tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30137486704073562282024-02-19T13:23:01.978+05:30NescienceInsights into odds and endsPoojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-38090430934016657342020-06-29T16:48:00.000+05:302020-06-29T16:48:54.936+05:30This time last year<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It is only when I open Google Photos & it reminds of what I was doing this time last year, I realise how much time has passed. The summer has come & gone and the rain is back, and with it the promise of more. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Looking at Google photos of what happened before is a mixed bag - it is what I imagine a bag of Bertie Bott's every flavoured beans would taste like. Some pictures bring back memories - clambering on the rocks near the sea, so close you can taste the salt on your tongue; clammy air and the faint sound of drunk second years in the background as you look up at the stars in the amphi; the cold air and the turbulence as the Himalayas shine below; the smell of chakli and chiwada in the air and glow of earthen lamps. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc82VQP3isDUE8CjuurYf-ttt2whMDylJ2fRJmbEqvp30C7GijjirXEHu-y2TxEu991FYfCbQ7loQVR2SCkd7Lythn3QxIb2mngNysx-LYjDgytRRYXJiVlLIwtaJqoWl37yYlFkR3Xcq0/s408/IMG-20191123-WA0031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu0KFQ30G4wo7USQDP8acZXnU00sUW2VC71sFlLrY-ikI9U1AJZwA18yGxYueYXL_IpYs7KvfOMD1kBATa50GWRwCLu05tLpJcFeVXAp-HG4oVJWIFWfhDiqM5lngvzExEIKXDlMhrGUJS/s3264/collage+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2020" data-original-width="3264" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu0KFQ30G4wo7USQDP8acZXnU00sUW2VC71sFlLrY-ikI9U1AJZwA18yGxYueYXL_IpYs7KvfOMD1kBATa50GWRwCLu05tLpJcFeVXAp-HG4oVJWIFWfhDiqM5lngvzExEIKXDlMhrGUJS/w500-h310/collage+%25281%2529.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Some pictures tease you about how much has changed since. It is all about missed opportunities and roads you took. I like seeing those too - they are the ones that remind me that the reality of today is better than the dream of yesterday. I think of all the leafy lanes I don't haunt anymore, the cup of coffee cooling on the counter, the sea lapping at the golden sand. </p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But this is today, this rain falling on slick green leaves, and the yellow buds peeking from the foliage. For today, it is enough. </p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></p></div></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc82VQP3isDUE8CjuurYf-ttt2whMDylJ2fRJmbEqvp30C7GijjirXEHu-y2TxEu991FYfCbQ7loQVR2SCkd7Lythn3QxIb2mngNysx-LYjDgytRRYXJiVlLIwtaJqoWl37yYlFkR3Xcq0/s408/IMG-20191123-WA0031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div></div></div></div>
Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-44772252038386602792020-03-25T10:40:00.000+05:302020-03-25T10:40:51.049+05:30We are all searching. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am a part of a tribe. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In this post MBA-catalytic world, where the reality has finally smacked all of us in our faces and shown us how empty we actually are, my tribe flourishes. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">We wear expensive clothes because we can afford it. We drink at pricey pubs and long for the days when all we could afford was old monk with a twist of lime. We brunch and reminisce about the tapri wali chai. We take cabs from Andheri to Chembur because comfort is important and in that hellhole of a ride, we make power-fucking-point presentations. We live in dreams and the reality keeps killing us. We all think we are special. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Even our dreams are the same. We long to quit our jobs and pick up a backpack and travel across the world. Find answers to the emptiness inside. Yawn. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">All conversations are the same. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">'Bro, how is your job?' </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">'It's shit dude, what about yours?' </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">'It sucks.' </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">'Yeah, tell me about it.' </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Why is everything so meaningless? So repetitive? If real life is actually like this, what kool-aid were we drinking that we thought otherwise? In the exchange of this conversation, my tribe flourishes. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191e23; font-family: "noto serif"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">What did we miss so much that we all started searching? </span></div>
Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-27310535292141045222019-06-24T21:55:00.000+05:302019-06-24T22:48:07.119+05:30Dreaming of other things<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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This June, I completed four years in Mumbai. Bombay.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYe-nCgwmlZ7T_tEA24cM3oALJaJKlQSDlEkx7cHsV-teI3nLTs3DF_3vm66A1cVdSEiJpw5dV9mJyazfITvcGbX_XB10fluz3k_2Fa9hGUaTZesfhPpinFvD2ijMZ1GXFeosm2hEVU0_N/s1600/IMG_20190214_181436.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYe-nCgwmlZ7T_tEA24cM3oALJaJKlQSDlEkx7cHsV-teI3nLTs3DF_3vm66A1cVdSEiJpw5dV9mJyazfITvcGbX_XB10fluz3k_2Fa9hGUaTZesfhPpinFvD2ijMZ1GXFeosm2hEVU0_N/s320/IMG_20190214_181436.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I was astounded - it couldn't be, I told myself. It couldn't be that I had been away from home, from Pune, for four years and I could still be this...restful. I no longer haunt the tree-lined bylanes of Fergusson College road, no longer sit on the steps of the cake shop drinking pathetic coffee spewed by an angry machine, and I no longer beat the dhol when the skies darken and the cries of <i>Ganapati Bappa Morya</i> echo through the streets. I don't write as much anymore, and I don't read as much I used to. I don't dream that <i>wildly </i>nor do I make tall statements that have no basis in reality other than my fervent desire to make them come true.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEj8ejCiTCRc4NpSjhggvA3PRf_umO7zNINvvkIMcGgf2WrLWvuvc8U-F9Uu9f94qLKxg1bgv92qYXWFupPKs97J-gt8viSkLq6uLu1NViWwvdq1tWcXTqQWV_nvtQ6tFPK7DmMl6t7WnW/s1600/IMG-20160706-WA0022.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEj8ejCiTCRc4NpSjhggvA3PRf_umO7zNINvvkIMcGgf2WrLWvuvc8U-F9Uu9f94qLKxg1bgv92qYXWFupPKs97J-gt8viSkLq6uLu1NViWwvdq1tWcXTqQWV_nvtQ6tFPK7DmMl6t7WnW/s320/IMG-20160706-WA0022.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I am not that person anymore. </div>
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I am a Bombay person now. I carry an umbrella everywhere, I have m indicator on my phone, and I time my life not by hours, but by minutes.<br />
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I stay in a rented flat with walls that are white and clean, and the only hint of my personality is a large dreamcatcher that catches dust more than it does my dreams. I do not know my neighbours - they don't know me, they don't care to know me. I don't blame them. It is difficult to see a never ending stream of working professionals walk in through the door - girls tall, short, smart, bespectacled, loud, shy - all on their way <i>somewhere - anywhere but here. </i>That's when I know I am in <strike>Bombay</strike> Navi Mumbai.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXlQrhQuPlKVnJz7hjhLFdelxa-JZOgLWR2wyvmgtitUYY96SOz7duUXiP9uLBWVbe8G-afvIWkvgHcDicxPA-5GD3QAM4r0d8Mp3iNErPje1sN3kVCKF_LruNzgiyBeFX9mKBsnFpUqlh/s1600/IMG-20190610-WA0000.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXlQrhQuPlKVnJz7hjhLFdelxa-JZOgLWR2wyvmgtitUYY96SOz7duUXiP9uLBWVbe8G-afvIWkvgHcDicxPA-5GD3QAM4r0d8Mp3iNErPje1sN3kVCKF_LruNzgiyBeFX9mKBsnFpUqlh/s320/IMG-20190610-WA0000.jpeg" width="180" /></a></div>
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Dual Existence.<br />
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That's what I see it as. Split between today - this moment, and the memory or this moment, and the longing.<br />
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I'm in office, working on an excel sheet that perhaps nobody is ever going to see, and I'm in Seogwipo, on Seongsan Ilchulbang seeing the waves break their hearts over the dark, rocky shore.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVFpJzyC1RF9SFKQFs31dGOYC6nXDtGwQOzPPgqIDHt5zv38PZLLEoGThOIoXkMm-JqnHHx6MUqwhyphenhyphenon2qYAezChDRQX9JrZhfM4dP_dNskuO1bqL-APXQMbSZPtwV1Q61vh6vy-N1pGm4/s1600/IMG_20190420_103946.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVFpJzyC1RF9SFKQFs31dGOYC6nXDtGwQOzPPgqIDHt5zv38PZLLEoGThOIoXkMm-JqnHHx6MUqwhyphenhyphenon2qYAezChDRQX9JrZhfM4dP_dNskuO1bqL-APXQMbSZPtwV1Q61vh6vy-N1pGm4/s320/IMG_20190420_103946.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I am painstakingly cutting an onion, and I'm on Sinhagad, eating dahi from an earthen pot.<br />
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I am cleaning out my wardrobe, and I am playing with Prakhar.<br />
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I am walking to the canteen, and I am walking down to the dining hall to eat the same old matki usal.<br />
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I am sitting by the window, looking at the night sky through the haze of Bombay, and I am sitting by the window, looking at the night sky through the haze of Bombay.<br />
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Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-59941816260713235932017-06-14T21:01:00.002+05:302017-06-14T21:01:35.593+05:30From Campus to Corporate<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am now a part of those who are gainfully employed. I have joined the ranks of the 9 am to 6 p crowd. I am now one of those women wearing inappropriate footwear in Mumbai rains and expensive jackets that serve vanity more than utility. I am now one of those women who talk about the targets for the year and clip clop around the office in dangerous heels. I am one of those women who lug a laptop bag everywhere and give presentations in slick meeting rooms. I am all that and hope to be more.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbdAGtyKgz8KZ7odur7I0EDmS_inqfDwd-mN9kA7JOkUOIhZUk5vcHRaU4frTTSom09zo9WhcBRXCH4fdegFTpGBt_FYoms7LVNky3Pnh0ZuX9dmlGBKVfZEDIWFfQtUP-cMgXQA92NYwh/s1600/IMG-20170606-WA0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbdAGtyKgz8KZ7odur7I0EDmS_inqfDwd-mN9kA7JOkUOIhZUk5vcHRaU4frTTSom09zo9WhcBRXCH4fdegFTpGBt_FYoms7LVNky3Pnh0ZuX9dmlGBKVfZEDIWFfQtUP-cMgXQA92NYwh/s400/IMG-20170606-WA0001.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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This transition to corporate did not feel like a shock - four fieldworks have ensured that. Rather it feels like slipping into old shoes that I had stopped wearing (why these shoe metaphors today, I wonder). </div>
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But that does not mean I do not miss TISS campus. I crave the green lattice on damp roads, the steel tables and the smell of hot tea in the DM canteen, the rain drenched amphitheater, and the smell of cold rain on hot soil. </div>
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But in the past weeks, I have sat through numerous talks about my new company, and slowly I am coming to terms with it - the size and the shape of it, the sounds of it and the smell of it. I am coming to realize its geography and its nature, and somewhere within me I feel the slow unfurling of presentiment. I feel my wings flutter. </div>
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Is this what growing up is? </div>
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Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-12802096619988569452016-10-10T12:24:00.002+05:302016-10-10T12:24:53.145+05:30Gudetama is my soulmate<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Have you met Gudetama yet? He's the lazy egg.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVCSICRyvy1kpofj60CHIAV7JwDCeJZZRUZVf45tA4l6b4hi4jCpXkXc9DqDdRLF7NsCgSmoA5XO9PklrHOhPugwEP9Ugf4gUbMPz6kKGpfO5Z34XIe1aIjL1qNvs1DLu6iqZNTyyw3WC/s1600/gudetama_by_magnumunyu-d9yuemc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVCSICRyvy1kpofj60CHIAV7JwDCeJZZRUZVf45tA4l6b4hi4jCpXkXc9DqDdRLF7NsCgSmoA5XO9PklrHOhPugwEP9Ugf4gUbMPz6kKGpfO5Z34XIe1aIjL1qNvs1DLu6iqZNTyyw3WC/s320/gudetama_by_magnumunyu-d9yuemc.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Say hello. He probably won't say anything back, he's lazy that way so I totally understand.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy8VJWgKgSkEvKIzHAYosnKCxwWqn1BGFS6pqT6RSaeFzYAc0fqc1Ddx9RshlmBnwMPdHEmM63bS83nzTZMfcAwXeD7pCnx8Wj7EkGY1yAre8TAFRH-HNAOqh8Q20zcvloRcsDD9DXW5FT/s1600/d335d4714a7697bfe035628c9e080d18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy8VJWgKgSkEvKIzHAYosnKCxwWqn1BGFS6pqT6RSaeFzYAc0fqc1Ddx9RshlmBnwMPdHEmM63bS83nzTZMfcAwXeD7pCnx8Wj7EkGY1yAre8TAFRH-HNAOqh8Q20zcvloRcsDD9DXW5FT/s320/d335d4714a7697bfe035628c9e080d18.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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He spends his time being fried, boiled, cut and made to suffer other indignities, but he always prevails and returns to spread the noble message of indolence. He clutches to a strip of bacon as a blanket, is always tired and his past-time is lying tiredly.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDERPRWTdv4Qty3IVRmhpW9_lirbswbVSzHVxYSkNgtHGfBltPs7VAvCAvyvX37Ci4xhoPWT6_uoSpW5WfrW_SJjNX2Qt8UGHIlyXoaJe79c7-A2HnnMvqCk3A_pGjRskepHxN33eICrjc/s1600/image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDERPRWTdv4Qty3IVRmhpW9_lirbswbVSzHVxYSkNgtHGfBltPs7VAvCAvyvX37Ci4xhoPWT6_uoSpW5WfrW_SJjNX2Qt8UGHIlyXoaJe79c7-A2HnnMvqCk3A_pGjRskepHxN33eICrjc/s320/image.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I totally get him. <br />
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I love him.<br />
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Thank you, Mohita for the introduction. You may now call yourself the duenna of matchmaking business. </div>
Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-74311954262960008302016-09-29T17:23:00.001+05:302016-09-29T17:23:42.010+05:30Struggle and a lesson in theory of literature<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Struggle is eternal.<br />
Don't roll you eyes. Don't scoff at me. If my twenty-three years (yes that many now) on this planet have taught me anything, it is that struggle is eternal.<br />
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The knowledge for the struggle of existence is innate. For Darwin, struggle for existence was the basis of natural selection. The war of nature is a reality. I prey on you, you prey on him, he preys on her. This is not a lesson in pronouns; it's the truth.<br />
<br />
Juxtaposed on theory of literature, this finds four forms:<br />
<br />
A. Character versus Character<br />
Ex. Pooja versus Sonakshi (bwhahahahahah)<br />
<br />
B. Character versus Society<br />
Ex. Pooja versus Middle class Morality (I am a heroine don't you know!)<br />
<br />
C. Character versus Nature<br />
Ex. Pooja versus Mumbai Rains (especially when she wears inappropriately expensive footwear to fieldwork)<br />
<br />
D.Character versus Self<br />
Ex. Pooja versus her pet demons.<br />
<br />
There you go. </div>
Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-16958578542146974572016-05-22T10:24:00.002+05:302016-05-22T11:16:35.406+05:30My Unilever Diaries<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
A bead of sweat rolls down my forehead, even as the AC is running at full blast. My legs throb with a dull pain - I have been standing for four hours
now. A lady in red approaches me - she sees me smile, she sees the glint in my
eyes, and she tries to side step me, but it's too late, I'm already in the
fray. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
"Hello, good afternoon! Would you like to taste Lipton
Ice Tea?" </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She gives in. After a small spiel, and a five minute
discussion about Mumbai weather, she is on her way with two packs of Lipton Ice
Tea in her cart, and I am closer to my goal of the day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is Modern Trade Blitzkrieg, and like me, there are
several interns, and managers in the market, working side by side with the
field forces that drive the monolith that is HUL. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am almost at the
end of my two month stint in Hindustan Unilever. My days might seem to follow
the same set pattern - hurried breakfast at the 'Wadala Sheraton' (an
affectionate, slightly derisive nickname for the guesthouse we have been
staying at - okay I lied, it's mostly derisive), a cab ride with three other
interns which generally helps me understand what's spinning on the rumour mill,
opening the laptop and getting into the mountain of work that seems to have
piled up almost overnight, chasing managers in the company for one-on-ones,
frantic coffee breaks with other interns to solve mini existential crises, and
at the end of the day, a ride back to Wadala which is generally quiet and
reflective as we marvel at the miracle - we have survived yet another day. However,
each day I have spent in these two months has also been markedly different from the rest. </div>
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<b>It is challenging</b>.
One of the first things I realised in my first week at Hindustan Unilever was
that this internship would challenge me every step of the way. I have pushed
myself beyond what I thought my capabilities were - I have stumbled, I have
fallen apart along the way, but I have also picked up the pieces and moved on.
This, I think, is the biggest learning I will be taking out of this place. This
place has truly taught me the adage - it is not how many times you fall, but
how many times you pick yourself up. </div>
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<b>It is rewarding. </b>All
internships, I believe, make you question your existence. They make you feel
that you have fallen short, that you are somehow something less, and at the end
of the two months, they make you feel that all the while, you were something
more but you just didn't know it yet. How can that not manage to have a
lasting impact on your being?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>It is transforming. </b>I
can honestly say I am not the same person I was when I first walked through the
glass doors of this office. Some mornings I have cocooned myself in a large
blanket and watched television till my eyes hurt. Some nights, I have worked
till the purple dawn broke and the room filled with light. I have made friends.
I have rediscovered old friends. I have memories. What more can I want? </div>
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Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-83635623646188481762016-03-16T20:19:00.001+05:302016-03-16T20:19:05.571+05:30March madness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
March drives me crazy.<br />
<br />
I've written about it before. (<a href="http://thesilkenthreadofnescience.blogspot.in/2012/03/march-madness.html">http://thesilkenthreadofnescience.blogspot.in/2012/03/march-madness.html)</a><br />
<br />
And yet the specter of March continues to haunt me. How can it not, though? The sky above makes me want to be a cloud, and the soft wind of the night brings with it a pleasurable chill.<br />
<br />
But here am I, reading one research paper after another, waiting for the exams. Curse of the student life strikes again. Another March gone. I still feel that restlessness in my soul, the hunger that very few things in the world can quench.<br />
<br />
As this month will recede into the next, I'll be looking forward to something else. My internship.<br />
<br />
Maybe March is just a harbinger. That's why it brings out that madness in us. It's everywhere - in the water, in the air. Say, can't you just smell the anticipation? </div>
Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-17151073509864694752016-02-24T13:12:00.003+05:302016-02-24T13:55:15.319+05:30There are days<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There are days like these.<br />
<br />
There are days when life is passing you by. <br />
<br />
Things are happening to you.<br />
You are the froth on a raging wave, helpless and tiny,<br />
and nothing you can do will change your course.<br />
<br />
The only thing you do is persevere.<br />
<br />
Life is passing you by.<br />
<br />
You are the sidekick now.<br />
A sidetrack, a comic relief in you own sitcom,<br />
you don't know where the star is,<br />
and hollow disembodied laughter<br />
follows your every action.<br />
You peer into the darkness.<br />
To no avail.<br />
<br />
Days like these, when time passes you by.<br />
<br />
You are waiting.<br />
Still waiting.<br />
<br />
But the darkness is closing. You are Valdimir and Estragon<br />
that's why you are waiting.<br />
<br />
But don't you know?<br />
<br />
He's never coming. </div>
Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-79003741251181255362015-12-23T21:20:00.001+05:302015-12-23T21:37:55.084+05:30Mumbai 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Mumbai baffles me.<br />
<br />
A lot has been written about it. Songs have been sung, films have been made, stories have been told.<br />
<br />
For me, Mumbai has not quite been the city of dreams. But it has given me something else - hope. I came to Mumbai in June 2015, with a heavy suitcase containing all my material posessions, and a heart heavy with dread and anticipation. My love for this city blows hot and cold, but it's not that fiery obsession that would consume my soul - that honour is reserved solely for my beloved Pune.<br />
<br />
My self is torn between these two places, which are for all accounts as dissimilar as chalk and cheese, but are similar only in my regard for them. One is my 'janmabhoomi'. The other, in all probability shall become my 'karmabhoomi', <br />
<br />
In a few days, this year will end. This year, that turned my life upside down. This year which closed some chapters in my life, and started some new ones. This year taught me that dawn comes after the darkest hour, that there is sweet torment in anticipation, that happiness comes from people and places, and love is transient and permanent, and opposites cohabit. I have truly loved and lived in this year, and for that, I'm thankful.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbTyje0NC7zDZlKiPo0ywoTSIxBezojCex6yx-xbE6Z9Rbawejf0p4yWdz8p-fxnhff4997_texwwNKwFX_UdX4GQJoveobhsNGaBx369p0WsmmWz1sjD8mlPj4J-sJ3kJxlDP8jgGsSmn/s1600/mainBanner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbTyje0NC7zDZlKiPo0ywoTSIxBezojCex6yx-xbE6Z9Rbawejf0p4yWdz8p-fxnhff4997_texwwNKwFX_UdX4GQJoveobhsNGaBx369p0WsmmWz1sjD8mlPj4J-sJ3kJxlDP8jgGsSmn/s320/mainBanner.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tata Institute of Social Sciences, Mumbai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
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Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-10305372176535008662014-03-18T10:28:00.001+05:302015-04-10T18:32:18.189+05:30Arbhaat Short Film Club : Last screening<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The last session of Arbhaat Short Film Club was nothing short of memorable. As I prepared to leave the house, I began thinking of all the films I had seen, some that I had missed, and a few that I wish I had missed.<br />
<br />
We are all familiar with death. For many years, I existed in a happy bubble where death only called upon others and loss was unknown. It was just a fact of life - something I knew I would have to deal with eventually, but sometime in the distant future. It all changed, as things inevitably do. Death was no longer impersonal, and it never receded into the background again.<br />
<br />
If I could describe Rajesh S. Jala's documentary, 'Children of Pyre', in one world, it would be 'unsettling'. Many movies force us to face our own mortality - the good ones allow us to come to terms with it in one way or the other. 'Children of Pyre' tears down those blinkers by focusing on the life of seven children who work at the Manikarnika Ghat, in Varanasi.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
Located on the banks of Ganges, Benares has always been a destination for the pious. And once we look past it's 'spirituality', it's other characteristics surface - filth, muck, tears, and a commercial view of all things religious. It is in this vein the film progresses - virtues of the holy city are not extolled, it's temples are not visited, it's sacred river does not qualify for a dip.<br />
<br />
The documentary gives a new meaning to 'direct cinema', simply documenting the life and thoughts of seven odd boys who work as cremators. The film was shot over a period of 18 months, and consists primarily of conversation with the children, their unguarded, brutally honest responses to the questions asked by Jala, and their day to day life at the crematorium. <br />
<br />
The film takes place on the crematorium, with the funeral pyres constantly burning in the background, but very little sorrow, that usually accompanies death is shown. There is a pragmatic relationship with Death, almost cynical, but truly, we all know - it's just business. There are a few scenes which take a toll - but they are simply the indicators of the magnitude of the harshness of the life of these children. How can we expect a child to burn the dead? To see the finality of death, something that surely chips away at innocence. Instead of going to school, these children work at the ghat. Their days are filled with a continuous blaze, the horrid heat of the pyres and the blazing sun, the nameless dread of the dead and the smoke that rises into the sky, taking their childhood along with it. <br />
<br />
My heart just broke. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-16963072090673293712014-02-08T00:50:00.000+05:302014-02-08T00:50:35.205+05:30Arbhaat short film club: 11th session<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Having missed the last two sessions of Arbhaat, I was quite eager to head over to NFAI last Thursday. The theme was 'Sound and music'. I have begun to love the first Thursday of every month. It is a much welcome break from the monotony, and to some extent, decides what I will be immersed in the rest of the month. In almost every session I have been struck by some of the films that are screened - so poignant, so simple yet of such breathtaking complexity, films that tell the truth and the films that lie almost lovingly. I do not claim a deeper understanding of this visual medium - indeed, it is words that I string around myself - but over the past year, I have come to realize the advantages and shortcomings of both the media. <br />
<br />
I cannot ever forget Telephone, a film by Shabnam Chopra, which had been screened at the 9th session. Based on a short story by Gabriel García Márquez, the film was a psychological thriller which held me spellbound and terrified me to my very core. When I read the original story, in Spanish with copious help from the dictionary, I found that I couldn't wipe the images from the film from my mind, and it was one of those rare instances when the movie was better than the story - perhaps because it was set in a familiar setting, and had been taken to a new level of horror that the story glossed on. But another short story from the same collection (Strange Pilgrims, original title: <span class="st"><em>Doce cuentos peregrinos</em></span>) 'Light is like water' (La luz es como el agua) took me over completely. I fell in love with Márquez, for his wonderful imagination, and his acceptance of the strange and the fatalistic, that is tinged by a cynicism that comes only from cultures with long memories.<br />
<br />
<b>Day Break Express</b><br />
<i>USA/1953/5:00</i><br />
<i>D. A. Pennebaker </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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<i><br /></i>
<br />
An experimental film, Day Break express is a fast paced experience. It presents the New York city as seen through the windows of an elevated railway.<br />
<br />
<b>The Chorus</b><br />
<i>Iran/1982/17:00</i><br />
<i>Abbas Kiarostami</i><br />
<br />
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<br />
This film by the Iranian giant is a beautiful watch. An elderly man first roams around the city, wearing a hearing aid. Whenever the noise gets to him, he simply removes his hearing aid and is content in his muted world. When he returns home, he removes his hearing aid, and sits down to a light repast, eating and drinking contently. His granddaughters return from school and press the doorbell, but he is unable to hear them. A crowd slowly gathers under his window, rhythmically chanting, asking him to open the door. <br />
I adored this film! It is in essence, so simple, so quaint and with it's theme of sound and noise, it is a beautiful, beautiful film.<br />
<br />
<b>Glass</b><br />
<i>Netherlands/1958</i><br />
<i>Bert Haanstra</i><br />
<i>Winner of the Academy Award for Documentary Short Subject, 1959</i><br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
A documentary about the glass industry in Netherlands, this film tiptoes on the border of conventional. The sounds and images of the making of handmade glass is contrasted against those in an automated factory. The sounds provide a backdrop for the characters, as their actions are described and characterised by the sounds attributed to their characters.<br />
<br />
<b>Girni</b><br />
<i>India/2005/23:00</i><br />
<i>Umesh Vinayak Kulkarni</i><br />
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<br />
Umesh Kulkarni's films have long enchanted me. I had been desperate to watch this film for a long time, and I was ecstatic to discover it listed in this session. It lived up to all its hype and more - and it was everything I had dreamed of and more. Umesh Kulkarni's films contain a part of my heart - I find myself in his stills. I have often thought that his movies pick up on those common threads of life, that are yet so unique. <br />
<br />
A family in dire financial strains turns to a grinding machine for salvation. The young boy, who had once been enchanted by the rhythmic whirring of the girni soon begins to detest it - the empty places in his mind reverberate with the machine's sound. A song of hope becomes the knell of depression. Everything in the house is covered with a thin layer of flour - dreams are strewn with the same white flour and try as he may, he cannot rid himself of it. His mother, meanwhile, struggles to make the ends meet. Her eyes, so plaintive in their silence are indicators of her helplessness. She can barely keep her head above the water - taking care of a child and an elderly, bedridden man while trying to search for a source of income. The movie ends on an emotional precipice, and as I looked into the fearful but defiant, scared but resolute eyes of that boy, my heart turned over, powerless and dismal.<br />
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I loved this film. I'll be watching it over and over, waiting for something to happen even though I know that I will end up looking into the eyes of that heart broken child, just before the credits roll down.<br />
<br />
<b>That Boy</b><br />
<i>India/2005/5:00</i><br />
<i>Q</i><br />
<br />
A couple fights savagely in an apartments, as their son plays with his toys. Outside, the world it light up with firecrackers and lanterns. The harsh quarrel is in a sharp contrast with the joyousness of the festival. A stranger arrives at the door, an eerie smile on his face and a gun in in hand. I will not pretend to understand this film, but it has given me much food for thought.<br />
<br />
<b>The Bolero</b><br />
<i>USA/1973/26:00</i><br />
<i>46th Academy Award winner, Short Subject (Live action) </i><br />
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Zubin Mehta, the gifted conductor is the star of this film, but what stands out is the music - the sheer piece of brilliancy which is the true star in the film is evocative, startlingly mellifluous, and haunts you long after the last chord has dissolved.<br />
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As the Los Angeles Philharmonic gears itself to perform Ravel's 'Bolero', we see the chairs being assembled, the musicians talking about their career choice and the piece itself. Zubin Mehta, charming and suave talks about the 'Bolero'. The piece forms that last part of the film - heavenly music that reaches a cresendo, with Mehta in top form, conducting with a restless energy that is just as amazing to watch. <br />
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Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com2Pune, Maharashtra, India18.5204303 73.85674369999992518.2795348 73.534020199999929 18.7613258 74.17946719999992tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-9396009448027141862013-11-10T23:04:00.001+05:302013-11-10T23:04:11.431+05:30Arbhaat short film club: 8th session<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The <b>8th session of Arbhaat Short film</b> club took place on the 7th. The theme was <b>'Gender'</b>. Even though I had received the programme note beforehand, I had not had the time to go through it. So when I turned up at NFAI, I had my own preconceived notions about what type of films might be screened.<br />
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Gender - the very word evokes a dichotomy - male and female, man and woman. I was expecting something on these very lines - gender discrimination, female foeticide or violence on women, maybe. I had even wondered about the gender roles in India, juxtaposed against that in the rest of the world.<br />
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But the films were entirely different, and delightfully so. Instead of taking on these issues, which nonetheless important, the films touched a different range of issues altogether, which, though concerned intimately with the theme of gender, are hardly at the forefront of discussions on it.<br />
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But before, a short film on the life of <b>Pandit Vishnu Digambar Paluskar </b>was shown. It was a good short film, informative and interesting.<br />
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<br />
<b>Undress me</b><br />
<b>Sweden, 2012, 15 minutes</b><br />
<b>Victor Lindgren</b><br />
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A man and a woman are talking in the club - obviously attracted to each other. She has pretty blonde hair, an oval face with strong cheekbones, and he has dark hair. He remarks time and again on her height, her deep voice as they leave the club to go to a burger joint.<br />
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She confesses that she is a transgender and had changed her sex three years ago.<br />
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This is the pivotal moment in the film. There is no drumroll, no emotional musical cresendo which highlights its importance. The film, the characters do not change.<br />
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You do. As soon as she said those words, I began looking for the man in her. It was wrong of me, I suppose, and the realisation was momentous - was I judging her? No, of course not.<br />
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But by looking for the man, I was questioning the women she was, I was questioning her identity.<br />
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I suppose this is what most transgender experience everyday - the discrimination, the stares, perhaps the sniggers. The film takes a look at one side of being a transgender - the emotional connect. <br />
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As Prof Nakhate later said, the gender divide is permeable. It is osmotic. It is neither rigid nor definite. We have defined it. We have separated people into groups and the pointed at those who do not conform to the norms laid down by us.<br />
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The film then proceeds to show the interaction between Mikaela, and the guy. Even though they are undressed, they just talk. At the end of the movie, the guy, who's about to leave tells her, "You seem like a nice girl." She nods and closes the door, and then looks straight into the camera. Her expression is indescribable. Though he says that she 'seems' like a nice girl, she has not been yet accepted as a 'girl'.<br />
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<b>Sexy thing</b><br />
<b>Australia, 2006, 14 minutes</b><br />
<b>Denie Pentecost</b><br />
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This film is a perfect example of how a story can be told with pictures alone. Apart from the opening lines, there is hardly any dialogue in the film.<br />
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Swimming in deliciously blue water, lying on hot tin roofs, a bedroom plastered with dreams of the sea. The longing for the sea, set against the dry, hot Australian echoes the same turmoil withing Georgie, a girl of about 12. She is assaulted by her own father, and the pain and rage is intersped with the escapist dreams of the sea. Her mother is driving, her brother is in the backseat-occasionally crying, but mostly asleep, and Georgie is in the passenger seat. The hot air is stifling, it blows in from the theatre screen straight into your mind, the flashes of the water become your salvation too.<br />
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It is the climax that is horrifying. While Georgie's reaction to the incident is apparent, we don't know what to make of the mother - she sobs, swears and rages by turn.<br />
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And then, when the car finally comes to a stop at Georgie's grandparents' house, her mother turns towards her and says, "We're here." The blue and red lights of the police car flash in the background and the police siren wails deafeningly. <br />
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Then we see the blood on her arms, and the wails of the father become clear.<br />
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A beautiful, amazing short film.<br />
<br />
<b>La Santa (The blessed)</b><br />
<b>Chile, 2012, 14 minutes </b><br />
<b>Mauricio López Fernández</b><br />
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<b> </b><br />
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A thirteen year old intersex girl, Maria is forced by her father to play the incarnation of Virgin Mary during the village festival, to 'fix' her. She is reluctant to get 'fixed', and believes that peeing while standing up not a bad idea at all. She snips away a portion of her hair every night - her own personal rebellion - but dresses up like a girl, except for her pair of boxers.<br />
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<br />
<b>Moi Marjaani</b><br />
<b>India, 2012, 20 minutes</b><br />
<b>Anubhuti Kashyap</b><br />
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Mona, a single Punjabi mom runs a cyber cafe in Patiala. She often talks with Paresh ji, a man she has met online, who lives in Bombay. The film was was really very funny both subtly and overtly. It was a brief relief from the heavy movies that had been screened earlier, but was nevertheless charming in its own manner.<br />
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<b>Call it slut</b><br />
<b>India, 2006, 14 minutes</b><br />
<b>Nishitha Jain</b><br />
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<b><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcO6mAEWHzl6VnbhBfQXCYVLEs8UIH2f2q7vL0_DKg5jINOK_KjdLkdTvFuaN0ga4lqLuOq7KVbbZ6866GLwZfG7-JAXOCUeTUhZPlN5v2MkXg-TSFQxYb8Sy8Pm4DjmjjfZ-1oHNEjd4d/s1600/slut1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcO6mAEWHzl6VnbhBfQXCYVLEs8UIH2f2q7vL0_DKg5jINOK_KjdLkdTvFuaN0ga4lqLuOq7KVbbZ6866GLwZfG7-JAXOCUeTUhZPlN5v2MkXg-TSFQxYb8Sy8Pm4DjmjjfZ-1oHNEjd4d/s1600/slut1.jpg" /></a></b> </b> </div>
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Laxmi Narayan Tripathi is no stranger to the public eye. In this film, which portrays her outrageous, truthful, and quite interesting views, she becomes more than a person and almost a phenomenon. I loved her views, she is honest and fearless.<br />
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But at the same time, I was also struck by her flamboyance. The contrast of Laxmi's flamboyance and Mikaela's understated appearance is interesting. Mikaela is trying to fit in, trying to be one of the crowds, and desperately wants to be accepted. On the other hand, I felt that Laxmi, quite used to the middle class morality and the hypocrisy that exists in our society, flaunts her persona even more, to show that she is unafraid. She knows she is going to be drawing eyes anyway, so why not do it with style?<br />
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I was quite delighted by this screening, and it gave much food for thought. One of the best sessions yet! <br />
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Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com3Pune, Maharashtra, India18.5204303 73.85674369999992518.2795348 73.534020199999929 18.7613258 74.17946719999992tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-82591311551810594352013-10-19T16:01:00.001+05:302013-10-19T16:01:41.147+05:30Desi Pasta<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My Doodle recipe is a part of <a href="http://adda.at/D00dle" target="_blank" title="Easy Doodle Recipe Contest">Easy Doodle Recipe contest</a> at <a href="http://www.blogadda.com/" target="_blank" title="BlogAdda.com">BlogAdda.com</a> in association with <a href="http://www.tastykhana.com/" target="_blank" title="TastyKhana.com">TastyKhana.com</a></div>
Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-6910517151244926482013-10-13T17:09:00.000+05:302013-10-13T17:11:58.289+05:30Cheese garlic bread<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I had so much fun drawing the first doodle, that I finally succumbed to the urge and made this.<br />
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My Doodle recipe is a part of <a href="http://adda.at/D00dle" target="_blank" title="Easy Doodle Recipe Contest">Easy Doodle Recipe contest</a> at <a href="http://www.blogadda.com/" target="_blank" title="BlogAdda.com">BlogAdda.com</a> in association with <a href="http://www.tastykhana.com/" target="_blank" title="TastyKhana.com">TastyKhana.com</a></div>
Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-1374530060873078882013-10-12T16:03:00.001+05:302013-10-13T17:11:55.279+05:30cake in a cup<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Aaditee taught me how to make cake in a cup. Here is the recipe:<br />
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My Doodle recipe is a part of <a href="http://adda.at/D00dle" target="_blank" title="Easy Doodle Recipe Contest">Easy Doodle Recipe contest</a> at <a href="http://www.blogadda.com/" target="_blank" title="BlogAdda.com">BlogAdda.com</a> in association with <a href="http://www.tastykhana.com/" target="_blank" title="TastyKhana.com">TastyKhana.com</a></div>
Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-56829418598290905292013-10-12T11:01:00.001+05:302013-11-15T23:03:50.498+05:30Arbhaat short film club: 7th session<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
After a lukewarm 6th screening, I was looking forward to the 6th screening, hoping that the theme would be more cohesive this time.<br />
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Though there was no single theme this time, the films themselves were quite good. Some of my favourites:<br />
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<b>Beyond the window</b><br />
Israel, 2011<br />
Chen Shumowitz<br />
<br />
One of my favourite films so far. Yoni and Shira, two young girls, are seen kissing through the window of the family home by Yoni's mother. She is quite upset, but her turmoil is nothing compared to Yoni and Shira's trepidation. Yoni is reluctant to go home, because she is sure that her mother is going to berate her, possibly beat her. Yoni is not sure of how her mother will react, but she is sure that her mother is going to be very angry. This drives a wedge of sort between the two girls. But when Yoni does go home, her mother does not refer to the incident at all. In a tenuous silence, she serves Yoni dinner, and the two women sit side by side, their brittle smiles identical, making an effort to understand each other.<br />
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<b>Story of the desert</b><br />
UK/Spain, 2002<br />
Celia Galan Julve<br />
<br />
A fictional account of Rosita Guzman, who broke out of prison in 1962 and disappeared in the Mexico desert. It is like a documentary, and is very entertaining.<br />
This film was in Spanish and I was very, very happy to discover that I could follow most of it without even glancing at the subtitles!<br />
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<b>Bon voyage</b><br />
Switzerland, 2011<br />
Fabio Friedlei<br />
<br />
A story of immigrants. Though humorous, it has a dark undertone. Beautiful film!</div>
Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com0Pune, Maharashtra, India18.5204303 73.85674369999992518.2795348 73.534020199999929 18.7613258 74.17946719999992tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-81485564488059582362013-08-21T22:54:00.000+05:302013-11-15T23:05:15.623+05:30Arbhaat short film club: 4th session<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
On the fourth screening of Arbhaat, the theme was Rebel. Instead of putting in the program as I usually do, I will stick to the films I loved the most.<br />
<br />
Vitthal<br />
India, 2009<br />
Director: Vinoo Choliparambil<br />
Length: 24 minutes<br />
<br />
Vitthal is angry.<br />
<br />
His grandfather has passed away, and being the eldest grandson, he has been forced to shave his head. His anger is the focal point of the film. The reactions, those of Vitthal and the rest of the characters, stem from this rage. A delightful film that will first leave you numb, then sympathetic, but angry. You want to admonish Vitthal for his thoughtlessness, but you know that he is suffering. You want to protect him from the world, but you know that it would be wrong. You want to wrap him up in cotton wool and expose him to harsh realities of the world. This conflict regarding the main character drives the movie effectively. We have been Vitthal - petulant, hurting, sad and lonely, even in the crowds.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-89335810115070009712013-08-21T22:45:00.002+05:302013-11-15T23:03:29.207+05:30Arbhaat Short Film club: 3rd session<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Arbhaat Short Film club had its third screening on 27th June.<br />
<br />
I was initially hesitant to go - the sky was leaden, overcast and torrential downpour seemed imminent. The weather, however cooperated and I found myself in the NFAI auditorium at 6:30.<br />
The theme of this session was 'cityscapes'. I have often thought that cities have <a href="http://thesilkenthreadofnescience.blogspot.in/2012/10/pune-is-alive.html" target="_blank">personalities</a>.<br />
<br />
First was a set of 3 movies, black and white and shot in the years, 1956, 1958 and 1959 respectively.<br />
<br />
Warsaw '56<br />
Poland, 1956<br />
Director: Jerzy Bossak, Jaroslaw Brzozowski<br />
Length: 7 minutes<br />
<br />
I loved this film. Truly. There is a poignancy in the narration and the images of the film that I cannot forget. After the bombing in Warsaw, Poland, buildings are still in ruins. But people continue to inhabit these dangerous places, making it their own. A mother is happy because her child cannot yet walk - a small topple can be dangerous here. The building has precipices, treacherous ledges. The women resort to tying their children to the bed with a string if they are busy. A child escapes and wanders through the building, the string trailing behind her. I think I will forever remember that image - the end of the string being dragged over rubble, the soft patter of young feet and the dangerous stillness of the building.<br />
<br />
A day without the sun<br />
Poland, 1959<br />
Length: 19 minutes<br />
<br />
Urban reality, loneliness.<br />
<br />
Vilay<br />
India, 2010<br />
Director: Umesh Kulkarni<br />
Length: 12:42 minutes<br />
<br />
Umesh Kulkarni always manages to touch my heart. In all his films, I find a part of myself, and I hate him for showing it to me and pity myself. Vilay is a story of two individuals - a grandson and his grandmother, who is slowly dying. As she deteriorates, their ancestral home is being dismantled.<br />
<br />
This is a movie about change. About death and dying. About things that have been lost. About the holes in our hearts.<br />
<br />
I remembered my grandmother, who would also dress in a shirt and a loose skirt to hobble around the house. I remembered the house we left behind - a modern garden flat, but my memories of it, are quite the same as that of the boy and his house.<br />
<br />
Local<br />
India, 2012<br />
Director: Bharat Pawar<br />
Length: 5 minutes<br />
<br />
An unusual take on a mundane object - the local. </div>
Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-29204332386757916682013-06-02T14:57:00.001+05:302013-06-02T14:57:27.427+05:30The Wander GirlsMy summer has not been uneventful. I have been reading books, which is like living decades in a few hours and I have been interning at a new start-up <a href="http://thewandergirls.com/blog/">The Wander Girls</a>. I am a content intern, so I basically write travelogues and stuff. What I like about The Wander Girls is that -<br />
<br />
a)The name - pretty self explanatory. Girls that wander. Hah.<br />
<br />
b)It is a women-only travel based company. They arrange trips and mixers for women. This is a part of the tourism industry that is not much developed. Women need escape from their lives every now and then. They have to get out of that kitchen and leave the washing in the machine. They shouldn't need to worry if the milk boils over or the dog pees in the middle of the drawing room. They needn't hear the litany of work related and study-related problems from their husbands and children. They need to escape from their surly bosses who are grumpy every single day for no reason. And The Wander Girls provide this opportunity.<br />
<br />Here is to The Wander Girls and my summer of internship. Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-41551630231615585302013-05-31T22:19:00.000+05:302013-05-31T22:20:13.777+05:30Love and Lokpal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Keeping in the spirit of 'A room of her own', I succubmed to the phenomenon of 'A book of her own'. Indian writers are churning out new books every week. Most of the books in the market fall in the IIT/IIM category, popularised by Chetan Bhagat. They contain travails of love and live and offer a commentary on the world from the point of view of today's youth. Nobody can vouch for the language or the content, but one thing is certainly true. These books instill the habit of reading in english in Indian youth. These are the stories of the people themselves. They have the same insights, concerns and ideologies and hence, these books become favourites of the students and young professionals.<br />
<br />
The 2011 Lokpal Bill movement was, in many ways, a turning point for me. I had begun my FYBA. I was reading classics and books about Indian history. I was writing about the politics in India. I was immersed in a world where the need for change was glaring - I could see that, but I knew not how to bring about this change. The Lokpal Bill movement started around that time. It was love at first sight for me. At the Saras baug protest, I was one of the protestors, carrying a banner and shouting myself hoarse. I attended lectures, went to protests, wrote about the cause furiously, gave impromptu speeches in front of my friends in the canteen. I was enchanted. We all were. India was going to change. We all believed it. The air was on fire with expectations and emotions. The transformation that everyone had been longing for was here, and we all pinned our hopes on it. <br />
<br />
It was around that time the idea of the book came about. Harsh Agarwal, a good friend and agent who runs <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%3Cp%20align=%22center%22%3E%3Cform%20id=%22searchthis%22%20action=%22/search%22%20style=%22display:inline;%22%20method=%22get%22%3E%20%3Cinput%20id=%22search-box%22%20name=%22q%22%20size=%2225%22%20type=%22text%22/%3E%20%3Cinput%20id=%22search-btn%22%20value=%22Search%22%20type=%22submit%22/%3E%20%3C/form%3E%3C/p%3E">The Asylum</a> played an integral part in the development of the plot. I hashed and rehashed the characters, played them, watched them change. Indeed, in the course of the movement, I had seen many Shloks and Kaveris. I had seen their struggle, their beliefs and passions.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKghh1itHnc1AylJei5pD0y-yWUZkgs3-i5Q0RZa89VpNeKIuCE9qrrA8YpvvB9duQKyGNxXdbq40RtQRqYKLK3TG8SloWQu_BCeFQvEZ39I3TxgYtbuynH4ozLxqwVt71ilZoM_1VRhuN/s1600/coverpage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKghh1itHnc1AylJei5pD0y-yWUZkgs3-i5Q0RZa89VpNeKIuCE9qrrA8YpvvB9duQKyGNxXdbq40RtQRqYKLK3TG8SloWQu_BCeFQvEZ39I3TxgYtbuynH4ozLxqwVt71ilZoM_1VRhuN/s320/coverpage.jpg" height="221" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I finished the book at the start of the year 2013. <br />
<br />
Book blurb:<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span itemprop="description"></span></b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Shlok Kulkarni, an architect by day and an <i>Assassin's creed</i> junkie
by night is being bombarded with eligible girls by his matchmaking
mama. In a bid to escape her and maybe check out a few hot girls while
he’s at it, Shlok flees to Delhi, where a massive protest for the Lokpal
Bill has been building up.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>
<br />
Kaveri Gokhale has been searching for a <i>cause</i> her whole life. When the winds of the Lokpal blow through the country, she eagerly catches the next train to Delhi to witness history.<br />
<br />
When Shlok runs into Kaveri at Jantar
Mantar, the sparks are undeniable. As their relationship blossoms,
Kaveri discovers a dark secret that leaves her devastated . . . and
endangers the fate of billion others. Will Shlok and Kaveri’s love
wither or will it withstand the uncertainties of the corrupt politics?
Can love truly conquer all ideologies?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;"> Here is the author bio:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span itemprop="description"></span></span><br />
<b>Pooja Wanpal</b> considers
reading books the sole aim of her life. In addition to writing, she
gives unsolicited advice to people and tries indefatigably to avoid her
textbooks. She studies at Fergusson College, Pune and spends most of her
time chatting with people over endless cups of coffee in the canteen.
Owing to her almost unhealthy enthusiasm for politics, she was a part of
the crowds that protested for the Lokpal Bill in 2011. The event left
an indelible inspiration on her, and further conversations and debates
about the movement culminated into this novel. She can be reached at <a href="mailto:pooja.wanpal@gmail.com" target="_blank">pooja.wanpal@gmail.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.homeshop18.com/love-lokpal/author:pooja-wanpal/isbn:9789332421332/books/fiction/product:30560963/cid:13167">Preorder the book here</a><br />
<br />
<br />
</b></span></div>
Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-65764967789953496332013-05-26T20:27:00.000+05:302013-05-26T20:27:29.623+05:30Pu. La. Deshpande : PunekarDisclaimer: This is a translation of the Punekar part of the essay, 'Mumbaikar, Punekar and Nagpurkar' by Gaurav Sabnis. This essay was originally written by the celebrated Marathi author Purushottam Laxman Deshpande, popularly known as PuLa. <br />
<br />
Here is the link to the original post. Kudos to the author for the translation. I love it!<br />
<br /><a href="http://gauravsabnis.blogspot.in/2006/10/mumbaikar-and-punekar.html">http://gauravsabnis.blogspot.in/2006/10/mumbaikar-and-punekar.html</a><br />
<br />
Ok, so now... do you want to become a Punekar? Go
ahead. We have no objections. But our advice is... think again. Do you
really want to? OK, if you insist then your preparation needs to be
thorough. And once you are fully prepared, then being a Punekar is as
enjoyable an experience as any.<br /><br />Firstly, do not nurse the notion
that you are inferior to anyone in any aspect of life. You are not. You
are a superior being. Secondly, learn to express dissent on every issue
possible. I mean seriously, stop thinking about minor things like who
you are, how educated or uneducated you are, what your achievements
are..... don't think about any of these things and just express a
contradictory opinion. Whatever the topic under discussion, your opinion
needs to be strongly voiced, and it has to be contrarian. Even if the
topic under discussion is "How to get the American economic machine back
on track", and you are just an employee of the Pune Municipal
Corporation's Rat Extermination Department, don't let it stop you from
holding forth. <br /><br />At least once every few hours you need to cluck
your tongue, shake your head and say "Pune just isn't the way it used to
be." There are no age-related requirements for saying this. In Pune
doddering geriatrics and school-going striplings say "Pune just isn't
the way it used to be" with matching conviction. So you will get to hear
this statement with comforting regularity in offices, colleges, tekdis,
temples, markets and even kindergartens. <br /><br />Marathi, or in general
any language, exists in several forms in Pune. Public Speaking Puneri,
Shopkeeper's Puneri, Domestic Puneri.... are all various dialects with
little in common with each other. Let me demonstrate the difference
between the language used in private conversation and the language used
for public speaking, with an example. <br /><br />Imagine that a Prof.
Bhamburdekar is talking about a Prof. Yelkuntkar with his wife - "What
nonsense! Yelkuntkar is being felicitated? Utter nonsense. Actually he
should be thrashed with his own shoes. What is he being felicitated for?
Translating the rigved? More like transmutating the rigved. But still
he gets government grants, thousands of rupees." <br />Note- One of the typical ways for a Punekar to vent his anger about someone else is to rant about the money he is making.<br />"Yes, you fool! Live it up! Embezzle that money! Live the big life! Eat banana pudding and peas curry everyday!"<br />The
most superlative form of living the big life for a Punekar stops at
thse humble heights - eating banana pudding and peas curry everyday. <br /><br />Now
let me show you the transformation of this sample of private Puneri
language into public Puneri language. Imagine, the same Prof.
Bhamburdekar at the felicitation, giving a speech about Prof.
Yelkuntkar.<br /><br />"Felicitating Guruvarya Prof Yelkuntkar is like
felicitating in person the Sun God of Scholarliness. Friends, today's
date will be carved with gold in the annals of Pune's cultural history.
This great teacher of mine.... I mean I have always considered him my
teacher.... I am not sure if he considers me his student..."<br />At this
point the audience laughs a little. According to Puneri Public Speaking
rules, if you don't make the audience laugh after your third sentence,
it is counted as a foul. So all aspiring Punekars preparing for the
daunting task should keep this in mind.<br />"Now of course, in a way I am
his student. Because when he was a teacher in the municipality schools,
I was his student in Class 1"<br />See how cleverly he slipped in the
information that Prof. Yelkuntkar was once just a school teacher in a
rundown municipality school.<br />"His father was an employee of the nutritional department in the palace of the Sardar Panchapatlikar"<br />Another masterstroke.... the good professor's father was just a cook!<br />"Having
spent his childhood in extreme poverty, Professor must be feeling great
contentment living in his spacious bungalow in Aranyeshwar Colony"<br />i.e notice how he's embezzled all this money under the garb of education.<br />"Prof Yelkuntkar and our Honourable Education Minister have been friends right from their school days"<br />i.e now you know why he gets all those government grants he doesn't deserve.<br /><br />So
you see, unless you are Marc Antony, you will have to prepare a lot
before your public speaking skills can match up to Puneri standards. <br /><br />Now
when it comes to Puneri language to be used in day to day life, the
standards are pretty stringent too. Let me illustrate with another
example. All over the world, the convention is that when you answer the
phone it should be with a polite "Hello?". Not in Pune. <br /><br />In Pune
when you answer the phone, your voice must take on that natural
irritable brusqueness that descends when someone wakes you up from an
afternoon nap, and you must yell "WHO'S THIS??". It helps to pretend
that it costs you money not just to make a call, but also to receive a
call. <br />Now if the caller responds with "Err...could you please get
Mr. Gokhale to the phone?", then his non-Punekar status will be
blindingly obvious even to a child. A true Punekar will respond testily
"CALL GOKHALE TO THE PHONE".<br /><br />"DAMN IT, THERE ARE 10 GOKHALES HERE. WHICH ONE DO YOU WANT?"<br /><br />"GET THE GOKHALE THAT LIC PAYS TO SLEEP ON HIS JOB"<br /><br />To
be a true Punekar, you have to have a burning pride for something. Not
just normal pride. Normal pride can be felt by anyone. It has to be
fierce burning pride. It is not necessary to feel this pride just about
major things like the life of Shivaji or Tilak. It could be something as
flippant as the rank of your lane's Ganpati statue during the Ganpati
immersion procession or even peanuts from the rural regions of Pune
district. But no matter how flippant the issue is, the pride must be
fierce and burning. <br /><br />This burning pride is very helpful when you
have to make dissenting arguments. So then, on the day of Tilak's Death
Anniversary, you could tap into burning pride for Gopal Ganesh Agarkar.
On the day of a cricket test match, you could tap into burning pride for
kabaddi. <br /><br />Expressing your dissent merely in private
conversations is not enough to get you the Punekar tag. You need to
frequently write in your dissenting opinion to the 'Letters to the
editor' column. It does not even have to make sense. For instance, this
letter appeared in one of Pune's leading newspapers a few years back - <br /><br />"Sir,<br />This
year the monsoons have been particularly fierce. The roads are in a
horrid condition and crops have been washed out. May I ask the good
people at the Meterological Department, who draw their fat salaries from
our taxes, what they are doing to stop this deluge?"<br /><br />Dissent is of primary importance. Logic is secondary.<br /><br />Now
another art you need to perfect, and that too in a specialised Puneri
way, is driving a bike. Just sitting on a bike and going all around town
on it does not qualify you as a bike rider in Pune. The verb "driving"
when it comes to bikes in Pune, is used in the same sense as "driving an
axe into a block of wood" or "driving hordes towards revolution". <br /><br />A
bike in Pune is viewed, not as a means of transport, but something to
sit on when you meet for chit-chat with a group of friends in the middle
of the road. It really helps in training new traffic policemen. It also
helps in making access to any building virtually impossible for pesky
salesmen. Managing to cluster bikes together to construct such a
barricade is as crucial as being able to extricate your own bike from
the cluster without toppling others. <br /><br />Bikes should not be driven
alone in Pune. There should be at keast 3 bikes together going parallel
to each other in the middle of the road, at a leisurely speed while
talking to each other. Your eyes should not be on the road, but on the
walking-and-talking attractive scenery on the road. Having unnecessary
accoutrements like horns, mirrors, lights, indicators is a sign of
cowardice on the streets of Pune. <br /><br />In this way, as you are
crossing various levels in the game "How to be a Punekar", you should
also parallely keep up efforts to beome an office bearer in some social
or cultural organisation or a Rotary Club. Holding a hollow post in a
useless organisation is central to the completeness of the Punekar's
existence. <br /><br />It is also necessary to attend as many lectures,
talks and seminars as possible on topics as diverse and vacuous as
"Bajirao the Second's Handwriting" or "The Fungus on Bajra crop". And
after the lecture, it is imperative to catch hold of the speaker, and in
full view of at least half a dozen people say to him with an earnest
expression on your face "I would like to discuss this topic in more
depth with you some time."<br /><br />All this preparation should be enough
to make you a normal Punekar. But if you want to operate a shop in Pune,
you need more lessons. You especially need lessons on language. Only
then will you be able to heap maximum insults on your customer in
minimum possible words. Because in Pune, the verb "operating" a shop is
used in the same sense as "operating a bull dozer" or "operating a
machine gun". The most negligible entity in a shop in Pune, is the
customer.<br /><br />A shop operated in this way can realistically make
money only for 7-8 years until all the customers desert it. Once that
happens, you can sell your shop to a Sindhi or a Marwari. The price of
land must have appreciated enough to get you a hefty bank balance to
last you for the remainder of your life. And you are free to conduct
seminars and panel discussions on the topic "Why are Maharashtrians
unsuccessful in business?" in the Tilak Smarak Mandir.<br /><br />Summing it
up, to become a Punekar, every action of yours should be aimed at
ensuring a felicitation ceremony for you some years down the line.<br />
Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com0Pune, Maharashtra, India18.5204303 73.85674369999992518.2795348 73.534020199999929 18.7613258 74.17946719999992tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-16253499740408156522013-05-15T20:17:00.000+05:302013-05-15T20:23:34.229+05:30Midnight's children by Salman RushdieAfter a first disappointing read, I set my sights on <b>Midnight's Children</b>, by <b>Salman Rushdie</b>.<br />
<br />
What can I say? I was rendered speechless by this stunning novel. The characters leapt out of the pages - these are people I know, people I have seen and those I have heard about. <br />
<br />
Saleem Sinai, the protagonist is one of the midnight's children... Born on the stroke of midnight on 15th of August 1947, his fate is entwined with that of India. He is affected by all the major events of India, and he is, indirectly and directly, responsible for many events that shape the destiny of the country. The novel spans sixty three years, starting with the grandfather of the protagonist and addresses four generations of the family.<br />
<br />
The intricacy of the novel leaves one spellbound and Rushdie's singular writing style is just...awesome.<br />
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I will definitely be re-reading this novel in the future, dwelling on the characters and the events.<br />
<br />
It makes for a wonderful, wonderful read. Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-32618902771163550372013-05-15T20:07:00.001+05:302013-05-15T20:23:55.729+05:30What Young India Wants - Chetan BhagatI launched off my reading list for this year with <b>What young India wants</b> by <b>Chetan Bhagat</b>.<br />
I led me to the conclusion that India, and Chetan Bhagat both have no idea of what they want.<br />
Oh no, I am not criticising the book. It was lucid, had easy language but had none of the perspicuity of thought or the depth that other tomes, like <b>The Argumentative Indian</b> (Amartya Sen) or <b>We, the People</b> (<span class="st">Nani Palkhivala</span>) possess. <br />
<br />
I do not dislike Chetan Bhagat. Indeed I do not. His books have compelling stories that seem to resonate with the youth. Last year, I was enrolled in an introductory program to the UPSC in one of the coaching institutes in Pune. We were asked to discuss our favourite works of literature and to my horror, half the people had a Chetan Bhagat book as their favourite novel. Makes me wonder if the novel, as a genre has become so stilted, stagnant that the young people read only the literature that has the emotional depth of a rainwater puddle. These books are windows to the lives of the educated, fast-living, fast-loving middle classes in urban India. But they are in no way, promoters of 'reading habits'. I have read all Bhagat books. His writing has been steadily attaining maturity, which is a very good sign indeed, because it indirectly reflects the reading maturity of the class described above.<br />
<br />
But all things said and done, Chetan Bhagat has no business writing non-fiction. No siree!<br />
<br />
His reactions are spontaneous and instantaneous. Hence they lack the thoughtfulness that makes up good non-fiction.<br />
<br />
Commentary on life in India is easy. <b>India is a land of critics</b>. Almost everyone in our nation has been raised to have an opinion, perhaps due to the long history of prejudice we share, and every single person is a self-proclaimed critic. What separates the true critics from the masses is the research that goes into the formation of their verdict. This is where Chetan Bhagat comes up short.<br />
He highlights the problems in the Indian society - and as we know, there is no dearth of them! But he fails to provide conclusive, solid solutions to any of them.<br />
<br />
But anyway, my question is that who went and made Chetan Bhagat the spokesperson for Indian youth? That is probably a no brainer, because as I said, everyone in India is a self proclaimed critic.<br />
<br />
What young India wants can be a light afternoon read. But do not expect it to be an <i>akashwani</i>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013748670407356228.post-33160212290248695802013-05-11T23:42:00.000+05:302013-05-11T23:43:36.729+05:30Arbhaat Short Film Club - 2nd screeningThough there have been only two screenings, I have come to love the ASFC. I love the short, snazzy films that keep me hooked, provoke me and challenge me.<br />
<br />
We watched many films this time (2nd may), but these are the ones that appealed to me the most:<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Glimmer</b><br />
Iran, 2012 <br />
Director: Omid Abdollahi<br />
Length: 18:30 min<br />
Summary: The aged optometrist keeps his shop open every day, hoping for his last customer to come and pick up their spectacles.<br />
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There is a subtle irony in this film, that runs through it's entire length. The optometrist wants to close his shop because of his weak eyesight. He opens the shop every day, waters a lone plant on a stool, whiles time away, sends away potential customer and generally, spends his time waiting. He then embarks on a journey of sorts, to find the woman who had ordered the spectacles. In a twist, he finds her at a hospital, where she has gone blind. He returns home, to his beautiful oasis of flowers and plants on the terrace. The simplistic plot is highlighted by the beautiful use of light, the stills and waht not.<br />
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I confess that I do not know much of film-making. I understand the techniques even less.<br />
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<b>But the stories...I understand them, and I like to think that they understand me. </b><br />
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Printed Rainbow<br />
India, 2006<br />
Director: Gitanjali Rao<br />
Length: 15 min<br />
Summary: The story of a lonely old woman who escapes into the fantastical world of matchbox covers.<br />
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What a beautiful film!<br />
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I simply loved it. There cannot be enough words to describe what I felt about this movie. The old woman resonated within me, and I could understand her escapism - indeed, I longed for it myself. I was held spellbound, yearning to know what new adventures she embarked on, what people she met, what sights she saw. The end was excellent and truly deep. I lost my grandmother a few months ago, so the movie felt extra-special. Because in the round, open face of the woman, I saw my aaji.<br />
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I am looking forward to the next screening. The only complaint that I have is that there is no forum for the people to interact after the screening. An online group, on FB perhaps, would serve well. What would be the use of watching the movies if not dissecting them afterwards and relishing them all over again?<br />
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<br />Poojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15023049702544483605noreply@blogger.com0