Adieu 2008...

2008. I stepped into the year on the phone with one of my closest friends who I love immensely, hoping to spend the next new year's eve together. Typing this in the fading light of the year in my of my favourite places in the city, I smile at the irony of failed dreams. Far from spending the last day of the year together, my friend is sitting thousands of miles away and I can only hope we will be able to talk tonight!

It's been a strange year by all counts - a year in which I've known the purest of happiness, the incredible joy of complete harmony and perfection and the satisfaction of personal and professional fulfillment. But it's also been a year of the most bitter realisations, disappointments and dark despair. There were times when I did not think I'd come through, but I have and it's a strange kind of content that fills my hungry soul tonight. It's been a year that has tested my closest relationships and I feel fortunate to have emerged with those I love and cherish the most still by my side, closer than ever. I have drifted away from some but also found some new friends, each of whom I connect with at a different level...what will the new year bring I wonder?

On that rather uncertain and timorous note, I wish thee all a Happy New Year, hoping it ushers in times of much happiness for everyone!

Reflections...

I have never been as proud of my mother, as I have in the last three weeks. The pride and respect I have for Papa has never been a secret but my mother’s strength, endless perseverance and resilience despite the bypass surgery and her 62 years have left me rather amazed. I wonder if I’ll have the same will power and strength of character at her age. Seeing how she has taken into stride everything has made me admire her so much. I know some of my decisions have hurt her and that is probably why I try not to let her down on other fronts. All I’ve ever wanted is for my parents to be proud of me and for them to be able to say that their daughter is a person of character. I really hope that they will be able to say that some day. Amen...

Beaming with Contentment

Unbelievable moments of mad mischief, endless chatter, annoyed frustration and nail biting nervousness later, I've finally managed to reach the end of the session...

There were times when I wondered if I was doing anything right, especially with one rather errant group. I'm still not sure how those zozos will fare and if my track record will suffer immensely or stay intact, but I am sure that I couldn't have done too badly...and once again my complete faith in what I'm doing has been reconfirmed. The elated satisfaction and the contented pride I glean from students' performances match litte else...and I must admit there is no better self-validation I harbour so often and so hungrily at times, than the one I get from students' appreciations.

One of the two batches passing out from my "regime" gave me the hugest and cutest card today - one that has warmed every little corner of my heart and spread across the length and breadth of me, a smile that refuses to fade. A hand-made card, they've put in it every silly thing uttered by them, all their insane gaffes, all my eccentric utterances and expressions and even one sentence I uttered while unleashing my ire on one of them...of all the gestures made by my students over the last 3 years, this will go down as one of the most memorable and special ones.

Rambling Away...

Random thoughts at four in the morning, when I should have been working and trying to deliver an assignment on my own time, instead of pushing it aside to be completed on time begged and borrowed…

• It is an extremely humbling experience to know people and have friends who are so much more intelligent and accomplished than one self…
• I don’t really mind the work; just wish there weren’t deadlines to meet every week! I’d never thought I’d live to see the day I worked almost unceasingly relying on a meagre four to five hours of sleep daily!
• Drumming music into my system after years – aeons actually! I’m counting on Trilok Gurtu to get the adrenaline flowing so I can meet the deadline looming large over me!
• Inching closer and closer to realizing a dream and an experience that I’m awaiting with a curious mix of excited eagerness coupled with wary nervousness – it’s funny how the last few centimeters seem the longest and the most arduous!

Forget Me Not, For Alive I Am...

....just terribly busy and buried under an avalance of work! The days don't seem to get any less tiring and the work doesn't seem to stop pouring in...but I have no complaints really. I haven't been this much at peace since a very long time and any work that comes my way is more than welcome if it brings with it peace of mind! :-)
Blog I shall - a far more interesting post, which is lying in the drafts waiting to be edited, polished and posted. I promise thee, my dear friends...just give me some time! Patience I demand of thee...prithee forget not, that patient I too have been in the past ;-)

Impression - Le Reveillon

I have, ever since I started understanding what little I understand about art, been an ardent admirer of the Impressionists, especially Edgar Degas and Claude Monet. My joy and delight was absolutely undiluted and unbriddled when I went for the Impressionist exhibition last year at the Museum in Montpellier, so much so that at one point I had the guard following me suspiciously! Even now when I recall the moment when I walked into the hall which housed Monet's biggest works, my skin breaks into goosebumps. It is strange then, that I haven't blogged at all about Claude Monet (1840-1926) whose painting, Impression, Soleil Levant (Sunrise) gave the name to the school of artists who primarily painted in plein air, making the most of the natural light and atmosphere and allowing it to reflect in their oeuvre along with their own individual perceptions and sensations vis-à-vis the subject. Last night as I revisited some of my favourite poems and browsed through the poems archive discovering previously unknown treasures, I found myself reading Oscar Wilde's Impression - Le Reveillon, which beautifully encapsulates my very own thoughts on the sublime beauty of a sunrise, the natural and the artistic interpretation. Since I find myself incapable of expressing the beauty of Claude Monet's oeuvre in my own words, I am shamelessly borrowing Wilde's words...

The sky is laced with fitful red,
The circling mists and shadows flee,
The dawn is rising from the sea,
Like a white lady from her bed.

And jagged brazen arrows fall
Athwart the feathers of the night,
And a long wave of yellow light
Breaks silently on tower and hall,

And spreading wide across the wold
Wakes into flight some fluttering bird,
And all the chestnut tops are stirred,
And all the branches streaked with gold.

Diwali is in the Air...

There's a nip in the air and a song in my heart ever since I got back from Bombay and despite some incredibly frustratingly annoying events and people and the fact that I constantly look for Papa to fulfill certain traditions, I feel a certain content inside of me that, for me, is synonymous with Diwali :-) Sure I love getting new outfits and I enjoy buying gifts for our family and friends, but what I really treasure are the simple rituals of cleaning the house, stringing the Diwali lights and Akashdeep Kandils, making the Diwali sweets, feasting on gujiyas, kheer and malpua made by Ma, lighting the hand-made diyas for धनतेरस and नरकचौदस, preparing for the Diwali pooja and finally the pooja itself...tomorrow is Diwali. May it usher in a year filled with joys and all that is right.

Keeping Traditions Alive...

I've been writing out the Diwali cards - an annual Diwali ritual and something I did with Papa. Some of my earliest memories of Diwali involve helping him choose the cards at a card shop or in a gift expo we'd visit before Diwali, and then sitting by his side at the dinner table, licking the stamps and painstakingly sticking them on the envelopes. I soon graduated to dictating the addresses to him, then writing the addresses on the envelopes...and over the years as his handwriting got worse and he got busier, the task of writing the cards shifted to me. But I never did it without him - whenever I took it up, he was there beside me, even if he was working...

I refused to write or send cards in 2006, still furious at the cruel twist of fate that had left me without him. It was only sometime during the Diwali pooja that it struck me that he would have wanted me to continue the tradition of sending the Diwali cards and he would have been disappointed with my juvenile and selfish behaviour. So last year, for the first time I sat alone and wrote cards to the whole family. Fortunately there were some cards remaining from the 2005, the last time I'd written Diwali cards. There was no pleasure in it at all; just a mechanical process, ...and I asked Papa if I had to keep this tradition alive.

Last night, nearly a year later I had my answer. It wasn't just about keeping the tradition alive, it was about making it mine. This morning, before running other errands, I bought the Diwali cards. For the first time, alone, without Papa to discuss which designs to choose and how many cards we'd need. I started writing the cards this evening. Papa was right there with me through out...and as I ticked off the last name in our usual list and then pulled out some more cards to send to my own set of friends and colleagues, I could see him smiling in approval.

We Live and We Learn

19th November 2005
14:00 - 16:00 Patrakar Nagar, Salle 1
My first day in class - it was a cours d'enfants (kid's class). I was overwhelmed by all the tiny tots, demanding attention and talking at the same time! It used to take all my patience and energy to keep them apart, get them to do something with a pedagogic purpose and enjoy at the same time...and I used to be drained and ready to drop at the end of those 2 hours every Saturday.
4th October 2008
14:00 - 16:00 Patrakar Nagar, Salle 1
Far from my first day in class - this time around Niveau 2 (level 2), and a group of adolescents and young adults. I was overwhelmed by all the students demanding attention and talking at the same time! It took all my patience and energy keeping them apart, and getting them to do something with a pedagogic purpose and yet enjoy themselves...and I was drained and ready to drop at the end of the 2 hours this Saturday.

Moral of the Story :
There is not much difference in teaching 10 year olds and 20 year olds!

A Tale of Two Cities

Over lunch with ex-students I recently narrated the story of our fish who led a very high-drama life with evil plots, murders and suicides. Immensely amused, they were convinced I'd invented the whole story. I did add some mirch-masala I admit, but the aggressive attacks, the murders and the suicides all happened for real, as did the inter-city rivalry for space between the fish from Bombay and those from Pune. I have re-produced the tale for Literary Mosaic - do go read it if you're looking for some deliciously melodramatic nonsense!

Plainer as the Years Go By...

Cards given to me by students of the session of Sept-Dec 08

The Little Joys..

I met G yesterday - after nearly a year and a half. An ex-student, she is from my very first batch at AFP (a weekend batch) I remember focusing on her face through out the first class because it was so reassuring and calmed those butterflies in my stomach and made my legs stop trembling in the salwar. I was the youngest person in the room. Ironically, it was with that batch that I never needed to assert my authority as a teacher. Unlike J and S who have become friends, G and I don't stay in contact that regularly, making each message /email / phone call so much more special. It was such a huge pleasure to see her yesterday and it totally made my day. It's the little joys like this that reaffirm my tenacious hold on this job...

Stay

"You say I only hear what I want to.
You say I talk so all the time so.
And I thought what I felt was simple,
and I thought that I don't belong,
and now that I am leaving,
now I know that I did something wrong 'cause I missed you.
Yeah yeah, I missed you.
And you say I only hear what I want to:
I don't listen hard,
don't pay attention to the distance that you're running to anyone, anywhere,
I don't understand if you really care,
I'm only hearing negative: no, no, no.
...
-Lisa Loeb

Heard this song after the longest time yesterday and haven't stopped humming since it then...

And So Spoke The Teacher...

Starting the end of the school years, through college and university, I wondered what the fuss was about Teacher's Day, convinced that the teachers, most of them seeming jaded about their profession, couldn't really care if they were wished on the day by their students or not...the belief was made even more concrete during my post-graduate studies where teacher-student interaction hardly existed, leave alone a genuine relationship where one would feel the kind of respect, gratitude and warmth that inspire motivation to wish the professor.

Switch to 5th September 2006 - my first Teacher's Day as a teacher. The card I received still occupies a special position (as do the students from that batch) in all the cards I have ever received. Being wished on Guru Purnima (this year two students even touched my feet, much to my horror) and Teacher's Day by current and ex-students, being showered with smiles, cards, flowers and gifts is absolutely amazing! Perhaps I am already a little spoiled by the attention I have received from students in the last two years but I felt rather upset when this year, the day simply passed like any other day. Apart from the one student (from my very first batch) who calls or emails unfailingly every year to wish me on both occassions there was nothing. Nothing. Not a peep from the other students. At the risk of sounding like a spoilt child, I was a little upset - and felt like the current streak of things going wrong and being ignored and pushed back to the margins was being reinforced. Alright perhaps the last bit was an exaggeration. Nevertheless I felt upset.

Seems like this is the second time this year I'm realising the importance of a festival and am eating my words! Ha, another thing I'm doing alot this year! ;-)

Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.

There are days when I question how I continue to use the sorry excuse for public transport that this city provides. The buses, apart from the completely missing schedules and sense of timing, are actually not so bad ever since we've shifted to this side of town - so what if I have to leave over an hour early despite being just 15 minutes from work? But the 6-seaters a.k.a. share-rickshaws make me feel downright misreable at times, especially considering the fact that there are never less than twice that number stuffed in the vehicle and I'm often squashed between members of the blue-collared society, making it a rather uncomfortable (and often smelly) ten minutes ride. I have to constantly remind myself not to think like a feudal mistress and to remember that they lead a difficult life and I have no right to look down my nose at them. Yet I stubbornly refuse to learn how to drive (maybe it won't hurt to learn) and add another vehicle to the roads which already can't bear the burden that has been dumped on them. I know it sounds super twisted (like most of my logic) but I see it as akin to cutting trees, or spitting or throwing trash on the road. It is the easy way out to buy a two-wheeler or a car, but it isn't the solution. Neither the roads nor the environment can sustain it...I know my silly gesture (read stubborn act) will really not amount to much but I don't see myself backing off and compromising any time soon...
Sigh...seems like I'm cursed then to suffer in this realm as well, since I refuse to compromise on my "principles." I wish I wasn't such an idealist and a stickler for principles and values. I wish I hadn't learnt to question and analyse. I wish I was a tad less intelligent (or far more, actually and thus above all this banal crap) and knew how to compromise on what seems so trivial to most people but to me becomes a question of right and wrong. I wish I wasn't....
Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.

Waiting...

...interminably, adrift in the vast sea of endless disappointment with not a vestige of hope in sight, I'm exhausted and haven't the energy to row any more. There must be another way to live this life, said the wise friend. Alas, but I know not how to live it differently.

La Séparation (1994)

I specialise in depressing novels and films that subvert mainstream reality. As I confessed to a friend recently, I enjoy and thrive on depressing, subversive feminist novels. In keeping with my rather expansive statement I have been reading only highly depressing novels in the last few months and seeing wonderfully dark and depressing films.

I recently saw Christian Vincent's La Séparation starring Isabelle Huppert and Daniel Auteuil. The film is about a couple whose marriage has been dead for a while and is just coming to terms with it after the wife confesses to having a love affair with another man - a man who listens to her, pays attention to her needs and understands her. Nothing really differentiates this couple from the others in the beginning of the film, not the absence of love and mutual harmony in their relationship, nor their lack of communication. But with the confession of infidelity, the relationship changes subtly. The husband's intital reaction to her confession is quite lukewarm and neutral. Instead of reacting negatively he attempts to understand and firmly believes that she must not have been physically unfaithful to him. Life goes on as usual; they come and go, leaving their son in the care of a young girl. But the confession has created an unsurmountable chasm between them and slowly the apparent indifference turns into something violent and acrimonious and they drift further apart till they finally separate.

Extremely disturbing, there isn't much of a story to this film, the director having chosen to focus on the two main characters and their thoughts and emotions. What struck me the most was the glaring absence of warmth between the three members of the family and the obvious lack of a relationship binding them as a family. No stranger to the reality and abundance of failed relationships, the sterile and cold death of this marriage left me feeling disturbed and made firmer my conviction that there is no fate worse than having to endure failure in a relationship for after all isn't it is our emotions and relationships that define us as humans?

The acting, needless to say was brilliant - what else can be expected from Isabelle Huppert who seems to have the knack of almost effortlessly convincing the audience of her character's reality? Having seen several of her films during PIFF 2006, and been shaken to the core by La Pianiste, I knew I was seeing the oeuvre of a master. I am still amazed and floored by her flawless talent.

Definitely a film I'd recommend, despite the fact that it will leave you with many a dark thought and an irrepressible sense of hopelessness.

You can find a simulatenous review in French on Accros de Français

Happiness v/s Contentment

A fleeting remark about "happiness" brought up the following line of thought. Probably incredibly convoluted as are most of my (il) logical thoughts, but I couldn't help but question whether I'd be "happy" if I had absolute enduring happiness. Utopic, but wouldn't that be artificial and some how take away from my own levels of endurance and make me a rather bland person? So oft have I fervently wished for happiness and lamented when the fleeting moments of happiness have slipped through my fingers like loose sand, leaving behind that awful sinking feeling in my heart and endless days of dark, cold depression...

But would a life full of undiluted happiness, ideal as it sounds, have any character at all? How would I measure my state of happiness if I knew no other state of being? And how would I then, deal with a calamity if I've never seen a dark cloud shadowing my horizons?

Minutes later, I realised that it isn't enduring happiness I crave, it's enduring contentment and peace. Happiness after all is ephemeral and defined by a certain evanescence and shallowness, isn't it? What I wouldn't do to go to bed at night, my heart and mind at peace, content with my life. I can only cross my fingers that I have that some day and that it lasts...

Amen...

Rakhi...

I never gave much importance to the festival and the custom of the obligatory gift given to the sister in exchange for the Rakhi has made me frown even more on the festival. My screwed up brain sees it as a materialistic custom and questions why a gift must be given in exchange for the Rakhi...it drives me up the wall when on Rakhi and each Bhai Dooj we hunt (sometimes almost frantically) for gifts for my cousins and nieces...would they not tie a Rakhi or do tika if a gift was not given? And if so, what does that say about the relationship? I know I'm probably complicating it for nothing, but then that's me. I specialise in complicating things, especially relationships with my wierd ideas and high expectactions.
But then, this year, for the first time Rakhi took on a new meaning. It's been 3 years and 3 Rakhis since Papa has not been here...but choti Bua still sends the Rakhis for Papa (and Ma) and the tika on each Bhai Dooj. For Bua, her relationship with her Nanu is still alive, even if he is not. Just this simple gesture has changed the way I perceive the festival and the relationship between a brother and sister.

Rooted

(Taken at the University of Pune, on the way to the Main building. After having walked up to the Y-point and beyond to the main canteen, I took the shaded path that comes up right in front of the lawns of the Main building. It's a path I love, perhaps my favourite part of the University campus and brings back many fond memories and a smile to accompany the faint heart ache...)

I like Chopin - Gazebo

Remember that piano
So delightful unusual
That classic sensation
Sentimental confusion

Used to say
I like Chopin
Love me now
and again

Rainy days never say goodbye
To desire when we are together
Rainy days growing in your eyes
Tell me where's my way

Imagine your face
In a sunshine reflection
A vision of blue skies
Forever distractions
A song that has kept me company over the years, long after we lost it from our once enviable collection of music, I've waited years to hear this song again. Access to Broadband and Limewire open source and a week later it is finally playing on my laptop. The first time the song came back to me was at the airport at Berlin when I was leaving behind my main suitcase and it is the song that kept me sane and kept up my hope till I finally saw my suitcase with all its contents intact. The song, try as I might refused to play in my head last year in Barcelona and later in Paris. I remember the look of disbelief given to me by P and K when I told them this - it sounds really screwed up and illogical I know. Yet the song represents in some manner of speaking things finally working out and falling into place. I had to have it, even if just to offer me superficial comfort. Heh and I thought I wasn't superstitious!

Souvenirs...

A chapter I've been waiting to close almost as soon as it started. The souvenirs are plenty but for a change I am just waiting to lose them...this one is particular chaffed me greatly through out the duration of the class, unaccustomed as I am to have any kind of identification tag decorating my person! I would wear it at the last possible moment and be in the process of removing it as I walked out of the gate!

Crucified?

Every finger in the room is pointing at me
I wanna spit in their faces then
I get afraid of what that could bring
I got a bowling ball in my stomach, I got a desert in my mouth
Figures that my courage would choose to sell out now

I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets
Looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets
I've been raising up my hands- drive another nail in
Just what God needs, one more victim

Why do we crucify ourselves
Everyday I crucify myself
Nothing I do is good enough for you
Crucify myself
Everyday I crucify myself
And my heart is sick of being in chains
....

- Tori Amos, Crucify

(Un)Professional

Professionalism, something so completely lacking at AFP keeps assuming new diminshed proportions with each passing day. I've given up questioning it but it sure got on my nerves today when "senior" colleague interrupted my class for a quick chit-chat session and kept rambling for 15 minutes while my poor hapless students stared on struck witless and dumb by the rapid-fire French exchange being carried on over their heads. Unprofessional. Impolite. Lacking in etiquette. Not done...and me, because of my lack of assertiveness was party to it. I'm so bloody appalled and disappointed in myself. She is much older than me, yes, but that doesn't mean I should allow her to do this and it definitely doesn't mean I should go along without objecting. Grrrr!!

Puisque je m'ennuie...

Bored out of my wits, I indulged in a few senseless photos and decided I quite like this one to go with my Plain Jane image...

No Rain

All I can say is that my life is pretty plain
I like watchin' the puddles gather rain
And all I can do is just pour some tea for two
and speak my point of view
But it's not sane, It's not sane
I just want some one to say to me
I'll always be there when you wake
Ya know I'd like to keep my cheeks dry today
So stay with me and I'll have it made
And I don't understand why I sleep all day
And I start to complain that there's no rain
And all I can do is read a book to stay awake
And it rips my life away, but it's a great escape
escape......escape......escape......
All I an say is that my life is pretty plain
Ya don't like my point of view
Ya think I'm insane
It's not sane......it's not sane

- Blind Melon

Bristling in Anger...

This morning as I left my colony I was greeted by a sight that made my stomach churn. A dog lay by the roadside curb, dead. I am no stranger to the sight of dead dogs (or even people) for that matter on the roads, having seen my fair share of gruesome accidents with brains splattered all over the tarmac. Then why did this dog lying unhurt by the roadside make me want to throw up? For starters, this was one of the three dogs that would greet me every morning, wagging their tails and accompanying me to the bus stop. This one, in particular was much more affectionate and has on several occasions come up bounding behind me and "hugged" me from behind! I will miss meeting him every morning...
But more than that, what got my blood boiling was that he hadn't died in a careless accident, nor of natural causes. Somebody had very obviously poisoned him (he still had traces of froth at his mouth)...and several others as I realised a few minutes later as I moved down the road. I accept that I never did anything for them. I don't feed street dogs nor do I get them vaccinated, nor do I get obviously diseased dogs treated by a veterinarian. Infact I have to admit that I have often complained about the nuisance of street dogs, despite being a dog lover. I agree that their increasing numbers can pose a problem especially when they get aggressive, but to "get rid" of them in this manner is disgusting. I won't deny thinking that a street dog which is obviously suffering from a disease should be put to sleep, but to "put to sleep" a seemingly healthy dog that wasn't in the least bit nasty nor aggressive by poisoning him is nothing short of the work of an extremely cruel and sick mind. Our country is crippled with its overwhelming population - do we go around poisoning and killing those that can not defend themselves? Then why the poor dogs who can't even speak up in their defense?

Violated

Walking the tight-rope, treading a fine balance between right and wrong, I’ve been torn apart in the last couple of months with personal decisions. What lies ahead I do not know and never before has the uncertainty and darkness ahead gnawed so much at my insides, leaving them a mangled aftermath of a rat’s meal. A year ago I would have turned blindly to my blog for catharsis, but I hesitated this time. I’ve always known that this was a public domain and anything I published in this space was open to the scrutiny, analysis and opinion of all and sundry, creeps included. But when the creeps actually visit, it leaves you feeling violated. And I was violated. In the last one year my blog has been visited by people who dislike/hate me and used my blog to make nasty comments about me, people who have changed their identities to comment and falsely befriend me in the attempt to creep under my defenses and hurt me, people who have wanted to keep track of my activities and that of my family (believe me we aren’t that important) so they could manipulate me/us for their own selfish purposes. It’s left a rather acrimonious taste in my mouth, disgusted at how low people can sink, upset that people harbour such feelings towards me and perhaps left me at a loss of words for this space, something that has never happened in the five odd years that I’ve been blogging. The physical violation that followed the violation of my space has left me feeling angrier with the world. Angry. Helpless. Upset. Lost. Violated. As I struggle to piece together my peace and self-confidence both of which have been shattered to shards in the last couple of years, as I tackle with new fears, recurring nightmares and insomnia I wonder if I’ll ever find my joie de vivre again. Standing alone as I am today, I wonder if any of this is worth it. Why do I continue to blog? Why do I keep up with the farce that everything is alright? Why do I hope that tomorrow will be better? I wonder if my existence has any meaning, my presence/absence any significance to anyone. And yes I wonder why I have been violated in such a ruthless manner. Why then? Why now? Why again? And again?

PS Pardon me for the repetitiveness…just wanted to drill home the point.

The Alphabet Tag – since I’m not otherwise blogging...

...which deserves a seperate post.

A – Available?
Depends for what…

B – Best Friend(s)
Several, none close enough when I need them. And I need them so desperately right now.

C – Cake or Pie?
Is this going to be one of those Karan Johar rapid fire session? Argh…I don’t know? Both? So kill me, I have a sweet tooth.

D – Drink of Choice
Non-alcoholic : Fresh Lime Soda (Sweet)
Alcoholic : Wine – preferably White or a good Rosé like Montbazillac. Also Cognac - Remy Martin ofcourse.

E – Essential things used everyday
Hygiene and Skin Care paraphernalia, Mobile phone, Watch, Laptop, Wallet (with Money)…this is making me sound materialistic!

F – Favourite Colour
Blue

G - Gummi Bears or Worms?
Ugh. Neither. Thank you.

H – Hometown
Bombay

I – Indulgence
Don’t think I have any…no wait, there is one. Stolen evenings, or days for that matter!

J – January or February
January 2008.

K – Kids and names
Let me update this after a few years?

L – Life
…is screwing with me in a big way these days.

M – Marriage Date
Haven’t the faintest clue. I’ll let you know when I have one!

N – Number of Siblings
1. Elder brother.

O – Oranges or Apples
Apples. Haven’t you heard? An apple a day keeps the doctor away.

P – Phobias
Heights. Elevators. Loneliness. Losing the one I love.

Q – Quote.
"Ask yourself if you are happy, and you cease to be." - J. S. Mill

R – Reason to Smile
Sunrises. Flowers. A good class. a good book. A good meal. A rainy day. Afternoons spent soaking in the sun at the University. Evenings with my closest friend(s). Indulgence.

S – Season
Winter. Monsoons.

T – Tagged
Those who actually took up the tag last time as well…plus Madusa and Kitana if they read this.

U – Unknown fact about me
I’ve been molested. Twice.

V – Vegetable you do not like.
Bitter Gourd…can I please add a lentil? I abhor Chane ki daal – can’t get it down my throat. The “only” occasion I have both of these is on Ganesh Chaturthi at best friend’s home since it is part of Prasad.

W – Worst Habit(s)
I bite my finger nail when I’m depressed. It’s a give-away about my emotional state.
I believe people when they say they won’t let me down. I hurt. Easily.

X – X-rays you’ve had
Chest – as a child, many, since I had many issues related to my heart. They gave way to more serious and painful tests later…
Mouth – for dental problems I’ve often ignored and left untreated (recently – which reminds me, a visit to the torture chamber is due!!!)

Y – Your favourite food(s)
Canneloni Florentine. Vegetable au Gratin. Dum Aloo. Dahi wale aloo. Lauki ke kofte. Reshmi Kebabs. Vegetable Stew prepared in coconut milk. Lotus stems the way Amma makes them, and the way they are served at Whispering Bamboos, Blue Diamond. Hakka noodles. Pineapple pastry. Lemon tart. Lemon soufflé. Malpua. Bengali mithai.
For someone who eats to live, and not the other way around, that’s quite a list!

Z – Zodiac
Libra – the balance. Wise. (They say). Calm. (Not these days, believe me) Diplomatic. (Unfortunately so much so at times, people don’t realise when I would give anything to see them guillotined!)

By My Bedside...

The queen has spoken and when she does what choice does the humble subject have but to scramble to obey ;-) IdleMind tagged me last week to make a list of what lies next to my bed, so here goes:

On the bedside console, which has 2 drawers filled with assorted junk like heating pad, a home tool kit and torches, apart from my childhood LEGO sets which I refuse to give away, you will find:

1. 3 Bande Dessinées (French Comics), 2 of which are mine and 1 has been borrowed from the AFP library.
2. A collection of poems by Paul Verlaine, again borrowed from the library.
3. A copy of My Mistress’s Sparrow is Dead a collection of love stories from Chekov to Munro, edited by Jeffrey Eugenides.
4. A copy of Isaac Asimov’s Foundation, borrowed from the Amnesiac who is trying hard to change my reading habits and make me a more prolific and regular consumer of books.
5. A red frame with a photograph of Ma with my nephew when he was barely 4 months old
6. A bed-side alarm clock, set to 5:40 which wakes me up faithfully from Monday to Friday, which is removed from there and shifted to the dressing table every morning.
7. My cell phone joins the alarm clock, every night, with a back-alarm set incase the alarm clock fails!
8. Occasionally a pile of clothes that have to be transferred to the cupboard and have been ignored all day

Sigh, not very interesting na? But then, there's Plain Jane for you :-)

I hereby tab all the people on my Blog Addictions, except for IdleMind who tagged me and GenDD who has already been tagged…

Confused...

Standing at the crossroads for not the first time in my life, my mind tremulous with confusion and fear of the wrong decision or wrong timing keeps returning to the same question. Should I take the plunge? Is it worth the risk?

Blast from the Past

Every evening, as the evening crumbles into dusk and night falls, the still silence of the colony is punctured every few minutes with the sound of a blow-horn. Not the staccato sound of the car horn, but the traditional air-filled rubber ball that makes a squeaky, almost cacophonous sound when pressed? Sometime later, in rides a man on a bicycle. He cuts a striking figure on his bicycle, despite the fact that he’s not very tall. As he swings his leg off the cycle, dressed in his customary white paithani, his head wrapped in a traditional red chequered scarf, his mehendi stained beard immaculately trimmed, he blows the horn to announce his arrival. It’s the baida-walla, who cycles up from the neighbouring locality every evening and goes from building to building selling eggs, bread, pav and biscuits made at his local bakery. Initially I was amused by the idea that a baida-walla would visit every evening and everyone in the society would come out of their homes, often in pyjamas to buy their eggs and bread, thinking it was true-blue “blast from the past” concept, finding it rather quaint that the vendor goes from door to door selling his wares! But over time, I've become accustomed to this sheer luxury of having someone come right up to your door-step for your daily supply of bread and eggs. No need to go to the neighbourhood grocery store or the supermarket, just run down the stairs and you have everything you need for the next day’s breakfast! But more than that, is the pleasure of exchanging a few words with some one with such a marvellously old-world charm, who hands over the change with a smile, acknowledging your thanks with a “mention not.” I must admit that over the last nine months, I’ve slowly come to welcome the sound of that horn, and that some things haven't changed…

PS The promised book review of The Robber Bride, is up on Literay Mosaic.

From the Death Bed...

Or so I certainly thought it was till this afternoon, what with my vision having blurred and voices reaching me as if they were emerging from a fog-horn, my thoughts reaching deliriously insane levels and my actions getting even more insane. It wasn’t the Grim Reaper alias Hades alias Yama who were knocking on the door; merely a burning fever brought on by the rising temperatures of the city. So I did the unthinkable – refused to take class the next two days, after having idiotically taught for nearly 4 hours while the fever took control of my already fatigue ridden body. The last time I was this miserable with fever, one friend asked me to leave my Mythology book to him and the other sent me an email parodying my blog post about my death! This time wasn’t much different with the former planning a party for the weekend when I could barely stand on my two feet without clutching the walls for support and the latter lecturing me constantly and scolding me about being out of bed – where went the nonsensical words of comfort? The joys of counting two men amongst your best friends! ;-)

After having spent the first day in bed, slipping in and out of a delirious slumber in which I mumbled a great deal, I woke up feeling amazingly human once again. Initially irate and almost frustrated with boredom, I discovered it's actually a delight to have these two days of “rest” imposed on me. I’ve made the most of it and spent the better part of the day finally copying out the poems I’d marked as worthy of having in my 'petit cahier des poèmes' for future reference and more delightfully, buried in my sixth Margaret Atwood :-). Having just taken over two months to slowly crawl through Cat’s Eye, I have been absolutely disgusted by my appalling lack of speed and concentration while reading. Not so today – The Robber Bride is being devoured with an almost insatiable hunger. Now since I’m so glad to have escaped the jaws of death I shall go back to my book and rendezvous with you soon, hopefully with a book review this time :-)

A Summer Evening at the Cinema

Sultry summer evenings should ideally be spent sipping chilled lemonade (or beer if the company prefers it) over lazily meandering conversations with someone who can keep your senses from slipping into a heat induced apathetic slumber. But paucity of such company prevents one from making the most of such evenings. Irate, when my attempts to spend the evening in the company of the one such person were thwarted, I chose instead to spend the evening in the air-conditioned environs of NFAI watching Pinocchio.

The Consulate General of Italy in Bombay in collaboration with NFAI had screened Gant Guilio Antamarro’s Pinocchio (1911), an absolutely wonderful experience. Restored by the Fondazione Cineteca Italiana (Italian Film Archive) as a part of an ongoing project to restore films and valorise the patrimony of cinematic culture, the film was preceded by a short documentary on the subject of film restoration. Even given the fact that we have burdened the earth with an immense amount of junk, I was quite horrified, to say the least, by the brutal massacre of films. Needless to say the need to restore and conserve this medium was impressed on me by the short film.

Coming back to Pinocchio – from an era, when films were still silent, the scenario being explained by way of intertitles, the film had an enchanting appeal. The narrative, digressing a little from the original to incorporate encounters with Red Indian and the Canadians, was most delightfully and eccentrically fun. In fact I’d say that the film was one of the cutest films I’ve seen. The icing on the cake was the background music. Wait a minute, you say, background music? Didn’t I say it was a silent film? Yes indeed it was – the background score was provided a live band. The Antonio Zambrini trio, widely recognised for their jazz music not only in Italy, but elsewhere in Europe, provided a live score for the film. I was extremely impressed by their evocative composition and the attention to detail that made the film come alive in front of us. But what moved me the most was the piece they played at the end, which made an already beautiful evening, almost sublime.

I could have asked for more – dinner with the said person since my evening plans hadn’t worked out. But compromises must be made and the summer has just begun. There shall be other evenings and other opportunities. Insha Allah.

I Don't Know...

The excuses are plenty – confusion, fatigue, loneliness, melancholy, tumult. I could spin a gossamer fine tale of how the quagmire of life sucked the very life force out of me, infusing me with apathy towards everything. Would I be lying – not really. The life sure as hell has kept me (pre)occupied, but is that why I didn’t speak for so long? Not really. The real reason is that I simply didn’t feel like it. I had nothing I wanted to say to the world – to indulge in scatological imagery, I was suffering from acute constipation and it doesn’t seem like I’ve completely recovered. There’s plenty inside that has been swirling around, clamouring to get out, but I find myself unable to express it. Is it time to shut shop? I won’t lie. The idea has been considered and it has been dismissed. When will I bounce back into form? I don’t know. Perhaps this week. Perhaps not. I don’t know. I am not a clairvoyant. I wish I was. I could have answered so many questions. Mine ofcourse, not yours. I am not here to run some kind of services. Coming back to the point – why am I being so belligerent about it? I don’t have the answer to that either. Perhaps I’m tired of always doing the right thing, of living upto everyone's expectations, of being so nice and accommodating. Perhaps Plain Jane is tired of being Plain. I think I like that idea. Yes, I’m warming up to the idea. I quite like the idea of wrecking pure havoc around me. Will I really do it? I don’t know. Didn’t I tell you that I’m not a clairvoyant?

Leaving you with an image from the past – a blast from the past if you will. A portrait made by a friend who I seem to have lost in the madding crowd.

Lonely

While I largely cherish my soltitude, far from the madding as it were, there are days when the loneliness comes creeping along like a cold chill up my spine, its cold fingers slipping around my heart making it contract in pain and I feel myself sinking back into the black void. Missing my friends. Muchly.

Questioning Mode

While this month has been intellectually fulfilling, with the aftermath of PIFF that has made me read much more than usual and thus the slowed down pace of posts/reviews and the recently started literature course at AFP that has my grey cells charged and scrambling to work over-time, it has been professionally exhausting, with one of my two groups being way-too talkative and distracted, expecting to be entertained and amused every day and a free-lance project that may bring in extra money but is extremely boring and emotionally volatile with me having reached the highest highs and the lowest lows, wanting to bring a club down on one person and grab and smother the other with hugs and kisses.

A completely arbitrary stray comment made by a dear friend made me step down the questioning path once again – does my basically introvert nature and extreme selectiveness when it comes to friends, mean I’m a snob? Does my having high expectations from friends, which means that I can count my true friends on the fingers of one hand, mean that I’m a snob? Does my incapability of socialising and indulging in small-talk with random people and drawing them to me like a moth is drawn to light, mean that I’m a snob? Am I a snob, just because I am not on back-slapping terms with everybody and tend to hold myself away from the crowd, preferring not be drawn into the fore? Doesn’t it count that I am nice to everyone including those who talk to me only when they find me useful and that I don’t make snubbing, bitchy comments about people I don’t consider “in” or cool? Or that I have never looked down my nose at those who don’t patronise big brands, (considering I myself rarely do so) and don’t drop names? Or that I can eat at a roadside tapri with just as much pleasure as at a five star hotel? Or that I don’t really consider myself to be above others and can talk to people from all walks of life? But then, on second thoughts is it really so bad to be a snob?

So while I have been indulging in introspection and riding the emotional roller-coaster, juggling work and trying to widen my horizons by reading more and learning more, this place has been rather desolate and ignored – haven’t bowed out yet, worry not folks, there is a lot that’s to come in this space...

The Aftermath (I)...

Pune International Film Festival has come to represent a cinematic orgy of sorts and the aftermath always leaves me faintly overcome and dizzy. This years edition, though extremely disappointing vis-à-vis the selection of films, the schedule and the completely abysmal lack of crowd, all of which served more as discouraging factors in the aim of catching as many films as possible, still served to arouse the intellectual processes at least a little though not as much as the previous editions, particularly that of 2006 where I emerged from the week having been exposed not just to excellent cinema but also a wealth of knowledge to which I’d hitherto been blind. My choice of films, as usual, leaned towards the dark and depressing, that which forced me to step back and think and probe deeper into the ways of the world, in the vain attempt at understanding it better…the films of Spanish director, Pedro Almodovar, did precisely that and have left me questioning much about the way relationships work and far more significantly, how many of us realize that we really stand no chance in escaping the screwed up schema of the cosmos of relationships!

Live Flesh (Carne Trémula), apparently inspired by a Ruth Rendell novel, is a dark, yet hopeful tale of a series of relationships that took off one tragic night that marked the lives of all the characters. Entwined almost excruciatingly, the lives of the six characters take a steep turn onto a path that leads them to much pain and amazingly freedom. Victor, visiting a junkie, Elena, with whom he’d had his first sexual experience, is wrongly convicted for having shot an officer when the police arrive to investigate. Several years later, when Victor steps out of prison burning with the desire for revenge, he finds the Elena married to the injured officer, David, and leading an apparently fulfilling life. The steps he takes to ensure that he is firmly implanted in her life, not only pull the other characters, Clara and Sancho into the plot, but also eventually lead to redemption for all of them.

While there is no obvious similarity, Live Flesh, like Closer, forced me to think about relationships, their foundations and our reasons for entering them and staying there, often at a very high price. The film is definitely worth a watch, for sheer cinematic brilliance, powerful performances and above all for its ability to screw up your mind so completely. Sensual, dark, compelling - each frame of this film speaks volumes. The attention to detail, the symbolism, and the brutal honesty is remarkable. Almodovar won my loyalty with the very first film I saw – nothing like a mindfuck (pardon my language) to make you sit up and think…and what is cinema if it doesn’t make you think?

Traversing the Life on my Two Feet

In a country that discourages walking as a mode of transport even though it’s almost imperative with our increasing levels of traffic congestion and pollution, I obstinately walk around and it has always aggravated me that there are so few footpaths on our streets and so few provisions made for pedestrians. In the recent past, sitting next to a very dear friend who has recently acquired a vehicle and is getting increasingly confident (and consequently sometimes cocky) on the roads of Pune, I have heard the pedestrians being cursed often for their jaywalking and their refusal to consider the difficulty of the person driving the vehicle when s/he has to suddenly slow down/break/maneuver so as to avoid hitting the pedestrian. Accepting the argument I felt like a silent traitor, for oft have I waited helplessly for endless minutes waiting for the inconsiderate drivers to slow down and let me cross the road, considering that there are no pedestrian signals and zebra crossings are mere road decorations. Few drivers pay heed to traffic rules, then why do we curse the pedestrian so much when he /she tries to pave his/her own way through the mindless traffic swarming our streets? Is the pedestrian really left with much choice? Smoother, broader roads are the need of the hour, as are traffic signals that work. Flyovers would go a long way in speeding up the flow of traffic. But how about some more footpaths for pedestrians, enforcing the respect of zebra crossings and putting into effect pedestrian signals?

That said, I must admit I have been almost blissfully content with the miles I have covered (so to say) in the last few weeks, walking as I am regularly each evening. Exercise apart; it gives me the much needed opportunity to soak in the beauty around me and to sort out those insanely enmeshed thoughts that threaten to ensnare me in their dark web. The increased visits to the University, strolling towards the Y-point, meandering over to the main building and occasionally venturing beyond to where lies that absolutely charming watch-tower surrounded my marshy weeds have also been such a source of peace and joy. Amen.

PS PIFF 2008 happened - I attended ofcourse but was heartily disappointed by the pick of films, the organisation as well as the crowd. Nevertheless some good films have been watched, particularly those of Pedro Almodovar and insha allah we shall blog about those soon!

On Resolutions and More...

Of the few New Year resolutions I made this year, were getting back into shape and shaking myself out of the apathetic lethargy into which I had slipped during the last year and a half, especially in the last few months, and start doing the things that I used to enjoy so much. Ironically enough, the first one proved to be easier, despite involving physical effort, and I started my evening walks on the very first day of the New Year which I am enjoying so much that there is actually a high likelihood of them continuing! Apart from the fact that it’s great to be walking again and that particular stretch I traverse each evening is absolutely pretty and it makes my heart lighter crossing that pristine park and seeing those children play football against the backdrop of verdant hills, with a cool breeze blowing and fanning the tendrils of hair that are slowly starting to stick to my forehead with the perspiration, the regular exercise is actually making a big difference on the way I feel about myself as well. And then there are already the familiar faces and voices…there is this aaji who has her saree pallu pulled tightly around her shoulders to shield her from the cold, and the middle-aged couple of which the husband is a definite b******, the ladies who walk down to the market complete in their synthetic salwar-kurtas and sports shoes ready to take on the world with their battle-tank march down the road and of course the golden Labrador that insists on being patted and only then will she move on…but I think the best, is the three elderly gentlemen who sit on this low wall just inside my colony that I cross each evening on my way back home. The snippets of conversation I catch, about the kind of education they had back then, how their son brought home some ridiculously expensive gadget they can’t fathom, or how they fought valiantly against ignorance and corruption in their work place and all this in that slightly shaky deep baritone one associates with nice old uncles, are such a hark back to the generation of my eldest uncle and so completely reminiscent of small-town India that it brings a smile to my face immediately. Strange, how these scenes, at which I would have rolled my eyes or even looked down my nose a few years ago, today make me smile and wish we don’t lose this quintessentially Indian charm completely. If not for the other motivating factor/s I think I would continue to step out each evening just to catch those uncles gossiping about the yesteryears…

On the latter, however, I have been procrastinating and if not for the Amnesiac who has pushed and nagged me on other issues as well, I would have pushed this on the backburner once again. But nagged I have been, and books have been pushed into my hands and orders have been given to read, and so I am reading once again. Last year’s Booker winner, Kiran Desai's The Inheritance of Loss. My niece gifted the book to me last year, and I thought I should read atleast one booker and approve of it, but it doesn’t look like that is likely. Fifteen chapters down, and the story has not yet taken off and those descriptions of India are beginning to grate on my nerves. When will we stop catering to the foreign audience while describing India and its habitants? Can’t anyone come up with a mature, realistic Indian novel that presents a story with panache rather than merely presenting a stylized albeit stereotyped India? Of the Indian authors I read in my Literature days, her mother Anita Desai hadn’t particularly impressed me but I could see merits in her writing. She however missed the Booker. It fails me then completely, the reason why her daughter not only won the Booker but accolades for her work that continue to come forth in wave after wave…and I don’t think I shall change my opinion even after having finished reading the book...