THIS STRING OF POSTS WILL BE CONSTANTLY EDITED... ADDED TO...
The journey...
I can't believe where my life is going. My life is going! Is my life going anywhere at all?
Bambai
Boy: Bambai Mein Itna Energy Kyon Hai?
Chacha: Kyonki Yahaan Pe Sabka Watt Lagta Hai.
He: Why can't I get over you with you?
She: Why do you always have to be on top?
People, littered on the beach.
The new slums on the city outskirts are well planned. They are Bombay's row houses.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
For Pragya, Kavi and Rishi, Happy New Year…
Because we can’t hold ourselves back any longer
And must perish with a fight
Because we have grown tired of each other’s tantrums,
And must let the world in on the big secret
Because the world is our punching bag,
And what can a punching bag do but wait
Because there’s so much said unsaid,
That the unsaid said will make beautiful poetry
Because we can’t possibly go on another eating spree,
And an appetite once roused will not be doused
Because we can’t interpret rain,
And it wets and floods
Because we can interpret rain,
And through our veins it runs thicker than blue blood
Because love will not be found,
And sanity is too little to ask for
Because the mirror cracked,
And seven years have passed
(To be continued… at will)
And must perish with a fight
Because we have grown tired of each other’s tantrums,
And must let the world in on the big secret
Because the world is our punching bag,
And what can a punching bag do but wait
Because there’s so much said unsaid,
That the unsaid said will make beautiful poetry
Because we can’t possibly go on another eating spree,
And an appetite once roused will not be doused
Because we can’t interpret rain,
And it wets and floods
Because we can interpret rain,
And through our veins it runs thicker than blue blood
Because love will not be found,
And sanity is too little to ask for
Because the mirror cracked,
And seven years have passed
(To be continued… at will)
She
this is my first in a series on women i have come to know. expect others shortly
It was two thirty after noon. That was about two and a half hours before she sent in her article (or hoped to) and precisely one hour and forty five minutes after she had had an experience for the countlessth time.
The experience was that of treading in shallow waters one has known for long. One knows where the rocks lie, and where the ground slopes. One is aware of the leeches and the current. One recognizes when enough is enough, and where to step out from. One recognizes each ripple – that extends itself to smile, frown or generally linger on.
Once, she had reached deep into these waters. She had thumped about them with hands and legs, making waves; splashed them around, drenching herself; even gone under to blow out bubbles that she would watch disappear.
But once was once gone, and she would not touch them today. Smile would be met with smile, frowns looked through. Those that lingered would be left. Yet she could not stop the ripples.
They had emerged with every step she took. They had emerged when she waded. They had stood still when she had, waiting for her to move… so they may spread out, hold hands and mock her with a joint smirk.
They would put distance in between her and them, and dare her to reach out, they thought. Then she would stoop and thrash them out to make them disappear. She would drench herself again, to make the waves she once did. She had walked out of the water with eyes wide shut. As parting shot, she would fling in a pebble.
She stretched, staring at her laptop screen. Head cocked, frown intact, wondering what she would make of an empty word page today.
Click Click, Click Click Click, Click Click… the words flew effortlessly. She was telling of a place she had been to for a hundred years. Full stops were cursory, commas a custom. Generations born between lines, yet alike. She pursed her lips at some point, screwing her eyebrows further, then let go. She finished article calmly, her reflection unrippled.
Then shutting her laptop she hopped over to her mirror to make faces at it. If she was six, she would not have to see those she didn’t want to see. If she was six, she wouldn’t be a thousand years old.
It was two thirty after noon. That was about two and a half hours before she sent in her article (or hoped to) and precisely one hour and forty five minutes after she had had an experience for the countlessth time.
The experience was that of treading in shallow waters one has known for long. One knows where the rocks lie, and where the ground slopes. One is aware of the leeches and the current. One recognizes when enough is enough, and where to step out from. One recognizes each ripple – that extends itself to smile, frown or generally linger on.
Once, she had reached deep into these waters. She had thumped about them with hands and legs, making waves; splashed them around, drenching herself; even gone under to blow out bubbles that she would watch disappear.
But once was once gone, and she would not touch them today. Smile would be met with smile, frowns looked through. Those that lingered would be left. Yet she could not stop the ripples.
They had emerged with every step she took. They had emerged when she waded. They had stood still when she had, waiting for her to move… so they may spread out, hold hands and mock her with a joint smirk.
They would put distance in between her and them, and dare her to reach out, they thought. Then she would stoop and thrash them out to make them disappear. She would drench herself again, to make the waves she once did. She had walked out of the water with eyes wide shut. As parting shot, she would fling in a pebble.
She stretched, staring at her laptop screen. Head cocked, frown intact, wondering what she would make of an empty word page today.
Click Click, Click Click Click, Click Click… the words flew effortlessly. She was telling of a place she had been to for a hundred years. Full stops were cursory, commas a custom. Generations born between lines, yet alike. She pursed her lips at some point, screwing her eyebrows further, then let go. She finished article calmly, her reflection unrippled.
Then shutting her laptop she hopped over to her mirror to make faces at it. If she was six, she would not have to see those she didn’t want to see. If she was six, she wouldn’t be a thousand years old.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Dushehra
What shall I burn today?
Where do I find the prejudice to judge Ravan?
He is sitting here beside me, bereft of his symbolic value.
Like an old friend. Betrayed by his God. Betrayed by himself.
Where do I find the Ram who has the answers.
Where do I lose the Ram who has been appropriated by murderers.
They say I descended from Him.
So did you.
Who wins when good fights good?
Where do I find the prejudice to judge Ravan?
He is sitting here beside me, bereft of his symbolic value.
Like an old friend. Betrayed by his God. Betrayed by himself.
Where do I find the Ram who has the answers.
Where do I lose the Ram who has been appropriated by murderers.
They say I descended from Him.
So did you.
Who wins when good fights good?
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Ah! Ok!
I get it. They've made a nasty jungle gym of a society for women. It's their favourite sport to watch. If a woman makes it through somewhat, they even get together and give her astitva awards for achievements and such. What fun. But what if I don't feel like playing today? What if I catch them cheating? Can I take my life and leave the field? Is there another place?Where it is not an act of courage for a woman to answer her calling?
Demand draft
Women should be allowed to define what makes a man. At least they should be allowed to define what makes a woman.
Monday, September 22, 2008
The Real Helpline- in many parts
I was driving through Dharavi late tonight and my car fell into a ditch. Hurt, shaken and afraid I called a close friend. He was unavailable- figuring out his finances for the break he needs to write a book on the problems in Dharavi. Another close friend was working on projecting an AV for a play on the filth in Mumbai. I called man 1 in life right now then. He was heading to a meeting to engage in some pro bono activity for an arts foundation. He suggested I call the tow truck. A crowd of people was beginning to collect around the second car. I toyed with the idea of calling man 2. He would have come. No matter what. He would have told me not to worry. He would make it all ok. But I hadn't called him in days. I had vanished from his life without an explanation, again. The anticipated aftermath of guilt and more gratitude was already to much to bear. (man1 is there in my life to prevent me from believing man2 will remain the messiah he is once i put him on the throne)I stopped short, trepid, teary and looked at the faces I have learnt to fear and loathe breathing down the glass windows. In the teary haze I read the frantic gestures. 10 odd men were bent forward lifting the car and the rest were egging me on to steer behind. Before I knew it I was out. They let out a loud cheer and dispersed without raping or looting me. I drove the rest of the way wondering why I had not taught myself to fear the right things.
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