Who Am I?

I am a moment
now ‘n gone.
I am a faint memory
of days begone.

I am a dew-drop
fallen ‘n slipped.
I am a desire
arousen ‘n killed.

I am a flower
blossomed ‘n crushed.
I am a secret
shared ‘n hushed.

I am a heart-beat
skipped ‘n stopped.
I am a dream
dreamt ‘n hoped.

I am love
blooming ‘n strained.
I am a body
dimming ‘n slain.

I am a vision
clean ‘n blurring.
I am lust
coaxing ‘n slurring.

I am a memory
slipping ‘n fading!!!

Ik koshish.........

Soch-Samundar dub jaavan layee,
chote nahi hunde.
Katra katra karke bhijde,
roz mari jayeeye.

Pata nahi kyon tupka tupka,
aa tarsaunda hai.
jee karda hai deek laga ke,
katha pee jayeeye.

Pyas inni vi kee hoyee,
jo bujhdi na jaape.
bujh jaave je kite achanak,
maut nu jee jayeeye.

Mehak fullan ne sambh na rakhi,
aap hi vand dende.
jeeyondeyaan wich shamil hoyeeye,
je inj karee jayeeye.

Deep nahi koi roshan hunda,
laat mamuli ton.
aap hi bal ke shayad,
kise nu zindagi dayee jayeeye.

sorry pretentions

unless of course, you're willing to cut the crap and talk sense to me and not just because I'm a journalist and you're more concerned about making an impression on me.

Contemplating

In the past 14 days,

I've spent 43 hours working out (and lost appropriately too).....

35 hours studying (or trying to)......

15 hours covering music orchestartions (not concerts, western classical black

tie...wine and cheese kinds)......

5 hours eating out (for the food page of course)......

2 hours compiling foreword for Masi's Anthology of verses(long

overdue)......

10 hours screening and editing movies for friends......

26 hours designing bridal shower for close friends' sister......

and the remaining hours fornicating with my new laptop and devicing the new script (as my boyfriend prefers to put it)......

But the biggest is yet to come. . .

My book of Revelations

Being here, at this moment ........ is a volte face.
A pandemonic trance.

Call it sudden adrenalin rush. The two hours spent sweating it out. The sudden momentum of too much knowledge grasping (two units per hour...) The surreal weddings of close friends. Or the sudden apprehension of meeting the PMS beast around the corner......... its just one of those times when you recount the grains that have fallen in the hour glass, against your lifespan.

And the beat slips. I'm one score and three and these years have brought in those inevitable realisations. I may not have it all figured out, but there are some things I know for sure......

that life is the answer to your birth and need not be questioned...
that half of the problems and miseries are self generated...
that a positive attitude always helps...
that regret is the most expensive thing...
that its high time I take my own decisions and stick to them, even if tides are against it...
that one starts to value life the moment one sees death...
that tears are inevitable if faced by violence of any kind...
that if the same tears hadn't been shed behind closed doors, I would'nt have been that better now...
that pain needs to tackled or it travles deep down and rests forever...
that its extremely difficult to forgive and forget and it takes just two seconds to snap off and act detached...
that its easier to smile and convenient to frown...
that the bank of emotions is always half empty and never full...
that love hurts but its worth it...
that people will awlays be reckless with our hearts, but we still let them play...
that the expected never ever happens...
that because the unexpected happens, hope floats and belief grows stronger...
that nothing and nobody can really ever be perfect...
that boneheads seldom comprehend...
that no matter how hard you try, you can never walk straight, because roads are always curved either in the middle or at the ends...
that because they are never straight, we keep looking for curves and don't stop till we do...
that cavities hurt as they are bound to do, but we costantly peer further in them...
that the end is near, as has been since the first we were aware of it...
that in our haste of finishing everything before the end, we hasten it each day...
that each day in life is more precious than the last...
that it has more imagination than what we see in our dreams...
that the simplest gifts come straight from the heart with a lifetime guarantee...
that life is like a blind date, sometimes you just have to have a little faith...

The Apprentice

June 30, 2005 (I remember the date. coz it was me last day there)
Small envelope with even smaller cutouts containing contact details for some scheming jobs… pasted on a lampost bang outside Globus, Bandra. Had a laugh.

Cut to April, 2006, Return of the same envelope. Friends called and sent picture of the same damn thing..........

Employment Raped or what???

children of heaven

Some movies one can't get enough of. A yearning for the frames to keep rolling onto the screen again and again. The maths somehow all work out then. A foot of film has 16 separate images; a second in time, of sound and image has 24; an average feature with synchronised sound has 200,000 images. And sometimes, these images remain etched in the memory and conjure themselves into perfect packages on an idle rain soaked, light deprived Indian afternoon and refuse to leave. Each second lasts an eternity. An eternity of remembrance by the end of which a light hearted glow rests, the same after a passionate night.

I still remember, that rainy July evening, back home in Matunga a season ago. Soaked and arriving back tired from a mentally exhausting day at work. (fevicol fevicol fevicol……..was all I could think!) and cramps in my legs. (not from walking, but skateboarding right into those calves in office again! No fevicol still didn’t work)

And something strangely familiar on the screen warmed me to it immediately. “It’s an Iranian film. Come sit. You’ll enjoy it,” Vicky Mamu invited. And yes, heart warming it was. I still curse myself for not having carried a copy, every time I relive those 89 mins of pure cinematic scopic genius (1:8:1 ) Children of Heaven, written in farsi greeted me with warmth and those broken glasses…………. Couldn’t quiet read those subtitles. Yet cinema spoke to me that rainy evening and I sat glued to my chair. Giggling like a school girl, hugging myself, that heavy feeling welling up the throat at the climax. The movie was pure pleasure.

The story of two siblings, Ali and Zahra. A simple story told simply: a nine-year old Iranian boy accidentally loses his younger sister’s shoes. Their family is poor and probably couldn’t afford new ones, so instead of getting into trouble, the siblings concoct a plan: they’ll share the boy’s pair of sneakers.

The scheme backfires when the boy becomes chronically late for school and is targeted by the headmaster. Ali, a desolate-looking boy with huge brown eyes and a way of sending tears suddenly rolling down his cheeks. As guileless as possible, even when the film contrives to turn the shoe issue into its main dramatic focus, Ali and Zahra meet secretly in the middle of each school day to pass along the sneakers, but that proves to be no solution. Zahra is hampered by ill-fitting shoes at the rigorous girls' school that she attends. And Ali, against all odds, determines to run a long-distance race and win the third-place prize of running shoes for Zahra. But the spirited boy comes first and is forcibly handed the first prize as he keeps on eyeing those pretty shoes that are perfect for Zahra. The peeling pictures, the morose disgust, the apprehension of disappointment drives Ali home alone, with the free trip prize falling out of his pocket and the cup heaving heavily on his frame shifting his weight towards the cup.

And Zahra washing utensils and blowing soap bubbles, awaits her pretty pink shoes and sees Ali’s worn out, torn look and the same torn shoes they share together………..Zahra goes back to her washing and Ali soaks his feet in the pond with little red fish circling his ulcerate feet. A melancholic alto viola fills the square with the sound of a harmonica and Ali’s father walks home with two new shoes.


I still remember watching the credits scroll out of the screen, and Vicky Mamu telling me, “If I had kids, Id make them sit down and watch this movie again and again.” I knew exactly what he meant. It was a call home to mum, which explained it all…………..

A letter

Hey people,

I need to know your firsts. Share those secret memories that youve held for so long. Your first memorable experiences.... Lets not lie, we all jump with joy and gleefully gaze at all our firsts.

Open that treasure box and show me what's inside.

All you musicians............tell me what you heard the first twang that greeted those tuned into ears.
All you performers.........tell me what greeted thee the first time you met the mask you had to adorn.
All you writters..............show me the first cuvers that you scribbled onto those yellowing sheets..
All you players..............make me too sweat it out through your first goal through the post..
All you seers................show me too that foresighted gaze the first time you looked through those new frames..
All you movie-makers..................show me what you saw the first time you look through that (un)familiar iris...
All you exploreres................narrate me that first voyage away from home......
All you people.................tell me the first passionate night, the first lip-lock, the first gaze through souls desired, the first nookie, the first time you tied your shoelases on your own, the first time he smiled your way, the first time she brushed her fingers through those blushing cheeks, the first slip, the first fall, the first jump, the first goof-up, the first test, the first breath, the first wasp bite, the first snake bite, the first dog bite or hey even the first bro - sis bite.

Talk to me ..... Enchant me.... Enlighten me..... I love to listen what makes your world a bit like Neverland.........

Bated breath....

Settling old debts . . .

When did I first meet Gandhi??

It just suddenly struck me, while I was compiling notes for history. Gandhi as a journlaist.....

"When was it that I first met Mahatma?" Was it at a school function? A history lesson in class? A passing mention in a politicians campaign speech? Or did I question the identity of the bald man present on every currency I used to buy my chocolates? My memory fails me and like many others I don't remember my first meeting with Mahatma.

But whichever way I met him; this man left a lasting impression. In my quest to know him better I found out that clad in a dhoti, with the support of a lathi and armed with truth and non-violence my Mahatma, 'Mohan Das Karam Chand Gandhi'; for official records had led our way through the dark forests of slavery.

During my many more meetings with this man through 'his experiments with truth' and his journey 'from Gandhi to Mahatma', I realized that he was an apostle of truth, peace and non-violence.

Today this most celebrated citizen of India suffers from an identity crisis. Do we remember the freedom fighter... the lawyer... Bapu... the nanga fakir... the mahatma...the philanthropist... the father of the nation? How do we recognize him? Or do we recognize him at all?

While writing about Gandhi, I hate to lie. I have forgotten my Mahatma and his teachings. I vote for caste, kill for religion and worship fanatism. I create truths; structure lies and believes that the only way of survival is "an eye for an eye". I'm helpless. I can only silently watch my Mahatma die.

Its not just his ways, I fear soon Gandhi will be ousted. Sponged off our present! What'll remain may be is his feeble presence in history.

Gandhi's Gujarat burns in a communal fury, Jessica cries for justice, diplomats chalk out war plans, and soldier kills his fellowman. Morality is publicly raped and my nation weeps Gandhi's death in as many different ways.
A candlelight protest to throw light on injustice... a hunger strike to save hundreds of lives ... I resurrect from my Mahatma's ashes... the phoenix of a nation on the rise!

The Butterfly effect!!