just a cloudburst

Crash and Circle

2011-10-22T19:23:00.008+05:30

For those wondering what happened to the poetry challenge- its still on.

Obviously not every week, because the inevitable work rears its ugly head, and doesn't even give me the time or peace of mind to write this post or even think of words that don't involve blahblahblisation and poopoopoointificate, which don't really lend themselves to verse.

I seem to be trapped with chalk circles drawn around me, well, if they're not chalk then they are assignment submission dates. I break out of one by uttering the magic charm- which is extremely long and convoluted and filled with nonsense words and I only crash headlong into another (circle). Circles everywhere, around my eyes, a halo around my computer, a zero on everything else, and I have got caught up in my own rather weak rhetoric.

I apologise.

So the poetry thing. The week after the limerick was haiku week, which had interesting if not successful results. I've never really got into the haiku craze, and there have been very few haikus I've liked. Poetry can have a pretentious flavour to it, and haikus seemed to be the epitome of that. The fact that so many people were into it did put me off a bit, and their randomness didn't help.

I really thought it was just an excuse to throw random images at each other, watch them crash, and then revel in the spray of enigma and general "look how DEEP we are! Rhyming went out in the twentieth century!"...ness.

Writing them I did gain a little more respect for those who wrote them. It's trickier than I thought. Apparently you have to aim these images at each other, or they won't crash properly, only glance by and basically miss the point entirely. Or they'll just be three lines, with the requisite syllable or word count which sound vaguely interesting but are not Haikus!

The haiku writing was a bit of a failure, though my poetry partner, being more comfortable with the form, or perhaps more comfortable with the idea of the form did slightly better.

Evenings, the street lamps

halo passersby and wet roads

make raindrops glitter

I still think haikus are a form best left to the Japanese language, as the peculiarities suit each other perfectly. That is, it seems to me haikus were constructed in that language and English just doesn't have the tools. It's not just haikus that are written already and converted to English where the essence gets lost in translation, but just the act of writing them in an alien language. Of course, there's no fault with taking something beautiful and trying to recreate it differently, but I suggest giving it a different name, because they are not and can never be the same.

I ended up writing way more about haikus than I thought I would. I thought I'd take a quick break from studying the codification of law in the 19th century and copy paste a sonnet here. I should have known better.

Right, next week was Sonnet week, obviously my suggestion. This was a mistake perhaps, as the rigid form terrified my poetry partner stiff to the extent that she still hasn't written it, though the constant sream of work might have had something to do with that.

Quick 411 on sonnets- they're generally fourteen lines- each line with ten syllables- written in iambic pentameter, in which a pattern of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable is followed five times (still didn't get it it? Don't worry its clear enough when you read it) Have I forgotten anything? Ah yes, the rhyme scheme- abab cdcd efef gg. The couplet (gg) generally turns the theme around or looks at it differently.

Right enough said. I tried my hand at it. It was very difficult, and writing in this sort of rigid structure often takes away from the purity of the thought, in the sense that at least for me a lot of tweaking is required to batten it down to the iambic pentameter shape and what not.

One of the most famous sonnets is of course Shakespeare's.

Sonnet No. 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

I took issue with certain aspects of this sonnet and decided to well, reply in kind.

What alters when it alteration finds?

I never even sought to question that.

With foggy eyes I read that which reminds

Me sadly that I’m at a caveat.

I see no tempests but a minor squall

And yet I’m altered. Drops of rain throw hard

And stubborn truths at me. ‘No more! That’s all!’

I cry, and hurl the same words at the Bard.

Man has loved: here the Bard’s words mean no lie

Except that time does make of love a fool

Real emotion can fade or melt or die

Just as the sweetest words grow forced or cruel

Man has loved, Shakespeare has writ, but he’s wrong

If true, Love must change else it can’t last long.

Full circle on the sonnet front too, I suppose.

I'm proud of it, even if it sounds a little stiff, like an upper lip, a term that feels uncomfortable even existing in modernity. Or like my metaphors who really, so very badly want to be let go.

Anyway, it was true. True not in right or correct, but true in the feeling in which it was written, and that's what really matters I suppose.

Okay. Must dash.

Poetry Challenge- Week One

2011-08-27T21:44:00.003+05:30

So life was rolling along as usual. When people asked that dreaded question- 'What up?' I had variations of 'Oh, trundling along', 'Fairly skippily', "Oh-ah', 'Oh, You know, same old same old'.

Well, to put it nicely, Balls to that!

A friend and I have decided to do a poetry challenge. Every form of poetry one can think of, and one form gets picked as the theme for the week. We're going to do this for as long as we can.

Since we were both short of time the day we decided upon the first theme- we just hurriedly told each other 'Limerick! Any topic! Go! You have till Saturday night!'

Turns out Limericks are difficult. Its all very well to compose one randomly and get a laugh because it's fine if its lame, but it seems that they turn out that way even after concentrated thought.

For those who have any doubts on the subject, a limerick- popularised by Lear (though he didn't call' em that)- is a witty or nonsensical poem, classically 5 lined, with the aabba rhyme scheme, and is often funny in an obscene way.

My father was fond of this one...

There was a man called Skinner

Who took his girlfriend out to dinner

By a quarter to nine

They were ready to dine,

By a quarter to ten it was in her.

(The dinner, not Skinner!

Skinner was in her before dinner!)

Though my favourite (read Only) limerick as a child was:

There was a man from Bengal

Who went to a fancy dress ball

He thought he would risk it

And go as a biscuit

But the dog ate him up in the hall.

Right, now that you've got the picture...

(Nobody bite my ass about the number of syllables. I tried pretty hard, but in some lines, you've just gotta extemporise!)

This was my first sorry effort.

There once was a lady from Gouda

Who would cover herself with powder

She thought it was the fashion

But the girl just looked ashen

And not one man even tried to crowd her.

Yes. I know. (And just to clear this up- Gouda can be pronounced either Gow-da or Goo-da. So ha!) But yes, even apart from that, this is a terrible limerick.

My next one was better!

There was a young man from Crete

Who boasted of many a sexual feat

But few ladies were charmed,

In fact, most were alarmed,

And not one was keen on a repeat.

I tried to do a third verse where he and Gouda's Damsel meet, he thinks her a choice Morsel, and they wind up like the proverbial Pretzel- but as you can tell the rhyme was more than iffy.

That's when my friend messaged to proclaim her own difficulties with the limerick business. I told her to pick a place- any place. Not immediately getting what I was driving at, she picked Karkarduma - A place I've only seen on the map of the Blue line of the Delhi metro, and giggled at occasionally.

So what follows is a collaborative effort.

There once was a man from Karkarduma

Who only ever bought shoes from Puma

He thought he'd go yuppie

And buy from Hush Puppy

But then he caught the 3.10 to Yuma.

Yes. I know. It makes no sense. But I like it, if only for the pop culture references, if brands and movies can be characterised as such.

Today, still griping, she wrote:

I have a friend called Meghana,

Very talented, she's a stunner,

And as I took my time

To make this sad thing rhyme,

She tsked and said, "You're still not done, ah?"

I appreciated the 2nd line, but I did tsk a little bit.

What follows is another, even more collaborative effort; I told her to pick a place, any place, and she was by now, wise to this game.

There was a banker who went to Goa

Who, for a thrill, bought a bright pink boa

It might have had style

If that silly reptile

Hadn't picked a fight with the lawn mower.

That's right. I think the image of a banker wearing a magenta snake around his neck and mowing his lawn is funny. And it gets worse. I was fixed on doing a rhyme on someone from Rajkot, and this is what we came up with. The end is mine more than Harshita's- she's still trying to cook up a better one, which I will put up if she manages- so if these limericks are putting you in a murderous frame of mind, feel free to assassinate Me, and Me only.

There was a young accountant from Rajkot

Who had the gift of learning things by rote

But the 23times table

Rendered him incapable,

So he retired to the mountains and bred goats.

Please don't hate me.

Okay, okay, so the limerick thing was a bit of a damp squib, but quite fun. Maybe not the most felicitous start to the whole poetry challenge- but a start nonetheless, something I'm grateful for, as these things sound great discussed on the phone but rarely get done. So here's to better verse in better days.

It Had to Be You, Then, There.

2011-04-09T22:58:00.006+05:30

Its been fairies and bright lights for me from the start.

Trees and topsy-turvy lands, rings and wardrobes.

Poems and midnight feasts, witching hours and wings

Rain and fantasy and sorcery have always had my heart.

Even later, angst was bathed in moonshine

Words my refuge, like any red-blooded teenager

I had a diary, and magic and heartbreak.

Runes and love, and courage; they were all mine.

Dusty windows and dirty candles lit

my world, splintered and guttering as they willed.

The tritest metaphors- loud voices through blasts of music,

Reality seeping into really very forced fantasy- made to fit.

And later still... Still alone, one could still dream

Of trysts and deep dark forests and stars and spider- silk

And love and time twisting, twining around each other.

Words and music lyrical and soft, throttling a scream.

How fitting then, my fantasies all entangled,

that it was you. A stranger so tall and menacing

like in all the good books, your grin painted on,

and me in red boots, as my tunic bells jangled.

Iron and wine, in forest glade,

Blue and white lights, so bright that night.

Full moon, new roles in a graphic novel universe

As we played out the masquerade.

How fitting then, that your mask was true

Almost fantastic how we slipped away.

How fitting, that it was terrible- that moment,

Dark, guilty, fumbling, smiling and through.

How fitting really, that you had to leave!

Even more that we never really spoke

Fantasy tends to invert the prosaic; washes

New colours out through the sieve.

Stranger from a distant land, that's you!

My life though real, plays in a surreal strain.

I didn't even know your name,

and true to my fantasy, I don't actually want to.

Pianissimo

2011-02-24T00:44:00.005+05:30

Terrible things were happening in minor notes outside today. Fortissimo voices tinny and yet scary through my door.

And I, reading, had an awful, and undeserved swoooosh back to the past.

That old, beaten down to nothing image...

Here it is...

I, tinier, reading.

Then, crouching, and wondering if things could turn bad; if I was brave enough to intervene, or whether it was enough to cry bitterly in my room, and morning-time, emerge blithely from the cracked little world I had occupied that night.

The terror was over five minutes after waking.

The night is for fantasy, and the day for dreams- the bored sort.

The night is also for horrors, and the day only stretches to annoyance.

I resent the fact that I am compelled to pour forth this nonsense now.

Now!

This stuff, worthy of the least creative 12 year old you could ever come across, and I'm heartily ashamed of the fear.

I start hyperventilating, and my mind spins, in a sense, even more so than when I was a child, for now I wonder how much agency I have.

Crouching and wondering whether things are likely to turn bad.

And I can't put my earphones back on, I can't stuff a cowardly head into the pillow, or slam a balcony door, and think the cold world outside will be a poetic and windy refuge from my home.

I have to listen.

I have to be brave enough to intervene, and the crying must be limited to a minute's worth over the sink, mostly consisting of rigorous nose-blowing and hoping the eyes aren't too scarlet-rimmed.

In a way, loneliness acts as my anchor.

It's something I know.

It might be a dead weight... but its pretty stable and it rarely yells.

But it tells me( quietly) that I have to learn to deal.

Its not like I'm going anywhere.

...

Wow, how maudlin is this? I keep repressing the urge to make fun of the more sweeping statements, and I guess the more formal phrasing cloaks the more corny sentences. I'm going to take it as a good sign that I can't even take misery seriously.

You say goodbye

2011-01-24T20:31:00.006+05:30

You say hello, but do you really mean it?

I wait and wait for knowledge of my self-worth to come fluttering back.

It does sometimes.

But sometimes it gets thrown too far away, and I have to buy a new one.

And I'm broke.

So, are you there?

(Not self-worth, silly. It's just the knowledge of it that floats away.)

Merrily, merrily.

I wish this life was a dream, sometimes.

Then again, sometimes I don't.

Come back. Please.

I can't chase you both! I'm too cool to look like a fool.

And yet I do.

Do the fool act, I mean. And most of the time, sadly.

It isn't an act.

Argh. ARGHHHHHHHH!

I'm too cool to need you. I'm too sad to need anybody anymore.

It'd just be nice.

Please come back so I don't need to need anybody.

Even my family has begun to look at me from the corners of their eyes.

Loneliness is unsocial. It makes other people uncomfortable.

Come to think of it, me too.

If that had happened, this wouldn't have. I think this every time it didn't.

Happen, that is.

You say stop. I don't believe you.

So. Go, go, go.

*goes away humming.

Real Live Fantasy

2010-12-01T22:40:00.006+05:30

I want to write a fantasy book, but I know this is going to take a maha- long time, since a. I'm a distracted little creature, b. I do have to scratch out a living c. I really want it to be one of those books where I know what I'm talking about.
The uninitiated, or simply stupid, might wonder what one has to know before writing a fantasy book, but the fact is there are too many published and unpublished fantasy authors who take a fancy to write something fanciful, or use fantasy to be funny, or expound certain social or cultural or political viewpoints and be done with it.

We live, fortunately or unfortunately, in a time where a plethora of good literature already exists, and to make one's own mark, one has to either follow fantasy tropes or the big guys- Tolkien, Jordan, Pratchett, McCaffrey... adding enough of 'something different' to mark one's own world out. If the difference isn't enough you end up with plain old plagiarism like Era-Gahn. Sometimes, one creates one's own world by acknowledging and mocking the earlier greats. Cheers, Samit Basu. Of course, this is a tricky path to tread; I believe even Basu ultimately tripped and fell on his arse, however gracefully. It's hard to keep a grip, and then the author is caught up in a welter of spoofy plot lines that have to be resolved satisfactorily and to do this without it becoming completely farcical and thereby unsatisfactory is tough.

I mean, not all of us can be Terry Pratchett, now.

Rowling did well enough while the kids juggled being brave with boarding school, and there were the usual imaginative magicky-innovativy small things in the books that made the Harry Potter books such a joy to read when they did come out. Then Harry became a bad tempered prat wallowing in his angst (well portrayed by them Potter Puppet Pals) and the books started remembering that movies had to be made outta them, and the imaginative knick knacks came to a screeching halt, and suddenly there we are, back to every generic fantasy book, a small improbable band of heroes fighting against all odds against the Dark Lord and other power hungry morons and seeing England enveloped by pseudo Nazism.
Well, that tangent was a little longer than I anticipated. Sorry.

I suppose the real trick in a successful fantasy, for me at least, is to mix fantasy with what's true to you, rather than fall into the trap of imaginary people doing fantastical things in some faraway place. Triumph of good over evil is a little old, but so is trying to sound clever in every sentence.
(Yes, yes. I know. Shut up.)

So yeah, enough you, I was saying. Obviously there are no fixed rules to this. I mean, it's fantasy, you're supposed to allow your imagination to romp around. But the weakness of fantasy all too often for me is that it can feel like a soap opera or sometimes even a bad sitcom. Either the characters are typecast with their roles clearly set out for them, or the twist in the tale emerges just for the sake of it.

This is, incidentally, advice to warn myself as well as any other aspiring authors who happen upon the blog. Including me, that probably brings the count up to One, but its out there for whatever it's worth.

I do think it's important that we don't forget who we are when we write. Like, let's face it, I'm Indian, I've lived in Delhi my whole life: and while I was in school my main character was someone called Krystle Lazuli, a fair, raven haired emerald eyed beauty, living in a castle that looked like any image out of dreams of Camelot and King Arthur, with a contrived plotline heavily influenced by Tolkien, David Eddings etc and whatever girly books my teenage hands had touched. Heartily unconvincing and excruciatingly bad.
Thankfully, my worthy dream of being a published author at 15 did not come to fruition and growing up and through college and through reading some really kickass fantasy (Pratchett, Neil Gaiman, Guy Gavriel Kay, to start) I think I've got some slightly more nuanced ideas to build a story out of, those I don't think I'm ready for it just yet.

This blog remains open for me to come up with stuff, struggle with ideas, and to write down fragments, pieces which I hope will add up nicely someday. Till then... the reader's condemned to half baked ideas, emotional outpourings and general long-windedness. Readers, if some are still out there, good luck, and don't desert me now!

The Early Works

2010-11-23T10:37:00.005+05:30

I'm the kind of person who gets embarrassed easily. I'm very conscious of What People Think, and unless I'm the one singing loudly, or decently inebriated, I'm normally the one going "Yeah, I'm not with them" or excusing the crime to offended strangers.
I find it rather difficult to put myself completely Out There. I don't have the confidence, the effrontery (or enough quantities of either) that makes people magnetic, or good showmen. What's more, in the constant race to prove myself, I have this silly urge not to appear stupid, or inversely, to appear inordinately clever. Sometimes I stay silent in social affairs and discussions because I feel that if I open my mouth, a whole battery of stupidity will come pouring out.
This tangent is giving the wrong impression. I don't think I'm stupid, quite the contrary. I just don't think I'm clever enough! ('for whom' you ask? For myself. And on a general scale on 1 to 20, I'd rank myself 14.)

Having said this, you will perhaps appreciate the bravery in publishing this one.

Every once in a while some verse written during a time of teenage poetic fervour resurfaces, and produces in me a kind of glee, half guilty; bits of me squirming in the reminder of how seriously I took myself those days, how sincere and devoted I was to the idea of Meghana: Writer, Poet extraordinaire; half rejoicing at the awkward, contrived rhyme, the heavy and clumsy metaphor, the sad formulas for enigma.
Its disastrous and rather wonderful!

This shining example is from when I was 14. This is Deep Stuff. You have been warned.

So here goes,
(minus a verse or two)

THE SHOP FOR LIARS

One step to illusion
Go left and straight on to fantasy
Go right for hallucination
And its only a buck for fallacy

Its so easy to have a shattered conscience
The Shop for Liars gives you a three-month guarantee
It comes cheaper here than anywhere else
Lost, ma'am? Non-working product? Can I see your warranty?

Behind the curtains of Suicide,
You'll find pen, ink, and paper
The courage and the cyanide
Dim residue of cowardliness might come later

Shift of responsibility is slightly dear
but its worth it, we give you your money's due
get it now, you'll only get it here,
Wait sir, let me give the change back to you

White lies come for a song
With our brand you can't go wrong
Stuttering and over-emphasis
are minor side effects
Tell all your friends!
You'll find the means to your ends!
Come before the prices go higher!
There's a Sale at the Shop for Liars!

Vacuum

2010-10-22T22:21:00.002+05:30

My cousin lately had a pretty terrible accident. I heard the news while I was on holiday. At that specific moment, I was with family members who were not really acquainted with her. For them it was a shocking event that had occurred to people far removed from them.
My first thought was to inform my brother because I knew he was closer to her. And there you have it. I don't know my cousin. And I have never really minded not knowing her. In our childhood, though us five cousins have spent a lot of time together, the elders banded together as friends, and perhaps, growing up, I idly resented my exclusion from the friendship- not just mere family feeling- that had developed between them. After their moving out of Delhi, there was little or no communication between us.

Her parents- my uncle and aunt- moving back in the last year, I did get to meet her. And we talked but we didn't talk. We hung out, but nothing more existed than a laid-back cousinly feeling between us.

One doesn't think what somebody means to you, especially when you have no intense feeling about them. How does one rank anybody in the 'affections' ladder? People you love, People you like, People you can bear, people you can't bear, along with the overlapping emotions. People who are nice, but boring. People who you get along with but inside you know they're complete bastards. People you amiably tolerate, or are on easy terms with, never thinking of what it may mean when...

So I don't know my cousin. I know her, but don't know her. I've shed no tears, even if they have gathered in my eyes. I feel guilty for not knowing her, but I would feel guiltier if I forced tears to drop. Crying seems almost hypocritical. I can't stand the thought of my cousin, from what I have seen of her, lying unconscious in a bed, hooked up to a million machines, helpless, and in a vacuum. A vacuum has placed upon all of us, so far away, physically and figuratively.

This post doesn't really have much of a point. It's not about, 'I wish I had known her more', and 'I will try to know her better when she recovers', though the second is something I want to do. I am not friends with my cousin, and because she's lying unconscious in a bed, does not unfortunately mean friendship secured. It's just wrestling with the thought that the person you were close to but did not know may not, or may take a very very long time to become that person again.

Smells Okay.

2010-08-08T22:15:00.006+05:30

The star flew right into her nose. She batted it away like she would a small fly, and losing its bearings, the star got dizzy and lost itself in her nose hair.
And there remained.

She was walking to the bus stop when a cloud of dust and a directionally challenged cyclist assailed her. Having battled these by the simple expedient of slitting her eyes, wrinkling her nose, and doing that little hop skip and startled jump every pedestrian in Delhi is almost used to, she fell into another world without much fuss and only a small number of bruises.

Clawing her way through fog, the thought kept hitting her that if this was the afterlife, it sucked. The thought generally following this one was that unremarkable though her life had been, this sort of characterless vagueness was really unwarranted cheek. Once in a while her foot would hit something and she'd stumble, but she didn't fall, only flailing her arms in an unladylike way.
Once she fell.
Sometimes she felt that she saw a body, a silhouette shaping the fog or smoke or whatever it was around him, and one time when she was absolutely sure, she ran and threw herself at the figure, for once not giving a damn about dignity. This at least was a good thing, for that was the time she fell.

Needless to tell you, none of this really happened.

That's what she said, a bus ride later, to people she didn't know. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to alienate the idiots, or cling to them for the entirely material purpose of not being subjected to ill-meaning fools asking if this seat was taken, inquiring.

Don't you have any friends?

The fans had stopped working, and there were about two hundred people in close proximity to each other. She closed her eyes for a moment and the transition this time to another world was entirely smooth. No bruises at all.
She couldn't move. Not of her own volition, that is. She was being carried forward by a hand here, a foot there, a shoulder on the left, a potbelly on the right. This was nothing like the videos where she had imagined herself floating above the crowd, breathing the fresh air of success and glory and great rock music. Nothing like that at all. The air was so wet and heavy, she was swimming in an exhausting doggy paddle. Somebody else was working her though. Lots of somebodies. Swimming along together.

And then she opened her eyes.

Splash of brown and orange into yellow. Hisssss.
She opened the door and walked into the kitchen.

A sharp plunge into crazy colours, swirling eyes, mad and quick breaths and then they all fizzled into some mottled shade of grey. And the grey was so desperate, so final, that it seemed to be enveloping her, shrouding her, forming a shapeless veil, smothering her...

So she sneezed.
Onions were being sliced in the kitchen so nobody even asked her why she wept.

Arrant Nonsense. Or Something.

2010-06-27T21:08:00.004+05:30

Red. Or rather, a flaming orange. Beads of sweat. And worst of all, no music to assuage the wound. That was the one thing that was killing her. Literally, killing her.

Made up of so many things she couldn't even imagine. Sugar and spice and everything nice. Pah. Loose sheets of note paper. When teeth pierced her skin, fluff came out. Like soft poisonous bubbles, that leaked inside. What else? Something. A power? Perhaps. But something so vast and so strong it fuddled her thoughts. Made her point left instead of right and pull when the sign said push. Ok. Notepaper. Something. Then what? Choking rivulets of dark dark dark chocolate, thick and bitter.

Twenty glass beads on the tip of her nose, more than a hundred on the small of her back. Fifty on her forehead. Few by few they shattered and dove into her skin.

If you prick us, do we not bleed?

Not everybody bled like her though. Softly, the music tumbled out of her wound. Along with a ladybird or two, a sharpener, seven erasers, one pen, rather a lot of paper shavings, an old faded ATM slip, some vodka, some smoke and many mirrors. And so very many eyes. Her body never could adapt to those.

And so she melted into a frothing puddle of arrant and maudlin rubbish.

If you tickle us do we not laugh?

Hysterically, in fact. Mirthlessly sometimes, but always, always the laugh, whether it was snicker, or sneer, or giggle or guffaw. Can puddles laugh?
Apparently. But then she wasn't a puddle anymore.

And she realised that it was not her gaping open wound that killed her. Those beads, those well-meaning, innocuous beads, those multiple beads soaking and screaming into her.

If you poison us, do we not die?

All the notepaper stiffened, quivering. The dark dark dark chocolate shut up for a minute, bitter steam rising in tight spirals to close the wound. All the other nonsense (the matchsticks, the doilies, the goggles, the Something, the cat who had once belonged to somebody called Schrodinger and the toilet paper making their merry way out of her wound faced a bottleneck. She would let it all out when she was good and ready.

She smiled a smile that most people smiled to see. Idiots.

She was ready to face the music. Or Something.

And if you wrong us, do we not take revenge?

On the Fence.

2010-06-16T22:02:00.006+05:30

This is going to be one of those posts. And by those I mean non-fictional, and therefore maudlin. Right.

I just realised something really frightening, which is that you can be grateful for the most terrible things. The fact is that such supremely horrible people and places and conditions and habits exist that one is thankful for small mercies like only the slightly depressing or average frightfulness.

I've written before about my frustration with my parents drinking habits, and it appalled me today that I saw true alcoholism, and blessed my stars that I did not have to face that beatific vapidity every day- only moderate slurring and pointlessness and lack of balance.
Where do you draw the line? After a point I couldn't stand the sight or sound or smell or the knowledge of His presence in my house, (that point came rather soon) and it saddened me to think how others must regard my own parents.
It's true that they don't compare on the scale of 'inebriety' I witnessed tonight but they both get quite irritating when they're drunk. My father gets loud, whether in joy or fury, and my mother gets pickled- slurring and slow and bitching about my dad. And I'm only writing this openly about my parents because somebody told me (jokingly) recently, "Mom LOVES __ Aunty. She loves her. But she says 'I can stand __ when she's drunk."

And it made me wonder how many people think the same way about either of my parents. It alarms me to see how many of my aunts and uncles (my parents family and old friends) ask me concernedly about how my parents are doing, how many people have urged me to escape the unhealthy atmosphere of my house, and it's nights like this that convince me its not that bad, and its nights like last night that tell me that the scene at my house is not normal.

But then what is normal? Everybody has parent issues. Stone cold sober parents seem to be more unreasonable than my own in a million things, they put pressure on their child to get a 98%, they don't let teenage go out, they don't let the college going daughter take public transport, they don't allow someone in their late twenties to be out past 10, they disapprove of forward thinking, they give them a hard time over boy friends, they make them wait hand and foot on them, they pressure them to get married...

So. It's not that bad. I think.

A Fable

2010-04-24T18:36:00.007+05:30

"In exchange for my continued unharmed presence at this table and allowance to share with you one amphora of whichever spirit you fancy, I offer you a story; a fable."
The pixies' steady regard was anything but encouraging but the man's continued unharmed presence led him to begin his tale.

"Long, so very long ago there lived a brother and a sister who loved one another dearly. They were unalike, and they fought with one another daily and savagely. However, once the blood had spilt and the tears had dried, try how they might, their gazes would catch (accidentally, of course) and a giggle would be heard and they would make up, but never actually apologise.
"And so it continued.
"Both siblings were quite mischievous, and as they grew older their pranks became more and more devious. Attractive they both were- the boy with large brown eyes, hair a fiery red and she with her little white nose and cold hands. Other children and strangers would come to them and play with them and pat their heads. Brother and sister were content with each other and they would tire quickly of other company and leave or annoy it with some cruel trick.
"They grew older, but little changed. One cannot state that either sibling was beautiful. They were certainly attractive, with their wild hair and shining eyes and crazy games. A glance from the boy's melting eyes and the stranger must taste him, the girl would wrinkle her nose and none could rest 'til they had lain with her. As I told you, little had changed. Brother and sister sated their passions and left their lovers gasping... crying... broken by their cruel whimsical pranks.

"One day the inevitable happened. They fell in love. With the same person. It was not long before the other found out, of course.

"They fought. Madly, and violently, with all the passion that lay pent up in them, they fought. Scratching and kicking and screaming and stabbing, they almost enjoyed it. Almost.

"They fought, until with two simultaneous and accidental strokes with their daggers they both died.

"And then they awoke. Weak and startled and frightened of this new world, they unconsciously sought the other's hand to hold, but did not find it. They had suffered the cruellest fate of all: they had been separated from each other. Both, in their new barren world, heard a voice proclaim the choice they had to make.
"Either they died again, away from the one they loved most, alone, now, or they lived as ghosts and did penitence together for their misbehaviour when alive. I have mentioned brother and sister were not alike. They made their choice, but their choice was not the same.

"And so a balance had to be created between their wishes. The sister was sent far away to the north with the tools of her new trade. At first the people there were glad and they welcomed her with the same enthusiasm as had those strangers when she had lived. But soon with her malice and her capricious wont, they tired of her quickly and celebrated as she died. And when the girl nearly cried from the ache of dying alone, her hand suddenly held her brother's. Weak as a newly living ghost, he held his sister's eyes as his shone with tears as she passed.
"People danced and threw colour in honour of his coming. His tears did not fall until much later. Most liked him better than they had done his sister, at first. But his overbearing behaviour and sudden turns of wrath soon had them vengeful of him too. They could do nothing to a ghost, however. He collapsed finally from overwork and lay wounded, gasping for breath, when he felt a cool hand on his brow. He only caught a glimpse of his sister's pale face before something strong pulled his eyes shut and drew him to another place till his sister died again.

"That then was their fate; to only be in the other's presence for the few brief moments as one watched the other die."

A tense silence greeted the end of his story.

One of the pixies asked, "They never met? Never?"
He received no answer.
Another pixie asked, "Do your brother and sister have no name?"

"Can you not guess?"
Silence again.

The hooded man gave the sigh of a jester forced to explain his joke.
"In my world, we call them Summer and Winter."

Silence again.
"Was the fable to your taste?" the man hazarded.

The tallest of the pixies changed his expression to what could loosely be called a smile.
"You ask if your tale of death, gloom, cruelty and a harsh judgement on a strange and possibly incestuous love was to our taste?"

The man did not receive his answer even after he had been thrown bodily out of the tavern.

"Next time," the tallest pixie murmured. "Tell a shorter tale."

Whose Fantasy?

2010-03-20T23:12:00.010+05:30

Part One- Ripple

N ran and ran and ran till she could quite frankly, not run anymore. "Please! Please!" She wheezed pitifully, "I don't care if the damn dragon or gryffon or whatever it is eats me! Really!"
To N's disgruntlement, her tall, male, devastatingly handsome companion replied quite coolly, not sounding out of breath at all. "I have the sinking feeling that you would care when it sank its teeth into the flesh of any part of your leg. This gryffon does not kill its victims. It cannot bear the stench of death, so it maims its quarry and lets some other creature perform the kill, whether the creature be jaguar or starvation or blood loss."
He looked critically at the red-faced and panting N. "I would save your breath if were you. My sword is destined to spill the blood of only that creature Fate decrees it to be, and this gryffon has not that honour."
"How... do...you... know?" She said painfully. There was a stitch in her stomach.

It was not an impressive show that N was putting on this day, but she was past caring. Catapulted into this world of colour and enchantment and gryffons and quests in a rude manner (All she had done was open a magical sachet of chili flakes), pushed and shoved into a number of dangerous ventures and into a gang of adventurers with the usual amounts of magic, courage, pride, sorrow, foolhardiness, and sexual tension, her blood had rushed for perhaps the first three days. And what had she to show for it? A ruby the size of a large kitten, an evil looking sardonyx, a jade sculpture of Lost Queen of Alitari, a letter of benediction from the Found King of Alitari, and a newly acquired toothbrush.

A snarl interrupted her tired musings and the gentle sound of paws slapping into an inch of water carried on hollowly through the dank tunnel.
The gryffon approached.

"This is pointless," she murmured in a low tone the echoes could not catch and throw in their merciless way. "You might be made of iron, but for how long can even you outrun the gryffon? And who knows where or when this tunnel ends?"

Her companion nodded grimly. In a moment of unwonted candour he said, "Forgive me for mocking you these past few days. My chaffing implied that I found your conduct cowardly and strange, but..."
N waited for the disclaimer.
"... you are from another world. It is not for me to impose our principles on you. If you are not hardy or brave or wise or swift, at least you are... practical."
It was then that she realised that her critic had not bothered to lower his voice.

The gryffon stood before them.
In the infinitesimal moment before it rose to attack, N felt around desperately in her pocket and threw the first thing that came to her hand.
The ruby landed on the gryffon's wide forehead with a solid and rather dreadful thunk . Its eyes rolled up and it collapsed onto the wet floor of the tunnel.
As the ripples spread outwards towards them, her tall companion's face split into a devastatingly handsome grin.
"It seems," he said quietly, "that swift may yet be added to your catalogue of attributes. Well done."

"One does have reflexes," N shrugged. "We were lucky that the creature was so large and the tunnel so small. No no, don't bother," she added as he stepped forward to free the ruby from the bed of slime that had become its resting place.
"Any movement close to the thing- uh- gryffon might just wake it up. Let us away."

"You must also be felicitated on your disregard for things valuable," he noted.

"Mm," she said, and wished the sardonyx had come first to hand.

They walked a little further but it was becoming difficult to do so silently. The water level had not just risen but seemed to flow and ebb enough to froth softly at their feet. She stopped walking and pointed mutely at the ripples emanating from a circle around the gryffon's still body.
Both looked back to see the ruby glow bright and dark through the slime, bright and dark, bright and dark.
The ripples grew into waves. The gryffon woke and finding itself rooted to its spot, roared. The echoes flung the roar to and fro among themselves till the slimy darkness of the tunnel seemed to wobble. When light that did not seem to rock madly about her reached N's eyes, she looked around nervously. The first thing to catch her eye was a sign on the wall declaring:

यहाँ पिशाब करना मना है।

She was home.

(To Be Contd.)

Metaphorical Mirror

2010-02-19T17:46:00.003+05:30

There's so much I hate and love about fantasy. I suppose it starts with the name itself. I could carry on about the repercussions of nomenclature; I have done so, but the fact stares one in the face and does not shy away: by its very conception the idea of fantasy is one that claims only spiderweb links to the "Real World". Fantasy is thus dream-like, and in another sense, in this day and age (The Age of Reason apparently) very much akin to the Novels in an earlier age. The perusal of this sort of literature was considered to be a wasteful and thereby mostly female pastime.

Fantasy now has very tangible links to what we like to claim is the real world, but that seems to exacerbate a problem that's been growing in my mind lately. People have latched on to the idea of metaphor and just can't let go. My favourite stories (not surprising as examples of the other kind are barely present) have stories of different worlds, different lands, different Times, alternate histories. I've talked about that before, too.

Opening Doors to a magical world or Creating a whole new world, and a more recent trend of finding bubbles of fantasy, of whatchamacallit, of anything you like in our own apparently grey world still doesn't satisfy my taste. This trend seems to be quite typically British- Neverwhere, Doctor Who have the grey normal London effect- even Narnia, and Tolkien's Shire to an extent. The point though, is that all these stories except for LOTR do weave in and out of ordinary life- startlingly dressed creatures and queens and aliens and the Doctor romping through cobbled streets and histories and futures, making our lives just a little less drab. Unlikely doors lead us to twisted mirror images where all this modern hyperbole that seems to have so fatally struck us mundane humans is shaken out.
We are shown how small we are, how our world has gone so wrong, how strangely developed is that thing we call Modernity, rightly, I suppose. Fantasy exists in our world only in bubbles and behind doors and can be got to only once in a while, with some trade-off or sacrifice. This world must be sacrificed to experience the supernatural or vice-versa, how can one have both? Most people cannot see fantasy or find it anywhere; they are content with normality or resigned to it. Contemptible.
And its a bloody cynical sort of view!

We are shut off. Doors and walls open only occasionally for a price, and only special people go through it. If they are normal, they only think they are... Amazing feats, courage, loyalty, steadfastness, and confidence will be released by only fantastical events.

I don't know if the treatment of fantasy as a genre has anything to do with our being sealed off from magic, from colour and hey presto and wundabah-ness. But banning casual fantasy from consorting with practicality means only one despicable fate for the former- metaphor, and even worse, allegory.
Fantasies become synonymous with dreams. Bashed out, its generally agreed that dreams do have links with our minds, they are the expression of our repressed or pressing thoughts, they are the royal road to the unconscious- all that claptrap. Something gets lost in translation: fantasies, like dreams are treated as long-winded and fanciful and mostly unlikely metaphors.

Regarding fantasy seriously to find it lacking in seriousness, what does one do? One remedies it the only one knows- throw in elements from the world we are familiar with (or think we are) and inject seriousness into it so that it becomes a parallel world, a rippling, bright mirror to find ourselves in, etc.

The grappling hooks we use to tether the worlds of fantasy to ours' are twisting and stretching- we will not be able to hold long and it will slip away further.
Now is that fantasy, allegory, or metaphor?

If anyone has a problem with the post, feel free to provide me with an example to the contrary. I could really use it.

Ruby and Sapphire

2010-02-06T12:53:00.003+05:30

(I had deleted this post a while back for technical reasons I won't drag you into, but as those technical reasons no longer exist, you are blessed with this jewel again. Yay!)

(The fourth wife)

I wouldn't be too upset, darling. Though we all loved him here. He defined the word 'regular,' Well, you wouldn’t know, I suppose.

He used to come regular as a tide, only ordering that one whisky soda... Sometimes with ice. Sometimes not. It depended on the

story for the evening. Which wife it was- the one with the allergy or with the curse. Hm? Oh, sure! No, no darling, on me.

Olives? The one with the curse was my utter favourite. She was cursed; apparently all the daughters of her family were,

owing to some widow who had a grudge against her dead husband's sisters. So the wife, I forget which one, not the

first… Well, whichever one, this lady I speak of couldn't wear jewellery. No earrings, no anklets, not even a brooch,
poor, poor woman. All manner of evil things were promised if she wore a gold button! A ‘modern’ girl, she didn’t
really er- believe, but one can't help take death threats, even mythical ones seriously. She studiously avoided

all jewels. It made the old gentleman go mad searching for gifts for her, he said. Men have no imagination.

I’m not telling this well. Seems I don't have the old man's gift of narrative. Well, one day she ran out of

her house in such a hurry she forgot to pin down her hair, (the old gentleman was shocked by this
lapse in her) but grabbed her hat and left. The wind whipped off her hat, her hair flew about her
face: she couldn't see her way. She nearly came under the wheels of a car, which screeched

to a halt only just in time. The lady driving the car was concerned and seeing his wife's
plight, pushed two of her own hairpins onto her hair. She looked to be a wealthy lady.
Blessing the wealthy lady's kindness she crossed the street, no longer worried about

her tardiness for her appointment. She bent down to pick it up, and waved to
her husband, our friend, but when she put the hat on, it was extremely tight.
The old gentleman said he saw her trying to put it on, and then remove it,
hurriedly, confusedly. She put it on again, and again took it off.
The old gentleman just watched, from the window. She stood
stock still and in the morning rush, somebody bumped
into her. She fell again, her hat in hand. She

got to her feet, walked away and
the old man never saw her again.
Alive, that is. Close your mouth,
darling. Her colleagues said that
the whole day, she had seemed
a little nervous, especially after
having been to powder her nose.
On her way home the lady was
robbed. But they didn't find
any jewels on her, and
killed her. Desperate,
when they found
two bejewelled
hairpins upon
the lady's head,
they tried to pull them off.
But the pins were so tightly ensconced
in the lady's hair, that they gave it up as a bad job and ran.
The old gentleman said that he still had the pins, having got them valued.
One little ruby, and one tiny sapphire. I think he probably pawned them for more drinks.
That is, if the story's true, and you and I both know better than that! But you mustn’t grieve, darling. He was old
and lonely. And he told entirely apocryphal stories to get free drinks and speak with ladies! But I do miss him. And his wives.

The Lay of Yashodhara (in the vulgar tongue)

2010-02-05T22:34:00.009+05:30

(Inspired by Steven Moffat's 'Blink'- Doctor Who)

PART ONE

PART TWO- LASTAR THE LIZARD

Yashodhara picked her way carefully down the stony and stinking mountain path. The flush of her recent victory had long since passed and her fatalistic action in choosing the peak of the mountain for her quest seemed just a trifle foolhardy now. She did refrain from wearing her lewd gold belt. Dashing it might make her look; confident and daring, but dragons, she knew could smell gold. She patted her knapsack absently. It was to be hoped that the rough canvas would dull the scent to some measure.

A dreadful scream rang out from somewhere far above, giving Yashodhara pause. As the mangled voice slowly faded into a cough, she located its source. It seemed that what had now become a sickening gurgle emanated from Widget the Wyrm's lair. The very air reverberated with an emptiness that the passing of a great and ancient creature can leave behind. The emptiness was quickly filled thickly with the baying of great numbers of dragons. She crouched down behind the remains of a large knight propped up on what had presumably been his own lance, but to her relief no dragons emerged from their caves. Only stopping to peer here and there at the titles engraved above the various Mouths of Doom and to avoid crushing the odd skull (she was resigned to rib cages now) Yashodhara made haste. She flitted past Fidget the Fyre-Wyrm's abode and walked briskly to Anastamas Aerefree's cave entrance. But she did not reach that estimable dragon's rather windy tunnel.

For a Voice spoke to her, so loud and rumbly that it took several moments for Yashodhara to realise with some relief that it was not just echoing in her head and scrambling her mind; the whole mountain shook, and the bones and boulders skittered and scattered.

"I see you, Yashodhara," it said.
"I don't," said Yashodhara, bluntly.
"It is not needful that you should," it said. "I am now King of Dragon Mountain."
There was a pause. Yashodhara scried for the appropriate thing to say.
"Erm... Congratulations?" she ventured. She looked this way and that to catch a glimpse of the mighty creature who had obviously done poor old Widget to death.
"By what name are you known, King?" she asked.
"I am King Lastar the Lizard."
"I humbly beg audience with the king. A visible one, if you please?"
"As you wish," it said and appeared suddenly before her.

Lastar the Lizard certainly beat old Widget hollow in terms of appearance and general mien. His scales glittered silver, and his wings gleamed. And yet. And yet...
Yashodhara realised what was bothering her about the new King. Despite his blinding appearance, Lastar the Lizard seemed almost as old as Widget the Wyrm had been. Somehow, she had expected his successor to be young, hale, and yet here and there in hardly perceptible patches frost touched the lizard's scales. His eyes were pale.

"I wish to make a transaction with you." the dragon said, somewhat unexpectedly.
"What do you want of me?" she said, her voice quavering. Dragons almost never initiated a transaction. They hardly ever cared for or desired human goods, or for that matter permission to take goods which did strike their fancy.

"I want your time," Lastar said simply.
For a wild moment, Yashodhara expected him to start handing out surveys.
"Er, okay?" was the best she could come up with. She wondered if the Lizard knew about the more than suggestive gold belt she had won from the late King of the Mountain.

"I need time, Yashodhara."

All this talk of time, it made her think of old Widget. Not that she knew all that much about how dragons aged, but he hadn't seemed to have all that much time left anyway. In terms of the dragon's notion of time, wouldn't waiting for him to pass naturally have been rather easier for those with ambition?

"You are silent, Yashodhara." the dragon prompted.

"Only surprised, your majesty," she replied. It was time to gather her wits. "I expected a demand for gold or some such valuable item."
Lastar chuckled. Was it her imagination or did the chuckle turn into a wheeze?
"Is not time valuable, Yashodhara?"
It did not take our reluctant heroine long to catch the import of this statement.

"Dragons do not just lust for gold, then? The legends are not wholly true?"
"The legends mean jackshit," Lastar snapped. "Gold is pretty. Gold tastes nice. We might wax fat on gold, yet eating time means we'll not grow old. Does this convey anything to your puny little mind?"
It did. She also gathered the impression that Lastar was growing a tad impatient.
"The air that trembled just now..." she said slowly. "Did you steal the late king's time?"

The kings pale eyes shone wrathfully. "No." he said shortly, then added reluctantly. "The old bugger tricked me. I would have stolen the few measly decades he had left, but he sensed my coming and slit a fold of his belly. By the time I killed him, most of his time had already bled out, wasted."
Yashodhara waited. The old Lizard obviously needed to vent. She suspected that the young lizards would be too spry and dangerous for the new king to attempt to steal time or anything else from them. Lastar the Lizard was desperate.
The dragon shook his head. "Clever old bastard."
Yashodhara wondered if they had been friends. "Do you mean to kill me then, King?"
The dragon was not one for mincing words.
"Yes."
Yashodhara attempted not to quake.
"Your whole life would not measure up to half a decade of my own. So I am afraid I must kill you."
She appreciated the delicacy with which he framed his intention.
"Why have you not done it yet?" she asked stonily.
"Why, I am King of Dragon Mountain! The ancient laws require a show at least of a transaction for any item, be it gold or time. As King," Lastar said grudgingly, "these laws have a stronger hold on me. The bargain must be struck. You agreed when I asked for your time."
Huh.
"So I may bargain my time with you?"
"You just did. I asked for your time. You acquiesced to my request."
The dragon's head dipped with the presumable intention of gobbling her and her time away.
"WAIT!"
The dragon paused infinitesimally.
"Let me bargain my time!" she said insistently.
"Not the seventy odd years you carry amounts to a fleeting moment of my time; there is nothing to bargain."
The dragon really must be desperate, Yashodhara could not help thinking.
"I can bargain not this life but another!"
"You cannot barter another's life, you bloodthirsty child!" the dragon snorted.

Well, that was a bit thick.

"I am not of this world," she said impatiently. "I was arbitrarily placed here. I belong in Delhi. My true self exists there. I'm a random figment sent here for silly- ass quests and what not. Eat me if you like, but a few years are minutes of her time."
Lastar the Lizard looked deep into her, much like Widget the Wyrm had.

"How much will you give me?" he hissed.
"Four minutes," she said promptly. "Exchange rates, you know."

A large dragon tear fell with a soft plop on her leather jerkin.

I wore my coat with a flourish. I was late but I couldn't help it, I was rather proud of it. Swirling in front of the mirror I saw these dull red stains at back from the improbable angle over my shoulder. I had to leave in fifteen minutes!
I spent half a bloody hour attempting to rub it off, then I had to give up and run for the auto, cursing the time lost.

Yashodhara wiped it off, a little annoyed.
"Alright. ten minutes."
The dragon lifted a suggestive claw.
"Half an hour then!"
Lastar the Lizard idly flapped a wing.

"You wouldn't believe it! It was so windy a tree fell. And guess where. On a fucking traffic light. Yeah. Of course the bloody cops made it worse. I wasted, like, two hours there."

There was a slight breeze. She waited a few moments. Nothing seemed to happening. Yashodhara was suddenly very tired. Quite recklessly, she yelled out.
"Can I go now? Have you taken whatever the heck you wanted?"

The dragon looked at her and grinned.
"Not quite yet," he said and bent down and and gobbled her up and stretched in one fluid motion, lewd gold belt and all.

Easy come, easy go, I suppose, Though I had wanted her to be a more enduring character. She had become a little irritating, actually. Unconvincing, even to me. Sad. Waste of time.

Lastar the Lizard, new King of Dragon Mountain surveyed his kingdom and spied a lone adventurer walking steadily up the mountain slope. He waited and smiled an unexpectedly youthful smile.

Capable

2010-01-29T23:42:00.004+05:30

So, since I've been keeping the last few posts fairly impersonal, in a manner of speaking, so I thought I'd update the internet with a little dose of my life recently.

I'm rather sleepy, so this post will most likely be fairly arbitrary. I spent the past few months in Rajasthan, September to December. It was wonderful. I don't know whether I proved anything to myself or whether I proved anything to anybody else. I do know it was necessary to try to prove it to both parties.
Rajasthan had no home comforts, except for the fact that we didn't have to cook. Auntie downstairs took care of that, and if I have always been averse to upma, kaddu, gatte, tinda, tori, pattagobi, and phool gobi, this fact wasn't allowed to surface. The backache from scrubbing my clothes vanished pretty soon. My popularity with both teachers and students gave me something nothing and nobody in Delhi has ever given me. I'm not sure how good I was as a teacher.

There were days where I had brilliant ideas and implemented them and the kids were smart, and there were days where I was nearly brought to tears, and once actually smacked a kid on the back of his head for insolence. He cried, and lessons were learned both sides. I was horrified with myself, because I had hit out of anger, not reason. Anyway, most days were mediocre, I guess, a few victories, a few losses. The best thing about Rajasthan was the peace, and the spectacularly liberating knowledge that nobody knew me there. They didn't know I was incapable of doing practical things, like putting covers onto comforters. They didn't know, like everybody around me, that my Hindi was terrible. They didn't know, so I could speak it without embarrassment. That was it, I guess. I do things so much better, when I'm not pressurised to. Life in Rajasthan was peaceful. No yelling, no booze, no cigarettes, only dust and stars.

I've got a job in DLF now. Teaching little slum / not so well off kids. This requires me to stay in an apartment nearby, which is pretty brilliant. I share it with a sort of aunt figure, who's out the whole day so, I'm pretty much left to my own devices.
It's early days yet, but I'm enjoying my ivory tower. It's on the 10th floor and I walk up and down it once everyday. I just wish I was more capable: I don't have my act together yet, and it seems that everybody around loses no chance to remind me of this. I'm distracted and slow when asked to do something, and this is even more irritating as I see myself in the most infuriating child in my class, who refuses to learn, though she can, her stubbornness wedged firmly in the words "nahi aata!"
I haven't ever taught nursery before, so I'm still new to the game (today was my sixth day) and I really really hope I get better, as the situation shows far too much room for improvement. I can't cook and I've not yet taken a Haryana bus. I'm not sure how to begin either. But I'm going to start this Sunday.
Man, what a dear diary entry. I came home after spending three nights, and four days out. It was quite touching to see that the family, which includes my maid, welcomed me fairly heartily. But comfortable though one's own home may be, it's rather a comfort to realise that my little DLF apartment, which has mould in the coffee, plastic plates, a strangely stocked kitchen and doesn't have power backup is where I can be actually happy. Afraid, nervous of doing everything wrong, alone, but happy.

Ah, needed to get that out. So much better now. Due to my tired (been travelling the whole day) and drowsy mind, I didn't say the point of the post particularly clearly. When do I ever, right? The thing is. I'm not one of your capable people and these days I seem to be constantly reminded of this, if not by friends and family, by myself. And it's really getting a little old.

that a the that that that's all, folks.

Coming Soon:
Yashodhara and the Dragons, Part II

The Lay of Yashodhara (in the vulgar tongue)

2009-11-29T09:48:00.017+05:30

(Inspired by Tolkien's Farmer Giles of Ham)

PART ONE- WIDGET THE WYRM

Yashodhara did not like where she was, and it must be admitted that she was in an unenviable position. It was an advanced hour of the night and she had no red shoes to tap, no magic dust to sprinkle and no lantern or wardrobe to locate. How was she to get out of here?

Bare rocky stinky mountain slopes littered with hands- some just bones, most decomposed at varying levels, and all seemed to be clutching something when they died. This then was her task. Trudge her way up Dragon Mountain, and buy at least one gold article.
The question of the hour was, buy with what exactly?

By all the ancient laws Yashodhara had ever heard of and been told pointedly by the people who had selflessly shoved her into this noble quest over and above their higher- ranked selves, the dragon wasn't actually allowed to kill you if defeated at his own game. Yashodhara might be new at this, and new to this crazy land but she was a 23 year old Delhi-ite and therefore a cynic. Would the dragon's stomach be a stimulating auditor when she posed this argument?
You were allowed to purchase one item from a dragon's hoard, in exchange for something of equal value. That was the law, but it had a considerable amount of room in it for poking around, for as is widely known, the dragon's lust for gold is not easily quenched and questions of interchangeable value were really rather ticklish.

Armed with these encouraging thoughts, Yashodhara dragged her feet slowly and not particularly steadily up the winding mountain path. Various dark caves boasting the seductive glint of gold within dotted her journey, but if Yashodhara was going to lose her life for a gold item she really didn't care very much for, she was going to do it right at the top. With style, thank you very much.

So she reached the peak, looked around and before long saw a cave. Next to it was scratched in flameboyant runes: Tresspassers will be prosecuted (and how!) and By Order of Widget the Wyrm. Yashodhara knocked politely then ventured inside. Piles and piles of gold sat there, neatly organised into chalices, goblets, sconces, jewellery categories, crockery and cutlery, and crowns and sceptres and so on.

"Helloooo?" Yashodhara called. She eyed one of the chalices but wasn't silly enough to risk grabbing an item and rushing. This was Dragon mountain. It was useless to hope that Widget the dragon was off to the beach on his winter holiday, for even if he was, there were plenty more dragons on the way down who would very kindly take the weight of it off her.
"Yoohoo!" she called again, and could hear her voice echoing down and down and down and down and down.
She heard a noise like a knife being swung round and round in the air with a string.
Swish swoosh swish it went.

Yashodhara was no expert but Widget the Wyrm looked old. Its scales looked tarnished, its eyes were bloodshot and hair stuck out of its ears.
He shuffled into the room as the limited space of the doorway did not allow him to spread his wings, and looked enquiringly at her.
"I've come to collect one gold item on behalf of the King and Queen of Midha," she said bravely, sticking her chest out.
The dragon looked at this interestedly, and blushing, she put it back in.
The dragon nodded slowly and said in a voice like 50 wooden chairs being dragged across a floor, "One gold item... and what do you have for exchange?"

Yashodhara drew a long quivering breath. The dragon's eyes might be bloodshot and slightly filmy but they were large and yellow and one glance read her, took her in, and absorbed every little bit of her history.
Well, what bloody nonsense. How could one over-the-hill dragon read her history in one glance and even if he could, would he even comprehend it? In fact, now that she thought about it the whole scheme seemed a bit of a crock, and she was damned if she was going to sacrifice herself for some two-bit King and Queen who didn't really even rule their own kingdom.
Yashodhara drew another breath.
"For exchange," she said boldly, "There's me, and two salt and pepper shakers that look like ghosts embracing. They're made of enamel."

The dragon, as well he might, looked confused. "You and two salt and pepper shakers?"
"That's right."
"Alright," the dragon purred, and an evil smile curled his wicked face. "Which item do you choose for such a price?"
"I want the golden helmet there, that chalice with the emerald and sapphire inlay work and I'd like the golden belt with the lewd designs carved upon it."
The dragon considered this. Yashodhara looked around and added, "Oh and that golden peacock with the ruby eyes! I'd like that one too."
The dragon weighed her with its own topaz eyes. "You want all these riches," it asked in its deep and rumbly voice, "For so little?"
Yashodhara waited expectantly, and the dragon, riled not to hear any defense of the items she promised, continued with a small snort.
"Do you really suppose you can play some ill-conceived game of riddles, my child? And this with I, oldest of living Dragons, the King of Dragon Mountain?"

King of Dragon Mountain- Widget the WYRM? Yashodhara thought critically, but said, "No game. I see an impressive pair of scales in the far end of your cave. Would you care to measure me and the two enamel salt and pepper shakers' worth against the gold I have chosen?"
"No." said the dragon.
The scales, it seemed, were purely for ornamental purpose,
"All right," she said. "How much would you ask for the items I have expressed my fancy for?"
Large eyelids half closed, and the dragon began to move slowly towards her. It was all the answer she got.
"Okay. How much would you give me for the sum I named, one virgin girl? I'll tie myself to a rock and everything. And the two salt and pepper shakers actually have salt and pepper in them!"
The dragon was uncomfortably close now. King Widget the Wyrm sniffed her and said coldly,
"You are not a virgin."

Yashodhara smiled ruefully. "I admit the golden peacock was a stretch. How about the chalice and the lewd belt? Lets forget the helmet?"
The dragon snorted. Delicately wiping her face with her sleeve Yashodhara said impatiently, "So just name your price for the lewd belt and the chalice. How much for them?"
The dragon considered a moment and said, "Your polluted self, these salt and pepper shakers you have spoken so much of and sixty gold sovereigns would be the least I could let my cherished belt and the chalice leave my side for."

Polluted self!
Sixty gold sovereigns!
Yashodhara couldn't achieve a snort but her "Hah!" had as good an effect. Before she could help it, "Theek bolo, bhaiya!" slipped from her mouth.

This is probably the moment to mention that dragons are multi-lingual creatures.

"Bilkul theek bola."
Yashodhara took a few seconds to adjust to the bizarreness of it all.
"Belt pe scratch hai. And the chalice has three sapphires missing."
"I will go down to thirty gold sovereigns, and of course yourself and the salt and pepper shakers, of course."
"Bilkul nahin."

Outside the sun had opened its eyes and the sky had churned itself into many interesting colours. Distant roars could be heard. Dragons all over the mountain were awakening.

"Ten gold sovereigns, myself, and the salt and pepper shakers for both," Yashodhara continued quickly.
"Kya bol rahe ho! No no!" the dragon said, shaking its head emphatically; showing enthusiasm for the first time in the exchange, Yashodhara noticed. "I'll give you a last special price. Just for you. Twenty five gold sovereigns, your impure self and the salt and pepper shakers."
Yashodhara straightened and stiffened herself. This impure stuff was starting to irk her.

"There are plenty more shop- uh- hoards around. Thank you, bhaisahab."
She walked slowly towards the entrance.
Another step.
She was almost there.
She could resignation behind her.
"Kitna denge?"
Without turning around, she said, "ten gold sovereigns and the salt and pepper shakers, and I'll take the belt."

Yashodhara carefully put down twelve gold sovereigns and the salt and pepper shakers, and took the belt from its loose place on the pile. She had chosen the item closest to her. She was congratulating herself on her wisdom in not mentioning the gold sovereigns until the real bargaining had begun, and had let the dragon say it first, when the dragon reached out a talon to rake in the sovereigns and salt and pepper shakers. She braced herself, but the dragon did not do anything but bite each coin and swallow them one by one.
Yashodhara did not ask for her change, but walked briskly out.

She breathed in the crisp air, tainted pink by the early sun, and looked down at the caves that dotted the path down. White and green and yellow and red and violet and grey dragons stretched their wings and dismembered animals caught at dawn.

"Sixteen to go," she breathed and began the long climb down.

Inside the depths of his cave, Widget the Wyrm smiled a little smile (for a dragon), pulled up his coat of scales and scratched a rather hairy stomach.

Croak. I have a Star in my Throat.

2009-11-22T20:14:00.008+05:30

"Loneliness is a strange thing" she said. "I wonder if you find it in other worlds. I wish I could find out."
Steven yawned and decapitated a mouse.

That evening the first star to come out after the sunset fell down and forced itself into a cavity it saw in one of her teeth, unbeknownst to her.
That night, she ate maggi and threw pieces of sausage, oregano, and sliced some cheese and garlic into it.
And she breathed in its smell, and she spat it out for it was too hot.

A flash of blinding light, then it was gone.

Disoriented and confused and wondering if she had imagined it, she sat down and blew on the fork with the swirls of yellow and brown, changed her mind, and waited for it to cool fully before she began. She finished and stretched, and Steven who had regarded her intently throughout her meal, perked up his ears and looked on with interest.

A flash of blinding light, then she was gone.
Miles and miles of winding yellow (no bricks, though) road lay before her, and as there was nothing to do but walk, walk she did.
She made many friends: mostly male, all of whom seemed to remind of her of someone she had known long back but had never thought that they would be interested in speaking to her. She fought with some of them and walked on. Smoke seemed to rise in all directions in the distance. She considered kissing the fox then was shocked to find herself thinking such a thing. And then the fox looked long at her, and she ran to him, but he melted away before she could reach him.
And then she was alone and she walked on and on and on, and enjoyed the sights and ate legs of chicken that seemed to pop up quite naturally, and she cried a little, and walked on and on and on forever.
Until she was back. She tossed a chicken leg quite casually to Steven who shrugged and rubbed against her.

She thought a bit before she slept and for breakfast she carefully picked out an apple, took out some orange juice, and had baked beans in barbecue sauce and toast, and parantha and dahi as a second course.
A flash of blinding white light....
And many days later at exactly 4.30 in the morning, she sat up and coughed.

Somewhere else, at precisely 4.28 in the morning, somebody sat up from the dream he had just had and shook his head to clear his head, and thought, "I wish people didn't keep naming me. I've got it all confused. Which one am I supposed to be with who? And when?"

That morning, the star crept into his a line near his left eye.
He was preoccupied when he walked into the office and just nodded when they grunted morning hellos so he didn't notice that they all called him by his name, not the office epithet they had awarded him recently.
He hadn't eaten the previous night or in the morning and he was concentrating on his lunch when the girl of his dreams whizzed by and said his real name twice before he looked around and stammered something smart. She smiled and then called him the name he hated coming from her. It was what she called her little brothers and diminished him entirely. He made his expression carefully deadpan, and was startled to hear her revert to his normal name.

The next day he looked at everybody he met with the same deadpan expression and was gratified by hearing his actual name said in response. Well, now he knew the secret.

A few days later, he contorted his face into such expressions! He grinned and he frowned and he laughed, and blinked rapidly with such vigour that he puzzled everybody around him so that people called him all sorts of funny names behind his back.

The girl of his dreams walked by, and he looked at her so intently that she was taken aback, and uncertainly said his real name to ask if he was quite all right.
Misinterpreting this completely, he turned his head to wipe away a happy tear and a star.

It doesn't have to be a warm gun.

2009-11-20T20:19:00.004+05:30

Once in a while you have a day where you did not scream yourself hoarse at kids, or wanted to hit them, where they worked hard, and where you heard actual notes coming out when they repeated what you sang. Where your mind's on fire, and you are actually able to ad lib, and come up on the spot with a crossword about carbohydrates and things related.

Once in a while you have a day where you had a bath with hot water for the first time in a month (since winter started) and washed your clothes with the ease and speed of much practice. Once in a while you actually tear yourself from the blank screen of the computer to sit and watch the sky for that special hour when the sun dies a bloody and gory death and and the evening wears orange and blue and grey and purple and the stars come out for the party with strange music.

Once in a while you rewatch Pirates of the Caribbean and are actually Happy for the first time in your life, and you decide to write a blogpost about it, because generic and cliched as this post may seem, sometimes generic and cliched implies that you're happy and you really don't give a shit.

Of course, then your room-mate falls sick. Again.
But you know what. I'm Still happy.
So there.

Life's Tough

2009-10-31T16:03:00.003+05:30

This morning, life was nice. Packed the bag, ate a banana, ate a whole paratha! Did the morning rituals, sat down at my table, and did some pretty high class design work.

But there was somebody New in the Room.
One was Tall and the other was short.
The tall one leaped about the conference table waving her hands excitedly, and handing out sheets.
My boss folded her hands and tried to look subordinate to these young eager party-crashers.

Everybody else seemed to find this normal. They calmly took the sheets, calmly took the working materials, and spoke sweetly to the new comers.

Something was Wrong.
Something was terribly disturbing.
Somebody was gently prodding me on the shoulder.
I was so glad she didn't know my name.

My boss came and said, "Lokesh!"
The somebody- not the tall one, said "Lokesh!"
Somebody else came and stared down at me, and said, "Lokesh!"
And the tall one stared at me from across the table.

And they all said Lokesh!, and they all stared down at me, and they offered me crayons, and said things like, Red, Sqoo-air and Sir-kill, and Baingal, and Bloooo, and I couldn't understand WHY!!! Why MEEEE? there were a million pairs of eys staring at MEEE.

And so I screwed up my eyes and puffed out my cheeks, and opened my mouth and cried! and cried and cried and cried!

And now I don't have to do dirty nasty colouring, and now I have a toffee.

Pop!

2009-10-21T21:56:00.004+05:30

So I stopped blogging.
I've been telling myself that it's because I think I've finally hit the big time creatively, and that the two almost seemed to be opposed to each other. My blogs ended up being little itty bitty abstracted pieces of me, my moods, fears, and ideas and whatnot. But pieces, thats all they were. Fragile things.
And it seemed to me that it had become a fantasised dear diary thing, with fewer and fewer people reading it, and fewer and fewer people liking the posts, moody and moodier as they became, perhaps less spectacular? More and more waily?
So since I need to take off my head and shake it vigorously, just like I did around this time (this month at least) three years ago, hang up my dreams to dry, maybe now is a good time for a rebirth.

It helps that for the first time in my life, I'm happy with what I have, who I have, where I am, what I'm doing and who I am. So I thought I should celebrate this moment. I have an idea, many ideas spinning out of control in my head, whirring and whirring till my head aches, and I've got calcium deficiency and I have a large mysterious bruise on my foot, which makes walking painful. And I have my first day of school tomorrow- the first day after Diwali break, and those kids won't now what hit 'em. And I'm back under my starfilled sky, and my dusty litte village, and I'm incandescent.
Yay, basically.

So yes. Blogging will begin again. Wheeeee!

Cage of Gilt

2009-08-24T23:30:00.003+05:30

Just a quick one to let the blogworld know that Thalia, though creatively starved as ever, is not Dead. The bloody minded might say the same of God.
I'm not one of them.

ANYway. I've been having a disastrous week of feeling guilty about Everything. The less charitable would rightly ascribe this to far too much time doing absolutely nothing. I would reply that I tried absolutely everything to stave off the devil's workshop. I even bankrupted myself buying kiddish stationery. Colourpencils, wax crayons, colourful postits, felt-pens, and less kiddish stationery like dry pastels and A3 sheets, all to find I couldn't rediscover my artistic side, as I didn't Have one. All very lowering. I shall henceforth stick to my pencil and ink doodles. Stick figures, fantasy maps, and mehendi. Bas.

Right, so the guilt thing. I feel guilty about mediocrity. About over using the net. I saw a woman with a terrible skin problem a few days ago, at the market. Boils covered every inch of her face and I felt deeply uncomfortable about it, and felt guilty about shuddering at the memory when I thought about the misery that lady must have faced, and faces every day. My maid turned all my brand new clothes- not worn even once, into violently ugly new hues when she decided to introduce a tint of blue to them. Since the clothes were beige, orange, white, and pink when bought, my chagrin was pretty deep. So I really gave it to my maid( which is unusual for me) with the result that she nearly dissolved into tears. Immediate surge of guilt.
I feel guilty about my class trappings, my bourgeois existence, my inability to understand anything outside my little 'comfortable' world.
Is this normal? Am I doomed to be diffident my entire life just because I'm over imaginative? Yeargh!

Hrmmm....

There are KNIVES in the kitchen!

2009-08-06T23:18:00.008+05:30

I don't know if any of you have ever walked into a kitchen at dead of night, not bothered to wait for the flicker-flicker-ping of the tubelight, opened the freezer compartment, caught the can of beer that fell out with the whoof of cold mist and the bottle of water you were actually trying to get to, and whispered "Murder" due to certain trivial events that took place prior to your entry into the kitchen and under influence of the moonlight you got soaked in when standing near the kitchen balcony door.

It's a heady feeling.

....

Indianity

2009-07-06T23:39:00.004+05:30

I sometimes find nationalism in whatever strain it demonstrates itself funny. No no, don't worry this won't be more of my gobblings about names and concepts, and so on. Well, maybe a little. A lot of people, including me, tend to scoff at our fellow men. Fellow men in the sense of statements like, "Yeah, Indians have NO sense of personal space," "Biharis cannot cross roads", "That'd never work in India. Can you imagine a queue here?" and so on.

And then, when I was gasping at especially fiery chili sauce ten minutes after I'd had it, (I was also sweating but I fully blame the sultry Indian Summer for that) I met somebody who raised one eyebrow superciliously (if you can raise one eyebrow without looking supercilious, why do it at all, right?) and said, "But you're Indian!" Not only was I bugged because generally I can handle a decent amount of mirch, and she hadn't even tasted the damn chili sauce that day, but the assumption bugged me as well.

For people like us- the 'educated', the urbane, the cosmopolitan, and whatchamacallit, the issues of 'citizenship in a globalising world'- (this was the title of of a pol. science course in college- boring as hell) become so very complex, don't they? the distancing and the holding on. The what is religion, what is tradition bit and so on. So we choose which bit we can safely call Indian, or sometimes unsafely.
I can't say Hindi is my first language, much as I wish it was. I can't say I prefer Hindi music to English- there seems to be too little of the good stuff. But I take it amiss when people write down hindi words in english, if we're doing a hindi song. Especially when people quickly note down सा रे ग म as 'sa' 're' 'ga' 'ma' or धा धिन धिन धा as dhin dhin dhin dha. It just doesn't makes sense to me when people who can speak it far better than I do, don't write notation in the form they're meant to.
So that's the extent of my weak pretensions to Indianness.
This is a silly post.
I'm going to stop talking.

Our pathetic claims to I Proud To Be Indian do verge on the comedic side is all.
We are proud of such obscure things just so that we can reaffirm Indianity.

'I prefer Dhaba food to any other anyday!'
'Please; I live in India. I take autos, ok'
'At least we bathe more often!'
'You haven't seen the Red Fort!?'

I didn't say that!

That which we call...

2009-06-29T22:12:00.006+05:30

... your name? Somebody asked.
A nerve was struck.

Somebody waited.

Finally:
Erm. Which one do you want?

Somebody grew slightly irritated. Your first name would do. Or whatever people call you.

Nobody calls me by my first name. Except my parents. Or people who hardly know me.
Somebody was about to point out that this last category would fit very well, thank you, and bye bye, but decided to wait for wherever the tangent would lead.

So I guess you'd need to decide what you'd be of mine, or what I'd be to you, since I have a long list of names already, and the corresponding personalities, and unless I'm to become even more severely deranged, I really don't think I can fit in another side to me, so I'd be grateful if you'd pick one.

Somebody raised one of a pair of impressive eyebrows.

My chaddi-buddies, now an endangered species, call me by my last name. My really close and almost equally deranged friends (few and far between) prefer the first half of my first name, you could call me what my prospective love interests end up calling me- within a week of constant conversation- I am nothing less than a younger sibling to them; oh! you could call me a nice Westernised form of my name or a part of my name and for good measure, add an s at the end if making it plural makes it any more meaningful. Since a disappointingly large number find me endearing (why I cannot comprehend) they add an oo after the first half of my name, and leave it at that, leaving me at that too. Of course, you could call me nothing related to my name, but some relation of the word 'idiot'. Right, and there's a good big stock of people, who though knowing my name perfectly well, aren't able to stomach using all three (though it's usually a garbled two) syllables, and call me a variety of platitudes ranging from Oh and Hi to Er and Hey.

Smiled Brightly.

Somebody smiled back with slightly lesser wattage, laughingly chose the last, then walked away shaking one of a pair of not very impressive faces muttering, Frikkin pseudo. How hard is it to give a frikkin name?

Obviously the second last category then.

Wasted Time

2009-06-17T20:03:00.005+05:30

I spent last night reading the books I in an ideal world should never have touched after school. Colleen McCullough of 'The Thornbirds' fame, the whole Malory Towers series, the most romantic Georgette Heyer, and finally, a Meg Cabot.

But reading the silly teen comedy (I like the way she makes fun of teens even when writing for them) was interesting for two main reasons.

First, apart from the abject stupidity (in bits) of the protagonist fifteen year old girl, I got as close to the character reading it at the far and away maturer age of almost-21 as I did when I was 14. A girl who dyed all her clothes black in mourning for a generation caring only to get home in time to watch Friends, who is short, and is convinced one of the reasons she'll die early is because:
I am left handed. Studies show that left-handed people die ten to fifteen years sooner than right-handers, due to the the fact that the entire world ... is slanted towards the right handed. Finally, after a while, we lefties just give up the struggle and croak rather than try one last time to write something in a spiral bound notebook with all those wires poking into our wrist.
I I would add writing on those tables attached to the chairs that they invariably give you for exams, and being stared at when you're trying to write, or eat, and being asked the pertinent and oh-so-perceptive question, "Are you a Leftie?"

But more importantly, it struck me when reading tales of times when I was very much like that girl, that not enough had changed in these six years. I was tired of people coming back and telling me I hadn't changed at all! The fact is, all the things I hoped would happen then still haven't happened! I haven't grown up. I can't cook. I can't talk to normal people. I'm still at home. I'm still wildly insecure. I'm still alone.

So maybe I picked up all my kiddie books again because of a weird subconscious presentiment, or even a wish that I was fifteen again. Not because I like that time of my life particularly but so that all the strange wonderful mysterious things in life- college, boys, self-determination, independance were still in front of me, and I could say one day perhaps, and I'm only fifteen.
Maybe I read my teeny-bopper books again to convince myself I still had time since I was actually still that fifteen year old, not a college graduate.

Or maybe I was bored.

One Rainy Night.

2009-05-25T12:29:00.003+05:30

Somebody sneezed.
Someone played with the light switch.
Somebody went phooooo.
And none of them human.

And then of course, there's the other side.

Somebody sang.
Somebody cowered.
Somebody blew away.
They weren't human either.

Somebody danced.
Somebody croaked.
Somebody played with mood rings.
I won't say it.

The Pixie Ghost

2009-05-07T23:45:00.004+05:30

I have lost all art of story telling! Not a single plot is revolving in my head right now!

So. Hm.
How does one dredge up creativity when all one has been doing is thinking of one's future and such awful things as Life Plans?
What also is not constructive is the fact that I'm clean out of happy stories. Are you happy, World? I'm now bereft of fantasy, devoid of imagination, suffering the lack of language skills that studying history has sucked out of me by making me use such despicable tools like the words promulgation and proponent, and using sentences like this is demonstrative of what historians belonging to the Annales school call...

I decided recently that the reason I haven't been working on my stories is that neither of the stories I was writing were worth the agony. So the idea was to write The Big One in a distant future, and to meanwhile, write my little stories, and compile ideas as I'm going on.

There is a name that I'm unaccountably fond of, perhaps due to its unwieldy charm, and a character I haven't quite figured out yet, so let's get her on the road.

Ivyananaisindara did not regret retirement. It gave her time to polish her skill upon the harpsichord, and time to decide which part of her name exactly she desired to shorten for bark use. Custom had always measured her life, and custom dictated that when the dead elf was embalmed in her Tree with her ancestors, only a quarter of the name be used to denote her presence, or absence. All denizens of the forest customarily used their last decade or so to consider this ticklish issue.

Most certainly Ivyananaisindara did not rue her retirement. Her last assignment had shown that her reactions had quickened, never a positive thing in a painstakingly methodical assassin. Her knives had crusted over a deep smelly orange, and she hadn't yet thrown even one, simply tossing them in the hollows between the roots of her Tree, so that they looked like spiky ember-like jewels nestling comfortably against gentle winds.
Retirement gave her time to treasure these things, and write expressive poetry about them, more often than not referring to them as coals or stones or both in the grips of a fire that refused to go out and vent.

A quiet period was what Ivyananaisindara had grown to appreciate. The folds and folds of leaf-stained gossamer that would never flap again, tubs and tubs of spider venom, and twigs and snowglobes and moonrocks icecubes and vacuum and dog hair and what not she had brought from all the worlds she had to murder now only had a life in her file cabinet.

A pigeon suddenly whipped into the room and Ivyananaisindara grabbed the scroll from its possessive little talons. Wrongfoooted, the bird crashed into the wall thrice before beginning its flight to the end of the world to make energetic love on an air conditioner.
Ivyananaisindara stared for an instant at the unusual lettering, the violently stinking chartreuse ink, the thick calligraphy and the foreign language... it looked like a challenge.

With furiously practiced precision, the scroll sailed in a smooth arc upon the head of an unsuspecting pixie curiously fingering the lumpy glowing substance on the mounds of knives that were shortly to impale him when he overbalanced with the surprise of having a projectile thrust upon the sacred space above his face. A pixie ghost is a ghost to reckon with. But that's another story.

Ivyananaisindara occupied herself with jumbling the characters constituting her name.

I'm very very sleepy. At least I got something out.

Whorls, Words, Worlds

2009-04-09T15:10:00.004+05:30

Writing is a damn fun way of frustrating that God complex in me, I've realised. A sense of powerlessness in my life is probably the reason I turn to fantasy so readily. Much as I deplore the fact that these days almost anybody can write, and worse, almost everybody thinks they can write, and even worse, this new universe also buys the crap coming out these days- I think I finally understand why.
I was appalled watching one of those things on TV where they show you the making of a movie, in this case Eragon- a book I didn't like particularly. And they showed a clip of Christopher Paolini saying with detestable zest that he had always wanted Eragon to be a movie- just that lacking the necessary million dollar funds drove him to write a book instead. While I found this attitude fairly sickening, the fact is that a lot of people envision documentaries or movies, and end up writing a book instead. Some turn out good, some churn out sickening.
But writing has all of a sudden become insanely popular. Everybody has hidden selves to relate to the world, and everybody has an alternate universe they're (should I say we're) only too willing to share. And I suppose- grumble grumble- that it really would be a case of pot calling the kettle black for me to object.
Nyurg.
Obviously, and this is quite an enlivening thought, this shaky new world we live in has exposed us to far too much too quickly for us to handle (or maybe that's the complaint of every generation- is it pushing it to assume the fastest-paced changes are happening NOW?) and that's why so many people are turning to writing. Whether they can or not. And that's why the definition of 'whether they can or not' has become so loose, so flexible, and full of new definitions and styles.

Apart from that deep-driven urge to write out a new story otherwise you won't be able to function (which is what I think makes a true writer) I think we're all playing out a little bit of our frustrated God-complexes. (The fact that God is also something we can't take for granted anymore only adds to it.) Something that's been difficult to do since my dog ate my barbies. Can't expect the world to be your raggedy Andy! takes on another significance here!
Even the spate of superhero movies and shows is interesting in that respect, not to mention the spate of quiz taking that's rocking the homepage of Facebook as we speak. We're all looking for a superpower to call our own these days, aren't we?

So, writers of the world. We're blessed. We can freeze and turn back time. We can invent people, even reinvent people, ourselves included, and obliterate them, every last pimple. (Watch a Knight's Tale for the source of that remark.) We can shift sofas and glasses that are otherwise stationary. Unrequited love can be a career for us!

Woohoo!

Future Tense

2009-04-04T23:26:00.005+05:30

I haven't been blogging much lately. Mostly because I had nothing of grave or even slightly significant relevance to say. No questions to pose.
I still don't. I don't have a marvellous instant to relate, no shell-shocking new thought to bore anybody shitless with, and my language skills aren't what they used to be.

But I'm going to try something.

I'm going to walk out of my room.
I'm going to walk out to the balcony.
I'm going to jump.
I'm going to think about Bombay.
Further down and further out.
I'm going to fly to Bangalore.
I'm going to have an incident with a pigeon.
Hopefully it'll end in four wishes and a ride sometime.
I'm going to call the bird on it.
It's going to come, faster and furiouser.
It's going to grant me the ride as one of my four wishes.
But that won't matter.
The ride will be to a certain forest.
I'm going to make friends with murderess elves.
I'm going to make enemies, for the first time in my life.
I'm going to pick on Pegas(aur)us.
He's going to take a leg-sized bite out of my arm.
I'm going to give up dreams of ambidexterity.
And I'm going to fly in circles, flapping one arm vainly.
But I'll get there eventually.
Wherever I'm going to be.
And I'm going to do all this with my eyes closed.

In utter darkness.

The Hall Of Mirrors

2009-03-18T20:22:00.008+05:30

Part II

(Part I should ideally be read before taking on this one.)

When Aditya resurfaced from the crumpled heap on the floor he found no new bruises, only a crick in the neck from having fainted in the wrong position. He massaged his neck as he spoke warily to the person in the mirror and realised with a bit of a shudder that the person was himself. It was strange to see a reflection that didn't bubble or crackle or swish around restlessly. But the reflection was strange even after one got used to its clear and prolonged presence. And of course, it was talking.
"The first thing I have to tell you," said his reflection, "is that this mirror is adjustable- it pulls out and swivels around."
"Such things are possible?" Aditya exclaimed. "How?"
"Oh, well you reach forward and pull the lever that is out of my line of vision," Reflective Aditya said, getting caught up in the subject. He explained at length how the levers and springs operated, and then explained what levers and springs were.
Aditya reached forward and pulled the lever, and the mirror sprung out, and Aditya was about to turn it, when the Flat Surface Aditya said, "The second thing I have to tell you..."
"Wait a moment," Real Aditya grunted. "You're heavier than I thought you were."
Aditya of the Reflection waited patiently till Corporeal Aditya had, with some difficulty, situated the mirror diagonally to the wall, obscuring the corner.
"The second thing I have to tell you," said Reflective Aditya, who had had no idea what Three-dimensional Aditya had been doing, his actions being out of his two-dimensional eyesight, "Is on no account to use these adjustable facilities."
Aditya of the Flesh and Bone slapped himself.
"Why did you tell me it was adjustable then, you starshot fool?"
"You'd have found out anyway, and I couldn't tell you Not to adjust it if you didn't know it was adjustable, could I? Oh, and I'm your future self, so in the back of my mind I knew there was no stopping you."
There were many faults to find with this train of thought, and Aditya promptly did so. In admirable dedication to his duty however, he rubbed the mirror surface with his mop and soapy water while he yelled.

It was not long however, before Future Aditya said testily, "Do you want to know why you shouldn't have turned the mirror, you brandied ass?"
Aditya of the Present was now intent upon his squeaky activity, but found time to say:
"Why did you have to tell me? You could have lied, or something, couldn't you?"
Future Aditya was sick of this. "Forget assigning blame for now. The reason why you shouldn't have turned me is because, within a minute, my new angle would generate another reflective surface."
Sure enough, while Aditya had been busy in his work and recriminations, a bare patch of the wall had formulated into a funny Side Angle Aditya, and all of a sudden, there was a crowd.
Side Angle Aditya regarded him from the corner of his eye., and grinned from the corner of his mouth.
"The first thing I have to say to you," said he, "Is: you handsome devil, you."
Aditya looked at his Angular Reflection carefully. "I wish I could say the same," he said, but with a smile indicating that the comment had not gone unappreciated.
"Don't listen or speak with him, Aditya!" his Future Self grated. "This one's trouble."
Aditya hoped that his future self was lying about being his future self. He didn't want to end up like that. Sure, he was ambitious and paid attention to his duty, and didn't care for those who didn't but he wasn't a prude. And he would never, never be fat. He didn't eat that much, surely?
He began to clean the new mirror, and regarded this Three-Quarter Aditya closely, as he scrubbed away on the cheek. No, the darkness on his chin wasn't dirt. It was the closest he could get to a beard. He had tried once to have a beard and had nearly been laughed into hiding. He'd certainly never go back to that miserable town. He also did not approve of the jaunty cap his Sidey Self was sporting.
Corporeal Aditya wondered whether the cap looked misbalanced to him due to the funny angle, or whether it was worn irregularly. He looked for the lever, and found it.
"Do you pull out too?"
"'Course I don't," mumbled Angular Aditya, now with a cigarette that Real Aditya could just see the tip of. The cigarette was contained in the mirror surface, but the smoke issuing out of it billowed out in spirals and clouds.
"Then why do you have a lever?" asked Real Aditya.
"Fer show."
Aditya pulled the lever.
"Of course it works!" shouted Real Aditya indignantly. "You said it didn't!"
Sidey Aditya shrugged. "I lied."

Real Aditya's eyes grew wide in horror.
Trying to comfort himself, he said "Well, I just pulled you out, I didn't turn you!"
"The view's changed though, hasn't it?"
"Oh, you utter ass!" Future Aditya groaned.

The new two-dimensional Aditya was bigger, and cloudy. Larger than Life and Cloudy Aditya was vague and had no first things to say to the Real Aditya. Attempts at conversation proved abortive, as all Larger and Cloudy Aditya would say, dreamily, in reply to questions regarding his identity was, "If the 'I' is allowed to be a process, change gets built into the system. Good and bad, like and dislike are among the first to go, if 'I' becomes a process..."Appalled at what he'd done, and a little annoyed with the new Aditya, (he hadn't the time to be philosophical these days, his nights were spent snoring and not pondering the deeper questions of Life) a query occurred to Aditya. He turned to the Future Aditya.

"How are you my future? I understand the others. That's simply a viewpoint, and the personalities match. But how are you my future self?"
"Because I'm smarter, and I know every step you're about to take," said the Debatably Future Aditya
"No, you don't. And you're not."
"Of course I do. I didn't stop you, because otherwise I wouldn't be around," Possibly Future Aditya improvised wildly.
Present Aditya considered this.
"No, that doesn't stick. Its an after-the fact kind of justification."
"Oh fine, fine. I was lying. I'm Aditya from the Past. Since I came about at a specific point in your history- you're Present, and I'm Past. Because I'm stuck in time- in the moment I was created, I evolve slower than you... So perhaps I'm Present and you're Future Aditya. Whichever way, it was depressing to think I'd end up being you. So I lied. Or didn't think it through clearly. So what made you ask? Did you figure all that out?"
"No." said Real Aditya, relieved. "I just didn't want to end up here."

He whistled to his mop and soapy water, and walked out. Trying to get his bearings, he walked up and down the corridor and returned to the door he had just closed behind him. His back to the room he had just walked out of, Aditya cursed. He slapped his thigh and uttered a line of words so filthy that nearby elves thought better of crawling into his eyes and ears and creating havoc in all his bodily functions.
For opposite the bare doors stood a splendidly ornate and arched doorway. Aditya reached into his pocket and sprayed the doors with the deep red liquid, and stopped when the letters (Enter Stranger...) of warning began to appear.
The doors unexpectedly opened, and Aditya stared Imtiaz in the face.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, mildly surprised.
"You told me to clean the Hall of Mirrors," he replied with gritted teeth.
"Oh? Oh... I see. I'm sorry. Well, that was a bad day. So much to do, I was splitting apart. Maybe an elf crawled into my brain," she shook her head ruefully. "I'm sorry. I don't think you're ready yet. And I'm done!" Speaking more volubly than she ordinarily did to a novice, Imtiaz went on. Maybe it was the strange look on his face, but she couldn't help justifying herself further.
"In fact, the task wasn't actually to clean the room, it was to isolate a faulty mirror. The Third Apprentice's Assistant told me, in fact. It was something in the nature of an experiment, and it ended up multiplying. So that was my first task, and then I cleaned up. I put it in a horrible old room, in a place no one would dream of looking" (she looked suddenly stern) "and I'm not going to tell you where, so don't look like that, Aditya. It's a ROT now. You haven't reached quite that level. Now please call your soapy water back from mine, and tell him not to seek beyond his station!"

Out of Focus

2009-03-11T20:09:00.004+05:30

The fact that I'm spending a lot more time on the chhat with my glass of cold coffee, watching the crows and pigeons taking their morning and evening rounds and that I keep looking longingly at my curtain to wrap myself around in and be lost to the world in, despite the smell (they're tough jute-y curtains and attract dust like nobody's business) is a clear indication that the mental breakdown is beginning.
And I'm feeling depressed and lost and weird.

I guess its the transient nature of the past three years, and the complete contrasts college represents to me, now. I've been PART of something, music societies and choirs, the history dept, sharing victories and losses and madness and running away from teachers and peeking around the corner, and now I feel part of nothing.
I came with this bright eyed hope of making new friends, who'd chill on my chhat with a beer and a guitar, you know? Confident that I was this friendly person, who made for that kind of thing, and I'd never got, because, well, one excellent reason was that none of us knew how to play.
And what's bugging the hell out of me is that I made a lot of friends in college. And I made no friends in college.
Well, that's an exaggeration. I've made some really good friends in college. But there's a catch.

What is it about me? What is it about me that such extreeeeemely different people seem to be friends with me? This, even in school. And what ends up happening to me is that everybody ends up getting their own separate little groups of friends. Everybody has that core bunch of four or five somehow or the other, and I'm the only idiot who's leaping about with one really close friends with EVERY frikkin group in the world. Musically Oriented, and Not, Insanely Intelligent and Not, Of My Age, and At Least Three Years Older, Those Who Carry Handbags and Those With either a Jhola Or Bagpack, Or a Scruffy Wallet and Phone in Hand and Pocket.

I feel lost. I feel that everything is like that in my life. My brain works like that. Tidbits from here and there seems to be how I function. Which is why I can blog these days, but can't write a decent word when trying to write that full-fledged book. Which is why I can find anybody to hang out with in college when I'm vela, but when it comes to Making A Plan for Saturday Night, it becomes a tad difficult. How I can sing a stanza from a jazz song and sound brilliant but fall apart when it comes to the real deal.

Well, its getting old.

A Little Rusty

2009-02-23T22:44:00.006+05:30

I've not done this for a while.

*peeps around nervously*

I've forgotten whether music inspires me or distracts me.

...

Ivyananaisindara leaped down from her branch in a rather graceful arch until the ground announced its appearance just when she was really getting into the mood. She didn't do too badly considering she hadn't done the 60 foot parallel dimension jump for nearly a whole decade but she couldn't help peeping around nervously to check that nobody had seen how out of shape she had become. In only a decade, too!
She did carefully swivel her head all the way around and make doubly sure that the spot of moss that had taken root was sufficiently hidden in the folds of her wing. The moon glinted darkly upon each pane of the gossamer sheet, but as much as it glowered its malevolent gaze could not spy out the dark green spot and and Ivy rested satisfied.

She got a severe jolt when she saw a dog walk on all four paws, until she remembered the parallel dimension detail. Things weren't too out of place in this one though: the dog did take a paw to doff his hat (a rather messy suede affair, but then the Beagles were not renowned for their style) at her, and when he joined the Dalmation (who picked up his cello), the Anteater (who was known for his style), and Sir Stickleback (who picked up his triangle with a little difficulty) he played his famous Fiddle, and this he was famous for.

Ivyananaisindara walked past their catchy rendition of Blue Moon.
She had forgotten whether music distracted her or not.
She heard a rustle behind her, whipped around, and plunged her knife into the quarry. The blood spurted out all over the musicians, who spared it one reproachful look and continued playing, except the anteater, who wiped himself off first.
Obviously not.
The rustler keeled over and died quite promptly, not making much of a fuss other than the blood. Ivy found a nearby brook, and washed off the blood. It came off quite easily, actually.
A job well done, in fact. The knife had grown old, though. Its corrugated edge oozed unfamiliarity with the blood that accompanied it. She'd have to throw it, and this she did with considerable style.

She leaped back into her world without a bruise, almost like the old days, cupped her hand under her chin, and fell asleep, looking rather sweet except for the tiny dribble of blood that ran down her cheek, as she rolled over.

Inconsequentialities

2009-02-17T22:00:00.004+05:30

What can I say? There's nothing else to me. I dare say its charming at first. Little details that I notice. Little snippets I remember. Little things I say that imply that I'm intelligent. Little stories that hint at an imagination. Little jokes. Little doodles that seem to scratch the surface of a great art waiting to be uncovered. Little talent that make you (and me) marvel at what I could do if I really let go and sang. Little things I do that show my nice personality. Little giggles that show my macabre side.

Fragile things. Wispy leaf type.

But what I've begun to wonder more and more is: Is that it? To a lot of the above, yes. I have a knack of showing an aptitude for some things, but not much more. And so I end up being completely mediocre at everything I do. Either it's the 'chalta hai' mentality, or my utter utter laziness to do no more than what I absolutely have to (a terrible life strategy, I know) or just simple inability.

I don't know.

'I take my desires for reality, because I believe in the reality of my desires'. A friend of mine had it for her gtalk status, referring to the May 1968 students revolt in Paris. (This I only found out when I commented on her status. It struck me you see, that I was the direct opposite). I fantasise my desires because I believe that my desires are only that- Fantasy. Or conversely, because I treat my desires as fantasies, I ONLY fantasise about them. Nothing constructive. Because when I take them for real, I'm reminded a little brutally that they are or were, only fantasies. So live a half-fantasy life? Expecting the worst- glass half full of pixies, stars and dragons, and half empty of love, success, and confidence?

Ladies and gentlemen, my monthly depression has officially begun.

Boing boing OR The Diamond Syndrome

2009-02-09T19:22:00.009+05:30

We study internalisation a lot at our college. Often, but not always, in the context of gender stereotypes. And how we just can't help looking at things in the way our world and society has taught despite how revolutionary we think we are.
And then the conversation moves on to a subject certain to involve the word 'post-modernism', and then I know I'm lost.
But, (I'm trying very hard to resist my usual habit of digression) that's not the point. The funny thing is, in my usual style, I applied this very serious whole internalisation concept thingie to the randomest thing.

I was watching a cartoon where this nice lady decides to use sorcery to send the heroes back to their time period. And she poured this elixir type liquid which was all ethereal and sparkly, and this is what grabbed me: as the liquid poured out it made an ethereal sparkly noise as well!
And I thought, as I often do, what sound is that? And the immediate reply my mind came up with was it's that sound of stars falling, in a very superior know-it-all, well, obviously (!) kind of way.
And then I wondered why we associate certain sounds to things we don't have any conception of. If one of you has heard stars fall, please feel free to correct me, by the way. Lines are open.
I mean, why deny stars the right to make a boinnng- boinng- boing noise when they fall? Why the zither-harp type combination?
And then I wondered if it was the effect of the whole Heavenly Bodies nomenclature. And why then, do Heavenly creatures have the harping- zitherish connotation? Maybe because when artists first conceptualised Heaven, and Angels, those were the dominant instruments? Or because when they pictured Heaven they envisioned Heaven as somewhat ancient-ish, and therefore the only instruments they could think of that belonged to ancient times were the zither and harp?

But.
But WAIT!
Angels are pictured with bugles and lutes, aren't they?
Then. What do bugles sound like? Because that 'starry' sound ain't a lute, for sure.

Ok. Whoa. Whoa. Hold on a minute.
I just asked my brother about the whole stars thing, and he said that because stars can tend to look like tiny diamonds- its perfectly logical they end up having a tinkling- little jewels falling- kind of sound.
This makes sense. What a pity.
Unless people are like me, and got so tired of the usual jewel in the velvet fall of the sky, that they preferred to think of them as either living beings, that bounce if they ever fall.

Though the 'diamond' theory goes with my point about the internalisation of even these silly things. From a young age, through nursery rhymes and popular culture, we are taught to look at stars as diamonds, which ends up being so natural to us (despite the spheres of fire 'reality') that all the ramifications and associations of the star being a diamond, apart from the visual aspect, are automatically and unthinkingly absorbed by us.

I'm going to stop this train of thought, since it was pretty much derailed from the start anyway.
But if you have any ideas on the subject, or on the off-chance you have heard a star fall, you will get in touch with me, yes?

"Gaana to aata nahin hai magar phir bhi hum gaate hain!"

2009-02-05T21:05:00.005+05:30

So this was during one of my cheerier moods. S'bout that oldest of disappointments- Disillusionment. So nothing new here. Do not expect sophisticated verse, subtle thought, or anything else for that matter.
This is a corny song. Treat it as such.

Having prepared you as best I could....

So this is where heaven ends
And polite islands begin
This is where I leave you
And trample the last dreams

This is where the guns and heavies come out
Where the star hides behind the cloud

So this is where heaven ends
And the harps are sold off cheap
The skies have got thinner
And the stairs feel pretty steep

This is where the guns and heavies come out
Where the star hides behind the cloud

So this is where the song fades out
And the silences are my fault
Yes, this is where I'll leave you
And bring this sorry tale to a halt

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Mindfuck

2009-01-31T14:58:00.004+05:30

This is one of those times. Balcony lights on. Melancholy music: check. Spider webs glinting all magically; winding round and round the three chains that cradle the plant in the air.

And the corresponding insecurity, of course.

This is one of those times I get really, really confused about whether I’m kidding myself, or not. Or which way I’m kidding myself. Am I all twisted and naturally macabre and own rights to darkness which I hide under the excessively joyful exterior? Or am I just so much more happy and bubbly than I feel I have any right to be?

And other questions of that nature.

Leaving that aside for now, Thae wasn’t sure about her destination when she clutched the dust, torn between the story of a boy and his stuffed iguana, a murder mystery with solid components of sex and violence, and an insightful look into a post-modern world where the characters ran amok in their search for identity and tore things to shreds, and spoke knowledgeably about how to remove life from real life.

When the friendly swirls of colour dissipated she narrowly avoided a hook that swam right towards her mouth. She took a deep breath she didn’t know was possible underwater, and her eyes had just got used to being surrounded and stung by swiftly flowing water when (as if to welcome her reclaimed sight) some other unfortunate girl was caught. Thae watched with horror as the girl’s body shuddered three times, and then that girl was slowly drawn up, her lower jaw hanging repulsively, her arms limply sticking to her sides. Thae wiped away spots of blood that fell from the unfortunate girls upper lip and wondered whither she had come.

She carefully snuck a peek above the water, and saw a man looking contentedly at the fish he had just caught. And the thing Thae was surprised to see was that it really was a fish. A gleaming silver fish that looked pathetically up at him from the one jewel dead eye that wasn’t smothered by the mud of the beach. The man stared down at the fish and his eyes narrowed. He removed the hook with great care, and considering it was a fish, threw it back in the river with considerable tenderness.

Thae wasted no time. She dived quietly back and didn’t find the girl waiting for her. She did glimpse heels that looked like they had grown fungus kick away from her, and a little fog of what she presumed was blood. Thae looked down at her (own) body, and gasped a little. Experimentally, she took three deep breaths and tried to make them shake their way down to her toes.

Nothing.

Still nothing.

Then she ran out of breath. And one single deep shudder obliged. She wasn’t sure if it was the water, but she did look a little more silvery than she was used to. Disregarding her nakedness, she poked her head out of the water, and then walked quite comfortably over the river to the bank. Unfortunately, the man was gone, too. And now she was cold.

Overcome by a sudden surge of outraged modesty, Thae crossed her arms and dived stomach first (with a sound closer to a thwack than a splat) squashing a beautiful purple and green rock who had begun the day in a fairly good mood- obviously not being blessed with foresight- to nothing.

Thae didn’t hear the rock scream, but she obviously felt something, because she decided right there and then that she didn’t like the world. She realised that she was wearing nothing so the dust in her pockets was obviously of no real use to her.

She stuck one hand out, and grabbed a fistful of sand. She moulded it as best she could underwater, punched a hole in it and quickly spat, moulding the sand-now-mud over it before the water could steal it. She shook it in her hands in the special way she generally saved for yahtzee. The makeshift dust did its stuff, and the swirls of colour embraced her and she them before they dissolved.

“Home sweet home, I suppose,” she sighed, throwing the cat swarming around her ankles a few of the dead fish she had had the foresight to grasp in her other hand.

Thae sat down in her deep winged armchair, lit her cigar, and looked introspectively at the cat, who looked intelligently back at her. The fish were long gone.

“What horrible world I went to, Steven, you wouldn’t believe it. Even worse than the gothic, sci- fi and Theatre of the Absurd combo. Ah well, I’m back now. Same old same old.”

Steven said nothing.

“What do you think of elves, the confused ramblings of a pissed thirty-year old golden spaniel, and a profound look at the role of eunuchs in determining national policy in a somewhat Oriental setting? One’ll fit, eventually, right?”

I’m done now. Lights off. Dreams on mute. The music’s over.

Bundle of Accidents and Incoherence

2009-01-23T00:31:00.011+05:30

So.
Get ready for this one.
I. Have developed a new, strange and weirdly flattering apprehension about myself. And my apprehensions about myself are NOT usually flattering. No indeed.

Wait for it...

My apprehension is tangential of an attitude of old. Basically it is this.
I have developed a worry that I may come off smarter online than I do in person.

Yes, yes. Go ahead. Mock me.
Done now?

Carrying on.

This is tangential to my feeling that you can't really ever be friends with anybody purely over the net. Because it's very easy to be the person you'd like to be on your blog or chat or facebook or whatever, and so its all very well to say that the other person therefore knows the person you'd like to be and therefore knows you in a different capacity than the random person who sees you everyday and has no real idea of the wonderful layers beneath the crap,

BUT

As Yeats says, 'Even when the poet seems most himself, he is never the bundle of accidents and incoherence that sits down to breakfast.'

So. I think I write well. I, yes, have a talent for digressing into inconsequential rubbish, and for unreasonably long sentences, and sometimes I think I really can't write when I look at my examination papers, a recent rude shock, but all in all, if I can keep myself from becoming pompous and 18th century British in expression, I think the writing bit's down.
And its funny. Paradoxical to the views I just expressed on the whole meeting the person to know them thing, sometimes I feel that the blog is the real me, right?

That annoying teenager feeling that nobody gets you unfortunately lingers; and the overwhelming need to thrust terrible prose and poetry down a reluctant notebook's throat; that of goodbyes and unrequited love and deeper feelings and being misunderstood and generally confused about where you're going has lasted thus far, proving to be a right pain in the posterior.
And thus we have the New Age- Ye Olde- Dear diary. Just. Not.
That intensely private piece about which you wondered about how how many copies it might sell as your posthumous novel, now has this nice convenient public sphere. And though you may disclose your name, if you choose, it still has a level of anonymity, for many read it who don't know you, and if people who do know you or claim to- There is enough other-worldliness about it to somehow be dissociated with you, it doesn't become part of your real- daily life.

So you are who you want to be online. Or at least you can make a bloody good attempt at it. I am often surprised by my intense hilarity the instant I begin typing. Ok, I'm sounding fairly bigheaded here, as though I'm a riot online. Better put perhaps would be that I'm more comedic on paper than speech. I'm not half as funny (in fact, I have a disgusting tendency to begin giggling in the most grave situations) in person. Only involuntarily.

I'm not making a point here.
Just. Well. Talking piffle.

The thought for this post came out when I for various reasons, began to think that I'm the sort of person who seems smart on the first, or second, impression, and people find out later that I don't have anything more to say, or are let down by what I do have to say... (I have met such people, mean as that sounds, and the idea that I may be one of them irked me no small amount) and this applied both in real and cyber life.
So. It made me think a bit, and when I come to a conclusion, I'll let you know.
Because this is going nowhere.

Enter Stranger, But Take Heed...

2009-01-19T20:33:00.003+05:30

Part I

Aditya looked gloomily at the mop and soapy water that skittered along in front of him. And he pontificated upon his fate as he made his unsteady way to his destination, alternately jogging or staggering wherever the occasion called for it, or running when the mop and soapy water doubled back in an 'Are you coming or what? If you don't hurry I'll wring all the leftover elves out of your system' sort of gesture. The corridors, stairs, halls and the glacier and marsh he had to cross here and there lent him plenty of time to consider the pros and cons of his current employment.

Aditya bade the soapy water stay still for a moment. It obeyed, but only just, bubbling slyly as he surveyed his reflection. He wished it wouldn't bubble in particularly unstrategic spots on his face. It was the only mirror he was allowed in the place, and that only for 30 seconds. He wondered how the girls managed. He had certainly never seen them without the usual war paint around their eyes. But the Mirror Rule was number 67 on a list where he had given up trying to learn the number of instructions, and he might just be the Lowly Assistant to the Junior Steward to the Fifth Apprentice to the Enchantress of Midha, but he wasn't fool enough to mess with the list.
He thought Imtiaz (formerly "That's Madam Junior Steward to the Fifth Apprentice to The Enchantress of Midha to you, my lad") had finally realised his potential when she offered him the chance to work the legendary Hall of Mirrors, and before she had had a chance to forget or reconsider, he had whistled for his mop and water, noted down the directions, and run. The four lousy Eternities he had spent here were just beginning to look up... of course until the mop made a break for a nearby window, and Aditya had to make an ungainly dive for it, crashing down the flight of stairs that had unexpectedly winked into existence at his feet (and now his head), but he still didn't catch it. The mop gave him a good chase, until he realised it was just a ploy to distract him from the soapy water which was boiling contentedly next to a handsome puddle that had formed near the window. Aditya whistled rather sternly for the soapy water ("It's not going to last, you really should know better by now!") and it was making its rather sulky way back to him when all the irate elves that he had woken up from his tumble down the stairs walked determinedly towards him.

He put his thumb inside his mouth to make the strange popping sounds that had been taught him, and the soapy water dove into the mop, which squelched itself over the advancing elves. A few of them managed to dodge back to their hidey-holes under the stair, but the rest groaned in
surprisingly deep voices for creatures of their diminutive size, and the hands shooting up from the little green piles on the floor promised vengeance. One day.
A little bit daunted, Aditya finally reached his destination. At least, what he thought was the destination. For the Hall of Mirrors was flanked by plain wooden doors, unpolished, uncarved, and rather termite ridden. He considered a moment, reached into his pocket, and sprayed a dense red liquid quite thoroughly all over and around the doors, carefully avoiding the doorknob.
Nothing.
He narrowed his eyes, and sprayed the doorknob. It certainly became cleaner, and bronze glistened dully, but nothing of any shattering significance took place.
This was a bit of a downer. Considering nobody was permitted to use a mirror in the stupid house, he had expected his first foray into ROTs (what they called Roped Off Territory) to be little more spectacular. Not even a message emblazoned into the door panel. He had expected at least one 'Enter stranger, but take heed, Thou must beware of thought and deed' type inscription. Considering the broom closet promised excruciatingly painful death to the invader, you'd think the Hall of Mirrors would boast a warning swearing persecution far into the afterlife.

"Learn a little magic they said." He muttered. "See how the ladies dig the new warlock in town they said. Wear new clothes befitting your status they said." He fingered his violently mauve uniform robe. "All expenses paid, they said!"
The knowledge of what he was here for seemed to press down on his mind like a death rattle. It seemed to finally sink in that he had been had.

Well, he was here to clean. So he whistled for the mop and soapy water, and hoping against hope that the bare doors were just a ruse for the simple-minded to leave the grandeur that actually lay beyond the threshold, he pushed them open and stepped in.
Aditya gasped.
The room was beyond anything he had imagined.
Below and beyond.
Aditya groaned.
As a cleaning job it was pretty elementary. In the far ( if you could call about four feet away far... Aditya certainly didn't) corner of the ordinary shaped room was one mirror, above a spindly little table. The rest of the room was utterly bare except for a thick carpet of indeterminate colour that covered the floor, and dark stains from Eons of accumulated goodness knew what that covered the carpet. Aditya hated such thick carpets. He couldn't hear the fall of his footsteps which always made him feel a little insecure.
"It does help when you faint from the surprise of hearing the somebody read your mind and talk, though."
As Aditya crumpled on to the floor, he had to agree.

Part Two shall come shortly.

An Honest New Year

2009-01-04T22:52:00.000+05:30

Alright, so I'm a little late on the uptake. And I've been writing nothing but good-for-nothing maudlin verses for what seems like the past year! Though I'll admit that the poems are merely devices, because the emotions and thoughts sound so corny, feel so raw when said plainly- I've spent my entire life hero-worshipping you, and its strange not doing so. Things are bad. Can get very bad, yet what's happening is so real and unrelenting, that I can't talk to anybody about it, because there's nothing they can say or do to save me, to solve me or anybody or anything else. Tried and tested. It all just ends in everybody feeling uncomfortable. I'm tired of hypocrisy to oneself. I'm lonely. I'm tired of being second-hand and I'm tired of being a shadow of myself and of everybody else.
My past few poems have all been outpourings of these statements. But see, stated baldly, they're all manifestations of what somebody once told me most blogs tend to consist of these days- just various ways of saying "Look at me! Look at me! I neeeeeed attention! I'm cool! You'll see that if you look at me!" Guess he was right. My stories have gone to the dogs. My writing has taken a serious turn for the worse.
There's such a thing as pouring too much of yourself into whatever you're writing, I've realised. Earlier, my stories and poems were of what would never be. What I wished for. Or just simply be reams and reams of my imagination. I always held firm that as long as you knew what you were dreaming or writing was fantasy, you were alright. Down to earth- Head in the clouds. And abrogating my own rules has brought me no further in happiness. Okay, okay, maybe I'm smarter, maybe I'm (I don't like this word) wiser. But I'm not happier, and my writing isn't either. And I'm not sure if its better. I stopped believing it was fantasy. I started thinking- let's make it real. Let's rationalise. Turns out it was only fantasy. Some things should not be messed with. Disclaimer: this does not apply to everything. Just, well, fantasy.

Wow. That turned out to be longer than I thought it'd be. Just, I thought it was about time for honesty, since my poems I think, were misinterpreted to some extent. (I mean- concerning me. Interpret the poems any way you want otherwise- that's what the poems are for). Right. So carrying on. All this verbal vomit (if you'll excuse me) is simply going towards my sentiments concerning the new year.
Lots of little things have been making me feel weirdly about this year. 2008 has been very final in many ways.
Deaths- one predictable and one sudden. An old man and a middle- aged one.
College is ending this year. 'Grown-up' time is coming. When C.V.s become important.
I'll be 21.
This is the year that confirms or destroys my faith in life. If certain things (read Book, Life, Love and Furniture) do not change, or succeed, I hereby swear Drastic changes in belief, behaviour, personality, and action. Sounds silly and vague. But it'll be time.
A friend of mine summed up my feelings exactly when she said she never knew what to say or think during the build up to new years' festivities: because there's always a mixed feeling- would this one be as crappy as the last, or were good things finally finally deciding to swing by?

So finally, finally... For my own edification, mind you, which is why I'll do it on net space rather than the Dear Old Diary of the teenage times. Maybe someone'll hold me to it this time. I'm also thinking them up as I'm writing, incidentally. So pay no attention to numbers. 7 just might be more important than 4 and 9 be shadier than 2. So.
1. Lose weight. (Perennial girl wish)
2. Grow up. Cook. Sew. Take the bus more. Earn. Be independent.
3. Be more aware of the world around me. Politically, sportsally, socially, economically.
4. Drive!
5. Do something on on the man front. Invent one perhaps. So that when people say 'how's it going on the man front", I can tell them a funny story. (I feel very Bridget Jones-y here)
6. Write that Darn Book!
7. Put such things as face cream, and oil on hair.
8. Read books the way I read fantasy.
9. Do over my room, myself.
10. Save up money for Ireland!

:)

Yes. They're ridiculous. In proper new year resolution tradition. Some traditions just Can't be broken.
So here's to.

The Wrong Side of the Moon

2008-12-29T23:16:00.000+05:30

The colours are brighter here
Dark, and stark, and clear
And I'm too tired to walk back home
I'll sit here awhile and ponder alone

I'm sorry for looking up at you now
At least I can avoid the mental kao-tao
That used to be natural, even easy
I guess you'll say there's no pleasing me.

Its not totally your fault, I know.
You were always the same old so and so,
And when the lightning changes occurred
I'd have turned away, but adulation demurred.
It used to make a pretty strong case
That such things mustn't be decided in haste.

And now romance has bid me goodbye
And proved the legends one big lie
It isn't so different, after all,
Just- one's the spring, the other the fall.

I'm dramatizing this, and there's no need.
The real culprit is just my greed
I just skimmed over your nasty side
Which you had never even tried to hide

I still love you, you know. That can't change...
But my glowing awe now seems a little strange.
Come, I've spent too much time poking around.
I guess I just had to get a clearer look at the ground.

Just A Bunch of Stories

2008-12-20T19:44:00.000+05:30

I've said before... origin myths fascinate me.
Like Egypt... When I was studying it, I was fascinated by the story- of Atum being born out of the Universal river(probably the Nile) and out of him (stories differ- the most popular is that he spat) were born Shu (air) and Tefnut (moisture). Shu and Tefnut produced two kids- Nut and Geb (Sky and Earth) and thus the world was created.
Of course the other one I like concerning Egypt is where Obelix climbs up the Sphinx and loses his grip and kicks the nose off the sphinx. And all the tourist-y shopkeepers have to knock all the noses off of the statuettes in their shops.

Then there are the famous Greek chaps and ladies who provide a whole plethora of origin myths. My personal favourite is Narcissus and Echo's story.

Narcissus was a youth quite well- endowed in his looks, and as such young men are wont to be, grew quite vain. One day he went for a walk in the mountains, and a shy nymph called Echo caught sight of him and fell in love with him. She was too shy to present herself in front of him, instead, she dogged his footsteps.
Sensing somebody around him, Narcissus called out,
"Who's there?"
Echo, too shy to reply, simply repeated his query.
Narcissus tried again. "Show yourself!"
"Show yourself!" Echo cried.
This call and answer continued till the youth became impatient, and Echo finally gained the courage to show herself. She did so but alas! Narcissus was not full pleased, and spurned her.
Echo, heartbroken, ran away, and Narcissus walked on.
Soon, he came upon a clear pool, and seeing a lovely creature gazing back at him, fell immediately in love. But the figure in the water only imitated his actions, and despite his pleads, refused to come out. Once Narcissus bent to kiss the face upturned to his, but as soon as he touched the water, the figure rippled away. So Narcissus sat there, still, and afraid to disturb the beautiful vision in the water, he pined away to death.
Echo, returning presently, found him dead. Stricken with grief, she passed away into the deepest recess of the valleys, and she pined away until she became nothing but a voice.
And where Narcissus died, there grew a beautiful flower, one that often grows on rocky grounds around clear and still pools.

Most of you probably know this one. Excuse the narrative I've imposed on it. The bare bones of it are from the Roman version of the story.

And I know if you do enough research, you'll find an origin myth for everything. Sun and moon and sky and stars, trees and leaves and primroses, and clouds.
I remember reading an Enid Blyton story where...

A pixie was assigned to paint some flowers yellow, for her Queen disliked their white blandness. She could only paint them at night, the time all other life would be asleep, so when the sky reached the right hue of indigo, she set to work with a little tub of yellow paint and a tiny brush. She laboured zealously at her task, doing only the insides first, but she fell asleep before she could start colouring the outer petals.
When the queen came in the morning to survey the work the pixie hid in fright, but seeing the Queen's delighted face, emerged from behind cover of the leaf, and grinned happily back at her.
She was appointed Chief Flower Painter, and was commissioned next to paint a variety of three petaled flowers, that came to be known as pansies. And her earlier work? They decided to call them primroses.

(Okay, I've embellished on the story a bit, but for heavens sake, I was 8 when I last read it. At least I've retained Enid Blyton's habit of addressing the reader!)

Of course, Enid Blyton is full of such tales. I remember actually thinking for a whole minute that it was because the little inquisitive bird that reported to the queen that the witch didn't wash the back of her neck, making the witch so angry that she made the bird invisible, that my teachers used to say that 'a little voice told me'.
Indeed.
But it's not just things... It's stuff like phrases and hyperbole and clichés that excite me. Like when my cousin said, "What's that got to do with the price of onions?" and my brother was "eh?"
and she explained that there was a time when onion prices were so high that that was all people would talk about, and to talk of anything apart from that subject was considered strange.

The exciting thing about origin myths though is not really WHAT they say or explain... though those are fun, but what they're legitimising. What the deeper agenda is. Why origin myths stick. Because whole generations of people maintain a silly tale- it must be worth something. So origins tales are not just fantasies, they're really our stories. They're pictures of how we think, what we believe in, what we'd like to believe in... The discourses that mould our understanding of the world are really just a million and one stories! tales!
We pick up from here and there. Some may be as fantastic as Enid Blyton's or Roald Dahl's (can one really call them?) fabrications, and some like the Yellow Emperor of the Chinese, or the Purusa Sukta hymn where the Primodial Man's different body parts generate the four varnas, or the even the most logical theories of evolution. Our search for explaining everything and its auntie in the world in some sequence or framework, however improbable or not applicable, is evidenced by people like the Social Darwinists, though that is just slightly diverting from the field of origin myths (more an explication of social development).

So, whether we like it or not, we base our lives on a bunch of stories, don't we? It all boils down to a bunch of stories. Religion, politics, society structures, caste systems... all a bunch of stories? (shoot me if you like, here) I mean, talk about tradition and convention, and precedent!

So the 'And that's whys' and the 'Every time you see a ------ you know thats' and the 'Ever since thens' all do have larger stories to tell, is all I'm saying.

My Taste for Fantasy

2008-12-09T23:44:00.000+05:30

Well, I'm sorry, I can't
Just let it all hang out.
The wind won't be so
Obliging as to
Lift me up,
And take me
Away.
From here.
It doesn't
Work like that.
See, the old cliches
Are just that, sometimes.
And every day proves some wrong
And every day breaks my heart.
And shows that the prosaic
Ones, the depressing ones
Are nearly
Always right.
And now you don't know
What to say to me.
To be presumptuous
Or to be shy; discreet.
So, no comfort there.
An awkward silence
Is not your
Closest friend
Talking.
Its drear.
So, what am I
To hang out, pray?
Will you act the part
Of the old north wind
And throw the clothes all far away?
Or perhaps, pick me up, take me
'Away from it all'
Make true the cliche?
Or will you act the part
Of the kindly neighbour
And find the stain- remover
That I never knew I had?
Ah, you tricked me, again!
My taste for fantasy
Makes its appearance most
Inconveniently.
So thank you, but
You don't have to
Play the part.
I won't call
Again.
You're free.
In your own terms.
Why muddle you
With mine?
So. Bye.
Oh, and thanks, again.
Until next time, then.
I mean...
...Adieu

When the stars go blue

2008-12-04T22:46:00.000+05:30

Sighhhh.....

Pre-exam rant coming up. Brace yourselves. It seems multiple narrow shaves from nervous breakdowns and resultant gibbering insanity have a debilitating effect on any grip I might ever have had on controlling emotional outbursts, plucking things from my memory, and restraining myself from writing long and rambling sentences.
So how am I doing so far?

Never mind.

Ok the following verse that spit up out of the keyboard all unbeknownst (is that a word?) to me arose out of the song When the Stars Go Blue, something I sang in a duet recently (recently being yesterday). It doesn't have too many words, but the few there are are fairly cryptic and (at least to me) powerful. The words seem to apply to me whatever I'm feeling at whichever moment.
Here's right now.

The stars obligingly went some shade of blue
Only a little less bright than I had asked them to

Wincing as a dusty evening crashes down on me.
I come here when I'm lonely
Where I know I can step in and out of my shadow,
The only thing that cares to follow.

Coming second seems to be the story of my life. Not that I'm not grateful. Just saying, though. I seem to keep missing by just that much.
So I'm asking. When?
No pressure or anything. But if you'd like some dates to give you a framework for a plan of action. 13th, 16th, 18th, and 20th (this December, mind you) would be good days. 9 to 12 in the morning would be fine. Do make an appearance. Several actually, would be simply brill.
I'd like to make history here.

Okay, okay. I'm begging. Are these dates okay for you? If not, when?

Please

2008-11-22T22:11:00.000+05:30

Please.
You don't have to say it.
I'd feel much better if you didn't. Really.
Just, please don't think it.
It bothers me, you see.
Not that you don't love me.
I'm fine with being second best.
(Okay I'm not- who is?
But I know I have to be with someone)
What really bothers me is you.
You're the only person I know
Who takes it to such a level.
Somebody who lies so much,
He starts believing it.

I watch you smile when you're the phone with a client.
Genuinely; it makes you sound jollier.
I hear you say you hate Muslims
And welcome them with open arms in social gatherings,
Because you like to make a Statement.
I see you livid with law- breakers in news stories.
Your definition of 'breaking' and 'bending' is suspect.
And I see you boast of my achievements
When you had tried hardest to stop them.

And the worst is, that you believe yourself.
I can't call you a hypocrite
Because you mean each contrary thing
You say as you say it!

Please. I don't...
Meditate. Take up origami.
Sketch. Sing.
Just get some lines clear in your head.

How can I judge you?
How can I hate you?
How can I waft the smoke away,
Douse the fires in the clutter and boxes
Of my stupid, stupid heart
If you alternate giving it fresh air,
and throwing pails of water?
So...

Nostalgia

2008-11-09T01:16:00.001+05:30

This is a poem, well, a song that I wrote quite a while back. It was the one I referred to in the post Climbing into The Sky.
Anyway. I thought I'd edit it... so here it is.
A little corny, but this one of my previous efforts I don't gag at, which is my usual reaction to stuff I wrote even a month ago. Or my reaction to when I hear a recording of myself singing. So, well... PreeeeSENting:

Lonely Fantasy

I walked the usual path
I turned a lonely road
I hummed as I climbed
To my lonely abode

I smiled into the Moon
And he smiled back at me
I climbed into the sky
for the whole world to see

I opened the windows
And kissed the lonely light
I kissed him long and slow
To his sweet delight

Did you hear my heart sing?

Sweet dreams, lonely fantasy
Nothing is as it seems
Love, or vanity?
Sweet dreams, lonely fantasy

Alcohol. Finally.

2008-11-02T20:08:00.000+05:30

This is something I feel very deeply about, but it's kind of close to home, so I've never really written much (openly, at least) about it. It's something you just have to see around you, resigned. But something happened recently that's made me think about it again, and wonder/ wish/ hope if something reallly can be done about it.
To protect anonymity, I'll just call people A and B and so on, as my mother has recently seen fit to distribute my blog address to the family. A slightly disturbing development.

Anyway, I recently found out an uncle A (not related to me exactly, but you know how it is) who was a confirmed alcoholic, one who turned to it because of an anxiety disorder he refuses to believe he has, recently became self harming. So on visits to their house P and Q told me how he drank through the day- like get up from bed to go to bed kinda scene. Recently this man A who was having some medicines with which alcohol couldn't mix without serious side effects, of course, couldn't keep away from the booze. Escaping his wife B's vigilance at school, (he teaches there) he drank. Some friends called B, and she hurried there. now B had recently fallen and twisted her wrist. In trying to get the alcohol away from A, her wrists got wrenched again. She tried to convince A to let a friend drive them home. He, of course, refused. She got driven home by a friend. He insisted on driving home alone, and inevitably had an accident. P has gone to help out her friend B, work out what to do with A, who after banging up the car, was in hospital screaming for alchol, and besically suffering all the violent withdrawal symptoms.

So I hear of this from P and Q, and feeling what I'm not saying to them, they said (when they individually told me the story) "You think we have a drinking problem, well, A is beyond all of us!" And that's what I just don't get.
It's like seeing that red button, you know? "What happens if I press this?" And they do it, knowing it can't have any positive repercussions, but its compulsive. And some think, if they push it gently, it won't be that bad.
Look, I'm no prude. I drink. I think to be afraid of anything is bad, because at the end, you'll overdo it. But I think (I hope!) I know my limitations. And I'm not so insensitive to despise people who can't help themselves. I don't look at them with disdain or anything, because I know there's a cause behind it all. There are deep psychological roots to this stuff. And knowing people who can't keep themselves from alcohol pretty initimately, at the risk of sounding condescending, I think I know exactly why they drink.
What I get frustrated with is the mental aspect of it all, which is all part of the weakness. The fooling yourself. Thinking that just because you haven't crossed that line, you're better and not hopeless.
Okay, the people I'm talking about, P and Q they're not as half as far gone as A. Their condition is what is called functional alcoholism. They're much more moderate in their drinking patterns, they can survive and function a whole day without drinking. Their mental -um- configurations are very different and extremely complicated.
Lets look at P. She drinks 2 to 3 whiskies every night/ evening, the measures change. She starts at about 7 or 7.30. She often drinks by halves, thinking that's better. She doesn't have much capacity, so she gets slightly tipsy after 1, tipsy and slurry after 1 1/2, slightly unsteady on her feet, and unsure of her senstences, as well as extremely sentimental at 2, and completely gone, slack- jawed and lurching after 3. She can't sleep without drinking, she complains. I won't go into why she drinks. It'd cover several pages in its briefest form. Apart from the everyday night time drinking, she drinks heavily at parties, and during the day on sunday, if she has the leisure.
Q drinks heavily, and starts by 7. He has much, much better capacity so he drinks anything from 5 to 8 large rums. Being anyway of a mercurial temperament, he swings from sentimental, fun, to irritable, to furious at the slightest provocation. If he comes back early from work he pours himself a vodka, or beer, and drinks that in the afternoon, generally Sunday.

And they look at A and pity him. And pat themselves on their backs, congratualting themselves at not being as bad as that. Q complains how P drinks too much. P and Q remember an old friend of theirs, S, who utterly ruined his life, and sabotaged his family's, by heavy drinking and gambling. Q offers S's son who also has a drinking problem (is a NON- functional alcoholic like his father) and can't say no, yet is trying to keep away, alcohol whenever he comes to his house. Q is a fatherfigure to S's son.

And that's what I get frustrated with. It's what drives me completely nuts. Utter, utter fool blindness. The damage to any common sense and empathy and heck, hate to sound preachy, but these strange off-colour ethics. There's a line. Because everything bad you say about a person, or you perceive about a person, however close or far away, you know there's something of that in you that you recognise in yourslef, right? At least there is always that for me. We've all got double standards, we all engage in hypocrisy, we all tell lies, and we've all got hidden agendas and subtext, whatever. We've all got problems, even that really sanguine looking person. It's just the lines you draw to the hypocrisy, to the double standards, and the unethical behaiviour. Exactly how much difference there si between your practice and your preach. Whatsay? And heck, if you know you're flawed, if I know I'm messed up throughly- assuming of course we're 'good people at heart,' I'm not counting the people who actually want to cause damage. That's the crux of it actually. People who think they're good people who just kid themselves, and press the self- destruct button, therefore burning everybody else entirely by mistake.
And that is my issue. I like volition in actions; how do you judge people otherwise? If they don't know what they're doing? All I'm saying, you want to screw things up, do it with a vengeance. Don't do it with these offwhite ethics, or rose-coloured glasses or whatever.

Phew, I'm done. That took it out of me.

No more posts for a month at least!

Episode 4: The Long Awaited Battle of the Forces of Good, Evil, and Tonedeaf

2008-11-02T11:23:00.000+05:30

For the prequel to this adventure, do click the label the adventures of... Most references might seem otherwise a little oblique. and due to pure pigheadedness, the planned treat of the Rajkumari narrating this event herself was made impossible. Register complaints to Christ college please.

Pandemonium didn't break loose at the announcement. Mainly because it didn't get its cue. After the shocked silence, Capt Meghanawoman and Daaku Nakshak gave the crowds no time but screamed out (in subtle harmony, so well planned was the meeting) "Legions! (Cohorts!!) Don the free headphones that were handed out to you at the beginning of this meeting! MOVE, PEOPLE!!!"
It was only the slower-minded, those more drunk out of their minds, and those who had twisted their headphones into dumbbells, or pretzel shapes who failed to put on their headphones.
Consequently, our protagonists were left with only about a quarter of their many invitees who hadn't died, or delved into a catatonic state, or melted into heaps of quivering, gibbering maniacs.
Let us here take a moment to commemorate the loss of the more notable heroes and villains.

Spontaneous Combustion Man. We remember you with sorrow. May you grace many in your afterlife with your warmth and and your spark.
Garbagewoman. We shall miss the fragrance of your presence.
Vertigoman. We hope that in the light of your superhero identity, you managed to reach a higher place. May you never think twice before taking off to fly, again.
Tentacled Monster. You never really were more than a quivering gibbering mass anyway, albeit a quivering, gibbering mass with tentacles. May the acceleration of your condition give you a higher sense of self worth.
Clone Loner. If only you hadn't been so bigheaded that you could have allowed a clone of you to steal the attention for once.
OCD Folder Man. Families the world over are now devoid of your terrorising shirt-creasing antics. Householders will no longer whisper your name in fear as they sort laundry. We will never look at napkins the same way again.

Back to the action.
The erstwhile sigher of sighs, now killer harmony singing pillar of virtue, Rajkumari Nimmy walked into the room sedately, and looked at Boy Meena who was gasping out the main tune, just enough to keep herself alive. Boy Meena shared one look with The Captain and the Daaku, and then the three burst into song.
Captain Meghana: Thisthingthatthingthisthingthatthing
The Daaku: Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh.
Boy Meena: A ring ting ting ting. A ring ting ting ting ting ting ting.
The Rajkumari: Sing a happy happy happy happy happy happy song.
A little more effort was required to continue the refrain, but she persevered.
Cloosipoosiepuddingnpie howled.
The others had no idea what as going on, but saw lips moving and feet tapping, and fingers clicking, whiskers twirling, and in an unprecedented display of quickness on the uptake, sang anything that came into their heads.

"The HIIILLLLLS are alive....!"
"bebbo bebbo be, bebbo bebbo be."
"Sing a happy happy happy happy, happy..."
"III can show you the world! Shining shimmering"
"Jahan teri yeh nazar hai..."
"Sing a happy happy happy..." the Rajkumari faltered.
"When the rumba rhythm starts to play..."
Cloosipoosipuddingnpie decided to change his name to Kujo, so as to be more terrifying.
Kujo howled.

Soon, everybody just couldn't stand not hearing what the other people were singing. They whipped off their headphones, laughed to find out what the others had been screaming, wrapped arms around each other, and started singing songs together, some in unison, some in 11- part harmonies. When a tendency to sing 'Heal the World' reared its ugly head, the singers were knocked unconscious in a businesslike manner.

The Rajkumari Nimmy had stopped singing. She was baffled. She looked this way and that, detecting a lower harmony there, a higher one here. A main melody that needed to be made louder. Which din to ignore, which one to join? She, having fallen totally silent, caught Boy Meena's eye, and with an immense sigh of relief, our Hero's Sidekick stopped croaking and just listened, her voice spent, to the din surrounding her.
Soon the meeting hall was one big, glorious cacophony of R&B, Disney music, Classical, Pop, and Rock, even rap. Though Captain Meghanawoman finallly found the culprit (it was Silky legs, of course) and condemned him to a lifetime in the interiors of the Toilet that Flushed People into Middle- Eastern Countries.

And so the day, the world, along with the one who was destroying the world, were all saved by the prudent and timely coalition of Good and Evil against a power greater than all: Bad Music. The opportunity was seized, and after all the dead bodies and quivering and gibbering masses were swept out of the room, Kirin the Beerlady made liberal use of the power, and soon, contracts and treaties were drawn up and signed. The right to sing The Happy song was barred from both sides, as were efforts to kidnap Rajkumari Nimmy.
This being done, they all walked amicably out of the boardroom. At which point, the hotel staff politely asked them to pay for damages and trauma caused by the Rajkumari's foray through the hotel into the board room. The group looked around them.
Sure enough, furniture was lying raggedly everywhere. Sofa material had been ripped here and there to cover ears (to no avail). Mirrors and glasses everywhere were cracked or shattered. Food littered the once plush carpeted floor, not to mention the millions of people who lay prostrate, heaped over one another, or kneeling and wringing hands.
"We just saved your silly hotel from further debilitation, by stopping the Rajkumari! Isn't that payment enough?" the Daaku snapped.
"Erm. No." The hotel clerk who said this would have been a little less bold if he had known the significance of the Daaku twirling her moustache.
"Ah, well. I suppose it's fair enough that we have to pay, isn't it?" the Captain said, and took out her wallet. "Let's see, I'll pay 25% out of sheer generosity and big heartedness, and you can pay the rest since it was your kidnapping of her that started the whole thing in the first place. Besides, you villains make much more money than all us heroes put together!"
Moustaches were being twirled furiously now.
"izh thet so, m der frend," said Daku nakshak, who was having trouble twirling and speaking at the same time. She gave up the twirling and continued intelligibly. "How about Your sidekick who sang the song and gave her the idea and harmony and everything!"
"So?" said our Hero. "I'm giving you 25%, na?"
Her sidekick had a bright idea. "How about the Rajkumari? She can pay for singing it, right? Stealing it from me, and singing it in uncontrolled conditions? And for being silly enough to get kidnapped in the first place!"
The Rajkumari was currently hiding behind Kujo. "I'll pay however much I can, but Daaku Nakshak robbed me when she kidnapped me, so she should pay for me!"
The Villain, beside herself, yelled, "And what about all those crosswords, eh? No amount of money I stole can cover THAT!"
"And we're back to stalemate," the Captain sighed.
But now the Daaku was in a rage. "You'll pay with blood," she muttered (actually muttered because she was twirling her moustache again) and turned on the hapless clerk. "Is that alright with you? Would you mind being paid with blood?"
"That's really- er- that's really quite all right," The extremely uncomfortable hotel clerk stammered. "No hurry, of course... A- - a simple cheque should- er- suffice."
The Daaku ignored him, and peered around with beady eyes for the Rajkumari, official Damsel in Distress, who, good at her job, squeaked convincingly and hid behind Boy Meena.
Our Hero, whose job description included protecting the Damsel at all costs, drew herself forward.
"You'll take her over my dead body, you villain!" she shrieked, wielding and expertly circling a bag of chili sauce over her head.
"Gladly," The Villain snarled. Her moustaches had nearly ripped off her face by now. She had drawn out a machete which she swirled impressively in front of her.

After the battle was over, the hotel premises entirely ruined beyond repair, and a hatchet buried in the clerk's head, the Hero and Villain retired to tend their various wounds, Rajkumari Nimmy went into seclusion, and Boy Meena watched various cartoons and tried to work out a new weapon of choice: a new song that could wreak destruction on a scale that the Happy Song couldn't even dream of. Letting her imagination run wild, the Sidekick procured herselfa dog whistle, and a ukelele.

Shadows and Sickness

2008-10-30T22:00:00.000+05:30

Men are like snot. The points of comparison are too many and too obvious to enumerate, so I won't. Just saying, though.

I really want to write something nice, but I can't. It's a shame. All I've got are these standard issue statements, like the walls are closing in, or loneliness is worst at night, or I miss you. But I just can't keep putting those stock phrases into a formalised piece. It's getting old.

I only have wall lights in my room
Single cocoons of light that never mix
I never draw my curtains in the morning
so that the overlight compensates for the the night

My clothes are mostly hand-me-downs
Not to say I don't wear 'em with style
And I don't mind really, I'm one myself
Left behind, passed around,
"Oh it's lovely but not my thing"

I love jigsaw puzzles, the many-pieced ones
But they have to be nice when I'm done.
There's only one jigsaw I really care about
It's lying under a glass sheet on my centre table.
All the missing pieces exposed (hand-me-down)
But that can't stop me loving it.

This is all I can manage in my fever-induced state.
I should sleep now. Crocin's taking effect.
Heigh ho.
Men really are like snot, the bastards.

The Gateskeeper

2008-10-21T22:56:00.000+05:30

"I'm not sure I heard you aright, sir."
It had been a long, and weary week for the Man. Day, night, morning, evening, and all the other times these other worlds seemed to keep cooking up. From dwarves with genial beams all over their clean shaven faces, to rank and slightly drunk (yet still haughty) elves who insisted their baggage need not be checked, seemed to be under the impression that queues were for lesser beings, and then actually clutched each other when they stepped on to escalators, it had been a tough 'week'.
And here was this... this pig (the Man was so tired he couldn't even think of a decent insult) , who had the Nerve to wear a heavy gold ring with letters glowing deep and and rich orange- carved in a strange corruption of an otherwise beautiful script (as his assistant unhelpfully whispered into his ear) that had showed through in the 'Suspicious Jewellery' scan.
"So you tell me, sir, that you did not think to declare such a dangerous object? On entering into Middle Earth?"
The pig shrugged. He was wearing bright yellow pantaloons, a well fitting coat with snowy ruffles falling over his hands (not enough to hide the ring) and a cravat folded into intricate design.
"This, my dear man," said the pig-man, "is a talisman ring. A family heirloom, extremely precious to me but hardly dangerous."
"Precious, is it? Family heirloom, hah! Oh! And I see on your passport that your travels have included visits to Wonderland? Why? Do you have relatives there?" He didn't allow the pig in fancy dress to answer, just grabbed a nearby frog and slammed it on the page, and asked the Banshees to escort the pig-man out when he started making noises about how two leprechauns whose bags were overflowing with gold and ends of rainbow had been let through, only being fined a bit for the extra weight.

A huge golden lion then made an impressive entry, but had problems for he couldn't fit through all the barriers, that were supposed to expand or decrease with the size of the passenger, but the people who worked it were on a strike for fixed hours, quite literally. A pixie at one of the desks screamed when he growled slightly, and the Man groaned. All employees were supposed to go through rigorous training, as they just couldn't afford to have hyperventilating employees going berserk when customers provided all such riots. However, the lion, who seemed to have shrunk enough to fit, caught her in one velvety paw, and said, "You have let fears whisper to you, little one. Come, put your nose in my mane."
The young woman did so, quickly handed in her resignation, and never returned.
"Sir, What will happen to her?" One of her friends asked the lion.
"Child, that is her story, not yours, and it is not for you to ask what could be, but what will be!"
"But I did!" The friend whispered, after she considered the lion to be out of earshot.
(For your benefit, I enclose the following tale: She enrolled in a Save the Lions campaign. Unfortunately, she put her nose in the mane of one of the lions of the sanctuary she had funded, and died a mercifully quick death.)
The lion turned into a lamb after this, and not much conversation followed, and he made it smoothly through the barriers and screen tests, so that was something to be thankful for.

A little later, a human lady got excited for the man behind her had eyes that were blood red, and pupils that were of a slitty nature.
"He's got conjunctivitis!" She shrieked. "You cannot allow him to travel like this!"
The Man rolled his eyes (which, by the way were a beautiful green that reminded lookers of lakes, and childhood days, whenever he smiled. Nobody ever noticed this, however, because these eyes were narrowed in a permanent scowl. And being a troll and all, people seldom look up into soulful eyes when they blink down from 9 feet 20 inches of the floor) and informed the woman patiently that the chap with red eyes did NOT have conjunctivitis, that she was in no danger of any eye disease, that the fellow was in fact, sitting next to her on the ship and that he had red eyes only because he was a vampire, and really, an eye infection would be the least of her worries on the trip, and that she had better watch out she didn't catch anything else.
His all too kind hearted assistant gave the bewildered lady a muffler, and told her gently that it might protect her from a ill wind on the ship.

After confirming whether an eight- year old was bound for Terebithia, or Terebinthia, the Man looked at the 80 or so hands on his watch and realised with a sigh that made the curtains of all the Gates blow wildly about for a minute that his shift by all standards of time were over.

As the next Gateskeeper approached the desk for his one hour, the Man looked back at the various gates where the curtains had still not settled. Behind one could be seen flashes of light on a shield or sword or such and a twang of a bow string could be heard, another showed silver spirits that filtered the bright light that beckoned all weary of their lives to come, (that was a tricky buggar, the Man thought and was glad to see his powers of cursing had not been exhausted quite yet) another showed the glint of a moon on night blue sea, and in yet another, a river that navigated time could just be seen.

Then the curtains flapped shut and the Gateskeeper waved a hand (claw, really) at the new One, and curled up under a certain bridge in wait of three billy goats he was rather fond of.

Other People.

2008-10-15T18:41:00.000+05:30

Spoiler Warning:
Evidence of utter personal insecurity is going to be displayed.

Other people are competent in ways I can never even dream of. They can fold bedsheets and saris adroitly, they can build up CVs and go for job interviews, and run around doing stuff, and they learn how to drive, and then actually do so.
Other people don't walk into their long curtains, and go round and round till they're covered head to skinny ankle, and feel all warm, and consider spending winter in there.
Other people don't name everything and consider having conversations with them.
Other people read newspapers and think that what's in them has something to do with them. They have opinions on what's going on in Bihar.
Other people have opinions. They have something to say for themselves.
Other people can have mushroom tasty toasts even after that special chilli sauce that was procured from Dharamshala has finished.
Other people can make sandwiches.
Other people can cook.
Other people don't make printers and computers and speakers gasp and tremble and faint with fright, or growl and bristle and not work in anger.
Other people don't feel like howling at a full moon. (Now there's something to do tonight. Woohoo!)
Other people don't think the day Wednesday was made so that people could rejoice that Bones was coming.
Other people don't have so many thoughts in their head that when they pick One, the other thoughts all turn on them and make them feel guilty for picking that one and not the others.
Other people can write songs without wincing and wishing they had died rather than write that maudlin, juvenile thing, just a month later.
Other people don't yell 'Megalomaniac' when somebody in their team says 'someone who talks a lot about themselves, thinks only of themselves' in a surprisingly competitive game of Taboo.
Other people love or hate or are indifferent to their families.
Other people tell the truth to who they're close to, and don't feel the same guilt at lying to strangers.
Other people aren't competitive over things they're terrible at.
Other people might also have shut up a long time back.
Other people don't wish Neil Gaiman was their age and had lived next door.
Other people don't mind so much about other people.
I am not other people, and I don't, (despite this whole long post might have conveyed to you) want to be. I just wish other people didn't expect me to be.
Oh yuk. How very cliched.
Other people might have ended that better. Or titled it a little more imaginatively.
Huh.
Those people.

Stream of Consciousness vs. Train of Thought

2008-09-23T14:01:00.000+05:30

I've read stories of people who've found doorways into other worlds, people who can speak to ghosts, people who can read minds. And all of it is fiction. And I've read origin myths, and fantasy stories and Hans Christian Anderson, and more than my fair share of nursery rhymes and tiny snippets of various mythologies too. So I've striven my whole life to tell everybody that what I've read has some meaning in this all too real world, and convince them of the relevance of fantasy in a world where everything is huddling under the title of science fiction.
Now I've succeeded in disillusioning myself alone, succeeded in pulling my own head out of the clouds, just because my hair was getting wet and my feet weren't.
So, after living in my imagination, only coming out when rudely interrupted I scoffed, and wondered, and discovered magic in ordinary things and thus rationalised my believing in fantasy and magic.
I rationalised magic.

And now what do I do?
This post-modernist, post-structuralist, discourse shaped, deconstructing train of thought has built a blockade of sorts to my ancien regime of tired old saws; My stream of consciousness.
My everyday language now must be changed. Taxonomy has become a not unusual part of my daily vocabulary. Colloquialisms are frowned upon. 'Stream of Consciousness' has been recognised as a significant writing format.
So it's all been recognised, all been spelled out, all fantasy has been calmly sifted in and out of the 'real' world. Various forms of believing or not believing in God have been named. There's a nomenclature- I'm sorry, a taxonomy- to everything in this world, and every other world that exists or not.
Pluto isn't a planet anymore.

Fantasy has real life significance.

Dreams are the royal road to the unconscious.

Everything has been psychoanalysed, deconsctructed, placed in different contexts and peered into as if they're drawers and secret cubby holes in a beautiful old Chesterfield table found in some obscure antique shop. Origin myths have been studied for their social relevance, nursery rhymes explored for the exact message they were moulded to allegorically impart, mythologies and folk tales have been designated as incisive political and social commentaries, and where relevance has been difficult to locate, those works have been denounced as 'escapist' by some only to be picked up and scoured through by indignant others.

Blank verse has been approved, rhyming ones are old hat now, stereotypes have been broken, we are all so proud of how aware we are. Those who are not have internalised their surroundings and the shibboleths by which they were disciplined, and vernacular language has been found to have played a significant (not a primary one, that would reek of having mono-causal assumptions) role in identity formations.

They call it a stream of consciousness but really it is a train of thought, because it has rails to run on and rarely goes off them. And it has compartments. And it has a direction, and a destination.
This one doesn't.

Gone.

2008-09-13T16:58:00.001+05:30

You sit there beside me,
In my happy place.
Where I think, and sing,
And you're just within reach.
You wipe my tears,
You roll out sympathy
You know my deepest parts
Intimately.
And yet, now you are not there.
Gone before I knew it.
I am bereft of you.
I didn't see you leaving.
And now you're gone,
Just when I most needed you.
Just like toilet paper.

A Day in the Life of Me.

2008-09-05T19:11:00.000+05:30

I'll pick Thursday.

7.30 Wake up. Realise with a spurt of fierce joy that class starts at 9.40, not 8.45 today. Turn over, and sink into a blissful sleep.
8.00 Wake up, remembering I have to finish that reading for the class; the one challenging the notion of the rising bourgeoisie and ossified nobility during the French Revolution, or the teacher'll have my head in class. Consider this awhile, and close eyes.
8.15 Wake up, read a Georgette Heyer that's lying around instead of the Colin Lucas (who waxes eloquent on the issue of the 'rising bourgeoisie' blah blah). Someone else in class would have read it. No issue.
8.45 Must go for bath. Sit on pot, and re-read Georgette Heyer.
8.50. Really MUST go for bath. Just these 5 pages.
8.52 Have bath.
9.05 Agonise over what to wear.
9.10 Wear unusually fewer clothes than what I'm used to. Spaghetti. knee length skirt. It's ok. I'll be back in the afternoon only. How many pernicious auto walas can there be at 3 in the afternoon, right?
9.15 Kaajal, shoes, grab readings, glug cold coffee, run to main road.
9.20 Pernicious auto walas are on the strut between 9 and 9.30 it seems. Along with scooter riders, bus conductors and passengers, drivers of cars, cyclists, garbage truckies, motorbike riders and passengers.
9.22 Haven't yet caught auto. All full or quoting criminal amounts, or just simply averse to Lady Shri Ram College.
9.25 Being so heavily gawked at I am actually making traffic slow down. Deeply embarrassed, I appear engrossed by my phone, and stride up and down the road.
9.30 Am panicking. Class in ten minutes. With morning rush, it would take me 15 to get to college if I caught one now, of which occurrence there appeared no encouraging signs.
9.32 Kind auto man with passenger going to nehru place takes me on.
9.45. Reach college. Kind auto man not so kind. He swipes 40 bucks from me. (By meter 26.5 ,by normal haggling 30)
9.55 Nobody in the class has read Colin Lucas. Our teacher is not thrilled.
10.35 Run to green room for practice.
10.45 Finish warm up
11.00 We're singing like crap.
11.15 Have a run on stage. Mikes all awry. Sound as usual is crappy.
11.20 The WMS president yells at us for our lack of energy. We take another run.
11.26 Return dispiritedly to Green Room. Slouch with the heartening news that we will have a stay- back today. 4 to 6, people! DON'T be late!
11.50 Sleep through Mughal India class.
12.45 Beg people for readings for the next assignment. Turns out there are about 8 essentials ranging from 20 to 50 pages each.
1.00 Beg sweet photo copy wala to do my reading first. Bas itna hi toh hai bhaiyya. Yeh, yeh, voh, or yeh wala.
1.10 Beg sweet photo copy wala for change for 500 (-66). Realise the change is all I have left for the month.
1.15 Furiously jot down a thousand details about the unequal Treaty of Nanking, of China with Britain after the opium wars.
2.10 Have died several deaths due to starvation, thirst, hot sun, and the idea of staying back.
3.05 Trudge out of class after a discussion of what Nationalist historians borrowed from Imperialist historiography.
3.30 More photo copying of more readings
3.50 Co- ordinate the distribution of 15 copies of a 50 page reading.
3.57 Look around for my copy of the reading.
4.00 Realise with a certain amount of depression that some unethical swine has wacked it.
4.02 Run to cafe, gulp down a 10- buck glass of fountain Pepsi. Run to practice.
4.05 Am alone in the Green Room.
4.12 Almost everybody else arrives.
4.15 The President arrives.
4.25 We sing.
4.45 Clean up our parts
5.15 Clean up our parts again
5.30 Learn new part
5.45 Connect new part to the song
6.00 Take a full run, trying not to pitch.
6.10 President lets us go when the only melody she hears is the harmony of squeak, croak, and grunt.
6.15 Throat scratchy. Head throbbing. Hunger gnawing. Legs manage to carry me till college gate.
6.17 Direction of approaching autos inevitably aligned with an all too bright sun.
6.19 Am blinded.
6.30 Am depressed by auto cussedness.
6.36 Let the auto take me by a ridiculous price. But am desperate by this time.
6.50 Wipe sweat off my forehead on the road to Chirag Dilli. Listen to i-pod. Bring Sally up.
7.00 Wipe sweat off my cheeks and neck further up the road to Chirag Dilli flyover. Turn up volume. Ground has been torn. Shawn Colvin. Sunny came home. Wish I was Sunny.
7.10 Just missed the traffic light. Time the light. 6 and a 1/2 minutes. Frikkin ridiculous. Wipe more sweat. Not a breath of wind. Concentrate on Simon and Garfunkel.
7.20. Auto doesn't have change. Pataao the paanwala further up the street to part with precious fifty notes... Maidam, fifty ka bhi change nahin hai. Curse steadily for a minute.
7.21 Having squeezed out money from an obliging stranger, walk to traffic light.
7.25. Crossed the road. Must. Walk. Up. Stairs. There shall be Nimbu Pani awaiting. Must. Get. To. Nimbu. Pani.
7.28. Am informed nimbus have finished.
7.29 Nimbus are brought from downstairs (my aunt's house) at the look on my face.
9.00 Have my first real meal.
9.30 Contemplate studying for assignment.
9.31 About as far as I get.
9.40 Try which one of my friends is jobless enough to talk for a while.
9.50 Find one.
10.00 Read something.
10.30 Switch on TV. Crap coming. Get back to reading.
11.00 Read till I sleep.
12.00 Remember to set the alarm for the morning. Sleep. Sweet sleep.

Doesn't sound like much, I know. The sun just doesn't help. Oh, and I do manage to swipe a half of a half of cheese sandwich from somebody. Sometimes a momo or two. So it's not like I go totally hungry or anything.

The Prosaic and the Mundane

2008-08-28T22:02:00.000+05:30

Occasionally find occasion to fascinate me.
Ok. This'll be one of my more random posts but never mind. So there's no story, no structure, no flow, no form. This should hopefully be refreshing rather than utterly arbit.
I seem to have a strange appetite these days. The best food repels me, and the tasteful snack is the only attractive thing to me. Cheese chicken spinach macaroni produces a yawn even as I unintentionally smother it with olive oil. I find myself neither concentrating on the book or reading it, while I delve into the murky depths of saag meat. All that really grabs me are the momos served by the momo guy outside college. And no one to go with me. I look forward to that mushroom tasty toast. Which makes me gasp with the spiciness, and all the mushrooms fall out when I dip it into ketchup, because the tasty toast hasn't closed properly, which makes gathering them up a pretty messy affair, especially when I'm eating tasty toast, gathering up the mushrooms from the ketchup, and preventing mushrooms falling out when I bite the toast, all with one hand, as I'm clutching a book with the other hand. But it's totally worth it.

A friend of mine told me a funny incident today, subject: Heedless Friends.
So her car's broken down in South Delhi. She lives in West Delhi, and is wondering what to do with the car, and how to get home. So her dad tells her he'll figure it out and call her back. So she waits in trepidation, and whilst her wait, a friend calls, and they discuss some work. But a heedless friend who happens to be with this calling friend, demands the phone.
My friend: Hi. What's up?
Heedless friend: Listen, naaa!
My friend: Oi sorry my dad's calling I have to go. Very important!
Heedless friend (in a higher octave): No, no but listen, naaa! Listen!
My friend: Yaar, my dad's calling, I've really got to take this! Tell me in another 5 minutes!
Heedless Friend (voice shot up out of the scales: BUT Listen!! Naaaaa!
My friend: Uff, my dad's rung off. What is it?
Heedless friend. Haan, I bought some tomato flavoured chips! I don't want them. But do you?

I don't know. I found it funny. This stuff you read about, or watch in Friends, or random movies.

I never can quite see how people keep trying to be funny at the most absurd things. ok sorry. What I mean is, a disturbing majority tries to say something 'different' in response to anything that really does not demand, or act as food for, concentrated and thus forced humour.
You know how everybody says astonishingly similar things to certain jokes, occupations, predicaments etc? The least of it, "You're tired and busy? Hah, check out my life!"
And thus follows a blow-by-painstaking-blow account of their work- hobby- responsibility and intricacies in their entanglement. Nobody can resist it, Least of all, me.
Another irritating thing one (till now, at least)
"You're in class 9? Hmm, next year Boards, eh?"
"You're in class 10. Whoa, Boards this year, hm?"
"You're in class 11? Hrrumph, Boards next year, huh? And what after school?"
"You're in class TWELVE? BOARDS This Year, eh? And what After school?"
"You're in 1st/ 2nd/ 3rd year? Wow, how time has Flown! Wow, 1st/ 2nd/ 3rd year! And what after college?"

Alright, I sound a bit like a petulant child over here, but what the heck. I am one. No point trying to hide it. And it IS just an example.

But taking the silly point further, and I know it's a silly thought, it has just been maudling my insides for too long now. The fact is that so many people's sense of humour seems to develop to various levels.
Like, the forced one, where somebody'll say the forced joke, or obvious witticism, or respond seriously to an absurd comment. You know? Or not even seriously, but not in kind either. And think you're just a little weird for saying whatever you said. Such a funny girl she is.
Then there are those that'll get jokes, or get riddles, even more obvious quips, but won't get the subtler ones. The gigglies of everyday will somehow get past 'em.
There are also those, who'll catch humour, perceive sarcasm, get hints, everything, but their sense of humour hasn't evolved to the point where they realise all sarcasm isn't meant to wound, and find everything that is said indirectly to have a negative connotation.
I'm getting a bit above myself here. And these are just a few. When I say evolve, incidentally, I don't mean it in a superior way. Everybody has different sense of humour, and thats ok. All I'm saying is, I think real evolution of humour is where the kind of humour doesn't have be exclusive. Where everything is funny. I find santa- banta, knock- knocks, what happens When the/If you, and st peter and the pigeons equally funny.

I also find, since I'm on the subject, a certain level- ity to 'different' (I won't say higher) thinking. Many people as, I said before, are often under the impression that what they're saying is 'different' to what others might tell you. Sometimes they announce it themselves, and often imply it.
And when an obnoxious brother-in-law, on learning I was studying history (in fact i had an exam the next day so I really wasn't thrilled on hearing his views on Pataliputra) shared his um- views, the thought struck me. (Obviously I wasn't listening too intently). Apart from the other bullshit that I can't remember, I do remember him asking me what was the first 'civilisation' of India, since I had studied ancient history.
Somehow knowing it wasn't what he referred to, I said a little hesitantly, "Harappan?"
(For the uninitiated, there are several problems with calling it Indus Valley as one referred to it in school. In fact, even 'civilisation' has connotations all on its own, but one has to call it Something.)
He, after a lot of tiresome prevarication, where even the constant watch checking didn't speed up his diatribe, he finally said, rolling his tongue about the consonants with rather a flourish, "Pataliputra"
Attempts to tell him that this has absolutely nothing to do with Bihar at the present moment (which is where the conversation had started) proved unavailing.
This incident may not seem germane to the issue. My point was that, studying history beyond school does make you realise that what most of the facts you took for granted were so much piffle. And with them several viewpoints. Calling Pataliputra a civilisation of India is totally anachronistic, as the India that we understand today had nothing to do with that. It's just anything that gives us something to be vaguely proud of, we claim.
Back to the issue. One seems to think that one's ideas are apart from the run of the mill. One like's to in a sense, say, "Huh! That old thing? We've moved beyond that! We're not one of those who..."
But it seems to me, most people are only that first, or second level, and one needs to keep moving. Eurgh. I've been writing too long. Nothings coming out right.
Blem. Urk. Glub. Sigh.

With Worlds at Stake...

2008-08-25T16:33:00.000+05:30

This was just an idea. I apologise for the clumsy writing. I just had to put it down, scrape it out of my head.

"I'd advise you not to bet against me," He said, His eyes peering down at cards held by Somebody else. She clutched Her cards closer to Her chest. "Shall We play then, Everybody? Place Your bets"
The Others grunted.
"I don't know what in all the bloody hells I'm playing!" Some few people were heard to say, in pianissimo.
One sighed in the manner of Somebody who had explained this a trying amount of times before. "We're playing Teenpatti, only this is a version called Terahpatti. You all know the rules of teenpatti, which apply here too. In terahpatti You just make trios of your cards, and play the highest trio in the first round. Whoever's threesome is the highest takes the trick. Whoever has the most tricks wins. And You may stake howsoever You choose. Any more doubts?"
"What about the card left out of the three trios?"
"You can use it to make a fourth of a trail, or a colour sequence. Otherwise You discard it, and only use it if the last round is a tie. Then the highest card wins. Clear?"
They nodded.
"Place 'em then. Whatever You have to stake."
It was a motley collection of items that piled up in the centre of the table.

The first Round commenced.
A sulky Individual placed a sequence of 8-9-10, all hearts on the table, but it was the trail of 6s that set the game on fire. A trail of 3s were thoughtfully slapped on, and a royal trio following suit beat another that didn't. A trail of 4s was put hopefully, but the Ace trail that was slapped down with rather a flourish by Her, ended them decisively. She smirked as She gathered the cards towards Herself. He with the trail of 6s pensively added up the points He had gained as second.
The next Round was won by Him by a trail of 2s, beating all royal trios that followed, even a King and a Queen and an Ace who had agreed to match. Grimaces and Scowls were reminded that Those keeping steady with their sequences had good chances for claiming the last three Rounds.
The third Round was indeed claimed by an 8-9-10, of not even the same suit. The Winner was so delighted, He gathered up His winnings and fled, surrendering His cards, which were redistributed, and new bids were made.
The fourth Round was won by She Who had won the first round, by three cards that were all clubs. And the last Round was won rather unexpectedly by One who reluctantly placed a pair of 3s with a 2.
So She won with the highest number of tricks, and She raked in tokens and money, and other strange items that One and All had staked. She bought spirits for Everybody, and soon crude jokes followed, and salutary claps on the back and broken furniture that implied that Most had forgiven and forgotten Her victory.

And elsewhere, floods claimed lives, as did moneylenders. Kingdoms rose and fell, and magic was hunted down and quelled. Revenue reassessments were made. Riots and revolutions rocked a boat that was just about managing to stay afloat. Prejudices teemed everywhere, and mediocrity raised its ugly face.

And He still sat in the corner by the table, shuffling the cards in a fluid way that was beautiful and terrifying to watch, a most unsavoury glint in His eyes. When Everybody had quietened down a trifle, and chanced to look at him, a singularly dastardly smile curled his cheeks, as He shuffled smoothly and suggestively.
"Does Anybody here know how to play Bluff?"

Knowledge is Power: The Art of Nomenclature

2008-08-19T19:07:00.000+05:30

All right. More of my rumblings on nomenclature. It's something I can't help thinking about, even though most of the things involved have all been said already. All been thought about. But something or the other brings it home every day.
The sentence 'Knowledge is Power'. Ruling policies of rulers. It's funny how arbitrary decisions by them about something they knew squat about, in the struggle to understand the alien society that they were trying to govern, has shaped subsequent lives so entirely.
Like. How to categorise Indian history, make sense of the plethora of contrary traditions, periodise and classify it blithely, like their own.
So. They go to the Brahmins, read their Dharmasastras, and so on. And formed their nice little neat notions of Indian society. 'Hindu' society= caste system. This was was a Dark Age and That not. Aryans were the ones who brought any semblance of order to India when they came. Asiatic Mode of Production and all that. So many labels. No acknowledgement of complexities.
This is never a good thing.

So Indians became themselves what the East India Company thought of them. I don't like to generalise, but in this instance I'm doing so. Sorry. What I mean is that whole identity fomring by the whole 'other'ing thing. I am what I am NOT. I am That which THEY are Not. (don't mind the lecture. This is just in case some didn't know the term and no misinterpretation happened.)
So people became Hindu and Muslim. Two titch categories. Hinduism: A term imposed by rulers to distinguish the masses.
Ok. I'll say it now. I don't consider 'Hinduism' a religion, in the sense the word is meant. I don't like the term Hindu. You can throw squishy things at me now. I won't mind, being fool enough to make a sweeping statement like that. Ok, to define religion. (Argh, what a sticky topic I've chosen).

Now to define a broad religion is no easy task, to distinguish between cults and all other variants of religious practices. And these days pretty much everything is a religion. Ok I take it back, 'Hinduism' is very much a religion. It's just the term Hindu I find fault with. And I've diverged from my original purpose, which was to dicuss nomenclature.
Right. Back to it.

So the problems I find with the word Hindu is almost the same as the problem I have with Britishers. That term we can't help ourselves using when we refer to the colonial period of our country (interestingly enough, talking about any present day British, the inclination to add the 'er' after the name is quite absent). The term is used purely as a distinguishing one. They are Those. We are Us kinda thing. Other problems I find with the term Hindu would take far more time and much more um, lucidity, than I possess. At this moment at least.
And you call yourself a writer!

Naming things is SUCH a problem! And what's worse is that we can't help it. Knowledge is Power. Does naming things give us that power, really? I thought earlier that they did. If you read my earlier rants, you know that. But the thought has struck me, that I've been much better off in the main by being reluctant to name anything. Or by my decision to stick only tentative titles on most people. Fluid expectations. Mobile beliefs. Never label. Or label for your own peace of mind. I think one just HAS to. But be prepared not to stick with it. Ick, how very preachy this is sounding. Knowledge is power. Question remains as to how to qualify Knowledge.
So what is knowledge? Finding out enough about something to title it? Or to find out enough to realise that whatever conclusion you reach is in some small or big manner erronious?

Pressure Cooker

2008-08-10T19:41:00.001+05:30

Ok, enough is enough. For the past month, I have written nothing. I have done nothing of spectacular worth except make an origami Bird of Paradise, and be comprehensively rude to the girl living at the other end of my lane who has no manners, and had the cheek to call me and yell at me about my brother's drumming. (I told him to drum louder after she threatened to sue.) Believe me, being rude is an achievement. Generally, I'm the one swallowing my pride and taking shit, but this snippet (1st year in college, and studies apparently from 5 to 11, as she arrogantly informs me. Bully to you, I thought and almost said) really got me pretty fired up.
Yes, she's got me a bit worked up.

Anyway, I have done nothing of particular worth. Not a word of a story. Not an inkling of a well-formed thought or idea. Not an iota of study. Top it all up, steaming with unexercised creative bubbles. Which aren't bursting.

So let's see.

Ann looked sneakily out of her room, swivelled her eyes round to her formerly neat kitchen, and having done so, swiftly ducked back in. Her mother was still there, eating that brontosaurus haunch as though there was nothing out of the ordinary about that. Ann begged to differ, but did not air her views with the lady moodily chomping raw dinosaur meat, regardless of blood dripping in messy waves on what had once been a spotless white counter.

Hmm, not working.

Take an orange, Sambo (if your name is Sambo) A nice round juicy orange. Now take a knife- yes, any knife- and cut it.
Damn, that's taken. Ah, me.

Let's try something a little academic.

There are three or four topics that absorb me and which I really want to research with all my time, and material possible. Fairy tales, nursery rhymes, and origin myths. All realted in a weird sort of way. I like exploring the darker side of nursery rhymes, only hinted at by one (ring- a-roses), how they emerged (thus linking them to origin myths) and what they were constructed for in the first place, which involves a great deal of speculation of course, but heck, I write fantasy. Speculation is not a problem. Ok, the topic is too decent to write in my tangenty post. I shall save it for later, and enlarge on my strange interests entertainingly.

Maybe complexities of life will do the trick.

I seem to be Caught in the Crossfire yet again. I remember that when I first began to fancy myself a writer (class 9) I decided that would be the title of my book, caught between warring friends (the cool and uncool and those in the gray area in the middle.) Not particularly objective.

And now there's no real crossfire, really, it's just being caught between so many different people that stuff gets confusing. To simplify it, I'll title the distinction 'bag'. Those who carry handbags (the ones right under their armpits) and those who don't. The ones with branded clothes and the ones without.
The sarcastic and the not. The musical and the not. The political minded and the not. The sweet, innocent, not getting a joke types, and the other.
Okay, the 'bag' distinction just doesn't cut it. It just starts there, and then I remember everything else. I know everybody else has diverse friends, but I don't know if they ever find it a problem. It's not people disliking each other that is ever that much of a problem, actually, it's the fact that I'm stuck in the quagmire- the gray spot in between. So defining myself becomes the problem. Not in as huge a way as it sounds, but in little subtle everyday things that do matter in the end.

Hah.
Finally.
Something expressed.
Phew.
Now I can rest.

Tune Poltroon

2008-07-14T15:33:00.000+05:30

Something struck me while I was reading a poem by Neil Gaiman. Part of it where a heart is cut into four pieces and strung and made into a violin that delights and tortures the hearts of those who heard it. (I am not quoting. That was just the gist of one stanza.)

So...
The question that follows...

What'd people make out of my vital organs?

Slam and shape into a ball
Throw it flat against a wall
Crush it till it's paper thin
Roll it and pierce it with a pin
In several different places
And watch the people's faces
When they hear a ghostly croon
of fingers leaping into a tune.

What say?

And you?

Yeah, So I'm bored.

2008-07-08T21:12:00.000+05:30

Last movie seen in a theatre: 'Get Smart.' Extremely bloody funny.

What book are you reading? Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe. In between others, too many to name.

Favourite board game: Grrg. not sure. Snakes and ladders. Hah. Kidding. Um. Would Twister count as a board game? guess not. Pictionary, then. Oh, Scrabble with people other than my dad.

Favourite magazine: Don't read magazines. Silly things.

Favourite smells: That of incipient rain. Smell of fingerchips in all their glory. Wet dog. Don't ask.

Favourite sounds. Music. Funny laughter.

Worst feeling in the world. Oh come on. Feeling inadequate, inconsequential, and second best, and lonely. There you have it.

What is the first thing you think of when you wake up? I think of many things. Great things. Things beyond what your own mean imagination would allow you to comprehend. Not really. Never the same thing, but fairly happy thoughts. I like mornings. Or quite usually, 'Crap!!! look at the time!'

Favourite fast food place. R.Ps. For the uninitiated, Rohit Pappu restaurant. They deliver amazingly fast (probably because its a 5 minute walk from my place) and lovely food, the type only a dhaba could produce. Tip: 'RPs Special Chicken' is particularly good.

Future child’s name: Haven't thought that far.

Finish this statement, “If I had a lot of money I’d…" Travel. All over the world. Ireland first. For the rest, books, music, origami paper.

Do you drive fast? Haven't reached that stage yet. At u-turns presently. Won't be too slow later, hopefully.

Do you sleep with a stuffed animal? Pah. No. Tried once. He hogged the blanket.

Storms - Cool or Scary? Extremely cool. Stirs my blood. If a moon comes out, I howl.

Do you eat the stems of broccoli? Don't eat broccoli. Chhee.

If you could dye your hair any colour, what would be your choice? I wouldn't dye it. Not a hair colouring person. Fairly fond of the shade I own.

Name all the different cities/towns you have lived in. Ok. this is sad. How about different places in the same city? that I can do. Greater Kailash. Vasant Kunj. Kishangrah Village. Another house in kishangarh village. DLF, Phase four (ooh that'd count) Panchshila Park.

Favourite sports to watch. Tennis. Aside from being the one sport I understand and like, it has the hottest players.

One nice thing about the person who sent this to you. How to name all the things? So many as there are? She types full words, and does not descend to sms style. I'll stick to that.

What’s under your bed? Stuff I'd rather not know about. Monsters. Actually, an extra mattress and shoes.

Would you like to be born as yourself again? I'm here now. Isn't that enough? So silly to think one would do stuff differently in another life. Just make different mistakes. So, no.

Morning person or night owl? Morning person. Not that I'm not an occasional night owl.

Over easy or sunny side up? Sunny side up.

Favourite place to relax. Shower. Really. Stretching out in my room with that book.

Favourite pie: Sweetie!! Sorry. Most pies are nice. I dunno.

Favourite ice cream flavour. Chocolate Chip. The occasional HCF gets me going, too.

You pass this tag to: Nobody. Or whoever's bored enough. Be my guest. But essentially, nobody.

Of all the people you tagged this to, who’s most likely to respond first? The answer is most truly a negative one.

In Memoriam

2008-06-30T13:22:00.000+05:30

I was going to wait till tomorrow to do this, but the thought occurred to me just now and I'd better not let the emotions get stale and forced, as they are wont to do. This one's going to be full of 'I remembers' and perhaps a little disrespectful but I suppose that's inevitable.

I didn't know my nanaji that well. All he was was my sole surviving grandparent, somebody I did 'namaste' to on family parties. I remember on our Diwali parties, and other occasions where the 'Famous five' came together to do their thing, it was the youngest members: Me and my younger cousin Rasesh who always went on the reconnaissance missions. Us with our bambi eyes and innocent expressions to ask for goodies from that magic cupboard of his, and that treasure of all treasures- two crisp decks of cards for our championship games of Bluff. And nanaji, occasionally looking in, getting the mistaken impression we were playing rummy, would ask 'paplu kaun hai?' and mystified, we would incoherently explain the guidelines of that game requiring a degree of tactical brilliance and excellence in fibbing that I did not (do not) possess.
So that was the extent of my connection with nanaji. He wasn't a man, I always felt, that you could get close to. A horrible thing to say, I know, and there is definite evidence to the contrary. But he was the kind of man you just couldn't help feeling a certain compulsive affection for. He didn't invite dislike.
As kids, we always regarded him as the butt of jokes: gentle malice only. The way he'd ponderously walk, bent with his hands folded behind his back. The time he took us cousins (the Famous five) out for kulfis in the famed Fiat, and a ghoda- gadi (or was it a bullock cart? I forget.) overtook us. The time he gave away (only) the fridge door for repair, regardless of the amount of food and drink (a lot of it expensive) that would inevitably rot. To rectify this problem, he covered the open front with lots and lots of duct tape. His solution to every problem= duct tape.
How he used to go to the panch shila pool, and stand at the shallow end, not swim, but stand and do eye exercises.
Even when we moved into the house, around 5 years ago, he was still the man with those idiosyncracies. The man who used to read everybody else's letters. Increasingly deaf, he used to check how the Fiat was running every Sunday without fail and since he couldn't hear the engine, would rev it up seven- eight times so that every Sunday Morning, the Acharya family would run to a balcony, startled to think that a rocket was launching from our very own backyard.

To Nanaji, the most fiercely independant man I have ever known. The man with that unexpectedly sweet smile. Who'd boast about his grandchildren to other people. The man who was determined to get a cellphone even though he hadn't the faintest idea how to use it (and as a result kept calling up his bewildered sister-in-law, since she was first on his speed dial) and who handled all the accounts. To nanaji, so amazingly energetic; who unlike his younger brothers and sisters-in-law would climb up two flights of stairs to our house, because he liked the way chilas were made here. Nanaji, who had never willingly done harm to any living soul. To Nanaji, sometime Managing director, Bridge Corporation.
On the eve on your 90th birthday. You are sorely missed. Even by those who never really knew you.

The White Stag

2008-06-28T19:22:00.000+05:30

She ran past flocks and flocks of sheep, past lakes of warm milk, and chased through veritable forests of numbers, swivelling in a hectic line, ranging from a million and seventy backwards, but her quarry evaded her yet. She waded through fruitless suggestions, wrestled with Christopher Marlowe, Doctor Faustus and Mephostophilis, and yet the hunt proved unavailing.
She sighed and gave up, and looked the other way, for the fun in the chase seemed to have got whisked away somehow. So she sat queitly and desperately, and after she had lost all hope, the creature she hunted trotted back to her, tossing its head defiantly and taking its own sweet time.
And then she ran away. And next day, the chase began again.

Hear ye, hear ye

2008-06-27T16:09:00.000+05:30

Episode 4 shall by pennned by that sigher of sighs, that stopper of planes, that pillar of virtue, that hanky carrier- now the raging killer harmony singing virago.... the Rajkumari herself!
You have been warned.

The Folk of the Faraway Tree

2008-06-27T11:37:00.000+05:30

So it occurred to me...

Saucepan man finally went off the rattle. His little rhymes became more esoteric everyday, and his saucepans sold less because he didn't clean them as often as he should have. His habit of approaching Jo for money irritated the latter so much that he finally cast the Saucepan Man, not without regret, off.
Bessie realised quite early in life that her true vocation was in medicine, so she went far away to do worthy things and would only occasionally contact Jo, and her old friend the Saucepan Man.
Dick, with his too-quick wit got into trouble with Fanny and managed even to get on bad terms with Silky. Things were rather uncomfortable, but after that he came on shorter visits. He matured in time into a fine young businessman and on his brief visits back to the Enchanted Wood he partied hard with the brownies, taught the red goblins a lesson, and while he was not more than cordial to Fanny and Silky if he happened to meet them, he did always make the effort to contact Jo and Moonface.
Dame Washalot took her washing elsewhere. With some difficulty, she climbed the ladder into some new land nobody except the people living there had heard of. Once in a while, when people asked about her, they would ask Jo.
Connie did not return to the Faraway Tree and nobody really minded.
Silky decided to move to the Land of Goodies, where her sweetness gained her immense popularity, as always. Thereafter she would only in a nostalgic mood call upon Jo or Fanny, but would return quite happily to her perfect life.
Fanny, free from being a shadow of Silky, set up house at the other side of the Wood, became intensely busy with her new brand of independance, and though she did not fail to cry in the face of some new hardship, she'd ask her brother for help only rarely, and Jo missed his sister sorely.
Moonface took to travelling, but returned regularly to the Tree and he and Jo (and Dick, if he was in town, so to speak) would reminisce about the old days, and would remember Bessie as the glue that held them together.
Watzisname decided he had slept far too long and that it was time he found out his name and this time, remembered it. So he stayed in the Land of Secrets. Poor Watzisname was not happy in the Land of Secrets; it was too quiet and serious and he missed sleeping on that shady bough sadly, but he was resigned now, and remembering his name took a long time. When the Land rolled around around to the Faraway Tree, he always took the chance to go and take many cups of tea with Jo and the Angry Pixie.
The Angry Pixie remained busy working: writing at his window and still threw dark ink and the occasional boiling hot water at whoever disturbed him (including his old friend Jo who had also taken up writing and lunched with him often) because some things never change.

Climbing into the Sky

2008-06-22T22:01:00.000+05:30

I smiled at the moon and he smiled back at me
I climbed into the sky for the whole world to see

This was part of a song I came up with a year or two ago, just before I went to sleep. The words aren't as 'heavenly' as you'd think, because the moon is obviously someone totally unattainable, and climbing into the sky, declaring myself to him, and the world was something I knew I'd never do. So there it was. Of course, the moon's changed, and I still haven't climbed into the sky. So this blog is something completely pointless to any reader, I suppose, but let's say it's an attempt on my part to climb at least three stairs up, so to speak, and be seen by whoever wants to. Dramatic sounding, isn't it? Never mind. Something I've been wanting to do for a while.

I hate it when my dad asks me what I'm watching on tv, and when I tell him, pronounces it as though it's an alien term, some interesting curio, even though we've discussed the term eight times before. I love funny laughs. Even completely ugly sounding ones with snorts, and that musical breath taken in between. Silent laughter, when people can't speak. Raucous laughter. Because the ugly laughter has to be completely sincere.
Um. I don't mind drunkenness unless it's by people who can't help themselves. Then I get irritated, by the slurs and the mannerisms and the banging into walls and falling into fires and putting their feet in it and causing fights, and when I can predict how many drinks they've had and know that the next one will get them completely zonked, and that nothing is going to stop them.
I'm so clumsy I'm surprised I haven't fallen and died. So I await that fate. I'm clumsy, and completely uncoordinated. I wear long skirts and trip. I wear anything and trip. I knock things off, stand in narrow, inconvenient spaces just when people would like to pass through. I can't catch, can't throw, I don't even think I swim in a straight line. I don't think I walk in a straight line. I think I'm funny. I don't know how to take compliments. I hoo-ha and twiddle my thumbs and look in various directions when compliments are addressed to me.
There was a time when I was incapable of actively and seriously disliking or hating somebody. No, I wasn't a saint. I got pissed off, and angry and upset with people, but I was incapable of hating. It's coming easier to me now. I always thought I was smarter than I am. It's still coming as a real shock to me as I have gradually realised I am indeed a dunce. Or a person with average intelligence. Ultimate fear- mediocrity. Because it's so close to what I am. Average grades. Average looks. Average hair. Average- uh- drawing skills. I sing well enough for people to remark on it. I don't sing well enough for anything else. Average origami talent. I think I was brilliant till class three. And then that was it.

Ok, object of the exercise here was to be brutally honest with myself, and therefore everybody else. Not entirely working. Let's have another go, then.

Hmm. Ok. I have major self confidence issues. I hate being taken for granted, as the insignificant, ineffectual one. The 'little sister' of all time. My brother's personality overshadows mine, whatever he does, whatever I am. So there- major secondary types inferiority complex. I'm very lonely. I don't think anybody cares about me as much as I do about them, except my mum, of course. But that is not a comfort. I think I have nice eyes, and a nice neck.
I've never got involved with politics of any kind. Once, briefly, in class 2, I think. But I can safely say that that doesn't count. So I generally remain blissfully ignorant, and later contribute an "Ohhh... so that's what was happening!"
I think that I am a lovely person. I'm generous, kind, and all the rest of it. Pretty dependable, and generally maniacally punctual. Responsible for other people. Completely heedless of myself. Careless to a point bordering on imbecile status.
I'm not resentful in the least. So I hate cold angers, sulky angers that won't accept any olive branch, and won't tell you what their problem is, so there's no hope of sorting it out. I like the direct approach. I wish more girls would like the direct approach. I'm so lazy it's become a serious impediment. And I'm a coward. I'm strangely moody when alone. Extremely temperate in company.

So there we go. Completely long, worthless diatribe that was. Rave and rant. Doesn't even have the virtue of being well written. Vaunt and vent. Attention- seeking fool that I am. I smiled rather tentatively at the moon. No real smile back yet. Either the moon's blind; missed it, or it doesn't choose to smile back.
I can however safely say that I climbed more than three stairs into the sky. Consequently terrified, of course. There for the whole world to see.

The song, incidentally, is called lonely fantasy.

Episode 3: Point of No Return (or) Return of No Point

2008-06-20T10:52:00.000+05:30

I apologise in advance. I promise Episode 4 will be better.

Everybody was there. And All had grave faces. The Forces of good and Evil were one for today. They had to unite in front of a common cause. So the legions of Captain Meghanawoman, and the cohorts of Daaku Nakshak had buried old enmities to be present.
The Tentacled Monster made an appearance. Kirin the Beer Lady was there. The Toilet that Flushed people into Middle-Eastern Countries shared its views. Father Wee told everybody to wear fuller sleeves and not smoke and was politely ushered out by representatives of both sides. Silkylegs also came, but his kicking his football through the conference table into the direct line of sight of Cloosipoosipuddingnpie caused a minor riot and the number of lost eyes and severed limbs as well as the claims to insurance took several hours to calm down.
The Daaku Nakshak with her true talent for organisation, finally succeeded in calming the restive crowd down.

She took out some parchment, and began to read. "We are gathered here today to witness..."
She threw the parchment away, muttered some naughty words under her breath about her secretary, and spoke again.
"Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your... Oh crap!"
There was a minor scuffle as the Daaku's secretary wrestled with the bouncers at the doors in her struggle to escape inconspicuously. She succeeded and ran for her life.
The Daaku decided to speak ex-tempore.
"Ok people. We're here to battle an unexpected enemy. Most of you don't know exactly why you're here, and are probably wondering at this strange gathering, with the forces of Good and Evil. I am glad that you have found in yourself the will power to refrain from battling each other... stop that!"
This was to the Bengali Ghost Possessed Belly Dancer and Silkylegs who were canoodling in a corner. The Daaku having run to sort them out, Capt. Meghanawoman continued.

"You see, a force, not bent towards Good OR Evil has arisen. I take it you are familiar with the name of the Rajkumari Nimmy?"
The crowd stirred with rumblings somewhere along the lines of "We came together for that?" "that harmless tall thing?" "Doesn't she carry a hanky? How can a hanky carrier be so dangerous?"
Capt Meghanawoman, not famed for her brevity, told them the story at length, ignoring wails of "We're sorry! We're sorry! But no more! We CAN'T grind any more garlic!" from the corner.
Daaku Nakshak returned and took up the narrative. "So now, friends and strangers, we have wasted an appreciable amount of time by this conference but now we need to DO something!"
"Any ideas?" Capt. Meghanawoman interjected.

There was a silence of proportions that boggled the mind.

The Hero and the Villain looked remarkably like each other for a minute as they gave their legions and cohorts (respectively) a stupendously filthy look.

"Who ever does not come up with an idea in the next 20 seconds will be rained upon for eternity. There shall be hailstones the size of their heads, whether they're in the house or not," Capt. Meghanawoman announced in sepulchral tones.
"Whoever doesn't come up with an idea in the next 10 seconds will have to sit next to me when I'm driving," the Daaku announced simply.

There was a collective gasp (which took up five more of their precious seconds) and everybody hurried into speech.

Cloosipoosipuddingnpie gave a solitary bark.

"Yes, thank you dog, we will take that suggestion into account and you can be assured that it will rest in the archives where we can trust it will not be disturbed," the Captain said smoothly.
A medley of cries postulating thumbtacks, Akon music, the Great Indian Laughter Challenge and several K serials, as well as rajma chawal were heard.
The Captain and the Daaku shook their heads sadly.
"That's the problem, you see. The normal Nimmy might have submitted to such things. She's not the hanky carrier we all know and love now. She's a raging killer-song singing virago."
" And she's got Boy Meena!" The Captain added.

The collective gasp was this time mixed with regret, jubilation and stark surprise.

There was a silence again.

"Really imaginative bunch of people, aren't they?" Captain Meghanawoman muttered to her friend.
"The Swimming toast was innovative, but you decimated it," Daaku Nakshak retorted. "Let's have an update, shall we?"

The Chief Archivist stood up and summed up the situation so far.
"We have had an hour long conference, and precisely nothing had been decided. It's all been fairly pointless. All the superheroes and villains and creatures in the world have been gathered for the first time in this hall, and the outcome has been so far mostly negative. Interesting partnerships have however been made, and the Beerlady has been extremely kind in making use of her power.
Most people and creatures in this conference hall are therefore violently sloshed by now, and are consequently of no use at all. If we are attacked right now, we shall not put up a formidable defence."

"Thank you for that rejuvenating summary," Captain Meghanawoman said dryly. "Cloosipoo- um- Dog. You may eat her now."

Her orders were being carried out, when the conference doors burst open, and Boy Meena rushed in, breathlessly. Her hair stuck out in several directions and her mask was wildly askew.
"I escaped. But she's after me. She'll be here any minute now."

Not surprisingly, there was a collective (and drunken) gasp around the room, that almost drowned out the faint strains of the Rajkumari's voice singing the deathly lines, "Sing a happy happy happy..."
The Hero and the Villain groaned.

'What Happened to the Fourth Wife?'

2008-06-18T19:22:00.000+05:30

It's kind of you to humour a lonely old man.
I come here, sometimes to forget my troubles
and my wives. Oh no, dear. You don't want to hear
About all that. My second, and fourth, I think, and my
fifth are really rather grisly stories, not fit for young ears.
What was that, dear? Hm? Oh no, no, not wine, thank you
A small whisky soda will do it for me. I am not partial at all
to wine. And no ice, please. Not one cube. I can't take ice,
and wine is the second no-no... It is, I think, because of my
first wife. Or perhaps, I really should say, of my best friend.
Wine was the only alcohol she'd allow herself to have, you see
for the very plain and simple reason that she was allergic to
all others. Her father I remember, used to, every other New
Year's Eve, force her to drink vodka so that he could test her
and treat it. He was a doctor. So she hated vodka, obviously,
but that's off the point. Ah, thank you. Lovely. Absolutely right.
So, I was saying... Oh yes, cheers, cheers! Mm. I married her,
you know, and we used to have wine together every evening
but I got tired and she got bored, so we separated, but
remained friends, of course. And one New Year's Eve,
(her father had died, but she continued the practice)
the vodka turned out to be gin. She had so little
experience with alcohol you see, and it was at
a party, drinks were mixed. Now, while her
system had grown inured to wine and
vodka, gin was completely
out of the question.
She spluttered.
The taste must
have been
strange, I
guess, well,
she choked
I had said,
and she
swallowed
one of the ice
cubes, which
which had been
cut roughly and
it got stuck in
her gullet and
before it could
melt, she utterly
panicked and had
a heart attack, and died.
Yes, I'll have another, thank you. Really
so kind of you. What's that? I'm a little deaf, I'm sorry to say.
Oh no, dear! The story of my fourth wife would just depress you.
It brings back such terrible memories. I come here to forget, you know.

Episode 2: The Terrible Tune

2008-06-12T10:07:00.000+05:30

The disclaimers for the First one naturally apply for Episode Two as well.
Naks and Nimms, as well as Meena (if the wilds of the South permit her to access the net) enjoy your fame...

Two figures crept to the Chowdhry mansion, making no sound except for a faint snick snick- their feet on wet grass.
The invitation had said 7.30, but our hero, meticulously punctual, had made it an hour early.

The Swimming Toast laughed an evil laugh as it saw the two heroes attempting to look inconspicuous against the glorious fire of the setting sun. Two silhouettes against a pink sky; what fools!
The Daaku was wiser. She said, "Do not be fooled by their vacant aspect. The Captain may have failed her superhero exam, but..."
"What?" said the Toast. "She failed? Then how is she superheroing all over the place?"
"Nobody particularly wanted to argue with her. She has a foul temper. Besides, for the sake of appearances, she did get her licence. Through a tout, at the end."
"I heard she was violently against corruption of any kind."
"She made the tout do 200 uthak-baithaks after that. Concentrate now. Where is the Rajkumari?"
"She's locked in your room."
The Daaku pulled her beard in righteous wrath. "Oh my God, no! She'll finish all my crosswords!"
It was at this time that the heroes arrived in the kitchen.

Bags of chilli sauce flew around the room and burst in frothing crimson puddles all over the spotless ktichen floor. The Daaku, cursing and wheezing, was however ready for her nemesis.
She dove for the kitchen cabinet, and emerged with the ultimate weapon of destruction in her hand.
The battle stopped and as everybody surveyed the awful object Daaku Nakshak gripped.
"Capsicum!" Captain Meghanawoman gasped. "Oh, you scoundrel! I didn't think even you could sink so low!"
"Mwahahaha" the Villain laughed.
The Captain took a moment to grieve for this lack of originality, and then her voice cracked like a whip.
"Now, Meena!"
Her sidekick looked at her doubtfully, but followed orders. She began dancing around the room, skipping and twirling and clapping her hands. Her eyes went to a far away place, and her face lost any vestige of intelligence she might have owned before.

"Sing a happy happy happy happy happy happy song, sing a happy happy happy happy happy happy song, sing a..."
Everybody in the kitchen sank to their knees, covering their ears. The Rajkumari, hearing only a faint strain from her room, did not fall under its debilitating effect, but pricking up her ears, began to harmonise, softly.
"Oh Captain Meghanawoman, I did not believe you were capable of this!"
Captain Meghanawoman, having serenely put on her earplugs, did not hear this.
"Sing a happy happy happy..."
"Stop! Stop it" the Toast screamed as its wings withered, ("happy happy happy song") and its canines broke. "I have borne Marmite. I have borne Peanut Butter. And most recently, I have borne Chilli sauce. I have borne being thrown into water full of radioactive waste. But this! This is inhuman!"
While Captain Meghanawoman did not hear a word of what was said, her powerful intellect enabled her to grasp the gist of it, and she made a signal to her sidekick to stop, and took off her earplugs when she did.
Everybody heaved a deep sigh. The Swimming Toast collapsed and disintegrated into a revolting sort of paste on the floor Daaku Nakshak rose a little shakily, and twirled her moustache to steady herself. She reached out a hand to Captain Meghanawoman.
"You have earned my respect. I have not seen conduct as dastardly as yours for many a moon. I surrender, partly for my fearful partner is no more, and partly because I want the Rajkumari out of my room. Friends?"
They shook hands amicably, and the Daaku led them to her room.

All three gasped at what they found there.
The Rajkumari Nimmy, Pillar of Virtue, official Damsel in Distress, sigher of sighs, carrier of hankies, snarler of "Why!" wasn't there.
There was instead a tall and thin person dancing around the room, her hair wild, her eyes aglow, singing loudly.
All three knew the Rajkumari intimately.
"The Rajkumari doesn't sing loudly!" Captain Meghanawoman puzzled. "I have to push her to be audible!"
"The Rajkumari doesn't dance!" Daaku Nakshak mused. "She'd die before she'd dance in public!"
And then both fell to their knees.
It was only the Boy Meena who could resist the Terrible Tune. She took a deep breath, and began singing the refrain. Their voices blended perfectly. But her power had diminished the moment The Rajkumari had begun to sing the fatal words loudly.
Even Boy Meena fell to her knees. But she continued singing, only to pause a moment to say,
"Fly, you fools!"

Captain Meghanawoman took a moment to grieve for the lack of originality that marked her generation. Meanwhile, the Daaku quickly gathered all her old newspapers.
"You'll never get my crosswords!" she screamed.
Captain Meghanawoman finally succumbed to temptation.
Before they ran, she looked back and said, "I'll be back."

To be Continued

My Three Superpowers

2008-06-11T10:50:00.000+05:30

So I was sitting on my balcony last night, since the weather was stupendously terrible and even my trusty cooler failed to please. Since there are no chairs on my balcony, I sit in a somewhat precarious position, with my bum on a tiny ledge and one foot on the extremely thin balcony wall. If I lean a little to my right, I would fall and die.
It adds spice to my life.
So there are 2 floors below me, a garden at the bottom of it all, and beyond that, this boundary wall and then the huge park that's behind my house.
It's all quite lovely at night.

So I sit on my balcony and think, and that old question popped into my head. What superpower would I like to have. Something I have asked myself and my friends for donkeys years and I generally get a different reply each time. So I thought awhile, and I came up with three.

To have nine lives. This is basically because each time I sit on my balcony, I feel like jumping off. Not for suicide (you sordid minded people- bloody depressive, all of you) just simply to jump.
Not necessarily to fly either. So, okay, I don't mind dying, but I'd rather like it if I could come back to life and try it again. Of course, if I come back to life, I'd probably be severely injured with my neck on backwards and my kneecaps torn off or something, so along with the nine lives, I would like to add full recovery to the next life, thank you. And fries to go with that.

Right, next I thought that the flying would not go amiss either. So I'd like to jump and fly into the park, but the flying by itself, while a wonderful release, just wouldn't cut it. My friend, writing a story about Capt Meghanawoman asked what power I'd like to have, and in thinking over the subject last night, I decided that in keeping with my name, I'd like to be able to fly and to summon rainclouds wherever I go.
My own little army trotting serenely behind me. I'd like that.

Okay, so last one- since I write so many poems giving life to inanimate objects- as in sun and moon and stars and stone, and trees and rain and so on, I'd like to be able to give life to 'em, and take it back. You know, say 'how de do' and get an answer, then decide I don't want one anyway and put them back to sleep. I wouldn't want a host of silly things hanging on the sky and decorating my sofa giving me advice all the time.
I would like an occasional chat with the frog, and that yellow smiley thing with those miserable excuses for hands and feet. I think they'd be chillers. Not my sole surviving teddy-bear- in-a-nightsuit though. He might be a little miffed at everything I let my brother do to him.
(This includes writing "stupid" on his bottom, giving him a bath in my sink and scrubbing him with an ancient toothbrush, and throwing him at the fan a number of times).
Yeah, I'm not a soft toy person. I was always gifted soft toys by well-meaning friends.

I just remembered. When I was small, I used to have conversations with this one sofa. That's because it had two buttons where eyes could have been, and this large horizontal wrinkle below that which worked for a smile.
It would have been nice to have real chats with that sofa.

So those are my three chosen superpowers. I always found it a little boring when people would say the obvious- you know, mess with time, telekinesis, teleportation, to turn into anybody (like Mystique) and so assume their superpowers. To fly. To be invisible. In fact, I've said all those myself, I guess, and each time I was asked, thought better of it and said something else.
So that's it.
Up, up, and away!

Episode 1: Iniquitous Enemies

2008-06-09T20:51:00.000+05:30

Ok. This is going to make no appreciable amount of sense except to two people. And not even them perhaps. Never mind.

In memory of two fateful nights: at Nakashi's Kitchen, cooking dinner, and in My Room, looking at psychadelic pictures and rotten food, and hatching stories...

It wasn't a dark stormy night but the toast that went swimming didn't have a problem with that. Its niggling doubts rested with the wings that were sprouting out its backside (Entry through backside only). The toast was also having a problem with the menacing teeth that it seemed to have procured after only five days in the open seas. So when it met a strange squidlike creature that nearby sailers were hailing in terrified sopranos as "Krakken!", not being in the best of moods, the toast promptly ate it. The Krakken, I mean, not the ship. The ship after that.
The toast then realised that it had a number of powers that were to be reckoned with, and promptly joined forces with that darkest of souls, meanest of tongue, corrector of grammar, who'd force innocent maidens the world around to grate cheese and grind garlic mercilessly.
Daaku Nakshak, Phd in Evililism. She, twirling her impressive whiskers, accepted gladly. She needed all the help she could get against her nemesis Capt. Meghanawoman, and that dratted sidekick of hers Boy Meena, and their faithful Creature Cloosipoosipuddingnpie the pigeon destroyer.

And a plot was hatched between Evil Ones to destroy the Well- doing Three, protectors of the innocent, momo-makers extraordinaire, storytellers sublime, but they needed bait...
Who better then, than that tall and delicate Rajkumari Nimmy, the pillar of virtue, the sigher of sighs, never to be seen without a hanky in her pocket, that singer of harmonies, and yet a force to be reckoned with- the insatiable snarler of "Why!" and the only person in the world who made an airplane land early. But I digress.
They needed bait.
So a cunning plan was concocted, preparations that involved a lot of waterguns and batman capes were made, and when She stood on her balcony to get some air, and spied a violent pink, green and orange pichkari and a dark swish of a cape and skirt, she hurried towards her friends and lifesavers, Captain Meghanawoman, and Boy Meena.
Only to find it was a ruse. Despite her weak protests, the hefty villain carried her off, and sent the following letter to the Captain, who had been indulging in an exhilarating game of Connect four and Poke the Sidekick.

"We have the Rajkumari. If you don't come now, we'll make her crush garlic for the rest of her life. And worse still, grate cheese.
Tomorrow, as in Monday (don't know when this letter'll reach you) 7.30 pm. The Chowdhry mansion, West Delhi.
Bring as many momos as you can carry. NO chilli sauce.
And leave the dog behind."

Boy Meena looked at her boss in distress. "I can see from your face the news is bad?"
The Captain told her the essentials.
"West Delhi, the bastards. They know my powers are weak there. " Our fearless hero paused. "Never mind. We're going to need chili sauce. I know that's her weak point. Lots of chilli sauce. I have a plan!"

To be Continued

Utterly Fantastical

2008-06-06T21:02:00.000+05:30

Fantasy novels irritate me sometimes. They're almost the only thing I read now, which twists my perception of reality just a wee bit, and while I'm not making any claim to have read all (to my intense shame, I still haven't begun Pratchett and Jordan) I like picking them up; I like reading random things which go on about Gods and Magic and Mirrors and Kings and Dark Lords and so on. And while I've been interested in where the fantasy comes from (heck, read all of my musings on fantasy) I'm a little tired when it's smackingly obvious.
I'm not phrasing this very well.
Let's try again.

So being a history student (this is the only way I can justify to myself that I am indeed, shocker of shockers still, after 2 years, a history student) I like tracing the roots of fantasy, or imagining what imagos or -whaddayacallit- archetypes, so to speak were in the author's head when he or she poured out goblins, witches, and talking trees. Ok, so many strains are obvious in fantasy stories, Christianity, Imperialism, 1st and 2nd World Wars, a little misogyny, various types of racism and so on. And then there's the time and setting and tribe and civilization they adopt. Medieval or Ancient, Italy or Olde Englande and many like to toss in Greek gods, creatures from Welsh and Gaelic folk tales. Yes, I know, what I'm saying is screamingly obvious, I might as well not say it.
But that's the point, you see.
I'm tired of it. I'm bored of making the obvious connection. The transparent globe and mirror images.
Ok, so plots have changed. People are moving away from Dark lords, and Object of power, and the Journey to save mankind from Great Great Evil. There are new plots and new enemies. Sometimes I get tired of there being Enemies at all. I also get pissed off with Power being the driving force, from Lord Voldemort to the most random Elf or Mage. Is that true, incidentally? Must it be power that all people desire?
People are moving on to newer, or should one say older, folk- tales. Epics. Stranger mythologies, forgotten traditions. Which is something I respect and admire, and sooner or later mean to follow and research.
Only thing is, why can't there be stories utterly new? New creatures and New lands, not parodies or pale (or darker) copies of our own?Not drawing from any old tales or the iniquitous doings of our neighbours? Utterly fantastical.
See, our minds are constructed so that something or the other from our own lives and thoughts will of course seep through. One tends to put what is familiar to oneself on the page, meaning to or not, I get it. This granted, I wish the attempt could be made. By myself, at least.
That's all. I'm done.

T thing

2008-06-04T20:47:00.000+05:30

Tagged by Kyra.
Think of ten words beginning with T and write what they remind you of.

I must be terrifically bored.

Torrent.
Unstoppable flow. A force all its own. There needs to be some decisive immobile force to stop it, else anything and everything has to go with it. I like to think of all instrumental music pieces like that. And stories.
Of course, recently Torrent reminds me of downloads. Constant pressure from certain siblings whose lives seem to revolve around the damn thing.

T.S. Eliot
Simply brilliant poet. He, J. Alfred Prufrock, W.H Auden and Yeats... shaped my thoughts into a shape, condensed some of the mist so it could pour into some kind of vessel. It sounds cheesy, I know. Eliot makes me think of the happiest things, Macavity and Elective English classes.

Toto
Long drives in the mountains, swaying to Rosanna. Laughing at how dorky the band members look in the video of Africa. Some of the songs I most enjoyed singing in A.U.

Tyrant
This is what a guest in our house called my dad when she visited us after a long time, because of his set ways and rather irritable mien. She called him T3- Total Terrible Tyrant. It was really funny, because it stuck for a while, and since my dad quite liked her, he couldn't say anything.

Tall
Something I have never been. I never really wished to be tall actually. I didn't mind my height so much until I knew that there was a reason. But I still don't want to be tall. I'd just like, you know, an inch or two. So that short people could stop bolstering up their egos by resting elbows on my shoulder and preening themselves gleefully on their 'not the shortest person in the vicinity' status.

Thyroid
Immediately springs to mind. They found out that my thyroid gland was inactive sometime during class four, and thereafter followed a nightmarish session of changing dosage of medicine, blood tests, headeaches and weakening grades. That wasn't a good year. My mum told me later that the teachers had been warned, but I guess some of them didn't get the message, because Usha ma'am was rather mean!!!

Tacks
This line from a brilliant song by Eartha Kitt, 'I want to be Evil'. One of the lines is "I wanna be evil, I wanna spit tacks." I sing it a lot. It's (take a wild guess) about this angel girl who wants to go BAD. Lots of fun. Very fifties.

Tea
means sitting in my parents room before I went to school. Me and the brother drinking doodh chai and eating half boiled eggs before walking or racing to the bus stop. Tea means that sickly sweet stuff in dhabas that we had and even started enjoying on the million road trips. Tea means winter afternoons at home, and forcing guests to make it for us, because we're just too damn lazy.

To the Moon and Back.
The first song on that Savage Garden album. I used to listen to that album All the time. Happy kiddie memories. Trying to sing that 'ooo i want you' song and being really jealous of my friend who knew all the words (at 12) and sang the whole thing.

This Thing That Thing
was a silly symphony type thing I heard from my cousin and her friends, it was the only successful Hit of Silhouette. We got demands from the science class! We were also made a lot of fun of, because we used to sit in class during our free periods and invent silly symphonies, though I didn't know that at the time. Not that I cared. Others did though. Something else I found out later.

Damn. I'm done. More creative attempts will follow, don't worry. I'm just in the imaginative doldrums right now.

Gah

2008-05-30T11:31:00.000+05:30

Urgh.
One of those tangents coming up, don't you know?

I have a crick in the neck. I can't write anything I put my mind to. I have to carefully concentrate on anything else, everything else to churn anything good out. If don't it's like crushing garlic. You know? I have brief spells of incoherence. Actually not brief.
My verbal skills are sadly nonexistent. I can't talk, can only write. This is not to say I'm silent. Give me the least excuse and I'm a chatterbox. I'm not a quick thinker. I'm not a grand thinker. I think, come to think of it, very rarely. That was unworthy of me.
I'm in one of those self- bashing moods. Why I feel it necessary to publish my failings on a blog is because of my not very deep-seated craving for attention. This is probably due to my feelings of insignificance, imperfection, and the knowledge that I can do better, but stopped after class three. After which I've remained in a more or less constant strain of mediocrity. I got awards for Progress. For Effort. I nearly screamed when I got it for Good Citizen. Then I did really badly in my History board exam and ended up getting an award for that.
Bah.
I have a crick in the neck. I can't nod very emphatically. I don't feel like doing anything emphatically at the moment.
Gah... is as emphatic as I can get.

I'm going to go depress my dog now.

Another Day in the Life

2008-05-30T11:22:00.000+05:30

The stars were just being simply bitchy. And so crude. They gave an entirely new meaning to passing wind.
I sat rather firmly on one cloud who became a bit more puffed up than he had any right to be.
And don't even get me started on the sun. I thought we had something going. Funny how easily we're blinded by bright light.
Death ain't all it was cracked up to be. I'm cancelling my subscription.

The Ill-fated Heroes

2008-05-16T13:53:00.000+05:30

Since certain friends' obsession with the whole 'princess in a tower' business is sadly contagious, I felt I must dedicate this post to her, simply since I stole the idea from her last night. So Zlata, this one goes out to you. And it really isn't a bad comic idea.

The prince sallied forth through barren lands, ignored his parched throat in the golden deserts, faced down any number of cut-throat bandits and robbers, talked himself out of slavery to a wizard (by playing with words and punning so hard that the wizard, utterly confused, had released his death grip on the prince's throat), and was beginning to feel fairly pleased with himself by the time he entered the forest. The feeling didn't last particularly long, as he almost immediately tripped over a root, became a laughing stock for a number of monkeys, and did not enjoy the early morning sensation of feeling some determined leeches clutching on to his chin for dear life.
But our hero was uncommonly intelligent, and due to his foresight in actually anticipating the dangers that lay waiting for him, had procured salt at the last inn. It must be admitted that the danger he had anticipated was tasteless food, but why quibble at such insignificant details?
To proceed, he made his less than stately way through the forest, befriended a stag, made enemies of a number of ravens and a particularly spiteful tiger, and was quite grateful when the dappled light and dark green and brown colours gave way to bright sunshine and a rolling glade.
His noble steed was a little worse for the wear, but he beheld a tall tower and decided he did not desire to make a tardy arrival. So he leapt up onto the saddle and approached the tower slowly.
He was already bewitched, you see, as he heard a beautiful low and sweet voice with enchanting harmonies call out for freedom, sing out for true love. Filmy curtains swished around a beautiful figure. He fancied that she lifted one hand and beckoned with a finger. And he determined that anybody with a voice like that deserved what she got, and what she was getting was him. She deserved freedom, and he would give it to her. The love too.
The horse wasn't so sure.

He cantered up in a dreamlike state, vaulted off his horse, slew the witch almost without thinking, and nearly floated up the thirty-eight flights of stairs without breaking into a sweat.
He knocked thrice on the door, and when it opened, his delirium shattered as somebody banged on the wall with a spoon, one played a rowdy guitar, and another clapped on the table. The lady at the window turned around. She was exactly what he had thought her to be. Tall, dark hair, curvacious, wearing a long flowing gown, and a sweet smile. The problem was that any bare skin he could see was smothered by virulent red spots.

He backed away rapidly, and as he looked around, he saw that all the occupants in the room were afflicted with the disease. They ignored him, and stopped thair racket to tune their instruments.
"I.. I think I was misled. Excuse me!" the Prince stuttered.
"Oh no," the lady said. "You are very welcome! Do not worry about these spots that so mar my face and body! They are not so very painful, and we have grown inured to them, have we not, my friends?"
They all nodded.
"But is it not contagious?"
"Indeed it is. Did you not wonder at your delirium, my new friend? Measles can do that to you, you know!"
"Measles!" the prince shrieked. Then a ray of hope hit him. "So it is temporary?"
"Indeed not. It is only measles but it is a special brand that seems eternal. A curse, you know! And so many saw me at my window, that all you see here are now afflicted with the same."
"Perhaps I can rescue you!"
The lady shook her head a little sadly. "No. My parents did not put me here to be rescued but to be isolated. Unfortunately a maiden in a tower is like a red flag to such headstrong young men like yourself. The witch you slew is only a ghost, you know, who tries unavailingly to stop men such as you. Sometimes she succeeds. Sometimes, not."
The delirium might have been coming on again, but he didn't feel as bad about this as she should. "So I can't leave the tower?"
The lady shook her head. "Do you play a musical instrument?" she asked. "Or sing?"
"Yes, and yes," he said. "Trombone and tenor."
"Excellent," she said. "You shall be quite my favourite! Now meet your fellows."
A vaguely familiar face nodded at him. "Charming."
"Thank you," our hero replied.
"No, My name is Charming. I believe our parents in a flurry of imagination called you Charmont."
The penny dropped. "So that's where you got to, brother! Well met!"
Handsome waved a drumstick at him and Gallant winked as he strummed his guitar. Sir Knight
introduced himself a little stiffly and creaked and winced when he sat down again. More introductions were made. And then they sat down and jammed.
One cannot, perhaps, say that they lived happily ever after, for while they bore their curse patiently and philosophically, as well as musically, measles are indeed an irritating ailment to have for eternity.
One can safely say however, that the horse did live happily after, having found a mare that the prince's brother had ridden thither upon, and he escorted her back to the castle whence they had come. Of course their riderless arrival produced total panic, and search parties of the best knights in the area were sent to look for them, so it is to be assumed that the band of people in the topmost room in a certain tall tower greatly increased, but the horses prudently slipped away when they were called for, and spent a happy and riderless life at the back of the rather extensive stables a royal castle is bound to have.

Thoughtful Meanderings (contd.)

2008-05-10T22:43:00.000+05:30

Okay this is it. It's coming... you need wait no longer, for its here. Preeesentinggg...
Thoughtful Meanderings.....!!! (I would like to say that the crowds roar, but I'm not that vain. True genius is so rarely appreciated.)

Ghoraar-deem (for the uninitiated- this translates to 'horse's eggs'- being the equivalent of 'bullshit' half-bengaliness does have its perks after all, other than the tendency to be unashamedly verbose.) over, I can now turn to what I really want to write about. Unfortunately, thoughts chase each other so fast in my head that often the original thought retreats far away and shamefacedly returns at the most inconvenient moment. Short simple sentences should be a rule with me. But they're like 'small frequent meals'- such reasonable approaches to life just don't appeal to me, and consequently I ignore them.

Okay, seriously, bullshitting over, something that really bothers me sometimes is the increase of people who read. The year I got out of school, EVERYBODY was dying to do English honours. I did too, and as a result am doing History. But what really irks me is in what I've found to be the majority of these 'english' people. Pseudo-intellectuals, you know? The prize-winner reading types. The newest meaningful depressing work on 'worthy' subjects, on the newest Indian author. Urgh!!! I'm not saying, read chiclets (is that what they're called?) I'm not saying pick up the newest legal thriller. But come on, people, let go of the newest Booker Prize, and put away your thesaurus!
Of course, this may just be a reaction to the eyebrow raisings I get when people ask me what I'm reading in college. In any case, I get pissed off when people interrupt my reading. Then to stand a "Can I look at the cover?" and to top it all, you frikkin have the gall to raise your eyebrow at me? I spit.

Pseudo-Intellectuals must have a thorough understanding of Arundhati Roy, Khaled Hosseini, and others (note- I am not derogating the authors. I'm just derogating the people who HAVE to read them.) and admit to abhorrence of all things fantasy, except movies. And don't even get me started on people who like the movie and not the book. I like the movie too. But nothing betters the book.
What I really hate about this new insidiously growing and creeping group is that they don't read for the pleasure of reading. They read for what comes after the book. Look, I'll admit it. I snicker out loud when I'm reading. I can even cry. I gasp, I groan, and I say "No,no no, Aiii!! no!" I'm not saying people have to be freaks like me. I just am irritated with people saying "It all makes sense when you're done with it actually." Or "Yeah, the first part's boring. Ok, the second part too... But it's worth it when you're done!"

Me, I'm all for the liking what you're reading. If the thought behind it is excellent, it's a good thing. And if it makes you think after you're done, good. But if you have to keep counting to see how many pages you have left, people it's NOT worth it. It's okay not to read. It's okay to be a tv buff. Just don't read for the sake of it is all.
Since I have only met one person so far who feels EXACTLY the same as I do on this subject, as she's a student of English and is surrounded by more of the same, and is friends with them, as I am.
I've already devoted a numer of posts as to the intricacies of fantasy, so I won't go there now, since I feel the genre doesn't need defence. And I'm tired.
Phew.
Cheers to the Duck of Destiny. 'So there' to the rest of you ****ers.

For you and for me

2008-05-10T21:41:00.000+05:30

You plucked a star and put it in my hair

As though it was a simple flower.

For you it was, I guess.

You broke the moon and shredded the clouds

Into guitar and strings, and you sang

A song that would have made the flowers in a different continent bloom,

A song that would have given flight to any boy trying to leap from his roof,

A song that would have lent voice to silence and set rockets alight.

Nothing less

For me, at least.

You crushed the sun till it was small

And fixed it in my room on one wall under a red lampshade

And thought it was a poor replacement for the bulb that had fused.

You have such finesse.

You tore the sky with your fine sharp dagger

And wore it as your mantle

And asked, “How’d you like my jacket?”

I would have replied that it set fire to your eyes such that could burn a forest

I would have replied that in it you stood tall enough to dwarf a streetlight

I would have replied that its length and breadth covered the entire universe

But I refrained.

I had no wish to embarrass.

You swept the distant and vast oceans into my life

As though you were pouring new water into a vase.

For you, you were, I guess.

What exactly to do with unwelcome guests

2008-05-10T21:26:00.000+05:30

She had long hair that had the power to ensnare anybody she wished, usually her enemies, and changed colour at will, or mood. Her nostrils flared when she was in a rage. They flared quite often. She did not care much for clothes. She kept eight long simple dresses, a different colour for each day of the week. She was a tall and stately lady, and people never failed to gasp the first time they saw her, for there was some radiance in her that made questions of beauty seem immaterial.

She was striding along the wide corridors of her mansion, and then her eyes narrowed. In another region, a large and wide oak door with a single heavy silver knocker croaked slowly open. She changed direction.

Note to self: must get door hinges oiled without fail.The young man looked nervously around the foyer he had just entered. The room had seemed tiny and airless when he walked in, the colour of the walls did not help (dark green) but the longer he stood, the larger it seemed to him. And then it seemed smaller, and then larger. The room was octagonal in shape and each side boasted a plain wooden door. He shook his head slightly. All the doors appeared the same to him. He approached the first door to his right.
He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth and reached towards the doorknob, and as he leaned forward, the plain rough wood of the door shimmered and some etchings appeared on the dark polished wood, in the shape of... well, the young man didn’t see. He turned the knob, and was surprised to find that it turned so easily in his hand. Cautiously, he pushed open the door, and peered around it into the darkness.
He shut it hastily, and dispelled a breath, and ran a rueful hand through his singed hair.
The lady continued to stride, but at a leisurely pace.
Note to self: must keep shifting doors around. Only enchanters are left-handed. Another note to self: Dragon becoming testy. Must feed her tomorrow.
The young man tried the second door. Four clear glass panes appeared. The young man looked up as the knob disappeared and was startled to find that all four panes of glass reflected his face in very different and rather vague but deeply disturbing ways. The doorknob came back as soon as the man’s hand stopped searching for it. He looked down, and as his hand grasped the doorknob, he noticed it was made of glass. And his hand did not look the same anymore.
He shuddered, and backed away from that door immediately. He tried to refrain from retching, but a nervous glance again at his hand confirmed that it was back to normal. Just skin and tissue and nails and knuckles- nothing else- no maggots certainly.
The lady was striding just a bit faster. Her dress, violent but soothing crimson crackled as it swept the floor behind her, letting out tiny blue and silver sparks.
The young man had rather sweet soft brown eyes that only shone when he was angry or excited. Most people thought his eyes were rather dull. To say nothing of what they thought of him.
He braced himself and tried the third door, gingerly touching the doorknob first. No frightening reflections of blood and bone followed and he relaxed slightly. He opened the door, and walked in, finding himself in total darkness. He took out his torch and lit it with a hiss. But the flame sputtered and died out immediately. It was difficult to breathe, but this intrepid hero took a tiny step forward, and his foot felt nothing beneath it. The rest of his body made up for this lack of feeling, though, as he fell down a seemingly endless stairway. It did end, finally, and his pent up emotions found refuge in a string of obscene words.
He climbed up the stairs, which seemed to last even longer than when he fell down, and noting this depressing fact his speech grew steadily more profane and his analogies even more lewd.
When he reached, saw a tall lady seated on the spindly table that occupied the centre of the room.
Somewhat out of breath, he made a deep bow. The lady nodded. She slipped off the table gracefully and walked around it. The young man positioned himself opposite her, across the spindly table. She kept moving, so he followed her example.
Panting a little, he managed to utter, “Excuse my discourtesy, my lady. I was somewhat waylaid.”
Her nostrils flared slightly when she replied. “Guests to my house are not ordinarily welcome at the best of times, and guests who attempt to prowl around the place without my express permission are even more unwelcome. Having been let in, guests are allowed only to sit in this foyer.”“My deepest apologies: it won’t happen again.”
A twinkle came into the lady’s eyes. Her hair had been like a hard black before, now the roots looked different, and soon her hair was a tawny colour. “I am sure it shall not.” The abject terror in the young man’s eyes amused her. “Now, who has sent you?”
“The Sorcerer,” the young man said.
Her hair was dark blue, and suddenly and swiftly, strips of grey streaked through.
She considered for a minute, while the young man watched her hair in fascination.

“And the Magician?”
“He has said that he will be present.”
“Will the Necromancer be attending?”
“It is uncertain.”
“The Faeries?”
“Certainly.”
“Are the Witches and Wizards required to attend?”
“Indeed, yes.”
“It sounds like quite a party,” she mused.
The young man flicked a finger and a quill and parchment leapt into his hands. He licked the nib.
“May I confirm your attendance then?”
“Of course not!” she snapped. “When did I say that? I might drop in, but I shall not confirm anything. Tell them that the Enchantress has rather more serious matters to attend to than drink weak alcohol and show off cheap tricks, and discuss the newer laws as to bringing pigeons out of handkerchiefs at children’s parties.”
“But your attendance is necessary! A major evil is afoot in the world!”
“Oh my giddy aunt Frieda- may her ghost wander forever wreaking havoc amongst corporate lawyers- you’re one of those!”
The poor young man took a while to grab the gist of her sentence, and stammered, “I’m one of whom?”
“You, my son, are, to coin a phrase, ‘the pawn of prophecy’. Are you not?”
The young man looked a little shifty.
“To coin another phrase, I don’t doubt that you are ‘the Chosen One?’”
The young man looked at his feet and nodded. Then he gained some spirit.
“I am sure you find it very amusing to belittle me and the rest of the world. Why don’t come out into the real world? You’ll find it has changed in the fifty or so years you’ve been away from it! ”
The look she gave him was of pity, and she said a little sadly, “Well done. You have all the hallmarks. You just found out your true identity, you are rash, impulsive, stupid, not very tall, and have immense spirit. Perhaps they want to choose me as the guide. Well, I’ve had enough of it. And incidentally, it's been seventy odd years.”
“But only with your help shall we be able to defeat the Dark...”
She raised a hand. “I have heard enough. You poor, deluded child, you have been tricked; mind swept. But are there no little cobwebs in your head left, suggesting that not all spiders are bad, and that a clean world never did anybody any good? And the Dark forces are probably misunderstood creatures, who, after making several failed attempts to conquer the world, will realise it is far less trouble not to attempt doing so; that they will have much more peace of mind only pillaging, killing, looting or eating only those foolish adventurers who come into their orbit. Not even that, they’re probably a new breed of rabbit, headed by some rabbit that is tired of making its entry into the world through a top hat, and is on a death mission to change some things, and I can’t say I blame him, or them.”
He had to wrestle with this awhile. Then he shook his head. “No cobwebs. No spiders too. Not sure about rabbits. But Dark forces...”
“They really know how to pick them. Which rocks do such creatures live under?” the Enchantress sighed.
Note to self: install eye glass in old oak door. So I can see who I’m letting in.
Note to self again: Walk more slowly when guests arrive. Allow them some time to get burnt, eaten, bruised, killed, consumed by evil forces, or be driven mad by utter self-loathing. If it’s important, they’ll emerge eventually to tell me. At least their ghosts will.
She suddenly smiled and her whole face lit up. The dark blue melted into gold. She seemed less tall- sweet and vulnerable. She looked beautiful, but this did not comfort the poor young man at all.
“Alright,” she said. “You may confirm my attendance at the conference, as soon as you walk out of my mansion. When is the conference?”
“In a week,” he said, relieved.
“Alright, I shall clear up my schedule for the next eight days. Leave, then. Remember, you can only write my name as soon as you walk out of my mansion. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Well then, you’d better be leaving.” She smiled charmingly at him, and he smiled nervously back.
“The others were doubtful of your coming. You are known to be somewhat of a recluse. I was persuaded you would listen to me, and I was surprised that all the Elders, The Sorcerer, Faerie Queen and even the Necromancer encouraged me to come. They’ll be so glad that we have your wisdom to assist us.”
The Enchantress had the grace to feel a twinge of guilt, but also had the grace to ignore it.
“I’m sure’, she said.
Last note to self: Construct little harmful presents for those evil sons and daughters of so-and-sos for making game of this poor little chap.
Actual last note to self: Also send gestures of appreciation and congratulations on doing the same.
“It is time for me to leave, I suppose,” the young man said. “I have taken up far too much of your time.”
“You certainly have,” she agreed.
“Which door is it?”
Why don't you choose,” she said, and then she was gone.

Lost in Translation

2008-04-18T12:39:00.000+05:30

Arghhh!! a day before my exam and I can't study!!! Disaster! Tragedy!! Somewhat like when...

Things just seem to get lost in translation.

From one language to another, from a

Novel to a movie, from idea to paper,

Some melody must get lost, some note must sound wrong.

A rough chord, instead of a strum

A clipped trot and not a canter

And the frustration- oh god, the bloody torment-

Of guessing at a secret, and getting only

The whispered outlines. Studying for the class that

You missed, and your friend’s notes just don’t cover it!

The thumbscrews of ‘what have I missed?’ and

The burning oil of ‘this can’t be right!’

It breaks your heart to see unfaithful representations,

A horrifying rendition of the song you have composed,

Forced expressions of emotion; amateurs in a play

Who rapidly turn a climax into unearthly lines

Just lines that make your heart sink!

Oh, how perfect things are lost

In translation! The movers break

Your furniture and your heart, and

Little precious goods are lost in the wink

Of an eye, emotions, words, and meanings!

Lost in translation,

Novels to movies

Small goods in transit,

Are never returned

Just quite the same as

They were first given.

Like love from one heart

To another heart

Love from the second

Acquires new meaning,

Quite different from what the first heart

Had originally intended.

Spirits in a Jar

2008-04-03T12:38:00.000+05:30

My exams start tomorrow, the first being English. Piece of cake. I really should go study now... and not write stupid poems. So... my first and last contribution for this month.

Catch the night in my little hand
Pick up the pieces with my toes
Thread the moon with strands of my hair
And find the memories that have haunted me so

Love and lust fight it out in sepia
Such reminiscences swim inside my tears
The words trickle in between the lines
And the currents peep from behind the sheers

I tell them to hide like sardines in a can
They stick out their tongues and waggle their fingers
Little voices tell me they aren’t so grand
That they grow bigger and better with every year

But I tell them to hide like spirits in a jar
Who needs the sounds of reality and sense
If one can dwell together in nostalgia
With all one’s own very old friends

Raining down in glittering melody
With a burst of wind, and little shards of blue
Trying with butterfingers and twinkle-toes
To join them together, and to find the glue

Should I then let fall the night?
Let the pieces lie?
Wash the moon from my messy hair?
And let the dead die?

A rainbow story

2008-03-26T10:14:00.000+05:30

When I was in junior school;- I don't remember which class- we were all told to write stories of the rainbow. I wrote something- I don't remember what, and I remember my teacher was so impressed with it she showed my parents what I had written, and my parents talked about it to our relatives, and at the next family party I felt like a star... I was thinking about this last night, and sadly, I couldn't remember the story, only that there was a princess who was captured by a prince and....
Well, I decided to write it again. I had about 5 different interpretations in my head, and this is one of them. I was tempted to make all sorts of sarcastic comments after very line, but I restrained myself, because I was very sleepy, and the story threatened to double its size with all the brackets that kept forming.

Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful princess. She dwelt somewhere between the earth and the sky, behind a piece of crisp white cloud. This princess spoke often to the people down on earth, and gave them advice, and they looked up to her and respected her. However apart from speaking kindly to these people the princess was rather shy, and a little timid.
Now, one day, when she was combing out her long auburn tresses, threading them with flowers the people had given her, the crisp white cloud disobligingly turned grey and scuttled off, leaving her unprotected and in plain sight.
A little indignant and a little frightened, she looked up and down, left and right, but a she was only seeking that piece of crisp white cloud, she did not spot a a dark stranger gazing down at her. Now this dark stranger was a prince and (as happens every so often in such stories) fell immediately in love with her.
In fact the cloud had run away to join this prince's army (Battalion NNW, a line regiment, 45th Corps, to be precise) for he prince had arrived with rain.
As the mighty drops fell, the princess was even more dismayed; she wasn't used to such happenings and her recently combed hair became wet and the flowers wilted. The prince did not like to see her in such distress, and without a second thought, and the most altruistic of motives, picked her up and flew away. This brought the princess deeper distress- she cried out and flailed her arms wildly, and in so doing, her fingernail caught at a button on the prince's doublet and a deep violet thread streaked behind them.
The gentians she had put in her hair disintegrated into a trail of petals, and indigo flew next to the violet. This gave the princess an idea. She stopped struggling so wildly, and tore off a strip of blue sky, the little that she spotted hiding behind the grey clouds, and this ragged strip sailed forlornly betwixt the petals.
Turning her head away so that the prince would not hear, she called to the sun, her friend, to help her, and he sent her a thick beam of light. A little bit of this merged with part of the sky strip, and so after the blue green and yellow mingled with the other colours. All the better, the princess thought. Next she pulled out one lock of her own hair that waved merrily to the other colours. And just to make doubly sure, the princess bit her lip and a stream of blood joined the others.
The plan seemed to be working. The rainfall was not to heavy, the sun had gifted them some light; the people of earth, her friends caught hold of the improvised rope and climbed towards her. The princess clung to the prince with one hand, for they were flying very fast, and gripped the rope with the other. She was thankful the prince had not caught on to her plan, and then, suddenly, he stopped. The princess noticed her hair was dry, no drops were soiling her dress, and the prince was gravely handing her a tissue to wipe the blood from her lips. She took it, and did so, and then looked up at him, and (as happens every so often in such stories) fell immediately in love.
She looked down at the people , her friends, climbing valiantly to save her, and felt a little ashamed and very embarrassed. Now what was she to do? The prince was looking down , too and from his pocket, he drew forth a pair of scissors and cut the rope the princess had made. She cried out; how could he be so cruel? But the rope did not collapse to the ground, the end the prince cut dropped to the ground, and the rope formed a graceful arc.
"But how am I to repay them?" the princess murmured, and the prince smiled. Looking down again, she saw the people gleefully sliding down and landing with a clash and a clatter, amidst gales of laughter into a huge pot of gold.

Fantasy: A Realm for Historical Speculation

2008-03-18T10:54:00.000+05:30

I haven't written in a while... mainly because slogging for the upcoming terror (finals for 2nd year) and investigating the links of Absolutism and 17th century crisis are choking my creative capabilities. So any coherent thought is mostly in a vaguely historical vein.
What I started thinking about was my project for a paper. I called it Fantasy: A Realm for Historical Speculation and in it, I reviewed two books of Guy Gavriel Kay, as the ideal for exploring the link between fantasy and history. I started out with something good, but I made a mistake. Kay's books were consciously historical fantasy, something that had its own value, and he had many interesting roots, sources, and comments to make, thus his appeal. However, what draws me more is the unconscious use of history, or more specifically, historical structures in fantasy. These structures could be social, political, or/and economic; the reflection of internalised ideals and shibboleths of society.

Starting with nursery rhymes and fairy tales, and the use that they had, and the rather terrifying stories they tell, from ring-o-roses (I'm sure most people know what this innocent song refers to) to Rapunzel (which I think has rather terrifying social implications). What use did these fantasies have in the times that they were produced? It's an interesting question, but one I don't have time or space to think about now.
The Count of Monte Cristo is considered an 'escapist' fantasy ('escapist is word I take deep issue with), where good triumphs over evil, a story of revenge and retribution, where the bad are punished, and the good rewarded, with the help of that treasure island. In this way, any damn story should be a fantasy then!! And they often are! For English students, how many times has the question been asked about fantastical elements in plays or stories. 'In what ways does The Importance of being Earnest resemble a fairy-tale?'. (In its unreality, childish reaction, easy solution of problems, blah blah). By this definition, ANY story is a fantasy, and the reasons given above apply often to reality. Coincidences that occur in real life would seem childish and incredible down in print. But I digress.

For out and out fantasy (which seems, after the above digression, to be the only way to make clear what I am speaking of) where civilisations and worlds are constructed out of ones imagination, the link to history should therefore be clear. I may be stating what is taken for granted, but the obvious must needs be stated.
When stories are constructed out of ones imagination, they would immediately, or automatically, carry a whole load of flotsam from the creator's mind. The social ideals, the political examples he/she has to draw on, wars and personages, diplomatic breakthroughs, and racist comments. I'm not undermining these creations, or detracting from their originality. Whatever examples they draw on, often unconsciously often not, whatever social structures are thrown in, whether considered or not, there is still a necessary amount of invention, and it is the way that these innovations correspond with the historical structures they include that is so intriguing, and something I could explore endlessly.
One might ask what these structures are that I am referring to so generally, and its difficult to answer, as they are so many and so varied. From the drawing of maps, to the variations of monarchies, to absolutisms and renaissances, and feudal setups. Antiquity is a model much admired by fantasy writers, and their works are often variations of this. Medieval times are popular as well. Kings and queens hold an attraction seldom rivaled by any other form. This is not to say that alternate forms are not written about: they often are, and are interesting as they offer a reaction to history! So many fantasies are replies to questions asked during difficult periods, often religious, often political, and social. The calmest solutions to problems could be touchstones to problems out there in the real world. A world where a kingdom is ruled only by women is speculation as to whether such a system might have worked.

Viewed from the other side of the glass, fantasies are invaluable in understanding history. Bardic narratives, feudal wars, the tussle for power between church and state, pantheons of gods reflecting hierarchy are all important parts of both fantasy and history, and the two are often complementary. Also, as Kay says, fantasy breaks down some of the barriers in exploring the past. According to our sources and preconceptions, we build up pictures of the past, a lush technicolour vision of the Renaissance, a bleak, barbaric image of the 'Dark Ages' ('Dark Age' is a title recent historians have, rightly, found issue with as any period of time with fewer sources and less obvious cultural development is consigned to be a 'dark age'!). So since our images of the past are anyways fantasies of a sort, Fantasy stories innovate further on meagre factual matter.

Having written this long tangent, I don't mean to imply that fantasy must be read for a purpose, that it can only be endured keeping in mind its historical function. This is not what I mean at all. It is interesting to ponder deeper significances and make historical correlations, but I read fantasy for no purpose other than enjoying a story keeping me up betimes, and it is only after finishing the story that I might make such judgments. I take issue with fantasy being viewed as an escapist genre, and thoroughly repudiate any such suggestion...

Phew!
I am now at peace. As my project's objective went slightly awry, at least my views are clear (to me, anyway) somewhere!

Magick Dust

2008-03-07T20:36:00.001+05:30

As one of my favourite authors has said, "Dreams are not story-shaped".
Well, I'll just have to do my best. I had been having a deep uncomplicated, uninterrupted sleep for a very very long time, and the dream that came seemed to be making up for all those months. The sandman sprinkled some rather different dust on me that night. I can't remember most of it, the earlier bits are dark blurs, but the later sweet parts still linger clearly...

Two people from our times were flung into 19th century Englande. Indeed. All grey and black and smoke and dust. A filthy train station it was, with vice and hardship in the mean streets of London and the only way to survive was for one of the girls to adopt the pose of a man, and so she did, though now I should say 'he'. So he became a man and worked and did all sorts of nasty and low things that gave 'his' gentle and beautiful friend more comfort. Our hero had for a week or two been aware of eyes following 'him', of noting 'his' unwary actions, and there was kindness and pity in those eyes but our protagonist was justifiably apprehensive.

One day, a handsome and rich looking stranger took the young girl out of her poverty, and our hero begged the girl not to desert 'him', but the girl started walking away without a second glance, and our hero was left destitute, and worse, alone- a pathetic figure with a thin pale face and a drooping fake moustache sitting on a dirty step. 'His' eyes were following his lost friend so he did not notice that a slim and pale young man had sidled close to him, his eyes intent, and whispered,
'I know what you are, and I am sorry. Would you like me to take you out of here?'
Our protagonist knew scarcely what to say except a flat negative to whatever he might be suggesting, but before she knew it (I think to avoid confusion, now that our heroine had been recognised it is best that we refer to her as she is) against the grey hues of London, there was a sprinkling of magick dust, coral and azure and peacock blue and blinding orange, and sunshine and poisonous green and deep dark brown.
And when the colours had settled, the protagonist was wearing different clothes and a different expression, and was me.
Indeed.
A burst of colours.
I was with my benefactor, confused in a flurry of people running and screaming and laughing here and there. It seemed to be a party being held in the grounds and Manor of somebody whose identity did not matter. The grass was greener than it had any right to be, the flowers were in jewel colours and looked ripe to eat, and some of them were. There was a wide stream of frothing chocolate which made me think of Willy Wonka's factory except for the fat that there were no glass pipe, and we were certainly not underground. The sun was definitely shining down upon another time and region of England though.
My new companion as trying to lead me somewhere but I felt vaguely uneasy so I resisted slightly and looking around, heard a startled exclamation room somewhere in the crowd of people.
'Meghana?'
I sought the speaker and located him. There he was, sun shining in his lightish eyes, on his overgrown though still attractive lightish hair, half-smiling down at me. An old school girl crush, a feeling never entirely crushed ,and there he was smiling down at me.
We went inside the manor- I had no thought of the vague entity who had accompanied me. We sat and reminisced, and moved on to speaking of deeper feelings and thoughts, and we overheard conversations of people passing by, couples and friends and we laughed at them.
And the dream ended.

Indeed.
Dreams really aren't story shaped. I did warn you. Random shifts of identity, time, colour and yet fairly constant in place. Weird. I was very sorry to get up, though.
Even my dreams are long winded, eh?
The sandman's dust supply must be from a different bank.

Hell hath no fury...

2008-03-02T22:46:00.000+05:30

'Stand and fight, you miserable cur!'
And the man needed no other spur
But he leaped into the air with a flourish
and drew forth his weapon with a swish.
To and fro the two men sprang
and did not stop till the dinner bell rang
Whereupon they ceased their mighty strife
and entered the kitchen to irritate the wife
'Hold your tongue and eat your dinner!'
Spake she, 'Goodness, you've grown thinner!'
One of them, he nodded, meek
But his challenger was not so weak.
'Upon my word, are you so flea-bitten?'
He said, but the man just chewed his chicken
'What more must I say? Good Lord, what a house!
'I must ask you to control your spouse!'
The lady, her mouth full, raised an impatient eye
then said, 'Can you not wait a little while to die?'

'Must I fling my glove to your face?
Or, perhaps, ask your lady in your place
to give me the satisfaction I desire
As she seems to have more fire?'
All the man said, as he tore apart his meat
was addressed to his wife, 'Ignore him, my sweet'
The incensed visitor clutched his hair
And after a pause, flung the table to the air
My lady, her meal a ruin
Chicken and potato and celery all strewn,
stood up slowly and asked the question
'Why do you attack my husband with such passion?'
'I do not interrupt you or your husband with glee
'And I too would be sitting to dinner, verily,
Yes, indeed I would be in this hour sitting to dine,
If my wife had not preferred your husband's company to mine.'

My lady grew white, and her husband turned red
The challenger's expression as a heavy as lead
The erring husband shrugged, then said, 'he lies,
This fight is not due to disrespect of his wedding ring,
but because I told him that his hat wasn't at all the thing.'
The lady sighed and picked up two mince pies.

Quick as lightning, she flung them in their faces
and said coldly, 'I don't care for your social graces!
Such little considerations are not worth your lives!'
The men agreed, but they did not see the knives
Until she plunged them into their chests
When the blood finished pouring from their vests,
She mopped it up, and cleaned the floor
Put the clean vegetables back in her store
She restored the table, put right the chair
Leaned back, and blew smoke rings into the air
And busy in this occupation
she murmured,
'I hate mealtime conversation!'

A Monologue

2008-03-02T19:52:00.000+05:30

My eyes go everywhere these days. They don’t stay where they should, they don’t speak what they feel. They don’t drip as they used to, but they go everywhere, and I can’t stop them. I watch the people walk, I watch how the blind make their way so surely through the corridors, whereas I stumble and bump into others in the throng at least once every five minutes. My eyes slide over one girl crying, one shrieking on the phone, one talking animatedly, some listening, bored, one girl is chewing gum and has the expression that most solitary girls chewing gum seem to automatically procure.

They do not shy away from things I hate, from things I shouldn’t see, and novelty (at least for me). I watch fascinated as one girl nuzzles the neck of another, and several heavy coins drop. I see a girl pretending not to cry, and I know I can’t do anything, so I look sympathetic, more for myself than for her. Altruism: A fine example. A girl bends unconsciously down, wearing a V-neck top. A girl stretches on the mattress; she is one of those who can sleep anywhere, one arm raised with abandon above her head, and the other couching her ear like a child would. Her jeans are, inevitably low-waist, and a bright and startling coloured underwear shows through.

Love is in the air, as some sigh, some sprawl, and some snicker. Many look sick with the winter’s toll, and the doubtful origins of the chicken in the cafe. I see their lips moving in boast of their delicate constitutions. I am not a perceptive person, but the curl of their lips and the line of their cheeks tell the tale with every symbol and gesture.

I cannot read eyes. People speak of reading people through eyes, so many (fictional cases) of eyes avoiding eyes of close ones when telling lies. My eyes go everywhere, but they do not pierce. They don’t arrive at the heart of things, they shy away at the last instant, as though they consider themselves incapable of questioning and probing. I have never met anybody’s eyes in my life, disregarding staring competitions that I invariably lose. I have to blink. I abandon the worthless struggle and blink to avoid the exhausted tears that come to my eyes. I lose the game. My eyes go everywhere. But they don’t stay, and they do not hold.

Tangent

2008-02-15T12:04:00.000+05:30

I can kill when I'm in a rage. I've got into a rage about four times that I can remember, and no dead bodies yet, only a big wooden shoe brush thrown from across the room (it missed) a punch in the stomach of a friend, and a book on the cheek of another. I used to cry a hell of a lot, at the slightest provocation. I don't cry much now. My brother can still make me cry with the snap of a finger. He can make me laugh too. I laugh pretty easily, but my laughing fits come only on the dining table with my family. I have alcoholic tendencies, I've realised. So I have nursed one drink through every party, and have never got smashed.
I have a an exceedingly easy guilt complex, even when I know I didn't do anything. I used to talk a lot about my problems to people, but have stopped now. Who's interested? And it doesn't help.
I get tired really easily, have no stamina to speak of. I'm incurably, terribly lazy. But I'm really energetic.
Whenever I write songs or poems, I am tempted to include sun and moon and stars. Its a weakness.
Death doesn't scare me. Growing old does.
I am terribly, deeply in love. And nobody knows. Just me.
I hate excessive sentimentality.
I'm incredibly careless with my possessions. I'm very generous, but not with food. I'm insatiably responsible, not for me but for other people. I speak like a grandma. My voice is a foghorn if I choose. I love my voice. I wish I could do more with it.
I love writing. I wish I was as smart as I always thought I was.
I'm not a quick thinker. My reactions are sadly slow. I'm an excellent liar, if I've thought it all out. A master of illusions then.
I hate telling little lies- you sang wonderfully! Of course those jeans suit you! I try my best not to.
I hate being alone when there are many people around me. I love being alone when I'm alone. I'm terrified to be alone for the rest of my life.
Ahhhhh.... Done now.
Wait, one more.
I love writing fantasy. Which is what this all is, really.