creativity possibly demands a certain degree of detachment of the self from the creative identity. the person and the artist are two different entities. the latter almost always makes its mark on the former, but the other way round probably takes away from the art. considering the fact that art in any form is created for an object outside the self, for a receptive audience however small, it is perhaps natural that art by definition is not something entirely personal. if it is, it seldom attains that level of excellence.

the exception to the rule are autobiographies; i don't know if there are parallels in other art forms. then again very few of those are great pieces of literature. and some don't fit neatly into any box. for instance garcia marquez - reading his book, it seems that the person GM writes about the writer GM.

the obsession with fudging the borders of the personal and public space is peculiarly post-modern, or maybe even post-postmodern in its origins. it is still a long wait to see if this makes a mark in the art of our times, but there is a definite trend. blog-turned-books are the most apparent ones for obvious reasons, but there are other things too. reality tv, talk shows on tv and radio constructed around bits of ones self that is put on a very public space, interactive multi media experience, people, instead of events and incidents, hogging more than their fair share of newsprint.

a question to ask here is then what part of the self is left uninvaded, unexposed, belonging solely in the personal space. by choice or by compulsion, the compartmentalization seems to be less relevant for people. incidentally, it is not art in isolation, academia seems to be affected, albeit slowly and one hopes reluctantly. the new genre in qualitative sociology and anthropology is no longer cyber ethnography. auto ethnographies are creeping in - academic exploration of a society using the individual as the unit of observation, and getting the insider view because the individual studies herself in her social context. it seems like a perverted form of self-obsession, but there are actually some arguements in favour of the methological relevance of such studies.

i wonder how many more boundaries shall i see dismantled in my lifetime. it looks like its going to be long list.

monday strikes again. my imaginary drink of choice this evening is a basic mudslide. equal parts kahlua, bailey's and vodka, double that of chocolate milk. ice and shavings of dark chocolate.

it must be so wonderful to have faith. to know you have something you can always take to be true, to know there is something for which you will always be true. to have a part of you untainted by cynicism, unassailed by doubts. a part yet to be jaded and violated, a part where you always find safety instead of having to logically construct it; a sense of peace, a sense of grace lying around like a pair of old emerald earrings covered by a thin film of dust. a sudden drop of sunlight brings out a green fire and you stop to touch it.

on a different topic, the price for my soul at the moment is a jiggly-wiggly.

ugly baby

new born babies are really, really (how do i put it in an appropriate and sensitive manner?) not always very pretty. well, some of them are, but some are DEFINITELY not. women at work were gushing over one ugly little customer on someone's desktop. i've never seen such a vision before. ok, i've seen something fairly close when my niece was born, but not quite to this extent. wrinkled skin, weird hair, peach fuzz all over, a distinct six-o clock shadow, malevolent expression and eyes that look like they've seen the world ninety-six times and none of those have been a pleasant experience.
i can put a disclaimer and say they probably grow up to win beauty contests or something, but i can't be bothered. some babies are born extremely ugly. period.

tired

someone up there loves me

i got my drink, my evening, a wicked conversation and the blue side (and subsequently the green side) done on my rubic's cube in no time at all. a weekday evening out is so much more fun. in hindsight, i think there was some truth when they said jesus loves me!

monday ended

thought of the day, i want to be wizard bartender- the fifties hollywood kind who seemed to know what drink would suit your mood and gently place the works in front of you with all formality. when drinking was a pleasure and mixing an art. tonight i'd give me the following and rename it something totally ridiculous like Languid manipulation or Streetcar satire.
a little bit of sugar, equal parts fizzy water, soda and dry white wine; some ice, and a nice twisty peel of tangy and glistening lemon. no silly umbrellas on the top.i'd also give me an entire evening, a breezy sunset,a cool night and city lights in the distance.

why can't i frikkin sleep like a normal person? and i've been up for ever and i feel horribly cranky and i hate tomorrow. and i'm not particularly chuffed about now either. so there.

hearbreak sunday

my heart gets regularly broken on sundays. this time it was Bdada's little four year old son. they'd come down from boston for a couple of weeks and he loves being here. in a single sentence he conveyed what i've tried screaming, weeping, signing, writing and thinking about. bostone gaadi, gaadi, gaadi, ekhane lok, lok, lok and burst into a delighted laughter. he said if he didn't love his mommy so much, he'd consider living with me. and gave me a butterfly kiss.

i watched the sky change colour just before dawn today. everything seemed darker than usual when i opened my eyes. i could see the outline of the tree through the window. impercetibly, the outline started filling in and i could make out the leaves - not green - but standing out as something darker greyish and gleaming against a backdrop of velvet black. and then the darkness changed itself. it became less heavy and assumed a misty character. my tree was now outlined against a purplish haze. and the faint beginnings of a green started showing. i turned my head towards the other window just in time to see a star beginning to fade. i watched and watched and the purple turned to a dirty white and suddenly an unknown shade of pink. i could not find my star anymore.

a beggar woman stopped her husband from taking money from me. the reason - i was smoking. meyechhele bidi khay, or kaachh theke poysha nibini. one of my colleagues burst out laughing. most unfair, considering the fact that she is a woman who had stubbed out her cigarette thirty seconds back and therefore qualified for alms giving. my other colleague grew philosophical and commented on the bizarre bloom of idealism in unexpected places. as usual, i'm clueless and still searching for an appropriate reaction.

first human contact of the day - geriatrics in lurvvv, having completed 36 years of marriage. they even smile and look at each other. god help me.

just a reaction, not a real blog

there is a surfeit of opinions on the reservation issue. sadly though, a lot of them can't be categorised under informed opinion. but like most opinions in a hot debate, they come with an emotional baggage. with unfailing regularity, irrespective of standpoint, they ask the same thing - what about the injustices done? injustices that are real, or imagined, of the past or in the present or even, the future?
it is shameful that an entire generation has forgotten to ask the question what about privileges that we take for granted. what about privileges that attach to us at birth? have we come so far away from our own reality that we assume that our cosy urban middle class life is the entire reality, rather than being just a fragment of it?
don't sell me the 'i pulled myself up by my bootstraps' story. you have a bloody boot to begin with, which was bought for you by other people. this is not about people like me. i'm here because i was born with a set of privileges that i have to concentrate hard to recognise as privileges. i was born to parents in a city, who had a rad attitude towards how girls should be raised, a reading habit, intelligence, multilingual abilities, and enough disposable income. it helped that they had an average life and an average name. i had no difficulty in pursuing an average dream.
if i am not the person who automatically got an admission into a premier institute because of the way her name spells, despite driving her own lancer; i am also not the person who is denied education because of the same, i am not the person who is denied healthcare because of the same, i am not the person who is treated like a pariah, i am not the person who has to look at her parents and calculate will they sell me off or will they commit suicide if the crops fail this year, i am not the person who is denied the right to work.
because i carry that legacy of invisible privileges, my kids will not be made to stay away from the village school, my kids will not be refused a checkup by the anganwadi worker when they are running a temperature, my kids will not be made to work for wages at the age of seven because there must be labour provided by people of my caste to keep things in order, my kids will not be told that there are things that they are not allowed to do because they are not good enough, as their surname indicates.
but some kids will be.
negligible if you convert to percentages maybe. but thinking of the sheer number that statistic translates to sends a shiver down my spine. until those kids get their due, i can only come up with ideas to make the system work better, failing which i should shut the fuck up and thank my lucky stars that i am privileged. but what i can't do is close my eyes , distance myself and wish the reality away.
yes, it is personal. it is all about the kind of person you are.

i'm sorry

i put my private or not so private musings on board, though i get my paranoid moments of anxiety about infringements on my privacy. there are atleast three people who must never ever read this blog. if they do, i'll spontaneously combust with shame and there will be eternal peace on earth. but it never occured to me that while i continue to control the extent of intrusion when it comes to my own life, i may have compromised the same for others. it is a belated realisation that i inadvertantly put other people in the same glass bowl where i'm happily swimming, when i should not have done that ( not swimming, the other part; i can swim solo).

i needed extra special strength to get through the day and it shows no sign of ending. falling back on every bit of pop-psychology ever sprouted at/ by me doesn't help. tomorrow's going to be just as bad, the day after... same story. not only can i smell trees from a non-holiday from a not happening future, i can also smell the sea from a gone-holiday in the fast fading past.
why wasn't i born paris hilton? i DO have a better taste in dogs.

its just monday, i'm dog tired and ready to curl up and die. my big fat obnoxious fiance ( the series, duh) can't cheer me up. no vacation in the next 6 months, realistically , for a year now. i don't have a three month summer break coming up. i am definitely not adjusting to that idea well. bloody brother gets to go to japan and can't stop crowing, bloodier friend gets to go to bangalore and can't stop talking , bloodiest friend gets to go to the hills and can't stop planning.
do they deserve the break? what do i care? when has the world been about justice?

R came over for fifteen minutes and i'm happy once more.

one more reason to hate me

i don't read enough, i haven't watched any movie that other people can't get over and i have extremely distressing taste in music , which i don't listen to often

i hate me

yes, i've confirmed my worst fears. i'm a codependent personality, except i tend to depend on more than one person to help me get through my pathetic life. i love the idea of me-time, i need generous doeses of it, i can hold hour-long fanatic conversations about 'space' that leave the listener dazed and nauseous, but today i throw everything out of the window.
the day went beautifully slow and relaxed, too relaxed, so i thought it would be a great idea to go out, except there's no-one to hang out with. people have a) work, b) unexpected guests dropping in, c) expected guests dropping in, d) parents, e) siblings, f) spouses ( each one has one, so far no-one i know flaunts multiple spouses, so don't get confused), g) girlfriends, h) boyfriends, i) a disturbing resistance towards spontaneity
i ymed, msned, got bored , wandered off , logged back in, wandered off second time, turned towards the tv, couldn't find remote, took blogthings ( i am a chocolate martini), logged back a third time in, logged out again, went and took a shower, changed bed-linen, loaded a washer and it all took fifteen minutes! what happened to the good old days when moving out of a chair could occupy ten happy minutes and some more?
someone DO something to change my life drastically. i can't take me anymore.

i'm an imbecile

You Are 15 Years Old

Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

thank god, the day's over

the day lived up to its expectation. the mildest conversation i had today is as follows
to me : " aren't you ashamed? you have more shoes than days in a week, two weeks really".
from me: " i did not make the gregorian calendar." and i have more footwear stashed than what can be seen strewn all over the stairs.
after ten days, i finally had time to finish my book. didn't realise what kind of an animal existence i lead, till actually typing this last sentence out. the palace of dream peeks out from the basket* in an extremely tantalising fashion, but i am saving it for sunday. the question now is, do i or do i not start with nick hornby at the moment?non-demanding, yet satisfying , quite a perfect one-night stand of a book.
as for as sunday, i will not get out of the bed until i'm ready, i won't step out of the house and i'll just read the sunday comics and prop myself up on seven pillows and read. i may go for a walk in the evening, or i may not. i'll take three naps through the day and have an early dinner and go to bed at a time that allows me to have a ten-hour sleep.

* yes, i have a plain jhuri where i keep books, phones, t-shirts, glasses, unidentifiable electronic remnants, an old paper bag filled with stuff i am yet to discover and a plastic wind-up dinosaur in lurid green. i keep my humongous suitcase balanced on my bedside table, which someone has considerately covered with my second-best silk dupatta

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarghgghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. and the day is not going to get any better.

new market

i went to new market today, it felt like being in a time warp.
i remember going there, sitting on dad's shoulders, feeling very tall. it was probably a pre-chrismas evening. i remember lights, chrismas trees ( i didn't know what those were then), decorations and the smell of new things. it felt magical - that too green synthetic green, shiny baubles, a lit up market teeming with dressed-up beautiful people, making turns and taking steps, reaching nahoum to pick up goodies, the warm smell of fresh bakes and a forbidding lady. i was too stunned to want anything.
i remember someone's birthday. my mother came back mid-morning to announce that new market had burned down. the cake came from flury's.
i remember mid-school days, being taken to a shop called queeny's for my first proper pair of jeans. baggy was , unfortunately, still in. we stopped to get bed linen and cotton socks, shirts from the old parsee ladies and just before i burst with excitement, we turned a corner from the cannon to get to the shop where everyone else had got their denims from. no, the fashionable ones suri uncle sent from delhi just didn't matter.
i remember the first time i was allowed to go there with friends. with money enough for a coke, a movie at new empire, two way fare for S- 23 and ten rupees extra, just in case.
i remember many more times i went into that dilapidated old building. the feeling has always been the same. a pleasant sense of well-being.


and just in case you were wondering, yes, i am now the proud owner of three pairs of earrings, two pairs of slippers (one with pink sequins), a hakoba top and a pair of capris.

i woke up to a nice, cool, cloudy morning. the only problem - backstreet's back was playing in my mind in an endless loop. realised belatedly it was a result of reading M's mail last thing before going to bed. why do other people get pleasant dreams while i get stuck with a soundtrack from my own nightmare, a song that should be banned across at least thirty countries and three generations?
but i should not complain. i'm part of the generation that made the following people/things famous - aqua, michael learns to rock, backstreet boys, spice girls, so on and so forth ad nauseum. i deserve my little psychological hell. once upon a time, depressingly long long ago, i even tried calling the fm phoneline to get to jimmy tangree and request never mind what.
i excorcised the ghastly tune , to be taken over by ashiq banaya aapne playing in the shuttle, in the auto and in the ringtones of virulent chhipkali who occupies cubicle 3.

silly bitch

i was taking my keys out of the drawer this morning and an old photograph fell out. me with P. she had pink shirt on. i don't remember her wearing that colour often. it was probably taken at my birthday, two years back or maybe to celebrate end of semester.
i suddenly recalled with absurd clarity an early winter morning. crisp, sharp, the first snowflakes crunching under my foot, looking up to see a lone leaf, still with it fall colours, slowly fluttering to the ground. the cathedral outlined against the grey city sky and smelling the cinnamon in my latte. i can't stop feeling sad. i don't know why. its probably the heat. if only i could have a morning just to myself. i don't know. i wish i knew. it seems so silly to cry when you don't know what you're crying for.

i've been told i'm a cranky person. i beg to differ. i always thought i had a sunny disposition. then i thought a bit more. this could be true. i have a strategy. i pick two or three random things to be pissed off about. not heavy-weight stuff, just things to bitch about, like my recent schtik with gym and the heat. that frees me up to be happy about most other things. isn't it horrible?
speaking of the first one, i went in pretty early this morning thanks to a hideously cheerful SW and his blessed phone. it wasn't actually that bad. i feel better if i work out.
the second one is something that is sapping the life-blood out of me. three minutes in the sun is enough to make me feel like i'm burning alive. i'm seriously considering quitting smoking. stepping out of the office is an ordeal.
i also feel like killing my progenitor. he sneakily plants himself in the guest room before i can and turns the ac on full blast. then he has the gall to tell me i can sleep on the cot in the corner if i don't bother him too much. then, he falls asleep in three seconds and snores, sometimes even louder than M. then after a couple of hrs, he feels too cold and goes back to his room, considerately banging the door on his way out. in between there is heavy tossing and turning, muttering inaudible things and randomly waking up to ask me questions about a long forgotten pierre nora. when will i die? death clock gives me a different answer every time i ask.
the cosmos conspires against me. i now have a full arm of heat rashes on my right arm as well, rashes are bigger, redder, splotchier and much more closely spaced. hope this makes you happy mycotoxin.

i am tired, hot ( not in a babe kind of a way, i'm just sweating three times my body weight out), got itchy heat rashes all over my left arm, i feel cranky and sleepy, but i don't want to go to sleep now because it means waking up early and then i have to go to the fucking gym. not a single place around offers squash lessons or anything remotely interesting. and apparently, getting bored of the gym is not permissible. says who? the same people who plant the idea in your head and then keep harping on the fact everyday and insist on having a cheery conversation at the crack of dawn. i also hurt my big toe and nobody thinks my blue sunglasses are cool. how can they not see that kitsch is uber-cool?