Friday, August 24, 2007

Colour me Everything!

Fluorescent green socks, orange bed cover, multi-coloured checkered blanket, green knap-sack, a red one too, purple nightclothes, maroon towel, orange rain sandals, blue sneakers, green room, pink bucket, yellow umbrella, a mutli-coloured one too, green mugs, violet doormat, a wardrobe resembling a million rainbows.

Vibgyor ought to be my second name.
Snow White, Rose Red & Ashen Grey

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Do I see a dark shadow fall?
Underlining the upward curve of my eye,
Draws a weary, burdened sigh.

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Why does that frown so often crawl?
An invisible weight,
Who stained the virgin slate?

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Whither went the rosy doll?
Why the paling countenance?
There prevails a constant wince.

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
I don’t recognize her at all,
Bereaved of golden sunshine,
Grey ashes and youth entwine.

Static Electricity

He bends down to whisper something in my ear. I hear nothing. The exhalation of warm air, mingled with an intoxicating fragrance, brushes down on my neck and catapults a current through my body, powerful enough to consume me. His eyes dance in the paling light, so luminous in contrast. They pull me closer. Closer I come.
He chatters away. I hear. I listen to nothing. My eyes run through his hair, my mind kisses his lips, which speak, knowing not how much they are desired.
I sit on the pavement, barely conscious of my fingertips sailing softly on the skin of my arm. My feet want to tread towards him, my fingers want to clutch his untamed hair, my chin wants to get bruised by the unkempt stubble.
I rise. His eyes follow. In an instant they read my body. He knows.
My ears ring aloud, the pace at which my heart runs is scary. He knows. What do I do now? What if I lose my mind if he touches me? What if I can never be another’s if this boy before me metamorphoses into a man and leaves his footprint on my spirit, binding me to himself forever?
Now his eyes are hungry, I know from the way his silhouette has frozen, those luminous bulbs marking my every crevice, every curve, every gesture. Desire never yelled out so loud before.
We lie in the stillness, his touch still reverberating through me, the smell of his mouth fresh in my memory. His locks sleep on his forehead, just as he does in my arms. His warm breath sweeps on my neck, but this time it feels different. My swollen lips twitch into a smile. The man has become a boy again.

Sunday, August 19, 2007

The Charm of Black and White
“Hum hai rahi pyaar ke, hum se kuch na boliye,
Jo b hi pyaar se mila, hum ussi ke ho liye…….”
Simple feelings and bare innocence, expressed so plainly, so effortlessly that it makes me cry. The actor, happy under the blue sky and golden sunshine, with nothing to lose, joyful in his existence. Simplicity rules.
Where did those days disappear to? I guess, they got rubbed out by mistake, and still remain forgotten, replaced era after era by colour, better technology, complex plots, more opulent costumes and sets and violence.
Black and white Hindi films (I shall not call them “bollywood” because the word gives it a commercial, marketish, prostitutish sound) were immensely light. Even when a scene was loaded with emotion, it didn’t weigh on your heart or mind. The lyrics were meaningful, the melodies original and pleasant to the ear, unlike the cacophony that you get to hear today. For people like me, who have grown up listening to my mother sing “Aayega aayega aayega, aayega aane wala, aayega…” to me, the films today are torturous.
I wonder how it would’ve felt to have lived in that era. When I reflect, I often visualise those time as black and white and it gladdens my heart that there existed such a time when a movie could be so ‘easy’ to watch.
I barely watch films now. I can’t stand most of them. And I will not even begin talking about the music. It’s all so revolting!! It’s all a big, organised prostitution machinery – prostitution of talent, of morality, of quality, of good taste and most of all, of people.
Plagiarism is the order of the day and so is nasal singing. Nothing works without publicity and sensationalism.
Ah! The black and white times. Of course, they had their share of snags, but in relation to the monstrosities that are created today, they’re like the lights on Marine Drive, shrouded by the smog of commercialisation and vulgarity.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Who said we're "Independent" ???

If I got a chance to be a freedom fighter, I'd take the job on. We have a serious problem. And this time, the enemy isn't even flesh and blood, it's invisible. Most people can't see it. They don't even realise that it exists, even if it's staring them blatantly in the face.

The enemy has many faces. It is clever, as it is destructive. It lurks in the darkness when it wants to and comes out into the sunshine when desires. Things can't get more fatal than that.

I cannot put together a visual description for others to see what I see. But I can try.

Today is Independence Day. We've completed 60 long years of being able to 'choose' for ourselves. I walked out of home in colours of the flag, expecting to smell celebration in the air. I think I expected too much. The day looked bland, blander than usual. The streets were the same, the people seemed busy, the cars still honked at those who live life more slowly. I saw no posters, no music, no streamers. Nothing!

But why is it that days like Valentine's Day, Friendship Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Rose Day, Chocolate Day and the million other 'Days' are celebrated with more pomp and excitement?? What do we know about the origin of these 'Days'? Most of us would go blank if asked.

But we do know why we celebrate Independence Day on August 15 (unless you're a hopeless West-aping mutant). We know that people gave up blood and lives for the air we breathe today, which we fill up with smoke. We know that people endured torture for the ground we walk on so freely, and pee and spit on. We know that people gave up their sons and daughters so that we wouldn't have to sit in the 'under dog section' at theatres, buses and trains.

We KNOW. And yet we take no pride.

I feel ashamed. So ashamed.

We've lost focus and it's all the enemy's doing. Who is this enemy? Is it Westernisation? Commercialisation? Consumerism?

I think more than anything else, it's indifference. And for those who don't feel anything any more, believe me when I say this - I feel sorry for you.

Sunday, August 12, 2007

Life between Green Walls

The notes are flowing smooth and melodious. She's playing the guitar just like a man gently caresses a woman. It's 12:44 in the morning and we both have work tomorrow. But who cares??!! This is the moment to live in and we're living.
I sit on the floor, my window to this blog safely placed on the mattress that causes me great backache. I hate this mattress. It's one of those folding ones, which can be converted to a sofa during the day. Only thing is, we never convert. Who's got the time?
The breeze adds a heavenly touch to the small room which is actually meant for one person, with its green walls and Enid Blyton style green door.
The notes of 'O Mandy' soar high into the night. The song's addictive. Curious readers may check it out on YouTube. It's a superb example of creativity and originality.
I've to wake up at 7 am tomorrow morning, but I don't feel like sleeping. Slumber is so dull, and yet so necessary. Sigh!
The ceiling's white but.

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

The Rat that ran the Show

We moved into our cosy little room, relieved at its cleanliness. It wasn't sordid and mucky like the last. Thank heavens! It took a few hours to convert a freshly-painted lifeless room into our comfort lair, with every shade of colour under the sun flashing from all directions. I like colour. So does my companion.
The roof doesn't leak. So now I wouldn't have to wake up in the dead of the night just to realise how drenched I am. We don't have our darling mango tree outside our window anymore. But we could certainly do without the monkeys that sneaked in from that very tree. Maybe because we humans have left them no place to go, they hate us. I bear no ill feelings.
Cupboards arranged, mattresses settled, groceries in place, everything from soap to earrings had a home of its own.
The pleasant breeze found its way into our home, and decided to stay, much to our comfort. And then it came. A quick black flash of flesh, elusive yet bold, negligible yet making its presence felt. My roomie went into her usual paroxysm. Sigh! Times like these I wish I had a video camera. Up she jumped onto her bed, and screamed enough to give a banishee a complex. She even 'tried' to cry. After taking in such rare moments of amusement, I pick up my bamboo stick from the National Park and chased the godforsaken rodent out of the window. Once the paroxysm passed, she stop quivering and called up the whole world to recite her life-threatening experience.
The rascal returned that very night, detected by my roomie who happened to be sleeping on the mattress on the floor. The show repeated itself all over again. I couldn't believe this was happening!! Our clean, freshly-painted room and a rat in it!!! On top of that a hysterical roommate. I drove it out again, this must be some sort of a fun game for it, I'm sure. Closed the window shut and exchanged beds with the trembling gollywog on my bed.

And this was the escapade with the attention-starved rat who came to take a stroll in our room. Must be a PR manager in ratdom.