of values and principles…

Last night I went to watch Harry Potter & the Half Blood Prince at Fame Malad. As ususal all the ticket windows had a queue of people. In my line there was a man haggling at the ticket counter with wife and son in tow, behind him there was a woman and then me. For reasons best known to him, the man decided to not buy tickets telling his wife ”we’ll watch it on a CD”. Just when the woman in front of me was paying for her tickets, our man re-appears out of nowhere and demands the counter guy to give him tickets for Ice Age 3 in the rows that he was earlier deliberating. When I pointed out  that he had left the line and that he should join the line at the end, he had the gall to tell me that he needed tickets for his child and that I should act like an adult and allow him to buy his tickets. Well there was a heated argument and war of words and eventually I let him buy his tickets (for a selfish reason that I didn’t want to continue the fight and miss the start) but also made a parting comment about how he was imparting wrong values to his child.

I feel shitty about the fact that i didn’t any more than yelp, that the start of the movie was more important than fighting a wrong doing. But I really wonder at the audacity of people to so openly act this way and not feel a wee bit ashamed. I mean these are the same people who religiously go to temples, churches and places of worship, who observe fasts and other rituals, read their scriptures and then go and flout all the good things the holy books teach us.

How can one be so unabashed, so shameless, so nonchalant? Is it so difficult to co-exist in peace and harmony? To respect another individual, to practice what you preach. What example was he setting for his son? That it is easy to just arm twist your way in any situation. Maybe that’s good for life skills or as a self defence mechanism…but where do you draw the line?

I am disgusted at myself first and then at mankind in general. This world is heading to its end surely. Imagine if for 3 movie tickets that man could pick up a fight, then terrorism sure is justified. There is so much more at stake there…land, oil, minerals, religions. Bigger stakes, bigger platforms, bigger games. Will there ever be an end to it all?

death of a legend

Today is indeed a black day in the world of music as the legendary King of Pop, Michael Jackson passed away at the age of 50. Fans of MJ will no doubt mourn the loss of a man with indefatigable energy and talent. A man who made the world dance to his tunes (literally). The twinkle toed singer who introduced the world to Moonwalk. The shy gawky teenager bursting into the world of popularity, paparazzi and crazy fans. 

I have not been a die-hard fan of his (having been introduced to English music pretty late in life).  But whatever songs of his I have heard, I have relished them all. Even today it’s a treat to watch his Thriller, Beat It, They Don’t Really Care About Us, Black or White We are the World, Heal the World videos. But somewhere he too like his predecessors lost the plot and gave in to human follies. By the late 90s, he was embroiled in child abuse cases, was in and out of 2 marriages one with Lisa Marie Presley and the other with a nurse Deborah (with whom he had 2 children), a third child followed (whose mother is still unknown). His fans were subjected to his idiosyncrasies like dangling his children from hotel windows, covering their faces to avoid paparazzi, his numerous rhinoplasties, his sudden change of skin colour (something he blames on a skin disorder) and very lately his alleged conversion to Islam. 

But everything said and done, his fans consider him next to God and for the musical delight that he offered them they are willing to let go of all his follies. In an earlier post I had mentioned about my cousin brother introducing me to MJ’s music. It’s ironical that both exited this world in 2009.

MJ’s death follows close on the footsteps of Sarod maestro Ustad Ali Akbar Khan and Sarrah Fawcett of Charlie’s Angels Fame. 

All we can say is RIP – these mortal souls have left us with immortal memories.

lost in the banyan tree…

Moving on from Bard’s influence, we now come to a very interesting exercise (one that I found slightly challenging). It was to describe a ‘tree’ to a visually impaired person using our senses. For want of any other quick option, I chose the ‘banyan tree’. Here it goes…a banyan tree through my eyes, ears, touch and smell.

This is a banyan tree. How would you identify it? Touch the trunk, it’s huge. Encircle the tree completely once to know it’s girth, all the while placing your hands on it. A trunk is the portion of the tree above the ground like a human trunk i.e. above the waist. Also while circling the tree feel the threads tied round it. Well these are tied by married women praying for a happy and long life. So the banyan tree is also symbolic of wedded bliss. Feel the coarseness of the bark like the human skin. It is smooth in some places and uneven at others. Smell the mud on the bark. the fragrance is similar to the wet soil in the first rains along with a hint of incense sticks (agarbatti), vermillion (kumkum) and flowers.

Next you touch the base of the tree and feel the beginning of the roots. These roots go deep into the earth and the deeper the roots, the sturdier the tree. Feel the roots to know it’s strength. They are like your legs that hold on to your entire body.

Raise your hands now and touch these hanging ropes. Well they are not ropes but hanging roots, another speciality of the banyan tree. Anytime you want to know if a tree is a banyan tree, raise your arms and try to touch any hanging ropes. If you manage to find any, then it is indeed a banyan tree. Feel these roots, they are thick. Tug at it, they are strong. Push it and it requires some effort. This means that they are sturdy and not flimsy enough to sway in the breeze. If ever you are falling fom above and manage to get a hand on them, hold tight and you’ll be safe.

These are the branches. They are also thick and strong and when you run your hand through it’s length, you realise that it’s long. They are like your shoulders that balance your body. Each branch further splits into smaller branches that gives the tree a dense look. Just like your hands and fingers.

Now try to hear the birds chirping. The banyan tree because of its strength and density is home to lots of birds and insects who feel secure and protected. It is not easy to cut down a banyan tree and because of this it is often attributed to a family. Just like a family has all the members who are together and indivisible, so is the banyan tree.

Lastly touch the leaves. They are slightly oval shaped (just like your heart) and coarse as they are dusted with mud. Also when the birds peck with their beaks or insects crawl over it, the smoothness tends to be lost. But some leaves are so smooth, you can slide your fingers on them. Leaves are like hair that cover the topmost part of the tree and also add beauty to it. They are also helpful in bringing us rains.   

So now you know what’s a banyan tree. Here, sit on it’s branch, swing you legs and chill.

so said the bard…

Thank you for all the comments and feedback…it’s very heartening and amusing to know your take on the articles. Continuing from where we left, in this exercise Pat had listed down words that were coined or connected by Shakespeare in the course of his plays and which subsequently became part of the English vocabulary. We had to use as many of those words as possible and weave it into a story. We did this exercise at 9.30pm post dinner by which time I was ready to hit the sack (since I hadn’t slept a wink the night before leaving for Khandala). I barely managed to keep my eyes open and found it a Herculean task to churn out a story that made sense. I have underlined the words selected from the list:

The madcap entered the monumental hall with a swagger looking all majestic. He raved and ranted about the remorseless savagery and torture meted out to him following the scuffle. A mountaineering champion with a lustrous career, today he was a worthless olympian with dwindling fortunes. He has been accused of cold blooded assassination, damaging circumstantial evidence and creating discontent. Branded a bandit, his tranquil world is now lacklustre, lonely and frugal. A hidden blood stained blanket in the luggage on the lower rack reminds him of his compromise with his principles. He looks back at his advertising days with amazement and wonders when alcohol took over him.  

Trivia: We had to count the number of words we used from the list and I must have counted over 5 times but never managed to complete it as I was so sleepy that I would lose track of the numbers in between .

a relaxed summer afternoon

This was an interesting exercise. Here Pat gave us pointers and we had to fill in with our details and then use them in a short story. Details as below (the left hand is what Pat gave us and the right hand is what I chose):

Mood – relaxed, Protagonist – woman, Verb – sitting, Adverb – lazily, Era – present, Setting – book store, Object – square cushion, Adjective – earthy brown self coloured cover, Name of the Protagonist – zoya

Here goes my short story…

It is a warm saturday afternoon with the sun shining bright. Thankfully, passers by did not break into a sweat as there is a pleasant breeze cooling their parched skins. Seeking respite from the sun, Zoya saunters into a bookstore. Her slow gait gives one an impression that she is in no particular hurry. As the blast of the AC cools her flushed cheeks, Zoya manouvers her way to the now familiar ‘Fiction’ section of the bookstore.

She runs her fingers through the tomes lining the shelves and deliberates in her mind as to which book to read. Train to Pakistan by Khuswant Singh (naah…too heavy for a hot noon), Sultry Nights by Shobha De (too trashy), The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini (too tragic for a relaxed afternoon). She picks some books, reads the summary, feels the touch of the crisp pages on the finger tips and smells the fragrance of the printed pages (just like one would a freshly brewed coffee).

No…she wanted a book that would be light reading yet not crass, humourous yet not crude, thin volume yet not the blink and you’ll miss it kinds. As her eager eyes search the oak panelled shelves, a magenta-pink cover catches her eye. Gingerly she brings it out and turns it over to read. Yes…this is it…the perfect book for a relaxed breezy afternoon. She takes The Diary of a Social Butterfly by Moni Mohsin and moves to the couch where she is now sitting, resting her back on the square cushions with self coloured brown covers and tassels at 4 ends. At present, Zoya is not in Bombay, but transported to Islamabad where she is one with the Paki creme-de-la-creme devouring their social life with a smug indulgent smile. She knows she has all the time in the world and wishes for a cappuchino to complete her relaxed ambience.

Zoya, forever the dreamer believes in carpe diem.

citric affair

Thank you all for your comments to the earlier post. For the next exercise, Pat passed around an orange and asked us to feel it, smell it, observe the inside of the peel and finally each of us got a piece to eat.  The exercise was to describe an orange using our 5 senses – touch, sight, sound, taste, smell. so here goes my version…

When I saw the orange, its lime green colour with a hint of yellow and orange captivated me. A small round object with thick dimpled skin…coarse at some places, smooth at others, the texture of the orange felt like a stress buster in my hands. No sooner did I bring it near my nose than it unleashed a dominant citric fragrance that set my taste buds salivating. The rind was fresh and juicy, a very good clue as to how the fruit would be. As I popped a piece of orange in my mouth, its tangy flavour burst open within leading to a sweet sour taste. I could distinctly hear my molars grinding the fruit to a pulp while my tongue mingled with the juice. Finally the fibrous pulp slid down my throat leaving a lingering citrus after taste.

Thus ended my brief affair with an orange.

ad mad world

Continuing my writing workshop experiences, I will be posting the articles / short stories that I churned on the spot (a feat I never imagined I could pull off). The articles will be preceded by a short note on that particular exercise for those who want to know the details. Thanks AD for this idea.

Ok, this exercise was related to the advertising world. We had to take any brand (existing or fictional). pair it up with the tag line of another brand and come up with the body copy. Here’s presenting 2 of my ideas…Ad, Vincy, Jayesh, Tilak please don’t gun for my life if it hurts your creative sensibilities …

Product: Kamasutra Condoms

Tag line: Just Do It (originally belonging to Nike)

Body Copy: Day or Night. Hide & Seek or Catch-me-if-you-Can. Handcuffs or Scarves. On top or Down under. On the kitchen platform or the dining table. Against the wall or Between the sheets. Chocolate or strawberry. Ice cubes or Champagne. Dotted or Ribbed.

Whatever your fantasy…Just Do It…Kamasutra Condoms.   

Product: Mother’s Recipe Pickles

Tag line: Finger lickin good (originally belonging to KFC)

Body Copy: Mother’s Recipe pickles. Selected by a mother’s loving hands, tempered by a mother’s love and pickled with a mother’s patience. Every bottle of Mother’s Recipe pickles is guaranteed to take you back in time. To the kitchen where you stealthily brought down the jars while your mother was asleep. The tangy, sweet, sour, spicy taste on your tongue, the smell of home ground spices and the soft succulent pieces of mago, lime, karvanda or carrot. Ummm…we’re sure your mouth is salivating (at least mine was while writing it:-)) and your finger automatically finds its way to your mouth. And so today even after all these years when nostalgia strikes you and you crave for a bite of your mother’s love, you reach out to Mother’s Recipe pickles.

Available in cut or whole magoes, lime (sweet n sour), karvanda, carrot and amla. Need we mention that it’s finger lickin good.

thou shalt write

Hello after a long hiatus, I am back. Apologies for being such a lazy bum and thank you for giving me such flak for not updating my blog. Well it sure has worked. So here it is…

Last weekend I had been to Khandala for an overnight writer’s workshop. It was the most amazing break I had ever taken. Over a period of 2 days all we did was write. Write on mundane topics, write musing memories, write nonsense, make rhyme, coin our own phrases and the works. But it was liberating. Everytime I wrote I felt a nerve in me relax. I didn’t think of work at all. To top it all since it was Khandala, the climate was superb. We sat outdoors amidst the deep valleys, waterfalls that formed a small pool at the bottom of the valley and breeze that threatened to sweep us away. It indeed was serene, the perfect setting to open your mind and let your thoughts flow unhindered.

And flow they did. Brevity not being my strong point, my short stories were about 5 pages long . Thank God, I’m not a journalist…would never be able to crunch my articles . The feedback given to me was, “you write well but you must learn to control your thoughts as they tend to get too long”.

Patricia Chandrashekhar (a freelance journalist and visiting faculty at Mass Media Colleges) had organised this workshop. An amazing woman, a complete bundle of energy, she was instrumental in getting the best out of us. Even those who were not into the habit of reading or writing managed to come up with whacky stuff. The workshop itself had a motley crew of people from ages 16 to 60yrs. From college students, journalists, media professionals, businessmen to government employees (we had 3 of them – one a civil engineer with Konkan Railways, one an Asst. Commisioner with Income Tax and one with Indian Oil). But out there we were all budding writers.

Well thanks to this workshop, I have a reservoir of articles, so I don’t have to tax my grey cells for the next few days .

If you are interested in being part of this workshop or the writer’s club (that meets twice a month on sundays at colaba), write in to pat.writestuff@gmail.com or call Patricia on 9821986924.

mood swing

I am not referring to PMS. Last evening I saw 2 movies back-back. ‘Confessions of a Shopaholic’ and ‘Firaaq’. 2 totally opposite movies…completely different in moods, treatment, story, setting. One was set in upmarket New York while the other in Gujarat – some parts of it in a Muslim ghetto and some in a supposedly urbane locality.

While Confessions…was a sweet, fairy tale, bubble gum, candy floss film with a happy ending, Firaaq was a cathartic experience for me. This was a fairy tale too only the fairies were substitued with sorcerers and evil magicians who raped Cinderella in broad daylight and later in the cozy confines of their homes discussed whether they had fun doing “it”. They who called other’s wives ‘rasmalai’ and bashed their own women in the confines of their home. A fairy tale where names like Snow White and Peter Pan were substituted with Munira, Mohsin, Samir Arshad Sheikh and Anuradha Desai-Sheikh.

Firaaq certainly sent a chill down my spine. Every scene that implied an onslaught but showed none gave me goosepimples. Maybe because I was anticipating action…a slice of the chopper, a bullet fired, a house torched. But all I saw was the camera moving in various angles showing nothing yet revealing a lot. Eyes filled with dread, pupils dilating, nostrils flaring, lips quivering, hearts palpitating, palms sweating, throats parched…was it the characters in the movie or was it me on the other side of the screen? Me who was safely ensconsed in an AC theatre yesterday or in a protective coccoon in my home in a predominantly Hindu neighbourhood way back in 1993. Suddenly the lines separating us blurred. I was no longer a Hindu sympathetically watching a Muslim massacre by the saffron brigade. It was me in there. Panicking, shuddering, wondering am I prepared to face any such situation should it ever befall me?

The answer is No. I don’t know how I will handle this situation. Today I talk about human civilisation losing all its values, morals and principles. Will I be able to react as fearlessly should the tables ever turn on me? Maybe…maybe not…

Hat’s off to Nandita Das for making an honest fiction. A very in your face tale of Narendra Modi’s saffron brigade and the Godhra carnage. The director makes no bones about the facts, minces no words and uncovers all masks. 

Truth is bitter and it sure as hell hurts.

Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return

Last Friday a family friend of ours passed away. God took him away at a very young age of 32years. He left behind a wife, 2 young daughters (both below 4yrs of age), grieving parents, sister, shocked relatives & friends and loads of memories. Memories that bring a smile to my face along with a tear to my eyes. I had practically grown up with him and his sister and as such have a reservoir of 29 years of memories. Memories of the summer vacations when I would wait for his mother, his sister and him to come to Bombay from Delhi. Memories of us having fun till late in the night. Memories of the card and board games we played…why he was the one who taught us to play rummy and mendicote (card games) with a blind joker. Memories of us calling him Tinnu Anand (a Bollywood character actor) because of his crooked teeth, of his asthma pump (from which he would inhale regularly). Memories of looking up to him as a style icon – the way he dressed, walked, talked. His Delhi accent. Memories of opening my eyes first thing in the morning and seeking out bhaiyya and didi, of one pepsicola shared between the 3 of us, of the trips to Fashion Street, of the chaat that we devoured at Manasarovar (a fast food joint), of his love for perfumes and watches. When I first visited Delhi, I remember riding pillion with him on the scooter to throw garbage. I agreed to hold the garbage in my hand just so I could ride with him. Memories of him keeping the dogs (Julie & Johnny) away from me, of him calling me by my pet name (which he did till date). 

Then somewhere they got busy with their engineering and dental studies and their trips to Bombay reduced (almost came to a halt). Gone were those days of merry making and laughter. But the memories still lingered. Last April I had gone for my friend’s wedding to Meerut. On my way back I stopped at his house. For the first time I met his wife and daughters and I never felt the time lapse between us. He took me to his sister’s home where I met her husband and son. Again instant connection. Bhaiyya and Jiju dropped me to the airport where I almost missed my flight. His daughters got so attached to me in just 2 days that the elder one refused to see me off hoping that I would stay. After that he kept enquiring about my next trip to Delhi and I would tell him that if I do I will stay at my friend’s home. “Why? Will our house eat you up?” he would ask. To which I would say “no bhaiyya but since I will be visiting Delhi after her marriage for the first time she’ll want me to stay with her. I promise to drop in on you guys”. “Nothing doing”, he would say “whenever you come to Delhi you’ll stay with us”. And the banter continued. If only I knew it were to end before my friend’s first anniversary. I would have gone down again if only to meet them. 

They say, “Memories behave in a strange way. They leave you alone when you are in a crowd and crowd around you when you are alone”. It couldn’t be more true. All of Friday night till today I have got nothing but memories visiting me. I don’t want them. Let them go. If they can’t bring my bhaiyya back they have no right to pay me a visit. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. I hate these voices in my head. Someone tell them to stop speaking. 

Why did this happen to him of all the people? What should one answer when his daughters ask, “where’s papa?” Questions that will remain unanswered. But I am optimistic. Someday when I die and go to heaven (hopefully) I will seek out God and ask him why he did what he did…hold him accountable for the void he created in our lives by Bhaiyya’s sudden exit.

I remember a poem by Javed Akhtar from his Tarkash collection:

“jaate jaate wo mujhe achchhi nishaani de gaya
umr bhar dohraoonga aisi kahaani de gaya
uss se main kuch paa sakoon aisi kahan ummeed thi
gham bhi shaayad woh baraaye meharbaani de gaya
sab hawaaen le gaya mere samander ki koi
aur mujhko ek kashti baadbaani de gaya
khair main pyaasa raha, par usne itna to kiya
mere palkon ki kataron ko woh paani de gaya”

Good bye bhaiyya. May your soul rest in eternal peace. We will miss you.