break-point

i have been looking

through the grills of the closed gate

this is all you've let me see

So far you've let me be

I'm tiring though

perhaps I'll sit down and nap a bit

and waken to the sound

of the gate opening

( Rusty gates creak, don't they?)

28.020.2011, Goa

One by one the chapters are ending

with the finality of doors banging

why do i shut off the tears

that stem from deep reserves?

it would be better t have them burst out like a volcano

and bury the memories in the ashes of dreams

loss and longing

the nights are empty and all the emotions that i keep at bay during the day come howling out.

a shrieking banshee lives inside me; the whole day long, i feel her beating her hands against the cage.. i ignore her,

but at night she unlocks the cage and steps out .. she is a creature of the night and reigns until dawn when yet again i push her back down into her prison

another day that i dread to face but must do so. pin on a smile, get busy and manage to forget the utter horror that has overturned life.

the dance of democrazy

i marvel at the fervour that ordinary Indians exhibit in wanting to vote. while the comfortable classes have just now found it fashionable to espouse universal adult franchise, the common man and woman are uncommonly diligent. scene at ward no. 70, shantinagar. the very same place where i found myself in tears last year where despite brandishing my brand new voters ID card, i did not find my name on the list. i was surprised at the strength of my own feeling of deprivation. a couple of days ago, i heard that the list of voters was up at the ward office . the scene was as chaotic - a couple of mild people could not control anyone who snatched various sections of the list to eagerly scan for their names. housewives, old men, busy working people like me who have snatched a crucial half hour off in the morning hoping to avoid queues - the variety of people who want to vote with no urging is amazing.

my 18 year old son was keen to register himself too - gung ho about being a first time voter and we found ourselves redirected to Mayo hall. to save time, we downloaded the form, filled it and leaving him to study for his board exams, i set off to submit the form. reaching the booth, i was told to get a xerox of the filled -up form ( why was this not mentioned on the website? off i went to the other side of the building, and stood in line to hand it over. then i gingerly mentioned that my name was not in the list. the man guffawed and told me to check on the computer inside. if it was not on the list, i would have to register all over again." this time, come with the xerox copy" he he". 

two young guys sat cramped in an airless office, the old ceiling fan hung motionless from the high ceiling. while the rest of us lined up, a society dowager with ayah in tow, scorned the masses. she clutched a chair and kept repeating every few minutes, " please check for my name". i exercised strong self restraint and quelled the urge her to get outside and join the line. mercifully, my turn came quickly; the youth listened smilingly when i told hi my tale of woe. " my voters Id has my dad's name as my husband; puts me on a street that i do not know; but i don't mind - i just want to find my name". he clicks , finds nothing. senses my anxiety and smiles again . and presto - my name comes up. he scribbles on a piece of paper and says," madam, on election day, go with this paper and your voters ID card. don't worry this time you can vote". 

despite the bitter burden of our politicians, isn't it marvellous that so many of us still believe in our power to change? Jai Hind!

premier book shop's last hurrah

the end of an era. good old premier book shop is closing down and it feels like the death of a good old friend. shopping for books will never be the same again; never mind if there are other book stores that are huger, have better displays and yes, even offer better bargains.

the quietly amused mr.shanbhag had a stranglehold on my heart - from cheeking me for picking up chicklit on wind-down weekends to saving the latest alexander mccall smith to stocking the latest harry potter- which i could pick up for my son and his friends without the angst of queueing up at dawn-, to keeping my selection hastily called out on the phone ready to pick up enroute to the airport - premier was the place which i loved for its sheer unpretentiousness.

it was like visiting a slice of the past - a golden opportunity to push aside the curtain and step back into mellow times 

its goodbye finally - for a while now , my friday evening/ saturday afternoon book buying binges at premier followed by a pint or two at the nightwatchman next door  - with the tastiest masala peanuts- had been winding down. can't help missing the haze of smoke in this good ol' pub as unfussy as the bookshop next door, with great music and v proper waiters who kept an eye out for you.

the times, they are a-changing....  

 

beauty & prudery

'joyous abandon' that's the spirit of the lushly coloured paintings by dr.norman guido.

he is a plastic surgeon who battles day after tiring day, with endless devotion in one of the old-style teaching hospitals in bangalore, St.John's. he deals with victims of burns mostly and he attempts to make them look and feel human again. all for a modest salary but then if he wanted money he would have moved on to more lucrative pastures long ago.

after work, the only way this taciturn and bearded doctor relaxes is by painting. he paints bodies, beautiful bodies of women and men who seem to live in a dream world. shapely curves, perfect abs, they exude a bliss that's almost tangible.

but i have had quite a few people ribbing about the voluptuous bodies. yes, they are actually objecting to guido picking up his paint brush and portraying the kind of beauty he wants to imbue his poor burn victims with.

these are the same people who sat glued to see the buxom bikini clad actors on 'baywatch' ! they would have you believe that guido is some kind of voyeur!! what secrets of the body is not he not privy to as a surgeon? he does not need to titillate himself or others.

i'm disgusted with these self-appointed critics. one of them dabbles in art himself but that's what he has remained - a dabbler. this same guy who's been relentless in his loud and needless abuse salivates when he sees young girls and chases them without hesitation.

another wrote a review without seeing the paintings - the brochures were enough for her.

it was only one smart journalist who saw the beauty of the story - of a plastic surgeon who paints beautiful people.

shoba guido was upset that her husband would sink into despair. my advice: as an artist/e/writer or anyone who puts their work out to the public , you have got to take bouquets with brickbats. and as long as what you do makes you happy, keep doing it. if others like it - jolly good for them. if they don't - at least you have had fun!

singing the bangalore blues

its a mad world out there and getting madder. some of us try to forget the chaos by rocking away those blues. we even have a staid, long name - bangalore music group (not my choice, they had already christened this baby before i joined) we have ceos, writers, an RJ, an interior designer, an impressario, a couple of fighter pilots and even an astronaut. we try to meet up at one of the members' houses once a month. this was at our new place where 30 voices set temperatures soaring. some house warming, huh?

Along came Prof - a tribute to Wodehouse

Imagine a quiet professor. Not so quiet for he can talk a fair bit. But a fairly low profile guy, without any quirks of personality that make him stand out. Pleasant enough but not a head-turner; you get my drift?

Years ago, he married his college mate. But it didn’t work out and a while later, in his usual quiet way, the professor found another teaching job and well, continued to teach away. His colleagues liked him, his students liked him; he was sociable and helpful, always had an open house. Somehow as these things happen, he became the confidante of all lovelorn souls. All his friends paraded their latest flames, boasted or wept whichever way the tide might have been turning for them at the time. The quiet Prof had even to lend his ear and his money his lovelorn pals. Young and old, they confided their romantic rhapsodies and blithely took his help for granted.With all this romance in the air, surely you don’t imagine our protagonist was immune to the love bug?

Now like all men past 35, he longed for days of faded youth and sought to recapture them. By dint of assiduously hanging out with a bunch of youngsters, he befriended many a girl. Sadly, eager as they seemed for his company, they would use him to get a ride or a job or another guy. Still, he continued to revel in dreams of romance. In fact, much like the hero of old Indian films, he felt a masochistic pleasure in pining with unrequited love.

Came the day and it did happen to him too. Unbelievably so, a ripe young woman scorned a younger guy and became his girl-friend. This time everything was perfect; she was not a gold-digger, indeed, if she had a flaw at all, it was that she was supremely unambitious. She was content and loyal, sexy and witty and well, just right for him.She moved in to his home and life was heaven on earth for the quiet Prof. He barely managed to tear himself from home, scampered right back for ‘lunch’ and declined all invitations to dine out.

Friends just waited for the novelty to wear off; they winked at tech other with total understanding and asked him to make a note to call them after a couple of months. But he never seemed to weary of their cosy togetherness. The mutterings began, “He never calls us home nor does he come over. This is downright unfriendly, never though he would change etc etc”. Neighbours told mutual friends that he was hardly away from home. The bar-tender at his favourite pub sadly wiped a tear as he polished the glass mugs and longed for the Prof who would quietly imbibe huge quantities of beer.

Ah, if he could only tell them the truth. He imagined his friends quaffing beer and making ribald jokes at his expense. The thing that kept him chained to the house was not his late-blooming romance, passionate though he remained. His lady-love had finally decided their combined finances would get a boost if she went to work. She also longed to shed some of the avoirdupois which her fond lover was responsible for (he fed her constantly, liking his women round).

But she could not leave the house unless he promised to stay and take –over her job. That was to look after her dog. Never was a dog, nor his mistress, more pampered. This was no ordinary dog; it pined for human company. It would howl hits head off if it was left alone on the terrace and reduce the house to a wreck if it didn’t have a minder. His lady love could not give up her 8 hours of beauty sleep, so the quiet Prof (who used to think 9 am was too early to wake-up) would crawl out at the break of dawn to walk the dog. He came back, fixed breakfast first for the dog and then packed ‘tiffin’ for the lady.

She left with a kiss and a wave and he had to stay on as late as he could and dart out just in time for his first lesson. He would dash back at lunch time and stay as long as he could before going back to the office. Why, he had even given up his evening game of tennis and would straight home.

There, he would wait quietly, in front of the TV, as his darling finished work, work-out and then came home for a hot dinner at 8 pm. What rankled him most, he brooded, was when she got home, it was the dog and not he, who got the first rapturous hug and kisses. But it was not his nature to complain and he didn’t. He just went on being quieter and quieter. So quiet did he become that even the dog ceased to regard him as worthwhile company and took up its howling whether he was home or not. So enraged was the dog with its feeling of neglect, that one day it destroyed all his mistress’s cosmetics.

Love for the lipsticks and French perfume didn’t stand a chance against canine company. The dog was sent packing. Indeed, two figures emerged at a run from the house, one disappeared to the wilderness while the other human figure drove rashly and negligently to the old watering hole. There, he downed 4 mugs in a row and looked at all his old friends like a new man. He pulled out his cell phone, pressed speed dial for his home and spoke loud and clear, “I am going to be late. Fix your own dinner”.

*******

sacred games

am deep into ' sacred games' - vikram chandra's 3rd book.

i found his 'love and longing in bombay', which good ol' prof loaned me, v readable. last week, the author and his wife, melanie were down for the launch that was like a movie release - right down to the press kit: ' are you ready for the games to begin' or something like that, the book cover on a picture post card et al.

not suprising, given his filmi lineage. his sister tanuja chandra is an offbeat film-maker and he himself has co-written the script for 'mission kashmir'

anita nair was sitting next to me and just before the launch, she introduced me to vikram and i told him i appreciated the razzle-dazzle for a book launch. unless writers crow about themselves, no one will buy their books.

chandra is of modest height and looked a little shy at all the hype. he didn't read v well and i found it hard to concentrate on the story. but i found them both to be very likeable and charming.

i started reading the book on monday night and i've been finding it hard to put it down. when i do sleep, my dreams are full of police chases! 'sacred games' says nothing new but says it exceedingly well.

chandra has spent nine years writing this book and am sure nine years in which he has done a lot of growing up himself. how else would he have obtained the sensitivity he reveals ?

as for the story itself, at times i feel it is one of the bollywood films, perhaps 'satya', made in to a book; all that mumbaiyya dialogue and tapori stuff. am sure, chandra will make a lot more money than the huge advance he's received from his publishers when one of the new breed of film makers grabs sacred games and gives it celluloid shape.