Graduating. . .

Had my convocation yesterday....

Class of 2005 Humanities wore their ghosts on their chests and grabbed those scrolls with pride.

Back on (un)familiar grounds a year later to grab onto the last few traces of being a college go-er.

Nothing had changed. we were still in all white 'monday' uniforms.
Same teachers hugging and planting lipsticks on cheeks, whose sarees we took abode in three years ago.

Reunion. . . .Same friends.....same. some with the sparkiling reds running in their hairline, some fingers sparkling with earthy sparkle, others with sparkling crowns in their hair. some in corporate ties, some just the same a they'd always been.

some with fat circling around the waist, some three inches below the collar bone....
some laughter still running around the corridor, some with same laughter tugged on the shoulder in a reflective index....

some still talk of reaching the stars and how college was so boring....
some miss the years gone by and hope for merrier times still....
The prank on the principal, the rebellious strike, the crazy winter afternoon naps on the green, the hidden conversations on the illegal cellphones.....................

chit chat, coffee, fruit chatm, pictures,swings, trees
some faces all i see in me, still wanting more and grabbing onto the old....

Today back home with Graphic Arts in hand for the big test day after. The new polished gold medals merit have already found their place on the pin-up board, the trophy on the desk and the MERIT Sashay already tucked in the cupboard and the degree........ forgotten already in the document corner.......

Sounds of music meshing. One day gently pushes you into the next. ..

Time brutally cut short for unimportant things such as a job, a career, a life!!

Life is here.

Right now.

In Yellow and Black..

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!!

 

Sex no Bar . . . my first documentary....

Eunuch /’ju;nck/ n. 1 castrated man, esp one formerly employed at an original harem or court. 2 a person lacking effectiveness (political eunuch). {ME f. L. eunnuchus f. Gk. eunokhos lit. bedchamber attendant f. eune bed + second element rel, to ecko hold}

from the concise oxford dictionary of current english
---------------------------------------------------------

From the ethos of humanity
Rises a deformed figure
Burn it
We are sexless
We laugh, breathe, cry and scream
Our flesh melts too
Tattoos on our cheeks
Jasmines in our hair
We are dark and even fair
Dignity? We speak and wear our skin on the fore
We walk the streets on which your silent feet tread,
Virgin blood oozes from our wounds
The bruises life marks us with
You suffer too, oh gentle human form
But though perfection reeks from your skin
Our plague ridden deformities blesses thy kin
Make us an instrument of life we pray each night
As neither male, nor female but as the third kind.


Sex No Bar released today, with the sweat and blood
of six movie makers....

Today.... sudden contentment...............

They let us into their worlds,
and helped us discover worlds within us ......

Here's to more movies, more contentment, more eunuchs to find...............
Eye Scream Productions first shot...
first documentary.
first snap of the shutterbug
straight from the iris....

When will such a moment be, when the camera never has to stop rolling......
Oh! gentle human form...

Just. . .

I'm Happy today....

A contented relief....

A sigh of hesitation....

After a long time......

Those wrinkles on the forehead seem to have finally rested........
A gleeful calm smile rests on my lips.........
Irises are weary but are still shining..............

I'm finally finally Happy Today................

Lest I stumble

Fatigue such as this.

Relief such as this.

Emptiness such as this.

I await more such.

When, IF (I will! I will!) I write the book.

And those tenderly harboured dreams of doing a doctorate.

But what I can't grapple with ~
this ineffable, overarching, faceless sorrow.

O what plagues thy little heart that thou hast poured on paper?
that tomorrow will adorn the shelves of the library
for the world to see, for the world to read
O what a remarkable piece of work is a woman
O what stories incense out of derelict gates
and you imped with sensitivity
and you believer in serendipity
O what plagues thy little heart that thou hast poured on paper?

Warped & Twsited-II

Abey yaar! when the hell is this God Damn Term Paper gonna finish and the documentary be all edited...................

Me going out of my head........................

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee................

Kisne bola tha itna complicated subject lene ko......

Bloody no eunuchs are willing to dance or perform and neither is this term paper condensing....................

History presentation too due..........
How the hell am I supposed to condense 50 years of Media, including print, radio and television in under ten minutes.....

I never knew losing weight could be that stressful and 'heavy.....'

weighed in 7 below normal today....... Not good.....

P.S. my normal is usually 10 over ..... No one scared of me now

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!!"