Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts

16/04/2015

parenting

I wonder if people consider the philosophical and moral implications of bringing up a child.

One of the most common arguments I've heard for having children is the continuation of the family line. If a family wants to extend their lineage, why not write a well-researched account of its oral history instead? I would imagine it would problematise and enrich notions of who is a Muslim, etc., who is an Indian, etc. which we need desperately. It would take away academic (and by extension class, caste, geography and gender) monopoly over who writes these histories, and what kind of histories are heard.

But I digress. Not everybody cares about knowledge monopolisation and that's okay.

Another argument is having someone to take care of you when you grow old. This is a justified anxiety since not many of us care to die alone and it's comforting to have someone with whom you have an intimately shared history with. I imagine the economics of raising a child take care, partly, of this requirement. I think we may have enough to provide for ourselves when we grow old, were we to not spend on raising children. Of course, emotionally we may choose the intimacy of having our own children to share our old age with, rather than friends or other relationships. But that is not reason enough to have children, since it doesn't account for the personal liberty of the child.

I also want to protest against the hypocrisy of this justification: a parent-child relationship is considered emotional, and is operationalised emotionally, but the justification (particularly this one) to have a child seems rather transactional. In this sense, rural families who decide to have children so that they can pitch in economically seems to me a more candid approach to having children, although it is equally unjustified for the same reason: children are not a means to an end, just as much as parents aren't.

A third argument is that children are a source of company in an otherwise lonely world, or relationship. Let's not consider the latter situation, since children are not a means to make a parent feel better about themselves or their relationship with their partner. To the justification that children are a source of emotional joy and security, it's harder to apply the utilitarian critique because theoretically, parents also lend emotional support and comfort to their children. But does this always happen?

The question now is: once I decide to become a parent, do I also think about how to become a good parent? (By 'good' I mean, a parent who is emotionally caring and looks at a child not just as a source of emotional solace but also as an individual with rights.)

To understand just how difficult parenting is, let's compare it with teaching. As a teacher it is possible to have access to resources, planned training; to have the luxury of experimentation and personal space while working with children. Teachers get paid, too. As a parent, on the other hand I have almost nothing except anecdotal advice from almost everybody, de-contextualised resources, discontinuous support and a stupendous invasion of my private and/or professional life. What kind of support, really, do parents have on how to raise a child? Why does our society not acknowledge this lack?

There are some people in this world who have really made a muck of being parents. Their children are trying their best to be well-adjusted despite their upbringing. Their parents, in turn are trying to cope with dark moments of feeling defeated and self-betrayed. Both children and their parents have to eventually find support systems elsewhere. This process is immensely difficult because of unnatural and unjustified expectations that society places on parenting and children's relationship with their parents.These expectations also make acknowledging this social failure almost impossible: bad parents are rare and their children have bad luck.

In fact, I think it's really hard to be a parent because although they are encouraged to be one, they are hardly given any pragmatic support once this irreversible deed has been accomplished. Parents are left stranded and unprepared to handle the enormity of laying foundational groundwork in a child's life, entirely on their own. Is it enough that women can fertilise eggs and lactate, that men can generate sperm, that they have a stable socio-economic arrangement, that they get along with each other? Where is the child in all of this biological and economic preparation?

Perhaps people who decide to be single parents have had the opportunity to think a little harder on the philosophical implications of bringing up a child, since it isn't a natural extension of their current state in life. It is not enough to think about the potential changes in one's personal life (given that that is also a crucial component of the decision-making process) simply because being a parent is not entirely about you.

We need to free parenting from its essentialist trappings. Being a parent is not natural, simply because procreation is. We need to think of it as a choice, as a role that people need support and preparation for.


30/11/2014

freedom and democracy

Excerpt from The Diary of a School Teacher, by Hemraj Bhatt (trans. Sharada Jain)

While watching T.V., I came across a news item about a Madhya Pradesh teacher who had advertised in the newspapers for a female friend to massage him and fulfil his sexual needs. The police, on reading the advert, conducted a sting operation on the teacher and took him to the police station. Here, they asked him vulgar questions again and again – just to enjoy themselves at the expense of his discomfort. The teacher, on his part, was visibly ashamed and kept apologising, saying that he would never do something like this again.

The TV channels played this clip on loop. Several questions came to my mind. What do these channels want to convey by showing such news? What is worth showing and what is not? What was so great about conducting a sting operation on a poor teacher?

In a country and in a society where nothing is immoral if done on the sly, who gave the police and the TV channels the right to define morality?

This teacher could have fulfilled his desires without the advertisement. Then the police and journalists would not have known about him. But he expressed his feelings. What does freedom mean in a democracy?

Hemraj Bhatt (1968-2008) was a assistant primary schoolteacher in a government primary school in Uttarkashi. He was the only official teacher in a school for 51 children, ranging from classes 1 to 5. He began keeping a diary which was translated and published after his death. His reflections provide insight not just on his daily struggles to provide meaningful education to his children but also on the entire education system itself. Read the full diary here.

14/08/2014

'Zindagi Gulzar Hai'



There comes a time when you realize that you have surrendered a part of your heart to a book, film, television series or a professor because they leave you moved. The writer, the artist becomes a presence in your mind separate from your experience of their work.

With each redefining moment of watching Kashav's story I feel a complicated mixture of love and alarm at its intensity. I sometimes cannot believe this story has actually been written.

Sultana apa, you have my heart. Don't let me down; I won't be able to bear it.

[No spoilers, please.]

28/07/2013

old dreams

I recently read a letter which had a vision of my future. The writer imagined that four years later, in 2013, I'd be teaching a group of 18 year olds about languages across the world. I'd also be alone in a different city somewhere, spending my free time walking around, soaking my senses in myriad sights, sounds, smells.

When I read that letter, it struck me how old some of my closest dreams are. It doesn't make my desire to become a teacher more valid than someone who has decided to teach today. It doesn't rule out new dreams, younger dreams. I'm simply humbled by their power. Things change every day; there are no footprints in a desert. Once in a while, a wind blows again and again, steady among the shifting sand dunes.

This wind is now making me change my direction once again. If you know anyone who has done or is doing a B. Ed in India, do let me know. I want to become a teacher.

27/03/2013

Katie Makkai - Pretty


dreaming of you, a letter at a time

Dear You,

Millions of terrible things happen around the world everyday. Sometimes headlines make me wish I could extinguish every tomorrow in store. But I can't and more importantly, that would be running away from problems.

So don't feel stupid if you have faith in people. I cannot prevent the heartbreak that you will experience when your trust is broken, when you are let down, when you are left behind. This will happen often to you with many people, and it might also happen often with one person. But don't feel stupid about putting your faith in people.

Of course, protect your heart. From abuse, exploitation, and sometimes your own low self-esteem. But don't put it in a cage. Don't shield yourself from love. Don't shield yourself from disappointment. They are both wonderful teachers. One day, after the hurt has passed, you might even be able to smile about the sunny days.

You might struggle with this conflict - whether maturity means to stop seeing the world through a kaleidoscope. But please know that the nice thing about maturity is that you can decide what it means. For me, it currently means being able to do my laundry on time. (I'm awful at it.) People around me, younger than me, are doing their laundry effortlessly. I cannot explain to you how easy it is to begin feeling, "Everybody around me has their laundry shit sorted so well. I'm such a fool. I'll never be able to do my laundry as well as they can." I might be biased, but this line of thought only pulls you down, down, down. I cannot explain my faith to you, but it will be alright. Trust me.

Never worry about where you will end up. There is no end, as long as you are alive. There is no race - it looks very much like it, I know. You might go to school, then college, then you might decide something for yourself. And it might seem that everybody around you is huffing and puffing, their breathing choppy, their eyes big and worried. I know I musn't assume things, but I'm quite sure that even when you come into the world, talk of this great race will not have ceased.

As life has taught me, this race is a very sticky illusion. It is one of the many things that many people take very seriously. The choice is yours, of course (but I cannot help declaring that the race seems straight out of the pages of Alice in Wonderland. What was that? Italicisation. All names of texts must be slanted like that when you type them out. That's a whole other discussion. Oh, I do wish I could talk with you sometimes.)

Just like it's a mistake to believe that simply because everybody is running, so should you, it's a mistake to believe that the people in the race are bad people. That's the tough thing about maturity. Disagree with people, it's exciting and often healthy. But try, if you can, to not quickly dismiss something you don't agree with.

The other thing I wanted to talk with you about is my imperfection. I am responsible for you, but I might slip up sometimes. I might do things, say things that will hurt you very deeply. I might make mistakes. You aren't here but I already worry about that sometimes. That I might make mistakes with you. We'll both be learning about each other, you and me. I will have to earn your respect just as you will have to earn mine.

I don't know anything about how to do it right. I will simply trust my reasoning and instinct, and the reasoning and instincts of the people I love. People believe that mothers are supposed to be right, always. Actually, it's another one of those make-believe things that people take very seriously. Tell me when you feel I'm doing something wrong. Don't be afraid. Do it in a way that is comfortable for you, but always know that no matter what, no matter what, my heart burns with love for you. 

I am not trying to excuse myself from the wrongs I will do to you. But you need to know that there is no such thing as an experienced parent, simply because every child is different. We'll both make mistakes. Hopefully, we'll always be able to talk about it.

Sometimes I feel like I'm waiting for you each day. I don't know where you are, but I see your face in every child that I tell a story to. I hope I don't dream of you too much, I don't want to burden you with unconscious expectations when you come true.

Okay enough. I can't wait to raid the fridge at night and have Parle G biscuits dipped in Bournvita with you and her. Come soon.

Love,

मम्मा 

27/01/2013

note to self 1.0

- research more stories for children which suits their context better. Do not tell the story of Little Red Riding Hood. Ever. Again.

- find stories you believe in.

- explore more stories written by authors you like. Because that's how you bumped into Mahasweta Devi's Ek-kori's Dream and this

- don't rely on spontaneity every time.

- children usually don't play games when it comes to affection or admiration. If they like you, they will happily let you know. So do your job and stop asking them to keep quiet.

 - throw Enid Blyton in the dust bin along with moral stories. Work hard on finding/developing alternatives.

- stop reading stories with an imagined child-reader in mind. Do you like it? Would you want to share it?That is what matters. Let them decide for themselves. Even if they are six years old.

- engage with their sarcasm, if you receive it. Don't shut them out, don't make it an ego issue.

- if they want to play antakshari, go ahead and join them. Since when did storytelling become Compulsory Attendance?

- don't be afraid to say, "I don't know." To the kids, to yourself.

- don't be afraid of a noisy class. A silent class isn't always an indication of interest.

- ask lots of questions to them, but be careful when they ask you for answers.

- strictly avoid being self-righteous when discussing women's rights. Strictly avoid being patronising when they say something preposterous (eg. female infanticide doesn't exist any more). The difference between being patronising and being surprised is not a thin one.

- never forget what you were like when you were a kid. (ref: previous point)

- learn to let go of nostalgia when it becomes suffocating.

- put your heart on your sleeve, but don't shield the kids if you are disappointed by them.

- don't shield the kids, period.

- if you haven't prepared properly, let them know. Face their disappointment, don't hurry them off to an activity.

- be kind.

14/02/2012

"Take these sunken eyes and learn to see.."

One standard reaction I would get from people when I told them about the Jnanapravaha course was, "I don't get Modern Art. It's just deliberately obscure", or "Modern Art is so elitist!", or "You have to be obscenely wealthy and educated abroad to be able to enjoy that kind of art", or my favourite: "One line, dot, or square across a large white canvas and that's that. A four year old could do that."

Aside: Now that I think of it, most people said "four year old..". Not five, not six, not two - people didn't even cash in on adolescent angst and presume most 16 year olds could make Modern Art. What is it with universally precocious four year olds?





Seagulls and Sails, by Jehangir Sabavala


The problem with a painting is that it is it's own context. You as a viewer must take the initiative to engage with it, struggle with its apparent obscurity, resist the ease of ignorance and indifference, learn the language, battle your inarticulacy, and most difficultly, consume your ego. The painting may or may not relate to your life or your experiences. It may not agree with your opinions on who should be a celebrated artist, who should not. It may even deeply offend you. But there is no denying the fact that it exists, and its self-sufficiency makes you feel lost and unsettled.

The gallery experience of art is something that troubles me a lot, specially because there is a politics underneath the floors and behind the walls, which is not clear but cannot possibly be unfelt while you are in the space.

My TIFR experience comes to mind. One of the projects I was involved in (it had a hand in changing my life - now that didn't sound too dramatic, did it?) was organising an exhibition of TIFR's incredibly exhaustive and exciting art collection. There were over 250 art works that our curator, Mortimer Chatterjee had to select and exhibit at the NGMA. Everything about this project was an electric experience - learning how restoration artists are actually the acrobats of the art world, how the right frame can do a three-sixty to the way you experience a painting. 

Our interactions with Mr. S, the gallery manager of NGMA were very problematic. It was difficult to communicate with him because there was an incredibly busy subtext underneath whatever he appeared to be saying. Greasy, translucent words would stream silently from his grey-black hair and thinly film our eyes. 

Instead of working with our curator on creating the story which would tie the selected works together, or compiling the essays and pictures of the exhibition catalogue (yes, people do read and publish art crit too! god bless y'all), or  taking care that the works were packed, transported, unpacked and hung/arranged properly with gentle, loving care, we were now required to fret about who had to be invited to the opening show, who would sit where, who would be invited for the dinner later and who wouldn't, who would get the flowers, who would give the flowers, who would cut the ribbon, how long would the Minister's tour of the show be (we couldn't possibly do the detailed two hour talk-walk with her, could we?). We even had to make sure certain people didn't bump into each other, because they had separately instructed us on who they got along with, and who they didn't.

It was degrading, reductive and humiliating. NGMA flexed its muscles because it knew we had nowhere else to exhibit TIFR's collection. The only other gallery large enough to house such a huge collection was Jehangir, which was booked for the next two years. 

I began wondering about the gallerial experience of art. Many professors and students were left stunned by the exhibition. These were paintings and sculptures they had walked among, waited for the lift by, discussed theories, politics and movies next to. Partly due to bad lighting, poor maintenance, a pitiable budget allocation and partly due to the kind of insulation which institutes of higher learning often develop about anything beyond their immediate academic concerns, these beautiful, provocative and  insightful pieces of art had become nothing more than show pieces or shadowy, dusty oblongs on corridor walls.

What a difference big, clean walls, considerate, gentle lighting and context can make! Many people came up to us and said that the exhibition had breathed new life into the paintings. It was tempting to believe that, but the truth was that it was a simple case of taking for granted things that are the closest to you, and also how much you cared about something. As long as Dr Bhabha was alive, he fought to keep aside 1% of TIFR's total budget for collecting and maintaining its art collection. He often paid for paintings or sculptures he wanted for TIFR out of his pocket (but then again, he was quite privileged financially), and his successor, Dr MGK Menon collected many *eyebrow-raising works for that time. 

Successive directors didn't quite know what to do. Dr Menon had left TIFR in 1975, and it was only two years ago that the previous director decided that the paintings and sculptures needed restoring. To date there's a tiny strong room opposite the Accounts section, which has paintings stacked together in their packings, not being displayed because, well, actually I don't really know. Nobody seemed to have an answer, but I suspect there wasn't a straightforward way to say, we don't care.

The exhibition changed the way many people at TIFR saw the art collection, even after the paintings and sculptures made their way back home from the gallery. There was no denying that the gallery, in its capacity of being a generous space to exhibit those works, had had a role in this change of heart and mind.

But there was a malevolent superficiality to the whole experience which I could not shake off. What the painting was saying to you, what you could see or hear from it mattered lesser than what they cost. The Husains were eagerly sought out, the Baburao Sadwelkars were ignored. Here I speak of the gallery manager and some of their staff. The power politics played by the art world and those who peopled it - in this particular situation - was disturbing. And this then reflected on to the people who came and saw the exhibition.

Art takes time. To spend an hour looking at a painting is difficult. The public gallery experience is one that encourages art at a trot. There are the paintings, the marvellous speaking works, the definite, independent, each with a Self it would be impossible to ignore, if... if..., it were possible to see it. I do not only mean the crowds and the guards and the low lights and the ropes, which make me think of freak shows, I mean the thick curtain of irrelevancies that screens the painting from the viewer. Increasingly, galleries have a habit of saying when they acquired a painting and how much it cost...

Millions! The viewer does not see the colours on the canvas, she sees the colour of money.

Is the painting famous? Yes! Think of all the people who have carefully spared one minute of their lives to stand in front of it.

Is the painting Authority? Does the guide-book tell us that it is a part of The Canon? If Yes, then half of the viewers will admire it on principle, while the other half will dismiss it on principle.

Who painted it? What do we know about his/her sexual practices and have we seen anything about them on the television? If not, the museums will likely have a video full of schoolboy facts and tabloid gossip.

Where is the tea-room/toilet/gift shop?

Where is the painting in any of this?

Experiencing paintings as moving pictures, out of context, disconnected, jostled, over-literary, with their endless accompanying explanations, over-crowded, one against the other, room on room, does not make it easy to fall in love. Love takes time. 

... the only way into the strange life of pictures is to expose yourself to as much contemporary art as you can until you find something, anything, that you will go back and back to see again...

Art Objects, by Jeanette Winterson

I did much of what Winterson describes as "over-literary, with their endless accompanying explanations" throughout the two months our exhibition was on. Initially it was exciting to know and explain to strangers the what, how and why of a painting. And then it began to pale, because the explanations became larger than the paintings, and slowly made them entirely redundant in my mind. When I had repeated the story behind Husain winning the mural competition twenty times, I stopped looking at the mural. It was a pity, because before assuming the role of a 'tour guide', I would spend time alone, just with the paintings and sculptures, and try to listen to them instead.

Saying that Modern Art is obscure, elitist, or that enjoying it requires you to be wealthy and educated abroad, or that it can be done by a four year old, is like hiding under a tree because everyone in the forest says the sky is about to fall. Let a painting speak to you, sing to you. Touch a sculpture and experience it. Take off your blinkers and know that if you reach out sincerely, you will be met half way.

18/09/2011

'Sita Sings the Blues'



This film is one of my favourite animation films.

I've had tremendous problems with रामायण. It's possible that वाल्मीकि  wrote a रामायण very different from the one we read today. But its influence on our country and the psyche of our people has been tremendously powerful so I'm always grateful when people question, critically examine or even have a bit of fun with the story. Like Nina Paley does in Sita Sings the Blues. It's a delight to anybody who likes a twist, or jazz music, or films with interesting narratives. It's one of those films which you enjoy with your eyes, ears and mind as well.

PS: Youtube Movies, FTW!

26/08/2011

Feminism 101

I just found a very funny and smart web comic via Fuck Yeah! Feminism - a website I've been wanting to explore for a very long time now but haven't for a variety of reasons. Thanks to this lovely web comic called Fudge That Sugar, my down-arrow button is getting a bit sore, but I'm chuckling away in glee! The irony is that the creator of this awesome web comic, AK Tettenborn has just closed it, three months ago. This makes two amazing publications which are closing down in front of me - but that's another story.

For now,




19/08/2011

Emptiness as a Beginning

When I began the course on Art, Theory and Criticism at Jnanapravaha, I thought I knew what I was getting into. Chiefly, I thought that I was about to learn what fascinated me so much about contemporary art. Jeanette Winterson expresses this first beginning into the unknown beautifully in Art Objects, and I would like to quote her.


“Long looking at foreign paintings is equivalent to being dropped into a foreign city, where gradually, out of desire and despair, a few key words, and then a little syntax make a clearing in the silence."


Her essay struck me deeply, because I had found in her words a kindred spirit; someone who desired and despaired of art in equal measure. Oh, what a gladdening feeling to know that someone felt the same! This session went beautifully, and I returned home with hope and excitement.


Over the days, things changed. I would lose track in the middle of lectures. I would suddenly find myself playing peek-a-boo with straying thoughts, shooing them away shamefully. I often chastised myself, “what on earth are you doing, thinking about possible wisecracks and comebacks you could have deployed in past conversations? Listen to what he’s saying!” I would feel miserable and hopelessly lost as I found myself veering towards blankness and incomprehension, three-fourths of most sessions. One day, a guest lecturer asked me about Modernism in literature and I couldn’t say a word. My favourite college professor’s disappointed eyes washed over in front of me, and I died a little. That the guest lecturer and I were students of that same professor, albeit separated by uncountable generations, didn’t help. I had let a legacy down.


I would walk out of the classroom with my mind heaving with incomplete, tentative understandings of terms, concepts, histories, backgrounds, critical analyses and interpretations encountered in each session, and I would discard them as soon as I left the building. I began feeling depressed at my inertia, and despaired over my feeble, wisplike passions. Why wasn’t I fascinated anymore? Why did I not feel wondrously awed? Why did I not feel grateful and eager about being a part of the course, having the privilege of hearing such intrepid, erudite people share their thoughts and work with me? Why did I not want to explore, create, ask or act on anything?


As usually happens, discussing personal crises with others has its limitations. I feel reassured of the support of the people who care for me. I feel relieved to unburden myself for a while. But the search is my struggle alone, and the answers still remain as elusive as ever. These are not questions who become neighbours; it is alright not to know them intimately. Furthermore, some answers exist in the form of doubts. No, these are questions which plague and agonise and disrupt your life – till they are led to the truth.


Trains are vehicles of insight for me. This is true even when I am walking, though not in the fashion of a flaneur, but in that state of simultaneous thought and motion, when you find yourself extracting answers as automatically as you are walking. Being in motion has a curious way of letting you let go. Immediate objectives are taken care of – you are headed somewhere, you will arrive somewhere at some point in time. So now, you are free to exist peacefully in between. And today I realised why I was feeling depressed and reluctant to learn or explore anything.


It was because of my ego – a BA graduate in English literature from Sophia College. This arrogance consists of three tropes: 


the ‘BA graduate’ – one who can effortlessly absorb, read, write, understand, analyse, assimilate and express a text of whatever medium/genre


of ‘English literature’ – one who has studied closely and carefully various texts in English, spanning across period, style, intent and form and therefore should have no difficulty in continuing to do so


at ‘Sophia College’ – one who is a part of an institution of higher learning which is not only well-reputed, but has an illustrious history, which bequeaths you with an inheritance of unmatched intellectual abilities, that you have obviously lived up to at all times, and will naturally do so in the future


I couldn't accept the fact that I was finding it hard to understand lectures delivered in English. In something that was so closely related to literature. I refused to accept how much I had left behind, and how much I had to retrieve, and/or relearn. I was worried that thanks to my limited understanding of the sessions, I would submit lacklustre assignments. That my teacher would read my essay and be unfavourably surprised, “this is what she gives to me, the girl who did a BA in English from Sophia?” What I forgot was that I had not done anything towards keeping any of the skills that I developed during my three years of college, from rusting. And they had; they were now useless and required rigourous practise. And that the assignments were not judgments, not ends in themselves, but they were the first steps towards learning something new and unheard of.


Starting from scratch – this is the challenge that Jeanette spoke of all along, but which I now realised requires both humility and bravery. As I begin reading this once again, it starts making sense why our teacher began our course with this essay.


“Long looking at foreign paintings is equivalent to being dropped into a foreign city, where gradually, out of desire and despair, a few key words, and then a little syntax make a clearing in the silence. Art, all art, not just painting, is a foreign city and we deceive ourselves when we think it familiar. No-one is surprised to find that a foreign city follows its own customs and speaks its own language. Only a boor would ignore both and blame his defaulting on the place. Every day this happens to the artist and the art.


We have to recognise that the language of art, all art, is not our mother-tongue.”

22/06/2011

Hello

Tomorrow, I am travelling alone to Himachal Pradesh. I have never travelled alone like this before and the thought fills me with an unlikely mixture of satisfaction and excited curiosity. Satisfaction, because I have honestly acted on an impulse after a very long time and excited curiosity, because despite spending hours poring over websites, books, maps, blogs and talking endlessly to other travellers, my mind is a beautiful, snowy blank when I try to conjure feelings or images about the next fortnight of my life.

This trip is a thing of my dreams. When I thought about my itinerary, all I could think of was, "I want a river nearby." I know what I'm going after on this trip - it's that river. But what happens before, during or after - I don't know. And to know that this trip is such a mystery fills me with happiness. It is humbling and comforting to know that I desire things, but I can't design anything beyond that feeling.

I don't know everything about why I want to travel alone. A few reasons come to my mind like snapping fingers:

The freedom to go where I like, when I like, how I like.
The freedom to be lost somewhere, the freedom to go after something.
The space to choose within the choices that I create, and not choose between what I want versus what a fellow traveller wants.
The freedom to make personal, quirky travelling traditions and break unrelatable, rusty ones.
The freedom to be careful about something, and carefree about something.
The relief of being responsible just for me, the challenge of doing most things on my own.

Knowing me, other reasons why I want to travel alone at this moment may keep revealing themselves to me throughout my life. That thought makes me smile and it is a part of why I am writing this right now. I read this post recently and I was filled with a beautiful, blossoming nostalgia - a longing to be there once again, but a happiness to know that it happened, and that I was a part of it too.

Goodbye Bombay, goodbye to Vini in Bombay, and hello to the mystery that awaits me two thousand kilometres away.

03/03/2011

"The only good fight there is."

Happiness

- Anirudh Singh Chohan

Few people who can accurately claim to know me can testify that I have tried my level best to reverse-engineer happiness. I’ve tried all the ways to conjure it out of nowhere, but haven’t quite made it happen. That said, I am not even close to give up trying.

This may be a stretch of my imagination or just a bad approximation of how it would feel to be truly happy, but I will try and articulate it in the best way I know. Times when hours seem to pass like seconds and one is in a pinpoint of focus. Times when the real and surreal coincide and you live in the moment. Those very times when, there is perfect silence inside and one is alone with the gods. And there is perfect laughter. It’s truly what I find to be the only thing worth working towards. The only good fight there is. I see people meander and fumble through life standing up for nothing, growing old, just getting by and it pains me to see that the world around me seems to be too caught up in the humdrum of ‘the typical’ to actually breathe for a minute.

That is the very challenge that life throws at you. The big question: How far will you go?

This could mean not sleeping for 4 days or freezing in the cold waiting for someone. This could mean losing your lover, relatives, friends or even your mind. It could mean not leaving your seat for hours forgetting day and night. And if history says something, it could mean mockery and derision. But the place where it drops you, all of this won’t matter.

So cheers to going the full way, or not going at all.


03/09/2010

"Ladies, gentlemen, and those who are yet to make up your minds.."



1. Brit comedy.
2. Something I'm unfamiliar with - fashion.
3. Whips gender stereotypes - gently.
4. Groo-oo-oovy music.

Id est?

5. Watch!

(Photo Source)

24/08/2010

5 - Melancholia

I walked into the river
with a line from a song.
I wore my black cape
and I put on a frown.

I can't deny I want my
happy ending.

The smoke curled slowly
in psychedelic gloom.
The first time went by
in sadness for Haroun.

He can't deny he wants my
happy ending.

02/01/2010

AAAAAAAA!!! :D :D

http://education.nic.in/scho_announcements/UKComm-2010-Result.pdf

IO5TNU4389U29200277RTKJVO;ERIA;OIURIOU!$&e&^?hBKLJ!!!!!!&*)we%^&)ohmygod(itynuspr8o76p8ninroyublsdu43857389n5hfjkghfiladu$%@!!

"Words are very
Unnecessary."

                                                  - Moriarty

14/06/2009

Cigarette Girl

Hey there, hi
I seem to know you from long by
Your memories are like ashes
From my cigarette last night

Smoky, hazy, delicate
Like its flame that rustles, intimate
You slowly burned the night away
And glowed in darkness of my love

Smoke and fire
Nicotine desire

goodness.

 My first response to reading this blog again was, seriously, a post on parenting - that was what I last posted about? I can't help but ...