"If this is uncomfortable, we don't have to.."
"Yes, i understand... And i love you."
"i don't mean to upset you - are you okay?"
i do mean all these things i say.

but the language - this i learnt from you.
This is not the grammar i knew.
I vaguely remember another me,
She spoke a little differently.

A lot more "WHAT IF", "NOT" and "NO",
"Uncomfortable, My big fat shiny toe!"
"That discussion is still on the table",
"Disagreeing is not rude. That is a lazy label."

You did not like her, she could tell,
You didn not have to scream or yell.
You just ignored her till she began to fade
Why accept or reject what you can evade.

She went away...but because she was SHE,
She looked one final time at me,
I was learning the new language when she said,
"Doll, don't forget i am not dead.
 When you are done with 'nice' and you want more,
Just raise your voice, and i will come through that door"

I haven't called her in. Not yet.
She may disrupt what it took me ten years to set.
I miss her, i wish she would visit me
And we could both remember what i used to be.

September 4th 2017 - i resigned from my job at Philips. It was long long (and i cannot say this enough) long overdue. This is the first time i have quit without a job in hand.I don't think that is a bad thing at all. I want this break .
The bad thing is and will be if i don't remember why i left. I left because "i want to leave myself open to new things that come my way. I left because i believe if i didn't offer myself to the Universe, the universe would not offer opportunities to me."
And yet 2 weeks after resigning (not even out of a job yet - still serving my notice period), i find myself getting heavily involved in a would-be future job. And i have to ask myself - is this the opportunity the Universe is offering me OR did i not give her a chance to offer me anything, because i just bloody jumped in to the next bus. Which one is it?
God/Universe, please help me do the right thing here. Well, not the right thing - because there is no wrong thing. Just help me pick the thing that would give me the most joy. Could you maybe force my hand on this one please?

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

- William Ernest Henley

Emotional Baggage
- Anesidora

It’s been nice
Yes
Laughing times
Early morning love
Walks
Meaningful kissing
But I’ve been hurt before
The kind that can change a life
The kind that makes a body wary
And I must say that I am taking special care
Not to care so hard
While I am mostly open to love you
I prepare to let you go

The dream fulfillment protocol

These are the rules:
1) Keep them close to your heart. Share slowly, quietly. Be careful not to get desperate. Want it but try not to long for it.
2) Chip away. Nothing may come of the chipping but you can sleep at night knowing you did something more than dream.
3) When you do share - there is protocol to be followed. For all other things, you can say it to who you please when you please - vague acquaintance followed by friend's friend, facebook-someone_from_school.
But this one needs to be shared with those super important people in your life first for it to become a reality... so spouse, parents, siblings, best friend.

and finally ..
4) BELIEVE IT. Really believe it. Your dream deserves you as much as you deserve your dream.

i have one.. i will tell you later - per protocol.

You say you love me, but i don't know that you do. Any of you.
i think you love me when it is convenient to love me.
But when i want things you may not want, when i dream of a life which is not your dream - there is no space for this, no meeting ground.
I am a strong, independent woman but you don't need my strength or my independence... just the cuteness and the friendship .. none of the other uncomfortable appendages i come with.
How do we solve this? I ask knowing fully well we will not. I will crawl in to bed and tomorrow we will pretend those parts of me don't exist, those wannabe conversations never came up.
Because who are we kidding? You don't need me and you know i need you.
Why else would i be here - my heart feels compromised.

Part 3 / 3 (From the mother)

Why had they got her here? Yes she sometimes felt a little out of control and out
of herself… But did that warrant bringing her to a mental asylum?
All the people here were so vague. They stared vacantly at her – she was not
like that. Why? Why? WHY?

The doctor hadn’t even said till when. But no point in panicking now – her
daughter and her husband had said they would meet her tomorrow itself. She
would know more then.

What if they didn’t meet her?? Does that mean they had just left her here for
good? More panic. She could not let herself think that way. They would come
tomorrow – she was sure.

As she looked out of the window – she saw them walking away. She knew that if
she was with them, the pace would be a lot slower. Her husband walking ahead
very fast, always imagining he was going to miss some bus (even though they
had a car for years now) and her daughter keeping pace with him.

She saw what she knew she would – her husband not looking back ... he would
not even have expected to see her if he had – always so pessimistic, her
daughter looking back but at the windows on top for some reason – somewhat
misguided as always … looking desperately but always just a little away from
where she would find what she was looking for.

She laughed to herself – and they thought she was the crazy one! Oh but how
she missed them. She couldn’t wait till tomorrow. They would be there tomorrow wouldn't they.. they said they would...

Part 2 / 3 (From the daughter)

What kind of place doesn’t tell you in advance that you cannot meet the patient
for the first 4 days after their admission! …
“because it may affect them badly. In the first four days they miss home the
most and each time they meet you they will feel sad and want to return with
you…” the nurse had said.

“Okay”, she said– “but will you at least tell my mother that I am right outside
and I want to be with her but the hospital rules do not allow it? “
And the nurse had smiled and replied politely but firmly “No. Most patients
cannot handle being told that they will not meet family members. One more
thing – weekdays there are fixed visiting hours and on weekends because the
doctor does not consult you cannot meet the patient. You need to have taken his
prior written approval to meet her on the weekends”.

She could not believe it. She was furious. She had only 4 days of leave left. This
would mean she spends the next 4 days wondering how her mother was and
then she would have just enough time for a quick meeting, a hug and a
goodbye.

She looked at her father for some support – someone to echo her “This is
ridiculous”. Instead she found herself staring at a very lost, very fragile and very
old man who looked like the last 5 hours had added 10 years to his age.
Would her mother ever forgive her this betrayal? Because betrayal it was. Her
mother had walked in expecting consultation, the doctor had instead smiled and
told her mother politely that she would need to be admitted and that was that.

If that was not bad enough, he had looked her (not her father) squarely in the
eyes and said – “I think this is required and will be for the best”, making it clear
to her mother that her beloved daughter was the one who had made the request
for admission in the hospital.

And yet somewhere she did believe it was the right thing to do – perhaps the
only thing to do. She believed good would come of it – partly because logically it
made sense that expert care would result in good but also because any other
outcome was too unbearable to think of.

As she ate her lunch at the hospital cafeteria she thought back to the Friday
morning she had come home. By evening she had already broached the subject
about the hospital more than once and each time the discussion had ended in
bitter fights. She would drop it knowing that very quickly she would need to
broach it again later. On Sunday her mother agreed to go the hospital – just like
that. She agreed to have some clothes packed ‘just in case’. Her mother agreed
… to everything. She wasn’t even listening. She didn’t think she needed to – she
would come to the hospital only because her daughter has asked her to. And
that is why this was a betrayal.

Through the car journey her mother had spoken innocently about the rains in
Kerala, the price of fish – always holding her hand or reaching for her hand –
never once suspecting that this visit would last anything more than a couple of
hours.

The thought made her eyes well with tears. She longed to share her grief with
her father but thought that she was hurting would hurt him more. Best not to
look up now and swallow her tears.

When she finally did look up – she saw her father crying silently in to his plate.
She held his hand wanting to say something smart very kind. But her very
articulate self had exhausted itself – there was nothing left to say.
She would take appa and find a good guesthouse for them to live in. As they
walked out, she looked up to the floors above hoping to catch a glimpse of
amma. No luck.

A story in 3 parts (Part 1 / 3). From the Father

He does love her. Contrary to what his kids may think. A part of him wonders
what they think and another doesn’t care – after all they haven’t lived with her
for the last 10-12 years. They’ve been away. They have no idea what he has
been through every day.

As he looks at his daughter having lunch at the hospital cafeteria - he knows she
is like him and will not spare him the silence. They will eat this meal silently,
passing each other things like clockwork even before it is asked.

If his wife were at the table on the other hand – now she could really talk. She
would say how the drumstick in the aviyal was not cooked enough, how it’s a
good thing they have served hot water and how cold and rainy today has been.
But enough said. His wife was not at the table. It would be a while before she
was at any table for a meal with him. His eyes involuntarily teared up and he
wiped his eyes. He wonders if his daughter saw that display. He hopes not.

He still cannot believe this has happened – he has been to the hospital four
times now and they never NEVER mentioned that you cannot see the patients for
the first four days after they are admitted. You cannot call them either. He can
still recall the accusatory look his daughter threw at him when she discovered.
But he didn’t know. Had he known, would he have promised his wife that he
would be right outside and meet her everyday? She would probably wait for him
now – and he didn’t even get to say goodbye.

His eyes teared up again and this time he didn’t hold back the tears. This time
his daughter looked up, held his hand, gave him water but didn’t say anything –
ask anything. How like him she was. Lunch over-they would leave the hospital
and look for a guesthouse. He had not turned around to see if she was at any of
the windows. He knew better.

Our ghosts

I believe that all of us have scars and these scars define us. An estranged sibling, a break-up that shook everything out of you and left you empty, parents who don't get along, failure at what you do, disconnected spouse, death of a family member, abuse.. something. There is always something.
And these 'somethings' become our identity.

Deepika Padukone will no longer be the girl next door-turned model-turned actor, She will, i think, forever more be the girl who loved and lost Ranbir Kapoor, the girl who is battling depression and who so incredibly bravely came on National Television to talk about this very hard journey.
That grit, determination, the loss of inhibition that comes with a very public break-up - this is what Deepika Padukone stands for today.
...And Thank God for that! I would take this over the girl next door-turned model- turned actor any day.

I think something about these scars define the work we do as well.
Mahesh Bhatt's 'scars'/ghosts - the thing that needs to be exorcised are perhaps his relationship with Parveen Babi, his being an illegitamate child, alcoholism.
Almost every movie of his will reflect these themes - the angish of not being wanted by your father, the pain of being a partner of someone you love dearly having a mental illness..Phir teri kahani yaad ayee, Arth (also has mental illness), Zakhm, Woh Lamhe, Saaransh (alcoholism), Daddy (alcoholism)..
I'll admit that some of this is retro-fitted looking at his career trajectory but most of this you will see is so evident.
Farhan Akhtar for instance - there is a 'Daddy' moment that comes through in his movies that is unique to him... A catharsis moment, a moment when the son confesses pain to the father (Lakshya, Dil Chahta hai, Zindagi na milegi Dobara,.)
He may not have directed all the scripts i am referring so i don't know how that works out, but i am convinced there is something to what i am saying (:) of course, right).
I am all about the catahrsis moments, the release, spilling guts - that is perhaps why Farhan Akhtar's movies appeal so much to me.

My all-time favourite director though is Imtiyaz Ali. There is something there as well. But this one is hard to put a finger on. What is that defining Imtiyaz Ali quality.
There is of course SOUL. He is in his movies. But there is something else there as well.
I think it has to do with his philosophy of life. There is a circular theme in his movies - a journey theme. It is a big part of what he makes. A theme of the story being the same, of the journey being all-important. In Love Aaj Kal for instance - the theme that love will play out in the same way - Aaj ya Kal, you will have intense love, there will be a fight, there will be reconciliation. Highway is very literally about the journey - the actual one, the journey of her life
Tamasha to me was again so much about how all stories are the same, the boy has his part to play, the girl has her drama to live up to..the again and again of life till you break away from the rat race to carve your own road.
I could be wrong but i feel like there are ghosts , scars, ghosts of scars in our life. And no matter how much you try to hide it - it will be the one thing people will always see and identify you with.
Jaya Bachchan will never have the luxury of looking at her phone or her toes when Rekha goes on stage. She will always always be photographed (perhaps more than Rekha) everytime Rekha is on stage - Jaya Bachchan has almost no choice but to make sure her expression is blank, her face pleasant and neutral all at the same time. But the point i am making is - no matter how much she tries to be 'Normal' about it, 'We the people' have zeroed in on that scar and she will be called on it - as many times as it is possible for us to call her on it.
this is probably true for everyone but more true for people in the creative field, artists, writers, directors, actors. And when they are truly led by their heart in their craft - they will keep trying to exorcise that ghost in their hearts...
Not to ever compare myself with anyone creative, but a little story about me.. many years ago i did a film making course in Mumbai for a month which was conducted by the New York Film Academy. As part of that i had to make 3 short films: 1 film which was a minute long, 1 montage against a song and 1 10 minute movie. I made all three and in each one of them there was a very serious twist in the plot - in that there was a certain person you expect to be something through the movie and then at the last second you discover he is something else altogether. EVERYTHING I made was that theme but i didn't realise it. The trainer i was discussing my script with - he said you have a theme around - What you see is not what you get. A mask theme.
I was so surprised because i realised he was right and i it amazed me that i never saw it. I have since noticed that every time i write, it ends there... Things are not what they seem, there is a mask people are wearing.. it is always the same. There is a ghost of a mask in me... and it will not go away. 

baanvara mann dekhne chala ek sapna (2)

baanvare se mann ki dekho baanvari hai baatein

baanvare se mann ki dekho baanvari hai baateinbaanvari si dhadkanein hai, baanvari hai saanseinbaanvari si karvaton se nindiya kyun bhaageinbaanvare se nain chahe baanvare jharokhon se baanvare nazaaron ko takhna
baanvara mann dekhne chala ek sapna
baanvare se is jahaan mein baanvara ek saath hois sayaani bheed mein bas haathon mein tera haath hobaanvari si dhun ho koi baanvara ek raag hobaanvari si dhun ho koi baanvara ek raag hobaanvare se pair chahe baanvare tarano ke baavare se bol teri rathiyan
baanvara mann dekhne chala ek sapna
baanvara sa ho andhera baanvari khamoshiyanbaanvara sa ho andhera baanvari khamoshiyanthar thara thi loh madham baanvari madhoshiyanbaanvara ek ghungta chahe hole hole muh batayebaanvara ek ghungta chahe hole hole muh batayebaanvare se mukhde se jhalakna
baanvara mann dekhne chala ek sapnabaanvara mann dekhne chala ek sapna

I haven't been here in a while and maybe you have stopped coming too.
That's probably good.
There is a lot of talking i need to do - to myself. Best to do it when you are not listening.

So 2016 huh! The year didn't begin well...
I am trying hard to not be superstitious .. but there it is - the year did not begin well.
i will try to be okay with that and hope hope hope that this year will rock! It really must.
Please, okay?

And once again from the very lovely S a poem i just fell in love with.

Any Prince to Any Princess
~ by Adrian Henri



August is coming
and the goose, I’m afraid,
is getting fat.
There have been
no golden eggs for some months now.
Straw has fallen well below market price
despite my frantic spinning
and the sedge is,
as you rightly point out,
withered.


I can’t imagine how the pea
got under your mattress. I apologize
humbly. The chambermaid has, of course,
been sacked. As has the frog footman.
I understand that, during my recent fact-finding tour of the
Golden River,
despite your nightly unavailing efforts,
he remained obstinately
froggish.


I hope that the Three Wishes granted by the General
Assembly
will go some way towards redressing
this unfortunate recent sequence of events.
The fall in output from the shoe-factory, for example:
no one could have foreseen the work-to-rule
by the National Union of Elves. Not to mention the fact
that the court has been fast asleep
for the last six and a half years.


The matter of the poisoned apple has been taken up
by the Board of Trade: I think I can assure you
the incident will not be
repeated.


I can quite understand, in the circumstances,
your reluctance to let down
your golden tresses. However
I feel I must point out
that the weather isn’t getting any better
and I already have a nasty chill
from waiting at the base
of the White Tower. You must see
the absurdity of the
situation.
Some of the courtiers are beginning to talk,
not to mention the humble villagers.
It’s been three weeks now, and not even
a word.


Princess,
a cold, black wind
howls through our empty palace.
Dead leaves litter the bedchamber;
the mirror on the wall hasn’t said a thing
since you left. I can only ask,
bearing all this in mind,
that you think again,


let down your hair,
Reconsider.

Thank You Shradha for sending me this very lovely poem...

Every fourteen days,

a language dies.

Does it count

to fourteen

until it expires,

or do others

do the counting?

Every fourteen days,

a language dies.

No more rocks

for it, no more skies;

no more love in it,

no more time.

The world

becomes unconstricted

from it, untied

from sound.

How many

Adams had to point

to how many things

and say how many

names and smile

at how many aptnesses?

Every fourteen days,

a language dies;

can one imagine

the night

before it does?

To say:

“This is the last tear,

this is the last sigh, this,

the last of the last.”

Every fourteen days,

a language dies.

This, even a Scheherazade

cannot stop.

MICA - ek chhoti si love story

Posting pics from our 10th alumni visit (last year).. just coz i saw them.

Alcohol and maggi... small pleasures!


MICA shoes


and.. Evam (AND EVAM.. Did you get that.. clever huh). Tickets of the first play i was ever part of - Evam Indrajit.


My happy place just got happier - watching the WC Final win in the Audi. (you can't see me - i am in the cream t-shirt behind all the limelight hoggers)


Oh happy happy!