Sunday, January 22, 2006

My Muse. . . My IBN

Ever since I can remember, this pen has always wanted to write. Without intention, words have somehow always flowed out of the nib. Always have waited for the muse to arrive. Just like a dusky woman waiting at the threshold of her mud made house for her man to walk home through the green fields and carry home the smells that fill her home and she wakes up next to each day. The breeze lifts her dust swept skirts and dupatta and her silver anklets tinkle with the song of waiting. The wind carries the sweet smell of her land labourer's sweat... a day spent in hard toil. And she waits, as the handi on the pire smells of burnt rice and charcoal.

Kuchh aisi hi halaat hain hamare, ke kuch mudat ke baad hamri gharhi bhi aaye when my muse walks home to me and stings me with the sweet poison of chanting. . .

In the meantime, my muse wears itself around my neck each day, as I walk through the techno-coloured,neatly cubicle packaged, smelling of microchips and Breaking News blue and red cubicles of the IBN office.Love the tag, 'Intern.' Feel like a Geek at the Mart where news is traded. My tool, my keyborad. My PR, my smile. My work, my monitor. My ideas, my editing skills. My idealism, my script. My reward, my 30 sec of fame on the channel. Looking forward to another 7am to 9pm shift. Pampering my muse. Trying to squeeze it of every juice of promise, as I leave it behind in the not so distant future. Letting it rape my sanity for a bit.. After all, its just 30 days. And all is not lost yet. I have miles to go before I sleep. Till then, open me to cage of the Gir Lions, entrap me in the Bofors with Quattrochi, let me bowl to Sachin, watch and write what makes Gowda weep, watch in awe as Rahul Gandhi grows up to power. . . blah, blah, blah, blah......

Sunday, January 15, 2006

Attaining Knighthood

I haven’t been around long. And as does happen in huge metropolis, I don’t quite know my mohalla and the by-lanes. Quite a bit like the roads that lead in and out of the neuron cells mapped in the cerebrum. One-week in the city, and this small pawn in the Mass Media Industry, is still trying to caper with the khakhi garb and the pen, paper and looking for that perfect takia kalaam. (they all speak of having one). I have been knighted. Yes! The royals have armed me with the perfect armour to wage wars of the society. Deliver them with the news they need and want. Inform, Acquaint,Guide, Inspire and most of all ENTERTAIN. Of course, this ain't no carnivale. It takes a whole lot of content and quality at that to sell news each day. But even the Russian clowns found a fancy in Raj Kapoor to make him showman of the century. And Robbie Williams blantantly spoke the truth out, in a black and white frame, 'coloured' pajamas and painted face to yell out an invite (Let me Entertain you!)

Media Visit week taught a lot. Broke inhibitions and confirmed notions.. Inspired all over again. Heart broken too. Impressed, but dissapointed too.

Government Media houses, private organisations, trusts, production units, idealistic newsletters, stung media jisne 'Tehalka' macha diya hai too.... And then P Chidambram whizzes past. All with the Houses of Parliament spreading their red and green carpets to annoint one with the hesitant patriotism of India.

"They make the decions affecting us in this room," she points out
"which smells English," I thought to myself as the chestnut wooden and carpeted Victorian legacy of the Raj
hits you with a walk into the Lok Sabha and the Rajya Sabha. The view gave way to a sense of belonging as I ended up scrutinising the Sabha from the very spot Bhagat Singh threw a bomb in the Parliament. "And that madam is the pillar he destroyed," he smiled with a sense of quaint pride, directing my wobbly finger to the parabolic path tracing the bomb line and in this case a time line for me

Exquiste. Exquisitely divine feeling.

Indian Media . . . very poetic.

And Monday morning, the knight wears her armour and marches onto her first day reporting in the Capital.

Saint Joan??? A heretic, a saint, a child, a rebel, a soldier........................... Not that brave. Im just a pen!!!!

Thursday, January 05, 2006

Conversations with a Rock

I knock at the door of the rock.
"Its me, let me in.
I want to enter your interior,
have look around,
take you in like breath"

"Go away," says the rock,
"I am shut tight.
Even broken to bits
we would be shut tight.
Even ground in sand
we would not let anyone in."

I knock at the door of the rock.
"Its me, let me in.
I come out of sheer curiosity.
Life is my only chance.
I plan on wandering through your palace,
and then touring the leaf and water droplet.
I don't have too much time for all this
My morality ought to move you."

"I'm a rock," says the rock.
"I can’t help but be grave.
Go away.
I lack the muscles for laughing."

I knock at the door of the rock.
"Its me, let me in.
I've heard there are vast, empty rooms inside you,
unseen, beautiful in vain,
mute, devoid of the echo of footsteps.
Admit it, you don't know much about any of this."

"Vast, empty rooms," says the rock,
"but there is no room in them.
Beautiful maybe, but not suited to the taste
Of your meagre senses.
You may get to know me, but you will never know me.
I turn my whole surface to you,
and turn my entire interior away."

I knock at the door of the rock.
"Its me, let me in.
I m not seeking shelter for eternity.
I m not unhappy.
I m not homeless.
My world is worth returning to.
Ill enter and leave empty-handed.
And as evidence that I was truly present
Ill offer nothing but words,
which no one will believe."

"You will not be coming in," says the rock.
"You lack a sense of partaking.
None of your senses can make up for the sense of partaking.
Even sight, sharpened to omnividence,
will get you nowhere without a sense of partaking.
You will not be coming in. You have but a scent of this sense,
merely its seed, imagination."

I knock at the door of the rock.
"Its m e, let me in.
I can't wait two thousand centuries
to come in under your roof."

"If you don't believe me," says the rock,
"or go to the leaf, you'll hear the same thing.
Or to the water droplet; it'll say the same.
Finally, ask a hair from your own head.
I am bursting with laughter, laughter, giant laughter
though I don't know how to laugh."

I knock at the door of the rock
"Its me, let me in."

"I don’t have a door," says the rock. . .