I am wearing a deep and sustaining shade of blue. I blame it on all the love stories I've been reading. From a collection called "My Mistress' Sparrow is Dead" (Jeffrey Eugenides Ed.). The stories are awful. Awful in that they are lovely, of course. Lovely in that they make you feel awful in so many ways. They are stories of love and then some. I think passion best describes the theme. The kind of passion you wouldn't think one could possibly articulate. The kind of misery you would never have thought could be so eloquent.
And the pain? It is the kind that you didn't think you were capable of feeling. It comes from a part of your body (some mysterious organ perhaps) whose existance you were hitherto unaware of.
(Not my pain.. Mine is bearable. Mildly annoying. Annoying because happy is the only way I've ever been. Happy is the only way I know how to be. You realise how inconvenient that is. To have to reconcile a feeling you've never allowed yourself to feel? The brain fails to process it. Doesn't know what to do. For updates on changes in my mental disposition, watch this space.)
The pain I talk of is that experienced by the characters (thankfully) in the stories. What sick pleasure writers must take in drowning their characters in such gloom. Secretly venting out their own frustration be it real. Or worse, invented for art's sake.
And as for the reader? The poor unsuspecting fool who was duped into purchasing the vile publication by an aesthetically pleasing cover page and an extremely charitable blurb. And of course the promise of experiencing love, albeit vicariously. Love, with all the smiles and hugs and caresses and holding of hands. The sleepless nights, beating of hearts. And love, with all the anger and tears. The sleepless nights, beating of hearts.
And the poor reader.. paralysed by woe. Woe is me that I will never find that sweet everlasting love. Woe is me that when I do find it, the initial sheen will invariably wear thin. That which was once such a source of simple pleasure will (one can only hope later rather than sooner) become complicated and tedious.
Woe is me, that I traded an early morning jog for an early morning blog.
*
I am suddenly feeling much better. The agenda for the day has been laid out. It will be a long one, much like the rest. But my enthusiasm inspires much confidence in my boss's sweet and forgiving heart. My inclination toward effort more than makes up for the stupid questions that stubbornly make their way through my mouth. The work, she will get done. It will take time. But it will get done. Phew...
*
I have seen more dead rats in my 7 months in Mumbai than I have in my entire life. I can roughly identify two key reasons. Either, Mumbai has more rats or Mumbai rats are less sturdy and just kick the bucket without much fuss and fight. Neither of the two prospects is particularly appetising.
The third explanation (mine favourite one) is that rats simply choose to die more public deaths. And not just because of lack of space. The whole "Mumbai has no space" thing is really done to death. And irrelevant in the context of tiny creepy crawlies and their larger, creepier and mammalian cousins. If there is space for anything in this city it is for rats to crawl into and die. No, the rats are unafraid, they are vocal, loud voluble (voluminous too).
I dedicate this post to the dead rat i saw on the way to work this morning. All set to be devoured by a nasty crow. Its death may have gone unlamented by the rodent community but it did not go unnoticed by the universe. I saw it. I was there. Just me and the odd crow.
*
I encountered an extremely bossy old lady on the bus. It amazes me how bossy the old and infirm can be. But she was more than just bossy. She was just at peace with herself. An advanced stage of realisation of self.
For one split second I wanted to be old and wrinkly. To zoom to an age when all the worries of love have been done and dealt with. An age when the stray dead rodent doesn't inspire extended musing.
*
Enough of that. The work day is well past begun. Now I am young. There is much toil on the menu. There is much love to be made. Much money as well. A full life waiting to be lived.
Us drones can be remarkably poetic at times. I blame it on the stories we read.
*
I wrote this earlier and am posting it now. Managed my time quite while in between. Yay!
Monday, 12 January 2009
Saturday, 3 January 2009
Rhyme a Dozen
Ti tum, ti tum, tit tum, tit tum, tit tum
And 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and 5
*
I picked up this book a while back- The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within, by Stephen Fry. Sort of an Idiots Guide to Poetry or Versification for Dummies. It is turning out to be brilliant.
People, when they write, end up doing roughly two things. Projecting a version of themselves that they like and that they think the world would like (or like to like). And unknowingly, betraying a bit of what they really are in person. At least thats what I think.
Now I can't tell if Stephen Fry is a nice person or a truly nasty one. If he pets dogs, donates to charities. Takes pleasure in running over squirrels while driving his car. Always forgets to flush the loo once he's done. Never ever forgets a birthday. All that, I can't really tell.
One guess I am willing to venture is that he would be great fun to have a conversation with.
Everyone should read this book. I think a lot of us suffer from a secret fear of things artistic or refined. We fear that we aren't sharp enough to grasp them, appreciate their true beauty. I know I'm always slightly wary when I come across people who read books by James Joyce or watch movies with subtitles or love theatre. I wonder how and when art became the domain of a few. How some if not most of us were somehow excluded.
Or if the exclusion isn't in fact self imposed. If by giggling maliciously at what we perceive as pretensious and "pseudo", we haven't voluntarily deprived ourselves of some of the world's most beautiful music and literature. Distancing ourselves from forms of expression which are very much within the realm of our understanding, but go ignored simply because we were too scared, or too impatient.
*
Ok I'm starting to bore myself. Bleh..
*
My mother and I are considering setting up camp outside the Fun Republic Multiplex (nee Dhillon). We have in the past two days seen three movies, a number which in some cultures may be considered obscene. We are both die hard fans of the movie watching experience as a whole. The popcorn, the trailers, the post move dissection on the way down to the parking lot.. not so much the wailing babies who are planted strategically at every corner of the movie hall or the 6 ft. tall sardars who are invariably granted seats right in front of us, obscuring a minimum of 40% of the screen.
As much as I hate visiting malls in Mumbai, a trip home seems incomplete without visiting one (i.e. Chandigarh's first and until recently only mall). It is here that I am given a crash course in the latest fashion trends of my hometown.
This season, girls are sporting, among other things, painfully straight hair, big boots made of strange velvety material, skinny jeans (the trend is tragically not restricted to just the skinny girls), microscopic bags that begin and end in the armpit and the ultimate accessory- chewing gum. The boys are in fact, if its possible, clad much more absurdly. Some of them look like they've landed direct from Englaand (deliberately misspelt) with their fancy shades, fancier jackets, fancierer facial hair. With strangely pointy shoes. And topped off, of course with hair so spikey it would make poor porcupines pout (alliteration). This plumage is held in place by what can only be imagined as giant gobs of hair gel. About enough to put massive oil slicks (the kind which can jeopardise the entire habitat of assorted sea creatures) to shame.
Oh and hold your breath.. Patent leather is back..
I am so mean. I should be shot.
Eh.. Needless to say I stick out like a sore gangrenous thumb. With diseased cuticles to boot. In a sea of tight denim, hair gel, patent leather. Skinny jeans and fat wallets. Lots of style with tragically little taste.
Maybe I'm just jealous? Then again, maybe not.
Maybe I'm just a big fat snob? Highly likely.
Most people I've met have told me I don't remotely resemble girls from Chandigarh. Or rather conform to their image of one. Note the difference, its an important one. It would surprise you how different the two really are. Most people mean it as a compliment. As a dear friend recently informed me, Chandigarh girls, as per his knowledge are usually clad in red salwar kameezes and he's awfully glad to have not spotted me in one so far. Others associate girls from the city with great beauty.
Which leaves me slightly confused as to how best to react. It sort of flips the "Who am I?" thing on its head.
Who would I rather not be?
*
Existential questions apart, what I would most like to be right now is a master of the Iambic Pentameter.
The exercises at the end of the first chapter urge the reader to pen down a few lines. The only restriction is the metre. The sentences need not rhyme. They can be single or in pairs. They can be simple, silly or serious (one of each is advised). They in fact needn't even make sense.
All they need do, is lend themselves to the following rhythm-
ti-tum, ti-tum, ti-tum, ti-tum, ti-tum
Here's what I could come up with:
1. My toe-nails need post haste to be cut short.
2. Her skin is peeling off in little bits.
3. My heart is grieving quietly for you
I miss your touch, your smell, but mostly you
4. Deforestation is an awful thing.
5. The grass is greener on the other side.
Thats just a flavour of the over 20 lines the book prescribes. I sincerely hope I make the grade.
Left my favourite one for last:
The poet rhymes compulsively today
Tomorrow he may just prefer to sleep
And 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and 5
*
I picked up this book a while back- The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within, by Stephen Fry. Sort of an Idiots Guide to Poetry or Versification for Dummies. It is turning out to be brilliant.
People, when they write, end up doing roughly two things. Projecting a version of themselves that they like and that they think the world would like (or like to like). And unknowingly, betraying a bit of what they really are in person. At least thats what I think.
Now I can't tell if Stephen Fry is a nice person or a truly nasty one. If he pets dogs, donates to charities. Takes pleasure in running over squirrels while driving his car. Always forgets to flush the loo once he's done. Never ever forgets a birthday. All that, I can't really tell.
One guess I am willing to venture is that he would be great fun to have a conversation with.
Everyone should read this book. I think a lot of us suffer from a secret fear of things artistic or refined. We fear that we aren't sharp enough to grasp them, appreciate their true beauty. I know I'm always slightly wary when I come across people who read books by James Joyce or watch movies with subtitles or love theatre. I wonder how and when art became the domain of a few. How some if not most of us were somehow excluded.
Or if the exclusion isn't in fact self imposed. If by giggling maliciously at what we perceive as pretensious and "pseudo", we haven't voluntarily deprived ourselves of some of the world's most beautiful music and literature. Distancing ourselves from forms of expression which are very much within the realm of our understanding, but go ignored simply because we were too scared, or too impatient.
*
Ok I'm starting to bore myself. Bleh..
*
My mother and I are considering setting up camp outside the Fun Republic Multiplex (nee Dhillon). We have in the past two days seen three movies, a number which in some cultures may be considered obscene. We are both die hard fans of the movie watching experience as a whole. The popcorn, the trailers, the post move dissection on the way down to the parking lot.. not so much the wailing babies who are planted strategically at every corner of the movie hall or the 6 ft. tall sardars who are invariably granted seats right in front of us, obscuring a minimum of 40% of the screen.
As much as I hate visiting malls in Mumbai, a trip home seems incomplete without visiting one (i.e. Chandigarh's first and until recently only mall). It is here that I am given a crash course in the latest fashion trends of my hometown.
This season, girls are sporting, among other things, painfully straight hair, big boots made of strange velvety material, skinny jeans (the trend is tragically not restricted to just the skinny girls), microscopic bags that begin and end in the armpit and the ultimate accessory- chewing gum. The boys are in fact, if its possible, clad much more absurdly. Some of them look like they've landed direct from Englaand (deliberately misspelt) with their fancy shades, fancier jackets, fancierer facial hair. With strangely pointy shoes. And topped off, of course with hair so spikey it would make poor porcupines pout (alliteration). This plumage is held in place by what can only be imagined as giant gobs of hair gel. About enough to put massive oil slicks (the kind which can jeopardise the entire habitat of assorted sea creatures) to shame.
Oh and hold your breath.. Patent leather is back..
I am so mean. I should be shot.
Eh.. Needless to say I stick out like a sore gangrenous thumb. With diseased cuticles to boot. In a sea of tight denim, hair gel, patent leather. Skinny jeans and fat wallets. Lots of style with tragically little taste.
Maybe I'm just jealous? Then again, maybe not.
Maybe I'm just a big fat snob? Highly likely.
Most people I've met have told me I don't remotely resemble girls from Chandigarh. Or rather conform to their image of one. Note the difference, its an important one. It would surprise you how different the two really are. Most people mean it as a compliment. As a dear friend recently informed me, Chandigarh girls, as per his knowledge are usually clad in red salwar kameezes and he's awfully glad to have not spotted me in one so far. Others associate girls from the city with great beauty.
Which leaves me slightly confused as to how best to react. It sort of flips the "Who am I?" thing on its head.
Who would I rather not be?
*
Existential questions apart, what I would most like to be right now is a master of the Iambic Pentameter.
The exercises at the end of the first chapter urge the reader to pen down a few lines. The only restriction is the metre. The sentences need not rhyme. They can be single or in pairs. They can be simple, silly or serious (one of each is advised). They in fact needn't even make sense.
All they need do, is lend themselves to the following rhythm-
ti-tum, ti-tum, ti-tum, ti-tum, ti-tum
Here's what I could come up with:
1. My toe-nails need post haste to be cut short.
2. Her skin is peeling off in little bits.
3. My heart is grieving quietly for you
I miss your touch, your smell, but mostly you
4. Deforestation is an awful thing.
5. The grass is greener on the other side.
Thats just a flavour of the over 20 lines the book prescribes. I sincerely hope I make the grade.
Left my favourite one for last:
The poet rhymes compulsively today
Tomorrow he may just prefer to sleep
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