Sunday, September 16, 2007
People
People disappoint me.
I tell them at outset
they will. They insist...
(in not so many words)
"No, I'm the real deal..."
and sometimes
I am taken in. But
in the end... people
Disappoint, dismay.
Thankfully in most cases,
the lightbulb flickers
soon enough. In others...
Well they linger to crystallize
The Pain
PS: I am Sure that I disappoint people too
I sign-out with one of the most beautiful closing sequences I have known. Its from the Bergman movie, Skammen, and it summarizes his work, and a lot of other things so beautifully: "It wasn't too awful since it was so beautiful".
Good night. You have been a wonderful audience.
Right Now-2
Progress Report
My need has frayed with time; you said it would.
It has; I can walk again across the flood
Of gold sil popples on the straw-gold hills
Under a deep Californian sky that expels
All truant clouds; watch squads of cattle graze
By the radio-telescope; blue-battered jays
Flash raucous squaking by my swivelling head
While squirrels sine-wave past over the dead
Oak-leaves, and not miss you_although I may
Admit that near the telescope yesterday
By a small bushcovered gully I blundered on
Five golden fox-cubs playing in the sun
And wished you had been there to see them play;
But that I only mention by the way.
Vikram Seth
My need has frayed with time; you said it would.
It has; I can walk again across the flood
Of gold sil popples on the straw-gold hills
Under a deep Californian sky that expels
All truant clouds; watch squads of cattle graze
By the radio-telescope; blue-battered jays
Flash raucous squaking by my swivelling head
While squirrels sine-wave past over the dead
Oak-leaves, and not miss you_although I may
Admit that near the telescope yesterday
By a small bushcovered gully I blundered on
Five golden fox-cubs playing in the sun
And wished you had been there to see them play;
But that I only mention by the way.
Vikram Seth
Right Now-1
At thirty-one when some are rich ... by Philip Larkin
At thirty-one when some are rich
And others dead,
I, being neither, have a job instead,
But come each evening back to a high room
Above deep gardenfuls of air, on which
Already has been laid an autumn bloom.
And here, instead of planning how
I can best thrive,
How best win fame and money while alive,
I sit down, supper over, and begin
One of the letters of a kind I now
Feel most of my spare time is going in:
I mean, letters to women—no,
Not of the sort
The papers tell us get read out in court,
Leading directly to or from the bed.
Love-letters only in a sense: they owe
Too much elsewhere to come under that head.
Too much kindness, for a start;
I know, none better,
The eyelessness of days without a letter;
Too much to habit ('Stop? But why on earth...?'):
Too much to an unwillingness to part
With people wise enough to see my worth.
I'm kind, but not kinetic—don't
Enlist a word
Simply because its deed has been deferred;
Ends in themselves, my letters plot no change;
They carry nothing dutiable; they won't
Aspire, astound, establish or estrange.
Why write them, then? Are they in fact
Just compromise,
Amiable residue when each denies
The other's want? Or are they not so nice,
Stand-ins in each case simply for an act?
Mushrooms or virtue? or, toadstools or vice?
They taste the same. So summer ends,
And nights draw in.
Another evening wasted! I begin
Writing the envelope, and a bitter smoke
Of self-contempt, of boredom, too, ascends.
What use is an endearment and a joke?
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Take The Chance
Someone I know vaguely once wrote: This is your life, the one place you get to play God.
Lovely background score for this. As usual, just push play and read on.
D has taken a big chance in life. Professionally it is a perfect decision- albeit a hard one. RV has taken a similar decision, though under very different circumstances.
Circumstances... they present us with options, or force us to do things.
That don't appear easy to begin with.
The amiss comfort, money. Living in an apartment is replaced with a dorm and common lavatories. Sometimes I want to cry.
But they have still done it.
For D in a sense, for a while, hopefully it is just a loss of financial independence. For RV, I guess there was no better way out.
I have had my options this year, and chosen status quo, and hopefully in life I have made the right choice, professionally. Just recently I got voted the top 5 professionals in the country in my line of work (Thank you Thank you). Of course it does wonders to my arrogance of things in general.
I watched the movie Metro a few days back. Certain parts of it were pathetic, everything I think cinema should not be. For instance, I am of the opinion that films which claim to be intelligent cinema, should not be a metaphor on life. When you claim to depict life as it is, you should be observant enough to realize that Life by itself presents these beautiful yet poignant, happy yet lingering experiences, bitter yet laced with sugar moments. You just have to observe. And have the calibre to translate that observation.
Its different if you're making a song and dance movie. Or comedies.
I am talking about the entire episode on the call centre sleeping around phenomenon.
It was loud, unclean, in a sort of way that only crude cinema can be. The script was unpolished, with little style. One only has to see "The Apartment" to figure out how cheap the Hindi version was. One only needs to see Shirley MacLaine, to figure why Kangana Ranaut, inspite of wearing smart business suits is only a small town girl who says "congretulashions". Life is not about wearing the right clothes Baby. And why Sharman "who the fuck is that" Joshi, is a P.I.M.P, and nothing else.
But then may be, as D says, I am just a normal person, who wants to carry forward happy thoughts.
But I liked the bit about Irfaan Khan. Though SSS says his eyes scare her, I think he is a good actor. And that he was given a small yet useful role to play. That no relationship, even marriage, comes with a guarantee card which says its going to work. Its upto us to make it happen. That if a relationship fails, it is failure on the part of the characters in that script. You just have to TAKE THE CHANCE!
Communication is beautiful. Its all that matters. All the wonderful people I have known, and have amazing memories of are a function of the awesome dialogue I have shared with them. That I ran a minimal risk of being misunderstood, and vice versa.
I love people I communicate well with. I am thrilled when I communicate well with myself.
Like I told DP the other night. As it is impossible to hate everything about someone, it is equally difficult to love everything as well. You just have to give people time. They reveal. Beautifully.
It is after all, one life.
There is someone I know (rather used to) who I only happened to talk to at 2AM, once every few months. She still thinks I only want to get into her pants. So far from true. I enjoy hearing her voice on the phone genuinely. She complains she gives the wrong vibes. But who cares about vibes once you've got the communication going?
Time.
But then, this life as Metro shows is about making choices. You may choose status quo, or choose to make that big decision. Sometimes its better to settle down, and not look for the next better deal. Sometimes it is better to move on. Who knows what works. In life, you can only connect the dots looking backwards.
Settle down. Ah! I think every human being, myself included, does want to settle down. At some point of time. To abort the search. To have that light bulb moment. To live happily ever after. After all the search is a draining exercise.
I have trouble settling down. But then I think when I do, I will be really happy about it.
Sometimes I think two years will pass by in a wink. And then sometimes I just hang my head and think how unrealistic a thought that is.
The other night for the first time ever I was drinking alone at the Shack. I go there on Tuesday nights, because they play good music, and on weeknights the crowd is great. On weekends its only a place for the cheap.
I see all these young early 20 something women with long haired guys. On weekends I see them again, rather versions of them who are 5-7 years older. In the fancy places where I drink to avoid the crowd, and to enjoy my music, I see them with stable looking, well off guys. Who wear checked Tommy Hilfiger Shirts, tucked into designer CK jeans. The women carry boat shaped dainty purses. With possibly no money in them. And I wonder, if there is a message in there.
And I wonder if there isn't a better way to end the Search? Is submission the only solution for the ordinary?
In such choices there is really no telling to how unhappiness manifests itself . And when. Like someone I dated along time back recently told me- you can't imagine how difficult it is to live in the same house with someone you don't love day after day.
My response was: Have babies. There is a fair chance you'll love them enough, and for the next ten odd years they will be home. Analgesic.
I am happy D is pursuing her ambition. Like I have heard it said, in life so often we walk away from our dreams, afraid that we might fail, or worse yet, afraid we may succeed.
While I knew so early on that she would realise her dreams, I sometimes wonder whether I shall have to wait till the winter of my life to make mine come true.
In the meanwhile, seasons change. And I... I just live in the hope that someday so will we.
Lovely background score for this. As usual, just push play and read on.
D has taken a big chance in life. Professionally it is a perfect decision- albeit a hard one. RV has taken a similar decision, though under very different circumstances.
Circumstances... they present us with options, or force us to do things.
That don't appear easy to begin with.
The amiss comfort, money. Living in an apartment is replaced with a dorm and common lavatories. Sometimes I want to cry.
But they have still done it.
For D in a sense, for a while, hopefully it is just a loss of financial independence. For RV, I guess there was no better way out.
I have had my options this year, and chosen status quo, and hopefully in life I have made the right choice, professionally. Just recently I got voted the top 5 professionals in the country in my line of work (Thank you Thank you). Of course it does wonders to my arrogance of things in general.
I watched the movie Metro a few days back. Certain parts of it were pathetic, everything I think cinema should not be. For instance, I am of the opinion that films which claim to be intelligent cinema, should not be a metaphor on life. When you claim to depict life as it is, you should be observant enough to realize that Life by itself presents these beautiful yet poignant, happy yet lingering experiences, bitter yet laced with sugar moments. You just have to observe. And have the calibre to translate that observation.
Its different if you're making a song and dance movie. Or comedies.
I am talking about the entire episode on the call centre sleeping around phenomenon.
It was loud, unclean, in a sort of way that only crude cinema can be. The script was unpolished, with little style. One only has to see "The Apartment" to figure out how cheap the Hindi version was. One only needs to see Shirley MacLaine, to figure why Kangana Ranaut, inspite of wearing smart business suits is only a small town girl who says "congretulashions". Life is not about wearing the right clothes Baby. And why Sharman "who the fuck is that" Joshi, is a P.I.M.P, and nothing else.
But then may be, as D says, I am just a normal person, who wants to carry forward happy thoughts.
But I liked the bit about Irfaan Khan. Though SSS says his eyes scare her, I think he is a good actor. And that he was given a small yet useful role to play. That no relationship, even marriage, comes with a guarantee card which says its going to work. Its upto us to make it happen. That if a relationship fails, it is failure on the part of the characters in that script. You just have to TAKE THE CHANCE!
Communication is beautiful. Its all that matters. All the wonderful people I have known, and have amazing memories of are a function of the awesome dialogue I have shared with them. That I ran a minimal risk of being misunderstood, and vice versa.
I love people I communicate well with. I am thrilled when I communicate well with myself.
Like I told DP the other night. As it is impossible to hate everything about someone, it is equally difficult to love everything as well. You just have to give people time. They reveal. Beautifully.
It is after all, one life.
There is someone I know (rather used to) who I only happened to talk to at 2AM, once every few months. She still thinks I only want to get into her pants. So far from true. I enjoy hearing her voice on the phone genuinely. She complains she gives the wrong vibes. But who cares about vibes once you've got the communication going?
Time.
But then, this life as Metro shows is about making choices. You may choose status quo, or choose to make that big decision. Sometimes its better to settle down, and not look for the next better deal. Sometimes it is better to move on. Who knows what works. In life, you can only connect the dots looking backwards.
Settle down. Ah! I think every human being, myself included, does want to settle down. At some point of time. To abort the search. To have that light bulb moment. To live happily ever after. After all the search is a draining exercise.
I have trouble settling down. But then I think when I do, I will be really happy about it.
Sometimes I think two years will pass by in a wink. And then sometimes I just hang my head and think how unrealistic a thought that is.
The other night for the first time ever I was drinking alone at the Shack. I go there on Tuesday nights, because they play good music, and on weeknights the crowd is great. On weekends its only a place for the cheap.
I see all these young early 20 something women with long haired guys. On weekends I see them again, rather versions of them who are 5-7 years older. In the fancy places where I drink to avoid the crowd, and to enjoy my music, I see them with stable looking, well off guys. Who wear checked Tommy Hilfiger Shirts, tucked into designer CK jeans. The women carry boat shaped dainty purses. With possibly no money in them. And I wonder, if there is a message in there.
And I wonder if there isn't a better way to end the Search? Is submission the only solution for the ordinary?
In such choices there is really no telling to how unhappiness manifests itself . And when. Like someone I dated along time back recently told me- you can't imagine how difficult it is to live in the same house with someone you don't love day after day.
My response was: Have babies. There is a fair chance you'll love them enough, and for the next ten odd years they will be home. Analgesic.
I am happy D is pursuing her ambition. Like I have heard it said, in life so often we walk away from our dreams, afraid that we might fail, or worse yet, afraid we may succeed.
While I knew so early on that she would realise her dreams, I sometimes wonder whether I shall have to wait till the winter of my life to make mine come true.
In the meanwhile, seasons change. And I... I just live in the hope that someday so will we.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
How Things Change
When I went to engineering this would have been a demographic impossibility.
Sigh. Once more... Well Never Mind
Sigh. Once more... Well Never Mind
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Right Now
I have the terribly irritating habit of listening to the same song again and again, till my ears can’t take it anymore.
Currently, that song is “Me and Bobby McGee”, written by Kris Kristofferson, originally performed by Roger Miller, and made, oh so famous by Janis Joplin (after changing Bobby’s gender, some lyrics, and adding a hell lot of Jazz). Her rendition made it to number #148 on Rolling Stone’s 500 Greatest Songs of All Time. Kristofferson and Joplin had been dating till just before the song was written, and though Kristofferson denied it; Joplin is rumored to have been the inspiration for this song (mostly arising from the line on slipping away in Salinas).
It was the last song that Joplin was to record. Released posthumously- making it only the second song to top the charts after the singer had passed away. Joplin’s slipping away into the night, from a heroin overdose, followed that of Jimi Hendrix a week before. Both were aged 27. Their deaths, coming less than three months after Jim Morrison was found dead in his Paris apartment bathtub, dealt one of the biggest blows to rock and roll. He too was aged 27.
Ironically, the heroin that killed her, was prepared by a substitute taster, who made the batch “too pure”. Among its victims the same night were many of the LA jet set.
Depressing stuff. So much talent wasted. Such levels of self-destruction.
Janis Joplin, Keith Moon, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain. Sometimes, life does not give a second chance.
Or does it… Johnny Cash, Ozzy, Ray Charles. All saved by love.
I think Lennon got it right. Probably all you do indeed need is love.
Anyway, the song is brilliant. Lyrics evoking some very strong imagery … “Windshield wipers slapping time” and the super famous “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose”, Joplin’s powerful and distinctive voice- rasping through the speakers is amazing.
Spent the long weekend shopping (so many irresistible offers on everything from M&S shirts to Honda Civics), getting done in by gimmicks to buy things I have no use for (have over a hundred shirts now, all of them either white or blue), stuffing myself with whatever I can eat (which is pretty much anything that’s moved when alive), read some very ordinary posts, and just for kicks flattered the authors by posting glowing comments (I guess they couldn't be bothered), being dragged to and falling asleep in a random play, drinking, getting horribly hung over, moaning over the lack of good books or movies (not even Rat a-fucking too ee) , sorting out admin matters of life (a dated passport, buying new hand towels, polishing shoes), and some meaningless chronicling at Smokerings and working only a little bit.
Just push play and Sing-a-long. I have taken the liberty of changing the gender back, but kept some of Joplin’s defining touches.
Me and Bobby McGee
Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for the trains,
And I’s feeling nearly faded as my jeans.
Bobby thumbed a diesel down just before it rained,
Took us all the way to New Orleans.
I pulled my harpoon out of my dirty red bandana
And was playing soft while Bobby sang the blues,
With them windshield wipers slapping time and
I was holding Bobby’s hand in mine
We finally sang up every song that driver knew.
Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose,
Currently, that song is “Me and Bobby McGee”, written by Kris Kristofferson, originally performed by Roger Miller, and made, oh so famous by Janis Joplin (after changing Bobby’s gender, some lyrics, and adding a hell lot of Jazz). Her rendition made it to number #148 on Rolling Stone’s 500 Greatest Songs of All Time. Kristofferson and Joplin had been dating till just before the song was written, and though Kristofferson denied it; Joplin is rumored to have been the inspiration for this song (mostly arising from the line on slipping away in Salinas).
It was the last song that Joplin was to record. Released posthumously- making it only the second song to top the charts after the singer had passed away. Joplin’s slipping away into the night, from a heroin overdose, followed that of Jimi Hendrix a week before. Both were aged 27. Their deaths, coming less than three months after Jim Morrison was found dead in his Paris apartment bathtub, dealt one of the biggest blows to rock and roll. He too was aged 27.
Ironically, the heroin that killed her, was prepared by a substitute taster, who made the batch “too pure”. Among its victims the same night were many of the LA jet set.
Depressing stuff. So much talent wasted. Such levels of self-destruction.
Janis Joplin, Keith Moon, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain. Sometimes, life does not give a second chance.
Or does it… Johnny Cash, Ozzy, Ray Charles. All saved by love.
I think Lennon got it right. Probably all you do indeed need is love.
Anyway, the song is brilliant. Lyrics evoking some very strong imagery … “Windshield wipers slapping time” and the super famous “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose”, Joplin’s powerful and distinctive voice- rasping through the speakers is amazing.
Spent the long weekend shopping (so many irresistible offers on everything from M&S shirts to Honda Civics), getting done in by gimmicks to buy things I have no use for (have over a hundred shirts now, all of them either white or blue), stuffing myself with whatever I can eat (which is pretty much anything that’s moved when alive), read some very ordinary posts, and just for kicks flattered the authors by posting glowing comments (I guess they couldn't be bothered), being dragged to and falling asleep in a random play, drinking, getting horribly hung over, moaning over the lack of good books or movies (not even Rat a-fucking too ee) , sorting out admin matters of life (a dated passport, buying new hand towels, polishing shoes), and some meaningless chronicling at Smokerings and working only a little bit.
Just push play and Sing-a-long. I have taken the liberty of changing the gender back, but kept some of Joplin’s defining touches.
Me and Bobby McGee
Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for the trains,
And I’s feeling nearly faded as my jeans.
Bobby thumbed a diesel down just before it rained,
Took us all the way to New Orleans.
I pulled my harpoon out of my dirty red bandana
And was playing soft while Bobby sang the blues,
With them windshield wipers slapping time and
I was holding Bobby’s hand in mine
We finally sang up every song that driver knew.
Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose,
Nothing don't mean nothing honey if it ain't free, now now.
Feeling good was easy; Lord, when Bobby sang the blues,
You know feeling good was good enough for me,
Feeling good was easy; Lord, when Bobby sang the blues,
You know feeling good was good enough for me,
Good enough for me and my Bobby McGee.
From the Kentucky coalmines to the California sun,
From the Kentucky coalmines to the California sun,
Hey, Bobby shared the secrets of my soul.
Through all kinds of weather, through everything we done,
Hey Bobby baby! kept me from the cold.
One day up near Salinas, lord, I let her slip away,
She was looking for that love I hope she’ll find,
Well I’d trade all my tomorrows for a single yesterday,
To be holding Bobby’s body close to mine.
Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose,
And nothing left was all she left to me,
Feeling good was easy, Lord, when Bobby sang the blues,
And buddy, that was good enough for me.
Good enough for me and my Bobby McGee.
One day up near Salinas, lord, I let her slip away,
She was looking for that love I hope she’ll find,
Well I’d trade all my tomorrows for a single yesterday,
To be holding Bobby’s body close to mine.
Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose,
And nothing left was all she left to me,
Feeling good was easy, Lord, when Bobby sang the blues,
And buddy, that was good enough for me.
Good enough for me and my Bobby McGee.
La la la, la la la la, la la la,
la la la laLa la la la la Bobby McGee.
La la la la la, la la la la la
La la la la la, Bobby McGee, la.
La La la, la la la la la la,
La La la la la la la la la, hey now Bobby now Bobby McGee yeah.
Na na na na na na na na, na na na na na na na na na na na
Hey now Bobby now, Bobby McGee, yeah
Next post: Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
The Irrelevance of Reciprocity
RESTAURANT: Bombay Talkie, New York City
ON THE MENU AS: Unrequited Love
PREPARATION: 2½ ounces of gin, a half-ounce of sugar syrup infused overnight with saffron, and 1½ ounces of sweet lime juice; shaken with ice.
PRICE: $10
Often in life we are told stories of unrequited love. Everyone has heard them, in lore, or real life. Most have probably experienced it as well. Today, I wonder how important reciprocity is really.
Sometimes I have felt affection towards people, and understandably only on a few occasions it has been reciprocated. I think back, and I realize that they didn’t feel the same, can in no manner take away from what I felt for them. Conversely, when reciprocated, I didn’t feel a stronger affection, just because I was loved back. At best reciprocity adds longevity to relationships. At worst, it just creates expectations.
The reasons why I am thinking of this is because lately a friend of mine, has been going on and on about how he is growing old, and no one loves him. It is becoming too much, and of late I have only a few drinking buddies left. Though I wear this absolutely stoic expression during the discussions, I realize that he is indeed serious. But presenting my views to him is unlikely to be of any consequence.
Now I have a very strong sense of ego, which does blur the objective train of thought that I am now trying to pursue. And I realize the agony over unrequited love, is nothing but an outcome of ego. It is a manifestation of an exaggeration of the self, which finds it difficult to deal with rejection. But truly, honestly, reciprocation does nothing.
Once you have a thing going, and by a thing I mean an essentially exclusive relationship, it leads to a whole host of experiences, which is difficult to go through by yourself. I guess it is a desire to have those experiences that make it so important for us to have a closure in our affections.
But unfortunately, in life there are, as Arundhati Roy so aptly put, Laws of Love. Which lay down who is to be loved by whom, and how much. Actually, it isn’t a law, a theorem, because those have some basis. It is an axiom. No reason, no argument, just that it is.
Which is when people bemoan their unrequited love, it is so boring, because as an outsider, you know that while one person is in love, the other is merely thinking, should I get into this, what is there in it for me, or worse, is there going to be a better deal soon? Its not nice, but it is true.
Of course, there might exist cosmic moments when both parties are equally in love (if it is possible), and then they go into the sunset holding hands. But most of the time, it is just two people having a very good time in each others company, and calling it love.
And think it is unreal.
ON THE MENU AS: Unrequited Love
PREPARATION: 2½ ounces of gin, a half-ounce of sugar syrup infused overnight with saffron, and 1½ ounces of sweet lime juice; shaken with ice.
PRICE: $10
Often in life we are told stories of unrequited love. Everyone has heard them, in lore, or real life. Most have probably experienced it as well. Today, I wonder how important reciprocity is really.
Sometimes I have felt affection towards people, and understandably only on a few occasions it has been reciprocated. I think back, and I realize that they didn’t feel the same, can in no manner take away from what I felt for them. Conversely, when reciprocated, I didn’t feel a stronger affection, just because I was loved back. At best reciprocity adds longevity to relationships. At worst, it just creates expectations.
The reasons why I am thinking of this is because lately a friend of mine, has been going on and on about how he is growing old, and no one loves him. It is becoming too much, and of late I have only a few drinking buddies left. Though I wear this absolutely stoic expression during the discussions, I realize that he is indeed serious. But presenting my views to him is unlikely to be of any consequence.
Now I have a very strong sense of ego, which does blur the objective train of thought that I am now trying to pursue. And I realize the agony over unrequited love, is nothing but an outcome of ego. It is a manifestation of an exaggeration of the self, which finds it difficult to deal with rejection. But truly, honestly, reciprocation does nothing.
Once you have a thing going, and by a thing I mean an essentially exclusive relationship, it leads to a whole host of experiences, which is difficult to go through by yourself. I guess it is a desire to have those experiences that make it so important for us to have a closure in our affections.
But unfortunately, in life there are, as Arundhati Roy so aptly put, Laws of Love. Which lay down who is to be loved by whom, and how much. Actually, it isn’t a law, a theorem, because those have some basis. It is an axiom. No reason, no argument, just that it is.
Which is when people bemoan their unrequited love, it is so boring, because as an outsider, you know that while one person is in love, the other is merely thinking, should I get into this, what is there in it for me, or worse, is there going to be a better deal soon? Its not nice, but it is true.
Of course, there might exist cosmic moments when both parties are equally in love (if it is possible), and then they go into the sunset holding hands. But most of the time, it is just two people having a very good time in each others company, and calling it love.
And think it is unreal.
And hence I think reciprocity is the most exaggerated concept of our lives.
And I think I am not making any sense in this post.
"In the end the love you take is equal to the love you make."
The Beatles
And I think I am not making any sense in this post.
"In the end the love you take is equal to the love you make."
The Beatles
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
More Than a Lot
"The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same."
Tonight I Can Write, Pablo Neruda. (0)
(This post comes with a background score. Just push play and read on)
I really don’t think I can live alone. Whether I live with people in the real world, or peep into their lives through books, newspapers, movies, music; they are indispensable. Fortunately, perhaps, I cannot watch TV.
For the last fifteen years or so, I have been living on my own, with infrequent company. My family, I spend a sum total of two weeks, over the course of the calendar year. So that’s not much.
Under such circumstances, it is natural for one to develop ties, albeit by accident, elsewhere, and remarkably one finds that such ties… are capable of such joys, and remorse.
Biological ties, I guess, stay, despite distance, or time, despite your actions (within certain tolerances), or inaction. The Other wither away, mostly as a consequence of the same.
And before They wither away, mostly the going is good.
At times like this, Time steps in, fills spaces, brings comfort, the comfort of familiarity. Of waking up next to someone warm. Of coming home- sometimes to an ear-to-ear grin, sometimes a frown. Of long conversations and shared silences. Tastes, and more importantly, shared distastes. Of unconditional discretion (1) conveyed through understanding nods. And sometimes, through scathing criticisms.
It is only much later, that it is confessed, that that advice was given without always understanding everything. In the knowledge that once the frustration had passed, I would know exactly what to do, and how best to do it.
All criticisms, however mild, were well considered.
Finally perhaps, the comfort of a shared conscience. (Once you get there, together you have basically made a trip to a place from where there is nowhere to go- in a pleasant sort of way.)
Later, Time… that bitch is gone. There is so little left of it, and then I am running, running to stash in every possible experience. And then suddenly it is over. (2)
“Time is the enemy of lovers, the thief that robs them of precious moments together. The foe that raises doubts and questions.”
There is this Space. With only one thing left to say: “I wish I had seen this coming, or I wish I had done that, or I wish…” And way too late in the day, I realize that the one wish I was granted with is this gift of friendship.
However, looking back, there were no missed steps, nothing that could’ve been done any differently. If things were conducted a little by design, it would hardly have been this perfect.
On a particularly wet morning, passing through Mahim on my way to work I see people scurrying for cover- in the melee there is this handicapped man, on the contraption they drive themselves around, and seated next to him is a child, in a raincoat and a school bag. They seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. The child clapping his hands, the man laughing out loud, while the world gets drenched to the bone around them.
Then, one particularly bacchanalian night, I walk back home, and there is a little more than a mild drizzle, and I am carefully evading puddles. It is an hour or two past midnight. There is a solitary tarpaulin hutment, next to a stinky garbage dump, huddled inside a family of about 8. They are eating out of a paper bag, and from the look on their faces, one would think that they are looking out from the verandah of their beach front property in Goa, fascinated by the rains, and eating the best food in the world.
Probably I read too much into all this, but know what, these sights mean more than a bit to me.
Fondness, I guess, dwells in the unlikeliest of habitats, weathering the worst storms. Togetherness, it seems, makes up for quite a bit.
There is a person at work who recently moved to a desk on my left. We call him Mr. Reality Check. He is my batch business school, got married between graduating and joining the first job, the same time during which I was tripping on Kovalam beach. He has a house, and a school going kid. He has decent savings, and the house is worth three times his investment. He showed me a spreadsheet which he uses to track multiple household bills. All these disclosures in a matter of a week or so. He asks me why I am not married, and what savings I have, and what I do with all my money.
While such people are usually the butt of my ridicule all the time, I do realize that I am pissing away my money, and chasing off anyone who has ever loved me. That as I am growing old busy having a good time or fighting those imaginary demons in my head, slowly things are being taken away from me. And that I won’t realize what’s gone for quite a few years.
I wonder what will it take, for a person like me to embrace such a life. I, who can write a thousand word post on relationships, can advocate love, why is it so difficult to be able to hold on. To get beyond relationships, love and affection which comes with a Use By date to begin with.
I have been told that in writing, and in life in general, I have a problem with closure, with endings. So I will leave this now, with this reliable borrowed expression.
For Chivo:
Because, we are also what we lose.
Amores Perros
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
0. I know this has been quoted recently, but it is somehow apt for the moment.
1. Indra Nooyi:
You know, people like us get very lonely, because you cannot share too much with other people. So you come home and he is there and you can discuss anything with him and he gives you sound advice.
2. Woody Allen:
There's an old joke - um... two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of 'em says, "Boy, the food at this place is really terrible." The other one says, "Yeah, I know; and such small portions." Well, that's essentially how I feel about life - full of loneliness, and misery, and suffering, and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly.
We, of that time, are no longer the same."
Tonight I Can Write, Pablo Neruda. (0)
(This post comes with a background score. Just push play and read on)
I really don’t think I can live alone. Whether I live with people in the real world, or peep into their lives through books, newspapers, movies, music; they are indispensable. Fortunately, perhaps, I cannot watch TV.
For the last fifteen years or so, I have been living on my own, with infrequent company. My family, I spend a sum total of two weeks, over the course of the calendar year. So that’s not much.
Under such circumstances, it is natural for one to develop ties, albeit by accident, elsewhere, and remarkably one finds that such ties… are capable of such joys, and remorse.
Biological ties, I guess, stay, despite distance, or time, despite your actions (within certain tolerances), or inaction. The Other wither away, mostly as a consequence of the same.
And before They wither away, mostly the going is good.
At times like this, Time steps in, fills spaces, brings comfort, the comfort of familiarity. Of waking up next to someone warm. Of coming home- sometimes to an ear-to-ear grin, sometimes a frown. Of long conversations and shared silences. Tastes, and more importantly, shared distastes. Of unconditional discretion (1) conveyed through understanding nods. And sometimes, through scathing criticisms.
It is only much later, that it is confessed, that that advice was given without always understanding everything. In the knowledge that once the frustration had passed, I would know exactly what to do, and how best to do it.
All criticisms, however mild, were well considered.
Finally perhaps, the comfort of a shared conscience. (Once you get there, together you have basically made a trip to a place from where there is nowhere to go- in a pleasant sort of way.)
Later, Time… that bitch is gone. There is so little left of it, and then I am running, running to stash in every possible experience. And then suddenly it is over. (2)
“Time is the enemy of lovers, the thief that robs them of precious moments together. The foe that raises doubts and questions.”
There is this Space. With only one thing left to say: “I wish I had seen this coming, or I wish I had done that, or I wish…” And way too late in the day, I realize that the one wish I was granted with is this gift of friendship.
However, looking back, there were no missed steps, nothing that could’ve been done any differently. If things were conducted a little by design, it would hardly have been this perfect.
On a particularly wet morning, passing through Mahim on my way to work I see people scurrying for cover- in the melee there is this handicapped man, on the contraption they drive themselves around, and seated next to him is a child, in a raincoat and a school bag. They seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. The child clapping his hands, the man laughing out loud, while the world gets drenched to the bone around them.
Then, one particularly bacchanalian night, I walk back home, and there is a little more than a mild drizzle, and I am carefully evading puddles. It is an hour or two past midnight. There is a solitary tarpaulin hutment, next to a stinky garbage dump, huddled inside a family of about 8. They are eating out of a paper bag, and from the look on their faces, one would think that they are looking out from the verandah of their beach front property in Goa, fascinated by the rains, and eating the best food in the world.
Probably I read too much into all this, but know what, these sights mean more than a bit to me.
Fondness, I guess, dwells in the unlikeliest of habitats, weathering the worst storms. Togetherness, it seems, makes up for quite a bit.
There is a person at work who recently moved to a desk on my left. We call him Mr. Reality Check. He is my batch business school, got married between graduating and joining the first job, the same time during which I was tripping on Kovalam beach. He has a house, and a school going kid. He has decent savings, and the house is worth three times his investment. He showed me a spreadsheet which he uses to track multiple household bills. All these disclosures in a matter of a week or so. He asks me why I am not married, and what savings I have, and what I do with all my money.
While such people are usually the butt of my ridicule all the time, I do realize that I am pissing away my money, and chasing off anyone who has ever loved me. That as I am growing old busy having a good time or fighting those imaginary demons in my head, slowly things are being taken away from me. And that I won’t realize what’s gone for quite a few years.
I wonder what will it take, for a person like me to embrace such a life. I, who can write a thousand word post on relationships, can advocate love, why is it so difficult to be able to hold on. To get beyond relationships, love and affection which comes with a Use By date to begin with.
I have been told that in writing, and in life in general, I have a problem with closure, with endings. So I will leave this now, with this reliable borrowed expression.
For Chivo:
Because, we are also what we lose.
Amores Perros
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
0. I know this has been quoted recently, but it is somehow apt for the moment.
1. Indra Nooyi:
You know, people like us get very lonely, because you cannot share too much with other people. So you come home and he is there and you can discuss anything with him and he gives you sound advice.
2. Woody Allen:
There's an old joke - um... two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of 'em says, "Boy, the food at this place is really terrible." The other one says, "Yeah, I know; and such small portions." Well, that's essentially how I feel about life - full of loneliness, and misery, and suffering, and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
HARRY POTTER AND THE DEATHLY WHATEVER
I am a day late into this post.
I promised Ms. Rowling a post the day she was done with hers. She is, presumably. I just finished reading the last HP last night.
I have read all the Harry Potters. For a person residing in the shell of exclusive taste in almost everything, thats quite a bit. But I made her a promise, in my mind, not in person, to comment once she wrote that last one. My thoughts... and at Smokerings, thats all that counts.
I latched onto the entire HP thing a little late, towards the end of the year that the first one was published, on a long train ride from Jamshedpur to Ernakulam, a four day train ride. And I found it engaging.
Honestly speaking, out of the seven, 1, 4 and now 7 make a good reading. Really. The first one was obviously good, which is why everyone sat up and took notice, including cynics like me. Yes, even back then. The concept was brilliant. That there might exist a world, which we were unaware of, that we were Muggles, while the smart ones were called Wizards. And that they had a world where the dishes could be done with a flick of a wand.
And then there was the fourth one, pacy, interesting with a real purpose.
And finally the last one, which I bought only by way of an obligation, but turned out to a fascinating read nevertheless.
But I have a problem with the series. It has nothing to do with its popularity. I think it paints too nice a picture of life. No, I know its not that easy, there's that grey in the book, that entire bit about He who must not be named. The Slytherins, etc. The entire good against bad story. But alas life isn't that nice. In life there is no sorting hat to begin with to tell you, who is nice (Hufflepuff), who is intelligent (Ravenclaw), who is brave (Gryffindor) and who is evil (Slytherin). Because in life, everyone is a bit of everything.
I see people and I find that in everyone, there is something so exquisite, that you just have to watch and wonder. This is a lot coming from a misanthrope like me. But then in most people there are weaknesses too, there are flaws. What shows up first is a function of how you approach a person. If unfortunately, the flaws surface much earlier than the pearls, and I realize thats what life is all about- you've gotta give people time.That they're not around to put up an act for you, to showcase their jewels for you. That with time it all shows up- who is nice, who is intelligent, who is brave, and who is wicked. Not who actually ... what- what is nice, what is intelligent, what is brave, and what is wicked. That it all resides, in measures, inside all of us. And if you haven't figured it in someone yet, just give it time.
Time, there's so little of it nowadays. I don't have it. There are so many people who don't have it for me, they write me off, and I'm OK. They'll probably come around. But I wish in life there was a Sorting Hat, something you could conclusively use to say whose right and who's not your type.
I own all the Harry Potters, and the only other author I can say that about is Vikram Seth. but then probably I can't borrow one from anyone I know. I can't.
Too much on my mind right now. More later.
I promised Ms. Rowling a post the day she was done with hers. She is, presumably. I just finished reading the last HP last night.
I have read all the Harry Potters. For a person residing in the shell of exclusive taste in almost everything, thats quite a bit. But I made her a promise, in my mind, not in person, to comment once she wrote that last one. My thoughts... and at Smokerings, thats all that counts.
I latched onto the entire HP thing a little late, towards the end of the year that the first one was published, on a long train ride from Jamshedpur to Ernakulam, a four day train ride. And I found it engaging.
Honestly speaking, out of the seven, 1, 4 and now 7 make a good reading. Really. The first one was obviously good, which is why everyone sat up and took notice, including cynics like me. Yes, even back then. The concept was brilliant. That there might exist a world, which we were unaware of, that we were Muggles, while the smart ones were called Wizards. And that they had a world where the dishes could be done with a flick of a wand.
And then there was the fourth one, pacy, interesting with a real purpose.
And finally the last one, which I bought only by way of an obligation, but turned out to a fascinating read nevertheless.
But I have a problem with the series. It has nothing to do with its popularity. I think it paints too nice a picture of life. No, I know its not that easy, there's that grey in the book, that entire bit about He who must not be named. The Slytherins, etc. The entire good against bad story. But alas life isn't that nice. In life there is no sorting hat to begin with to tell you, who is nice (Hufflepuff), who is intelligent (Ravenclaw), who is brave (Gryffindor) and who is evil (Slytherin). Because in life, everyone is a bit of everything.
I see people and I find that in everyone, there is something so exquisite, that you just have to watch and wonder. This is a lot coming from a misanthrope like me. But then in most people there are weaknesses too, there are flaws. What shows up first is a function of how you approach a person. If unfortunately, the flaws surface much earlier than the pearls, and I realize thats what life is all about- you've gotta give people time.That they're not around to put up an act for you, to showcase their jewels for you. That with time it all shows up- who is nice, who is intelligent, who is brave, and who is wicked. Not who actually ... what- what is nice, what is intelligent, what is brave, and what is wicked. That it all resides, in measures, inside all of us. And if you haven't figured it in someone yet, just give it time.
Time, there's so little of it nowadays. I don't have it. There are so many people who don't have it for me, they write me off, and I'm OK. They'll probably come around. But I wish in life there was a Sorting Hat, something you could conclusively use to say whose right and who's not your type.
I own all the Harry Potters, and the only other author I can say that about is Vikram Seth. but then probably I can't borrow one from anyone I know. I can't.
Too much on my mind right now. More later.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Today
I'm sentimental, if you know what I mean
I love the country but I can't stand the scene.
And I'm neither left or right
I'm just staying home tonight,
getting lost in that hopeless little screen.
But I'm stubborn as those garbage bags
that Time cannot decay,
I'm junk but I'm still holding up
This little wild bouquet
.
.
.
~ Democracy, Leonard Cohen
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Delayed by Design
I actually waited eight hours so that Anuja could be crowned the Queen of the Universe.
So here is my post on my personal 8 idiosyncrasies.
1. At home I wash my hands every time I touch something. It is somewhat of an obsession, and something I just can't keep myself from doing. At work however I can live the entire day without washing hands, unless I go to, you know where. However, I do end up using a lot of hand tissues at work.
2. I walk bare feet at work. On the entire trading floor. I even have a pair of beach slippers which I use to go to the loo. But being fussy about clean feet I also make sure the flooring gets shampooed regularly.
3. My hair grows faster on the back of my head than on the front. Being intolerant of hair over my neck I almost always end up getting a haircut prematurely, often with disastrous results.
4. I hate using any handkerchief for more than a month- because they start looking lumpy after a wash.
5. I end up having some 50 windows open on my comp by end of work day. I think I am bad at closing things, so once open, it stays that way. And oh, I don't shut down my comp for months.
6. I do not have a credit card... not a personal one at least. Used to long back, lost them, and never really tried to get one afterwards. The one I do have, the office one for my expense account, I never claim, which is messier.
7. I am hugely superstitious. Hugely. I believe that professional success, especially in my line of work, is mostly a function of luck. So the jinxed Mont Blanc is not taken to meetings, the faded blue shirt which botches of antique tea stains (which D calls pochha shirt), is worn on a day when I might be doing a largish trade, or need Lady Luck's assistance to ease out some ass whipping day. Many other things.
8. I don't like being tagged. Being tagged expects me to write a funny post. Which I am absolutely incapable of. Cynical, yes, funny, no.
Original Tag Rules
1) Each player starts with 8 random facts/habits about themselves.
2) People who are tagged, write a blog post about their own 8 random things, and post these rules.
3) At the end of your post you need to tag 8 people and include their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment and tell them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.
4) If you fail to do this within eight hours, you will have to acknowledge TO as the King of the Universe
Problem: I do not know 8 people. So I tag no one!
So here is my post on my personal 8 idiosyncrasies.
1. At home I wash my hands every time I touch something. It is somewhat of an obsession, and something I just can't keep myself from doing. At work however I can live the entire day without washing hands, unless I go to, you know where. However, I do end up using a lot of hand tissues at work.
2. I walk bare feet at work. On the entire trading floor. I even have a pair of beach slippers which I use to go to the loo. But being fussy about clean feet I also make sure the flooring gets shampooed regularly.
3. My hair grows faster on the back of my head than on the front. Being intolerant of hair over my neck I almost always end up getting a haircut prematurely, often with disastrous results.
4. I hate using any handkerchief for more than a month- because they start looking lumpy after a wash.
5. I end up having some 50 windows open on my comp by end of work day. I think I am bad at closing things, so once open, it stays that way. And oh, I don't shut down my comp for months.
6. I do not have a credit card... not a personal one at least. Used to long back, lost them, and never really tried to get one afterwards. The one I do have, the office one for my expense account, I never claim, which is messier.
7. I am hugely superstitious. Hugely. I believe that professional success, especially in my line of work, is mostly a function of luck. So the jinxed Mont Blanc is not taken to meetings, the faded blue shirt which botches of antique tea stains (which D calls pochha shirt), is worn on a day when I might be doing a largish trade, or need Lady Luck's assistance to ease out some ass whipping day. Many other things.
8. I don't like being tagged. Being tagged expects me to write a funny post. Which I am absolutely incapable of. Cynical, yes, funny, no.
Original Tag Rules
1) Each player starts with 8 random facts/habits about themselves.
2) People who are tagged, write a blog post about their own 8 random things, and post these rules.
3) At the end of your post you need to tag 8 people and include their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment and tell them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.
4) If you fail to do this within eight hours, you will have to acknowledge TO as the King of the Universe
Problem: I do not know 8 people. So I tag no one!
Thursday, July 19, 2007
No Point Crying
"Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings."
Monday, July 16, 2007
Weekend
Night In Jiangning
A glass of tea; the moon;
The frogs croak in the weeds.
A bat wriggles down across
Gold disk to silver reeds.
The distant light of lamps.
The whirr of winnowing grain.
The peace of loneliness.
The scent of imminent rain.
Vikram Seth. All You Who Sleep Tonight.
A glass of tea; the moon;
The frogs croak in the weeds.
A bat wriggles down across
Gold disk to silver reeds.
The distant light of lamps.
The whirr of winnowing grain.
The peace of loneliness.
The scent of imminent rain.
Vikram Seth. All You Who Sleep Tonight.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Guardian's 1,000 films to see before you die
http://film.guardian.co.uk/1000films/0,,2108487,00.html
I've seen 165, including some I wouldn't regret not seeing before I died. Anyway, good fun.
I've seen 165, including some I wouldn't regret not seeing before I died. Anyway, good fun.
Monday, July 02, 2007
The Homecoming
She stood in the doorway, every night around this time. Night had not yet fallen, neither could it be called daylight. Little girls hurried back, while their brothers, a bit less concerned, dragged their cricket bats home, as though a day’s work had been finished in the fields. She had none to call her own, she sighed. Just some memories.
She remembered that once there had been a few, two actually. Her daughter, now a doctor far away in America, would scamper home, and dive straight into her books. While her son, that little devil, dragged himself home, only to watch the most useless program on Doordardshan. She remembered how he wouldn’t drink his milk, had a terrible memory for tables, and homework, and an immaculate one for the TV schedule. Impeccable.
Now, he too was gone. Gone to faraway Tokyo. She didn’t understand what he did for a living, but her husband kept mentioning something called an investment bank. She kept his visiting card in her bedside drawer. It said “Vice President”, and on the reverse was a scribble which apparently meant the same in Japanese, he had said. It made her feel kind of important. It had been so much easier to tell all the relatives what he did when he worked as an engineer in the nearby car factory. Everyone knew what an engineer does, and everyone saw the cars he made.
She realized that her children had turned out exactly as she wanted. Daughter doctor, son engineer, once. Daughter married with a baby, son, married, once. But they hardly ever came home.
She remembered the one time she had gone visiting her daughter in America. After the initial euphoria had died down, she realized that this was not a big city. Not even close. Nothing compared to her Delhi. Or Calcutta where she had lived a long time back. She realized that small towns were all the same, whether in America or India. Even then, there was no way of getting from point A to B, unless she walked. In fact there was neither point A nor B. Just her daughter’s house. And when she did go for those long walks, she got stares from passers by. Probably it was her saree. Or perhaps, as her daughter told her later, that nobody walked on the streets in Wisconsin. She remembered how irate her husband had been on seeing her son-in-law’s well stocked bar. And what a difficult time she had keeping him quiet.
She remembered the time she had gone visiting her son when he was in Bombay. How detached he seemed from them. There was no connection, nothing. He came home most evenings, not drunk, but with alcohol on his breath. Client meetings he said. His work hours were treacherous, and on weekends, if he was home, he slept. He had no time for them. No time. They cut their trip short, and never went back. And then news arrived that he had married. They wondered why they hadn’t been told of it before. Then when they were ready to go and visit him, to mend fences, they were informed that she had gone away, for very long. She never came back. He too went away to Tokyo. Alone. Briefly, quietly, stopping over at home. Recently, he started coming again, on work, but rarely, briefly. There apparently was a lot of interest in India suddenly, he told his father.
She felt a tug at her saree, and saw two children- a boy and a girl, probably aged no more than five or six. They had freckled faces and runny noses, which probably had been carelessly rubbed on their sweater sleeves. The boy dragged a cricket bat. The girl, carried a school bag. She knew them well. They belonged to the neighbour’s servant. She knew what they wanted. They had been coming every day for the last six months. She went into her son’s room, and pulled out a little racing car card. It said Pinnfarina Quattro- a fine green coloured sports car, 2100cc, 1974. She had been dreading this day. The card was the last one.
She remembered that once there had been a few, two actually. Her daughter, now a doctor far away in America, would scamper home, and dive straight into her books. While her son, that little devil, dragged himself home, only to watch the most useless program on Doordardshan. She remembered how he wouldn’t drink his milk, had a terrible memory for tables, and homework, and an immaculate one for the TV schedule. Impeccable.
Now, he too was gone. Gone to faraway Tokyo. She didn’t understand what he did for a living, but her husband kept mentioning something called an investment bank. She kept his visiting card in her bedside drawer. It said “Vice President”, and on the reverse was a scribble which apparently meant the same in Japanese, he had said. It made her feel kind of important. It had been so much easier to tell all the relatives what he did when he worked as an engineer in the nearby car factory. Everyone knew what an engineer does, and everyone saw the cars he made.
She realized that her children had turned out exactly as she wanted. Daughter doctor, son engineer, once. Daughter married with a baby, son, married, once. But they hardly ever came home.
She remembered the one time she had gone visiting her daughter in America. After the initial euphoria had died down, she realized that this was not a big city. Not even close. Nothing compared to her Delhi. Or Calcutta where she had lived a long time back. She realized that small towns were all the same, whether in America or India. Even then, there was no way of getting from point A to B, unless she walked. In fact there was neither point A nor B. Just her daughter’s house. And when she did go for those long walks, she got stares from passers by. Probably it was her saree. Or perhaps, as her daughter told her later, that nobody walked on the streets in Wisconsin. She remembered how irate her husband had been on seeing her son-in-law’s well stocked bar. And what a difficult time she had keeping him quiet.
She remembered the time she had gone visiting her son when he was in Bombay. How detached he seemed from them. There was no connection, nothing. He came home most evenings, not drunk, but with alcohol on his breath. Client meetings he said. His work hours were treacherous, and on weekends, if he was home, he slept. He had no time for them. No time. They cut their trip short, and never went back. And then news arrived that he had married. They wondered why they hadn’t been told of it before. Then when they were ready to go and visit him, to mend fences, they were informed that she had gone away, for very long. She never came back. He too went away to Tokyo. Alone. Briefly, quietly, stopping over at home. Recently, he started coming again, on work, but rarely, briefly. There apparently was a lot of interest in India suddenly, he told his father.
She felt a tug at her saree, and saw two children- a boy and a girl, probably aged no more than five or six. They had freckled faces and runny noses, which probably had been carelessly rubbed on their sweater sleeves. The boy dragged a cricket bat. The girl, carried a school bag. She knew them well. They belonged to the neighbour’s servant. She knew what they wanted. They had been coming every day for the last six months. She went into her son’s room, and pulled out a little racing car card. It said Pinnfarina Quattro- a fine green coloured sports car, 2100cc, 1974. She had been dreading this day. The card was the last one.
Monday, June 25, 2007
The Rain…
... moved in noisily last night like a victorious army walks through the gates of a fallen city. Stealth in approach, raucous in conquest, its drops made the pitter-patter on the corrugated steel canopy of my house, much like the beating of a victory drum. There was no sense of compromise in its beat; it was, here to stay.
I stood by the window, watching a people taken by surprise, scurrying for cover, or blithely stepping out for a laugh, a good time. Its time had come. I remembered how I read somewhere that the first showers of Bombay rumbled in like a train. It is easy to associate trains with rains in Bombay- they will eventually be brought to a halt one day, if only for a few hours.
The Flame of the Forest blossoms outside my window, which I can almost touch, extending my arm from here, sway wildly, as if intoxicated. The sky in the absence of stars is a deeper blue, with only occasional blur of clouds made orange by tiny specks of sunlight trapped within. The wind is maddening, breath taking, bringing in splashes of rain, and many memories. My face is moist, and my lenses lashed with pristine drops of water- I have long given up trying to keep them dry. The wind, it feels heavenly, and almost is.
Tomorrow, there will probably be images of fallen trees, uprooted telephone poles, of trains wading through murky water. In the morning, twigs and blackened flowers will be found on the sidewalks, on tops of cars, to be wiped off by well meaning hands. Tomorrow, if this downpour does not subside, the ride back home will be murderous. But for now, I don’t want to think about that at all.
I stood by the window, watching a people taken by surprise, scurrying for cover, or blithely stepping out for a laugh, a good time. Its time had come. I remembered how I read somewhere that the first showers of Bombay rumbled in like a train. It is easy to associate trains with rains in Bombay- they will eventually be brought to a halt one day, if only for a few hours.
The Flame of the Forest blossoms outside my window, which I can almost touch, extending my arm from here, sway wildly, as if intoxicated. The sky in the absence of stars is a deeper blue, with only occasional blur of clouds made orange by tiny specks of sunlight trapped within. The wind is maddening, breath taking, bringing in splashes of rain, and many memories. My face is moist, and my lenses lashed with pristine drops of water- I have long given up trying to keep them dry. The wind, it feels heavenly, and almost is.
Tomorrow, there will probably be images of fallen trees, uprooted telephone poles, of trains wading through murky water. In the morning, twigs and blackened flowers will be found on the sidewalks, on tops of cars, to be wiped off by well meaning hands. Tomorrow, if this downpour does not subside, the ride back home will be murderous. But for now, I don’t want to think about that at all.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Views From an Alcohol Addled Ante Chamber.
“Draft beer, not people." ~Bumper Sticker
It is rarely that I post anything of any practical consequence. Here is an attempt at one.
Shrek is usually my least preferred drinking partner. This in spite his absolutely avant-garde taste in music, views on inconsequential things etc. However, his habit of posing uncomfortable questions is very irritating. Last time we were drinking, at some 4 AM, both of us must’ve been a bottle down, each, he asked- Alcoholic hoye gelam naaki aamra? (Have we turned alcoholic?). Between us, though, we nurse a plan to open a bar some day where entry will be based on a Multiple Choice Questionnaire (Where did Sid Vicious of Sex Pistols shoot Nancy Spungen? Girls allowed inside if they say New York, but guys have to say Chelsea Hotel.)
It is rarely that I post anything of any practical consequence. Here is an attempt at one.
Shrek is usually my least preferred drinking partner. This in spite his absolutely avant-garde taste in music, views on inconsequential things etc. However, his habit of posing uncomfortable questions is very irritating. Last time we were drinking, at some 4 AM, both of us must’ve been a bottle down, each, he asked- Alcoholic hoye gelam naaki aamra? (Have we turned alcoholic?). Between us, though, we nurse a plan to open a bar some day where entry will be based on a Multiple Choice Questionnaire (Where did Sid Vicious of Sex Pistols shoot Nancy Spungen? Girls allowed inside if they say New York, but guys have to say Chelsea Hotel.)
Anyway, the reason I bring up that discussion again, is because, I mentioned to D at Tavern the other the day that I must do a post on the top 10 18 drinking places in Bombay and she instantly offered the services of her Lenovo for it (thank you, thank you- my MacBook is indisposed, for reasons best left unsaid).
When it comes to drinking, I shed modesty, and admit, that owing to some extremely quality company (D, TinMan, Chops, Rosh, BossMan, IK, and Shrek), over the years I have developed a certain sense of discretion. And six years of doing it in Bombay, let me say that I am an absolute authority on this aspect of the city. In this respect the buck stops here.
The List only includes places, which are in currently existence. For that reason, Library Bar and Suzie Wong are not on the list. Nostalgia is dangerous when mixed with alcohol. Also discotheques and eateries, which serve alcohol, are out. The ranking also does not include places which I frequent for certain other reasons. So Kandeel where I go because there is no cell phone network coverage does not appear on the list.
(In descending order)
Toto’s Garage: Toto’s is everyone’s elementary school of drinking out. When you first land in Bombay, it forms a part of the handout given by Elders on how you should find your bearings in this city. The music is familiar, booze cheap, the staff friendly, décor, interesting and possibilities unlimited. It is a very good place to meet up, and then head out elsewhere. Turn offs: Plays the same music everyday, in the same sequence; tends to get too crowded even on weekdays, and very bad ventilation.
Café Leopold: The United Nations of drinking out. At any given time there must be people from 10 nationalities drinking. Get one of the pavement side seats to watch the world go by as you work on your beer. Turn Offs: Exceptionally bad service.
Café Mondegar: Baptism by beer. The Juke Box is a killer, and ensures that as long as you have those coins to push down the slots, you get your money’s worth as far as the music is concerned. A like-minded crowd ensures that you don’t end up listening to 50Cent, even if you run out of coins. Mario’s artwork ensures that this place remains a South Bombay legend for many years to come. Turn Offs: The heat and the AC room inside is not quite it.
Irish Pub: The music is a big plus, and the fact that it has fallen out of favour with the jet set. This is the story of a place which lost the plot somewhere along the way and acquired a shady reputation. Turn Offs: The occasional snorter, and bad blood afterwards.
Geoffrey’s: An excellent after work hang out, possibly the only bar in town which has flashbacks of a time gone by- the classic English pub. Great service, reasonably priced, and very close to the financial district. Turn Offs: Too many people you know from work.
Hawaiian Shack: How many times have you been asked by friends who have never been to Bombay, what the Shack is like? Bombay’s most famous suburban hang out. Plays good music, but only on weekdays, especially Tuesdays. And then again on weekdays the women are close to irresistible. They get all dressed up and land up at 11PM on a Wednesday night, and you wonder what they do for a living. Turn Offs: Avoidable on weekends, very, very crowded. The drinks take forever to come, and it can turn into a sausage fest.
Wink: Yes, we all know that the Library Bar was better, but then once you’ve put that behind you this isn’t very bad. Sometimes I drink to have a conversation. The music is muted, or better incoherent, so one can have a conversation without ripping off those vocal chords. And the seating makes it cozy for a date, if one is so inclined. And the Trattoria next door is a great place for a bite afterwards. Turn Offs: The limited menu.
Janta: What would Bandra alcoholics do without Janta? Probably live longer. But once you have come to terms with those issues Janta is indispensable. Where else can you get a choice of Chinese food and alcohol at 3 AM in the night? Home delivered too. This is that place where we went towards the end of every month, when every penny counted, and when you just couldn’t bear to drink out of a bottle at home. Turn Offs: Very loud crowd and of course, no music.
Indigo: Ah let me tell you, I might say that I do not consider this important, but a few (read 5 at least), those leggy beauties around the bar, do make the experience headier. When I was younger I found Indigo a little stiff, but now my needs are more basic. A great choice of booze, (Blue Label, anyone?), good music, and stays open till quite late. Also some seriously good food on the menu. Turn Offs: Watch the Bill. And getting a place to sit is next to impossible.
Dome: The best views in town, awesome breeze, this rooftop watering hole atop the Intercontinental, is one of the best place for a quick couple after work. Overlooks the Queens’s necklace and assured to score you the best points with your date. Unless, as in my case she is a veggie, and only gets to eat the most expensive Teriyaki potatoes in the world. Turn Offs: The Menu.
Opium Den: Arguably the classiest watering hole in all of Bombay. The richest and the most successful- I mean the biggest swinging dicks in the markets drink there. The famous Oberoi view, those large windows, the super-comfortable sofas to sink in, the most softest music, for the most important conversations. A league of its own. Turn Offs; None.
Sports Bar (Express and the Original): Friendly place, booze is cheap, and it allows an occasional dunk, and a round of pool. The pleasure of watching a game of cricket all day over beers. Turn-offs: The music is too loud to have any conversation at all.
Boat Club: This non-descript Bandra bar turned a hot spot once Toto’s shut for a while. Of course, we used the go there from much before, from the time Shrek was thrown out of Toto’s. The best music on Sunday, a familiar feel and a Thursday Hip-Hop night, which had, even me hooked. IK, Shrek, D and me once drank here four days a week. Rumour has it that we funded the renovation of the place. This is also the only place where we have witnessed a “No Holds Barred Bombay Lesbians” gathering. Unforgettable. I always have high respect for a place where the DJ knows his stuff. So Umagumma instead of Coming Back to Life, and Never Rains in Southern California, played when least expected are always welcome. Turn Offs: Fudged bills, and polarized crowd.
Golden Chariot: This is a concept place. Open air; with live old Hindi film music, harmonium, tabla combo. Just love the Hemant Kumar songs they sing there. The only respectable place in town to offer this experience. Ample parking, cheap booze, plenty of dining options. Not to be missed. Turn Offs: Just the occasional aircraft taking off for disturbance.
Not Just Jazz By The Bay: The only place, till recently, which offers karaoke and live bands of choice. Sadly the quality of bands in Bombay leaves much to be desired. I wonder where Sixth Sense and Deep Freez, two of Bombay’s best bands, have disappeared. I am a regular here, so the stage side tables without reservation are par for the course. As Chops would say- “quality Man, quality”. Turn Offs: Please refer to previous post.
Hard Rock Café: Bombay’s best and latest acquisition. The best DJ on the house (Baba O’Riley, anyone? And how about One, Shook me all Night Long?), senses the mood and plays accordingly. We can safely say that here, we own the floor. The high ceilings give an awesome sense of space, a thing that is very, very rare in Bombay. I absolutely love the Alice Cooper guitar on display. Plus, they also serve the best cheeseburger in town, with the most juicy veal steak within. The choice of alcohol is unlimited. Did I hear Grey Goose? Turn Offs: The irritating, uncouth south Bombay college crowd, which only wants to hear “Summer of ‘69.”
Tavern: Ah! Bombay’s best when it comes to drinking out. Small cozy place. The best collection of music, with the videos projected onto a large screen, Stuff I have not seen in ages. Alcohol of choice. No one doing the twist on Hotel California. I mean where else would you get to see an AC/DC video (though I must admit they all look the same), GNR, Coldplay, Greenday, U2, the works. Never gets crowded for some reason. Stays open till very late… in fact it’s the last place to shut in town. Turn offs: Parking.
A Certain Place in Bandra Called Home: There is absolutely no experience which comes close to drinking at home, sprawled on your bed watching the rain outside the window. The choice of alcohol, music and everything else. Food on phone, and so is alcohol. Never opens, never shuts- the perpetual hedonist alcove. Minus all the getting back worries. Not having to rely on the proverbial beer scooter. I invite my readers, for an unparalleled experience, to indulge in a choice of over 5,000 songs, and the best spread of alcohol this part of town and the most comfy settings. If you’re still with me, thank you for your patience.
Stay busy, get plenty of exercise, and don't drink too much. Then again, don't drink too little. ~Herman "Jackrabbit" Smith-Johannsen
Not Just Jazz By The Bay: The only place, till recently, which offers karaoke and live bands of choice. Sadly the quality of bands in Bombay leaves much to be desired. I wonder where Sixth Sense and Deep Freez, two of Bombay’s best bands, have disappeared. I am a regular here, so the stage side tables without reservation are par for the course. As Chops would say- “quality Man, quality”. Turn Offs: Please refer to previous post.
Hard Rock Café: Bombay’s best and latest acquisition. The best DJ on the house (Baba O’Riley, anyone? And how about One, Shook me all Night Long?), senses the mood and plays accordingly. We can safely say that here, we own the floor. The high ceilings give an awesome sense of space, a thing that is very, very rare in Bombay. I absolutely love the Alice Cooper guitar on display. Plus, they also serve the best cheeseburger in town, with the most juicy veal steak within. The choice of alcohol is unlimited. Did I hear Grey Goose? Turn Offs: The irritating, uncouth south Bombay college crowd, which only wants to hear “Summer of ‘69.”
Tavern: Ah! Bombay’s best when it comes to drinking out. Small cozy place. The best collection of music, with the videos projected onto a large screen, Stuff I have not seen in ages. Alcohol of choice. No one doing the twist on Hotel California. I mean where else would you get to see an AC/DC video (though I must admit they all look the same), GNR, Coldplay, Greenday, U2, the works. Never gets crowded for some reason. Stays open till very late… in fact it’s the last place to shut in town. Turn offs: Parking.
A Certain Place in Bandra Called Home: There is absolutely no experience which comes close to drinking at home, sprawled on your bed watching the rain outside the window. The choice of alcohol, music and everything else. Food on phone, and so is alcohol. Never opens, never shuts- the perpetual hedonist alcove. Minus all the getting back worries. Not having to rely on the proverbial beer scooter. I invite my readers, for an unparalleled experience, to indulge in a choice of over 5,000 songs, and the best spread of alcohol this part of town and the most comfy settings. If you’re still with me, thank you for your patience.
Stay busy, get plenty of exercise, and don't drink too much. Then again, don't drink too little. ~Herman "Jackrabbit" Smith-Johannsen
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Ithaca
D made me read Ithaca (http://ithaca.rice.edu/kz/Misc/Ithaka.html) on Sunday.
It was beautiful, illuminating, mildly nostalgic and led to a bit of introspection. It made me wish my copy of Odyssey was around, the one with yellow, well-thumbed pages. (There was a certain joy in picking up those at Book Street, but alas). To take it off the shelf, dust it off, and snap it open once again, to let in that old book smell, which lends that distinct headiness.
I remember reading the book a few times in my early teens, conjuring up images of gods, demons, heroes, nymphs and most of all the sense of adventure. And the joys of getting lost, and finding the way back, at times almost unwillingly.
This poem once more brought up the “journey versus destination” debate. I remembered how after reading Odyssey many times as just an adventure/ fantasy flick, how once I stumbled across the inner meaning. Likewise, this poem brings to mind the subtle meaning, as the journey of the homebound soul. One realizes that demons do exist, but only within our mind, and so too does the concept of home itself (in Odysseus’ case Ithaca). Ithaca, that true home, is the reason for the journey.
But if we rush past everything that’s along the way, the markets and the wares of the world, if we do not pause to feel the first bloom of spring, the summer morning, the first rain, not let the winter chill our bones, will our senses ever know what home is when we finally arrive?
I remember reading somewhere that the story is actually that of love, not mere adventure. Odysseus was urged by Calypso, a nymph of ageless beauty, to stay back with her on the island of Ogygia, an offer with obvious attractions- physical, spiritual and mortal. However, he chooses to return to Penelope, his wife in Ithaca, who by now is well past her prime. Therein lies the essence of Odyssey: the beauty of human form is far outweighed by the glory of human love.
D'll be misseD.
(Four days, four posts- that definitely is a record.)
It was beautiful, illuminating, mildly nostalgic and led to a bit of introspection. It made me wish my copy of Odyssey was around, the one with yellow, well-thumbed pages. (There was a certain joy in picking up those at Book Street, but alas). To take it off the shelf, dust it off, and snap it open once again, to let in that old book smell, which lends that distinct headiness.
I remember reading the book a few times in my early teens, conjuring up images of gods, demons, heroes, nymphs and most of all the sense of adventure. And the joys of getting lost, and finding the way back, at times almost unwillingly.
This poem once more brought up the “journey versus destination” debate. I remembered how after reading Odyssey many times as just an adventure/ fantasy flick, how once I stumbled across the inner meaning. Likewise, this poem brings to mind the subtle meaning, as the journey of the homebound soul. One realizes that demons do exist, but only within our mind, and so too does the concept of home itself (in Odysseus’ case Ithaca). Ithaca, that true home, is the reason for the journey.
But if we rush past everything that’s along the way, the markets and the wares of the world, if we do not pause to feel the first bloom of spring, the summer morning, the first rain, not let the winter chill our bones, will our senses ever know what home is when we finally arrive?
I remember reading somewhere that the story is actually that of love, not mere adventure. Odysseus was urged by Calypso, a nymph of ageless beauty, to stay back with her on the island of Ogygia, an offer with obvious attractions- physical, spiritual and mortal. However, he chooses to return to Penelope, his wife in Ithaca, who by now is well past her prime. Therein lies the essence of Odyssey: the beauty of human form is far outweighed by the glory of human love.
D'll be misseD.
(Four days, four posts- that definitely is a record.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
