The fire-eater.

She is exotic - she reminds me of Rome, although the woman has never been there. She is beautiful - as fragile as a geisha, as resourceful as a contortionist, as lovely as a tea-leaf-picker in harvest. She is funny, like a Bavarian with a big mug of beer. Although she has never read Camus, I find that in her, I find all the vestiges of my own domesticity. Sometimes, I feel like making slow, passionate love to her, eat away at the shreds of modesty she manages to stow away with her dry cynicism, sometimes, I feel like fucking her so hard that the whites of her eyes show and that she claws my back, desperate to draw blood. I can see that she is enchanted with my virtual self, so full of the enthusiasm I manage to espouse, she finds herself at ease with my vitality, I with hers. She corrects my bad grammar with a laugh that rings through my ears like somebody dropped me in the middle of the Appalachian Trail and left me to fend for myself. She swears by her love for me, and I find myself hesitant to accept it, to tell myself it's more than just a dream. When I tease her about her insecurities, I can feel her jaw tighten as she sulks, and I want to kiss the corner of her lips, reassure her that my love for her is without remorse. And I want to pick her up in my arms, and carry her to my bed, tell her that it is here, in my arms, that she will find the sanity life cannot give her. I have plans for her. So, I will wait.

C'mon, A-Team.

Fuck the naysayers. Fuck criticism. Wash it away with eau-de-toilette.

This is not it. Start over. Start over.

Genuflect, Ayan.

It’s heartening to know that my friends think I’m a spin doctor, although I think I never give them any reason to think so. I’ve had a cocktail of problems come my way after I decided I’m going to quit my current job, but I’m not quite sure whether my handling of them was in any way professional, because fundamentally, the ethic behind a successful work-routine is building rapport and since I’ve failed in that respect quite visibly, I will have to address these areas from the beginning. Suddenly, I’m at that phase of my life where I’ve found myself becoming more of a saturnine character than I would have liked to - it would have been a disturbing snag if not for the fact that I’m taking hits more easily than I did earlier and I’m finding that the previously-allowed-to-run-amok kangaroo temper is more easier to control these days (what with the ‘spring-in-my-step’ and ‘post-punk rock music’ schedules). So, good for me. Till then, I hope this climate of karmic good holds up ostensibly.

C'mon, don't be dishonest.

The day that I share this blog with anyone else is the day I I know I have thrown away my cynical garb. Because, it is only within the purview of another person that I will find my circle of trust, even though that is geometrically wrong. Euclid would have boiled me in oil. I will have to remember that.

Möbius Trip.

In school, I was always proud of myself for not being particularly mathematically challenged. I mean, the world knows that us brown people have conquered the numbered universe heuristically. It was an epiphany to the West whose only recourse to analytics three centuries earlier were the physiologically-suited mathematicians at Göttingen. I remember when we were shown scribbles on the blackboard and asked to differentiate such-and-such w.r.t. such-and-such or calculate the number of permutations estimated when a monkey is dismembered (okay, maybe, that last was absurd), and I remember me not scribbling the said scribbles into my spiral-bound pad because I was solving the telltale equations in my head, and declaring the answers dismissively, looking at a female classmate out of the corner of my eye, to see if she so much as twitched or showed a hint of approval. The teachers wanted to slap me because, to them, my existence was as gross and incomprehensible as the 'praying' of a praying-mantis.

So, two years later, when a rather irritable feminist supervisor in her twenties, asks me to 'do the math' over a handful of lattes and macaroons, all I can think of are Leibnitz' integrals, Cantor set theory and dyscalculia. Veritable fallacy, uh huh.

Wrinkle wrinkle, little star.

Don't you just love it when your grandfather's neighbour chooses to let his hookah do the talking? The plate of baked sardines set on his lap, the colour draining from his pink cheeks as he deliberately regales you with a long drag and cracks his knuckles in your face. Windswept oily hair, that is as well-groomed as the whiskers of my librarian's dog. These Bengali octagenarians would have you believe otherwise.

Zaalim.

Why I raise hell when I can't settle with a person's history will always be cause for concern to me. I sidestep around the games people play, and then I realize I have been playing them all along. Heaven help you if one day I decide to go rogue and lambast all of you with my ego.

Plainspeak in Suburbia.

The summer breeze makes my shirt billow outwards like a tent, and the soft drink I am sipping through a straw begs to acquiesce. It is one of those oh-too-lazy days where nothing really gets done, and through the maze of mildewing bath-towels and half-eaten brownies, you try to compare your life with an idyllic one and see what semblance it bears towards the latter. More often than not, you end up unearthing quite a lot on the topic of relationships and how they affect the more professional aspects of our daily life. Sometimes, when I am feeling upbeat, I like to think about myself as an Icarus who soared too high and burned out his wings of wax. Fell to my 'death', consequently.

No one likes to think of their relationships as dysfunctional. When I was young, my teachers instructed me in some of the teachings of Austrio-German social scientists, most of which basically contained the maxim - You have to provide for someone in order to be provided for yourself and have your affairs in order. Most relationships - filial, marital, sexual or otherwise - operate on a level of co-dependency. You fixate on a person's strength of character while you fill in on the points that need filling. One does this on a conscious or unconscious level. When it is done on a conscious level, the relationship is more volatile than what it would have been if the individual had not seen his cards before laying them out flat on the table.

Besides, it is easy to idealize a relationship. It is easy to 'connect the dots' and say that you have it all figured out. What I think, though, is that all relationships grow more if the individual is eager to learn. I think the mistake I make (and most of us make) is bring the baggage from the previously concluded relationship to the next one. In doing so, we wrest the fairness of the 'deal' from the hands of the other individual. So, for now, lets say that the Zen of relationships is that we must always empty the cup. Easier said than done, though. The process of constant cleansing requires that no dregs stick to the bottom. Most of us are vulnerable to emotional volatility. We might handle the stimuli themselves with varying degrees of stability, but our perception towards these events remains the same. We still know that our next response to a similar set of emotional circumstances will be quick and efficient. That forbears on my judgement of a relationship pattern. I have heard friends saying that they feel manipulated and used when a relationship takes a turn for the worse. I have no advice to offer to them - none, whatsoever. It is because one can only control the events that are directly related to oneself, you cannot bend a behavioural trait in another individual to your advantage. The least you can do, at this point, is to be honest and hope the other is honest too.

I have seen some relationships that are so spontaneous , so effervescent, so beautiful that they are almost too good to be true. These have involved little to no efforts from either of the two individuals in the relationship. Probabilistically speaking, this is indeed possible. There must exist two people with the same value-judgements and the same moral compasses, and when you bring them together you will get a relationship that works with the least friction. There is just the slightest bit of turbulence by external factor(s), which then gets eschewed into the relationship and finally is excreted because the relationship has strong roots, and hence can shake off the snow. It is resourceful to think of oneself as being constantly on the make, because there is nothing much that one can do to avoid turmoil in relational landscapes. When I say this, I speak from a direct subjective standpoint. It is easy to be objective and say that two plus two equals four, but what happens when the screen gives you five? The least we can ask of the other person is to be authentic in his claims and his desires. History, theology and philosophy have always influenced its students to one particular end - do your best to salvage what you can from the ruins of your last relationship and graft it to your new one. Because, then you are more wise, more objective. But, let us ask ourselves one thing, what does it really mean to be rooted in objectivity? All that we achieve from this one-sided objectivity is a myopic vision of where a relationship is heading. Let us now see what happens when you broach the topic subjectively. Yes, you are more vulnerable because you don't know what to expect, and you don't know how to read the writing on the wall and draw the lines that need drawing. But, you do feel a tremendous enthusiasm to look things in the eye and honestly accept the fact that you are giving what it takes to keep the relationship going strong. Feeding it, nourishing it. One might argue then the enthusiasm dulls with time, and that honesty dulls itself through and through. Contextually, that is in line with our bourgeois conformist values because whenever we feel that we are not getting our share of the relationship pie, we wear out our welcome and cease to see things as a story, as a continuous opportunity for growth. Cookie-cutter responses to day-to-day stimuli may be very well relaxing, but they do little to alleviate the pain of that constant cycle of emotional instability.

I have no stratagems to apply here. I am learning too. All I can do is grab hold of life by the horns and hope it doesn't blow its nose

Good good. So, our affairs are in order.

The Going.

So,it is with a misplaced need to unbelong that I step off the train that brings me back to Bombay. Six months in Manipal. Perhaps Bach felt the same way when he wrote his first composition. Who knows? I'm taken aback at the weather here - it is chilly, and it is a welcome respite from the weather I'd encountered back there. A porter's throaty baritone jugs my mind to the present and I start walking towards the exit.

As I start to walk across the footbridge, stray memories jostle for my attention. I will be honest. There were times I felt like screaming and tearing at my hair, there were times when I lost myself in the subjectivity of an eighteen-year old's emotions, there were times I laughed till I cried. No emotional roller-coaster, really. More like an emotional Ferris wheel. I never did the math, because I never felt like doing it. Because that would involve being stoic, distant and detached - which, by the by, can never be practised in Manipal, and because it would not allow me a chance to observe, to ponder, to reflect. I'd rather amble along here, although, frankly, it's not a bad idea any longer.

I hail a kaali-peeli. Shove my bags in the rear and myself in the front-seat, and head towards home. Looking at the faces whizzing by.

Yellow Submarine Crashed. In a field full of bagels, cologne and popcorn.

The man in the cereal aisle.

Look at this man. This man makes me dream of lamp-posts, autumn leaves and freshly-cut grass. He's not the swallow-your-pride-whole-handsome-Hollywood-lackey or the womanizing, libel-spewing, politically-active actor. This man is Dustin Hoffman. He makes everybody feel contrite with his inherent goodness. He is at ease with his sense of goodwill. I mean, how many of us have ever thought that a man can be so free of astuteness and chronic ill-will?
PS. Maybe it's just an image. But, what we don't know won't hurt us, no?

Where does a body end?

I have been listening to a lot of Swans' work lately. Michael Gira's voice has started to grow on me a little. Besides, they are formidable in their approach to the post-industrial/noise scene.

Conclusionae.

Okay. Manipal it is. Four years. Hmm. Good, good.

Ma,Hanna-Barbera killed my puberty.

Sometimes, all you want to do is fuck Wilma and yell 'Yabba Dabba Doo'.

The lovely wives of Tutankhamun.

I think it was a compliment when my acting coach confided in me that I had the emotional diversification of sand. I really love acting. I guess it's not too high-handed to throw words like 'love' around while I'm at it, but 'love' isn't really a word I have used in any of my recent relationships. I think when the proper pill-goddess comes along, I WILL say it.

Anyway, I did a decent job with the play. Acting is a fuckin' harrowing job. And Jean Anouilih drives me crazy with his dictated emotion. Makes me want to dig holes in the director's shirt with a scalpel. And my ongoing romance with his daughter isn't helping. Every time I reach across to pat her back or to share a pretzel with her, I imagine his ratty eyes goring my back like cheddar in a cheese factory. Yesterday, as I was having a quick lunch with daddy dearest, and he reached over to grab the salt-shaker, he told me something I will never forget - The pen is mightier than the sword,because it evolves and can be refilled. Not like the sword which always remains a blade and nothing more. As I opened my mouth to protest,he silenced me by saying,'Be a doll, and don't speak of the katana-toting samurai'. Trust my old man to pull words out of my mouth.

I guess it's hard being a douchebag when you have two pieces of salmon in your mouth. I leave you with a disturbing, all-seeing apron.

Skepticism ka mooh kaala.

My friends wanted me to list some of the epithets they have bestowed on me to be visible on this blog. So, here goes.

Aarti - Best friend. Tube of toothpaste I like to squeeze whenever I need whitening.

Ramanuj - All-rounded bastard. Always unshaved. Cross between night cologne and rum in the morning.

Sunetra - Expert contortionist in love with the world, passionately. Physical manifestation of hard-to-ignore-male-ego.

Arjun - Kaay ka epithet? Ek din da words will feel shy in hiz presence.

Nafisa - Man with possibly the best sense of humour. Ridiculously sucky at saying he cares. Has closeness issues.

Karan - Oh, one day you're going to get married.

I can't stop smiling. Heh.

Colloidal pellets of celluloid.

I think the Indian Cinematic Experience (or, the Experience) is skewed in principle. Or what's left of it, anyway. If the hallowed,musty, mildewy interior of a Prithvi can be likened to a Miles Davis concert, then the Experience can be, for all I know, a Miley Cyrus musical. Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself. Every time I guffaw at some grammatical flaw in Rakhi Sawants English or at Kashmira Shahs lack of tact, I feel something is amiss. Why does the industry spawn thousands of crass starlets and wannabe actors every year, and then discard them - or rather, distance themselves from them - in some, nation-wide pogrom reminiscent of the bubonic plague? The beautiful thing about us humans is that we can draw from our hypocrisy, as and when we see fit. That alone makes the Experience worthwhile.

Many of these aspiring actors come from the humblest of financial backgrounds. You can see their mothers swabbing floors in high-rise buildings and their fathers drinking - or moonshining - in peeling-paint chawls, while the eyes of their siblings are staring listlessly into celluloid fantasy. In spite of all the accusations the tabloids chuck at them on a daily basis, one should not forget that these people are not so much as potential thinkers, as they are performers. You can't expect them to be all aquiline and laid-back, because that's not the function society wants them to carry out. They are entertainers. They are marionettes. So, while they straighten their ties and smoothen out any snags in their frilly dresses, let them be. You haven't given them enough to work with, stay off their case. They come from the slums, you want them to shake a leg and expose their collective cleavage, and then you want them to be aesthetically articulate, too? Well, that's just not done.
Because you can't lay to rest these little inconsistencies of thought. You have to go through a certain lane of influences, and only then will you land up in a place where you can perpetrate puns and throw around articulate witticisms like nobodys business. When you trace these individuals to their backgrounds, and the tremendous cultural inequities they've faced (unlike many of us), you can't help feeling sorry for them. The creativity a producer espouses, the creativity a director envisions, the creativity a cinematographer enjoys - they are all markedly different from the creativity the performer chooses to show. His limbs are his property, and he chooses to make do with what he has, to let cinema-goers have the time of their lives as they pop their popcorn. When you see a Shah Rukh or an Aamir, you fail to see that their ability to make the nation hold it's collective breath has stemmed from a single, repeated stimulus - they learnt through trial-and-error what makes Indian audiences happy (i.e. the sights they want to see, the sounds they want to hear, even the people that they would like to see as their favourite actors' arm candy). So much so that a vast portion of a celebrity's life is public. They can't even trim the unwanted facets of their life at length because the critics start questioning the motives that led to the trimming. So, be judicious in your judging of the nautanki.

It's an evoulutionary imperative. Now, as for whether this thought process follows positive or negative evolution, I cannot say. What the film fraternity deems as an useless appendage, it will discard. No one can say whether the discarding was appropriate, given the shifting focus from artistic endeavour to commercial profit. There will be subdivisions in cinema. There will be always be commercial and arthouse cinema. It's upto the audiences to pick one variant and stay connected with that cinematic code. Or follow the worthier nuances of both. The pervasiveness of Bollywood in the Indian cultural ethos is commendable. There are computer-generated vinyl movie-posters plastered over 'stick-no-bills' walls and the product endorsements dot the faces of many a tea-stall and barbershop across India. It is an ubiquitous aspect of our daily life. It permeates everything - from haute couture to popular music, from talk shows to billboard adverts.

It is more a study in economics than a study in visual aesthetics. The law of commodities - You agree with a product's reliability, you stick to it. The value we associate with a product reflects on our choice to cherish it. This is a necessary catharsis. Film pundits may tut-tut at the lack of brevity in the dialogues, but you can't ignore the buying power that is being credited to Bollywood through the churning out of a thousand films a year. Moreover, soapbox feminism is on the rise, what with the disillusioned stay-at-home mom finding her feet in the chauvinistic quagmire that is urban India. Now, this is where I draw a complete blank. I am seeing my feminine counterparts swoon over articles of clothing that grace the shoulders of the leading ladies on celluloid, I am seeing them speaking in hushed tones about weepy sob-sisters and I am at a loss. Some of our films subtly insult the collective consciousness. So much so that to a vast majority of the Indian middle-class, the insult goes ignored. It is just another cliche to them. Maybe, it is symptomatic of the wider rift between consumerism and minimalism, or of the integration of a more culturally-endowed India to Western demographics. Only time will tell. Till then, lets sit back in our swivel chairs and enjoy the show.

Causality - 1, God - 0.

Is it possible to adopt a non-linear stance on life? Is it possible to satiate oneself with personal feelings entirely, and go so far as to distance oneself from the socio-cultural aesthetic without being egotistical, conceited or bashful? I do not know whether any branch of popular philosophy or epistemology delineates a set of examples that could bring these principles forth as external manifestations in attitude, ideology and conversational patterns. Most of our cultural, economic and sexual organizations follow a set of rules - policy/protocol, if you will - which, if deviated from, could lead to one being cut out from the overall picture in part or in totality. When I speak about this Overall Picture, I refer to the status society accords an individual on the basis of him establishing, following or digressing from the rules.

The human race, says the Pope, cannot be trusted to do the right thing in times of doubt and/or pain. Then, he says, we should turn our eyes towards the heavens and allow ourselves to be subjugated to God's will. One is tempted to ask - what then, is God's will? I looked it up and came across a slew of the basest metaphors, that didn't quite allow me to empathize with the whole concept. It is suggested that the Lord had plans for the human race even before Creation. So, that would mean any change in the human consciousness - individual/collective - was preplanned and willed. This belief troubled me, ans still continues to do so. In a broader, simpler context, that would mean any man could get away with murder. In a courtroom he could insinuate that God willed the victim to die. That, to me at least, is philosophical sacrilege. It is the equivalent of a criminal reading out his Miranda rights to Justice itself. Perhaps, religion is the opiate of the masses, perhaps it isn't. Who knows? All these taxonomic variations of religion and philosophy just leave me knowing less than I did in the first place.

Colossal.

Pain makes us make bad decisions. Fear of pain, on the other hand, is almost as big a motivator. Bring in the New Year, Greg.

I can't cook. Who cares?

"I've got a couple of those Gossard Wonderbras. They are so brilliant, I swear, even I get cleavage with them."

– Kate Moss, 1994, New York Times Magazine


I think somebody should make an Alice in Wonderbra.