What I store in my heart, forever

It all starts slowly. It all starts when you are not looking. It slowly gets out of control and it slowly becomes a part of you, in a way, you had never fathomed. She, this woman, to me is beautiful. A person who went great lengths in protecting the people she loved most. She would toil away, waste away to make those people in her life comfortable. She asked for nothing in return. She simply wished that we remained fearless, and free, if lucky, without pain.

But she did this, all while bit by bit she was being mangled, broken and asked to prove herself again and again and again. No one worships Sita, they all think about Ram. The selfish pig who abandoned Sita for pride and power.

My broken Sita lived in fear. Her skin reddened by occasional blows. But even though she shivered she was my shield, and my sponge. She would fight, she would cry, she pleaded, and she even kept mute -- she did everything to resist. All while telling me stories about fairness and love. And while I watch her be my sponge, a part of me died everyday. I watched her teary-eyed. I prayed and cursed god. I never yearned for Ram. If Ram was a devil then let me be no Sita.

Seasons passed, times changed, we meandered into each other's lives with restrain and maturity --- but what I saw never got erased. It bore deep into my consciousness making me who I am today.

And as my Sita grows old... as she sometimes cries over silly fights, I feel a surge in me to protect her-- to be her sponge and her shield against every grief, every blow. I wish I can reverse everything. I am no Sita, I never will be.

Inception

It’s inception of an idea as primeval as that which had infected Muybridge, who with his simple photographic flipbook got his horse, Sallie Gardner, moving. It was simulated reality ---- a motion recreated and stored as photographic evidences which later came to be known as the foundation of moving images. Nolan too toys with this idea of projected reality in his part-Matrix, part- mega-mind blockbuster Inception.

The genesis of the ‘projection’, a crucial thematic trope deployed by Nolan deceives and entices the spectator much like Sallie, a horse that moved when a series of 24 stereoscopic cameras captured it frame-by-frame galloping.

Caprio swept ashore, opens his eyes much like the spectator who is struggling to find some answers from the very first projection, the very first frame. Which part of filmic reality am I trapped in? Is this the beginning, the end, the middle or a subconscious jungle of absurdity and obscurity (a place where cinema takes you often)? I go on to figure that like me the protagonist too is grappling with that unbearable existential angst of ‘getting out’/figuring it out.

Layered universes begin. My memory of Matrix premonitions me that Neo could very well be Caprio, and that I am stuck in a dream that hasn’t ended. Will we get out through a telephone ring, it seems not, the only escape is death. Death -- that can free us of our projected realities, cinema and our ocular attachments.

The plot thickens as the mind is overpowered by psychedelic effects and gravitating stunts. Intersecting these universes – none of which are ‘real’ (even in filmic ‘reality) — a maze is created. This maze, designed not just by the pale and svelte architect, but by the mind that is positioning itself within the film asking questions that outside the cinematic and narrative context may sound ridiculous. ‘Is this real?’ Nothing is. Nothing will be.

‘You should never use projections from memory’, yet, Nolan a graduate from UCL does so by placing UCL’s library – a school he graduated from (and so did I) in the scene where Caprio is introduced to the enterprising architect Ellen Page. Deceiving with memories is a dangerous thing Mr. Nolan, it shattered the illusion of the dream, the dream/ cinema I had go on to believe is ‘real’. Nothing is real. Nothing will be.

Yet enthralled by the escape routes, the maze, the lanes and crevices that Nolan had set for me to crack, I push myself harder, faster, deeper into his lucid dream. Footpath’s are ravaged, buildings crumbling like cookies --- nothing is still, not even the mind.

Was this Nolan’s warning that cinema is deceptive, a trick that we all love even though knowing it is a blatant lie? It is an idea so intrinsically ingrained in our systems—sensory and emotional--- that no matter what object I design to wake up, I never will? The truth is --- I don’t even want to wake up, just like Caprio. Inception has happened. Now the idea will only grow. But like Mal should we all take a leap of faith? Credits. (My movie ends here)

Bheja Fry

Patterns of anxiety : I thought initially I would collate all the 'stress' factors in a neat tabular format for this piece but then I decided to stick to my conventional method of expressing myself which is one long, often incoherent ramblings detailing the most routine to the most bizarre incidences of my life. I tend to always almost obsessively fall into a pattern of enormous 'paranoia' right before a crucial decision of my life. Yes, many do term it as a chronic case of indecisiveness while others affirm that it is usually a mild bout of allergy towards anything permanent (or so it is defined) in life. Jobs, boyfriends, cities, modes of transport are parameters that are transient. Today I am in print, earlier I was in television. Choice, easily transferable , boyfriends (again not quite easily trade able but one can hit the delete button for myriad reasons; often the reasons are completely rational in the human brain), modes of transport (depending on money, time and also whim). But when it comes to issues like say for instance - marriage - my brain signals innumerable alert messages at the most inappropriate, inconvenient of times. For instance, picture this, till yesterday I would have replied to a sms that read: I miss you with an equal fervour, read again: I miss you back! But if I receive the same message minutes before I know my life will alter in one clean stroke, my brain will signal- this is an annoying pattern to text in to the 'to-be-wedded' the same message as a token of assurance. Its routine you know, I do get bored when you I do anything routinely, even if its say a simple thing like brushing my teeth, I rotate my brush in various angular positions while humming a 60s song literally frothing at my mouth just to induce some excitement into that morning ceremony. OK let me not detail this further or illustrate it with graphic descriptions of how one introduces ingenuous way of crapping or pee'ing! No that's not the idea. But the deal is, why make emotions routine? Isn't it painful? Isn't it stupid? And please cry out loud lord, isn't it just plain simple boring? Ah, so this was anxiety number 1. Next, references. Move over privileges of singledom as the albatross of marriage will hang around your neck and suck the blood out. Yes, that skip and miss glance the minute you utter the phrase: I am married. Even though your brain says, you don't need to repeat that or chant that, your heart knocks loud enough and says- you might as well, lest, the guy mistakes you for someone who is available for a coffee and a harmless soiree of flirting. So, the brain again works you up by telling you - memorise you'd be married in less than XYZ time. Its much like a suicide bomb, you are strapped onto a contraption that will take off any minute and your identity of this fun-I care a fuck- single woman will be collectively blown apart and also take other eligible perfectly flirt able guys along with it. My brain is already scribbling obituaries. Next, I cannot hormonally find someone exciting, is what the ultra-conservative brain in the garb of a 'moral beast' dictates; how can you? Don't you have someone to make-out with like a rabbit? So, chuck the check-list or literally 'TO DO' list. All those loving habits like concern, meeting all the time seem to suddenly pile dust. The brain again louder than before makes a note: as if its a ball-point pen that is constantly ticked on and off; your social habitual somewhat bordering on distasteful habits will be monitored, frowned upon or simply be tweaked around with.

There are many things that at present contribute to 'a frame of mind' that is constantly rejecting the events that will go on to occur. It is constantly forewarning, humming, buzzing, negotiating, dictating - 'matters of heart' they say; now isn't that just being sarcastic!

He says, She Speaks!

He says -Jaanti nahi hai main kaun hoon!

She says- Jaanti hoon, shakkal ayene mein dekh le chutiye!

He says- Utha ke le jaaonga

She says- pehle apnaa to uthaa le

He says- Tere ko kaun haath lagayega

She says- Ja apni Ma ke pallu ke peeche chup ja!

He says- Bohot bolti hai

She says- Teri kya band

I say- Common Hindi films! Bring on the saucy dialogues and the raunchiness...

Night Shastra

Shot of coffee

and a pile of books

Burning the night lamp, youtubing and facebooking

high on energy even post 3am

Wondering when slumber would kick in

when I would shut my eyes, and wander away

Erotica, sex, travel... that's what dreams are made of & lots more.

Guess, its the coffee doing it again!

;)

Diya

Rakhi Ka Chachundar

The coy Indian bride dolled up in layers of finest embroided silks, hand crafted designer jewelry, padded with dangerous layers of cake declares with a tacky garland on national television " I want to get married". RS and her latest tactics to get a mugshot in tabloids is infamous, but do we really need to be bludgeoned with a sledgehammer that she is the "it" girl of the industry. How far does Indian television have to go to make private emotions like marriage, child-birth, death a televised eroticized glossy package in the name of entertainment? Do we need a Rakhi and her string of seasonal men let's call them Sawants to tell us, what it feels like to be married. It is perhaps the most excruciating eye sores on national television to have a siliconized, plasticized babe parrot a script on Indian conjugality. Hats off to RS to titillate the audience not just with fake tits but also with fake emotions. To then choose, no offence, a man with a name Elish (a diabolically thorny fish in Bengali cuisine) as a prospective groom is another Rakhism which just adds up to her colourful career as the "loud-mouthed" bimbette on Indian telly. Gushing with all her fake prosthetics towards a man she has romanced on a digi cams oddly enough is what the Indian telly seems to offer as wholesome entertainment. Whatever happened to shows like Dekh Bhai Dekh, Udaan, Zaban Sambhalke, Office Office I wonder! Are we so creatively malnourished that we need a Rakhi to entertain us? If so, bring on the tits, and all those mustard Elishs who claim to have found the "one" while the nation sat laying bets- On Rakhi's next stunt to stardom.

cowboy films and ice cream

I write things that can mirror my state of mind. On most occassions I write with very detailed perspective. But today the memories are a bit hazy, so pardon me if I sound slightly loony or incoherent. It is in my most private moments, almost sacred moments, when I remember a lady who raised me from the age of 2 to the age of 21. She played with me, scolded me, shared icecreams with me and even went to the common community library with me. You can say, that it was a relationship unlike any other because we had many interests in common. Butterscotch flavoured ice-cream for one. She was much higher up in rank in generation. My mother's mother my Naani. I don't discuss her, I don't share her, I don't want to even acknowledge in public that she had a presence in my life. Why? Not because I didn't like her, it is because I loved her immensely and I choke when I talk about her. I feel the loss all over again. But today its different, I want to write a little about this woman I loved so much. 

She was raised in an educated family. Her father was a lawyer. She was married at a tender age of 13 to a morally upright handsome doctor who had also fought a leg of the British rule with Subhash Chandra Bose in Burma. Her family was from Bangladesh, at that time a part of undivided India.  She had 6 kids, 5 girls and 1 boy. She raised them well and was considered a strict disciplinarian. They all lived together in a tiny house in Kalkaji.

 

I have hazy memories of that house. I remember the time when my grandfather came and gifted me my first barbie doll. I was sitting on the charpoy playing with the neighbourhood boys. All I can remember is that my grandfather came and kept that doll on my lap. It was a perfect plastic blonde doll wearing a  white dress. That's all I can recall at this age when none of those props or familial surroundings exist. I remember the time when I stayed with my grandmother. We both sneaked away in the evening to the Vadilal ice-cream shop on the corner in CR. Park and bought our favorite flavoured icecream. Two butterscotch ice-creams with chocolate topping. Vadilal was the only company that made that flavour and we never missed a chance to buy two of those sticks and have them on our way back home. I also remember the times I walked with her to the local library. She browsed for hours through her bangla section, while I searched for some Daphne Du Maurier classics.  On the way back almost everyday she would crib about how vegetables had become  expensive and that the local groceror charged 50 paisa more for a bunch of parsley leaves. She wasn't happy that people were careless regarding  the value of money and that they never counted paisas. I would inevitably ignore her complaints because I thought of them as petty. Yet I would pretend to hear her so that she didn't feel bad. I wish I undid that attitude today. She knew I was from a different generation and that I didn't bother about counting paisas or the groceror charging 50 p more. Yet she always told me how it was upsetting. It is with her collective savings of so many paisas that she gifted me a gold ring. I always wear that on my left hand thumb. Odd finger to wear it right? But there's a reason. I fiddle with rings so much that I wear this one on my thumb as it almost is never easy to slip it out. It remains there - a ring made out of god knows how many paisas reminding me how painfully she saved money to give  gleaming gold rings to all her grandchildren. 5 daughters 1 son,  all at least having two kids. 

The other thing I distinctly remember are the serials she avidly watched.  Apart from a string of bangla serials she watched Zee TV's Antakshri, a soap opera called Paraya Dhan, Gudiyaa etc. 

She had successfully  bribed grandad into buying her another television just for her private viewing. Grandad almost always watched old cowboy films and squealed in great pleasure when the bad man would be bumped off. His usual routine would be to attend to his patients till 5 in the evening and them promptly shut his chamber.  He would then watch  television till 7pm and have his dinner by sharp 8pm. Finally he would go to sleep warning us not to have too many icecreams at night. He was also great pals with Vajpayee who came to his chamber for his rickety knee.  Grandad had a impressionable female following as he was still very handsome at the age of 70. Tall, fair, white shining hair infectious smile and a firm grip when he shook hands. 

Naani kept to herself to her puja, cooking, tele serials, cribbing about grocerors and library rounds. I was her regular company taking her to shops and getting her ice creams in the evenings. She would even listen to me patiently about my school or college. 

There are so many things I still remember as if I can see them living in front of my eyes. Then one day I went to Calcutta for a visit with my family. I didn't speak to my grandparents for those 10 days that I was away. I returned by the Rajdhani train that reached around 9pm to Delhi. Deciding it was too late to disturb my grandparents I decided to go to my parent's house and spend the night there and then in the morning go back to CR Park. I was excited to meet Naani because I had bought some new magazines for her in Bangla and some odd books. The morning I woke up Naani had passed away in her sleep that previous night. A part of me died that very day and I just can't seem to get it out of my system that I was never ever able to say goodbye to her. I still search for her sometimes. I stopped eating icecreams after that. It's been a while since I  have eaten an  icecream let alone have a delicious Vadilal butterscotch one. I can't look at cowboy films. I hate them infact. 

My grandad became frail after she passed away. I was in LSR that time in my final year. I used to visit  rarely because the house reminded me of our time there so much that it suffocated me. I would come stare blankly at my grandma's room and leave. Grandad looked lost. And I would kiss and hug him anyway to tell him we are all there for him. But he too just patiently awaited his death. I sometimes want to rewind and go back to that age when I had them in my life. I want to know why I was never able to say goodbye to a person who I loved perhaps more than anyone. I still remember her, remember him and wish if they were watching me today - what would they say to me?