One of my favourites

If I were to choose my favourite song lyrics (Hindi film), it would be “Is mod se jaate hain” from the movie “Aandhi”

The lyrics go like this:

Is mod se jaate hain
Kuch sust kadam raste, kuch tez kadam raahein
Paththar ki haveli ko,
Sheeshey ke gharondon mein,
Tinkon ke nasheman tak,
Is mod se jaate hain

Aandhi ki tarah udkar ik raah guzarti hai,
Sharmaati hui koi kadamon se utarti hai
In reshmi raahon mein ek raah to woh hogi
Tum tak jo pohonchti hai, is mod se jaati hai…
Is mod se jaate hain

Ik door se aati hai, paas aake palat ti hai
Ik raah akeli si, rukti hai na chalti hai
Yeh soch ke baithi hoon, ek raah to woh hogi
Tum tak jo pohonchti hai, is mod se jaati hai…
Is mod se jaate hain

At most points in time, I can associate with the lines; they mould themselves so easily to my circumstances.

Is mod se jaate hain, Kuch sust kadam raste, kuch tez kadam raahein
Everyday I make little wishes. Some seem to take forever to get fulfilled, while others are done almost instantly.

Paththar ki haveli ko, Sheeshey ke gharondon mein,
Tinkon ke nasheman tak, Is mod se jaate hain
Some of my longings can withstand any amount of beating, some break my heart very easily if something goes wrong, while still others are not even fully formed; just misty shapes reflecting a vague desire. But all are part of my present.

Aandhi ki tarah udkar ik raah guzarti hai,
Sharmaati hui koi kadamon se utarti hai
A stormy episode, perhaps replete with hot tears, angry words and confused emotions. Also sweet events that led me into new, undiscovered avenues of my own self, made me feel good about myself, taught me to love.

In reshmi raahon mein ek raah to woh hogi,
Tum tak jo pohonchti hai, is mod se jaati hai…
My favourite line… A silky life, and I, looking for the way that will help me reach you…

Ik door se aati hai, paas aake palat ti hai
Ik raah akeli si, rukti hai na chalti hai
Some chances seem to take forever to be given to me… and just when I find one within reach, it is gone. And sometimes a situation where I am so unsure of what step to take …shall I do this? …is the other approach better? Shall I go ahead, or should I give it up?

Yeh soch ke baithi hoon, ek raah to woh hogi
Tum tak jo pohonchti hai, is mod se jaati hai…
Sometimes I just take a break from everything, sit back and dream… surely sometime in life, something will take me to wherever you are… and perhaps that time is now.

no title...

I’m a dreamer… sometimes I’m the only one

I still hear a different drummer

I still fear loneliness on some dark days and bright nights

I may be a lone entity, but I’ll try to belong

Those lines on my palm seem to mock me, but I’ll continue to try

Ande ke mere funde

I just finished reading this write-up on egg cups. It spoke about the different kinds of egg cups, from simple wooden rings to whimsical rooster-shaped ones carrying the cup on their back with wings outspread. The article then went on to describe the correct, or at least the best way to eat a soft boiled egg, with minimal mess. A couple of days ago, I read this incredible recipe for scrambled eggs with tomatoes. When I am reading a book I love imagining the scene the author describes (often in an English setting) about one or more characters having a nourishing breakfast of poached eggs, or bacon and eggs, or a mushroom omelette, and so on. Eggs fascinate me. Fair enough you’d think. Some people have an irresistible weakness for chicken, some will do anything for biryani, some live almost exclusively on burgers.

Where I differ from these food addicts is that I don’t like eating eggs. I cannot stand the smell of eggs. And I once threw up when I was beating an egg for a cake and some of the yolk splashed onto my fingers. I don’t like that slimy feel. Waffles, cakes and pastries are among the few egg-containing foods that I will eat – provided they don’t smell much of egg. Oh, and scrambled eggs too, if they are hot and smothered so much in onions and tomatoes that the egg loses its identity completely.

I just like the look of eggs, not the feel and smell. Eggs look beautiful, the smooth shell, the golden yolk, the transparent white. I remember my housemate at university cooking instant noodles and in the end breaking an egg right into the steaming bowl. The egg would spread out slowly like a sun throwing out its reach, and simultaneously the heat of the noodles would make the albumen go opaque, the whole egg draping itself over the noodles. And sometimes, the yolk would run slightly, like liquid gold. It was mesmerising. And the words associated with eggs – omelette, soft-boiled, crepe, sunny-side-up…

I love watching and listening to eggs. But from a safe distance. The most I can venture to do is hold a raw egg, and perhaps draw a smiley on it. Anything beyond that, I leave to the stronger willed people of the world.

A matter of chance

Some chances I throw away; some chances don't come my way; some depart a moment before I can grasp them.

A certain chance was hovering in front of me. It was light and wispy, floating in the air: now visible and shimmering; now invisible, just a light fragrance to indicate its presence. It took me a while to even register its presence. The chance of finally recognising it, I did get. But when I wished for the chance of reaching out and touching it, holding it in the palms of my hands and examining it - it was gone.

What do I call this? A chance deliberately thrown away, or a chance not given to me?

Making a point

Keep going off on a tangent and eventually all the tangents join to form a circle. Most people don’t see the circle for the tangents though.

Most points go on to make a straight line leading to another point eventually. Some make little zigzags, but more or less stay on course before arriving. Others draw a complete sketch showing the meaning they intended to convey and some other things as well. Some go crazy on the way, trailing a completely haphazard path, going this way and that, rushing back and forth, leaving the other person bewildered. If they eventually reach the final point, at least the end is clear. Some don’t even do that. Start somewhere and end somewhere, both unfamiliar.

Some points go very slowly. Very, very slowly. They cannot be hurried if you want them to end at the logical place. They will stop to smell the flowers, admire the sunset, make a few observations on life and the world, rest a bit now and then. If you don’t chivvy them along, then eventually they will reach the final place. Some points make a long jump to the end. They don’t believe in wasting time leading a way. Now you are here, now you are there.

Some points are very reluctant. They need constant goading, and even then they frequently threaten to stop at the slightest provocation. They are a particularly fussy tribe, getting offended at the most unexpected of times. You can never be sure if they are sulking because you agreed with them or disagreed, encouraged them or criticised. Patience is the only way to lead them to the end.

A little bud died...

Broken relationships come back again and again to haunt me. I keep trying to build fragile relationships; fragile and sure to be broken soon.

All relationships need nurturing, especially when they first start to come out of the bud. Both people involved have to take good care, like you take care of an infant. Cater to all the whims and fancies, do silly things to humour it, lavish all kinds of gestures and emotions, and pamper it so that it slowly grows into a strong and independent entity. Then you can let it take care of itself. Sometimes I wish for a relationship to develop out of a seed that is too dry. I bury it in rich soil, water it carefully, and pray and hope. Eventually a little shoot emerges, frail and unsure. In my joy at seeing it, I have forgotten that it cannot survive with my efforts alone. The other person too has to look after it. Right now I am blind to everything except for that budding bond. I continue with all my labours, often changing my very nature in the trial. All the while it gets harder and harder to keep it alive and healthy. It takes more and more of my energy and slowly drains all my emotional strength. But I plod blindly on. I fool myself into believing that very soon the other person will realise the true worth of this relationship and start with their part of the job. It never happens.

And one day, I see. I see that I had been living an illusion. There was no budding relationship. I was watering and nurturing barren sand. I was just imagining that the other person would soon be part of my life. They were nowhere near my world. But strangely it does not matter any more. I suddenly don’t care.

Some relationships are more demanding than others. Some people are more demanding than others. I guess my demands were too much for the other person to meet. So it did not work.

I think I’ll take up gardening. It does not involve two people.

I broke a family tradition!

I wasn't well the past few days. Each time I go to the doctor, he tries out new experiments on me but never quite succeeds in finishing me off. Every new medicine brings out new aches and pains in my tummy and generally I am much worse off than I was before I went to him. Perhaps he is trying out all the latest drugs on me to test their potency level.

While I was on yet another course of medication, something struck me which I did not think of before. The names of the drugs. I wonder who comes up with the oddball names for all the thousands and... no, millions and millions of drugs in the world. I remember reading somewhere that the name of a drug should contain at least one syllable of the main component, or something like that. So you have Crocin, Metacin, Anacin and so on. Logically it means "ci" is the syllable they used from paracetamol. From here on, each new brand brought out has more and more bizarre names to make sure they don't sound too similar to competing brands. Some of the names are so ridiculous, it scares me to ask for them at the chemist. Tagon (tag on what?), Daflon (I almost asked for teflon), Stemetil and Deletus (is that Latin for delete? Delete as in 'die'?). There is mighty little room for creativity here, what with a hundred rules set down for nomenclature. I wonder if they hire people especially for inventing new names. If they do, I wonder how much longer those inventors stay normal before this out-of-the-box creativity scars them for life.

Anyway, let me get out of this deep search for meaning in life and make an important announcement. I have broken a family tradition. Most of my family is not very happy, indeed many are quite bugged with me. We Belmannu Raos have a few traits that seem to be almost a tradition. For example, many of us stand with our feet non-parallel, heels closer than toes. A very mild version of Charlie Chaplin. Contact lenses are another thing we all have. So if any guest of ours forgets their lens solution and case, chances are they need not go back home to fetch them. Also many of us, including girls have just a suggestion of widow's peak.

And the most prominent of our khaandaani traits is high blood sugar. High blood sugar is almost expected of all men and most women of my family (father's side I mean) after they have reached middle age. Now I fell ill and my blood test showed my sugar levels to be below normal. When my father saw the report, he did not even bother with the sugar reading. I too very nearly flipped over the page when something caught my eye. "LOW". Huh? What does that mean? Slowly I realised that I had gone and done something that no Belmannu Rao has ever done before. I am not saying that I was proud of this, but it was a first-of-its-kind phenomenon nevertheless.

I am going to frame the report for future generations to gaze at and stand in awe of the mysterious ancestor who dived to the depths instead of climbing to the heights.

Keep mailing

We'll keep in touch. Sure, it is not difficult, with the internet and assorted technology that has shrunk the world into an atom-sized place. But what if I want you by my side right now? Can any technology bring you to my side whenever I wish?

An insecure world

It is proposed that persons of Asian origin be identified as Indian-British, Pakistani-British, etc. A girl of Indian origin, but whose family has lived in Britain for the past 100 years asked, does that mean they will tattoo us with that moniker? What is happening to the world? Why are we all growing more and more paranoid, more and more insecure, more and more intolerant, destructive? Has the world really progressed much since the dark ages? What is true progress? Internet shopping? Mass production?

We are hurling our planet towards sure destruction. We are blatantly abusing nature in every way possible. Sure, we are heeding what the environmentalists say and are replacing wood with steel and glass. But for that, we are gouging out mountains instead of forests. And we are replacing them with mountains of rubbish. Why do we no longer find simple things appealing? We are getting more and more alienated from nature. Successive generations of children are seeing fewer and fewer flora and fauna in their natural setting. Few of us have seen a river as nature meant it to be.

As the years go by, people are supposed to be more tolerant of one another. But it is not happening in reality. Intolerance remains, but it has taken on a different shape. Earlier the reasons for intolerance were simpler to define: colour, sex, class. Today, it takes more than a word or two to describe the reasons for prejudice. Intolerance no longer shouts out loud. It has become diplomatic. Justice and peace are the mandatory tags attached to it. Intolerance is more scheming and plotting now. Everyone has their own ideas of how to run the world and they want all else to fall in line with them. Earlier there was mere mistrust of people who are “different” from you. As long as there was a clear demarcation, there was relative peace. Today, the rules have been issued. This is the definition of freedom and if you don’t follow it, you are a threat to the world. Everything is absolute today. Soon Einstein’s theory too will no longer be allowed to stay relative.

I am not saying that we will soon meet doomsday. Life has an amazing capacity of sustaining itself. No matter how bad things are, it will be many a day before our planet decides to call it quits. But is the current state of affairs worth it? Is this the quality of life we deserve? Will we ever be able to go back to the basics and live the simple life?

Love. The velvety, buttery feeling… sweet and a little strange… supposed to be good for you, very nutritious.

Just like soy milk.

Two weeks is but half a blink… and a lot of things happen in the space of half a blink. A life is snuffed out, affections fade, hope dies out after much struggle.

Two weeks is longer than a lifetime. The Aloe plant will not have grown a single inch yet. People whom I left waiting at the bus stop will still be exactly at the same spot. My thoughts about someone will neither grow nor diminish.

And what is the meaning of it all, Ulrich?

Is life like a drop of moisture that seems so insignificant and of no purpose whatsoever even as it evaporates rapidly on the palm of my hand?

Or is it a profound ocean in front of me whose span I can never assume to gauge, no matter how far back I go and look at?

Mumbai Monsoon

How can I not write about the monsoon? For many endless months, Bombay is slow cooked by the sun (I am resisting the thought of giving the sun some suitable well-deserved adjectives here), in seething humidity, like the dum style of cooking. Dum Aloo, or Dum Pukht. Soon it is time for schools to reopen and the sky is not even turning grey. The monsoons are late. Again. Maybe they should now officially declare the date of arrival of monsoons a couple of weeks later than the usual time. And the weather bureau of our fair city has a fine sense of humour. Either that or it is a sadistic wretch. Every week the bureau predicts rains for next week. For quite a few weeks.

You can see the tension building up. Everywhere, in every conversation, the weather has a compulsory mention. Often, a guest appearance turns into a full fledged discussion involving the past years, sometimes past decades or even spanning back to a few centuries when the monsoons were much more obliging. People like me talk about how the first couple of days of school was almost always called off due to heavy rains. My uncles and aunts would recall their school days when they had so often literally waded to school holding each others’ hands and how my youngest uncle once nearly drowned near Gandhi Market. And my assorted grandmothers and great aunts… well, they mostly ramble, so never mind them, the sweet souls.

And in the meantime, the clouds stoically refuse to visit us in their usual wayward fashion. The RJs on radio try to cheer us up by declaring a new “monsoon magic” contest, or doing a countdown although every couple of days they have to rearrange the numbers. MRF tyres have their “x number of days to the rains” adverts which again have to be modified a bit now and then. Then the geographical countdown begins. “Rains lashed the southern tip of Kerala. This means Mumbai will get some relief within a week.” The next day: “A trough of depression in the southern Konkan coast means that the monsoon onslaught may be delayed by a further few days.” (or something like that) Alright, you can put that umbrella-oiling off for another week.

My aunt in Udupi informs us next that their town is nearly drowning in the rains. Right. The past few years have taught us not to take this as a positive sign. It may or may not mean good news for us here. Presently the sky starts darkening its brow. The atmosphere feels heavy, literally. Like some suspense building up, waiting to explode. The heat and humidity is oppressive, unbearable.

And finally, at long last, the skies break open. It is sheer bliss raining down on us. The RJs go crazy and perform a little jig. Every second song on every radio channel is on the rains. The ones that are not themed on the rains are labelled as tributes to the monsoon anyway. People forget to carry their umbrellas, get soaked, get scolded by their mothers or wives and love it. Children get their first taste of heaven for the season when school is called off because of heavy rains. The waves grow gigantic and threatening in Marine Drive and Worli seaface and youngsters try to be brave and walk along the parapet nevertheless. Bhuttawaalas materialise from nowhere and we have hot, yummy, charcoaly corn to munch on while trying to balance the open umbrella simultaneously with our other hand.

Of course there are minor inconveniences like stuffy buses and trains, sludge and unspeakable objects floating by the footpaths, black grime that refuses to be washed off our clothes, sewage water mixing with the rain water… but let’s talk about all that later, perhaps after the skies have turned blue once again.

For now, Mumbai is magical and romantic in the monsoons. Please turn up the volume, Mister RJ, that is my rain song you are playing.

I am Pagan

Today is summer solstice. In short, it is the longest day of the year (unless you are in the southern hemisphere where it would be winter solstice – the longest night. I never realised it till I sent a sms to my friend Amit in Perth wishing him a happy summer solstice and he wrote back saying it is winter there right now! Duh!)

Summer solstice is a pagan festival. Created in those times when man (oh please, all you politically correct people, I am using the term “man” and all other gender-specific words for sheer convenience, alright?) had not yet felt the need to create a God who reflected his own image. When people realised that nature is the all-powerful force on whom everyone depend, no matter how hard they tried not to. Those were the times when people recognised the omnipresent influence of nature and worshipped her (again, all you PC people, it is just a term of convenience) to the best of their understanding. Events like the solstices and equinoxes, harvest rituals - all such festivals and rites paid homage to the nurturing Earth, moon, sun, stars and all the unknown worlds beyond which played a part, however small, in shaping our lives.

I do enjoy and draw a lot of inspiration from all the different religions. But somehow the idea of creating a god in the image of man, with his own qualities, doesn’t appeal much to my spiritual side. I find that there are two extremes. One is where God is a human who walked the Earth, did all the things an average man would do in addition to the extraordinary feats that distinguished him from the average man. The other extreme is where the omniscient force is supposed to have absolutely no form whatsoever. It is just that: a force, a power, energy.

I don’t like to think of the power that we call God as utterly detached and formless nor can I accept a God in the form of a human, or for that matter, an elephant or a half-man, half-lion, or whatever else. I am personally most comfortable believing that nature is The One. Nature with all her seasons, her moods, her children - animate and inanimate. Not a serpent that churned the ocean, but one that I see slithering across in my native village. Not the mighty mountains that were at last humbled by a short sage but the mountains that cradle my beloved Mumbai and give her rains. Not a sun which shone relentlessly on a kingdom for years on end to teach a lesson to some arrogant king, or the subsequent rains that blessed him after he saw his folly. But a sun that brings a nice glow to a child’s cheeks when it has been playing outside, and rains which are dear to farmers growing grain and children who are let off from school early due to possible flooding. In fact I knew nature is the only real God long back when I would pray fervently for the rains on the days I did not do my homework and it actually rained so hard that we were given an off from school. If that is not God for you, then I don’t know what is.

A wash of emotions

Long forgotten things suddenly force their way into my mind with unexplained urgency. My mood changes slowly. The atmosphere seems to get a light wash of a different colour. First the thought comes back from the past. Then it drags me back there from the present. But this time the wash is not on a plain white wall. It is on top of a colour. The effect is different.

I haven’t bothered myself with guys for a long time now. Today unexpectedly I got the feeling that this certain guy has a soft corner for me but is shy about it. In the past I used to find it kind of cute and felt a little sorry for the guy. If he seemed decent enough, I would try to put him at ease and make myself approachable. Many a good friendship started this way. Then as time passed, if any guy sent such vibes, I stopped even registering it in my mind. Now when this guy seems to want to be more friendly but has some reservations, those days came back. I don’t know why. All those reactions, the notions, the uncertainties came back. Where it changed was the underlying feeling. It used to be a sweet and exciting sensation. And I definitely felt it this time. But it was just for a moment, after which it was replaced by a more unsavory impression. I found myself thinking what a waste of emotional energy such a repressive attitude can be. Why do guys behave in this immature and insecure way? Not only do they undergo this needless agony, but I too have to put up with their abnormal behaviour. Worst of all is that I have to pretend not to know when I very well do …and I was quite taken aback with my own thoughts. I never knew time could take away the gloss and shine of even such blameless episodes. Every human act sooner or later seems to be stripped bare of the clothing that our emotions and sentiments drape it with. Sooner for some than others.

Five years back I worried myself to death over my friend Shakti (name changed). I didn’t know what the boy would do with his life if he went on wearing his heart on his sleeve. Now I don’t worry much for him. I know he will survive and survive very well. Perhaps not in the way I wished he would, but now I know there are different ways and perceptions of success and ways to succeed. Things always turn out alright eventually. Previously my affection for Shakti was covered with sentiments and notions of friendship which made me worry myself to distraction, or go wild with rage at him or go dizzy with joy for him. Now all that has worn off and just my sincere feelings remain. Now my emotional graph is steady.

But that doesn’t mean it is universally steady. No, it is an individual thing. A different graph for each relationship, or even each object or phenomenon in my life. With some, the graph starts off very unsteady, fluctuating madly then slowly evens off. With others, it starts as a cool, unresponsive low line that steadily builds up as time passes, and crests and troughs start asserting themselves. Some graphs have phases of both patterns. But the past always plays some influence on these ups and downs, sometimes subtly, sometimes more pronounced.

With this shy guy, it definitely is more pronounced.

Praying for the rains

My sweet friend Ahalya yesterday sent me this sms:

Goodmorning!How,u?Mass,prayer,movement,for,rains@9.Remeber2be,stark,naked

I replied:

Can I at least wear my sun screen lotion?

She wrote:

Now,now,are,we,2,chickened,out,4,some,innocent,praying?Oh,and,get,the,vodkas,will,ya?Let’s,do,it,right:who,has,the,men,with,drums?

I wrote:

I’ll be there with bells on!

I found the whole thing really funny, so I decided to forward it to a few friends. Now Ahalya for some reason puts commas instead of spaces in her smses. Perhaps she abhors vacuum like nature does. Forwarding it as is might make reading difficult, or even scare off some people. So I modified her sms a bit and sent the following to my friends:

Good evening! How are you? Mass prayer movement for rains @ 9. Remember to be stark naked

Following are some of the replies I got:

Tamanna: Hehehe… hope to spot you among all that raw flesh

Kurt: I’ll try to be there… grin

Premi: Oh, sure, sure. My whole family will be supporting. Taking a half day especially for that :)

And Santosh is the best: Are we praying or protesting?

I wrote: Do whatever you want to. As long as everyone is naked, doesn’t matter

Santosh: Kahaan pe aana hai?

I wrote: The same place you started the marathon. Ambani too will be there wearing nothing but a cap

Today Santosh called up at 9 and said, “I am waiting here for you. All of us are. Hurry up.”

The whole thing is probably not a big deal, just a silly thing. But once in a while doing something crazy like this and involving your friends in it too kind of puts a zing into the days. Otherwise it is the usual, “How r u? I m gr8” types going back and forth.

Living and Learning

I quote Douglas Adams: “You live and learn. At any rate, you live.” Living is pretty much automated, we don’t need to bother much with it. Learning is something that we instinctively shun. From the moment we are born, when we ought to have learnt that this world is a bad deal, right till the time we die, we never learn. The Id in us teaches us that we know everything already. This is the only thing we learn, and learn reeeeaaal well. It is our solemn duty to teach. And our primal instinct to resist learning.

Sonu Nigam found out early on that the only way he could get people to notice him is by singing, not acting. Jaani Dushman!? Love in Nepal!!?? It was most pathetic to see him in that song where this girl is trying to seduce him (I think). He looked like a 7 year old boy who just turned a page of a magazine and found a topless woman glaring back, while his mother was sitting right beside him. No good. Did he get the point? No. Next step, he grew his hair long!! AAAHHH!! No good multiplied by two. Did he get the point? We’ll wait and watch. Rumours are rife that he will be doing something on television.

My friend Amit loves food. When we lived in Perth, away from family, food assumed more importance than usual, especially for boys. A little home made food goes a long way in satisfying your soul, but those poor boys could hardly even boil water without burning it. The only way they could feel good about life was to stuff themselves to bursting point with anything digestible so that there was no space in their souls for dissatisfaction. Now some of the stronger willed boys in the group decided to observe a month long fast (the month of Shravan I think). Amit declared himself part of the fasting gang. Amit was long on enthu, short on will power. I am not saying that he did not fast. He did. He skipped the first meal on the first day. After that… well, let us say that his was a hungry soul and it reflected on his stomach. But his conscience was not fasting. It didn’t want to give up without a fight. It was trying to look for loopholes. He asked if there was any food that was excepted from this fast. You know how flexible Hindu fasts are. Someone took pity and said that potatoes fried, and without salt are alright. So he chips some potatoes and fries them. First day taken care of. Did he learn anything? No.

Second day, he fries potatoes again. But this time it isn’t so appealing to his taste buds. No salt allowed. He puts some chilli powder on the chips and stuffs them down his throat. In the evening, he struggles inwardly for quite a while before finally deciding that some salt may be excused. After all he is not eating the absolutely forbidden foods. And mind you, all this in between the milk and fruits that you are anyway allowed to eat, and which he ate with great gusto. So now he eats potatoes fried, and with salt. Did he learn yet? Be patient and pray. The third day arrived bright and cheerful for most people. Amit could not take it any longer. He declared his will power bankrupt and jogged down to the local burger joint at double speed. Ah, at last! Amit learns his lesson, you say. Sad to see that you too have not learnt much.

Next year the young fool again declares his intention of joining the Shravan fasters with enthu to beat a five year old who is asked if he wants to go to the fair.
Oh, and did you ask if yours truly, after making this deep study of human nature, has bowed to nature’s wisdom and imbibed any knowledge? If I were to learn from all this, I wouldn’t be human would I? With great humility, I pronounce myself one of the biggest pig-headed fools you’ll ever have the good fortune to meet. Perhaps one day we’ll all be equipped with the right kind of brain when we are let loose into this world. But then the first thing we’ll learn is that this world is a bad deal… what will we do then? Refuse to even start living? If every baby does that, what next?

Perhaps it’s a good thing after all that we don’t learn.

Picture perfect? Not really

Ever notice how any place usually looks better in a photograph?

I always noticed this in pictures we friends took in each others’ homes. An inevitable comment would be, “wow, my home looks so pretty in this photo!”

I remember looking at pictures of foreign lands and wondering how any place could be so beautiful. Just before I went to Perth, I did some research on the place and came across pictures of the city. Seemed to be the epitome of cleanliness and neatness. Everything was so bright and picture perfect. When I went there, I saw that the place was certainly lovely, but somehow not the same as in pictures. Like some magic dust was wiped off. Downtown Sydney was so different in the movie “Dil Chahta Hai” from what I had seen of the actual place. The dirt, the filth, the dust – all seemed somehow to have receded into the background in the movie.

On a dusty winter weekday I took a picture of our very own VT (or CST) station. No one would believe that it was the same place we are all used to seeing in real life. It was almost like I had first dusted and mopped the place and washed the very atmosphere before I clicked the picture.

Well, so now I know that all the different places that I see pictures of in magazines and the internet are not nearly as lovely as in the pictures… sigh. Perhaps I should not visit the places I found most beautiful in those travel brochures. Let the magic dust stay in my eyes a little longer.

Designs on your mind

Saw Bunty Aur Babli last night. AAAAHHHH!! I want my money back! I know I am a strange person; I feel tired just listening to a talkative person, like I have run a marathon. I didn't think I would feel so exhausted after watching garish costumes for nearly three hours. Aishwarya Rai was a welcome relief, even if just for a song.

I wish they all would stick to Manish Malhotra. I mean really, this Aki Narula guy is supposed to be such a famous designer, but why that riot of colours (candy stripe salwar??!! rainbow sari with, horrors, a silver sequined blouse!!??) and embarrassingly unflattering cuts for Rani Mukherjee?

I wish these famous guys would restrict unleashing their terrors to the India fashion week, or Lakme fashion week, or whatever it is called. There, after you have paid exorbitant money for the tickets, you probably cannot afford to get shocked and shaken and thoroughly stirred by the costumes. (Who are the people who go for these shows anyway? Masochists?) But I did not pay a hundred and one score hard earned money... well ok, dad's hard earned money, to be assaulted by neon scrunchies and a million bangles and an army of colours doing a free-for-all.

Sure, Suraj Barjatya too loves colour in his movies, but there they are all peace with one another. Pehle aap, pehle aap attitude. And the designs are content staying the background, smiling benignly. Or, Sanjay Leela Bhansali lets the designs do the shouting. The colours take a backstage. The colours are bold but have the right upbringing. A dignified harmony between the two, in both cases. But here in B&B... you get my drift.

Oh, for the good old Yash Chopra days of Chandni and Mohobbatein and Kuch Kuch Hota Hai... is that last one Karan Johar? They all look the same to me.

Future, where art thou?

A German firm (one of our clients) that manufactures steel cores and industrial knives has the motto "Quality Is The Future".
Have they reached a level of creativity I can never hope to achieve?

A quality product by God... dry clean only

So God created the world in seven days. Perhaps a month would have been a better time frame, with five day weeks and two days of leisure every week to pursue some hobby like tatting maybe, or book-binding. A great way to unwind and refresh your mind before resuming the dirt works on Monday.

He probably did not take lunch or dinner breaks either. Shows. You can never create a work of exquisite beauty if you are suffering from acidity.

And looks like the use-by date is approaching. If not, then we definitely are not making sure it is kept in a cool, dry place, away from direct sunlight. After all the manufacturer is not responsible for deliberate mishandling of his product. And this world is most likely a collectible. Limited edition series. If we lose this, there may be no replacement.

Sometimes I think that maybe we all know of a secret place to go to when we have finally succeeded in destroying the world completely. Perhaps it is a secret stored in some obscure gene which will explode into our conscious mind when the bomb is ready to burst. Why else are we so cheerful about ravaging the planet, almost like a noble duty to be performed with resolve, not to be shirked from.

A secret place... God, I'm so excited!!