JUST SOME CLASSIC

[ Our focus looms into a hostel room. Three girls sit around on their beds. Priyanka labors on an assignment due in the next week. Ankita is watching a movie on her laptop –eating, and Tania who has just entered seems to be settling her things, and making her bed. ]

Tania (settling down on her bed with a laptop): can you believe the picture I just bbmed you guys?

Priyanka : hmmm

Ankita: ya.. its some food. Dude! I can’t seem to get my mind to work since the past few days. I’ve been dazed and uncollected. I don’t want to work or read, or do anything I like. I’ve been a lump here, watching sitcoms and eating!

Tania (ignoring the second part of the interjection): You don’t get it! This lady’s trying to push it off as her cooking!

Ankita: so??

Tania: that’s not cooking! That’s assembly. She’s thrown in store-bought things together.

Priyanka: hmmm

Ankita: She can obviously do more than I can.

Taniaa: NO! That’s not the point. This is not COOKING!

Ankita( this time its her): hmmm

tania: Listen. Give me a name. I’ll start blogging about food on it. Right now.

Ankita: now? Ok. Mastication!

Tania: eh. Shut up.

Ankita: Bhukkad!

Priyanka: hmm

Ankita: ok ok .. gimme a bit, ill think

[this is followed by a while of similar kidding around]

Ankita: What about Tuck Shop Classics?! And then goes into a long series of explaining why it was an apt name….

[our focus now zooms into a text that Ankita is has typed out: It says: Tania just inspired me in a very strange way, and got me to being myself again. It’s strange. She often talks about food. About how she likes cooking and eating, and wants to monetize the same. Today she suddenly asked for a name for a blog and began writing about it. After a little messing around, we came up with one, and she started… after a year of stalling…just like that. Maybe I should get around to reading On Liberty now…]

Priyanka: hmmmm

Momento…

She observes in wonder the changing shades

From yellow to orange to deep red

And finally to purple and the darkest of blues

There were splashes of gold, and now silver.

The sky.

She sees them fly away and back

She can feel their endeavors

Hope, fear and the goal,

She hears their many voices in tongues myriad

- We must all survive.

She feels the wind blow

The it dust it carries, the fragrance,

The birth dust being transported to mothers,

The sensuality of birth;

She lets herself sway a little with the gusts

Indulging their attempt to carry her away,

Not quite being able to oblige completely and ignore

The powerful clasp

Of that which has the power to pull towards itself

Like the mother wants to – the earth.

She smells it. She is aware

Of all this, at once,

As her heart throbs with the rhythm of all that is around her,

And her breath falls in tune with that of the living leaves (the ones that she hears shake)

She moves from horizon to horizon,

Treading softly and moving swiftly,

She is aware.

In passion.

In the vitality of her stillness,

The corpse, as she lies, in State.

…Momento Mori.

In Defense of West/Bengal

- denying the 'poribartan' to Pashchim Banga

While everyone around me, who is in any way connected to the grand renaming of West Bengal, seems to agree that this is among the greater atrocities committed by a government of the State in recent past (with this, i am not trying to steal the thunder of certain other greater atrocities), maybe, things which affect identities in such ways, should be left to referendums.

Why the people of Bengal should be deciding what they want to called? The answer is simple: because their leaders don't have the Finnisian Duty to Rule - something which stems out of the capacity to solve coordination problems.

An entire array of evidence can be invoked to demonstrate the same, but here I restrict myself to the renaming of Bengal 'to get the administrative advantage'.

The administrative advantage spoken about here, relates of course, to the alphabetical disadvantage faced by the state when it comes to getting support from the center. (an idea that the ABP tried to feed into the mind of every impressionable Bangali when there were going to be aircrafts named after each Indian state and West Bengal would be the last to receive one). The solution to this was to rename the State to something that can be placed much higher on the alphabetical order of states.[1] And therefore, our learned representatives decide, unanimously, to move from 28^th to 22^nd on the alphabetical-order-list; when there was the obvious option of being 4^th, by being just Bengal, the way most people would have wanted it to be. Yes, the all party meeting agreed that this was ‘the administrative advantage’. {And you thought a legal education may have taught ‘her’ the art of logical and analytical reasoning!}

While the change of name shows a complete lack of reason-objective nexus, it is important to note certain definite dangers and obvious lack of prudence of such a move.

A case was made for a change from West Bengal to simply Bengal in 1999, by people living in Northern Parts of Bengal, who are not, historically West Bengal as it was created by partition. This must not be mistaken by a distinct later demand for Gorkhaland, but a wish for inclusive naming by a sizeable chunk of Bengal, who are not historically West Bengal. A change of name, should ideally have considered that part of the state, for whom, this change of name would just reaffirm to an often ignored population, the government’s intention of a policy of exclusion. Here obviously, the government has not just failed to solve a coordination problem, but also to identify it.

In this regard, there does exist the historical argument for retention of an element of ‘West’, in order to remind future generations, as my friend Rajarshi puts it, of “the horrors of Partition, the deplorable rule of the British, the politics of hate and religion. The scars that my grandparents bore after Partition should not be buried in the sands of time and the dust of amnesia.” – a claim which isn’t really the reason for retention of ‘pashchim’ in the new name.

Thus, there may emerge two conflicting claims, one historical and the other from the point of view of inclusion that emerge regarding the retention of the component of ‘west’ in the name – both serious issues of identity, which the leaders made no attempts at solving, while simply de-anglicizing a name, which needs no such modification.[2] {I wonder if there were no other pressing claims of ‘change’ besides a name that no one had any issues with.}

The all party meeting that sat on the 19^th of August, was obviously a very useless one. The leaders we have elected, are obviously not whom we have consented to. Their lack of the Finnisian Duty to Govern, presents us with no reason to oblige by it or by any of its rulings. Our votes do not, by any means indicate compete Consent to whatever you do, but are merely an attempt to chose the best from a group of really bad options, with an inkling of hope. Here is a matter of identity and existence – not that of a single person’s mistaken dreams. Calcutta isn’t London (or even Kolkata. See: footnote 2). And West/Bengal is not Pashchim Banga.[3]

---

[1] Competitive federalism much? could they really figure no other way out to channelize benefits towards themselves? what are the Bengali representatives doing in parliament anyway?

[2] There was no demand or opinion from any quarter advocating such a change, like in some other parts of the country. Here, I’d like to make an argument regarding the change from Calcutta and Kolkata – an attempt on the part of the government to get out of a colonial hangover. Fallacy – Calcutta or Kolkata or any such thing IS a result of a colonial hangover. There was no city, before Calcutta. At best you could go back to calling it Alinagar, as it had been named after Ali Vardi Khan as a result of a conquest by the Murshidabad Nawab, just before Clive and Charnock established a stronghold here.

also, as Arudra Burra claims, an argument from the point of colonial continuity stands no ground by itself. You must substantiate it with content.

[3] Interestingly, most parts of the country can’t even pronounce the word!

smells

I never believed myself to be an olfactory person, but hostel-life teaches you strange things about yourself. And now, my most intense bouts of homesickness are accompanied by hallucinations about some smells that i relate to home and find divine comfort in.

So, here are some of those smells that make having a nose such a wonderful feeling:

• the Netaji Subhash Airport, arrival section with a strange melange of humidity, desert ACs, mishti and the secret cigarette smoke of some erring officer smoking in some corner.
• petrichor
• oxford bookstore
• metropolitan book co.
• the old corridors of the main building at school.
• polished wood
• damp wood
• sawdust
• davidoff coolwater
• the 9 o' clock kitchen smell.
• home. right after unlocking the main door
• the dentist's clinic
• the homeopathic doctor's clinic
• spirit.
• the non-ac dhuti-paanjaabi store in jogu baajar
• the ac dhuti-paanjaabi store in jogu baajar
• inside the the metro rail!
• park avenue products
• aftershave
• south city mall
• the lst staircase
• khichuri
• the 'footpath' outside the sugar and spice factory
• the academy of fine arts
• durga pooja
• poojor dhoop
• the mud in the school field.
• apple sellers
• the al fredo at jalepenoes!
• detergent left behind on freshly washed clothes
• the smell of vegetation after it rains
• icing sugar
• sandalwood
• sandalwood powder
• sandalwood paste
• clove in water
• the bhuttawala
• melting butter
• the muriwalla's shorshe tel
• flury's
• the calcutta highcourt corridors
• gyaan manch
• the series of smells that come as you walk down all of elgin road.
• newspapers
• new books
• inside Giggles
• diwali.
• ghee being heated.
• Subway
• SEOMP gate
• my room. on a winter night. snuggled in my quilt.
• the aforementioned quilt.
• the aforemention room in the summer when the airconditioning has only partially sucked out the humidity.
• certificates
• the dust that rises on the field at the end of sports day when everyone runs back to their enclosures.
• ma.

a comedy more divine.

Long long ago when people were not so many, and God and His Angels could afford interact with them from the pulpit and through conferences with the news-papyrus reports, a new Bill was introduced in the Divine Assembly.
The bill was a result of a PIL filed by the Peoples Association, posted to the courthouse at Judgment Avenue. The notice spoke about how people believe that God and His Angels, may succumb to bribery ( of course, since they are based on god and his angels) and other extra constitutional measures, and sell their consciences to get more Ambrose and nectar than the rest, and that their wings get shinier.
At that time in heaven, shiny wings were a fashion statement. Only the coolest in angels had shiny wings. Gabriel, who at that time was not as over hyped as he is now, had a rather dull pair of wings. Besides, Lucifer had already shown, as precedent, how this was a strong possibility.
Therefore the people (smart as they were!) decided that they shall prevent further major harm from happening.
As a result of this PIL, the Divine assembly passed the Anti-Defection Act. This act was initially a big success. It gave the mediator angel the right to decide if an act was an act of defection. The mediator angel could, from time to time be impeached, so a proper system of balance and checks was maintained.
However, over time the angels began getting restless. Things were getting dull and boring. No angel had shinier wings, so they could not bitch about anyone. No angels got fatter by consuming too much Ambrose and Nectar. The opposition didn’t have much work so they slept. And the owners of Al-tehelka were forced to close down their business.
Finally, a time came when they had had ENOUGH. The leader of the opposition introduced the Official Secrets Bill in the Divine Assembly. Under this bill people no longer had access to the proceedings of the assembly. Nor could they read any of the bills, statutes and amendments to the constitution, as there were now under the head of ‘ecclesiastical affairs’. A hidden clause of this bill was that it made null and void the provisions of the Anti Defection Bill. They didn’t really need to keep it hidden, as people on earth were not allowed to read it, but they did anyway, as a safety valve. . Since the executive had still not been fully separated ( or immune from the affects suitcases of Shimmer-the currency of heaven) from the judiciary, the Judgment Angels said it was okay to do so, as it was not part of the basic structure of the heavenly constitution.
The Official Secrets Bill was passed unanimously.
God tried to intervene since he loved people and this bill was against the principle of accountability, but he couldn’t do much, as he was merely a nominal head, who had to act in accordance to the ‘aid and advice’ of the de facto leaders.
He too gave his consent.
The Official Secrets Act came into being.
It was now that the angels used their magical powers to summon Cloud Nine to form a misty barrier between them and the people. Visibility was deliberately kept low, so that people could not know what they were doing. But at the same time, they couldn’t see what was happening on earth clearly either. Then again, what they couldn’t see could not hurt them. They had enough to ‘see to’ anyway.
On Earth there was major agitation. There were rallies and protests and meetings. But no one heard. People sent a few bombs up to heaven to terrorize the angels into listening. But cloud 9 was soundproof too. So no one heard.
They tried to pass a Right To Information ( RTI) PIL, but it got refused, as mortals were no longer allowed to mess with ‘ecclesiastical affairs’.
The people were sad.
And they sadly decided that since God wasn’t hearing, they’d make a parliament of their own where things would happen, well, the ‘correct’ way......

through rose coloured glasses...

Walking down an ancient tramline.... faster than the tram moves towards its shed....the pompous blaring of the loudspeaker... my destination - the legendary architectural vision of Sir Hogg, the New Market, a relic of the splendour of old Calcutta and its aristocratic obsession. The bad quality speakers are belting out the trilingual hum honge kamiyab-we shall overcome - aamra korbo joy, in all their pompous glory, while a man asks this backpacked Calcuttan the way to a place around where she got lost just yesterday, somehow brings out the spirit of the city.

I closed my eyes and allowed myself to be guided from the back entrance to the front to ensure that I entered the building the right way. The first glimpse I got as I walked in from the grand entrance was that of Masterda Surjo Sen. A strange choice of statue to erect in front of the Calcutta High Court... or perhaps not so strange. You may wonder why there was no Nehru, or Gandhi, or Bose, or Ambedkar. Why the greatest and first among law-breakers chosen over men, who are more known, more glorified, and have contributed more than him. Perhaps, that is the exact reason why...The magnificent and inspiring architecture gives way to courtrooms which are just as inspiring. Courtroom drama here is a joke. Pending cases, lawyers attending court just to ask for more time, badly made arguments and upset judges are what you find in them. You see, they inspire you to initiate a change. Yet, there is some magic in the air when a quick joke is shared within the dusty walls of the courtroom [1]( do read the footnote, it’s not a citation), and a room full of ‘black and white’ lawyers, burst out in laughter.

Met a few friends at their college and was sneaked in with a fake ID card. One of the oldest educational institutions in the city, and we spent a winter afternoon debating on the huge school field. You need to imagine a bunch of kids arguing matters on an open field, people walking around, laughing, talking, and meeting others. You need to imagine, the splendour in this simple exercise of practice, friendship, occasional laughter, constructive criticism, and an element which sets it apart, from a similar exercise elsewhere - a whole lot of innocence.

There’s this one stretch of footpath along the grand colonial building which is really a museum that houses the Ashoka Pillar from where our national symbol is evolved. Artists and poets and students of history and science visit this hallowed place. The footpath is flooded with thriving hawkers of knives, socks, sunglasses, jute bags, attar, cold water, undergarments, photocopied books and pirated music. Among them sits a cobbler who at exactly 1 30 pm draws out a steel tiffin-box out of his bag and begins to eat, a strange mixture of rice, dal and aloo. Sometime during his lunch, a squirrel comes up to him from inside the museum, sits down trustingly next to the old man, and allows him to put into its mouth tiny morsels of this food he works so hard to earn.

I wonder what it is about this place that makes even its own transport system so very different, unique and warm. Even as the first underground metro-rail in the country transports you across kilometres at a price lower than any other form of transport, anywhere in the world, (here I’ve even taken into consideration Bangladesh!), there are trams chugging slowly along with the pride of living a special kind of hangover, knowing that some parts of its city, are doing their best to make sure, it dsn’t die a complete death, at the altar of development and reasonable use of space. The yellow and black ambassador cars which dot the roads as taxicabs, and the shuttle autos that run on some parts of the city, reflect the paradoxical love for convenient exclusivity, and unmindful sharing, that runs among the people here. It is those very people who on buses can have heated discussions about football, and Bollywood, and politics with a bunch of strangers. The very same people, who walk in large numbers to their decisions, giving the city streets the personalised feel that they do.

It was the first time a bunch of Indians had defeated the British at their own game. (no. This isn’t a fictional lagan I’m talking about!) [no. It isn’t even cricket!!] A group of brown men in green and maroon had beaten a team of whites, at a game called football. This, was the first victory before several of the MohunBagan Football Club (a name that now bears the very unceremonious prefix of Macdowell’s). Now they play matches, which are politicized just a tad bit lesser, with mad crowds at stadiums, ready to fight and die, for their own team colours.

They came here by the river.... the white guys that made this city... they settled around the river. And the strand road has remained one of the most important roads since then. There are all kinds of ghats here. From where goods enter a vast hinterland, where the children of dead people shave off their heads, where eunuchs smoke pot, where lovers hold hands, and where ‘Tollywood’ films some of its most poignant scenes. They are also where a ‘Millenium Park’ has been constructed (for families to spend happy Sunday evenings with their wild children), and a fancy Floatel, (which serves coffee and where there are fashion shows) which stand occupying a position of glory only second to that of Princep Ghat, which testifies an era of colonial flamboyance. The river, and its nalas (they are actually failed attempts at making canals), effect the city in ways unnoticeable to many of its dwellers. It is the Ganga... The holy river.... Continuing to be the lifeline of Calcutta, as it’s always been.... The very reason for its existence.

---

[1] Ok...you got to imagine this in the proper accent

Judge (with a glint in the eye to the counsel arguing): Your client is a baarbaar??

Advocate: Sir, I do not wish to say it. ( then quietly, as if saying: don’t tell anyone but I’m telling you this) Actually sir, he trades hair for utensils.

Remember Remember, the 5th of November?
The Lawyer is the equivocator.
Its all about desire,
He'll burn in great hell's fire.

The two grandfathers I never knew...

Both my grandfathers died before I was born, and so I never really knew what it was like to have a male grandparent. People who know me must have noticed face turning wistful, everytime a grandfather was mentioned. Yet, when I encountered the two veterans who would teach my Constitutional Law course, i knew immediately, that this was exactly like what encounters with grandfathers would be like.

Let me describe a few moments from 'Consti' Class to demonstrate what i mean by this. Here are there two men, very well versed with their subject, working very hard to convey it to us, in a way that we, as children, can comprehend and understand. ( they're also possibly the first two teachers at law school, to treat us as people. as children, just out of school, who needed to be cared for and paid attention to, beyond the realm of the projects we could churn out and slides we would mug). Both there men us to learn not only the provisions of the constitution, but also a whole set of other values and ideas, which they are swarming with, and ow we need. So, while one man tells us little stories and annecdotes of his youth, highlighting the importance of integrity(for the first time in law school, integrity is not just about academic integrity while writing projects), honesty, courage and goodness, the other teaches us to eat healthy and work calm, emphasasing, that academics and projects are all secondary to health and well-being.

Both men, eager to instill us, values that they believe are tremendously important, at the same time making course work easier us, employ methods that they think are best for us. And along with the actual provisions of the constiution, I find myself learning and appreciating constitutional values.

What is remarkably amusing about these classes was how the two men interact with each other - exactly how I'd imagine my grandfathers would have interact with one another. They largely want to say the same things. Yet, each one repeats and elaborates on it, in his own way, even after it has been repeated by the other a number of times, in the very cute, charecteristic, hammering way of old people, in the process, wasting a whole lot of time. Both of them, wanting to say the same thing, in slightly different ways, depending on their independant estimation of our comprehensive capabilities, and maturity - one oversimplifying, and making us repeat things, so that each one of us would definitely get what was being taught, the other, filling his lectures with loads and loads of information, knowing that we could register and grasp it all.

A month of constitutional law, with these teachers has made me feel wonderful in a whole lot of ways. It has made me feel that there is someone who does care for the kind of person i become; that someone still looks at me as a child, giving me scope to make my mistakes, think in my own special way, be imaginative, and want to learn. As a child, whom they care for help help shape the personalities of, in their impressionable years.

My course on constitutional law, makes me feel loved.

The ides of March

The soothsayer and Pompei warned Caesar of the ides of March. It's strange how tyrants continue to have people warning them of impending doom. Its ironic how people so steeped in self-love have those others who love them enough to emerge out of the world of the dead to come help them, and save them. And yet, the acumen and shrewdness that guided them to their position of glory, fails to pay any heed to these warnings. Till much worse happens.

The most powerful country in the world decides to mutilate a much smaller country which is only trying to shape its own destiny. The only motive behind this act, being a Caesarian pursuit of power. The anihilating superpower- the destination of the smartest minds of the nations, the leader of the world, and the Organisation of United Nations, the land that the world looks upto for leadership.

what trash is Rome,
What rubbish and what offal, when it serves
For the base matter to illuminate
So vile a thing as Caesar!


The ides of March are yet to come.

Shakespeares idea of the macrocosm being reflected in the microcosm takes yet another form. Not only does one country dominate the other, but there are some, in our little worlds of people who belive that it is their prerogative to dominate the rest, to lead them, in ways that they dont want to be led. Everywhere there exists this dominant class, which believes in its holy right to speak for the rest, and to command the rest.

Marx spoke of a class struggle. It is yet to come.

Famous thinkers of our civilisation said that democracies are 'tyrannies of the majorities'. I'm quite sure it wasnt numerical majorities that they were talking about.

Majority of wealth, or capital, or something, it must have been.

Why I still wear my hair in a pony tail

Coming to college I faced an entirely new world. A new lifestyle, new
people, a new bed to sleep in, different buildings, different traditions,
and everything around me had just changed. I was far away from home,
topics of conversation were different. Everyone was trying very hard to
make their presence felt among others, and yet, at the same time, they
were losing touch with their own individuality- that unique factor that
made them who they were. I was thrust into this flux, unprepared, with
absolutely no idea as to what to do. I didn’t know what to do, where to
go, whom to talk to, and yet, I knew the most important thing - I did not
want to lose my individuality.
One of my favourite concepts of all times is that of dialectics, as
propounded by Hegel, which talks about the existence of a thesis with
interacts with an antithesis to form a synthesis. I may not understand the
concept completely but when I apply this to the transition from school to
college, I think of the life I had back at home, at school as a sort of
thesis and, and the new life that college promised, with its unrestricted
freedom, few rules, fresh new ideas, amazing opportunities, a chance at
learning, and at creativity as a kind of antitheses that were coming
together, to define the life I was going to lead for the next five years –
The Synthesis. How was this synthesis going to happen? Which aspects would
merge with which ones to create what was a huge task I had ahead. As I
already said, I did not want to lose touch with my individuality and all
those core things that I knew made me who I was. There were come very
crucial choices that I had to make. I had to identify who I really was,
what were those aspects that defined me, and then move ahead.
Something I knew from the very first day I entered the college gates was
that the Martinian name had to be upheld on these grounds. I knew I was a
Martinian, and though I was now also a ‘lawschoolite’, a Martinian is what
I really was. 12 years of La Martiniere had nurtured me in a very special
way, and made me a very distinct individual. And I knew, that no matter
what changes would occur, I would always, and forever, remain a Martinian.
Not just in terms of the school certificate I had, but in my deed, and in
the way I conducted myself. Being a Martinian, is a VERY crucial part of
my individuality.
I wanted this aspect of me to remain, as a very crucial part of the
Synthesis I was to create, an so, anyone who sees me walk into my
classroom at exactly 8 50 am, they see a 19 year old college student, with
a backpack, and her hair, pulled back into a bouncy pony-tail.
 I use my pony-tail here as a symbol - A symbol of all that La Martiniere
has inculcated within me. It is the discipline, the pragmatism, the
integrity, the laughter, and the absence of frills – the genuineness. It
is this genuineness which is an attribute which I cannot separate from my
years at La Martiniere. And it is that genuineness which I wish continues
to define me, as I make my way into an all new world.
        College is a world of few rules. And yet, I walk into my classroom every
morning I walk into a classroom with heads of all shades ranging from
blue to red and yellow, sporting extensions and clips of all varieties,
in a bouncy pony tail brought together with a black scrunchie. It is then
that I feel wonderfully comfortable, incredibly ‘me’ and genuinely
Martinian. It is then that I know that I am going to be Martinian for
life.
 
  
 
  

to my best friend...and a lot more..

Life has a strange way of throwing into your path exactly the person you need. not just the person u need but also the person you want, and i got mine when i was going through the toughest time of my life. and htere he was, suddenly dropped from the heavens...there for me. saying those exact words that i needed then to be able to survive, to breathe.. making me be me again.. all the while supporting me.. caring for me.. and being the most wonderful person i knew in my 17 year old life.
and it wasnt just that this best frnd of mine was nice and supporting to me. He was an amazing guy in himself. He was someone who i admired just cz of the person he was. Cz he was so perfect. Cz he was everything so many people would dream of being. And i say this, not today because everyone wants to be in princeton like him, but the guy who shared with me his dreams and desires.. who told me what he wanted to do .... and those dreams were not selfish dreams. they were inclusive dreams and all i could do was feel wonderful about being part of those dreams. He was a person who stood up for ALL that he believed and, surprisingly, i was someone he did believe in. he could laugh, and make people laugh, without hurting them. He was BRILLIANT at proving a point ( only that i was usually the one he proved that point to :P) and he was everything an ideal human being really needs to be.
He was the best friend any girl could ever have. But suddenly I messed up, and he didnt get to know how much i really loved him. How much I miss those manyhourlong pointless conversations that we had. How much i miss the confortable silences, and how much i will miss those few phone conversations that we did have when he was in India, now that he is back to firangland.
But i do. He's gonna remain one of the best guys i know, and will be the one whos given me some of the best memories ever.. Chocolate cars, cemetries, snakes, african coins, 5rupeenotes, flowers, bangbangs, barafgolas, and patrioticsongconcertbrochures to last a lifetime..
and even as i cry like an idiot when i write this, thank you, for everything :)
and cheers to a friendship that always lasts.... a bhan of cha :) (coffee for you)

ok.. so i messed up my contracts project.
The contracts teacher was one teacher who did inspire me to work, and the subject caught my fancy. I really wanted to work at it, and write a good project for him. What happened instead was that i messed it up the worst. In my defence though, i can argue that situations were glaring against me. they had said the extention had been cancelled and i had to hurry to get this piece ready. But what i did submit is not something i am proud of. not at all. i let myself down. and its not a very happy feeling. I really wanted contracts to work out.
its a horrid feeling. Letting yourself down is not a very happy situation.
So, what am i going to do about it. i am upset, no denying that. But mayb i'll just need to deal with it in a positive way. Make sure i dont mess it up again. Work really really hard at my projects next term. Work really hard at the endterm exam. Make sure i do well enough to make up for this. I must. Cz it is something i care about more than most things.
But i still cant get over how badly i did upset myself. Really didn't want to. :(

abstract

In class 5 i was taught by ms. puxty , that abstract nouns were those which could not be touched, seen, smelt or tasted. Yet they existed. The examples we learnt of such words were pain, sorrow, beauty, joy, etc. And in these 7 years, of actually going through a very secure, yet by no means easy life, i can claim to have actually touched, seen smelt and tasted so many of these abstract concepts. Forget the dry n scientific definition for once. Forget about all these reality checks and worldly limitaions. Think of laughter. Surrounding you, every part of you. Dancing out of your eyes, out of your heart. there is nothing else to think of, and indeed nothing else to care about. just u and that odysey of laughter. A childish innocence in your eyes. And u enjoying it from all you senses?

Think of being in love. even if it a childish crush. It is still innocent. And it is pure. You feel it whole heartedly. And till it wears off, u r on an all time high. and when your heart is broken the pain is larger that the beauty of love itself. and then pain is as much a reality, as the fact that the grass is green and roses red. Coz the tears may blur the actual colour and form of what you see, but they shall never hope to blur the pain you are going through!

friendship , happiness, agony, love, glory, honour, and all these other abstract concepts are a much larger than the drab reality around us. Much larger than life anyway! the ‘concrete’ part of it. They are what make life what it is. This whole intangible dream we call life!

The storyteller

The storyteller had beautiful tales to weave. He had delightful things to say and magical moments to capture, and all of us gathered around to let the story teller take us into a flight of happy moments... hours of imagination, where there lived someone else, in a different life, and in a different context from us, who became an important part of us. This other person became a part of us.. her pain making us flinch, and her kisses making us giddy.
This was so, because the story teller was that vivid in what he told us..and because he told us stories that we could relate too. We could feel what the character felt, because all of us had felt that way. We were hearing our own stories and yet, they were so different.
What we loved was to anticipate the beautiful end that was to come. For the good things to happen. For the knight to slay the dragon without the damsel having to nag him into doing so.
And we all believed that we had a golden tale to live. Similar to the one being told to us.
Untill one day, we stopped believing that we could.
but something went wrong.. i went on believing in my own fairy tale.. hoping and wishing it would come true. Mayb i was wrong. i was to have grown out of it sooner and stopped wishing that theyd come, cz this was like wishing fr a carpet to fly. Mayb this would hurt me more than anything else. but i went on believing in my magic tale... i still do..and i dont know why.. it has hurt me enough and spilt a lot of tears...
but...
If you are a dreamer,come in. If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a hoper, a prayer, a magic-bean-buyer. If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire, for we have some flax-golden tales to spin. Come in! Come in!”

To the wilderness...and to life...

It’s almost as though someone blew a magic powder over vast rolling lands, whispering ‘let there be life’, and suddenly the huge bustling monstrosity that we call the city came up. Swarming with people, flavours, noises, colours, smoke and rumours, the modern Indian city expresses at best, what we call ‘life’. I recall a friend pointing out to me, that the jungle is where you find life. She echoed what a number of biology books, and wildlife television channels tell me about the forests being the storehouses of life forms of different sizes, habits, colours, patterns and characteristics, and yet, as I look at vast stretches of city around me, I cannot help but believe that what surrounds me, possibly hosts a wider variety lives, characters, colours, and habits than the wilds. It is the city where I see qualities of the living manifest themselves in a myriad ingenious ways, and all these different manifestations, amalgamate is a most brilliant way to conjure up today’s idea of the urban and of the city.

.....Deepa climbed onto a bus at the regular stop. She was going to meet Akhil, at the art gallery, 14 kilometres away. Akhil lived closer to her, than the gallery. In fact, they were neighbours. Yet she was to meet him at that quiet gallery where the most artistic students at the university display their work. The paintings are crude and uncensored and express the primal ideas rebellious students have. Parents don’t go there. They say it is a place for the ‘dopers’. They couldn’t meet nearer home, because there were always the prying eyes of neighbours, ready to carry tales to their parents, and ruin everything. On the bus, Deepa met Ambika, her salwar-kameez clad cousin. They chatted for a while about the newest bollywood hotbod, and of how wrong it was for Sheila didi to have eloped with Azan, and when Ambika asked Deepa where she was going, a confident, “French Class” was what she got for an answer. Deepa had been putting up this facade of learning the language for three months now, and everyone was quite sure, that she could speak the tongue quite fluently. “If only they knew....” she thought to herself.

Deepa wasn’t going to tell her parents about their romance anytime soon. They wouldn’t get it. It wasn’t that her parents didn’t understand love. However, love didn’t exist between teenagers, or between people of different communities. Here again, they weren’t to be misunderstood as communal. Deepa’s father’s best friend from the missionary school that he went to did belong to a completely different community, and they got on perfectly well. Yet, if Deepa told them about Akhil now, they’d inflict tortures similar to honour killing on her, and so, ignorance was bliss. It also wasn’t that Akhil was a fling. She knew she would marry him, in the traditional hindu way, with her parents’ blessing, but that time was just not now. She would tell them, when the time was right. It would cause a few tempers and fights, but they’d handle it. She wouldn’t elope or do anything else that would bring them shame. She loved them. She loved Akhil too. And she often wondered if what he said was really what he thought...

So, here was the city. A simple urban incident – a parley of ideas, thoughts and emotions. The traditional, the conservative, the snide, the rebellious, the intelligent, the intellectual, the adventurous, the honourable, the brave, the doubtful, the candid, the dishonest, the ambitious, the base, the human, the animal, the divine, and the primal, all blended in harmoniously together, to give rise to a simple incident, of little interest or variation. All these qualities of the ‘living’, accentuated and highlighted in a beautiful pattern to give only a small chapter of city life.

Every little activity here is swarming with life. Every little corner, every narrow street, every important road, and every stately building, is swarming with activity. This is life. As varied, and as condensed as it can get.

letters to juliet

Reviewing a RomCom might actually be a strange idea. Atleast not something that I'd usually do. But this one movie seemed to affect me more than ur regular RomCom would. They're usually not movies that make u think. They just make u happy and leave it at that. However, this one movie, did touch me beyond. And i cant help wondering why.
Is it the way ideas were put forth? Is it about the colours and the dresses? about the larger than life Chris Egan ( though i must admit, that he did leave me open mouthed)? Is it because of Verona and its cultural beauty? the italian food and classic vineyards? Or is it simply because it was a story well told?
But as I sit down and think, its possibly about something bigger. It is the perfect amalgamation od the fairy talse sense of wonder i have towards 'happily ever afters' and a more pragmatic and mature idea of what I think would constitute that happily ever after. Its about the fairy tale, as well as reality, in ways very similar to how i see both. Its about what a girl wants, the place she wants to enjoy, her dreams, her individuality, as well as about how she wants to be treated. It is also about a man out of the movies, coming and beliving in her, loving who she is. It is about her trepidition, and her eventual courage to walk out of a relationship that was not making her happy, and about realising where her happiness did infact lie. Its also about the ultimate victory over the good over the not-so-good.
Anyone who's seen the movie would obviously realise taht the way I am writing about hte movie, ignores entirely a very essential portion of the movie. However, i ignore it here, because here, i am writng about what affects me... what has impacted me.
What has impacted me is the need for a 'right' ending. The need for my happily ever after. Not just a happily ever after where the prince carries me off on a white horse. But a happily ever after where i have the courage of my own convictions, can do what i want, be able to work towards my dreams AND meet my knight in shining armour, whom i can both love and appreciate and who can treat me the way i deserve to be treated.
ah..there i go again... wishing for a charmed life....