I was asked to describe myself in two lines. This was to be an introduction for a project, so I could not be cheeky. I could think of nothing. A couple of words did come to mind...but they wanted a couple of lines.
I told them to write what they wanted.
Strange that I often have nothing to say about myself, although I can write reams about things around me, how they affect me, how I affect them.
Two lines: what can they describe? Who I am? What I am? Where I am? Why I am?
Two lines: For me they are mere titillation, a flash of cleavage...
Two lines: It could be a couplet...it could be only a droplet...
+"Do gaz zameen ke neechey..."
+"Do naina matwalley..."
+"Do sitaron ka zameen par hai milan..."
+"Do boond paani..."
Two lines...
___________________
___________________
There!
30.3.07
29.3.07
Today...life...
Today:
*I awoke at 4.40 am, when night had turned to day but day still looked like night.
*Had my cup of tea; in warm weather the steam curling from the mug seemed strangely comforting.
*Heard a pigeon talking to itself; it made a moaning sound. Was it hurt? I tried looking for it, but there was no sign. Just the sound.
*There was a lot of silence. I breathed hard to confirm I was alive.
*Drew open the curtains; the sun was painting the sky, pink-peach splashes that looked like dupattas flying.
*Sat down to write; the pain in the arm is considerably less at that hour; pain too needs time to settle down and claim you as its own.
*Felt sweat trickling down my back; realised I had forgotten to switch on the fan. The breeze hits my back, strands of hair fly over my eyes. I see my words through a haze.
*It is over three hours. Today is still today. Some things stay with you…
I hum, “Aaj phir jeene ki tamanna hai”, then wait. The next line is irrelevant.
Today:
I desire Life itself; I ache for its form and its warm embrace. Does Life have a face? A body? A soul?
Does it matter? Desire has a face, a body, a soul. And desire can give shape to anything. It can give life to Life.
*I awoke at 4.40 am, when night had turned to day but day still looked like night.
*Had my cup of tea; in warm weather the steam curling from the mug seemed strangely comforting.
*Heard a pigeon talking to itself; it made a moaning sound. Was it hurt? I tried looking for it, but there was no sign. Just the sound.
*There was a lot of silence. I breathed hard to confirm I was alive.
*Drew open the curtains; the sun was painting the sky, pink-peach splashes that looked like dupattas flying.
*Sat down to write; the pain in the arm is considerably less at that hour; pain too needs time to settle down and claim you as its own.
*Felt sweat trickling down my back; realised I had forgotten to switch on the fan. The breeze hits my back, strands of hair fly over my eyes. I see my words through a haze.
*It is over three hours. Today is still today. Some things stay with you…
I hum, “Aaj phir jeene ki tamanna hai”, then wait. The next line is irrelevant.
Today:
I desire Life itself; I ache for its form and its warm embrace. Does Life have a face? A body? A soul?
Does it matter? Desire has a face, a body, a soul. And desire can give shape to anything. It can give life to Life.
28.3.07
Trivial pursuit - 1 (Flattening gold)
A lump of pure gold the size of a matchbox can be flattened into a sheet the size of a tennis court.
Has anyone tried doing it? Of course, one must not get literal and I seldom am. So, let us see what it means…
Pure gold is the lightest; it cannot carry the burden of even the most precious gemstone. You can chisel it into patterns so fine that their intricacy may not be visible to the naked eye. You can twist it and twirl it to form cord-like chains. And then you can beat it hard so that it becomes parchment thin, so delicate. Yet, it stretches far. A small ball that can cover a tennis court.
Some hearts are like that. Do not underestimate them only because they fit into a small space. They go a long way; the harder you beat them, the more ground they cover. Yes, they get exposed to the sun and heat and rains, but gold never rusts.
Hazaar ulfat sataaye lekin
Mere iraadon se hai ye mumkin
Agar sharafat ko tumne chheda
To zindagi tum pe vaar hogi
(Mir Dard)
Has anyone tried doing it? Of course, one must not get literal and I seldom am. So, let us see what it means…
Pure gold is the lightest; it cannot carry the burden of even the most precious gemstone. You can chisel it into patterns so fine that their intricacy may not be visible to the naked eye. You can twist it and twirl it to form cord-like chains. And then you can beat it hard so that it becomes parchment thin, so delicate. Yet, it stretches far. A small ball that can cover a tennis court.
Some hearts are like that. Do not underestimate them only because they fit into a small space. They go a long way; the harder you beat them, the more ground they cover. Yes, they get exposed to the sun and heat and rains, but gold never rusts.
Hazaar ulfat sataaye lekin
Mere iraadon se hai ye mumkin
Agar sharafat ko tumne chheda
To zindagi tum pe vaar hogi
(Mir Dard)
25.3.07
Hind sight
One more time I hear someone say, “Hips don’t lie” or pun on that phrase, I will scream.
Okay, so Shakira has arrived. We know what her suite looks like, what fruits will be placed in her room, what flowers she fancies, and the rest of the blah. But will we please just stop this nonsense about the measurements of her rear? What is the big deal? It could be 38 or 40. So?
This is cheap, disgusting and very déclassé. And these are the supposedly elite sorts who are going to shell out big bucks to watch her perform. And then someone has the gall to assume that she invented belly dancing. Wait a minute. Have you seen those women from Lebanon, Egypt, Jordan?
There are articles in the papers on ‘How to do a Shakira’. Serious. When our item girls contort their bodies, it is called tacky; when our film actresses shake their booties, it is dismissed as jhatkas. Some Spanish woman with big hair thrusts her behind and they go ballistic about her “sinuous movements”.
Here is a piece of advice for these star-struck fools: Next time you want to watch sinuous, just watch the snakes perform with amazing grace. And they don’t even have hips.
Okay, so Shakira has arrived. We know what her suite looks like, what fruits will be placed in her room, what flowers she fancies, and the rest of the blah. But will we please just stop this nonsense about the measurements of her rear? What is the big deal? It could be 38 or 40. So?
This is cheap, disgusting and very déclassé. And these are the supposedly elite sorts who are going to shell out big bucks to watch her perform. And then someone has the gall to assume that she invented belly dancing. Wait a minute. Have you seen those women from Lebanon, Egypt, Jordan?
There are articles in the papers on ‘How to do a Shakira’. Serious. When our item girls contort their bodies, it is called tacky; when our film actresses shake their booties, it is dismissed as jhatkas. Some Spanish woman with big hair thrusts her behind and they go ballistic about her “sinuous movements”.
Here is a piece of advice for these star-struck fools: Next time you want to watch sinuous, just watch the snakes perform with amazing grace. And they don’t even have hips.
Licking 'em
Given the current ‘heat’ generated by a Spanish singer, let me reproduce something I wrote about the Rolling Stones tour of 2003. There are region-specific words, phrases...and of course the spellings follow the pronunciation!
- - -
“Yeh Rolling Stones kya hai?” asked Qadri saab.
“Tauba!” exclaimed his begum, “All your madrassa training is going waste waise hi…don’t you know it means ludakte patthar? Palestine mein children are throwing to protect themselves. You have no idea about worldly affairs…”
Harminder Kaur snapped, “Ai lo ji, we are discussing our building’s plaster and you are going on about world-shorld. But lat me tell you my puttar vaint for show at Brabbun Stadium and this Rolling Stone is not some anaap-shnaap thing. They are big band. I think so that Kran Jowar maast ask them to give tuning in his naxt film. I rad that they are urban boys, not gaon ka laundas like Bittles.”
“Hai rabba, meri sohni,” said Kushal Singh. “Your knowing pooree duniya da band-baaja. Parande di kasam, tusee vadee mast cheez ho. But I am also coming from behind you, so I know one more andar di baat. That Mick Jaggery is called sexy rubber lips.”
Dakshaben, looking aghast, nudged in, “Ok, ok, Sardarji. Shu motee vaat chhe? If he goat rubber lip then our Sharukhbhai now has titan neck, samajh ma aavyo?”
“Titanium,” declared Sohrab Mistry. “Why dismiss the West? Look at aapro Zubin, he does us proud.”
“What you are saying? He only takes that laakdi and moves it up and down. Our Narendrabhai did it and whole Gujarat was like daandiya-raas,” said Karsanbhai.
“Enough!” Sohrab was agitated.
“Mare-re, evan ne knowledge nathi, tu javaa de,” pacified his wife, Dinu. “Do you know the Rolling Stones listen to Bach and were on the Licks tour?”
“Hailaa! Iph they needed stray barking dogs they should have only just fingered me, like this, chutkee, and I wood contact my Bhau in mooncipalitee to arrange all licking. I wood satisfy them, aai shapath.” O.J.Tambe looked pleased.
But his better half, Shantatai, told him clearly, “Whyphor you want to put your foot in mooncipaltee truck?”
Anando Chattopahdyaya just shook his head. “Naathing like Robindro shongeet to give phool shatishfacsun.”
“Ooree baba, and what I am doing all this time for you, hain? Your not pheeling good phrom my machher jhol? From shondesh? I am bringing phrom all gullies in Kolkata all phor you. And in phool public adda you saying your happinesh ish phrom old gramaphone?” The building’s favourite boudi was very upset.
The quiet Mervin D’cruz mumbled, “And to think we used to jam to the Stones, those were the days.”
“Haan, kya zamaana tha, Ghalib, Mir…” trailed off Qadrisaab, till he realised he had goofed. Watching his sad face, the Begum said, “Fik’r mat karo. These big akhbaar log have told the band people about the state of the persecuted minorities in our country. Sab theek ho jaayega ab.”
Faaltu, the corner shop boy, who was listening, finally asked the group, “Thandaa mangta kya?” They all nodded happily. “Nimbu-paani chalega? Apun ab yeh firangi maal nahin rakhta. Saala log ko bumb bhi seedha maarne aata nahin, tau mooh faad ke gaane se kya faayda?”
- - -
“Yeh Rolling Stones kya hai?” asked Qadri saab.
“Tauba!” exclaimed his begum, “All your madrassa training is going waste waise hi…don’t you know it means ludakte patthar? Palestine mein children are throwing to protect themselves. You have no idea about worldly affairs…”
Harminder Kaur snapped, “Ai lo ji, we are discussing our building’s plaster and you are going on about world-shorld. But lat me tell you my puttar vaint for show at Brabbun Stadium and this Rolling Stone is not some anaap-shnaap thing. They are big band. I think so that Kran Jowar maast ask them to give tuning in his naxt film. I rad that they are urban boys, not gaon ka laundas like Bittles.”
“Hai rabba, meri sohni,” said Kushal Singh. “Your knowing pooree duniya da band-baaja. Parande di kasam, tusee vadee mast cheez ho. But I am also coming from behind you, so I know one more andar di baat. That Mick Jaggery is called sexy rubber lips.”
Dakshaben, looking aghast, nudged in, “Ok, ok, Sardarji. Shu motee vaat chhe? If he goat rubber lip then our Sharukhbhai now has titan neck, samajh ma aavyo?”
“Titanium,” declared Sohrab Mistry. “Why dismiss the West? Look at aapro Zubin, he does us proud.”
“What you are saying? He only takes that laakdi and moves it up and down. Our Narendrabhai did it and whole Gujarat was like daandiya-raas,” said Karsanbhai.
“Enough!” Sohrab was agitated.
“Mare-re, evan ne knowledge nathi, tu javaa de,” pacified his wife, Dinu. “Do you know the Rolling Stones listen to Bach and were on the Licks tour?”
“Hailaa! Iph they needed stray barking dogs they should have only just fingered me, like this, chutkee, and I wood contact my Bhau in mooncipalitee to arrange all licking. I wood satisfy them, aai shapath.” O.J.Tambe looked pleased.
But his better half, Shantatai, told him clearly, “Whyphor you want to put your foot in mooncipaltee truck?”
Anando Chattopahdyaya just shook his head. “Naathing like Robindro shongeet to give phool shatishfacsun.”
“Ooree baba, and what I am doing all this time for you, hain? Your not pheeling good phrom my machher jhol? From shondesh? I am bringing phrom all gullies in Kolkata all phor you. And in phool public adda you saying your happinesh ish phrom old gramaphone?” The building’s favourite boudi was very upset.
The quiet Mervin D’cruz mumbled, “And to think we used to jam to the Stones, those were the days.”
“Haan, kya zamaana tha, Ghalib, Mir…” trailed off Qadrisaab, till he realised he had goofed. Watching his sad face, the Begum said, “Fik’r mat karo. These big akhbaar log have told the band people about the state of the persecuted minorities in our country. Sab theek ho jaayega ab.”
Faaltu, the corner shop boy, who was listening, finally asked the group, “Thandaa mangta kya?” They all nodded happily. “Nimbu-paani chalega? Apun ab yeh firangi maal nahin rakhta. Saala log ko bumb bhi seedha maarne aata nahin, tau mooh faad ke gaane se kya faayda?”
21.3.07
Hands...
It is funny how we discover things. I have discovered the virtues of my left hand. I need to use it more often. The splint I wear on the right, splints really - one for my elbow/arm, the other for my wrist – are blue. So, I try matching my clothes with them. Even though I am at home.
There is a steel ‘spoon’ in the wrist one which I can slide out. So I fidget with it. I slide it in, then when I realise I can’t move my fingers, I slide it out. Then I tighten and loosen…khrraaachhh…the Velcro makes a grating sound.
After a while, I hold my palms up, like in a ceasefire…then I widen them as though I would be putting my impression on the wall of fame…don’t laugh…any wet surface that can dry and hold your imprint is a hall of fame. You have left your mark somewhere…
So, as I was saying, I am not supposed to be doing this. But I am. Because there have been many things I am not supposed to do. Had I followed those instructions I would not be the person I am. It may have been a good thing or a bad thing. But it just wouldn’t be the same…
I am discovering the lines on my left palm. They are as deeply-etched and beautiful; the mount of Venus is high and strong there too. I join both together. Perhaps that will lessen the pain. Perhaps one will learn a lesson from the other. Perhaps destiny is about holding hands…even if they are one’s own…
"Apne haathon ki lakeeron mein
basaa le mujhko
main hoon tera to naseeb apna
banaa le mujhko"
- - -
Don't know how often I can post for a few days...so why not put up your fave quotes, thoughts etc in the comment area? Am aware there are only two people, but that is more than enough. We manage with two feet, two hands, two eyes, lots of twos...
There is a steel ‘spoon’ in the wrist one which I can slide out. So I fidget with it. I slide it in, then when I realise I can’t move my fingers, I slide it out. Then I tighten and loosen…khrraaachhh…the Velcro makes a grating sound.
After a while, I hold my palms up, like in a ceasefire…then I widen them as though I would be putting my impression on the wall of fame…don’t laugh…any wet surface that can dry and hold your imprint is a hall of fame. You have left your mark somewhere…
So, as I was saying, I am not supposed to be doing this. But I am. Because there have been many things I am not supposed to do. Had I followed those instructions I would not be the person I am. It may have been a good thing or a bad thing. But it just wouldn’t be the same…
I am discovering the lines on my left palm. They are as deeply-etched and beautiful; the mount of Venus is high and strong there too. I join both together. Perhaps that will lessen the pain. Perhaps one will learn a lesson from the other. Perhaps destiny is about holding hands…even if they are one’s own…
"Apne haathon ki lakeeron mein
basaa le mujhko
main hoon tera to naseeb apna
banaa le mujhko"
- - -
Don't know how often I can post for a few days...so why not put up your fave quotes, thoughts etc in the comment area? Am aware there are only two people, but that is more than enough. We manage with two feet, two hands, two eyes, lots of twos...
20.3.07
Hollow echoes
I wrote this while uploading the column. Just realised how free I feel when I do not revisit nameless lands or forge links with nameless people and their fickleness...
Hollow echoes
Teeth leave razor-sharp marks
On my lips
Vultures wait
To declare my fate
I have swallowed my tongue
I cannot taste hate
Say, say, say
Voices echo through the vacant valley
Far away sitting in an alley
I carve out a piece of sky
And gift it with rain from my eyes.
~FV
Hollow echoes
Teeth leave razor-sharp marks
On my lips
Vultures wait
To declare my fate
I have swallowed my tongue
I cannot taste hate
Say, say, say
Voices echo through the vacant valley
Far away sitting in an alley
I carve out a piece of sky
And gift it with rain from my eyes.
~FV
14.3.07
Talking to myself - 6 (On thoughts)
There was a throbbing at my temples, like a knock on the door.
“Who are you?”
“A thought.”
“I did not ask you to come.”
“I don’t need you.”
“If you don’t need me then why are you in my mind?”
“Because I own you.”
“How can you own your creator?”
“You just said you did not ask me to come so how could you have created me?”
“But I will always be your creator. I don’t have to create every plant; just sowing the seeds is enough.”
“A new leaf, a budding flower are not important?”
“They are, but I don’t get to see all.”
“You don’t want to take credit?”
“No. I don’t even want every thought to lodge itself in me.”
“What should I be then?”
“Like water on glass – colourless, transparent and stay long enough to quench my thirst.”
“You want to forget?”
“No. I may realise that the water won’t stay forever, but the idea of wetness will.”
“Does it mean I should stop knocking on your door?”
“You don’t need to. I am aware of your absence which confirms your presence.”
“Who are you?”
“A thought.”
“I did not ask you to come.”
“I don’t need you.”
“If you don’t need me then why are you in my mind?”
“Because I own you.”
“How can you own your creator?”
“You just said you did not ask me to come so how could you have created me?”
“But I will always be your creator. I don’t have to create every plant; just sowing the seeds is enough.”
“A new leaf, a budding flower are not important?”
“They are, but I don’t get to see all.”
“You don’t want to take credit?”
“No. I don’t even want every thought to lodge itself in me.”
“What should I be then?”
“Like water on glass – colourless, transparent and stay long enough to quench my thirst.”
“You want to forget?”
“No. I may realise that the water won’t stay forever, but the idea of wetness will.”
“Does it mean I should stop knocking on your door?”
“You don’t need to. I am aware of your absence which confirms your presence.”
13.3.07
Sixth Sense
Wanted to share this old article of mine because I feel that being spiritual or in touch with your inner self has nothing to do with religion...
Here's looking at me -
The man in the checked suit looked like a greasy trader. His hair parted at the side and stuck to his head like feathers on a wet crow. Not the most inspiring fellow I’ve ever met, but as he intoned “R-e-l-a-x... close your e-y-e-s... imagine how light you are f-e-e-l-i-n-g...” I felt I was sinking in water. The moistness was almost palpable.
As I sat there transfixed, my limbs went numb and my eyeballs moved as though in deep sleep. I was somewhere in the 18th century, wearing a tiara on my head, standing on a mountain peak. Words, visuals came leaping out – the externals totally alien, the emotions familiar.
When I came out of self-hypnosis (for that is what it was) I was in a sweat and the faces around me a blur. They went up to the dais to say where their past life regression exercise had taken them. I had been royalty; lest it appear that it was mere vanity that wouldn’t allow for anything less, I had kept quiet about it. Days later, the dream’ continued to haunt me. So I looked up the appropriate keywords in the encyclopaedia, and was shocked to see visuals and social life patterns exactly like the ones I experienced. It was eerie, and it was exciting.
At first I had refused to go for the self-hypnosis, but then curiosity had won over cynicism. Or was it just that? Wasn’t there, somewhere within my psyche, a need to know? Why did I do extremely well in the tests before the session itself? Plain luck? Extra sensitivity? Coincidence? Was everyone in that room alike? Would Mrs. Mansukhani waddle towards me, shake her finger and tell me, “Arre baba, I know you damn well now”? Would the dandy in tight jeans peer over his trendy glasses and say, “I knew I’d recognise a high maintenance chick when I saw one, maan you made my day”? Would those sprawled on the floor know that Monday blues wouldn’t disappear if they did belly-breathing? Who were those people? Would they find their fantasised haven whenever there was a real life problem?
My major woe was the lunch which was swimming in oil. While everyone was happily tucking into their food, I was busy squeezing the hell out of the pakoras between paper napkin sheets. Some smiled at me. I smiled back with that ridiculous pugnacious stance of balled fists, grease dripping from between them. There were the young, the old and the not too young, not too old, men and women, the elite as well as those from humble backgrounds. Did I imagine that at the end of the three-day course we would all be transformed into aliens with laser-beam eyes and horns visible only to the ‘inner circle’?
For one of the ‘healing’ tests an elderly lady chose me as her medium. I had to guess what was going on in her mind. I went into intense meditation and all I can recollect is that both our voices sounded like echoes.
She prodded me, “What do you see?”
I replied in staccato sentences.
“I can see a woman in her 30s with long hair, around 5’4” tall, light brown eyes....”
“Hanh, hanh, what else?”
“She’s standing in the veranda of a house facing the street. She’s wearing a simple cotton nightgown... and...” I hesitated.
“And, and what?”
“... uh... she has only one breast.”
At that point apparently they realised that my eyelids were twitching furiously and it took a while to bring me out of the trance. When I came to consciousness, the lady held me close and said that she had wanted the healing for her niece who had breast cancer, and the description I gave was spot-on.
Suddenly, I felt a shooting pain in my chest, my mouth went dry. I had internalised a stranger’s suffering. This is where we can ask why one has to resort to such things. I have not reached any conclusion. Some are blessed with a sixth sense, whether or not it can be explained scientifically. I am aware this can be construed as irresponsibility – how can one justify mumbo-jumbo in the Age of Reason?
I hate charlatans. I avoid superstitions. But does harmless belief cause damage? When we are in trouble or merely feeling low, we do turn to our families or intimate friends who give us advice based on what they think is good for us. Obscure totems and hypnotic techniques don’t only advise, indeed they make you feel independent. It’s ultimately a question of morale. You may touch only the superficials in your life because they offer temporary satisfaction, or you may plough their depths to find a way out. The problem with life is there are no simple answers and never simple questions.
The only option is to feel good for as long as one can in the best manner possible. It could be through crystals or catharsis. Few of us have the patience to look for the diamond in the debris or to wait for the phoenix to rise from the ashes. Besides, what can a soot-covered bird do to make us feel better about ourselves?
Like lust, there’s a lot to be said for seeking placebos. And each of us has a different turn-on.
(This was first published in The Friday Times)
12.3.07
Is there a way out of the tunnel?
The doctor gave me a demo. I was supposed to act dead. It was a yogic posture. “Complete bed-rest,” she said.
At any other time I would have been thrilled. I have a history of laziness and love the good things of life…one reason being I do believe that I am one of the good things of life!
How I would relish doing a Barbara Cartland, wearing lovely pink gowns, with pink pearls, and pink feathers stuck in my hair and a candy-floss lipstick glossing my mouth as I reclined on the couch and let out words about virginal damsels being rescued by men who had no interest in deflowering them in a hurry. It would be a nice, lazy (yes, that word again) pre-noon. I would be sipping a small gin or a sherry or delicately nibbling on fresh strawberries as the whipped cream tickled my throat.
Someone would be taking down my words, each utterance and sigh would be recorded. And then I’d dose off. Until another day, another breathless story…
Alas, that is not to be. I must sit here and make do with keystrokes, but write I have to. I am suffering from something called carpal tunnel syndrome, which makes me feel like someone obsessed with dark tunnels where every car is given a pal (moment) to decide when to see the light.
Actually, it isn’t funny. The pain can get excruciating. The fingers tingle and reach my palm, then the ache climbs like a creeper towards my arm and shoulders and settles in the back.
Last night I found a spot high up near the rear of my neck which when poked sent a chill right down my right arm. They are so connected and bonded, like they are madly in love.
Anyway, I ran a Net search to find out what I could do, because the doctor’s position is not workable and I don’t want any more injection shots. Among the several options, I read about using an ice-pack. So an ice-pack was bought. It jiggled with gel. I placed it in the deep freezer and when it was nice and hard I waited for it to thaw just a little and then put it inside its cloth cover that had a Velcro band. I first held it against by back, then my neck; finally I wrapped it round my arm. Its coldness numbed any feeling my arm might have for me.
I continued typing. Suddenly there was a stench, not dirty but stinky. And I felt something wet on the inside of my elbow. The blue gel was falling in large drops like tears. I suppose I had wrapped the pack too tight and it tore.
I had to. If I had not, then it wouldn’t touch me. Some things cannot be left loose, but I realise that often getting too close can end in breakage.
So fragile are we…
Sau roop dhare jeene ke liye
baithe hai hazaaron zehar piye
Thokar na lagaana hum khud hai
giratee hui deewaaron ki tarah
(Majrooh Sultanpuri)
At any other time I would have been thrilled. I have a history of laziness and love the good things of life…one reason being I do believe that I am one of the good things of life!
How I would relish doing a Barbara Cartland, wearing lovely pink gowns, with pink pearls, and pink feathers stuck in my hair and a candy-floss lipstick glossing my mouth as I reclined on the couch and let out words about virginal damsels being rescued by men who had no interest in deflowering them in a hurry. It would be a nice, lazy (yes, that word again) pre-noon. I would be sipping a small gin or a sherry or delicately nibbling on fresh strawberries as the whipped cream tickled my throat.
Someone would be taking down my words, each utterance and sigh would be recorded. And then I’d dose off. Until another day, another breathless story…
Alas, that is not to be. I must sit here and make do with keystrokes, but write I have to. I am suffering from something called carpal tunnel syndrome, which makes me feel like someone obsessed with dark tunnels where every car is given a pal (moment) to decide when to see the light.
Actually, it isn’t funny. The pain can get excruciating. The fingers tingle and reach my palm, then the ache climbs like a creeper towards my arm and shoulders and settles in the back.
Last night I found a spot high up near the rear of my neck which when poked sent a chill right down my right arm. They are so connected and bonded, like they are madly in love.
Anyway, I ran a Net search to find out what I could do, because the doctor’s position is not workable and I don’t want any more injection shots. Among the several options, I read about using an ice-pack. So an ice-pack was bought. It jiggled with gel. I placed it in the deep freezer and when it was nice and hard I waited for it to thaw just a little and then put it inside its cloth cover that had a Velcro band. I first held it against by back, then my neck; finally I wrapped it round my arm. Its coldness numbed any feeling my arm might have for me.
I continued typing. Suddenly there was a stench, not dirty but stinky. And I felt something wet on the inside of my elbow. The blue gel was falling in large drops like tears. I suppose I had wrapped the pack too tight and it tore.
I had to. If I had not, then it wouldn’t touch me. Some things cannot be left loose, but I realise that often getting too close can end in breakage.
So fragile are we…
Sau roop dhare jeene ke liye
baithe hai hazaaron zehar piye
Thokar na lagaana hum khud hai
giratee hui deewaaron ki tarah
(Majrooh Sultanpuri)
Not Muslim enough?
I thought I had mellowed down in the past few days. But as I read the papers today, the bile rose again. An editorial in the Times of India titled We're Not Understood discussed how the film Black Friday had been unfair in its portrayal of the Muslim problem. As some of you may know, I have already written this in the Counter Currents issue dated Feb 19 reproduced in my blog post here.
Is it possessiveness that is riling me? No. This is a subject that needs to be exposed, and I did not see anyone else do it. I did stick my neck out, and although the publication where it was published is a niche website I might like to state here that all my articles there have been on several mailing lists and been quoted. So, it isn’t a ‘hidden fact’.
The writer of the current lead editorial has been described as a political commentator. And political commentators are supposed to be serious as hell, which is why my piece had an “emotional content”, although the ideas expressed are virtually the same.
What bothers me is this façade of seriousness. I can see all those little Muslim organisations getting very excited because a member of the majority community has been so sensitive in voicing how they are “not understood”. Does anyone here know that some people have even said that I have no right to discuss Muslim issues because I am not Muslim enough? So someone who is not Muslim at all is kind of okay-dokey? It makes them feel so wanted. I am waiting for some of the email forwards to come my way.
I was accused of taking the film “personally”. What will they say about this writer? Words like social consciousness will be thrown around.
It is getting so tiresome. I got a letter from a reader saying that someone found my column in the Asian Age, A Feminist Manifesto, had a Muslim bias! I wrote back: “If the person has detected a Muslim bias in this particular piece, then it is unfortunate and reveals a counter bias of insisting on seeing things where none exist.”
When I do have a bias I flaunt it on my sleeve, not under my armpit like a meethi chhuree (a sweet knife).
Is it possessiveness that is riling me? No. This is a subject that needs to be exposed, and I did not see anyone else do it. I did stick my neck out, and although the publication where it was published is a niche website I might like to state here that all my articles there have been on several mailing lists and been quoted. So, it isn’t a ‘hidden fact’.
The writer of the current lead editorial has been described as a political commentator. And political commentators are supposed to be serious as hell, which is why my piece had an “emotional content”, although the ideas expressed are virtually the same.
What bothers me is this façade of seriousness. I can see all those little Muslim organisations getting very excited because a member of the majority community has been so sensitive in voicing how they are “not understood”. Does anyone here know that some people have even said that I have no right to discuss Muslim issues because I am not Muslim enough? So someone who is not Muslim at all is kind of okay-dokey? It makes them feel so wanted. I am waiting for some of the email forwards to come my way.
I was accused of taking the film “personally”. What will they say about this writer? Words like social consciousness will be thrown around.
It is getting so tiresome. I got a letter from a reader saying that someone found my column in the Asian Age, A Feminist Manifesto, had a Muslim bias! I wrote back: “If the person has detected a Muslim bias in this particular piece, then it is unfortunate and reveals a counter bias of insisting on seeing things where none exist.”
When I do have a bias I flaunt it on my sleeve, not under my armpit like a meethi chhuree (a sweet knife).
10.3.07
The shore or the sea?
It had been over two years since I met AJ. It was in a work setting. It was the most ordinary of interactions - I had something to be done; he got it done. And that was it. Or so I thought. But he called.
We know precious little about each other. There is no sparkling conversation, just short telephone calls. He had asked to meet for coffee, but it did not work out. He asked again a few days later. This time I told him quite bluntly, "You had planned it earlier...I suppose there is a problem..."
"You can say I am intimidated...no, not really, a bit apprehensive..."
I have always been polite. But, instead of reassuring him, I said that I was not interested in knowing anything personal about him. What I did not say is that I do not want him to know me.
I don't want anyone to know me. And what do I offer him anyway? He has never expressed an interest in my opinion on any subject; he has never mentioned my writing. All that he has ever said is that he thinks I tend to leave a lot unsaid...even in response to mundane queries. Who decides what is mundane? To me “How is your health?” is not a mundane question. Yet he feels the need to talk.
The contradiction fascinates me. Here I am closeted in my hidden world and I become a 'people's person'. Strange…
Yet the sounds play:
"kis kadar roz kiya mujhse kinara tumne
koi bhatkega akela ye na socha tumne
chhup gaye ho to kabhi yaad hi aaya na karo
awaaz na do…”
We know precious little about each other. There is no sparkling conversation, just short telephone calls. He had asked to meet for coffee, but it did not work out. He asked again a few days later. This time I told him quite bluntly, "You had planned it earlier...I suppose there is a problem..."
"You can say I am intimidated...no, not really, a bit apprehensive..."
I have always been polite. But, instead of reassuring him, I said that I was not interested in knowing anything personal about him. What I did not say is that I do not want him to know me.
I don't want anyone to know me. And what do I offer him anyway? He has never expressed an interest in my opinion on any subject; he has never mentioned my writing. All that he has ever said is that he thinks I tend to leave a lot unsaid...even in response to mundane queries. Who decides what is mundane? To me “How is your health?” is not a mundane question. Yet he feels the need to talk.
The contradiction fascinates me. Here I am closeted in my hidden world and I become a 'people's person'. Strange…
Yet the sounds play:
"kis kadar roz kiya mujhse kinara tumne
koi bhatkega akela ye na socha tumne
chhup gaye ho to kabhi yaad hi aaya na karo
awaaz na do…”
9.3.07
Life is but a dream...
I saw death. Really. This morning before the dawn light could come up, I was feeling restless. I decided to get out of bed. And a strange image danced before me. Death with a noose round her neck but with the most peaceful eyes I have seen.
I saw death. As it knocked on doors. “I will break your body,” it said. Parts of it were carved out, but the spirit was left untainted.
I saw death. In the lonely trail it has left behind.
I saw death. In a disembodied voice, shared ideas, unstated thoughts.
I saw death. As the tap ran dry and my hands were clammy.
(Two people I know have died of cancer. One was a colleague I shared rare warm moments of friendship with; the other the wife of a very dear friend. He called two weeks after to say, “I lost my J.” Why did he not tell me earlier? Why did I not go and meet her? Why do I have to be so proper? Why? Why do we think there is all the time in the world when there is so little? I would not have helped in any way, I would not have given them anything…but do you realise what I would have received?)
I saw death. As it knocked on doors. “I will break your body,” it said. Parts of it were carved out, but the spirit was left untainted.
I saw death. In the lonely trail it has left behind.
I saw death. In a disembodied voice, shared ideas, unstated thoughts.
I saw death. As the tap ran dry and my hands were clammy.
(Two people I know have died of cancer. One was a colleague I shared rare warm moments of friendship with; the other the wife of a very dear friend. He called two weeks after to say, “I lost my J.” Why did he not tell me earlier? Why did I not go and meet her? Why do I have to be so proper? Why? Why do we think there is all the time in the world when there is so little? I would not have helped in any way, I would not have given them anything…but do you realise what I would have received?)
8.3.07
Here's looking at you, woman!
This picture is courtesy an anonymous graphic artist. Found it in my old files. It conveys beautifully what I believe in - no one is too small. If you close your fist on someone, then you are the loser. If you open up your palm then the other can create beauty in you and with you.
"Haath chhoote magar phir bhi
Rishte nahin toota karte
Waqt ki shakh se
Lamhe nahin toda karte"
Face value
“when i think too much…my boss says i should try and take things on their face value”- Amandeep
I can take things at face value
But for every me there is a you
Behind the visage
Is an image
Each pair of eyes
Has seen tears
The open-mouthed surprise
Has experienced fears
Wrinkles tell their own story
As does taut skin
You can run after glory
And yet seek silence in the din
I can take things at face value
For every face goes through a phase anew.
~FV
I can take things at face value
But for every me there is a you
Behind the visage
Is an image
Each pair of eyes
Has seen tears
The open-mouthed surprise
Has experienced fears
Wrinkles tell their own story
As does taut skin
You can run after glory
And yet seek silence in the din
I can take things at face value
For every face goes through a phase anew.
~FV
7.3.07
Waqt ne kiya kya haseen sitam
The alarm rang. It was 2 am. At first it was a grating sound, like someone clearing his throat, then the music rang loud and clear: tee...da...dee...daa...deeeee...
eeeeng.
I looked around, not quite sure whether I had it right. The clock worked, but the alarm had stopped ringing for almost a year.
Suddenly today, it woke up. As always, I began asking questions...was this a good sign or a bad one? Was it telling me something? Will all the things that do not work now begin to move? Ah, but do I even know what does not work? I have so many pens and have no idea if they write. So many switches, but will they light up the room? Will all the rusted knick-knacks begin to look polished and glimmer with a fire? Will dust disappear from shelves and cobwebs loosen their grip over my ceiling?
Will I? Never mind...
Or is the alarm sound really an alarm? Since I still have the ability to be shocked (if you trust blindly and have dust thrown into your eyes when you open them...), will I be faced with situations that I have no control over? Will I wake up? Will I wake up?? Will I wake up???
I got a cheerful SMS from a friend wishing me a very good morning. I read it a few hours later. What reply could I send? I wrote back, "Jab message padha tab tak dopahar ho gayee. Shaayad anjaane mein morning good hi hogee!"
eeeeng.
I looked around, not quite sure whether I had it right. The clock worked, but the alarm had stopped ringing for almost a year.
Suddenly today, it woke up. As always, I began asking questions...was this a good sign or a bad one? Was it telling me something? Will all the things that do not work now begin to move? Ah, but do I even know what does not work? I have so many pens and have no idea if they write. So many switches, but will they light up the room? Will all the rusted knick-knacks begin to look polished and glimmer with a fire? Will dust disappear from shelves and cobwebs loosen their grip over my ceiling?
Will I? Never mind...
Or is the alarm sound really an alarm? Since I still have the ability to be shocked (if you trust blindly and have dust thrown into your eyes when you open them...), will I be faced with situations that I have no control over? Will I wake up? Will I wake up?? Will I wake up???
I got a cheerful SMS from a friend wishing me a very good morning. I read it a few hours later. What reply could I send? I wrote back, "Jab message padha tab tak dopahar ho gayee. Shaayad anjaane mein morning good hi hogee!"
6.3.07
A Feminist Manifesto
Maverick: A Feminist Manifesto
by Farzana Versey
The Asian Age, Op-Ed, March 6, 2007
Her eyes pierced mine, the embers of her anger lined in ashen kohl. “For goddess’s sake, it is wimmin, not women!” she said.
I felt pity for her. Her career depended on seeing everything – cookery to clitoris – from a feminist perspective. She floundered when she sought political correctness in nomenclature, but forgot to include the gods in it. You want a goddess, then you darn well get a poetess.
Cut out the piffle. After all the trouble it is silly to call one another ‘sistahs’ like it is some Harlem kitty party.
It is unfortunate that feminism hasn’t grown up as a movement. It is still about the proprietorial “Woman with a body and mind of her own”, as though someone is going to take these away. Trust me, no one is planning to borrow your G-spot.
What? This is not important? Feminists who write learned theses on sexuality silently accept the falsity dished out by male sexologists. What puts me off is when a guy whimpers that his is small and wonders if he will be able to satisfy a woman, the ‘expert’ tells him, “A woman experiences pleasure within two inches of her vagina. Size has nothing to do with it.”
Why are all women being herded into this two-inch space? Why don’t they take out protest morchas against such denial of individual needs and reductionism?
They have become territorial about certain issues that ought to be the concern of men who are responsible for these, anyway – rape, domestic violence, dowry deaths, female foeticide.
Feminist breakthroughs have in fact trapped women and freed men.
Live-in relationships: Here you fake a whole marriage, including paisley curtains, instead of orgasms.
The Pill: Women pop it to avoid pregnancy, not to empower themselves. That is exactly what men want – a woman who is not seeking posterity for her egg.
The Dildo: Guess who has the biggest smile? No performance anxiety, no worries. Woman going whirr and man going zzzz.
Lingerie liberty: In the beginning they burned bras. It was a symbolic gesture but there have been naïve women who took it quite literally. The Victoria’s Secret we shared was sacrificed at St. Michael’s altar. Why? No more fumbling with straps for men. As a bonus they also got wet T-shirt contests.
A fledgling artist who spends her time in society pages has decided to paint male nudes because she is tired of the ‘women as sex objects’ logic. “I decided to reverse the roles and asked how men would feel if I made them sex kittens?”
The male ego would feel gratified; they are aching to be sex kittens. It is like this: After unleashing the beast in them in bed men, unlike women, don’t go into moral spasms and ask, “I hope you don’t think I am like that”.
Like what? Is the dreaded word ‘whore’? Women writers complain they are called whores when they write about sex. Should they mind it? Yes, as much as they ought to when they are called scientists, simply because it is unfair to the categories of women who are qualified in those fields.
Why did the committed actress take umbrage when the moon-sighting imam called her a “naachne-gaanewaali”? No one would assume that the man has much sense, but what made the feminist in her protest? Has she not used this very section of women to ‘get into the character’ for certain roles? Does she too look down upon them?
Objectification of women at the level of mass marketing is disconcerting. However, the idea of demand and supply is there in all human endeavours, including spirituality. A naked sadhu could be a sexual object when seen outside the context of his particular form of spiritualism.
Every ideology is based on countering an established premise. But an ‘ism’ should work as a prism and show us varied colours. I wouldn’t even read a book called Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus because gender differences are obvious to the naked eye and an open mind.
Much as I admire Gloria Steinem for her fishnet stockings, I think she could do with better similes than “A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle” to underscore the dispensability of men. The other sharp-shooter, Maureen Dowd, asked in her eponymous book: “Are men necessary?”
I find this poser insulting to women. Why do we have to view the world in a male-centric way? Even lesbians who claim to be feminists are playing roles. There is the typically dominant partner, who looks and acts like a man.
The new wave has spawned a series of supposedly sensitive men. Watch the ladies who lunch. Mrs. Khanna will tell Mrs. Gaitonde, “Haan ji, mere has-bend bohat isportive hain.” Fortunately, this supportive husband is not like the urban rake who apes the woman aping the man to call himself a feminist. This creature has depilated his whole body, put little pouches of pot-pourri in his closet, wears net shirts and tells his women ‘buddies’, “I understand where you are coming from”, as though they don’t know.
I still call myself a feminist just as I call myself a woman. I do believe as much in International Women’s Day as I do in ‘Share a smile’ day. Every occasion is a celebration. Will I take to the streets? Sure. Just send me the limo.
by Farzana Versey
The Asian Age, Op-Ed, March 6, 2007
Her eyes pierced mine, the embers of her anger lined in ashen kohl. “For goddess’s sake, it is wimmin, not women!” she said.
I felt pity for her. Her career depended on seeing everything – cookery to clitoris – from a feminist perspective. She floundered when she sought political correctness in nomenclature, but forgot to include the gods in it. You want a goddess, then you darn well get a poetess.
Cut out the piffle. After all the trouble it is silly to call one another ‘sistahs’ like it is some Harlem kitty party.
It is unfortunate that feminism hasn’t grown up as a movement. It is still about the proprietorial “Woman with a body and mind of her own”, as though someone is going to take these away. Trust me, no one is planning to borrow your G-spot.
What? This is not important? Feminists who write learned theses on sexuality silently accept the falsity dished out by male sexologists. What puts me off is when a guy whimpers that his is small and wonders if he will be able to satisfy a woman, the ‘expert’ tells him, “A woman experiences pleasure within two inches of her vagina. Size has nothing to do with it.”
Why are all women being herded into this two-inch space? Why don’t they take out protest morchas against such denial of individual needs and reductionism?
They have become territorial about certain issues that ought to be the concern of men who are responsible for these, anyway – rape, domestic violence, dowry deaths, female foeticide.
Feminist breakthroughs have in fact trapped women and freed men.
Live-in relationships: Here you fake a whole marriage, including paisley curtains, instead of orgasms.
The Pill: Women pop it to avoid pregnancy, not to empower themselves. That is exactly what men want – a woman who is not seeking posterity for her egg.
The Dildo: Guess who has the biggest smile? No performance anxiety, no worries. Woman going whirr and man going zzzz.
Lingerie liberty: In the beginning they burned bras. It was a symbolic gesture but there have been naïve women who took it quite literally. The Victoria’s Secret we shared was sacrificed at St. Michael’s altar. Why? No more fumbling with straps for men. As a bonus they also got wet T-shirt contests.
A fledgling artist who spends her time in society pages has decided to paint male nudes because she is tired of the ‘women as sex objects’ logic. “I decided to reverse the roles and asked how men would feel if I made them sex kittens?”
The male ego would feel gratified; they are aching to be sex kittens. It is like this: After unleashing the beast in them in bed men, unlike women, don’t go into moral spasms and ask, “I hope you don’t think I am like that”.
Like what? Is the dreaded word ‘whore’? Women writers complain they are called whores when they write about sex. Should they mind it? Yes, as much as they ought to when they are called scientists, simply because it is unfair to the categories of women who are qualified in those fields.
Why did the committed actress take umbrage when the moon-sighting imam called her a “naachne-gaanewaali”? No one would assume that the man has much sense, but what made the feminist in her protest? Has she not used this very section of women to ‘get into the character’ for certain roles? Does she too look down upon them?
Objectification of women at the level of mass marketing is disconcerting. However, the idea of demand and supply is there in all human endeavours, including spirituality. A naked sadhu could be a sexual object when seen outside the context of his particular form of spiritualism.
Every ideology is based on countering an established premise. But an ‘ism’ should work as a prism and show us varied colours. I wouldn’t even read a book called Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus because gender differences are obvious to the naked eye and an open mind.
Much as I admire Gloria Steinem for her fishnet stockings, I think she could do with better similes than “A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle” to underscore the dispensability of men. The other sharp-shooter, Maureen Dowd, asked in her eponymous book: “Are men necessary?”
I find this poser insulting to women. Why do we have to view the world in a male-centric way? Even lesbians who claim to be feminists are playing roles. There is the typically dominant partner, who looks and acts like a man.
The new wave has spawned a series of supposedly sensitive men. Watch the ladies who lunch. Mrs. Khanna will tell Mrs. Gaitonde, “Haan ji, mere has-bend bohat isportive hain.” Fortunately, this supportive husband is not like the urban rake who apes the woman aping the man to call himself a feminist. This creature has depilated his whole body, put little pouches of pot-pourri in his closet, wears net shirts and tells his women ‘buddies’, “I understand where you are coming from”, as though they don’t know.
I still call myself a feminist just as I call myself a woman. I do believe as much in International Women’s Day as I do in ‘Share a smile’ day. Every occasion is a celebration. Will I take to the streets? Sure. Just send me the limo.
5.3.07
Magic by the wayside
Do you know those people?
Are they a part of your life?
Have they contributed in any way to make you feel good about yourself?
Is there an explanation for their behaviour?
How much do you identify with them?
I was thinking aloud about some unsavoury things said by unsavoury people. I was in the company of those who know me, and we realised how amazing it is that we invest so much in completely irrelevant aspects of life.
The queries made things clear. We just do not ask the right questions at the right time. This clarity has spilled over into other areas of my life.
I was thinking about an episode of a few days ago. I got carried away by something superficial, it isn’t like me. Earlier I would get agitated. Today, as I was wiping my face, the words just sprang out, “It does not matter.” I surprised myself.
This is the truth. We wait at traffic signals; we do not make them our destination. We cannot, for as the lights change colour, we will be honked out, pushed ahead by the momentum…if we are foolish, then we will be left with smashed pieces of what we have.
I prefer the little bylanes, no traffic, no signals, maybe a few potholes and a tinier area. But the largest feet are still small, and the mind does not need the confines of space.
I picked up a twig that had fallen from one of the many leafy trees and waved it like a wand. Magic can be created anywhere. Magic is what you do, not what happens to you.
Oh, you will say, the sunset happens, the sea breeze blows your way. Yes. But it is upto us to experience these the way we do. Or else they would be merely Nature’s creations. We nurture them and imbue them with romance, tears, smiles and make them our very own. We submerge ourselves, and those moments are magical.
Are they a part of your life?
Have they contributed in any way to make you feel good about yourself?
Is there an explanation for their behaviour?
How much do you identify with them?
I was thinking aloud about some unsavoury things said by unsavoury people. I was in the company of those who know me, and we realised how amazing it is that we invest so much in completely irrelevant aspects of life.
The queries made things clear. We just do not ask the right questions at the right time. This clarity has spilled over into other areas of my life.
I was thinking about an episode of a few days ago. I got carried away by something superficial, it isn’t like me. Earlier I would get agitated. Today, as I was wiping my face, the words just sprang out, “It does not matter.” I surprised myself.
This is the truth. We wait at traffic signals; we do not make them our destination. We cannot, for as the lights change colour, we will be honked out, pushed ahead by the momentum…if we are foolish, then we will be left with smashed pieces of what we have.
I prefer the little bylanes, no traffic, no signals, maybe a few potholes and a tinier area. But the largest feet are still small, and the mind does not need the confines of space.
I picked up a twig that had fallen from one of the many leafy trees and waved it like a wand. Magic can be created anywhere. Magic is what you do, not what happens to you.
Oh, you will say, the sunset happens, the sea breeze blows your way. Yes. But it is upto us to experience these the way we do. Or else they would be merely Nature’s creations. We nurture them and imbue them with romance, tears, smiles and make them our very own. We submerge ourselves, and those moments are magical.
4.3.07
You are the morn
Wrote this at midnight. Dedicated to my mother. Happy Birthday, Ammi!
Tum subah ho
Jab raat ki thakaan ke baad
Neend jaag jaati hai
Aur dheemi dhoop
Pardey ke beech se aati hai
Aankon mein eik
Naye din ka sapna liye
Tum apni roshni se
Ujaala phaila deti ho
Tum subah ho.
~FV
Let me try and translate it…
After the exhaustion of the night
When sleep awakens
And soft sunlight
Peeps in through the curtains
With a dream for a new day
You spread brightness
With your light
You are the morn.
Tum subah ho
Jab raat ki thakaan ke baad
Neend jaag jaati hai
Aur dheemi dhoop
Pardey ke beech se aati hai
Aankon mein eik
Naye din ka sapna liye
Tum apni roshni se
Ujaala phaila deti ho
Tum subah ho.
~FV
Let me try and translate it…
After the exhaustion of the night
When sleep awakens
And soft sunlight
Peeps in through the curtains
With a dream for a new day
You spread brightness
With your light
You are the morn.
3.3.07
Nishabd: A soundless love
People are protesting against the film Nishabd. Most of them have not seen it; I have not seen it. Therefore, I can only comment about the idea behind it. A young 18-year-old falls in love with a 60-year-old man. Hers is an impulsive attraction; his appears many-layered and in a rare move he confesses this truth about his feelings to his wife. As I said, how it has been dealt with I will know later, but for now I applaud the honesty.
The criticism, as always, is that these sort of things go against our culture. I am not aware which hothouse plant Indian culture is that it is cocooned from what the rest of the world is likely to experience. Our history is full of kings and harems, and no royal male would bother to get an older woman, or even his contemporary, into this wonderful little world of his.
Those were exploitative times when the woman did not have a say. Besides, look at the contemporary cases of old men groping in the public transport, of 'naughty uncles', of paedophilia. Here, the character makes the first move and lets herself flow with the tide of her feelings. She is not a victim.
It isn’t the first film in this genre. More recently we had Jogger’s Park. Even more importantly, if the protestors have a problem they should have made a noise about the character of Sexy Sam in Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna. He was a bit sick, trying hard to behave young and hip, and flaunting his machismo before his son and daughter-in-law. He was an emotionless, crass man.
I think I know what people have against Nishabd. It deals with emotions. We are scared of them. We cannot face our own feelings so we look into other people’s eyes and pretend to tell a truth even we do not believe in.
Nishabd could well be a wordless tribute to these silent moments.
The criticism, as always, is that these sort of things go against our culture. I am not aware which hothouse plant Indian culture is that it is cocooned from what the rest of the world is likely to experience. Our history is full of kings and harems, and no royal male would bother to get an older woman, or even his contemporary, into this wonderful little world of his.
Those were exploitative times when the woman did not have a say. Besides, look at the contemporary cases of old men groping in the public transport, of 'naughty uncles', of paedophilia. Here, the character makes the first move and lets herself flow with the tide of her feelings. She is not a victim.
It isn’t the first film in this genre. More recently we had Jogger’s Park. Even more importantly, if the protestors have a problem they should have made a noise about the character of Sexy Sam in Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna. He was a bit sick, trying hard to behave young and hip, and flaunting his machismo before his son and daughter-in-law. He was an emotionless, crass man.
I think I know what people have against Nishabd. It deals with emotions. We are scared of them. We cannot face our own feelings so we look into other people’s eyes and pretend to tell a truth even we do not believe in.
Nishabd could well be a wordless tribute to these silent moments.
2.3.07
Quote uncoat - 4
“A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.”
You got to be kidding. Which moron would call a rose a carnation or a lotus? Now just suppose you do meet such a moron, he would have done so for a few possible reasons:
1. He has never seen/smelled a rose.
2. He is trying to mislead.
3. He is testing the limits of the rose.
If you go with # 1, then fine he will call it a carnation or a lotus. He will get a certain scent. But you know it is a rose, so the rose will smell what it remains for you – a rose. You have not changed its name.
If you go with # 2, then it depends on how far you are willing to be misled. You may have your eyes shut and are told this is a lily. Will you smell a lily or a rose? If you are a staunch rose-person, you may protest, but it is very likely you will believe it is a lily and think it is a lily scent. It has to do with auto-suggestion, power of persuasion and perception.
If you go with # 3, then the rose has a lot of living up to do. Here the rose is being directly shorn of an identity. It is told it is not a rose, and this is done with some amount of force. Like many people who want to deny you what you are, the rose will be shaken up at the stem, its face turned up, its petals twisted.
In such a situation the rose will not last long. Does it then matter whether it smells just as sweet when it ceases to be… not a rose, a lily, a carnation, or a lotus?
You got to be kidding. Which moron would call a rose a carnation or a lotus? Now just suppose you do meet such a moron, he would have done so for a few possible reasons:
1. He has never seen/smelled a rose.
2. He is trying to mislead.
3. He is testing the limits of the rose.
If you go with # 1, then fine he will call it a carnation or a lotus. He will get a certain scent. But you know it is a rose, so the rose will smell what it remains for you – a rose. You have not changed its name.
If you go with # 2, then it depends on how far you are willing to be misled. You may have your eyes shut and are told this is a lily. Will you smell a lily or a rose? If you are a staunch rose-person, you may protest, but it is very likely you will believe it is a lily and think it is a lily scent. It has to do with auto-suggestion, power of persuasion and perception.
If you go with # 3, then the rose has a lot of living up to do. Here the rose is being directly shorn of an identity. It is told it is not a rose, and this is done with some amount of force. Like many people who want to deny you what you are, the rose will be shaken up at the stem, its face turned up, its petals twisted.
In such a situation the rose will not last long. Does it then matter whether it smells just as sweet when it ceases to be… not a rose, a lily, a carnation, or a lotus?
1.3.07
Yeh mera deewanapan...
Two calls. Two women. Love them both very much. One is a childhood friend; the other I met a few years ago and we realised we could go back to our childhoods with one giggle.
Now I asked N, among other things, how her son was. He is growing up; she is concerned. She said, “You know, F, he reminds me so much of you when we were young.”
I felt good. She must have thought about me while conceiving, which is exceedingly sweet given the delicate nature of the operation being undertaken. Anyhow, she continued, “He is not like others…”
“Yes, I understand.”
“He is just like you used to be, preoccupied with his thoughts, keeps to himself…”
“Really?”
“Yes, he is not like normal, you understand?”
Of course, I do. If I had known this is what you thought we would not have been best friends, you idiot!
Last night came B’s call. She is in Greece. She said she was in this wonderful house with the sea and the forest. I said I was at home in my room with the sea and the forest.
I asked her, among other things, about her son. She has little to worry about. “You must meet him, he is so much like you,” she said.
This is nice. Since it isn’t too long that I have known her, it must be his intellect. “He loves books?” I queried (looking at all those unread ones in my shelf).
“He hates reading. But it will be fun because you will get along.”
“Why?”
“He is laughing all the time, finds everything funny. He is a little abnormal.”
Sure. And you are calling from Greece to tell me this?
Now I asked N, among other things, how her son was. He is growing up; she is concerned. She said, “You know, F, he reminds me so much of you when we were young.”
I felt good. She must have thought about me while conceiving, which is exceedingly sweet given the delicate nature of the operation being undertaken. Anyhow, she continued, “He is not like others…”
“Yes, I understand.”
“He is just like you used to be, preoccupied with his thoughts, keeps to himself…”
“Really?”
“Yes, he is not like normal, you understand?”
Of course, I do. If I had known this is what you thought we would not have been best friends, you idiot!
Last night came B’s call. She is in Greece. She said she was in this wonderful house with the sea and the forest. I said I was at home in my room with the sea and the forest.
I asked her, among other things, about her son. She has little to worry about. “You must meet him, he is so much like you,” she said.
This is nice. Since it isn’t too long that I have known her, it must be his intellect. “He loves books?” I queried (looking at all those unread ones in my shelf).
“He hates reading. But it will be fun because you will get along.”
“Why?”
“He is laughing all the time, finds everything funny. He is a little abnormal.”
Sure. And you are calling from Greece to tell me this?
"I have learned not to think little of any one's belief, no matter how strange it may be. I have tried to keep an open mind, and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things, the things that make one doubt if they be mad or sane." (From Dracula)
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