Your Song...

I met two interesting people, that I enjoyed and felt like writing about. With due thanks to Gin Soaked Boy.

I’m the feeling, the old fashioned high collar,
I’m the princess, smiling getaways with murder
I’m wanderlust, the roving eye you never had
I’m wanton beauty, the beast you can’t deny.

I’m the perfect wordsmith, the mighty muse of your moment
I’m pure addiction, sweet hunger and hallucination
I’m the knowing fortress you cannot wait to destroy
I’m the fierce freedom that eludes you every night.

I’m your deepest shallow, the inescapable delicious shame
I’m the drumming rain on your drizzled window pane
I’m the remembered fantasy, that exhilarating long scream
I’m the shot... in the dark of your dream…

I’m the fire in your art, as you grapple to reignite
I’m the inconsistent canvas, the fury keeping you alive
I’m the naughty in the snapshot, that’ll never wink from your frame
I’m the hat that you wear, for the smell of my hair.

I’m the scrupulous irreverence, laughing at your shackles
I’m the simple, in your convoluted complicated
I’m so pertinent especially in the impertinence...
The relevant seduction of your inarticulate questions.

I’m the height that makes you dizzy with fear
I’m redefined rules, forgotten to adhere
I’m the furtive rearview, that forgets to have and to hold
I’m Salvador’s Gala as he sold his soul

I’m the greasepaint dream, stirring violently awake
I’m the beloved crib you can’t make your peace with
I’m the fleeting impression of original sin
I’m the softness of skin against skin.

I’m the well behaved discretion by day
I’m the thrill of a secret memory
I’m the inevitable parting of our ways
The delicious Billie must resume her Holiday.

After all...

I'm supposed to feel a song
Pour fifty five tears down her reel.
The Boss is busy feeling up the fourth in line,
we're out fishing for the driver's wheel.

Complicated and all in knots,
the aftertaste of the unacquired taste.
Love's a bitch and wish you were here,
its fun when we make love in haste.

What's the problem, ask's Doctor Teeth
Would you prefer a life less lived?
Excuse my language, I quite like my frog
especially in his moments of Prince.

Jack tumbled down the hill last night,
Jill suffered vertigo in silence...
True love is far too much fun these days.
lets Bonnie and Clyde this past tense

Rigmarole and Routine eloped,
the last ones expected to pine.
Make tea in the mornings, then dinner past midnight
and retext me that fantastic line.

And what a surprise the Mad Hatter feigned,
a padlocked diary of barter?
Kisses and chants with five coconut bars
We're going to live happily ever after.

H for Happy....

It’s been close to six weeks since The Move. Jam has had several life altering experiences in her otherwise peaceful existence. She wonderfully remains the naughty, intrinsically sunny kitten she is. Being plump does wonders for her disposition. Falling out of my third floor apartment (The kitchen window was open and she who has sat and sunned herself on it a million times, leaned too far forward in an excited attempt towards a mocking pigeon) and being chased by my well meaning watchman looking to score brownie points with me, resulted in a day of sitting quietly in her previously irrelevant basket and hobbling around with a severely strained muscle in her hind leg. She’d never seen the outside world and this unpleasant initiation coupled with a hysterical, tearful me and an unknown (but nice) vet, made for a somber deflowering. I was the traumatized one however. The next day, by evening, she was playing with her ball, using only upper body. Leg’s healing and so am I.

Home is now a nice, warm, colorful apartment. Being alone, feeling alone and wanting company many miles way is becoming a less vehement voice in my head. Despite working late each night, initially I dreaded the days off. Invitations to drinks that I did not want to drink, with people I was determined to not enjoy, were becoming hard to deal with. Secondly, being alone in a house that wasn’t home yet, suffocated me. I missed home and its people and the cool dark drizzle outside my French windows. Work, the reason I’d moved, is great. However I’m one of those people who need play too. So I resented work for being so nice, the same way I had yelled at play last year, for being perfect, for holding me back.

I traveled insanely. I planned the move during a period I knew would be hectic. I’ve done enough packing, unpacking, hotel rooms and room service for a long time. I love the excitement of it, I detest the thought that it’s a bit of me running away from settling into a city that I’m going to have to live in, for a very long time. A city that never sleeps, that makes me afraid of being unhappy. A fighter city.

I’m still not all there. I’m still traveling. I like the people, even though I haven’t met a potential great friend yet. But often these days, when I get home at night, I find myself looking forward to an established, comfortable routine that smells suspiciously like home. Jam greets me noisily at the door, we cuddle for a good 15 minutes, I get myself a shower and something hot or cold. Dinner, emails, television, book, calls, bed….

There is hope yet.

Meet Jam...

Moving to another city has been tough. Jam and I miss home immensely.

Gush...

So Super decided to Karaoke last week. And after many soulful renditions in the living room, to our cat mostly, he goes for it.
And Super was super. All sexy and moves, with Bob Marley. Here’s the review. First article.

http://kroaknights.blogspot.com/2007/04/week-7-lookin-for-fun-and-feeling-gooey.html

Er, note phrases “Marry Me” and “ Pick of the night”.

You are officially a rock star now baby!

For Mono esp.

The much belated pictures from the new year thing. I was too ill to go out so some came in. Lovely it would've been had the illness of a lifetime not preceded the following few days.

Few points of interest.

1. All, and I mean all, candid pictures have Superstar in suspicious pose mode. Even when he is supposed to be taking my temperature.
2. Being married obviously implies constant displays of camera affection.
3. P's attempt at interesting black and white has wonderfully enhanced the effects of modern medicine. I look drugged mostly.
4. Mono is being big, warm, friendly in all photos.
5. The Poet and Mono look happy to be together.
6. Photography cannot capture the drama of Anand beng drunk.
7. I think the Poetry Recital is the most effective one.
8. I like the shaky hand ones so much.












About as candid as Hillary Clinton

Hello

When I was leaving for Delhi, I was asked to eliminate all shawls, sweaters, jacket [note, singular] from my spartan duffel bag. In fact all warmth, all protection. What if it’s a little nippy in the nights? No, I was warned, the city was “scorching”… Okay then, I was nervously prepared for this arid desert with sufficient anticipation, since I burn far better than freeze. And then I went off to the airport. Where I was summarily told that the terror alert was rocketing to the top of its chart, even as I argued, and no moral support would be allowed in. I was going in all alone. Now, I don’t sound this way for nothing. I was going to have to live with 15 people I’d never met before and I had spent a week having premonitions. Besides feeling horribly under qualified for the whole thing, I was suffering the thought of several artistic temperaments bull fighting each other for the next few weeks. Now I like artists. They’re my favourite kind of fascinating people, whatever it is that they do, whether painting, pottery, performance etc. But they are also almost always troubled, dramatic and moody people and I am one of those people mortally afraid of other people’s scenes. My own are not up for discussion right now.

I sulkily bid superstar goodbye. Bombs on planes apparently mean that one’s bags are screened before one even enters the airport. I put in my luggage, my handbag and the organizer that has, for the past 5 years, contained my whole life, career, cash and cards. Also items of sentiment and return ticket on this occasion. Foul mood unchanged, I collect boarding pass and return to pick up handbag. Am told that Terror Alert has made screening a long process and it seemed as though the last set of items would need rechecking.

I cheerfully contemplate the thought of a bomb turning up in my bag or my pots of lip gloss sparking mortal fear, and say so to fellow passenger who is also deprived of his laptop. He looks disapproving of such flippancy yet accompanies me to coffee place, bookstore etc. I remove earplugs as missing flight this time would be of serious consequence. (At some point I will put up post on How to Miss a Flight – Like Never Before) Then security and sitting around. My absconding bag and diary begin to worry me at this point and no amounts of reassuring from officials placate me. Particularly since boarding had begun. I rush around and finally retrieved the bag. The all important organizer has disappeared! Despite being promised that it was definitely somewhere (!) and that I would be the first to know when it was located, I panicked. If I called anyone, I knew they would tell me to not take the flight. And missing this one was not even a remote option. I was the last to board and I have never cursed as much, albeit mentally, as I did the airport and this bewildering madness. A crazy 2 hours with some exceptionally bad food pass excruciatingly slowly and I land. Switch on phone while people rush around as though local bus will restart movement in a few seconds. I have 21 missed calls from unknown number. I am informed upon calling back, by a cold voice called the Bangalore Airport Manager that a black organizer is waiting for me in that city, as I sit in another, trying to imagine what I will do without any money, identification, credit or debit facility etc. The next morning I was to reach Drama School but before that I was on my own.

I did what I haven’t done in many years. I called Dad ( who incidentally lives now in a different time zone) and bawled out my sad victimization by the cruel world. That took about ten minutes, without him getting in more than a sentence edgeways. And then, from halfway across the world, he flashed his magic wand, told me to go collect luggage, and wait outside. Some kind person arrived in 20 minutes, whisked me away to lovely food and shelter and gave me more money than I started out with.

5 years ago, my pride and independence would’ve been severely damaged. Here, I was just plain happy. Kind person in question kept asking if I needed more money, food, towels etc. And I was rescued.

The next morning, after much earnest navigation I found the school, only to be told that the programme was to be at a farmhouse on the outskirts since such blessed work was hardly to be conducted in the middle of the city. I suspect they were afraid of temperamental people as well and wanted to be as inaccessible as possible. In any event, all was forgiven and forgotten on reaching aforementioned farm. It is a sprawling, vast, green haven with peacocks and orange trees everywhere. It was as though Delhi and its swearing drivers and pomp, had disappeared.

Apart from our invasion, the farm was equipped with several studio apartments where artists from the across the world came and lived in for a year or more, to create their work in complete peace. Among the people I met ( Breakfast, tea, lunch, tea again, and dinner were in a common dining hall that one had to walk half a kilometer of beautiful stone path to reach) were a Japanese painter and his visiting American lecturer partner. Both entirely desirable and Tor, my Japanese friend is truly gifted at what he does. The others were Martin an English cartoonist (uncanny resemblance to what a cartoony, stiff version of Prince Charles would be like), Jane, the English writer, Carol, the American painter, Queenie, the Korean tai chi expert and Navjeet, the Sikh, Bharatnayam dancer( I was astonished at the combination of his profession and community and then, later, at his incredible grace and masculinity as a performer) . There were also two Russian women dancers who came to watch our rehearsals but never spoke a word to any of us.

My personal connection though was with Gwyn, the Australian potter. She’s 61, beautiful and can tell the most amazing stories though her work. The fame and money achieved through gallery showings in New York is important to her, and a means to stay in a place like the farm for a year and in that stillness, breathe life into the most exquisite creations I have ever seen. One of her instillation pieces is called ‘Breath’, and is a series of bottles and pots in a pale rose porcelain, that when put together seem to breathe out one long sigh. When she holds a pot in her lovely, wrinkled, mud-stained hands, and talks about its inner movement and energy, it is and was for me, incredibly wonderful to watch.

The first day and night were hard. I missed home and my friends terribly. Despite all the conversation and exciting energies, it took me a few days to really submit to these people, all of who were so entirely wrapped up in what they had chosen to do with their life. And once I did, the joy of being allowed to talk, learn and listen continuously, all day long on the one thing that mattered most to all of us, was a freedom I’ve never had before. It didn’t matter if some of us spoke different languages, except at rehearsal, where it did matter and tempers frayed. But even that was exciting and we tested so many boundaries that in ordinary settings, would be difficult to get past.

The magic was very inspiring. What was not inspiring, wonderful or magical was the bitter cold and freezing rain that schizophrenic Delhi chose to shower on me. After must nastiness over the phone, Super and Anand remorsefully couriered shawls, cap, woollies etc. Braving what was an extreme temperature for me at least, we began going out in the evenings to see the city, and some of us grew very close. It is however, the first time I’ve been in a situation where every one of us liked and respected the other enormously and while I have no doubt that things would naturally change if the situation were to extend to a year, it added an important connectivity to the whole thing. I made personal bonds with two people that I’ll always keep in touch with. And I came back with an incredible amount of clarity for the future, a result of the long walks and unspoilt quality of that perfect place. I’ve tried not to gush but I really do feel so much for my time there.
In a few weeks, I will move to another city, leaving behind all that is familiar, loving and reassuring. And this trip, while certainly not making it any easier, has inspired me to have the necessary strength.

Lets go...

The other day I read an article on guilt. Apparently, it’s the new love. Makes the world go round. Apparently, it’s what the Great Indian Family Bond is based on. A large dose of sentiment, in the right, quavering tone, with a tiny reminder on duty thrown in on the side, is all it takes, assures this well informed journalist. We the people are consumed by our desire to be holier than thou. We even marry people we’ve never met, sacrificing far more interesting partners we may or may not have fallen in love with. Children are forced to eat because there is no middle ground between discipline and domination. Our parents never did it, and instead, Immaculate Conception, or its desi, purer equivalent, is firmly believed in till at ripe old 15, Bollywood or Playboy, whichever arrives first, make things impossible. Sex Ed is off the internet or music videos that work just as well. The article also talked of the sexual stigma that defines our blurred sexual identities later on. Deepak Chopra’s illustrated Kamasutra at Crossword is opened guiltily by a young woman. In fact, come to think of it, the Erotica section is the least visited corner in any bookstore. Same sex partners and AIDS are clubbed together and both accepted as a strange westernized phenomenon that affects “other people”. All this while we evolve from mithai on Diwali to Rocher, champagne and eBay.

Initially, when I read the article, I rubbished it. There are far too many of us who like finger pointing because it makes for intellectual hoo ha. And I know plenty of nice families that have set up new Indian ideals where it doesn’t really matter what the norm is, and if you want to do something, you’re free to do it after or despite discussion. Grudgingly or otherwise, many Indian parents today balance freedom well with authority. This writer kept saying how proud she was of being of Indian origin, which was quite ridiculous given that she seemed to think that as a nation, we symbolize one huge guilt trip.

But I’ll give her this much. The guilt that she spoke of is something we do without even realizing it. I have strong women friends defined by guilt. They’re vibrant and independent and full of pride, but at some grass root level, they’re feeling guilty. Of being independent in a family where women don’t need to work and a job is viewed of as an impediment to the natural duty of child rearing and husband feeding. Of never being able to explain why freedom is important. Of never being able to escape the shame of having felt claustrophobia. Our television feeds complete garbage into the minds of its viewers. The representation of Indian men and women is something I’m fiercely ashamed of. Rae’s post last week was a funny read but has a far deeper truth that despite endless debating, fails to really outrage our accepting sensibilities.
Generation Now is evolving into funny, interesting people that screw up relationships occasionally, find jobs and partners they love deeply, or in the least can live with and suffer stress, smoking and bad cinema. Couples have children after having spent enough time enjoying each other’s company. Marriage has stopped becoming a spiritual goal.

But guilt is still a big deal. I have my own. Every now and then I tend to mumble my way through family weddings where explaining my unconventional career and life is fearful. Suddenly my intense love for what I do, is guilty. I’ve watched my amazing dad try to explain my decisions and cringed. A friend is slowly trying to work his way through a mess of having been the obedient son for too long. Having sacrificed what he’s wanted for a really long time, extracting oneself from well meaning, but suffocating families where duty and sacrifice are synonymous with family honor is a task. Another friend cant get out of a marriage that lasted as long as the wedding because she’s afraid of the literal heart attack back home. A third will complete the mandatory education in the chosen field for 7 years before going on to get a job she doesn’t want. The thing is, we’re still not free. There are very many of us who are stuck in pools of inexplicable guilt that defy logic. Fashion becomes something to be ashamed of in a country where choices are judged in a matter of minutes.

I know I sound a little confused in this post. Its because I am, on the subject. There's a lot to understand where brass tacks are concerned.

I honestly don’t know if it’s more specific to us, owing to our heritages, or a widespread feeling that better masked elsewhere. Whatever it is, it’s too much baggage to grow with.

Something I intended to post but forgot last time.
A couple of days ago I was asked to decide the dramatic potential of some professional institutions. The festival was organized by Bangalore’s best and India’s second best management college. Undoubtedly aware of their prestige, they snagged a very hefty sum from sponsors and managed to invite the celebrity cream among musicians and quite a bit of corporate glitz. However, as far as managing the event went, the future of corporate India seems quite bleak. They treated us very sweetly but seemed quite helpless and uninformed most of the time. Things were heavily delayed, no one seemed to have the required control and the few that looked informed were far more interested in barking into their warlike talkies.

What made up for the lack of structure was the quality of theatre that came out on top. I would’ve paid more than I usually do to watch those plays at our auditoriums that frequently grace badly rehearsed, fundamentally unsound scripts.

Message...

The myth of The Standing Ovation has finally shattered for me. It’s rare that an entire audience actually gets up together, in genuine tribute to the witnessed performance.
What I’ve long suspected and recently confirmed is that, as in most shows, there will always be the few that truly believe that the performance in question deserves nothing less than a prompt clambering to one’s feet. And this select lot is, evidently, infectious. People sandwiched between them rise, half in confusion, half obligatorily. A few rows hurriedly follow suit, perhaps in their desire to be good members of the theatre. Several more follow, in a messy Mexican Wave manner. Finally, the remaining few who wish to not hurt the troupe’s sensitive emotions, or disbalance the sensibilities of the discerning crowd, rise. And what you have is The Semi-Standing Ovation.
Of course, there are instances when the phantom of the theatre erases such scarce grit and compels even the yawner/ grinner/ indifferent onlooker to stand in shared social grace.
And then there are the real ones. These are so far and few in between that it’s hard to predict their arrivals. But they’re pretty amazing. A whole hall full of faces that you instinctively know have loved every moment can be a real turn on. Even being a part of The Real Standing Ovation is a kick in itself.
One thing though, in a city like Bombay for instance, sometimes the desire to encourage fresh talent or surprisingly good work that seems sporadic, instills a commendable spirit of appreciation in lovers of the theatre. Enough to make them rise in true support.

There is an actor that I admire greatly. And it so happened that my time and purpose in Bombay allowed me to gaze worshipfully around him every day. I finally did manage to muster up enough coherence to go and gush to him about his work. Without making most of the intellectual points or questions I had debated for so long. It was still, A Moment. Sigh.

Hunger, I have discovered, is an ideology. One that I will have to live with and appreciate all my life. I’ve discovered the best way to combat my sweet jaw. Just give in to craving and its complete slavery. Not literally, as that would spontaneously combust all monetary incomes. But in spirit. There’s a certain sadistic pleasure in staring at a cheesecake or a jalebi, or chocolate and wanting it, yet not willing yourself to not want it. You cant have it, but lust, I’ve discovered, comes a close second to actual realization.

Well-wishers are only allowed to buy me flowers and books. Nothing edible, with cinnamon, apples or any such provocations. Gelato is fantastic.

What does one do with a friend that can’t see? How scared he is. And how running away doesn’t help. And what do I do with my idiot self that won’t give up or allow peace when I see too much. Why can’t I just let it be? Things would be easier for him.

Superstar has become an adorable alcoholic. Scotch bottles line his conscience.

Heh heh heh...i'm gonna make you famous!!!!!!!

Severely talented artist.

Also owns a restaurant.

Enfield-riding, maverick type.

Warm, fuzzy heart.

Single.



(People should hire me for this stuff)

Damage

Sometime last year, a friend told me her marriage was in trouble. Now, I don’t know much about marriages but I do know that when it gets to a point where you feel like a lesser person and worse, look the same, it certainly could be time to leave.
We’re close, but it’s really her cousin that’s closer. So when she simply talked about what living with someone who didn’t seem to like her much anymore, was, I mostly offered an ear and stayed out of the advice department.
At the time, she also had a little person in tow who seemed to adore his Daddy. The kid was adored right back, I was told. So, I figure, two people with a child in common and who must have liked something about each other at some point, had a fair chance at making it work.
Turns out it didn’t work. Turns out, that verbal abuse, when administered slowly, and over a period of time, works as well as any form of poison. Turns out that this particular brand of abuse is equivalent to any physical damage inflicted and the shape of the scars involved, bear a curious resemblance to each other.
I think that over time, as I heard her out and listened to accounts of what she was going through from other sources, what happened was that I began taking a stance. For me, the issue became less about what the problem was and much more about what she refused to do about it. There lies a curious devil inside some of us, who torments us into believing in false sanctities and instills a consuming fear of external animosities. External animosities and something else. Something completely separated from logic or sanity. A fear that seems to be completely against telling it like it is. A fear that fears truth and freedom. Or views it as selfish.
And that’s just her. Then there is her family, who, after witnessing eight years of the same bullshit, still want her to “work things out”. They cant bear the thought of a divorce and it’s impending doom on their cultural castles. Instead, they insinuate the effect that single parenting will have on a child and seem to liken it to being visually or otherwise impaired.
Okay, I think I’m a little prejudiced. Happiness and ensuring it has almost been a vital organ for me. They’re nice people, and they really love her. There are few parents that feel that much. Whether it’s sharing joy or sorrow, these guys want to do it all, all the time. That’s a good thing most of the time. Sometimes, it can get claustrophobic, if their other children are to be believed. But in my friend’s case, it’s about a life lived for two extra people. Any decision made affects them and their health issues so deeply, that it cannot, at any cost, be an independent one. So she’s reached a stage where she can’t take any.
Dissolution is something she’s been brought to the brink of, every other day. To put it plainly, she’d probably be single if it weren’t for the guilt of what she’s supposedly doing to her son and parents. If it weren’t so sad, it would be laughable that her family want to know, understand and patiently justify what makes her husband irrational enough to not be able to keep a job, treat his wife so badly and be irresponsible with regard to the kid. They haven’t been able to bring themselves to actually talk to him and demand to know why he’s being so rotten to their daughter. Incidentally, she’s the earner in the family. Other little trivia include the fact that he’s plainly suggested she leave (which in my opinion is makes him the most coherent of the lot) and that he makes the financial decisions. It’s interesting to not be able to buy the pants and yet wear them.
This is where I come in. A year down the line, I’ve told her siblings and cousin what I think. And I tend to not be the well phrased, understanding type when I get outraged. To me, they were not just not supporting any decision she could make, but actually forcing a life of unhappiness and more medication on her. She’s hardly over the hill, she’s attractive, smart and can have a great life, single or with a man who can make her happy, if she so wishes.
About the child, I grew up with parents who are terrible together and much happier and better people apart. I was hardly deprived being parented by a dad who taught me Abba and not nursery rhymes, because he knew so few. And he became the foundation of my life. This, in my case, mostly worked great. Example apart, what child would not be healthier in a peaceful home rather than a violent one?
Would it be different if she were male? Are we, as urban Indian women, as victimized as some of our rural counterparts?
I’m so tired of nothing ever happening.

Happy New Year Bloggers!

Sigh....

I spent new years being ill and germ infested..

Will put up pictures soon. They're...entertaining I think..

I want to never be sick.

Sniff.