When I think about it...

....when your mum and dad are the coolest people you know, when your heart is wrapped around a cuddly seven year old with big eyes and a fast mouth, when your first ever boyfriend's birthday message reads, 'happy birthday +1, my love' because he's a day late, when your friends buy a can of really sticky confetti and spray it all over you in the middle of the road, when half the Philosophy department spontanously start singing Happy Birthday at the Main Circle in your college, when people you don't expect call to wish you, when you're not too sure where you're heading..but that's ok, when your stepmum buys you totally sexy underwear and your brother refuses to buy you anything that costs less than a 100 bucks, when you, when people tell you your writing makes them feel light and happy, when your head's been blown off by a mad Doctor of Philosophy and suddenly all that's important is that he looked at you over his shoulder....twice, when a friend you thought was lost returns to you..and he's grown sweeter and more affectionate, when your Boss is a best friend, when you eat chocolate-dipped strawberries with Mascarpone cream, when you're planning a second birthday party for the weekend, when you feel full of space and completely filled all at once...

...well, twenty-three looks pretty good...

Variations On the Word Love

This is a word we use to plug
holes with. It's the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it too. How do we know
it isn't what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.


Then there's the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It's not love we don't wish
to fall into, but that fear.
this word is not enough but it will
have to do. It's a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.

-Margaret Atwood

Sad

Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn't work. Someone would leave. Someone always leaves and then we have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos.

Snoopy
from Peanuts

The Cinnamon Peeler

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under the rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbour to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...

When we swam once
I touched you in the water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women
the grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume

and knew

what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in the act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.

-- Michael Ondaatje

Much affection to July Child, on whose blog I discovered this beauty.

Leaving

This is no time to draw back

Flee from heaviness, set your feet free
Hold your dream close, ever closer
To a heart you never tell

To quieten..

For K

My blog has told you most of what is important in my life. Sometimes, it has even told me!

There are pieces I forget, though. People who touched me so hard, albeit for a short while.
K is one of them...

K, by blood is my uncle. He refuses to let me call him uncle, says it makes him feel old.
About six years ago, I was very unhappy. With school, the circumstances under which I was living, Mum not being there...
I am not given to asking for sympathy, I prefer it if people just let me be. At that point, an empty room and a diary were my only sources of comfort. Neither would create a hullabaloo about me, nor get unduly upset and guilty.
I was 16 years old. K and I had last met a couple of years back. I had heard dozens of stories about him. A wild man with no use for structured education. A charmer who could talk his way into, or out of anything. He had been living in the US since he was a child, was now working in Sales.
I liked him when we met. He was funny, loose-jointed in every way.
But it was only after I moved in with the Gp's that he and I became friends. God bless Yahoo!
K is one of the most naturally empathetic people I know. I would talk about Mum being away, the GP's...whose worry for my future frequently translated into harshness, my friends, my growing disillusionments with academics and family....he listened and talked back.
He wasn't an uncle dispensing wisdom, he was a guy who had roughed it and was still learning and who liked my confidence in him.
I told him about my first real crush. I was the first to know when he decided to ask his girlfriend to marry him. He told me about the proposal...the weekend away, how he thought she might react. When I asked how he knew that she was the One...he said...'she is giving me something I have never had before, and I am giving her something she hasn't had.' He asked if I was surprised that he was taking this step.

I wasn't.

I couldn't attend his wedding, thanks to examinations. He came to Calcutta with A, his wife a few days after. We sat in my room..just he and I.. and talked. A, from the little I saw of her was quiet, steady and deeply rooted. K's complete antithesis, said the petty elders.

They left for the US a few days before my birthday. On the day, a bouquet of roses and a card was delivered to the house.
The card, in his scrawling hand, had a spelling error. The petty elders sniggered. I, who had been sternly loyal to the accuracy of the English language ever since I could read....didn't care.

The petty elders harp on about K 'not even being a graduate.' I always heard notes of derision when they talked of his work.

I don't bother to defend him. I've failed a class and been labelled many things too. Their little snobocracy wouldn't understand.

K has a younger half-brother J. Another great guy, and one I've also had long, deep talks with. He worships his big brother, and K has been as tender and caring as can be.
J, always a dedicated student, won a full scholarship to study physics at the University of Rochester in New York.
He is immensely proud of his older brother. 'He talks life,' J once said of K during one of our talks.


K now has a daughter and a son. We're not in touch very frequently. But I think of him very very often, and I wanted to write about him. He could romantically be called a long-lost uncle...but I'm guessing he wouldn't like that.
Thank you K, for being a completely unconditional listener and leaning-post. I was a mess when you found me and you made it seem normal to be messed-up. No one else could have done that.

Love you and miss you lots.

Daughterhood

A lot of people are slightly...shocked...by my relationship with my parents. My interactions with Dad especially are rather radical for a parent-child relationship. That we share cigarettes and love the same brand of rum is the least of it.
I remember an episode when, once, dad, I and another relative were talking. There was some jokey reference to my getting married, and the relative asked my dad what might happen if I married a certain kind of guy. I don't remember what is was exactly, but I said that nobody else's opinion really mattered that since I would be the one getting married. 'That's sad,' said the relative.
Da didn't look sad. Instead he explained that the choice to marry would be mine. I would be living and sharing my life with whoever-the-hell. So, his approval wasn't really the question. I have never loved my dad more than I did at that moment.

With Mum...there was the danger of too much closeness. After she moved away, our relationship actually improved. She's thousands of miles away from me, has been for over six years now. I have never felt like there was distance...like the importance between us diminished in any way.

My parents and I are equals. I take the right to yell at my dad if I think he's drinking too much. This reminds me that I must not be in the same position myself. Respect doesn't always been looking up. Sometimes it means looking at one another without fear.
Mum and Dad see me. Not simply a product or their flesh and blood-chains, not simply the daughter they wanted and raised..but me.
Kids often tell their parents, 'Let me be. I'm not perfect, not exactly what you want. But I'm me!'
Parents find it hard to accept sometimes. Mine didn't. They let me be..but on a condition.
I had to see them. Let them be.
When we think of the term 'mother', I doubt too many of us think, 'sexy single woman with a helluva steely backbone and an intense heart.' That's part of who my mum is. My parents aren't just parents. They're people who love to live and who have taken risks.
They'repeople who have screwed up badly, and lived especially to tell the tale. They are survivors.
I could not be prouder of them. I had to learn to see them fully, in order to deal with them as individual to individual. I let them live exactly how they want, they extend the same consideration to me. I trust them wholly to understand me and let me wander through life at my own pace.
This trust and consideration has been earned by both sides.
We have broken up, been bitter, felt threatened by each other, cried a thousand helpless tears...
We have lost touch, refused to talk.
Through and after all this, I bear these two relationships with fierce, fierce pride.
Dad with his ear-stud, his love for gizmos, his self-centredness, just enough to make him go after what he wants and the world be damned..my total likeness to him...

Mum..who has passed on a mighty capacity for devotion, who still calls her ex-in-laws Ma and Baba and rings them up for recipes. Who proudly puts 'Tia's mother' as her primary identity.

My parents believe in knocking before they enter my room. They give me the fullest individuality possible, they relinquish any need to control my life.
Perhaps that is why they know my life intimately. I have the choice not to tell them things, but I would much rather they knew.
I don't take for granted that love flowers automatically in blood-ties, even those as tightly bound as parent and child.
We've taken long journeys, alone, in order to create and keep our relationships. It's never been as simple as blood=loyalty. Every drop of blood, whether matched or unmatched, has had to be proven worthy. 'After all, he's your father,' or 'She's my daughter' are not sufficient to cover up the ugliness. 'She's a principled woman' works much better.

My parents are comfortable and totally honest with me. They can be all the people they want to be, and I will cheer them on. There is no shame in this love. I have two vibrant, smart, alive individuals who run with life, with me and on their own. Not because they have to, but because it's fun hanging out.

:)

Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy, absent-minded.
Someone sober will worry about events going badly.
Let the lover be.


-Rumi

Happy Valentine's Day.

Weight

Sometimes the head lies so heavy on the rest of us...

Vasantotsav '08

So..I attended what my father insists on calling 'oi shob aatel concert.' 'Aatel' in Bengali loosely translates to 'wannabe-intellectual.' In Kolkata...this translates into studying literature, wearing cotton/khadi kurtas and chappals, carrying jholas, growing a beard...this is a little unfair because a lot of 'real' intellectuals also have these trimmings.

HAH! I've always wanted to use and explain that term!

Anyway...this aatel concert, more popularly known as Vasantotsav is a three-day affair organized by Dr. Vasantrao Deshpande Pratisthan, in memory of the late Hindustani Classical vocalist. I haven't heard him, but Google tells me that he was of the Patiala Gharana. (I love sounding knowledgable about things I don't know about!)
This year the performers included Ustad Zakir Hussain, Shankar Mahadevan, Dr. L. Subramaniam, Kishori Amonkar, Ghulam Ali and Begum Abida Parveen.
Now that I've name-dropped so grandly...let me affirm that I do in fact listen to these artists. I don't understand Gharana and Raaga and Thumri. I listen because their music moves me.

I missed Shankar Mahadevan and Zakir Hussain because P and I were making a Sensational Strawberry Shortcake for her brother's birthday. More on that later..it deserves its own post!

Day 2 was Dr. Subramaniam and Abida Parveen. I went with M and S, a very sweet friend of ours who is alternately shocked and amused by M and my antics. The venue was the grounds of a school in Shaniwar Peth. For any non-Puneiite readers, Pune has a 'Peth' for every day of the week.
A chair would have cost us 2000 bucks, so we had settled gracefully for a square patch of earth for 350 rupees. It's called 'Bharatiya Baithak.'
(Note: The chairs were all plastic.)

I wish I had a picture of the stage, I fell so madly in love with it!
Twas designed on the lines of a royal court where the Nawabs reclined and smoked hookahs while musicians and dancers performed. There was even a red silk chaise for anchor Nana Patekar to 'recline' on.
Behind the stage was a giant canvas, with a painting of a twilight sky. The colours changed as the lights fell on it...red-gold, lavender-blue, hazy green...

Dr. Subramaniam won me over with his humility. His violin and his brilliant back-up musicians were rugged yet harmonious. Very simply, I was awed at their speed and perfection. How much devotion goes into training your fingers and mouth and mind to work like that!

Abida...

I've listened to her and tried to read some of the poets whose kalams and ghazals she sings...but nothing had me prepared for her sheer stage presence.
Abida on stage is raw power and energy and passion. However many Higher Powers there may be, whether or not they co-exist in harmony...I'm pretty certain that on Saturday night this week past..they were back-slapping buddies who took a moment to brush away a surreptitious tear.
A plump woman with beautiful skin and masses of curly hair, dressed in black with a colourful shawl thrown around her was praising the Highest Power, that of Love. And never has love sounded so un-trite, so significant. There was no mournful chanting, no talk of fear or modesty or righteousness. Instead, there was complete giving, a passionate union and unsuppressed joy in loving so much.
She used her voice, her hair, her entire body and I wanted to go up and hug her, except I was afraid even that would restrain her.
She held us through 'Mast Kalandar' and 'Yar tha, Gulzar tha' and I swear...people were clapping and moving their bodies like they were at a rock concert. I don't think Heaven was ever felicitated with more celebration.

Day 3, I heard Ghulam Ali and very little of Kishori Amonkar. Ghulam Ali saab...again very sweet. he sang 'Kal Chaudvin ki Raat Thi' and 'Chupke Chupke' and 'Saamne Baitha Tha' and explained some of the shers most humbly.

Kishori Amonkar...I'm sorry I couldn't stay for your entire performance. I didn't know it would go on till midnight, and out of respect for Raju who came to pick us up, I had to leave at a decent time. You're very pretty, you know, and I think you would have a dimple in your right cheek if you smiled more. I saw you smile and praise one of your backup singers, a young, delicate looking girl.
You are wonderful to listen to, but watching you live, especially in cramped conditions with an aching back and legs isn't really happy. Had it been a smaller group, and had I been less achy, I would have sat through. I listen to you whenever I need to concentrate hard. I hope I get to see you again soon.


I'm so glad I took the plunge and went ahead with this, despite transport issues. I had only heard, and heard of, most of these artists...seeing and hearing them in this setting has been incredibly moving.
What saddened me was that I couldn't share it with any of the people I would have liked, apart from M.

Boss, who fostered in me a general interest in Sufism and Sufi music

My mashi, who got me to listen to Abida for the first time...

And most of all...S...without whom this grounded-in-rock-music woman would never have given this music a chance...

bhulbo na

The other day, a gentleman at the Store asked me, 'How can the liberal Bengali take Nandigram lying down?'

By taking a stand, sir, by taking a stand.

Ok...so my cell phone has hung. I can't access my menu, my inbox...nothing!

Worst of all, I don't think the alarm will work either. Woe is me!

Have been very tired and hungry and PMS-ey all day. Reading Johnson's 'Preface to Shakespeare' for tomorrow's class. Am already exasperated!
I don't care to analyze Shakespeare. I don't care that he flouted the Three Unities. And I'm never reading his historical plays because, except for Julius Caeser...THEY'RE BORING!
I didn't even like Antony and Cleopatra! And I think we should all just leave poor Hamlet ALONE!

In Philosophy class today, we learnt that there is a theory that propounds the possiblility that 'Christianity' is really 'Krishna's Niti.'
Dude type no?!

Gift

You tell me that silence
is nearer to peace than poems


but if for my gift
I brought you silence
(for I know silence)


you would say

This is not silence
this is another poem

and you would hand it back to me.


~Leonard Cohen

Love

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

From The Velveteen Rabbit
Written by Margery Williams
Illustrations by William Nicholson

Read the whole story here.

Excerpt

While the romantic comedy has almost always trafficked in happy endings, that happiness is rarely accompanied by a sense of risk or exhilaration.
When you think of, say, Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn, you will recall the emotional combat of two strong-willed, independent individuals ending in mutual conquest.

Love was a dangerous and noble sport that required skill and cunning as well as commitment. It required movie stars whose physical appeal was matched by verbal dexterity and a vital sense of idiosyncrasy.




From Funny, how romance is dying
by A.O. Scott
Published in the New York Times
Reprinted in The Sunday Express

Yea Baby

You are Barefoot!

You're a total free spirit, go with the flow girlYou can't be restricted by shoes for very longAnd unsuprisingly, the same goes for menYour match is out there - and he's as carefree as you are

www.blogthings.com/whatkindofwomensshoeareyouquiz

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do,
and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough,
and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen branches and stones.

But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

--Mary Oliver--

From me to me

Little girl
Be silent, always apologetic for any noise you make.
Remember you are strong(sometimes you need to crack)
Built to endure
To give

Always

Cry always

hidden

(tell no one!)

Woman

Always always
be afraid of giving offence

(I would like to be asked, sometime, if I want to cry)

yes, I am wrong
even if I am not

I will store it

(my body is deep enough)

tears are disruptive

remember

the wetness, the anger
of your eyes

disturbances
all

(recite!)

when you asked if you are strong

(nod)

you are here to weather
the heaviest of tides

to continue
straight of back
at all times

(I fear nothing but disharmony)

willing giver of your own blood

you bear love

alone

(I forgive and never forget)


Copyright: Ahana Basu
January 2008

Lines

July Child writes, 'It's time I stopped acting stupider than I actually am.'

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Me too.

Thanks Tripuri, for not letting me sink beneath it :)

Dear Sister

My biggest role in the family is that of big sister. Now I know most of yall are familiar..maybe even overfamiliar... with my brother.
But you don't know much about my little sister. My mashi's daughter. We grew up together...were bitter enemies at one time. But we were playmates! And how we played. Crazy fashion shows and re-enactment of Disney movies...

Now she's fifteen. Smart, with a delightful sense of humour. Precocious, mad about boys and clothes and books. She has a wardrobe I consciously raid whenever I visit. I am now her stylist, her sounding board and her guide to sexual activity(stop sniggering people!).

I'm worried. She, like me has a scattered family. Certain ties have been cut altogether. The ones that hold are currently very frail. There have been ugly confrontations and showdowns. My mashi and I are close, and she has always seen me as my sister's keeper.
In this situation, I feel helpless. How do I tell them that if they could just set aside some time for one another. Maybe communicate a little more than talking about schoolwork and tuitions and how the phone-bill is too high.
I've learnt this over the past three years. Relationships need to be looked after. Need exclusive time. Even blood ties pale if they are not nurtured.
I am incredibly blessed that my grandmother(yes the Gestapo one), my mum and now my stepmum have been around to teach me this.

My little sister is turning completely to her friends for support and emotional nourishment. And even there I hear of so much disappointment and back-stabbing.
I can't give her what she needs. Not all of it. She needs her home, her mum. Meals eaten together. Time together.


Please God, let her have it all. Let her know the joy that is true bonding. And don't please don't let her be cynical about relationships and giving.

Kolkata..

Mum and I


Sisters..Mum and Shampi Mashi


Sisters 2...Shoie and I :)

song

...aadha sa wada kabhi
Aadhe se jayada kabhi
Jee chahe karlu is tarah

wafa ka

Chhode na chhoote kabhi
Tode na tute kabhi
Jo dhaga tumse jud gaya
wafa ka...




-Irshad Kamil (Jab We Met)

Rumour has it...

...that this could be the official poster for the sixth Harry Potter movie, scheduled to release on the 11th of November this year.

A lot of the fansites are scheduled to visit the sets of Half-Blood Prince soon...in fact there's already an appropriately 'OH MY GAWD!' post up here.

Word is also going round that Deathly Hallows may be filmed as two full-length movies.

Can't wait!!!!!!!

Letter

Dear Little Girls Who Live in My Building.

Yes I have a mum who lives away.

Yes Eeshaan is my real REAL brother.

Yes I am 22 years old, and no, I have no intention of marrying right now.

No I didn't always live here, I was born in Calcutta and lived there 20 years!

But you know what!

I'm here now, and I'm nice and i'm just....me.

So deal with it and back off! And tell your mothers too!

Gossipiness in 7 yr olds isn't pretty.

Love

Your Local Big Sister

Put Your Head in the Oven and Screeeaaam!

A college campus, green and glowing. Two girls walking(dragging their feet?), looking worn out from too much concentration.

A man, youngish, incredibly sexy, wearing a navy blue jacket walks briskly behind them, catches up, is passing them when...

Obsessed College Girl(slightly breathless): Good Morning Sir!

The Man(looking around and smiling): Hello people. Lectures over?

OCG: Yeah, that's why we're in such great shape!

The Man has passed them, he is now walking ahead

He pivots, grinning...

Man: So...lectures leave you in bad shape??

OCG(with silly, simpery smile): Not all of them...


THE END


P was with me when this happened. She got great pleasure out of seeing me 'knocked off balance.' Apparently that doesn't happen to me often enough. Hah! If she only knew!
This only days after I was giggling and twirling my hair, only one day after I cheerfully told him the ontological argument against the existence of God, when he had asked for the one for.
Tis all good, giggly, girly fun! After I crawl out of my Too Embarrassed to Breathe Hole.

Crushes, compliments and consciousness

Ok, several things to write about, so I shall be un-Tia like and do it in order.

Firstly...I have Gratitude Bubbles to send out to the Boss and to Jyoti. I believe strongly that compliments can brighten up the dreariest of days. And I know that these two women would never gush or be insincere.
So...thank you for making me believe in Soul-Tia a little more. Look out for great big colourful bubbles in your dreams tonight!

Second....I have an embarassingly blatantly crush on my Philosophy professor! Well ok, maybe it's not so embarrassing since I'm definitely not the only one!
But, I am the only one who giggles and twirls her hair while he's talking in class! Ick! Like some hormonal adolescent!
Oh wait, I am hormonal, just not adolescent so...that makes my statement defunct! HMPH!
Ok, in that case...Hurrah for Hormonal Adolescent Behaviour!!!!!!
But seriously..how can you not love a guy who says 'crap' and 'goddamn' while explaining Philosophy and Religion!

Third....ok, this is reference to something the Boss wrote about my being 'completely unbiased about people.'
Now, I have a very simple, and I suspect very naive theory about this.
Being biased is to set up walls, shut certain people out, refuse to really get to know them.
I do have such biases. Based on completely personal things such as owning Innovas (grin), being the obnoxious ex of a friend (seriously you do not want to mess with people I love!) and so on.
But setting up walls means I miss out on getting to know people. And who knows how many soul-matey, wonderfully quirky people are out there!

How much soul-stretching and learning would I accept if I can't accept people?

AAAARGHHHH!

Italics have a softness to them. The slant, the sway of the letters...I like to use them when I'm writing with care.

I have often been in contact, close contact with people whose values are not exactly in harmony with mine.
Sometimes the relationship has worked, sometimes it hasn't. I usually manage to make space, otherwise it just..fades off. No bitterness either way.

My value-system revolves around letting people be, and honouring commitment whether professional or personal. My biggest value-based goal is to be less afraid.

Why am I writing all this? In truth, this post is about why it pierces me when S is...harsh. Even though the harshness is not directed towards me, I cry. For him?
What does it mean when you keep someone so close to your heart that it feels their hard edges even though you weren't there physically.

Why does it matter to me what kind of human being he grows into? Why does every soft gesture he makes make my smile sing, my fingers tingle with hope?
S isn't romance material, not for me. In fact, I've been telling myself that he's no material at all for my life. Interacting with him had become painful, frustrating, hard. Casting him away is...painful, frustrating, hard.
And I completely lack the ability to be neutral. To 'make conversation.'

Our value-systems collide.

Our value-systems collide?

Yes I suppose they do.

S...

With every bit of harshness, you push me further away. And you are a person I want to know. Unwrap and dive into.

Love not exclusively, but expressively.

My kind of loving fascinates you, but goes against you. Your kind of understated, prim, fiercely private affection.

I can't see you and make pleasant small talk. I can either be fiercely, loudly loving or cut you off completely.

It's just that....we go so against each other's grain, but I feel like I'd miss out on so much if I cast you off.

There's an empty spot I've always had inside me. I tried to fill it with family, religion, community service, but those were dead ends! I think this chair is the answer.”

~~~~~~~

“Romance is dead. It was acquired in a hostile takeover by Hallmark and Disney, homogenized, and sold off piece by piece.”

-Matt Groening, The Simpsons

Churan Talk

I am spooning out white powder from a jar and eating it. The jar reads Ajwain Pachak Goli. Below that it says, 'Remove Stomach Trouble.'

They really shouldn't leave me alone at home is what I say.

Life For Rent

I haven't really ever found a place that I call home

I never stick around quite long enough to make it

I apologize that once again

I'm not in love

But it's not as if I mind that your heart ain't exactly breaking

It's just a thought,

only a thought

But if my life is for rent and I don't learn to buy

Well I deserve nothing more than I get

Cos nothing I have is truly mine

I've always thought that I would love to live by the sea

To travel the world alone and live my life more simply

I have no idea what's happened to that dream

Cos there's really nothing left here to stop me

It's just a thought,

only a thought

But if my life is for rent and I don't learn to buy

Well I deserve nothing more than I get

Cos nothing I have is truly mine

While my heart is a shield and I won't let it down

While I am so afraid to fail so I won't even try

Well how can I say I'm alive

If my life is for rent...

-Dido

Thank You Georgie

Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family.....

in another city

George Burns

.....and there are days I truly believe that!

The Red Areas of My Brain

I've been thinking of my no-compromise zones. Thought you might want to know too....

1. Privacy: I'm fierce about me-time, and I'll tell you straight-out if you're not wanted right then. I expect knocks on my door before you enter. I leave things scattered about my space in the trust that they will not be picked up/misused/poked into. Whether I am bathing, sleeping, staring into space or whatever, I would really appreciate it if you were sensitive and intelligent enough to let me be.

2. Books: I believe in sharing these small pieces of delight as fully as I can. You tell me you want to read/borrow something off my shelf...I'll gladly give it to you. But I do not appreciate books being removed from my room without my permission. Also, I will not lend books to a 'friend's friend, cousin, aunt'...in short, no one I have not met and evaluated. Any book lent out is expected to be returned in very good condition. I don't care if you are the most bindass, carefree person ever, you screw up my books, I'll come and cut out your tongue.

3. Writing: I write. I do ok. I'll write what I'm told if it brings in money. I'll write what I'm not told if it gives me a kick. I'll write the opposite to what I'm told because I'm feeling like a wuss and I need a small act of rebellion. Don't come round with a list of shoulds and should-nots. I'll slap you!

4. Love: I'm blind, deaf and dumb in defence of certain people. I might (and probably do) yell at them most of the time myself, but YOU can't. Don't come telling me 'I really think your mum, dad, brother, friend etc, should....' I appreciate that you have an opinion. I appreciate that you have the right to express it. I do not appreciate imposition, even verbally. If the only way you can express yourself is to be pseudo-righteous, self-satisfied and with an air of let-me-show-you-how-to-manage-your-life-better, either shut up or get slugged.

5. The politics of Bengal: This is a very recent development in my consciousness.
Yes, tis a mess. Yes, it's regressed terribly this past year. But were you there? Have you grown up in the textures and scents of Calcutta? Bengal, however she is....dark, volatile, full of talk...is woven tightly into my blood. And that's the only way you 'get' Bengal. You don't read newspapers and shake your head disapprovingly and snigger at Communism and understand.
You go into the storm. You wear the muzzle. You rally against it.
You don't show your utter stupidity by standing miles away, pointing at the mess and saying, 'Shit, what are those Communists up to?'

6. Change: I'm very good at standing outside and giving myself the critical once-over. I don't need you to do it. Don't look at me as an Improvement Project. Don't ever try and bulldoze me. If you are one of those authoritarian, thick-skinned people who begin every sentence with 'what I want you to do is...,' I suggest you tone it down. I am completely aware of the way I am...if I need a reminder, suggest, don't walk all over me simply because you have a compulsive need to manage other people's lives.

I loved writing that out!

Hope yall have just the kind of night and year you want.

Much love.

The Better Song Baby

I went out and had fun today after a long time. A concert at Anandban Club. Did me a world of good just to dress, moisturize and wear kajal.

Some good music...superlative guitar and drums....some hilarious vocals, but most of all, a lot of familiar faces made up the evening.

Twas good to see Mannu and Kashmira who can chase the blues off by simply being around. Good to sing along to 'Bittersweet Symphony' and 'Summer of '69' and 'Country Roads' all while flapping my hands and doing other dance movements which clearly indicated that Coke and antibiotics do not mix well.
Weed and I did a lot of giggling and bitching. I firmly believe that the healing process is nothing, nothing without these! Missed the Rambler immensely :)
The kiddie performers were adorable, if off-key.
There was a rendition of 'Kiss Me,' which made me want to slap the singers, throttle them...do anything but kiss them.


And it was good to tickle and have pointless arguments with the Oddball. Gives me a real rush!
Grin!

So the song I'm singing is...I'm getting better I'm getting Better yeah yeah...

While you think of ways you can

a) avoid me
or
b) quickly slip some arsenic into my food

read this.

Waking up, slowly

I've been sick for over ten days now. I've never had a prolonged illness before so...new experience there. I'm recovering slowly.
The temperature is subsiding, the cough softening...but the tiredness that is deeply physical, the inability to enjoy eating, the shortness of temper... will take time.

I miss my non-illness days intensely. College, meeting friends in Savera, the iced tea and cigarette that is a morning ritual for many of us, movies, insane laughter, chips and chip-books...
I've wanted to be left alone these past few days. But I've also wanted pampering, a good laugh, Mum...
I've been perfectly irritable and nasty at times..and Dad has been the best of sports about it. He's home now, so..he got to hang out with Grubby, Sick, Snappy Me the most. He worried a lot, made me lovely soup, left me alone without my having to tell him, made no demands at all...

I am definitely not enjoying this learning. The knowledge that my famously steely backbone and constitution can, in fact falter, is hardly gratifying. I don't take kindly to being looked after. I am yet to be comfortable with that kind of loving :)

What I am realizing, is that it is terrible to be sick. My illness will last perhaps two weeks...my impatience to get well, to taste life again makes me think of those who may never get well. Who lie in strange, impersonal hospital beds for months and months. How do they reconcile themselves? Or do they keep fighting? How do you tell yourself, and accept, that you will never see the sun again?
I missed the tnt Christmas party at Sassoon this year. I mean, I really missed it!
I wanted to hear Yam and Nan sing. I really wanted to see the kiddies and the way they look at the decorations we put up. With all my love for Christmas, I can never get that look.
And I wanted to see Santa, cos we only get to fight once a year. So yeah Shri-Kant, even though you don't read this, and Boss there is absolutely no need to tell him...missed seeing you this year :)

I have pictures to put up and stories to tell...soon as I've woken up a bit more.

Keep in good health, now :)

Rand a Rary Rappy Ristmas Ro Roo Rooo

A Politically Correct Christmas Story

'Twas the night before Christmas and Santa's a wreck...

How to live in a world that's politically correct?

His workers no longer would answer to "Elves".

"Vertically Challenged" they were calling themselves.

And labour conditions at the North Pole were alleged by the union to stifle the soul.

Four reindeer had vanished, without much propriety,

Released to the wilds by the Humane Society.

That Santa had better not use just reindeer.

So Dancer and Donner, Comet and Cupid

Were replaced with 4 pigs,

and you know that looked stupid!

The runners had been removed from his sleigh;

The ruts were termed dangerous by the E.P.A.

And people had started to call for the cops

When they heard sled noises on their rooftops.

Second-hand smoke from his pipe

had his workers quite frightened.

His fur trimmed red suit was called

"Unenlightened."

And to show you the strangeness of life's ebbs and flows,

Rudolf was suing over unauthorised use of his nose

And had gone on Geraldo, in front of the nation,

Demanding millions in over-due compensation.

So, half of the reindeer were gone; and his wife,

Who suddenly said she'd enough of this life,

Joined a self-help group, packed, and left in a whiz,

Demanding from now on her title was Ms.

And as for the gifts, why, he'd never had a notion

That making a choice could cause so much commotion.

Nothing of leather, nothing of fur,

Which meant nothing for him.

And nothing for her.

Nothing that might be construed to pollute.

Nothing to aim, Nothing to shoot.

Nothing that clamoured or made lots of noise.

Nothing for just girls, or just for the boys.

Nothing that claimed to be gender specific.

Nothing that's warlike or non-pacifistic.

No candy or sweets...they were bad for the tooth.

Nothing that seemed to embellish a truth.

And fairy tales, while not yet forbidden,

Were like Ken and Barbie, better off hidden.

For they raised the hackles of those psychological

Who claimed the only good gift was one ecological.

No baseball, no football...someone could get hurt;

Besides, playing sports exposed kids to dirt.

Dolls were said to be sexist, and should be passe;

And Nintendo would rot your entire brain away.

So Santa just stood there, dishevelled, perplexed;

He just could not figure out what to do next.

He tried to be merry, tried to be gay,

But you've got to be careful with that word today.

His sack was quite empty, limp to the ground;

Nothing fully acceptable was to be found.

Something special was needed,

a gift that he might Give to all without angering the left or the right.

A gift that would satisfy, with no indecision,

Each group of people, every religion;

Every ethnicity, every hue, Everyone, everywhere...even you.

So here is that gift, it's price beyond worth...

May you and your loved ones,

enjoy peace on Earth.

~~~~

Author Unknown

~~~~~

Wishing yall lit candles, laughter and wonderful memories this Christmas.

Choosing

I had all the realities to choose from, I chose instead the fairy tale

told to me by a gypsy

in a red-bell skirt

and pretty eyes

I chose

to believe

in sand being a natural exfoliant

In listening to the sea

In twined fingers

and love songs

Oh but the sharp edges I had to see

Before I chose...

Hmm..

Erich Fried

What It Is

It is madness
says reason

It is what it is
says love

It is unhappiness
says caution

It is nothing but pain
says fear

It has no future
says insight

It is what it is
says love

It is ridiculous
says pride

It is foolish
says caution

It is impossible
says experience

It is what it is
says love.



Bush with Heart-shaped Leaves

Warm summer rain:
When a heavy drop falls

the whole leaf quivers.

So my heart quivers
each time

your name falls on it.




But


At first I fell in love with

the brightness of your eyes
with
your laugh

with your joy in life


Now I love your weeping too
and your fear of life
and the helplessness
in your eyes

But I will help youwith your fear
for my joy in life
is still
the brightness of your eyes





Without You


Not nothingwithout you
but not the same
Not nothingwithout you
but perhaps less

Not nothingbut less
and less
Perhaps not nothing
without you
but not much more



An Attempt

I have attempted-

while working -

to try
thinking of my work

and not of you

And I am happy
that the attempt
did not succeed.



Cancellation


Being able to breathe out

one's unhappiness

breathe out deeply
so that one can
breathe in again

And perhaps also being able to speak
one's unhappiness
in words

in real words

which are coherent
and make sense
and which one can
understand oneself
and which perhaps

someone else can understand
or could understand
And being able to try

That again would

almost be

happiness



Perhaps


Rememberingthat is
perhaps

the most painful way
of forgetting
and perhaps

the kindest way
of easing
this pain

Just a little..

My neck is in spasm and I'm a little weepy. But black-and white images, Humphrey Bogart saying 'Here's lookin at you kid,'

and these lines

never fail to soften me..

You must remember this

A kiss is just a kiss

A sigh...just a sigh...

...the world will always welcome lovers

as time goes by

Ugh...all around me are relationships! Two great ones, one a muddled up mess, one on the recycle track and one fast disappearing.

Dad-Daughter Current Favourite

Must have left my house at eight, because I always do
My train, I'm certain, left the station just when it was due
I must have read the morning paper going into town
And having gotten through the editorial,
no doubt I must have frowned.

I must have made my desk around a quarter after nine
With letters to be read, and heaps of papers waiting to be signed
I must have gone to lunch at half past twelve or so
The usual place, the usual bunch
And still on top of this I'm pretty sure it must have rained....
The day before you came...

I must have lit my seventh cigarette at half past two
And at the time I never even noticed I was blue
I must have kept on dragging through the business of the day
Without really knowing anything, I hid a part of me away.
At five I must have left, there's no exception to the rule
A matter of routine, I've done it ever since I finished school
The train back home again
Undoubtedly I must have read the evening paper then
Oh yes, I'm sure my life was well within it's usual frame
The day before you came....

Must have opened my front door at eight o'clock or so
And stopped along the way to buy some Chinese food to go
I'm sure I had my dinner watching something on TV
There's not, I think, a single episode of Dallas that I didn't see.

I must have gone to bed around a quarter after ten
I sleep so much these days, and so I like to be in bed by then
I must have read a while
The latest one by Marilyn French or something in that style
It's funny, but I had no sense of living without aim
The day before you came.

And turning out the lightI must have yawned and cuddled up for yet another night
And rattling on the roof
I must have heard the sound of rain
The day before you came.

This is originally by ABBA. Very recently, however Dad and I have been obsessively listening to a cover version by The Real Tuesday Weld. Beautiful it is.

Chhoto dadu died last night of a heart attack. He was in his 80's, my great-great uncle. He loved the song 'Bindass'. He would ask me what it meant, and was never wholly satisfied with the answer. He simply loved it.
He never let me get away with saying 'hello' and 'goodbye'. They each had to be accompanied by kisses.

He and his wife would come to the Gestapo Headquarters nearly every Sunday evening. They didn't always call in advance, they just rang the doorbell, certain the we were home. They lived quite a distance away, their bus-stop I remember, is called Bansdroni.
They would come and the Grandmother would whip up three different kinds of snacks to have with tea. Chhoto dadu and Phooldidu. How they would quarrel over everything, everything. He in his simple, humourous way, she with her nasal whine that drove me mad.

He is the second of my distant dadus to go. Toby dadu, a charming gentle man with a great love for drink was the first. Everytime we met, he would ask me how the boyfriend was. I would tell him there was no boyfriend. he would nod approvingly and say I must not commit to anyone without his approval.
In most cases, I find the men in my paternal line much more agreeable than the women. In Toby dadu's case, I think he would have been able to survive just fine if his wife had died before him. But otherwise, the women are far better able to handle such circumstances.

As dry and dispassionate as this post reads, I am...slightly numb. Death is no longer a stranger to me, but he remains strange. I am not heartbroken, not even intensely upset. I am...curious at my own reaction...or lack thereof. At my superior level of acceptance. I haven't shrugged it off and forgotten, I am watching it touch me.
I realize that I really only miss people I share my everydays with. There are some who I hardly see or talk to, but who are with me. Rare, starry creatures.
Chhoto dadu, I know would have accepted his fate with his usual humour. He rarely worried over things. Phooldidu herself isn't well, this won't be easy on her. For all that they quarrelled and whined....they were there for one another. For years and years.

cry

'Nandigram embarrasses me,' writes Rohini.

I've been living out of Calcutta for almost three years now. Wherever I speak, write or think of it, it is my City. I say it with pride, i say it laughingly, sometimes with a touch of mockery or ruefulness.

I flew in to the city about two weeks back. Into the eye of Nandigram. I have been following it at a distance, but boy was I unprepared for the close-up.

I have lost faith in my City. My love for it never extended to its political parties. But I realize now that there is no such thing as being a-political. I belong to no party, but I have my ideals. And my ideals are ashamed and bruised.
My City, that is famous for its famous cholbe na cholbe na public is being forcefully silenced. In Nandigram, the people do not know whom they are serving. They are being hit from all sides. Brutally.

We the people are kept down by bandhs and threats. Those who speak out are jailed instantly.

I know my City by its roads and its people. Both appear vacant. I am disgusted, trite as it sounds. L.M. Montgomery once spoke of feeling ' a sort of nausea with life.' That is just how I feel.

War has always seemed such a faraway thing. I have read about it, analyzed, dispassionately distributed blame...
I am selfish. 9/11 horrified me. The bombing in Afghanistan, the Iraq war, I hated it all. But this closeness, knowing that within Bengal this is taking place is....
People are dying. Homes, land...everything is politicised, everyone wants a piece.

My City...how shall I speak of you now? When I am teased and called a Communist, simply because I am from Bengal...I shall cringe.

Party Games

Bengal is under indefinite strike. For anyone who has spent a few years in Kolkata, this is a commonplace occurance. A month without a bandh is a surprise in my City.

This time however, I am not apathetic.

Tis a tangled story will two or three political parties...all of whom are in for their own gains and no more. Innocent people have been killed in the scummy relations that exist between these parties.

The villages of Nandigram are being held at gunpoint, as are the villagers. That is all I understand. I could write of SEZ and the brutally distorted Communism and all the isms that Bengal upholds with such vigor. I like long words and I love using technical terms...but...there is a war raging very close to where I am. Helpless people are being held hostage, others are being mercilessly gunned down.
And it's all about party games.

Off to the City

Hi all. I'm off to Kolkata in about 6 hours, will be away till end-November. If you need me, mail me :) I'll post as regularly as I can, so keep reading.

Have a bright and safe Diwali.

Much love.

Mum..looking wined and dined

Of Linguistics and Anneishness

How thankful little Phil will be when all this examinating is over!

Examinating! I never heard of such a word.

Well, haven't I as good a right to make a word as anyone else??

Words aren't made, they grow.

From 'Anne of the Island' by L.M.
Montgomery

God! Somebody get me a bed quick!
Actually, I'm too zombied even to sleep. Transcription has taken its toll!
Yes indeedy, words aren't made. They aren't meant to be transcribed either I'm sure!

Tia cannot transcribe words. REPEAT! Tia CANNOT transcribe words! So why why why would they make me do it!!!!!

On the plus-side, I knew everything. I studied with a single-mindedness that was lovely. It's amazing when this one thing matters here and now, this moment, and all else falls away. I studied and mulled over notebooks till my body sank. And it was nice. The thing about English is...I've always been good at it. But it's been instinctive so far. I can interpret any text anytime and come up with ideas and concepts. My language is good because I read furiously. I've never had to prepare for an English exam per say.
Linguistics, being the technical part, is different. I have had lots and lots of new information to remember. And remember accurately. You can't get away with a clever turn of phrase in this paper. It's systematic, almost mathematical in its precision. So, I put in hard, academic effort. And liked it.
People so often look askance at me for studying English. As I told Boss the other day, why would I want to study anything else :)

Da-ba-dee-dah

Ok, so my head is crammed so full it's about to go KA-BOOM and spill linguistically accurate blood and little bits of syntactical brain everywhere.

I stayed up till 3 this morning working on my two Honours papers, and then had another session with P and V till lunchtime.

I'm supposed to be On A Break, but I'm in overdrive, so I'll probably just run on borrowed energy till 10 am Friday....and then get drunk.

P is my study-date extraordinaire. She's sexy and can bullshit real good, which is SO important during exam-time.

The good thing about being completely immersed in Freud and criticism and Semantics and Phonetics...is that you have no time to be disgruntled.

Yes I am dissatisfied with the way a few things are going, but the urgency of these two papers have kept me too dishevelled and excited to give them much thought.

Also, my basic instincts kick in like a thoroughbred during exams. I need constant food, constant fizzy drinks, constant sex...or constant sexual fantasies atleast, and constant bad jokes.

Reasons I don't need to buy joke-books

Reason 1

Mum: I got a perm and now I look like a palm-tree!

Reason 2

Dad: Hmm...I'm getting a double chin. (Looks round at me.) Heyyy! You're just like me..that means...YOU'RE GETTING ONE TOO!
Goes off gleefully.

Reason 3


E(solemnly): When you have kids Tia Didi, make sure you drink plenty of coconut water. My mother's friend told me that my mother drank lots when I was in her tummy and that's why I'm nice and plump.

Reason 4


N: Vidya Balan is a slut! Have you SEEN her body language?
Me: She isn't a slut. I like her. And what's wrong with being a slut? It just means she has a healthy sex-life.
N: PLEASE! She is totally the reason why Shahid and Kareena broke up.
Me: Whatever.
N: Sigh. WAAAAAH! I MISS RAHUL!
Me: Ok, let's get back to Vidya Balan.

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net


I come up for air every two hours. Thank Goddess for comics.

Please read

http://rainbowraven.blogspot.com/2007/10/bhulbo-na.html

Thanks Rohini, for being so clear.
Bhulbo na in Bengali, is We shall not forget.
Let's remember that.

Happiness, thy name is...;)

Zara Gungunalein chalo
Zara Muskuraein chalo
Ajnabee sa ek chehra
Apna bana le chalo

Zara Gungunalein chalo
zara Muskuraein chalo
Zindagi se ek lamha
Phir se chura le chalo


Just plain old happiness for me. Could be that I wrote a paper on Organizational Behaviour and managed to bypass the entire section on 'Pay as Benefit.'
Maybe it's that I am madly, energetically in love. And don't go asking questions! Remember this is the girl who wanted to marry a furniture store, a book and now the Rudra-Veena.
Whatever it is, I am so glad this song is stuck in my head.

Quiet

Chrysalis heart and tender skin...

So writes Delia. The quiet around her is so complete, I'm afraid even to envy it.

I have been afraid of quiet for sometime now. It brings back old bruises. I make a lot of noise about my blessings but the bruises...they only come to be when I am alone.
I am looking forward to visiting my ashram again. Sitting on old, stone steps and letting my face grow wet with tears. There is always someone, some situation for which I must be brave. And so, my falterings must always be internal. It can be no other way, for there is no one, no one who I would go to with this hidden darkness. I pride myself on surviving the toughest, the most wrenching pain unaided, and it is this belief that has got me through. I face the world dry-eyed and proud, whether by dint of a smile, or the clenching of teeth. And every false smile, every setting of my jaw will catch up with me when there is quiet.
I need it. But I also need not to be alone with it. But that aloneness is of my choosing...

God it makes me mad. Because I know how much it means to him. It;s almost like I'm trying to make up for what I couldn't give, for the years I didn't know how to keep in touch.
It's not fair to him. But hell, you know what! You don't get to choose your family. You work with what you're given. And you damn well give back.
The sooner you learn the better. Childhood is no longer easy, so let's stop pretending.

Sigh. I tear myself up when I'm angry.

Pujor golpo (Puja Stories)

Robindro Shetu (Howrah Bridge)

Photograph courtesy: http://www.theamberwolf.com/

I miss the rambunctiousness that I know is laughing over Kolkata. The dhak-dhol, the spontaneous stalls where you get jhal deem (spiced eggs) and chilléd Thaamsaap. The crowds, the lighting, the notun shari people can't afford. The perfect, utterly sentimental, overflowing-with-hospitality bangaliness of it all.

When I was a little girl and Mum was in advertising, we would go for the Asian Paints Sharod Shamyan. A competition for the best idol. The most creative, the most authentic etc. We would go joyriding in a rickety old van. Go to every pandal we could fit into the night. Eat at the dozens of wayside stalls that blossom suddenly during pujo. Come home at five in the morning.
Even before that, I have faint memories of my mama's old white Fiat. Till date, it is the most beautifully maintained car I have seen. Some eight of us crammed into it, me half-asleep and squashed into somebody's lap. Driving around, everybody well-fed but still hungry(you don't stop eating those last five days of Pujo), cracking terrible jokes and stopping at every phuchka stall.
I don't remember much more. The people whose laps I sleepily occupied are strangers now. The family I used to spend those bright, faraway nights with has now been stretched to proportions I can't always reach.
I'm sure life wasn't easy or simple even fifteen years ago. I know there were disturbances and under-the-surface darkness. But for those few days, people let go. They ate too much, talked and talked and talked, laughed over everything and took spontaneous decisions to go looking for street-food at one in the morning.




Happy Pujo to all of you who were there.

Mmmm-Hmmm

You don't look twenty-two, you look much younger.
You don't think twenty-two, you think much older.
You don't live twenty-two...

Gee, I wonder what a less unusual twenty two year old would be all about,

The Tale of Chocolate Pudding, the Mahabharat and a Septagenerian Birthday Party

I have a very good motto.

When you are depressed beyond Sylvia Plath, do an Ogden Nash.

It's funny how you think you want to end something
And then you don't.
Don't want to think or to end it, I mean.
What do you do when you are desperately trying to end something
And you end up sitting in together in a room
Drinking tea and eating chocolate pudding and
Watching ancient epics made into terribly dramatic television mini-series
Do you say,'Umm...thanks for the tea and pudding, and by the way I don't think we should keep in touch?'
What happens when you are desperately trying to end something
And there is a septagenerian birthday party to attend
And you start thinking, 'Oh shit, what if the septagenerian hates you for this!'
God knows you don't need any more septagenerians mad at you
What if the something you want to end
Has its birthday next day
Do you pull out presents and say, 'Happy Birthday, and it's all dead?'
Do you pop out party hats and yell, 'This is your day and I meant to tell you, we're strangers from this day on?'
It is just so much easier to try and try
Or why not say, 'So what if the thing I'm trying to end makes my flesh warm! The thing never shuts up and wouldn't know Sensitivity if it became Nudity.'
Do you sneak into Reverse with your headlights dimmed?
All the way back into your fantasies of bursting in and yelling, 'QUIT WALTZING IN AND OUT OF MY LIFE YOU VICTIM OF A PERMANENTLY MALFUNCTIONING CEREBRAL CORTEX!'
Honestly, it's funny
how you think you want to end something
And then you don't.
Want to think
Or end it.

Copyright: Pomegranate Nash, 2007

feeling very small.

Opium days

I've been wanting to write a contented post for a while. So, I've been waiting for the right frame of mind. I rave and rant so much on my blog...just for variety, let me be quietly happy.

I've just finished the first of my internal papers, and it went rather well.
The last couple of weeks have been hectic. Vernen was here, so we made as much time with him as we could. There have been birthdays, hectic socializing and much drunken debauchery.
I attended my very first live concert in Indian classical music. Ran out on a dinner in my own home to watch Shubha Mudgal, Ustad Bahauddin Dagar and Vidvan T.M. Krishna perform.
And it was GOOD.
Shubha Mudgal was so incredibly energetic! Her whole body sings. And I could make out that she was happy. She was playful and glowing, just like her music.
Ustad Bahauddin Dagar played the Rudra Veena. I'd never seen one before, and I have to tell you, it is the most beautiful instrument ever! Just look at it!





I love all string instruments, but this is by far the most Yin! Rounded and long and agile and deep all at once. And full of old stories and secrets.

The Ustad himself was very intense. Even his hair was intense. He played slow and concentrated music. Music I would have appreciated much more had it not been 2 am. I am not used to music that demands so much from the listener.

But the most potent poppy in the field was Vidvan T.M Krishna and even more, his accompanying violinist Vidvan R.K. Shri Ramkumar. That violin had a voice of its own. It flew and dipped and wove shimmering shapes. It followed the singer possessively, challenging, overtaking, sometimes simply walking by his side. I don't know Shri Ramkumar has in his hands...but i want some of it!

So there I was, from 9 in the night to 5 the next morning. Ok, Weed and I sneaked out halfway for coffee and Coke, but we needed nourishment!
I don't think I want to understand this music. I don't want to listen to it and see Malhar and Todi. At least...not yet. It boosts my mind and leaves my body drained. I feel my skin straining to absorb. And I like the strain.

RANT

You know, i try! I really really do! Read texts written by shitheads which are recommended only because they have some link with the university.
Texts which blithely place fine arts 'above' mechanical arts and leave no room for argument.
I am not a 'literary' person. I love reading Red-Hot Mills and Boons, I adore chick-lit! Yes I also love the Brontes and Emily Dickinson and I can declaim most of Macbeth without peeking at the text. I read Toni Morrison and Meg Cabot within an hour of each other. I have no snobbery where the written word goes.
But, I refuse to read smugly written, patronizing textualized shit! Written by dried-up self-important old idjits. There is no scope for a literature student who reads such texts. There is no thought, no reason, no imagination...NOTHING! Just long sentences and a jumble of words put together to look important!
BLOODY HELL!

Images of Baramati

You Owe Me Nothing

I'll give you countless amounts of outright acceptance if you want it
I will give you encouragement to choose the path that you want if you need it
You can speak of anger and doubts your fears and freak outs and I'll hold it
You can share your so-called shame filled accounts of times in your life and I won't judge it
(and there are no strings attached to it)
You owe me nothing for giving the love that I give
You owe me nothing for caring the way that I have
I give you thanks for receiving it's my privilege
And you owe me nothing in return
You can ask for space for yourself and only yourself and I'll grant it
You can ask for freedom as well or time to travel and you'll have it
You can ask to live by yourself or love someone else and I'll support it
You can ask for anything you want anything at all and I'll understand it
(and there are no strings attached to it)
You owe me nothing for giving the love that I give
You owe me nothing for caring the way that I have
I give you thanks for receiving it's my privilege
And you owe me nothing in return
I bet you're wondering when the next payback shoe will eventually drop
I bet you're wondering when my conditional police will force you to cough up
I bet wonder how far you have now danced you way back into debt
This is the only kind of love as I understand it that there really is
You can express your deepest of truths even if it means I'll lose you and I'll hear it
You can fall into the abyss on your way to your bliss I'll empathize with
You can say that you have to skip town to chase your passion I'll hear it
You can even hit rock bottom have a mid-life crisis and I'll hold it
(and there are no strings attached)
You owe me nothing for giving the love that I give
You owe me nothing for caring the way that I have
I give you thanks for receiving it's my privilege
And you owe me nothing in return

-Alanis Morisette

SCREAM!!!!!!!

Hell is other people

Jean-Paul Satre


Hell is other people when you have PMS

Pomegranate

Courting Disaster

Pmgrnt: Hello are you Disaster?

Dster: You seriously want to know???

P: Yes I do. I've been looking everywhere for you. I really need you in my life

D: Err...I am in your life. In those overgrown misshapen nails, the sticky feeling in your skin, the constant need to eat....

P: You make me sound pregnant.

D: I am sorry. I'm not known to spread sunshine! And in a way, you are impregnated. You're swollen up with a few things you oughta let go of! Y'know, like they say when you're in labour? PUSH! PUSH!

P: Look, quit the counselling. I'm not trying to get rid of you, I'm trying to have a mature, committed relationship here! I like you for the nights i spend sobbing and the constant resentment you build in me!

D: Lady, I ain't the forever kind. I come and go as I please.

P: Yes well I'm not giving up on you!

D (edging away): maybe, y'know, you could go see my brother. He might be of some help.

P: A brother??? Who is he?

D: Name's Pandemonium.

P: I do not want Pandemonium!! Pandemonium! He is loud and show-offy! I can't be passive and masochistic with him around!

D: I really need to go. I'm...due...at...a gay bar real soon! See you!

P: NOOOOO...COME BACK!!


THE END

Tai to!

Going Away

Distance is my eyes on

the clock

Watching your sleep-time
your time to

lean back into pillows and
rest your ears into

the hoary voices of long ago.

BLOODY HELL!

we all live with certain ideas of who we are, what we're like. How we appear to others. Myths,most of them. We change too constantly to have permanent personalities.

Oh but it hurts when the myth blows up in your face.

It's happened with me very recently and made me feel like an amoeba. I am the oldest in a certain group. I cannot give thoughtlessness as an excuse. Is this where maturity begins?

I think selflessness is the product of the best kind of self-confidence. The kind where you don't need to prove that you are important.

It is love when you cry numb tears, knowing that a single misthought on your part hurt them. It's terrible when you've been madly loving towards them and all of a sudden it all seems to be show.

I’m just going to stop writing now. And btw, I’m really bad at professional relationships SO THERE!

Bugger!

Given a choice, would I want to learn to distance, or to love better?
Do they cancel one another out?