will capture what it means to me that she reads what I write.

That she loves what I write.

That she checks every two days for an update even when I go months without writing.

And I realize as I note these points… that this is more a love letter from her to me than vice a versa.

And I cannot top it with any words.

A Secretive Writer

2009-04-26T22:54:00.000-07:00

Blank. That’s right.

Not because I have nothing to say this time.

But because I have too much.

What kind of writer has secrets I ask myself?

Expose yourself

they say

Tell of that time

you

Peed in your pants

Gave 20 desperate calls

Loved and lost

Kissed a woman

Hated your parents

Casually forgot a lover

Wished your dog was dead

Crushed a heart and grinned

Undressed before the mirror

Tell it all

In words

And painful, twisted strokes

In sighs

And anguished murmurs

Laugh as you reveal

Your demented passions

And shallow heart.

You secretive writer

You counterfeit soul

Lie.

Homeward Bound

2009-04-24T04:37:00.000-07:00

Gypsy, gypsy, gypsy

They call me.

Strangers

Call me gypsy.

It’s who I’m pretending to be.

My Piggy Bank

2009-03-16T04:15:00.000-07:00

Tradition. From the Latin ‘traditionem’. Meaning “handing over, passing on”.

Nowadays most often we hear the word tradition in context to religious and cultural practices being hard headedly carried out or defiled- in both cases creating a furore. And in this set meaning on passing on. But I like what tradition means in the present sense. In the now. I like the continuity it symbolizes. It’s like procreating without the hard hours of screaming labour.

Our family has a tradition of spending summer holidays together. The entire Flanagan clan collects at the family home before taking off for a holiday together. Four generations together – children spilling out of bosoms, grandparent throwing tantrums, cousins sharing traumas, one generation misunderstanding the other, lazy days spent hiding under the fan to escape the scorching heat, lazier evenings in a swimming pool and long nights of planned and unplanned adventures. You love, you crib, you enjoy, you say you’re never coming back again, you do come back again, you watch the young ones grow, you avoid your elders, you hug a child close, you try to find a quiet corner, you play cards, you discuss books passionately with your young niece, you kiss each child good night, you mediate in fights between relatives, you wonder how you aren’t deaf yet, you rediscover why you hate and love to be a Flanagan. It is a great tradition.

I want to create many more. I want others to make their own and make me part of their pacts with life.

In the past year, this thing called Life and growing up has taken its toll on a lot of India’s crowd. Everyone’s working, juggling no less than three sets of families they have to satisfy, trying to be comfortable with who they’re maturing up to be… as well as eke time out for each other. Things are different. Alanis worries that being married and moving to another country is going to tell on her connection with all of us here but the sad truth is that just living in different suburbs seems to be enough. Because a girl’s life is made of immediate things and tiny joys. A great hair day, an impromptu middle of the night walk, a song that made you cry, a moment of desolation that came and went before you could hit the dial button… and unlike in college when all of us lived in the same house and shared every passing minute… now we’re lucky to meet once a month.

But I’m rooting for traditions to combat modern life. That’s what they’re supposed to do anyway right… join people together across time and place in a joint activity, feeling and hope?

So here I am making a bunch of traditions. To quote: Some traditions were deliberately invented for one reason or another, often to highlight or enhance the importance of a certain institution. Traditions may also be changed to suit the needs of the day, and the changes can become accepted as a part of the ancient tradition.

The first of these was made years ago with Harry – a weekly dinner table conversation. And Christmas eve together. We’ve managed to keep to this more or less.
An annual holiday with the Four… so far so good.
Always, always kiss each of the children goodnight and talk to each individually about whatever they like.
Dropping by Frederick’s uninvited for a surreal evening of abrasiveness, affection and a fuzzy reality that is quiet and says nothing.

I want many, many, many more… with Paris, with Mars and Paris, with Sky, with my home as the centre of a tradition… If it’s Christmas we’re going to India’s. And then a fortnightly dinner plan at someone’s house. A monthly weekend away with friends – old and new.

That’s another thought. Everywhere I go I meet people that I like so much that you feel like you’re just making so many friends when you don’t even find time to bond with the one’s you have. There might be a balance to strike but there’s joy in growing a family. And it’s a lovely feeling when someone new seems to meld seamlessly into a circle you’ve already built.

I just want to end on a memory that Paris and I were thinking about yesterday.

It’s the old millennium. Paris and I have just met a month or so ago in college. We’re part of a larger group that hangs out together and movie plans have been made. It’s great. It’s a new youth flick, we’ll be going in a fun large gang, eating pop corn, hooting, going out for dinner, etc. College bonding with people you’re thinking you might be friends with.

And then by the time the day rolled around, everyone dropped out for some reason or another. I don’t remember why.

So there we were, two relative strangers thinking, ‘umm… should I offer to postpone the plan when the whole group can be there and when it’ll be fun?” And we didn’t. We said, “to hell with it… let’s watch a movie.” We went and made fun of a shitty film and found that we didn’t need other people to make a plan fun. In fact we didn’t need other people to make a plan. That was true when we were ‘relative strangers’ and I’m guessing that it will be true now… when we are, for lack of a better word, friends.

A Short Story

2009-01-11T23:57:00.000-08:00

The Importance of being Earnest
“I love you.”
“hah hahahhaahha. You’re such a joker kid. I love you too.”

As You Like It
“How many kids do you want? Where do you want to live?"
"What about you?"

Great Expectations
“I bought new lingerie. I did up my room real nice. You wanna come over?”
“No.”

Crime and Punishment
It’s been ten years since I loved.

The Idiot
It’s been ten years since I loved.

The Glass Menagerie
Where’s Sal? And Quinn? And Smith? And Shade?

Wuthering Heights
And in my heart there is a place that’s vast and bare, ravaged and quiet, dark and watchful; that cannot be heaven because it is so used to hell.

Time Takes It's Own Sweet Time

2008-12-30T02:51:00.000-08:00

To continue a tradition I started last year, I’m just doing a quick recap of year 2008.
At the end of last year I said and I quote, “2007 for me was the year of friends and beginnings. In a very God Shiva sense. Things got destroyed and were regenerated.
Something paramount happened in almost everyone’s life this year and I can only wish that 2008 sees it all through happily.”

Well… 2008 - the reality.

Audrey Jane did get married to her Bingley. The wedding was a fun affair for all of us but her. She’s made a cozy little nest and is in jobs that keep her out of home so much that she doesn’t get a chance to enjoy the nooks she has created.

Bee got hitched too… a lovely resort wedding. And I just have to hand it to her - she was one chilled out bride and really meant it when she said that all she wants is for everyone to enjoy the wedding. There were no feelings of pique that all of us were hanging out while she sat thru pujas. She was rather cute in her gajras and as matter of fact as ever. If Bee is ever anything but less in control of herself… I want to be there to see it.

Mars quit his job and got one as a freelancer. He’s also in talks to set up a business of his own with a friend and another with India. He still comes on TV, still gets to test awesome bikes and go on trips but he no longer has to burn the midnight oil.

Paris is sailing along. They’ve moved to a new house and she’s happy with the bigger space. I’m sure yoga will help her achieve further nirvana of the old soul.

Titania has taken the reins of Mr. H’s factory. She knows no other enjoyment and wonders at us mortals talking of meagre things like love and fresh air.

Sky’s movie is all but ready to go on floor but recession has pushed it by a few months. This gives her time to get fit, look hot right in time for all the press she’s going to get.

Sytar and her husband moved closer to where India stays and there have been many lazy evenings spent over movies and board games and teas of various flavours.

Alanis got a registered wedding done in London with the DR. but we’re still due our Indian affair. She’s happy with her choice of man not so much with her man’s choice of country.

Kat got her certificate that qualifies her to teach dance and is happier than she’s ever been. Now if only her family was happy that she was happy.

Sal is going strong with his girl.

Aldair’s grown up but doesn’t like to admit it. Once upon a time India took him at face value but now she’s reading between the lines.

India doesn’t know how her year was. In this moment it was a dead year… her skin has mottled, her animation is mechanical, her hair is lank and she wears plum lipstick to hide the rest. But ask her tomorrow.

a new year is never the answer. a new year will soon just be the old year.
S'lainte.

Make Just One Someone Happy

2008-12-22T21:51:00.000-08:00

It's been a really long time since I wrote here. I felt like I didn't even remember how to log on.
Anyway… there have been a lot of things on my mind and nothing concrete really. It's probably the first time I don't have a "peg" or a central idea to why I’m writing.
At least not yet. Maybe as I continue rambling something will emerge. Actually there is something that I have been thinking about a lot... Home. Having One. Doing one up. Feeling the need to go back to a place.
What does "home" mean to people? Comfort? Security? A place where you have no obligations? Where you're free to do as you please because it's your space? A place you can turn to without feeling burdened by gratitude? A place where you're always welcome?
I guess all of the above. I've felt some of these things at some of the places but never all in one place. It's a strangely vagrant feeling. Like some part of you or maybe even all of you is not in your body but looking for contentment in a place it hasn’t found yet.
And when I do I’ll always have fresh flowers in it. I’ll go buy daisies and gerberas and carnations and roses in pinks and yellows and whites and reds and peaches everyday and have them grinning about the house.
The greatest romance of my life will be finding a home.

And You Thought All We Care About Is Money.

2008-09-01T00:52:00.000-07:00

The process of meeting single guys is fraught with he-could-have-been-the-one-if-only-he-didn’t-something type of conditions. I’m pretty sure every girl has her own set of standards for The Man. Some more predictable than others – smart, intelligent, funny, drop dead gorgeous, rich or getting there, etc and some that are unique to just you. So I asked around and got some interesting answers.
My question was simple, “What is that one elusive thing, almost a subconscious thought that makes you want to meet a guy again?” (this basically means anything that is not a given, the proverbial X factor infact)

Here is a list of x factors women came up with:
1. If I think I can fart in front of him I meet him again
2. if I can picture him as a CEO (simply picture.. the guy could be a NGO activist for all I care but he should look like he could be a CEO)
3. I imagine the kiss and if it doesn’t gross me out I’m in for the second date
4. I think about walking into a family wedding or a party with the guy and if I feel good/ proud about that thought, I’m okay with walking into a coffee shop for a second time.
5. If he has a pulse.

I need to ask more women. Unfortunately all my non-single friends claim they didn’t really have a criterion. Ha.

Where there's a will, there's a word

2008-08-13T00:34:00.000-07:00

So Paris texts me this morning saying, “If you cannot be the poem, be the poet. Nice na?”
I get suspicious. What is she implying? Huh. I could be a poet if I wanted.
If I wanted to
I could say boo
To scare you
Or I could coo
To comfort you.
I could write a line
With a pen of mine
I could write nine
They would be fine.
See? Explains a thought in rhyme. Poetry. Poet. Ha.
Having comforted myself with this jiffy rhyme I text her back.
It would be lovely to be someone’s poem. It’s like being someone’s song only without the tune.

If you could be a poem which one would you choose? If you could be a song which one would you be? If someone was to read you a passage what would you like to hear? If you could command words from a mouth that you love what would they be? If an artist were to come to life whose Muse would you be?
I take Dali. I’d like to imagine that all my restlessness and motion and mobility of lips, eyes, hair, hands would be his fluidity of brush. (I write for myself all the time as you can see.)
If I could hear a passage, heck, even find someone to read it to, I’d pick Wuthering Heights – Catherine’s talk with Nelly.
If I could be a poem I’d like it to be one written for me. Good, bad but mine.

Wisps of Smoke

2008-08-04T01:40:00.000-07:00

I feel like talking about cigarettes. Everything I can think of about them.
When I was in school I used to judge guys on whether they smoked. Not harshly but I preferred a non smoker over a smoker. I guess when you’re busy defining yourself at that age you come up with these list of dos and don’t. Nice girls don’t being the most popular. So I thought nice boys don’t either.
But then came the other defining realization. I don’t like nice boys.
I think it started with dating Aldair (who gave up smoking or claimed he gave up smoking for the period that we dated.) But he needn’t have bothered. I no longer care if guys smoke or don’t. I’ve grown up to bigger don’ts.
There was this para in Atlas shrugged on smoking that I love…

"I like to think of fire held in a man's hand. Fire, a dangerous force, tamed at his fingertips. I often wonder about the hours when a man sits alone, watching the smoke of a cigarette, thinking. I wonder what great things have come from such hours. When a man thinks, there is a spot of fire alive in his mind--and it is proper that he should have the burning point of a cigarette as his one expression."

I remember I mailed it to Aldair and he didn’t appreciate that I was encouraging him to smoke. But I wasn’t really. I just appreciate words like fire and man and force and tamed and burning strung together. Heh. Freud would have a field day with me. Or actually I’m too pedestrian for him.
The other thing I read about cigarettes that I like the imagery of is that the writer Amrita Pritam was madly in love with this man and they would meet and sit in silence while he smoked and after he left she would smoke the butts he left behind to inhale him. In fact she has written a few lines on that:

Ek Dard hai

Jo maine cigarette ki tarah piya hai

Kuchh nazmein hain

Jo maine raakh ki tarah jhaadi hain...

There’s an English translation that I don’t really think is right. Either way I just like the story behind it.
The only story I have with cigarettes involves a night long smoking session. Kat’s sister had a house party and the clean up involved her getting rid of cigarettes from all over the world. Somehow that packet landed with me as the best candidate to regulate contraband. So it lay in my cupboard for months with Mars and Salvatore trying to convince me that they’re smoking anyway so I might as well save them some money. I could have I suppose but I was pain in the ass sister.
And a good thing too. One night Paris and I had nothing better to do. We got into Lauran Bacall mode and smoked every single brand in that packet. More, Marlsboro Light, Classic Mild, Nice, Gudang Garam, Dunhill, Lucky Strike, Benson & Hedges… that was it I think.
There’s a cigarette brand called Elixir (pretty self explanatory) and another called Romeo y Julieta… isn’t that interesting? I wonder why they named it that and what it tastes and smells like. A little sweet, a little tragic?
That was it for me and cigarettes. In later years when some classmates in my post grad course urged me to beat the stress with the sticks I was amused and disinterested. Without wanting to sound condescending I can’t believe that’s why people smoke or start smoking. When I think of myself smoking I feel like a poseur. Like a little kid playing dress up in front of her mom’s mirror as she clanks around in heels too big for her. And now that I think about it I never played dress up either.
Cigarette aficionados can tell the smokes apart I’m sure but even to a non smoking, weak olfactory nerved person like me the smell of a cigarette is the most definite thing. It’s as distinct and strong as the smell of my first heart break.

(I think this might be part of a Pensieve tag where in I write all the associations I have with a particular word. You are welcome to throw me a word.)

picture's from flickr

Never Say No

2008-08-01T00:33:00.000-07:00

This has been going on for days. In the quest for a better lifestyle, better skin, better work output I decided to start sleeping early and waking early to put in some serious solo writing hours. But it isn’t meant to be. Everyday something comes up.
Just last night I’m practicing deep breathing to relax my body into sleep when I’m nudged awake.
“Come on sweetie… wakey wakey.”
“No. Go away. It’s late. It’s already 12. I should sleep now.”
“But I’m up and I want to do it.”
“I’m tired now.”
“Oh come on! I’ve got some great new ideas I want us to try out.”
I am tempted. I am caught. My silence is taken as compliance and I am wooed. Soft words float over me, powerful words arouse me. A magical touch lingers in my blood taking over my thoughts, my mind is coming alive and compelled by a greater force I feel my hand reach out…
It hits the clock.
“Listen to me. I am tired! Why don’t we do this in the morning? See? I’ve set an alarm. We’ll get up and do it then. All fresh.” I try for a jaunty tone.
“I may not be in the mood in the morning.” The threats really fly.
A little worried I change my tone to a wheedle, “Don’t be like that. We need to break patterns and I’ve been told early morning is a really good time.”
“Really? Good for you. Let’s see you do it on your own.” Bang. And gone.
Damn. Now I really am screwed.
Come morning. I open my eyes and sit up. I wait. And wait. I decide to start on my own. But I’m not able to hit the right zones solo.
That’s when I give up. You can’t mess with the Muses. They’re Greek. They’re on a different time zone. I have to work on their schedule. I utter a silent apology, pull up the covers and go back to sleep.
Moral of the story: When you’ve got the energy flowing forget routine or you’re definitely not going to bed satisfied.

Work In Progress

2008-06-18T03:46:00.000-07:00

I spent the best part of my childhood living in a place that would be something between a village and a town. Our house had made its place near a river. The water wasn’t clear but a deep green like water moss. Groves bordered two sides of the house – mangoes and guavas. Two separate gardens were carefully maintained by my mother. We hung tree ladders and clambered on walls, ran because we could and played with our dogs. Evenings were spent taking walks up a nearby hill or playing on jumping grass. It was perfect for children growing up on a diet of Peterswood and Kirrin.
And we had our own set of adventures. Floods and missing dogs and an angry workforce that necessitated police protection. And we didn’t think they were extraordinary. The lives we led were regular like the books we read.
Now years later, when I’ve become an aunt, children read a different kind of book. They read about special children who do miraculous things. Who are not ordinary. And I wonder if what my kids are learning is just a deep restlessness with who they are.
And if I, their aunt, will add to it with my own restlessness - do everything, be everything and go everywhere in this one life.
The other day succumbing to the lure of the thought – I started thinking about whether I’d like a super power like in the TV episodes or the many books I read. And I couldn’t find any that seems like it would be mine. I’m not really the kind who likes to be invisible (ha) or a flyer or see through things. I suppose I could really go for snapping my fingers and being wherever I want to be. But then I guess that’s one power that anyone living in Cesspool would kill for. I think I’d really choose memory. I’d love to have a memory that remembers the moment I was born, what I thought when I was 4 months and what I felt when I was 2 and I’d love to remember the time I was a Chinese or that lifetime in Prague or that moment when I floated like a wisp being nothing…. If I remembered everything I have been then maybe I’d find some answers for who I am.
I go back to the past I do remember and I am wafting above the river near my old home. I remember it well still. The green with a hint of brown, its lazy flow as if it wasn’t in a hurry but was moving nonetheless for lack of better things to do, the bend and then the bridge above it. Wait… I didn’t remember the bridge earlier. But it was there and the new me marvels at the dullness of the child me. Why did I never cross the bridge? Why, I didn’t even think of it! And I wonder if I can go back and cross that bridge. But if I did it now to make up for then I still will never know what I would have seen then.
I can never cross that bridge.

Dot Line Dot Dot

2008-04-28T23:22:00.000-07:00

I’ve decided to defeat the purpose of a blog… I shall write this post in code. I have many other reasons but I shan’t say what they are. I shall be contrary. I am making a statement but I won’t say what the statement is.
Whoosh whoosh Whoosh.
Interruption between Harry and Sally. Pink flowers grew in my mind.
There is talk without the dinner table. A bed is obviously enough for conversation.
Everyone’s living on a trampoline.
Twist. Twist. But no… the devil’s gotten hold of my feet. I love him. I bow down before him. But he’s just interested in my feet.
I won’t go. I’m a crossroads dweller. The house is falling apart but the cat says that I’ll get nowhere some day.
There are fucked up people inside me. I’m working on sorting out their lives. About 100 minutes per person.

Stuck

2008-04-13T22:53:00.000-07:00

I feel like shutting down this blog and running away. Every single day that I don’t write anything here weighs heavily on me.
I visited a private Chinese room that felt straight out of a Hollywood mafia movie. The host narrated stories so colorfully that he deserves to be on film but I have nothing to say.
I went to a derby. I went for the experience, the joy, the rushing power of so many hoof beats and the roar of the crowd. I felt nothing.
My friends are getting engaged, married, having babies. I go through the motions of joy, support, encouragement, involvement. I can no longer make a distinction between feeling it and knowing it.
I bought new curtains for my room – bright, cheerful pink and pale green stripes. They do nothing to the room, good or bad.
I met an old friend twice in the same week and found I had nothing to say the second time round.
My days are filled. I go from work to friends to books to events and think I am doing well. I am content. Except when I think about the empty pages of my blog and know that really all is not well. I am empty too.
Writer’s existential angst is a trite bitch.

Found it!

2008-03-12T01:18:00.000-07:00

Put A Penny In The Slot

For ages i've been trying to find this song. All i knew was that it plays in the bg in Jerry Maguire when he slips her strap off on the doorstep. Useless people (read Salvatore) that I requested should source the music for me got me Secret Garden and Aimee Mann instead. They're good songs but i wanted this.

It's the gentlest, softest piece of music ever. It's called Singalong Junk by Paul McCartney.

With Hand on Heart

2008-03-07T04:26:00.001-08:00

Last night I read Sophie Kinsella’s “Can you keep a secret?” It’s basically about a girl who thinks she’s going to die in a plane crash and ends up spilling her guts to the guy on the next seat. It’s chicklit so obviously he’s the hero. She doesn’t have any secrets that will change the face of national security or even break up a marriage… they’re mostly inconsequential like she lies about her weight or she broke her bosses coffee mug or she doesn’t like jazz. But really it’s the small things that define us. The book was okay but it made me think of my secrets. Now I’m not dying today as far as I know so I’m just going to push the edge a bit not jump off it.
I…
1. …wear Sky’s clothes, come home, iron them and put them back in the cupboard so that she doesn’t have the right to borrow mine.
2. …swapped one of Titania’s favourite books for a book I really wanted and she still goes crazy trying to remember who she lent it too.
3. … have a favourite Mills and Boon author.
4. …have a fabulous memory and sometimes let people think that I remember because I care.
5. …didn’t give my seat to an old woman on the bus and tried to justify it.
6. …fell asleep through Citizen Kane.
7. …once spotted an old crush and sneaked away from a hotel because I was looking like shit.
8. …pretend to be asleep when I don’t want to be disturbed in the middle of a book.
9. …can’t stop myself from keeping track of the tiniest amount of debt owed by me or to me.
10. …am a total pushover. I don’t know how to say no.
11. …love dancing to Ricky Martin’s La Bomba.
12. …’ve never smoked up, lied to my parents or been attracted to anyone.
13. …would like to be attracted to someone and have my feet knocked off the ground.
14. …cried with joy watching a tennis match.
15. ...felt guilty when Cykie died and I got over it so fast.
16. …am not comfortable with special children.
17. …lie all the time about being at work to get out of partying.
Maybe I’ll get more personal next time.

Know Thy Goddesses

2008-03-05T21:58:00.000-08:00

t for trivia
I’m lying on my bed and pretending to be a cold bunch of grapes. But Sky stops me from fermenting. She plonks herself down and goes on and on about something.
“so then.. I don’t know what he means…”
…”had a fantastic meeting today…”
“… that’s a masterpiece scene Sky, sir said…”
“… have to go to a Saraswati temple tomorrow…”
There’s a pause so I come out of my fog.
“What?”
“Do you know any Saraswati temple?”
I am bewildered, “No.” I say as if it’s strange to ask. And it really is. Sky asking anyone else directions to temples is a little absurd. She’s probably visited every God in the vicinity.
“Fine. Then a temple that has a Saraswati idol?”
Now I’m roused, “no.” Emphatic. Then to stress, “I don’t even know what a Saraswati idol looks like.”
It’s her turn to look astounded. “you don’t!”
She looks so shocked like Mr. and Mrs. H have failed in some way that I hasten to add, “I mean if I look at one I’ll know it’s Her but just from memory… she holds a book right?” I’m quickly putting things together in my head – Saraswati, we pray to her on dussehra when Mrs. H makes us put out all our books and music and paints and creative things for blessings in the puja. So I figure book is a good guess.
“No! she hold a veena.”
“Well... doesn’t one of her hands hold a book?” I plead.
“No.” Sky says drily.
“Oh. Ok. She should hold a book then. She’s our Goddess of intellect and creativity right?”
“the Veena is a sign of creative gifts. You really can’t tell your Goddesses apart.”
“I really can’t tell our Goddesses apart. I mean the Gods are easy. Shiv’s got a third eye. Ram looks goody goody, Ganesha has a well... trunk and Krishna’s Krishna. The ladies all look alike.”
Sky still looks like a dear stuck in headlights.
“Sarawati wears a white sari with a red border and holds a Veena with usually a peacock near her. Laxmi stands on a lotus with two of her hands holding a lotus each and a third one pointing palm down showering coins. Durga is usually on a tiger.”
“I like tigers,” I say to shut her up, “I don’t know if a subjugated tiger is good representation of the dwindling tiger wildlife.”
Sky leaves my room and I return to being fruity.

The Lives of Others

2008-03-04T23:37:00.000-08:00

Quickie: Watch it even if you don’t usually watch foreign films.
Yada Yada:
Before the fall of the Berlin Wall citizens in East Germany were strictly monitored by the Stasi- secret police. Very few people are above this kind of interference in the private lives and playwright Georg Dreyman is one of them. But when a corrupt politician falls for Georg’s actress girlfriend he is put under surveillance too. His house is bugged. An upright and stringent Captain of the Stasi is in charge of the operation. As the captain eavesdrops on Georg and Christa he becomes increasingly involved in their lives and begins to question his own leading to life altering events for all three of them.
I love the way the 3 characters have been formed. Each one of them makes a marked transition in the duration of the film. Their decisions may not surprise or shock but you feel each one.
Okay... I’m itching to say things that’ll be spoilers. Just watch for a compact drama.
Length: about 2 hrs 20 mins

Michael Clayton

2008-03-04T23:23:00.000-08:00

Quickie: Not worth the 200 bucks in a theatre. Get a DVD.
Yada Yada:
MC is an okay film. It’s certainly not deserving of the hype considering that neither the subject nor the treatment is new. The end resolution is surprisingly flat and the turnaround of the kind you see in really simplistic films.
You have a ‘fixer’ who works in a firm of lawyers without actually going to court himself. He’s called either the ‘miracle man’ or the ‘janitor’ but when a senior counsel flips he starts off a chain of events that make Michael question what he’s cleaning up and whether this is what he gave up the courtroom for.
Some angles were rather forced to me – the whole Arthur and Realm + Conquest highlighted notes. That didn’t point Michael is any direction other than get him the bill for the photocopies.
What worked for me were the character and his journey – his debt that needs to be paid off, his relationship with his brother and son, and a certain despair that cloaks him even as he does what he does best.
The person I went with thought that George Clooney was as always – himself. But I disagree. When I watch a Clooney film I know that it’ll turn out alright for him since he’s got such a cocky arrogance. He’s never any other way. You expect him to sail through. This is the first time I felt that things aren’t going to go his way.
Watch it when the movie scene is dull. Right now there’s too much happening in theaters for Michael Clayton to be top of your list.
Length: 2 hours

Ready Or Not... Here She Comes!

2008-03-03T02:52:00.000-08:00

I went for Penelope’s baby shower. Her due date is 18th march 2008.
Her baby’s Godmother Taz threw a shower. There was wine and gifts and biryani but no games! I went expecting a bonafide baby shower with nappy changing games and guess-what-the-suspicious-goo-in-the-bag-is kind of party. I was disappointed. Penny said that since I want to do indulge in such entertainment I can turn up at her place for the real thing. I decline since I’m not stupid really. The high entertainment of the shower was when one of Penny’s friends threw a fit on discovering that she wasn’t the baby’s godmother. Hahha. I enjoyed that show. She was so perturbed she even banged into a glass door.
But that aside we did sing songs for the baby. Unfortunately everything has a pervert’s version now.
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water
God knows what they did up there
But they came down with a daughter.
But I guess our kids will need to know what to watch out for. So no going with Jack up the hill all alone with your hands tied up with a bucket.
I have a whole list of things I’m going to put my baby through in the belly.

1. Read Atlas Shrugged again
2. Read Wuthering Heights again
3. Sing silly songs with words of my own making “the tigers had a brandy fix when the animals went in six by six.” I love tigers.
4. Kiss my husband an awful lot
5. Shout “10000 blistering barnacles” and wave a pretend sword whenever someone annoys me. Note the gradual change in the violence of my abuses.
6. Paint, play with paint. Enjoy colour and then enjoy darkness.
7. Have everyone say something to the kid. Anything at all. Paris will refuse I know but she must. Alanis will talk the baby’s little bum off. Eve can be big sister and studiously give the latest book dope. Salvatore can groan and grumble. Piper will ask me to shut my ears and Sky will be unabashedly corny. Mars can scoff but the baby must hear them talking.
8. Take a holiday to a cool place where there are many pretty paths to wander by. Take those walks. Sit on a bench. Look at new things.
9. Do something that gets the adrenaline rushing – like bungee jump (not allowed me thinks) or go to a Tennis match. Experience something overwhelming.

Okay I cut short my list here to announce that Penny had a baby girl 18 days before her time. She is tagged Baby no. 6 by the hospital and Nandini by her dad. She’s a cute little thing but looks suspiciously like baby no.4 and 5 to me. It really must be easy to swap babies in hospitals. Maybe I’ll inherit some money yet.

2008-02-29T00:08:00.000-08:00

The Silver Eel
– A Film Watcher’s Guide to What to Watch and What to Slip Out of.
(Because no film worth it’s salt has no tag line) (e.g. Shabd – The word)

Someone pointed out that I’ve been watching quite a few animated films recently. I caught Enchanted, saw Miyazaki’s Spirited Away (which I recommend to all), caught Paprika (which I fell asleep through) and downloaded Grave of the Fireflies (which I hear is great). Well… it’s quite by chance. I’m just re-committing to my filmy career and planning to catch everything I can. So I made a list of must watch films from recent times–

1. The lives of others
2. No country for old men
3. Killers of sheep
4. Atonement
5. Sweeny Todd – the Demon Barber of Fleet Street
6. Persepolis
7. No End in Sight
8. In the Valley of Elah
9. Waitress
10. Michael Clayton
11. Before the Devil knows you’re Dead
12. There will be Blood
13. Dan in Real Life
14. Juno

As I check off on the list I’ll develop some review system to point you guys in the right direction. After all you haven’t committed yourselves to films. (Significant background music here).

To See or Not To See

2008-02-25T22:09:00.000-08:00

Put A Penny In The Slot

Music is a very visual medium to me. If a song doesn’t give me an idea of how I’d shoot it, dance it, see it wafting through smoke or falling clear with rain then I just end up switching to the next number.
Here’s a list of numbers from among many that are just seeped in grocery shopping, curved handled canes, sex, top hats, purple silk dresses, legs kicking up gently while walking on a street, exultation and all that jazz.
1. Green Hornet by Al Hirt
2. New York New York by Frank Sinatra
3. Between the Bars by Madeleine Peyroux
4. Sinking Soon by Norah Jones
5. Take Five by Dave Brubeck

Herald of New Intentions

2008-02-22T04:45:00.000-08:00

t for trivia

For some time now Piper has been at me about how the blog has not been living up to its promise of being about everything and everyone. And I find that it’s true. There were supposed to be movie reviews and music reccos and must reads and… Like I said in the first post - I spend so much time trying to make everything special and important that I lose the plot. Well... no more. As promised, the blog will be random and regular and about all thoughts and opinions.
So let me begin with some Trivia that I picked up yesterday –
I was chatting with Mrs. H and there is a statue in the room of a man on a horse with forefeet in the air. Mr. H said it was Shivaji but Mrs. H said it can’t be. And then with superiority she asked, tell me why this can’t be Shivaji.”
I looked from my prone angle and said, “He’s got a lance and his turban is different.”
Mrs. H tells us something interesting. “When a man dies a natural death, the status has all the hooves of the horse on the ground. When a man dies of battlefield wounds but not on the field, one foot up and one down. And when he dies on the battlefield both feet fly.”Shivaji died of wounds received on the battlefield but not on it.

2008-02-17T23:14:00.000-08:00

So the wedding evening arrives and we go to help Jane get ready. Ostensibly. We actually end up blitzkreiging her with camera flashes and make ourselves useful by feeding her and helping her cousins do up their saris and drapes. Jane was quirky as usual.. no shadow of tension on her, or atleast none relating to getting into a lifelong commitment. She had more earthly worries - toget the perfect balance between being a Punjabi and Kashmiri bride.

We don't know if she hit it to her satisfaction but we thought she was beautiful. That's Corey in the bg taking the sanp. She's a professional. Our Bride is captured and waiting.

And Bingley arrives. On the horse weighed down by a silver crown and a garland of ten rupee notes (one of which i stole as souvenir). He was happy and dancing and most importantly... before time.

Corey joined the baraatis....

... and danced with the more than ready wife-to-be.

As Jane and Bingley got wed, we got fed and tried to keep ourselves close to the fires. It was a middle of the night wedding in Capital's winter. We shivered and sneaked out to the car park for medicinal alcoholic intake.

That's all us girls at the wedding bar Jane who was busy -

Getting married.
All the best to two people who are like babes in the woods. Warm hearted, generous, naiive, sweet and worrying to all those who love them.

Happy married life.

2008-02-17T22:29:00.000-08:00

Back from Surajkhand we indulged in a bit of R & R. Bee and I got out nail polish only to inspire a revolution. The conversation wandered around to French manicures and the MEN summarily dismissed the beauty of it as 'paying good money to make your nails look more like nails... pink and white.' We groaned.
Dundee and Mr. George decided that the nail industry lacks imagination and soon i was being used as a celebrity promotional client. (Read: guinea pig). Armed with his Swiss army knife and an array of polishes Dundee proceeded to paint faces and landscapes (cough) on my nails. i do have a close up but i'm sparing you guys.

Then we headed out to The Groom's Cocktail Party... better called the Gadda and Whisky Fest. We had a hous eto ourselves and a chef. Starters appeared at a blink and you inhale food rate and we drank away. The night was cold and we were warm. We drank to Bingley....

... and ragged him a bit. Question-Answer Round.
D: You guys done it yet?
B: You can't start with the one crore question.. you got to start with a grand.
hmmm.. he has a point.
D: When did you first know you liked Jane?
B: At the alumni meet.
(he claims he doesn't remember the song playing. We don't really believe him.)
We taped it all for the Bride. And also passed on a message from her - Be On Time.

2008-02-17T21:45:00.000-08:00

The excesses of the night before forgotten and with true adventurous spirit.. we got on the road again.. this time for the Surajkhand Mela. Varying reports told us it was 'far', 'very far', 'mayhem', 'madness' but we had resolved to go.

On reaching Surajkhand we came up with a plan in case of anyone getting lost or wandering away from the others. We would meet under this archway. Dundee disappeared half way thru the plan and the rest of us stuck together anyway.

There was performers ina every segment of the mela.. singing or dancing or both or performing with puppets. These Rajasthani women were fabulous in their dazzling colors and dervish whirls. I never have a camera. If i did what fascinated me most about them were their feet. They were lined and lined and lined not just on the sole but also up front. And so beautiful with their thick anklets and those lines of dance.

This was one of many transformed rickshaws roaming the place. Little kiddies were taking rides but surprisingly it didn't strike me to take one. I am now desolate at the missed opportunity. I'd have been horse riding! It's so jazzy.

This was a mask shop. I loved the sadhu.

And this burst of colours was a shop of window hangings and stick puppets. There camels that had every joint moving so that at one instead of stooping to sit it was as if the camel is beheaded. And there was Hanuman and Ravan (both of whom Dundee purchased). The paper is translucent and coloured so that it's like stained paper art and you stick it on your window and it slooks pretty. I decided that when i have kids i'll have one window in their room with different art in each pane - so Ravan and al elephant and a horse and all that. Only later when i met Dundee he tells me that the translucent material is not thick paper oiled over as i had thought but rather goat skin!!!! Ack.

Wandering about the expansive grounds we came upon this man selling jaljeera. He was performing for his audience with panache and flare and a mechanically fluid grace in the selling of his wares. We went back to him when we got thirst again.

There was this huge bunch of students with their faces painted posing for photographs. I think they were addressing issues. The girl with the pink wings is i think a statement on the girl child as an angel.

And finally... there was this man with his magic movie machine. And i'd see a fairy tale unfurl with every circle of his and like a wand being waved. Yeah right. He was showing a string of unrelated posters taped together so suddenly there was a chubby baby followed by a film poster and then a valley scene. Sigh. why can't people be a little more enterprising. Is a story too much to ask for? Does anyone know what this machine is called? I think i want one.

2008-02-15T04:50:00.000-08:00

The intrepid explorers.. we were ready to set off for the Bride's Cocktail bash with smiles (for her) and hopes (for drink)... little did we know the trials that awaited us.

That's right. We were stuck in TRAFFIC for three and a half hours. Corey asked me to pose for a photo that showed i was bored and miserable. I did.

Bee got the same brief. She is a bad actress. Or actually a good one. She was whining till the flash went off. For the camera she finds smiles. We passed some time watching Dhoom II in the car. I think that made us even more miserable.

This is the cause. We circled the airport for a good hour and a half waiting for Mr. George to land. Delayed. Landed. Delayed. Let's Leave Him (that was obviously me). Finally he came and this is him changing clothes in the backseat of our Innova. (Corey misses the best shots).

The Bride was angry with us for being late.

But she is also a Drama Queen and forgave us in seconds. All she wanted was people to fill the dance floor. And introduce to her dad preferably while still sober.

So dance we did.

2008-02-15T04:29:00.001-08:00

Bee took concept shots that only she understands the deep significance of. Kind of like Calvin (of Hobbes fame) saying that when you pander to the clichés and the majority you’re actually mocking them and hence there is true irony in your commercial art. That’s the best I can say about her photography skills. Dundee on the other hand is a better showman. He looks the part of a travelling photographer. His long hair, foreign looks and lack of Hindi certainly helps him in the country. So he wandered up to some bandwallahs loitering around a subway in their best and with trumpets and drums. Dundee asked to take some photos. They agreed with alacrity and soon enough he was surrounded. The photos taken with much smiling and posing with gleaming instruments Dundee turned to leave. One of them band guys says in hindi, “let’s take money from this f%&$er.” Dundee says, “hindi aata hai.” The band wallahs burst into guffaws as they correct him, “aati hai.” But fortunately they let him go.

2008-02-15T04:22:00.000-08:00

I was having a great time. This was the first time I’ve been to a wedding where we are spending more time roaming around and getting drunk than attending mehendi’s and sangeets et al. The only downside was that given the size of Capital we hardly saw Jane at any time other than for the have-to-be-attended functions. The first day Dundee picked up Bee, Corey and I. We dumped our luggage and headed to Chandni Chowk by the metro. The magnificence of the new travel system stumped us hicks from different towns. Cesspool can only dream of such space and streamlined traffic. Once at CC we walked around, drank lassi, marveled at the brownness of everything and ended up walking around the Red Fort.

The Beginning of a Deservedly Cheesy Film

2008-02-15T04:10:00.000-08:00

Tang tang ta tang tang tang ta tang… Friends continue their walk into matrimony. Audrey (now rechristened Jane) wed her Bingley last weekend. The nuptials were in Capital and a bunch of us friends from college put up together at a flat. I can almost imagine the nostalgia this weekend will evoke in later years.
“Ohh... that was some trip… we missed the main function coz we were stuck in traffic for three hours.”
“God! Remember Gopi and his strange moaning! Dundee thought it was the pigeons.”
“Thank God we found our luggage!”
“But I lost my earrings.”
It’s funny how the hazards of a trip are so much more entertaining than the main event.

How You Doin'?

2008-02-15T04:01:00.000-08:00

When I look at photos of Piper’s wedding I cringe to see the facial hair and the gaudy gold on red clothes, the bad haircut and the shararas. But when I think back on it I remember flirting, I remember smiling and holding my own and giggling with Sky over various men. Then somewhere along the way life became serious business. Simple joys like matching wits, exchanging inconsequential’s, charming with no serious intent began to seem like a waste of time. I lost an art that can give almost as much satisfaction as a well finished poem. The force was not with me.
The last weekend I felt some of the old joy seep back in.
I was a bit shy and a little hopeless but I managed. There are two kinds of power – when you don’t care at all and have nothing to lose and when you care and really want something. All I’ve wanted for some years is a fleeting ability to sparkle.
Last weekend at Jane’s wedding to Bingley, I was sharing a room with Bee (newly engaged) and Corey (newly married). They very kindly passed on any and all eligible men in my direction that id didn’t know what to do with. They also shared their knowledge with me.
“Always go in with what you expect, what you’re willing to give up and what you’re not.”
I apply this to my single status and come up with some interesting answers. Hehhe.
That night at the cocktail I got high, kicked up my heels and danced like a mad woman. I could feel the amazement in a few of my old classmates. Bharat says astounded, “How people change.” I’m too lazy to correct him. I don’t think they’ve ever seen me drink, dance or drink and dance.
There’s nothing like high heels and a little shimmy to shake loose the courage in you. If it wasn’t for my hangover I’d have been invincible.
The next night Bee and Corey requested a repeat performance of a bed time story. What little confidence still hid inside me now unfurled. There’s nothing more alluring to a story teller than to find an eager listener. And strangely enough when Bee started snoring in the middle of Kwaku Ananse and the Python I took it as a compliment.
The wedding night arrived. Jane was beautiful if a bit lost. It was a cold night and fires littered the grounds. All of us huddled here and there. When Bee and I stumbled upon Long Haired Hot Cousin Of Bride she pushed me towards him. I was scooping out ice cream for self when he wandered by and started small talk. I indulged in some non verbal communication. He asked for some extra dollops of chocolate sauce and I couldn’t squeeze hard enough. I passed the bottle back to the waiter and sidled away. Bee shut her eyes and shook her head. But I must have done something right (or my backless blouse did) coz LHHCOB came up to me later and started a conversation. Bee grinned and I blushed. In small ways that night I shone a bit. It was pointless but it felt good. I laughed secretly and hugged it close. And when morning came the light stayed. While waiting at the airport for our flight a sweet scene played out. In the midst of the sleepy airport a young man helped me take off my stubborn jhumka.

I re-learnt the pleasure of a moment that doesn’t have to mean anything beyond the moment.

Matthew 21:22 and Luke 11:9

2008-02-05T04:15:00.000-08:00

I have nothing to write. I haven’t felt possessed and overtaken by a need to write in a long while. The persons that used me before, the haunted lost girl, the old Irish woman, the libertine playwright, the fey changeling have forgotten my body. I fumble to string together words that might be a story, a history, an argument, a hope, a lie, a discovery, an epiphany, a forgotten minute, a beloved secret or a note to Paris of half felt ideas that might seem whole to her.

The moon is nothing but a string of stars closely packed together like a ball of wool. They’re strung on platinum wire and hence the shine.
My fingers bloat and then stretch and stretch till they’re thin and cackly like a witch’s laugh.
Every surface is a dance floor.
If you don’t believe in love at first sight… you’ve just forgotten the first time you met. I want to travel back lifetimes and meet again for the first time.
Gold is our color. Rich, pagan, a houri on a block, painted queen and lion eyes.
I’m a word. So are you. The word is the biggest secret of our lives. Most often it is hidden even from ourselves.
If the world was simple a kiss would just be a kiss.
I’m waiting to slip sideways into another world. Imagine how exciting it will be. Poof. Sometimes I think I have. Women in saris fly on bears for their honeymoon. Once I was hurt, I lay down and became an icicle. I’d love to mix up the worlds so that everyone was traveling to and fro and then one day you’d all visit and I’d show you around.
I promise to do better tomorrow are the only words I always mean.

Begin at the Beginning

2008-01-01T22:50:00.000-08:00

I should have done this while we were still in 2007 but I couldn’t steal a half hour to call my own. The last two weeks have been spent under command from Myrine, Piper and their offspring. So if I wasn’t holding shopping bags, then I was being fed or I was being used. That’s right.

After about 5 days, I thought I deserved a little time off to read and walk around but Nikita quickly says, “But masi, if you go away then at least send Paris mami to take your place or who will entertain us?” So in one sentence I learnt that not only was I easily replaceable but also that I was only as good as a court jester. Sigh.
So I entertained. I sat in the balcony overlooking a terrace rose garden and told stories to Eve. I sipped chai while she had hot chocolate. We licked Nuttella for dessert.
Rosie laughed and giggled and made me wash her ass every morning. Her mother chose convenient times to be missing. She perfected the butt dance and wriggled it at every one she met. I regretted having complimented her on it.
Pearl has become softer. She clung to hands and for the first time in her 7 years displayed a child’s side.
Nikita ordered as only she can and admired everything. Chose my clothes, complimented them, remembered everything, gave cold shoulders, made up… she’s a big girl now.

And since this must be documented – Myrine and Piper suffered through 3 hours of a “perfect jeans hunt”. These jeans have eluded me for the past 4 years. I haven’t bought a pair in longer. I usually walk in to a Levis and try on something made for a giraffe and come away feeling trampled upon. There are never bottoms that fit my bottom. And then this December with my very supportive sisters, I finally found them. In Marks and Spencers. And carried away by the triumph of the moment (and some reasonable fear) I invested in not one but two jeans! Myrine and Piper were suitably impressed.
“In 25 years I’ve never seen you shop before.” Myrine said at least 5 times.
“You can’t complain about us shopping anymore.” Piper said smugly. I smiled winsomely and told her that this was not shopping, “this is like watching a love story get a happy ending. You have been part of my search and now you were in at the end. It’s almost like if I found my dream man.”
Piper agrees since she too is a troubled owner of the Flanagan bottom.

Anyway I have digressed. What I really should have done and didn’t get time to do was make a quick 2007 diary. I thought it would be nice to have a yearly summary of the affairs in the lives of the cast of characters. I like imagining a series of year end summaries. A lazy person’s diary.

2007 for me was the year of friends and beginnings. In a very God Shiva sense. Things got destroyed and were regenerated.
Something paramount happened in almost everyone’s life this year and I can only wish that 2008 sees it all through happily.

So here we go:

Mars: got hitched to Paris this February and also doubled his salary in a meager year. Became a TV star and found that he likes being creative.
Paris: got balled and chained to Mars. Made breakthroughs with both families – hers and his.
Sky: got signed on by “Back From the Past productions” as a director for their forthcoming feature. A HUGE accomplishment and a step that she has been working towards for the past 5 years.
Alanis: jumped some continents and jaded as she was found ‘it.’ The ‘it’ was a package deal that comes with joy, hope, companionship and Greek stories in a mellifluous voice.
Sytar: got wed this March and is deeply enjoying marital bliss. She is a prototype of a woman changed by marriage – she dresses different, wears her hair stylishly and all in all walks more surely. Kudos to her husband who I still have to find a name for.
Harry: had her script heard by some big names in the industry. Some important, some not so much… but she got professional feedback and all of it good. She cut ties with Express and walks free and unloaded after years.
Kat: quit her job and decided to move back to Solace where she will restart her professional dance training.
Titania: decided to move with the parents to Patina and work with Mr. H in the cooking business.
Salvatore: lightened his load after ten years and found closure. Found a girl to love and is working on it.
Quinn: cut ties with all of us and got engaged. We heard of it from his parents.
Mr. & Mrs. H: moved back to Patina. Their life is coming full circle and they are in a place where things are good. They also sold Peterswood. It is a loss that will be felt as some of our happiest and toughest memories are of childhood days spent there.

These were the highlights of 2007. Other important events were Audrey getting engaged. Bee strongarmed GG into buying her a ring. Piper and Philip managed to get out of some coils and things look better. I found employers I like and signed on for a job that I have hope from. (My new mantra is to be a career woman.)

So as you can see 2007 was a really BIG year for so many important people… marriages and engagements, moves and career highs, love found and friends lost. And now we’re in 2008 and it’s come bringing in so many possibilities.

All the best to everyone.

And Then There Were None

2007-12-17T22:49:00.000-08:00

13th September 2001

Sometimes you stand alone, you feel alone and you cry. You can’t believe that a single body can be wracked with so much loneliness and grief. And then in the middle of a good cry you suddenly realize that life can’t be coming to an end as there will be many more nights like this one.

December 2007

I found this year’s old entry last night. And it’s true… there is always another night like the last one. I think maybe I meant it well… that life goes on. Though if you’re still crying over the same stuff 7 years down then God help you. I didn’t. Phew! That sure is a relief.
(I’m a silver line watcher.)

Points to be noted:
1. Crying blocks your nose but clears your head.
2. Crying in the middle of the night when the world around you is dark and silent really adds to the drama. You hear every shuddering breath. And every whimper sounds louder than it is.
3. If you can't find someone to call and cry with - 2 extra minutes of salt water shedding is due to you.
4. The morning after headache is bad. You might as well have sleep walked and funneled down a couple of bottles of undiluted vodka.
5. I look ugly when I cry. (I checked). So I do it rarely.

Greater Expectations

2007-12-16T22:07:00.000-08:00

Calvin: Here I am, happy and content. ...but not euphoric. So now I'm no longer content. I'm unhappy. My day is ruined. I need to stop thinking while I'm ahead.

I beamed as Sytar opened the birthday present I’d got her. Everyone waited for the unveiling. (I’d talked a bit about the splendor of it) The silver wrapper came off and Sytar smiled at the candle holder. Light the candle I commanded. She did and oohed. I smiled wider. The others hmmphed.
What?
India, you said the dragonflies dance on the ceiling.
I thought they also glowed green.
Sky just shook her head at me.
What? I repeat. It’s pretty.
Mars explains to Harry – India’s fatal flaw is that not only does she have excessive imagination but she actually seems satisfied with how little reality matches it.
I blithely ignore them all. So the dragonflies didn’t dance on the ceiling but they’re flickering merrily on the green glass of the holder.

Mars got back from Shanghai with kites. Unlike me, Paris implies more the less she says. A hint here, a word there. They were dragons with impressive wingspans. A medley of colors and flash like a battle in air. There were even pandas that the dragons were fighting to protect. So we went for a kite flying evening in a relaxed burb of Cesspool. The sun was gentle, happy groups flitted around with strings. Paris started to take the kite out of its packaging.
The dragon’s mine, the dragon’s mine. I book it hurriedly. Ha ha.
The kites unfold and I stare.
That’s a dragon? It’s neon pink! Isn’t it supposed to be a commanding bronze?!! It looks like a butterfly could fell it!
Paris tries to look nonchalant.
Mars mutters a sotto voce; Kites of a feather fly together.

So it figures that a few weeks ago when Myrine and Piper came in for a day’s visit Paris and I had plans which envisaged them having the most fabulous, exciting, never-want-to-go-back time in Cesspool.
This was our city. We’d take them to Bagel Shop and for a walk up to the fort to enjoy the sea, to some lovely shops that are stories on their own and for a night of hard drinking and dancing. Fortunately we got a reality check even before their arrival. I heard that not only were another cousin and his wife planning to be here the same day but also Mrs. H.
Hmm... Suddenly the visions of hazy fumed revelers and afternoon long gossip sessions in a cozy hamlet receded. Paris and I sucked it in (not very well). Nothing of the day went according to plan (plan A that is) and instead all we did was shop. I felt like the parent of an ungrateful child. All those days of planning and putting together the best day for them and all Myrine and Piper wanted to do was shop.
Lesson learnt – sometimes your expectations have to be tempered with other people’s.
I figured the evening can only get worse. I was trying to picture Mrs. H who can’t control her tch’s in the middle of F.R.I.E.N.D.S and who I’ve never even let in the same house for Sex and the City come with us to a den of iniquity. But by now I had achieved Zen. Or more correctly I just didn’t give a damn anymore. So we dressed up and went clubbing. I saw Mrs. H do a quick glance around. She sat down in a corner while we burst out singing the minute we entered. Then Elvis belted out a number and she shimmied onto the floor. I grinned. Piper’s resolve was bolstered. She dug out her pack and lit up a cigarette.
Hippy hippy shake. I bobbed up and down to hide the Classic Milds from view. Shake it to the left. Twisted. Shake it to the right. Slid back. Suddenly a hand snakes its way around me, Mrs. H gives me a wry-smug look and takes a drag from Myrine. I shake my head. Paris’s jaw drops open. Not for long though. Mrs. H passes THE CIGARETTE to her daughter-in-law. They turn a bend together.
And another lesson was learnt – Sometimes, just sometimes I find that I have low expectations and people can be and do so much more than I let them in my narrow imagination.

Dr: Yes a baby girl. I Fear there is No Cure

2007-11-19T22:25:00.001-08:00

I’d have liked it if my birth was an environmental event. Some pathetic fallacy that I could prop up against. Pounding rain was Mars’ herald. In marwadi fashion someone ran from our house to a relative’s beating a plate announcing his birth. Titania came with first light after a moonless night. Their entry on stage was cued with lights and sound, drama and romance. I came at 6.06 am. There is no adjective for my birth. I don’t know if the dawn was soft or bright or unusually dark. I was just born. And despite nature I was born with the love gene.

Jr. Kg. I’d staked out my territory. I defended when he stuttered and looked disdainfully upon the class hunk.
Class 1: I got punished with guy and tentatively thought about holding hands.
Class 3: My mind found itself instinctively understanding smarmy lyrics like “duniya maange apni muraade, main toh mangu saajan, rahen salaamat mera sajna aur sajna ka aangan.’ Yes really. All bloggers are on a blogger oath to forget this.
So you get the picture. I can not help this. I was born this way. Way before books and romantic movies got hold of me and worsened the situation. Some people are born honest. Others are born happy. I was born believing.
When I learnt words I asked “How did mumma and papa get married?” and I got the answer, “Mumma proposed to Papa at the airport.” That’s it. There was no going back.
The story grew yearly. Different perspectives were added. How Mrs. H waited 6 months while Mr. H came back from his conference. How Mr. H had gone on a fast unto death till his mother agreed. How Mr. H dragged Uncle Red from the horse races to enlist his help. How Uncle Red sent out the wedding cards so that the match could not be canceled. There was a whole real life film in the family. And testimony to it was the chemistry between Mr. and Mrs. H.

Now we’d heard the tale from every possible source but Mrs. H. It was generally acknowledged in the family that Mr. H is the more romantic and expressive while Mrs. H still plays hard to get. It just didn’t seem to gel with the image of a woman who proposed and then waited for an answer. No matter how many times we asked her how and why and what she was thinking all you could drag out of her was a “don’t remind me. The foolishest thing I did.” We’d all laugh and put it down to her dry character.
But recently Paris and I cornered Mrs. H. We decided that an answer must be had and that it was a mite suspicious that she never said a word. Was Titania illegit? Hehhe.

So we hounded and hounded till exasperated Mrs. H said, “oof… he promised me that he’d take me for a holiday every year.” Silence. I could tell she was serious. After all these years this was the truth behind the Great Love Story. Mrs. H hurriedly added, “and he was the decentest guy I knew. Better than the options my father was coming up with.” Suddenly it all made sense. My mother was not a romantic. She was practical. She got married for security and comfort and because the known devil also happened to be man about town.

I have been proposed to a couple of times. They were people I adored and rich and could have offered me the world both emotionally and otherwise. But I couldn’t offer it back. If I’d accepted them I’d have been Mrs. H.
On this issue I am never going to want to be my mother. I was perplexed. My ailment seemed even worse when I realized that the love gene was not inherited but actually something that was all mine. I couldn’t blame my mother for my irrational choices.
Then I was talking to Salvatore and he laughed and said, “but don’t you see…you’re like Mr. H. You’ve taken after him.” Ahhh.
I always thought that I wanted Heathcliff but now I have to think that maybe I am Heathcliff.

Calling: One of Nine

2007-10-29T23:00:00.000-07:00

The last time I was tagged about a year ago. I was playing rugby. I got tagged again. This time it’s more painful than being flattened by a 6 footer brother who doesn’t care much about your bones.

So fellow blogger Phish (whom I refer to as Frederick and the P.G. Wodehouseish guy in this blog) tagged me to write on the "strengths of a writer."
I think Phish covered most of everything from a reader’s perspective. So I’m going to tackle the ‘what makes a good writer?’ from another angle. (Read his gems on Murighonto).

If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning. If I had a bell to ring, I’d ring it in the evening. If I had a song to sing, I’d sing all over this land. Now I have a pen and it’s sitting on the desk.
So what I’m saying is that you ain’t a writer unless u write. Most writers that I have met whether they be from the book world or film world tell me the same thing - you need discipline to write. Delusions of artistic muses are all very well but if you really want to write, you have to sit down everyday, every single day, and write. Doodle. Same line over and over again. Just the title. The idea. The line. The first line again. And again. And one day you will have completed your work. (you might read it and scrap it but completing it will be like having climbed up Mordor with friggin’ Frodo on your back whining and whinging and knowing that you’re finally rid of him.) (In my version Sam flings him over with the precious.)
Read like a butterfly. Write like a bee. I often enjoy the process of researching my subject to such an extent that I hardly end up writing. The story grows and grows with every little fact I unearth till it reaches unmanageable proportions and pops like Li’l Jinx’s balloon. Be clear about your story. What it wants to say and what it has to say. And leave the extra information for personal trivia kicks.

Everything is grist to the mill. If you’re a writer you can’t afford to have private emotions. Be conscious of everything you go through and be unashamed about using it. No point in writing what you don’t know. If for no other reason then believe me someone will be able to say it better. You’re like the actor who looks at himself in the mirror when he cries. When I read George RR Martin’s epic series A Song of Ice and Fire I put paid to any ideas I might have had of attempting a series till I had lived a bit more. The magnitude of that work is compelling.

Change the shape of your box. Push your ideas beyond the first thought. Often when my mind is taken over and I first write out the idea, I am loath to change its framework. I like chapter one to remain chapter one and characterizations to be faithful to the first thought. But don’t limit any aspect of your work. Sure there’s a story framework it must stick to but you can punch the box from inside. Take every idea to as many levels as you can – first thought, opposite perspective, plain crazy, logical, etc.

All ideas have a life and character of their own. This is something I really and truly believe. If you let an idea play in your mind sooner or later it’ll tell you whether it wants to be a poem, a short story, an article, a film or a book. And when you see its face you’ll be stunned at how natural the fit is. Don’t force an idea into a regular space and don’t rush it. I remember being stuck with an idea of a masquerade personifying facets inside our self that I thought was play but it just wouldn’t come. And after months of niggling with it, one afternoon at work it fell into place in a poem about id, ego and superego that I call An Ode to Maya.

That’s it I think. I’m on a learning curve myself with this so any tips are welcome. I might have completely missed the point Phish was asking me to make. But there’s the nice world of possibilities associated with there – words mean a lot of different things.
Long live writing and writers!

picture courtesy: www.allposters.com

Personal Ad From a Past Life Slave Girl

2007-10-19T01:51:00.000-07:00

Brown flesh with round scar,
Oft broken white bone,
Red blood spilt and stored
Restless soul growing old
All displayed for slaver’s trade.

The body on sale has no owner
Her price is mind and gold
Brazen flowers, forced kisses,
Hard words from silver tongue
And a weighty chain keeping her ankle cold.

The In-Limbo Cancan

2007-10-11T04:25:00.000-07:00

It’s an Air Conditioningless day here at Surreal But Mice Film Office. I am still here. My pointless dedication shall be the end of me.
I have finished 6 months 10 days and 7 hours here. I think this is now my second longest job. The hot air makes me restless. It’s muggy and you think that hmm maybe if I have to feel muggy I’d rather feel muggy in Marrakech. So here are my options now:

A party planner for children birthday’s in Dublin. I’d have to wear a red nose and learn the unicycle. But I am determined at all new careers.

A member of a dance group in stage shows. I’m listening to ‘You can cancan’ from the Moulin Rouge. I am just a costume short of a full show. There’s an inverted pun here somewhere. I forget the correct word. Phish?

A home stylist. I hear interior decoration requires some learned skill. I spit on it. I am a home stylist.

A gift specialist. Busy corporate guys or anyone rich enough to afford me can engage me to buy/make gifts and remember occasions. Wishes for free.

A writer who has family money. One or the other is always missing.

A shop owner. I have a children’s store called “the rainbow gold”. It’s quite magical. A child wouldn’t want to leave. But I don’t like kids of non-blood (my own) beyond 5 minutes so this is a tough job.

A font creator. My latest favourite is Gigi. Like the French movie it has frivolous character.

A lady of leisure. Which means my career would be Wife To Rich Man. This might be an easy job to execute but it isn’t an easy job to get.

I can't believe I almost forget. A librarian. I already wear specks. To this i will add a tailored white button down shirt, knee length skirt and stilettos. I will also meet an adventurous young man who visits the library but never reads a book. hmm.

Okay I’ve made it to 6 months, 10 days and 7 hours and 5 minutes.

photo courtesy: http://www.flickr.com/ i love this picture. the colors are so energetic.

Much Ado

2007-09-27T21:47:00.000-07:00

I am 7 years old and ever since I first understood things and words I have known that toads like me. I was around 2 when I remember my mother throwing a spoon of honey at a nice speckled green toad that perched itself on my high chair for a friendly stare. She sliced at the poor thing like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill.
At school if I was sitting by the window one of the garden toads would often drop by. 2+ 2 = 4 was accompanied by the blink blink of a visiting toad. I never really thought about all this too much. But my parents spent many happy hours contemplating my imagined magical abilities. One of their discussions went like this:
“She’s always got a toad around.”
“Maybe she has lucky lips and they’re all princes looking to be turned back.”
“Honey, I think that works for frogs, not toads.”
“Maybe she’s a fairy.”
“Or a mushroom.”
I ran away at that point because I really didn’t fancy being poked at by a fork. Why couldn’t I just be a simple girl whom toads liked?

***

Anyone is welcome to complete the above.

Magic Beans: Part 1, 2 & 3

2007-08-28T21:35:00.000-07:00

I lie on a sun bed on the beach framing a photo of my hand attempting to grab the rainbow in the sky. The diamond on my middle finger identifies that I’m the rainbow chaser. There… I think I’m getting the right light. The diamond’s sparkling, my hand’s perfectly placed around the rainbow and the colors look bright enough.
“aaack…. Alanis. Get out of my frame.”
She gives me her profile instead. The foot massager is grinning as he continues working on my not-so-receptive toes. I suppose it isn’t often, even in Goa, that you see one woman astride another.
Alanis is quite comfortable there. And if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from my friends it is… that you can never beat them, you must always join them.
I sigh as I click a lovely shot of the rainbow shooting over Alanis. Then I push her off.

****

Lazy days begin with breakfasts that can be lingered over. A shack of wood with plastic curtains keeping the rain out and a soft breeze bringing some drops in is where we spent every morning in Goa. The first day began like this – “Fill me in.” Some things need to be talked about. The subject may be trifle troubling but you get it done quick and clean.
“Aldair says he doesn’t care enough anymore.”
“Sidhhartha says he’s dating the woman he was just friends with.”
(We groan at the cliché)
“I think I shouldn’t have called things off. I mean it’s not like I’m getting married tomorrow.”
I frown at Katharine at the same time that Alanis smiles. Kat just looks plaintive.
The sensitive stuff dealt with we launch into character assassinations and bitch-a-thons. Salvatore, Quinn, Menon, all of the above, are dissected and cremated.
The last time The Four of us spent a night together it was the night before Paris’s wedding. In honour of that event we bitched out every guy we knew save Mars. The night passed quickly. Mr. H’s warnings to let the bride get her sleep so she glowed flew around with the cuckoo.
This is 6 months later and Paris has left her husband behind to holiday with her friends. Over breakfast and in the midst of saying, “he’s really manic.” Alanis breaks thought to say, “You know I don’t think I’d mind if Mars was here.”
Kat nods good naturedly. I think about it and agree. Paris just grins.

*****

Katharine and I walk along the beach. I started picking stones for Rosalie (my youngest niece) and somewhere started holding them for myself. There’s something magic about finding shining color in water, makes you wish there was a story with each stone. The green one fell off the mermaid’s fin, the red one was on a pirates dagger, the smooth oval with a crack was a cursed stone that shattered itself. Before I know it my mind is full of magic and my hands full of dreams. Katharine willingly takes some off my hand when she sees they’re falling out. We amble along.
“You really will follow up on your dance dream right?”
Katharine just told us all this morning that she plans to quit her advertising job and take up dancing again. She wants a certificate in it to set up her own school eventually. All that was stopping her all this while was the imagined absurdity of dance as a career for the daughter of a business family.
“I think so. I just have to work around Ma.”
“Okay. I’m really happy you’re thinking this way.”
I suddenly remember that some months ago I’d written a really bad poem for Kat.

Dancing girl
Puts on her shoes
Gliding she tango’s
A step or two

Throws away her cares
Puts down her lists
Wildly she sashays
Through ensnaring mists.

Forgotten legacies
No other dream
She’s where she wants
In her dancing cleats.

What was written in hope seems a possibility now.
We wander back to our spots in the sun and pounce on the other two. Kat hands my stones back and i dump them in my Elmo bag as it begins to rain.

picture courtesy: www.flickr.com

Bludgeoned

2007-08-23T21:44:00.001-07:00

India's diary - common entry:

I'm fed up with myself for:

1. writing crap

2. not finishing things

3. not writing

4. being a fat pig

5. letting good ideas go to waste

6. not having guts

7. not even trying to tilt windmills

Michael Parkes is one of India's favourite artists. This pic is called Gargoyles. Check out his other work.

To Be Or Not To Be... and Why To Be?

2007-08-01T04:35:00.000-07:00

I found a letter India wrote to Piper where she felt she had cracked the reason for existence.

Piper never responded so she obviously was not equally moved by the glorious answer. Or more likeli she was too busy actually living life to be carried away by theories on living.

"What were the use of my creation if I were entirely contained here?" – Catherine, Wuthering Heights.

So where else can people be? Could a part of me be in a rock? Is this the crux of love – that infact not whole but a part of us is given out somewhere else and till we find it there shall be no rest and till we find it we cannot hope to do what we were meant, made and capable of doing.

So then is it an inherent need to love ourselves that makes us love another person?

And why is it important that we start out incomplete?
Is it after all just one of the most basic entertainment devices to God.. to watch us all scurrying around on our individual quests?
Or) e.g. the sea as a whole is incomplete without the sun and clouds. If it were so that it was complete, then there would be no clouds and no rain and a 1000 other things would change and there would be no storms, no beauty, equations would be constant and without permutations/combinations there can be no maximization or certainty.
And if all things were complete so that they are all content in their own space – there would be no beauty. It is in the nature of things to mate to create beauty. Yellow gold, mud and flowers, babies, etc. Mud would just be mud. It is also in the nature of things to want to give and share its best.
And if all things were complete so that they are all content in their own space – there would be no beauty. It is in the nature of things to mate to create beauty. Yellow gold, mud and flowers, babies, etc. Mud would just be mud. It is also in the nature of things to want to give and share its best.
And so the object of life is beauty and the purpose of life is creation.

Sky and Titania were quite taken with this theory. They even understood how it was worked out. Just the steps to the conclusion were enough to excite India. If something can be logically worked out, it simply must be true after all. Poirot rules.

A quote from Umberto Eco - just to set off the above - "i have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma, made terrible by our own mad attempt to analyze it as though it had an underlying truth."

Go Figure.

2007-07-24T04:59:00.000-07:00

I really like this cover as opposed to the design we're seeing on our bookshelves.

It's dark and not childish like the sketches we're seeing. It's got this doom-ish feeling to it and it's alluring. What is the medallion? The design isn't anything that's been mentioned before.

Harry Potter and the Unbreakable Pact

2007-07-24T04:47:00.000-07:00

The wand arm reach of the boy from Surrey really came home to me when traveling by the BST or BEST (I never quite got that). The gentleman next to me stared right into my pages and without a moment’s hesitation asked me if this was the last book.
Now so many people ask me if I stood in lines and trampled people to get the book that I realized I am a fan.
My newly discovered reputation is suffering since I have to claim that I do not own The Deathly Hallows. Nein. Nyet. No. Fortunately for me my affairs of the heart have been singularly untouched by hype.

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

It’s so lovely to unexpectedly find someone who grabs your attention and entangles you without you even drawing breath. Much before Harry got famous, in early 1997, Mrs. H found this book somewhere and got him home. We were moving house then and the beginning was as secret as I could have wished. I was supposed to help carry dusty cartons and carefully unveil pieces from their bubble wrap. But instead I thought I’d read one story of this new book. (I thought they were short stories of magic with the same characters) (Kind of like Pink Whistle). But of course it was so much more. Before I knew it, I was knee deep in still-packed cartons and reading in secret. A pile of boxes gave me cover as I read on and on. My heart beat didn’t drop once. If not the story then Mrs. H suddenly appearing gave enough impetus to push me into this relationship.
It is my most atmospheric start.

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

No… I have not made a mistake. It’s just that our relationship jumped a stage. I read this part next and this is probably the only time in a relationship that I jumped a base. (Snigger. My parallels are so amateur that I’m entertained). Emotionally I like intensity before I like softness and Harry really entrapped me with this one. It had it all – anger, loss, hurt, coming into own, passion and happiness. With this one I knew that it would last.

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

This was the comfort zone of the psychological relationship chart. We’d hit the high notes of intimacy, passion and comfort and now the former two were on a down swing. I enjoyed the company but wasn’t dazzled by the depths. This is when relatives and friends help a relationship - when their words help cement things. Mars and Paris really loved The Chamber of Secrets. Paris goes far enough to say it’s her favourite. Hmm. I went back and read it. For me this book was a work of ‘not enough of the good stuff’. I love the Parselmouth angle and it wasn’t used enough. I love the main plot with the diary and it wasn’t used enough. I was filled but not content. Then I read it again and enjoyed the delicacy. The economy of revealing enough and leaving you wanting. I was no longer in the comfort zone rather raring for more. Who would have thought prosaic Mars and woman of few words Paris could put a zing in for me?!

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Then there was this one. The fourth installment is my favourite. No question. I chewed my lip dry. I was left stunned. I laughed. I marveled at the intricacies. I hated it having to end. And I was so respectful of the forethought that this book revealed. Everything tied up and made sense. It was like being given the key to attraction. Like someone telling you… these are the reasons you love me… and finding that even knowing the reasons doesn’t lessen it. But good things can’t last and the next one proved it.

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

If I could wipe out the memory of this one I would. I felt that we had different motivations and were growing apart. Harry had become embroiled in his quest for silver screen fame. I wanted him to stick to his roots. This period in our ten years gave us nothing. No joy, no highs, a litany of let downs and the death of what was to me one of the most hopeful aspects of our relationship. Even THE REVELATION by Dumbledore did nothing to save it.

Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

I didn’t wait for him this time. I was curious but felt detached. We’d grown apart and I figured if he had anything to say to me anymore I’d hear it. I feel little pitter patters in my central towards the left region when I think of how sweetly he returned to himself. He threw off the shackles of stardom and seemed to have realized that to win his girl back he’d have to woo her. A little wickedness, a little humour, a lot of kissing and the undercurrent of the earlier darkness. To me this book is more “return of the Kid” than about Snape and his bezoar remedies.

Which leaves me with: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
There was a tension inside me and a tightly leashed excitement. This was our moment, our grand finale and I’ve always liked to know how things are going to be. I was too scared to leap in and it matters that we go raging. I’m sure lovers, writers, film critics, venture capitalists, entrepreneurs, politicians, sportspersons and readers around the world will agree with me - There is nothing worse than a bad ending.
I heave a sigh of relief and wait in anticipation for this weekend. I mean to give us uninterrupted time.

picture courtesy: http://www.flickr.com/

Abyssinian Maid

2007-07-17T23:55:00.000-07:00

My thoughts mid-air are never confessional and my thoughts anywhere are never short. I have no clue why they come or where from. I don't think they are thoughts. I saw these things. Or i would like to. Some visions are really difficult to pen. They disappear as lightly as the steal in.

The blue and silver propeller from my window looked like a fantastical beast. Even this high up the sun was soft and light as it flowed through the mist-like clouds draped over the whirring creature.
A mountain of white came up and the beast charged in. The enemy scattered and clung on. The beast roared out victorious. But on the gleaming wing from the smoky white an iguana leaped like a feather and solidified nonchalantly before my very eyes.
It pulsed crudely gloating like filth that has subjugated beauty.

-----

The tall man worked day and night, through dreams and light, while eating and running and talking and crawling on knees through mud and sweating in forges, with not a moments rest, he mixed and measured, went back through time to Salem, returned with ingredients, alloyed and experimented, lit fires and burnt his creation, threw curved steel and shine pieces away and started anew.
The man woke with a jolt from his dream. Phaeton had whispered to him the lost method. He was just in time. That day the sun didn’t creep up on him but blazed into the sky in a single moment. The man was ready with his instruments. He mixed the Salem blood with water and it turned from the red of heat to obsidian. The angry sun sizzled as the man splintered his carbon hard shiners and mixed them in the black blood. The mixture fumed. The sun tried to stop its light but Phaeton would not pull his carriage back. So it stayed there and glowered. The man shut his eyes and his passion burned through till he had a liquid heat pouring out of his heart. The man collected the flow careful not to leave a drop behind. He looked wonderingly at the gold liquid. Outside of his body it didn’t lose heat but burnt hotter and hotter as it met the black mixture that was a result of the gold’s existence.
The man took his bubbling potion and poured it in to the hearth. Strangely it cooled and simmered waiting for the man’s touch. He let it simmer then poured it into the mold. With a rush the essence took on its body. The man left it for a moment and went outside. He looked at the sun and was pleased to see it burn brighter. A yellow ray lashed out to finish him but he leaped aside and chuckled.
He took his instrument out of the mold and hammered at it. Then with a flourish he threw it and caught it. Threw it and caught it. He laughed with sheer pleasure. He plunged it in vats of its ingredients to cool and harden and cool till it was no color and seemed to darken and glint all at once.
The man took out a scabbard and cloaked his life’s work. He picked up a pack and started out. He walked for days. His brown skin glistened and his long legs ate the earth. He stopped neither for food nor water.
Then he climbed atop a mountain and the tall man removed his weapon and held it comfortably in his palm, fingers clasping its hard made beauty. With his caress it glinted just once and then waited patiently for the final moment. The man held, swung his arm back and with a flick of his wrist cast it away. It flew and soared and cut the wind. The man saw it leave and become a speck taking a circuitous path till it was engulfed by the flaming sun.
He waited. One second. And another. Moments passed. He kept looking. His amber eyes blazed as they caught a flicker. And it came flying back having touched the sun, saluted it, taunted it… his diamond hard, obsidian black, witch blood, eternal water boomerang came flying back straight to his hand. Cold as the moment it left. The tall man laughed and fell to his knees before the sun. Phaeton pulled away and the sun disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Section II: Who Said to Whom

2007-07-12T22:32:00.000-07:00

There are times when you just want to go back to simpler days; when the biggest challenge was evading your chemistry teacher’s eye in case she asked a question.
There are times when you walk around Cesspool with squelching dirt oozing in and out of your toe nails and wind tangling your ready-for-office hair and you leave your empty house only to go back in the evening. On such days you might be reading a biography and you think – what would mine read?
And thump. That was a metaphorical pole.
Most biographies tell one entire episode of a person’s life. It begins, it goes somewhere and it ends. They have this thing called an ending.
Biographers are smart creatures – they pick aspects of a life that have a story curve, an arc that goes somewhere.
I am the master of beginnings. The characters populating my tale are winsome, arrogant, loving, bitter, straight, hard, restless, crushing, baffling, intimidating, dull, enigmatic, schizophrenic, suffering, cheerful, alone, lonely, lost, hopeful, cynical, pretending to be cynical, fake, dreaming, irish, apart, focused, content, forgiving, resentful, scared, bored, sad, free, ahead of their time, behind, hurt, strong, busy, living. My story is not mine without them but it goes nowhere even with them. They have their own arc to build. I have the nails and hammer but don't seem to have the wood. I have the dialogues but not the screenplay.
So I hug the pole and think of the lines I’ll never forget. Some of those lines were stories that I thought would end and some are stories that can never end.
And there’s just a little twinge while thinking of both.

You know I love you right? I love you. I always have and I always will.
- boy to girl

What will I do without you?
- brother to sister

is there a manual that comes with you?
- guy to girl

You’re a mountain you know. Only it’s lost in mist.
- friend to friend

Will you marry me?
- man to girl.

Maasi! chiya.
- niece to aunt

2007-07-08T23:45:00.000-07:00

The Mighty Heart

Fed Ex won the Wimbledon in a too-close-for-comfort match equaling Borg’s 5 straight strawberries with crème trophies.
Ferrari and Kimi are racing again.
I’m a little like Veronica Lodge – I like my winners. But if truth be told I like people who like winning more. There’s something so honest about a man who wants to win- Like a woman who shamelessly enjoys compliments or a child who likes getting dirty.
I got up early one morning (only because I had to) and took Cykie for a walk (only because I had to). I’m a strong girl. (I hate how that makes me sound like the Hulk’s sister). But I am and I took our St. Bernard size Alsatian for a walk. Maybe with my limbs still slack and warm this wasn’t the brightest idea. I think researchers should spend valuable time studying the wake up time of a 19 year old vs. that of an 8*7 year old dog.
Anyway, so there we go – down hill and up dale. Big dog pulling sleepy mistress. Tug.
Cykie don’t.
Gambol. Gambol. Come race me.
Sigh. I hate good cheer in the mornings even from a too-big-to-be-so-silly dog.
He turns back on his lead and grins. Then he goes around me wrapping me in his chain so I’ll trip. Ha ha. He thinks it’s funny. I don’t.
Whack.
Don’t you give me that melted brown look. You just tried to kill me. Okay so you didn’t mean to but stupidity is no excuse in a criminal court. (Is it Aldair?)
He slumps along now. Just trying to make me feel bad. I’m not sure if he’s a dog or a man. I’ll show him. I jauntily ignore him. I’m a woman.
He’s a dog. He doesn’t sulk too long. Gambol Gambol.
At this time in the morning I wish he was a man.
The wind is really blowing. Fresh and cool and I’m coming awake. Against my will, I’m caught up in his excitement. Fine, let’s run. (Besides it’s downhill for a stretch).
So we run, run, wind in our hair and fur, faster and faster on our 2 feet and four paws, lungs filling and tongue flapping (all mine and his respectively). When I come to a grinding halt. Too late. Ah crap.
The momentum helps the big mutt. Before I can even shout a command ( I like to believe it would have stopped him), he has yanked himself off and is lion-like prancing straight at 4 dogs who had the audacity to bark at him while he was on a lead.
Not anymore. But they weigh the odds. Their four to his one. He doesn’t think at all. I can almost see the gleeful burst in his pea sized brain – Fight. Game. Fun.
It’s too early in the morning for such frenetic energy bursting through my heart I think. Fear. Oh god. Mars is too far away at home. I wouldn’t be able to get him in time.
So I do the only thing I can. I scream.
Cykie no. Stop. Come back.
It’s all clogging my heart and throat. The four dogs round on him. Oh god, my beauty. Snarling dogs are truly scary. Scarier than lions and tigers who have the good sense to stick to jungles.
Uhh… wait a second… one dog has run off. (I wasn’t completely useless; I helped my team by picking up a rock and hurling it) But the alpha male didn’t need help. He had one villain pinned under his front paw while he snarled and bit the other two. Then he released the first one and mauled the next. It was like watching a lion on National Geographic. Stunningly beautiful in motion. All the more so with the blood lust upon him. Just the desire to win and fight. Then he posed over the dogs like Schumi on the top step of the podium. Pure pleasure and energy at the win.
The larger army turned and ran. My hero came back. He has the brains to looks contrite.
He’s intact and I’m too impressed to be angry.
I don’t know about the rest of mankind but I’m definitely descended from a caveman and his clubbed on the head mate.

picture courtesy: http://www.flickr.com/

p.s. - can anyone (read Mars, Titania, Salvatore) supply me with a running pic of Cykie?

How About That?

2007-07-03T05:52:00.000-07:00

A week ago the blue moon came calling. Sky and I got in touch with our silly, faith-is-everything portions and got prepared for a lot of wishing.

"Ack.. we don’t have white. "

Sky rummages, "No white?"
No white.
Pink ?
check
Green ?
check
Yellow ?
check
Red ?
check
Blue ?
check
Sky is amused, "you have enough colored candles to start a shop...But no white?"
I'm forlorn, "No white." I grin suddenly at the irony... white stands for completeness.

I logic-ify with my basic science and think to myself... all colors together make white anyway.
Satisfied with that bit of sense, i turn back to darken the room and cast an eye out. Damn Cesspool. No chance of actually seeing the moon. We espy the glow and are satisfied. We begin lighting our colored candles minus the white.
“wait wait… should we be sky clad do you think, for most effect?” I anxiously ask.
Sky looks perplexed.
“umm… naked I mean.. I read it on this site. It helps to have no barriers and stuff.”
Sky looks at me. Lopsided smile appears. I suddenly realize that I’m asking a girl who’s rather comfortable in her skin to shed her clothes. The same does not apply to me. I’m the girl who leaps from the dressing room straight to the swimming pool if she can.
I clear my throat, “maybe not. We’ll do just fine with the candles.”
So the little ceremony starts. The candles all lit, we sit and wish. Yellow for our families, pink for love, red for career, green for prosperity and blue for health.
You can wish on the blue moon and you get your wishes. Not a bad bargain once in three years I’m thinking. I shake my head to concentrate on my wishes. My earnestness seems to run out faster. I peek at Sky. She’s still transported fish eyed on her thoughts. (Only those who know Sky can truly appreciate that one).
I shut my eyes tight and re-run on my wishes. I peek again. Still fish eyed.
Hmm… time to take matters into my own hands.
I catch hold of the yellow candle and I say, “So do you want to make some kind of ritual? The powers that be like some formality even if you make it up.”
The fish eye opens completely and focuses on me. We clasp the yellow candle and wish for every family person we can think of… please give Mr. and Mrs. H a happy old age free of the cares they’ve had, please give Sky’s dad better health and mother rest, please give Piper and Philip independence; Myrine true happiness; let Titania find happiness outside of work too; let Mars and Paris have everything they ever want, Paris’ mother and sisters, Sky’s cousins, aunt and uncles, any blood that mattered and since there was no candle colour for friends, we wished for Harry and Sytar and Gaia and Alanis and Katharine and Salvatore and Aldair and Quinn and Smith and well everyone.

Then the blue for health – badima’s diabetes and Elvis’ back and Leo Tio’s general insomnia.
On the red we wished for Sky’s film and for me to have some focus.
The green for our mental and physical and worldly prosperity.

And then the pink. We wished for love. As an Elvis song puts it:

Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone,

Without a dream in my heart,

Without a love of my own,

Blue moon, you knew just what I was there for,

You heard me saying a prayer for,

Someone I could care for.

And then we sat in the glow of the candles and chatted and remembered and sang songs and said passages from Wuthering Heights and wished everyone was there and then we said enough coz there are only so many wishes the moon can answer even on a good night.

Just 3 days later Sky got engaged out of the blue.

picture courtesy: http://www.flickr.com/

Menage Trois

2007-06-25T01:18:00.000-07:00

There are some threesomes you should be a part of.
You...

... your friend and a coffee table
... your bed and a book
... your husband and a song
... pattering rain and hot tea
... your sister and a skirt (preferably hers)

Post comments, I have to add one more to stop the cross dressing confessions in their tracks.
More than i needed to know.

...your brother and a bike/toolkit/ superman comic

Picture Courtesy: www.istockphoto.com

Smoke in Her Eyes

2007-06-11T01:46:00.000-07:00

Sky and Harry just saw a film about a 65 year old man and a 35 year old woman falling in love. The film’s light and doesn’t make bones about the concept. It’s quite simply a love story about a cantankerous old man and a plain speaking woman. Sky particularly was convinced with the line that the female protagonist speaks – that she can’t help it if men are taking 65 years to match her mentally and in maturity. Heh.
Harry has forever said that with the way they are India and she can only expect an old man. India is very careful about saying older and not old.
Well in honour of that sentiment, here’s a poem that she wrote quite a while ago. There are some water stains on the paper so I’m missing some lines in the middle but you’ll get the idea.

I met a man in a glade once,
He smelt old like the oldest tree and looked beaten like the weathered breeze,
I longed to touch his spare, lived face and feel his enough hands on me.
But I was young and he was not
And all that met were our eyes.

The wood smoke cleared as he looked at me,
My breath caught fire instead.
And still he moved and I stood still,
Uncaring to break the spell.

(Water marks… something about how age knows things youth fears. How age is willing to take risks and live while youth is playing safe.) (then…

But I was gaunt and he was full
And all that met were our eyes.

Picture courtesy: www.flickr.com

Untitled

2007-05-31T02:25:00.000-07:00

I really wanted to find the perfect pic for this poem of India's. I couldn't. But it feels incomplete without a visual and i'm no artist so here's one courtesy http://www.flickr.com/.

The listener gasps
Wonder shines
My trials are dragons
Through the shards of time.

A fluttering cloth could well
Be a sphinx
And that purple bolt
A never ending bridge.

The lustful animal
Becomes a man
My passion is his blood
As he stalks the land.

The waters still
As wings take air
Her reflection catches
In Juno’s snare.

My words are all colours
The artists unpaid
This life not charmed
Just a storyteller’s lay.

Maudlin Madam

2007-05-24T22:50:00.001-07:00

Just to look at on a slow day

Things that are depressing India today:

1. She hasn’t had a conversation with a man- ever. Boys don't count.
2. Her job is a dead end.
3. Men don’t run anymore. They aren't physically fit. They’ve become too damn dainty. I mean isn't physical prowess over the weaker sex supposed to be their one big advantage?! what kind of dumbf*&ks give that up? I could out walk and out run most. and the civilized notion of a gym is just as bad. Why won't they sweat? sigh. a la daniel craig. different kind of sigh.

picture courtesy: http://www.flickr.com/

I Believe You Asked For It

2007-05-24T03:14:00.000-07:00

Since i'm not India, even with the clues in the comments, I really couldn't say who the anon is to be able to find words on him/her among the Stolen Papers.

I have anonymous claiming to be a superhero who can’t fly. Well… I got to tell you - to qualify for your cape and pecs, you have to have faced your own weaknesses first.
Superman knows that his weaknesses are Kryptonite and mind manipulation. Batman triumphs over the black winged ones very artistically in a gloomy cave. Wolverine decides to put his past behind him and live in the present.
So unless you’ve met, fought and conquered your demons, I’m afraid you’re just a man, who, like other men - can’t fly. But if you’ve looked at yourself long and deep and seen that your strength is your weakness and vice a versa, then get ready to strap on your flyer gear.

First Step: A Horse

2007-05-14T00:03:00.000-07:00

Paris mentioned her wishlist recently:
1. Gold plated bangles that she’d espied in a store called Vanilla.
2. a red red top
3. a phone

She got lucky. Mars gifted her the Vanilla bangles for their third month wedding anniversary. (Yep… the two got hitched in a big fat Indian wedding this February).
She went to her favorite store and found a red top. Not the shade from her mind but close.
And I think buying makes her happy anyway. She acts like a woman with focus and a mission. Like someone who found love and knows what to do with it.
Paris has dismissed her desire for a phone but if anyone is in the mood to spoil her. Here’s an option.
India was there too. She danced in the store. A little slide, some shuffle, glide and turn. They were playing Elvis and it was really tough to resist. Paris reveals that her ‘can’t-help-but-dance’ song is Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie. She does the boogie before leaving for work. Incredible.
When they were in college, India used to do this 'demented impression' for Paris when she needed a laugh. I think India's planning on using the image of Paris dancing to Hips Don't lie in the privacy of her room as her own 'i need a smile' moment.
Mars should re-invent the Paris chart that used to be in his room. Add Shakira baby to it.
Mars’ ‘can’t-help-but-croon’ song is ‘Amore’. He’s fun when he’s buzzed. Well… funny anyway.
India’s wishlist:
1. A store like Vanilla with bangles and snow globes, and Michael Parkes' prints in it.
2. Perfect jeans in a magic wardrobe
3. A trip

Careful use of the English language can really rake in wishes at innumerable for the price of three.

Picture courtesy: www.flickr.com

Mute

2007-04-30T03:52:00.000-07:00

I’ve lost the dreams and lost the worlds,
So much a part of me,
I’ve fashioned wires in hopeful circles
Like webs to catch a floating stream.

But the dazzling colours, the eagles and storms,
The swimming peacocks, blue roses and kisses,
Have all gone away from me.
Xanadu’s father seems my only hope,
Beckoning me to the place,
But everyday I face obsidian nights
Drunk on sleep and waiting for solace.

---- For anyone interested in making themselves a dreamcatcher,a red indian tradition to catch hold of sweet dreams and ward off the bad ones, visit:
http://www.turtlefeathers.com/tutorial/dream-catcher/index.html
India personally likes her dreams to come without censorship.

The Secret

2007-01-29T03:05:00.000-08:00

The old woman sat with her knotted hands... moving with the grace of age... as she worked out a tale in her sandpaper voice and her eyes always ablaze.
Why is she old... and never dead? They whisper among themselves.. Is she a witch or a wise old crone... some things u can never tell.

The child wandered in, sat before her… and in certain tones with fearsome smile
demanded an answer instead.
The old woman started.
Looked at eyes deep in fire... red & blue,
golden & smoke…
and breathed a hope… Ask me the right question, she said.
The child wondered... almost ordered again... for many were swayed by the quiet voice & the sure eyes…
but here was water... and the reflection deeper than any he had met.

Neither wise nor witch you be... but old is old with many a memory in cold that I could ask from ye…
but your magic is deeper than any odd remembrance... it is life and heart and soul...
so I ask a tale, yes still a tale... both long and short, lonely and bold...with veins and wine, hurt and shine, clasping hands bereft...
Old woman tell the story of your eyes this day.

Who?

2007-01-26T07:43:00.000-08:00

I'm no one in this room...
just the blue smoke.

Macabre Musings

2006-10-20T02:35:00.000-07:00

India ain't suicidal. Having said that... read on.

See men fall and die
caught undignified in their hurry,
watch them all dead in their beds
smiling blankly at the thief.
look at them laid down in coffins,
other damp squibs curling in the sky.

shun the dog splayed roadside,
laud the rich man enshrined in his chair,
scorn the woman famoulsy obituarized,
but oh i'll have the prettiest death.

how dull to die with no thought of death,
how commonplace to meet it serenely,
i'll laugh and snatch and kill old age
and arrange myself beautifully.

Heaven It Is!

2006-08-28T23:16:00.000-07:00

For those of you who read 'Between Heel and High Water', just to let you know... India finally bought calf length black suede boots. If that means something more, your guess is as good as mine.

The Glass Menagerie

2006-08-12T00:12:00.000-07:00

I was going to put up some lines i found in a diary which are very unlike India to have written. But then i came upon this:
" My favourite poem... beautifully desperate and so easy to relate to."
Here's what she's talking about - a poem by Alicia Ostriker, untitled:

Passing that fiery tree—if only she could
Be making love,
Be making poetry,
Be exploding, be speeding through the universe
Like a photon, like a shower
Of yellow blazes—

She believes if she could only overtake
The riding rhythm of things,
Of her own electrons,
Then she would be at rest…
If she could forget school,
Climb the tree,
Be the tree,
Burn like that.

…She doesn’t know yet, how could she
That this same need
Is going to erupt every September
And that in 40 years the idea will strike her
From no apparent source,
In a Laundromat
Between a washer and a dryer,
Like one of those electric light bulbs
Lighting up near a character’s head in a comic strip—
There in that naked and soiled place
With its detergent machines,
Its speckled fluorescent lights,
Its lint piles broomed into corners as she fumbles for quarters
And dimes, she will start to chuckle and double over
Into the plastic baskets’
Mountain of wet
Bedsheets and bulky overalls—
Old lady! She’ll grin,
beguiled at herself,
Old lady! The desire to burn is already a burning! How about that!

ps: i owe Gnarls for this putting me on my way to discovering this one.

2006-08-05T04:18:00.000-07:00

"It's been a while since we met, hasn't it?"
Nemesis just grinned, then he pulled her in.

India Q and the Temple of Gloom

2006-07-25T05:54:00.000-07:00

In a candle lit room with the perfume of peppermint wafting thru the air, strains of music can be heard as three priestesses sing lustily along with all the fervour that a prayer demands.

They are lying on the floor, eyes wide open, staring beyond the room walls, silent but for the words to the songs, “yeah.. you bleed just to know you’re alive” and then others go “sometimes I feel like I don’t have a problem” and then again “Just remember when a dream appears”..

There’s no one like a young girl to make a God of something she knows and doesn’t understand.

Alanis, Paris and I have worshipped at the Altar of Gloom for the longest time. Like any other God he can be benign and angry, tease our senses with a happy gloominess, a knowledge that we can feel.

And like all the great Gods, sometimes there is no reason for His presence. We can wallow in it just for the heck of wallowing in something that can be reached and believed. And if music has forever been used in temples, ancient and shiny, to sharpen the worshipper’s mindless devotion, then we three have been High Priestesses for the longest time.

After college, the temple lay bereft for a while, the High Priestesses flown to try the world. But they met again and found that the God had lived.

For anyone who has ever understood a blue song or got a peculiar joy from lyrics you’ve not written, or sat looking at truck lights passing away on a distant highway with some kind of scratching in your inside; wanted the clouds to rip away from you as you plunge through their depths, string less; for anyone who’s ever wanted to burn and live;
For where there is youth and a desire for life and love, the Gods shall bless us in all their bounty and there shall always be the Temple of Gloom.

And like different Gods bind different people into one force for good or ill, here we are...
Still bound.

Coz I know that you feel me somehow
Fly the ocean in a silver plane…
Lonely as I am together we cry.

Between Heel and High Water

2006-07-24T01:18:00.000-07:00

Once in a while I go through my closet and I find that I have more clothes than I did the last time. I'm a hoarder – good stuff, bad stuff.. I can make myself throw away nothing. So my room is the cleanest place of stashed away memorabilia.

Shirts that went out ofstyle years ago, papers and diaries that have nothing more interesting written on them than the lyrics of songs or list of appointments of a year gone by, every gift ever given to me – ugly ones in drawers ready to be put on display when required.. incapable of parting with anything that means something.

Paris and I shifted house. Since the job of packing annoys me as it can only annoy someone with too much of unwanted luggage – I decided to trash without thought. And I did. Two suitcases filled with things that hadn't seen daylight in more than a year.

And then I came to my silver heels.
These heels had been my soul (terrible pun) for a long time – stilettos of the sexiest kind, they were a standard of the woman who cannot be expected to stay, a woman who will dance when she feels like and slide them off and chatter in a moment. This stiletto-shod girl could make men drool and girls envy. Though they had pinched my feet for some time now, I resolutely refused to throw them away. That day I stopped amidst the dust and mounds of cartons and stared at them.

My bandana slipping off my forehead, and shorts looking morosely ill fitting I put on the footwear again. Sigh. Oh the joy of it. I stand four inches taller and distinctly start looking sexy. I know if I keep them on a little longer or walk around in them, it'll start to hurt.. but really is that reason enough to throw them out?!

These were the heels in which I had enticed my first love, these were the heels in which I had gone for my graduation, these were the heels that had been borrowed by my closest friends for the most illicit purposes. These were good stuff. Why throw them?

But I did. Sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself is to throw the good old stuff and create space for new. Sometimes the best thing you can do is forget even the good with the bad. Sometimes the best you can do is go buy the newest pair of white calf length stiletto boots and realize that you've outgrown them silver heels.

WHITE

2006-07-04T06:38:00.000-07:00

As promised.. Here's a poem written by Alanis while The Four were in college. Found it in a letter written from India to Shade...
"That damn Lupin, he's such an overbearing ass, i have no clue why u like his philo class so much. He's attempting to get Alanis to change some lines and punctuation before White is published in the college mag. Not surprisingly, she held firm. It was her poem and her meaning. The punctuations fell where she willed them and to change them (ostensibly for the better) would reduce meaning. As a wannabe poet, i whole heartedly agree."

“Brown” is what the farmer says, the color of earth is.
Blue to a scuba diver or Neil Armstrong.
Pink to six year old’s, Aerosmith.
Green to a gardener.
Red to a Cardiologist.
Black to the blind.
Yellow to the sun.
Orange to the birds that fly past it.
Purple to Govinda.
Grey to my grandmother.
Gold to Goldilocks, blonds, the God’s.
Silver to the optimist.
White for the snow and the clouds above to Tenzing or the Icelanders.
White to any European during the imperialist regime.
White to all the browns, blacks and yellows that represent one universe, at that time.
It never boiled down to skin, bones and blood.
It’s about what the eye meets.
What lay on the surface.
White the coral beneath the ocean.
White the cleanest sand.
White the sky when it chooses to be.
White the color of our smile.
White the palm’s of our hands.
White the bones beneath any skin.
Red when you open the white skin.
Red when you open up any skin.
Yet we do not live in harmony with our surfaces.
We toy with the color’s we have.
Slay the green.
Rot the grey.
Spill the red.
Blue for background.
Black and brown as base.
Yellow for finishing touch’s.
White left behind.
We have a perfect world.
With differences.
Colorful.

An Ode to Maya

2006-06-26T05:14:00.000-07:00

If India were to read this..she'd raise her brow and say, "D, this isn't an ode.. it's not in appreciation of Maya." (Well.. that would certainly be tough).. but i can't very well call this a sonnet (more than 14 lines i'm afraid), an elegy, a metaphysical poem, etc.
So it's in appreciation of a interesting conversation on a pleasant afternoon.

The ball glittered and swelled,
with jewels on breasts and veils on show,
fantastic masks birthing fantastic eyes
A Peacock, a Harlequin, a Whore.

Golden liquid and red bubbled,
kings and queens were laid flat on stone,
white gowns got painted leafy green,
And birds of prey stalked the floor.

There a Highwayman grabbed a Goddess,
and there a Vixen smiled at a joke,
glasses may have clinked and raised a din,
the chandelier splintered on secret doors.

But a woman in white, or sea green, or was it red?
in a mask of gold, or silver, or black?
Sat in a corner and looked about,
not a wallflower, not a showgirl,
just Ego willing to wait it out.

So still she sat, so still,
how long she would have stayed,
it cannot be told.
but then there was a diversion.. a shout
and in that moment it was red she glowed.

She turned her eyes and watched a man,
beautiful and compelling, dressed in flesh,
eating and drinking and kissing with fervor,
Filling his appetites to the core.

Her body loosened as he sipped women and wine,
warming her with glances from slanted eyes,
and when she moved with a need for drink,
he smiled a slow sly smile.

she moved past columns,
pedastal now empty,
carried forth by a force
of little doubt.

the goblet gleamed in her feverish eye,
her graceful hand reached out,
almost touched the amethyst crystal
but instead stroked a thin mouth.

Like a cold gleam, blinding
in a flash she looked white.

The flush in her senses
quietened and quenched,
the strength to build walls
and a different hunger spread.

this man was elegant,
patrician and sharp,
he beckoned with his mind
and broke her apart.

still again, she stood
torn between the two,
beguiled and tempted,
commanded with reason,
indulgence and abstinence
a dance that wasn't new.

But now it was her turn,
her tune and her power,
the men wait for release
and Ego sways about.

Cause and Effect

2006-06-18T21:23:00.000-07:00

5 Reasons why the women who can't drive, can't drive...
(most certainly written soon after the bike lessons)

1. We are essentially fatalists. If an accident can happen, it will happen. If it can’t, it will still happen.
2. Women are thinkers. Since we can’t be expected to concentrate on the road and save the world at the same time, we choose to save the world. Okay.. sometimes instead of saving the world we’re thinking about the gorgeous dress in the window.
3. It requires trust to be able to drive without getting a heart attack. You have to trust the idiot in front of you not to brake suddenly. You have to trust that the guy in the snazzy car isn’t going to want to prove himself by veering close to you. Women don’t trust easily. Obviously except for when we love someone.
4. Women are multi taskers by nature. We are genetically programmed to talk on the phone, cook and go through work at the same time. Driving curbs our natural instincts.
5. Shy women especially can’t drive.. you need to have a good abusive vocabulary. Either you abuse or you suffer from high blood pressure.

I'm an Indolent Panther I am

2006-06-07T01:09:00.000-07:00

The law of the jungle favors the big people. The lion may rule but he’s really got to learn to move around the elephants with stealth and style and apparent nonchalance.
Mars is leaving for Cesspool. He’s got a new job there with TV19. Though he’s joined on for a web magazine they’re launching, I suspect that Paris is fantasizing about him on TV.

With him gone, I’ve got to pull up my socks, pull down my helmet straps and get my ass ready for a bike lesson.
And so.. at 5 in the morning, Mars and I are up and riding out. He sits behind me and clips out instructions.
“Start button. Accelerate.”
“Never use the brake and accelerator together.”
“Don’t go into sand and water.”
“Slow down at the speed bumps.”
He’s quite a good teacher, ofcourse he'd be better if he had nerves of steel. Our approaches are different.. he doesn’t want any accident at all and I’m just aiming not killing anyone.
Okay this is not bad.. whee.. I’m riding on a road. No problem. Heh.. I’ll take Paris to Chocolate Dips on the bike next time she comes. Though maybe we should walk when we go there. hmm. Or.. O crap! O crap!
I hug the side of the road till we’re almost in danger of kissing the trees. Mars sighs.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting out of the way of the truck,” I say belligerently.
“Okay. It’s a little extreme but you should ride the way you’re comfortable.”

We ride some more. I studiously stick to the left side. My left arm is hurting from clutching the brake so hard. A truck passes by and I don’t shudder. I think I’m improving.
I’m almost ready to whistle, (only I don’t know how), when suddenly I feel a change in the sound in my ear.. it’s a silent whooshing approach. My body feels the hum and generates the fear.. it’s one of those silent, speeding killer buses.. I just know it. All of their own will, my throat, lungs and lips form a choir and start whistling. A lesson from the King and I.
The elephant passes by and I am alive, safe. I am a survivor! Fit. Ha ha!
This bit of success goes quickly to my head. I veer off the side of the road and cheerfully pick up my speed. I’m not an expert yet so I can’t look down and check the speedometer but oh I’m fassssttt. I giggle to myself. I wonder how fast I’m going. Must be 100 at least.
I enjoy the moment.
Mars approves, “Very good. You not only need to know the rules, you should also enjoy a ride and feel the bike. But slow down now,” I smile smugly, “stick to 40,” heheh..i'm so fast i'm even scaring the flying Martian, "it's good you're comfortable at 60 though."
What?!! 60? a measly 60’s that fast? I’m obviously a dare devil only in my imagination.

In the next 20 minutes I discover while I may follow all the rules of the jungle, there’s no saying that other gazelles and cheetahs and lions will do the same. I’m secretly resigned to the idea of being a mole but it’s a fun thing to learn so I stick at it.
I start humming. I don’t know why but I’m singing you’re to good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you, lala heaven to touch.. lalla so much..
“India dammit, you’re going to break my back.. avoid the damn holes and slow down at the speed bumps.”
“Umm.. yes yes.” I nod vigorously to show I got it.
Mars isn’t very trusting. He repeats all the instructions.
“Never use the brake and accelerator together.”
“Don’t go into sand and water.”
“Slow down at the speed bumps.”
Thoughtfully he adds, “Keep a straight line, but you can veer if there are potholes.”
I’m adding one of my own to the list. No thinking while riding. No wandering while riding. Think straight. Keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the wheel. Oh. . roadhouse blues.. Keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the whee-eel. Roll baby roll, roll baby roll, baby rollll.. all nigh-
“India! Ind-ee-a, god. damn. it!”
Eeps.

Will it rain, do you think?

2006-05-22T22:37:00.000-07:00

One of the nicer things about living in a city like Cesspool is sitting by the sea. I’m supposed to meet the girls after my run at the Seaside Cafe. (seriously lacking in imagination but you couldn’t get more sea side). I’m running late.
I zip into the place. It’s empty as usual. Beyond the huge glass windows all you can see in the distance is the sea and blackness. Closer are the rocks and filth. We never look at it, just into the horizon. Maybe that’s that makes Cesspool a city of achievers and dreamers. Everyone is avoiding looking at reality.
I pant my way to the chair opposite Harry and Sytar, “others?”
“Gaia’s caught up in a press con.” Harry grins wickedly, “Some toothpaste launch no doubt.” Gaia’s a reluctant FMCG reporter for a news channel. She’s pushing for her own environment based show.
“Sky?” I wheeze.
Sytar shrugs. On cue her phone beeps. Message from Sky. I raise my brow.
Won’t be able to make it. Got work. Really wanted to come.
This time I shrug. “So what were you guys talking about?”
“Back ups”
“Ahh.. I guess everyone needs to keep a contingency guy.”
“Computer backups, India, computers.” Sytar shakes her head. I grimace. Harry looks interested.
“So you have one huh? A back up?”
“Sure. Got him lined up a year ago.” I slouch in my chair with legs stretched out looking superior.
“Who? George? J.B? That Wodehousish guy from college?” Sytar can’t believe it when I keep shaking my head, “who else would you make your backup?”
“The flaw in your reasoning is that you think I want safe backup.” Getting into the spirit of things, I lean forward, indolent pose forgotten, “see.. why would we need a backup who’s a friend? I mean he’s your friend and if you’re settling for less then you may as well agree to the arranged marriage. But if you want a true backup, then get yourself a backup not of compromise but a romantic adventure.”
The words romance and adventure together shoot energy thru me, kind of like if Indiana Jones rappled up the Empire State Building to meet Annie (Think Sleepless in Seattle not Orphan). I sigh and look into the distance trying to look both adventurous and romantic. The effect is spoilt by the sudden arrival of the waiter.
“Fresh Lime water” I mutter. He disappears.
Sytar looks incredulous, “A romantic backup? How does that work? You can’t just plan to fall in love.”
I smirk., “Look, you remember I’d gone for that book reading at Rain?” I get nods. “well.. I met a guy there. He was one of the readers. And it was corny but he looked so familiar. And after an hour of covert glances, we finally asked each other if we’d met.”
Harry and Sytar groan and snicker, “Couldn’t you guys come up with a better line?”
“It wasn’t a line. That’s what makes it so crazy.. both of us thought we’d met but we’d never been in the same city ever. Then..”
I’m interrupted with, “..a past life connection,” from Sytar and, “so he must have been hot” from Harry.
I shake my head, “not particularly. Nice voice.”
“A not- hot backup. Sheesh India.”
“I’m not done. A few weeks later I went for a friend’s directorial theatre debut. Well, this guy was in it. And as I sat at the back of the auditorium watching the set being put in place, I suddenly hear him say thoughtfully, ‘India’.
I looked up and quaked out a ‘yes?’, he looks back, startled, and puzzles aloud, ‘no, umm.. sorry.. just thinking aloud.
I go back to pretending to read.”
The other two are looking at me suspiciously.
I grin, “So now if love doesn’t happen to me, I’m going to happen to it. I’m going to track this guy and proposition him and the very idea of it is enough,” I gather breath, “for what is love if not anticipation, for what is love if not hope and adventure..” I’m catching steam, my eyes are just about to start gazing when the waiter reappears with a chocolate truffle.
Straight-faced he says, “Patsy?”
As the girls burst out laughing, I mutter a yes.

I am Jack's Burning Rage

2006-05-09T01:23:00.000-07:00

In tribute to all of us in the world working dead end jobs, staring at computer screens and waiting to grasp/ create that one stairway to employment heaven, i am going to post one of the poems India wrote when she was in a job rut and watching her ideas run by while she sat on the sidelines.

I'm born of the wind and the fires it stokes,
The earth my feet should not feel.
I rage as he burns and weep as she blows,
But still the earth holds on to my feet.
I run and run to shake off my tormentor
But now my parents don't seem to know me.

Waiting Atop the Empire State Building

2006-05-01T22:13:00.000-07:00

I write this for those who understand.. and the others I care nothing for.. so said Ayn Rand about Fountainhead.. (and felt about most of her works, I think). I wish I could say the same.. but I don’t think I'm that self actualized yet.

Like all the best writers I'm writing a love story... and to top them I'm filling it with love affairs. The first began on a regular day in school.. pigtails, knee length socks, an as- yet- unspotted- face (hormones kicked in soon after). I had no idea that I'd start so young or that a teacher would force me into the meeting- but she did. She told me of him and I couldn't wait. That very day I stayed up till 3 cavorting with him. He was rather correct but first love is first love.. and I knew no better for the next 2 years. Fitzgerald Darcy walked into my life.. a single man in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a wife.. and truly I have never wavered from that edict since. Every man I meet is a possible. And why not? They don't know better.. unless they have Darcy's good sense to come up to me and say 'long have I struggled..' yada yada and profess their undying love.

As the years have passed he has mellowed in my mind and become the one I remember with fondness.. first flush and tenderness. I owe him my loyalty and sweetness but can he bloody his head for me? Will he wring and writhe and torment himself and me as only the deepest, darkest love can? The question came and feeling guilty I locked it away.. but then I met Heathcliff. Bye bye Darcy. I love you, I really do.. but this man is for me. Darcy understood. Stayed in the shadows and watched me pick up another man.

Heathcliff is less tolerant, he won't let me love another. What started one purple streaked evening has become forever. Nothing less will do.
I meet other men and sometimes I love them a little, I admire them and wonder about their minds. Take Dostoevsky's Raskolnikov.. wouldn't one want to talk to him? Why does he wander so? 'Lies lead us to the truth'.. and he could have been one lie for me on the way. Or Aragon.. now there's a man that I could never be sure whether to love or just be awed by? Like Eowyn I mistook respect for love. We girls do that once in a while. He suits Arwen better. No regrets there. And then there was Roark.. the one man who tempted me beyond fidelity. Just as capable of stirring agony. As earthy, as single mindedly passionate. He spoke of his work and I felt he was God about to create man. Such was his power.
I found that he was taken.. a friend had loved him for years and one thing a girl can never do is poach on a friend's territory. There are many fish in the sea and about as many emotions.

Sometimes I wish that I had met Heathcliff a little later. But shit happens.(I'm mixing my references… but movies are so succinctly spot on).
I guess you've just got to live with the man written for you.

----

This is dated years ago.. I have it on good authority (which means India was yakking as usual).. that since then she has been owned by Francisco Domingo Carlos Andres Sebastian D'anconia in part and Atlas Shruggred in full. She is resolutely keeping Heathcliff locked away. This time I wonder who shall win.

Pollyanna Flower in a Norwegian Wood

2006-04-25T01:26:00.000-07:00

Maya came thru.. with not one.. but three sketches. Obviously i was right (ahem).. art really is about faith. Here's her represntation of Alanis. I couldn't have got her better. .i probably, couldn't have gotten her at all.
One of India's favourite poems is written by Alanis. If i can get my hands on it.. i'll put it up.. It's called White.

A Man of Thought

2006-04-18T05:38:00.000-07:00

AS GOOD AS IT GETS

2006-04-12T00:26:00.000-07:00

not *ing Jack and Helen

I’m sitting at my desk pounding away furiously on the comp. I know my boss is looking at me through the glass partition smiling benevolently. He thinks I’m working. Infact he always thinks I’m working. When he sees me reading a book he happily assumes that it’s for work. When he sees me type he just concludes that I’m writing up my report on said book.
I’m hardly ever working.
I keep hoping they’ll fire me. But the problem is most people in this office think I’m a genius. I suppose it’s because I wear glasses and have an opinion. It’s true that I work diligently and well.. fast. I read scripts real fast. I write my evaluation real fast – trashy, what?!, no way!, maybe, must call for narration, yet another triangle, etc. So they let me do as I please. This irks me. It irks me more when the same mediocre people feel they need to check up on me just to keep the hierarchy in place. I like to be treated lightly. I like people to pander to my ego while letting me know that they’re just pandering. More than anything I like to be left alone.
Which is why I’m in a bad mood right now.
“So you will read my script right? Right?” the voice buzzes in my ear like a particularly annoying fly. I turn a freezing look on my colleague. His sandy hair is flopping around his face under a turned around cap. His eyes are puppy dog and smile sweet. He’s a nice guy. I thaw the glare and dreg up a smile, “I said I would and I will. Just not now. I’ll take it home with me.” That’ll give me time to come up with gentle comments incase it sucks.
He looks suspicious. Clutching the bound pages to his chest he murmurs, “But u live with a whole bunch of writers. What if one of them steals my story?”
I stifle a grin. “umm.. I’ll make sure they never know I have your script.” I try to sound firm instead of questioning.
He still looks hesitant. I smile at him bracingly. He slowly hands me the script. I quickly stuff it in my bag and pointedly turn back to the comp. I know he’s shuffling behind me. My back turns colder. He leaves.
I’m the queen of vibes.

TICK. TOCK. TiiiiiiCK TOCCCK .tickticktiiick. tock (Time in office of cource)

Sytar opens the door, “bad day?” she nods towards my hand leaning on the door bell.
“Same old,” I grunt, “Read a few crappy scripts. Heard a decent narration. Oh.. but I worked on one of my new shop ideas. Made the project summary.”
Sytar shakes her head. To my friends I’m strange. I’m probably the only person working in an award winning Film Production Company who wants very little to do with films. I spend most of my time pretending, practicing or preparing to be a capitalistic rich conglomerate owner. I have a chain of stores. I open either a new one or a branch of an old one every other day. My press conferences are a study in wit and elegance. I do a lot of anonymous good deeds. Infact it’s a wonder I’m not already a force to reckon with.
She ignores my subtle plea to pitch the new idea to her. Instead she informs me that we’re all going out for a movie. “the new Cruise film.” I groan. I do not like Tom Cruise.
I do a quick think. Hmm.. shouldn’t have groaned. I try a new tack, “oh.. damn.. I really wanted to watch that.. but you know.. got work.” I try to look disappointed but sagely at the same time.
Sytar ignores me, “Harry already got your ticket. We’ll watch Matt Damon next time.”
I don’t know when to give up – “It’s not about that. I like Tom Cruise, I do.” Think faster, think. I go for the fool-proof one. “Actually I’m short of money. Don’t want to waste on films when there’s a budget to worry about.” I do a very good pathetic impression.
“No problem. Gaia’s treating.”
Now I really do groan. “Fine. Whatever. But next time we’re going for either Matt or George.” I stalk inside.
Sky’s putting on earrings. I look dissatisfied for forms sake.
She looks at me in the mirror and says, “You know you never have to worry about money, right?”
That’s the problem living with friends.. I may not have to worry about surviving but I do have to watch Tom Cruise.
Today is a day for groans.

The Gypsy Song - Part II

2006-04-06T10:08:00.000-07:00

India isn't much of a poet (snigger).. more like sporadically possessed with words that flow only in poem form.
What follows here is the result of a nights dream and daylights hope -

I dream of red and gold,
Dances of shades that i've never seen,
A shimmer of silver in the pale blue sky
That came to me in the blackness of sleep.

Leaves of silver, pieces of bottle green,
Colours of the wind,
And purple depths of layered seas,
Drape the bare skin that clothes me.

A gypsy, a gypsy
Without a caravan,
Ready in skirts that flirt with her feet.

The Biggest Lizard

2006-03-30T22:59:00.000-08:00

The Flanagan clan with its god fearing aunts and warm hearted uncles, wild older generation and goody two shoes young un’s, portly little tykes to devilish girls has two things in common.
One : Lizards scare the shit out of them…
No family gathering is complete without at least one discussion on their latest nightmares starring lizards. If Titania dreams of being under attack by a ruthlessly well planned army of lizards then India ‘knows’ that a breed of flying lizards will soon sweep in. Myrine avers that if you stare at them, they lift their ugly little heads and stare right back contemplating jumping on you. Piper has threatened Philip (her husband) that the next time he thought to play any trick on her involving them, she’d be heading straight for the divorce courts. Mars and Mrs. Havisham still shudder when they recall their particularly close encounters with lizards. (Mrs. H and her three kids have spent a good part of their lives in a hot village with lots of little creatures for company. This would be when Titania, Mars and India were between 3 to 11 years old) There was the one time that a monitor held Mrs. H prisoner outside a bathroom and her kids inside a tub as it held court on the bathroom floor. But that’s another story. Suffice to say that with a lizard in your hand you could get a Flanagan to sign away their child. Or at least their house.

The second thing that can set them off is their dog – Cykie. Short for Cyclone. This gorgeous, giant sized Alsatian with the dopiest brown eyes you’ve seen is the most adored dog on the planet.
Cyclone is Mars’ dog. He was gifted to Mars by an old, dog loving neighbour and got home against much opposition. The opposition lasted the first 5 minutes. Cyclone was born to be loved. A fat, cuddly looking cotton ball, he abhorred movement. Mars, his siblings and their cousins spent an entire afternoon wondering if Cykie was deaf because he refused to move. He just looked at them patiently as if waiting for them to realize that he doesn’t want the ball and he really rather sleep. By the time they finally caught up with this ‘Why bark when you can sleep?’ ethos, he had cultivated new ideas.

Everything was his. He must be the centre of attention always. All humans are friends and all animals are enemies.

This last caused as much trouble as pride. While they could gleefully laud how he had single handedly mauled a pack of street dogs that attacked him, they also had to contend with him seizing and shaking a neighbours dog by the throat. He was a great conversation starter. People everywhere stopped to sigh over him and for years the three were known as Cyclone’s owners in the neighborhood. But this was also the single minded dog who dragged India all over a thorny field because a pig had pissed him off and he just had to take a bite out of it. Never mind the chain tangled in India’s sweater.
This force of life, a vegetarian (!!!), music loving zen master was the focus of all the love in a mostly non-tactile, undemonstrative family.

If India had one shadow in her heart, it was the thought at the back of her head that Cykie was a dog and dogs get older faster. While traveling for work, she’d often try to grapple with this fear and then abuse it with a ‘oh.. he’s young yet. Just 10.’ And then a hurried prayer ‘let it happen when I’m not there. Let me be busy. Let me be away.’

It didn’t happen that way. One very normal day, Cyclone vomited while on his walk. It was not out of the ordinary. Mars decided to take him to the vet. India went along. The vet gave him an injection and put him on a ice cream diet – cold liquids were what they were to feed him. Grin. Cykie was going to love this. They rode back home in a rickshaw. Cykie imitated a flying dog the entire way. He periodically pushed half his body out of the rik, ears flat on the side like helicopter wings to feel the cool air. Then he’d dizzily slink back, shove his nose in a corner and cover his eyes with his paws. Only to do it all over again.
On reaching home, he got his belly rubbed while the three discussed changing his food to some special pedigree dog product to avoid colic in future.
He didn’t want to chase the ice cube but no one wondered about that.

Early the next morning Mars and India came back from their jog to find Titania hugging a wheezing Cykie. His stomach had swelled up more. Mars called the vet. It’s 7 in the morning. He isn’t in. India called a friend to get his vet’s number. That vet isn’t in either. Meanwhile Mars gets the vet’s home number. The vet gives a medicines name. Mars runs out to get it. Titania and India sit by Cykie hugging him, pleading with him, please stop wheezing, crying. Mars rushes back with the medication and tries to drip it down Cykie’s mouth. But Cykie’s prone and can’t lift his head. They’re all crying. The vet’s asking them unrelated questions, ‘Is his tongue turning blue?’
Somewhere they know what it means. ‘NO.. NO.. the tip’s still pink, the tip’s still pink’
I don’t know what the vet said to Mars. As they hugged and kissed Cyclone, he passed away.
Mr. and Mrs. Havisham were not in town. They called to talk and in the manner that only elders have of working around grief, brought up burial. He had to be buried. Mrs. Havisham suggested a cousin’s garden. The three refused. India suggested a tree near the river where Cyclone had been sniffing the previous day. Mars checked it out and refused. ‘My dog will not be buried in such filth.’
Finally, the perfect place. Salvatore’s garden. If Cykie had loved anyone as much as Mars, it was probably Salvatore.
Wrapped in a blanket with red and blue bikes racing on it, a 20 year old keepsake from Mars childhood, Cykie went to Salvatore’s garden. They took turns digging the ground. And still wrapped they lowered him in. The memory of his black, brown, golden body covered in white salt with a yellow flower on his soft nose has stayed with India and afforded her a peace she would have doubted when she thought of this day. And India is glad she was there to see him enjoy his last ride. He’s the happiest memory she has.
And another favourite topic of discussion. His acting skills, his willingness in letting Eve, Pearl and Ray maul him, his love for beer, him.. he’s still the most adored dog in the world.
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An excerpt from India’s Sleep Travelogue:

Later that night I slept only to dream of a narrow bathroom. I’m trapped in a corner of it watching the fattest, ugliest lizard. The damn thing is looking right at me. Then suddenly it falls to the floor, scuttles around a bucket and disappears.

Paris: My own, My preciousssss..

2006-03-29T00:11:00.000-08:00

Me Titania, You Game?

2006-03-29T00:09:00.000-08:00

Mrs.H and the Typhoons

2006-03-28T23:17:00.000-08:00

Pretty boy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

2006-03-28T23:10:00.000-08:00

Artless Observations

2006-03-23T10:39:00.000-08:00

The reason for the lack of faith in the world is probably the excess of it.
Scared by the bunny boiler gleam in Maya’s eye I shall be using her representation of Mars.
I'll put up art work on Monday. But I can wait no longer (my face is turning blue), so here are the protagonists in the Affairs of India Q.

The Cast of Characters:
(in no particular order) (what nonsense.. ofcource there’s an order.. even if it’s random)

Paris (of no surname): the friend. Drop dead pretty, put together and supremely competent, Paris has but one failing, okay two.. uhh.. maybe three.. a memory that would make a goldfish feel proud, the attention span of a flea and an astounding lack of tact. On the plus side, she remembers that she loves Mars and that she has no choice but to love India.

Mars Flanagan: the older brother. Mars has transformed over the years from a ‘I’ll-bash- u- before- I-speak-to-you’ kind of guy to a yoga loving madman. He’s an automobile enthusiast/designer with thoughts he calls ‘brain passengers’. The boy older women dote on; his inability to be anything but nice (even with the neighbours!) causes Paris immense grief.

Salvatore: Mars’ oldest friend. An honorary member of the Flanagan clan. (not an honor he always wants). If James Bond was also the boy next door, you’d get Salvatore.

Piper Gardiner: a married cousin. While no one can say for certain what lies beneath the dark eyes, Piper is still the one stop place for a sense of comfort, discussions, troubles solved and fun.

Myrine: The oldest Flanagan sister. Big woman, big voice and big heart. Brash and naïve, the word for Myrine is simple.

Ms. Sheila Havisham – the mother. Has a tendency to be a camel on the verge of just getting the last straw but with the survival skills of a cat. A woman of many parts, she passed on her expressiveness to India, her creative flair to Titania and her nose to Mars. Thankfully she kept her sense of humour.

Mr. Havisham – the father. Mr. Havisham is the absentee father who one day decided to wreak havoc in his kids’ lives by ‘becoming involved’. A widely traveled, social and generous guy, he’s a split between the saint and the dictator. Unfortunately charity doesn’t begin at home in this case.
(note : yes.. the surnames don’t match their children’s.)

Titania Flanagan – the older sister. She did Mars and India no favours by being the perfect daughter. A shrink, a cooking artist and a budding jewelry designer, Titania is freelancing on all of this while looking for an actual job – she’s groom hunting! Now, if only they could find her either Tarzan or George of the Jungle she’d be really be happy.

Carmen: a maternal cousin. Excruciatingly polite, Carmen’s the original iron hand in the velvet glove. Don’t expect him at family functions (unless they don’t involve family), don’t expect him to answer questions (unless with another question) and don’t expect him to sit around (unless it involves drinking beer). But you can expect him to turn up if you need him.

Alanis: If birds of a feather really did flock together, the chances of Paris, Alanis and India hitting it off would be dim. Flap flap. Alanis is the original wild child. Though she says, she’s hardly wild, it’s a relative world. Highly intelligent, grimly displeased and warmly generous, no college memory seems complete without Alanis’ presence or marked absence.

Katharine: The fourth of the three. The four friends spent most of their time either in India’s house or Kat’s car. Infact her chauffeur has been privy to more girl talk than any man alive! Which reminds me, If Katharine has a problem, it is that she’s a member of business royalty. And believe me, that’s a big problem. From restrictions on career choices to men, Katharine is the original poor little rich girl. Disarmingly down to earth, suddenly wicked and inherently grid oriented, Katharine has but one passion – to dance.

J.B. Aldair: India’s first love. A smooth talking charmer with rare moments of sweetness. India caught a couple. Whether passionately arguing or coldly contemplating, J.B always has a point with three sub points and they’re always going somewhere. His being a lawyer is really just incidental.

Shade: India’s friend from college. Now in another continent. The friendship has only grown with distance. While Shade thrives on pretending to be cynical, India thrives on pretending to be a romantic. They’ve both fooled themselves but not each other.

Smith: A friend of Mars. Descended from one of Medusa’s victims, stoical Smith is a constant source of bafflement to friends and family alike. Dry, practical and inscrutable, the one reason his friends have hope for him is because he suffers from the restless leg syndrome. Obviously something’s waiting to come bursting forth.

Quinn Bingley: Another friend. While his father is aiming to launch Quinn as the next big CEO, Quinn’s ambition is getting people to acknowledge him as the funniest guy they’ve ever met or to lead the country’s cricket team in the next World Cup. The fact that he has absolutely no training will obviously make his triumph all the greater.

The friends who were also fellow lodgers:
Sky Bennet: also a cousin. As happily spaced out as a doper on a binge. Somewhere in her self induced haze, she’s transformed from a highly energetic mad person to a single minded workaholic. The tabla and ghungroo’s that medleyed in her soul either aren’t playing or the auditorium’s empty. And she doesn’t miss it.. India does.

Gaia: A diminutive Hitler with space issues. Can be prevented from going to war by a strategically timed game of badminton or a movie watching plan. Loves all things living except humans.

Sytar: a bespectacled recluse who only gets animated when you discuss Rhett Butler, pasta or books. A voice like a siren while singing and foghorn while talking. Sytar marches to her own drum, plays a secret tune and waits for her serenade.

Harry: Harry read her first film magazine when she was 4. She had her first breakdown when she was 5. She ran away from home 6 times. Got into fights x times. Fell in love a couple of times. Now she’s not just writing movies but living them. One unforgettable scene at a time.

A huge family with close ties, a gaggle of adorable nieces and a nephew.
Other friends: Audrey from post grad and George from school.
Nieces names : Nikita, Eve, Pearl, Anya, Rosalie.
Nephew: Ray

Maya Jones.. whom you’ve already met is going to continue with the art work. It is my intention to always use her work (that is.. some of it) simply in acknowledgment and appreciation of her sheer umm.. zeal and irrepressible spirit.

Waiting to Exhale

2006-03-21T21:18:00.000-08:00

I was not planning to be tardy.. the introductions are all written and ready to go.. to give you an idea.. 19 of them. Friends, family and sadly no foe. The drama shall all be inhouse.
But my artist..Maya Jones, a cherubic dimpler with a witch's laugh, nasty actions and pure thoughts, who was thrust upon me by her enthusiasm (and mine).. is acting temperamental. She insists on delivering sketches a little later in the day.
Since the only thing i excel at are stick figures (innumerable kinds) and blocks of colour (what an eye i've got!), i'm at her mercy.
As i have never seen any art work ever from Maya, (not even a stick figure), this is a leap of faith.
And since all art is about faith (what shit!) (but i've got to round this up).. I will wait.

The Introduction....

2006-03-19T04:17:00.000-08:00

This blog has been in the works longer than Rome. One would think it was owing to my laziness, but one, two and three would be lying. It is infact owing to my perfectionism.
The decision over what to blog about can only be rivaled by my confusion over what tattoo to engrave on self or whether to finally switch from chocolate ice cream to butterscotch. But my conundrum has been solved by the Hand of God. While sneaking around (as is my wont) (obviously you will get true representation of characters here), God handed me my muse. The Diaries of India Q. This is no paltry collection. Ranging from everyday incidents, things to do when pregnant lists, games invented, actual dreams noted, poems to philosophical observations on life, I had found my material. I’ve stolen the stuff. Now I’ll make up pseudonyms and protect my rights. Ha ha.
So finally..
The Affairs of India Q.
Because:
If I’m lazy, she’s made an art of lying about; if I’m practical, she’s immensely so; if I’m boring, she’s spontaneous; if I’m attractive, she’s gorgeous; if I’m a great liar, she’s charmingly candid; if I have multiple personality disorder, she just has multiple personalities.. in short not only is she more write- worthy but she also possesses a motley crew of friends and relatives that defy caricatures and hyperboles to make moulds so original that, in fact, I shall stop here to introduce them all.