Trespassers will be Benefitted

Found in translation...

2010-08-05T02:35:00.000-07:00

Ek prayatna kela aahe...irritation honaar, nakki...chaan pan vaatnaar, i think...

-------------------------------------

Tera number de...

Kaise, bai? tera kaise doo...? ek mobile number das number ka hi hota hai na...

Vaajwu ka kaana khaali???...pandu maharaj chawl madhe tujhya aaila aikaaila yenaar....aani Bangalore madhe maajha aaila pan aikaaila yennar...lakshaat aala ka? (trying hard not to laugh)

Ho... (cheeky grin)... lakshaat aala na...

-------------------------------------

Ghari jaaycha aahe...chiaaaicha...paoos padtoye...bagh na baaher...kasa zaoo.. aani ghari zaoon pan kaay kit kit...cheh...

------------------------------------

Hiiiiiigh pitched voice....E gavlya (name’s gavli) ...tu aikoon ghe...zar ... aaz...tujhya baddal ek pan complaint aala ... tar bagh... rozcha zhaala aahe haa prakaran...vaat lavoon thevla aahe shaalecha.. (gavli scampered off... so did the rest of them)...

--------------------------------------

Sir... aamhi ithe ek mudda gheoon aale aahot...tumchi ninda karna he uddashya ajibaat nahi aahe...lal batti vibhaagaat raahnaare bachchunchi khoob vaait paristhithi aahe..he tumhaala pan maahiti aahe...zar aapan doghe ekatra miloon vichaar nahi karnaar tar kaheech hou shakat nahi...

-----------------------------------

In Pune - while traveling in an auto

Raj Thackeray mast hai re. Achcha lagta hai mereko.

Auto driver - Raj Thackeray aavadto aani Hindi madhe boltaat...

:p ulp...

-----------------------------------

There’s something about this language. I absolutely adore it. And you who dared me... need i say more??

;-)

Before the tryst continued

2010-08-04T07:05:00.000-07:00

“Honey...did you look at this?”

I smiled. The nature of the inflection in her voice meant that she did not like what she was seeing. Unfortunately she saw me smile and that seemed to irritate her a bit. The frown creased her forehead in an appalling manner and I hastened to apologize. She accepted complacently (she knew I would go to any lengths to make her smile). I have digressed. The reason why she was trying to gain my attention was a piece of news in the Evening Post. It read in a loud, bold typeface: “ANOTHER ONE FOUND. INSIDE THE RAILWAY STATION. FACE MARRED BEYOND RECOGNITION. IS THERE A WEREWOLF IN TOWN?”This time I laughed out loud much to her chagrin. “Really, my heart,” I guffawed, “you do not believe this blabberdash. It is some poor, neglected human being vying for attention from all susceptible folks. And getting it too. In rich measures.” She walked out of the room her head held high, her dark hair flowing like lush waves. She left behind a fragrance of lavender blossoms and anger.

I was to meet a few of my peers in the evening for cigars and maybe a game or two of billiards. As I retouched my attire I thought about what I’d read and about the events that had been ensuing for the past month. Close to five dead bodies had been found in the most frighteningly grotesque conditions in various parts of the town. It was mentioned that the persons who had the misfortune of laying their eyes on the bodies were still recovering from the trauma, so horrible was the sight. I frowned at my reflection. I’d laughed at my wife’s discomfort. And here I was feeling the familiar tingling on the nape of my neck. My mind went back to a night at a mansion. A night when I was confounded beyond all sciences and mathematics. A night when a seed was sown in the fertile soils of my mind. A seed that was slowly shrubbing and twig like thoughts were sprouting. Thoughts that veered towards the out of ordinary. What was the term that they were using these days? Yes. PARANORMAL. When I first heard of it I was astounded at the gross imbecility of men who proclaimed (in the same breath) that they were scientists who were testing the presence of spirits in a haunted house. With instruments and equipments that captured energies and nonsense. But after the tryst with a similar spirit in a mansion, I was a slightly altered human being. Not a believer, mind you. But the doubt that had taken root was slowly embedding and preparing itself to feel at home inside my mind. Therefore with uneasiness I walked outside my home and towards the Club.

It was not yet the chilling biting winter that brings with it a feeling of despondency and despair and also a certain sense of melancholy which sensitive souls attribute to the greyness in the weather. No tonight was not that kind of weather. Contrarily it was nippy and the wind was sharp bringing with it a sense of alertness that was actually heightened because of my earlier preoccupation with ‘that night’ and with the news that so disturbed my lovely wife. So my senses were extraordinarily acute and I swear I could even hear the hatchlings breathing in their nests. Strange though it may sound. In fact I almost did not recognize my friend who fell into step beside me because I was so alive to the sounds of nature. For a second I started and then I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that it was him and not some unknown adversary with ill-intentions. Two more of my friends joined us and the atmosphere lightened a tad bit with all of us talking at the same time and trying to get our ideas through. Thus, laughing and in high spirits we made to enter the Club. I fell behind and just as I was about to step in I saw something flash past me in a blur. I looked to see what it was and I could just discern a pair of legs and a tail. No. Let me be specific. A pair of human legs and a tail. But I was completely sober and also quite alert. Yet I swear I saw this. I shook my head and went inside the Club. Enough, I decided then and there. I was not going to let an irrational thing like this mar my much-awaited evening of fun and cheer.

After a few drinks, a cigar and a game (which I won, of course), we sat down beside the fire and one of us broached upon the gruesome murders that were scaring and scarring the town. I wish he hadn’t. But unfortunately such topics create a very unwanted sensationalism which then gets quite contagious and then people are just not able to stop talking about it and inferring and reinferring and ruminating, quite unnecessarily, if I may add. But then the damage was done.

“So, Doctor, what does your grey matter have to say about this?” My friends called me Doctor because I had the tendency to dissect everything and verbalize my opinions in a particularly diagnostic and clinical manner.

“The foolishness of a neglected human being trying to gain attention and succeeding extremely well. Thanks to all of you who insist on giving him the unwanted attention that he is craving for.” I finished it with an expression that said how exasperated and disgusted I was with the whole bunch of them. Men of Science.

“Oh...what makes you think, he’s a he? He could be a she, you know.” This from the youngest amongst us. And also the one who had taken an extra glass or two, an action which had resulted in quite unfortunate outcomes.

“I feel that there is something strange going on here. The wounds on all the bodies are scratches which are not made by a human being. These have been made by animal paws. And there are people who have sighted a half-man half animal like creature. Something is not quite right over here.” The person who said this was a very senior specialist in botanical testing. He had won several accolades for breakthrough findings in the realm of the plant world. “And...the second body. Which as you all maybe aware was the most mutilated, had also traces of bite marks which, beyond doubt, were the fangs of an animal, since the entire flesh of her thigh was torn apart from the bone.”

I shifted uneasily in my seat. The half-man, half-animal reference was creating the tingling nape feeling all over again. I tried to focus on the rest of the conversation but I couldn’t. That vision flashed again and again till I was convinced that yes, I had seen the creature who was responsible for all the murders. But what about my earlier dismissal of the entire event as something trivial and quite disgusting? And what was I going to tell my wife? I pushed these thoughts aside and strolled into the dining room. I stood gazing out of the large windows that faced the gentle slope of a hill. Just across the hill was a manor that belonged to an old family that had been living there for almost a century now. Four generations of scions had been born, raised there and had taken care of the manor. There were stories about one of the sons who had spent some time in Romania conducting a research in chemistry with another scientist there. This son retuned a year ago but suddenly disappeared. His old parents still lived in the manor and were in a constant state of wait. They still harboured hopes that their son will return some day. The poor souls. It was quite a sensation actually. I had seen the young man too. A dark, brooding looking man with a certain grimness in his demeanour. I never had the opportunity to speak with him about his research. I wondered at that time as to what might have happened to him. I wondered the same wonder at this moment. And as if in reply to my wonder, it flashed past me again.

I almost fainted. But, reader, I am not the weak man that you might think me to be. Even now at times I wonder what prompted me to act the way I did but, yes, I opened the window and jumped out with every intention of following the creature. In full speed I ran and ran. I could see it leaping over bushes (something which I obviously couldn’t do and which reduced my speed greatly). Suddenly it stopped and looked up at the sky. The sky was black. There was no moon that night and no stars even. How come there were no stars? And why was I thinking about stars? I looked at it’s profile. Good heavens, it had strange looking ears, like a dog, maybe. But the profile was that of a man. A familiar man. It was still looking at the sky as though waiting for something. I got the opportunity to reduce the distance between us stealthily so that I could get a better look. What makes me do such things? In all probabilities it might just tear my heart out of my body and leave me bleeding to death. Also i was quite far away from my friend’s cottage. And, reader, kindly add to it the fact that I had foolishly left the premises without telling anyone the nature of my enterprise. So I was literally on my own now. If anything were to happen to me it would be a very very long time before help would arrive.

The creature had not moved. The distance having reduced I could get a better look at its face. Good God, it was the son who had returned from Romania and had mysteriously disappeared. Was this a coincidence? There I was wondering about him and here he was, in front of me, in a frighteningly altered form. As I stood looking at him he turned and his eyes scanned the bushes where I was hidden. “Someone’s there. I can smell you. You’re a man. Come out please.” I almost spat my heart out of my mouth when I heard him. I had no choice. Recollections of the leaping over bushes came to my mind. He would easily overtake me and then...? I stood up and said, “I mean no harm. I know you. You’re a scientist. Just like me. I was wondering if you would like to talk to me. If not then I’ll leave and we can forget that we’d met.” He laughed. I did not like the sound of that laughter. But now it was too far gone to even think of escape attempts, leave alone try them. He sat down on a boulder and gestured that I do the same. I did and looked at him for further instructions.

He was silent for a long time. I noticed his ears and was debating whether or not to comment on them. “You must be knowing that I was in Romania for some time. Ten years in fact. I was called there by a university that wanted to employ me for a certain research that they were about to embark upon. I went there and found myself settling down into a comfortable routine almost immediately. It was strange because I am a most finicky fellow. Nothing would satisfy me. And here I was liking everything at first sight. I do not know what it was about that place. Was it the constant state of winter and snowfall? Was it the blue eyed women with an angular sharpness that was so intriguing? Was it the work which was so exciting? Was it my colleagues who were so fiery and active? Or was it a combination of all this?” He smiled when he said this. “Yes. I think it was a combination of all this. I wouldn’t have been so uncomplaining if it wasn’t. I would go out for walks every night in the woods. There is something about darkness and about nights, the mystery, the sounds, the smells, the unpredictability, the danger. I would savour such moments with the desperation of a man thirsting for water in a desert. Every night was a new night and I would feel like I was walking down the path for the first time. Then one night I was bitten by a wolf. I had accidently taken a wrong turn that led into dense woods. There I had stepped on its tail and it had lashed out at me. I remember that, strangely, I did not feel scared at all. In fact I stood there gazing at the wolf with a wide eyed wonderment while it gnashed and gnarled at me with ferocious eyes. A few seconds later I found myself standing alone there. The wolf had vanished. At that moment the moon chose to peek out from behind a cloud and a loud howl resounded in the woods. It seemed to echo endlessly and I think I might have waited there for a good ten minutes before the noise died down completely.”

What was he saying? Is he a werewolf? But he still had his face. Only the ears were changed. Maybe his metamorphosis would occur on a full moon night. I remember reading with derision about lycans and their lot. But here I was sitting with a potential one. Thankfully full moon was not due for a very long time now. But it still needed to be understood that it will occur some day and so will his metamorphosis. And what about the murders? Did he commit them?I shivered. It was getting colder and colder. But he did not seem to mind the cold. I suddenly realized that my thoughts had run away in a completely different direction because he had started talking again.

“I came back to the quarters and told my friends about what had happened. There was one of us who was quite a strange person. He would keep to himself and not interact unless absolutely necessary. Even his way of greeting another person was just a nod. No eye contact whatsoever. In all probabilities the nod might not even have been directed at you as a form of an acknowledgement. He seemed to be listening very intently to me. One by one everyone left until it was just him and me. I looked up to find that he was gazing at me with a searching look. I stared back and then I raised my eyebrows. He got up and came to me. He peered at my wound (it was on my left forearm) and nodded his head. “You’re lucky,” he said. “For having been bitten by a wolf?” I asked. “Yes,” he replied nonchalantly, “and in the process, having acquired extraordinary powers. Powers that will astound you, confound you. Powers that will make you invincible. Powers that will make you feel like God.” His eyes were shining with a strange light when he said this. I got a little scared. I had never seen him so responsive ever before. And what he said scared me even more. What did he mean by powers? And what use are these powers to me? But I gradually started realizing that I was indeed starting to become a little altered. I was having an extremely heightened sense of smell and hearing. At times I would hear the wolves walking in the woods while I was sitting inside my room. And I would smell Mischa’s orange blossomed hair from a mile away. How I loved this feeling! I returned home from Romania after my work was done. And suddenly one night when the moon shone like a globe of light inside a black sky, I couldn’t sleep. I got out of my bed and walked towards the moon. I climbed this very hill where we are sitting right now and I found myself howling at the moon. A man came from somewhere (I don’t know where) and he hit me with a stick. I lashed out at him and tore him apart. This happened till the moon rose like a beacon and beckoned me to her. Creamy and naked, like a temptress, she would beckon me and I would crave to possess a woman creamier and even barer than her. I found such a woman too, but the woman took one look at me and started as though she was disgusted. This angered me and I tore her apart too.”

He paused and looked at me. I was gaping at him in astonishment. I was so flabbergasted that I couldn’t even think, leave alone move. He smiled at my reaction. “You’re the murderer then?” I asked in a strangled whisper. “Yes,” he said, “I killed all of them. The powers that made me feel invincible have also released a demon from inside of me. This demon is a part of me. This demon thirsts for blood and does not rest until he gets it. I realized it long back. Hence I did what I felt was the best thing to do. For me and for the rest of the world too. I have been administering dosages of a drug which I cannot name. This drug has been slowly acting upon all the systems within me. Today I’m here because today is the day I die. I’m glad you’re with me. I was not too keen on dying alone.”

As he said this, he slowly started sinking. I held him and made his head rest on my arm. I looked at his face. At his mouth. I noticed that his canines were unnaturally developed. His eyes too were inhuman. Why? Why does this happen to me? How will I explain this to the world? What will I say to them? I suddenly felt that he was getting heavier and heavier and then I realized that he was no more. At that moment I decided that I will not tell anyone about what had occurred at the hill between him and me. Not even to my wife. I let him down gently and covered his face with his kerchief. As I was returning back to the club i thought about what he had narrated. Did he really turn into a wolf because he was bitten by one? How on earth can one explain the logic behind this? Heightened senses of smell and hearing! Mischa’s orange blossomed hair! Well ... at least there won’t be any more murders. But that does not negate the fact that it was indeed not a human being (not a complete human being, to be more specific) who was responsible for the killings. And it was also not some ‘poor neglected human being who was doing this just to gain attention’... No.

The tryst continues

2010-08-02T11:19:00.000-07:00

My younger sister is someone who would talk and talk to such an extent that she would at times leave the listener staring at her in amazement and also wondering as to how on earth could she keep up with so much of chatter. Personally I feel that it is rather irritating. The constant chatter would drone on and on till I would feel like I should probably gag her or stuff my ears with cotton. But then she is so beautiful and charming that it becomes slightly difficult to say anything to her that might hurt her sentiments. So I would suffer her silently. She has three children, two daughters and one son. My nieces and nephew were a curious bunch of children. They would spend entire days spitting at each other or finding out different ways and means of annoying the rest of the family to such an extent that we would be forced to sit around a table and actually conduct a meeting on how to distract them from such destructive activities. But then they grew old and they became tolerable. My nephew especially was growing up to become a very intelligent young man (I always felt that he had taken after me. His father is a rather insipid, insignificant man). He would sit with me and ask me questions regarding various branches of science in a grave manner. I observed that he did not have a logical bent of mind. In fact he chose to defy logic and try to find inferences that would confound logic. I would feel a little angry at times when he did this but I was an encouraging uncle and I did not want him to be bereft of knowledge, hence I would provide him with opportunities to keep questioning.

One day he came to me and asked with a funny look on his face, “Sir, did you know that a boy lives in the tree house?” I looked at him with a frown. “A boy, you said?” He nodded his head. “No. I am not aware of such a thing. When did you see this boy?” He thought for a while. “Last night. At one o’clock.” I looked at my nephew. “And what were you doing staying up so late?” He seemed unaffected by this question defeating its purpose completely. “I was reading the book that you had lent me,” he replied distractedly. I realized that he was a little disturbed. “What is it that bothers you, my boy?” I asked gently. “I don’t know,” he said. Then he looked at me with a sudden desperation and asked in a rush as though he wanted to get the question over with before he lost courage, “Will you please stay up with me tonight, Sir. So we could go and explore this.” I thought for a second and nodded. He seemed very relieved. Before I could say anything he said, “Thank you, Sir. I will then expect you in my room at around twelve o’clock.” And he left. Maybe he did not want to talk to me about it. The reason why I said yes to him was because I was a little miffed that strange boys had encroached into my property. This is not done.

As the clock struck twelve I knocked on his door. He was dressed and ready. His face had an eagerness and also a tinge of anxiety. We went up to his window and looked into the garden. Now, reader, my garden is not all that extraordinary. It is like any other garden with a few flowering shrubs and other trees. On one of these trees is a house that was built on a whim. There was some extra wood left over and we were at a loss as to how we could utilize it. And my wife came up with the suggestion that we could build a tree house. So we did. It looked good but there were times when I felt that it was a little bit of a monstrosity too because the wood had been grotesquely arranged at some points lending it a very strange kind of look. As though the builder had thought something but had decided, after finishing halfway, that he wanted to do something else. Anyway. We stood looking out of the window and in the general direction of the tree house. Nothing stirred. Time seemed to pass even slower than a snail. It is indeed interesting how time seems to slow down immensely when you are waiting for something to happen. Such a frustration too! But there was nothing to be done about it and we had to wait. So we waited. It was also interesting how the two of us who would never tire of talking at length about different subjects, were unnaturally quiet that night. We could feel the tension that was mounting within the other person. Maybe that’s why we refrained from talking.

The clock struck one. It pealed echoingly around the house. As if on cue there was a movement in the tree house. A light was to be seen. Shadowed against it was the profile of a boy. Just like my nephew had mentioned. I was quite surprised to note that the boy was completely at ease inside the house. His posture seemed like he owned the place. And that irritated me mightily. I made as if to move and go down. My nephew’s restraining hand on my elbow stopped me in my track. I looked a question at him. “No,” he said, “we must wait and watch what he does tonight. Tomorrow we’ll go down and meet him. Please, Sir.” I had never seen him in such a state before. It was apparent that a mere trespasser was being a cause of unnecessary concern to my nephew. I was a tad bit disappointed in him. In matters related to courage, he was definitely a coward, like his father. I acquiesced and we stood at the window continuing our vigil. During the hours that followed when darkness was still roaming the countryside with her black veils flowing lushly over the hills and vales and leas, the boy did several things. He read, he ate, he drank and he slept. And so did I. The sudden chirping of a bird at the window woke me up. I found my nephew in the same position in which I had left him. But he seemed slightly out of sorts.

“What happened, my boy?” I asked. He turned towards me as though he had suddenly realized that I had been with him all the time. “That boy spoke to me,” he said. “How did he manage that?” I asked. “And how come I did not hear him?” “He got down the tree house. He walked towards our window. The next instant he was sitting at the sill.” My nephew spoke in a monotone which worried me. “He has been shot. The bullet hole is still visible on his head. He said he only wants this place to spend his nights. During the days he has other places to go.” I was incredulous. What nonsense was my nephew ranting? A boy who has been shot in the head has to be dead and lying in his grave in some graveyard and not spend nights in decent people’s tree houses, harassing them to no extent. I got up and said gravely, “Now look here, my boy. We have to get to the crux of this matter. That boy is obviously some vagabond who had no place to sleep and has found a convenient place in that tree house. We cannot let this continue. Tomorrow night you and I are going to him as soon as he comes and we are setting all this straight. Agreed?” My nephew had been staring at the floor all the while. He then slowly looked up and I almost fell back in shock when I saw a bullet hole in the centre of his forehead with a trickle of blood that had flowed out and had dried before it could fall free on to the earth. Trapped in the creases of the skin. His eyes had turned a strange shade of grey. But that boy had his mother’s blue eyes. What was this? Who was this? This boy in front of me was not my nephew. If it was not him then who was he? Suddenly I saw my nephew shudder and start. He looked at me with frightened eyes. I stared back at him uncertainly. “Sir,” he began tentatively. I held up my hand ordering him to stop talking. His shoulders slumped, he closed his eyes and I saw that he had fallen asleep. In a flash. I lifted him tenderly and took him down to my room. I had decided then and there that that child was going to remain with me the entire time till I had sorted out this matter. The incident at the mansion had never been erased. And what about the wolfman? If such strangeness could happen with me they could happen with anybody else too.

All day I kept a close eye on him. Watching his every move. What he ate, how well he ate, where he went, what he read, how much he slept, what he spoke? Everything I observed. I found that apart from a little puffiness around the eyes (which I shall attribute to lack of sleep) he seemed perfectly normal. It got me wondering. Was the boy acting? Because I had mentioned in the morning that he was not to come with me when I spoke to the trespasser. And he had looked disappointed. I had also enumerated the reason as to why I had felt that it was not a good idea for him to be with me when I was sorting out the matter, viz. his lack of sleep and his health. So was he being all cheerful and active because he wanted to be with me? But then only I knew why I taken this decision. My nephew was one of those human beings who were able to communicate with ghosts. Like me. It took me a mammoth effort to put this thought into words. And I was damned if I would let that particular, nonsensical, useless, ability to enhance and gain strength. No Sir. My nephew had been born to achieve greater feats and conquer the world of science. He was not to be reduced to one of those foolish men who call themselves scientists and explore the paranormal realm. Paranormal, indeed! Oh I could shoot the bunch of them for creating such ridiculous notions and then talking about it too. So that susceptible young men lost their rationality and start believing in something that has no scientific premise in it. This train of thought let out so much fire that I had to drink a glass of water to extinguish it. It also reinforced my decision of not taking him along with me that night.

Night arrived as usual. I glanced at my nephew who was lying on my bed reading an adventure book. He would glance at the clock in between and I also felt his eyes on me several times. I sensed that he wanted to say something and I was deliberately avoiding his look so that he did not get an opportunity to start a conversation. To make matters more difficult for him I took up a ponderous tome and made as if to read. After a few pages I realized that the book would definitely put me to sleep if not anything else. And it would be disastrous if I were to fall asleep. Hence I put the book aside and peeped out into the tree house. Now, reader, my room is much closer to the tree house as compared to the room that we were in last night. In the sense that we would be able to not only get a closer look at the trespasser but also talk to him if need be. I waited for the clock to strike one. It did eventually. It had to. And when I looked at the tree house, there he was. The light came on and the activities of the night began. My nephew moved restlessly. It was as though he had felt the presence of the trespasser. “Sir,” he said in a desperate voice, “you have to let me talk to the boy. We’ll talk in front of you. We have to agree to his wants.” I grimaced and asked, “Why on earth should we agree to that chit of a boy’s wants? I could crush him in the palm of my hand if I chose to.” “No, Sir,” said my nephew, “if we don’t then he will hurt me. He said he will. He said he will make me do things that I don’t want to do. And say things that I don’t want to say. Please, Sir.” By now there were tears in his eyes and my heart went out to him. He was my blood and I had to stick by him. But his words had also dented my oversized ego. How dare the trespasser make us do things that we don’t want to? How dare he threaten to hurt my nephew? I said after a lot of thought, “Ok. You can come.”

We walked towards the tree house and went up the steps. The boy was reading. And, yes reader, he had a bullet hole in the centre of his forehead. He also had strange grey eyes. He looked at me nonchalantly. I could almost have hit him for his audacity. “Hello,” he said cheerfully, as though we were inside his sitting room about to embark on a conversation related to the weather and politics. “So, you want to have a word with me,” he was addressing me all the time (not glancing at my nephew at all), “maybe you want to eject me out of your property. Make sure that I never return.” And he laughed at me. My anger had been simmering and it had now reached boiling point. “Now look here, you,” I thundered, “I have had enough of your nonsense. If you don’t leave this property right now I swear I’ll have you out and none the wiser.” He shook his head at me. “Such anger,” he said cheekily. Then all of a sudden his manner changed. He got up slowly and came towards us and I don’t know why, but he seemed to grow larger and larger in size. No this was not happening. It was just the lights playing tricks on us. He was now close enough till I could touch him if I wanted to. And then something happened which still haunts me. There he stood in front of me and my nephew moved to stand next to him. I stared aghast when I saw the same bullet hole on my nephew’s forehead and the child’s blue eyes had turned grey again. My nephew came up to me and caught my collar in a grip which spoke of a strength that he definitely did not posses. His eyes stared into mine and he said, “I will do very bad things to your family if you don’t let me stay here for some days, Doctor. Very bad things.” All this my nephew spoke, not in his voice, but in the trespasser’s voice. Every muscle in my body became numb. I could not move. Fear had caught hold of my throat and was pressing down slowly making it very difficult for me to breathe. I was powerless. I managed to say in a strangled gasp, “All right. You can stay here for as long as you want. And please don’t do anything to my family. But most importantly, please, please leave my nephew alone. I beg of you.” His mocking laughter cut through me like a knife. How easy it is to forget one’s ego when a loved one’s in danger. My nephew had returned back to himself. But the trespasser continued to laugh at me. “All right,” he said. “I’ll leave your family alone. And your beloved nephew too. And don’t worry, Doctor. I’ll be gone soon. I have better places to live. This hovel is just a whim that I give in to once in a while when I decide that I want to get away from luxury. And now you have to leave. I must get back to my reading. It was nice meeting you. Goodnight.” And in this way, we were dismissed.

Slowly we trudged back inside the cottage. My nephew did not remember anything that had occurred with him. And I had absolutely no intentions of telling him either. So I put an arm around his shoulders and smiled down at him. He smiled back. I did not notice that as soon as I looked away his smile had disappeared. Just like mine did. Together we went inside the bed room and laid ourselves down. Sleep did not come easy. All the while I kept waking up and checking on my nephew. Morning dawned. The day arrived like every other day. We spent cheerful moments with the family. We went out to visit our friends and to enjoy the scenery around the hills. My sister was with us for a month. Every night at one o’clock my nephew and I would see the trespasser go about his actions. Suddenly one night the clock struck three. I woke up. I had heard a sound at the window. My nephew had heard it too because he was up in the bed listening intently (Yes, reader, after that night I had taken the decision that my nephew would be sleeping in my room with me till the rest of his stay there). We looked towards the window and imagine our reaction when we saw the trespasser sitting on the sill with the cheeky smile on his face. He waved at us and gave us a mocking salute. The next instant he was gone. We literally jumped out of the bed and ran towards the window. But he was nowhere to be seen. There were no lights and no movement inside the tree house too. I turned towards my nephew and said, “Listen, child, we are not going to talk about this ever again. Just remove it from your mind as though it was a dream. Do you understand?” He nodded his head and we went back to sleep.

After that night, till date, reader, I have not seen that trespasser ever again. Good riddance! But one day several years later, when my nephew had grown into the fine young man that I always knew he would grow up to be he asked me a question. He asked me as to what happened to him that night. I just smiled.

To be or to un-be

2010-08-01T07:22:00.000-07:00

There's something about this feeling called 'feeling'.

Have you ever stopped and given a thought as to what happens inside your body and your mind when a particular stimulus is hurled at you. As a reflex you basically react to it. Physically, mentally any which ally... they're all inter-connected. One leads to the other. A classic example is the kiss. I remember when this man kissed me it completely took over my senses. How strange it is that the entire mind blanks out and focuses only on that particular feeling and connection.

When i see maimed children and old persons begging...it tears at my soul. I become numb. It hits the mind first and you are unable to think beyond the sight that you see. it then gets hold of your body and you are rooted. transfixed. Then the feeling of sheer helplessness takes over. You are aware that there are certain things that are beyond your control. This awareness damns you even more. Sometimes, acceptance can be your greatest enemy because it stills your growth.

We meet a person. We realize very soon that this person has everything that we've ever wanted. we're happy. but then doubts assail us. we start suspecting this happiness. we wonder whether we are destined for such happinesses. and then...we go ahead and put an end to it. wow. in the age of stupid, stupids thrive and make others stupid. There's a lot of confusion these days. Men want women who are strong, independent, (some like their women nasty), intelligent...but then... when confronted with such a one..they draw back all scared and frightened. It is quite strange. I mean...whaaa???

I remember having a conversation with this really arrogant and smug Bengali man. He goes..." Im afraid but men are soon going to be redundant." I stared at him. I'd actually tolerated him for 3 days and at the end of it I had decided that I will give him one last chance at redemption. Sigh! I waited for him to continue.. "I look at it this way. Man at 3 levels has been thwarted by women these days. Man as Protector. Man as Predator. Man as Procreator. Women are emerging on top at all three levels. It is shaking the very foundations of our ancient beliefs." I continued staring at him. I was really tired of him. And stretching the conversation would have meant having to listen to him. But a feisty (and super sexy) Bengali woman came to my rescue. She stormed at him.."So..you mean to imply that women HAVE to be suppressed...blah blah.." That was my cue to escape and i gladly took it. The look on his face was worth shooting (with a camera and a gun).... :-))) ... but you know i liked that Procreator, Protector, Predator funda.. hahahaha...its almost like the Holy Trinity...

And the 17 and 19 year olds...

2010-04-18T03:24:00.000-07:00

19 year old (boy) “Bai, darwaja kaayko nai kholela hai?”

I hand over the key to him silently. He is half Nepali. Slit-eyes, creased furthermore owing to sleepiness.

17 year old (girl) “Mujhe de. Chaabi kaunsi hai mujhe pata hai.”

He sliced a sullen glance at her and then at me. He walked away. If looks were knives, we would have been shred into pieces. The sparks were crackling wildly.

For five whole minutes we saw him struggling with the 20 odd keys hanging from the bunch.

19 year old (boy) now irritated “Konsa chaabi hai?”

17 year old (girl) takes the bunch from him silently, selects a key and opens the lock. She turns to me and hands over the key bunch. I open the door and wait for him to enter. 17 year old (girl) is waiting on the other side. We are making an effort to not smile but our eyes say it all.

19 year old (boy) studiously refuses to look at either of us. He keeps his things and walks out. As he passes us his face breaks into a smile but he is trying his best to hide it. He says gruffly “Theek hai, theek hai. Hota hai kabhi kabhi.”

Conversations with a 15 year old

2010-04-16T06:52:00.000-07:00

It was in Hindi. What follows is verbatim and transliterated.

"So....what do you plan to do after 10th?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know."

"Yes. My mind has become dumb. It is not speaking to me."

"So how are studies going on?"

"Well. Every morning I wake up early. And when I look out of the window I see the first rays of the sun hit that board over there. Nothing moves. Everything is still. Even the leaves. It looks like a painting."

"Why don't you write about this?"

Looks at me with that sidelong glance. And smiles.

"I tried doing that once. Then I felt - whom am I kidding? Am I intellectual enough to write? And then I stopped."

"What happened to you yesterday? You seemed a little off mood."

"Yesterday? Nothing. There are times when I tend to withdraw. When I've had enough. But today in the meeting. I suddenly saw darkness all around me. I did not like it. This blur. This unknown opaqueness. Its not good."

"It is very necessary to be friends with some people and not rub them the wrong way."

I started. I stared. I asked. "What do you mean?"

"There are times when I get beaten up at school for no rhyme or reason. Bullies just pick me and beat me. Suddenly after some days I come to know that A bhaiya and the rest of the gang have bashed those bullies for having beaten me up. This happens because I make sure that I am cool with all the older guys. R bhaiya should be careful. He should not rub these guys the wrong way."

He hangs around. Inconspicuous. You won't even notice him. Even if he passes and re-passes you a hundred times you won't notice him. He has this slouching strut. He wears low-slung jeans and loose t-shirts with sleeves folded. Or shirts with the first three buttons, unbuttoned :). He is very short, very thin, he has dark brown skin, dark and gleaming like freshly polished virgin wood, he has beautiful expressive brown eyes and a smile that can melt a heart of stone. And when you start talking to him you then realize that he is different from the rest. He is deep. He is profound. He is wise beyond his years.

I... In... Ink...

2010-03-14T07:21:00.000-07:00

He wore white and black. He has golden hair. His arms and legs are engraved with demonic faces and cryptic shapes. He belongs to the land of orchids and exoticism. He has hazy eyes and a faraway look inside them. He sat at the table and beckoned. A stab of apprehension. I knew he would hurt me. He looked at the various implements...sharp implements (if I may add) that lay around him. And it all began. Three and a half hours. He made my hand rest on his thigh as if to reassure me that the pain he would give me was akin to pleasure. His knee propped mine and he carefully engraved on my skin. Over and over he worked re-layering the contours, defining the shape, shadowing the depths. In between he would pause and survey the art that he was creating. I felt his breath on my skin and I could see the effort. What was the feeling? Did my soul connect with his? Or was it the serene face of Buddha which spurred us into a hazy oblivion where we ceased to be alive to our surroundings? For those three and half hours he and I were two bodyless beings floating in space. Pain receded to a background that seemed so far away. He sat there bent over me at times glancing at me, maybe to check if I was doing all right. And when it was done he sat back. And grinned. “Are you happy? I asked. “Yes, I am very happy,” he said.

It took me time to register the experience. Never before have I felt this way. This oneness with another human being. And despite the pain the beauty that was created had a purity that left me breathless. And I know he was affected by it too. The next day I asked him how on earth did he do it. He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.

He is Sia. Artist par excellence. At Al’s Tattoo Studio.

In a frenzy

2010-03-11T04:04:00.001-08:00

Dark night, blacker than the satan's soul (oh.. satan has a soul?) ... pause... you want me to continue? then you must not interrupt. are we clear about this one? good.

Now where were we...? Yes...

The night was dark. Darker than satan's soul. blacker than sin. you couldn't see your hand if you were to raise it to your eyes. moon chose to remain undercover. she'd had it with the asshole wind, ripping off the clouds from her body and exposing her to eyes... stars shed their light on earth. and you lay there. your eyes are closed. your hair flowing from beneath your head, like a dark pool. a pool of blood? one eye opens. "what are you thinking?" i start. "nothing", i say nonchalantly. are you watching me? from beneath those lids?

suddenly you get up, shaking the grass and leaves and grit from you body. your movements are sensuous. your hair slithers down to your waist...like a snake. i can almost see the darting tongues. heartbeats quicken as you walk towards me. i have been standing all this while and you are now so close i can see myself in your eyes. "we can't wait here forever. let's go". you turn back and walk with that heavy tread. full hips sway in sync with the feet. "are you gonna stand there all night watching my ass?" Damn... bitch! i walk irritatedly. this is it. no more late nights with her.

Smack my Bitch Up...

2010-01-24T02:45:00.000-08:00

She stood there...in red and black...hair teasing full hips...she turned, my eyes dropped down and so did my mouth...that damn butt was the sweetest, the best, it was to DIE for, to KILL for...

WHAP...the heel ground into my jaw, almost slicing it off...if i hadnt shifted in time...it would have been KO the very first round...Na-haa...cannot let this hotness distract me...

I dodged a couple of near-perfect punches. About time i went on to the offense...POW on a flat stomach...phew... I would give everything to dip inside that navel...she straightened, grimaced and frowned at me...

I smiled...i noticed the muscles of her right leg flex...she was readying herself for the lethal scythe...it was her special...it was unpredictable...it could hit anywhere, anytime...i stopped smiling...

She moved in a semi-circle path, grace and sex dripping from every inch of her body...biding her time...waiting for me to lose focus...so she could strike...

i moved with her...i knew i had to be focused...or else it was KO the entire fucking way...

it all happened in a flash of a second...when she flew at me, i just didn't know...but i was prepared with a defense move...and i had her pinned on to the wall...her eyes spitting fire at me...

the fucking button had to plop off from her shirt right at that fucking time and come flying into my eye...blinding me...and then it was a PERFECT ... she punched and kicked and basically went ballistic on me...

In the end...she stood over me...legs apart, batting eye lashes, ample cleavage showing through the almost non-existent shirt...sweet voice said.."and i win..."

Holy fuck...it is gonna be one hell of a night taming this wild cat...

Inspired by this weird ass game called 'Tekken' (I think)...where all these hot women were kicking male butts like BIG TIME...i enjoyed thoroughly... :D

Are we having fun yet?

2010-01-24T01:49:00.001-08:00

In a corner of the world... she sits cowering...gazing terrified at all the happenstances...whirling past her..flinching at the slightest sound, eyes and mouth open wide, but the scream is silent...shreds of torn black silks fallen around her...like dead black birds...

Debris on the road...dumped metal heaps...a half building bent with shame... the explosion devoured its roof...a man on the road, a gun shot, bullet ripping through him, he flies without wings, body arched, hands hanging limply, head thrown back, a question in his eyes, "did i just get shot...???" little does he know that he's dead...

An underground basement...monotonous tempo...thud thud thud...strobe lights flashing, purple, blue, green...eyes closed, bodies swaying, lost to everyone, maybe themselves too...

She lies there, black silk sliding off a white shoulder...film of sweat on the rounded curve of an arched breast, head on the arm of a plush purple settee, hair touches the floor, mouth parted wide trying to steal the already depleting oxygen, sinuous body curved like cupid's bow reaching into him, head slowly sliding off the arm of the settee, almost touching the floor...exposing a neck that deserved to be ravaged, legs entwined around him, tantalizing glimpses of a milky white thigh...

He gazes down at her...dead eyes, muscles taut, rippling, a finger following the path made by a drop of sweat, down the flawlessly shaped neck...a neck which deserves to be ravaged, his jaw tightens, teeth gritted...a neck which has been punctured...mini-wounds...desperate search for veins to plunge the needle in...the knife is in his hand, sharp serrated... he surveys her body lying beneath him, the arched breasts, the soft skin shaming black silk, the submission...a hand grips and curves around her vulnerable throat finding the pulse...fluttering heartbeat...the knife shimmers...

She sits there cowering...in one corner of the world...they had warned her about him...but she was powerless...the knife wound on her thigh a testimony of what might have happened if she had not snapped out of the haze...she wondered why she picked up the gun when she left her apartment...

As he took flight he gazed at the sky...a million stars came tumbling down on him...he saw an up-side down world...he saw her face...the gun falling down from her hand..."did i just get shot?"

I WANT

2009-12-07T09:59:00.000-08:00

to ramble on and on and never stop...

whats been happening? hmmm... lots of things actually.

bumping (literally) into Manisha Koirala's brother (such a dazzling smile...whew)...

meeting someone whom i really connected with... after a very very long time (not often does one get so lucky)...i love you RIC

getting the attention of my favourite child at work (i'm walking on air with that silly smile on my face... sigh)...

watching my jeans slide down my hips with a satisfied smile (no, idiots... i mean i'm losing weight and hence the jeans just sliiiiiide)... :-)

feeling my hair kiss my waist lingeringly ... (yes...the hair IS growing)... :-)

looking forward to a visit and meeting a soul mate... (.....:-))

preparing for an annual event at work (i get to be with the children for some more time ... :-) yayy)...

spending time with appa and amma (the love i feel for them takes my breath away...)

realizing that although life has had some raw deals i still smile at the end of the day when i close my eyes and snuggle up with mommy...

getting called out by this rickshaw wala (to take his auto) who vented out his frustration on being abused because he was a 'bhaiya'... (i heard him out while he ranted)

getting stuck in an off season rainfall and conversing with cabbies about their lands back home...(all of them were biharis and in complete love with their matrubhoomi) :-) true sons of the soil... THE COMPLETE MEN ... unlike some others...

speaking Marathi with ancient shopkeepers outside Dadar station and enjoying the feeling of belonging to the state and to the city...(i love those old men and their complete, genuine inclination to be of service...sigh) :-)

strangely reveling in the fact that i am desirable when i see the men of Islam staring lustily at me (no one and i mean NO ONE can look at a woman the way these men do. such a raw and honestly exact expression of what they feel...even if it is pure lust) :p

there are many more things happening...the above just outlines it... no point in boring you with endless narratives, na... :-)

Grumble...mumble...blah blah...

2009-10-05T07:36:00.000-07:00

So many things happening... 24 hours are not enough...

i got a new place...will be moving in by november 1st. i cannot even begin to explain how relieved i am by this development. although it has slightly overshot my old budget, it is well within my new one. :p. and friends, setting up your crib is not easy, trust me. i am one of the most minimalistic persons but even then i am finding it difficult to figure out what i need and what i don't. of course the mater and the pater are coming over. and all my thinking alouds have been misconstrued as actual future events and everyone is harbouring different ideas and generally confusing one another including me. so yeah...till i actually move in this is going to be the scene...

i met a ghost from the past... brought back a lot of surreal memories. at times i wonder whether i am beginning the cycle again. i seem to be what i was some time back. physically and mentally. i know it sounds strange but the only newness in me is a strange kind of calm that comes with bitter experience. my earlier calm was more of a serene kind of calm and not one of those - been there felt that - kind of calms. maybe i need to tap all those things i did which made me feel light and positive and strong. is it a regression? no. i was afraid that it might be. but i am now convinced that it is not.

and no... im not taking myself too seriously. i am only disconnecting myself from me and watching the changes that are happening within me. it is like coming out of your body, sitting in a corner and watching yourself do stuff, say stuff and react to stuff. :-) and i am liking what i am seeing.
:-)))))

Damn...what have i written. Tch...

ok the other day, i was at my maasi's place. and suddenly the bell rings. i open the door. i see the backs of sardarji boy, friend 1 and friend 2. sardarji boy turns. he goggles at me, gaping mouth and all. and he mutters... "26th...coupons....dinner....150 rupees....garba....". Friend 1 runs a hand through already tousled hair and gives a broad (very attractive) sheepish grin...Friend 2 has an agonized expression on his face...he looks around...(nahi dost...there is no hole where you can go and hide)...i burst into uncontrolled laughter. sardarji boy is even more confounded and has now forgotten why he rang the bell. friend 1 (sheepishness all gone) laughs with me (saala gaddaar)...friend 2 is now turning a shade that could only be described as dark pink...
well can i blame them....? i mean, what would you do if a vision of loveliness was to answer the doorbell....? Hmmnn?

Islam, iftiyari and me...

2009-09-19T11:44:00.000-07:00

i have a colleague. i'll call him...uhmmm....SRK (he's a total fanatic).
he is muslim and for the past 2 days a very beautiful happenstance is happening with us...as in with the team.
yesterday was sheer madness. another colleague of mine...i'll call her... Songbird... who is a proper food junkie came to work all hungry and exasperated (cabbie had apparently taken her for a ride...). food, she declared...i want food...and the choice was made. SAMOSAS... not one but 2 each. so that happened in the morning 11:45 ish. after 2 samosas...a lunch seemed slightly discomforting but we did taste some tidbits...
then came evening. what to eat? what to eat? and SRK announces..."break roza with me today..."...ooooh...what a super idea! and i still remember how the stalls overflow with food in that area of our city. Oh my God... it is phenomenal. the variety, the colours, the flavours, the textures, the aromas... such a small stomach and so much to eat. bhajiyas, pakodas, mini samosas, shaami kebabs, naans, ragda, kachumber, falooda, fruit salads....sighhhh!
6:40 pm he said. the time was 4:30. 2 HOURS. how those 2 hours passed only i know. and when the time arrived, we heard the magrib or is it isha (not sure) from a distance. it sounded like divine music to our ears. SRK smiled at me. i smiled at Songbird and Songbird smiled at Shoutfest (colleague number 3). yayyyy....time to stuff our faces. we went upstairs and sat down and ate to our hearts' content.
you know something, i don't think even SRK after his whole day of roza would have waited with such anticipation for the break as we did after our 2 hours roza. and when we sat there... all of us huddled over the overflowing paraats...damn... i felt one with SRK and im sure so did Songbird and Shoutfest. that little sharing of food brought us all together and at one point we all felt that even we should have gone through the niyat ceremony.
the same thing happened today. i'm eating so much. it's not funny. but it feels so good when all of us sit with SRK and eat and pray for him as well as ourselves. it's super beautiful. i still remember him mentioning with a smile (after he'd finished eating) ... "and now off with the topi and on with the dandiya...". he's a dancer so...yeah...he's gonna go dance for the Goddess too... :-))) how much we've gone through as far as our respective religions are concerned. yet when it comes to simple life events all barriers are broken and oneness is achieved.
and i am so glad to be a part of this pure, simple ritual because in a day of turmoils i feel so full of peace when i sit down with the rest of them and .... eat. :-)))))

Gyaan Guru ... Autowallah

2009-09-10T02:24:00.000-07:00

i don't know why ... but i took an auto from andheri to bhandup. it was one of those days when i wanted to just sit back and watch people go by, vehicles go by, animals go by...like a blur. and that's exactly what was happening. if i had my way...i would have wished that the ride never ended. it also happened to be the day when an Eternal Knight was born. so yeah, there was something in the air...
then bhandup arrived. and i was asked whether i had to go west or east. and as usual i didn't remember. so i said west. again as usual...i was so wrong. so i did a 'wise' thing. i called a colleague and asked her whether it was east or west. i could hear loud guffaws in the background. OH WELL...SO WHAT???
i told the autowallah...go eastwards, my dear man... and he shook his head. his face expressed many emotions. frustration, helplessness, resignation... i mean...can't blame him, na. he was riding forever. oh did i forget to mention...it was raining and the traffic was SUPERMEAN!!!
then he said (i represent a translated version here. but it is verbatim): "please don't take offence, but i have been watching you. you have been staring into space and thinking. the entire time. remember one thing, there is no point in thinking about something that you're never going to get. in fact it is an utter waste of time..."

okkk...whatever!!!

Guillermo e historias de la calle

2009-08-25T10:27:00.000-07:00

it took a blue-eyed spanish teacher turned photographer to drive in some home truths and to convince me that im not being foolish by being too trusting or by loving people who think they ought not to be loved.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"i dont' think i can travel alone. i dont have that kind of courage."

"how can you say that if you've not tried. fear is something which you ought to get rid of. when you're confronted with something that you're afraid of do something unpredictable and the source of fear will vanish. for instance there was this guy who tried selling hashish to me. i avoided him. but he caught hold of my hand and you know what i did. i started waving my hands and laughing loudly. he looked at me for sometime and then he walked away."

-----------------------------------------------------

"but they are dangerous, unpredictable guys. you have to be careful."

"unpredictable, maybe. but dangerous...definitely not. see there maybe people in your life who give you every reason to not trust them, or be wary of them or not like them. but if your gut instinct asks you to go ahead and trust them then without thinking twice you should go ahead and trust them."

Gracias!

-----------------------------------------------------

i came across a new word today - transubstantiation - which denotes a process in which a substance gets transformed into another substance...

I Tend to get Attached with a Sense of Detachment

2009-07-30T11:24:00.000-07:00

…quoted a wise man. Did he suggest that I do the same? I don’t quite remember, but that is beside the point.

There is this boy I know. He is young, very young. Every time he looks at me, he quirks an eyebrow and gives me a lazy half-grin. And my heart skips a beat. If I wasn’t governed by the child protection policies then I would have just grabbed him and kept him with me till eternity. And he speaks to me about his experiences at school and about the fact that he finds math a little tough…and all this in that laidback lazy manner which is so signature him. At times I feel that if everything was fine I might have had a son like him. Sigh!! Of course I will have a child someday…but you know…so I listen to him and I gaze into his face and capture all the expressions that flit across and animate his oh so incredible features…and then he abruptly ends the conversation and says bye and goes away. And I smile for the rest of the day. J

The context here is the fact that in the work I do, we tend to see a lot of things that are not normal. Our children are survivors. And at times it gets difficult to resist the emotions that tend to overflow inside the heart towards a particular child. But you are then forced to hold back and be strong. Not just for the child, but for yourself and for the cause too. The trick then is to strike the correct balance between attachment and detachment. Hmmnn…

That Human Touch

2009-07-27T11:30:00.000-07:00

what is it about a touch that creates such contradicting reactions within you. it either makes you feel loved and protected or it makes you feel vulnerable and unpleasant. i see some of my children, the really chintu ones...and i just can't help lifting them up in my arms and holding them close to me. but then everytime they see me they start crying because they want me to carry them and i at times don't have the time to do so. but that apart, what really makes a difference is the fact that although their mothers love them, those women do not either have the time or the energy to shower their babies with the love and affection that they crave for. i mean i can literally feel their tiny bodies relax completely when i carry them and walk down the long passage that leads to the gates. and it is so amazing ... there are times when i walk back the entire stretch and i find that they've fallen asleep. how they love it when they feel a touch of another human being. of a familiar human being. and how pure they are... so trusting. all it needs to get them to melt is that loving touch.
and aren't we all like that. no matter how old or young , a hug or a caress is all that it takes to fill us with a sense of contentment.
sigh!!!
:-)

i went to colaba causeway yesterday. we took a pitstop at this place called piccadilly. it's this lebanese/iranian restaurant that makes very tasty food and reminds you of that Planet Food serial where they featured Lebanon. such a pretty little place. and then we came out and all prettiness vanished. there was this really black, looming sky above us and the moon like a sickle blade waved menacingly. the sky was really incredibly black, i don't know how. not a single cloud to mar the blackening effect. extremely chilling. if it wasn't for the hustle bustle and the lights, the scene would have been quite scary. i mean imagine the gothic architecture of VT station and the municipal headquarters with all those gargoyles, with this sky and that sickle-shaped moon in the back-drop.

Tcha!!

:-/

When nightmares see the light of day

2009-06-28T20:04:00.000-07:00

It was 3:15 pm. Five of us came out of the school and walked down to the circle. A police chowki touches it on the left. We heard shouts. A man was abusing a woman and thrashing her - right there, in the middle of the road, for everyone to see. He kept punching her on the face. The skin near her right eyebrow tore and she started bleeding profusely. He kicked her and then he punched her on the stomach. Then he walked away. She sat up slowly. With an effort. She was from the north-east and well past her middle age. She touched her wound. The blood flowed into her palm and trickled down on to the road. Suddenly he came back and kicked her on her face. His feet were stained with her blood. Then he crossed the road and walked away.
We were rooted and speechless. The nature of the violence was extremely clinical, sadistic, remorseless. Have you felt so nauseated that all you can see in front of you is a white sheet. And all you can feel is your head whirling. That's how i felt. He came back. We decided that if he touched her again we are going to bash him up. But he came back, held her head in his hands and wiped off the blood. I don't know what else he did because by then I had walked off.
All this in front of a police chowki - WHICH WAS LOCKED- and in broad daylight. Well, we are going to do about the police chowki being locked. But you might ask, what about the woman? Why won't we do anything for her? The answer to this is - we have tried to intervene in the past. But the women have lashed out at us and asked us to mind our own business. That was between them and their 'aadmis'. Despite this we took the decision to bash him if he hit her again.
EVERY SINGLE WOMAN that I have seen here has some or the other indication of violence on her body. At times it is self-inflicted too. I am confused about the way these women define a relationship. I mean they take utter crap from men whom they are eventually going to leave. It makes them so damn vulnerable. I know, i know - pot calling kettle black, blah, blah... but, hell!!!

You don't need to understand...

2009-06-12T10:47:00.000-07:00

What i am trying to say...

these days i'm so charged and on high alert at work. i mean every milisecond of non-focus creates utter chaos. so at the end of some days when i log in to my blog page and stare blankly at the screen with millions of words hurricaning inside my brain i try to achieve some sense in all the entanglednesses. and then i resign myself to the fact that i neednt try to achieve sense. and hence i started by saying that you neednt try and make sense out of this either.

i contextualize the above sentiment with an art exhibition that i visited the other day at jehangir art gallery. six artists from a school in pune had showcased their work. one of them was untitled. the canvasses covered one entire wall of the room. the paintings looked like a satellite view or an aerial blueprint of a slum or a scrapyard. the colous used were as varied as a bright red to a soothing blue and a crisp violet. there were the dismal greys too. the strokes were forceful, they spoke of an energy and a volatility...i had a chat with the artist and i asked him what were his paintings all about. he said that his paintings had no message. they were pure abstracts and were done with a mind that was devoid of thoughts. he had the canvas, his paints and his brushes. his energy flowed from his body into the canvas and created the work that was being displayed. Hmmmnnn.... lofty, ain't it? but pretty simple too. i mean there are times when you want to be meaninglessly meaningful...

the other night (i was on a late shift) when i was walking to the station i passed a crowd of men. i threaded my way through them. it was like one of those ballets where the dancers weave in and out through their co-dancers like garlands. without touching them. yet the movements are so graceful. i sometimes wonder what it would feel like if i were to close my eyes and walk on the road. everything seemed to move in slow motion at that moment. even my thoughts.

FEDEXD

2009-06-08T10:38:00.000-07:00

Thank God It Was Sunday!!!

Thank God it was French Open men's finals...

Thank God Federer was in it and Nadal was not...PHHEWWWW!!!!

so a few of us Federer Fanatics decided that we ought to watch the match on a biiiig screen. cheer our favourite player because it was an important day for him. and we did just that.

The Sports Bar, Phoenix Mills.

The gear - blue jeans and a customized blood red t-shirt that had the RF logo and a quote on the back that goes - "In an age of specialists, you're either a hard court specialist, a clay court specialist or a grass court specialist. Or you're ROGER FEDERER.."

and us beautiful women flaunting it...like big time!!! it was a good match. He was perfection epitomized. He's back to his old lethal, precision-centric self. How i adore him!!! well...he broke the French jinx and now we can't wait for Wimbledon.

:-)))

PS: was about to put up a picture of the three of us who wore the t-shirt. but decided against it. for the benefit of all those people who belong to the fortunate few that havent seen me....yet! :p

A State of Philoso-deliriousness

2009-05-26T08:12:00.000-07:00

Scintillating … that’s what it could be called.
At times I wonder whether I should pen down an anecdote or just randomly scribble whatever words appear behind my eyes. You know, in that space which we feel is somewhere in between our forehead and backhead. And there are many words floating there. Not just words but line chains and paragraphs and phrases…so many unconnectednesses and so little space…I love it when thoughts flip flop around me. You are at one point and suddenly something radically different and absolutely disconnected with the previous thought dances before you. And then I’m left wondering and wandering among these thought-mazes.
At times when I close my eyes I see a blueness around me. Blues of various hues. Transitioning from a light tint to an intenseness that has an aweing depth. Suddenly whites emerge out of these blues, swirling, twirling, ribboning. Thick bands entwining around the blues and creating a massive abstractedness that’s aesthetically marvelous and breath-taking. Maybe it’s an ocean. Maybe it’s a billowing blanket. Maybe it’s the sky and the clouds. Maybe it’s nothing.
At times I wonder why there is so much of happiness and cheer tinged with a deep sense of the greatest grief and worthlessness. When my children smile and laugh with an abandon that speaks of a freeness which you and I would absolutely envy; I am left stunned with the realization that this momentary freeness is just a façade and behind it lurks a bondage, an imprisonment that will follow them till they lay themselves down to rest forever.
When I was at the piano concert listening to Tchaikovsky, Schubert and Schumann being performed with an artistry that was magnifique, my eyes closed on their own and the sounds of music filled me with an immense sense of peace. It went tinkling like bells, and the feeling was akin to loving fingers caressing soft skin. So much power there is in purity! Power to transport you away to a space and a land where everything is sparkling and perfect. Where everyone is beautiful and there is no ugliness of any kind.

Welcome to Dreamland!

2009-05-12T11:43:00.000-07:00

Why is sweet not smelling sweet? Why is it cloying the senses? Why does it make me want to cover my nose, in fact every pore of my body, so that the bad smelling sweetness does not enter me? But this is how it is every day. Every single day. As I walk down the street from work, cross the intersection, walk down another street and then get on to the main road. That sweetness follows me everywhere. And it stays with me when I am back home. It lingers on when I am trying to catch the truant sleep. It flows into my dreams, permeating into every second of it. Where does it come from then, you would ask me. It comes from the women’s bodies. I asked one day, why do they make themselves smell so sweet? Is it to hide the other odours? Is it to hide the smell that emanates from their exploited bodies and minds and souls, a smell which haunts them all day, all night even? There they stand on the street. In a line. Dressed up like mannequins. Human mannequins. Bright red gashes for mouths, mascaraed eye lashes, pinked up faces, sequined gowns (for God’s sake). Women just like me. But not ordinary like me. No way.

And what happens to the air after dusk settles in. After the sun decides that he’s had enough and he spews liquid fire, burning the horizon. (Have you ever seen the sunset when the sky’s on fire…??? This is a song by Kenny Rogers called Evening Star). Where was I? Yes…when dusk settles in, something in the air suddenly changes. You can feel it. You walk down that street in the morning then do the same in the evening. And the metamorphosis will startle you. The most insensitive of senses would sense it. There is a crowd all around you, its rush hour, but strangely no one’s ever in a hurry over here. The crowd moves slowly, it’s a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic. Moving slowly, biding their time. Time. Can you believe it? They are not rushing and pushing each other. Time is actually on their side out here. Is this Bombay or is it a parallel space chunked out from the body of the city and placed aside? A place which we would shy from. A place that has a place of its own, cut off from everything and everyone, yet very much a part of everything and everyone. Very much a part of what everyone finds dirty, taboo, disgusting, cheap, horrendous, frightening, diseased…

“Welcome to Dreamland,” says the cabbie to a firang looking person.

That Night

2009-04-06T01:49:00.000-07:00

I am a man who was known in the circles as one of those grim, grouchy sorts who would brood and mope; who would think twice before smiling and then finally decide not to smile and who always had the look of a thundercloud, an anomaly that did not bode well for his already dark appearance. Women found me intriguing because I was one of those ‘unsoughtables’. I wonder how I managed to ward off those wily, debauched, conspiratory advances made by females of all shapes, sizes, ages, colours, accents and intentions. I then proceed to marvel at the fact that in face of such perils my good sense prevailed and I escaped unscathed. But then that was to be expected of me. I was after all an intellectual, a well-read professor, a seasoned traveler and an authority on several disciplines. Reader, I perceive that you are smirking. You may also harbor the notion that I am a self-glorifying, arrogant bigot. But believe me, I am not what you think I am. This is a mere pose. A façade. An armour that protects me from all evils. You still smirk disbelievingly. Hmmn…let’s see if what I am about to recount can alter your reaction.

My expansive knowledge on several branches of science won me invitations to innumerable gatherings, be it academic or social. One such purely academic gathering took me several miles away from home. Hence it entailed an overnight travel coupled with at least a week away from familiarity. Such transitions tend to bring with them a feeling of impending doom. You may think that this is a rather weak foundation to build my fear upon. But imagine, reader, traveling all those miles in the dark, where mists rise like funeral shrouds and trees devoid of leaves resemble shadowy shapes, half human half corpse-like, empty branches stand stiffly like outstretched, paralyzed limbs, and gaping black holes on tree trunks seem like open mouths screaming noiselessly. This noiselessness is scarier than the loudest of all screams. The unknown unseen brings with it a deeply penetrating, raw fear because it gives the mind the liberty to conjure up all kinds of unwantedness and leave you at its mercy. And yes, I too am a man who has his share of momentary weaknesses. But I am also a man of science. A man who harbours rational thoughts and is a skeptic when it comes to certain unexplainable occurrences that do not have any scientific premise to unravel their explanations.

Several of us were traveling together and an animated discussion ensued regarding the house towards which we were headed. Apparently there was a strange series of events that unfolded in that property just the day before.

“I am ready to lay a wager that it was a ghost,” she remarked with a wicked glance at me.

I stared at her with a deliberate, blank look. She was beautiful, dark, like me. Her lips never smiled completely. And that lazy half smile with the sharp, darting looks from those smoky black eyes would definitely have felled a lesser man. I continued to gaze at her without saying a word. She stared right back at me unblinkingly. A mistimed query from a colleague compelled me to look away. Her triumphant smile literally had me boxing the questioner’s ears. I consoled myself with the knowledge that there would definitely be a next time.

We reached the house. House? It was a mansion. And there it stood with the black sky and the moon like a backdrop prop of an unfinished drama. Wispy clouds hung about the turrets like torn silks and the moon gazed sadly at us. She seemed to sigh heavily and her breath swirled around her like a grey veil. No lights welcomed us. No human being was in sight. The sombre air seemed to spear the chill from the atmosphere into our souls and we huddled deeper in our coats. She stood close to me and I could feel her tremble. (Reader, I am a tall man and I tend to look down ‘on’ people. Figuratively speaking). And I looked down ‘on’ her. She was afraid. All the bravado had vanished. I decided to let go off my customary resistance. I put an arm around her shoulders, gathering her close to me. I knew that this gesture of mine gave her comfort.

An instant later we heard a loud, melancholic cry. It sounded like a child crying out in agony and it echoed into the night. We stood still rooted to the ground. A sudden movement and a black cat rocketing out of a nearby bush had us literally down on our knees thanking God for small mercies. We decided that enough was enough and trudged towards the gates of the mansion. It seemed like a cue because suddenly the doors opened and a herd of people (servants all of them) poured out. Lights came on miraculously. Everywhere was chatter, action and commotion. I felt strange. Surely they knew that we would be reaching at this hour. Why weren’t they ready for us? Why were we made to wait? And why did their smiles seem forced? Maybe I was reading too much. But I kept adjusting the collar of my shirt and twisting my neck, because I felt extremely uncomfortable. Not with my attire, mind you, but with the scene that was being enacted in front of me. I was shown into my room by one of the butlers. A man whose formal demeanour was stiffer than my starched collar. He wouldn’t even look at me, but every move of his bespoke centuries of impeccability.

The feeling of unease was still inside me when I laid myself down on the bed. The room was richly furnished and spotlessly clean. Flawless as far as the externalities were concerned. But there was something embedded within the atmosphere of the room. Something cold and eerie. I closed my eyes and was just surrendering myself to sleep when I felt a cold whiff of air upon my cheek. As though someone had exhaled after swallowing a lump of ice. My eyes opened and I saw her. She was white. Unnaturally white. My first instinct was to demand an explanation. But I realized that she was floating in air like one of those curtains that are suspended from frames, billowing bodylessly.

“Will you?” she implored. Her beautiful face underwent an agonized distortion. And she vanished.

This was not real. There has to be some logical explanation for this. A floating woman cannot find her way inside my room and pose an enigmatic question like that. No. I refuse to believe this. But when ‘this’ occurred twice during the two ensuing nights, I felt that some step ought to be taken.

On the fourth night I waited for her. I would have been the happiest man on earth if she hadn’t come. But then I was one of those men who were neither happy nor lucky. There she stood, her silks and veils flowing sinuously around her. Her gaze imploring, her face agonized.

I sat up and asked her, “What do you want?”

She turned and disappeared inside the wall as though it never existed. Well, I had to use the door and I did. I saw her in the dimly-lit corridor. It was heavily carpeted with gleaming wood and grim faces imprisoned in frames glared down at us. I felt cold as I followed her. What was I doing? What was I thinking? She seemed to know her way well and she took me through labyrinthine passages. I was thankful for the cache of candles and matchsticks lying comfortably inside the pocket of my greatcoat. I felt a sudden sharp wind almost cut into my face. We were outside. I could see a little garden with shrubs in full bloom. The perfumes suffocated me. Roses, lavender, forget-me-nots and what nots. And then she stopped. Her gaze seemed to be transfixed at one particular spot on the ground. It was a newly made flower bed with a neat little border. She pointed at it. Something that belonged to her was obviously buried there. I looked around and found a shovel. I dug and I dug. The effort made me sweat, despite the cold night and the chilling enterprise. And what I unearthed still strikes terror in my heart and makes me break into cold sweat. It was a body. Her body. She had been stabbed. The shovel fell from my hands. I turned to look at her. Her eyes were red. They seemed to have filled with blood. And it over flowed like tears. Incrimsoned.

I am ashamed to confess but I chose this moment to faint and they found me lying there the next morning. My strong physical disposition brought me out of the feverish condition in no time. And I awoke to heated discussions on the murder, by stabbing, of the lady who owned the house. Her husband the culprit, who hankered after her property which was worth millions, tried to cover up his crime by burying her in the garden. But her restless soul clamouring for justice had triumphed in the end. I am relieved to say (albeit shamelessly) that the rest of my time passed uneventfully.

Can you imagine then, reader, what I went through and what I still go through (at times)? A skeptic man of science was singled out by the ghost of a murdered woman and made to unearth a ghastly secret. It almost reduced me to the level of those mediumistic individuals who commune with spirits from the other world. I was confounded and the only way I could save face was to transform myself into a brooding bigot.

But she saw through this. And today we are married. Happily married if I may be allowed to add. It remains though that we have confined ourselves to the crowded cities and never laid a foot in another mansion.

Let's Play

2009-03-22T02:51:00.001-07:00

He makes so much noise, at times I feel that I should probably ask his mother to go get his brain examined. There is so much of hyperactivity and energy in that little body, it stuns me. And this time it was a long yell that seemed a little disjointed. It started off from a distance got really loud and then faded into black. But as always, I tried to shut him out mentally. And I did. I usually do. So tonight was like every other night. A little bit of work, a little bit of food, a little bit of continuing with unfinished art, a little bit of music, a little bit of planning for tomorrow, a little bit of dreaming about nice things…and then sleep. Oh… did I forget to mention a little bit of late night ‘sweet nothing croonings’…??? Well … that too.

As the sounds of the silent night lulled me towards the first few laps of sleepfulness, I heard the wail. It was his mother and she was wailing her heart out. A continuous wail like one of those sirens and the scary similarity being that the wail was as dead and as unemotional as the siren’s sound. There was an eerie emptiness in it and it went on and on as though her mind asked her to not think but just WAIL. I could feel a block of ice in the place where my heart once used to be. And the chill started spreading slowly to every nook and cranny of my body. What was happening?

I rushed out of my apartment. Everyone else gave in to the same idea and there were quite a few of us outside, with arms folded tightly around us. Maybe there were blocks of ice in the place where everyone’s heart once used to be. We glanced at each other questioningly not daring to ask the question. Someone came rushing up from the floor below. His face had a greenish white hue, and he looked like he would vomit any second. We saw him fumble with his keys, and he somehow managed to open the door to his apartment and stumble inside. Then we heard loud retching noises and that just did not help us in any manner. Strangely we were still standing there, folded arms and all and still not mustering the courage to question.

Then came stomping angry treads and the looming form of this elderly gentleman who is a retired army general. He came up, back ramrod straight, walrus moustache in a state of quivering agitation and his eyes spewing fire.

“Rot. Sheer rot.” He growled. “Cable should be banned. Internet should be destroyed. Discipline. That’s what is lacking. In all of you.”

With this outburst he glared at all of us and we hung our heads in shame. Though why on earth were we being blamed and made to feel shameful??? None of us knew the answer to this one. Yet we felt ashamed. I’d had enough of this ridiculousness. So I went downstairs to see what the matter was. If only I hadn’t. Oh well…too late for if onlys. I went towards the direction from which the wails were emanating. Yes they still continued. It scared the soul out of me. The door to the flat was slightly ajar throwing out a bar of golden light on the black floor; light that broke and serrated sharply at points where it was obstructed by obstructions.

I opened the door cautiously and stepped inside. He was lying on the floor. His eyes were staring at the ceiling. He was quite dead. His mouth was open. The damned kid would have his mouth open even in death, wouldn’t he? But no noise would come out of it. Ever again. Why hadn’t they closed his eyes? And that mouth? Suddenly he turned his head and looked at me and his mouth opened wider. A black cavernous yawn which invited me to step inside it and lose myself in the cavity, in the space. My heart stopped. I took a step backwards and heard an agonized “OUCH”. It was the idiot from my next door apartment. He had followed me. Like he always did. Serves him right. I glared at him unapologizingly. And predictably, HE apologized – shouldn’t have come up from behind like that without warning, not a problem, blah blah…

I ignored him and went back up. I was a little worried about what I’d seen. I dreamt about dark cavernous spaces, free falling into bottomless abysses and shouting boys playing football. I had a restless night. And I woke up bleary-eyed, the next morning. Thank God it was Sunday. As the day went by I got bits and pieces of what happened last night. Apparently the boy was playing with the rest of his friends on the terrace and he had fallen off the ledge. It was the result of some juvenile dare. Hmmnn…that explained the disjointed yell. Coming from a distance, increasing in decibels and then fading into black. Seems a simple satisfying enough explanation. Then why was a feeling of doubt nagging me like one of those nails that start growing inward and continuously pierce the flesh till it gets infected and hurts like mad. Ok I admit. I was not satisfied. But there was nothing much I could do. So I forgot about it.

I went out for a walk. As I was coming up the stairs the door to one of the apartments opened and a face peeped out. I knew this lady. Her son was a member of the YELL GANG and apparently he had fallen very ill. She looked worried and asked me to spend some time with her. I went inside her son’s room and saw him lying on the bed. He was very unwell and his eyes were glued to the window. I followed the path of his stare and saw a huge tree with strong sturdy branches standing like a sentinel for what seemed like centuries together. After sometime of superficial chatting I left.

The next day was Manic Monday. Work, rush, crowd, racing against time, skipping lunch, quick little mini chats with Knight Eternal and my sister…I did all that and came back tired and ready to dive into sleepy oblivion. But it was not meant to be. A crowd had gathered outside the building. Everyone talking at the top of their voices, everyone talking at the same time. The data that I could gather from this cacophony was that all the members of the YELL GANG had strangely fallen sick and had succumbed to their illnesses. To put it crudely – THEY WERE ALL DEAD! SEVEN AT ONE BLOW!

Ok. THIS was certainly not normal. I walked up the stairs. I heard a patter of steps running towards the terrace. I followed the noise hoping to catch up with the running persons. And the noise grew louder, but why couldn’t I see anyone? I reached the terrace. I looked around. The terrace was empty. In fact everything was empty. Even the sky. No moon. No stars even. Just a wide cavernous wet blanket. Suddenly I saw them. They were all standing on the ledge. Every single one of them. Their leader THE SCREAMER turned and looked straight at me. And still looking at me he jumped, opening his mouth wide, cavernously wide and screaming noiselessly. The others followed suit. I stood rooted to the spot. I was paralyzed. After what seemed like a very long time I went back to my apartment.

A hyperactive kid like that would obviously feel bored even on the other side, wouldn’t he? He would then definitely want his friends to be with him. So he took them along. Was that little ill boy gazing at the leader who might probably have been sitting amongst the strong, sturdy branches of the sentinel tree?…

I still hear them screaming their disjointed yells each time they jump. Mental shut-outs have stopped working.

The Alive?

2009-03-13T12:51:00.000-07:00

Days have merged into night. I can’t seem to find a difference between the two. I sleep at 12, wake up at 5 and I wonder how the day transformed into night transformed into day. I am smiling at the day transforming into night transforming into day.

This night was no different. I heard Chris Martin croon in that gravelly voice – “bones sinking like stones…” and I looked out into the Thane creek. I didn't see bones sinking and I thank God for small mercies. I saw mist. Like a white wispy billowing curtain rising from the black water. Edging it were tiny golden orbs in the distance. Here and there were crouched blackening bushes like those hunters who hide from their prey. I wonder why the bushes crouched like this. I looked at them and felt that they might rise any second and that thought chilled me. I looked away. A girl was staring at me. She was on the opposite seat in the train. It was one of the last locals and there were very few of us. Seeking solace from the fact that we were there for each other as the day transformed into night. Why is it that at moments of fear the mind thinks only of ghosts and rapists and accidents? Weak beings. That’s what we are. She smiled at me. I smiled back. Maybe she smiled because as usual I might have been jamming to the track that blasted my ear drums into oblivion. Andheri was round the corner. Literally. Literally because the track curved at one point and then straightened out into the station.

Like the whoosh that happens when a baby swims out of the mother’s womb the entire foetus of the train whooshed out into the platform and swam towards the entrance. Some patiently going with the flow. Others pushing and shoving and groping breasts, hips, thighs whatever they could lay their grimy palms on. Tired faces, thinking thoughts which if voiced might have been eerily same (who knows). Tori Amos was screaming now…"made my own pretty hate machine…” and she was so totally inside my brain that if it was not for that tickling nape I might not have seen him.

He stood there. Arms folded. Grey shirt. Black trousers. And those eyes. It bored into me. Into mine. The red and yellow lights in the weighing machine behind him winked at me. I looked at him and I looked away. Then I turned back. To test if he was still looking at me. He was. And all I wanted to do was to run away from him. More than him it was the stare. The eyes. Then imagine my sheer fright when the next night I saw him again. Same place, same clothes, same eyes, same stance, same stare, eerily same. Eerily same?? I felt a sense of déjà vu. This happened night after night.

What does he want from me? Why is he staring at me? Why can’t he leave me alone? Why am I seeing those eyes in my dreams? Who is he?

Something was terribly wrong here. This was not normal. Should I speak to him? I might have debated this at least a million times before I finally mustered enough courage to speak to him. Yes. I did speak. And this is how it happened.

I decided that I would stare right back at him and only I know how the blood in my veins turned into ice when I did this. Humid, sweltering Andheri station metamorphosed into Arctic Pole. Big mistake I thought when I saw him walk towards me. Very big mistake. Well, it was now or never. I had to get rid of this person from my life and now was the only chance.

“Please help me”…

What??? Did he say, “Please help me…?”

Yes he did, because he repeated it.

“Who are you?” I asked warily. “And what do you want from me?”

“You have to help me get myself cremated? You have to set me free.”

He was obviously on some major acid-induced high.

By now fear had turned into anger and exasperation. I said, “Look. If you want to continue like this I am sorry I can’t help you. Tell me properly what you want and if I can I will help you.”

He came close and said with a desperation that I’d never seen in anyone, “I am dead. I want to go back to where I really belong. But I need to be cremated for that. And they are watching me. They are following me.”

As though by reflex I caught hold of a passing girl. “Can you see him?” I asked. She stared at me. Maybe she thought I was crazy. “Of course I can see him,” she said in a tone that was a mixture of hesitation, mockery and … oh… let’s not get diverted. He could be seen by others. That meant he was not a ghost. That also meant that I was not one of those mediums. High five, God! Satan...up yours!

The realization hit me like a Mack truck. I remembered the Serial Pleaser and smiled. Wrong place, wrong time as always. Why do I space out like this? The realization was – HE IS THE LIVING DEAD. They are called zombies. I’d read about them.

I heard myself saying. “I can’t help you. Because I don’t know how to. And there are processes, special people who save someone like you. I’m sorry.”

The sadness that leaked out of his eyes was something that wrenched my heart. Like a black viscosity. I almost saw the thick path that it made on his face. Was he crying? No. He was not. Then what did I see? Did I imagine it? No I did not imagine it. He turned and walked away. Unlike me he didn’t look back. But like him, I was staring at his receding form. What was he feeling? He was dead and he was living amongst us.

Every night after that as I stepped out of the train and walked towards the entrance my eyes would seek him at that spot. I never saw him again.

Let me tell you a story…

2009-02-14T02:08:00.000-08:00

I come back home from work each night at around 8:30, 9:00 pm. My apartment is on the 6th floor, the last floor. As usual, I said hi to Bheem, the watchman and asked him how he was. And he said in his usual, grinny way, “phine, madam.” At times I feel that he is truly delighted to see me. Well. I feel good when I see him too. The light on the lift switchboard said 4 and I waited for it to come down. It came and I opened the creaking doors and stepped inside. There is this mirror on the opposite wall and I stared at the person looking back at me. She was tired, disheveled basically a mess. I grimaced and then smiled in resignation. I looked up and I could see a light. There is no fan in the lift and this cavity on the ceiling is an uncomfortable factor. I remembered the short that a friend of mine had written on his blog. Ever since I read it I have been slightly uneasy in my lift. And the light which I would gaze at had actually the semblance of a destination that I was desperate to reach because of the rising fear inside me.

Suddenly the lift stopped. And so did my heart. It was the 4th floor. I held my breath and then exhaled when I saw this girl step inside.

“Hi”, she said. Sweet voice. Cute girl. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. I smiled back.

“My name is Nirmala,” this was said with a slight lift of shoulders and a sidelong glance.

I smiled again and said, “I am Preeti. Which floor?”

“Uhmmm, the last one…”

“That’s mine too…”

“I know…”

We got out together. She turned to me and said, “I live on the 4th floor. Number 4001.” Then she smiled and climbed up the stairs that led to the terrace.

This happened for one week. I met Nirmala every night and the same routine followed. The mirror was removed from the lift since an over-enthusiatic child had decided to punch it. Injuring himself seriously in the process and also leaving me without a distraction from the fear factor. Scribblers ought to be banned!!

One day I had company. He was one of those people whom you know lives in your apartment block and you nod at each other. I was speaking to Nirmala and he happened to get inside the lift from the 5th floor. His sister lived on the 6th one and he often visited her. That night he gave me a strange look. Then he turned to Nirmala and gave her a strange look too. We looked at each other behind his back and grinned knowingly. Men, can be so pathetic at times.

The next night, Nirmala had something to show me. We were inside the lift and suddenly the lights went out. We were stuck. The red emergency light went on automatically. We sat down on the floor. Nirmala was bathed in a strange red light and I suddenly realized that she had pitch black eyes. No light in them. None whatsoever. Maybe it was the power cut. I ignored it. She removed a book from inside her t-shirt. It looked old and dog-eared. She gave it to me. I saw poems inside the pages. Very beautiful poems.

“These are beautiful, Nirmala. You’ve written them?”

No reply. I looked up.

She was staring at me. She was smiling. And there was light in her eyes. But the light was strangely black.

“Yes. I’ve written them. I’ve always wanted to get them published. Would you help me, Preeti?”

I looked at her for some time.

“Yes. I will.”

Why on earth did I say that? I really don’t know. But I spoke to a few people and yes I did get her published. Meanwhile we met every night. She was quite a bundle of mirth and mystery. And there was something very unreal about her.

The day her book released I got a copy. I wanted to surprise her. And I waited for her to step in from the 4th floor. She did as usual and I said nothing, but just showed her the book. She looked at it. She looked at me. Her eyes turned blacker than black. And she stood speechless. Suddenly the lift stopped. It was the last floor. The lights turned red. And no, there was no power cut. I wondered what was going on.

I looked at Nirmala. She stood there with the book in her hand. Her book. Her poems. She was smiling. And her eyes were shining blackly. She stepped outside the lift and went up the stairs to the terrace. Without looking back.

I walked down the stairs to the 4th floor. To number 4001. I rang the bell and a middle-aged lady opened the door.

“Where’s Nirmala?” I asked.

She stared at me and I saw a man, her husband, come and stand behind her. They stared at me. Nirmala’s only wish was to get her poems published. She tried her best but her wish remained unfulfilled. One night, five years back, she stepped inside the lift and went up to the last floor. She climbed the stairs that led to the terrace and she jumped.

I stood there and images flashed across my mind. That man staring strangely at me. Obviously he would. For all that he knew I was speaking to myself, for God’s sake. The black light in the eyes. The unrealness.

I have stopped using the lift.

Why is Preeti not thinking Preeti thoughts???

2009-02-13T23:17:00.000-08:00

Clearly there is a miasmatic hoverance around me for some time now. I am leaving a lived life behind me and I’m strangely not reacting strangely to the change. Are my natural or rather predicted reactions hiding behind the hovering hoverance and clouding my “Preeti” thoughts??? Because what I am feeling right now is an exhilaration and a “with arms wide open” kind of freedomish feeling. And what “Preeti” would feel right now would be “oh, will it be all right, will I be all right, will I be ok at work, will I be able to live alone, will I be able to sleep at night…blah blah blooh blooh.” Why is Preeti not thinking like Preeti??

And life also seems to be rewinding. It is scarier than shit scary. There is music, there is the reuniting with dark othernesses (well, I say reuniting, but maybe it was dormant and has risen up and uncoiled itself, like one of those serpents that wait and strike at the right second), there is poetry, there is novelty in work, there is also a kind of crippling responsibility (new place, bills, cleaning sprees, sob sniff) which can be quite hmmmmish but oh well…what the hell… [that rhymed…:-)]

Lots of things are on the agenda. All of them might happen, might not happen. It’s all right. If we get everything we want the fun would cease to exist in our lives. There should be a thirst for ungot things, a drive to get those things, a fire to fight for those things.

OH DAMN… I love life. I love me. I love the earth. I love the otherworld, the never world (so what…I love the idea of it, ok, hmph). I love the nature around me. And I truly truly love you!

Foibles of youthood

2009-01-15T04:34:00.000-08:00

Intro:

Two of us were going down M. G. Road. This was when Bangalore was extremely beautiful, with an unpredictably English weather where it would rain suddenly and where grey was actually the colour of the times. M.G. Road was resplendent with the boulevard and Plaza and the cafés. The year was hmmnnn… 1997. R (as she would be known from now on) was riding a Hero Puch and pillioning me. As we rode down, enchanted by the boulevard, we happened to see a vision of handsome manliness on the other side of the road. It was none other than Marc Robinson, fresh from the Alisha Chinai hit (damn, which was that one?). So the coincidence was that just the other day we had been discussing this man and reveling in the fact that he was a Piscean. And now there he was. In all his glory. R turned the bike in the middle of an ongoing traffic (and there was no divider on M. G. Road at that time, mind you). Horns blasted, people swore, abuses galore…but she went on mindlessly deaf, but mindfully focused. There we were on the opposite side parked, waiting and watching him. He came walking down. He’d seen all the commotion and understood what it was for. And as he passed us, his head was bent and there was an enigmatic smile on his face, waiting to break into a laugh. And all we did was gape goggle-eyed at him and watch him till he turned at one of the bends.

Three of us at Fort, Bombay. We were in the vicinity of SNDT. There happened to be this thela wala who was making chai and batata wadas. Hunger pangs were creating a bloody din inside our insides. So we thought we should capitalize on the presence of this God-sent solution to our gastronomical yellings. It also must be understood by all of you that we were at a phase where the dough was sparse to say the least so we had to make do with such alternative alternatives. So there we were holding kaanch ka glasses stuffing our faces with batata wadas (that were extremely delicious, by the by) and a car stopped right in front of us. The door opened and we saw this muscled leg encased in boots and wrapped in well-fitting blue jeans. As our eyes went north wards we saw a beautiful, taut chest and broad shoulders hidden inside this black t-shirt that seemed to have been sewed on to the skin till it became a second skin itself. Further north wards and we FROZE. Arjun Rampal. Yes, there he was. And we stood with chai glasses and mouthful of wadas literally transfixed. I mean, I remember I couldn’t even move. All I did was just stand and stare. Oh well, he smiled at us and imagine our chagrin when we saw Mehr Jessia on the other side of the car. She wasn’t smiling though. Come to think of it, she looked rather miffed. So… we saw him go and sighed at how cruel life could be.

Outro:

I call it a foible. But in actuality it is these little incidents that make it worthwhile going through youthood and living it well. What not have we done when we were young. And how beautiful are all those experiences and events. Every little thing had an enchantment of its own and brought with it a wealth of memories that I still treasure. But if you ask me, I think I would do the same thing even today. I mean if I were to see, say … Ethan Hawke or Ajay Devgan, I might stand and gape goggle-eyed. So there. I feel all of us need to keep the child in us alive forever. Because the wide-eyed wonderment is a feeling that is so divine that it leads to nothing but a happiness that can only be described as pure.

How does it happen?

2009-01-11T02:04:00.000-08:00

I was in Bombay on one of those so-called lightning visits. where you get into an aeroplane get out of it, get into it again and get out of it. and the few hours in between flash like .. yes...like lightning. synonymously true!!!

I met up with a few blogger friends. it got me wondering how we strike a connection over a distance which in some strange sense of measurement could be millions of kilobytes away. there is a feeling of onement and friendliness which is warm and cool...:p

at times one might feel weird doing such things but at the end of it, all that remains is a gladness that it happened. because some people whom you truly connect with and with whom you start on an anonymous level, initially, end up being true pals.

I love them...TOTALLY!!

Of Nadirs, Zeniths and Sojourns in the Midst

2008-12-28T23:30:00.000-08:00

We have a choice. We either choose sad or we choose happy. Then after a while even these two options seem very superficial. What are we born for? Why do we exist in our respective spaces? We are and hence there has to be a cosmic reason for our state of ‘areness’. But then do we have the time or the inclination to find this reason…or for that matter the reason for this reason?

A wise man stated - get lost and remain lost. But what on earth would that achieve? And are we so non-materialistic and maya-free that we would want to give up on the pleasures and pain of life? No…we are not. Unless of course we are saints. (Fat chance, that) Maybe the trick is to remain in the material world, to remain in the matrix, but hold on to the idea of realness.

I heard a very fascinating thing one day – this swamiji asked all of us to look closely at a question mark and at an exclamation mark. The question mark is actually a twisted version of an exclamation mark and the exclamation mark is actually a straightened version of the question mark. He went on to enumerate that the minute a thought becomes a question it twists and turns and makes us all the more confused. And at one point it comes to a halt. But the instant it becomes a wonder it gives rise to more wondering thoughts and it progresses to heights that we never thought we could reach.

For me, personally, it has been a terrible year. Mostly lows and only one high. The stops in between were inconsequential, to say the least. This is not a “I am going to be this next year” or “I am going to do that next year” kind of post. It is just a wondering ponder.

We’ve all seen weird stuff happening in our country. Some of us have also seen weird stuff happening in our personal lives. Many of us wanted to concede. Many of us might have conceded. Yet we go on. Because essentially we have no choice but to continue going on. The hidden factor, though, remains that it is up to us to decide on HOW we want to go on.

Over and out!

PS: Phew! Sitting in Padmasana can be painful!

The Identification of Identity

2008-12-26T01:45:00.000-08:00

I am Al-Kahira, the conqueror of nonsense and flowers.

I am grateful for my stupidity, admitted easily, yet I am
concerned with specific details of style as I sit here in rags.

By circumstance and not by choice this shrub has blossomed:
by choice and not by circumstance this life has been kept
plain.

I made an effort and found stuff to ignore, leave rusty things
unstruck.
I neglect the spectacular and overlook the apparently
important with deliberation.

I’ve waited aeons for the reversal of my interests: Now life
has become the joke and sweetness and hilarity of my own
thoughts have turned into a fascination for me.

No matter what anyone tells you: I do not belong to any
creed or sect, culture or race, nor to any period in history.

My only qualification is the age of my soul: I own three
palaces of quiet pre-dawn moon sound.

Humiliation is my clothing that I wear to sit and bark with the
dogs. I disconnect like dusk and most likely no one will bring
flowers to my grave.

I am ardent without deed and I am information zero,
unimportant iridescent: Grand Palace of Mercy.

Till now I stayed in one place not avoiding you:
now that the traditions are beginning to dissolve, I
put on my wintercoat and walk away.
Business done.

My contemporaries have declared society to be the central
item and are discussing things of importance as
I am speaking to you now.

As my mother taught me to, I keep to myself a lot.

I am the lover of trees, found worthy of loneliness.

I could be the postman, the milkman, the sick person,
the transvestite.
It takes one to recognize one…

I am the unknown dervish.

St.Scribbler identifies himself with this statement drop-down...and i was mentioning to him that if ever there was a female counterpart to this, i would love to be that (maybe i am, maybe i am not). He is a philosopher and a saint in his own rights apart from being one of the best unpublished writers i've ever read. I got this beautiful piece of literature from him and felt that the poignancy that it is suffused with, like an intoxicating perfume, is so pure and raw. There is also this sufi, off beatish, mystic, vagabondish aura that surrounds it.
Nice. Definitely.

The banalities of finalities

2008-12-16T20:13:00.000-08:00

No intro outro this time around...mainly because there are no stories to retell.

i thought that the recession would not make a difference to me and mine. but it has hit us well above and below the belt. the fact remains that we are shamelessly progressing without any qualms. it is a new experience for me because there seems to be some one who is stating some kind of an ultimatum. buckle up..or else...i have no clue as to who the someone is...

when we decide that it is time to get over and start anew we fail to comprehend that it brings with it heartache and headache. the brain overflows with plans and the heart overflows with pain. rerooting as a concept is wonderful to talk about but as an action it is wonderfully butt-breaking!!!

preeti and i finally met. although we werent strangers to each other, off late there seemed to have been some kind of a wall between us. i wouldnt say the wall has been pulled down completely but we are definitely peeking into each other's domains over the wall and seeing what the other person is up to.

there is something called Peter's Principle. it says that an employee can be judged on the basis of his degree of incompetence. it seems that there are many of us who indulge in what is called 'creative incompetence' wherein we find out creative ways and means of being pains in the asses of our employers. and our future in the organization then seems to be hinged upon the way our employers judge our incompetencies. so if you are a creative incompetent fool watch out...they might just make sure that you get laid (or is that fucked)... no i meant... laid off !!!

an organization working big time in human trafficking called me last evening. i have worked with sexual minorities but not in context with trafficking. and some days back Copyrioter put up a post along similar lines. when something big is finally about to happen there are these micro-hints that keep popping up as a prelude to a macro-event.

over some time now i have been noticing that the gyaan i have been getting from the self-destructing, neurotic, schizophrenic, infested with all kinds of mental disorders generation aka my younger (really younger) friends...has been strangely solid gold. age in terms of number has just gone and gotten itself obsolete. i love them though and some of them are so darned young it actually breaks my heart. but they hang around and show sweet concern and care so it makes me feel GOOD!!!

There is something about this man...

2008-12-05T05:13:00.000-08:00

I could not forget
But I will not endeavor
Simple pleasures aren't as special
But I wont regret it never.

Emotionally Crippled Narcissist…?

2008-12-04T01:14:00.000-08:00

Intro:

An extremely super sarcastic and ballistic doctor is highly irritated with the resident shrink at his hospital. She is one of those eternally positive persons who tends to spread the happy feeling everywhere. And this really makes him scream bloody murder. She comes up to him and says: “no one's pure evil! I mean, yeah, some people have a hard outer shell, but inside, everybody has a creamy center.” He retorts: “Lady, people aren't chocolates. D'you know what they are mostly? Bastards. Bastard-coated bastards with bastard filling. But I don't find them half as annoying as I find naive bubble-headed optimists who walk around vomiting sunshine.” But she smiles and walks off. So he and the chief of the hospital (who by the way also hates her) decide to ‘destroy her’.

And he says: “when I want to crush somebody’s spirit I employ a combination of intimidation and degradation.” And he actually does that. He is PURE EVIL.

Then there is this time when one of his doctors’ dad dies. He remains his oh-so-fucking-sarcastic self but actually looks out for that boy. Like giving him a day off and taking his calls and also what follows next. The elder brother is wallowing in depression and all he does is soak in a bath-tub and drink beer. And he continues doing this for 2 days – continuously. So the sarcastic doctor goes to him (in the absence of boy doctor) and says: “Let's break down the kid's support system, shall we? He's got me, an emotionally crippled narcissist, and he's got you, an emotionally crippled narcissist who is soaking in a tub of what by now has to be mostly your own urine.” And together they make things all right for the boy doctor.
Well sarcastic doctor also goes so far as to tell the boy doctor that he is proud of him. So … yeah!!!

Outro:

Like I was telling somebody – these are people whom you absolutely love to hate and hate the fact that you absolutely love them. There are exceptions. Basically those who are really mean and malicious. But eveyone hates them anyway. Now the former are the types that are probably irritated and cynical at the way things are happening around them. Hence they lash out at everything and everyone. Their sarcasm makes you cry and you feel like strangling them or probably make them stand on an ant-hill and pour sugar syrup over them (Oh god, have I read this somewhere or did my mind just make it up…? Shit). But then they go ahead and do really wonderful things that is so contrary to their otherwise mean natures. Like this sarcastic doctor. He may not give you a hug or say something good to make you smile. He may call you a nooby and a crunchy and a moonbeam. But he will silently do things that actually make a whole world of practical difference to you.
So... are these people really the ‘emotionally crippled narcissists' that they make themselves out to be? Hmmnnn…

Will you let me eat you…? I’m starving…

2008-12-02T01:21:00.000-08:00

Intro:

There are two homeless friends living on a street. One of them dies one day. The other one watches him rot on the sidewalk. Then he decides to cremate him rather than let him decompose in such a manner. He sets him on fire. And then he starts eating him. A woman living in a nearby house calls the police and gets him arrested. The charges are human rights violation and desecration of a human body. The DA is the prosecutor and wants to capitalize on this case because he is standing for elections. The defense lawyer says in his closing speech: “There are close to 11 million homeless people in America. Nothing is being done for them. But here 50,000$ will be spent on prosecution and 45,000$ will be spent on the imprisonment of a homeless person. And why? Because he ate another human being. Why did he do that? Because he has been starving for 2 weeks and hunger was driving him insane. In a quest to feed the hunger for political power if such human beings are eaten up alive by the so-called protectors of the society then the question to be asked here is – WHO IS THE CANNIBAL?”

Outro:

We may not identify with this feeling because we may not have been in a situation where we had to go without food for 2 whole weeks. Food is one of the basicest rights of every human being. I remember during the extreme drought situation in Rajasthan (5 consecutive years of no rain), people there would feed grass (the little bits that remained on the cracking earth) to their children. Animals were left to die as there was nothing to feed them. There were mountains and mountains of animal bones, stacked up high and vultures would fight dogs for the rotting meat stuck on those bones. So the next time you order more than required at a restaurant I wish you remember this. Imagine if you were in a similar situation like the homeless person. Would you be able to eat your dead friend? I don’t know.

PS: If the title made you read the post then this is exactly what I meant by “Sitting in padmasana and expounding truths about your pathetic existence.”

Poetralyzing into Obscurity

2008-11-28T23:36:00.000-08:00

“We’ve got everything under control”
The system wears these words
And naked bodies lie
Exposing the truth
A missed train, a much awaited dinner
Wrong place wronger time
Well it’s over for now
What next?
Routine, I guess
One more event will be penned down
The Establishment will dance a jig
For all the neutralizing
The effects have made it to the centerpiece
The cause is lying under the carpet
Ignored forever conveniently

To the city of mine - WOMBAY

2008-11-27T06:45:00.000-08:00

Intro: THE PAST

We are a family of five. My father came to Bombay in the early 60s and so did my mother. They have seen bombay grow and grow and grow. They grew with the city too. On the 9th of July 1978 at around 4:50 am i was born. Out of my mother's womb into another mother's womb - WOMBAY...My childhood i spent with her. She gave me an entire playground to play the game of life. i remember my christian and muslim neighbours celebrating diwali and holi with us. i remember waiting in anticipation for the goodies during christmas and id. i remember travelling alone in local trains and BEST buses late in the nights, being accompanied by wearied sabjiwalis and machchiwalis. we would sit down near the exit in EMPTY local trains, ignoring the seats, letting the wind chill our faces and share a companionable silence. i remember rejoicing the first rains and then alternately cursing it because it would gather strength at the beginning of the academic year. new uniform, newly plastic covered books all a soddy mess. when i left the city and moved to bangalore, i acted as though i was unaffected. well...

Outro: AND NOW

Today the five of us - my family, we sit in front of the television. we watch what is happening in bombay. there are tears in my mother's eyes, in my father's eyes. they are watching the city where they built their dreams and their lives, burn and fight. i wonder why one needs to kill... to state one's case. and whats the point in killing innocent people? and the 100 odd who died - what about their families? what happens to them now? what about children who have lost their fathers and mothers? what about parents who have lost their sons and daughters? what about all those people living in the city unsure about their neighbours, about friends, unsure about their own safety?
and me...i feel sad. i know that loved ones are safe. yet i feel the way a child feels when her mother is not doing too good. this is a city that took care of me and kept me safe. i love her tremendously and i know she will bounce back to her old, raunchy, metrosexual, speed demonish self. but till then...

The ‘Vision’aries

2008-11-26T03:36:00.000-08:00

Intro:

There is a vocational training center for the visually impaired near my office. A group of three, sometimes four blind youths leave at the same time as me. And I help them cross the road. One day I saw one of them being helped by someone else. He reached the opposite side of the road and stood there looking in my general direction. I was waiting to cross and ultimately I did it. He smiled at me and said hi. I was a little rattled. Did he know who I was? If he did, how did he figure this out? I asked him this question. My mind (the stupid, evil bit of it) said – “he’s not blind. He’s just acting.” He grinned and almost blushed and said (in Kannada) – “it’s easy. It’s your smell and your footsteps.” And before you start using that non-existent brains of yours, the smell referred to “something sweet and pleasant (in his words)…” hmph!!! I was stunned but I walked with him to the bus-stop and, yeah…I waited for the bus to take me home.

Outro:

Imagine a black world. Everything dark. You can’t see anything. Try being in this condition sometime. I don’t mean sleep. I mean awareful wakefulness in pitch black, complete, darkness, understand!!! You’ll feel like tearing your hair out at the end of an hour.
The blind live day in and day out, for years together in this darkness. All they have is the sounds and the smells. When God impairs one faculty He tends to gift highly active co-faculties. If you think about it, people can be characterized and identified by smells. We just don’t pay attention to it because we don’t need to identify anyone with their smells. You see, we can SEE them!
Even footsteps are dead giveaways. People are at times identified by the way they tread.
With the blind, these faculties automatically work overtime because it is their way of identifying people and environments and also protecting themselves. I feel that they are far more sensitive and intuitive than most of us. These are people who see beyond what is seen by the eyes. So the next time you (including moi) crib about something stupid and mundane…remember that you have all your faculties in order – a benefit that is helping you lead a normal, independent life.

Motherland Afghanistan

2008-11-23T23:28:00.000-08:00

Intro:

This is a documentary that I happened to see the other day. It is a story narrated by an Afghani daughter – Sedika Mojadidi about her father Dr. Qudrat Mojadidi who is a gynaecologist. The family migrated to America in early seventies and the father kept coming back to Kabul in an attempt to serve the mothers of his motherland. The film takes you to the maternity ward of two hospitals in Afghanistan. 85 minutes of varying emotions flashed across the screen and some of them I took back home with me.
A woman 7 months into her pregnancy is suddenly brought to a provincial hospital (rural to be specific). An ultrasound diagnoses the presence of 2 heads. She delivers one baby who happens to be a purpling lumpy mass of flesh. The second baby comes out soon and is as big as your palm and wrist combined. Dr. Mojadidi says: “I have done all that I could to provide support to the baby.” The mother says: “I am not worried. She’ll live or she won’t.” The baby dies, it’s a bluish green dead body and a small mouth, like a fish, parted as though trying to breathe. The mother, for all her braveness, breaks down and cries.
A pregnant mother comes in an unconscious state. She has what you call eclampsia (fits) a potential fatality during pregnancy. There are wounds on her neck. Dr. Mojadidi sits on one of those long desks kept for waiting patients, leaning against the wall, with a resigned, tired look on his face. He says: “you can’t imagine how hard it is to try and battle these cultural problems.” The pregnant woman has been ‘exorcised’ by the mulla in an attempt to cure the ‘fits’ by beating her repeatedly with a stick on her neck, shoulders and legs.
On a lighter vein is this scene where they are leaving for Kabul. The bags are packed and Sedika tells her dad to not carry the heavy luggage down the stairs. She goes back inside the house to see him do just that and scolds him to no avail.
The movie ends with Dr. Mojadidi coming back to Kabul and working with an Ngo as a medical doctor.

Some more quotes from Dr. Mojadidi:
“Every class I go, they are so thirsty for just one word of wisdom.” – referring to his interaction with trainee doctors.
“All my dreams are in that house because I grew up there.” – referring to a flat land where once his home stood. It was demolished by Russians.
“You are the light of the future. My time is over.” – In a speech to students of a school where he is invited as a chief guest.

Outro:

Every woman reserves the right to have a dignified pregnancy and childbirth experience. And for all your information, this is not happening for most women. Be it Afganistan, Africa or India. The situation is the same, the reasons are the same. There are cultural obstacles and there are systemic obstacles and there are the self-generated obstacles too. No one person is to blame because everyone shares the blame. The basic set-up required for care of the newborn is actually cost-effective and easy to be adopted in every kind of hospital setting. The reason why it does not work is because if there is the infrastructure, there are no human resources to, fucking, man the infrastructure. And well the list is endless. I can rant on and on.
You know, women face stigma because unfortunately they have the enabling reproductive system from which the product of procreation emanates. A multiple pregnancy and other factors lead to something called obstetric fistula. It is a condition where the woman constantly urinates. She is wet, raw, odorous. She is out-casted and she can’t conceive. There is a cure but she can neither afford it nor access it.
If she can’t bear children she is labeled barren, infertile and beaten up.
If she bears girl children, she is beaten up.
Hmmnn…think about it, people.

Dr. Mojadidi carrying luggage brings to mind a Universal Father Syndrome. Be it an Afghani dad or a Tam Brahm Dad. They are all the same. No matter how old they are they want to lift the heaviest luggage. Tcha!!!

PS: There were some ethical lines that were crossed by the filmmaker. In our quest to expose the reality (which is a commendable action) we tend to forget that the victims are also human beings who have their own dignities.

She made me feel like a degenerate. I’ll miss her.

2008-11-20T23:31:00.000-08:00

Intro:

Alan Shore comes across this woman who has recently joined the firm. She is nicknamed The Squid. Now The Squid knows what she wants and gets it. Shore and Squid strike a deal wherein they meet every morning at 10 - IN THE CLOSET. And Shore comes out of these sessions with at times a black eye, at other times a cheekbone bruise. Squid is obviously one of those violently, kinky types. In the new season The Squid comes up to The Shore and tells him that she is leaving for New York. And he says: “this is it?” She turns around with a deadpan look (she always has a deadpan look) and says: “yes.” Pauses. “I’ll miss you.” Towards the end of a case Shore talks with this sex counselor who happens to be someone he consulted once and he tells her in his usual drawling, deliberate, whispering, soft as silk voice, “She made me feel like a ….. degenerate.” A long pause (he pauses a lot) “I’ll miss her.”

Outro:

Degenerate: debauched- unrestrained by convention or morality

Squid’s personality is like one of those, you know, crash-boom-bang-thank-you-very-much-leave-without-a-backward-glance types. And Shore is a total womanizer. Hence, when Shore exhibited an obvious disappointment in not having the chance to feel like a degenerate anymore I started wondering:

1. Is it only about sex?
2. Or is it the connect that he felt with Squid which went beyond all conventional levels of morality and inhibitions?

I’d like to think that it was the second one. And I think that it is incredibly amazing to find someone whom you can be uninhibited with. At each and every level and type of interaction. Though I would like to add that with Shore even the second possibility would ultimately boil down to sex.

I heard you are in Heat

2008-11-20T23:26:00.000-08:00

Intro:

It was one of those perfectly straightforward nights when dinner was done with and my sister and I horizontalled ourselves in front of the television for some good ole’ watching. Boston Legal had rebegun … kickstarting the new season. The rushes came in and there was Denny Crane looking smugly at this woman and stating, “I heard that you are in heat…”
Whaat TF???
I thought that I had heard it all wrong, but I saw the poor recipient’s flabbergasted speechless reaction and I realized that yes I had heard it right. My sister sat up, hissing, spitting, fuuuuurious. There were outraged outbursts: what does he think of himself? That was such a sexist comment? He is such a lecherous bastard…? After my initial shockful wordlessness I just exploded into a laughter that literally gave me stomach cramps. It enraged my sister even more and I would probably have been slapped if I hadn’t stopped.

Outro:

What is it about some men? Do they deliberately like to shock people by making such statements or is it so much a part of their personality that it comes naturally to them to be this a way. When I think of Denny Crane I see a smug, successful old man who is a total womanizer and who basically gets away with charming women.

The moral of this story is: Such kind of men,
1.Start off as juvenile lechers and end up as advanced geriatric lechers.
2.Are so full of themselves that they are totally unaware of being offensive sons of bitches.

The heights of all depths

2008-11-20T22:11:00.000-08:00

Before I go into details… the following two posts will enumerate on two statements made by these two men. They are characters in this lawyer series called Boston Legal. It is an amazingly incredible production and at times insightful too.

1. I heard you were in heat.
2. She made me feel like a degenerate. I miss her.

Mike testing...

2008-11-20T21:03:00.000-08:00

There is this wonderfully crazy man filled with loads of senseful insanity. He is a true friend, a rock in fact and is seeing me through turbulent moments. This blog will, hence begin with a simple THANK YOU to him for just being there for me. And although he would never agree...at least i am very glad that he was born!!!