I’m a poster girl for fun flips. Capital F [-u-n]. Capital F [-l-i-p-s]. Proper noun.
The cheapest snack on Earth. [ok maybe not. Chuskis are cheaper]
Rs. 5 for a packet of super-salted, baked-not-fried, low-fat-for-the-delusional [because it’s packed with wholesome vegetable oil and trucks-fulla-carbs] phoofs.
Phoofs, because I don’t know how to describe them. They’re airy. Without shape. Whitish. With speckles of masala.
They come in about five different flavours. Four of which have so much salt that they are almost unbearable. Actually quite unbearable. Which is half of why I’m so loyal to the brand. Because it’s an acquired taste. Acquired over two decades of serious pigheadedness [what is it with me and pigs?]. Far more gruelling than say acquiring a taste for liquorice [which I reallllllly like]. Or cigarettes [which I dislike].
They also give a free butterscotch toffee inside. Which I’ve never tried because I hate hard boiled toffees. But I always always look forward to it. There’s nothing like a ‘free gift inside’ in that super exciting jagged yellow-black blurb [they told us in communication school that yellow-black is the most eye catching colour combination]. The thrill of finding a greasy, masala caked toffee, which on an upper-than-upside allows me to be generous. “Here, a toffee for you little girl [or little boy]. Don’t mind the shit on it though”.
Right in the beginning [as far back as I can recall] they had a polythene covering. Very unassuming. Allowed you to see the stuff that you ate. In those days they had only one flavour. Masala [with a double whammy of salt]. The packaging changed nearly a decade after Lays hit the market. Fun Flips in sexier packaging, but with the same loveable flavour. Super-salt of our babyhood.
Then they brought out the four new flavours [plus one]. In lurid colours. Purple [Tamarind]. Maroon [Chutpata-salted – which is the same as Masala, but with a double whammy of red chilli to compliment the salt]. Green [Mint-salted]. White [Plain Salted-salted] and the original Orange [Masala-salted].
An All Time Fun Snack. For boys and girls and tiger cubs.
They’ve just changed it yet again. You can tell they’ve become more market-savvy. Slicker. From no proclamation [originally], to “low-fat snack” they’ve now re-worded it to shouting out in big bold letters: “0% TRANS FATS!”
Fun Flips just got fancy!
But the salt. Is still as unbearable.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Lost and Found
One year. Ago.
Today.
Last year.
Ask Tony, he knows.
Tony from West Delhi. At the airport. One last glimpse. But he’d already turned away.
“I’ve found Tony. I’m late. But he says I’ll make it.”
Tony says he’ll make it. Tony’s found. I’m lost.
Tony can’t help me find what I’ve lost.
Hell Tony doesn’t even know who I am.
Tony.
Such a stupid name.
But family is family is family.
Lost. And. I’m waiting.
Today.
Last year.
Ask Tony, he knows.
Tony from West Delhi. At the airport. One last glimpse. But he’d already turned away.
“I’ve found Tony. I’m late. But he says I’ll make it.”
Tony says he’ll make it. Tony’s found. I’m lost.
Tony can’t help me find what I’ve lost.
Hell Tony doesn’t even know who I am.
Tony.
Such a stupid name.
But family is family is family.
Lost. And. I’m waiting.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Happy New Year girls and boys, I love you [raise that bloody HIGH]
So. Something somewhere needs to give.
I suppose it’s the first sign of some sort of stability – a settling boredom with things as they are.
For starters [I hate this phrase], I’ve started drinking again [four bloodies for a hip-shaking bottom-slimming pretending-to-pole-dance-in-absence-of-the-pole back-busting new years eve]. Which really hasn’t changed much in my life, except that I’m back to being a bigger arse under the influence than when not-under-the-influence.
Not true really. But true enough.
It struck me the other day [another shining pull-outta-me-arse-and-plug-on-the-page impoverished-writer’s-phrase], as I fell into Roddy’s latest offering that this is one man I would like right here, right now. Not for one of those lasting emotion-over-body, mind-absorbing [relationship] things. Just to beget me a little girl or boy. My little angel who will write as well as daddy, and think like mama. Think of mama. Perhaps even write about mama and what she could’ve done with her potential-packed, ever-so-often-going-off-track life. Like Eminem.
So much for shitty, groupie style, low down bottom feeding atavism.
Sometimes I surprise myself. I really can think like that. Without shame.
So here’s to giving joy, peace and acceptance a chance. To stories and adventures beyond flesh, blood & here and now.
To the completion of the Last Roundup series.
To better punctuation.
To finer verbiage.
To minimalism.
To us.
I suppose it’s the first sign of some sort of stability – a settling boredom with things as they are.
For starters [I hate this phrase], I’ve started drinking again [four bloodies for a hip-shaking bottom-slimming pretending-to-pole-dance-in-absence-of-the-pole back-busting new years eve]. Which really hasn’t changed much in my life, except that I’m back to being a bigger arse under the influence than when not-under-the-influence.
Not true really. But true enough.
It struck me the other day [another shining pull-outta-me-arse-and-plug-on-the-page impoverished-writer’s-phrase], as I fell into Roddy’s latest offering that this is one man I would like right here, right now. Not for one of those lasting emotion-over-body, mind-absorbing [relationship] things. Just to beget me a little girl or boy. My little angel who will write as well as daddy, and think like mama. Think of mama. Perhaps even write about mama and what she could’ve done with her potential-packed, ever-so-often-going-off-track life. Like Eminem.
So much for shitty, groupie style, low down bottom feeding atavism.
Sometimes I surprise myself. I really can think like that. Without shame.
So here’s to giving joy, peace and acceptance a chance. To stories and adventures beyond flesh, blood & here and now.
To the completion of the Last Roundup series.
To better punctuation.
To finer verbiage.
To minimalism.
To us.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Shane
They call him Shane, though it isn’t his real name.
Shane for Shane Warne. Like the cricketer. But only for his appearance – fair-headed and irresistibly attractive with a spring in his step despite his lumbering large frame. It has nothing to do with his [the original Shane’s] propensity for making it to tabloid double spreads for his extra-curricular exploits.
This Shane is the most moral man that walked the earth.
Almost.
This Shane hadn’t touched a girl till he was 28. This Shane hadn’t even been in love till he turned 33, to the exact day.
And till then, his thirty-third year, he concentrated all his passion on particular things.
Till he was 12, it was horses. He loved them with an intensity that frightened those who beheld his strange secret communion with them. He spoke in a tongue that no one but the horses understood. It was in his breath, the heavy snorting pounding pumping of air and life that tears through the earth under thundering hooves. It was in the sweat that poured out of him when he hugged her neck and cut through the wind. It was in his eyes that could in a moment become from a gentle grey to flashing green blue waves that thrashed about with an unfathomable rage. Then suddenly one day, they moved houses; far away from the race tracks and he never stepped upon a saddle again.
He was like that. Willful. One moment he could feel his being fused with the object of his affection, and the next, there would be a cold impenetrable sheath between him and it, never to be pierced again.
When he was 15 it was football. On the field he was invincible. Running through mud and grass skidding on pale knees, kicking with all his might, his thoughts and eyes and being all focused on one thing – to get the ball through wind, through people, past the goalkeeper in through the goal post; and at such times he would feel the stirring of an ancient rhythm thunder through his veins, like when he rode the horses. In moments like these, he was happiest. Despite his poor eyesight, Shane soon became the most powerful player on the school team.
One day, that too ended. He grew up and discovered cigarettes and chai.
He was 18 when he realised that he could sit for hours at a go, concentrating on nothing. Emptying his mind of everything. And he could be alone. Wherever. Whenever. Somewhere, something was beginning to fit and he experienced a sense of peace and calm he had never felt before.
This is how he met his Mother. She came to him one night naked and beautiful, in a dream, and put his aching head on Her lap. Shane had his first glimpse of the intensity of love. For the first time, it didn’t confuse him. And yet he couldn’t describe it. Was it soothing? Was it passionate? Was it deeper than his soul? Was it lighter than sunshine? What was it that he felt when he put his head down in Her lap?
Once he knew love like that, Shane was a changed man. He savoured moments that he could be alone and shut his eyes. He sought stillness in the winding roads of the Himalayan foothills. And that’s how he discovered his other passion. Bikes. Everywhere he went, even in his dreams, he rode his bike down to the last inch of his destination. His obsession grew so much that one day, when he was drunk and doped beyond coherence, Shane walked out of a party clinging to the handles of his bike, waving his arms every time he turned right or left, till he was finally home two hours later, still walking and waving.
For all the years in between, Shane has a few vivid memories. They aren’t painted with the colours he saw, the textures he touched and the smells he smelled. They are painted with the memories of different caresses. Caresses of people and experiences and thoughts and moments. And through all of these he felt alone, till each time he put his head down on Mama’s lap and forgot each one in an instant, never to recall it again.
And then one day he turned thirty three, and she walked into his life, with ‘exquisite cheekbones and intense black eyes’, or so he thought, till she showed him in the sunlight how truly, brightly brown they were.
For the first time in his life, Shane forgot everything. He forgot Mama, he forgot his work, he forgot his religion… all he saw was the erratic, confusing, confounded hypnosis of her brown eyes that seemed black but weren’t. For the first time in his life Shane felt completely absorbed in here and now. She took form in the distant lands of his dreams. She filled his life, all thirty three years, completing memories of things that had been half lived. And like a fly to a fire, she consumed him in her love. Bit by bit…
Till one day he woke up and realised how truly unhappy he was. With touch. With sight. With sound. With love.
That day, he bought an air ticket to a far off land. He shut his eyes and flew into the night. And when the pretty airhostess asked him if he’d like tea or coffee, he didn’t respond. He was far away, his head in his Mother’s lap, and everything was forgotten once more.
***
He seeks a passion that will carry him through lifetimes… beyond here and now.
And every time he moves on, exhausted and spent with the futility of his passion for an unworthy cause, he leaves them in Her lap, one square-eternity of love to tide them past his treachery. Mama’ll take care of his follies.
And She does.
Shane for Shane Warne. Like the cricketer. But only for his appearance – fair-headed and irresistibly attractive with a spring in his step despite his lumbering large frame. It has nothing to do with his [the original Shane’s] propensity for making it to tabloid double spreads for his extra-curricular exploits.
This Shane is the most moral man that walked the earth.
Almost.
This Shane hadn’t touched a girl till he was 28. This Shane hadn’t even been in love till he turned 33, to the exact day.
And till then, his thirty-third year, he concentrated all his passion on particular things.
Till he was 12, it was horses. He loved them with an intensity that frightened those who beheld his strange secret communion with them. He spoke in a tongue that no one but the horses understood. It was in his breath, the heavy snorting pounding pumping of air and life that tears through the earth under thundering hooves. It was in the sweat that poured out of him when he hugged her neck and cut through the wind. It was in his eyes that could in a moment become from a gentle grey to flashing green blue waves that thrashed about with an unfathomable rage. Then suddenly one day, they moved houses; far away from the race tracks and he never stepped upon a saddle again.
He was like that. Willful. One moment he could feel his being fused with the object of his affection, and the next, there would be a cold impenetrable sheath between him and it, never to be pierced again.
When he was 15 it was football. On the field he was invincible. Running through mud and grass skidding on pale knees, kicking with all his might, his thoughts and eyes and being all focused on one thing – to get the ball through wind, through people, past the goalkeeper in through the goal post; and at such times he would feel the stirring of an ancient rhythm thunder through his veins, like when he rode the horses. In moments like these, he was happiest. Despite his poor eyesight, Shane soon became the most powerful player on the school team.
One day, that too ended. He grew up and discovered cigarettes and chai.
He was 18 when he realised that he could sit for hours at a go, concentrating on nothing. Emptying his mind of everything. And he could be alone. Wherever. Whenever. Somewhere, something was beginning to fit and he experienced a sense of peace and calm he had never felt before.
This is how he met his Mother. She came to him one night naked and beautiful, in a dream, and put his aching head on Her lap. Shane had his first glimpse of the intensity of love. For the first time, it didn’t confuse him. And yet he couldn’t describe it. Was it soothing? Was it passionate? Was it deeper than his soul? Was it lighter than sunshine? What was it that he felt when he put his head down in Her lap?
Once he knew love like that, Shane was a changed man. He savoured moments that he could be alone and shut his eyes. He sought stillness in the winding roads of the Himalayan foothills. And that’s how he discovered his other passion. Bikes. Everywhere he went, even in his dreams, he rode his bike down to the last inch of his destination. His obsession grew so much that one day, when he was drunk and doped beyond coherence, Shane walked out of a party clinging to the handles of his bike, waving his arms every time he turned right or left, till he was finally home two hours later, still walking and waving.
For all the years in between, Shane has a few vivid memories. They aren’t painted with the colours he saw, the textures he touched and the smells he smelled. They are painted with the memories of different caresses. Caresses of people and experiences and thoughts and moments. And through all of these he felt alone, till each time he put his head down on Mama’s lap and forgot each one in an instant, never to recall it again.
And then one day he turned thirty three, and she walked into his life, with ‘exquisite cheekbones and intense black eyes’, or so he thought, till she showed him in the sunlight how truly, brightly brown they were.
For the first time in his life, Shane forgot everything. He forgot Mama, he forgot his work, he forgot his religion… all he saw was the erratic, confusing, confounded hypnosis of her brown eyes that seemed black but weren’t. For the first time in his life Shane felt completely absorbed in here and now. She took form in the distant lands of his dreams. She filled his life, all thirty three years, completing memories of things that had been half lived. And like a fly to a fire, she consumed him in her love. Bit by bit…
Till one day he woke up and realised how truly unhappy he was. With touch. With sight. With sound. With love.
That day, he bought an air ticket to a far off land. He shut his eyes and flew into the night. And when the pretty airhostess asked him if he’d like tea or coffee, he didn’t respond. He was far away, his head in his Mother’s lap, and everything was forgotten once more.
***
He seeks a passion that will carry him through lifetimes… beyond here and now.
And every time he moves on, exhausted and spent with the futility of his passion for an unworthy cause, he leaves them in Her lap, one square-eternity of love to tide them past his treachery. Mama’ll take care of his follies.
And She does.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Curious Blue
His belt is silver tipped. It peeps out from under his deep green turtle neck sweater. He likes green. A lot. That dull scummy shade of green that really doesn’t do much for his pale pinkly complexion.
One blue eye is slightly smaller than the other. In a charming, attractive sort of way.
He glances up every now and then to comprehend why she’s taking so long to make sense of something so simple. Sometimes he does it just to get a good look at her.
“What are you thinking?”
Nothing. She’s sick of this shit. She’s rehashed the same damn thing five times, and right now she couldn’t care a rat’s arse. She’s blank.
“I’m stuck.”
Hmmm. He’s NOT going to be judgemental. He’d promised himself before boarding the flight that he wouldn’t be judgemental. But this is just not going anywhere. It’s just so simple and yet… nothing’s moving forward. Why can’t she just put it down? It’s just a damn three-minute story for heaven’s sake!
“It’s a tough topic this one, don’t worry. It will take time,” he offers. It’s been ten minutes and nothing’s moved. He felt obliged to speak.
She knows what he’s thinking. She can tell how frustrated he’s getting. She can see he’s making an effort to be patient. And right now, she can’t help but be amused at how hard he’s trying. Story be damned. This is funny. Ha ha. Ha.
She looks up and smiles at him.
He’s confused. He doesn’t expect a confident bold concentrated gaze from her. She’s the one who’s supposed to be struggling over here. Uh?
He leaves her alone and turns back to cleaning the timeline and shifting files from bin to bin. One frame here one frame there.
She’s relieved. It isn’t exactly easy to concentrate on a script with a pair of expectant blue eyes watching every squiggling scratch on paper. She tries to write a whole bunch of meaningless nonsense [just to look busy and productively engaged] as indecipherably untidily as she can. Bad idea, because now she can’t read it herself. Ha. This is just not working.
“Right. I think I’ve got it.”
Oh has he now?! She should be offended, but all she can feel is this bubbling mirth well up. This is fun. He knows what I should say in a story about myself. Right.
“Well, so you start with – I love the… and that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be… and you end with so today this is what I am”.
She writes it down as he dictates it. She’s tempted to say “can I get you cup of tea please sir, after the dictation?” But she daren’t. He’s being wonderfully helpful. This isn’t his job, and she knows she’s being rather arsey.
She smiles again. He’s not amused. There’s something about her smile he can’t place… it seems to bore through him, gently. It makes him…
He pulls out the recording device and asks her to read out what they’ve just written. She reads it. It sounds terrible. But she can’t complain. As she ends with “and today this is what I am” she can’t help let a long suppressed giggle escape.
She wants desperately to share the joke. This is terrible prose. It stinks... But he refuses to look into her eyes.
She feels stupid. Chastised. She shuts up.
The day has already come to an end. The voice-over sucks. Everybody can see that. So can he. And finally now it’s hitting her that she’s holding a headless baby. Her baby.
Fark. Fark. Fark.
Things are really looking shitty.
Besides she’s already heard from the others that he doesn’t like to stay at work beyond 6:30 pm. It’s 8:30 pm. she’s feeling guilty and all she wants to do is go home and die. Three days of no sleep. She can’t take anymore… least of all his judgement.
“Listen, I was thinking we could stay back another hour and crack this.”
She’s startled. But… but, doesn’t he want to go home?
She declines politely. “I’d rather go home and figure it”
She’s surprised at the puzzled look on his face.
“Ummm. Are you sure? I was thinking maybe we could...”
“No. Really”. She surprises herself with her firmness.
“Well. Ok. But call me anytime. Err… that’s if you need to sound off something… err if you give me your number I’ll send you my guesthouse number and umm… yeah”.
PING.
“test”.
“Hey, and don’t worry about calling me any time. Seriously. I’ll be ummm… yeah. Just call.”
***
He told her later that he thought she was the most efficient and organised and focussed of the lot he had worked with, as he gazed sweetly into her eyes over amritsari fish and paneer tikka.
Damn.
One blue eye is slightly smaller than the other. In a charming, attractive sort of way.
He glances up every now and then to comprehend why she’s taking so long to make sense of something so simple. Sometimes he does it just to get a good look at her.
“What are you thinking?”
Nothing. She’s sick of this shit. She’s rehashed the same damn thing five times, and right now she couldn’t care a rat’s arse. She’s blank.
“I’m stuck.”
Hmmm. He’s NOT going to be judgemental. He’d promised himself before boarding the flight that he wouldn’t be judgemental. But this is just not going anywhere. It’s just so simple and yet… nothing’s moving forward. Why can’t she just put it down? It’s just a damn three-minute story for heaven’s sake!
“It’s a tough topic this one, don’t worry. It will take time,” he offers. It’s been ten minutes and nothing’s moved. He felt obliged to speak.
She knows what he’s thinking. She can tell how frustrated he’s getting. She can see he’s making an effort to be patient. And right now, she can’t help but be amused at how hard he’s trying. Story be damned. This is funny. Ha ha. Ha.
She looks up and smiles at him.
He’s confused. He doesn’t expect a confident bold concentrated gaze from her. She’s the one who’s supposed to be struggling over here. Uh?
He leaves her alone and turns back to cleaning the timeline and shifting files from bin to bin. One frame here one frame there.
She’s relieved. It isn’t exactly easy to concentrate on a script with a pair of expectant blue eyes watching every squiggling scratch on paper. She tries to write a whole bunch of meaningless nonsense [just to look busy and productively engaged] as indecipherably untidily as she can. Bad idea, because now she can’t read it herself. Ha. This is just not working.
“Right. I think I’ve got it.”
Oh has he now?! She should be offended, but all she can feel is this bubbling mirth well up. This is fun. He knows what I should say in a story about myself. Right.
“Well, so you start with – I love the… and that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be… and you end with so today this is what I am”.
She writes it down as he dictates it. She’s tempted to say “can I get you cup of tea please sir, after the dictation?” But she daren’t. He’s being wonderfully helpful. This isn’t his job, and she knows she’s being rather arsey.
She smiles again. He’s not amused. There’s something about her smile he can’t place… it seems to bore through him, gently. It makes him…
He pulls out the recording device and asks her to read out what they’ve just written. She reads it. It sounds terrible. But she can’t complain. As she ends with “and today this is what I am” she can’t help let a long suppressed giggle escape.
She wants desperately to share the joke. This is terrible prose. It stinks... But he refuses to look into her eyes.
She feels stupid. Chastised. She shuts up.
The day has already come to an end. The voice-over sucks. Everybody can see that. So can he. And finally now it’s hitting her that she’s holding a headless baby. Her baby.
Fark. Fark. Fark.
Things are really looking shitty.
Besides she’s already heard from the others that he doesn’t like to stay at work beyond 6:30 pm. It’s 8:30 pm. she’s feeling guilty and all she wants to do is go home and die. Three days of no sleep. She can’t take anymore… least of all his judgement.
“Listen, I was thinking we could stay back another hour and crack this.”
She’s startled. But… but, doesn’t he want to go home?
She declines politely. “I’d rather go home and figure it”
She’s surprised at the puzzled look on his face.
“Ummm. Are you sure? I was thinking maybe we could...”
“No. Really”. She surprises herself with her firmness.
“Well. Ok. But call me anytime. Err… that’s if you need to sound off something… err if you give me your number I’ll send you my guesthouse number and umm… yeah”.
PING.
“test”.
“Hey, and don’t worry about calling me any time. Seriously. I’ll be ummm… yeah. Just call.”
***
He told her later that he thought she was the most efficient and organised and focussed of the lot he had worked with, as he gazed sweetly into her eyes over amritsari fish and paneer tikka.
Damn.
Tagaroo
This is an odd but admittedly fun tag by HB. Knowing as he does how much I hate tags, he thought it the perfect Christmas gift for me.
Ah. If thoughtfulness were angel wings, bro you’d be the featheriest [read ‘hairiest’ in bird-speak] critter up there…
Back to da tag.
So the task is:
1. Grab the book closest to you. Don't choose!
2. Open to page 123, go down to the fifth sentence.
3. Post the text of the next 3 sentences on your blog.
4. Name of the book and the author.
Luckily enough, the closest book to me is ‘Candy is Dandy’ by Ogden Nash. My all-time office companion.
So, from IT’S SNUG TO BE SMUG [on page 123]
Quoting line 5 onwards [oddly pertinent lines I daresay!]…
So I don’t really wish I had the wings of an angel, but sometimes I wish I had the sweet voice of a thrush,
And then if I sang an Indian Love Lyric why thousands of beautiful beauties [handsome hotties in this case] would harken and quiver and blush,
And it would be a treat to hear my rendition of Sweet Alice Ben Bolt.
I haven’t a clue of what Sweet Alice Ben Bolt is. Obviously a charming little ditty by some work-deprived love-lorn dandy for his sixteen-year-old virginal sweetheart way back in 1829. But enough. This caustic tongue will get me nowhere with the thousand handsome hotties.
So. Coming back, I think I’ll replace this song with…
Ummm…
Suggestions? Anyone?
Ah. If thoughtfulness were angel wings, bro you’d be the featheriest [read ‘hairiest’ in bird-speak] critter up there…
Back to da tag.
So the task is:
1. Grab the book closest to you. Don't choose!
2. Open to page 123, go down to the fifth sentence.
3. Post the text of the next 3 sentences on your blog.
4. Name of the book and the author.
Luckily enough, the closest book to me is ‘Candy is Dandy’ by Ogden Nash. My all-time office companion.
So, from IT’S SNUG TO BE SMUG [on page 123]
Quoting line 5 onwards [oddly pertinent lines I daresay!]…
So I don’t really wish I had the wings of an angel, but sometimes I wish I had the sweet voice of a thrush,
And then if I sang an Indian Love Lyric why thousands of beautiful beauties [handsome hotties in this case] would harken and quiver and blush,
And it would be a treat to hear my rendition of Sweet Alice Ben Bolt.
I haven’t a clue of what Sweet Alice Ben Bolt is. Obviously a charming little ditty by some work-deprived love-lorn dandy for his sixteen-year-old virginal sweetheart way back in 1829. But enough. This caustic tongue will get me nowhere with the thousand handsome hotties.
So. Coming back, I think I’ll replace this song with…
Ummm…
Suggestions? Anyone?
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Moonstruck
He said: “Where I come from, we like sentimental narratives. It’s considered high art.”
She said: “How odd.”
He said: “Yes. It is.”
They were silent.
He said: “But I like it a bit spiky now.”
She smiled.
He said: “It’s more fun that way. For me.”
She said: “Me too.”
She smiled. He smiled. They both looked down at the paneer tikka, amritsari fish and virgin mary.
He said: “No smoking, no drinking?”
She shrugged.
He said: “Your body must be a temple.”
She blushed into her script. He fiddled with the keyboard. Too late to take it back.
He said: “We wear only blacks and greys.”
She said: “That’s a gorgeous red shirt.”
He bought it immediately.
He said: “You have a sophisticated, penetrating, deep gaze that I find slightly confusing/ seductive”.
She said: “that’s a long sentence.”
He smiled. She smiled [confused and slightly seduced].
He said: "Dear H"
She said: “How odd.”
He said: “Yes. It is.”
They were silent.
He said: “But I like it a bit spiky now.”
She smiled.
He said: “It’s more fun that way. For me.”
She said: “Me too.”
She smiled. He smiled. They both looked down at the paneer tikka, amritsari fish and virgin mary.
He said: “No smoking, no drinking?”
She shrugged.
He said: “Your body must be a temple.”
She blushed into her script. He fiddled with the keyboard. Too late to take it back.
He said: “We wear only blacks and greys.”
She said: “That’s a gorgeous red shirt.”
He bought it immediately.
He said: “You have a sophisticated, penetrating, deep gaze that I find slightly confusing/ seductive”.
She said: “that’s a long sentence.”
He smiled. She smiled [confused and slightly seduced].
He said: "Dear H"
She said: "go on."
He said: “Alvida.”
She said: “Kal chaand dekha thha?”
Tiny tiny fleeting crush. Across continents.
***
[Phish, if you’re reading this, let me explain … ha ha ha.]
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Angrezi & I
U wants me to blog about it.
He feels I’ll be more honest then.
You see I’m making a short film about my relationship with English. It’s like a tragi-comedy. This relationship that English and I share. English has flooded my brain. It’s the language I speak, think and dream in. It takes me time to construct complete thoughts and sentences in Hindi. I can do it. It’s not that I can’t. I’ve been ashamed about losing my conversance with Hindi for very long. So now, deliberately, I can.
But all it takes is a short circuit in the emotion department and Boom; I’m off blathering a completely nonsensical English-Kashmiri-Bengali-trying-to-be-Hindi mix of incoherent nonsense.
And yet somehow, I never seem to be able to speak it [English] quite as well and fluently as I’d like to. My sense of grammar and pronunciation are purely instinctual… and often completely off the mark. There are times when I go so horribly wrong that I feel close to tears over my ineptitude. Like right now… I wasn’t sure if it should be ‘about’ or ‘over’ or ‘at’ my ineptitude.
Ha.
The thing is, I had set out to find evidence of how I learnt to speak English – the structured formalness of it that we inherited as part of our education, from the British; and juxtapose it what it’s evolved to today. I was hoping to find a certain sense of exuberance and vitality in the way that I use it today, that I hoped would be a departure from the fossilised package that I received it as.
However, I find that while things around me have changed… and the language ‘on the street’ is adapting very quickly to this fluid, non-structured, organic, grammatically irreverent, linguistically multi-tonal [and now often Americanised] expression, I too have somehow been marginalised in my quest to keep the sanctity of English as I received it. I am as much an oddity as the people I thought I’d hold up under the microscope.
So where does this take my film? What am I achieving through it?
Have I just signed a contract to create a charming little self-lampooning portrait of myself for an audience that really doesn’t figure in my life except perhaps for its intrepid ancestors who put me in this bloody spot to begin with?
Suddenly I feel like I’m back in nursery learning ‘London Bridge’, so I can sing it back in my flat Indian accent for amusement.
Gosh. I’m…
Pissed off.
He feels I’ll be more honest then.
You see I’m making a short film about my relationship with English. It’s like a tragi-comedy. This relationship that English and I share. English has flooded my brain. It’s the language I speak, think and dream in. It takes me time to construct complete thoughts and sentences in Hindi. I can do it. It’s not that I can’t. I’ve been ashamed about losing my conversance with Hindi for very long. So now, deliberately, I can.
But all it takes is a short circuit in the emotion department and Boom; I’m off blathering a completely nonsensical English-Kashmiri-Bengali-trying-to-be-Hindi mix of incoherent nonsense.
And yet somehow, I never seem to be able to speak it [English] quite as well and fluently as I’d like to. My sense of grammar and pronunciation are purely instinctual… and often completely off the mark. There are times when I go so horribly wrong that I feel close to tears over my ineptitude. Like right now… I wasn’t sure if it should be ‘about’ or ‘over’ or ‘at’ my ineptitude.
Ha.
The thing is, I had set out to find evidence of how I learnt to speak English – the structured formalness of it that we inherited as part of our education, from the British; and juxtapose it what it’s evolved to today. I was hoping to find a certain sense of exuberance and vitality in the way that I use it today, that I hoped would be a departure from the fossilised package that I received it as.
However, I find that while things around me have changed… and the language ‘on the street’ is adapting very quickly to this fluid, non-structured, organic, grammatically irreverent, linguistically multi-tonal [and now often Americanised] expression, I too have somehow been marginalised in my quest to keep the sanctity of English as I received it. I am as much an oddity as the people I thought I’d hold up under the microscope.
So where does this take my film? What am I achieving through it?
Have I just signed a contract to create a charming little self-lampooning portrait of myself for an audience that really doesn’t figure in my life except perhaps for its intrepid ancestors who put me in this bloody spot to begin with?
Suddenly I feel like I’m back in nursery learning ‘London Bridge’, so I can sing it back in my flat Indian accent for amusement.
Gosh. I’m…
Pissed off.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Goldie
I should write this down before I forget it, completely.
It’s already begun – that fading of detail when the sharpness of the edges goes first and then like burning celluloid, the rest becomes large gaping holes and frayed nothingness in a heavily pregnant head.
But I’m straying, from the richness of the room. Large cushions propping his head and shoulders, draped in rust and gold. Motifs from the Far East and India and I can’t say from where else anymore. It’s just an impression, much like the rest. Much like all of it.
And I really must stop being indulgent. I must resist the urge to get caught in what I feel about the act of ‘putting it down’. That isn’t important. Or at least not important to what occurred.
Right. To business.
Somehow the sibling was involved. It isn’t clear now how. But the sibling had a part to play.
in
Organising.
for a
Visiting dignitary.
here for
Goodwill hunting.
He was visiting from somewhere important. He was important. Spiritually? Politically? Of royal descent? Like a nawab... it isn't clear. I don’t know, I can’t say. I am like the thoughtless princess in fairytales. Things happen to her. That’s just how it is.
And his sole purpose for the visit? To spend a productive night with the most eligible woman in the country. Why? We can’t say. It’s a flawed story.
Somehow it didn’t seem odd. It didn’t seem demeaning. It didn’t seem a whole lot of things it should have. Instead, it was sacred.
Like ghosts they played a part in setting it up. Other people. The room; and everything else that it shut out. The scene. The space. The time. There has to be time and space to mark an event. To limit it. To make it tangible. To slot it in a memory. Because eventually, it is and was and will always be only him and me. Through rocks and water, skin and flesh, blogposts and dreams; through dust and ether and eternity.
Just him.
Just me.
In a tiny room, on a floating boat with one large window overlooking river water and a sprawling bed. Gold rust drapes on the window, on the bed, on the cushions… everywhere.
And she knew she would only ever give herself to him. Completely.
To him. With love. For love. In love. Mixed with semen. Mixed in vagina. Mixed with bits of brain and thought.
In love. For love. Grey green gold white brown black tangle.
***
That night I became pregnant. For nine lifetimes.
It’s already begun – that fading of detail when the sharpness of the edges goes first and then like burning celluloid, the rest becomes large gaping holes and frayed nothingness in a heavily pregnant head.
But I’m straying, from the richness of the room. Large cushions propping his head and shoulders, draped in rust and gold. Motifs from the Far East and India and I can’t say from where else anymore. It’s just an impression, much like the rest. Much like all of it.
And I really must stop being indulgent. I must resist the urge to get caught in what I feel about the act of ‘putting it down’. That isn’t important. Or at least not important to what occurred.
Right. To business.
Somehow the sibling was involved. It isn’t clear now how. But the sibling had a part to play.
in
Organising.
for a
Visiting dignitary.
here for
Goodwill hunting.
He was visiting from somewhere important. He was important. Spiritually? Politically? Of royal descent? Like a nawab... it isn't clear. I don’t know, I can’t say. I am like the thoughtless princess in fairytales. Things happen to her. That’s just how it is.
And his sole purpose for the visit? To spend a productive night with the most eligible woman in the country. Why? We can’t say. It’s a flawed story.
Somehow it didn’t seem odd. It didn’t seem demeaning. It didn’t seem a whole lot of things it should have. Instead, it was sacred.
Like ghosts they played a part in setting it up. Other people. The room; and everything else that it shut out. The scene. The space. The time. There has to be time and space to mark an event. To limit it. To make it tangible. To slot it in a memory. Because eventually, it is and was and will always be only him and me. Through rocks and water, skin and flesh, blogposts and dreams; through dust and ether and eternity.
Just him.
Just me.
In a tiny room, on a floating boat with one large window overlooking river water and a sprawling bed. Gold rust drapes on the window, on the bed, on the cushions… everywhere.
And she knew she would only ever give herself to him. Completely.
To him. With love. For love. In love. Mixed with semen. Mixed in vagina. Mixed with bits of brain and thought.
In love. For love. Grey green gold white brown black tangle.
***
That night I became pregnant. For nine lifetimes.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Is it a pig? Is it a pig tail? NO! It’s a Song Bird!
The first nursery rhyme that I recited on auto play was Piggy on the Railroad.
My parents apparently thought it very charming to see their little girl in two pigtails singing Piggy on the Railroad with gusto, and they rarely hesitated to include others in this happy ritual. Only thing was, once I started I wouldn’t stop.
These singing sessions would invariably start like this:
Mum: “Baby, sing a song for Auntie X”
H [deep intake of breath. gulp. Eyes shut, mouth opens, top volume]:
“Pigggy on the raaaaaailroad, piccccking up stones
Daaaaauwn came an engine…”
Clap clap clap clap clap!
Auntie X: “That’s lovely little H!”
Mum: “thank you baby. Now run along and play”
H [another deep intake of breath. gulp. Eyes shut, mouth still open, top volume]:
“Piggggggy on the rrrrrrrrrrraaailroad…”
Mum: “Ummm baby don’t you want to go play with your toys?”
Blink blink
H: “..picking up… “
Auntie X: “Look at what I’ve found in my bag! Only for little H!!!.“
H: “… stones…“
Auntie X: “Who’s going to take this chocolate from auntie?! Who’s going to pop a nice sweet chocolate in her mouth [and shut the bleeding hell up]?”
H: “…Daaaaauuuun came an engine and broke piggggggy’s bone
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaa said the piggy…”
Mum [smiling purposefully]: “Baby that’s enough.”
H: “… that’s not fair!
Oooo said the engine driver…”
Mum [gently, firmly steering me back to my room]: “Baby really that’s enough. Auntie’s going to get a headache now.”
H “… I don’t care!”
After one particularly intense session of piggy getting mauled on the railroad, repeatedly, this ritual stopped. Mum didn’t seem to want me to sing for nice chocolate carrying aunties and uncles anymore.
I didn’t really think about it till a few days ago when I remembered this.
Copyright to this masterpiece belongs to little H [5yrs].
My parents apparently thought it very charming to see their little girl in two pigtails singing Piggy on the Railroad with gusto, and they rarely hesitated to include others in this happy ritual. Only thing was, once I started I wouldn’t stop.
These singing sessions would invariably start like this:
Mum: “Baby, sing a song for Auntie X”
H [deep intake of breath. gulp. Eyes shut, mouth opens, top volume]:
“Pigggy on the raaaaaailroad, piccccking up stones
Daaaaauwn came an engine…”
Clap clap clap clap clap!
Auntie X: “That’s lovely little H!”
Mum: “thank you baby. Now run along and play”
H [another deep intake of breath. gulp. Eyes shut, mouth still open, top volume]:
“Piggggggy on the rrrrrrrrrrraaailroad…”
Mum: “Ummm baby don’t you want to go play with your toys?”
Blink blink
H: “..picking up… “
Auntie X: “Look at what I’ve found in my bag! Only for little H!!!.“
H: “… stones…“
Auntie X: “Who’s going to take this chocolate from auntie?! Who’s going to pop a nice sweet chocolate in her mouth [and shut the bleeding hell up]?”
H: “…Daaaaauuuun came an engine and broke piggggggy’s bone
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaa said the piggy…”
Mum [smiling purposefully]: “Baby that’s enough.”
H: “… that’s not fair!
Oooo said the engine driver…”
Mum [gently, firmly steering me back to my room]: “Baby really that’s enough. Auntie’s going to get a headache now.”
H “… I don’t care!”
After one particularly intense session of piggy getting mauled on the railroad, repeatedly, this ritual stopped. Mum didn’t seem to want me to sing for nice chocolate carrying aunties and uncles anymore.
I didn’t really think about it till a few days ago when I remembered this.
Copyright to this masterpiece belongs to little H [5yrs].
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