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...

Stock-taking...

Standing at the threshold of yet another new year, I decide to indulge in some traditional rituals. After all the end of a year and the start of a New Year does call for cleaning up and stock-taking, doesn’t it?

A year that started in Bangalore with Ma and I bringing in the New Year surrounded by family, is ending in a full circle with us bidding adieu to it with some of our companions in the revelry from last year’s party. It has actually been a year of coming to a full circle and finding closure on several fronts…painfully screwed up at times, I’ve faced some bitter truths, learnt that sometimes you simply have to be ruthless and cut people out of your life however painful it may be. I’ve dealt with losses that revived the smoldering pain of a loss that I still haven’t come to terms with and probably never will. I’ve dealt with inefficiency, ineptness and an absolute lack of basic intelligence coupled with some really juvenile and yet nasty politics and learnt to hold back my anger, manipulate and work things around. I’ve come into my own, learnt to put my foot down and spoken my mind at the risk of some severe professional damage.

On the upside, an absolutely marvelous opportunity was seized and I did what I’ve dreamed of doing ever since I was twelve or thirteen – traveled with one of my best friends. Discovering Europe with K shall remain one of my most treasured memories – we’ve always understood each other, but I think our understanding and acceptance of each others eccentricities and weaknesses is so much more now. Thanks, K, for being there. I’ve made some fabulous new friends in Spain, Switzerland and Serbia, come closer to others in France and here as well…on the home front I’ve discovered a pair of arms that will envelop me in their warmth offering comfort and a set of ears that will listen to me rant and rave, even if it is at the price of suffering endless hours of repeated conversation! ;-) All forgiven in love and war, isn’t it Extempore? I’ve rediscovered a friend whom I’d missed sorely. A friendship that has stood the tests of life I really wonder now how I managed without this friend by my side. From coming so close to giving up, I’ve rediscovered hope, I’ve finally understood what it is to fall asleep at night peace prevailing in my mind and happiness spreading in my heart.

The next year promises to be challenging – personally and professionally. If miles were traversed this year, many more are waiting to be treaded upon. Much struggle and much growth lie ahead – I must be insane for I am not daunted, but almost waiting to bite the bit, as it were! Here’s to a challenging, fulfilling and peaceful 2008!

Immortal Connections

In a day and age where people often lack the inclination to even lift the phone to call their friends, I still treasure the practice of writing letters, sending cards on festive occasions and sending postcards when I’m traveling. A habit that had suffered greatly with the invasion of internet and emails, my dear friend P, who travels a great deal revived the habit by sending me postcards from each of her myriad travel destinations in her motherland France, Europe, North Africa and Canada. So it is that I have a decent collection of postcards through which I, too, have traveled; postcards that I treasure as much as the postcards Papa used to send me from his trips to Europe when I was a child.

Papa would also bring back postcards that captured in timeless beauty the many places he visited on his umpteen trips to Europe on work. Somewhere along the way, as his trips got busier leaving him little time to do sight-seeing the number of postcards dwindled and I, too, stopped asking for them. P’s postcards renewed my hunger for them and so on his last couple of trips Papa brought back some really exquisite postcards from Switzerland, which I hope to frame some day. Sorting through my collection of postcards (received or bought on my own trips to Europe) I came across a thick envelope filled with the postcards Papa had bought. Much to my surprise I found there postcards of Cologne, which I hadn’t known he’d visited and then I came across a collection of postcards depicting Chagall’s stain-glass windows in the Musée Chagall in Nice, dedicated to the “Biblical Message’.

Having visited both Cologne and Nice (where I had been dragged a little reluctantly to see the Musée Chagall, an artist I knew little of and thus wasn’t very interested in seeing his work – am I grateful to K now for taking me there!) I found myself filled anew with regret that I can’t share with Papa, what I’ve seen and experienced . Having finally reached an age, maturity level and garnered enough experience and insight into various subjects I yearn to be able to discuss all of it with Papa, making me miss him so much more.

If I hadn’t already absolutely loved and been awed by what I saw at the Musée Chagall and decided to buy some day, reprints (just like one of the Degas’ series) of either his brilliant paintings in which he uses vibrant colours like the brightest of yellows, reds and blues or the absolutely stunningly beautiful stain-glass paintings, all of which lean heavily on Biblical imagery, I do now. The only difference being that I will no longer have to buy them when I do have my own house, for Papa has left behind the most perfect collection for me to frame.

Thank you Papa.

I should have known you’d always be there for me irrespective of where you are. Never again will I doubt it.

For more on Marc Chagall, visit Artchive.

Tarikhi-Hind

The friend has a new blog. He wrote stories that I loved to tear apart, refusing to acknowledge that he is a published writer and I am not.Then he wrote posts at which I rolled my eyes and posted photographs which I criticised. It vexed me to say anything vaguely complimentary to him and I waited for an opportunity to go for the jugular. I still do, but this time I am forced to admit that he writes well and he knows his stuff. Grumpf.

Go read Tales of a Land Five Thousand Years New. He's only just started, but if he proceeds as planned then this promises to be an interesting one! God how it pinches to say that ;-)

Literary Mosaic

At the prodding of Extempore and the Amnesiac, I toyed with the idea of rejuvenating Literary Mosaic, where I once posted book reviews (apart from some rather pathetic attempts at writing fiction). I’ve been gnawing over it for several weeks and couldn’t come to a decision. But today, after one of the most perfect days I’ve had, a day that has left me so much at peace with myself that after the longest time I slipped in the disc of my favourite retro music and actually grooved to it as I typed away, my creative and critical bent surging to the fore with a vengeance, I knew it was time to revive my Literary Musings…

People it’s a pleasure to announce to you that Literary Mosaic is once again welcoming visitors (and comments). I've just reviewed The Girl from the Chartreuse, a book that I read over a year ago, a book that touched me with its incredibly pure eloquency, poignancy and richness of language.

Renaissance...

Browsing through the archives, looking for something (yes I’m perpetually looking for things) I was struck by how much I used to blog earlier. Most of it isn’t worth a mention and is really better forgotten, but there is a lot in the archives that actually shines through all the mediocrity…and suddenly I realised that back then, I was a better reader, not restricting to myself to any one genre or style of writing and thus a far more prolific writer who wrote with a comfort that is very evident in the words... bringing me to my first resolution for 2008. Read. Read. Read. There’s a huge backlog of books waiting to be read and it’s about time I gave them some attention. Just waiting for this session to get over, so I can completely overhaul the lifestyle which has pretty much gone for a toss in the past four months…

On What Lies Under Our Noses!

Ever searched the whole house, turning cupboards upside down in your desperate hunt for that thing that was lying in plain view right in the middle of the table all along? Well, I am quite an expert at it; I've given people much stress when I can't find that thing I'm looking for, and then been at the receiving end of many irate looks when I found the thing in the most obviously evident place which I refused to look at, because it couldn't possibly be there. I seem to have done it again...and boy do I feel like an idiot about all that time I wasted hunting for something that was right under my nose all along...and I don't even have a big nose! Sheesh!

Muchly Jaded, Ironically Re-enchanted.

Words Walk completed a year in Pune today – his post took me back to June ’04 when I first moved to this hamlet. There was little the city could do right and I grabbed every opportunity I got to run back to Bombay, the city I still like to think of as home. Pune for all means and purposes underlined my loneliness and my lack of independence. Till I met the man who made me discover Pune in a way that I couldn’t help but start falling in love with its charms. In the past two years I’ve had to distance myself from that Pune, caught up in the rather distressing realities of life. The last two weeks have brought many opportunities to reacquaint myself with that charming Pune and though it’s been an exhausting week that has left me drained, weary and vaguely jaded there is a deep-sated content slowly warming my heart and I can’t help but smile as glimpses of last week mingle with memories from 2005.

Extempore, who was visiting last week complete with her infectious gregariousness and photography apparel provided the perfect opportunity and so I found myself back at the Y-point at the Pune University over breakfast of upma and chai and animated discussions…dominated primarily by Extempore who can easily out-talk even my most talkative student ;-). A languid hour later I led her up the tree-shaded steps to the main building which though fenced in for restoration work, still charmed the socks off Extempore. Meandering through the grounds I led her to the watch-tower amidst the marshy weeds that I had fallen in love with when I was first introduced to it. After a most sumptuous meal at Arthur’s Theme, which just had to be finished with their heavenly lemon soufflé, we allowed ourselves to get lost in the by lanes of Koregaon Park, till we reached the Nala Park. Paradise created around filthy sewer water, there is something absolutely bewitching about this park. (Needless to say Extempore with her quintessential bindaas spirit paid no heed to the rules prohibiting photography and got some beautiful shots.)

My knees may have protested and my eyes may have struggled to stay open and I may have been "muchly" drained by the end of the day, but the happiness spreading inside made every ache and pain worthwhile…as did the crazily meandering conversations that were thrust on me. Discomfited initially, no longer accustomed to being hounded to talk about my feelings and dark thoughts, I felt much better having finally voiced aloud a thought that I had been nursing like a nasty wound. The inky blackness I stare at on my way home, seeking answers desperately still has none forthcoming, but the emptiness doesn’t seem as daunting. Why? Perhaps because of the knowledge that I have not lost all, and a vague notion that something wonderful might still waiting around the corner. Or perhaps because I’ve decided that it’s time for closure. Or perhaps because I once again have one of my cherished friends back in my life.

Ask Yourself If You’re Happy and You Cease to Be…

Happiness = Pleasure = Joy = Delight = Elation = Euphoria = Rapture = Jubilation = Bliss = Ecstasy.

The sheer number of synonyms for this emotion that we seek so desperately is testament to the fact that happiness comes in many forms. That it eludes most of us is a completely different matter together. I won’t pretend otherwise – oft have I wondered in the last year and a half why pure, complete joy doesn’t feature more prominently in the grand scheme of things, particularly in the scheme that features me. The raw anger burning inside my system is fast burning away every last vestige of optimism that once pushed me. No longer do I believe in happy endings, nor do I continue to believe that good things happen to good people. It doesn’t quite work that way in this world, and so it is that the rage inside me fuels my every movement, very often leaving me worn out. Hardly a wonder that I constantly feel so listless and sleep-deprived! ;-)

Much to my surprise then, when the last week proved to be almost blissful, so peaceful it was despite that uncalled for kick below the belt that life deemed necessary. A week of calm (we’ll just ignore those two nasty temper displays) and long conversations with Ma. Toss in simple yet delicious meals, the wonderful sensation (even if occasionally irritating) of Schnapps sleeping at my feet, thus warming them through the blanket, retail therapy and this Plain Jane just feels so much nicer. The icing on the cake of course were those two lovely afternoons spent with one of my closest friends; a friend who I’ve missed much in the last one year, with whom I can wrangle over the silliest things, tease unceasingly, butt heads over the most inane and sometimes most important issues and come out laughing, my sprit so much lighter and with whom I can truly be myself, share my darkest worries and my strangest thoughts knowing that nothing but understanding will await me on the other side. Friday afternoon at the University, soaking in the sun, drinking chai and chatting sent me back to those languid summer afternoons we spent avoiding the sun under that canopy of trees, drinking chai or nimbu pani, talking, bickering, laughing…and left me quite happy.

Let There Be Sunshine...

…well not really but it sounds weird to say let there be diyalight. Compromises are inevitable and so here also. The one festival I truly celebrate and look forward to right from Ganesh Chaturthi and Raksha Bandhan, Diwali for me comes wrapped in this wonderful glow of magical warmth …and let that not be misinterpreted as the uncomfortably stifling warmth generated by the fireworks! Diwali represents new clothes (but ofcourse!), mouthwatering gujiyas, malpuas, kheer and meetha chawal, family get-togethers and the traditional Lakshmi pooja. I resented Papa’s absence last year and celebrated Diwali half-heartedly, as a mere obligation without gleaning any joy from the festivities. His absence still hurts, but it was easier this year seeing others sit where he always sat and performing the rites that were his…easier also to find joy in the small things that made this festival so dear to me...

Here’s hoping and praying that the spirit of Diwali sustains through out the new year and that it brings much joy, success and sunshine (ahem) into our lives!

Jab We Met - review

Last night when the plan to go watch this latest Bollywood flick creating waves along with two of my nieces, was enforced on me I was most disgruntled, feeling extrmemely manipulated and certain that I’d return ranting and raving as I normally do after having watched typical Bollywood fare! Imagine my surprise then, when I didn’t! I don’t remember the last big-budget, typical Bollywood romance-music-dhamaal film I enjoyed. Jab We Met, doesn’t offer anything new vis-à-vis story-line, neither were the performances earth-shattering, and yes I did wonder (yet again) why Indian film makers are so fond of show-casing our country for the foreigner’s eye. But yes, the film makers have succeeded in maintaining a reasonnably entertaining pace that doesn’t drag at any point complimented by a fun, young soundtrack, and yes for a change I didn’t feel like slapping Kareena Kapoor. As for Shahid Kapoor – I’ve watched him run like a lamb behind his college sweetheart (who at that time we all thought would be more successful than him in the tinsel-world, but boy, have we been proven wrong!) and held my stomach rolling with laughter as he struggled to convince Mrs. S the strictest of professors in our department to accept his First year B.A Literature project on Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice a novel that was part of the prescribed syllabus and thus not accepted as project work and...and I have to grudgingly admit that this boy we loved to joke about has succeeded in making his place. Sure he isn’t even half the actor his father is, but he isn’t as bad as I thought he was…and he sure can move! I was super impressed with his foot-work in the “Mauja” number! Surprise number 2: I’ve actually been humming several songs from the soundtrack ever since I got home...and wishing more than ever that I hadn't given up dance lessons when I did, 'coz my feet are sure itching to dance. Alas but they aren't trained to move nicely! Sigh.

Grumpf. Gah. Ok I admit it, I actually enjoyed the film!

Welcome Winter...

A Bombay girl, I didn’t really know what it felt like to experience major climatic changes from summer to winter till I moved to Pune in 2004. We moved to Pune just as summer was bidding goodbye to the city so I missed the heat the first year. Having spent the winter of 2003 in Germany and survived three months in temperatures that mostly stayed below 10° not to mention the visit to a country where the winter sun lasts for a bare 3-4 hours a day and temperatures went down to -21º , I didn’t really feel the brunt of my first winter in Pune, despite the fact that we stayed in an area where temperatures were generally 2-3 degrees below the rest of the city!

Now, three years later, I know I abhor summer in Pune. I’d rather endure the humidity of Bombay even if it means having sweat trickling down my forehead fifteen minutes after a refreshingly cold shower. The dry, scorching heat of Pune makes me pray each and every day for the rains to come!

Winter, is a different story! To be able to walk out of the house wearing a turtle-neck and a jacket, or wrap a woolen scarf around my neck or snuggle into my shawl is an absolute delight…not to mention the pleasure of shivering slightly in the early morning chill as the breeze slaps my face lightly on my way to work!

Walking back home a few weeks back I shivered slightly as I crossed the park, the evening breeze making my bare arms break into goose bumps. The next morning I stepped out of the house fitted out smartly in my black jacket. Yes, winter is making its presence felt in the city and it’s hugely welcome! I’m already waiting impatiently for the temperatures to drop further so the new blue sweater may be worn and the muchly favoured camel sweater and the pink cashmere sweater may be worn once again! :-)

Tagged (three months ago!)

Before I proceed, I pay my respects to the empress, Shilpa, bowing low in front of her! Why empress, you ask? Well because I’ve delayed the tag by over 8 weeks when the deadline was 8 days and thus I have no choice but to accept her as the supreme lady of all that she surveys...well, atleast on the blog! ;-)

I hereby declare the following eight facts about me that you might or might not know:

1. I have a weakness for Mehrwaan’s Lemon Tart and Lemon Roll, Sweet Chariot’s Rustic Chocolate Mousse and any good Cheese Cake…
2. It drives me up the wall to walk into class every morning and find it in disarray.
3. I rarely let go of friends, but if pushed beyond my limits of endurance I cut people out of my life, without a second thought, never to look back.
4. I am a complete Retro Eighties child when it comes to music
5. I recently shot off an irate email to my boss, putting my future at AFP at risk.
6. At least once a week back I walk back home - not the entire way, just the last 3 km.
7. Never really a tele-baby, I have pretty much stopped watching television since 2003 and am generally very clued-out of popular culture.
8. I plan each and every class meticulously, jotting down the "parcours du cours" right down to the last detail .

Phew. Done. I can now safely meet the empress without worrying about repercussions for not having carried out her orders. ;-)

Tagging – anybody who wants to post a fun, non-consequential post :-)

For Papa...

Papa's birthday today - we had a havan at home to commemorate the day and the panditji commented on how it was the first time he'd been asked to conduct a havan to mark the birth anniversary and not the death anniversary. He thought it exemplary.

I could not help but wonder why I wouldn't want to commemorate the day my father was born. I'm glad I told Ma I wanted to get an Arya Samaji havan conducted today...I think I coped surprisingly well. The Arya Samaji rituals do indeed have the powers to induce peace and calm within me. I have Papa to thank for that as well, for I went to Arya Vidya Mandir because of him and it was him, who first asked me to chant the Gayatri Mantra to rein in my mind when it refused to behave...I miss you Papa. Am so proud to be your daughter....wish I had done more to express it when I had the opportunity.

Bibliovore

Alas, but no more can I call myself a Bibliovore, for it has been months since I last devoured a book!

Koyla - The Hyderabad House

Of the many restaurants my Niveau 1 students have cited as an answer to the question “Vous aimez quel restaurant?” (Which restaurant do you like?), Koyla has been a name I’ve heard several times. I have to say, my attitude towards the restaurant had always been diffident.

To start with, we landed there only as a last resort since restaurants were already full at 8h30 (if you please!). Not exactly a family that believes in queuing up for our food, we thought we’d give this place a chance. Secondly, I’m not the greatest fan of Mughlai cuisine – in this case, Hyderabadi cuisine – since it generally tends to be rather heavy and spicy, not exactly catering to my tastes. I am Indian, but that doesn’t mean I like to swallow every morsel of food with a gulp of water, sniff constantly throughout the meal and leave the table with a terrible burning sensation on my tongue chased all the way down to the stomach! Spicy food does not translate into good food. Not in my dictionary. For me, to come away appreciative of a restaurant that offers that genre of cuisine, means that the food is truly par excellence. Nothing but the most perfectly spiced (read subtly spiced, not over-spiced), succulent food offered in the subtle, comfortable and classy environment by efficient staff can please me. Take the not so distant experience at Bombay Brasserie for example. I was disgusted. Completely.

I wouldn’t say that my reaction to Koyla is very different. The hesitation towards the cuisine was coupled with doubt about the ambience, having been completely put-off by its very entrance, a very heavy, over-ornate door with a garish canopy and very uncalled for dim lighting that makes you stumble on the way in….it goes without saying that the interiors were a continuation of the entrance. I have never found any restaurant as distasteful as this one – the “designer” obviously thought that covering every inch of wall space with gaudy, tacky faux objects reminiscent of Hyderabad’s rich Nizami history would charm and awe the restaurants clientele. Quite the contrary. I felt “quichéd” to use a French idiom. Cramped, dingy, garish are the three adjectives that come to the mind when I think of Koyla.

The experience continued with the appalling service….which reminds me, pray enlighten me someone, why do restaurateurs put things in the menu which are never available? I’m fed-up of being told that they do not serve Khubani ka meetha and that the Gulab Jamun is worth trying! If you don’t serve it, what the hell is it doing in the menu? And no, I don’t want to have Gulab Jamun; I can have that at home any time thank you! Digressions apart, so the personnel was most unhelpful and aloof vis-à-vis recommendations, not to mention ignorant. The food, when it did arrive, was unsatisfactory for all the noise made about the quality of food at this restaurant – as expected it was spicy, despite reassurances that we’d ordered “a non-spicy dish.” I think I should redefine non-spicy as something that makes my nose run and ensures I drink my 1l quota of water per day during one meal itself! To top it all, the second round of rotis ordered when the food was first served to us showed up (after 3 reminders) after we’d spooned the last of the “eye-watering” food. When we refused to accept the rotis, they simply took it away without a hint of any apology….and none came forth even as we settled the account and left the restaurant.

A completely abominable experience. The bloody place needs to be boycotted and forced into losses…and the next student that claims its his/her favourite restaurant is going to fall rapidly in my eyes!

PS On the same note of disappointing gastronomic experiences, I must say Garden court was also rather dismal. Terrible service and unexciting food killed the pleasure of eating out in the open with the city of Pune spread out in front of my eyes.

PPS Before you attack me Extempore, yes, I know that Mughlai cuisine and Hyderabadi cuisine is different – I was just trying to broadly categorise all that has anything to do with kebabs, biryani, murg, gosht et al! Peace! ;-)

L'Auberge Espagnole

A Cédric Klapisch film, starring Romain Duris in the leading role of Xavier and Audrey Tuatou (of Le Fabuleux Destin Amélie Poulain) as his girlfriend, Martine, L’Auberge Espagnole is an absolutely fabulous film!.

The friend takes off with the departure of Xavier for Barcelona where he studies economy for a year as a student of the ERASMUS exchange programme. He initially shacks up with a young French couple he meets on his arrival at Barcelona, till he finds the ideal arrangement, an apartment that he shares with six other ERASMUS students. Over the course of one year, Xavier stumbles over various problems and confronts the typical confusions of any young student in his situation. He parties and has the time of his life with his friends, even as he learns and grows with each new experience that they all share together. Everything takes off from the central point of the l’aubgerge espagnole, the Spanish apartment. At the end of the film, many experiences riches, Xavier finally begins to truly understand himself and his true calling…

The film concentrates on the question of identity (personal/national/European) that dogs all young people across the world. It highlights with effective ease and style the life of young students living abroad, presenting the humorous as well as the stressful moments of that life.

A film with crazy situations that make you scream with laughter, there isn’t a single moment where you would reach for the fast-forward button on that remote control. Excellent acting (particularly by Kevin Bishop who plays the obnoxious William), great music, this is a film for all those who are young at heart, who understand what a pain it is to be twenty-something and completely screwed up in the head and for those who are tuned into the current situation in Europe where national identities are becoming increasingly fuzzy with the creation of the EU.

After having watched the film four times, I can confidently recommend the film – I showed it to two sets of students this week and they can vouch for it as well! Go rent the DVD for the nearest DVD parlour and watch it this weekend! :-)

Read the corresponding review in French here

Is it Time?

Is it time yet to give up? I think not, and thus I continue to wage the war despite the dying strength and will power. But I am tired now, really tired. Have given up all attempts (read pretense) at being strong, at having faced the rude loss of my father and coped with it excellently. I miss him with every second that passes by and I refuse to pretend otherwise anymore, irrespective of how uncomfortable it makes people around me. Perhaps I'm being selfish and unreasonable about it. I don't care anymore. I think I've endured enough to be allowed this luxury - yes it is indeed a luxury to let your true feelings show, to wallow in the misery that has been a part of your life for over a year, a misery that has just increased several times over with the unchanging status of my missing bag. Yes, I know I sound insane but losing that bag is like losing Papa all over again...and I don't think I'll ever recover from this loss...

Am hoping and praying with all my heart that this festive season doesn't have any dark clouds overshadowing it and does indeed bring along with it reasons to rejoice...*crossing my fingers tight*

...meanwhile the struggle to knock sense into stubborn students insisting on repeating level 1 mistakes one-third of their way into level 2, commuting to-n-fro twice a day in the abominable Pune public transport (I refuse to even consider investing in my own mode of transport) and dealing with inefficient staff at the administrative level keeps me on my toes, occupied and exhausted...yes, the life is quite "happening" indeed.

Confused

Somewhere, along the way to reaching where I stand today, something went wrong. It wasn't supposed to be like this...

Another Year Down...

Another year down...a year older, perhaps wiser, smarter, more mature and richer in experiences, but also more cynical without those rose-tinted glasses I wore till last year. I didn't want to do anything today - didn't even want to talk to my closest friends. If not for Ma and some of my friends, I'd have probably spent the entire day curled up in bed, reading. It started off yesterday with a friend dropping in for the quickest visit ever, just to give me pre-birthday wishes and the biggest bouquet I've ever received. That gesture alone warmed the heart that had been lying bruised and battered all week...another friend refused to back down despite cold emails asking not to be bothered. She called on Ma's cellphone when she couldn't get through mine, scolded me, made me switch on mine and reminded me that I am made of stronger stuff and can't give up so soon, so easily. The last one week has been of much musing, pensive, punishing walks back home, battling the tears and the negative thoughts and I had come so close to giving up, but for the few people whose refusal to give up on me and their insistence on pushing me back...many revelations, many personal decisions taken this week. I hope I'm strong enought to stick to them all! Amen!

It was a very quiet birthday this year. I spent the day largely in the company of Ma - and the only thing that could have topped that would be having Papa there. Unrealistic, so I can't say I have any real complaints with the day...have been pampered with a surprise shopping excursion. Ironically I ended up buying more for the others than for myself, which made the family decide a second excursion was in order and in a short span of 15 minutes I walked out of FabIndia with three new things to add to my wardrobe. Well I did tell friends that they shouldn't gift me books this year since I was a rather clothes/jewellery deprived individual and in desperate need for clothes! Dinner with the family at Sigree, was a very satisfying affair. Excellent service, great food coupled with a perfect ambience...yes it was a quiet birthday spent with those who matter the most and I wouldn't have had it any other way!

Euro-Rail V

Even though not enamoured by the city of the famed la Cathédrale de Notre Dame, la Tour Eiffel, l’Arc de Triomphe et l’Arche de la Défénse, l’Obélisque/ Place de la Concorde, le musée du Louvre, la Sacré Coeur (my most favoured monument parisien), the city of the high fashion, the city of the metro, I always wanted to visit it and to feel that rush from atop the Eiffel with the French capital lying below me. My first trip to Paris (December 2003) was as perfect as it could be – a low-budget trip made in the company of my friend from Bordeaux, P, it was ideally planned and I covered more in those three short days in Paris than most people cover in a week. Sure I didn’t enter a single museum, in a city famed for its museums, I didn’t visit Le Moulin Rouge or Lido, I didn’t shop at Champs Élysées, but in those 72 hours I discovered Paris through the eyes of someone who knew the city, who admired it with a certain level of objectivity and the same sense of aesthetics and cultural interest as me.

(At the Temple de Madeleine - taken, obviously by K)

I wanted to go back, not so much so cover what I missed last time, but to go back to the streets and places that most charmed me on my first visit and spend time there and most importantly to spend time with Kitana. I didn’t achieve most of what I wanted to do, for various reasons, my missing bag being the biggest of them all, marking it as an incomplete sojourn in many ways, but I did discover a different Paris this time…

Paris, of the famed Catacombs, which despite all the warnings of being spooky and not for those with a frail heart, weren’t the least bit frightening. Interesting, but after a point a little too boney, if you get my point ;-)
Paris, of Paris Plage, a crazy idea, that only a French-man could come up with, of dumping tons of sand by the banks of the Seine to convert it into a beach every summer, so that Parisiens who couldn’t head to the beach for summer are not deprived!
Paris, home to Shakespeare and Co, paradise on earth for book-lovers and amateur writers. It applied the must needed balm to my bruised spirit at the right time. I would have broken down completely, if not for that visit to this amazing bookstore opposite Notre Dame (needless to say, even Shakespeare and Co would have been helpless if not for Kitana)

Biggest Regrets: Not being able to spend that completely mad, crazy moment with Kitana, or catch up peacefully with A (who had traveled all the way from Magdeburg to spend time with me), friends I cherish and don’t get to spend enough time with because of the miles separating us…and most of all, letting the dark cloud of worry consuming me, cast its shadow on K, Kitana and A’s break.

...and with this, I finally complete my Euro-Rail series! :-)

Surreal Reality...