It was a nice, windy evening. The sky looked more a shade of peach than blue. I was sitting in the balcony of my small apartment. I could see vehicles, their dim lights looking like small shining dots on the grey road. The sun had set although it wasn’t that dark. Men and women returned from work, carrying expressions of relief of finally being able to go home after a long day. Noises of cars honking, engines roaring, hawkers shouting filled the surroundings. The little snack-shops were beginning to crowd, as hungry travelers rushed in to bite a vada pao or two. Bells were ringing somewhere. Orange street lights had started to glow. Everything and everyone was moving. I could see a couple or two walking hand in hand. Mothers were taking their children to the market, the children walking briskly behind their mothers to catch up. Some were taking their children to tuitions, pulling them by their hands taking care they do not fall or run. It reminded me of my childhood, of how I loved going to the nearby market with her and how I almost had to run to catch up with her, holding her saree for support from time to time. Every action around me had significance. It was an emotion in itself. As though god was serenely doing its work of making lives move ahead. Everything was abuzz with movement and sound and yet I could find a strange peace in the atmosphere. The vibrations of the roaring vehicles seemed comforting. Everything was moving and yet it was still, as though time could be stopped and the moment could be felt, as though motion was stillness. Like you could feel life inside you and outside you. I could close my eyes and feel each and every sound. All these sounds were synchronising with the wind that was brushing past my face. I could sit forever in my balcony looking down and feel the breeze on my face. As though time could be stopped and the moment could be felt. The evening had wrapped me in its arms. I could feel life inside me and outside me.
My home is sick.
Please come and fix.
The phone cries,
The tele sobs,
And the bell curses.
Brooms fight,
The CDs prattle,
The cosmetics are vain,
And the mirror lies.
The gates veer wildly,
Scaring all the goodness,
that comes from outside.
My dog moans,
And my turtle gives a helpless shrug.
A wise soul he is.
The plants wailed,
Rooted when they were out,
Now twigs and spoils,
Sum up their memories.
The garden now forgotten,
Deserts the swing that now creaks,
Creak - an unliving sound,
because dead things don't speak.
The only peace in the eating chaos,
is found in my bottles,
That I nurture and love.
I caress their necks,
when I open them to quaff their contents,
And bathe them with my own hands,
for they bear cool liquids,
that I consume and relish.
Annoyed with a pout,
And confused with a squint,
I ask the Angel that keeps my home,
"Why, O Why? Why O scholarly and all knowing spirit,
do most things give me grief and fluster,
And only some give wanton joy,
When they all ought to keep a young boy safe,
and help him get through the whimsical adolescent years?"
The muddled genie reacts -
"Thou shalt reap what thou hast sown"
"And what thou hast doth to others, so shalt be doth upon thou"
I walk myself out of the conversation,
disheartened and addled.
Angry at hearing bad and meaningless sentences,
I rue Shakespeare's curst birth unto this planet.
Now I am doing it, I groan.
Then suddenly,
Out of the thinnest of thoughts,
I touch my growing belly,
And feel its softness and warmth.
The soothing, greasy expanse,
Gives me courage and clarity.
I wonder why my belly looks so nice?
Because I love it!
And I treat it with buttermilk and sausage galore!
I would never understand the adult world,
its cajoling and violent selfishness.
But I now know,
That there is a little boy in everything I see.
I then kiss the phone,
Smile at the tele,
And pet the tired bell.
I pat my dog,
Smell his funny nose.
I chat with the turtle,
and listen to his wise utterings.
I thank everything I have,
and everything that has me.
Love can be gifted,
only to be returned in a shinier ribbon,
But only when It is.
I open my mouth,
feel the gaps in my teeth,
and loudly welcome the tepid sunlight in my tongue .
I'm cheerful as a free worker bee,
I'm chirpy as a fuzzy cricket,
All the season tunes sing love for me,
And so, so happy is my song,
But come now everybody,
come on,
everybody now take a few hits,
Take a Few hits from the bong.
This post contains random stuff. You might even find that one sentence doesn't relate to another in a paragraph. Please don't mind. I want to be myself through out this post. I've come to Mumbai from Indore and my life has changed in certain ways. You know, I am not an intellectual, arty-farty person. But some times I totally feel that that I am not doing anything that comes under "things to do before you die stuff". Just read one of my cousins profile on a social networking website. Felt totally weird. Damn, I want to do so many things, want to be so many things. I want to do something that is totally anti-pop-culture. I am lazy. Sleeping.
Why am I so fascinated by such things? When I see a photograph of a person standing in Madrid beside a guitarist, or some guy standing in a village with a cow posing with a brightly clothed villager, or some guy climbing a mountain or any such random photograph, I totally want to be in that photo! I want to be that! It just seems that my life is distant from all this. As though this is all from another world. I know that I am not really into creative stuff and I cannot be like those alternatively clothed designers walking with a photography magazines in their hands. But I like seeing such people. All this fascinates me. But I would also mention that I cannot appreciate the subtly intended elitism hidden behind the display of intellect/knowledge/art by few people. I am a pharma person, working in a lab in the pharmacology department, experimenting on poor animals. I love my subject no doubt, but I want more to life.
Next thing, why am I attached to my roots so much? Whenever I think of happiness, I imagine myself in my grandmothers arms feeling her heavy bosom, hiding my face as well as my sorrows on her shoulder. I always look forward to playing some stupid game with my cousins in my drawing room. I imagine sitting on chair in the front lawn at my home just sipping tea and feeling the presence of my grand dad beside me. Celebration to me doesn't mean partying. Clubbing doesn't excite me much. I might enjoy it for a while. But I know I'd enjoy having a cup of coffee with a dear friend sitting on comfortable sofa more.
I cannot write stuff full of complex quotations and complex strings of words. I know I have written such an informal and such a crappy post unrelated to our blog. I want to be two things at a time. I am waiting to express my self! Even though I don't have the right words and I don't have that expertise on language. Why did I even type this post.
I am a dead man,
My emotions,
a placebo for her.
Why do I weep?
when I should hate?
I should have born stronger,
bred by stronger kin,
fed on stronger ration,
met by stronger beings.
Why do I care?
For am I too weak?
Why do I bide for fictive summons?
Aren't there other hearts to pursue and murder,
than a gentle demise of my own spleen?
I covet a surrogate existence,
where I were selfish and unexceptional - "I,
feel ignorant and incomplete,
But should I be single?" - an obtuse question.
I would have a choice though,
which I know not of, NOW.
Her Punishment: She sees a dead man; hollow outside, crisp inside.
Nations, Religions and people are never defined without war. War is a depressing cliché of human lives. People kill, people die. And a lot of monstrousness and heroism prelude, intervene and epilogue the killing and the dying, alike. But that is an incomplete perspective - a part-illusive, second hand viewpoint suited to oblivious audiences watching war on their television sets.
For those who fight in a war, war is a nihilistic expression of a self-destructive species of well, assholes. And the only emotion that is ever associated with war is one of the most primal ones - guilt.
Relief, Pain, Patriotic goose pimples, rejuvenation, excitement and such Californian sentiments can only qualify life outside of war; inside of war they're as impotent as your grandfather.
And how the fuck do I know all that? Well, I saw Waltz with Bashir. I could write a pointless review to tell you how great the movie is, but you'd just end up superficially appreciating the review, Facebook-ing and moving on to your clichéd lives, probably in that order. Stop wondering why the writer is being holier-than-thou, and if you can, PLEASE go watch the fucking movie.
Disclaimer: This article is insensitive, offensive, vulgar, and politically charged. If you are the RSS-type and get all pissy at this article; you are welcome to destroy random public property.
What follows here is a dream sequence in which Narendra Modi, L.K. Advani, Mayawati and Varun Gandhi are sitting across a conference table, in the anticipation of a serious discussion. Some weird talks unfold…
Mayawati: No! No! You listen to me! I am the Dalit ki Beti! I am the Prime-ministerial candidate! Blah! Blah! Blah… Dalit ki Beti… Chomp! Chomp! Chomp… Prime Minister… Blabber! Blabber… Dalit! Dalit! (Ad infinitum)
Advani: Sheesh! There she goes again!
Modi: Huh? Is there anybody else in the room? Sorry, my ego is too inflated to notice anyone else in the room…
Varun: (feeling ignored) Hey! Listen to me! I have something to say too…
Advani: Shut up, fatso!
Modi: Yeah, shut up you roly-poly mutton factory!
Advani: Ha! Ha!
Modi: He! He!
Maya: Dalit! Dalit… Munch! Munch… Prime Minister! I am beti… Snigger! Snagger…Dalit! (Ad infinitum)
(Modi and Advani continue talking over Maya yelling)
Modi: Arey Adu, listen! Elections are coming up and I think I’ll play the development card this time.
Advani: Arey na, na, Modu! I think you should stick to the Hindutva campaign.
Advani: Of course baba! What is there to think? Give a few communally sensitive speeches, proclaim yourself the ultimate protector of Hindus, start a riot or two, burn down a bus or three, and you’re all set to win! And anyways, riots generate more publicity than any stupid promises for development. And you know, people are starting to get a hint of the fact that Gujarat was an already developing state when you came in charge; so, more power to Hindutva!
Modi: Hmm, you have a point there.
Varun: (Feeling more ignored) Hey! No! I want to be the Hindu leader from BJP! Pretty please?
Advani: Will you shut up fat-ass?
Modi: Yeah, nobody cares about what you think, you chunky-whunky chocolate monkey!
Advani: He! He! That rhymed!
Modi: Yeah, I’m in definite form today.
Maya: Hey! Ho! What are you talking about! I am Prime minister! Somebody tell me I am prime minister! I am the beti!
(Advani and Modi continue)
Modi: So Addu, what is your strategy for the elections?
Advani: Strategy? What strategy? I have no strategy. I just bitch my way to the elections!
Modi: Care to elaborate?
Advani: Arey bhaiya, listen. I bitch about Sonia Gandhi and her foreign origin. I bitch about Manmohan Singh and how Sonia controls him, and I bitch about the UPA government in general. Basically, I bitch about everything under the sun.
Modi: And what about your pseudo-secular statements now and then?
Advani: Oh, that hypocritical bullshit? That is not a strategy! I often feel lonely and miss media attention, so I sometimes turn pro-Hindu and sometimes go pro-secular! But you see, my primary political tool is bitching.
Maya: Hey! You bitcher! I am prime minister!
Advani: (getting angry at Maya) Grrr! I’m going to shut her up for good someday!
Modi: (supporting Mayawati) Oh no you don’t!
Advani: You’re standing up for Mayawati now? For her?
Modi: You don’t get it do you? I’ll explain. You see, Mayawati and I are the same people – different bodies but same consciousness. We don’t grumble about other leaders and nonsense issues; we derive all our political mileage through the sheer absurdity of our eccentric personalities. We don’t talk about people! People talk about us!
Advani: Hmm, all this political talk makes me angry!
Modi: Hey! Me too!
Mayawati: Hey! I’m always angry!
Advani: Let’s go hurt Manmohan!
Modi, Maywati and Advani in concert: Yay! Let’s deliver some major hurt!
Varun: (feeling super-ignored now) Uh, I’m hungry!
Modi: Listen you over-stuffed storehouse of adipose tissue, If you say another word now…
Varun: Uh… uh… Hey! It’s not my fault! The CD was doctored! Uh… help… uh, Aunty! Save me!
(End of dream sequence. Manmohan Singh wakes up with sweat breaking all over him. He picks up the phone and dials Sonia’s number)
Manmohan: Madamji! Madamji! I had a very strange dream today…
Sonia: Hush, Manmohanji! You’re exerting yourself too much in election campaigning these days; you need to get a leash on it!
Manmohan: Oh good madamji! Should I get a collar for your leash then?
Sonia: Arey! Not so loudly baba! Jounalists are everywhere now-a-days.
(Suddenly Varun joins the conference call)
Varun: Auntyji! Why does not anyone take me seriously?
Sonia: Because you are fat beta, and you don’t talk sense.
Manmohan: That is funny. Can I laugh madamji?
Sonia: of course, of course.
Pre-emptive apology:
Dear readers,
This article is a work of fiction and is meant for your reading pleasure only. It is not the intention of the writer to spread prejudices against any class or category of people. This article is to be read and remembered in good humor. If anyone finds offence in the above text, a heartfelt apology is extended. Also, the writer himself is fat. And yeah, fuck you.
Shakermaker! by Aniket Sengar is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Recently, I’ve observed a hot, new trend in Indore girls – tying scarves around their faces. Or becoming metaphorical ‘Daakuus’. The common excuse – “so much pollution and heat in our stifling little city!”. If the objective is to be protected from environmental hazards then the scarf use is justified. However, I have seen girls wearing scarves while moving about in clear, low-sunlight evenings and in non-polluted areas such as parks, gardens, shops, malls or one of many cute galis sported by Indore. As a sincere question to females who have learned to ignore or adapt to this horrible practice – How many times will you let people spoil your day? For how long will you pretend to be deaf and blind to it? Ignoring might be one easy answer to the question. But there are ways of protesting or complaining if you do have the spirit to. The choices to reply back can be as constitutional as reporting the offenders to the police or as bold as instigating the nearby public to initiate a skirmish on the perpetrators. But hiding is definitely not the way out. Girls, don’t hide. Be brave.
Last year, my friend and I traveled daily to Dewas and back for a short stint at industrial training. We commuted in a private or an MRTC bus. My friend would come wrapped up in a coat and wear tightly-draped Taliban-esque scarf and sun-glasses. I could not recognize her at times. She would ask why I wasn’t wearing a scarf and the general cover-up while traveling in the bus. Well, I replied that I didn’t really need a cover-up. Then she would gravely explain to me how one is saved from eve-teasing if one wears it. So here it comes – There is an ulterior motive behind wearing these scarves – The girls want to save themselves from the roving eyes of the roadside Romeos and eve teasers. They simply want to be invisible. They want the freedom of standing at a bus stop without being lewdly stared at or without being tormented by discouraging comments. The scarf provides them the comfort of being hidden away from the harsh world they have to face. It’s a sick, self imposed ‘purdah system’. It is even more prevalent in areas having a multitude of girls’ hostels or student hostels in general. I agree that it’s necessary for girls to be responsible for their safety in a country like India, let alone the world, but hiding behind veils is not the way out; rather it is an act of cowardice. Moreover, there is an ironic side to it. If almost all girls start wearing these scarves at unneeded times on places where it is ridiculous to do so, then guys will get accustomed to seeing girls like that, so if there is a girl who is not wearing a scarf, she will be seen as bold /inviting. How sad would that be?
Secondly, a person’s face is pretty much his/her identity. Now, girls complain that boys see them as objects. But, as they have hidden their facial identity behind a veil, when one looks at them, attention is drawn not to their faces but to every other place imaginable. Consequently, this further encourages people to see them as “objects”. Thus, the purpose of wearing a scarf, or hiding behind a veil, is ironically defeated.
Moving on, Eve-teasing is a pretty casual phenomenon in India. In fact, the society almost considers eve-teasing as an unwritten right that can be exercised by males and as a custom to be endured by females. It is a part of a girl’s day-to-day life. Girls are taught to ignore it to the brink of their patience, and beyond. Girls are further taught that protesting against eve-teasing or the elements that cause it will get them in an even bigger trouble; and consequently, they learn to ignore it i.e., it’s not a ‘big deal’ in India.
Spoiler: This review is complicated, long and boring. Read at your own risk.
Let’s Talk, on the other hand, is a movie you shouldn’t be caught dead watching in a cinema hall. Random farting noises, people chatting, people stupidly laughing, phone buzzing and kids shouting – that screws any fun you can extract from the movie. This movie is a private one, to be enjoyed in the concealed and intimate sphere of your home, preferably with a friend who is not into gay Bollywood movies and/or is empathetic towards basic human emotions (mind me, these are two very conflicting qualities – if someone digs gay Bollywood shit, then s/he lacks a functional brain area that distinguishes howling from weeping and donkey crap from cat pee).
Moving on, I genuinely appreciate two sincere features of the movie – (I) its attention to emotional detail and (II) its subtle, un-exotic Indian-ness.
The movie starts with a surreal sequence of fade-in, fade-out, overlapping and merging shots of love letters written between Nikhil (Boman Irani) and Radhika (Maya Katrak). There is a surfeit of those letters flowing through the reels of the movie and you miss 90% of what’s written on them unless you pause play repeatedly to catch them in still-frame. I paused every 2 seconds in that sequence and personally checked out each letter. They were frighteningly authentic and made you want to write like that. Be rest assured though as all important letters last for a good 8-10 seconds on screen and have punch-words highlighted in bold (-> horrific attention to detail).
Even though the movie is in the English language, it is modeled on Thumri, an Indian folk song form, usually sung in the admiration of Lord Krishna, and consists of some basic lyrics repeated in a song each time with a different emotive undertone. If you know this, then you begin to understand a lot of allusions and symbolisms used in the movie.
Nikhil-Radhika dialogue and Nikhil’s reaction sequences form the most part of the movie and the latter range from evincing overt anger, denial, and passive-aggression to love, disrespect and pretension of maturity and intimacy. These sequences are heroically rendered into the reel by Boman Irani, and subtly acted out with a constant feminine grace by Maya Katrak. Though they are cinema debutants in this movie, they look rather seasoned actors and are spontaneously comfortable in front of the camera. A definite result of the theatre experience.
The movie dwells on and explores two premises namely, (I) the more you know and love people, the less sure you become about their supposed reaction in such delicate situations and (II) men are basically weird creatures, especially post-marriage.
The movie is a cinematic testament to the maturity of the director and script-writer Ram Madhvani, for acing often ill-directed subjects of pre/post marriage love and promiscuity.
However, Let’s Talk does have its interspersed fault lines. Nikhil’s character in the movie is heavily incoherent from the impression one gets after reading the letters he addresses to Radhika and that frustrates the viewer somehow. Also, there is no real plot to follow or characters to explore in the movie as most of it is shot in a single apartment. Moreover, the pace of the movie lags and gets out-of-sync with the story as nothing is actually happening in the movie, and everything is going on in Radhika’s head. Production values, to mention for the sake of it, suffer slightly.
Ignoring a few blemishes, this movie is a carefully crafted melting pot of human emotions.
More than introducing me to the seemingly placid but internally passionate world of married couples, Let’s Talk has reinforced my belief in Leonardo Da Vinci’s popular quote – “Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication”. Nothing communicates better in cinema than simplicity. If you want to disagree, I’d be happy in handing you over a copy of the book called as ‘The Old Man and the Sea’. After reading that, you can lick my butt till kingdom come.
I had rented this DVD on the recommendation of one of my seniors at college. "Let's Talk" the cover said. Boman Irani the cover said. Maia Katrak the cover said. And then some. Appeared harmless. I watched the movie with my mother. I found the movie, though initially good, average at best. I could not understand the symbolism used and the relevance of certain scenes in the movie.
