cracked portraits

Pages can wait

2010-02-10T21:42:00.000-08:00

Words from the sediments reappear.

They change shapes and colours, only to vanish.

The pet Fox lurks around.

It plays with the emptiness of the old diary.

The peddler of dreams knocks.

To leave something seemingly heavy at my doorstep.

I step away from the empty pages.

The sack on my shoulder is a big, light cloud.

It bursts open with a feather touch.

I flip around to gather the lost thoughts, all at a time.

The Fox grins and jumps into the bushes.

It knows, the pages can wait.

I wrote

2010-02-10T21:40:00.001-08:00

You asked me to write

And I wrote.

Fragments

2009-08-11T08:49:00.000-07:00

It's funny

When eyes, lips, smiles,

Laughters, voices, poems, photographs,

Smells, footsteps, colours, gestures

Come together

And manifest into one person

Who you dream about every night

And find next to you when you wake up.

Photos on the wall

2009-05-30T03:19:00.000-07:00

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive.
(Robert Browning's My Last Duchess)

And she joins me
In the cruelest smile we give at life.
We come together
Only to vaporise among the ruins.

Curtains

2009-05-10T20:31:00.000-07:00

They keep secrets

They hide light

They change shape

They cause fight.

Mrs. Munshi, the Nostradamus

2009-03-06T04:54:00.000-08:00

On a sultry summer evening
You professed
That a fish eating, brown eyed, luscious girl
Will distract him beyond measure.

The girl came
Like an evening shadow
He walked away with her
And as they turned to give one last look

You said, but she’s not you.

He sings

2008-04-15T03:43:00.000-07:00

It's an ugly fight.

Denials begin,
Accusations follow,
Obstinacies compete,
Threats continue.

And then there's silence,
There's no sound until a long time.

And then he sings,
A soft, sad hum
A fluttering feather in vacuous void.

In a month's time

2007-10-21T10:07:00.000-07:00

In the next thirty days,
My name will change.

I will have two sets of parents
In a different home.

The address that I rattle out
Will be unlearnt.

My letter-head will have
Another address, yet mine.

My windows will open to a new world
That remains to be explored.

My hairline will never remain the same.
Nor will my life behind a closed door.

Lovesong

2007-08-18T16:46:00.000-07:00

The ruins on the hilltop from a fairytale
Will carry the dark fragrance of your innocence
When the first snow of the season
Settles softly on my fluttering eyelashes.

It is then that I will step into the pages
Of the book lying open on that old table
To clutch your clanking fingers tight into mine.

The snow will then drop down like sparking diamonds
And my blood embedded into each flake, like rubies.

(Sir Rushdie, a simile is from your Midnight's Children. Pardon me!)

Chak De? Forget it!

2007-08-18T16:12:00.001-07:00

Don't be misled by the title of this piece. I will write about the movie some other time.

I saw the first day, second show of Chak De India at Cineworld, Sheffield. The show was nearly houseful. About 95 per cent of the audience looked like Indians to me.

Chak De India had moments when I couldn't sit put.

I exclaimed not-so-softly, "This is the statement of the year", when Mary and Molly remarked about being called guests in their own country. I counted 15 nasty glares.

I swooned loudly when Shah Rukh jogged with the girls in that black track suit. Again, some 20 heads turned.

My arms were up in the air at the beats of Sukhwinder Singh's rendition of 'Chal De India'. Two elbows poked my waist from either sides. Even my friends were irritated now.

But when Jana Gana Mana played before the World Cup final, even the seat couldn't pull me down. I stood up. The peanuts and popcorn that lay carelessly on me fell with muffled tick-tacks. My purse dropped on the floor with a clink. My friend grit her teeth, "Kya kar rahi hai?"

Countless head turned, eyes looked, faces smirked.

I was standing, all alone.

"Shayad hamara National Anthem tha," I was loud as I picked my purse and sat down. I knew I had attracted attention even then.

I was wondering how loud my Chak De! is for my India.

When the straight road bent

2007-08-02T03:30:00.000-07:00

It looked like a straight road.
The only thing leading the way
Was the tip of the nose.

The walk seemed simple.
The road looked like a waterfall
Promising to sweep everything along with it.

The wind smelt of wild flowers.
It engulfed everything into it
And left its traces in the hair.

Only this scent remained entangled.
When the road took a turn
And there was nothing but the nose to misguide.

Taj

2007-07-13T04:40:00.001-07:00

Taj Mahal's one of the seven wonders of the world.

What's so waah! about it? It had to be on the list. When people around me couldn't stop celebrating, I couldn't stop thinking about Taj.

Yes, Taj.

He isn't monumental like The Taj. He's isn't even a dude like John Abraham. His fan following amounts to lesser than 1/1000th of SRK's.

He's just a guy-next-door, who happens to act in films.

He acts in bawdy comedies and I watch them unabashedly. I hoot and cheer him to keep them coming.

He's acted in recent expatriate film. My eyes widened; just like his, my mouth was a little open; just like his while I watched the film more than once. Acting comes as easily to him as tying shoelaces to some of us.

That's what Taj is - an actor. He's one of those in the industry who knows how to tie his shoelaces.

Chandrika-isms!

2007-07-09T04:50:00.001-07:00

Emotions are like rice krispies. The more they are exposed, the softer they get.

My freshly painted nails tell me a story. There's more to beauty than what's on the waist.

Life doesn't warn when it has to spring surprises. So it helps to keep your exclamations ready.

(I know I'm taking the liberty. But it's my blog. Hang on... more on the way. Do write in and tell me if they drive you to irritation or else, use them with the necessary attributions.)

More stuff from here and there...

2007-06-27T05:14:00.000-07:00

Me, juvenile?

Power and Society and the severe cold, together, killed me. Nearly.

I never thought the exam would never end.

The first part of the exam (local government) was a disaster! I can't remember what I wrote. It's not that a bother a lot about it, but I get nightmares about being the only one in class to flunk the paper.

The second part (national and international politics) was rather promising. The only concern is I managed to rub some snot from my nose on the answer paper. Even that's giving me sleepless nights.

That's besides the point. After the exam, my friend Vaishali and I thought why not get a drink each, lie on the grass and do nothing. We headed for Tesco, which is a beer lovers' haven. We didn't find anything to our liking.

We walked towards Sainsbury's. We picked up something to drink and munch on.

The drama started at the billing counter.

Lady at the till (picking up the booze): Is this for you?

Me: But of course it's for me.

Lady at the till: Do you have an identity proof?

Me (flashing my student card): Here you go.

Lady at the till: No this won't do.

Me: This is my university student card. I have my photograph on it.

Lady at the till: What I meant is I need an age proof.

Me: Ok, I have my National Union Journalists' card.

Lady at the till: Can I have a look?

Me: Oh, sure.

Lady at the till (raising a brow): This doesn't prove you are over 21.

Me: But I am...

Lady at the till: But you have nothing to prove that.

Me: Alright. I'm 26 years, 4 months, 11 days and 16 hours at this point...

Lady at the till (picking up the bottle): I need a proof before I bill this for you. I have to be sure - you have to be over 21.

Vaishali steps in at this point...

Vaishali: Ok, hang on... here's my provisional licence.

Lady at the till: That's fine but I still can't bill this for you.

Vaishali: But this proves I am over 21.

Lady at the till: I still can't coz your friend doesn't have an age proof... I know she'll be drinking with you.

I was speechless - irritated and surprisingly, philosophical. Thought of the first line of The Alchemist. The universe was conspiring against me...

After a holiday...

Rains are romantic.

Everything looks green and fresh, the earth smells wow, the water droplets sound musical - all that's fine. But romantic? Naah!

But something happened the other day - the day when Britain flooded.

I was hurrying home from Sheffield train station. My soaking wet rainproof coat added to my weight along with my obscenely loaded backpack. I was half-blind with my water dripping down my face.

All I saw was a cyclist zooming in...

The next thing I remember is we were holding hands.

"You alright?" I managed.

"Are you fine?" he did as well.

"Yeah," I lied. My nose was throbbing.

"I'm fine too."

I don't know if he lied too, as we let go off each other.

Suddenly haseen...

I try to be as inconspicuous in this city as possible - no rave parties, no clanish friends and no unwanted men.

So, when my friend and I visited Primark the other day, an Asian looking staff member kept following us as though trying to place where he could possibly have seen us.

We knew we'd have company soon.

As I held an earring close to my ear, I heard someone say...

"Namaskar. Aap raaste pe ho."

I turned, and it was him. Grinning at me.

I moved aside.

After a while, he croaked again.

"Namaskar. Aap Bharat se ho?"

"Haan ji."

"Bharat mein kahaan se ho?"

"Bombay."

"Oh, Mumbai. Accha. Lekin main Mumbai se nahin hoon."

"Toh aap kahaan se ho?"

"Aap Calcutta jaante ho?... Main wahaan se bhi nahin hoon... Aap Lucknow jaante ho?... Main wahaan se bhi nahin hoon... Aap Rajasthan jaante ho?... Main wahaan se bhi nahin hoon..."

"Really?" I gave my sarcastic best look.

"Aap Lahore jaante ho?... Main wahaan se bhi nahin hoon... Aap Karachi jaante ho?... Main wahaan se bhi nahin hoon... Aap Kashmir jaante ho? Main wahaan se hoon." He sensed my annoyance.

"Aap Sheffield Uni mein padhte ho, ya Hallam mein?... Waise aap Hallam Uni mein nahin ho sakte. Maine aapko wahaan kabhi nahin dekha."

"That doesn't mean I don't study there." I was losing patience.

"No chance. Main Sheffield ki har haseen ladki ko jaanta hoon. Beautiful Asian girls cannot escape me."

"So it proves two things - I'm not beautiful or I'm very busy."

"Nahin aap log bahut haseen ho."

"Oh really. But we need to go now."

And we walked out of the store.

We go to Primark once in every 15 days, and each time we go there, we see this staff member.

So what made him hound us to irritation that day?

I got my answer as we stepped out of the store.

I was wearing a summery, low-cut, well-fitting, Empire-cut dress that day. I was just as insconspicuous to Sheffield that day, but for a certain Asian man.

Two-and-a-half...

2007-06-21T07:27:00.000-07:00

Hours
I've been sitting listening to music in my department for this long.

Days
I've not worked on my dissertation for this long.

Months
I've not been away from crackedportraits for this long.

Years
I've smiled at a stranger after this long.

Black coffee, again

2007-03-31T09:26:00.000-07:00

The skeptics call it the insomniac's poison...

Heavy
Bilious
Opaque
Addicting
Staining
Hanting.

And the tears just flowed...

2007-02-14T02:21:00.002-08:00

Like it does to most people, love always moves me.

And if it's in an unusual way, I just start crying.

I cried after a very long time while watching Guru. Not in the scene where Guru suffers from a paralytic attack. Not even when Shyam carries a frail Meenu down the stairs. Or even when Meenu dies and Nanaji lights her pyre.

I was fine even when Sujata, while seeing Guru off the station, asks him to stay back. It made sense to me - no new bride would want her husband to leave her for work the very next day of their wedding.

I liked it when Sujata asked Guru to offer her to come with him right then. It's so like a woman. We want to be asked for something again and again - even when we want to agree to it even before the question's put.

I wasn't too moved when Guru asks her about coming with him and not having any belongings. She replies by questioning his ability to buy her a saree, thus implying that belongings don't matter as long as he wanted her to come.

A confused Guru then told her that she didn't have a ticket. To this, Sujata replied whether she'd need a ticket even if she had to sit on his legs (I've literally translated - "Tumhare pairon par baithne ke liye bhi tickat chahiye kya?").

My tears found their way out immediately. We actually want so little...

How much does it take to give a saree and a little space?

And even for that, there's so much reluctance...

But thankfully, Guru understood, and I hope there are more Gurukant Desais in this world.

More Black Coffee

2007-02-05T15:09:00.000-08:00

The loyalists say it's closest to elixir...

Warm
Varied
Aromatic
Relaxing
Creative
Awakening.

Timeletting

2007-01-30T19:20:00.000-08:00

It was a strange affliction.

That no doctors
Or medicines
Or injections
Or care
Or prayers

Seemed to heal.
How can it be cured?

I wondered as I walked through the narrow path leading to the wider road.

Then I spotted this leech.

Grey, slimy and inviting
It lay still on the road.

I walked past in disgust.
It must have died in the cold, I thought.

As I walked towards the road, I wondered if the leech was the cure.

I walked back
Picked up the leech
And stuck it to the timeline of my life.

It's stuck to my neck ever since.
Throwing itself on my shoulder each time it's full.

I stick it back whenever time gives me that fever.

Godot... II

2007-01-25T00:42:00.000-08:00

I'm waiting for

some sun

some snow

some rain

and a slight stir from you.

Dear Abhi...

2007-01-23T05:59:00.000-08:00

It was an evening in 1988. I was seven and we were watching a new show on good old DD. That was the first time we met. At first glance, I went - huh! And the rest is... Ok, read on...

I didn't know your name then. I only knew you as Abhi, and later as Abhimanyu. I was hooked on to Fauji, so much so that I harboured the ambition of becoming a commando myself. I thought if I wore fatigues and did some exercise, I could meet you. I simply liked you, Abhi. For what, why and in what way - I couldn't say.

I wanted to be a commando, alright. But hey, there you were on Circus - this time as a young man trying to pull his father's circus business together. I wasn't sure if I wanted to be in a circus. I liked you, Abhi, but didn't want to be a part of a circus for that. And also, you had a love interest on the show...

Growing up, those odd pimples, homework, friends, dance, music, painting kept me very busy till I saw a giant poster of Raju Ban Gaya Gentleman. And I saw you again, Abhi. I was thrilled. You were on a movie poster - just like Aamir Khan was on Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikandar, Salman Khan and Sanjay Dutt were on Saajan. And that yoo with Juhi Chawla. I always thought Juhi was Aamir's and there you were - acting with the darling herself.

Though I never saw the film on big screen, I heard and read in papers that you were brilliant. I couldn't stop singing, Love, Love, Love, Loveria Hua. This was replaced by Aisi Deewangi, Bicchoo O Bicchoo, Dil Aashna Hai, Is Jahaan Ki Nahin Hai Tumhari Aankhen, Aye Kaash Ke Hum and Tu Mere Saamne...

And then came Baazigar. Abhi, you finally become Shah Rukh Khan. Awards, more movies, fame, adoration - you became The Badshah.

Then came a battery of hits and as I entered into teenage, you became the love of my life. I adored you - for something I couldn't tell. It wasn't as if I had your posters in my room. While my friends collected posters and postcards of their favourite movie stars, I was happy humming your songs. I fought with people who called you names, including my Ma. I do it, till date.

But while the name Rahul stuck to you and you were getting typecasted, into 'the rich, young dude'. You seemed to have developed a a Peter Pan-like image, even when as had wrinkles. You were disappointing me.

Then came a point, Abhi, when I actually thought I'd had enough. Your Major Ramprasad Sharma couldn't go down my throat. I wanted to puke, but I held on. The bile made me sick, but I waited for something - I can't tell what it was...

Then came Mohan Bhargav. After that, I knew you were capable of doing everything that a great actor would. I forgot all about The King Khan; I saw my Abhi again. I'm proud that you did Don. In spite of all the skepticism, criticism and comparions, you did it and I loved you in the movie. Hooted till people around silenced me during Yeh Mera Dil (Kareena sizzled, too) and screamed my lungs out when you said Duniya Mein Logon Ne Dil Apne Phir Thaame. And you proved you are you in Khaike Paan Banaraswala. Nobody can do what you did, Abhi. Nobody.

Our journey together has been quite an eventful one - you had a little more drama in yours than I had in mine. And today, as you've expanded your repertoire, I salute you again for your courage and spirit. It's not easy to sit on the chair alongside the more famous 'Hotseat'. But you did it. Though I can't see you, I know you're doing well.

But I have one little regret. I don't have a song that represents your new avtaar, Abhi. I left to live my dreams way before your popular rap went on air... It's alright - I'll make do with Phir Raat Kati Aur Din Nikla.

Yours always,
ab kya naam likhe, bhai... hum na kajol hain na kareena...

Chitty BANG BANG!!!

2007-01-21T07:31:00.000-08:00

I don't believe this. I have to write this down...

As I look outside the window while I type, I can see jaw-dropping images...

Not of the wind and the sun...

Or rain and hail...

Or trash cans on the backyards...

Or the flying cardboards...

Or the chimneys belching smoke...

Or the bare rose shrubs...

The guy whose house my window faces has the curtains of his window drawn apart. I can see his silhouette. He's watching a porn movie and making no bones about it.

Big sister

2007-01-21T06:59:00.000-08:00

She's literally the big sister, as in, badi didi or behen. Better still, badi behenji.

Her quotable quotes :

Mamma's little baby says -
My mother's accompanied me everywhere I went. This is my first time alone.

And -
I didn't know too much about the show. My mother filled up the form.

And here's the classic one -
We could get some champagne; but i don't drink.

Shilpa Shetty, I agree that a certain Miss Jade 'Controversy' Goody, and not to forget Miss Danielle 'Teddy Sherington' Lloyd and Miss Jo 'Sly-giggles' O'Meara, weren't really nice with you. In fact they were more than nasty. I appreciate you for being dignified and graceful in spite of the battery of abuses Miss Jade hurled at you.

But I must add you are the big sister on Big Brother.

Why are you being a prude? And why does the 'sheltered Indian upbringing' have to come in the way all the time? Oh yes, what do you mean when you say I am representing India and the Indian culture? (Hasn't this been done to death my our beauty pageant contestants?)

You are fiercely strong-willed, exquisitely beautiful (I eat my words) and extremely well-mannered. I don't see the reason why you have to reiterate the fact that you are a nice girl. Get candid, get real and the world will love you for better reasons.

Me?

2007-01-12T13:30:00.000-08:00

I just did something I never thought I'd do.

When I got home this evening, I could feel just one thing. Not cold or wet or tired. Nor was it an anticipation to watch TV or get the day's post. And my bladder wasn't bursting either.

I was hungry.

I opened the door, put the load off myself on the sofa and darted into the kitchen. The furry thing that keeps peeping from behind the washine machine did not make an appearance. He (assuming that he greets me so often, couldn't be a girl) has a strange effect on me. It's the same that ghouls-draculas-spooks-dark shadows-lizards-cockroaches combined would have.

So, what's on the menu?
Boiled eggs.
Bread.
Milk.
Tea cakes.
Apples.
Pears.
Chocolates.

Spoilt for choice, I picked up a tub of yoghurt and came up to my room.

The curtain of the window was slightly parted. The light had faded outside. The world outside was an orderly disarray - dark dustbins in the backyard with their lids open, the outhouse door opening and shutting, trees swaying madly and the people in the house behind us watching soccer on TV.

Suddenly in between spoonfuls of yoghurt, I found myself humming, 'All by mahself...'

I stopped eating.

Was it me?

Well of course, it's me. Only humming a song...

I always knew at the back of my mind that too many movies aren't any good. The memories of a certain character's decadent loneliness, in this country, in this weather and in a similar situation just made me behave like her.

Pidgins?

2007-01-12T03:29:00.000-08:00

There are pigeons in Sheffield, everywhere. In fact after coming here I've realised they are more conspicuous than most things, including robins, squirrels and dogs!

I think pigeons make a Mumbaikar instantly feel at home (particularly me, because our loo window was a perpetual maternity ward for them). But unlike the ones in Mumbai, they don't fly.

They walk like you and me. Interestingly, they even cross the road on their feet! They walk, hop or stroll, depending upon the need of the moment. I think they understand traffic lights, better than even we do.

I've always found they have more than plenty to eat. And unlike the pigeons I've seen back home, they don't look filthy. In fact I haven't seen them poop on places they eat. They hardly seem bird-brained to me.

Also, I've never found their carcass on the road. Considering there are so many of them all over the place, I thought I might just see a dead one. But never, in spite of travelling the length and breadth of the city at different points in time of the day. Wonder what the reason is - efficient cleaners or healthy food.

And they don't fly; I'm not exagerrating. I can make a movie titled 'Birds Don't Fly' on Sheffield's pigeons. On my second day in the city, a friend said, "Yahaan ke kabootar udhte nahin hain, chalte hain." And she's so right. They never ever fly. The only way I could make them fly is kick in the air. The flight - a modest one foot high covering about the same distance. They are again back on two.

One day, I was so hell-bent on making them fly, that I just ran towards a pack picking their feed on the road. And they cleared the way for me... by scurrying on either sides.

(Finally, the first of the many... hopefully enjoyable... anecdotes on my life in the UK. It's my fourth month here, and I've lost a lot of time. Thanks to the kabootar called 'writer's block'.)

An answer, finally

2007-01-12T03:08:00.000-08:00

"People say you've found love if the person you're with makes you want to be a better person."
- Charlotte Church, singer.

I've never taken the celebs' take on life too seriously. It's not that they don't ever make sense. It's just that their antics offset whatever they say they believe in.

Today I stumbled upon this quote by Charlotte Church, a popular singer and TV hostess. I don't think it's remotely philosophical or intellectual. It's just a belief, rather a hearsay. I'm sure many of you reading the interview might not even make note of the statement. But this seemingly insignificant line has given me an answer that I've been looking for a long time.

People ask me about what do I look for in a man I'd eventually want to be with. And I have very standard answers like this, that and that too. But never something definite that would just state what I am looking for.

Life changes when one falls in love, doesn't it? I've always believed that any change should be for the better. Not better in the moralistic sense, but something that suits a person the best.

If a man wants me to be happy, to be honest, to believe in myself and to have faith in him, I'd most certainly want to be with him for the rest of my life.

And, more importantly, I think children are better people. I want to be with the man who's able to break through the many layers that make me and holds onto to little child that hides somewhere...

Your footprints in my bed

2007-01-09T13:35:00.000-08:00

The closed door
Opens with a known click.

The dark stairway
Warms with a yellow gleam.

The gut-racking silence
Breaks with a trickle of water.

I enter my empty room
Ready for the ghosts from last night
To surround me.

As I turn on the light
I find myself all alone
With your footprints in my bed.

Numbed...

2007-01-09T13:19:00.000-08:00

It was like any other evening. Munching on a flapjack, I was thinking of you as I walked home.

Your thoughts - like a dew drop on a young leaf - added a new dimension to my existance. They were the words from my poems, the scent of my bosom and the rhythm of soul. I smiled; I knew they would be enough to last me my whole life - just your thoughts.

The tornado ravaged after I got home. I knew I could brave it. I could see those thoughts - a blur on the horizon. I held on to that vision. Suddenly they were gone. My step faltered and rest is in a flux...

I was numbed for a long time...

Today a drop of dew woke me from my sleep. I don't think anymore; I don't have to. I've found my words and I'm breathing lungfulls again.

Up where I belong

2006-10-22T09:05:00.000-07:00

Self-discovery is illusive.
And trying hard for it is like looking for a trophy
In a maze.
Either you come out empty-handed
Or you never come back.

When two sad eyes look through me
At the door of the labyrinth I am about to cross,
The woolly greens disappear and
I walk home.

And when I am back,
I know I belong up on the wall -
A face on the Cracked Portrait.

Mahesh and my love for fish

2006-08-03T07:56:00.000-07:00

I've cursed Mumbai restaurants for not serving yummy fish. I love fish but the preparations and portions in most restaurants here are just too disappointing. I've found very few restaurants where the fish is 'just right'.

I'm not too finicky about the cuisine. What I look for is well-cooked fish with its flavour intact. What I mean by this is that, I don't like surmai curry to taste the same as prawn masala. Prawns should taste prawn-y and surmai, surmai-ee. I cannot compromise on that.

And after a very long time, I my fishy tooth got enough dough. Mahesh Lunch Home at Fort did not disappoint. Succulent tiger prawns, juicy surmai and fragrant pomfrets - I just couldn't stop digging into them. Moderately spiced, yet cooked right, the fish smelled just like they should.

While my friends blew over the hot fries and curries and popped bits and pieces of fish flesh into their mouths, I smelled on. Eyes closed shut, I just couldn't get over the aromas. Who says fish stinks? I'd say the delight of eating fish lies in their smell.

Mahesh knows that and I am so glad....

2 minutes, 2 long

2006-08-03T01:45:00.000-07:00

A two-minute silence for the victims of the 7/11 blasts was held a week after the blasts.

I was a martyr of those two minutes.
I never imagined they could be so painfully long.

Hail BhaaNaa! (Part I)

2006-06-16T21:12:00.000-07:00

Bhaarteeya Naari. The concept is like ‘Maa ka aanchal’. You can use it as a cover when you feel defiled. Like a shield, when you feel you could be mauled. Right from the Botox-ed Auntyji next door to the boob-popping, navel-pierced starlet, everyone around mind you, are avatars of ideal BhaaNaa (Why not? It’s the SMS era, folks!).

But half of you don’t know how to put the BhaaNaa tag to its best use. It’s very simple. Read on:

Method 1
The dress
Pick up a bustier that’s half your size. Never mind if you are fighting for breath. And it’s a sin if your skirt covers your undie or if your pair of jeans doesn’t reveal a valley from behind. Both frontal and dorsal cleavage showing is mandatory. Otherwise how will you put your BhaaNaa tag to it’s best use. Apart from all these, gloss, mascara, concealer, coloured lenses, rebounded hair left loose, an eyebrow raised and of course your liplined-pout should be in place.

The walk
(Make sure you wear stilettos that make your calf muscles gleam like Arnie’s lusty biceps. Wear the buckle loose, let it slip now and then. And why so? I’m coming to that…).

Now forget that you are a human. Start looking at yourself as a grandfather’s clock. Or to be precise, your face’s a clock so proportionately your hips are the pendulum. So there you go, let it swing like one. And strut with some force, alright. Every appendage should feel the momentum and swing along.

The action
And then... the strap of your stiletto come off. Say ouch! And then bend low to pull in place.

But of course there’ll be men around and so you’ll hear the choicest of ‘unsavoury compliments.’ The BhaaNaa within you will be stirred. You will rise to the occasion. Walk up to those roadside romeos and either yell or slap them. You are a BhaaNaa, after all, how can they do this to you? Being a Bharteeya Naari, you can also deliver a long lecture about how to behave with mothers and sisters. And if they continue to behave funny, just yell for help. Just say, ‘Bachao! Mujhe yeh ladke tang kar rahe hain’. At least 30 people will come to your aid, be rest assured about that.

You call pull out another bustier the next day, conveniently. Hail BhaaNaa!

Method 2
The dress
This is not for the ordinary dames. If you have a terrific reputation, especially when our name’s in newsprint and face on the TV, then this is just the right method for you.

See, you need to be always seen in the kind of attire I just wrote above. But you are a BhaaNaa. So you’d go to temples, but of course. So then you need to wear a white, lime yellow or pista green Lucknowi salwar kameez. Team it up with thick-rimmed glasses, a la, Jassi. And yes, don’t forget to cover your head, it’s the BhaaNaa mark. Bindi is optional, though.

But what about occasions? Hmmmm, a red squeezy backless number, how’s that? Make-up. What do I say about that? You are your best judge when it comes to that.

The occasion
Make sure you are seen in the most A-Z-list parties. Hugging and kissing all and sundry is a must. You have no choice. BhaaNaa’s no shy girl, body rubbing’s in her blood.

And if it’s a birthday party, make sure you are arm-locked with the birthday boy (It’s important to go for every guy-who’s-had-his-name-in-the-newsprint’s birthday. TV will be there, believe you me). It’s important, otherwise how’ll you put your BhaaNaa tag to good use. Make sure you pinch his cheeks and kiss him as mnay times as you can. The spotlight will automatically be on you. Play the temptress, like always.

The action
Make sure that the birthday boy’s tipsy and so are you before the cake’s cut. Be a part of the action now. Feed cake to the birthday boy, smear it on his face. Make sure your tongue’s slightly out. He’ll definitely protest, but you don’t stop. Then pull out a tissue and wipe his face, your mouth has to be slightly open now…

And then, he’ll yank you to him, grab you and muah! Straight on your open mouth…

You are left gaping, caught my numerous cameras. The BhaaNaa within you is stirred. You break into tears, you are feel defiled.

You gather your senses and look for a shirt, cover up and start issuing statements to everyone present…

“Usne mujhe smooch kyon kiya? Main ek BhaaNaa hoon, I will not allow a lip-lock.”

Sympathy wave, rest assured. Also, you’ll be famous for being a BhaaNaa for the rest of your life. Just lie back and relax. Hail BhaaNaa!

TO BE CONTINUED…

Tough call

2006-06-09T04:18:00.000-07:00

Watching the nth clip on pottery on TV and signing…
Tasting the new Marie biscuit…
Saying some unsavoury things…
Laughing about inane details of other’s lives
Waiting for the football match to begin…

That’s in a nutshell how my day has been till now. This mid-morning, I volunteered to explain something in a nutshell. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. All I kept was rambling, digressing and confusing (not just myself but the other person too).

And when I attempted to write down the events of the day in a nutshell, it wasn’t too tough. In fact I wrote it in five minutes flat.
So why do things become so difficult at times? I don’t think they are as tough as they made them out to be. As I make them out to be…

Rings, lost and found

2006-05-29T11:35:00.000-07:00

They were nothing but a few stones
Set on two separate silver bands.

Each of them rested pretty,
On my love finger and its right counterpart.

Slipping them every morning became
As voluntary as zipping up.

Suddenly I couldn’t find the amber
For my right finger.

I missed wearing it for two days
Even looked for it within my closets.

I was content with wearing the crystals
On my love finger, till

I lost it too, and suddenly
There was nothing to support my reflexes.

But just this morning
I found something I lost long before I lost my rings.

It was a memory of a balmy afternoon
When a drizzle shadowed the sundrops for seconds.

The sky had got its own ring then
And I had captured it in my memory.

I had forgotten all about it
As I tried remembering to slip my finger rings every morning.

Black Coffee

2006-05-27T05:53:00.000-07:00

The experienced call it a simile for love...

Bitter
Sweet
Dark
Deep
Intoxicating
Liberating.

Stuff from here and there…

2006-05-18T04:15:00.001-07:00

A crisp whistle at the workplace

It’s unusual, isn’t it? And once it happens, after a few seconds of numbness followed by confusion followed by exchange of glances, erupt sounds of tentative giggles that crescendo to full-throated laughter.
That’s precisely what unusual things do – they make too many things happen in too little time! And that’s why I love them and want them to happen to me all the time.

It the bizarre that peppers, sauces and oreganos my life.

My night of sacrifice

I made a tough call last night. I was sleepy, I knew I’d have to stay up the next night (which is tonight) and I wanted to watch the European Cup final. Beating away sleep wasn’t too tough; television almost always does it for me (It failed once, though. I snoozed while watching Lost in Translation!).
So that left me to choose between staying up the next night and watching the Barcelona-Arsenal soccer match. What to do? What not to do? I like football alright, but I am a clichéd Indian oblivious of all cynicism. I love cricket and I definitely want to watch the opening match of the India-West Indies series. For my craze for cricket, for some a dash of adrenaline in my blood and of course, for Mahendra Singh Dhoni (A little disappointed by a news report about him shooing a fan away when she asked for a photo with him. I give Goldilocks the benefit doubt; maybe the girl winked at him).
I dilly-dallied for an hour. Finally I hit the bed. The sultry summer night of sacrifice seemed worth. I know it wouldn’t be as hot tonight.

Three trips to the library

I like to make those little trips to libraries. Not those plush, air-cooled libraries, where the air smells like that in a shopping mall. I prefer those poky, dusty libraries that smell of books.
Three books from my office library were lying with me since eternity. This morning, I made up my mind to remember to return them and borrow new ones.
First trip, the library had not opened.
Second trip (after an hour-and-a-half), the librarian had not arrived.
Third trip, just the door was open. But I that was enough, I thought, and barged into the little room.
The librarian wasn’t around and the lights were not on. I switched on the lights and found that the place was messier that my last visit. I dug into dust and books for a pick.
It was fascinating. I was sneezing, my clothes gathered dust, but I it didn’t matter. I was doing all that for the love of the musty smell of books.

Just a little smile...

2006-04-30T04:16:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I feel the need to talk about inconsequential details about people. I sourly asked a very close friend if he developed crushes easily. “Yes. And I also know how to crush them off easily,” he said. And then he said something really beautiful. “I guess I have had a crush on every single girl I’ve known; all they have to do is smile.” Suddenly there was so much weight into the seemingly trite conversation. ‘All they have to do is smile'.

My mind soon conjured up collages of flashing teeth, twinkling eyes and dents on the cheeks. I saw the faces of the baby in next building to the latest fresh face on the hoarding of new body shampoo advertisement. I could never imagine they would be among the images I would even think off. They always seemed quite mundane and forgettable. Maybe their smiles lingered in the vortex of my memory and rose to the surface by this sudden churning.

When I was a child someone asked me what was the longest word in the dictionary. For me then, untouchability was the longest word I had ever heard and I was proud that I remembered it long after the Community Living class was over. I was left open-mouthed when he told me I was wrong and the longest word was smiles. I laughed at him saying he was a fool and he didn’t know English. He gave me a seemingly cheesy reply saying that it’s the longest word because there is a mile between the two s. I was more than convinced then that he didn’t know English and was trying to cover it up. He then told me, “Smile is the only thing that can take you miles ahead to others.” I slid down from the sofa and left him with his limited knowledge of English and bad teeth that peeped from his perpetual smile and forgot all he said.

Then one day someone, who only drew the sketches of his best friend and the prettiest girl around, insisted he draw my sketch. My ears turned beetroots. He said I had a beautiful smile, adding sheepishly, “It’ll take you places.” I was flattered; I was hearing it again.

I am terrified of facing an audience; no one believes me when I say so. But I am. My lips quiver like a light feather suspended by a twig and I feel the entire audience just waits to watch when the feather will finally be blown away and will land in a puddle of muddy water, soak up the muck and drown. So when I was delivering one of my first speeches onstage, the feeling was no different from the usual. And I had already delivered two flops before that and so I was even more terrified. Yet when I was called amongst one of the winners, I grabbed the mike and asked the judges if they got the names right. One of them walked up to me and said he wanted to meet my parents. “I want to meet the family of the girl who has the pleasure of being sunbathed by such a radiant smile all the time.” There it was, a moment of déjà vu. I smiled my way to a prize.

Very soon I stepped into a much larger world that was hotter, dustier and harsher. My expressions also underwent a number of changes. Grimness replaced the smiles for a seemingly serious and I-mean-business look. I frowned more and pursed my lips even more. My smile became formal and no one seemed to care much about it, as I didn’t seemed to care about theirs. In fact I smiled more in e-mails and SMSs that I did in life. I was alarmed this morning when my first instinct on meeting someone was to reach out to the Shift, : and 0 keys on the keyboard. It was then I knew I had indeed forgotten how to smile.

When I thought of my immediate present, it looked like a topsy-turvy world with nothing that was of any consequence. I smelt stale, thought shallow and looked sour. Most of my conversations revolved around the inane and irrelevant. I felt I was losing the power to read into the deeper sub-text of simple yet valuable things…

And then I met this old friend and we started taking a stock of our lives and he told me what I just told you before. Slowly things started coming back. Initially they were blurred; then like a montage and finally like a steady 36 mm film. So many girls won the heart of this tough cookie just by smiling at him. Even it was for a whiff of a moment; they won something. Just like the baby in the next building and fresh-faced poster girl had their smiling faces sedimented in my mind. I gave them their moment of victory the second I they rose through the layers of my mind onto the surface, in front of my eyes.

Really I now knew why my world seemed all topsy-turvy. As a child there was a grumpy man on the cover of the book. He was named ‘Dukhiram’ (the sad one). The riddle was to make him ‘Sukhiram’ (the happy one) without using a pencil. All we had to do was turn the book upside down and the grumpy face became a smiling face. When I stepped out into the open, out crammed spaces and cobwebbed thoughts with this old friend, the world turned upside down. Everything was really so simple. There was beauty and value even in the mundane.

And soon it was time for us to go into our respective worlds again. I looked at my friend and smiled. I knew his heart skipped a beat. I did walk an extra mile, won a heart after a very long time.

Viral Malaria

2006-04-02T11:32:00.000-07:00

Wondering what it is, aren't you? Don't, 'coz I'm coming to that...

It was an affliction that had caught on more than a decade ago. We were a group of wide-eyed teenagers then, content with our sneakers and cloth sacks. Our only concern in life - have fun and forget the world. From pulling down raw/ripe tamarind and eating them till our teeth were numb to breeding guppies in empty jam bottles - we did everything and were feverishly happy all the time.

Our only worry, perhaps, was finishing the homework. Once that was done, the world was ours.

Till it was time for the boards...

The tamarind tree shaded us as we waited for the bus; empty jam bottles went as scrap. We became grumpier. The sneakers started pinching our feet and bags became heavier...

Until Viral Malaria struck...

An incarnation of Elvis Presley, his puff could be spotted even before he was on the horizon.

When every other guy would sport faded T-shirts and jeans, he'd wear shiny shirts in plum, navy and beige. And if you spotted one crease on that trouser, you'd sure win a special sundae from the most happening ice cream parlour around. But that's a different thing that no one ever won one!

And the shoes, how could I forget them! He just needed to break into a jig, Ek Haseena Thi... Ek Deewana Tha... a la Rishi Kapoor from Karz. Shiny, pointed with a metal 'buckle', we forgot samosas and chips with our daily bottles of Energy. Everybody would talk about his shoes - during lunch breaks, between classes and even while they were on.

In fact there was a mini-protest against them once. His previleged footwear kicked someone's shin and drew blood. And we boycotted him, rechristened him, stayed miles away from him. Even when he'd try winning us over with those puppy-eyed looks. We just didn't melt...

As the year neared an end, he was desperate to bury the hatchet. Many of my buddies did give in and became friends with him. Soon there were girls who started finding him the next best thing to have happened to them after Salman Khan, fresh from his Hum Aapke Hain Kaun success. They loved his puff, his shirts and of course, his shoes. I let them be and twirled my thumbs as they gushed over him...

One day as I was preparing for a test, someone ran in to grab the empty chair next to me. I poured into my book harder; Ohm's law never made sense to me and I didn't want to flunk... But I was curious, so I looked. He was just like another guy. Still in his school uniform, he looked untidy, dishevelled and mundanely attractive. He smiled at me... eeks, horrible, dracula-like teeth. I pursed my lips; I had to crack Ohm that day.

But as I sailed past Ohm's law, I realised I was completely distracted. After the test, as I was packing my bag, he came and stood by my side.

"How... how was the paper?"
"Not bad at all," I said without meeting his eyes.
"Ok..."
"Ok, bye."

"Oh, wait! I didn't meant to hurt your friend. It was an accident. See, I've even stopped wearing those shoes."
"Ya, so?" I gave him my best do-I-care-look without even bothering to look at his shoes.

The bus ride back home was not same that day. I knew I was being looked at.

Though I joined the girls who'd talk about him with awe, I chose to shut my mouth and listen. I slowly became a silent member of the Viral Malaria Fan Club.

Soon, a class picnic was announced. He came up to me and said,
"I won't be able to make it."
"I see," I cared a little.
"Have fun," he tried hard to smile and hide his teeth at the same time.
"I will. Thanks." I felt human.

On the day of the farewell party, he rocked the evening. Danced, sang and won all hearts. Every guy wanted to be like him... sing and dance like him. The girls cheered, shook their best-skirted hips to his tunes...

I was the first to leave the party. As I walked home all alone, I knew we were all struck by an affliction. Most were down with it and I was fighting it...

Somethings magical...

2006-04-02T10:39:00.000-07:00

A rainbow
An old song
Two drops from a fountain
And a childhood memory.

When they came together,
I could find words again.

Here’s what I don’t do

2006-03-14T06:04:00.000-08:00

By the way, what do u do? – someone asked me a while ago. And I did not answer. I did not feel the need to answer the question at that point. It’ll be the routine, boring answer. I couldn’t even think of a way to jazz it up and so I left it at that. I simply didn’t answer…

Today I read about an 84-year-old former freedom fighter, who sweeps a 100-metre stretch of road in front of his bungalow twice every day. He’s been doing it for the last 40 years. Even now when he’s ailing and weak, he continues to do it. And he does it with a lot of pride. “The only time I haven’t swept the road is when I was sick or when I wasn’t in town,” he says.

I don’t do anything remotely like this. So I have no answer to your question, buddy.

Yesterday

2006-03-14T05:50:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I snapped a chain.

Of conversations
Thoughts
Images
Sounds
And tears.

Yet I slept rather well
after a bowl of thick fruit custard.

I had once said caramel custard isn’t made like fruit custard.
It isn’t, I know for sure.

But yesterday, they tasted alike.
I don’t know why but they did.

After yesterday, I think they’ll taste alike forever.

Peddler of dreams...

2006-02-17T05:33:00.000-08:00

This is also not an original title. It's a literal tranalation of the words Swapner Pheriwala, which is a Bengali film by Subrata Sen. So why am I talking about it?

Going back in time, I watched Swapner Pheriwala way back in 2002 at the Asian Film Festival held in Mumbai. It's a layered film that touches upon a number of things - love, dreams, superstitions, loss and magic. It's the story of this young girl Turni (played by Nilanjana Sharma), who was orphaned as a child. She lives with her grandfather and issueless aunt and uncle. Though her relations dote on her, Turni finds herself rather lonely and befriends Shome and Siddhartha. Soon she starts developing feelings for the free-willed Shome, but he is quite oblivious of it.

Things take a strange turn when a tantrik and his disciple come to Turni's house on pretext of improving things. Turni, who doesn't really care about them, is unexpectedly dragged into a maze of superstitions and sex. Shome and Siddhartha, however, come to her rescue and she's saved, untouched.

Now, that's about the story of the film. The best part of the film is undisputedly it's ending. The film talks about a magical moment in one's life that comes everyday. I think of this bit in the film very often. I stay up many nights thinking of the magical moment of the day. At times I find it, most of the times I don't. But I know for sure that there's a magical moment in every single day of my life. It could be in the majesticity of orange-purple sunset or the innocence of the sprouting leaf. It could be a phone call or a glance - but it happens. Everyday.

And today the peddler of dreams visited me. I bought too many colourful ones from him and stuffed my bags with them. They should keep bringing in more magical moments in my life for a very long time!!!

First love

2006-02-14T01:13:00.000-08:00

... at four, it was a newly-sprouted bean plant
... at five, it was the blue school uniform
... at seven-and-a-half, it was Treasure Island
... at 10, it was the set of four ink pens
... at 12, it was torrid rainy nights
... at 13, it was my first-ever poem
... at 15, it was my first black silk saree
... at 16, it was Wasim Akram!
... six months later, it was cricket and Shahid Afridi!!
... at 17, I was too busy
... at 18, I was lost
... at 19, it was novels and Amitav Ghosh
... at 20, it was a rebellion
... at 21, it was my first love haiku
... four months later, it was my first image haiku
... at 23, I was disinterested

... at 25, I think I've had too many firsts to even list them.

On working on Sundays...

2006-02-12T02:02:00.000-08:00

Dusting bookshelves, arranging wardrobes or the shoe rack and making my bed - that's just about it when it comes to me working on a Sunday. My first day of the week, otherwise, is spend lazing in bed for hours on end or going out on long walks or catching up with friends. Yes, the lazing on bed is never alone...

Ahem! It’s almost always in company of a book. Every two to three pages of reading is, at times, interspersed with dozing off for a few seconds, then jolting awake and getting back to the fragrant ink that I am so attracted to.

Today's work has been a little out of ordinary. I'm literally at work - in office - doing all that I do during the rest of the week. As I swipe in, I find the unusual silence around rather in my face. The office bears a sepia-tinted look. Suddenly it looks old-world and languid. Is this how offices look on Sundays? Like it’s a living, breathing thing, who’s taking a much-needed break.

Coming back to the silence, I almost welcome it within an hour of arrival. It is comforting to the extent that I don’t fret about working today. Work’s relaxed as we are not pushing a deadline. We are just ensuring that a special issue that we are bringing out in the coming week turns out as well as we are anticipating it would. And we are pretty much doing that, as hard as we can :).

The piece seems incomplete as I no longer have the time to update my blog. Work’s beckoning and Sunday or not, because I’m here today I’ll have to get back to it. So till the next post… (hopefully before next Sunday :) )

Well, I'm all painted... in yellow

2006-02-05T08:45:00.001-08:00

There aren't too many times that scenes from current Bollywood flicks play peek-a-boo in my dreams. The last film that visited my other world was 1947-Earth. With due respects to Deepa Mehta's prowess, I still believe that the images in my dreams are not from her film, but from Bapsi Sidhwa's most brilliant book Ice-Candy Man (Cracking India). Nonetheless the film moved me and I still close my eyes, at times, to see Ice-candywala's (played by Aamir Khan) cold kohl-lined eyes look away as the mob batter Ayah (played by Nandita Das) and Lenny (played by Miah Sethna) screams on. Sublime performances, exemplary vision, flawless direction, ruthless betrayal or plain over-reaction -- I will never know what makes me re-run that scene in my head over and over again...

... till the time I saw Rang De Basanti last week.
http://www.rangdebasanti.net/

Rang De... attempts to present a long lost ideology to today's viewers (I insist it's for every viewer, irrespective of age). The film is about a group youngsters who decide to break the cocoon of their mundane lives and do something drastic, something revolutionary. They rewind in time and live a slice of our historical revolutionaries' lives by taking one step, which seems right to them, to avenge their friend's tragic death. They pay the price of their actions with their lives and that's where the movie ends...

... and my dreams begin. I can't forget Karan's (played by the intense Siddharth) haunting eyes, both while he plays the rich, brooding Mr Singhania and Bhagatsingh (in the docu-drama). The eyes that - are completely uninterested when DJ (played by Aamir Khan, again) and Laxman (played by Atul Kulkarni) fight, secretly admire Sonya (played by Soha Ali Khan), ooze passion while he plays the part of Bhagatsingh, unapologetic after he shoots the defence minister, shed tears when he's trying to take his father into confidence and smile with relief after he tells the nation about what they had done.

It's his eyes that I dream about all the time and keep wondering about the worlds we youngsters live in and don't live in. We are missing out on so much that we can do to undo certain things. By this I don't mean we become like our historical revolutionaries. What I am trying to drive home is the fact that we needn't be complacent all the time.

This film surely has shaken me from my presumed comfort-zone. I no longer want to be a mute spectator. I'd rather take one step to see if that can make a difference. And I am sure it does. One human step cannot shake foundations, but it can cause a slight stir. That''s what, I guess, makes the difference. It's like slight quiver that you experience just when you are about to be really scared...

I believe that the little quiver is enough for many be afraid, sit up and listen to you. Only that step can lead you to the bright yellow we call sunshine, which permeates everything and lights up the world.

Godot, I’m loving the wait…

2006-01-15T08:27:00.000-08:00

One of the most powerful discourses I’ve read till date will have to be Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. I first read it as part of my graduation syllabus. For the first few lectures, I was quite lost. Didn’t want to study the play for anything; couldn’t comprehend what was conveyed… I remember reading the whole play and trying to figure what Beckett was trying to drive home. What’s the point of writing a something so vague and so eccentric, if I may say so.

Suddenly one day, I thought to myself, why sit and dissect so much? I was studying literature not biology! I decided to read the play in a new light. I picked up the book, went and sat next to the window and started re-reading it. And that was the first time I learnt what wonders an open mind can work!

The first thing that struck me was the diverse subjects thrown up in the play. Literally thrown up because you are not given a chance to comprehend one concept before Vladimir (Didi) and Estragon (Gogo) (the two main characters of the play) launch onto the next one. From Eiffel Tower to Bible, to trees and time, language, bank accounts, carrots, slavery, a brighter past, memories and erection! Actually the play talks about a lot more (I’d like you to read the play, so won’t write more :D).

I figured that all these scattered words / images are very much a part of our lives. We need all of them at different points of our existence. But when I look at my life as a whole, all of these remain scattered and inconsequential tidbits that pepper my life.

Secondly, it’s Didi and Gogo who fascinate me. But what’s new about this, you’d ask. They are the only two characters and since I read the play quite often how would I not be anything but captivated by them? I like the poignant relationship the duo share. They fight, bicker, hit each other but still they hug whenever they feel like. In a way, I think, their relationship is of an individual with his / her life. That’s what we do with our lives - different things at the same point and same things at different points.

And what I just love about the two is that they are in pits, they are desperately hopeless and in shambles, but they are not aimless. They have a purpose in life. I don’t know where they came from or where they are headed for. But they sure know what they are waiting for. They are waiting for Godot. Like all of us are waiting for something or the other.
At times, when I look at myself, I think I too am waiting for Godot. I don’t know who / what she / he / it is. I don’t think I’ll ever know that. But Beckett always keeps me inspired to wait for Godot and I love the wait!

http://samuel-beckett.net/Waiting_for_Godot_Part1.html

Words are nothing but...

2006-01-06T10:41:00.000-08:00

birds in flight
or a directionless kite.

states of mind
and veins that bind.

mice in a cage
or ink on a page.

being unsure
or unknown that lure.

hair flying
and best friend lying.

mindgames
or secret shames.

sweat of love
and life's treasure trove.

they are bodies that slog,
no wonder I blog!

Resolutions, yeah whatever!

2006-01-02T00:44:00.000-08:00

Quit smoking, get up early, read every night, lose weight, build six-pack abs, save, cut down on booze - the list is endless...

What are New Year resolutions, after all? We try and think of a unique one every year and try to follow it, well... diligently, for a while. Till the time it holds our attention, we love to stick by it , let it be a part of us. Soon after, when we are too preoccupied by our lives, the urge for an occassional drag creeps again. It could well be a craving for a piece of chocolate cake or sleeping those extra hours. Whatever, it is, it comes back and, more often than not, we give in to it.

Late last year, I thought why not have a New Year resolution for 2006? I've always disciplined myself to achieving something that I really wanted... In fact I even started working towards it. However, two days into it, I'm feeling uneasy. Deep within, I feel, it might not happen. At times discipline, commitment, dedication, devotion, sacrifice remain mere words in the dictionary. They are just not meant to work for you.

So what do you do about your resolution? Just chuck it into the dustbin, which your life already is, and enjoy that fag, that cake, that booze or that restless sleep...

My most memorable New Year's

2006-01-01T09:36:00.000-08:00

Dec 31, 2005, was my most memorable New Year's eve. For the very first time, I was working on New Year's. And the best part of it was that I was loving it...

It isn't as if I've partied on every Dec 31. I've spend them in different ways - with my family, friends, alone. This has been the first time I was in office and was completely occupied with work. The atmosphere at the work place was quite different, if I may say so. Some reacted by wearing black, some just chose not to speak a work, some kept demanding an early exit.

I didn't know how differently to react 'coz I was liking the work I was given. Frankly, it was like any other day. I was working just as hard and I was enjoying it. In fact the day was more exciting than most others. Work that came my way was really interesting... something that I've always wanted to do.

The atmosphere became lighter with some soulful French jazz to begin with... We then cut a cake, but this was way before midnight. We called for pizzas for dinner and an over-enthusiastic colleague emptied all the chilli flakes on the pizzas. So, u can imagine, what a great dinner we might have had :)) When we stepped out of the ladies' after dinner, all the tissue rolls were exhausted! I was wiping my eyes and nose with my towel 20 minutes after dinner!! Then all of us emptied our bags to hunt for some sweets and found two chocolates and shared them. I swear I've never gobbled a chocolate so fast!

We finally left office at 11.30 pm. Though my colleague (who lives close-by) and I were aware that the roads would be crowded, we took a cab back home. Throughtout the way, we were craning our necks to see the awesome fireworks that kept lighting the sky from time to time... Though the chill breeze kept banging r ears and numbing r noses, we were still letting the luminous sky reflect its light on our eyes...

When the clock struck 12, my colleague and we hugged each other. I tried calling at home and my friends but the network was jammed. In fact my phone did not show signal for a good 15 minutes...

I reached home very early on Jan 1, 2006. Before getting off, I wished the cabbie a happy New Year! I could hear a melange of loud music from all over the place. Surprisingly, as I opened the door as noiselessly as possible, I found everything was really quiet at home. Everyone was asleep after wrapping up the family get-together...

The living room smelt of good food, there were traces of promising dreams in my bedroom. I hopped onto my bed, but lay wide awake, waiting for something to arrive...

i know the title isn't original...

2006-01-01T09:12:00.000-08:00

i know the title isn't original...
as i rinsed all my creative juices to find a name
for my blog,
each of those originals were taken.

Cracked Portraits by Agha Shahid Ali is one of my favourite poems...
so i thought why not call my blog after this poem.

also did so hoping that someday i write as well as he did...

http://www.literarydictionary.com/php/speople.php?rec=true&UID=5903