Drill, Fill and Stitch

I drilled it down into my head, 'this is not for me'.

I filled my ears with, 'this it is wrong'.

I thought the stitches were strong.
But, they snapped when attacked.

Under a sudden onslaught of a thousand missiles.

When a shuddering quake cracked the Earth beneath my feet.

The hasty stitches I had put were too week;

They broke when pulled, they tore when pushed.

The wound spread slowly but, surely.

In the corner, my innocent heart lay bleeding in remembrance.

Frieda, the Dream

Another one. My maiden Hindi attempt!

Bhagne se kya jannat naseeb hogi?

Churail bhi khwab mein aakar daraya karti hai!  

Les Misérables, the Movie (2012)

Watched Les Misérables (2012) last night. I had been hoarding the DVD for a while now. Had a feeling it would be a great experience. I sat glued to the screen mostly with a hand on my heart for the entire length of the film. The tears came and went and dried up on their own...
Anyone who says stars cannot act or great stories cannot move when presented in different formats is simply ignorant. I was touched, awed and inspired in equal measures once again by Hollywood's ability to strive for excellence and bring something new to the table. In this case a musical version of the beloved French  literature classic.
It was a delight to watch so many good actors come together and create a magical performance that blew the mind to bits. I am not going to use the word 'great' here and damn myself because, if you ask me, the film worked because of the seamless effort of the ensemble cast, the direction, the music and the excellent camerawork, the sets, the lights, the angles and the seemingly ageless story...
Hats off to my favorites, Anne Hathaway and Helena Bonham Carter they simply shone through and how effortlessly! One tore my heart to pieces selling off first her hair, then her teeth and finally her body to send money to unscrupulous couple taking care of her born-out-of-wedlock child.
The mark of great literature is that it never dates. Fantine could have been a damned woman, in any age, a single mother with no special skills to earn money. An abandoned and fallen woman with a young girl child who she has to leave behind to shelter her from life's ability to mock and thrash. She exists among us - dying, bleeding ans selling herself bit by bit till she has nothing to sell but her soul and finally her dreams!
The other, was delightful as always as the con woman stealing and pilfering at every step. No one can surpass Helena in enacting the strange and the weird with an exception to Johnny Depp but, he wasn't here to support her though Sacha Baron Cohen did a great job matching her stroke for stroke.
Hugh Jackman my favorite paranormal icon was so nuanced and restrained as Jean Valjean a character straight out of literary cannons that could have easily overshadowed everyone given the strength of the author-backed character. But, he came across as no hero but a victim of circumstances. A damned and desperate man throughout his life - in incarceration and also when out of the prison, he spends his life grasping at freedom and watching it slip though his fingers each time he thinks he finally has it. He came across a different person at each stage of his life and his eyes spoke volumes.
Valjean was the narrator of an extraordinary story and Jackman stayed true to that - not overwhelming, nor heroic (as we are used to seeing Jackman) - but, just as Jean Valjean would have been if he could have jumped out of the book. The restrain in his character was also necessary because Jean Valjean is a tormented man of God! He is scared but, his fears are not for himself but, for those he is responsible for.
Russell Crowe seemed lacking and because his portrayal had received critical flack all through last year, I paid some attention to his Javert. Javert was painted black by Victor Hugo. There wasn't much Crowe could do with Javert because he is a mean and one-dimensional soul. Though I felt Crowe tried his best. His final scene where Javert, unable to reconcile to the truth that he had been wrongly hunting down all his life, a compassionate man whose greatest crime was that he had stolen bread for his hungry nephew, commits suicide by jumping into Seine, reminded me of the scene from Shakespeare's Hamlet where the prince encounters his father's ghost and starts walking down the path of madness. A soliloquy is very tricky to carry and he does it pretty well though Jackman pulls off better ones mostly because he repertoire allowed him a host of emotions while Crowe's did not. Add to this that Crowe's presence cannot be ignored even if his character keeps on like a nag and sticks out like a sore thumb. I think he triumphs with the portrayal because that's how the character is in the book.
For someone like me, struggling to get in touch with their real self to rise above their Karma, this is a definite watch. The story of the damned convict Jean Valjean and his strong faith and compassion is sure to strike a chord as it did with me.
It also brought back memories of school summer vacations and me reading the story of the desperate and lost man stealing silverware from the church and the young men taking the road to Revolution that led to sure death. It is a story that wraps in too much, God, Revolution, Freedom, Love (so many kinds of it), Dreams, Hope, Hatred, Desire (for Victory and for Glory) and a host of other situations and emotions that make it a difficult read and if you are not in the correct frame of mind, also a difficult movie to watch. But, watch it you must - just do it at the right time - when you find yourself asking the most important question of your life, "why was I sent on Earth?"
While you ponder that, here is an excerpt from a song from the movie that points to the heart of the story:
"There was a time when men were kind,
When their voices were soft
And their words inviting.
There was a time when love was blind
And the world was a song
And the song was exciting.
There was a time...
Then it all went wrong..."

Paris on My Mind: Flights of Fancy

What's a human without active imagination that allows for flights of fancy? Erm... Very successful? Maybe in terms of money amassed yes, but, is this person as stress-free as someone who can shut off all reality and go on an Everest expedition if nothing's working out in real life?

The answer, is not easy. It will vary from person to person but, for someone who does not know what's a lucid dream outside of the dictionary it may not cut ice. However, for someone who uses imagination to hibernate like me, it is the best and the most heavenly de-stress exercise ever.

Having a strong imagination has huge advantages. Whenever bored or irritated by a power cut or a droning voice in a boring meeting on a sultry afternoon, I can happily  imagine myself at far away places doing things that can only be imagined!

Please don't start smirking yet. Have you never read Calvin and Hobbes? What I meant was things like wearing a bikini and emerging from a tranquil sea at Casablanca or eating gelato in Rome at an exquisite piazza with pigeons flying around me or winning huge amounts at a casino in Las Vegas and drinking champagne from a glass slipper in Paris!

Somehow I find my imaginary self slipping in to Paris pretty often. It is not unusual since there's hardly anyone with overactive imagination who does not imagine waking up smelling roses and drinking coffee looking at the iconic Eiffel Tower. (Here I must tell you that I detest coffee and tea is my poison but, in an imaginary situation...)

But, sometimes I imagine more. Much more. I imagine walking down a quaint rue and bumping into a street artist who then shares a sandwich with me and tells me about the underground art districts. I sit around chatting with him (though I speak not a word of French) while he makes a very flattering picture of me.

Van Gogh's Paris Cafe at Night

I often find myself strolling off to small street-side cafes to drink the house wine with cheese that the waiter suggests while smiling at absolute strangers who may think I'm slightly crazy or shrug indulgently (here I imagine a very Gallic shrug). I often see myself walking down a bridge looking down at the mighty Seine and staring at the blue sky while listening to Dido sing Paris in my ears. Sigh!
Dido: Paris (Listen to this!)

I sometimes see myself at the front rows of high-end fashion shows wondering with one raised eyebrow on who wears such unwearable clothes and walking out mid-show to go looking for arty boutiques that sell style that can be worn with elan at any place and in any decade. I would of course be wearing impossibly high heels in all these dreams without getting a killer backache. I'd also be at least a good six inches taller than my real 5'2". My ankles however, remain mine because they are very nice as they are.

To my heat or cold-strapped mind (depending on the season in Delhi) Paris is often the chic place where I write this supposedly huge epic thriller with loads of swashbuckling adventure and buckets of intrigue and espionage mixed with high-octane action!

Sometimes just strolling around and smiling at strangers is not enough. Those days I add adventure to the mix and solve a Da Vinci Code-type mystery and meet a really mysterious guy who whisks me into a world of crime and quest. Well...

Once the book is out and an international bestseller, everyone thinks it's a great story to make a movie and it gets adapted into a Hollywood blockbuster with Humphrey Bogart and Gregory Peck in the lead roles. Didn't I tell you this is all imagination. Death is never a deterrent. I even met Marty once. Marty who? You gotta be kidding folks! Marty McFly! Back to the Future! Come on!!!

He wanted to take me on a ride in the time machine but, Doc Brown wanted Marty to take him somewhere in the past and fast. I of course, never have the time or patience to wait in a lucid dream. So, I never got to travel in time. But, I know I will - soon.

My best moments in Paris are when I sit sipping wine with Van Gogh while he tells me how no one understands him while I keep quite because he is from the past so, I cannot tell him about the present. Mostly I am happy that he got to off-load because he needed to - all his life. Maybe I did get to ride with Marty. It is very difficult to keep track of how and why in a dream!

There are thousands of adventures I've had there and I know there are millions that still await me as I walk through the two iconic bookshops on the Left Bank, Shakespeare and Company and get to be awed by the charisma of Earnest Hemingway while browsing banned literature! Oh! did I say, "...as I walk through...?" Sorry, got carried away multi-tasking! You know writing and dreaming are so interconnected they could be twins!!!

I know that at this point, many of you would be itching to call the shrink in with a thought to putting me in a  straight jacket but, believe me, imagination is something you should never block. Once you stop imagining you also stop dreaming. Simple happy things that don't cost a bomb and give immense joy and lift you up just because you know you have beaten all odds to achieve what others spend a lifetime just planning to get for a few days or weeks! You can do it any time and have it your own way.

Try it sometime on a hot Sunday afternoon when the heat is frying your mind and making you sluggish. When you can no longer concentrate on the book in hand and your eyes keep straying at the air conditioner remote to see if it increased the temperature on its own. When your eyes are drooping with sleep because your body needs to maintain its normal temperature so, needs you to hibernate. Then you are ready to embark on an adventure to a strange city that you've only read and seen on celluloid but, never set foot on. Go on try it. It's awesome fun! You can think of Paris in the rain or even a snow covered Notre Dame!

Of Balmy Breeze, a Dog, a Man in the Shadows and a Wonderful Dream!

A sweet breeze rustles the leaves of the trees that are almost yellow with dehydration. The Summer has been relentless this year and yet, it changed today. Turned around a good 70 degrees on its axis and made the night ripe with sweet and soothing promises. It turned itself into a perfect night to dream in.

As the clock stuck 12 and the stars became prominent in the orange-tinged, inky sky, I stood with a bottle of cool water at my balcony and listened to the sounds of the night. The pie dog that howled all through the winter was crying again today. Perhaps it never stopped crying but, I stopped hearing because I had shut the windows tight and now live in the constant companionship of the hum of an air conditioner.

Nights tell so many stories. I spied a man in the shadows of the park beyond the boundary. He was perhaps soaking in the coolness before returning home to a shanty where fresh air never breathes. Or maybe the dog and the man were both waiting. For a miracle to happen just like I was. It is never enough that we are a part of a miracle already. The miracle called life!

The orange Moon, in the shape of a half-torn Naan made me feel hungry. I smiled at it and walked into the house and to the fridge to unwrap a chocolate and bite into it. The comforting taste made me feel hopeful, happy and expectant. I wanted to share a bite of the bittersweet treat with someone and share a smile. So, I returned to the breezy balcony and smiled at the stars thanking them for attending my party.

Perhaps, I, the dog and the man in the shadows were all waiting for our soul mates. Perhaps, somewhere else, in another balcony in another town or city someone else was also sharing a chocolate with the Moon. Perhaps, we had already crossed each other's path but, did not recognize the feeling and settled for compromises. Perhaps, I was not strong enough to soak in the turbulence nor calm enough to weather the storm.

Whatever it is, tonight made it seem possible and not some celluloid dream. It made me smile that though older, I was still from being wiser. It made me laugh up at the sky and the stars tinkled back, the dog stopped howling and the man, fidgeted in the shadows, worried that I may call the cops but, still reluctant to leave. Maybe he needed fresh air with the desperation of a man eating his last meal. Maybe he needed reassurance that all was well with the world.

For me, it was all a part of a miracle. That I still had a heart that still dreamed was a comforting thought to usher in yet another year and bid adieu to one lived in exploring life a little differently.

Life really is a series of miracles and hope is what makes them come true.

Here's to new experiences and to the next step of the quest that is life!

Happy birthday to me!

The Runner

If I knew how to wait,
I would have but, I'm impatient;
I need to run. Have to catch up,
But, running is not my thing.
The limbs, they refuse and my lungs...
I gasp and fall.

I catch a glimpse.
It's enough.
I push myself up;
I run, once more
and fall,
again.

It's there once more.
A mirage?
Chimera?
You?
I'm unsure.
So, I run once more

My limbs fly,
Flailing arms, legs thumping ground,
I float, up and,
come down with a thud.
Looking up, I spy - once more,
You.

I have to run...
It hurts.
I feel the pain,
A million hands rush to hold me down,
I jump and twist,
I have to run, I need to rush.

I see you
But, only when I run.
I hate to run,
But, I have to run,
Because, I am not patient,
Because, I'm a fool in love.

Book Review: Sophie Says

They say, 'Chick lit is dead or in the throes of it.' I say, 'are you sure?'

This one is by Judy Balan, she writes well but the plot is too... well... chick lit. She may think of it as a romantic comedy but, it is too 'unbelievable' to be anything but, chick lit. The kinds you thought was gone and over about a few years back. But, here it is - alive and definitely making a beer-laced splash.

Now, I like happy endings and pink-wrapped, hard-as-nails heroines who are down in the dumps at the beginning of the story but, are giving the Statue of  Liberty a run for money by the end of the book.

Give me a woman protagonist or even four any day (I've written one with four incidentally) but, give me some reality. Judy's story is plucked out of day dreams - the candyfloss variety.

Sophia, Judy's heroine is a commitment-phobic blogger in Chennai and she has a past that strings countless broken relationships. She is so adept at breaking-up that she starts a blog that dispenses break-up advises and it becomes very popular. Thus far, we are following roughly Judy's own career and successful blog that led to her writing her first book and now this one.

So far fine.

Then, she goes ahead and quits her well-paying job on a whim and decides to hoodwink her family by setting up a fake boyfriend who she starts crushing on as soon as she sets her sights on his sexy hands!

One thing I'd give Balan is that she writes well. Her style is engaging and at times though the plot lines seem heavily borrowed from Hollywood (both films and TV sitcoms) she is able to carry it off because her narration is racy except for certain parts when Sophie's blog posts pops-up with weird and roundabout explanation of what just happened. It takes a while to wrap your head around those in the middle of a date story or a break-up crank.

A successful, longtime blogger, Judy knows how to keep her reader engaged but, the plot soon becomes a hodgepodge of relationship issues when two of Sophie's best friends' relationships also turn to break-ups and the three spend all the time dissecting men. Sex and the City anyone? OK we have all done that some or the other time in our lives but, not necessarily been in the break-up scene together.

Meanwhile, a jobless Sophie who lives alone gets her if-someday guy into the picture by talking to him about the mysterious fake boyfriend who is fast becoming a reality... In comes the guy number two (or should we say one?) who is, and please hold your breath here, an Indian Hippie who learnt bar-tending in Australia and teaches kindergarten in Cambodia while taking time off to go rock climbing in Canada... Oh and I forgot that he is drop-dead gorgeous and Royalty!

Sister, gimme a break!

Oh! Did I forget to mention that he knows all about the G-spot and the entire alphabet of spots and achieves for the lady earth-shattering 'O's? I'm so swooning here!!!

OK so, these two men, one a romantic and the other a commitment-phobic, like Sophie, fight for the hand of the fair maiden, who decides to outgrow her commitment phobia, thanks to the erstwhile fake boyfriend who has by now brought out to the forefront the nurturing bone in her, to decide upon one of the two.

The climax or the anti-climax takes place at the airport lounge when the two men are within minutes of catching their flights back to New York and Sydney on the same day and almost same time...

I'm sure this scene was written with Karan Johar or Aditya Chopra in mind. Judy has already sold the movie rights for her first book and I can see the second aiming the same way.

Well, it does not end here because there is also an epilogue featuring an Argentinian hottie. Go figure bitches... This girl R.O.C.K.S.!

If you ask me I will go with Balan because, her book is the kind of day dreams that keep me sane in a world where monogamy or love are dead or dying, a fate not too different from chick lit fiction. Her characters are the kind of men I conjure up in my most lucid moments to keep me going when everything around me is falling to pieces. I will not say that such men do not exist, they do but, in our carefully-constructed lucid dreams. Also, because she made me laugh. Lots!

So, if you ask me whether you should buy the book, I'd say, please go ahead because it will help you live your delusion for an afternoon. You can also buy it if you love Harry Potter as much as I do. Why? That's a secret people - you got to read the book to find out more.

The Chaos Without

Sometimes there is so much to say. Then, come times when 'nothing' becomes the most familiar word. I have said nothing for a while.

Words, characters, situations, plots and scenarios. They all make a story but, for me, colors, smells, sights, taste they are the real deal. Without a trigger there is no creation.

Art has a world of its own. It is very pure and very simple. At times so simple that no one gets it but the artist.

When a story begins, I do not usually know where it will go but, it finds its way somehow to an end. It finds its protagonists, its situations, sights, its cause and also the effect. In other words, it is a whole world, an universe in itself. It usually begins with a big bang, goes through upheavals, re-writes its twists and leaves a trail of history before growing frail and old and returns to the black hole leaving space for another.

It is the same with life. In each of our lives' stories, we are the protagonists. I am the principal character of my life and therefore everything that I go through, all my losses, my victories, my loves, my indifferences, my likes and dislikes, they all make my story. Most of the people I talk to do not understand that. Dreamers are often thought gullible and sometimes, also as those in need of a shrink.

Most think that dreams and aspirations are the same. These are the practical ones. When it comes to dreams of people like me change very little from childhood in terms of content. My first coherent one was to be an astronaut.

I still dream impossible dreams.

Being an astronaut in pre-open market India was a pipe dream. There was no way for it to be a possibility. Eventually, I got over Neil Armstrong and moved to dreams more suited to my kind of psyche barring the one in college when I wanted to be a bus driver of the city's public transport system. But, illusions are my forte. They are also my best defense mechanism. When I get bored of one, I create another.

My mother was perhaps the first one to notice that I lived in a bubble. Inside the bubble everything was perfect though chaotic. There was method in the madness in there but, outside the bubble was scary.

Life outside the bubble is still an overdose of light and noise. Blinding and deafening. People call it reality. I call it hell.

Those who seek perfection through art and see beauty in asymmetry are often scoffed at as dreamers. They are not considered ambitious and often unfit for society. Yet, I wonder when I see thousands trying to adjust everyday by hiding their shapeless technicolor dreams inside the veneer of planes and angles I feel sad.

Their dreams are choking them from inside and life is only a few years.

Why are artists, poets, singers and dancers not given their due unless backed by a shrewd business manager? Why is the term impractical hurled at them to keep them in place? And worse, if they are able to break the glass ceiling, then why is it expected that the spotlight is good enough a compensation for them? Why is money earned the criteria for judging success? Why was the architect who built Taj Mahal maimed once the project finished?

Strolling through the National Museum in Delhi, I always spend time in the rooms displaying objects from the Indus Valley civilization. There are statues, miniature potteries, toys and beautiful hand-crafted accessories. These to me are symbolic because they have survived and outlived the practical.

I often go back to ancient books and find their philosophy and symbolism relevant.

I love the breathtaking works by Van Gogh who never sold a piece but, is priceless in today's market.

There are many I know aspiring to be actors or singers. They are able to hang on only because they have a day job and I think, "why?"

The answer lies in the balance inside the bubble and the chaos outside.

Cloud Watching

If I'm a dreamer, then my parents are the only ones to blame - they let me be.

In fact, most of the times they have been proud of my ability to be distracted. I was distracted most of the time in school only interested in extra reading material and my folks never bothered much. They were OK with my average performance in the report cards and never grumbled to shell out extra to pay for the comics, magazines and books and were rather proud of my thick soda glasses.

I was always distracted when walking on the roads or would start a project and leave it mid-way to do something else. They never said a word. Rather they used to point my madness out to their friends as if I was some genius in the making.

Therefore, I'm still easily distracted and lost in my own world most of the time.

My dad too was a very distracted person. He still is and a superb human being that makes him because he can seldom remember if someone had been harsh to him and could never be rude to anyone. He was always the perfect gentleman and yes, very much a ladies man all through his life. He was the best daddy a girl could have because he never said no when I asked for a comic or a book. He used to bring me gifts from far off places where he'd go touring and never said a word if I did not get great marks at the end of the year. I remember once he told a teacher at a PTA even before she could open her mouth that he was proud of me! Needless to say, my teachers used to ask me to get ma whenever they wanted to do some serious cribbing.

My ma is the prototype of a sacrificing mom that often drives me up the walls she is everything a TV mom usually is. But, though she was strict about many things it never did bother me because I was mostly happy sitting in one corner of the house or terrace reading  book or watching the sky. She was a teacher and strictly believed in the adage that all kids are born with equal amount of brains but, need to be guided towards what they enjoy doing. All I loved doing was read and paint or draw. She hardly complained.

I loved watching clouds with my dad. We'd play this game called, "can you see what I see?" One of us would call out describing a cloud shaped a certain way and describe it in one word shouting (for example), "I can see an old man bending over a small boy can you see them?" The others would have to scan the sky and point out the tableaux before it melted away.

We spent many pleasant hours doing this, I my sister, sometimes some visiting cousins and dad. Lying flat on our backs on string beds in the terrace, staring at the sky and looking at floating clouds. Sometimes, especially in winters, we'd go to sleep playing the game and would be woken up and shooed away by ma.

As a dreamer I'm usually happy in most circumstances. If things go really bad I always start imagining how good it would be one day.

It helps me enjoy a life of solitude as much as I enjoy company. I have often seen kids who are 'sensitive' being pushed into the 'mainstream' by their parents and mentors. I am glad that I was not. It gave me a distinct personality and best of all I'm never ever bored.

And yes, I still play Cloud Watching with my daddy.

The wiley fox eyes the pigeon

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