Hiccup

When today started, I thought I was content and happy. I woke up in the morning to the shining cheeks of a 26 year old brother who sported a pink shirt and gelled hair and I thought maybe he did that so that I would wake up with a smile on my house, amused at the consistency of his "look". Breakfast was almost ideal. Toast, butter, omellette, ketchup, milk with chocolate horlicks. I do believe that if each day began with good food, I'd be more optimistic, on the whole.

The funny things about a bath is that with the promise of hygiene and the associated "freshness", you could still feel really dirty and stale. (Or is that just me?) I don't know whether its the product used to develop a pointless lather or the fragrance of a particular shampoo or the temperature of the water or the adequacy/inadequacy of the shower spray, it really is very difficult to get a bath right. Things get worse if you have bad skin because you just don't feel that every little speck of dirt on your body has been washed out. That way, dim lighting in bathrooms work well. Stepping out of the bathroom into an acceptable atmosphere is of equal essence. You don't need construction dust in your room, you don't need too much sunlight, you don't the blow of heat to meddle with all that toil you went through to clean yourself up. Picking a perfectly ironed piece of clothing is like after-sale service, you know, the kind that you expect your car to undergo when you send it for servicing.

Mornings are exhausting that way. More so, because I've slept my way through so many of them. But things are changing now and my stamina is slowly on the rise.

I've begun to do some volunteer work. And fortunately, its linked to music.

My dad bought these flavoured Mentos gums from Dubai and boy are they keeping me busy. I can taste Orange now even when there are no peels or nothing that matches the colour around me. Also, isn't the thought of "feeling" a colour exciting?

My parents just came back from a vacation they took to Leh. So I was made to sit down after lunch to view the various pictures that had been clicked. And like Mehvash had said a couple of days back, a still picture clicked in Leh can never be a bad picture. You just need to go place your camera and click anything to bring glory to the frame. The colours keep changing. What an effortless way to incorporate dynamism into a life which would otherwise be hopeless and dull.

I might sound very conventional when I say that I believe in a family sitting around a table and eating a meal. When my mum was out, I was getting dinner together for 4 people. And, trust me its much easier to feed people with great palettes and a good appetite. Obviously, its easier to feed them or serve them if they're all sitting together and enjoying. Save your moods for later, really.

I know I suck at maintaining a flow with most of my posts. I know I started out by reminding myself about how brilliant my day was when it began, how I'd long for a day to start with good breakfast and it had finally happened today. So progressively, I should have moped over how people around me decided to manipulate with my mood (not that the hormones weren't doing a good job at that already). I forgot about all that. That's how superfluous the mind is. Its not a watertight theory. Nothing is compartmentalized. You just need to follow the flow. Don't swim with it. Walk by its side, waver a little. Then come back to following it. With all purposes fulfilled, I am going to go watch Larry be a nincompoop when he's 40 plus. (Watch the Curb Your Enthusiasm if you don't already).

Also always remember, there are people who stop talking to you. And then there are those who block their walls on Facebook. The latter is a joke. The former always happens for that good.

Maut, Jeene ke liye zaroori hai yeh!

Osama's death has emerged to be a scavenging truth, addressing questions on the nature of his death. Whether or not, the character of a human being decides the brutality of his death, or allows others a "piece of his flesh" is a great debate. When you read articles about the astounding loyalty his multiple wives have shown towards him, both before and after his death, try and follow the age old activity of putting yourself in their shoes. I'm not trying to assert a highly absurd assumption here, but have myself received abundant clarity over what family can mean to anyone. Shield or not, the wife at the compound could very well be a committed partner in marriage, which by the way, is better, if not worse, than being in love with an asshole.

One could talk about religion in the same tone. I'm going to sound factually obscure but for more than half of the Jihad-driven population, turning against an Indian who has been inflicting "pain" on a Kashmiri Muslim in PoK, qualifies for hatred. If one separates the word "religious duty" from the meaning of Jihad, then they could very well fit into, not eating non-veg on a Tuesday, not sleeping on a bed after a death in a family, not allowing women in a crematorium and other such, irrational actions prompted by religion , and religion alone. It was Jihad which led Maulana Masood Azhar's brother to hijack IC 814. His brain might have found adequate logic in hoping for a family re union. This emotion overtook three-fourth of his sensibility. The remaining quarter saw Jihad coming to his rescue. Incorrectly driven, but mostly in emotion.

Obviously, I'm not defending the terrorists. And I'm no Zakir Naik sitting on National Television backing inglorious crimes in the name of religion. I am not waiting for Kasab to come and tell me why he did what he did.

However, I do believe that the emotional construct of all human beings, criminals, terrorists and the innocent, is alike. While some are vigorously tampered with, others resort to more humane ways of channelising them via suitable and more importantly, non-violent mediums.

The effect is never the same. A cellphone flung in aggression and a building brought down to crumble. The cause, however, remains the same.

How I long to say Nana

I just read a diary full of overwhelming poesy that my mom has been penning down in memory of my grandfather/her father. It was so beautifully compiled, and each poem was so simple in sentence and rhyme. I could picture the last time I saw Nana walk through the Aangan and rush out with his RWA files in his hand for the his quintessential routine meetings. Everyday, my Nani would wait for lunch and would have to inevitably reach him on his mobile. She'd say to him over the phone - Hun bas karo te ghar aa jao. I miss my Nana and his going away has made me fear death. I still continue to engage in daily arguments and unnecessary tantrums with family and close friends, never giving the fact that neither parties have any clue about how long we're together for. I love my family. And just like yours, they know me better than everyone else. Little things like prayers, confessions and gestures are meaningful. One mustn't wait for bad times to make you realise the worth of a particular relationship. This philosophical tone is not suiting me and is certainly not impressing you. So I'm going pause before I begin to hinge on something even more annoying.

All said and done, I am aware that it is my problem that I have found it easier to be the misfit. Like I said, I have had "good times" but I'm always hell bent on elaborating on the ridiculous things that don't make sense to me and happen around me all the time (as is true for all of us). I also know that it's more sensible and equally daunting to make peace with whatever you have. And there's no doubt that I have. But then again, I don't see why I have succumbed to pointless drama and unnecessary atrocities in a lot of situations. Relax, I'm not disturbed or anything. The post below is similar to the kind of fun we now have watching Border or CID or youtube-ing songs from Patiala House at least once a day (you should really try doing that). Read. And I know it's going to be difficult to not be judgmental (because that's a common dance floor we all land up on, on every party) so I'm not going to make wasted requests.

As a matter of fact

It’s happening again. After three years of sitting tight on one seat which ten others (to say the least) must have competed for, I am being asked to vacate to let other (un)fortunate women enjoy it (if they’re lucky and stupid) or detest it (which will obviously stereotype them as ME!). Yet again everyone’s curiosity is liberatingly moulded in that question they asked me in the past and that will haunt me many a time in the future. “So, what next/now/after this?” And following a tradition that most of “my kind” endorses, I won’t pretend being confused because “I (actually) don’t know.”

Last week was officially the last in college. All Girls’ College to be more specific. Convent and All Girls’ College to provide maximum detail. And there’s only one of the kind in Delhi University. So yes you can gloat about your guess being right.

Now I’m not sure if I’m feeling any extraordinary emotion at college getting over. Hopefully, it’s a passive feeling and is consoling me by not occupying primary space in my head.

In retrospect, I think I have “learnt a lot” from college life. Without a doubt, it has taught me to adjust with all kinds of human beings and the very cosmopolitan setup has left enough room to explore into different psyches and settle with the best and the worst (and all that). But in grave practicality (and I feel so sad about stating this) I’m going to be learning this at multiple/several/various junctures in my life. So how about exposure and bettering your “talents” and meeting like-minded people? All this without having to worry about administrative hiccups and constant running around to get your shit sorted. Now that’s what I really wish I’d experienced.

Please don’t mark my exaggeration when I tell you that there have been days when I’ve sat under trees (which, at most times provided, much needed solace) and just observed women walking around in college. Some were dressed most obscurely, others inadequately, most well-groomed and the rest trying to keep up with the latest fashion in Sarojini. I’ve sat on the steps of the library (because for some really strange reason you couldn’t take your own books inside the library to read. If you have a justification for that, please don’t bring it up because I am not going to be convinced) and heard women discuss vacations they took abroad, and conclusively remarked on how Dubai was much better than England “kyunki wahaan ghaas phoos kam thi aur malls zaada the.” The next second you would see them shout out for James (?) bhaiya, our college’s official photographer who comes to the rescue of a ton of women who like dropping their heads back, making their hair fly and getting their profile clicked. “College iz funnn” and “My College” and “Memoriez” are the albums you should be concentrating on, on Facebook. There have also been the kinds who like being “in charge”. They’d always have a Notepad and a fancy zip up folder in their hands, holding important documents and “getting work done”. (There’s no harm in all this, really. I’m just describing the “types” and the “kinds”). There’re also diligent hardworking women, who manage to get a 5/5 on attendance (yes, Delhi University does have its own way of ensuring that its students attend college. All in the name of competition for five “free” marks). Then there’ve been the “nice” people around, who would help you, share essential information and tell you which Professor could be your potential friend because well, they’re friends with most of the Department.

I think it’s very essential to engage in routine viewing of shows like Roadies, largely rubbished by your parents and by the better part of your own brain, because it’s more about getting to know about the kind of clumsy and graceless people who constitute this society, which also happens to be your own. Now if you’ve caught an episode of the latest season, then I’d like to typify one of the “contestants” (It’s a shame even calling them that because they’re contesting for one thing and one thing alone, they’re contesting to be forgotten) named Prachi. She’s been upset for most of the show broadcasted till date because people think she’s “dumb” but she knows she’s not. I am hardly anyone to decide whether she is living in denial or not. But I’m not going to remain blind to my absolutely correct reading of the woman being really hollow, with a really peculiar emotional package and not being able to render declared intellect, when tested. Now I wasn’t digressing by indulging in this personality analysis, because hers is a kind intrinsic to most people I’ve seen wandering around my college campus. Opinions that don’t count but still have to be made vocal and the same voice, never articulated in during a lecture. Yet, they’re seen cribbing about the system, the way they’ve been condescended, the way the entire education system has let them down and the way are being punished for no constructive fault of theirs. This is the kind which has caused the most resentment in me and left this annoying acerbic taste in my mouth, because there has really been nothing that they have learnt or helped me learn.

There are various cultural societies across colleges in Delhi University, fondly called “Socs”. Now I don’t know if most of us have consciously engaged in knowing the names of most members of this society. Fact remains, that we do. And that makes them celebrities? It’s odd but, when most of them are on stage to display some talent or the other, a significant part of the audience will be noticing Aastha, Kshitija, Mallika or Pallavi.

“Xyz, woh choreo wali, she’s so hot man.”

“Hindi dramsoc mein hai na who Abc, usko maine GK mein dekha.”

The Fests have been the most memorable owing to weird idiosyncrasies. They would usually start in the morning and end way after sunset. But women would still come dressed up because the latter half of the day they had to go clubbing in the college lawns since it was DJ Night. Jobless for one, I don’t know how most of them managed to rope in their friends for all the “fun” that the fest promised. I’ve also looked forward to it all three years to be a part of some mindless dancing because any attempt to loosen up only has a positive consequence. But it’s been nothing grand, certainly nothing worth getting your hair straightened for.

On those two days of “cultural extravaganza”, some randomly picked up NSS Volunteers have witnessed high points in their lives in telling people “Entry band ho gayi hai.” and “No, you can’t enter from this gate.” They’ve giggled and let the boys enter the Auditorium and unnecessarily shrieked at Thirdies because “Entry was only allowed for participants (boyfriend)”. Kya trip lete hain log.

This college is a part of an undefined and self -proclaimed cult that more than half of the students have readily accepted as “best time evaa!”

I beg to differ. And even though I’ve had my multiple maddening moments of ecstatic joy in the company of some of the coolest people that the institution thankfully chose to admit, I still stand by the college and its sly ways of pushing students into some kind of really dangerous disillusionment.

Oh and my type? I’ve been the silent observer (to help produce this blog post maybe?).

PS-Subsequent posts will describe the more pleasant and polite experiences. Yes, there are many.

Kya Din Tha, Kya Raat Thi.

Date: 2nd April 2011

Location: Bhai's Bedroom

Time: Didn't give a fuck

Event: India Vs. Sri Lanka, Cricket World Cup Final 2011

Special thanks to the company of six ecstatic fans, Beer, Green Wale Lays, Sprite, McDonald's, Curse words, Twitter, Tata Sky and the all essential Stress Ball.

If you remember Kajol screaming "Hummmm Jeet Gayee" in similar cricket-orial contexts, that was my shriek. If you add some deranged male voices and a lot of Woohoo-ing to that, you'll know exactly what echoed in that small space with the heavenly 32" Samsung Television.

I'm sure a lot of blogs are going to read alike and you, me and them have experienced the same mania, but that night was about the collective joy that made people strip, dance, scream, roar, bruuaaahh, balle balle, hoye hoye and be overcome by complete derangement.

30 runs of 30 balls. I was sitting in one corner of the room, saying the Gayatri Mantra continuously. My friend was sitting on a chair, shaking her legs, stamping her feet, prancing across the room and acting like she wanted to pee, but couldn't locate a toilet miles from where she was. There was another scared Indian in the room saying the Yaar-Bas-Jeet-Jaye-Ab chant. There was yet another who kept telling her to "Shutup, don't jinx it." And the three people in the room who had followed cricket more than the rest (and were what I'd call "ardent" fans), were sitting quiet, scrutinizing strategies and enjoying Dhoni's brilliance in silent gusto. We were all hoping for the same thing to happen, as were infinite number of Indian fans across the globe. I have never felt that kind of tension spearing through my body. Not even fifteen minutes before an exam, ten minutes before my bronchoscopy or a second before my Board Result got uploaded. Never felt before man, never felt before.

Aur jab Dhoni ne woh chhake maara, humne cheekhein maari. I remember climbing on the bed and screaming and looking at my brother and saying What The Fuck We Won. Now I'm not sure whether I made it sound like a question or was it the declaration of a legendary victory that everyone had already witnessed. Needless to say, I was both in disbelief and severely excited. I kept swaying my arms in the air, allowing them to enjoy the frenzy that we had magnificently managed to create. We all chugged a glass of beer each and yes, that was our toast to the Best Men In The World. The Men In Blue were bathing in oceanic glory and we were adding to the shower. Kya feel thi yaar.

Bas fir kya tha. Like the uncountable Dilliwalas who headed to India Gate and the adjoining areas that night, hum bhi nikal padhe. Every round-about in Lutyen's Delhi was the hub of overjoyed fanatics who were there for a common cause. Nobody was a Begaani Shaadi mein Abdullah Deewana. Delhi was one big party. And for the first time, people were not dressed up. They were shabby, they were savage, they were wrapped in the tri colour, they were appropriately brusque and they were all so cool. We, were all so cool.

The car first slowed down at the Chanakya Puri round-about where my drunk friend was Congratulating the occupants of all adjoining vehicles. "28 years and we've done it," said he repetitively till my other high-on-victory friend had to tell him to quit reminding people of the obvious. "Chilla yaar, tu bas chilla." And then flew in a couple of Ferrero Rochers. Kuch meetha ho jaye.

We travelled the distance till Vigyan Bhawan (or Maulana Azad Road if you're screaming for specificity) flashing the worthy Victory sign out of the windows with the incessant wooooooooooooooooooo. Oh, special thanks to the Fore and the Middle Finger. Then we parked on one side and danced to Saadi Galli tur ke vi, Aaya Karo ni Kaddi Saadi Galli tur ke vi... There were also some really killer Punjabi Mundas playing Panga.

As we walked into the happy riot, we were dying one moment and resurrecting the very next kyunki Dhoni Bhagwaan hai aur hum uske darshan kar rahe the. For every Delhi-ite who has lived in the fear of that Breath Analyser, that night saw Bacchus trip with the Janta on the streets. Everyone was fucking smiling. On Delhi's fucked up roads. Aisa kabhi nahi hua.

The cop who was enjoying all the insane jiggy wiggy-ing was also made to do jive. Noone would have ever said, "Thulle sahi hote hain yaar". But that night made them sahi. Such is cricket. Such is India. Such is Victory.

Everyone was willingly stuck in jams, they was absolutely no apprehension about being out past midnight in the acceptedly unsafe Delhi, noone showed any apparent qualms in hugging, shaking hands or dancing with the Ajnabees. Ajnabee bhi Apne the. As Bieber played on loop in the adjoining car, I sung along with the dudes. Uncle chose to play Aivayin Aivayin and I asked him to raise the volume and we did the signature step together.

I was drenched in the tri-colour that night and WE HAD WON. We had been an audience to a spectacular win, an epic night, an unfathomable gathering and the most grand party that the Capital City of India had ever organised.

If cricket were a person, I'd sing in honour. I would sing, Tera jaadooooo chal gaya!

Team India, Shukriya, Dhanyawaad and Vadhayian. Tum sab humare papa ho.

Reminder- In Class 7, I shook hands with Yuvraj.

Delhi: (Still) Connected

My attempt at a predictable description of the state of commuting in Delhi. I wrote it a year back as a Feature for DU Beat. Fact is that when we’re on the road, we’re in this limbo. I read a Tweet a few days back by Ashish Shakya which said something about being Traffucked. The traffic in the city is like the leech they planted on your skin in olden times so that you got rid of your disease. Except in this case, you’re really healthy and the unavoidable travelling in the city is really going to make you succumb to it one day. Being on the road makes the guy in every second car that overtakes you (or is honking in anticipation of racing you to the red light), an “asshole”. You’re doing everything but warming your ass on the driver’s seat, cruising away by smoothly maneuvering your steering wheel and enjoying the beats of the music. It’s ridiculous how we predict that one dent on the car, the day we buy it. The plastic covers are still on the seats, but the paint near the left back door is slightly scraped. It’s waggish when someone says that the ‘traffic’ is ‘ideal’ at midnight. Irony is, you’re still stuck in a gridlock. But you’re happy because you’ll make it through when the red turns green the first time. The chain smoker would wish for a cigarette which never reaches its “fag end” and the last drag is like the magic candle which refuses to be blown out. I’ve got a Brand Name. Name it Traffic.

This one is called Delhi: Connected.

BACK THEN

So let’s accept it. Till a few years back, life was convenient.

There was a school bus that was paid for. There were some parents who went a step ahead to ensure their dainty darlings don’t miss the air conditioned travelling too much. There was the majority who stood in the balcony in their night suits, asking the driver to wait for two minutes after five minutes of the repetitive plea.

AND NOW

So let’s accept it. Life is tough. This crib started a year or two back and is going to remain.

There’s a budget.

There’s a need to be everywhere, there’s a need to fit everything in, there’s a need to convince yourself that you’ve grown up and there’s a need to check everything off that ‘to-do-list’.

All this without commuting?

We’re students and we’re commuting in the capital city of the country. The former brings us a fast life and the latter sprinkles us with distances we always assume will shrink. How we wish the former guaranteed us our own vehicles and the latter provided smooth travel. The reality lies in inevitable dependence on auto walas who can never assure you a safe travel. The reality lies in congested buses where marking a territory for the toes proves to be difficult. Completely ignoring the lack of space they provide, we’ll be kind and give them some space here.

AGONY AUTOS

As students of the varsity, each one of us has a long drawn association with autos and have often complained of being overcharged. A list of some preposterous excuses students claim to have encountered, Pardon the use of a not-so-alien language for authenticity cannot be compromised.

• “10 rupaiye zaada lagenge kyunki traffic hai.”
• “Hum nahi jaenge kyunki sawaari nahi milegi.”
• “Jab se gaon se waapas aaye hai,meter nahi chal raha.”
• “Meter se fayeda nahi hai kyunki chillar nahi hai.”
• “ Wahaan toh jam hai. Aap bhi mat jao.”

It won’t be soon before their importance fades away. Need I say, they’re crawling all over the city. All the whining and tomorrow morning you’ll still be seated on those jazzy auto seats staring at the meter and hoping for it to work.

BUMPY BUSES

They’re frequent, cheap and safe. If you’re uncomfortable, try re discovering the best playlist on your I Pod. The rugged journey will transform into an extraordinary drive. The DTC and Blue line buses dominate bus travel in Delhi. The past few years has seen buses connecting Delhi to the NCR as well. Also with CWG round the corner, the service has seen the addition of low floor ac buses which guarantees an inclination towards the commuter’s comfort, now, high on priority. For beginners at bus travel, confidence is the key word. Be sure of your route and travelling from Point A to Point B will never be a task, left incomplete.

MANIC METRO

It’s still fragmented, but when asked about the amount of relief the Delhi Metro has brought, to the commuters and the traffic alike, one only sees heads nod in agreement. It’s on the verge of connecting the entire city and the city to the NCR and it certainly is doing wonders. The concept is magnificent but admittedly the recent past has highlighted its defects as well. However, the convenience it provides to the students of Delhi University is a glorious achievement. Vishwavidyalaya Metro station of North Campus is a mere twenty minutes from CP which is suitably connected to almost all parts of the city. It has marked its existence in West, East and Central Delhi. Last week saw its gracious entry into Noida. For students commuting from there, the long wait for buses has now been replaced by a simplified card swipe. Saying that it’s widely used is an understatement. The stations are well-equipped, the service efficient and the overall system, user-friendly. The Metro has almost fallen victim to inflation and thus, like any other essential commodity, we got to pay more to use it!

CLASSY CARS

Let’s not be unkind to those who’re lucky enough to steer their own vehicles. It’s not essential for everyone to experience the “tough life”, really. For those bestowed this rare privilege. Realization must not have struck yet, but you can and must at least consider converting your vehicle to CNG. One ride from North Campus, all the way to South will cost you not more than twelve bucks. It fits your budget with ease, doesn’t it? Also, you’re doing your bit to benefit the environment. And if this isn’t motivation enough, catch the next show of 2012!

Two things. One, they’ve taken leaps to make our life easy. Two, it’s our birth right to crib. So amongst all the whining, waiting and hyper-ventilating; amongst all the irritation, frustration and dissatisfaction; let’s not take a moment and instead, do our “own thing” to say cheers to the mad travelling that Delhi has to offer with a constant hope that OUR DELHI, OUR CITY, STAYS CONNECTED.

Pending Rent.

So as a part of our one of our Papers, we're studying Margaret Atwood's poetry. As far as nationality is concerned, Margaret is Canadian and her poetry, along with Pablo Neruda and Derek Walcott, is categorised as the poetry of the Americas. I have to say I prefer Neruda and am becoming progressively drugged and addicted to his writings. He's so effortlessly expressive. He's like the Magpie, I'd want to talk to. He's like the Magpie, I'd use to communicate with my clan. Such subtle extraordinariness in his Love Poetry.

"I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her."

(Tonight I Can Write..., Line 26)

Even in his nightmare like dilemma, he's at ease. Even in his awkward uncertainty, is this hint of clarity. The discernment glosses over all doubt. Must read Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair (1924), to have a greater insight into Neruda's indescribably smooth and effectively communicative poetry. Begin following www.twitter.com/NerudaLove for the same reasons. I can't wait for Il Postino's screening coming Wednesday. I know the admiration and the "simple liking" will quadruple.

Atwood, is differently luring because of her convincing feminist stand on receiving equality in expression. Till now, I've concluded that amongst other endeavors, she wants women to be a part of the surface reality. I think the fact that there needs to be a consciously emphasized theory on "feminism", makes her shudder. Just a personal reading. In all its oddity, reading her poems, have accelerated me to have this faint image of her. I haven't googl-ed what she looks like. But I'm going to do it now and see if it matches. This is not physically descriptive, to say the least, but Atwood looks sensible. She looks like she'd say reasonable things and doesn't look like the kind who'd make hollow statements to prove her insignificance.

Pardon my going off on a complete tangent, but this whole idea of measuring every tangible and visible aspect of an individual makes me want to slit someone's active brain and lay it on the table of good looks. If your appetite is like mine, you'd probably want to hog on the brain and let all the herbal and good smelling make up kit behind.

So today in class, while everyone was busy jotting down every monosyllabic or polysyllabic word that the professor said, I was re-reading and re-re-readingThe Landlady. While reading Atwood's poetry, one must keep in mind her incessant chant of speeding the journey of a woman, of placing her achievements at the same focal point as other gender-based accolades, of letting the talent of the woman float in her accepted swimsuit with the corresponding trunks, and not let it drown. I don't think she's looking for a forced excavation into a woman's ability. In fact, she doesn't even feel the need to establish that a woman is able and equipped. That has already been foregrounded. I think her quest is to accentuate greater acknowledgement of that talent.

The following poem is particularly interesting because if you choose, you could plunge into more relevant meanings of time and age.

The Landlady

This is the lair of the landlady

She is

a raw voice

loose in the rooms beneath me.

the continuous henyard

squabble going on below

thought in this house like

the bicker of blood through the head.

She is everywhere, intrusive as the smells

that bulge in under my doorsill;

she presides over my

meagre eating, generates

the light for eyestrain.

From her I rent my time:

she slams

my days like doors.

Nothing is mine.

and when I dream images

of daring escapes through the snow

I find myself walking

always over a vast face

which is the land-

lady's, and wake up shouting.

She is a bulk, a knot

swollen in a space. Though I have tried

to find some way around

her, my senses

are cluttered by perception

and can't see through her.

She stands there, a raucous fact

blocking my way:

immutable, a slab

of what is real.

solid as bacon.

The Landlady is this stock hurdle in everyone's life. She's like this blob of ice you're expected to consume by sucking into it with a straw. She's like this horrible stomach cringe, which you experience when you laugh unendingly and just can't seem to stop.

There's an escapist in all of us. Some of us remain in denial of this fact, while others are in a polar state of omniscience. There's something unpleasant and unappealing about all our lives. If you're disagreeing, you belong to the more dangerous category of remaining in denial. Snap out of it. And, encounter this unpleasantness. This Landlady is your sheet of jumbled and asymmetrically aligned words. Solve it. At least, try. Handle her. Adjust with her interference. Help her loosen up instead of tightening your own presence.

The Landlady, is an ordinary piece of bacon, she's a part of your everyday meal, she's the side order, she's the sidekick to a wholesome and sumptuous exotic meal. She might be your annoying daily breakfast, but the fact is that, breakfast will always be the most important meal of the day. You got to eat it. The luxury of being seduced by the exotic meal is not your reality. It's a one-time pleasurable experience. So alter your quest and make do with the routinely slab of bacon. It'll fill your stomach even though your taste buds are complaining of monotony and and unwanted dry existence.

The underlying oxymoron in "...my senses are cluttered by perception is promising. Notice it. And comment on it because I want direction and clarity in my perception of it.

Who would've thought that the frustrated, ever curious and inevitable Landlady would be much more than the frizz in her hair!

Repetitive Concerns- Radhika Tanwar Murder

So am I thanking God that we didn't have free time yesterday to rush to Satya to catch a bite at Brickhouse/Maggi Point/Subway? If that would've happened, we could've been walking on the over bridge, trying to get onto the other side of the road to hit the busiest "hang out" in South Campus. Satya Niketan is-

1. Two-minute auto ride from both, home and college.

2. Five minute walk from both, home and college.

The over bridge connects Sardar Patel Marg and Satya Niketan and is a savior for commuting students since both ends are marked by Auto Stands and Bus Stops. It's as busy as busy can get at almost all times of the day, especially during morning and late afternoon hours. Typically, there're a couple of beggars who have set shop on the bridge, selling a variety of trinkets and also, occasionally you'll catch a prospective pseudo hippie attempting to get their cartilage pierced from them.

On 8th of March, women in an All-Women College, (where I constantly crib about being a misfit) were satiating their feminist appetite by celebrating Women's Day (or making apparent their inevitable need to find a way out of a previously denied inferiority or subservience. But that's besides the point).

On 8th March 2011, Radhika Tanwar, a second year student from Ram Lal Anand College, which stands adjacent to Moti Lal Nehru College and shares space with Sri Venkateswara College on Benito Juarez Marg (Delhi), was shot dead by a certain "Who" killed Radhika Tanwar(?).

Honestly, it was abundantly unnerving to hear about this because as a student of Jesus and Mary College, I had crossed the crime scene the previous evening, the day before and almost every alternate day preceding that. For most of us around this area of South Campus (which spreads beyond to Lady Shri Ram College, Kamla Nehru College and Gargi College, to name a few), Satya Niketan is a daily visit. A lot of students reside there too.

After having established all this, I will vehemently disagree with anyone who attempts to even hint at the bridge or the areas around it "less crowded" or "isolated". It is more than alarming that there were some 300 students who gathered in protest outside my college, all from South Campus, and who knows, one of them is treasuring the all important "Witness Story." Going by a common tracking that many news reports have made, the only person who chased the murderer, after Radhika was shot, was her friend Aditya, who was walking back to college with her. The beggar on the extreme end of the foot bridge was latent, everyone at the bus stop was latent, people around the crime scene were latent (and I can bet that at least two out of the ten people must've been students). I really hope that someones conscience is being dangerously pricked right now and the "procedural" justice at least sees one genuine witness account. But again, that's just hoping for the ideal when the ideal really is inaccessible.

I'm not surprised that there were no PCR Vans around the area even after the incident of the girl having been picked up in a vehicle outside Dhaula Kuan sometime back. I mean her bleeding body wasn't even carried in one till the hospital. This incidentally puts into questions the sensitivity and dutifulness of all the Autowalas who refused or didn't stop when signaled by the Constable trying to get her body to the hospital. And considering there're autos lined up every minute of the day at either ends of the bridge waiting for a "sawaari" (that, mind you, must suit their schedule), it's terrible to even know that no one offered and time had to be further wasted in finding the appropriate ride or sensibility.

Anyone can go on and on about the infinite ways in which the follow up to the crime could've been bettered because fact is, that the crime itself was unavoidable. The CM is not going to resign because some obsessive stalker decided to dust away the last remaining speck of intolerance in him. The psychology of it, for one, requires crime psychology in our country to be focussed on with a finer lens.

My biggest problem has to be with the turning of the protest march into an "event". So I'm walking up the stairs to attend a class and this giggling bunch of ignorant and uninteresting "women" ask me whether I'm coming for the march. They were forgetting that it wasn't their trivial visit to a coffee shop, where they could sit under the winter sun with their CK shades on and discuss about the safety of women, when each of them drive a Skoda/Honda to college. It really was outrageous. And then they decide to head out and stand outside the gate and comment about how shady the men were and mindlessly stereotype every ordinary looking man, who didn't have the money to drive them around in a fancy car, as a "Jaat". I'd like to blatantly state here that women's safety concerns me, gravely. But I'm absolutely not willing to be in the same clan as the afore-described lot, who wear the absolutely nonchalant garb of stupidity and declare further their "feminist" stand.

Today's "March" made me mildly question the purpose these symbolically important protests serve. It was obvious that a protest was going to take place. It would've been odd if it didn't happened. But what planning is expected out of the government, if a citizen-oriented gathering like the one today is shallow, when it comes to even arriving at a consensus about the "purpose" the march should essentially serve. For one, they want CCTVs to be fixed on the roads. How reasonably pragmatic.

There are so many loopholes, that at times, one must thinking twice before opining because, it is left undone. There seems no way out of this. There is too much to be solved, too much to be untied, too much unwinding to be done and just as many webs to be disentangled. Honestly, its exhausting because one thing leads to another, and the other to yet another. And the possibility of the lack of a comprehensive and practical mode to justice seems unlikely. That's the worst kind of quick sand to be caught in.

I'm not just saying this, but since yesterday, I haven't adhered to my routinely walk over that bridge and I'm constantly living in the fear of being stalked or followed. Concerns for Safety in this city are not overrated. They never will be. Today, I am experiencing the fear that people talk about when they get out of their houses and begin an ordinary walk on the street. You might joke about every Bye being the last Bye, but it takes one incident like this to make you think the last statement you made may have your last few words in it.

The fact that I'm a woman is secondary,

the fact that I'm a student is secondary.

But the fact that I'm scared is primary,

the fact that I'm prancing in fear is primary.

Hoping for justice, like always. But really not hoping for another unfathomable and unreasoned death of an innocent.

Grumpus

A couple of days back, I thought I'd stopped being "Grumpus", but I think the time has arrived, to welcome that state of being again. I fail to understand why many, like me, have a problem with "stuffs". At least for me, I don't mind wasting precious time in finding problems and not bothering to solve them coherently. Do I like having problems in my life? Or am I too used to them? I think the former weighs heavier on the measuring scale.

Most times, there is no answer to "Kya scene hai?". But we'd repetitively ask that question and engrave it into our mind, not leaving ourselves with any other choice but to answer it. That's when the "scene" begins to initiate. There is seldom any effort to make it non existent. It's almost like we want its presence. Its like that one person in the party who'd not say anything, just sit and laugh and giggle and do a few jives. All that, and it still has the potential to go unnoticed. But if that one person is missing, we'd question the absence.

I've been saying a lot of "I can't deal" to myself lately. I'd be honest. I'm on the verge of a break up. I've been dating for three long years now, and I do see everything tumbling down. It's not a pleasant sight but I'm assuming that it's the best form of what me , you and everyone need. It's the best form of a "reality check". But that's just the most crisp context I could provide. The point is I've been stuck with the can't-deal-syndrome. I'm sure and unsure, certain and unsure and my mind is flooding with inseparable pairs of synonyms and antonyms. I won't deny that I am happy to be living-in-the-moment most times. But there's too much tension in the mind. Kuch toh scene hai. There. See what the problem is. There. See. There's a problem.

I need a routine. One that is simple to abide by. I was in Pune a couple of days back and on getting back, I realised that I couldn't deal with people being so chilled out. Haha. There. See. I can't deal.

I'm starting to having a lot of fun with this post. It's telling me what not to do while I'm doing the very same things.

They say and they're right about communication being the key to big locks in your life. Kindly communicate. Yes, I'm saying this to you and to myself.

I choose to be happy and content. With things, people and relationships.

I choose to erase "I can't deal" with "It's all good".

I choose to make pick and make choices.

Muffled Clarity

I'm a character in a story. I know all of us are and every character that I have read of, seen or been till date is in each one of us. But I'm going to settle with this awareness and yet say that my story is my favourite. I'm going to be hiding and not disclosing a lot to (through) my blog today. It's funny how I feel enriched with the thought of having menial and gigantic secrets in my life. Certain things which only I know about myself, certain things that you think you know but it's me and me alone who is in charge of the entire structure of that fact. I'm not saying that people around me don't know squat about me. I'd be underestimating them and overestimating my privateness to say that. But I'm my own person and there're more instances in my life where no one would know what line of thought I have chosen and made my own. I have grown to be my own person. It'd be unfair to not appreciate and acknowledge the presence of those who have known me, mentored me, told me, made me believe, given me strength, brought sane and smooth meaning to my existence. I know you're there and I know I'm there for you too. But this moment and the ones that have preceded this along with the ones that will succeed this for a while, is in absolute cohesiveness, mine and only mine. Don't take it away for me, don't tamper with it , don't interfere. Just be and let me be.

That said, I also know that it's not just about me, myself and (not) Irene. I need you to tickle me, to make me think, to justify my being, to make me aware, to exploit my affection, to tolerate me and make me tolerant, to be my breather, to organize my derangement, to help me come back to life, to tell me I'm sahi. To make me believe. Unfortunately, I'm not very sure who you are.

Ma has always told me that life is not only about fun and games. But I want to tell her that it's most essential to loosen up and constantly amuse yourself and be amused, because that's as transparent it can get. All that terrible seriousness and solid intensity can only make you more fragile.

I want to also be very honest and tell you that I'm preaching. But to myself. I've started to grow extremely fond of the times when I tell myself things that I want to hear. When I mould my intention and create my belief. It is in that very space that cavities and loopholes cease to exist. There's peace and complete agreement. This might not be the best thing to believe, but I'm trying it and I know there's really no harm.

In complete isolation of all that I have said (to myself) in the past couple of paragraphs, is my outright confession of the love for Hindi music. Amongst other things, I have begun to feel that it's the language , that I can call my own and that makes the music my own.

I've come to become more and more aware about how honestly is absolutely indispensable. But as I'm trying to be honest to myself and to you, I'm also telling a big lie.

I don't mean to sound gloomy or dull. I don't want to dress myself or my writing in sombre clothing because the TRUTH really is that I'm happy to be evolving. Even if it means debasing my old self, it is some kind of a necessary graduation.

I've started a post more than once in the last two days and left it after these many words.

I'm not much of a socialiser because I'm a little tough on the you're-not-like minded part. But I'm seeing this whole new side to myself. I'd like to think it's the "chiller" in me. Seldom do I indulge in "rendezvous over coffee". But it worked reasonably well for me this weekend. For one I detested the blaring music in Route 04. One of the rare moments when I felt that music was hindering a prospective conversation and that's absolutely unacceptable. ( Also, I had a sore throat).

I need to Google the prime purpose that a parentheses serves.

I've gotten back to my regular sleeping pattern and that's a relief. It's never a pleasure to think constantly about how to vile away time, time meant for being in a solemn state of slumber.

The weather is ideal which is how and/or why I got myself to finally experience the Bullet rides. De-stressing for sure. Consistent momentum. Easy travel. Finding narrow escapes. Not minding a frozen face. Starkly contrasting the confined space of a four wheeler. And the raised pillion seat does provide a false sense of an elevated self.

Back to the routine tomorrow. Hardly a routine actually. When your studies start to interest you, a brand new life begins. The large portion of stress shrinks and there you have, a small and enjoyable meal which you will certainly savour.

No, I'm not going to quite describing novels like recipes just because my professor didn't like the idea. I can't stick to the routine description of it being "extravagantly luring" or "brilliant in form". It always was and will be the perfect blend of satire and tragedy sprinkled generously on an XYZ century base. There. Now THAT's what you want to read.

I was listening to You Make Me Feel by Aretha Franklin being played while dinner last night. Although I didn't know that that was being played or she was singing when I heard it then. Anyway, I wanted to play it while my feminism lecture was in process. Better still, I want to play it in a class with radical feminists. The room will be ignited, they will attack and resent and Aretha Franklin will be pleasantly satisfied about the man's love as the key to "peace my mind".

Whatte fun!

I've realised that I'm not as comfortable I think I could be about surviving this loneliness. Why don't I know for sure whether I'm lonely or not? I hate days which make me wake up to this note. And all this thinking, it's going to poison me one day.

My brother and I haven't spoken for about a week now. And I'm not sure how I feel about it. Why is everything suddenly becoming about surviving every other thing?

I think I should go read the newspaper and distract myself from this pointless pondering.

I just spent more than an hour reading someone's blog. It's actually too late in the night for me to assemble relevant material to put here. I've been obsessively scrutinizing my own behavior lately and I gave myself a pleasant surprise last night. I think I always need that mild alcoholic acceleration to make sense to myself.

Today was Nandini's Eleventh Birthday. As much as I crave to dive back into my childhood most times, today I was happy being the adult. I might think that I'm not doing enough to grease the all essential brain, but at instances more than one, I proved that thought wrong. For one, my road sense is coming close to perfection. I have overcome the handicap of explaining routes as well. You know how they say- Idea hai. Jab wheel pe the toh pata tha kaunsa turn tha. I'm sorry, but you don't lose sense of direction when you're on the wheel and the left still remains a left and you have to be right about the right.

I'm also proud of myself to have finally developed that quintessential taste for chocolate. I've noticed that I'm still making myself comfortable with the taste and not experimenting too much. But there's always somewhere you've got to start.

To answer why I couldn't make my peace with disliking chocolate, I'd reiterate that it's always necessary to experience and then to opine. In lieu of the unexpected statement that I've just made, the vegetarians who detest non vegetarian food without ever having tasted in their lives, leave me appalled at their absurdity. It's food. Regular people eat it not because they gain sadistic pleasure out of hunting animals down, but because it simply tastes good. It is relished and satiates routine hunger. So cut the cribbing about it being put in front of you on the table. Kindly look at it as a bowl fool of food worth savoring. It's a matter of choice and you really don't need to blatantly condemn someone else's choice. I take changing perspectives as a daunting task but I would not wish to give up on this. And as mentioned on the blog I was reading, "I never lie to my blog."

I want to go from abstract to structured.

And I need to put some thought in.

Cheers to the pro activity and the conscious effort of giving the latent, a chance to be known.

I finished watching American History X a couple of hours back and I really didn't think that I'd get over it so soon. I think I shouldn't have let Family Guy ruin all that intense fog that the movie had managed to fill my brain with.

I was told that it wouldn't let me move, that movie, and it didn't. In fact I couldn't be less bothered about being signed into Rockmelt with people pinging me with their shallow "hey". Oh pardon me for I forgot the exclamation which follows the greeting. Sometimes I think all this typing allows you to be way more dramatical. But yes in real life, you thankfully don't get stuck with the y's at the end of the hey till the turn of the century.

So Yamla Pagla Deewana is releasing tomorrow and I know a lot of people who're fairly excited to catch a show. It's going to be insanely ridiculous and I don't say this about all movies. My world is full of incessant adoration of Kay Jay and his glorious portrayal of emotions, half of which regular people don't even feel in real life. Picture yourself feeling what Rani and SRK felt while competing to run outside that magnificent mansion which belonged to the Raichands. That rick run followed by a gush of best friendship. Too much I tell you. Hum toh sirf subah college ke lie bhagte hai, bohot tez.

It really is a disgrace how I don't feel it's necessary to exercise. I have reached level one by learning the importance of breakfast (ate at an appropriate hour, not at noon). I think I realise that I need to burn those 184736832 calories fighting to find room in my body. This is what happens when you have 10 small meals in a day. Gluttony, at its peaceful best.

It's 3 30 am and it's annoying how I've been voluntarily sleeping at 4 o clock in the morning these days which is when DJs Dadaji gets up in the morning for his Ardas and simultaneouly Karan is asked to Bhujao. What a brilliantly moving movie. But I don't have a fancy jeep to push off in and I don't have the marble palace to walk into early in the morning after chilling the whole night. So I should make peace with my killer new spring mattress.

I've been dreaming bizarrely and rather regularly these days. I hope I get a good dream to seal my day. Good night to myself.

So I've screamed so loud in the pathetically confined space of the car, that my face is bloodshot right now. I had my mum sitting next to me, whose hearing capacities are top notch, but I really felt like I'm expecting a deaf person to hear me out.

I've always comfortably agreed to the existence of a "generation gap". But it's capable of pissing me off to the fucking limit. Actually it succeeds in stretching the limit every time. It's unbelievable how my levels of piss dom are like this magical elastic band which can get stretched, tear and in the very next instance are ready to be stretched again.

I can't imagine myself how angry I am right now. I've started to exercise what they say in theory about gulping your anger. But hota he nai. You have to find an outlet to all the anger and how pointless is pushing it back into your system. I think I can wear layers of those jackets people wear while riding, not the regular ones, sweat it out even in this freezing chill and still be angry.

One word- Bhenchod

More words- I have thought many a time of extending my vocabulary beyond these three words. But they fit so unbelievable well here that I'd be only fooling my expression to have not used them. KYA SCENE HAI? Sabka kya scene hai.

Even if you burn the space between the three compartments on each finger, to create infinite levels, you won't be able to count the number of times I have sworn to be indifferent to the idiotic notions that exist in various heads. I mean the very notion of a notion emerges out of a varsity of opinion residing in different thought processes. So yes, I do think that it's best to accept and not compare. But nahi hota hai. It just doesn't happen. It's like the worst kind of theory that can never find an practical execution through my flawed personality. Then again, I might think that it's not flawed. It's just my individualistic outburst.