tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-346639342024-03-08T09:16:57.053+05:30stingleStill single and that has a bittersweet sting to it. I started this blog earlier and got married later. And then everybody said that now I'd have to change the name, since I'm not single anymore.
But this continues to be a single space. A stingle space. Don't ever let go of the stingle space in your heart. Its the best gift you can bring to your partner.Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.comBlogger105125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-32264550398116013772014-04-24T10:53:00.001+05:302014-04-24T10:53:31.150+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So many lifetimes needed to finish all the love stories... So many parallel life times... </div>
Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-17327138028115438112014-04-21T22:26:00.004+05:302014-04-21T22:31:47.625+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
FEELING MY WAY THROUGH</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
I am a writer. Which means I am pretty much never at a loss for words. Not when I am upset, not when I am sad, not when I am overwhelmed, not when I am angry.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When a writer says that - I am never at a loss for words - most people take that to mean a constant and easy access to a vast reservoir of active vocabulary. Sure, it may well mean that. But it also means something else. It means - I ALWAYS know what I am feeling. Always. Whether its a strange kind of depression or a peculiar type of exhilaration or some forbidden sexual desire or a moribund fantasy - I don't think I have ever heard myself say "I don't know what I am feeling". Since I am a person of words, I can always put my feelings into words. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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So now I am stumped. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't know what to feel. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I have been humming a strange cocktail of songs inside my head for the past few days. And together they add up to... well, nothing. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There is Chand Roz Aur Meri Jaan Chand Roz by Kishore Kumar. And Maana Teri Nazar Mein by Sulakshana Pandit. And Kaise Sukoon Paaun by Talat Aziz. One talks about waiting it out, one talks about it being too late, and one talks about a sense of animated anticipation.<br />
<br />
What do they mean together? Nothing. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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And in between it all is a soft heartache (heavy) and a gentle wistfulness (light). </div>
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<br /></div>
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And there is a sense of being held. </div>
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<br /></div>
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And a sense of being released. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Amid it all, there is an overwhelming sense of the passage of time. And paradoxically, its own stillness.<br />
<br />
A stillness which is restless because there is something I am meant to feel - and when I close my eyes, it is there. But then I wake up in trepidation, and it is gone.<br />
<br />
And I don't know any more what I was supposed to feel.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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If I don't know what I am feeling, then I don't know who I am. Because I am defined by the way I feel. Not by the way I think, not by the way I act, but primarily, by the way I feel. </div>
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<br /></div>
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So hello stranger. You seem lost. Hope you find your way. Soon.</div>
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</div>
Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-69656945006987213182013-03-13T22:44:00.001+05:302013-03-13T22:44:04.636+05:30A panic write for a film school submission <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">Rajat sits alone in a room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">Rajat is happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">He is remembering his walk in the woods with the girl. He
just calls her the girl. She has a name but he doesn’t like to use it, as that
is what everyone calls her. And for him, she is special.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">She laughs at him when he avoids taking her name. He says he
would give her a nickname just for his personal use except this is 2013 and
that would be considered seriously corny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">The girl smiles. Says a nickname would be nice. They walk on
in silence. It’s a beautiful day. Blue skies, green grass, birds singing. And
the monthly bills haven’t come yet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">Rajat is holding the bills now. It was a good walk while it
lasted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">Now Rajat is thinking of the second thing that happened
earlier today. That was good too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">His best buddy Amar met him in the cafeteria. They talked.
They discussed walking out doors for a smoke. It was so difficult just having a
quick smoke these days. Walk the corridor, take the elevator, walk out of the
building, find a corner, light up and then the blackberry pings and you need to
crush it underfoot and rush back up. Sigh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">Then Aman looked at his watch. Said oh no, it was already
9:45 and he was late for an appointment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">Rajat is now puzzled. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">The girl had looked at her watch during the walk too. And
exclaimed that it was 9:45 and she needed to go back inside and finish her
work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">But Rajat was walking with her before he went home, changed,
carried his duffel to the car, drove to the office building, hit the gym,
finished his work out and was having a juice at the cafeteria before showering
and going to his desk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">So how could it be 9:45 then, and then again?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">Wait. Now Rajat remembers another thing that had happened
today. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">He was running on the treadmill, the sweat running down his
back. He was tiring. The lactic acid forming in his calves. He lowered the pace
of the machine and started to slow down. But the gym hand – couldn’t call him
trainer, he was just a helper but he behaved like a trainer – walked up to him,
raised the machine speed and said, pointing to the clock: 15 minutes more? Ok?
Right up to 10a.m. And he pointed at the big clock in the gym. Which said
9:45a.m.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">Now Rajat is confused. He is no longer happy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">He looks at the bills in his hand. The first is the water
bill. He unfolds it and stares at it. The amount is Rs. 945. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">Rajat looks around wild eyed. He checks the walls to see if
they are padded. He checks his wrists for a tape, his ankles for restraints.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">He gets up and opens the door. Peeps out, wary, hesitant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">There is a big wall clock on the corridor wall. Rajat
collapses just outside his door. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
clock says 9:45.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-22225762897694991552013-02-26T09:23:00.001+05:302013-02-26T09:27:48.052+05:30Itni Shakti Hamein dena "Data"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The past few days I have thought intensely about two, apparently disparate, things. <br />
<br />
One is friendship.<br />
<br />
And the other, emerging trends.<br />
<br />
The first has occupied my mindspace because these are fragile times. And when I am fragile, my friendships are the rock block that I lean on. Even inside my head when I do that, I feel stronger. <br />
<br />
I took a flight some days back to a friend. I took flight, literally. Ran away from that which was too difficult, too complex, too overwhelming, to a simpler, more solid place. The place that doesn't move. Leaning into a friend's chest and crying one's heart out: that may be a simple right that we relenquish over a period of time. We learn to let it go as we grow up, and as we grow apart, but it is still nice to know that one could do it if one wished. It makes the surfaces we stand on less wobbly.<br />
<br />
Speaking of wobbly - the othe thing I spent a lot of mindspace on lately, was research, data, popularity charts, trends. What works? What appeals? What cuts across? What hits the sweet spot of number one status? This was obviously borne out of my work and its attendant ceaseless pressures to retain some statistical superiority over other similar but competing products. And that ground is pretty wobbly too. Not just for me, but for all people I know. <br />
<br />
We all talk in numbers, not sentences. Letters, not wholesome words. Fractions not completions. Our world, a supposedly creative world, is filled with slivers and shards like TRP, GRP, RAM, TAM, AMT, ILT, FGD... we throw these at each other like drunks throwing punches and rattle of numbers and fractions and letters and look knowledgably at each other, not for a moment stopping to think that this isn't even langauage. Its a fragmentation.<br />
<br />
When we ride the crest of these letters and numbers our punches carry a swagger and we feel complete as human beings. We don't question it. In fact we derive our entire sense of self from it.<br />
<br />
But then invariably, everyone, at some point, experiences the trough. The questions arise then. Is this genuine? Is this valid? Is it compromised? Is it reliable? We turn even our consumers - the audience, the listener, the viewer - into pure statistical data. They are no longer the heart broken teenager who cried as a song played on the radio, the misty eyed housewife who sighed at the hunk on TV, the jolly old man who laughed out loud and spat popcorn when the comedian did his antics on the screen. <br />
<br />
No we don't just reduce ourselves, we reduce them too. We reduce their entires lives, minds, hearts to fit into the square centimeter space of an exel sheet cell. And then, depending on how that cell behaves, we either gloat, or we gloom. <br />
<br />
Introspection such as this tends to come with the gloom. Naturally. Who questions success? Who stops to ponder when the numbers inch towards the high mark, when by point space decimal point, our existence is justified, our passions ratified, our entire being validated?<br />
<br />
But just like I found myself revisiting friendships when the ground beneath my feet shook, just like I found myself reaffirming the gold standard in my heart, I do think now its time to commit to the gold standard even at work. To shed the yoke of letters and fractions: the gilded cage of statitistical highs that hide all the creative lows. <br />
<br />
Even when I ride the crest, which is after all - statistically speaking - but a matter of time , its good to avoid the seduction of those letters and numbers. They can be soul destroying after a point. And I do hope I will come back here, and recommit to that, even when like the Sirens, the numbers are singing to me, and drawing my ship in.... <br />
<br />
No, let us speak in words now. Simple, and heartfelt, like a song on the radio. </div>
Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-32482387499915975052011-05-09T13:33:00.006+05:302011-05-16T12:50:28.609+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Loneliness is a grey word. Filled with sadness. <br />
<br />
It is not a sad word simply because of its dictionary meaning. Its sad because it carries on its stooped shoulders a series of failures. In friendships, relationships, communication. In intent, involvement, committment, effort.<br />
<br />
The word loneliness speaks of failed endeavours. It speaks of aborted attempts because those who are by themselves by choice, don't use the word 'lonely'. They say they are solitary.<br />
<br />
Hence, lonely instantly becomes a loaded word. Crippled with multiple fractures. <br />
<br />
It is a cliche to say one can feel the loneliest in a crowd. That of course is true. And to be expected, considering a crowd cannot relate to you intimately, personally.<br />
<br />
What is said seldom is that the more one's heart is filled with love, the lonelier one can get. The sheer contrast between the outflow of emotion and the paucity of receptacles in which to pour it in, renders one frighteningly alone at times. <br />
<br />
A forgotten smile, a missed call, an unanswered letter, a break in eye contact, a lack of warmth in a return hug, loneliness is heralded by a menagerie of foot soldiers. <br />
<br />
Expectations are of course a precursor to loneliness. And yet how possible is it to lead an entire life without expectations? To feel warm gushes of affection and caring without being burdened by some sort of behavorial context, some sort of ease at being able to predict other people's responses and reactions?<br />
<br />
We all can't be Sufi in the interactions we engage in, in the relationships we forge, in the love we feel. And anyhow, the Sufis were probably the loneliest of them all...</div>Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-20291766228165495872011-04-11T16:51:00.004+05:302011-04-11T22:08:05.241+05:30The Casteism of Revolution<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Ever since Anna Hazare started fasting, and the Indian media started feasting, I have been trying to identify what exactly I feel about this entire phenomenon.<br />
<br />
I have finally realised that I don't feel any one specific emotion. What I do have are a series of observations, culled out from my reading of the papers, what social network sites have thrown at me, and what I have gathered from conversations around:<br />
<br />
1. The first is a sad one. It is a realisation that casteism is completely, deeply embedded in our psyche. We have a Brahminisation of everything, even mass protests. There are those who have been leading crusades for worthy causes for decades (and it is a sad truth that their voice has often gone unheard), but it is bizarre that those people now are churlish about the success of any movement that they are personally not responsible for. They have become the 'Brahmins' of protest work. They cannot let the 'lower castes' i.e. urban middle class, the media, corporates, apolitical citizens, take over this mantle. They feel affronted. Yes, it is true that for decades on end, it was only those with leftist leanings and deep roots in activism, who actually took up causes and fought for rights. They gathered in bunches of a few dozen, were often scattered with rubber bullets and police lathi charge, they came from humble backgrounds, they dressed humbly, they worked with the underprivileged and they tried to get their voices heard, often resulting in frustrating failure. Post partition right up to the early 2000s, mass India slept. We were uncaring. The middle class was scared, the influential class was apathetic, the media was state owned and the judiciary not yet this proactive. Yes, it is true that in those dark decades, when India completely lacked any community conscience, any citizen vigilance, there were only these 'left oriented groups' who tried, and tried hard. <br />
<br />
It is odd however that today when the supposedly 'crass right wingers' at developing a conscience, instead of applauding them, this same bunch of leftist protest workers are dismissing them. It is almost like a pre determined judgement: if you are are well off, you cannot be committed. If you believe in private enterprise, you cannot contribute to nation building, If you are the media, your intent cannot be right. If you are part of the establishment in even the smallest way, then you cannot work at improving the establishment in any way.<br />
<br />
This "I'll be judge and I'll be jury" mentality baffles me. It seems petty and unmerited. If the establishment perpetuates a wrong these people scream 'self serving'. If the establishment works at improving itself, they shout 'sham'. <br />
<br />
It genuinely reminds me of the old Brahmins who would not let you in their fold, no matter how hard you tried.<br />
<br />
If this is not the Brhaminisation of Protest work, what is? It is true that a lot of people threw in their lot with Anna Hazare with scant understanding of the Lok Pal bill, its nuances or the road ahead. It was amusing to read the status updates of 20 year old kids who thought Jantar Mantar was a picnic spot with a cause. But it was all amusing in an endearing way. It was nice to see people moved, even if they weren't going in depth into the problem. At least its a start.<br />
<br />
The sheer petty cynical dismissal of this movement by the 'hardened ground workers' so to speak was deeply disappointing. It appears almost that they are shocked and upset that a movement NOT started by them should have acquired momentum and visibility. They cannot accept that free market India could possibly have developed a sense of social duty or citizen rights. Unless your politics is left wing, your cause cannot be real, they seem to be saying. <br />
<br />
2. My second observation is a happier one. It is that Rakesh Om Prakash Mehra should be an extremely proud man today. More than half a decade after Rang De Basanti, it is clear that his movie actually made an impact that goes beyond a fad. When the candle light vigil at India Gate for Jessica Lal took its cues from this film, then too there were cynics who said this is 'pure tamasha'. The fact is that Manu Sharma did get prosecuted. And today, it is still true that people in this country have realised that they can make a difference. They can make the government accountable. They can make the establishment answerable. Movies have a power. And if they use that power to influence more than clothing and bedroom habits, its is commendable.<br />
<br />
3. Having seen the media stoop to its lowest, crassest depths, having felt embarassed at being a part of this shrill hysterical and often vapid outlay of content, I have also realised that the media has it really bad both ways in this country. If they don't cover your protest then they just don't care. If they do cover your protest they are just looking for sensational bytes and a free tamasha. Somebody please explain how the media in this country is supposed to be doing good if everything they do is seen as self serving?<br />
<br />
4. My fourth observation is closely connected to the first one: why is it that in our country we cannot accept that the prosperous can well be responsible for socially relevant / developmental work? Does this country have no scope for something like the Bill Gates' foundation? That man is a rich man and he is genuinely committed to the causes he supports. Why this complete cynical dismissal of corporate India by those involved in grassroot work? Why can't the two co exist? Why does one have to live in an LIG flat, take the bus, wear only cotton and chappals, to prove one's committment? Why can't making money for oneself coexist with wanting the country to be clean and well governed? If somebody joined the Jantar Mantar protest by driving down in his BMW from his posh gurgaon flat then he needs must be a 'fake'? Why? <br />
<br />
5. This next observation is the mirror image of the previous. While there is no reason to automatically suspect the intent of the well heeled, the hysterical support that Anna Hazare got from a lot of screechy social networkers had me quite perplexed. Especially some of the people whom I know quite well. These are people who evade their taxes, abuse their position, use their influence, with absolutely not a hint of guilt. If they work for the media they demand press passes with impunity, even when they have no desire to cover the event, if they work in finance they learn new tricks to make a bigger blacker buck, if they work in education they allow kids papers to be marked by their spouses or siblings, if they work abroad they launder money. And all such and sundry were making loud, almost innocently oblivious, comments about 'weeding out corruption'. It's almost as though it doesn't strike them that they too perpetuate the same malaise. Every single day. With every single decision that they make. To them, clearly, what they do is convenience. What Kalmadi and Raja do is corruption. Hello, India?<br />
<br />
6. My last observation: let us assume for a second that the cynics are right and Anna Hazare wants the publicity. Where is the dichotomy between wanting to do good solid work and wanting to be lauded for it? Why does every committed social worker HAVE to be self effacing? What if Anna Hazare has ALSO pandered to the media, both now, and before? Why is it necessary to therefore instantly doubt his intent? Why can't seeking personal glory co exist with wanting to bring about real change? Why does Anna have to be some sort of saint? What if he wants to be remembered for this work? How is that even a point worth raising during the debate? <br />
<br />
All in all, much has happened and I think two clear things emerge: firstly that citizen vigilance (even if it lacks throughput, even if it lacks total comprehension) is definitely here to stay. If people can do a bit but not a lot, that is still a beginning. Everybody cannot dedicate their lives to causes. That doesn't make the little that they do, suspect. Secondly, a free market economy can and must co exist with clean transparent welfare governance. India needs to come out from the strangehold of both the corrupt politicians and businessmen, as well as the holier than thou jhollawallahs. <br />
<br />
So bring on the next picnic at Jantar Mantar. We will transform India, one picnic at a time.</div>Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-63902836787218097582010-12-09T15:28:00.002+05:302010-12-10T12:40:46.706+05:30Stuck at 20It was exactly a day like this. The sun hadn't come out fully, and the grey, melted butterscotch ice cream feel to the sky was warm and chilly at the same time.<br />
<br />
Actually, why say it was exactly a day like this. It was this very day in fact.<br />
<br />
December 9th. Fifteen years ago.<br />
<br />
I was exactly a month away from my 21st birthday.<br />
<br />
And pretty much around this time, mid afternoon, I finally stepped out of the National Heart Institute for a cup of tea, after a harrowing morning. I relaxed for the first time and thought of taking a small break before going back in.<br />
<br />
But I didn't get the chance to finish that cup of tea. Because somebody from the staff of the hospital came out to call us.<br />
<br />
It was exactly around this time, on exactly this date, on a day exactly like this one, fifteen years ago, that my father died.<br />
<br />
And while I have done a fair amount of growing up in the past fifteen years; while in many ways I can feel each day of each week and month of each year etched upon my heart, my mind, my soul and my face, I also realise that some little tiny bit of me just got stuck there. At twenty.<br />
<br />
In the chilling afternoon stillness of a cold December day.<br />
<br />
In the coversations we were yet to have, in the poetry we were still to read, in the jokes we were still to crack, in the books we were yet to exchange, in the plays we were still to watch, in the music we were yet to share. In the lessons that I learnt so much more slowly, more painfully, and more harshly from life. Because I didn't get a chance to learn them from him.<br />
<br />
Miss you baba. Incredibly acutely, considering its been fifteen years.Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-86594488186942071682010-11-04T21:07:00.008+05:302011-01-31T14:55:41.126+05:30Mary Mary Quite Contrary How Does Your Marriage Grow?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Ranjit and I are closer than two peas in a pod. We can literally finish each other's thoughts at times, leave alone sentences. I don't use the word 'soulmate' very easily in my life, but it just seems to be the right word to apply to the two of us.<br />
<br />
The journey he and I have been through, to be where we are today, has been an incredible one. A terrible one. An exhilerating one. An exhausting one, an invigorating one. It has broken us and made us, many times over. It has defied us, and defined us, hollowed us and deepened us, in ways that even the furrows upon our hearts can't fully express. <br />
<br />
We have a healthy respect, and an equally healthy sense of humour, about each other's pasts. We have to, since both our pasts are a living, breathing entity in our present. And both of us have the sort of colourful, controversial history that only a spouse with a funny bone can even hope to live with. Add to that our volatile temperaments, our sensual explorations, and our sensitivities, and you get a heady cocktail that only another braveheart can dare to attempt to negotiate. <br />
<br />
To put it simply, Ranjit and I are deeply in love. Each passing day. Present continuous, not a memory of an emotion experienced once, and eventually enshrined and honoured in an institution called marriage: like a glorious tomb raised to a long gone sentiment.<br />
<br />
And yet, there are some funny things about our marriage. There are certain things that Ranjit and I don't do. For example, the most glaring one - we don't share a bedroom (and therefore, neither bathroom nor cupboard - he is messy and I am tidy and the shared thing drove us both nuts). We don't have joint bank accounts. We don't answer each other's phones. We don't look at each other's text messages. We don't have each other's passwords.... (well, actually I do have his, because I have had to bail him out of several disorganised moments.) We don't accept invitations on each other's behalf. We don't automatically assume friendship with each other's friends, unless we take to them personally, that is. We don't always socialise as a couple, again, unless we both like the people we are to meet. We don't send out birthday or anniversary or festival messages jointly. We don't always eat together, only when we are both hungry at the same time... <br />
<br />
That sounds like a lot of "we don'ts" doesn't it? I know that those of my friends and colleagues who believe in a more conventional variant of marriage often want to ask me why I bothered to get married at all...<br />
<br />
I would like to answer that question. Sincerely.<br />
<br />
I wanted to marry so that I could live a life with the man I love. I wanted to marry so that I could have our child and focus on raising it, and not defending it. I wanted to marry because I wanted to build a home to our shared journey. And a home isn't always the same thing as a common bedroom. <br />
<br />
There are things about a marriage, or rather, about living together, that you cannot experience living apart. A crumpled and sleep warmed cup of tea and coffee together, first thing in the morning. A late night chat drifting into sleep. A midnight snack. A raiding of each other's music and book collections. A fight over which CD is mine and which yours. A sneaked in love making as you are rushing to get ready for work. A sunday brunch in your pyjamas. A baby. A chat that carries on for so long that it gets you late for everything. A no reason sudden cuddle. A make up free sunday. A sudden rush for chocolate excess at 11 p.m. A nursing each other through sickness. An urging each other towards healthy living.<br />
<br />
Putting together a meal (ok, I'll confess, only Ranjit does that, I am allergic to the kitchen), taking a drive because the sudden urge to scan an album siezes you, taking the other one's ass because they've done something utterly stupid, which you wouldn't have witnessed if you were living apart... there's a lot going for a marriage beyond sharing bedrooms and bank accounts...<br />
<br />
I know this is not what a marriage is supposed to be. I am defying the conventions of an institution that I have endorsed... I have no right... Perhaps we should have called it cosy cohabitation instead... I don't know. I wanted to have that baby. And I live in a country where the negotiations around single parenthood are surprisingly time consuming; it just didn't seem worth it...<br />
<br />
Having said that, I feel odd at times when I realise that the 'format' of my marriage may give the outsider the impression that the dynamics of the relationship are of a brittle, laquered, hard nature. That Ranjit and I are wary, ultra modern and cynical; that he and I skirt around each other's edges, diamond hard and brilliant with wit and intellect, yet incapable of a warm fuzzy place...<br />
<br />
In reality, nothing could be farther from the truth. Our friends know that. We are silly in the way we love each other. We are exasperating to single women above thirty and we make those under thirty sigh and get misty eyed. I have had a twenty four year old office colleague come and hold my hand on a hooghly barge (it was on office get together in Calcutta) and tell me how her dream is to find a relationship like the one Ranjit and I have. It was so embarassing that I sort of coughed out a silly comment about how Ranjit and I fight too. Lame. I know.<br />
<br />
I have however neither changed my name, nor my habits, nor my toothpaste. I don't know what that says about my priorities or my marriage. I just feel sad that such irrelevances say anything at all... <br />
<br />
At condescending moments, looking down from my rainbow prism of fulfillment, I tend to wonder, are these things prioritised by those who have nothing more fundamental to share?... <br />
<br />
But those are just mean moments, I don't really think like that. I believe that this age old, hackneyed, crumbling around the edges institution is still distinctly individual for each person... everyone finds their own unique rhythm with it. We just happen to have found an unusual beat... but it makes us dance, so what the heck!</div>Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-2736422946244289202010-10-13T14:25:00.001+05:302010-10-13T14:26:24.374+05:30FragileIts in the texture of the air. In the colour of the flowers. In the way something green gold saffron shimmers as you turn your head.<br />
<br />
Its in the memories. The taste of the food. In the echoes of the dhaak, the kaanshor, the bells...<br />
<br />
Its in the faces that don't change. And yet age every year. Its in the dreams that gradually shed leaves. <br />
<br />
Its in the hopes that were immersed in the river last year. And in the emotions that resurface alll over again.<br />
<br />
Its in the nostalgia that we weave even as we speak, aware even in the present that we are making memories.<br />
<br />
Its in the dust on the face, the ache in the ankles, the discomfort of the steel chairs, the iron buckets and baskets of fries. Its in the voice that rings out loud in a dining hall full of people, its in the smoke and the incense and the embers that burn in places other than earthenware lamp holders.<br />
<br />
It makes me fragile. This place, this space, this ritual that lives itself out not in geography, not in history, but in a place suspended somewhere in between the two.<br />
<br />
Durga Pujo. Yet again.<br />
<br />
Golden goddess, rest my heart.Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-14182137274756227052010-09-24T12:43:00.001+05:302010-09-24T12:43:52.900+05:30The Discontent of ContentThe trend is alarming and the repucussions worrisome. There is a sudden new found enthusiasm in our world for ADHD.<br />
<br />
Yes, you did read it right. What causes concern when found in children, seems to not only be perfectly fine, but even laudable, when it comes to us adults: complete Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.<br />
<br />
We actually seem pleased that a person can hear a piece of music, google the artist name, track its singer on twitter, put up a status update about it on facebook, write a blogpost about how moving the piece was, gmail the mp3 to five friends and claim to have actually heard the piece at the same time.<br />
<br />
Stop fidgeting and pay attention children. The age of the total discontent of content is here. We have time for everything and as a result, attention for nothing.<br />
<br />
Our Paul the Octopus impersonations - not as soothsayers but as multi limbed jello beings - have been perfected. We have many arms but no central spine to hold it all together. We have span but no attention. We have spread but no centre. We have response but no stock.<br />
<br />
It is not just radio. The 40 sec link into the next song has become endemic to our very being. We want our news in bullet points, our songs in hooks, our films in trailers, our books in quotable quotes.<br />
<br />
We want to be seen to know it all, spreading it wide, spreading it thin, and we have lost our divers' costumes that allow us to go down deep with an oxygen tank called patience and a breathing tube called focus.<br />
<br />
This is a great thing for mass media. It allows us 'medians' to cover everything, and uncover nothing at the same time.<br />
<br />
Today's journalists need not be experts on the subject their beat covers. Today's writers need no education in literature. Today's musicians need no classical training. Today's painters need never have seen the inside of an art school.<br />
<br />
Everything goes in the name of spontaneous, unstructured personal articulation. Expression rules and absorption is dead. We can opine without knowledge, create without learning, and extol without imbibing.<br />
<br />
We don't have time to read this blogpost to the end because our phone just beeped, our computer just pinged and our connect just disconnected.Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-23986638882541653002010-08-23T16:09:00.001+05:302010-08-23T16:14:50.006+05:30THE SMUG SECULARISTS SONGFlood ‘em terrorists<br />
The end is nigh<br />
Now you know<br />
When the waters run high<br />
<br />
Where will you hide<br />
As the floodgates rise<br />
Where is your Allah<br />
Your bearded, your wise<br />
<br />
Here I am<br />
Feeling smug in my land<br />
I killed no infidel<br />
No blood on my hand<br />
<br />
Now you know<br />
When the end is near<br />
Hope gives way<br />
To a drowning fear<br />
<br />
The world looks away<br />
And why should it not<br />
Were you merciful<br />
When it was your lot?<br />
<br />
You bombed our trains<br />
You bombed our brains<br />
You bombed our buildings<br />
You rammed in planes<br />
<br />
Don’t teach me my geography<br />
My Afghan from my Pathan<br />
My Iraqi, My Paki<br />
My Koran from my Kirpan<br />
<br />
You turbaned lot<br />
You troubled lot<br />
You dirty lot<br />
You flooded lot<br />
<br />
God is drowning you<br />
Drowning your sins<br />
When you swim you sink<br />
When you sink then you swim<br />
<br />
And I won’t write that cheque<br />
And I won’t fill that truck<br />
You can keep treading water<br />
I won’t throw you a rubber duck<br />
<br />
I am smug in my parsimony<br />
You can scream you can yelp<br />
I am not Vodafone<br />
I am happy not to help<br />
<br />
Let the U.N raise the money<br />
Let Zardari find you hope<br />
I am not here to forgive<br />
I am not the pope<br />
<br />
All of you are fanatics<br />
You laugh when we cry<br />
I am not a terrorist<br />
I’ll just watch your children die.Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-6926206945111748532010-07-19T22:51:00.001+05:302010-07-20T08:51:48.998+05:30Lost and FoundI lost you for a while today<br />
And while looking through the bric-a-brac,<br />
The lost and found cardboard box of my life,<br />
I found such little worth finding<br />
My losses amongst trinkets and baubles and faux memories of pain,<br />
A few jewels lost forever and out of reach, its true,<br />
But much else of no value.<br />
<br />
And in the yawning, gaping, empty vacuum of a lost and found box<br />
I saw you recede from me<br />
Smiling your gentle smile,<br />
Love crinkling the sides of your eyes<br />
<br />
And in repeated loops of twenty minutes,<br />
3 times an hour times 6 hours,<br />
My heart broke so many times.Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-59711723747242563252010-06-03T17:11:00.004+05:302010-06-03T17:28:41.830+05:30the 100th postAdvised a friend to either dump a girlfriend who was boring him to tears, or else to marry her.<br />
<br />
I must be the first Female Mysogynist ever.<br />
<br />
But seriously. What's up with women and their obsession with men and the mythical sun shining out of their ass? Why can't we think beyond, live beyond, be beyond?<br />
<br />
Even the crudest, most low brow, most crass men, when they meet, will discuss beer & cricket / football (apart from female anatomy). They will comment about the state of politics and the carrborator of their car. They will talk about their next pay hike. They will talk about SOMETHING apart from the relationship that they are in / wish to be in.<br />
<br />
But nine times out of ten, even the most intelligent, most talented, most well read, most independent, most successful, most attractive women, when they get together, will talk about men. And marriage. And the ones who stayed. And the ones who left. And matters of the heart. And the hearth.<br />
<br />
Good grief. WHEN are we gonna get over it?<br />
<br />
Footnote: I would not have noticed this about our gender, had it not been pointed out to me by a man. My husband. A few years ago. Shamefaced confession.<br />
<br />
But since then, I have kept relentless pursuit of this observation. And noticed phone coversations, sms chats, facebook updates, blog entries and tweets from some of the women I like / admire most.<br />
<br />
And I am saddened to see the truth behind the observation. <br />
<br />
This is my 100th post on a blog called stingle. Which fiercely protects a space called 'still single'. And my insight on this pathetic state of us women is not a judgemental one from the outside, but an empathetic one from the inside. I've been there too. I've obsessed like that too. I too have focused all my energies on acquiring the right labels in my life. And perhaps I come from the vantage point of having acquired those labels, but nonetheless, whatever be the reason, wisdom is not to be scoffed at.<br />
<br />
In my 100th post, for the 100th time, I wish to know: when we women talk about settling down, why don't we ever talk about 'settling down, single'....? Come to be at peace with the status of singlehood? <br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong. Love is beautiful. A relationship is cosy. I don't advocate singlehood for the heck of it. I am married. I am happy. [Of course the joke between the two of us often is that we are happy inspite of being married, and not because of it] but what I do have an issue with is how we women don't ever get comfortable with the status - whatever the status - and look beyond. We are unhappy single. We are anxious married. When we don't have a man we are worrying about where to find him. When we do have a man we are biting our nails off worrying how to hold on to him. When we part with a man we fall apart. When we find him we cling.<br />
<br />
Kya problem kya hai??Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-53970261493019519992010-04-27T15:12:00.001+05:302010-05-19T17:15:41.201+05:30Mirror ImageI have aged, beyond repair.<br />
My body at war with my best intentions.<br />
Taut and tired is what the gym makes me.<br />
While plump, juicy youth<br />
Firmly cocks a snook at me.<br />
<br />
My heart has aged, beyond justice. <br />
My life in battle with my oldest dreams.<br />
Etched and exhausted is what my fantasies make me.<br />
While transient visions, missions, transgressions of the merely young<br />
Pass me by in piteous disdain.Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-16152525502360214422010-03-29T18:55:00.004+05:302010-03-30T14:46:15.962+05:30Music Credits!While driving to work today, I was listening to a song that always reminds of someone I know... I simply have to hear the first few strains, and an image, a memory, a face, some moments, flash through my head...<br />
<br />
And I realised that this happens to me with many, many songs. Songs that sometimes may not even be so closely held by the very people I associate them with. They may be surprised in fact, to learn how closely that song reminds me of them; how close it brings them to me. <br />
<br />
But there is some arresting memory; a vibrant moment lived, a cherished conversation held close to the heart, and then, the song is their's. For good. <br />
<br />
So I thought, why not do a roll call of honour. A different sort of a credit roll. And for the fun of it, see if the people involved actually remember the association at all or not... Or feel as strongly about the song....<br />
<br />
[I would like to digress here for a moment and say that I am leaving Ranjit out of this list. The universe of music I share with Ranjit is too vast, too personal, and too, too vibrant to be captured in one post. Ranjit is my music partner in more ways than one... so Ranj, sorry, no specific credit roll for you here. You get credit for the 'music in my life!']<br />
<br />
I am obviously also not including songs that my highly talented friends have had something to do with directly. I mean, its stupid to say Baawra Mann reminds me of Swanand, or Socha Na Tha of Imti. Duh. But naturally.<br />
<br />
The first, but obvious, and Gorky, stop grinning:<br />
<br />
RAAH PE REHTE HAIN (Kishore Kumar, Namkeen): Gorky, Gorky, Gorky. His black boot upon his Yezdi pedal. A late night drive back from his film maker job in NOIDA. A rain slick tar road... and this song playing into his ear from his walkman. I will stop here. There are other details too personal to share. But this song stopped being RD and Gulzar's long ago. Its yours, Gorks. Needless to say, there are many others. But this is sort of the signature one; the album cover. <br />
<br />
MERI JAAN MUJHE JAAN NA KAO & KOI CHUPKE SE AAKE (Geeta Dutt, Anubhav): Geeta Dutt's tortured, fading, dying voice in a last burst of glory. Kanu Roy's simple melody brought to life so completely in her rendition that made it so believeable that a housewife with a tuneful voice is singing in her throaty, less than perfect style. But so much trivia aside, for me these two songs belong only to Pavi. For years now, from high school to hot dates, from winter bonfires to summer picnics, Pavi has always insisted that these are two songs she can sing well. And the funniest part? She never remembers which these songs are, precisely when she needs to croon. So I must have answered innumerable hushed, whispered, conspiratorial calls, replied to pager messages (gosh remember those??) and lately, replied via the more convenient sms option. She will always say 'hey babes, what are those songs from anubhav that I can sing?'. And I will reply: Koi Chupke Se Aake. Meri Jaan. So Pavi, meri jaan, ye do to tumhaare huye.<br />
<br />
PUKARO MUJHE NAAM LEKAR PUKARO (Mukesh, Bhool Na Jaana): For us, the hardcore Kishore - RD fan gang, this is one of those rare Mukesh tracks that we love. (Coupled with a few others that will get mentioned farther on in this post). And for me, this song is Biju's. I don't remember how, I don't remember when, but I do remember him telling me that the line <em>Badi sar chadhi hain ye zulfein tumhaari, ye zulfein meri baazuyon mein utaaro</em>... is one of his favourites. Pataa nahin kyun, ye baat mere saath reh gayi. Biju - does the line still move you?<br />
<br />
BAAT NIKLEGI TO PHIR DOOR TALAK (Jagjit Singh, The Unforgettables): I can already see Pavi smiling. But of course. Oroon. Who else. One of the many many songs that Oroon renders beautifully, but the ONLY song that he remembers the entire lyrics of. Oroon, you have made me cry so often with your rendition of Baat Niklegi, that I should apply for insurance now. I finally got a grip on the tears, but even now, the eyes get moist. I remember your school farewell (you being a year ahead of me) and you sang it on stage. As a special precaution I went out of the assembly hall and heard you from the door. And cried buckets, as usual. <br />
<br />
TUM PUKAR LO (Hemant Kumar, Khamoshi): Shujoy - I don't know if its Hemant Kumar's singing, or his composition, or Gulzar's sheer brilliance... or some other personal association that you may have... but you've always had a soft spot for this song. I've seen you attempt to sing it at several antaksharis over several Durga Pujas... and hum it under your breath even otherwise. That rickety wooden table in front of the goddess; us sitting, irreverentially swinging our feet off it, the line of us in dhotis, saris, respectively, and you attempting this tune, until Oroon rescues you and takes it on... This song belongs to you, my friend. <br />
<br />
ROMEO & JULIET (Dire Straits, Making Movies): <em>'A lovestruck Romeo, Sings a streetsus seranade, Laying everybody low with a love song that he made...'</em> I've always described Knopfler's voice as Rum Chocolate. If you could make love to voices, I'd want to do him! Rishi, you may not even remember this, it was soo soooo long ago. But it was in Mumbai. We were at the Ghetto (I always forget the name of the pub and ask Ranjit - hey which one is that dark pub with the neon lights where your teeth shine white and he tells me!!)... So Rishi - it was probably 98 or 99. I was in Bombay on Encompass work. And we'd hooked up and gone for a drink. This track started playing over the sound system. And you mentioned how it was one of your favourites. I remember not being familiar with the track then and asking you what it was about. And you, magically, without allowing the rhythm of the song to get spoilt, repeated every line back to me, into my ear, even as the track played out. What a gorgeously written piece of urban poetry. And what a stunning memory. Dunno about Knopfler and his Intellectual Property rights, but Romeo and Juliet belongs to you, Rishi K! <br />
<br />
TIME (Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon): Singhaaaaa!! We were in your not-so-fancy car. I don't know where we were going but it was early evening, the sun was setting and we were driving towards AIIMS. Floyd's brilliance over your sound system and you asked me if I'd ever focused on the words of Time. And then as the sun actually set in front of our faces, you repeated the lines to me: <em>'you run and you run to catch up with the sun but its sinking... racing around to come up behind you again... the sun is the same in a relative way but you're older... shorter of breath and one day closer to death....'</em> No wait, you didn't repeat them speaking, you sang them, along. Your face was lit up by the setting sun then, and all your love and reverence for and resonance with Pink Floyd shone through in that moment... This song belongs to so many, across two and a half generations, across so many nations... and Singha, as far as I am concerned, it belongs to you!<br />
<br />
KOI DEKH RAHA (Udit Narayan & Kavita Krishnamurthy) & TERE PYAR MEIN (Hema Sardesai, Shankar Mahadevan - Zor): Gorky, Pavi, Ranjit, Tapas recognise this name. The others on this list may not. Pramit Ghosh. My crazy ex boyfriend and an extremely interesting chap regardless of what we went through. Pramit, who introduced me to George Orwell's Down and Out in London & Paris, who introduced me to the ancient ruins in and around Ahmedabad, who introduced me to yumm food at Vishaala, who introduced me to the concept of living by myself, and who also introduced me to contemporary hindi music, which I had great disdain for, before I joined Mirchi. These two songs were the soundtrack of the few months I spent with him. They captured the madness, the uncertainity, yet the fun, the vibrancy, the unpredictable spontaneity of that time of my life. Both songs have a sweetness and yet a racy pace - something that reminds me of that crazy and pyschaedelic time in my life...<br />
<br />
MAINE TERE LIYE SAAT RANG KE SAPNE CHUNE (Mukesh, Anand): A simple song with Gulzar's masterful words. A gentle moment in a superlative film. But is that how I remember the song? Not quite. I see Imtiaz sitting at the kerb of the Hindu college bus stop. I see the afternoon sun slanting through the leaves. I see him humming the track as I cross the narrow road and plonk down next to him. I see the twinkle in his eyes as he confides that this is one of his favourite love songs. Because of its simplicity. At that time I thought he said it for effect, he came across as such a complex fellow. And then years later he made Socha Na Tha. And then Jab We Met. And then Love Aaj Kal. And I realised over a decade later, that he had meant what he'd said. <br />
<br />
SAVERE KA SURAJ TUMHAARE LIYE HAI (Kishore Kumar, Ek Baar Muskura Do): Tapas. You and I have shared many many songs through our long friendship and our radio partnership. There should be many other tracks I associate with you. But this particular one - I just always imagine you singing it. I think perhaps because you introduced me to the track. But it always has been, and always will be, yours. <br />
<br />
and the best, for the last! <br />
<br />
CHANE KE KHET MEIN (Poornima, Anjaam): Baba! Ha ha ha ha. The man who has introduced me to Rabindra Sangeet, Adhunik Bangla Gaan, Polli geeti, Toppa, Bhatiali, Suman Chatterjee, Nachiketa and who not... and THIS is what I associate with him? Of course I have an entire childhood of beautiful music that I attribute to that man. The reason I include Chane Ke Khet Mein in this list is because its unusual, its mad, and it showcases in my memory, the vibrant, youthful, unprejudiced person he always was. Baba loved this crazy, almost Bhojpuri, what many would term 'cheapo' song. He loved its energy, its rhythm and he was completely crazy about Madhuri's dancing in this. He really admired her skill. And I read somewhere that they had a multiple camera set up for this song and Madhuri rendered the entire dance of this 4 - 5 minute number, in ONE take. She is that fabulous. And Baba recognised that extraordinary talent. So yes, my dad, of many intellectual pursuits and deeply artistic interests, belongs to Chane Ke Khet Mein! :o)Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-21823903939383895372010-03-02T09:55:00.002+05:302010-03-03T18:53:19.415+05:30What if...Sometimes I have this really wicked thought of telling all on all my ex-men. (Nice phrase, ex men. sounds like a sci-fi film.)<br />
<br />
I guess it must be about getting to office on a tuesday morning after a lazy, gorgeous, sun kissed, holi drunk, gujia satiated weekend, but it makes me want to do mean things. <br />
<br />
I have the added advantage of the fact that my husband knows about each one of the ex-men, in all their varied shades of glory. So does my family. <br />
<br />
Which kind of leaves me free to wreak havoc on the entire sanctimonious holier than thou lot. <br />
<br />
Hey, don't get me wrong. I don't think they are all pigs because we all chose to move on with our lives. I thinnk they are pigs because they are! <br />
<br />
Hee hee.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, got to know about this maudlin tweet that one of the ex-men had posted about his blissful marital life, and I had this wicked wicked desire to get on to twitter and leave one saucy, marriage wrecking comment on it...<br />
<br />
I have similarly juicy, creative thoughts on several other ocassions. Thoughts that could render marriages, homes, careers and sanity ruined. <br />
<br />
I am disgustingly wicked. <br />
<br />
So whats the moral of the story?<br />
<br />
Be careful of an ex boyfriend for about three months. That's pretty much the time in which he can murder you, malign you, post your dirty pictures on the internet, deface you, haunt you, stalk you, attack you....<br />
<br />
After that, with their short attention spans, and shorter memories, they will forget you. <br />
<br />
But be careful of an ex girlfriend for life. She may just decide to ruin your life on whim. <br />
<br />
Just because a long weekend got over.Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-28860643399325343212010-02-21T20:18:00.006+05:302010-04-05T16:02:35.679+05:30ExhateI recently got to know that some woman who I knew in my first job, around 15 years ago, feels 'sad' that she and I did not explore our friendship back then because we were prevented by early 20s insecurity, rivalry and suspicion. <br />
<br />
Needless to say, this caught me totally off guard, in my solar plexus, because I had only viewed her as a colleague and someone who was more than an acquaintance, less than a friend, all those years ago. I was mildly happy to get in touch with her again. She had never occupied more mindspace for me than that. I however seem to have filled up her thoughts with far more complex hues. <br />
<br />
Today apparantly being in our mid 30s and more mature, we have the power to put all that behind us and become friends. And that she no longer is in awe of my looks or my success or the colour of my frigging hair, or something to that effect. I don't remember the exact words because this was all in her facebook invite message to me, and after I confirmed her (which I'm not sure why I did) I can't seem to retrieve that invitation message. <br />
<br />
I got on to facebook about a week ago, caving in to general pressure, and am already regretting it. <br />
<br />
The whole business seems entirely directionless and pointless - and that when its not revealing nasty truths from people who were barely on the edges of your consciousness. <br />
<br />
I seem to inspire a lot of this perplexing hatred. What flabbergasts me the most is very often this hatred comes from people who I barely think about, have never wished them any harm, never had any ill will towards and never even thought about much. <br />
<br />
Thankfully the people who love me also do so quite intensely, so it adequately compensates, else I'd have a serious self worth issue. <br />
<br />
But I don't get it. Once I had gotten to know through a friend that a guy he knew bad mouthed me intensely and regularly, for over 2 years. The guy kept urging my friend to lose contact with me, as 'prolonged exposure' to me would be bad for him.<br />
<br />
Believe it or not, I had never even met the guy in question. We had only heard of each other on and off through common acquaintances. Such third hand knowledge of a person can generate gossip, sure, but hatred? Venomous, black viscous hatred? <br />
<br />
How?<br />
<br />
Then there was this girl in my team where I currently work. For a long time I kept working on her career because I truly saw a lot of potential in her. I would even go the extent of saying she and I became sort of friends. Laughter is one thing we shared a lot, and that is a great bonding agent. <br />
<br />
Then one day I gave her career a direction she didn't quite resonate with. She made it amply evident to me that even though it was growth, I had not given her growth in quite the way she wanted. <br />
<br />
By this time she was anyway no longer my direct reportee. I had just continued to remain involved with her career because I truly felt she'd go places. <br />
<br />
Needless to say after she made her displeasure at my intervention evident, I totally stepped out of her professional life. I anyway had other responsibilities and it was a relief to take my eyes off something that was proving to be quite thankless. <br />
<br />
For the next 8 months I had absolutely nothing to do with her. I'd hear how she was coping, when she was doing well and when otherwise, but it was all very distant information percolated through layers of office talk. I didn't spend much time thinking about her. She vaguely shimmered on the horizon of my awareness.<br />
<br />
One day I heard she was quitting. I remember thinking: 'well, thank god, at least she won't be able to blame me for this. I've had absolutely nothing to do with her for nearly a year'. <br />
<br />
Well imagine my surprise when she went out all guns blazing, blaming me for having conspired to kill her career in this company. <br />
<br />
Err. Nasty accusation aside, I never quite got the logic of it. Why would I want to kill the career of a person when I'd spent 5 years building it? It defied common sense. <br />
<br />
Anyhow, today she is doing precisely what I had envisaged her to be doing in our company, in a rival company. Talent and potential rolled towards its natural destination. Even though she resisted my every urge to push her in a particular direction, it was just something so made for her that it found her anyway.<br />
<br />
And she went out bitterly hating me, my intent and every last curly hair on my head. I think she went so far as to hope I miscarried or something. Which I thankfully didn't.<br />
<br />
There have been others. Comparatively minor in intensity and involvement, but still there. A girl who worked for me in my previous company, thought at that time that I wasn't worthy of being her boss, later on went on to practically hero worship me, and therefore felt compelled to tell me all about her past feelings of hatred and malice.<br />
<br />
A girl in my current company, a sort of a friend I'd say, told me a similar story some months ago. About how she used to hate my guts and thought I was nuts and anal for being so detail oriented but today, as she finds herself in positions of responsibility, realises my committment and dedication to the job and deeply appreciates me for the training I invested in her etc etc... Even though she bitched and cribbed about me endlessly then, apparantly. But hey, she loves me now.<br />
<br />
Most of these confessions come from women. Even the woman I started this post with - she's been following up her facebook invitation with a series of intense lover-like smses after I clearly indicated my discomfort to her. It is essential to her that I understand her true feelings, her admiration inspite of her insecurities, her appreciation inspite of her envy, her desire to strike up a deep meaningful relationship with me inspite of her highly inappropriate, more-information-than-I-needed invitation message. She needs me to look at her guts, love her inspite of their putrification and then embrace her in a lifelong bond of friendship. <br />
<br />
Yawn. I don't think its worth the time and mind space. I don't get the sanctimonious nature of it all. As Gorky puts it so fantastically - "Why do people insist on using someone's head as a stepping stone to attain nirvana?" <br />
<br />
I think when you've disliked a person for a while, and then changed your mind about them, you feel so saintly, so haloed, so good about yourself, that you naturally assume the other person will fall over with gratitude once you confess your true feelings to them. I guess the only reason a person would have the socially awkward, highly inappropriate "I Used to Hate You But Now I Think You Rock" conversation with anyone is because they are feeling so smug, so full of the clean, pious, moral light, that it doesn't strike them for a second that the other person may just be plain flabbergasted, never having thought of themselves as hated or disliked in the first place. The sanctimonious nature of having let go of a negative obsession, is so high, that these slightly ill people just don't realise how their couch confidences will sound to the unsuspecting third party. <br />
<br />
The most bizarre of these stories is the one about the girl who joined a company after I'd quit it. She replaced me. Six years later she came to meet me in my new organisation only to tell me that she'd been obsessing about me so much that it was threatening to be an illness. <br />
<br />
She had heard about the quality of my work in my previous organisation and somehow had gotten into a state of total inadequacy. Nothing she did ever really matched up to the standards I'd set. <br />
<br />
What rot. <br />
<br />
We've all replaced older employees in jobs. Sure it takes some time to step into their shoes. Sure it takes a while to replace the team's and / or the boss's dependancy on their way of working, but its doable. No employee is ever indispensable. <br />
<br />
Its never worth a six year obsession about a person you've never met.<br />
<br />
Or is it? <br />
<br />
And what's with all this confession. Waiting to exhale. Or should I say ex-hate. "Oh I used to hate you. But I also admire you. I was insecure about it. But now I'm over it. Its all water under the bridge. Or over it. Or whatever. We are all more mature now. So I must spill my guts into your ears whether you want to hear it or not. You must smell the rotten turd of my brain. Please. We can start on a fresh page. Please, lets start afresh. I used to be insecure about you. I used to be jealous of you. I used to believe all the gossip about you. I used to be envious of you. I stuck pins into your dolls. I sat bitching about you to others. But now I see you for the great person you are. I'd like to do you the favour of befriending you. Now you must fall all over yourself in gratitude. I used to think you were weird. Now I don't...." <br />
<br />
Err... I have news for you, you exhater. You are giving me more information than I need. You are telling me things that don't make me feel grateful, they make me feel disgusted. Also, you are freaking me out.<br />
<br />
I'm not interested in helping you bury your ghosts. Even if I am the ghost.Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-86794229483176710442010-01-20T16:48:00.000+05:302010-01-20T16:48:35.910+05:30ALCO-HAULE HAULE!!I think its officially time to replace the word 'socialize' with 'alcoholize'. <br />
<br />
Lets face it, for most of us, for most of the time, with most types of company (with the exception of aged relatives on some select worship days), there is no socializing without alcoholizing. <br />
<br />
Don't agree? Read my list of Top 10 things people find increasingly difficult to do <u><strong>without booze</strong></u>. (if you do agree, feel free to add to the list!!)<br />
<br />
1. Sit with random colleagues beyond work hours, for more than half an hour. <br />
<br />
2. Flirt. <br />
<br />
3. Sit with 'friends' for more than one hour. <br />
<br />
4. Share personal life details (especially details that nobody is interested in)<br />
<br />
5. Initiate sex<br />
<br />
6. Be truthful<br />
<br />
7. Be nostalgic / sentimental<br />
<br />
8. Appreciate poetry. (Or nature. Or childhood).<br />
<br />
9. Prepare for Monday morning. (or begin Friday night)<br />
<br />
10. Appreciate one's spouse.Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-80656937126439557262010-01-17T20:33:00.010+05:302010-12-29T15:32:34.247+05:30Please eat a Kegg!It must have been about a year or so back, that having run out of eggs in the house, and constantly forgetting to get more from the local grocer, I stopped at the 24x7 store below my gym and picked up these fancy looking eggs called KEGGS.<br />
<br />
I'd seen them earlier a few times - at home before I got married, and I remembered them being quite nice. Not the sort of person to pay much attention to individual items on a grocery bill, I didn't know how these jumbo sized, tan coloured, packed in corrugated brown sheeting eggs compared price-wise to regular dimunitive white eggs.<br />
<br />
They turned out to be yummylicious. One stunning sunrise type golden yolk that was so strong on flavour that the pale lemon variant that one had normally gotten used to seemed like nutrinugget in comparison. And a white that would cook to scintillating silky textured crispiness. For major fried egg fiends like us, the Kegg was one heck of discovery.<br />
<br />
R began to insist that we ditch the grocer's pathetic egglets and switch totally to Keggs. Which is what we did soon. Like all such products, the packaging hardly merited any more attention from us, once we were sold on the quality of the product itself.<br />
<br />
Over months and months of eating Keggs I obviously started noticing little details on those green boxes. What struck me first was the currogated cardboard base the eggs had, each in an individual dip - so if your refrigerator ran out of eggshelf space, hey, presto! these came with their own. <br />
<br />
The next thing I noticed was that each egg had an individual hologram stuck on it. Not bad - so these were actually individually quality checked and okayed. Kya baat hai. <br />
<br />
Since we are talking about eggs here, after all, it was almost another 6 months or so before another detail caught my eye: the phrase 'Tan shells' on the box. Aha. So the lovely colouring to the shells was deliberate, and something the company / cooperative / farm - or whatever it was that made these damn things - were proud of. <br />
<br />
Ok so what came next in this bizarre egg discovery journey? This one truly warmed the cockles of my heart. Right next to Tan Shell - yeah, so why it took me so long to read it, mystifies - was another phrase. Cage Free. <br />
<br />
That one genuinely made me do a double take. Hey not bad. So I read other stuff on the packaging. These chickens were raised on an extremely healthy, non synthetic diet, and kept entirely cage free in a near total organic farm. They got plenty of air and sun, and water and food and running around space. Thats pretty much all the stuff I try and ensure for my child. <br />
<br />
I came home, happy with our greed that day. And told R that we were doing a nice thing by eating Keggs and not eggs. After all, we've all seen those miserable dingy cages with about two dozen birds cramped into that dirty little space, being transported to the fish and poultry market. Its not made any of us non-vegetarians proud. <br />
<br />
So this cage free business was nice. A happy chick clearly gave a happy egg. So nice. <br />
<br />
You see everytime I see a suffering animal I don't have an automatic desire to turn vegetarian. I don't think there's anything wrong with the natural order of animals eating other animals. I just wish the animals would live a happy life and die a painless death. The way it happens in a lot of farms in the West. <br />
<br />
If you've read the James Herriot series of All Things Bright and Beautiful...... Wise and Wonderful... et al, you'll know what I mean. The guy is a British vet. And he loves animals. And has extreme compassion for all suffering birds and beasts. All his books are about his experiences while healing, treating and curing animals.<br />
<br />
Yet the same vet is more than happy to sit at a farmer's kitchen table and share a rash of bacon. There is no contradiction there. The desire that animals lead happy healthy lives, feel cared for and loved, and then end up on your dinner table eventually, may seem irreconcilable, even reprehensible, to vegans and vegetarians, but I don't see the contradiction in the wish. If raised right and killed compassionately, a lot of animals bred for food end up actually having a better quality of life than their stray or domestic counterparts.<br />
<br />
Whats my point therefore? That the Cage Free claim on the Keggs box made me quite happy. Rabid non-vegetarian though I am. <br />
<br />
Today when I opened a fresh box of Keggs, out popped a little leaflet. 'Keggfarms - the larger story' it said. And a truly impressive story it was. Set up in 1967 as a poultry development company, Keggfarms did a drastic reorientation of its goals in the early 90s, when it realised that 70% of this country's population - the poor rural sector - was not benifitting from the success of the farm. <br />
<br />
As the leaflet says, 'there are an estimated 30 million, mainly below poverty line, rural households in India, where women raise poultry as a traditional activity.... these birds are raised on no cost household village and agricultural waste'. <br />
<br />
Keggfarms took it upon itself to provide these rural households with superior quality poultry birds, that would thrive in the village environment at no additional cost, and would gain far more weight than their indigeneous cousins and deliver far larger quantities and superior quality of eggs. 'Effectively converting a traditional household activity into significant supplementary income in the hands of impoverished rural women'<br />
<br />
Obviously, the yummy Keggs we eat are not from these specially bred poultry. They are from 'upper caste' chickens in a fancy farm. But everytime we eat those Keggs, we contribute to the Keggfarms coffers, which often finds itself quite cash strapped in its corporate rural venture. <br />
<br />
So go ahead. Eat a Kegg. If it's not available in your locality, put in that teeny weeny bit of extra effort of asking your local grocer to stock Keggs. Trust me, if you demand it a few times, he WILL source it. Customer is king. And these are hard times. Hey they get our favourite shampoo and soap brands don't they, if we promise to always purchase a regular supply? So why not our brand of eggs?<br />
<br />
Pamper your pallette. Savour your sunny side up. <br />
<br />
And do your bit for this country. Cmon, be a good egg.Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-22891798591884034822009-12-30T15:47:00.012+05:302010-01-07T17:52:26.240+05:30Sundar Nagri<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqRmSjcNilX77OaeYJp4m4qhnrvzbj-ox9qxDgk47IoWqxAcEU7o4fQ0_nRgt2nFTDk_o9nnIvV66GLhbFSM2n_X_2EwRrfLNq39ToBVgYOhzGCbiy6rSLuLsfNXvjbbIR7oIS/s1600-h/30122009229.jpg"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420971725998460994" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqRmSjcNilX77OaeYJp4m4qhnrvzbj-ox9qxDgk47IoWqxAcEU7o4fQ0_nRgt2nFTDk_o9nnIvV66GLhbFSM2n_X_2EwRrfLNq39ToBVgYOhzGCbiy6rSLuLsfNXvjbbIR7oIS/s400/30122009229.jpg" style="height: 300px; width: 400px;" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <em>The winding path to my sunset days...</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Came from a place my childhood knew...</span></em><br />
<div align="right"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqwo5U9PJLKXNja5QeSt5L8aXtYcuDExlBe6Cd5tq3MYVjM5uHLCTrig2-ZiY0KDyyK-U83xaVww2b11nGE3_2Q_xdy6hRQGr7r9NaFSsTyQBudjCr0eKgpZexF6enSzQLmR-G/s1600-h/30122009226.jpg"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420971715874727698" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqwo5U9PJLKXNja5QeSt5L8aXtYcuDExlBe6Cd5tq3MYVjM5uHLCTrig2-ZiY0KDyyK-U83xaVww2b11nGE3_2Q_xdy6hRQGr7r9NaFSsTyQBudjCr0eKgpZexF6enSzQLmR-G/s400/30122009226.jpg" style="cursor: hand; height: 400px; width: 300px;" /></span></a><br />
</div><em><span style="font-family: inherit;">and from being young to growing old...</span></em><br />
<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1vYF-ZYXbLGFMuEYbe229X0A65QgBdI_699tkbxL1Xmhxtqs-DMncgvp7J5GNXkiBzTxRPSWesoygNOU5YiNnZKcU6BvXnFrPkfnTjHf7K74eMOf-T5OGT1KARqVc4H3C0NQ/s1600-h/30122009227.jpg"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420971718388066530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1vYF-ZYXbLGFMuEYbe229X0A65QgBdI_699tkbxL1Xmhxtqs-DMncgvp7J5GNXkiBzTxRPSWesoygNOU5YiNnZKcU6BvXnFrPkfnTjHf7K74eMOf-T5OGT1KARqVc4H3C0NQ/s400/30122009227.jpg" style="cursor: hand; height: 300px; width: 400px;" /></span></a><br />
</div><div align="right"><em><span style="font-family: inherit;">I simply walked a block or two..........</span></em><br />
</div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A follow up on our balloons fund story. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Today we went to give the money to Dr. Amod. Ironically to a place called Sunder Nagri... Beautiful City. </span><br />
</div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dr. Amod is the Head of the Dept of Community Health at St. Stephen's Hospital. And we met him at a dispensary that the hospital has set up in this slum cluster area. To focus on community health. </span><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Community health is a complex and vast area of work. It goes way beyond treating diseases or providing medical care. It encompasses the economy, the psychology, the social fabric of the community that it works in. Child care, education, senior citizen care, vocational training, women empowerment, livelihood opportunities, health, hygiene, sanitation, even finances and fund management comes within its ambit. </span><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">After we handed over the balloon money, one of the volunteers at the centre took us around. Within that tiny two and a half floor narrow decrepit building we found dignity and hope, fun and childhood, confidence and self assurance. </span><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">From the masala factory on the terrace where women grind and sell pure, unadulterated low cost spices, to the senior citizen's resting centre outside the clinic, to the creche where children from ages two to five spend the day while their parents eke out a living, to a fund management division where the community is learning the art of saving lending and borrowing transparently, to - believe it or not - a multi media centre and a fashion designing centre - where kids and young adults are being equipped with the latest technological tools - the whole journey was not less amazing than Alice's through Wonderland. </span><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This was a slum? I thought to myself. Dingy, cramped but spotless. I was amazed at the cleanliness, everywhere. Not just within the dispesary but outside as well. No garbage, no filth, no muck. Just smiling faces and confident open expressions. </span><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The creche was the most overwhelming I think. Look at the kids swarming around Ranjit's knees, hugging him, touching him, holding him... this is the most unselfish spontaneous and generous show of love we'd ever experienced. We had not even carried any sweets or toys for these children so what you see in the images are not in response to any act of kindness. </span><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We simply stepped into that courtyard. They simply came and hugged us. Just like that. On their own. Totally spontaneously. Totally joyously. It was completely incredible. </span><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was similar though obviously much more muted at the old age home. I particularly remember this frail old lady with a bright red wollen cap who literally leaned across and dragged herself over to us across the dari they were all squatting on. Just to stroke my face and Ranjit's hair. That's all. </span><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Wizened hands, gnarled fingers, the gentlest touch. </span><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There's a lot that is being done here, at Sunder Nagri, near Dilshad Gardens, close to Shahadra. There is a lot more that needs to be done, and a lot more that could be done. </span><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Watch this space. And if you like, come join us at Wonderland. </span><br />
</div>Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-15583237549626092122009-12-28T16:13:00.003+05:302009-12-28T16:19:16.465+05:30Balloons for Christmas<p>On Christmas morning, we all woke up to a truly 'cheerful' story hogging the headlines - about how the MCD has demolished a night shelter on Pusa Road for 'beautification' prior to the Common Wealth games. And how over 250 people have been rendered homeless, including women and infants: the youngest of them being 3 days old.<br /><br />All this at a time when the mercury was merrily swinging in the 6 degrees range. Wind chill factor not counted.<br /><br />As I sipped my warm cup of coffee and attempted to read the story out to Ranjit, while our daughter romped around in 3 layers of warm clothing, Ranjit said 'whats the point of reading this? What are we going to do about it?'<br /><br />That started a conversation and a chain of events that has led to Balloons for Christmas...<br /><br />The writer of the article was Ambika Pandit from the Times News Network who Ranjit managed to reach thanks to the Central Address book of timesmail! Ambika was genuinely happy that her article had made an impact, and was extremely helpful, passing us on to the right person....<br /><br />The right person was Dr. Amodh Kumar, who is with St Stephen's Hospital and works for and with these homeless people. When Ranjit spoke to Dr. Amodh and asked if we could bring across blankets etc he assured us that all that had been taken care of for the time being. But he would definitely solicit our help for other requirements.<br /><br />That very evening we had the most amazing conversation on Dr. Amodh's speaker phone - with some of these street kids and adults... He put them on line, and Ranjit put his own phone loudspeaker on... and here's how the conversation went...<br /><br />R: Hello!<br /><br />Kids: Namastey!<br /><br />R: Aap log theek hain?<br /><br />Kids: Haanji<br /><br />R: Aapko kambal wambal kuchh chahiye?<br /><br />Kids: Aap hamein balloon laa deejiye bhaiyya!<br /><br />R: Balloons? Itni thand mein aapko kambal rajai nahin, balloons chahiye??............<br /><br />Kids: Hum balloon bechenge bhaiyaa... abhi to season hai...<br /><br />Ranjit and I had been laughing up to that point thinking these are carefree kids who want balloons rather than blankets. (gosh, what a bubble we live in). Which is when they made us realise it was not for fun but for income that they needed these balloons...........<br /><br />Since then Dr. Amodh has done some groundwork for us and informed us that:<br /><br />a. The entire lot of balloons to keep these people going during the festive season, costs Rs. 23,000. They have already picked up the balloons in order to maximise the season's sales.<br /><br />b. They have promised not to use children to peddle these balloons and Dr. Amodh hopes they will at least try and stick to their word. </p><p>Oh, and you know what? These street people want to take this money purely as a loan!! They are very clear that once they tide over the winter months and make their living, they want to return every penny. Obviously, while none of us expect anything back, I think this attitude is great. Great for their sense of self, their personal dignity and their pyschological freedom.<br /><br />Dr. Amodh obviously wants to encourage that, for these very reasons. These people are very clear they want to pay us back whenever they can. Isn't that amazing?<br /><br />Ranjit and I have promised to get the money across to Dr. Amodh by this evening. The entire amount. I wrote a mail to a selected few, those who would trust Ranjit and my word, because needless to say we would not be able to give any paper, any NGO receipt, any sort of documentation whatsoever for any contribution. We are simply collecting cash and going there this evening.<br /><br />Barely a couple of hours into sending the mail and I've already received more than half the amount, either as cash or as a pledge.<br /><br />Its amazing how much goodwill and generosity there is out there. And shocking how so much suffering carries on, none the less. </p><p>I am moved by my friends' and colleagues' trust, generosity and sensitivity. I am happy I know such wonderful people. </p><p>May 2010 be a genuinely happy new year. </p>Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-40586691539233343442009-12-14T16:40:00.003+05:302009-12-14T16:42:49.414+05:30Quote Hanger<a name="qt0437454"></a><br /><br />"I close my eyes.<br />And this image floats beside me.<br />A sweaty-toothed madman with a stare that pounds my brain.<br />His hands reach out and choke me.<br />And all the time he's mumbling.<br />Mumbling truth.<br />Truth like-like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold.<br />You push it, stretch it, it'll never be enough. You kick at it, beat it, it'll never cover any of us. From the moment we enter crying to the moment we leave dying, it'll just cover your face as you wail and cry and scream."<br /><br />- Todd Anderson, Dead Poet’s SocietyRiyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-17271059260512258612009-12-08T14:40:00.006+05:302009-12-08T16:39:22.352+05:30The Bad BelieverSheepishly I am forced to admit, I am a bad believer.<br /><br />All through my life I was given an involiable, unquestionable orientation towards the existence of god. There was a lot of deep spirituality that surrounded my childhood. My mother and my grandparents were initiates of the Ramkrishna Mission, a truly philosophic, thinking branch of hinduism. My father, though shunning all options of formal initiation, was a devout follower of Sri Ramkrishna and his teachings; his soul stirred and responded with great emotion for that simple saint.<br /><br />Since a lot of Sri Ramkrishna's teachings revolved around the sameness of spiritual message among all religions, we as children got adequately exposed to the basic principles of all faiths.<br /><br />Add to this, my schooling at The Mother's International School, affiliated to the Aurobindo Ashram, and what you get is a heady mix of extremely tolerant, very high thinking, complex philosophical new age spirituality.<br /><br />I grew up assuming that was 'religion'. It was only later that I understood that my perspective of god was not from a religious point of view at all. I had no resonance with meaningless rituals, the gestures of worship shorn of the meaning behind. At school we were taught the meaning of every bhajan, chant and shloka, and as a result, I could never fully understand the deep stirring of emotion people felt even when they did not understand the gibberish a priest uttered in a temple.<br /><br />My father's side of the family was that of priests. Because of the brahminical lineage, what I did understand early on from conversations, was that if you wanted to do ritualistic hindu worship, it was serious business. You spent time understanding the shlokas, reciting them with the correct intonation, and you followed the complex step-by-step processes of worship which included intricate details of how to hold the prayer tray, when to ring the bell, what significance its resonance had at different points in the worship, why a certain fruit or flower or herb was to be placed at a certain angle near the idol and what that placing signified...<br /><br />The old ritualistic priesthood that was my paternal heritage, coupled with the new age spirituality that my parents adopted, made worship a thinking practice for me.<br /><br />Ritualistic worship had stopped at my home with my grandmother since my mother believed more in simple prayer and devotion. I did not grow up with a 'temple' in the house where I was expected to put flowers or light incense everyday. Nor did I think that ringing a bell and singing a bhajan was worship. Nor did I think that the family gathered around idols with folded hands and some hand me down songs was 'proper' religion.<br /><br />When my friends would tell me in later years that they had done 'pooja' at home, I would be awestruck. Thats because I always assumed they knew their rituals the way my grandfather or father did, and they were so much more knowledgeable than me in hindu traditions and practice. I always assumed that what had been allowed to atrophy in our house had been kept alive in theirs. I was quite impressed, and often felt a tad inadequate.<br /><br />Imagine my surprise then, when a friend said she'd done pooja at home on diwali - and she didn't even live with her parents. My jaw dropped - I asked her, 'you know how to do lakshmi puja???' She looked non plussed. Of course she did. I was amazed... she actually knew the lakshmi panchali and the specifics of this goddess' worship then?<br /><br />My friend burst out laughing. Hey, she brought in some fresh flowers, cleaned the 'temple' at home, spread a fresh cloth, lit some dhoop and sang bhajans... and then distributed the sweets she'd placed in front of the idol, as prasad. There, you had your lakshmi puja.<br /><br />I was shocked. From where I came from, this was like 'playing at worship'. The way kids would play at 'home making' or 'doctor doctor'. This was drivel... what did this have to do with actual serious ritualistic hindu worship? How was this any different from a children's game of imitating what the grown ups actually do?<br /><br />Over the years of course my shock has abated. I have realised that this is what 'pooja' in almost every hindu home is. It is the 'playing at worship' accompanied with a sense of faith and belief in god, and a sheer reassuring quality of this 'game' that makes it sacred for those who play it. Lakshmi panchali be damned. God, being our best creation, is flexible to our changing ways. Yes, there is 'god' in that room where this game is played out. The sheer human faith behind the 'game' brings god alive in those moments.<br /><br />I understand that now. I believe that those prayers, childlike though they may be, (and perhaps because of it) are heard. Somewhere. Somehow.<br /><br />However, a maturer age intellectual understanding of a phenomenon is never quite as powerful as the instinctive adolescent rejection of it. My sheer disappointment and disdain at my discovery sort of stayed on with me... and perhaps this came from the arrogance of being from a very spirtually awake family, but I found the version of religion that existed around me, to be a childish needy dependance on a 'big daddy' figure to fulfil all wishes and fantasies. There was no god there, just Santa Claus.<br /><br />Hence I found myself rejecting religion very early in life. A few encounters with chauvanistic narrow minded ways at temples, further eroded my respect for it. The religio-political situation in our country in the past 2 decades put the final seal for me. Religion was a sad, bad thing.<br /><br />I don't feel good near temples or mosques or any other place of worship. I find no peace, no god, no beauty in any of them, except the architectural aesthetic of it, that too, rarely.<br /><br />The sight of someone bowing in front of a roadside temple doesn't make me feel good. It fills me with fear and loathing. I imagine swords and knives in that person's hand. I imagine violence and hatred. Religion for me has come to represent the most bigoted, biased, intollerant, violent, conservative side of human beings.<br /><br />I truly wish every temple, mosque and church in this country could be razed to the ground to make way for schools and hospitals. I wish there would be a blanket ban on all public display of religion - and I smile because I would have to sacrifice my biggest annual cultural experience for it - Durga Puja - but I think the sacrifice is worth it. Durga Puja for me is part cultural, part social, part deeply personally emotional and spiritual an experience. But it is actually a religious display and as far as that goes, it hides within its rich vibrant belly, the seeds of aggression and violence. So in my ideal world, it would have to go. Along with Ganesh Chaturthi, Navratri, Eid, Christmas and the rest of the brouhaha.<br /><br />All this is still in the realm of 'religion'. Yes, I have in the past few years completely rejected religion. I believe it is the root of much evil across the world and we'd do well without it.<br /><br />This however did not mean that I had rejected god. I was brought up not to question the validity of god, but to remain a thinking individual in the space of god. It was never a question of whether to worship this entity or not, but how to do so. The 'way' was the liberal, tolerant, secular way. The thinking, spiritually advanced way. But the fact that God 'was'... that was a given.<br /><br />So why did I start this post saying I am a bad believer? Because over the past few years I have realised how fickle my faith is.<br /><br />I had never before been confronted with a situation where I had to defend my faith to an atheist or an agnostic. Everybody I'd known before I met R was a believer. With the exception of my dear friend Gorky who's always been a nonbeliever, but a peaceful, non debating non believer. The only conversation I'd ever had about god with Gorky was one where he put our difference down in his amiable succint way - 'you believe because you feel a presence, I don't believe because I don't feel a presence' is all he had to say. And all that needed to be said. It was simple. And needed no further discussion.<br /><br />Then along came R. A rabid atheist and a staunch rationalist. R cannot understand the need for adults to have this super santa claus. He finds it against reason, adulthood, the scientific temper and basic common sense. His arguments are from a scientific point of view and he asks for scientific elements vis-a-vis god: proof, evidence, emperical experience and material.<br /><br />All perspectives, which the true believers say don't even apply to faith. Those who are good believers are unfazed by this onslaught of the scientific approach, saying we don't need to provide this proof because this proof exists outside of the space of faith. It is akin to trying to measure pressure with a thermometer or temperature with a telescope. The tool is wrong so the fact that god can't be measured by those standards is not a surprise. Faith cannot be defended with scientific tools any more than weight can be measured with a candybar. It is irrelevant and absurd.<br /><br />And so the believers believe. And tell you not to apply apples to oranges. And the non believers continue to disbelieve, saying scientific tools are not specific to subjects but a macro approach to matter.<br /><br />God is not 'matter' counter the faithful.<br /><br />Show me the evidence of 'god' somehow, says the atheist. Any tool will do, but show me one proof that is not circumstantial or anecdotal.<br /><br />The faithful don't participate in this line of argument.<br /><br />And the eternal debate rages on.<br /><br />Over the years, R has softened (if that is the right word) from being an atheist to an agnostic. He says he's willing to wait for proof but until he gets some he will reserve judgement. He has also discovered his spiritual side and with extensive study of various religious texts, he has started to absorb the message deeply, if not yet convinced about the source being anything other than human. So Mohammad for him is the bedouin in the desert with a vision, Jesus a true humanist ahead of his times, and Krishna a maverick king of ancient India. Were they more than human? He doesn't think so. Did they have deeply profound beliefs and ideas, some dubious, some brilliant? Yes, he does think so.<br /><br />Sharing in R's journey, I too have changed. Except my journey has been in the reverse direction. I too have become an agnostic. I am not sure now what I believe. Who is this big daddy who we all turn to in our hour of need? Early on in my childhood, I had through some personal realisations, started to restrict my nightly prayers to 'thank yous' instead of 'wishes'. I'd figured we take too little time to acknowledge our blessings and too much wanting for more. Every night for those 3 minutes that I prayed, even on my worst days, I tried to thank this lonely hard working fellow up in the sky for all the good that life had given me. Coming from a reasonably privileged background, I found it shameful to ask for more, and not acknowledge what I already had.<br /><br />So the wish fulfilling Santa Claus God was not my god in any case. However, this 'god' of mine continued to answer my unspoken prayers, grant my inarticulated wishes and stand by me, the way only god can.<br /><br />I have had a colourful, chequered life. It has had its moments, both grand and miserable, it has seen death and illness, pain and beauty, and I have always felt that at the end of the day, if I have ever deeply truly wanted something, eventually it has happened.<br /><br />I attributed it to the grace of this ubiquitous 'god', until R insisted that I question my belief. And I found myself to be a bad believer. His rationalistic approach appealed to me. When I found I could not answer his questions in his language, I did not fault his language, I began to question my faith. I like proof. I like logic. I like emperical evidence.<br /><br />I shun all superstition and I have great disregard for the 'cover your ass, just in case' mentality, that I see a lot of educated, reasonable people give in to. I find that 'just in case' mentality very pathetic when you know that medicines will cure your illness but you will still wear that locket 'just in case'. When you know dates and positions of the sun and star doesn't really impact your life but you still conduct your ceremonies on those auspicious dates 'just in case'. When you know that a piece of wood or stone is just dross material, but you will keep an idol in one corner of your house 'just in case'.<br /><br />I find the 'just in case' mentality worse than that of the truly faithful. The truly faithful don't do things in half measure. They believe, and they believe totally and the fact that reason has nothing to do with their convictions, doesn't dull their convictions in the least.<br /><br />Its the 'just in case' people who make me sick. They are disparaging of the very things they follow, they attempt to defend their actions as 'pleasing parents' or 'following tradition' or 'keeping society happy' and yet somewhere deep down they seem to have a genuine fear that if they flouted these rituals, something bad might just happen to them. So while they know their science, they stick with superstition 'just in case'. This mentality prevents us from going either forward or backward with any strong definite steps. Its a limbo space that is vague and confused and highly irrational.<br /><br />Hats off to the good believers, those who have no doubt, no complexes, no issues with their ancient beliefs. They bow to every idol, follow every ritual, truly believe that this santa claus, and not their own hardwork or drive, is the cause of every success. They are not aboard two different boats. They are true to themselves and their faith.<br /><br />I am not one of them. And I am loathe to become a 'just in case' person. When R and I got married we picked a saturday so our friends could attend and we did the rituals that made my mother - and me, to be honest - happy. But at no point did I think that not chosing an auspicious date would in any way marr my marital happiness. I loved the sacred fire and the vibrant rich rituals around it, but I don't think not wearing my sindoor is in any way going to harm R. I wear the sindoor because I love it as a cultural cue.<br /><br />God for me, I have realised in these past 3 years, is a cultural context, and not one of faith. Rituals are the same. I love them for their aesthetics and for their nostalgic value. I don't think not doing any of them will cause me any harm whatsoever.<br /><br />R has understood that about me now. I don't try and defend some half baked faith that wilts under the white hot fire of his flawless reason. I simply concede these are habits, and cultural cues, which have strong emotional and aesthetic appeal, and nothing more than that.<br /><br />I still find myself calling out to my 'god' on days when I am low, or when I wish to be heard by that omnipresent voice. But more and more I begin to realise its a need, not a belief. A dependency and not a conviction, a moment of weakness and not one of strength.<br /><br />All religious ceremonies make me angry. And feel alienated. Vague references to god make me impatient. Why did god cure your child's sickness and not a pediatrician? If your faith is so strong, why didn't you just pray and not go to a doctor? How is god responsible for the success you saw in your career, and not your own hard work? 'Oh' the faithful counter 'god says you must act'.<br /><br />Good lord. This god seems to have left a lot of the onus on us, and taken a lot of the credit.<br /><br />And yet, can I truly say, I no longer believe in God? No, not yet. Its over 30 years of unquestioning faith, which is now beginning to crumble, and making me realise, I don't buy the whole 'faith' deal. It makes no sense to my educated, rational, thinking, sensible self. But still I can't wholly reject god. I need the god I grew up with, even though he's not making sense to me anymore.<br /><br />That is why I say, I am a bad believer. Which is a far worse thing to be than a non believer, or a devout one.<br /><br />I am rejecting a god that I cannot kill. 'Just in case'.Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-87583936643066263792009-11-23T14:24:00.004+05:302009-11-23T16:47:35.852+05:30In Step Sisters!<p>My husband's older daughter, Esha... an absolutely delightful child, with our one-year-old, spoon-weilding, bhangra artist: Shaayari... this was pretty much their first meeting....</p><p>Step sisters? More like 'in step' sisters. </p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzHUrZhAVqZ57emXEz0iRMoN5b4xKjl4b4E9aN7Dsr6j2SsYX2l9ksPc5nJfQ2ei6RydVm8e0FXJmc' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34663934.post-67011750046053871302009-11-23T14:21:00.002+05:302009-11-23T14:22:51.975+05:30Falling off the edge of the earth<br />I discovered something sweet<br /><br />They use gravity to pull you back<br />And put up signs on every street.Riyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16338284135402369461noreply@blogger.com0