Love pangs!

I am not sure what exactly love is! The irony of it all is that I find myself madly in love. The symptoms that are oft repeated and the cliched sickly sweet Bollywood songs seem uncannily similar sometimes and I cannot figure out how! Sleepless nights, deep desire to look all pretty and all those very familiar and irritatingly common stuff that otherwise irritate the hell out of me are here to daunt me for the rest of my life (at least it apparently seems so for the time being.)The interesting facet is that I have failed to find a true logic behind all this mindless behaviour though of course I have pretended to be oblivious of these 'love' consequences. The fact that I have to pen it down in my blog is definitely evidence of my repugnance towards paying a tribute to the love symptoms. All said and done, this does in no way defy my undoubted love for my beloved.

Suddenly at a dead end...

Its like waking up one fine morning and discovering that all the world has moved on while, like Rip Van Winkle you've spent those years in a mystic delirium of which you can recall nothing and a waste that you cannot make good! Dreams that have plagued you and fascinated you but they were (or are rather) hypnotic illusions that sustain you with the blatant lie - life is fair and the ways of the almighty are just. Definitely I have not turned in an atheist in a couple of fortnights but yes its no good feigning that I am content...contentment seems a distant term and the pursuit of which has brought me to a dead end! Oh! I so wish I had a fairy godmother only she would not give a magic charm to entice Mr. Charming but win my dream and grant me my wish of success and fame...

The Slumdog Story

Jai ho! Slumdog has won 8 Oscars....

Does it really feel that elating? Not in retrospect. There is an implicit impertinence in the way that the Occident treats the Orient. Or to be more specific the western perspective of India. Is it not hilarious that the slum dog Jamal speaks in an unmistakable British accent! Is Indian culture down to slums or does the west believe it to be so? Our music, our art, our speech - the west has conveniently overlooked these. They dismiss the passion that is inherent in every Indian. There was only one scene that actually spoke of it, when the little Jamal emerges from the shit holding onto the photo of his idol. Otherwise why would billions of Indian stay glued to the TV sets when an Indian wins an Oscar or a Gold Medal in the Olympics or the cricket World cup - why would they all be party to the jashna? Passion that flows in their blood, unity that stands out in all its diversity. Passion that creates and passion that destroys. That is what we are all about! Emotions that find words in tears that roll down your cheeks when you watch Tare Zameen Par, the anger and the empathy that makes you impatient when you feel helpless while watching Rang De Basanti, the pathos and the paroxysm as you regale in the victory of Bhuvan - this is India!

An attempt at creativity

There was a crazy litany in her head…sounds and images creating a synaesthesia that made it impossible for her to concentrate on what the instructor said. Words were a mumble and the classroom a mere blur. She had travelled miles in her thoughts – too far for her own good. Teachers in school often complained that despite her being a more than average student, she never paid attention in class. She found the butterfly or the new blossoming flower more interesting. Life and nature had always intrigued her.

She was in search of something – the undefined. For years now she was striving to know who she was and what her mission in life was. A home, a car, husband, babies – not quite. She craved for more. It had been twenty five years and she was still wondering what it was. Friends and family dismissed her thoughts as immaturity, blabber of a confused mind and more considerate ones heard her alright and then whispered to one another - “philosophical jargon”.

She loved her solitude as much as she hated it. For in her loneliness she discovered her vulnerability. Life had taught her many a lesson but she never could find a definitive answer to the whimsicalities of the human mind. In her chosen moments of solitude she would try to debate with herself and always the socially conscious self would triumph with “I told you so”. But she was not content. Of all thoughts that piqued her, the one that daunted her most was ‘love’. Love was more enigmatic to her than death perhaps. It was intense, dark and treacherous.

Yet, love was also refreshing like the first drops of rain on your cheek. It made your soul blush with the colour of the twilight. It was as intoxicating as the smell of the wet soil that lingered on. It made your eyes sparkle like the dazzling dew drops on a wintry morning. To her, love was a spectrum of colours and life, the prism. Each hue intact in its uniqueness and each spectacular in its own right. It had taken her a quarter of a century to decide what she aspired for – she wanted to be drenched with the rich colours of love.

Two years she had waited. In silence. Everyone wondered why the emotionally vulnerable girl had not shed a tear, never complained only bore it with a patient shrug. All who knew her were assured that she was brittle and she stunned them all. There were things that mattered and things that did not. To her this did not matter – at least not any more. The small diary was lost, the bracelet he gave her had broken – as if she commanded them, and they obeyed. From a dream, to a figure, to an image, to a name and then to nothing -- all traces of him vanished and his image receded into oblivion more smoothly than perhaps day melts into night.

Two years and the phone never rang. Till one day, when all spirited she received the call. The teaming house met with a hushed silence. She thought he was history – but no! His voice was unmistakably familiar and her heart skipped a beat. All the pent up questions and anxiety choked her and defiant tears smeared her cheeks as she shamelessly stood victim to the banter of a dead love. It was crueler now than ever before and she shuddered to see the sympathetic faces and hear the murmurs that crowned her the mistress of dejection. How even in his absence he had controlled her emotions and toyed with her unconscious self. Love was dark and treacherous – true. It had tricked her into believing that she was beyond it. She could fathom nothing except the sheer disgrace of being taunted by a man. She felt dizzy and her limbs grew weak when she heard him say “Is it so difficult to forgive me?” Indeed! He had walked off for another woman and fancy the man’s guts to make his new found love call her to ask “how good he was”…but she had forgiven him. Did she forget? She never would.

She smiled. He was groveling in the dust, lying as low as possible – all his dignity and ego dripping of infidelity. “Did you do anything for which I should forgive you?” she asked. Silence ensued and a triumphant sparkle lit up her eyes. Love was intense – it was not bound by the pettiness of human fickleness – it was self redeeming.

Her thoughts trailed off…The classroom came alive and she jolted back to reality. Her memories were laid to rest like all those dreams that she ever dared to weave; but only to rise from their ashes when she would carelessly tread the unknown realms of her mind.

I dreamt about Katrina Kaif

Have been reading Gibran and comprehending him better. Madness takes time to comprehend and the confessions and prophesies of the insane are more profound than they apparently seem.... While I am not in league with Gibran, I am definitely a comrade to the outlawed insanes. As days pass by, I become more aware of the synonimity with my tribe. To narrate an instance is the dream that I had last night.

....Suddenly in the dark winding alleys of dream I see a dazzle of light and then the picture comes to life with moving figures. I voyuer into my deeper self and see myself standing in a deserted place that only sounds familiar. In the midst of a market, that in reality would resemble a fair, I stand quite lost. In my dream soliloquey (that echoes in my mind ) I ponder on which route leads me home. Standing at the intersection of many streets, I hear cars honking and screaches and a lot of hulla bulla and there is a strange fear that creeps up my bones - a fear of being disowned. In utter confusion I walk into the nearby grocery shop and a figure seemingly blurr, clears to take the form of a familiar face. She(Priya) is my office colleague and also the one who stays in my neighbourhood. In desperation I ask her "Can you tell me which way home is". Apparently she tells me where it could probably be, but am not sure. I stare outside the glass walls and see a red Ford Ikon stop in front of the shop. I step out and peeping from within the car are two of my other colleagues - Aruni and Hitesh. They invite me to have a drive and I presume, offer to drop me home (or did I think they said so)... We drive for hours and now the roads are straight, mostly avenues, it is a long journey.... Aruni stops the car and then very politely hints that now I can go my way. I am in a fix and seeing situation she decides to take me home. We travel for a few more hours and then take a turn at a bend. I reach the lane that looks uncannily like the one that leads to my house... I am about to warn Aruni that the lanes are disastrous but feel rather shy to admit that I live in a place that is no better than a slum. Aruni, who is driving the car; and it is apparently her's, drives straight into the messy, narrow lane. Ahead of us lies a trench that seems to be brimming with water but I choke and become inaudible as I cry for her to look out. The car lands into the water and the force of the water breaks the glass panes and in minutes the car is destroyed and deforms into a mere shabble ... and while all this accident takes place I silently watch as a spectator (but when did I alight from the car?) Aruni and Hitesh retrieve themselves from the chaos and walk towards me. Shame grips me and I am in tears, apologizing for the fate of the car and the episode entirely. I keep cursing and blaming myself. Aruni takes pity on me and gives me the responsibilty of carrying the heart of the car ( cars have heart???). I swear I'll do anything to protect it. At this moment we are transposed to a metro station and the ongoing conversations that I can overhear tell me that perhaps we are heading towards my house still. As time passes by, my destination seems to be shiftig further away. I feel a tug at my arm and then to my astonishment I see a thief trying to snatch the heart away form me. I overpower the shrivelled man and take possession of the heart while the crowd watches me.....

...I am sitting on the staircase that leads to a parliament or a temple , I am not sure. Interestingly, I am facing away from the structure, and looking towards the fountain that adorns the porch of the concrete establishment. Kneeling down, hand clasped as if in prayer, I am asking for forgiveness. Before me there is an audience and in a minute's time the whole place starts beaming with people. My sleeping eyes span the place and it is like a primitive Greek auditorium. There is a flash and Salman Khan ( a popular bollywood actor) appears as an incarnation and blesses me. I cannot recognize this personality in the dream and yet he cannot convince me ... (of what and why- I am clueless)...then appears the divine figure of an angel - this time it is Katrina Kaif (the bollywood actress who is dating this actor)... I am impressed by the halo and the pristinity that emanates from her presence...I am engrossed, almost hypnotised and I believe every syllable she speaks, as if in a trance. The audience start clapping - it is an awesome performance and there is a lady standing under the car-shed who starts laughing hysterically - laughter of tragic joy and she mumbles something like the "subaltern rises - strong ".....

I wonder what Freud would have said after reading this?

I don't look like Sonam Kapoor!!!!

I so don't look like Sonam Kapoor!!!! I swear man.... and there is no resemblance at all... still people will not believe me ... somebody in office.. in the morning today gave my face a thought for a couple of minutes and after the unnoticed silence interrupted the ongoing conversation and chipped in "Does she not look like Sonam Kapoor!" OH No!!!! The embarrassment was too much to bear and to add to all the fiasco a very noble and humble soul added "Yes , but she resembles not one but five Sonam Kapoors" - that was outright insult... and since then any Tom Dick and Harry walks up to me with a smirk and greets me ""Hi Sonam". I knew I was suffering identity crisis but that is now imposed more by the present surroundings .... :( During my university days I was the Indian version of Drew Barrymore (she'd commit suicide if she knew she was being demeaned to this extent) and just when I had managed to reinstate my identity people ensure that I grovel in the dark abyss of elusive existence! There was a considerate soul though who thought Sonam resembled me - as I was older to her...and that was equally grueling - I am old.... I forgot to add that there are still some who debate that I look uncannily like Mamta Kulkarni.... heights man...it seems I was never me!!! Anymore identities that anyone else wants to thrust on me.... ???

The next day the world returns to its daily bread and I have sunk deeper into the coma of embarrassment. While all the world rested in peace I kept posing in front of the mirror wondering which face profile made me resemble Sonam Kapoor. At the end of a tedious ordeal when I finally decided to put the case at rest I sifted and shifted on bed wondering was it good humour or sarcasm...the thought lead to an exaggerated insomnia... I woke up the next day still nurturing the wounds of the 'yesterday' only to find that I am running late for office...

I am so lonely ... I am so lonely

Life is a nuisance it seems at times... you chide it, you try to alter it but no, it refuses to change a wee bit. Your phone buzzes 24/7 and your message box is rampaged by the service providers. A wounded soul and a whole lot of daily dozes of stupidity get you going. You've done enough to keep your self occupied .. alas the boredom bug bites you time and again... there is a lot you can do and there is nothing that you can do! Yes yes the oxymoronic life that is dealt out by Almighty to morons like me...Alleluia...Pretty lasses and charming men are my companions but they are all the pseudo souls that meet you every day... some are genuine and the others are genuinely posing ... but nonetheless they are the people with whom you have to deal day in and day out. That is about it just bragging about life that is all....

Yup Dear Punz
I so appreciate your laconic response...they kind of drain out all the philosophical sophistication with which I have cushioned my feelings... and this post is just for you darling... Lucrative pleasure at seeing the Humpty Dumpty have a great (virtual/emotional) fall... I know I know... what are friends for... ;P

A matter of choice!

In a couple of days I will be 25 years old. Old. Very old. I was reminiscing this on my journey back home and pondered that despite all that veneer of 'happiness' I was lonely; very lonely. "...where are the pleasures that sages have seen on thy face" - indeed "o Solitude" where are they? Freedom can be so boring, I had never imagined... At this point in time I am discovering myself anew. Like Columbus I set out in search of a new land - a utopic one and I did discover a land - quite the contrary of what i was looking for and had imagined; but rich in itself... another facet of my being!

There are moments when I cannot comprehensively explain my feelings - be it passion or despair. Reading too much of Sandman recently... I am sure in the next post I'll brag thoroughly about the interpretations I drew during the course of my literary analysis of the graphic novel...