i must think about my research topic. and dig out relevant papers to cart with me, along with waterproof shoes and windproof jackets. and a few photos of loved ones.
17,000 words is what they told me. they didn't tell me how deep is the deep end.
viernes, junio 30, 2006
lunes, junio 26, 2006
right now....
i’m listening to a recording of langas and manganiars
“kesariya banna...konti ghariso.... dhar me lo....
choodaliya bulawat bega.... la ghiyo la”
i don’t get a word of what they’re saying. but it sounds good and happy.
the opposite of what i feel.
i have a compulsive need to hate her.
and i hate her for giving me excuses to be so.
i’m a good woman but i’m bad girl.
i don’t need guilt on top of my anger.
i need a shrink.
“kesariya banna...konti ghariso.... dhar me lo....
choodaliya bulawat bega.... la ghiyo la”
i don’t get a word of what they’re saying. but it sounds good and happy.
the opposite of what i feel.
i have a compulsive need to hate her.
and i hate her for giving me excuses to be so.
i’m a good woman but i’m bad girl.
i don’t need guilt on top of my anger.
i need a shrink.
i’m a dilettante
i’m dabbling in the study of football right now.
i’m actually enjoying the process of growth.
i’m heartbroken that the netherlands are out of the game. honestly.
i confess marco van basten and his brooding machismo and his sexy white shirts are more than half the reason of my heartbreak.
i’m viciously glad portugal made a mess of their chances with england. two red cards? what was scolari thinking? honestly! (flashes of knowledge gained)
i curse the referee of this night’s match to eternal hellfire.
i'm glad i still have kaka and his team and batistuta and his team to cheer for.
anything to insure myself against a heartbreak like tonight’s.
i’m actually enjoying the process of growth.
i’m heartbroken that the netherlands are out of the game. honestly.
i confess marco van basten and his brooding machismo and his sexy white shirts are more than half the reason of my heartbreak.
i’m viciously glad portugal made a mess of their chances with england. two red cards? what was scolari thinking? honestly! (flashes of knowledge gained)
i curse the referee of this night’s match to eternal hellfire.
i'm glad i still have kaka and his team and batistuta and his team to cheer for.
anything to insure myself against a heartbreak like tonight’s.
sábado, junio 24, 2006
apollo's foot apollo's mouth
first they said that rahul mahajan did not have any traces of drugs in his guts.
now they say that my father is a caucasian.
now they say that my father is a caucasian.
why round figures are good
when the uproar on reservation was at its loudest, what disturbed me more than the tunnel-vision of the young turks on the road, was the the reporting by the media. it was like watching ‘rang de basanti’ part-II and with the new DJs and Karans in labcoats and jhadus, out to cleanse a corrupt political system that had waylaid meritocracy in favour of cheap crowd-pleasers like caste-line reservations. i will not stoop to point out the number of ill people who were not tended to on those heady days… oops, did i say it?
about the other side of the debate, there was on the whole a loud silence on t.v., in the dailies and magazines. (frontline brought out an issue on the various angles of the story – including the successes of reservation in the south of India).
and here’s a reason why it may have been so. The media study group did a survey in delhi (which the Tehelka has summarized in the 01/07/06 issue) that basically confirms what I suspected – while i figure out how external links work, i’m quoting liberally from the article.
“Look into the Fairness Mirror
upper caste hindu men dominate the media… ‘twice born’ hindus (dwijas comprising Brahmins, kayasthas, rajputs, vaishyas and khatris) are about 16 percent of india’s population, but they are about 86 percent among the key media decision-makers in this survey.
Dalits and adivasis are conspicuous by their absence among the decision-makers. Not even on of the 315 key decision-makers belonged to the scheduled castes or the scheduled tribes.
The proportion of OBCs is abysmally low among the key decision-makers in the national media: they ar only 4 percent compared to their population of around 40 percent in the country.”
about the other side of the debate, there was on the whole a loud silence on t.v., in the dailies and magazines. (frontline brought out an issue on the various angles of the story – including the successes of reservation in the south of India).
and here’s a reason why it may have been so. The media study group did a survey in delhi (which the Tehelka has summarized in the 01/07/06 issue) that basically confirms what I suspected – while i figure out how external links work, i’m quoting liberally from the article.
“Look into the Fairness Mirror
upper caste hindu men dominate the media… ‘twice born’ hindus (dwijas comprising Brahmins, kayasthas, rajputs, vaishyas and khatris) are about 16 percent of india’s population, but they are about 86 percent among the key media decision-makers in this survey.
Dalits and adivasis are conspicuous by their absence among the decision-makers. Not even on of the 315 key decision-makers belonged to the scheduled castes or the scheduled tribes.
The proportion of OBCs is abysmally low among the key decision-makers in the national media: they ar only 4 percent compared to their population of around 40 percent in the country.”
jueves, junio 22, 2006
right to information
my love-life went into a coma after my last break-up with the lover, but that’s precisely what necessitates an examination. hopefully this is a just a diagnostic biopsy and not a post-mortem.
here’s what happens. i meet a guy i like. out comes the checklist and i start ticking off. since i like him already, i check most things anyway. like ‘he even notices the patterns on the insoles of my shoes. wow!’ or ‘he’s so oblivious to external appearances – especially his own. wow!’. ‘he likes rabbi shergill too. we are so meant to be!’ or ‘oh, he’s never heard of rabbi but who cares - he likes ani difranco’. and so this poor guy, without his knowledge or consent, gets burdened with being the most-perfect-for-me guy in the whole wide milky way.
what happens next is even crueler. while i get my cheap thrills from daydreams, i’m also doing the mathematics of forever and beyond. ‘will he love me even when my buttocks can’t fight the G-force anymore?’. but there’s no live-feed and i’m getting bored very fast of the same old file pictures. and soon, it’s time to close the case. out comes the other checklist. ‘he notices the shoes of every woman that passes by’ or ‘his annual bath is two years overdue’ or ‘all he talks of is dams. yaawn’. and so he gets dumped in my head. besides, he’s not eternity material.
isn’t that unscientific? one just can’t speculate about the future when one doesn’t have any baseline data for the present.
more importantly, it’s so unfair that all the while, the poor dude has had no say in the whole matter – because he doesn’t have access to information. because i’m holding it back from him. today, even the world bank has learnt that prior and informed consent/dissent is man-date-ory. i, as a defender of social justice, cannot be blind to my own hypocrisies no more.
so, when my traveler is in town en route to very-far-away, i must tell him how perfect he could have been for me.
here’s what happens. i meet a guy i like. out comes the checklist and i start ticking off. since i like him already, i check most things anyway. like ‘he even notices the patterns on the insoles of my shoes. wow!’ or ‘he’s so oblivious to external appearances – especially his own. wow!’. ‘he likes rabbi shergill too. we are so meant to be!’ or ‘oh, he’s never heard of rabbi but who cares - he likes ani difranco’. and so this poor guy, without his knowledge or consent, gets burdened with being the most-perfect-for-me guy in the whole wide milky way.
what happens next is even crueler. while i get my cheap thrills from daydreams, i’m also doing the mathematics of forever and beyond. ‘will he love me even when my buttocks can’t fight the G-force anymore?’. but there’s no live-feed and i’m getting bored very fast of the same old file pictures. and soon, it’s time to close the case. out comes the other checklist. ‘he notices the shoes of every woman that passes by’ or ‘his annual bath is two years overdue’ or ‘all he talks of is dams. yaawn’. and so he gets dumped in my head. besides, he’s not eternity material.
isn’t that unscientific? one just can’t speculate about the future when one doesn’t have any baseline data for the present.
more importantly, it’s so unfair that all the while, the poor dude has had no say in the whole matter – because he doesn’t have access to information. because i’m holding it back from him. today, even the world bank has learnt that prior and informed consent/dissent is man-date-ory. i, as a defender of social justice, cannot be blind to my own hypocrisies no more.
so, when my traveler is in town en route to very-far-away, i must tell him how perfect he could have been for me.
martes, junio 20, 2006
b for babies, c for commerce
i love babies. from a distance that is. i confess my maternal instincts do kick me in the ovaries once in a while. but i kick them right back because i don’t intend to spend the rest of my life incarcerated at tihar for manslaughter of a young human (can one plead temporary insanity induced by lack of sleep?). however, if i do ever become a mother in the unforeseen future, i’ll do at least one right thing by it and raise it far far away in the wilderness where the cold, slimy fingers of commerce cannot steal its childhood.
paradise lost
walt disney comp. and some media investment management group have conducted a survey and declared that in india “children up to the age of 12 are now influencing purchasing decisions in categories like cars, computers and even insurance.” which is to say, instead of peddling candies and cookies, it’s going to be cars and computers that cartoon network and pogo will hard-sell in between the antics of anthropomorphed animals. it’s getting to be a scary world to raise a child.
but it gets downright rich when t.o.i. endorses this attitude on its editorial page saying that “indian children of a different era were oppressed in the joint family system, where all the decisions from what they would eat to what they could do in their leisure time were taken on their behalf. now that those shackles of uniformity have been thrown off, it is only right that children should step in enthusiastically to play an active role in their lives and the lives of their parents.” timesview, p.26, monday, june 19, 2006.
and here i thought that i was the wildest conspiracy theorist around. green veggies as instruments of child abuse? i should sue parents for manipulating my right to life with lies like ‘playing with fire can cause serious burns’ or ‘falling off from trees can cause grievous injuries’. now you know why i’m like this only (not that i didn’t get burnt or split my lip in course of experimenting with anti-gravity).
yes. it’s great that children today are taking such an active role in planning the family budget. all indian families can now be as perfect-toothily, healthy-gummily happy as the ones on t.v., and they can gorge on pizzas and guzzle colas, while the friendly adults abdicate all parental authority and the little adults mull on which insurance to buy, because god knows, they are going to need it soon.
but it gets downright rich when t.o.i. endorses this attitude on its editorial page saying that “indian children of a different era were oppressed in the joint family system, where all the decisions from what they would eat to what they could do in their leisure time were taken on their behalf. now that those shackles of uniformity have been thrown off, it is only right that children should step in enthusiastically to play an active role in their lives and the lives of their parents.” timesview, p.26, monday, june 19, 2006.
and here i thought that i was the wildest conspiracy theorist around. green veggies as instruments of child abuse? i should sue parents for manipulating my right to life with lies like ‘playing with fire can cause serious burns’ or ‘falling off from trees can cause grievous injuries’. now you know why i’m like this only (not that i didn’t get burnt or split my lip in course of experimenting with anti-gravity).
yes. it’s great that children today are taking such an active role in planning the family budget. all indian families can now be as perfect-toothily, healthy-gummily happy as the ones on t.v., and they can gorge on pizzas and guzzle colas, while the friendly adults abdicate all parental authority and the little adults mull on which insurance to buy, because god knows, they are going to need it soon.
domingo, junio 18, 2006
and while on serious matters...
i have encountered racial stereotyping hajaar times in delhi, but this was new even to me.
i was at the yusuf sarai market to arrange a honeymoon*. i noticed a guy standing by the khoobchand shop**, waving his arms, soliciting me with something indecipherable. i consider eveteasing as a non-bailable offence. furiously, i walked closer with my palms balled up in aggressive fists.
he was saying, “madam, pork?”
* it’s for my parents.
** khoobchand is an iconic butcher shop of delhi, with at least two branches that I know of.
i was at the yusuf sarai market to arrange a honeymoon*. i noticed a guy standing by the khoobchand shop**, waving his arms, soliciting me with something indecipherable. i consider eveteasing as a non-bailable offence. furiously, i walked closer with my palms balled up in aggressive fists.
he was saying, “madam, pork?”
* it’s for my parents.
** khoobchand is an iconic butcher shop of delhi, with at least two branches that I know of.
the convert
the world cup is also a bookmark of history.
for example, posterity will remember 2006 as the year that serbia-montenegro played as a hyphenated-yet-single entity for the last time. the referendum of 21st may has thrown s-&-m into the league of many nations that have parted ways over a nebulous debate of identity. did they have any premonition of the outcome when the team was being selected?
but the football fiesta also twists the crooked strands of history into a rainbow yarn. the names sported on the backs of jerseys are short-hand for the baggage of a colonial past. baggage isn't always bitter though. one could sentimentally suggest closure and healing when one watched trinidad and tobago face england and draw honorably as equals. and baggage isn't always bad. look at the french - the colonized and the colonizers have found out how to move on and join forces and be one of the most respectable (and oldest) teams this year.
on the other hand, the display of discipline and sportsmanship by the u.s. and italy yesterday was a text-book case. The match was generally injurious to the health of everyone on the field. mid-air collisions, bodies flying everywhere, one bloody nose, a few broken bones, 37 fouls and three red cards. even the rowdies of my village would have doffed their cane hats in awe. thin line between the civilized and the savage, should we say?
p.s: my excessive t.v.-watching has thrown up an interesting observation – football is a dark-haired game. africans, latinos, spaniards, italians. even the anglo-saxons are mostly brunets. except for the koreans and the japanese who are natural blonds, of course.
p.p.s: although the author claims no great erudition of either history or football, she’s flattered that j.n.u. academics are also using football for mapping world history, as suggested by an Indian Express article this morning. both parties have worked this out independently.
for example, posterity will remember 2006 as the year that serbia-montenegro played as a hyphenated-yet-single entity for the last time. the referendum of 21st may has thrown s-&-m into the league of many nations that have parted ways over a nebulous debate of identity. did they have any premonition of the outcome when the team was being selected?
but the football fiesta also twists the crooked strands of history into a rainbow yarn. the names sported on the backs of jerseys are short-hand for the baggage of a colonial past. baggage isn't always bitter though. one could sentimentally suggest closure and healing when one watched trinidad and tobago face england and draw honorably as equals. and baggage isn't always bad. look at the french - the colonized and the colonizers have found out how to move on and join forces and be one of the most respectable (and oldest) teams this year.
on the other hand, the display of discipline and sportsmanship by the u.s. and italy yesterday was a text-book case. The match was generally injurious to the health of everyone on the field. mid-air collisions, bodies flying everywhere, one bloody nose, a few broken bones, 37 fouls and three red cards. even the rowdies of my village would have doffed their cane hats in awe. thin line between the civilized and the savage, should we say?
p.s: my excessive t.v.-watching has thrown up an interesting observation – football is a dark-haired game. africans, latinos, spaniards, italians. even the anglo-saxons are mostly brunets. except for the koreans and the japanese who are natural blonds, of course.
p.p.s: although the author claims no great erudition of either history or football, she’s flattered that j.n.u. academics are also using football for mapping world history, as suggested by an Indian Express article this morning. both parties have worked this out independently.
sábado, junio 17, 2006
learn latin in 30 days with the freebee
i see, i hear, i learn.
video, audio, disco.
no. you cannot sue.
video, audio, disco.
no. you cannot sue.
viernes, junio 16, 2006
balls to the world
i’m no sports aficionado. however, since i’m trapped in the belly of an obscure cult, i’m being tortured into watching at least one match out of the 64 that make up the FIFA world cup, every night against my will. they do it through remote-control. they control the remote. and the remote controls me (did i mention that i’m a tv addict?)
so far, this is what i have learnt about fifa, football and me –
· don’t rejoice that thou art getting so much football, ye fool. i don’t know about the world cups past, but it is sheer capitalism that has machinated the world cup into a month-long jamboree. the 64 matches have been scheduled so that every single match can be televised and cashed upon – even the inconsequential little scraps that don’t actually register a ripple on the richter.
· a fall-out of such intense televisation is that if your balls get mistaken for der ball, images of your pain and agony reach every tv-watching eyeball in the world. and if you happen to shove your hands into your adidas shorts to massage the martyrs, rest assured that some bitch will give you dubious immortality on her blog. (ya, so this happened to yorke of trinidad and tobago against england last night).
· there are possibly more sponsors than there are teams in fifa 2006, and the money comes in different sizes and shapes – aerated beverage bottles, cars, junk food, boots… actually, rejoice ye fools that there’s so much football. only don’t buy.
· mercifully, unlike in a certain other game that we know, the sponsors are content being in the sidelines. the viewer doesn’t have to miss any leap of history due to the relentless assault of dictums of commerce.
· the print media has turned a willing accomplice to this hyper-hoopla. therefore the only way to hold onto one’s sanity is to contemplate on life’s profundities within the framework of fussball. like, the relativity of aesthetics – a casestudy of kaka’s attractions vis-a-vis the general prevalence of bad looks in the brazilian teeth… umm… team.
· i’ve never been attached to any team. the only time i ever was a loyalist was when batistuta of the golden locks was leading argentina in his white-and-blue stripes. but this year, i’m cheering for the netherlands sans any baggage of teenage crushes.
· i’m hoping that my selfless devotion would be rewarded with a suitable scholarship by the netherlands government (remind me to email the link to this post to them).
· i hate those little guys with knobby knees and pre-pubescent mohawks who escort the gladiators into the arena.
· in other words, it is i who should be holding onto those strong arms that are attached to the most glorious male bodies of our times – beautifully molded torsos, lithe legs that dance to some silent rhythm, and intent faces of warriors. yum.
· which brings me to the next point of education – i don’t stand a chance because most footballers are married by the time they are 22.
· which brings me to the next point – i may actually stand a chance because apparently footballers are very susceptible to infidelity.
· but the next point is that they turn infidels only under the influence of god’s own angels. since i don’t fit the template, i actually don’t stand a chance.
now i am depressed. finis. where’s my keg of beer?
so far, this is what i have learnt about fifa, football and me –
· don’t rejoice that thou art getting so much football, ye fool. i don’t know about the world cups past, but it is sheer capitalism that has machinated the world cup into a month-long jamboree. the 64 matches have been scheduled so that every single match can be televised and cashed upon – even the inconsequential little scraps that don’t actually register a ripple on the richter.
· a fall-out of such intense televisation is that if your balls get mistaken for der ball, images of your pain and agony reach every tv-watching eyeball in the world. and if you happen to shove your hands into your adidas shorts to massage the martyrs, rest assured that some bitch will give you dubious immortality on her blog. (ya, so this happened to yorke of trinidad and tobago against england last night).
· there are possibly more sponsors than there are teams in fifa 2006, and the money comes in different sizes and shapes – aerated beverage bottles, cars, junk food, boots… actually, rejoice ye fools that there’s so much football. only don’t buy.
· mercifully, unlike in a certain other game that we know, the sponsors are content being in the sidelines. the viewer doesn’t have to miss any leap of history due to the relentless assault of dictums of commerce.
· the print media has turned a willing accomplice to this hyper-hoopla. therefore the only way to hold onto one’s sanity is to contemplate on life’s profundities within the framework of fussball. like, the relativity of aesthetics – a casestudy of kaka’s attractions vis-a-vis the general prevalence of bad looks in the brazilian teeth… umm… team.
· i’ve never been attached to any team. the only time i ever was a loyalist was when batistuta of the golden locks was leading argentina in his white-and-blue stripes. but this year, i’m cheering for the netherlands sans any baggage of teenage crushes.
· i’m hoping that my selfless devotion would be rewarded with a suitable scholarship by the netherlands government (remind me to email the link to this post to them).
· i hate those little guys with knobby knees and pre-pubescent mohawks who escort the gladiators into the arena.
· in other words, it is i who should be holding onto those strong arms that are attached to the most glorious male bodies of our times – beautifully molded torsos, lithe legs that dance to some silent rhythm, and intent faces of warriors. yum.
· which brings me to the next point of education – i don’t stand a chance because most footballers are married by the time they are 22.
· which brings me to the next point – i may actually stand a chance because apparently footballers are very susceptible to infidelity.
· but the next point is that they turn infidels only under the influence of god’s own angels. since i don’t fit the template, i actually don’t stand a chance.
now i am depressed. finis. where’s my keg of beer?
jueves, junio 15, 2006
river in tears
i may be going to the narmada valley very soon.
the valley is the ultimate pilgrimage for every bleeding-heart on the subcontinent – perhaps of as much significance as that of a haj or a mansarovar yatra for the religiously devout. although i’m too young (ha!) and not-yet-there to claim any moment of truth, if I had to lay such claims, i’d say it’s the day i heard the story of the valley. the narrative of the narmada scarred my psyche deep enough to turn me from a potential recruit in the capitalist army into a jhola-toting, khadi-wearing babbler of conspiracy theories.
my theories are still amorphous. i haven’t managed to plot - let alone connect - all the dots. i’d probably be a wicked old hag before i finish reading all the right books and have the facts at the tip of my forked tongue that i could spit out with joy at the non-believers. yet, the data for my theories presents itself everyday at the traffic lights selling substandard tissues, meagerly-strung mogras, and garish balloons. then there’s the other evidence, ensconced in the air-conditioned cocoon of his steel beauty, fixing the next deal on his phone that probably costs as much as the annual living expenses of the family that has its hearth on the pavement next to the traffic light.
how can one encounter this and not cringe at the incredible unfairness of the inequity? i don’t know how things have come to such a pass. meanwhile this little guy’s giving me a sales pitch of his three-day old empty gut with the matching look of emptiness in his eyes. i can’t afford to buy each pitch that comes my way. but neither can i afford to look away each time, every time.
to me the narmada story gave, for the first time, a face to the force that sweeps countless lives into the cities under an innocuous term of rural-urban migration. it’s not just the dams, submergence and displacement. it’s the entire conception of progress and its mathematics of costs and benefits, that decides that the lives of some animals are more dispensable than those of others. (am i sounding as rabid as ms. roy? forgive me… what was it that kaavya said? internalization… ya, that’s it).
the narmada story also made me see that this vicious force had actually bypassed my little corner of the earth for most of history until this moment. hallelujah! and now, i, nemo, the great yellow hope of the age of aquarius, actually have a few years to stop the cycle of destruction and devastation. so this autumn, i am off to do an m.a. in development studies. and between the unlikely sojourns of b.arch. and m.a.d.s. flows the waters of narmada.
p.s. at these times, i really hate myself for being unable to nonchalantly throw in the relevant facts and figures that make an argument bulletproof. and i also hate chomsky for making it look as casual as throwing eggs into a pan for a scramble.
p.p.s. the trip has been postponed due to some unforeseen circumstances. hmmph..
the valley is the ultimate pilgrimage for every bleeding-heart on the subcontinent – perhaps of as much significance as that of a haj or a mansarovar yatra for the religiously devout. although i’m too young (ha!) and not-yet-there to claim any moment of truth, if I had to lay such claims, i’d say it’s the day i heard the story of the valley. the narrative of the narmada scarred my psyche deep enough to turn me from a potential recruit in the capitalist army into a jhola-toting, khadi-wearing babbler of conspiracy theories.
my theories are still amorphous. i haven’t managed to plot - let alone connect - all the dots. i’d probably be a wicked old hag before i finish reading all the right books and have the facts at the tip of my forked tongue that i could spit out with joy at the non-believers. yet, the data for my theories presents itself everyday at the traffic lights selling substandard tissues, meagerly-strung mogras, and garish balloons. then there’s the other evidence, ensconced in the air-conditioned cocoon of his steel beauty, fixing the next deal on his phone that probably costs as much as the annual living expenses of the family that has its hearth on the pavement next to the traffic light.
how can one encounter this and not cringe at the incredible unfairness of the inequity? i don’t know how things have come to such a pass. meanwhile this little guy’s giving me a sales pitch of his three-day old empty gut with the matching look of emptiness in his eyes. i can’t afford to buy each pitch that comes my way. but neither can i afford to look away each time, every time.
to me the narmada story gave, for the first time, a face to the force that sweeps countless lives into the cities under an innocuous term of rural-urban migration. it’s not just the dams, submergence and displacement. it’s the entire conception of progress and its mathematics of costs and benefits, that decides that the lives of some animals are more dispensable than those of others. (am i sounding as rabid as ms. roy? forgive me… what was it that kaavya said? internalization… ya, that’s it).
the narmada story also made me see that this vicious force had actually bypassed my little corner of the earth for most of history until this moment. hallelujah! and now, i, nemo, the great yellow hope of the age of aquarius, actually have a few years to stop the cycle of destruction and devastation. so this autumn, i am off to do an m.a. in development studies. and between the unlikely sojourns of b.arch. and m.a.d.s. flows the waters of narmada.
p.s. at these times, i really hate myself for being unable to nonchalantly throw in the relevant facts and figures that make an argument bulletproof. and i also hate chomsky for making it look as casual as throwing eggs into a pan for a scramble.
p.p.s. the trip has been postponed due to some unforeseen circumstances. hmmph..
martes, junio 13, 2006
of the seven sins...
anger is my favourite sin.
i have a strictly measured scale of ethics - of black and white, right and wrong, yes and no. and i have calibrated my responses accordingly - righteous indignation, outraged modesty, hurt, abandonment. and all translate into anger.
i feel anger as i feel nothing else. my skin prickles. my digits tingle. my scalp crawls. a bubble of white heat rises from deep within my innards. it travels past my lungs, past my heart, sneaks up my throat, up into my cranium and it explodes there into a million hurtful words and violent tears. Its red tide washes over my being, alienating me in my own body.
i have never been reckless in love. but in anger i have touched the jagged edges of my insanity.
i have a strictly measured scale of ethics - of black and white, right and wrong, yes and no. and i have calibrated my responses accordingly - righteous indignation, outraged modesty, hurt, abandonment. and all translate into anger.
i feel anger as i feel nothing else. my skin prickles. my digits tingle. my scalp crawls. a bubble of white heat rises from deep within my innards. it travels past my lungs, past my heart, sneaks up my throat, up into my cranium and it explodes there into a million hurtful words and violent tears. Its red tide washes over my being, alienating me in my own body.
i have never been reckless in love. but in anger i have touched the jagged edges of my insanity.
lunes, junio 05, 2006
sibling revelry
in the heat of delhi summer, it's not easy to be the nicest person on the earth. and things are more complicated when one is chaperoning one's baby sister through her applications process in the crazy world of delhi univ.
so, i told her that if she hadn't been my sister, she'd have been long dead.
and with her ever angelic demeanour, she said, "i feel just the same".
i think she'll survive this madness called delhi just fine. besides, she shares my genes.
so, i told her that if she hadn't been my sister, she'd have been long dead.
and with her ever angelic demeanour, she said, "i feel just the same".
i think she'll survive this madness called delhi just fine. besides, she shares my genes.
north pole gyaan
what did Santa want when he landed up in Delhi on a hot hot summer day.....
Banta, obviously... duh.
Banta, obviously... duh.
domingo, junio 04, 2006
letting go
how can i let go of the past when i don't not even know what hold it has on me? the only clue is that the present is impaired. with what handicaps i am not sure. can i seek a cure for a sickness that i can't define?
jueves, junio 01, 2006
home is also...
delhi.
in this month, the city's embrace is oppressively sultry and repulsively arresting. like the sweaty, unsteady hold of a co-dependent ex-lover with whom you have just had force-of-habit sex that was stripped of its emotional intent long ago. ashamed at your degradation into a scavenger picking away at the rotten carcass of your relationship, you promise to pull yourself away to a new place. your heart is parched and it longs for the resuscitation of a new beginning. but the still, stale air is pregnant with the promise of change. the clouds of redemption are already darkening the horizons. patience. patience. and so you stay back for a brief monsoon. and another season rolls past.
and so the seasons come and go.
we have a bond, delhi. and here i am, again.
in this month, the city's embrace is oppressively sultry and repulsively arresting. like the sweaty, unsteady hold of a co-dependent ex-lover with whom you have just had force-of-habit sex that was stripped of its emotional intent long ago. ashamed at your degradation into a scavenger picking away at the rotten carcass of your relationship, you promise to pull yourself away to a new place. your heart is parched and it longs for the resuscitation of a new beginning. but the still, stale air is pregnant with the promise of change. the clouds of redemption are already darkening the horizons. patience. patience. and so you stay back for a brief monsoon. and another season rolls past.
and so the seasons come and go.
we have a bond, delhi. and here i am, again.
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