Watching the season finale of Project Runway last evening, I was struck by how emotional the finalists appeared to be. And even though one has to remember that this is a TV reality show and demands a higher level of drama than banal reality, the individual stories of how these guys faced tough circumstances and choices and still pursued their dream struck a true note. And they were all in the age zone of 29 to 33….the same as mine.
Which really led me to the question of what I have really achieved till date. Surprisingly enough, this question doesn’t really bother me as often as it seems to plague most of my friends and acquaintances. I am not sure why. It can’t be a lack of thinking capacity (though the lack of depth is evident)…as my perusal of this blog showed, there’s plenty and more of thinking going on about several areas and topics, related to myself and the world around me. Maybe it’s my usual denial strategy – I know this is a potentially thorny topic so I have locked it up, along with many others, in that little black trunk at the back of my mind, just not having the energy and inclination to deal with it. Or maybe I am just a little smug, with some bit of tunnel vision – chugging happily (and sometimes not so happily) along in this relatively stable life, achieving less than my potential, earning less than my potential, but disregarding the world roaring past. Or maybe I am just too rooted in my past – there is so much gratitude for what I have today, compared to the nightmare it could have been, that I am superstitious about questioning it at all.
Whatever the reason, the point is I don’t really think much about the question of achievement. Whenever I get asked a question about it, my response is pretty simple, and pretty true at the surface as well – I have my physical and mental faculties, I love what I do, I am able to enjoy more creature comforts than seemed possible 15 years ago, I have a lot of people that I love and who love me. Is there really anything more to life?
So I won’t think about that achievement bit right now either. What I do want to think a little more about is risk, and how much risk I have truly taken to get where I am today. And the answer is – negligible.
For someone who believes that his life takes on the character of a roller coaster ever so often, and who willingly gets on it, it’s a little bit of a surprise to realize that when it came to working, to chasing professional dreams, I didn’t really take that much of a risk.
When I think back to my teenage years, there were some things I was passionate about, especially books, movies, fashion, dance. And I had a reasonable amount of professional understanding about the art behind these fields – writing, critiquing, creating, directing, designing, choreography – to have made a serious try at one of them. Fashion seemed the most accessible and the most likely to yield a living, and I, along with my parents, did give serious consideration to pursuing an education on those lines.
I am not sure when, but somewhere along the line, that desire just seemed to dissolve away. And got replaced by a more fundamental need to secure the future of myself and to an extent my family. The very specific objective of doing an MBA came from there. And so did all the determination of getting there – fighting with well meaning relatives (who wanted me to do the more immediate, safer thing of getting a “computer education”), securing a personal loan and getting the support of Mum and Dolly to spend 2 years doing that. So I guess that was a bit of a risk. Again, when I decided to specialize in HR and chase placement in that field, I was told, by another group of well wishers, that I was taking a large risk. Therefore, within that relatively stable field and option that I chose, I did decide to do exactly what I wanted to do and took some risks to ensure that I could chase my own dreams.
But I wonder how it would have been if I had remained stuck to my original options. I say this to a lot of people now and I do believe in it – everything is possible. It might cause some pain initially and there would be some change management involved, but instead of giving up, it is possible to chase your dreams, personally or professionally. And yet I didn’t. Dulled by grief, fueled by a desire for security, missing any inspirational and knowledgeable figure around, I muddled my way through my thoughts and desires and did what I felt was right. And it was right in a way – like I said; I genuinely love what I do.
But that shouldn’t have stopped me from building a deeper level of knowledge or expertise in these areas over the years. I know so many people around me, wonderful people who truly inspire me, who have now let their “hobbies” take over their lives and found a different level of fulfillment at a stage of life when financial concerns are lesser and the spiritual hunger is more. I observe, accompany, support and encourage these friends to find that higher level of fulfillment and sometimes this change of direction is sustained and sometimes it isn’t. Both ways, a risk is taken and one is more a man for having taken it. So to speak.
And I? Except for the occasional vomit through this blog, there’s been no serious attempt at developing the craft of writing. Except for movie marathons, there’s been no attempt at taking advantage of multiple opportunities to actually visit the insides of the movie business and get inspired there. Have pretty much stopped following fashion, except a monthly GQ read. And never bothered to enroll at the thousands of classes that would have helped my natural talent for dance be built further through some technique.
Basically – no discipline, no depth, no follow through. The last 11 years of work life have been spent working, shopping, eating, drinking, reading, watching movies…and yes, loving and being loved. Not a bad deal. But where’s the risk?
In the middle of this chaotic, muddy world, I create a small space where I hope inspite of everything....basically, i blabber on all and sundry and hope that somewhere i contribute something. To myself, at least.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Friday, March 16, 2012
Transitions
Transitory periods. I hadn’t really thought of it that way till V mentioned it today. What an interesting word – it carries all the passion of a power point but actually stands for what are possibly some of the most alive/ dead/ painful/ enlightening/ energizing/ debilitating and occasionally even transformational moments of our lives.
As I look back, there are so many such moments that occur to me. Unfortunately, most of them are not a pleasant memory; but maybe that’s their nature – to cause the pain that leads to movement or change.
I remember standing on the railway platform in Delhi, waving to Unni as his train pulled out; Unni’s eyes wide and expressionless, Sidharth’s arm around my shoulder, Shekhar standing quietly by. We all knew a time was ending, a time that had been a roller coaster, but a wonderful time as well, bringing us together and forging relationships that would last a lifetime. I went back in Shekhar’s car and for that drive, and many days thereafter, I would keep getting those knots in my stomach as I thought of great moments that wouldn’t come again, of people I wouldn’t see again. And as much as I looked forward to the next phase of my life, the sense of loss was immense.
A couple of months later, I myself was departing on the same train to the same destination. This time it was me forcing myself to be cheerful and Mummy on the platform forcing a smile, and both of us pretending that this was a trip and not a move that would alter the way we lived, and loved. Lesson learnt – never spend a transitory period cooped up in a cabin from which there’s no respite.
I experienced transitions as a catalyst for growth first when I moved to Accenture. The experience was bewildering, irritating, intimidating, exhausting and ultimately – one of learning and growth. At the end of a typical long and frustrating conversation with GV, he looked into my eyes and asked “do you know your people?” Click. I rediscovered myself as an HR professional after that.
Another interesting phase was when I moved to Manila for a few months. The sense of alienation which gripped me (and caused a lot of acidity attacks) in the first couple of days actually turned out to be liberating. I could think afresh, I could craft relationships afresh, I could experiment with my working style, I could draft my own charter. A stream of energy sped through me which lasted for several weeks.
Or the day Arav was born. The apprehensions, the insecurity, the tension of the subsequent weeks was all worth it as it helped us all develop a greater appreciation and sensitivity of the people we are and what we are responsible for.
But more often than not, transition is associated with pain in my mind, whether it be the early years or more recent ones.
1991 - Hours in classes at school, pretending as if maths tests, and jokes with friends, were the most important things in life. And then an hour of shock as I dealt with reality at home.
1993 - Quiet, silent observation as I decoded the new world around me, a different culture, a different ethos, stoically (and sometimes, not so stoically) countering barbed comments and glances.
1997 – A whirlwind of rage, triggered by helplessness, that lasted for several months until I made some peace with myself and the world around me. In the process, I caused too much destruction, to self and others.
And then…
2006 - A heartbreaking goodbye at the airport, coming back to a house that bombarded me with memories every square inch. And kept at it until I finally took a break and came back again after the emotions had dulled.
2010 - Walking back to my office seat after returning from Delhi, empty inside; the next few days pausing in the middle of meetings to look around me and wonder – is this real? How can this happen, how can I even talk, when I have nothing inside me? And then, as the numbness receded and the pain returned, the wonder that I was still alive, I could still think, talk, express…and even laugh and smile.
And now? Today I just sit with a smile on my face, presumably a wry one, since the irony of this piece of writing doesn’t escape me, considering that the trigger and the subject is the same.
The craziness of the last few days recedes a little; the protesting voice in my head increases its volume, and still gets an acknowledgement but not an acceptance; I don’t feel anything in particular, except just a little exhausted; I keep smiling at snippets of silliness that my memory throws up. And as I smile, a certainty grows in my mind and makes me smile even more. And then my eyes flick to my laptop screen, where a word stands out against a name – Offline.
As I look back, there are so many such moments that occur to me. Unfortunately, most of them are not a pleasant memory; but maybe that’s their nature – to cause the pain that leads to movement or change.
I remember standing on the railway platform in Delhi, waving to Unni as his train pulled out; Unni’s eyes wide and expressionless, Sidharth’s arm around my shoulder, Shekhar standing quietly by. We all knew a time was ending, a time that had been a roller coaster, but a wonderful time as well, bringing us together and forging relationships that would last a lifetime. I went back in Shekhar’s car and for that drive, and many days thereafter, I would keep getting those knots in my stomach as I thought of great moments that wouldn’t come again, of people I wouldn’t see again. And as much as I looked forward to the next phase of my life, the sense of loss was immense.
A couple of months later, I myself was departing on the same train to the same destination. This time it was me forcing myself to be cheerful and Mummy on the platform forcing a smile, and both of us pretending that this was a trip and not a move that would alter the way we lived, and loved. Lesson learnt – never spend a transitory period cooped up in a cabin from which there’s no respite.
I experienced transitions as a catalyst for growth first when I moved to Accenture. The experience was bewildering, irritating, intimidating, exhausting and ultimately – one of learning and growth. At the end of a typical long and frustrating conversation with GV, he looked into my eyes and asked “do you know your people?” Click. I rediscovered myself as an HR professional after that.
Another interesting phase was when I moved to Manila for a few months. The sense of alienation which gripped me (and caused a lot of acidity attacks) in the first couple of days actually turned out to be liberating. I could think afresh, I could craft relationships afresh, I could experiment with my working style, I could draft my own charter. A stream of energy sped through me which lasted for several weeks.
Or the day Arav was born. The apprehensions, the insecurity, the tension of the subsequent weeks was all worth it as it helped us all develop a greater appreciation and sensitivity of the people we are and what we are responsible for.
But more often than not, transition is associated with pain in my mind, whether it be the early years or more recent ones.
1991 - Hours in classes at school, pretending as if maths tests, and jokes with friends, were the most important things in life. And then an hour of shock as I dealt with reality at home.
1993 - Quiet, silent observation as I decoded the new world around me, a different culture, a different ethos, stoically (and sometimes, not so stoically) countering barbed comments and glances.
1997 – A whirlwind of rage, triggered by helplessness, that lasted for several months until I made some peace with myself and the world around me. In the process, I caused too much destruction, to self and others.
And then…
2006 - A heartbreaking goodbye at the airport, coming back to a house that bombarded me with memories every square inch. And kept at it until I finally took a break and came back again after the emotions had dulled.
2010 - Walking back to my office seat after returning from Delhi, empty inside; the next few days pausing in the middle of meetings to look around me and wonder – is this real? How can this happen, how can I even talk, when I have nothing inside me? And then, as the numbness receded and the pain returned, the wonder that I was still alive, I could still think, talk, express…and even laugh and smile.
And now? Today I just sit with a smile on my face, presumably a wry one, since the irony of this piece of writing doesn’t escape me, considering that the trigger and the subject is the same.
The craziness of the last few days recedes a little; the protesting voice in my head increases its volume, and still gets an acknowledgement but not an acceptance; I don’t feel anything in particular, except just a little exhausted; I keep smiling at snippets of silliness that my memory throws up. And as I smile, a certainty grows in my mind and makes me smile even more. And then my eyes flick to my laptop screen, where a word stands out against a name – Offline.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
who's got the power?
It's 1:40 am on a Saturday night and I must admit, I am tired. It's been my usual Saturday - a mix of time spent with myself and with close friends...some at home, some out...some drinks, some food, some shopping. Deepa is staying over; we saw an episode of project runway and she has now retired to her room. But I decided to linger a few moments more and capture some of the thoughts that have been running under the surface for a while.
Once again, I find myself in that place where a lot seems to be happening all at once, most of it not very pleasant. Some of the people closest to me, both family and friends, are going through a tough time, to the point that I am reminded of what was possibly the worst time of my life, mummy's first breakdown (which to me symbolised the worst that could happen to a loved one). There's my own emotional state I am trying to deal with, trying to strike a balance between being honest and kind with myself...and sometimes I feel its kinder to leave it ambiguous, the clarity I would normally aspire for can be a little too sharp. As I try to find that balance and act according to it, I remain on a roller coaster. And then there are the more banal, but equally significant, topics to not just deal with but act on, career & finances. One way or the other, there's a lot to think, a lot to feel.
Not that I am unfamiliar with this state of affairs; in fact it's got the eerie familiarity of an old illness. And not that I am overwhelmed by it; as I grow older, I realize that my measure of self control is actually improving and its not a myth! I am able to get a larger perspective more easily and my "external face" is not as much of a yo-yo as it used to be earlier.
No...what I am more interested in this time is how and why this comes together in such a way. To truly seek answers to this, one must be reasonably well versed in areas of philosophy, theology and possibly spirituality. But then, unlike Shw, I am not one to dig dig dig. I would rather ask the question and have a response, rather than an answer.
So are there are powers that control us? And what are the powers that we control? Are they one and the same?
I would try and find some responses through the situation I am in right now. Yes, there's a lot going on, within and around me. Is what's happening to me unique? No. Many people worry for their loved ones; people grieve; people fall in and out of relationships; people plan their careers; people think about their finances. What is unique though, are two things.
One, that all these threads (a word I am using more and more often) seem to come together and get all knotted up at the same time; this does point towards a larger power (for want of a better word) controlling the movement of events and emotions in such a direction. And the word movement brings me to our favorite pastime - guessing the actions of planets and stars that allegedly control the events in our life. And that honestly doesnt sound very weird to me at all. I believe life, whether it be on a day to day basis or at an aggregate level, is all about energy and our struggle to compensate the negative with the positive. And what are planetary movements all about? Energy right...and the generation of it? So it's natural that our lives react to that constant, powerful field of energy surrounding the earth and our solar system and our galaxy and be influenced by it. Thus impacting moods, behaviors and inner systems that in turn determine many of the events that we seem happening "to" us. And whenever there's a rush of negative energy, the course of events would reflect that. But as an inherent system, the negative does get compensated by the positive, and that's where my hope lies. That no negativity can survive forever, it will have to be replaced by something positive, even if it be through a catalytic change, which in itself can be painful. Easier understood than absorbed though...if I think about a true tragedy, then this just sounds like a consolation theory.
The other thing that's unique about this is me. My reaction. My response. That's something only I determine, using my own resources - my basic values, my pride, my principles, even the advice or energy or support of my loved ones. And that's what gives me an incredible feeling of power. Many times, people tell me they feel awed or humbled before a symbol of what they feel is a stronger, larger power. I feel it too. Especially at the most elemental level, like when looking upon the sea. But as I feel that power, I often feel this surge of an answering call within me, the one that says "do with me what you can, but I decide how I feel, not you". If this is foolish pride, then so be it - it's what saves me from feeling disempowered, helpless.
But I dont think this response is one of foolish pride or anything flippant - I think it's a manifestation of the fundamental concept that lies at the root of many of the oldest religions, what we refer to as parmatama. The consciousness of the individual is just one part of a much larger, universal consciousness, and they are always connected to each other. This flow of energy is what shapes us...and what I need to remember is that the flow of energy is not always from the large collective to the individual; our own spirit and our actions also shape and influence what happens collectively.
Whether it be in dealing with personal conflict and pain, or driving social change, or responding to cataclysmic events, I wish to keep that message resonating with myself - that I have the power. In the wee hours of the night, when I just feel tired from the physical and mental exertions of the day, it's a good message to think about as I hope for sleep.
Once again, I find myself in that place where a lot seems to be happening all at once, most of it not very pleasant. Some of the people closest to me, both family and friends, are going through a tough time, to the point that I am reminded of what was possibly the worst time of my life, mummy's first breakdown (which to me symbolised the worst that could happen to a loved one). There's my own emotional state I am trying to deal with, trying to strike a balance between being honest and kind with myself...and sometimes I feel its kinder to leave it ambiguous, the clarity I would normally aspire for can be a little too sharp. As I try to find that balance and act according to it, I remain on a roller coaster. And then there are the more banal, but equally significant, topics to not just deal with but act on, career & finances. One way or the other, there's a lot to think, a lot to feel.
Not that I am unfamiliar with this state of affairs; in fact it's got the eerie familiarity of an old illness. And not that I am overwhelmed by it; as I grow older, I realize that my measure of self control is actually improving and its not a myth! I am able to get a larger perspective more easily and my "external face" is not as much of a yo-yo as it used to be earlier.
No...what I am more interested in this time is how and why this comes together in such a way. To truly seek answers to this, one must be reasonably well versed in areas of philosophy, theology and possibly spirituality. But then, unlike Shw, I am not one to dig dig dig. I would rather ask the question and have a response, rather than an answer.
So are there are powers that control us? And what are the powers that we control? Are they one and the same?
I would try and find some responses through the situation I am in right now. Yes, there's a lot going on, within and around me. Is what's happening to me unique? No. Many people worry for their loved ones; people grieve; people fall in and out of relationships; people plan their careers; people think about their finances. What is unique though, are two things.
One, that all these threads (a word I am using more and more often) seem to come together and get all knotted up at the same time; this does point towards a larger power (for want of a better word) controlling the movement of events and emotions in such a direction. And the word movement brings me to our favorite pastime - guessing the actions of planets and stars that allegedly control the events in our life. And that honestly doesnt sound very weird to me at all. I believe life, whether it be on a day to day basis or at an aggregate level, is all about energy and our struggle to compensate the negative with the positive. And what are planetary movements all about? Energy right...and the generation of it? So it's natural that our lives react to that constant, powerful field of energy surrounding the earth and our solar system and our galaxy and be influenced by it. Thus impacting moods, behaviors and inner systems that in turn determine many of the events that we seem happening "to" us. And whenever there's a rush of negative energy, the course of events would reflect that. But as an inherent system, the negative does get compensated by the positive, and that's where my hope lies. That no negativity can survive forever, it will have to be replaced by something positive, even if it be through a catalytic change, which in itself can be painful. Easier understood than absorbed though...if I think about a true tragedy, then this just sounds like a consolation theory.
The other thing that's unique about this is me. My reaction. My response. That's something only I determine, using my own resources - my basic values, my pride, my principles, even the advice or energy or support of my loved ones. And that's what gives me an incredible feeling of power. Many times, people tell me they feel awed or humbled before a symbol of what they feel is a stronger, larger power. I feel it too. Especially at the most elemental level, like when looking upon the sea. But as I feel that power, I often feel this surge of an answering call within me, the one that says "do with me what you can, but I decide how I feel, not you". If this is foolish pride, then so be it - it's what saves me from feeling disempowered, helpless.
But I dont think this response is one of foolish pride or anything flippant - I think it's a manifestation of the fundamental concept that lies at the root of many of the oldest religions, what we refer to as parmatama. The consciousness of the individual is just one part of a much larger, universal consciousness, and they are always connected to each other. This flow of energy is what shapes us...and what I need to remember is that the flow of energy is not always from the large collective to the individual; our own spirit and our actions also shape and influence what happens collectively.
Whether it be in dealing with personal conflict and pain, or driving social change, or responding to cataclysmic events, I wish to keep that message resonating with myself - that I have the power. In the wee hours of the night, when I just feel tired from the physical and mental exertions of the day, it's a good message to think about as I hope for sleep.
Thursday, March 08, 2012
My stimulus
Constant exchanges with V - banter, conversations, his writings - have been one of the main reasons for my recent resurgence/ stimulation. One sample is below. I am inspired by the constant flow of thought & energy...and yes, the personality.
I trudged up a mountain…the mountain was a sea
The mountain was a sea…
I went down a slope…skid several steps below
Didn’t realize the mountain was a sea
The waves cut deep..
Didn’t realize that I could brave the sea
Didn’t realize that it gave me strength
It gave me life
It buoyed me when I went down.
It gave me a hundred reasons to smile
It was my mountain and my sea
So I swam
And I rose…
I didn’t fall a step
I always let go
And now I know…
I live that sea
And I stand that tall mountain
I’m strong and I’m wise
And that mountain and sea is my life
- V
I trudged up a mountain…the mountain was a sea
The mountain was a sea…
I went down a slope…skid several steps below
Didn’t realize the mountain was a sea
The waves cut deep..
Didn’t realize that I could brave the sea
Didn’t realize that it gave me strength
It gave me life
It buoyed me when I went down.
It gave me a hundred reasons to smile
It was my mountain and my sea
So I swam
And I rose…
I didn’t fall a step
I always let go
And now I know…
I live that sea
And I stand that tall mountain
I’m strong and I’m wise
And that mountain and sea is my life
- V
Tuesday, March 06, 2012
Just taking charge
So a couple of weeks ago, I pinged Rajesh and told him I am frustrated at the sheer lack of new work done in LD for IDC over the last few months. He got the point. So did Becky. Today, I managed to anchor a 4 hour "working session" between 5 of us, and got the group to have a common pov and agree on 4 key actions. Loving myself!
I have also officially put my stake in the ground to find a new role within Accenture. As I remain open to exploring "opportunities" outside, I think its time I anyway started planning out my next move within the organization....and considering how the heavenly bodies are planning their movements, I shall be but another speck on the tail of some headwind. Nevertheless, this speck is determined to find its right home for the next couple of years.
I have also officially put my stake in the ground to find a new role within Accenture. As I remain open to exploring "opportunities" outside, I think its time I anyway started planning out my next move within the organization....and considering how the heavenly bodies are planning their movements, I shall be but another speck on the tail of some headwind. Nevertheless, this speck is determined to find its right home for the next couple of years.
Monday, March 05, 2012
Expressions with old friends and new...
Connecting with three old friends over a period of twenty four hours is....comforting. A long Sunday evening at Deepa's...and then a chat with Unni (whose birthday I nearly forgot as usual!), and then Shweta's in town, so we just caught up before crashing. It was as if after rolling on top of a turbulent sea, I entered a point of calm where the shore suddenly seemed nearer and the sky lighter. The sea is still there, and so are all the things in it, but it's less intimidating than it was earlier.
And yes, sometimes just expressing what's on your mind helps. A long dialogue over sms (as contradictory as that sounds) with V on Sat night was surprisingly effective in clarifying the mind and loosening the knots. Add the familiarity and comfort factor of an old friend to that mix, and who the hell needs counseling.
Well ok...maybe I do...but that's another story :)
And yes, sometimes just expressing what's on your mind helps. A long dialogue over sms (as contradictory as that sounds) with V on Sat night was surprisingly effective in clarifying the mind and loosening the knots. Add the familiarity and comfort factor of an old friend to that mix, and who the hell needs counseling.
Well ok...maybe I do...but that's another story :)
Sunday, March 04, 2012
Back to verbal diarrhea?
The last two months have been interesting, painful, inspiring, fulfilling, frustrating, saddening and joyous in equal measure. And, ironically, catalytic. I think I switched back on during my long trip, when feeling and thoughts suddenly found words and expression, and then I moved to No. 2 or 3 in fan speed on that fateful evening in Toit in December. Since then, it's been a bit of a tangled web, which I work through each day, all the while realizing that this is bigger than me...that something fundamental is shifting within and beyond, and that the person I will be at the end of this year is going to be very different from the person I am right now. It is scary and uncomfortable, but in a way exciting too.
The only way I can make sense of this journey is actually not by viewing the bigger picture but breaking it up into much smaller pieces, easier to understand, accept and digest. And by a constant "untangling" of the multiple threads that swarm around each day.
So I am going to try and spend 15 min each night just writing here. Whatever comes to my mind, whatever's top of my mind as I end the day. It means I will give up 15 min from my reading each day...which I can manage, considering the last year or two I have been on an overdrive when it comes to books. So here's hoping I will be able to maintain that discipline!
The only way I can make sense of this journey is actually not by viewing the bigger picture but breaking it up into much smaller pieces, easier to understand, accept and digest. And by a constant "untangling" of the multiple threads that swarm around each day.
So I am going to try and spend 15 min each night just writing here. Whatever comes to my mind, whatever's top of my mind as I end the day. It means I will give up 15 min from my reading each day...which I can manage, considering the last year or two I have been on an overdrive when it comes to books. So here's hoping I will be able to maintain that discipline!
Movies of 2011
(written in Jan 2011)
2011 stands out as the most disappointing year in movies I can remember. Even the movies I liked the most barely stand up to earlier favorites. I must admit though that I am partly at fault – I didn’t see several movies which got very favorable reviews.
Even so, the year was filled with disappointments – established filmmakers and stars, who so far had had a keen eye for quality, delivered turkeys. A terrible, terrible film became the biggest grosser of the year (even if blockbusters weren’t known for their artistic merit, there had always been a baseline level of quality, which disappeared this year). And the overall caliber of actresses plummeted further with Kareena settling for being arm candy, Katrina being the most chased of Barbie dolls, and other talented actresses being out of work. In comparison, Vidya Balan sparkled, albeit partly on her own merit. Which is probably why no top “hero” is working with her. Compare this with the hey-days of Sridevi and Madhuri, or even Kajol and Karisma, when they worked with the top actors of the time, and the gap is even more stark.
If I do need to find the silver lining, it would be that the performances of lead actors were far superior than the films surrounding them – they were often let down by lazy scripting or loose editing. Also, the scripts themselves were quite varied, continuing the trends of the last few years. Smaller films made with lower budgets and lesser stars no longer get ignored but do decent business in a niche market, somewhat compensating for the success of the monstrous ones.
So here’s the best of the worst in 2011, according to me…
Delhi Belly – great fun, well told, quietly broke a lot of new ground in Hindi cinema especially in terms of characters.
Rockstar – to me, this was a pitch perfect performance by Ranbir, conveying the passion and angst the film demanded. Nargis performed at the other end of the spectrum, dulling the overall impact.
Don 2 – extremely disappointing compared to anticipation and potential. But SRK saved the day and made it very watchable.
Dhobi Ghat – I didn’t expect much and maybe that’s why was pleasantly surprised. Smooth, subtle and one of those movies that lend itself to repeated watch
Ragini MMS – a well made horror. Always welcome!
Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara – again, disappointing compared to what it could have been. But still a cut above the rest – unusual premise, interesting characters, good music and a very attractive Farhan.
The Dirty Picture – great performances, fresh script, average execution
Yeh Saali Zindagi – gritty and edgy with good performances.
Shor in the City – experimental format of multiple stories linked together (also seen in Dhobi Ghat) – and it worked to a point. Good pace and performances but missed the impact somehow.
No One Killed Jessica – again, could have been a great movie. Ended up being a rather unimaginative recital elevated by Rani and Vidya.
Movies that could have made the grade had I watched them - Budddha Hoga Tera Baap, Bol, Stanley Ka Dabba, I AM, Mujhse Fraandship Karoge.
And the most disappointing movies of the year – Saat Khoon Maaf and RA-One. Even though I am a Vishal Bhardwaj and SRK fan, I wouldn’t dare list them as favorites. At the most, I found both the movies mildly entertaining.
FYI, my favorite movies of 2010 were the following. Even the bottom of the list in 2010 is better than the top in 2011!
Band Baaja Baraat
Lahore
Tere Bin Laden
My Name is Khan
Dabangg
13B
Rajneeti
Ishqiya
Karthik Calling Karthik
Once Upon a Time in Mumbai
Jhootha Hi Sahi
Guzaarish
Do Dooni Char
2011 stands out as the most disappointing year in movies I can remember. Even the movies I liked the most barely stand up to earlier favorites. I must admit though that I am partly at fault – I didn’t see several movies which got very favorable reviews.
Even so, the year was filled with disappointments – established filmmakers and stars, who so far had had a keen eye for quality, delivered turkeys. A terrible, terrible film became the biggest grosser of the year (even if blockbusters weren’t known for their artistic merit, there had always been a baseline level of quality, which disappeared this year). And the overall caliber of actresses plummeted further with Kareena settling for being arm candy, Katrina being the most chased of Barbie dolls, and other talented actresses being out of work. In comparison, Vidya Balan sparkled, albeit partly on her own merit. Which is probably why no top “hero” is working with her. Compare this with the hey-days of Sridevi and Madhuri, or even Kajol and Karisma, when they worked with the top actors of the time, and the gap is even more stark.
If I do need to find the silver lining, it would be that the performances of lead actors were far superior than the films surrounding them – they were often let down by lazy scripting or loose editing. Also, the scripts themselves were quite varied, continuing the trends of the last few years. Smaller films made with lower budgets and lesser stars no longer get ignored but do decent business in a niche market, somewhat compensating for the success of the monstrous ones.
So here’s the best of the worst in 2011, according to me…
Delhi Belly – great fun, well told, quietly broke a lot of new ground in Hindi cinema especially in terms of characters.
Rockstar – to me, this was a pitch perfect performance by Ranbir, conveying the passion and angst the film demanded. Nargis performed at the other end of the spectrum, dulling the overall impact.
Don 2 – extremely disappointing compared to anticipation and potential. But SRK saved the day and made it very watchable.
Dhobi Ghat – I didn’t expect much and maybe that’s why was pleasantly surprised. Smooth, subtle and one of those movies that lend itself to repeated watch
Ragini MMS – a well made horror. Always welcome!
Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara – again, disappointing compared to what it could have been. But still a cut above the rest – unusual premise, interesting characters, good music and a very attractive Farhan.
The Dirty Picture – great performances, fresh script, average execution
Yeh Saali Zindagi – gritty and edgy with good performances.
Shor in the City – experimental format of multiple stories linked together (also seen in Dhobi Ghat) – and it worked to a point. Good pace and performances but missed the impact somehow.
No One Killed Jessica – again, could have been a great movie. Ended up being a rather unimaginative recital elevated by Rani and Vidya.
Movies that could have made the grade had I watched them - Budddha Hoga Tera Baap, Bol, Stanley Ka Dabba, I AM, Mujhse Fraandship Karoge.
And the most disappointing movies of the year – Saat Khoon Maaf and RA-One. Even though I am a Vishal Bhardwaj and SRK fan, I wouldn’t dare list them as favorites. At the most, I found both the movies mildly entertaining.
FYI, my favorite movies of 2010 were the following. Even the bottom of the list in 2010 is better than the top in 2011!
Band Baaja Baraat
Lahore
Tere Bin Laden
My Name is Khan
Dabangg
13B
Rajneeti
Ishqiya
Karthik Calling Karthik
Once Upon a Time in Mumbai
Jhootha Hi Sahi
Guzaarish
Do Dooni Char
Ruminations of a 3-day tourist in Paris
(written in Oct 2011)
Why people would want to sit on tiny tables three feet away from roaring traffic and poisonous fumes, consume copious amounts of food and drink at a leisurely pace, and believe that they are absorbing the feel of being in gay Paree, is beyond me. While I am familiar with the Indian culinary obsession with street food garnished with dirt and other unmentionables, I doubt if that is what’s on the mind of these well-heeled guests. Maybe the answer lies across the road, in those little book-shacks (for want of a better word, or the right French term).
Benevolent dictatorships and autocracies around the world could take some tips from these shacks on how to sell idealism and romance and make people believe in (and shell out good money for) a reality that doesn’t exist. Three out of every five shacks have a couple of hundred drawings, watercolors and sometimes oil paintings of Paris’ most scenic aspects captured on paper. What’s interesting to note is that none of these include even a hint of anything that resembles automobiles, mobile phones, dispirited trees or any of other symbols of current urban sadness. And if there are people, they are usually dressed in clothes right off designer racks, or carry large umbrellas that can act as alternative homes to the homeless (who also never appear in any of the scenes depicting Seine’s walkways). And all the shacks contain some form of literature – novels by French authors, or French translations of books from all over the world (thus perpetuating the assumption of this being the center of the literary world), old and new comics, covers of vintage magazines, old philosophical and educational tomes and so on. If an alien were to land right there, it could be forgiven for thinking it had found Utopia. Not that you need to be from another planet to believe that. Hordes of tourists collectively fall under the influence of this opium and spend pleasurable days browsing these shacks, walking along the river and eating their onion soup three feet away from the friendly neighborhood cars & scooters. Yours truly included.
Absinthe and assorted drugs may have been responsible for the creation of some great art, including poetry, novels and paintings in Paris in the eighteenth and nineteenth century. But it is these shacks and museums, and the tourists in them, which will probably trigger a similar explosion of material for the subsequent generations. Except that instead of novels and poetry, what they will be subjected to are endless galleries chronicling every frame of the city through photographs. Every picturesque (or even the not-so-picturesque) surface of the city will be recorded for posterity; whether it be the gothic arches and cobbled streets, or the underbelly of bridges and chain supermarket fronts, all are fair game. And the custodians and unwitting historians of this priceless archiving will be the Chinese, who faithfully click away at everything pointed out by flag-waving tour guides, all the while delicately balancing their Louis Vuitton bags on their arms. Despite all these changes, the assorted life forms carved and embellished on most Parisian buildings continue to look down disdainfully at us mere mortals clicking away or gazing at them in awe. It’s as if these centuries-old symbols of Parisian culture and aesthetics have seen plenty come and go, secure that they present a splendid vista difficult to replicate at such scale and density in any other place. Even in China.
However, other than LV, another thing that the Chinese and Europeans have in common is their love for queues (which of course is directly opposite to Indians who wouldn’t know a queue if it bit them). As a tourist hot spot, Paris has prepared itself well. At most information or ticket counters, the clerks try to respond in English (never mind the exasperated raised eyebrows and unintelligible accents, at least they try!) and most tourist attractions are equipped with automated ticket machines. But if there’s someone doing a return-on-investment study on these machines, they would produce a disappointing report as nearly all of them remain woefully underutilized while thousands (okay, hundreds) of sheep (okay, people) stand patiently in line to buy tickets from the aforementioned clerks staring vacantly into space. I can just see our middle class grandfathers rubbing their hands in glee as they look on these fine examples of people who work hard for what they get. Or maybe they just enjoy the social interaction.
Not that social interaction is in short supply. For a society that regularly dishes out movies about lonely, dysfunctional people, most people on the streets look surprisingly chirpy, thus proving that movies reflect an alternate reality. Even the staff in service roles (and I use the word service in the most loose form imaginable) talk amiably to each other, whereas in most other cities they usually just grunt and growl. But then most other cities are not as beautiful; not that the Parisians would let you believe that they think their city’s beautiful, their magnificent shrugs could fool you into thinking they take their city for granted. After all, it’s just not done to show pleasure at such compliments, even if they are expected. That would be quite American, and that’s one thing they are certainly not. No…they belong to the land that’s given the world some of the finest art and architecture over the last few centuries, not to mention the fries, cheese, wine, kisses, beards and windows the modern world knows them for.
But is that excuse enough for the famous unflappable shrug in response to every question, even logical ones like “why is this counter closed when it’s not closing time yet”? Or for staring at you like you are a demented stranger, instead of a respectable successful man who’s just trying to tie his scarf against the wind? Or for the shockingly slow service at the cafes, even if the waiters are impossibly chic and cute? Artistic gestures of the hand are not a substitute for the soup I ordered, I felt like telling them sometimes. But then they would have looked at me as if I am retarded and shrugged. You can’t win. Once the soup does arrive, followed by other delicacies, the magic begins to work and you calm down and look upon the world with kindly eyes, and even the eye-popping amount in the bill is paid with the careless indulgence that billionaires might display towards their most recently purchased yacht.
Despite all this seeming indifference, the French do get roused to emotion sometimes. It could be while passionately arguing the merits of a book or denouncing the Americans. How they reconcile that with their eager sampling of American food chains and designer brands is something I wonder at. Like the French lady who told me that all current economic, social and political ills of the world are caused by America, all the while sipping on a Coke glass as large as her handbag. Politeness (and my fear of being greeted by that shrug) forbade me from asking her if current economic woes could have been lessened if the French were to work just a little bit more. Paris probably rivals (and outdoes) Calcutta in the number of strikes its workforce goes on during the year. They get their training in school with never being made to study for more than 2 days in a row.
On the other hand, this attitude to work is precisely what allows them to look after themselves with the luxury and intensityaffordable only by rich socialites elsewhere in the world. When one speaks or thinks of the beauty of Paris, it is not just the architecture and the river and the museum that comes to mind, but the people themselves. With their carelessly draped scarves and the carefully tousled hair, they makes us tourists bow our head in shame and quickly fork out more euros for more wine.
Having arrived here from London, it was natural for me to make some immediate comparisons. The difference in language and style aside (why do the Londoners need to try so hard to look good?), I would choose the British sense of humor and courtesy (even if most of it is bathed in sarcasm) over the cool, inscrutable gaze and stealthy smiles of the French. London is much greener too and seems to have less traffic. Though the French cafes and bars have cleaner toilets. It’s a close call.
But what even a Londoner would appreciate is the sheer richness of craft and detail in the city. Every imaginable surface is embellished and painted and gilded with a level of detail that would challenge Thackeray’s talent for descriptive narratives. As for the corners, the architects and artisans seemed to have participated in competitions for the most exotic and dramatic ones, resulting in a set of sights that drain the cameras and the souls both, sending us to the nearest bar in need of urgent refreshments.
You could also head to the Moulin Rouge which, aside from sporting the trendiest windmill this side of the world, is helpfully near to a series of sex shops of such scale, variety and size that would put some of the notorious Asian cities to shame. But then, this is Paris. Turn a corner, and you would find yourself walking up steep alleys, filled with cafes and bars where pretty young things are earnestly discussing what could be the works of Voltaire but could easily be the features of the latest Apple products. It could very well be the former. In those book shacks along the river, as I greedily browse through the authors and titles and wonder how long it will take me to learn French, I am not rubbing shoulders with people of my age or older as in other cities, but instead with a younger crowd who interact with the owners, who in turn resume their reading in between chats, another difference from other places.
Before I know it, this round of coffees, drinks, walks, books, eavesdropping, observing and photography comes to an end and I am back to the French version of the Mumbai local rail station, the Charles De Gaulle airport. After a couple of hours of standing in queues, disdainful staff and expensive coffees, I am on the plane to London, sighing with relief.
But as the aircraft rises, my irritation level falls and I spy the river beneath. And I am taken back in time. The light falls on the water and reflects back on the arched stone bridges. The gentle wind, with a hint of chill, ruffling the surface. The friends and lovers sit with their picnic lunches along the bank. The glimpse of the intricate buildings on the road, the sound of traffic in the background. And a solitary figure takes this all in and resolves to return. Soon.
Why people would want to sit on tiny tables three feet away from roaring traffic and poisonous fumes, consume copious amounts of food and drink at a leisurely pace, and believe that they are absorbing the feel of being in gay Paree, is beyond me. While I am familiar with the Indian culinary obsession with street food garnished with dirt and other unmentionables, I doubt if that is what’s on the mind of these well-heeled guests. Maybe the answer lies across the road, in those little book-shacks (for want of a better word, or the right French term).
Benevolent dictatorships and autocracies around the world could take some tips from these shacks on how to sell idealism and romance and make people believe in (and shell out good money for) a reality that doesn’t exist. Three out of every five shacks have a couple of hundred drawings, watercolors and sometimes oil paintings of Paris’ most scenic aspects captured on paper. What’s interesting to note is that none of these include even a hint of anything that resembles automobiles, mobile phones, dispirited trees or any of other symbols of current urban sadness. And if there are people, they are usually dressed in clothes right off designer racks, or carry large umbrellas that can act as alternative homes to the homeless (who also never appear in any of the scenes depicting Seine’s walkways). And all the shacks contain some form of literature – novels by French authors, or French translations of books from all over the world (thus perpetuating the assumption of this being the center of the literary world), old and new comics, covers of vintage magazines, old philosophical and educational tomes and so on. If an alien were to land right there, it could be forgiven for thinking it had found Utopia. Not that you need to be from another planet to believe that. Hordes of tourists collectively fall under the influence of this opium and spend pleasurable days browsing these shacks, walking along the river and eating their onion soup three feet away from the friendly neighborhood cars & scooters. Yours truly included.
Absinthe and assorted drugs may have been responsible for the creation of some great art, including poetry, novels and paintings in Paris in the eighteenth and nineteenth century. But it is these shacks and museums, and the tourists in them, which will probably trigger a similar explosion of material for the subsequent generations. Except that instead of novels and poetry, what they will be subjected to are endless galleries chronicling every frame of the city through photographs. Every picturesque (or even the not-so-picturesque) surface of the city will be recorded for posterity; whether it be the gothic arches and cobbled streets, or the underbelly of bridges and chain supermarket fronts, all are fair game. And the custodians and unwitting historians of this priceless archiving will be the Chinese, who faithfully click away at everything pointed out by flag-waving tour guides, all the while delicately balancing their Louis Vuitton bags on their arms. Despite all these changes, the assorted life forms carved and embellished on most Parisian buildings continue to look down disdainfully at us mere mortals clicking away or gazing at them in awe. It’s as if these centuries-old symbols of Parisian culture and aesthetics have seen plenty come and go, secure that they present a splendid vista difficult to replicate at such scale and density in any other place. Even in China.
However, other than LV, another thing that the Chinese and Europeans have in common is their love for queues (which of course is directly opposite to Indians who wouldn’t know a queue if it bit them). As a tourist hot spot, Paris has prepared itself well. At most information or ticket counters, the clerks try to respond in English (never mind the exasperated raised eyebrows and unintelligible accents, at least they try!) and most tourist attractions are equipped with automated ticket machines. But if there’s someone doing a return-on-investment study on these machines, they would produce a disappointing report as nearly all of them remain woefully underutilized while thousands (okay, hundreds) of sheep (okay, people) stand patiently in line to buy tickets from the aforementioned clerks staring vacantly into space. I can just see our middle class grandfathers rubbing their hands in glee as they look on these fine examples of people who work hard for what they get. Or maybe they just enjoy the social interaction.
Not that social interaction is in short supply. For a society that regularly dishes out movies about lonely, dysfunctional people, most people on the streets look surprisingly chirpy, thus proving that movies reflect an alternate reality. Even the staff in service roles (and I use the word service in the most loose form imaginable) talk amiably to each other, whereas in most other cities they usually just grunt and growl. But then most other cities are not as beautiful; not that the Parisians would let you believe that they think their city’s beautiful, their magnificent shrugs could fool you into thinking they take their city for granted. After all, it’s just not done to show pleasure at such compliments, even if they are expected. That would be quite American, and that’s one thing they are certainly not. No…they belong to the land that’s given the world some of the finest art and architecture over the last few centuries, not to mention the fries, cheese, wine, kisses, beards and windows the modern world knows them for.
But is that excuse enough for the famous unflappable shrug in response to every question, even logical ones like “why is this counter closed when it’s not closing time yet”? Or for staring at you like you are a demented stranger, instead of a respectable successful man who’s just trying to tie his scarf against the wind? Or for the shockingly slow service at the cafes, even if the waiters are impossibly chic and cute? Artistic gestures of the hand are not a substitute for the soup I ordered, I felt like telling them sometimes. But then they would have looked at me as if I am retarded and shrugged. You can’t win. Once the soup does arrive, followed by other delicacies, the magic begins to work and you calm down and look upon the world with kindly eyes, and even the eye-popping amount in the bill is paid with the careless indulgence that billionaires might display towards their most recently purchased yacht.
Despite all this seeming indifference, the French do get roused to emotion sometimes. It could be while passionately arguing the merits of a book or denouncing the Americans. How they reconcile that with their eager sampling of American food chains and designer brands is something I wonder at. Like the French lady who told me that all current economic, social and political ills of the world are caused by America, all the while sipping on a Coke glass as large as her handbag. Politeness (and my fear of being greeted by that shrug) forbade me from asking her if current economic woes could have been lessened if the French were to work just a little bit more. Paris probably rivals (and outdoes) Calcutta in the number of strikes its workforce goes on during the year. They get their training in school with never being made to study for more than 2 days in a row.
On the other hand, this attitude to work is precisely what allows them to look after themselves with the luxury and intensityaffordable only by rich socialites elsewhere in the world. When one speaks or thinks of the beauty of Paris, it is not just the architecture and the river and the museum that comes to mind, but the people themselves. With their carelessly draped scarves and the carefully tousled hair, they makes us tourists bow our head in shame and quickly fork out more euros for more wine.
Having arrived here from London, it was natural for me to make some immediate comparisons. The difference in language and style aside (why do the Londoners need to try so hard to look good?), I would choose the British sense of humor and courtesy (even if most of it is bathed in sarcasm) over the cool, inscrutable gaze and stealthy smiles of the French. London is much greener too and seems to have less traffic. Though the French cafes and bars have cleaner toilets. It’s a close call.
But what even a Londoner would appreciate is the sheer richness of craft and detail in the city. Every imaginable surface is embellished and painted and gilded with a level of detail that would challenge Thackeray’s talent for descriptive narratives. As for the corners, the architects and artisans seemed to have participated in competitions for the most exotic and dramatic ones, resulting in a set of sights that drain the cameras and the souls both, sending us to the nearest bar in need of urgent refreshments.
You could also head to the Moulin Rouge which, aside from sporting the trendiest windmill this side of the world, is helpfully near to a series of sex shops of such scale, variety and size that would put some of the notorious Asian cities to shame. But then, this is Paris. Turn a corner, and you would find yourself walking up steep alleys, filled with cafes and bars where pretty young things are earnestly discussing what could be the works of Voltaire but could easily be the features of the latest Apple products. It could very well be the former. In those book shacks along the river, as I greedily browse through the authors and titles and wonder how long it will take me to learn French, I am not rubbing shoulders with people of my age or older as in other cities, but instead with a younger crowd who interact with the owners, who in turn resume their reading in between chats, another difference from other places.
Before I know it, this round of coffees, drinks, walks, books, eavesdropping, observing and photography comes to an end and I am back to the French version of the Mumbai local rail station, the Charles De Gaulle airport. After a couple of hours of standing in queues, disdainful staff and expensive coffees, I am on the plane to London, sighing with relief.
But as the aircraft rises, my irritation level falls and I spy the river beneath. And I am taken back in time. The light falls on the water and reflects back on the arched stone bridges. The gentle wind, with a hint of chill, ruffling the surface. The friends and lovers sit with their picnic lunches along the bank. The glimpse of the intricate buildings on the road, the sound of traffic in the background. And a solitary figure takes this all in and resolves to return. Soon.
God bless
(written in Oct 2011, on my trip)
I sit at the café looking out of the windows that give me a clear view of the square, in all its windy and cobbled glory. Empty chairs belonging to this café and the others around it are placed around the edges of the square, waiting for customers that they know will not come. A moss-covered statue stands tall in the middle, completing the look. There’s the town hall, trying to look dignified and imposing, in vain. There’s the usual assortment of self-important buildings strewn around the square, and even a large clock. A few people wander on the streets, braving the chill, possibly for early shopping. But my eye is caught by a woman.
A lady, I should say. She sits upright in one of the chairs of the café, right outside the window, taking occasional sips from a cup of steaming coffee placed on her table. She is clad in a long, well-cut trench coat and dark colored books that are not muddy despite the weather. Her eyes are clear and her face unlined, though her advanced age is obvious by her grey hair, clearly swept back from her face and arranged in neat frames around it. Her ears sport pearl earrings, but she’s not wearing any other jewellery, except for a silver, delicate watch. There’s a relaxed expression on her face as she smokes a cigarette, though I can’t see the packet in sight.
That, and the grey hair, suddenly makes me think of Nanima. I wonder what she would have to say. Would she balk at the smoking, deeming it unfit for a person who should be setting examples for the others? Or would she instead comment on the whole ensemble – the clothes, the hair, the attitude? I actually suspect that she would be a little admiring. Not of the cigarette, but the fact that an elderly lady is sitting in a café on her own, having coffee, unencumbered by people around her and obviously quite relaxed about it. A rare sight in India. And if there’s one person who could understand the dignity and independence of this scene, it would be Nanima.
Not that she didn’t like to be around people.Far from it. She looked forward to social occasions and had a strong sense of family, first bringing up three children with undivided attention and then pretty much rearing me, my sister and my cousin in our early years, giving us so much love that it acted as our foundation of confidence for most of our adult lives. But she also had a sense of self that set her apart from all her peers who got defined only in relation to their husbands and children.
As I look again at the well cut coat and expensive shoes of the lady at the cafe, I recollect the white and blue printed silk sarees that Nanimawas fond of, wearing them crisply tucked in, a cream shawl on her shoulders, a small handbag on her arms, setting out for “work”. Never mind that the work was sometimes to go and help out at her brother in law’s office, or sometimes to change two crowded buses and travel a couple of hours to reach a village, where she would talk to the women about education and smokeless chulhas. She would often stop by at our place, ringing our bell from below and smiling broadly as I peeped over the terrace ledge and told her how nice she was looking. Sometimes it would be to ask us if we needed anything, sometimes it would be just to drop some goodies she had brought. In the evening, at her little one room apartment, she would cook a simple but hearty meal of paranthas, which she would have sitting in front of her tiny TV. If the next day were a weekend, she would stock up on mangoes or other fruits, knowing that my sister or I would pay her a visit. We would spend our afternoon or evening there, often forsaking our air conditioned room to spend time with her; share our school stories as she listened eagerly, listen to her experiences and advise her sagely, eat up all the fruits and whatever else was available, sometimes just in silence and take a nap on the warmest of beds, and usually go for a walk in the evening, with an ice cream or peanuts at the end of it.
The thought of the peanuts suddenly makes me remember the yogurt covered peanuts I have in my bag, one of my many gluttonous weaknesses. But peanuts make me thirsty and I need to ask for some water. My friends say I must have been a camel in my earlier life, so rarely do I have water. I guess I got it from my mother, who’s the same. Was Nanima like that too?
As with everything else, she was fastidious about eating habits. Not that she insisted on elaborate traditional regiments, but she liked to have her three meals at predictable times, with a predictable level of nutrition involved. She could never understand, or appreciate, people who took food lightly. Not one to sermonize, she would instead take things into her own hands and drum up something simple, nutritious and usually delicious. Not that the kitchen was the center of her active life. She would wash clothes, make breakfast for the family, personally clean her own room, supervise the maids and generally look after wherever she would live. And find time for watching some tv and reading till she slept off with the glasses on her face and the light on. And if you asked her to come out for a movie or shopping, she would be ready in a matter of minutes. How she found that energy that would shame people half her age (and did), I never knew. A couple of times when I asked her, she just said “Jo karnahai so karna hai; aur kuch cheezen pasand hai”.
That simple response is a lesson to all of us armchair philosophers. These kids cycling on the square, do they know what that means? Or are they too dissolved in existential angst and endless debates about what they want versus what they need versus what’s the right thing to do? Nanima discovered early on that sometimes there’s no choice, you just need to deal with what life gives you and make the best of it. Whether it be moving at an early age from Pakistan to India, or living most of her life in stringent financial conditions or the self-absorbed unwitting neglect of her adult children and grandchildren. Or living in a disturbed household for seven years. When she finally left, determinedly shutting her ears to the crying voice of the child she loved the most, she maintained a calm that broke only when she sobbed her heart out for many days, alone. The same calm that she displayed as her siblings and children were struck by tragedy time after time, she alone standing like a pillar of strength, offering both love and a fortitude that tested the vagaries of destiny. You have no choice as you look on the faces of the dead, your loved ones, and retreat into a silence of fatalistic acceptance, yet invincible dignity.
But as I myself struggle to recover from an over exhausted mind and body, and see similar faces around me, I know that the secret to carrying on is not to accept that there’s no choice, but to believe that our choice is about us, and how we react to the world around.
In one of my last conversations with her, she spoke in her usual practical tone about whether it’s worth spending money on her neighborhood kitty considering that each round takes more than a year and she is not certain if she will survive the next one. As I responded vehemently that she is in good health and such statements only attract negative energy, she changed the subject and asked me about my upcoming vacation plans and then signed off with her customary “god bless”. A few weeks later, I returned from the vacation and spent a night with restless dreams about her, waking up with a resolve to speak with her. But she was gone, passed away the way she wanted to, quickly, painlessly and without fuss, next to her daughter.
The square is deserted by now, the chilly wind having dispersed the last of the brave souls. The sky is grey, the street lamps dispel weak light. And the lady at the table is gone. In the faint distance, someone calls out “Nanima, Nanima”, in an urgent, emphatic voice assured of the attention and affection of her response.
The voice is mine, so are the tears.
I sit at the café looking out of the windows that give me a clear view of the square, in all its windy and cobbled glory. Empty chairs belonging to this café and the others around it are placed around the edges of the square, waiting for customers that they know will not come. A moss-covered statue stands tall in the middle, completing the look. There’s the town hall, trying to look dignified and imposing, in vain. There’s the usual assortment of self-important buildings strewn around the square, and even a large clock. A few people wander on the streets, braving the chill, possibly for early shopping. But my eye is caught by a woman.
A lady, I should say. She sits upright in one of the chairs of the café, right outside the window, taking occasional sips from a cup of steaming coffee placed on her table. She is clad in a long, well-cut trench coat and dark colored books that are not muddy despite the weather. Her eyes are clear and her face unlined, though her advanced age is obvious by her grey hair, clearly swept back from her face and arranged in neat frames around it. Her ears sport pearl earrings, but she’s not wearing any other jewellery, except for a silver, delicate watch. There’s a relaxed expression on her face as she smokes a cigarette, though I can’t see the packet in sight.
That, and the grey hair, suddenly makes me think of Nanima. I wonder what she would have to say. Would she balk at the smoking, deeming it unfit for a person who should be setting examples for the others? Or would she instead comment on the whole ensemble – the clothes, the hair, the attitude? I actually suspect that she would be a little admiring. Not of the cigarette, but the fact that an elderly lady is sitting in a café on her own, having coffee, unencumbered by people around her and obviously quite relaxed about it. A rare sight in India. And if there’s one person who could understand the dignity and independence of this scene, it would be Nanima.
Not that she didn’t like to be around people.Far from it. She looked forward to social occasions and had a strong sense of family, first bringing up three children with undivided attention and then pretty much rearing me, my sister and my cousin in our early years, giving us so much love that it acted as our foundation of confidence for most of our adult lives. But she also had a sense of self that set her apart from all her peers who got defined only in relation to their husbands and children.
As I look again at the well cut coat and expensive shoes of the lady at the cafe, I recollect the white and blue printed silk sarees that Nanimawas fond of, wearing them crisply tucked in, a cream shawl on her shoulders, a small handbag on her arms, setting out for “work”. Never mind that the work was sometimes to go and help out at her brother in law’s office, or sometimes to change two crowded buses and travel a couple of hours to reach a village, where she would talk to the women about education and smokeless chulhas. She would often stop by at our place, ringing our bell from below and smiling broadly as I peeped over the terrace ledge and told her how nice she was looking. Sometimes it would be to ask us if we needed anything, sometimes it would be just to drop some goodies she had brought. In the evening, at her little one room apartment, she would cook a simple but hearty meal of paranthas, which she would have sitting in front of her tiny TV. If the next day were a weekend, she would stock up on mangoes or other fruits, knowing that my sister or I would pay her a visit. We would spend our afternoon or evening there, often forsaking our air conditioned room to spend time with her; share our school stories as she listened eagerly, listen to her experiences and advise her sagely, eat up all the fruits and whatever else was available, sometimes just in silence and take a nap on the warmest of beds, and usually go for a walk in the evening, with an ice cream or peanuts at the end of it.
The thought of the peanuts suddenly makes me remember the yogurt covered peanuts I have in my bag, one of my many gluttonous weaknesses. But peanuts make me thirsty and I need to ask for some water. My friends say I must have been a camel in my earlier life, so rarely do I have water. I guess I got it from my mother, who’s the same. Was Nanima like that too?
As with everything else, she was fastidious about eating habits. Not that she insisted on elaborate traditional regiments, but she liked to have her three meals at predictable times, with a predictable level of nutrition involved. She could never understand, or appreciate, people who took food lightly. Not one to sermonize, she would instead take things into her own hands and drum up something simple, nutritious and usually delicious. Not that the kitchen was the center of her active life. She would wash clothes, make breakfast for the family, personally clean her own room, supervise the maids and generally look after wherever she would live. And find time for watching some tv and reading till she slept off with the glasses on her face and the light on. And if you asked her to come out for a movie or shopping, she would be ready in a matter of minutes. How she found that energy that would shame people half her age (and did), I never knew. A couple of times when I asked her, she just said “Jo karnahai so karna hai; aur kuch cheezen pasand hai”.
That simple response is a lesson to all of us armchair philosophers. These kids cycling on the square, do they know what that means? Or are they too dissolved in existential angst and endless debates about what they want versus what they need versus what’s the right thing to do? Nanima discovered early on that sometimes there’s no choice, you just need to deal with what life gives you and make the best of it. Whether it be moving at an early age from Pakistan to India, or living most of her life in stringent financial conditions or the self-absorbed unwitting neglect of her adult children and grandchildren. Or living in a disturbed household for seven years. When she finally left, determinedly shutting her ears to the crying voice of the child she loved the most, she maintained a calm that broke only when she sobbed her heart out for many days, alone. The same calm that she displayed as her siblings and children were struck by tragedy time after time, she alone standing like a pillar of strength, offering both love and a fortitude that tested the vagaries of destiny. You have no choice as you look on the faces of the dead, your loved ones, and retreat into a silence of fatalistic acceptance, yet invincible dignity.
But as I myself struggle to recover from an over exhausted mind and body, and see similar faces around me, I know that the secret to carrying on is not to accept that there’s no choice, but to believe that our choice is about us, and how we react to the world around.
In one of my last conversations with her, she spoke in her usual practical tone about whether it’s worth spending money on her neighborhood kitty considering that each round takes more than a year and she is not certain if she will survive the next one. As I responded vehemently that she is in good health and such statements only attract negative energy, she changed the subject and asked me about my upcoming vacation plans and then signed off with her customary “god bless”. A few weeks later, I returned from the vacation and spent a night with restless dreams about her, waking up with a resolve to speak with her. But she was gone, passed away the way she wanted to, quickly, painlessly and without fuss, next to her daughter.
The square is deserted by now, the chilly wind having dispersed the last of the brave souls. The sky is grey, the street lamps dispel weak light. And the lady at the table is gone. In the faint distance, someone calls out “Nanima, Nanima”, in an urgent, emphatic voice assured of the attention and affection of her response.
The voice is mine, so are the tears.
My fav topic - again!!!
(written in early Jan 2011)
Once again, like a child who refuses to learn his lesson, I am thinking about chemistry...or maybe obsessing is the right word!!
WTF WTF WTF.......that's all the reaction I have right now. How in the hell does the universe create this space and plan where two planets that had no absolutely no connection with each other suddenly end up colliding and creating this circle of positive energy that blows your mind away???!!! I repeat - wtf wtf wtf
Once again, like a child who refuses to learn his lesson, I am thinking about chemistry...or maybe obsessing is the right word!!
WTF WTF WTF.......that's all the reaction I have right now. How in the hell does the universe create this space and plan where two planets that had no absolutely no connection with each other suddenly end up colliding and creating this circle of positive energy that blows your mind away???!!! I repeat - wtf wtf wtf
Monday, May 16, 2011
Thoughts on the US...
We celebrate our diversity and the fact that we are a contrary of multiple realities, often contradictory to one another. And that we live across those realities and the ambiguity that comes with the territory. And it's easy to paint the Western world in one hue of grey, particularly the US, viewing it as a whole, forming opinions and delivering judgements as a single entity. Listen to a few conversations, specially over dinner or pub tables, and its easy to see this pattern emerge.
Not that 4 weeks spent in the US over 3 years makes me any kind of expert, but I am beginning to realise how wrong we are. It's an incredibly vast country, literally, and with more ethnic diversity that we can imagine. Both the geography and the ethnic inflow of people segments the entire country into so many tiny pieces that to even try and stitch them up together is a task of immense and complex proportions. Unlike India, at least they speak a common language (at least, most of them do) but the feeling that you move into a different country as you visit different parts is pretty similar to what we feel here. At a surface level, you see it being reflected in mannerisms, accents, clothes, expressions. Behaviors too change, especially the warmth factor towards immigrants and foreigners. Opinions and knowledge base also vary vastly, evident in the quality of conversations I heard in Chicago vs Atlanta vs San Francisco on the latest topic of the Bin Laden killing.
It's also extremely interesting to think about how this country was truly "built" and the enormous wealth generated, considering the size, complexity and the multiple moving parts. The ongoing debate on immigration reform and the current floods crisis, while very different topics, both give us a glimpse into some of that journey....the heavy inflow of immigration and the various uses it was put to as well as the conscious, deliberate planning that has gone into each town and all farmland.
And what did that journey imply for the individual today? Relatively higher freedom at a social level (which itself varies depending on whether you are in a small town in the mid west or a city on the east coast) is coupled with an array of rules and guidelines governing behavior on a day to day basis. Not everyone conforms to this obviously and that's where the interesting stories lie too.
The colors are more muted, the drama a little lesser, the development much more, the wealth much much more. But the tragi-comedy of the vibrant, expressive, mostly ambitious society of the US is more similar to India than we, or at least I, have thought so far.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Pause. Sink. Rewind. Move. Up.
Thats the routine, isn't it. After the whirlwind of the past few weeks, I get some time to myself. An unwelcome sms switches me off. I have made some attempts recently to re-invigorate myself, get some new blood into my life. Didn't really work. Now the past comes back. As its wont to do when the body is weary and the mind is weird. And I wonder whether it's really that sensible to stay at home, relax and watch a movie. Or shall I just go to some place that has people, lights, music; inject some alcohol, push the thoughts way and come back and collapse into bed. For yet another tomorrow. When I shall be drag myself up and move on. With a smile.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Anti social
I resisted Orkut for 2 years. Finally gave it just when it started to decline. Liked it reasonably well, used it to an extent. Started getting bored. Then they said "move to fb", you are so passe. I said no, I cant keep moving, I am not that interested in making so many "friend" anyway. Finally moved. The spectre of PR kept haunting me for several years. Many, including DB, insisted I should join, just for having fun. I mistook the word "fun". I joined two weeks and am hooked for now, it's like a bizarre twilight zone. I wonder when I will get bored...maybe in a couple of months. Sigh. What next guys?
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Deja vu or full circle?
Having just sobbed my heart out, I wonder if this is a repeat of what happened 3 years ago or has life come round to where it started, a sort of cosmic joke on me.
All I know is that I have to make a way of living with this pain for some time until it ebbs into an occasional ache. I just have to keep reminding myself that this is temporary....when I have suffered much, much more and managed to survive well, this is ok, manageable. I think.
I guess part of it is just ambiguity.
Sigh. Cant even go out and enjoy a good meal or get drunk. Have to eat papaya, remain alert and go through this.
All I know is that I have to make a way of living with this pain for some time until it ebbs into an occasional ache. I just have to keep reminding myself that this is temporary....when I have suffered much, much more and managed to survive well, this is ok, manageable. I think.
I guess part of it is just ambiguity.
Sigh. Cant even go out and enjoy a good meal or get drunk. Have to eat papaya, remain alert and go through this.
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Where am I?
Its been more than 7 months since I last wrote here, the longest gap ever. Where am I??? It's not as if there hasn't been plenty to write about...if nothing else, the constant presence of change in my life provides many amusing, heart wrenching and irritating moments! So why not??
I dont know, to be honest. And instead of trying to figure out, I would rather devote my energy to re-starting this practice soon. As I figure that out, this is just a placeholder :) a reminder that I am going to be here soon, doing what most good bloggers do - hyperventilating and pontificating.
I dont know, to be honest. And instead of trying to figure out, I would rather devote my energy to re-starting this practice soon. As I figure that out, this is just a placeholder :) a reminder that I am going to be here soon, doing what most good bloggers do - hyperventilating and pontificating.
Monday, February 23, 2009
In continuation - Bobo at 18 months...
As I sit in my bedroom, I can hear the “mewing-like" noises Aarav is making outside. I can actually picture him doing so, crinkling up his button nose a bit and shutting half his eyes. The mewing noise is used for a variety of purposes, from animal sounds to car horns. Immediately after this, the expected “hoo” takes over, usually delivered with wide eyes and a finger pointing at either an object he seeks more explanation for or evidence of mischief he’s just conducted. In fact, though he’s mastered a smattering of words, communication between him and the world largely consists of such primitive sounds delivered with a wide range of tones and accompanied by an even-wider range of expressions. This communication is restricted to his “insider” gang though…for most of the world outside, he attempts to strike a more enigmatic figure – steadily walking (or pushing his toy car along) with a quiet determination to get somewhere, occasionally pausing to observe or pick up an object of interest, and greeting unsolicited companions with a cool stare and sometimes a shy smile before turning away and proceeding on his way. The contrast in personality with the baby we see giggling away at home is quite stark, especially when the giggles turn into fits of laughter at his mother’s antics , and he finally tumbles off the bed.
I have often been told that all babies are alike (and by implication, I shouldn’t get so excited by this little one’s antics). But there are times when we question that, and actually reject it – when he sees a baby or a dog, gets overcome by emotion and hugs you; when he starts dancing every time he hears music he likes, whether it be in a restaurant or the drawing room or a crowded engagement party; when he clearly observes what you are wearing and beams his appreciation sometimes; when he rejects everything sweet you give him and relishes onions and similar food items; when he resists any attempt at medical examinations and reacts with a ferocity that stuns the most experienced of doctors…
At such times, one wonders at the beauty of nature that created a full, unique specimen amongst billions of others. A specimen with his own specific looks and personality and behaviors and likes and dislikes. A specimen that easily gets used to being adored by every eye that lays eyes on it and yet in a way remains uncorrupted by it until a much-later stage. A 3 feet tall, one-and-a-half year old, 12 kilo heavy dynamo of a person who has the power to control all activity and emotion around him by just a flick of his finger or a lift of the eyebrow. Love, anger, irritation, humor, protectiveness, frustration, anxiety, calm – in a space of a day, Bobo’s companionship can take acquaint you with all these and more.
How will us willing slaves be treated in the future, I wonder? That remains to be seen. Right now, he’s tapping on the door, demanding the attention that’s rightfully is, along with the antics and the giggles.
I have often been told that all babies are alike (and by implication, I shouldn’t get so excited by this little one’s antics). But there are times when we question that, and actually reject it – when he sees a baby or a dog, gets overcome by emotion and hugs you; when he starts dancing every time he hears music he likes, whether it be in a restaurant or the drawing room or a crowded engagement party; when he clearly observes what you are wearing and beams his appreciation sometimes; when he rejects everything sweet you give him and relishes onions and similar food items; when he resists any attempt at medical examinations and reacts with a ferocity that stuns the most experienced of doctors…
At such times, one wonders at the beauty of nature that created a full, unique specimen amongst billions of others. A specimen with his own specific looks and personality and behaviors and likes and dislikes. A specimen that easily gets used to being adored by every eye that lays eyes on it and yet in a way remains uncorrupted by it until a much-later stage. A 3 feet tall, one-and-a-half year old, 12 kilo heavy dynamo of a person who has the power to control all activity and emotion around him by just a flick of his finger or a lift of the eyebrow. Love, anger, irritation, humor, protectiveness, frustration, anxiety, calm – in a space of a day, Bobo’s companionship can take acquaint you with all these and more.
How will us willing slaves be treated in the future, I wonder? That remains to be seen. Right now, he’s tapping on the door, demanding the attention that’s rightfully is, along with the antics and the giggles.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Inner tension
Suddenly, there's this tight knot in my stomach.
Not entirely unexpected though...there was several indications over the last few months that this was coming. Silences/arguments with DB; irritation with friends; discussions over Anjan's predicament; searching for houses and being price sensitive; repeated calculations on excel on how to squeeze the max out of my salary; Dolly's face, pinched and white due to pain...yes, there were many indications that this time was coming.
Now that it's here, it's here. I am not that unused to it anyway. And this time, the secret weapon in my arsenal is Aarav...declogs my arteries and reduces the speed of blood! Work has also gone into hectic mode. So as I deal with the terrible trio of health, finances, relationships, I keep myself busy and occupied. The impact shows on the hair on my pillow each morning, but that's ok, I can live with that.
Not entirely unexpected though...there was several indications over the last few months that this was coming. Silences/arguments with DB; irritation with friends; discussions over Anjan's predicament; searching for houses and being price sensitive; repeated calculations on excel on how to squeeze the max out of my salary; Dolly's face, pinched and white due to pain...yes, there were many indications that this time was coming.
Now that it's here, it's here. I am not that unused to it anyway. And this time, the secret weapon in my arsenal is Aarav...declogs my arteries and reduces the speed of blood! Work has also gone into hectic mode. So as I deal with the terrible trio of health, finances, relationships, I keep myself busy and occupied. The impact shows on the hair on my pillow each morning, but that's ok, I can live with that.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
2009 objectives
Having encouraged all and sundry in my business to create goal sheets, I thought it was high time I went past "focus areas..." and "resolutions" and created a clear set of goals for myself too. This is not a strategy document but a time-bound objectives sheet. It is also dynamic though I hope to only add, not delete. These are the explicit objectives and imply many implicit ones.
Work -Move into a new role that's more "happening" and hands on OR move into a new job that's high paying in preferably a different industry - during Sep to Dec
Growth - Continue teaching AND/OR start doing some freelance training - Jan onw
Finances -
Work -Move into a new role that's more "happening" and hands on OR move into a new job that's high paying in preferably a different industry - during Sep to Dec
Growth - Continue teaching AND/OR start doing some freelance training - Jan onw
Finances -
- Reduce quarterly average spending on shopping by at least 20% - Jan onw
- Make one more substantial investment amounting to at least Rs. 15000/month, either in property or MFs - by March 09
Health - Get myself in shape. Weight to be kept maintained at 72 kg and at least 12 visits of 30-40 min each to gym per month. - Jan onw
People -
- Focus on Unni, L, D. Regular interactions and take ownership for meeting at least once/fortnight (not being reactive) - Jan onw
- Take responsibility for Bobo pre-school arrangements etc. - Aug
- Complete clarity on direction w/DB. Be on the same page - Feb onw.
Ending the year...
60 kms away from Bangalore, next to an abandoned water reservoir, we pitched our camp at midnight. The night was lit only by the stars above and a torch we carried with us. We set up a tent, lay down the rug and our supplies. A few minutes later, we cut the birthday cake for DB and poured out our drinks. Surrounded by silence and peace, we laughed at silly jokes, sipped our drinks, listened to "jhanak jhanak payal baaje" on the laptop, ate chips-with-dip over candles and exclaimed at the 'surreality' of the experience. It was chilly but not unpleasantly so; it was quiet but not eerily so; it was dark but not scarily so. The company was friendly, but not overly so. It was far, but not too much; we spent quite some time there, but didn't overstay. We laughed, we thought, we felt, we expressed.
Perfect? It came close. Very close.
Perfect? It came close. Very close.
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