Unnamed

I meander about

In the grey caves

With a begging bowl

Unbeknownst of the folly

Or perhaps, acting knowingly unknown

Like we often do in the course of this frenzy

Called life!

I understand the drill

But go against the grain nevertheless

That's supposed to be the trope

To the billions wandering alongside

So lost in the mirage,

Chasing the illusion.

I ponder like I wander

In useless wordage

Insisting that I blindfold my eyes

And complain of the darkness,

For the solace that I find 

In the pity party of

Parading around like a pauper.

 

But underneath lies

A bottomless bowl 

 

In the depth of the eyes within -

Like unlocking the key 

To an undiscovered affluence.

For a fleck I am

In the stardust above

And I better shun my theatrics

And draw the curtains down on the drama.

I bow humbly before the cosmos

With joined palms

Seeking Grace

So I stay anchored in the nothingness

Of the Omniscient.

 

Re-Verse

 

Block is real somedays.

Blockbusters aren't in the offing

So off I go

Without blogging!

Photo by Melike - Pexels.

Kick in the rear

 

Upon logging into my blog recently, I realized I'd not been this way for a while now - and in the meantime , the earth took almost another rotation around the sun. I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I'd shunned this thing - this space, this cocoon (insert shock and horror emoji) and I solemnly vowed to.... (I won't divulge what I vowed to do, lest I jinx it!)

While I looked here and there for inspiration to kick start the continuity of the banter, I found this insight delivered right to my inbox.

"Work hard on what comes easily"

I did my usual skimming through the text and had to pause and do a slower reread.

"W o r k    h a r d    o n   w h a t   

c o m e s   e a s i l y"

Bingo! And my block was busted and how. A lot of things come easily to me lately and most of them don't seem to be of the pleasant kind. Ask any soul trapped in a mid-aged woman's body and you' get your earful of what I mean when I say I get a truck load of things that come easily to me. 

But then, my experience renders me this much wisdom - that the wise have a fetish for the subtle. They would never say anything explicitly when they can imply layers and layers of information in this sort of brevity (or elaboration) only the wise can think of. 

So, onto hither I come, to work hard on what comes easily. And yes, I took a detour from the laundry list of the easily attained woes my mind, body and spirit has been through of late, such as 'plantar fasciitis' for instance. When in the frenzy of packing numerous bags upon the completion of the very long summer vacation, I frantically walked across the length and breadth of my expansive stay that I developed an acute heel pain that now upgraded to the status of chronic. And who thought that there's a fancy name for this condition, whose mere sound makes me pause, sub vocalize and mispronounce the same? 

But I come back again to the 'what comes easily' part without getting too pessimistic and spiraling down the self pity hole. 

There are nicer things that come to me easily - like words for instance. I can write away into oblivion, all the things that I don't even properly form a thought framework of, when I begin to write. Expression comes very easily to me, especially when delivered in black n white. Hence I write away and call it a block buster - as in the buster of the writer's block! 

Work hard on what comes easily - we all are born with an innate prowess. Let's unravel it and rock on.

pic courtesy - Pixabay, Pexels 

Ponder

 

I didn't quiet process how much I love coffee. Or how taken for granted this beverage is for me. Kind of like how much I loved my aunt and how taken for granted her presence was in my life.

There was a magical time in my childhood - a honey tinted translucent trinket box - giving a peek at its contents. It was two tier, housing a collection of sparkly things. Mostly earrings and random bead necklaces. The bling lover was born then, looking at the box and what it held. Babattha owned it, like she owned me when she let me sort through her box and pick those sparkly dainty studs to wear. She was my subconscious fashion icon - the way she draped ethnic silks and modest cottons. Her two fabrics for life became mine as well and shaped my love for understated chic. Her love for sarees inspired mine in the process. 

The numerous 'Scholars English Grammar and composition ' books she sourced for me from her school supplier was a story of the legends. I somehow felt that this book was the only Bible every language student needed and wanted one for every kid I taught. She knew what I would ask for even before I did."Guess what? I sourced two more copies for you" she would exclaim in her enthusiastic voice, long after the books went out of publication.

Attha was petite and svelte. She was in my periphery since the day I could perceive the world around me and used to visit us so often, owing to the nature of her job and her husband's. As I grew up, she became my bestie. It helped that she taught high school English and used to animatedly talk about the Shakespeare drama she was teaching that year. We were very different on the surface. She was the poster child of extroversion. She had her phone buzzing like she worked in a call center and her friends list? Unending! She loved the outside and always found reasons to step out and explore the world - especially on shopping trips and periodically on travels.

She and I were very alike inwardly. She hooked me on to coffee and successfully  converted me to a caffeine junkie long after I had my first born. Our meetings were punctuated with copious amounts of filter coffee and endless conversations  about travel plans, handloom sarees and bygones memories of my childhood. I knew a lot about my baby and toddler years through her memories and accounts of me. 

Attha was known far and wide for one thing - her personality quirk to get things done on a war foot basis - she was borderline restless, buzzing around like a bee, always looking to wrap up the next thing on her to do list. She accelerated  almost everything she had to do. She couldn’t and wouldn’t sit still, not until the last few days of her miraculous existence.

Attha took my sister and me on our first real-time  vacation, to her illiidc  little town in a land far from home. She got me my first lipstick and a pair of ballet shoes and a royal blue middy skirt with a white mega sleeved top. My joy knew no bounds as I slipped into my cinderella shoes. She was always there for us and for her siblings. Her love for my dad is worth its own chapter in her biography. There were so many things I picked up from her - and I probably picked up her trait to love in my DNA that I am so proud to jointly share with her.

As I sit here and pour out my tribute, I realize how prominent her presence was in my life and how she had the unconditional motherly love for us. It is near impossible to think of one milestone in my life without her in the background.

She faded on a warfoot basis. Sprinting around getting things done till the day she took ill and visited a realtime hospital. Her exit was sudden, almost abrupt - like she was in a rush to get to the last item on her to do list. All that remains now is the timeline of our virtual conversations and the realization of how the smallest, most taken for granted of things in my daily life are strangely related to her. The cup of coffee I make in the morning, the teacher's copy of The Merchant of Venice she gave me with her scribbles in the margin, the silicone hot pack she got me for my menstrual cramps and a cupboard of eclectic sarees I grew a taste for, (thanks to her influence), the rhinestone stud earrings I collected over the years to recreate the magic trinket box of my childhood - every ****ing thing in my life seems to be a trace of her that she'd left behind.

I know I cannot take her shopping to get her the silk sarees I promised to get her, or have her over to attend my first born's graduation ceremony but she'll live on a lot more vibrantly and intensely in my memory and lifetime.

I don't take my coffee for granted anymore. The waft of its aroma wakes me up to the things that need celebration.

pic - From Pexeles, by David Bares.

Swan is the ride of Goddess Saraswathy, my aunt's namesake.

  

Mountains or Beaches ? - Writing with the kid #3

 Where are we to stroll if given a choice between mountains and beaches? The prompt that's worth its weight in words looms over my head as my nine year old and I plonk in the couch and write away! 

Long back, in the kingdom of Vijayanagaram, lived a wise and just king named Krishnadevaraya. The said king was a super hero of sorts - He did everything. He slayed the enemies by the day and by night, he swooned over the literary prowess of his prized eight Poets - called as the 'Ashtadhiggajas" Meaning the eight powerful Elephants. Now each of the eight had their claim to fame with their illustrious  works, but one of them inspired generation after generation with his wit, humor and extraordinary spontaneity.

Legend has it that Tenali Ramarishna - fondly know as Ramakrishna Kavi in the court of Vijayanagara, was once approached by the Goddess almighty herself and was offered a choice between picking enormous knowledge  or copious wealth. The catch, mind you - was this or that! And our mischevious hero, asking to see the symbolic elixirs of weatlth and wisdom upclose, mixes them both and gulps them before one could have blinked.

The flustered Goddess was perhaps charmed by his sly, but outwardly blesses - curses him to be a Vikatakavi - a Palindrome - of a title that is supposed to keep Ramakrishna kavi in a seesaw of the aforementioned boons of wealth and wisdom.

I know, I drag RamakrishnaKavi out of nowhere into a subject matter that is supposed to stroll along a seashore or a mountain trail. It is probably because the nature lover in me cannot choose one over the other. I'd take the trail and tread down gently from a higher altitude while admiring the view and reach the beach to find some seashells and enjoy as the tepid waters lick my barefeet.

Mountains raise my spirits and make me soar in spiritual highs while the beach grounds me and anchors my human turbulence. How am I to choose one?

This n That (Writing with the kid #2)

Last December, I made a work trip to India. I swapped staying for Christmas with family for a work trip and went all the way to be a part of the workplace I so long to be a part of. The added perks were to fend for myself and myself alone and to live the life of a loner. "But loner sounds so doom and gloom" One might argue. To the closeted introvert, the word is music to the ears. 

So on one such alone trips that was anything but lonely, I met this man from Kashmir. I am a die hard fan of everything Sufi, and to Sufi fans, the name Rumi might be more music to the ears. So when the shopkeeper said "Hello Sister, my name is Rumi" in his sing song voice, I was held captive at the sound of the name. "And may I show you some exclusive pieces all the way from Kashmir?"

I didn't have time. I was just browsing through the isles of a local handicraft hub that is a Mecca of sorts for me - especially during those single work trips I make to my Motherland. And I very well knew how these shopkeepers had a trick or two up their sleeves to convince customers like me to buy things they don't really need with the money they don't really intend to spend. 

I knew it was a slow day. Besides, I was promised the dekko of some intricately hand embroidered shawls. Now shawls and I are an extension of one another. Stoles, scarves, shawls - no matter what I choose to call them, one of those thingies coiled around my neck feels like a mother's hug, and a daughter’s caress. And any self respecting art lover worth his/ her salt would pay some homage to handcrafted goods - won't they? At least  by taking a pause and smelling the proverbial roses on the busy hub-dub of the daily grind.

Rumi pulled a little cabin-bag  to his side and sat down on the cushioned floor of his shack like store structure. He paused, opened the zipper and looked up at me with a smile. "Sister, you are going to catch your breath looking at these pieces. Each one is painstakingly done by old and experienced gentlemen and ladies who are experts at this craft"

I was already transformed into the mountains - Glaciers in the background, grazing the clear teal skyes and birds chirping away while old men with long, cotton like beards and kind, soulful eyes would look down into their emroidery frames, sewing magic with their nimble fingers. 

Rumi kept whipping one out shawl after the other, with reverence, and opening them like he had held the most precious thing known to human race. "Look at this piece" - he unleashed a full size shawl before me, holding on to the edges and gently tossing the delicate garment out - where in beautiful and stunningly arranged colors burst out on fine cashmere in assorted florals and avifauna. And at that very moment, I felt not just the holding of my breath, but a feeling akin to falling in love. My gut felt fluffy like little critters were prancing around inside it and my heart raced like a gazelle. 

"How much is this one?" I asked, like I had found the one and am not interested to look further. At this point Rumi insisted that I went through his whole stash and I did. Only to flip the stack back and look at the one that caught my attention.

What ensued was gasps, horror, insistence of how pretty the artwork is and how not a millionaire I am to fund such purchases. 

Rumi persisted. Or may be the glaciers and the old artisans persisted, or may be the art lover in me persisted. Or it probably was a meant to be moment. 

I came home with the shawl tucked into my tote with utmost reverence. I opened it, clicked pics, flaunted it to close friends and folded it back into a neat rectangle and tucked it into a soft kora garment bag - and I don't recollect carrying any material possession  as carefully as I had carried home the shawl. One day I dream of a great grand kid that would hold an heirloom shawl in his/her hands and wonder whether he/ she should wear it, preserve it, or frame it and hang it on a wall - so it blesses everyone that passes that way with a viewing!

And that perhaps, would be the best thing my money bought so far, unless some other Rumi in some other handicraft hub would indulge the unassuming me into thinking that by buying the work of art, I'd made the universe smile, and an artisan live and let their art go on to posterity  

Cause I had to write..

(..Otherwise my child wouldn't)

Recently I read something. 

Someone asked Stephen King how he writes so much, so fast. 

His response was simple. He said he aims to write six pages a day, done and dusted. So if he was to write a 200/ 300 page novel that would be like finishing a novel in matter of weeks. 

That makes absolute sense. Doesn't it? Except procrastinators like me sit and wile away day after day, week after week, that runs into decades to end. 

So what's it with revamping our procrastination profile? Lately, when I work and see how the world works, I see that it is more common than we think - this habit to procrastinate. Another genius modern thinkers of our time - Robert Greene - opined that we need to have a sense of urgency to tackle life and what we intend to do, because life zooms past before we know and we also never know when we are called back.

As we speak, I sit here with my 9 yr old, trying to make her do what I had been absconding for a while now. "We need to write everyday" I tell her, It is very important to keep our commitments to learning. 

We were supposed to write about making our lives into a movie, with the plot intact, but add characters from fiction to enhance our plots. 

Like I would want Harry (potter) to be my best friend. Well, I wouldn't assume the role of Hermione. Let's leave her alone and not water her down. And may be I'd want Albus Dumbledore to be my mentor. Would it be safe to say that I'd want JK Rowling to write my life plot?

Oh wait - Let's approach Mani Ratnam. And make him sprinkle his leading men (and ladies) around me to enhance my procrastination laden excuse of a life. 

No - I should loiter around Imtiaz's characters. Aditya, Sejal, The Matargasti duo - forgot their names. I remember someone telling me that they would want Murakami to write their life story. Speaking of Haruki, I have to confessions  to make about my 'to read' hall of shame. I commence and re commence to read him and I stop around chapter 3 - like one would let go of the gym and eating healthy resolutions made on Jan 1st right around the time valentine’s day approaches. 

Yeah right. Write!

And read.

Life - is too short, to even be little!

Retrospect

 The other day, I was speaking with one of my friends, someone who's known me long enough to know me well - and told them that if there's a spirit character of mine, it has to be Geet from "Jab we met"

"Are you your favorite then?" the question came before I could blink. 

Except I went speechless. After a long pause came another question.

"Then why do you call her your spirit character?"

I didn't have an answer. I went into a thinking spiral and said "Yeah, I don't know why I identify with her the most of all the characters I watched"

The conversation drifted to other topics, Though My brain didn't. I wasn't sure why I thought Geet and I had the same spirt, albeit with surface differences. I am not as lively as her, and no I don't chat up random strangers and go on a talk marathon - but when I connect with someone, I have the tendencies to be a Geet.

Around 3am our time, the thought of "Why am I like Geet, if I am not like Geet" was on a loop in my nocturnal head. And then something happened.

I pulled up my phone, squinted in the dark. 

"Geet didn't love herself, she wasn't her favorite" I texted to my friend who resides in another time zone.

"Why so?" came the instant response with a surprise emoji in tow. 

And thus, triggered the subtext of what Imtiaz Ali would have meant when he morphed into Geet and made her say what she said. In the context of the dialogue, a morose Aditya is just warming up to the very extroverted  Geet. When she exclaims how she would have fallen for him, had she not been into a committed relationship and adds something in the lines of "Just imagine - me falling for you" Aditya says - "You love yourself don't you? and she responds in her characteristic enthusiasm saying "Main Apni Favorite hoon" - a tagline that probably launched a thousand memes, and that many more oohs and aahs, to a point where it arguably became the one liner that the film got identified with. 

So where did we miss the subtext bus with this line? What do people that love themselves do when they are faced with rejection? Do they become frail shadows of their former selves, forgetting to talk, smile or even think of the family that would coddle and comfort them in times of crisis? Then why did Geet say she is her favorite? Is it just an involuntary confirmation she offered to Aditya without meaning what she said? - quite possible right? 

The Geet that Aditya thought he saw would have done one of the following in the event of being dumped.

* Do a live session of the gaalis then and there, when Anshuman rejects her. 

* Move on, say nothing - just show her disappointment to him and return home by the next quickest transportation available , do a customary little grieving  if that and move on to her next adventure, with or without a guy on her arm. 

'That would not make the plot the plot' - you might argue. What if I said, it wasn't there for the plot but for real, and Geet didn't love herself all along! She was too vested into the world - She was concerned about the long face of a fellow traveller, she was bothered when someone she just met missed the train. She didn't shrug her shoulders and go on with her self love when Aditya didn't seem to be interested in her banter. Geet wore a mask of self love. For real, she had love for everyone and everything except herself. She needed another person to come pull her out of the slump of rejection. Geet didn't love herself. She didn't!

Imtiaz did put a little red herring in there, with that "Main apni favorite hoon" - it is probable that many givers like Geet are led to believe that they are indulging  in themselves when they give love. It is probably how the Geets of the world end up, in a slump when the love they project onto the world doesn't reflect back onto them. It is probably why the likes of me and many more identify with Geet though they don't gaslight themselves into believing that they are their own favorite. 

So what did Geet learn in the end? 

And as her spirit human, I aspire to learn it too!

 

Love is a superpower that saves the world. And when we give it all away and don't save even a little for ourselves, we render ourselves broke. We lose ourselves.

Let's be our favorites - all while saving the lost ones on the brim of giving up, while making sure others don't miss their trains. 

    Let's mean it while we say it!

Reminder

 

I lot of things got on to the back burner lately, and the cocoon that this little soliloquy of a blog is supposed to be, got off the burner all together. So as the sixth day of the ninth month arrives, the little caterpillar does a little wiggle inside - remembering that the metamorphosis is in progress. 

Sandeep Vanga"s Animal - An Afterthought (Spoilers)

A very rare event had occurred last night. I went to watch the first day first show of Animal by Sandeep reddy Vanga. The reasons are very personal. As much as Arjun Reddy got the flack it had got, and I represent the weaker sex that it apparently aimed at demeaning, I have to admit, I sat there on the edge of my seat, sucked into the emotion of the protagonist and his characterization. Before Sandeep's new film released, I did hear him out in his interviews and an admirer of sorts started taking form. 

I have to add here, that Vanga's films are not for the faint hearted, the moral police or the ones that get triggered and offended easily - nothing wrong with these folks, and nothing wrong with Vanga either and I'd spare my personal judgement about the person he is, based on the characters and the voice he applies to them. 

Not until recently did I know he was filming with Ranbir Kapoor this movie named Animal and like it happens with big films, I caught a whiff of the teasers and trailers and soon enough was swooning over the songs that made to youtube - The visual quality of his work had enhanced exponentially and I was excited to go see what he had to offer. 

The review contains Spoilers, please don't read it if you would like to watch the film in your own perspective

The film opens with a sequence of a young boy pining to come home to wish his father. The father in question is the 'richest man in India' and by that virtue is missing in action for the whole day. I was watching with intent to feel what I was longing to feel - the dad son love story. But from the word go, the emotion went on vacation but what followed was some engaging hour and a half.

There's the usual boy, girl, the family - but the boy stops at nothing to safeguard his family. A sequence reminds us of Vanga's former film where the boy drags his sister to her college to face off with students that tease her. 

Then there's the wide pelvic boned leading lady that the macho Alpha male talks out of 'fresh out of the oven' engagement and just like that flies off to a glacier to get hitched. The plane sequence made me feel like I had a video game console in my hand - and so did many sequences that followed. There's some bits and bobs that seared into my brain though - like the fact that all of this larger than life machoness  saved himself for marriage and he explicitly, without any prompting, makes a promise to his woman that 'he would never cheat' 

Disowned by daddy dearest that he is supposed to pine for, he disappears to the US for six years and resurfaces as a new, aged and improved version with two kids and wifey in tow when he learns that there was a murder attempt on his dad. He seamlessly takes over 'Swastik' steels - a straight one mind you - as he drops cues at the symbolism further down and does such law and order defying stuff that's only possible, like I said, with a video game console. Body doubles come in and are eliminated in a literal shower of bullets.  (by literal i don't mean the cali girl literal but the literal literal ) 

By the way, obsession for the father is patchy. It is erratic, it is eccentric and the borderline narcissistic end tête-à-tête   with the dad made me do a face palm - as it felt more like a 'look how much I loved you, though how much you didn't love me' than a 'I do not care what I got, I love you as you are'.  Didn't I tell ya, the emotion went on vacation from the word go. 

There's a revenge plot. One murder that happens in a board room. Massacres after massacres, like I said, akin to holding a video game console. Fictitious mass killing machine that comes with a comic relief in tow - the interval block left me in a trance, where in I wasn't thinking much. But I wasn't bored yet, probably because I was looking for some providence, some redemption, some saving grace in the next two hours to come. 

But none came. Except the breaking of character  - our hyper alpha bad boy, that lectures his cousins about fidelity and remember? - without prompts, promises his wife of the same is seen straying and how! I have to grant it to the director that I was so taken aback by the character twist that it didn't occur to me that this could be a red- herring. This comes post a brush with death (nay, he doesn't make it unscratched from the video game sequence ) and a heart transplant. In the sea of fantasy, Vanga attempted to make the plot life like - and that was ofcourse to render our bad boy deaf and face him off with the dumb antagonist bad boy. There were probably metaphors, or were just forced to give us a few laughs in the gory, bloodbath of the climax - God knows, or Vanga knows. But I'll get to the interesting part related to the infidelity  - the high horsepower, high libido lad didn't do it all for fun - but to save his father and bust the ploy of the dumb (non speaking) antagonist. So he does go and confess to wifey. The exchange might cringe the 'holier than thou' brigade but to me it was a sliver of emotion in a video game. I probably welled up - from the female perspective and the male perspective even but that's me, getting the sub text. I am waiting for the activists to come out of wood work and throw bricks as we speak and I'd be relieved if they didn't.

I walked out the film without focusing on the epilogue. I was told there was some ground breaking done for part 2 but I was told to enjoy video games in moderation, so I might not really need to know what perpetrated when the end credits rolled. 

Ranbir is a good actor. It is common knowledge. So is Vijay Devarakonda. So is Shahid Kapoor. Vanga is a stellar director and the common denominator - so go figure.The sub text is par excellence. The BGM resonated with my heart beats and pulsed across my nerves. I really couldn't focus much on the production values as I was preoccupied looking for something - no I didn't drop my wedding band in the theater and I didn't stray from my seat with a torch. Heck I didn't take a loo break even. But I was tied to the seat. I glanced only a few times at my watch - but I was preoccupied, let me think - Bingo - I was looking for the plot. The love, the revenge, the emotion, the resonance, the endearment I felt for Arjun Reddy I didn't feel for Animal - though they both seem to be obsessed with one kind of love or another. The former was relatable, he existed in a relatable world - the latter though - didn't live in a normal world and he points that out to his lady even  while they fly off to make love in the sky like Alladin and Jasmine. Wait, oops- they didn't make love did they? but these guys made. Anyway, this isn't a fantasy. I really don't know what the genre is but I do know that it held me captive for 24 hours and I sit here typing all this out to figure out how I felt post the Animal bite.

Sandeep reddy Vanga is a rebel child with a crazy vision and loads of intellect but without cause. He'll find his cause soon and I mean it in all earnestness and no, I won't hold it against him that I he didn't make it possible for me to find the connection with Animal though truth be told, I walked out feeling like I wanted to date the Animal - no no, actually upon due diligence , I actually concluded  that I wanted to be the Animal - in parts. Strictly in parts. :)

Titles are overrated

But wait, I barely began

After a long day of doing 

The most insignificantly 

significant things.

Where does a blog entry figure in this grind?

On top of it all, if one can day dream.

Cause getting the slow roasted potatoes 

To the perfect Shade of  red

Rules the roost over this absurd spread.

But while i pound the garlic and dry coconut in the mortar and pestle,

I absentmindedly muse over starting my blog with “But wait…”

Like you are about to leave, or as if you are even here! 

I dream to banter in paragraphs 

That make you gasp for breath 

As if you are experiencing something exhilarating..

Like a rollercoaster ride or a thriller on the edge of the seat!

Then, gentle reminder- there’s no method to this madness.

It ebbs and flows, once obsessing over a title at length 

And at an other time 

Dismissing it as an overhead!

(It could possibly be the time crunch, the body aching to snooze)

But wait…Or maybe don’t!

No wait…

And come back again.

Tomorrow the method might find some meaning.