Newsroom Action...

It may sound weird but I think in many ways journalism is like an adventure sport. Obviously by saying this I don't intend to undermine the seriousness of the profession in any way but just the pace and unpredictability of what lies ahead makes it addictive.

If you've been in the newsroom when there's breaking news, you'll know what I'm talking about.

And not just breaking news, there's a deadline that needs to be met every hour. The pressure, the urgency and the desire to put out the best in as little time as possible. It's like the night before your exam when you can't afford to waste a second. When you drug yourself with caffeine and curse the university board for making the paper so tough. But as you're doing that you're also loving every second of it.
Only in the newsroom there's an exam every hour and the entire team runs around to make sure we pull it off. Just like these last two weeks.

Session's ending and so is the backlog of work suddenly piling up. There's the term paper due in a week. The documentary waiting to be cut on the editing board. The freaky assessmnets everyday. Presentations, tests, project reports..........Argh! If there was such a thing as endless waiting; Im begining to understand the meaning now. But as they say, you do actually tend to work better under pressure and its this thrill of an escapade that is so stimulating. Suddenly, I want to get hold of all those books I never really got down to reading. Just a walk to the bookstore around the corner, or as in this case the 'deadline around the corner!''

I remember my exit interview with Piyush Pandey, the National Creative Director of Ogivy, Mumbai almost a year ago. I had actually gone in to get my work analysed, when he ended up counseling me, with me all looking excited and all. Of course! its the brain behind Fevicol, Cadbury's, Happy Dent White, HT. I had to be jumping out of my mind. (was already doing loops in my head.) Anyway, he'd asked me really passionately 'so does media give you a buzzzz?' I obviously didn't know what the f**k he was talking about but I'd said 'yesss' like it was the only thing that ever mattered to me. If he'd asked me if I preferred a chocolate brownie to a 'sheermaal' god knows I would have said yes with equal conviction. But really today I know what the poor freak was talking about.

If you've worked in media once, you're spoilt for life; because there's nothing else you'll ever enjoy doing.

The Gods must've been playing Holi in the Sky

A play of colours on a placid morning.
A ray of sunshine splitting through the morning sky.
A gust of torrential rain sweeping the blues, greens, pinks and purples.
A shiver of ice running down with each tear of the Heavens.

A breath of the stormy seas waving the skyline.
A sound of thunder cracking the reef of the clouds.
A particle of spectrum bleeding through the air-
traveled through the known to the unknown.

A hiss of the rubber skidding off the tar.
A trail of white gripping the path.
A hue of white frost garnishing rosy skin tarts.

Then suddenly
A rageful spark of warmth in the air.
A hum of sunshine splits midday again.
A puddle of water is all that remains
A melted platoon of little white dots in the fields -
scattered everywhere...

To think its March 2006
And have played Holi on the virgin Kasauli Hills.

Pue Bliss!!

The day The God's coloured the Earth white and then green. . . . .

Scoff

What music is this?
That you keep playing inside your mouth.
Ever so quietly that I can't catch the tune.

What sport is this?
That you follow between the branches and adrift eyes.
Like the winner is somehow superior.

What literature is this?
That you fire behind doors of dignity.
If the only literate were you.

What plot is this?
That playeth hide-n-seek like a weasel.
Only thorns are inevitable.

HOLI

The best thing about painting when your canvas is human is that the dirtier your canvas, the better artist you are. And ofcourse, it goes without saying that if you’re not the best artist, you’re the dirtiest canvas!

Holi-day 2006, my firts splash in colour. and it was fun!!!

A complete kaliedescope...... and I enjoyed every bit of it.......

Would I try it again??? Can't wait to...

And the best part it rained.... The Heavens parted, shed tears, washed away my inhibitions and fears..............

Soaked me in colour. Smudged the fine grey lines of black and white I try so hard to carve into myself.

Techicolour existence against a backdrop of a gloomy sky.....

Poetic? not quite.............Its all real

Nostaligia

Re-reading the words
resting in the first few pages
took me back to when
my days spiraled around you.

Unfolding an old cloth
memories flew out like dust
that gather over time
that nobody particularly put there,
along the creases of time,
in the deepest folds of life.

Two lines of nothingness
a stationary moment
short silences, long walks
strumming guitar
on a cold January night
praying, promising, pizzaing,
mulling, musing, musicing.

I gather my words, memories, dust
safekeeping a time
I hold very, very dear.

I'm a proud mommy...........My human is a nut case.

Ruff Ruff... Grrrrrrrrr.... See my Human, Got her wrapped around me. She my bacon.............

For easy human handling counselling, contact Rusty Bhatti.................

How can you not love him. My mufassa turns 5 today. And yes, he has me wrapped around his pinky. weatherd many storms with me. Been by my side in pain and glee. Slept with me on lonesome nights. Licked my wounds, healed me with affection. Still greets me with whines the moment my wheels hit the driveway. My chocolate brown mutt. The cente of my existence......

Blank verse

end these days quick like a song without a fade.

stop the music. i don't want to live.

unplug the amplifiers. cuz no one listens.

delete the chorus.

i can't sing it anymore.

lonesome as a single small

boat all alone on the vast oceans.

hopeless as the last leaf in autumn

when all the rest have already fallen.

don't catch me.

don't rake me up.

just wait for the first snowfall

to bury.

Silent Departure.

Don't let go...
Don't leave me alone...
Don't let me trip...
Take my hand...
Don't let it slip...
Grab on tight...
Hear my whisper...
My silent call for desperation...

For all my mute cries you were always there.

20 seasons of spring we spent.

Then one day..
Distorted music from the forbidden room...

Window panes come crashing down
Amidst the tears and pain
Vanishing hopes flying away.
Up above through twilight
Shadows cast across the floor
Reflections of the past
Trembling thoughts of one
Dwelling deep within the soul
A mystical sense of reality
Captured by the craze
All in bewilderment
Of the shock in the wave
Creatures of the dimness
Chattering amongst the green
Everything slows in stillness

In a flicker of an eyelid..
reality had changed

You were gone.
Leaving my hand in mine......

Its never easy to lose a friend............

Live Commentary from the Purana Qila

So much drama, so much hype!! Yes PRESIDENT BUSH was here...But no the world didn't stop for a minute, let alone a day. He didn't have the good sense to do any sightseeing (who wants to see that old marble tomb in Agra anyway, right?) Well, we'll just wait and see if he's more "chivalrous" to the First Lady the next time round, as the PM seems to hope.

But we totally lost sight of the bush for the trees here. The protests were all well and good - I'm all for freedom of speech, of course. But the posturing, the posing, the arundhati roy syndrome (wow that woman! I mean, yes she won the Booker, yes she's pretty and articulate and writes beautifully, but how many causes and bandwagons do you jump on before someone comes along and calls you out as a...dare i say it...pseudo!!)

Or is this just a case of sour grapes as a friend and history type seems to think. That you grow so complacent in your inertia that you find fault with anyone trying to do, well anything...

So what did these protests achieve? Jack. They got the media attention for sure and the protestors who knew what they were up to (like DUTA and some of the kids) did satisfy their consciences, and maybe even their bloodlust, but what of the political angle? How many points did the Left and the SP prove? Dragging in villagers by the thousands... And an all-Muslim rally? Puh-leez, like you believe that Bush is the enemy of Islam. Let's not be naive here...gun lobby, check, oil lobby check, and the Jewish lobby, check check, but if the good ol' President and other gora leaders can find any moderate Islamic types ESPECIALLY at this point, they're more than happy to jump in (for the image of it, at the very least)

But I'm digressing. What was disappointing was that there were no Bushisms! Not one was picked up. C'mon mr president! Laura Bush did her first bleeding heart lady bit. But unfortunatley, other than that (and the N-deal, which has been hammered home to all of us, is a REALLY BIG DEAL) he didn't really leave us with much.
The image that will stay with me is the incongruous one of a sign saying 'Bush is a bastard'...the camera pans down to the girl holding the sign, barely like 7 years old or something. Give me a break.

I do think the Iraq invasion was truly appalling and let's not even get to Afghanistan or Gitmo or the human rights violations the US (not just the Bush administration mind you!) is responsible for...

But the fake plastic-ness of the whole organised protest endeavour (except maybe the passionate students calling bush a terrorist and criminal, spouting the same tired old insults) well, for the most part, it just made me feel really old, really jaded.

But that's the beauty of the freedom of speech...you're free to protest and I'm free to protest your protest. Ad nauseam. But mind you if you were genuinely protesting, with some amount of conviction, more power to you, I say. The rest of y'all get carried away way too easily.

Get it boy!

But I have my Biatches and Im Happy.... So piss off!!!

Hazzaron Khwaishein Aisi....

To think it is a piano

and we,

creators of a silent music

We – you & I.

Not yours not mine

ours alone

Woebegone

pastover evening tea

Laughable – un

Timorous lips

Verbose, sore and

then sealed

Bread for a hungry stomach

Not even sympathy for an empty soul

Unjust? Who?

Drop-dripper

Patter-pitter

The roof leaks

and the skyof the stars

Brush my hair

and plait them.

A string of little, white flowers

Make tea

make memories

make stars shoot

make love

Fall in – fit out

Write down – rise up

Finger dance

alternate together

a little music

of silent fame

bas ek ilteja (just one request)

Ink: Incomplete verse

My ethcy pen leaks and lies.
My scrawny fingers scribble random lines.

Naked, raw visions flood my mind.
Broken steel strings pierce, bleed and grind.

My skin cracks, my body wreaths in pain.
My cries hit silent walls and torture me all in vain.

A headless gear - the world adorns.

On pins 'n needles my frame is all borne.

Visions flood the mind the night
As the ink floods the self's might. . .

Guitl-Edged Metro

I know I am lucky to have lived and worked in Delhi - since when I was a child, my mother, a Punjabi to the core moved to Chandigarh and pushed her only daughter into the Media industry(I still don't know whether that has changed to P-u-najbi or P-a-njabi).
Anyway to get back to my mother of western Indian origin (no that sounds wrong too)- Anyway my mother always told us that the streets of Delhi were paved by money from the Punjabi labourer and Bombay taxpayer.
She had a point.
After all, New Delhi has always been this oasis of wide avenues, lush green roundabouts (well sort of!), well painted street signs, and of course the lovely gracious homes built by Lutyens, et al. Agreed its no comparrison to the wealthily adorned forts of Patiala, where my mom spent the netter part of her childhood hugged in royal robes and pampered by smells of sarson. Or for that matter our sprawling little mansion in Chandigarh, where parks are green and roads are wide. But adding to this her theory that people in Delhi don't work half as hard as their cousins in India's business capital- and my guilt was complete.
My guilt has grown over the years- not the least because as I traveled more around the country I realised just how privileged New Delhi is compared to every other part of the country. My emotions on the subject had grown to proportions that compared with post world war II German guilt or post colonial British guilt.... you get the point.
As a result I have never really enjoyed looking at India Gate lawns, or the Purana Quila boat club, or music concerts in Nehru Park without thinking its a bit unfair that we get them, while there in Mumbai people are slaving away just to make sure all our main streets are well lit, and all our footpaths well paved or the land labourer in Patiala who inherits debts yet gives India the wealthiest produce.
So you can just imagine my agony when I first took a ride on the Delhi metro- this was certainly something Mumbai doesn't have. In fact I think the man who built the Delhi metro E.Sreedharan has only got to the proposal stage in Mumbai. I believe the project is stuck waiting for the central government to approve the funding (yuck more guilt...)
But that metro ride changed something for me. As I walked down the well-polished granite steps - I had to clutch the shiny steel banisters as I reeled at the grandeur and cleanliness of the metro station. Organised queues at the ticket counters, escalators that worked smoothly, metro staff that were kind and polite, seats that weren't broken, and trains that arrived with alarming precision.
This was clearly a whole new kind of Delhi privilege (okay I know Kolkattans have had one for years). This was the kind of privilege that brings on raw, naked, unabashed greed. I don't really care if no one else get this- this metro is mine mine all mine......
So eat your heart out Mulund and Ghatkopar, and hop in your cabs old Malabar Hill and Nariman Point- use your suburban trains Bandra and Kurla- It's Delhi that has this dream machine of underground luxury.
And I am sick of listening to people tell us how Delhi is such a dump- an overgrown village of boors, where nobody obeys the law and everyone uses wasta (or pull- "don't you know who I am"). To all those Mumbaiites, Bengaloooruans, Kolkattans,Chenn-aiyoiites etc etc- Who crib, I say- Mere paas metro hai.
And about Chandigarh, with its big snooty Texan attitude that is so easy to fall in sync with and escape from the working and metro, as my mom always say the land of hariyan hariyan chadiyan and chitiyan chitiyan daariyan. Leave your clean open wide spaces behind, for I have 30 sec of fame and peace in the subway.
The Delhi metro has finally released me from my metro guilt- and unleashed the selfish greedy Delhi beast in me.
P.S. But my fellow Cosmos need not feel too bad- as I exited the metro at Chawri Bazaar to make my way through the bustling bazaars of old Delhi- I hit the pavement with the crashing reality that the privileges of New Delhi don't extend to people even a kilometre outside the pristine capital area. Then again bet they don't pay as much in taxes :)

Water, water everywhere. . .

To my left were a thousand yachts anchored along the beach and to my right countless French boulevard cafes. We walked, ate, played ball and made merry. Late at night we escaped the smoky, Mexican party and sat at the waterfront looking at sprinkling lights draped on lighthouses, that France has put up everywhere as Paris contends to be the Olympic venue in 2012. We quickly summed the length and breadth and heights and depths of our countries for each other and wondered where we’d be seven years hence. Thousands of folded sails swayed in the night breeze, hitting against their masts, creating an euphonious rhythm that sounded like spill-overs from another beach, another world.

The next morning we visited the Aquarium. The colours, the texture, the size, the camouflage, the life and being, of ten thousand aquatic fauna and floral specimens from oceans all across was a strangely humbling half-experience of the day. The other half came when we took a boat to travel twenty kilometers in the sea to see Fort Boyard, an old prison now used for treasure-hunting television game shows during summers. Water water everywhere …. recounting tales of adventures on the sea, some real and some almost so. One felt so small against the magnanimity of life.

To be able to shake the albatross off and sail out in the unknown in search of a new land … aye! aye!

That was nearly two years ago, but this time the swim around (un)familiar bays was strangely nostalgic.

The journey to finding nemo in the next post . . .

walk-in-walk-out

My winter internship concludes today.I might never come back to this office again, never use this keyboard with the unsteady grip key, or stare outside these dusty bay windows after an elusive thought, or dip into these sights, sounds, smells, people who are constantly trying to infuse madness into method.Watch hours of raw footage and talk sequence into the mindless jabberings of celebs and pseudo-celebs.

Yet, the feeling is neutral. No sense of an ending or a subsequent beginning. A comfortable detachment. Like walking around the rooms of an abandoned house all night because a rain-storm wouldn't let leave and as the day dawns, tie your scarf and walk out.

Yet I feel an awekening. A charged soul and charred lungs too. Will miss the electricity everytime India lost a wicket or the claps when Daya Nayak walked behind bars. The screaming idealsim of the boss. The excitement, the energy, the enthusiasm. The nights and days spent perfecting the scripts and patching the shots. The lil call, 'Hey! lets catch a smoke and talk of whats wrong and right with the nation...'

The muse has left the building. Yet there is no sense of loss, but of hope to return to the fortress again. This time as a conquered victor, a warrior who braved it all. Wondering if Im the branded journalist yet!!!

My Fair Lady ??

Its been a month of soul-searching, and a lot of sole searching as well!!

Massive deflation of inflated ego (quite painfully might I add!)

Whole lot of accidents (physically too!) But most of all a massive learning experience.

It really is something to live on your own and try and be grown up about it. I mean, come on, for all the goodness in this world at least I can now safely say I've had my share of it, for now begins the negating of the goodness. Why I just came out of my small litlle fairyland (quite a bit like Neverland actually. Even Narnia couldn't possibly top up this one!) and when reality hits, man it hits with a bang.

Wu-hu. . . quite metaphorically speaking, its no devil's playground either. And of course no walk in the clouds. Its just a plain yellow-brick road (with all aplogies to Sir Elton John) And I dont wanna bore ye all with another rambling of what life is and isn't and all sorts of bull. And I don't want this to be one of the most brilliant sentences ever sticthed together on how I, the Queen of the World (my reality of my self is quite conceitedly arrogant. Ouch!!!) fell out of the wardrobe on the other side and realised no body gave two hoots about Her Highness or should I say My Highness. (again with all aplogies to the Chronicles of Narnia!) "Bollocks!" I thought to myself. "This shit stinks bad."

And what does the Queen do when her claim to power is threatened. Why she screams, and cribs and cries and yells and nags and throws her weight around ... (and ironically, she has been so well endowed in that particular beefy department, if y'all know what I mean.) But that made things not just difficult, quite funny as well. Why here's an example...

The day I went out to air myself on national television screaming about child molestation, I nearly got molested myself (and no way could this be a childish one! Oh! and we were not gonna play hide and seek or roll the monkey either).
{- Exhibit A

And the one day I atually got some work to do, tripped on my twinkle-toes, broke the microphone which slipped through my butter fingers (imagine ruining my own mouthpiece when I can scream the house down.)

Suddenly I had no voice. No ear to throw my sounds upon. Wow! now that was some reality-check. Looked like God put a silencer on those vocal chords. Got pushed around, thrown about, knocked my head around the place. The day Delhi made a ping-pong ball out of me.....

But hey what the heck, maybe one day I'll win my deuce and pocket my advantage over this urban swamp on like millions of sons of Adam and Eve (I have got to get over the Narnia hangover) Still no Aslan awaits my aid. No white witch feels threatened by my presence and I still have the 70mm celluloid to capture. God dammit, I don't even have my Gun. Talk about being a big gun...sheesh! The world won't come crumbling down with my rage. (atleast the Greek Gods had that to glaot about!)

Nope! I aint no Goddess. No shocking sheeba. No enchanting princess of my own wood. No smokes will smut the city on my funeral pire. No wolves will howl my death. I won't be no noble sacrifice. Still I will be somebody. And I will be an asset to somebody. (Hopefully!)

Till then, lets just try to fill in shades of grey in this kaliedescope of mine. I'm gonna make it shine. (and we'll go singing this on the yellow brick road.) Think of stories to do and make. Make Anoushka Shankar pour music from her strings. Act more for social causes (I think! recreation for a news story is conscientious work. . .I think!) Don't take our politicians for granted. Amit Jogi, Arun Jaitely and Sonia Gandhi are really nice people. Or atleast in front of the camera. (my own version of two guys, a girl and a chair.)

Anyway, who am I really to judge. I'm just a girl trying to grow up. Find my ground. Be a good journalist. An objective Human Being. (oh wait! isnt it the other way around.)

Whatever it is. One more night to be in my fairyland. Staging My Fair Lady. Trying to act my part a little seriously this time. So go on world, bring it on. Write blogs on me. Walk over me. You're all actors in my stage....Happy to be alive. Belong to this moment. Content to be here!!!

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......

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!!!!

In greener pastures (sort of)

Delhi Sucks...................so far!

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. . .

To Love. . .

LAUGH, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow it's mirth,
But has trouble enough of it's own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

New Year??

Waiting for the shiny ball to drop


"This is definitely not how I was supposed to spend New Year's," I found thinking to myself just moments before the clock struck 12, cold and alone standing beside the hot blast of the furnace in a thrashed apartment.

While a group of strangers, I had just spent a couple of moments with, were getting sloshed in the next room, I was standing in the cold, windy night air warming myself over the hearth of an angithi (the evenings of Bangalore can get very cold). You know what they say about being lonely in crowd; I felt out of place and miserable. This is the worst New Year’s ever!!

And to think I could be with my family and friends at this instant, losing myself amidst great music and drinks. I pictured the dusty and silvery beaches of Goa, where my friends were raising a dust storm in their jaunty jalopies. My family drinking in the wine of a new year in the winter of Kasauli. I could see the glee in their eyes, feel those warm arms wrapped around me, the spirit of togetherness in each heart and love oozing out of each kiss.

It was 11.57pm and in a spilt second my mind traced through all those miles and scanned all those happy faces. The world ….. No, my world wasn’t with me. This was my first New Year’s away from home and I was bent on making the most of it, since I am a person who seeks adventures and exciting escapades all the time. But somehow, I felt my mind wandering in the crowd. ....

A gripping sense of loneliness surrounded me. It could also very much be the countless shots of vodkas and martinis that had now probably gone to my head. But here I was, on the edge of the railing, feeling the buzz and finding solace in the memory of my loved ones, from whom I ironically hide and keep away. Lost in these thoughts (a screwed up basket case that I am) like a message from the Heaven’s (more like Hell) a wind jolted me. Icy shivers shot down my spine and the tree tops tossed violently with whistling sounds, as if they were carrying the shrieks of millions and the anger of the ocean waves ripping the shores naked and bare.

Now I don’t pretend to be no do-gooder and like a page three hypocritical pooper, talk of the devastation of the tsunami disaster. But the absorbing reality hit me. Pictures I had seen in the tabloids danced in front of my eyes and suddenly it all made sense to me. On the 7th floor apartment of the opposite building, a father kissed his daughter; a couple danced on the 6th and a family spoke a silent prayer on the 8th. Scenes from the Horror flick

‘The Ring?’ I think not!

‘Be grateful you stupid fat ass!’ an inner voice shouted.

Right! Grateful. I realized how lucky I really was. I have an absolutely beautiful life. A family that loves me (though could use time away from me), friends who dote on me (regardless of my irritating presence) and a dog who can’t eat without me (catch 22 is it?) and the only problems I ever face are my weight issues, a continuous battle with zits or suffer from the monthly trauma of PMS! Whereas, the world lives in hunger, disease and worst of all alone and cold without love. Moved by my own thoughts (sometimes I surprise myself) I went in, joined my sloshed buddies on the twister board and broke some bones with my bone crunching hugs. I was drunk and I was willing to live the moment. ‘I have nothing to lose but everything to live for,’ my heart kept telling me. A peck, a hug, a phone call, a lil faith, a song on our lips, and it was 2005. I moved on to a new day with the same ole hope same ole screwed up dreams and the same ole screwed up me. And the perfect line from the most unexpected person, “Sweetie happy new year. You’re wasted enough to shine. Have another drink with me. Tomorrow is another day …” why not? After all I am the Queen of my World. And tomorrow is another day, a new day, a new beginning, a new life, and hopefully a wiser me. Probably, I overrate the whole New-Year-New-beginning idea a lot. Or do I? Whatever the deal maybe, we all screamed for a brighter and an equally wasted 2005. One guy actually resolved to stone the year away. But we all did raise a toast to a Happy New Year. So, are you brave enough to raise the glass with me?

That was all last year, at the hilt of a New Beginning. This year, Waiting for the Shiny Ball to Drop...

Hungover in Delhi Office

There are hangovers and then there are hangovers and then there is the mother of all hangovers and this morning she met me.

What began as an innocent toast to national yuletide spirit ended up with me wishing i had never been born.

So why drink? Good question (even if i do say so myself) but one that doesn't have any easy answers. My theory is that people drink because they are bored. And if any of you have been to a Delhi party, you'll know what i mean.

But first, The Rules(for Delhi Parties):

1. Do not, on pain of death, talk to anyone you haven't known for atleast ten years.

2. Do not, for fear of excommunication, introduce strangers to members of your clique.

3. If people's eyes begin to glaze over when you start talking about your exciting school picnic circa 92, parking problems in Khan market, and "the situation in Kashmir," throw in a random compliment. They'll find you interesting again.

Picture this. A room full of people. Some sit on sofas, some stand around in tight little concentric circles, everyone is staring at everyone else. New people walk in, get a drink, find a place, and join in the staring marathon. First the men stare at the women, then begin staring at other men, while the women stare fixedly at each other. (They are very few men in Delhi worth looking at. Sorry. It's true.)

After what seems like ages, a silent victory is declared. The victors smirk, flip open their miniature cellphones and make slow, sexy talk to sleek, platinum-blonde women in Dubai, the loosers sulk and hit the bar with a vengence. The women continue to stare at each other.

It's somewhere around this point that people turn to each other and begin talking. But its not so easy. Firstly, they've exhausted every topic of conversation, (refer the rules) Everything (weather, gossip, money, jobs, boss problems, cheating partners) has been discussed ad nauseam. every story has been heard a thousand times over. and over. and over.

BORING!

(Personally, I think anyone who parties for a living must have the patience of a saint, not to mention the IQ of a dinner plate.)

Another good reason to drink is that it makes your life interesting. How so? you ask. Well if you get very very drunk and do some very very stupid things, you have something to feel guilty and embarrassed about for the rest of the year. A very good reason to buy a long black trench coat and slither down dark office corridors, something my sexy, evil colleagues should do more of. And finally, if news gets out, (like it will, eventually) in an act of great magnanimity you've just given dozens of other bored people a reason to BE.

Hence, I have successfully proved :

Boring + Alchohol (Preferably of a good variety) = EXCITING!

Also you can get away with a lot of things when you're drunk that would be considered unpardonable if you were sober and sane.

A bit like PMS. Eg:
Husband (horrified): You just nailed our dog to the living room table.
Wife: (thunders):PMS
Husband (shrugs): oh.ok.
Similarly (except that we are not ALLOWED to drink in office!)

Express Building: 3 pm
Snitch: Boss, Ms X is standing on top of the table yelling racial slurs at all Southie journalists everywhere.
Boss: (heal-the-world type) Fire The Bitch.
Snitch: ONLY YOU can do that sir.

Express Building: 3 am
Snitch: Boss, Ms X is pulling noodles through her nose and yelling racial slurs at all Southie journalists everywhere.
Boss: Please don't call me at this time. I'm a family man. I'm sleeping.
Snitch: But Sir, ONLY YOU can do something.
Boss (Phyllosiphically): Has anyone ever been able to calm an angry sea, foretell the future or deal with a drunk woma....purple walrus..frangipaani, hits, hits..dkdkgfdskgfks zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

On a more serious note, my editor sitting next to me is peeking into all the "Racial crap" and is wearing a queeringly disgusted exression (Features desk.... can't be more personal and racial). He would want me to write about more "serious" stuff like "making strict staff supervision mandatory on all school picnics", the "problem of parking in Khan Market" and "the situation in Kashmir."

But for that, i'll need another drink.

Dissolve, Wipe, Fade. . .

Yup! That's me!
And yes! That's a Sony PD-170i a professional ENG camera.
And yes! It is the most gruesome event of Panjab University. Not tumult of the Celtic Earth plates, Battle of the Gods, Revenge of the Crusades or even the rage of the angry tsunami laden waves can topple the raw excitement of Punjabi bred male, and the more the merrier. But it was the most peaceful one of them, was the verdict in the newspapers the next day.

The Event: annual open house debate cum electoral campaign drive of the PU elections. And with all the pulsating, high electric barricading the cops put up with their gignatic and rowdy human forms; the sweat drenched, humid September morning was live with more than just excitement for more reasons than one. And especially for me. And why would'nt it be? Any director/cameraman (regardless of the rate of success or whether more such suites follow ) would remember the 'first.' My first assignment with a team of unmanageable amateurs, this director had to man and shoot nearly 4 hours of film. And having handed with the most challenging task of the day, (all the other groups just got rallies and camps, wheras we got the actual event. So much for having a nose for news.)

The producer lost her voice somewhere in the maddeningly unprecedented clamorous screams, the scriptwriter ran for cover, two cameramen deployed on stage lost their shoulders to the heavy VHS formats, the editor kept screaming to get more angles, the Chairman (the man in white looking into the crowd) more bothered about his prized PD than the rowdy gung-ho's. And the director, well more lost than even Alice in Wonderland, who atleast dealt with one dilemna at a time! But the screams went on, fights broke out, abuses flew free, a few measure ups ...........well lets not even go there. Agendas were raised; pink, red, yellow fliers rained around; flags swayed in the wind; sound systems cracked voices; tempers raged more; and then the last leader took to the stage. 4 hours later, the sounds ceased, the crowds dispersed, carpet of fliers strewn around gleamed under the bright sunshine. An empty coliseum echoed with the remians of a legacy long lived out. And finally a pat on the back, 'Editing table pe milten hai,' the Chairman smiled. Couple of hours after pack up and another 5 hours on the editing table a byte of 30 minutes, complete with the cinematic experience of 'lights, camera and action.' Tired, hungry, excited, we slept in the studio that night to wake up the next morning with a strange contentment and faces glowing with the pride of mothers.

Screening: flaws? but of course. Verdict: 19/20 and a fulfilling gleam in the Chairman's eyes. "Beta class bhi lagaya karo. Saara kaam field mein hi nahin hota. Class mein bhi itni mehnat dikhaya karo!"

Since then, eunuchs have danced, four weddings and a funeral have been witnessed (quite non-metaphorically), care-takers have wept, beggars have revealed, dead-men-walking have shared their perhaps last few traces of dreams, buses have narrated stories, wedding dancers and prostitutes have cried, remains of monuments have sung out their legacies, lamas have disclosed their sexuality, debt inheritors have lived, borders to Pakistan have allowed a peek-a-boo, '84 riot voctims have re-lived tragedies, terrorist families have spoken free; but the exhiliration of that firt 'Ready to Take camera. Take camera. Action' and the first 'Cut.....'

"No extra take can ever be as rewarding as the first frame. Compose a more beautiful scene than that and I'll proclaim you God," Steven Spielberg, Filmamker.

Post-it for Self

Effective Communication is when:-

... Krishna and Arjun walk out of the Mahabharata, and stop raging battles with the self!

... Ghalib ceases to instigate the human soul and begins to question the need to talk and answers, "Duboyaa mujh ko hone ne, na hotaa mai.n to kyaa hotaa!"

... Patience and humility creep in to overshadow the 'self', the big E - EGO!

... Communication student number 28 stands up and talks, listens, feels, reacts!

... Media student: grabs the mouth piece, being careful about what to mass communicate. Asks first, " are you communicating with immediate self and self surrounders effectively?"

... Belief that you are loved and have the capacity to love, then develop language, add context and meaning, and then communicate- but don't talk.

Where am I?

I wrote this to someone months ago.Or well, something like this. But perception changes over time. Like a rivetting cloud floating on a horizon, its not supposed to be floating around. seasons have changed. Summer to autumn to the cold of winter. So have my words, But some things refuse to change. He said he never got this. But surprisingly someone not supposed to did. Bliss, they call it. Bumped into him some weeks ago and then.........nothing. The muse had been replaced. How quaint! Takes a moment to snap away from past and not even a blink before someone new walks along.. No long distances for me, ever again...

Hmmph.

A colour.Or is it?

I don’t think so.

But I am not sure.

Does it matter what I think?

Do you still think of me sometimes?

And of times we spent away and together?

If not quite all, do some memories haunt you?

Like when we stood on the rainy sidewalk and sang.

That night when we laughed so much that our stomachs hurt

When you taught me how to hold a cigarette like a woman.

And I buried my head in your lap and cried tears of blood.

You stroked me in silence, while my tears wet our clasped souls.

In suspended moments I slept on your side of the bed.

Your nicotine stained fingers stormed across paper, creating disjointed poetry.

Merciless, empty words about a distant, unreal life form.

With the next morning came a grey winter.

Which has carved itself inside my marrow.

Most mornings I smell of you.

Unborn flowers refuse to blush.

I didn’t choose this.

Not this colour.

Did you?

Indeed!

And then there were none. . .

Campus Rock Idols- 2005 - Build up to the show.....

Spirit of Rock \m/

And the Underlying 'Roll'!

My Creed

"Dude this is so gay. When are ya f**^!*^ gonna play?"

Sound check

"Be kind to my amp! Its expensive"

Command the stage

"Am I the King of the world yet?"

Build into the rhythm

"Ready to headbang?"

At the hilt of the Crescendo

"Look Mommy, I can fly!!"

Romacing Insomnia

Like a stray live wire,
the night got into bed with me

caressing the length of my back
uptil the nape,with a warrior's affectionate hands
slithering up and down
a spear
leaving behind droplets of cold sweat
like a comet's tail.

I silently suffer the pleasure
between & beyond
the evening sentient
and the morning blue

The stars sprinkled on me
crumble tracelessly
before the day rolls in

Does washing my hair remove the smells of the night?

It was the kind of night that stays, after having left.

An Arabian night of a thousand nights
when sleep negotiates itself from the self.................

The Realistic, obsessed 'Her': God give Her Strength

I have seen what idleness can do. Have seen the other side of the sun, and man it isn't really that bright. So like, they say I have an opinion. Opinion makers of the world always hold a propaganda, a word with mostly a negative connotation. Strange, to think at how having a voice can shatter some seemingly inflated egos of the self-possessed. Blaring insecurities can sometimes cloud good sense and judgement. . .

This is the story of a sorry girl. One whom I don't know, the one who believes in open relationships. The one with the 'ex,' whom I left behind long ago. But somehow left her obsessed with me. Poor girl, thinks she can actually make herself feel better and think life is all but just a visit to the candy shop around the corner with a pop sickle in hand. Judgemental and quoted to be correct. Well that's all good if it works, but what I fail to understand about such people is the close-minded, one-sided commentary that they stick their minds on.Even the jury, less trained than the judges might I add, take a long time after hearing full proceedings to pass a final verdict. But this self-proclaimed judge lives in her own bitter world of travel and discovery and thinks leashing out on creatures like me is actually going to make her feel good about herself. Sure, I can be humanitarian. I mean, do good for the fellow human being is the Aquarian Mantra after all.

So, I'll let her jabber on and take her pre-conceived notions a step further and pick out on my 'short-comings' and have a ball at my expense. After all, I have always liked to make people feel good about themselves and well feel happy. But for someone who claims to be realistic, a well thought reality check is quiet necessary. Sometimes I wonder, in our pain and so -called quiet reflection, we sometimes seem to make certain enemies the object of our most bitter resentments. Deep down inside, these friendless souls are yearning for acceptance and love. A love they go looking for in the wrong places, and not realising that they have it all and more than they could ever wish for. Ironic to think how want and desire could overshandow the deeper emotions in life, some grateful things you already possess. True, how sordid human existence can be. The power to feel and the tragedy of emotions. Drama. More like life imitating art. Well I do hope she sees the light of day and not just live in the darkness of light. Scared of the unknown and terrified of doing the right thing (wait not right.... worng or right is subjective) A silent prayer for her sanity and happiness. After all its only in her happiness and peace that she would stop leashing out on others.

I dont know whether to sympathise with her, reprimand her, enrage my sanity over her or thank her. In many ways than one, I feel immense grattitude towards her for having opened the closed gateway. She helped me walk out of the mirror and showed me that reality is so different from reflection. But then she appalled me at her bitter and petty insecurities, the dire need to survive turned her into this wounded animal who would want to claw me to death or better still castrate me to live an age in agony. She amazes me at her abiltiy to create and humours me with her enraging passions. Never knew a guy could be such a bone of conention. Even when I let him go. Strange? Never played bitchy games, but am starting to sharpen my wits at it. Nah! I'd just sit back and have a quiet laugh and take pride in the fact that a lil ole me could make such a hige difference in a xyz's life. Someone I don't even know. Truly, enchanting. I pray for her.

God give her strength to spread joy in her life, give her the tools to tap her creativity in more worthwile areas. (Oh did I mention? She is amazingly kir-ative, oops i mean creative. Can really hold her stage). Tells me she is happy with her man. For all her good judgement, I hope she is. Ha! my guy tells me, she's hung over. Can't snap out of it. God! please help her move on. Its like I had an affair with her and I broke her heart. Yells at me and accuses me of crimes she committed. Well, she didn't bother me earlier. But now! I can't stand her. But patience and time heals evrything. Please God! give the foresight to hurt less and feel more. Hope the metropolitan hasn't turned into a loveless fiend, most of such people think themselves to be. Oh Almighty, make her less distraught. Heal her soul and help her see the love around. Set her free. Let her Live !!!!

The Day the Music Died

I call it legacy. Have witnessed the crusades since time immemorial. Have been there since the beginning and hopefully shall survive to behold the rise and fall of the time-changing, life altering show of our times. Ladies and gentleman, bystanders and onlookers, Roman, countrymen, eunuch and even animals…….. I wish to proclaim the power Julius Caesar commanded over his empire and let the one thing I love and trust the most, murder me with treachery. The deceit of Music.

I have often searched for the creed of existentialism in music. Have romanticised too much about a single composition. Have cried cold nights, spent idle summer afternoons exploring the sounds and drinking in the beauteous craft of a melody. The disorderly chaos, the strident strumming of strings, the wash and wail of the organ, the rage of the drums, rolls and pile driver snare, the demure tambourine, the shrill clarinet, the hypnotising harp, keeping time…………..

Have lived through the agony and ecstasy of this crazy lil thing called Music. But just like an infidel, unfaithful lover; the screeching shrills rape all senses with a callous ferocity of bad sounds, tearing the reef of waves of harmony. And you can’t even surf on them.
So while I carry these thoughts driving down the wide Chandigarh lanes approaching Symohony-2005, the stark reality hits home. History repeats itself yet again. Same performers, familiar sounds, the same ole crap, the same mistakes, the same torture. They say, a leopard never changes its spots. And this year, it got even worse. Thought of writing something different, but decided to repeat the same ole crap all over again. Sadly, this is one thing you wouldn’t wanna do again, but let me say this as subtly as possible…..

Here We Go Again!...

Ever since my ears were exposed to the callous sounds of Slayer, I had been awakened by the anonymity of the voluminous and fiery havoc, they could wreck upon their worshippers. But this was a sacrilege of a different kind. With equipment in tow, these kids fashioned timeless rock anthems in their own style and called it improvisation...........Nah! I would just call them flaws, misses on the beats, a hit on the wrong notes, taking the key when there ain't any.

How would you like to hear 'Tonight Tonight,' being carried to a high pitch in a ne- Alka Yagnik voice? And where there is the smell of sarson da saag, there are some whose die-hard Punjabi nature never fails to surface. Embedded deep into their sub conscience, it just needs a way of expression. On the penetrating Axle pitch of ‘Sweet Child O Mine’, the very full throated screams turn into clamorous and inevitable Balle Balle Bakra Calls, Sardars are so famous for.Being a journalist, there are a lot of unavoidable elements one has to face. And there ain't nothing worse than being hit on by a bunch of flimsy rock stars. Battling between English, Punjabi and Hindi, one asks for your number, a second sizes you up and a third intriguingly comments on the rhythmical quality of your name. At this instant, I don't know whether to take it as a compliment or an insult. The one and a half hours of screening barely 4 of the 45 performers, I even witnessed the horrendous murder of a tune I've held dear for ages. ‘Nothing Else Matters’ by the bards who 'Indianised' the song with a half drum set and an unplugged acoustic Barista guitar, with the fresh orange name tag still stuck. 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' Kurt Cobain is midway possessed by the ‘Dr Jekyll & Mr. Hyde Rotuine’, as he solemnly turns into Eddie Vedder 'Alive.' This year there were some good Rabbi renditions too. Somehow the sardar's weird ass comments kept ringing in my head. "Have you ever seen a sardar play a guitar?" Yeah right, if I had a nickel for every time somebody said that, I'd be forced to be a compulsive beggar. But then came some school girls in neatly pleated skirts form Simla guiuded by their teacher and blew the arena apart with 'I would do anything for Love, but I wont do THAT!' Believe me they just did it all and more. The supersonic killer whale like screams did nothing but more damage to my sensory organs. "Hearing Impaired," is how I would've described myself. Had it not been for a young girl's inexplicably resonant and perfectly melodious interpretation of Shakira's 'Underneath your clothes' I would have passed out. Just wanted to cry out of pure joy and hug that damsel, "Thank you for saving the music."

But then what do I know about music? I may not be acquainted with the technical engineering precisions, having never been on stage. But I do know what sounds good and does not. I steal a glance with my friend sitting in a morbid state, as I wait for my shutterbug to arrive. She takes out her Discman and plugs into ‘How to Dismantle a Time Bomb.’

The headlining act was seen hours later after the evening wrapped up, nearly 5 hours overtime thanks to much credible time mis management, backstage throwing some air guitar riffs to the ones who are in dire need to find their inner music. Why backstage? simply because the man never got to get up and flex a chord on stage. "He was awesome. Such an amazing performer. Can't believe he got sidelined by all those stupid kids," averred the one spark in the whole show who made my stay there all worthwhile. Had it not been for him, my faith in good music (and men too) would've been shattered by now. So lucky to have him play more than just music for me. Sigh!

The night faded out, the director finally set cut and the sound system finally held its breath. Really makes you wonder though.... With such glorious musicians taking centre stage, we are sure to witness the birth of a new genre. 'Scum Rock.' And it’s all happening on an Autumn Afternoon in Chandigarh.

Serendipity: Mandir Gali, Bapu Dham Colony

Soot? fills this chasm I call home...................................Amongst dust swept rooms

Dreams? of better life........................................Content with the joy in lil misgivings

Tenant? of the outside world............The open tenements, the threshold, the treasure

Assets? are all material to me................ An asset I am to the shop round the corner

My religion? a myth to salvage my soul.........My soul at liberty to the ones I serve

Profession? my faith in brewing that tea.......Men, women, eunuchs, the paanwala,

devotees...all friends to me

My language? multi. desi and firangi............... Lessons visitors schooled me over a

piyali of tea

Forteller? my garb can be misleading...............Open long flowing hair attenuates the

madness of Da Vinci in me

Romatic? my life is patterned in passion..........Love this tin roof, this broken kettle,

the stained walls, the open hearth.

Its all home to me....

.......My home where I lived and that will outlive me.

The television set still screams the score for me.

Unintended? Perhaps

I have it all.. Life is as beautiful as it can get (well almost).. Weight loss right on target.. Weather change all more than welcome.. Enemies submitting.. Cup of love brimming over the edges... Old friends closer than ever.. New friends - well almost there.. Is all good.
Still there is an abysmal loss of a heart broken....
Tired of writing empty verses to muse not there...
Living within walls - self created...
Shunning away love for something better still...
Hating the right - still keeping wrong at bay, and hating it all the more still...

No content... too mcuh expression? If only the content made sense more than expression did..

Confusion? Inevitably a constant companion every step of the way..

Puching bag? Always had a natural talent for...

Frustration? Despise my valued and treasured necessary evils...

Letting go? Trying to learn to fight impulses...

Doubt? Battling to rise above and falling down each time...

Still seeking companionship in solace, searching for the inner rhythm, struggling to survive...

Homour me? How can I? still love starved and succesfully portraying more than love content !!!

A Reprimand

And he spoke through the furrows of death……. ‘come , come and I shall grant ye freedom from the insanities of the world ’.

His voice was so luring that man crumpled like a weakling and followed the foreboding voice
of death to the endless whirlpools of time and space..…...

Lost forever……... intermingling with the soul of the universe to become one with the abyss and chasm , of nothingness and hollowness…….. eating savagely at the power of heart and mind .

Then nothing around mattered as space suddenly contracts , into a minute particle of sorrow , and man accepted it as his fate to end up in this black- hole , as his reprimand for committing the unforgivable sin of living .

Living for oneself . Drinking from the biggest and most powerful elixir of life . The feeling of being alive , being full , being content .

To experience what elation is .

To live…….

To finally die for indulging in life .

For committing the ever so contemptuous sin of smiling .

And so man , over ages and centuries lives to see the light of day only to be , ironically, tortured mercilessly at the unforgiving hands of man himself ……. In a single snap of a twig , motion of a wave , flicker of an eyelid….. one single second of an elation precedes an endless era of trauma ……….. pain and finally death !

Many Dawns, Dusks & Deaths: It's Diwali

Diwali. It’s festooned all over buildings & baristas, billboards & boulevards. It’s blinking out of neons and nearly brazen with indifference. To? We won’t pick on the obvious – Delhi blasts; or that shake from Hell a month back. Thousands killed, millions homeless and perhaps a few in Uri, who still live on hope of recorded messages having reached their relatives safely in Kashmir, since most of them have never used a telephone.

……Still there are many other battles raging, scathing, seething, scorching the insides. All brain, no belief.
All purpose, no prayer.
All sanity, no stupidity.
All matters-of-fact, no madness.
All useless weight, no lightness of being.
Lightness of being…… it’s of moments that we desire. And with time, they become moments we need. So badly.

And when it gets too much & the need slouches too heavy on shoulders, burning the eyes into yawning dry rivers, miring the mind, layering on us, the layers of cold brick, deathly, getting heavier with every little sweep of that thing called Survival….When all this gets too much, ‘the moment’ breaks in. Finally. Cutting all the maze of tiredness.

But somehow, this season of joyousness has let those moments pass by. First in the devastation and cries of millions, screeching through the blaring speakers of the 35mm... (News Channels, they make such a mockery out of a tragedy!)

And then as the light of hope started coming home, the death of loved ones broke all false inhibitions of joy, we all tend to romanticise so much about. One a dear old young Friend who drove into the Jaws of death, lived a promise of happy life ahead and cut it short just for the thrill for speed. And the other a dear Grandpa, (closest to me after my own Nana) who made movies and spoke of the passion of Film making all while teaching me to spread joy. Lived the last few days of his famed life in utter inexistence.

Joy…. Is it somehow seeking in to find true peace or struggling with pain to emerge a survivor through it all? The Monks tried hard to drum in the Zen philosophy of balance; but somehow sadness wells in deep and struggling to fight peace is not the fate of Human Kind.

Still there is hope and peace in this world, which through all that sly, saline, scepticism seems to rejuvenate itself somehow with the fading of each autumn and arrival of each spring. And it comes in the faintest packages possible. The Quiver of a brook, the abandoned laughter of a child, the bloom of a rose, the shake of the chestnut shoots, the smell of the wet earth after a water swept wind raped the sand, the renewed moss after a raging forest fire…..... And then a faint smile on those lips, a lighter beat in that broken heart, a hint of a twinkle in that sordid eye.
Stepping back into the arms of Hope. Into the lightness of being. Into the arms of Diwali inside.

One step out and the world’s still zipping down alleys, turning all Corporate and Shopper, busy announcing: ‘Light candles, hey make it orchid & jasmine, & lit up diyas, let there be light.’ Yes, bring on the lights. Bring on Diwali. For whatever is inside.