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Showing posts from 2012

Moving up the tree and other stories

Story 1: I was lounging at the bottom of my tree when I heard about the promotion. Now I watch my nephew's cherubic fists fight imaginary spectres and his sleepy, grey eyes, I feel proud.Maybe hanging on the branches is kinda better than sitting at the bottom of the trunk. Story 2: I feel angry and helpless with myself and the world. My arm is in an sling and I cannot get up without help. I am dependent on others and I feel frustrated. Story 3: Everything is an uproar. The well-oiled machine has been thrown off by the cog that has stopped working. The machine creaks and compains and bursts out in sporadic fits of anger. Story 4: The world is a headless chicken. I don't agree with those in charge and they ask me if I know English. Huh. Story 5: The world is old and cold and pretty. Leaves fall off the tall lime trees that line the road. There is nothing more tranquil, more beautiful. I'm at peace.

Tender is the night

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I fell in love with F. Scott Fitzgerald after The Great Gatsby . The book is an expression of torrid emotions that takes you to sublime heights and drags you down to the depths of despair, like all good books should. (I do not own the picture. I have sponged off the blog 'Books to the ceiling') It is said that Tender is the Night , one of Scott's last books reflects his life. And indeed it does. Tender is the Night is the story of Dick, his wife Nicole and an American actress, Rosemary. The plot is set on the French Riviera, but it moves through Switzerland and US as the story progresses. Fitzgerald's prose is fluid, evocative and graceful. It is succinct but highly expressive. He is nostalgic but cynical and there ar cracks in his rosy spectacles. As for the book, the characters are highly complex. The novel is divided into three books. The first completely baffled me. I could not understand the motives behind the actions of the characters. They surprised

The Obituary

Entry for The Taj Conspiracy Flash Fiction Contest   I could never forget the whisper of the scarlet silk when it fell from her shoulders. It would slide down in a graceful arc, loathe to part with the elegant line of her back. I would follow the curve of her spine with my finger. A tattoo of a lotus in bloom marred the turn of her shoulder and I was glad for it, because it meant she wasn’t perfect, ethereal but importantly, she was here, she was mine. Our days would be filled with art and poetry. She wrote impassioned, if not mediocre verses on the injustice of the world and I painted landscapes that would be hung up as impersonal sentinels of hotel hallways. She would recite from the Les Fleurs du Mal and talk in a rhetoric that inflamed and instigated. I was certain that I could change the world with her. Three years after we first met, we went to Taj Mahal. She breathed in the tangy odour of the summer air, chafed and burned and complained about the world. I talk

Living with History

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I love trekking. This Sunday's excursion took me to 'Ghanagad'. It is about an hour  from Lonavla. It was rarely used for actual war, but it has strategic importance. Shivaji Maharaj lost it to the Mughals in the Treaty of Purandar, but it was later reclaimed. The excursion entails an hour-long hike to the base and then it takes another hour (or more) to reach the top. The trek to the base of the bale-killa is beautiful. The pathway winds through a forest of sorts. The tall trees with leafy canopies, abundant ferns, wind rushing through the leaves and the sound of little beings scuttling away as you move forward makes for a wonderful trek.I would advise seeking local help if you want to go to the top, because the last bit is a little arduous. It involves a ladder and grasping at the cable nailed to the stone facade. There is little of note on the top, but you can see Sarasgad and Sudhagad. Two decrepit buruj make up for what once must have been a bale-killa. At

Pune is alive

A city is a living being, of either sex with the peculiar characteristics accredited by years of breathing and expanding. Delhi is a socialite with a 'Government husband'. She hides herself behind the veneer of sophistication. But often at unguarded moments, the face falls to reveal that underneath the magnanimity and laughter, there is savagery. Kolkata is a coquettish woman wearing the traditional red and white sari, but she has dark flashing eyes that are full of passion. What can I say about Pune? He is a man with the puneri pagadi perched on his head, caustic in speech and acerbic in tone. He likes new things but clings firmly to the old, and moves seamlessly within all walks of life. Pune breathes. It lives. When I am in the 'gav' area, I look at the buildings - some run down and derelict, some well-kept, but most bearing the ties to an era long gone. The carved balconies and the wide wooden windows are still beautiful. On a quiet morning, one can imagine the

Tess of D'Urbervilles

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It has been a long while since a book has tortured me. Pride and Prejudice evokes the same warmth in me as the sight of an old friend and the well-read first line of the book, "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife"  makes me smile. I have empathised with Lizzy Bennet and I often identify myself with her. But I have never felt tortured by the ebb and fall of her emotions. I like to think that I share her scintillating wit (:D) and become Elizabeth at times, and never do I feel that I am outsider in her world. I live in Meryton, I take tea at Pemberly and I'm a fly on the wall - or a bee in the bonnet as the case maybe - in Pride and Prejudice. I began reading Tess of D'Urbervilles (Thomas Hardy) precisely two days ago. Between the compulsory breaks for sleep, lunch, dinner (my mother abhors the sight of a book on my lap as I try to shovel food down so I may read unhindered) an

The New Kid on the Block

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Oh no, he's not yet gained entry to the South Block, or the North for that matter, but he has made a start. Arvind Kejriwal.  I'm utterly fascinated by the man. The Times Crest recently profiled him and the different articles made him more puzzling to the common man. He looks ordinary, yet has the temerity to challenge the biggest leaders and the erstwhile son-in-law of the nation. God be with him. What more can one say? (Image courtesy of TOI)

Pune and all its idiosyncrasies/Birthday

So I turned 19 today. No big deal, right? Yesterday, I was feeling extremely melanchony, moping around, and a sense of disquiet pervaded my world. I was bored, in short. I had not done the regular birthday things, you know - tons of shopping, jabbering away with friends and daydreaming about the hot guy that I'd seen in the canteen. So anyway, I was bored. This morning, my friends publicly embarrassed me by singing Happy Birthday at the top of their voices in the canteen, that too in front of the hot guy! But it was fun. They know my obsession about bags and their gifts sent me into tizzies of pleasure. But when I was going home, I saw an old man on a bicycle and there was something pinned to his back that made me hoot with laughter. It literally made my day and I fell in love with Pune all over again. Yeah, I know the people seem mean, sarcastic and rude. But they're also witty and funny and have an unparalled creative flair for signposts. Oh yeah. So what was writt

FC

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I have an almost violent love for FC. Now never forget that I am utterly loyal and committed to JPP, but FC has managed to win me over as well. There are moments when I hate FC with the same passion, but the good things outweigh all its vices. First off, the buildings and the campus. In a word, FC is BEAUTIFUL. There are no words for those feelings that swell up in your heart when you're sitting on the stone steps, or in Kimaya and the sky is overcast, the wind rushes through the trees and some lonely leaves drop down on your book. You look up, and the world is old, verdant and beautiful and you feel peace and contentment. One of the best things about FC? It's filmy. It's so so so so filmy that even Bollywood may pale in in the comparison. All right, I exaggerate, but FC comes closest to those colleges that you see in the movies. There is the same easy banter on basketball court and geeks loitering around the campus, the cliques and the rivalries. The stares from

5: Korean Dramas

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And I'm not lying. I have watched so many Korean drams in tenth grade and after that it's hard to count. But here are my favourite five: 1. Boys over Flowers Four gorgeous, rich guys, one girl whose family can barely make ends meet.  The stubbornest, most arrogant guy Junpyo and the soft spoken, kind Jihu - whom will Jandi choose? 2. Matchmaker's lover What happens when a matchmaker dates a divorce lawyer? And what if...he happens to be the one handling her parent's divorce? 3. Worlds Within Two strong, individualistic directors with a history clash in a battle of wills and face insurmountable odds. Will love conquer all? 4. The Iron Empress Based on the life of the Empress Cheon Chu, the drama deals with the Empress and battles - both personal and those on the fields. 5. Cooking up romance Set in a restuarant selling beef soup, the drama revolves around the lives of the characters who work and struggle through life to find lo

5: English series

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I'm not going to classify them as dramas or anything, but 5 of the most exciting things I've watched on television: 1. The River I know you were expecting something else, but try watching The River at the 11:00 pm slot and you'll know what I mean. 2. How I met Your Mother I'm more of a HIMYM kinda gal than a Friends one. 3. Castle Do I need to say anything? 4.  Supernatural I'm a Dean-girl than Sam, mind you! Yeah, and I'm crazy about Castiel! 5. The Mentalist Oh, Jane! Honourable mentions: Melissa and Joey, Bones, Lie to Me, Cougar Town

What Team Anna Did

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Form a political Party. Oh yeah. Responses that were expressed in my vicinity or on the tv: 1.  **#%$^$% 2. (Congress/BJP) आता कसा सापडला गडी ! (Gotcha!) 3. me: Yay! So I think it merits of one of my rare bursts of unhindered joy that is expressed though the abandon of a 'yay'. The question is why. 1. We need cleaner politics. As the Prinipal of my school used to say, "Vote for a better goonda than not voting at all." Not that Team Anna is a goonda. (What sacrilege!) 2. Alternatives to the traditional candidates. (Congress, BJP, Shiv Sena, MaNaSe, Rashtrawadi Congress...Yawn!) 3. Lokpal Bill (in theory) I made maggi a few hours ago. It was overcooked and underspiced. But looking at Mr. Kejriwal's face today, it took every once of will power not to send him some. Thank god he broke the fast...India cannot do without him, not now. (This picture was taken days ago. He looks much, much worse.) Okay, so I can quit worrying about him wasting a

5: New Marathi Movies

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This is the first of my '5' posts, which will list 5 'top' objects in the topic of the post.   In this case, they are the new Marathi movies.  Marathi cinema has come of age from the turn of the century, and it is all too apparent in these 5 movies that movies that present the slice of the decade: 1. Mumbai-Pune-Mumbai Is it any wonder that my favorite Marathi movie tops the list? Mumbai-Pune-Mumbai, starring Mukta Barve and Swapnil Joshi, is a series of twists and turns on a single day in Pune. Love the two songs : Kadhi tu and Ka Kalena. Best song: Kadhi tu 2. Natrang Atul Kulkarni is one of the most prolific actors that I have ever seen. In this movie, he takes on two diametrically opposite roles, playing the lead character in two very different stages in life and his mad passion for 'tamasha'. If not for anything else, it is a must watch for Atul Kulkarni. Best song: Apsara ali 3. Harishchandrachi Factory

Hang in there, Mr. Kejriwal!

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There is something about Arvind Kejriwal that makes you sit up and take notice. It isn't the way he looks. Pleasant and just somewhere in between. Not the way he dresses, because his clothes resemble that of half the adult, middle class working population. I feel it's all in the manner he behaves. It's decisive . He isn't like Arjun to dither on the battle field. He's rather like Krishna, to charioteer the hero and provide him with the necessary support - moral and divine. And that is precisely the thing that he's doing in the JanLokpal Bill movement. A few days ago, the news reports were inundated with the status of his falling blood sugar and his diabetes. On the fifth day of the fast, he's still holding on, making speeches and looking stern. Hang in there, Mr. Kejriwal! We'll get the Lokpal Bill yet. 

Why the 'movement' isn't picking up pace in 2012

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The months of July and August 2011 were a good time to be alive in India. For a generation which had grown up listening to the tales of the struggle for Independence, and the movement in the 1970s, the Jan-Lokpal Bill movement was like a dream come true. Lokpal is 'ombudsman', and the Bill to appoint such a body has been pending in the Parliament for more than fourty years. In December 2010 the issue came to forefront when a group of activists criticized the Government's draft, and made demand for a stronger, more responsible Lokpal body. They drafted an alternative version of the bill, and called it 'Jan-Lokpal' Bill. And what happened in the months of July, August and those following it was nothing short of a political drama. There were allegations and counter allegations, and fasts unto death, and meetings between the activists (christened as Team Anna by the media after the leader of the movement, Anna Hazare). But the most striking thing about the m

Late mornings on the campus

Today was a good day to be alive. After the lecture was over, we sat on the stone steps of one of the buildings in college. The sky was leaden, and there was just a little nip in the air - not enough to make you reach for a sweater, but that kind, which is quite pleasurable when paired with a cup of tea. And so we sat for hours (it seemed so, at least) talking and laughing, till all my friends disappeared one by one. I was the only one left - under the overcast sky and the slight wind - and I read a book. It was beautiful. Not the book, the feeling. The book was for the English class (which I bunked, but that isn't the point here, is it?) but I don't remember much of what I read. What I remember is the people passing by, the small drops of rain on my skin and the scent of the soil in the air. It indeed was a good day to be alive.

Sinhagad

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You have to know that Sinhagad is to Pune, what pani is to pani puri. Earlier known as 'Kondhana', the fort was renamed as 'Sinhagad' after Shivaji Maharaj's troops captured it. One of his trusted men - Tanaji Malusare, was killed in the battle, prompting the words, 'We got the fort, but lost the Lion', and hence it was renamed as Sinhagad (Lion-fort) to commemorate Tanaji.                                                                        Sinhagad A friend called me up on Friday, wondering if I was interested in a trek to Sinhagad on Monday. I was reclining on the couch, reading 'The Scarlet Letter', as Graham Norton embarrassed the hell out of his guests on the television. I cleared my throat, looked at my calendar and said, "Okay, I guess" (What she didn't need to know was that I was doing the macarena and cartwheels inside...) We decided to meet up at the Swargate bus station at 5 a.m. and I kissed my DIo goodbye and

Green vinyl sofas and antiseptic smell

The light was blinding me, and involuntarily, I closed my eyes. She held a long shiny instrument in her hand, behind her plain sterile mask, I could have sworn that she was grinning. In fact, I wouldn't have been surprised if she had two long incisors too that glinted in the dark. Or maybe not. Her assistant shoved a long tube in my mouth that robbed me of the ability to speak, and by that time, I was truly terrified. In order to gain some sort of moral support, I looked over at my father (I'm still a child even though I may be eighteen!) but he was flicking through a gardening magazine. Fathers, I tell you. The assistant loomed over me and the single squeak of dissent that I emitted did not seem to register with either of them. With a satisfied smirk, he moved away. I shut my eyes, and as the whirring contraption drew near, my hands grabbed my own jeans in an effort to brave it out and not run away screaming bloody murder. The ordeal lasted for half an hour and b

Every Day You Play

Pablo Neruda has to be one of the most prolific poets of the century. The last line of this particular poem makes me want to turn into a cloud and float away in sheer delight. Hope you enjoy this poem. Every Day You Play Every day you play with the light of the universe. Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water. You are more than this white head that I hold tightly as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands. You are like nobody since I love you. Let me spread you out among yellow garlands. Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed. Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window. The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish. Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them. The rain takes off her clothes. The birds go by, fleeing. The wind. The wind. I can contend only against the power of men. The storm whirls dark leaves and turns loose all the boa

Only a week

My exams came to an end on last Monday and I let out a big whoop of joy. There is untainted joy in eating icecream and pani puri, waching your best friend fall on her bum, and the best of all, when exams end. It's sheer relief and you can shout all you  want and nobody will utter a single word against you. I discovered early on, that to intensify this joy, you have to study hard. There's not any other option. Because you know, you'll look up from a particularly hard chapter and see your brother in front of the TV and say to yourself in a voice worthy of all Bond villains, 'Someday, it'll be my turn.' I console myself with thoughts of long, languid days spent lying on the floor reading one book after another, with a secret delight that my mom won't be able to shout at me for that because my exams are over ! I'll stay up until three watching television and when my sister will stumble out for a glass of water, she'll only glare at me and not say

March madness

March is a really unfortunate month for me. The exams are steadily drawing near and all I want to do is not study. Happens to the best of us, I guess. I blame the weather, really! January and February are too frigid and cold, April and May are hot and sweaty...but March - it's perfect. It's not too hot, nor too cold, and the sky is a perfect never-ending blue. The birds are chirping, and there is laughter, and long, languid evenings spent out on the terrace with the family. The madness of March hits me out of the blue, and makes crave ice cream, and long drives, pani puri and the company of friends, and makes me want to fall in love with a person, a serial, a book, or a song. It makes me want to paint (though I haven't lifted a brush for the last 3 years), and sing (my music teacher from school liked me better with my mouth shut) and write (even though the exams are drawing near) and do all sorts of wonderful crazy things. But I can't. I have to pull out my te

This year's colours

Rangapanchmi just passed me by. This year, I was one of those sad, desolate faces hanging around by the window, spying on the people playing colours in the street below. I got up as usual, and dragged my economics text book on the table, and spent ten solid minutes looking up at the sky. And then there were shouts and giggles, and of course I had to investigate the source (rather than accept the inevitable and read about Planning in India). There was a small group of people in varying shades of maroon, blue, green and yellow on the street and were shrieking with laughter as they drenched each other and threw colours. I will not deny it. I felt a twinge of jealousy. Was it really so bad, that I was cooped up in the house on a glorious March morning, while all my friends from school and my sister were off gallivanting with their friends from college. It is understandable, really, and I do want to be all mature and grown up about it, but sometimes, I feel like an outsider. They go

Valentine's Day

It's such a cliche. Year in and year out, it's the same old routine. The same red roses (at bloody high prices), cute teddy bears and all sorts of useless, fluffy items that won't see the light of the day in normal circumstances. The red pillows, perfumes, diamond necklaces and the strings of pearls aren't that important in retrospect - it's the stories. The stories of how people meet and fall in love, tide over their differences and sometimes succumb, fail to bridge the gap, and part with only the memories and the occasional gift that was left behind after the break up. But sometimes, there is harmony and understanding, maybe the circumstances are favourable and it becomes the prologue to the 'real story', the point where all our Bollywood movies like to end and leave the details of the conjugal life to our imagination. This year, I was home for Valentine's Day (kokam sherbet at the canteen had it's revenge, I guess) and I flicked my economics note

The Book

The Book Birth. It was already written and he didn't like that fact. He turned the pages - he was fond of beautiful, white pages from the snow of Himalayas and the foam of the Arabian sea. And the ink of the soil that was turned and overturned, year after year. He didn't decide it. Brought into the world by a pair of lovers like any other, he didn't have any say in it. He was here, breathing and blinking, alive. And there was nothing he could do about it. Life. His was a triangle in the jungle of circles and pale green leaves on the staid, old pool. He sang of stone butterflies and waxen bees who drank from the honey of thoughts. He walked in squares and on the lines his ancestors had painted. He often stood on those, bucket and mop in hand. They weren't erased and the drops from his mop went running ahead of time. Death. He stood with infinite patience that the centuries had ingrained into his collective imagination. He wavered on the edge of light a

Okay, so.

Okay, so Romance. It's such a quintessential topic, isn't it? I mean, every time you turn your back and - whoa! there is a guy and a girl (or a homosexual pairing, doesn't matter) falling in love, or in the honeymoon stage, maybe breaking up and moping around - only to fall in love again. It isn't only about 'romance' though. I'll rephrase it as 'love'. Popular culture revolves around love - off the top of your head, mention a book or a movie that is famous and does not have a romantic element. Sure, there are such films and books, but the majority has a romantic tinge to it. A friend of mine said, 'Popular culture is about blindly aping the stereotypes without validating the truth'. He's not entirely wrong. But pray, tell me, what are stereotypes but characteristic commonalities that have been emphasized? Hence popular culture, though stereotypical strikes a chord within each of us - because it has a basis in reality. So when I decided t

It's a relapse

I am like an alcoholic or a druggie who relapses, time and again. It was something of a mystery to me that I make so many resolutions, but fail to follow any of them through. That is when I discovered my true nature. It was rather like waiting patiently on a machan and hoping for that elusive tiger to appear, but I tried to observe my behaviour with the same disaffection. I like cleanliness - as long as it's not me who has to clean. My room resembles a field that a tornado may have passed through and from then on, it's a downhill journey - literally. Mountains of books and clothes pile up in the room, and a treacherous path between them is my normal route in the room for months. Then one day, it's like wiping the glass clean and I am noticing the filth for the first time. I run the cycles on the washing machine, get out the iron and within the day, my clothes are washed, ironed and folded in the closet. Gathering the books and stowing them according to the authors and subj