those JNU rocks

Three classmates walked through
entered unknown terrain
from the highest point
and emerged far away, as friends
the friendships gave way
the exhilaration of that walk holds

And there were kisses
In the still air of summer
and in winter, with the cold seeping through the shawl
and once, as we soaked in the rain holding each other
We meandered through those years,
looking for shorcuts, hoping it would take longer
to hit the regular road
We fought, made up and broke up

The first long conversation
with a parallel one in the head,
Is this attraction, or it is the starry night
Also, the last conversation
The stars did look on
And the planes waved a goodbye

A shared space in an unshared phase
of an old friendship
Where we sought to escape
known faces, strange looks
new faces, knowing looks
and recovered what we knew and loved
about each other

Alcoholic though I am
‘on the rocks’ has always meant something else

you have aged

there are no circles under your eyes
no wrinkles on your face
no receding hairline
no grey hair
-even on the sideburns
you haven’t put on weight
any more, that is
your lips haven’t darkened with cigarette
but then you didn’t smoke, do you now?

your smile remains serious,
the kind of smile earnest youngsters have
when they discuss big issues and write abstract poetry
you even wear that ridiculous purple sweater often

my memory lens is all scratches
(did I overuse it
or put it carelessly among other such odds and ends)
but even through the tottering lens
I can see
you have aged

it doesn’t show in the face I used to know
your age shows
in me
in my face
in my being
in the time I have traveled…since

the child for me

He was playing inside the car. His grandma and ayah were having a tough time keeping him within. And as soon as he saw his mother coming towards the car, where she had left them to do a quick errand (everything has to be done quickly in her life these days, he rules it, you see) his face transformed. Oh, he continued to look every inch of the brat that he is, but a special smile erupted on his face and reflected the softness that came to his mother’s expression. She- his mother, my friend- doesn’t have that kind look otherwise these days- its usually too troubled, too cynical, too burdened, too defeated. Anyway, that little exchange I caught between the two brought up the question again- do I want a child of my own?- a question that is getting posed way too frequently not just by others who point to the biological clock ticking away but one I find asking myself way too often for my happiness.

Do I want a child then? I really don’t know. It’s an awful world to bring up one. And I would share the hypocrisy of the progressives- critical of and yet choosing the mainstream. Kids judging themselves according to what they have, what brands and how much. Parents pushing them to become super kids. Schools streamrolling children into marks producing machines. I fear ever having to tell my child- be practical. But more than that, doubts over my own ability to bring up a kid. What if I get bored. What if I don’t love my kid. What if I resent the disruption in my life. And as I keep saying, no more film festivals for a long long time. The irreversibility of parenthood is nothing less than horror. And then I don’t know if I want to go through the pregnancy. I would like to adopt, but would I discriminate. Perhaps I fear a child also because I suspect a tendency on my part to want to completely own another person. People I know say that is no cause for worry because this and all other decisions will be worked out with a partner.

That’s more scary if you ask me. I wonder if there really something by way of an equal parenthood. I don’t see much of it anyway. All I see is irony – the mother who is simultaneously both overworked and guilty and the father who ends up being loved more precisely because he has less time to give. And then I see competitive parenthood all around, most partners don’t share the child or the experience with each other, they try to prove to each other and everyone else how they are the better parent, and especially how they are the child’s preferred parent.

So, please no partner for child rearing. For romance, yes. In my imagination, its always been me and my child. This ultimate example of romantic partnership is for me the last bastion of singlehood, and I hold on it fervently.

state of life

For those who wondered at the bizarreness of the last post, a tiny defence- it was written in a state of near delirium. As I was struggling to stay put in office, my pounding head was creating in-the-body sensations I was trying to escape by typing away. And though the fever went off in a week, it has taken me a while recovering the confidence to write and for my life to provide me with something to write about. Much was written in-the-head and disintegrated right there. A post about me conquering the swimming pool collapsed (and along with it the dreams of conquering rivers and seas), my stint in the pool abruptly ended just as I showed sings of more than just floating. But hope floats and maybe next season, I may survive longer. And while the rest of the world went on about the feeling of being there and having done it all and having nothing to look forward to, here I was with all the to-do lists and no where near crossing any thing off yet. But now, I have seen Chak De (and relieved to have actually seen it finally for I was getting left out of social conversation a little too often and was under threat of losing my reputation as a film buff), read the final harry potter (on my computer, the first and hopefully the last time I ever read a novel like that), splurged money on the clothes I don’t really need. Even my car revs up so delightfully these days, having got a face rather engine lift to tide over its mid-life crisis. Through all this I have acquired intimate insight of what it feels like to be a third world country caught in a debt trap. Confusions have re-risen about career moves and whether what I am doing is what I want and whether I want this for the rest of my life and do I even know what I want. With spondilysis making an entry in my life and my landlady landing up soon to harangue me on the lack of cleanliness in my house (I don’t clean door hinges, mirrors, buckets, taps, floor mat and the soap dish everyday u see) I should be all set for as many battles as I could wish for- against imperialism, capitalism, the culture of elitism, competitiveness, consumerism, unhealthy lifestyles et al. The thing is, I am too tired to fight. I may get just bored half-way. I do wish I was a warrior sometimes.

Cry not baby

Just wondering whether crying is an act of instant dehydration.

When we see someone pouring their heart out before us, do they really squeeze it dry? Can we make out the outlines of the skeletal frame in the tear-racked body of even the most well rounded individual?

Yes? Next time someone is howling away I will tear my eyes off their face, what if they are crack, literally, while I am earnestly telling them its not so bad or worse, letting them lighten what I think, oh so mistakenly, is a heavy heart which as a delicious side-effect also cleans up and lubricates the eye. Ask those of us who suffer from dryness of eyes, we pay (an exorbitant amount at that) to cry.

No? Then why is the common instant response to anyone who cries before us to immediately scamper for and force down their mouths a glass of water?

(yeah I am back!)

the search is on

I
felt
thought
dreamt
blanked
broke
mended
laughed
howled
wished
pitied
sought
escaped

but somewhere along
lost the words
the search is on...

Lets deal with it though

They tell u, there is no fulfilment without it. They tell u, that’s what u need to look out for. All the time. Be prepared. Be ready. It could strike you anywhere. It’s a war, you need to win. Yes, surprise, surprise, they are indeed talking about love.

Love makes for a Complete life. Your life must be an advertisement for success, you see. Even if u never ever feel free. Or think you have no power of choice. You need to just do it. Buy gifts for someone you love. Chocolate is nice, but it melts. But diamonds are forever you know.

Emptiness.
Loneliness.
Dissatisfaction.
Unhappiness.
You can feel them all. Even if u have love. Most often, because of that blasted love.

Of course love is no big deal. Ideology, yes. Hegemony, definitely.

But then if you find yourself in love do you fail the counter-hegemonic test? Have you become a revisionist? Have you sold your soul like foreign funded NGOs or communists implementing neo-liberal policies?

Isn’t romantic love a relationship too. And for all the hype that 'it's different', its really much the same. With its own expectations, explorations, joys, anguish, doubts about the self, about the other. If we can talk about everything and advocate dialogue in the age of contradictions then cant we talk about love too. Isn’t it often the case that we make sense of our jumbled self when we unblock to others. Aren’t our interpretations of the self a series of conversations? We affirm and celebrate a shared life. Has love got nothing to do with it?

welcome

Welcome. you finally made an appearance in my being. though by some standards you could have taken some more time, but these days the pressures are such that you are expected early in our lives. i hear sometimes people feel they have not made it in life if they dont have you. so when i first realised your presence, i almost heaved a sigh of relief. right now only those very close to me and the really discerning can spot you but very soon it will be obvious to the world. till that time, i intend to enjoy the way you caress my cheek and make me feel a little different everytime i realise you are there. we are set for a long journey together.

my single strand of white hair, welcome.

(btw, obvious comments are best avoided!)

I hear about you once in a while

I hear about you once in a while
Your name leaps at me as I leaf through pages
or as I scroll through the net
I stop my hand,
but it moves, clicks on the link nevertheless
My hand is a sadist,
or is it a masochist?

Every time I wake with a thud
and in those seconds,
as I try recall why
your face appears
You blend in with every bad dream I have

What if I come across you someday
What will I say
Will I smile
Will I run away
Will I feel the same as I did the day
I turned to find you gone
leaving a conversation hanging
a slice of my past, rigged
the warmth of memory, punctured

I believe you are happy
Some people tell me so
I don’t know what to make of it
I don’t know whether I wish you were
or wonder how you could be

All I feel is numbness
I feel it every time I hear your name

coming of age

last year i ran away. from people. from familiarity. from the routine. i was tired, ready to scream out against the ordinary. i drove to the hills, perhaps hoping that within the folds of the mountains, i will find clues to understand myself, including the need to escape. i had never taken off like that before. i look back on that day with myself with fondness. i thought i was going to do this often.

but this time around i escaped that very solitude. i sought out people, familiarity, a day where i dont search for meanings, for purpose, where i dont really reflect or take stock of things, where i dont make resolutions.

how is it that what was so right and perfect once is just not what you even consider later. the riddles are much the same, but the routes to crack it change all the time. or is it that there is really no solution, no end of the puzzle ever. the routes are all there is. and as i have gone about avoiding the beaten track and taking convoluted pathways, have i come to a point where i am ready to be surprised by the ordinary and if i am not, it doesnt put me off either.

i dont mind the chit chat of life. the conversations i seek may very well lie in all this general blah. i may never find them but its ok as long as i know i can run away from it whenever i wish to. perhaps the point is that i am an eternal escapist. i am getting to like it now.

Post a comment

There was a time, we could, on any issue, say with ease
No comments, that’s it, and there the matter would cease

Whats this rage now with commenting
Is it a war we are fomenting

A war of words, of sarcasm and wit,
Of ideas, of picking on every nit

(Microsoft word too wants its byte
As I am typing, it says- fragment, please revise)

Back and forth, criss and cross
In the virtual world, even a scrap gathers no moss

Doesn’t all this make life racier
Then why has my cousin singled me as a warrior

the long summer ahead

This pic was taken in the evening of what was one of the last days of winter in the city. It had rained the night before and in the morning, and was very windy through the day. The wind was icy, it must have snowed in the mountains. Not the ones you can see here, for these are just the shivaliks, the starting of the Himalayas.

This time winter and spring played with our linear ordering of seasons. And we must be thankful the pleasant season had actually lasted so long. But then, the human heart yearns for more and more of the good thing, it can never be satisfied with what it has.

Winter is a love story. We keep waiting for love but it creeps in imperceptibly. It always takes you by surprise. And it has layers and layers, each closing in on the other. Shawl, half sweater, full sweater and jackets. Blanket, then quilt, then the rajai. And the heater.

There is never enough that one could have of love. At its peak, I would still want it to get colder, the temperature to drop further. It went to 0 this time, I wanted snow. I went to shimla and walked on snow, I wanted it to snow then and there and stay for days there.

And like love, one fine day its over. Its probably been in the offing for a while, but nevertheless you never know till you wake up one day to declare summer. You can fight the inevitable by continuing with the warm water baths and by not switching on the fan, but you can pin the end, almost to the day. The day you stopped saying ‘I love you’, the day you woke up with bad dreams because it got hot under the quilt.

And then the long wait begins. You think you will never see it again. Yet you keep planning for it. You think you will make do with affairs for love may never happen again and go to hill stations. You think you will never live through summer to see another winter. But you will. When you have given up altogether, the nip in the air returns. This love story will survive. Till global warming do us part?

the house baker didnt build

That would be my house, for one. I mean I can not hope that the house I can afford one day will be designed by Laurie Baker as he passed away on april first.

I first read about Baker when I was 13 or 14 in one of the supplements of times of India and in an article written by cartoonist Abu Abraham if I remember correctly. This article was called- the house baker built- or something like that. its with me still, somewhere among my newspaper cuttings, it was probably the earliest of the collection, a practice which was then pleasure but now is a professional requirement. The writer spoke about his home which Laurie Baker had designed. At one point he says how a room had been so designed as to avoid cutting down a jackfruit tree, and the area around the tree was further made into a small sitting space in the open. He also mentioned that Baker had once designed a house on top of a hill facing the sea. I think it was that line which decided it for me. I had always wanted that exact same kind of location for a house of my own. And had figured that it would mean somewhere along the coastline of India, and preferably the western coast. Years later the Himalayas caught my fascination and became the preferred location for the dream house (though I still moaned about not having the sea side). Ya ya, this is a great deal of wishful thinking but whats wrong with that? But whatever be the spatial location of my dream, I always hoped it would be made on the principles of architecture that Baker’s life and work represented.

You would think all this sounds pretentious, but i dont think Baker would have minded. For Baker was a Gandhian, it seems he considered his chance meeting with Gandhi as the one which changed his life. He is one more instance of the exciting possibilities within Gandhi's thought. He specialised in low cost housing which was simple, functional as well as aesthetic . Most importantly it used locally available material, and avoided as much as possible cement and steel. His buildings blended into the surroundings, and were sensitive to local ecology. He wouldn’t chop trees, remove rocks or flatten a slope but incorporate them all into the structure. I just read that he described his own house as a blanket draped over a hillock. Wow. I have never been in a Baker home, I have only seen pictures. But I do think that a great deal of traditional architecture does make immense sense in terms of weather and ecology.

Baker died on April 1^st. Perhaps it is a way of alerting us to the joke that we have made of our homes and built spaces in the race to become the country with the most malls, the most ugly and energy guzzling buildings.

living the tale all over again

I have done it again.

Lost my world.

Every collective, every commune like existence, every ‘gang’, every comfort zone- I have found, been a part of and built… there has come a point when I lost what linked me to that world. Not through the usual and familiar process of moving on and losing touch. I have walked out deliberately. I have never returned to that world, even if I have held on to some, often unlikely, strands of those worlds.

why? why me? where am I going wrong?

Have I been a misfit in each one of them? Have I been cautious, hesitant, unsure? Have I not given it enough? Perhaps. or it is my ego. Maybe. or am I expecting too much from those I care about. Most probably.

But what if I didn’t say what I said or do what I did? What if I didn’t walk out?

That’s where I find my answer.

The costs of staying on, I cant bear. They numb me.

I can bear the pain of loss. It kills me. It affirms I am alive.

can i not take my pick

There are questions which one faces all the time. Regular run of the mill kind. But I never manage to have a clear answer for them. Everytime I fumble with the answer, I resolve to have one ready for next time, but the point is there is no one answer ever- either as the final well formulated one or even a concise one which can ward away further questions.

Like I never know how to answer which city I like better- delhi or chandigarh. ever since I moved to the latter, this has become my most feared question. (Only next to – where do I belong to 'originally', but I will come to that some other time.) It doesn’t help that most people who put this question belong to either one of the cities. The snooty delhite’s contempt for a small city mixed with sniggers about the panjabis or the proud chandigarhian’s inferiority complex (which is forever competing against delhi) who jumps to list its virtues and run down delhi. Every word, every expression of theirs holding out a challenge, inviting me and daring me not to counter.

I got so psyched I even made a table comparing the two. Here it is…

Delhi	Chandigarh
History, Monuments, big and small, famous and little-known everywhere	50 year old city, has erased all history and now seeking status as a ‘modern heritage city’.
Half an hour minimum, don’t even ask about the maximum	7 minutes to work, maximum half an hour drive to anywhere in the city
Autos, buses, metro- multiple options of transport within city limits. No such luck if you have to cross the border.	All this only with personal transport, appalling state of public transport- buses and autos included
The ridge, fast disappearing	At the foothill, the awesome view of Himalayas
Grand old parks, but depleting green belts	Parks and more parks, so much green but what about variation?
Lots of movie halls. Also film festivals, screenings in various fora	Only one multiplex, most slightly non-mainstream films don’t make it to the city, festivals few and far between.
Friends- old	Friends- new
Malls, malls everywhere…ugly glass buildings dotting the skyline	Only one still, but threatening to come up with more
A dead river	A lovely lake the administration is trying to kill but hasn’t succeeded as yet
Pollution	Delhi is the goal on pollution, trying to reach it soon. But can still see the stars. Full moon nights are bewitching.
Great libraries	Nothing outside the university for the academic but decent collection within
Academic activities keep happening, talks, seminars etc	Nothing outside the university, fewer of everything within

But this doesn’t say it all. For how can I describe what it means to know that I have entered delhi when I can smell the Azadpur landfill, to get down from the bus in ISBT, arguing with the autowallah who quotes double the meter fare and telling him, hey u cant mess with me cos I am from here, or crossing the stinking yamuna and the horrendous akhshardam on the way home, cursing everyone responsible for it. Can I describe the feeling of knowing that this is the place where I can hopelessly lose my way but will never feel lost. Can I explain why those run down monuments of the 12^th century mean so much?

At the same time, can I put into one answer what it means to have a home of my own. Explain what I feel when I am on my way back to chandigarh after a weekend and am on a rickshaw and give the chap directions, the feeling that I am giving directions to ‘my home’. Or why the sight of the mountains, especially on a clear day washed by rain, which looms ahead when I drive to work makes my day and lifts my spirits on a bad day.

I ‘come back home’ every time I enter delhi and every time I enter chandigarh. I own both. I criticise them both. I live in both places. Can I say all this when I am asked ‘which one is better’ or ‘which one I prefer’?

it doesn’t matter...(the other side)

it doesn’t matter
that we love each other
so much
however much

if
you don’t

hear me out
talk to me
take the time
try to understand
show you care
share in work

give me space
to do my own thing
and do my own nothing

treat me as an equal,
in deeds, not just in words

be a parent
not just the father

if you don’t value
me
us
all we have between us

you may love me ever so much
but this is what matters
our life not being thus is what shatters

and love
my love, your love, our love
cannot make up for it

love may never wear out, never die
we would perhaps be in love always

but it isn’t enough
for a life of togetherness
it just isn’t enough

it doesnt matter

it doesn’t matter if you love me still,
for I once did too

it doesn’t matter if you don’t love me,
as long as I do

what matters is the feeling
of feeling nothing at all

neither love, nor longing nor hope
or pain, hurt, sorrow

no anticipation of what could be
no anguish over what has come to be

that small house

It was a very small apartment. A hall, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, loo, balcony. It was something which I would today think ideal for my single living. I would most probably complain about the size of the kitchen and the old world separation of the loo and the bathroom. And curse the steep stairs to the second floor.

Eventually, that balcony got converted into a room. For a long time there was a half wall, a sort of fence, separating the bedroom and the balcony room. As children we loved to cross that fence and go back and forth the two rooms. Often we would use that fence as the vantage point to sit and observe the goings on.

And there was a lot going on in that house. At any given time the house boasted of the most eclectic combinations of people, conversations, and activities. In that house I have watched serious art house films and live cricket matches, heard the latest chartbuster or the rare old song recovered from some archive, played card games involving any number of people. The circle of players could get as wide as there were people, even if our knees and shoulders hit each other and to get up meant a shake up of the whole circle. There were people but never a din, for I have read many a book there. Others have learnt intricate embroidery designs or the latest knitting pattern even as another group of people were putting together the model of a building. And all this over the most amazing food.

The couple who made that home were not the most progressive of people. They had their share of conservatism, superstitions and hang-ups. But what made them distinctive was their openness. They were ready to listen, in fact eager to hear and know more, whether or not they agreed or approved. To date, they are the only people in the family (at least among the older ones) with whom I have shared any detail of my research.

Their home, the small apartment, reflected this openness and invited diversity with spontaneity and unaffected hospitality.

The two of them don’t live in that house any more. They don’t live any longer. But for me and I think for all of us who lived there, that small house was an huge rich experiment in a whole way of life, some part of which I hope I have imbibed.

growing up to feminism

My sister mentioned home grown feminism in her blog. Was there indeed something like that in our homes? At surface level, there seems to be no room for feminism or indeed any kind of radicalism in our kind of background.

But then just as feminism approaches us in the safe spaces of women’s colleges and from the approved habits of reading classics, it finds strands in the dampest of traditions and voices in the silences of history and memory. It creeps through the crevices of correct upbringing, through the pauses between the narration of stories and their moralistic conclusions. It soaks our consciousness through the women in our lives.

Through a mother who countered every outbreak of temper with- ‘this is not the attitude with which you can go out into the world and make your way in it’. Leaving no doubt that not ‘going out into the world’ was an option we didn’t have.

And whose deep affection for her sibling never stopped her from making it known what she wanted to study and what she ended up studying and who was to blame.

Through an aunt who had to give up her job because her husband was too busy climbing to the top to share in parenthood and who never stopped regretting it, and is never satisfied with the cliché that she is ‘behind’ his phenomenal success.

Through another aunt who was forever criticised for prioritising her job over family occasions and functions.

And another who started working at the age of 40 to prove a point and find her worth and revels in that space which not only keeps her sane, but is all her own.

Through a relative who had to drop out of school when she got married to a man 13 years her senior, but who took her 12^th standard exam when her children were at college.

And another whose minimal knowledge of English didn’t stop her from learning how to operate the computer, and use the internet.

Through the glowing admiration for and fond recollection of a great grandmother (a tonsured widow) by her sons and grandsons; their assertion that had she the opportunity she could have been the prime minister. What kind of role model did she and their memory of her make for their daughters?

Feminism also pokes us through the barbs directed at unwomanly women. And through the sympathy and condolences expressed to people with no sons. And the fear felt by the people with no sons when they read an ancient text detailing the awful fate of their souls as their pyres would not be lit by the rightful male progeny. And when some of them react to this fate with a laugh (however nervous) and a shrug, it is a triumph for feminism

over (with) a cup of tea

I always throw used tea leaves into the dustbin. I hate the idea of tea leaves going down the drain. They could clog the drain.

But that once, while I didn’t wash them down the drain, I didn’t throw them away either. I left them on the strainer.

They stained the strainer. They dried up. They threatened to fly. So I wet them under the tap. They stained everything that came under them. It took much heavy duty dish wash and detergent to get rid of those stains.

A year later, I threw them away.

Wondering why I made that tea then anyway.

It wasn’t the time, just before lunch. My appetite remained unsteady for a long time.

It wasn’t my kind of tea either. Too much sugar. Tea leaves boiled for too long. Too sweet and too bitter at the same time.

Am now trying to pacify the strainer. And we can’t work it out over a cup of tea.

each not to her own

‘Have you got engaged?’ A student asks me as the class adjusts to seeing me in a saree. The expressions on their faces showed that whether they agreed with this possibility or not, they were all looking for an explanation. They did not look convinced when I said I liked wearing it, but nodded as I proceeded to explain I usually don’t find the time required. That they could comprehend, but still the fact that I had not come up with a reasonable explanation showed in the incredulity in their faces.

This reaction coincides with the other response I invariably get every time people gather I live alone and their next question is what I do for food. “I cook’ I answer, a little proudly of course, but also as a matter of course. Instead I am asked - Really? Don’t u find it boring? Isn’t it tedious? Why don’t u have a tiffin system? Aren’t hostels better just for this reason?

Would these people have the same reaction if I was married and had a ‘family’. If I wear a saree, even if occasionally, I guess would not provoke any big reaction but more so, cooking would be something I would be assumed to be doing. The image of the mother comes to mind- the woman so admired because she is so selfless. Mother’s food is always for others.

So is there a problem in doing something for myself. Dressing up just because I feel like it. Not for anyone. Not on any occasion. And cooking for myself. Because I like to eat good home cooked food too. And can make it even though I have not, in popular terms, made a home as yet.

Go Fish

See A fish called Wanda. It’s a hilarious tale of the aftermath of a robbery with various members of the team trying to backstab and outwit each other over the loot. (incidentally, what is it about fish and films on crooks? Fish out of water, another film I recently saw, was on the same lines). Made in 1988, it has references to the secret service, KGB as well as Margaret Thatcher and a popular (but always amusing) take on the English- their characteristics and way of life. The best is when we are informed of one of the crooks, a Nietchze spouting temperamental fellow, becoming the minister of justice in (apartheid) South Africa! It has a great deal of situational comedy and some super cool lines like:

Aristotle is not a Belgian, the central tenet of Buddhism is not each man to his own and the London Underground is not a political movement.

I have known sheep which can outwit you. I have worn dresses which have more IQ than you.