tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301563162024-03-14T00:55:37.949-07:00THOUGHT WAVESTHE WAVES THAT STIR EMOTIONS INTO WORDSKamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-49782611345229135842014-03-02T22:51:00.001-08:002014-03-02T22:51:45.331-08:00Mili Woh ZindagiThis video is a tribute to Steve Phangchoo, whose music inspired the concept and the presentation. 'Mili Woh Zindagi' is an original composition by Steve, and the visuals are all independent footages, shot throughout the city of Calcutta on our Canon 5DMk2 and Canon 7D, and devised out of the blue when suddenly one day all the different elements just blended into a homogenous harmony. Enjoy!<br /><br />
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P.S: We just like calling ourselves the Marching Ants, we just do.Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-90683305170990739532013-02-01T10:09:00.000-08:002013-02-01T10:09:16.250-08:00Time<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTv20VbVDHp47Dhrji54WFbfSwx9G4OXIc_i3BH1Lnb0_Nl_Yr07dyR6JBU4rQuYoE9ckSp-mMsEvAxtm7BWtHjbC1loDD05h36uIfKJQthbwlYWe_smbLZ4Y-vPoX4DA5ELNlOQ/s1600/_MG_7463.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTv20VbVDHp47Dhrji54WFbfSwx9G4OXIc_i3BH1Lnb0_Nl_Yr07dyR6JBU4rQuYoE9ckSp-mMsEvAxtm7BWtHjbC1loDD05h36uIfKJQthbwlYWe_smbLZ4Y-vPoX4DA5ELNlOQ/s320/_MG_7463.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Falling and standing<br />
Across from you.<br />
<br />
Feeling failing<br />
Without you.<br />
<br />
We were always one part of two<br />
We had all the answers too.<br />
These are signs of time<br />
Pulling us apart, inside out.<br />
Hope you understand and acknowledge<br />
The hands and feet we have grown,<br />
Around each other.<br />
Now look at us-<br />
This is the moment<br />
This is the place<br />
This is the reason<br />
Always knew what put us together<br />
Would drive us apart.<br />
<br />
Deeper and higher<br />
Away from you.<br />
<br />
Closer and farther<br />
We go.<br />
<br /></div>
Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-15242203815190423802012-02-09T11:44:00.000-08:002012-02-09T11:44:31.274-08:00War WoundsSend your army home,<br />
I won't fight tonight.<br />
Let us sit and have a chat instead.<br />
<br />
Tell me your story,<br />
I won't ask you 'why'.<br />
I won't tell you its not sad.<br />
<br />
Bring your best wine,<br />
I won't take you to bed.<br />
Let's make talk, and none else.<br />
<br />
Stop, listen, don't think,<br />
I don't want you to see.<br />
All the lies we hide behind the honesty.<br />
<br />
Close your eyes, and be<br />
Closer to the fantasy.<br />
Yes. The one you never dared to dream.<br />
<br />
Let me show you <br />
The darkness you never tread.<br />
Where I roam free, and you will too.<br />
<br />
Find that flight of destiny,<br />
And find the soul.<br />
That will take you there.<br />
<br />
And in the end,<br />
Let us shake hands and say our bits.<br />
Let's meet at dawn, resume our war again.Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-15598483529126985972012-02-07T02:44:00.000-08:002012-02-07T02:44:23.300-08:00Id vs EgoA: "Its important that you know that what you are doing is incorrect."<br />
B: "Says who?"<br />
<br />
A: "Me. Why, isn't what I think important enough to be considered at least as friendly advice?"<br />
B: "But I'm not looking for advice. I'm looking for ....."<br />
<br />
A: "Yes. That. I'm sure you don't know what you are looking for, and you want to find out, this is a journey... blah blah. And all that."<br />
B: "Why? Isn't what I think important enough to be considered at least as one individual's interest and curiosity?"<br />
<br />
A: "Why are you doing this?"<br />
B: "What?"<br />
<br />
A: "Turning tables... You always do that. Its unfair you know."<br />
B: "Unfair. Incorrect. Listen to yourself!"<br />
<br />
A: "Are you judging me?"<br />
B: "Are YOU?"<br />
<br />
A: "Its impossible to win an argument with you."<br />
B: "Are you accepting defeat already?"<br />
<br />
A: "This is redundant. Do what you want. I won't say a word."<br />
B: "Do you think I really care what you want me to do or not?"<br />
<br />
A: "I'd liked to think that you did. You don't, and that's my problem."<br />
B: "Do you like walking around with the weight of the world on your shoulders?"<br />
<br />
A: "No. Just you."<br />
B: "Why?"<br />
<br />
A: "What do you mean 'why'? That's a stupid question."<br />
B: "See. I told you. We don't always have all the answers."<br />
<br />
A: "Yes, But I like to think I do. It gives me some peace."<br />
B: "How can you live inside your bubble, and never even look outside?"<br />
<br />
A: "What's outside anyway? I have everything I need right here."<br />
B: "You'd do anything to keep that illusion alive, won't you?"<br />
<br />
A: "Yes. Its called passion. I'm passionate about the things I believe in."<br />
B: "And if I believe that my life should be a travelogue written about the journey 'outside' the bubble, is that being devoid of passion?"<br />
<br />
A: "But if you want to burn all bridges, how can you come back to anything? Or anyone?"<br />
B: "What if I'm not looking to come back?"<br />
<br />
A: "Then you walk alone."<br />
B: "I'm not afraid of walking alone. But when I sit down, I'd like to have a nice cup of tea, with some nice people, chat, have a biscuit or two. Then get walking again."<br />
<br />
A: "You think life is like what they say in books?"<br />
B: "No. I don't know what life is."<br />
<br />
A: "Then what is the point of all this philosophical engagement? Isn't it an exercise to figure 'it all out'?"<br />
B: "Philosophy is just ideas, written in nice words, printed in jacketed covers, and specially signed by the authors, in non-posthumous cases."<br />
<br />
A: "Is everything for you a version of theoretical cynicism?"<br />
B: "No. More like cynical theoreticism."<br />
<br />
A: "Is that even a word?"<br />
B: "Who knows. Who cares."<br />
<br />
A: "I do. Explain yourself to me."<br />
B: "But, I really don't want to."<br />
<br />
A: "Well, if theories and philosophies are ideas, lets hear your's!"<br />
B: "If I write a book, I'll send you a signed and jacketed copy. Hard bound."<br />
<br />
A: "You live in denial."<br />
B: "Of what?"<br />
<br />
A: "Reality."<br />
B: "Reality is relative. My reality seems impossible to you, and your's seems unlivable to me."<br />
<br />
A: "SO do we part ways here?"<br />
B: "Why? Walk with me. You might like it. Leave, if you don't want to, or if you get tired, of walking."<br />
<br />
A: "And what if 'you' leave?"<br />
B: "As long as we are walking the same road, I don't see why I would just take off and turn another way."<br />
<br />
A: "Wake up. There's NO ROAD."<br />
B: "Dream a little. Maybe you'll find one there."<br />
<br />
A: "When do you stop, and I begin?"<br />
B: "Why do I need to stop for you to begin?"<br />
<br />
A: "Because we cannot exist together."<br />
B: "We ARE, because we exist together."Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-42410277969599723672012-02-05T18:38:00.000-08:002012-02-05T18:38:10.289-08:00February Fibs<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Its 0606 hours, 6th February. I inwardly laugh at my own misfortune. I wish I wouldn't be awake. Mornings are such busybodies. Everyone has something to do, somewhere to be. I don't. Well, I don't want to. I can't stay in bed. I am wide awake. I wait... for something to happen. As usual, nothing does. <br />
<br />
Its still that kind of cold, where when you have to leave your bathtub-sized hostel room, to go to the bathtub-less loo cubicle to do your business, the chill runs down your spine like a suspicious lover. And it lingers... also like the fierceness of an obsessed rejectee. <br />
<br />
I step outside. I wish my mind would stop for a bit. Let me imbibe the unanalyzed morning air. But how can I? <br />
<br />
I see blurry figures flurrying to the damp underbelly of hostel life. I see socked feet walking past me, turning back to see, the strange static state of me standing in the corridor staring at the floor, and then turn back around and resume their incidentally important schedules of all-around-the-year mundanity. Everybody is so busy. All the time. <br />
<br />
I am waiting. To see, if I too can fit into the incessantly repetitive routines of my faceless nameless neighbors. I am waiting. But I don't think I want to really find out. Someone not so famous once said, questions should be asked when you have the courage to know the answer. Because more often than not, you already know the answers you seek, but sometimes you want it to be something else, and hence the query. However, that renders all questions as rhetorical. <br />
<br />
So, if there be no questions that really have answers, why then do we ask them? Is it the everlasting hangover of the forbidden fruit?<br />
<br />
A <a href="https://www.facebook.com/simplyanish">wise man child </a> told me "man needed something to do between the time his stomach was full and when he got hungry again<br />
so he thought<br />
and took the cake<br />
the dogs lay, the lions snored and the elephants went for a wash<br />
but man he thought<br />
and took the cake"</div><br />
What we do with our time is what all matters to each of us. And no one else. Everyone is just pretending. Just to keep you around. For the sake of their own time. At the cost of being labeled an anarchist, or worse, a cynic, I still want to tell you how being selfish is the only way to be truly happy.<br />
<br />
They were misleading you when they told you the story about that big lonely giant who lived all by himself and never let the children play in his big lonely garden. How redundant. Watch my Marxist friends, as you grow thinner with philosophy, hornier with the burden of ideological seduction, and angrier with yourself for still wanting to play in the consumerist garden of our capitalist giant/s. I'm sure a plural is required here. <br />
<br />
But,<br />
Be Stubborn<br />
Be Strong<br />
Be Faithful<br />
Be Dishonest<br />
Be Passionate<br />
Be Cool<br />
Be Everything,<br />
you probably never even wanted to be. <br />
But,<br />
Don't be a rebel. Don't be different. Just don't be different.<br />
<br />
In a world where everyone talks alike, walks alike, wear the same clothes, go to the same shady places to rid themselves of their shame of mediocrity, drinking cheap whisky, wondering if they'd get lucky tonight, while eyeing the only other pair of eyes that may have similar aspirations. <br />
<br />
The romantics of dichotomy is dead.<br />
<br />
And it took me 12 minutes, outside in the cold, to figure all that out. <br />
<br />
Its 0730 hours now, still today. Like everyday. Is ultimately today.<br />
<br />
I come back inside my room. Its a mess. I haven't cleaned in days. I haven't wanted to, either. I look at the stealthy sunlight trying to warm my cold bed. My cold bed. My mind races through moments of the otherwise. I hover for a bit, trying to squeeze a trifle ecstasy. ANd I begin to laugh. Laugh at the sheer irony that the thought proposes. I laugh so hard, that I think I might cry. <br />
<br />
But we were trained to suppress emotions. Men more than women, obviously. As a woman, I'm still allowed access to more sentiments. Such a shame. Another mere tool to impose more vulnerability. I see it everyday, everywhere. In everyone.<br />
<br />
The lizards are back on the curtain. I think there's something to reptiles and sunbathing. Think about the crocodiles, your garden variety snake and of course our beloved yellow wall-friends. Clutching casually onto the curtain, gently flowing in the morning breeze that manages to get in somehow despite the attempts at closing the sole window that I was blessed with, the creatures rest in the golden warmth of a February dawn. Undisturbed. Unworried. <br />
<br />
Free.<br />
<br />
I wish I was a lizard. Just to be free.<br />
<br />
Just so, I could sunbathe through life. <br />
<br />
No, instead, I shall now light my first joint of the day. And then perhaps sunbathe a bit, hanging from my curtain. Perhaps I shall say hello to my real neighbors then.Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-13295252802798215422011-11-20T06:32:00.001-08:002012-03-20T03:59:22.955-07:00Post-IncredibleIncredible as it may seem<br />
Strings grow, wrap arms around my neck<br />
Following aspiring orgasms,<br />
Rising like waves in a placid sea<br />
Belching expletive doctrines of lust<br />
Falling, breaking into fathomless specks<br />
Of forgotten longing<br />
Of forsaken lovers<br />
Of forbidden losses.<br />
Murder. Morality makes mothers monsters.<br />
Surrender. Surreal surpasses subliminal.<br />
Dictate. Dispatch dichotomy dreamless.<br />
Watch over the shackles that entwine <br />
A life bound into submission<br />
Expectations expect me to render results<br />
Forlorn and dying<br />
Emitting glory<br />
In the carnival of loneliness.<br />
<br />
Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com0JNU University Dakshinapuram, New Delhi28.545705 77.167843tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-77103432338267832952011-03-24T10:17:00.000-07:002011-03-24T10:17:48.281-07:00Swan SongDestitutes of tomorrow!<br />
<br />
Hiding in your ivory domes,<br />
<br />
Look outside that window of shame,<br />
<br />
What do you see?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Oceans, seas and vast heartbreaks,<br />
<br />
Mothers soothing blue veins,<br />
<br />
Coaxing avatars of bygone bards,<br />
<br />
And men kissing men in electric pink.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Destitutes of tomorrow!<br />
<br />
Shatter that pantheon of masked hypocrites,<br />
<br />
Step outside your red coat -<br />
<br />
What do you feel?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Do you feel that shiver of pain?<br />
<br />
Or the crusty skin of lusty copulation?<br />
<br />
Or the cigarette butt relationships?<br />
<br />
You must feel, at least, the need to sleep?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Destitutes of tomorrow!<br />
<br />
Weigh your fantasy boots,<br />
<br />
Murder those names that call you son -<br />
<br />
What are you still afraid of?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Governments, nations and citizens,<br />
<br />
Lie in their pornographic embrace,<br />
<br />
Waiting, waiting, always waiting -<br />
<br />
For the last revolution to wither and die.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Destitutes of tomorrow!<br />
<br />
Find your fifteen minutes in this godless race,<br />
<br />
Make amends with history -<br />
<br />
Raise your hand if you are to blame.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Rise from your feminist graves,<br />
<br />
Captain cadaver's tale is ripe,<br />
<br />
Slaves, slaves, slaves of the past -<br />
<br />
Walk the line, or we're through.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Destitutes of the world, unite!<br />
<br />
At the Hiroshima of philosophy.<br />
<br />
Elegies of the retired are being rewritten,<br />
<br />
Slow down or burn out.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Sunsets and dawns,<br />
<br />
Carnations and violets,<br />
<br />
Corporations of filth and despair,<br />
<br />
Front-row seats await cosmic communism.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Whores of Mother Nature!<br />
<br />
Return to your lair - the neighbours are ready,<br />
<br />
Fight till freedom murders your free will -<br />
<br />
Maybe they'll write a song about you.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Black and white and yellow and brown,<br />
<br />
The stench of democracy engulfs all,<br />
<br />
Walk while you stilll can,<br />
<br />
But you better not run.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Hail all, the last man standing!<br />
<br />
Debate creation with recreation,<br />
<br />
Cathedrals of fiction will fall -<br />
<br />
Faeries will be men again.Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-84324083124906290852011-01-23T08:19:00.000-08:002011-01-23T09:15:05.773-08:00Coming Home<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7wiFFlZBnc2mMZEkgx-jPfRQqLb8bHRDGX-y7T5AlXKLZfYkBpwg_fQC5LQ0ChExz5PFX_oWjsr9mD2vKIHDPFJmbFd90GXU23g6VO1I5y1WJm-aH8B7emr1xEXyrKi6Zt8SOw/s1600/02740005.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7wiFFlZBnc2mMZEkgx-jPfRQqLb8bHRDGX-y7T5AlXKLZfYkBpwg_fQC5LQ0ChExz5PFX_oWjsr9mD2vKIHDPFJmbFd90GXU23g6VO1I5y1WJm-aH8B7emr1xEXyrKi6Zt8SOw/s400/02740005.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565429744614476626" /></a><br /><br />I have always wandered the cobbled streets of my mind, clucking inwardly at all the things that sadden me, skipping a step with joy at every wonder. Its a happy moment, a particularly confusing happiness, when I think of walking home through these streets. <br /><br />I have spent a good few years away. Away as I feel from all things homey. My cats, my dog, the shelves stacked up lined with books I have grown with. My room, my room. My little sister calls it "my room" now. She looks intense as she bites into her nails, wondering if 'that' guy wonders about her as she does about him, worried about the small things that become mundane as you grow older. My front-room, my father, the atheist, sitting relaxed, barely watching as he flips through channels on the TV, worry lines creep across his face, retired from his humble-paying humble-job, thanking some divine source for all its humility, all of his life and of our's. My mother, smiling, cheerfully etching between love and love-lost, slowly dying inside as the cancer caresses her boisterous strings, of life. Of love. Of memories just like this one.<br /><br />I have wandered 'these' streets. Always coming back. Always taking that last look at the disappearing faces, as my train pulls out of the station I call home. I always turn around and wonder if I really remember my lover's face, or is it the idea of him that keeps me wondering if its really him, when its really him. I remember the last touch, the last time I looked at those eyes and saw these memories stare back, surprised. The pupils dilate, and then they become mirrors. Mirrors I avoid. Mirrors we all avoid. We avoid to look at the realities we make such great sacrifices to keep away.<br /><br />My home is my mirror. A place I want to go back to. To keep going back to. To keep wanting to return to. And so I must run. Run, not hide. I run away, so that I can come back someday. I run so that the memories remain. So that I can live off the romance. I always come back, I do. That's why its home.Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-29821045871977863462010-07-18T23:28:00.000-07:002010-07-19T04:08:01.192-07:00Reached new levels of low. The whole thing doesn't even make me sad. Anymore. Life in a limbo. Ah... Clever. Temporary, I hope. It doesn't make much sense to keep staying at one state for too long anyway, because then it stops being a state and becomes a BE-ing. How odd. Who stops to think about that? Did I stop? Was I BE-ing a state?<br /><br />Accepting things as they are, everyday everywhere, is the hardest part of life. I try. I fail. I keep thinking. Why do we have rights? So that they are listed. Controlled. What about the one that skipped the list? Those are priviledges. Priviledges that separate men and women, men and men. All women are equal anyway. In a way. Or ways. Hard to see eye to eye at that, eh? My point exactly. <br /><br />Still doesn't make me sad. Life in limbo. Could I be in limbo and yet change? I ask. I answer. I fail. But I still try. I accept. I think. Mostly, yes.Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-89067985377431952372010-04-26T10:12:00.000-07:002010-04-26T10:26:59.795-07:00DEV D: Reading the film narrative with special reference to Weber's Theory of Authority<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAOVmSbIt59qD5xz5S_9QY4biKtiQESwl51WgPmks-rdlaKlXeBhk8ZfBp79DdR20xhK5xuUPrg3KQdACpbVVVSHGfguWTbqL2h_jbkW1fMyncSCn9IF2k5XDbSuGh_MAHDfiTxw/s1600/Dev_D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 277px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAOVmSbIt59qD5xz5S_9QY4biKtiQESwl51WgPmks-rdlaKlXeBhk8ZfBp79DdR20xhK5xuUPrg3KQdACpbVVVSHGfguWTbqL2h_jbkW1fMyncSCn9IF2k5XDbSuGh_MAHDfiTxw/s400/Dev_D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464498084352623218" /></a><br /><br />I chose Dev D to slap down on my dissection table primarily because it tells an immortal story of love and rejection - and the politics of love and rejection. In sociological understanding of it, this is perhaps the best example to delve into a Weberian reading of authority and action, in the context of modern Indian film-making and character building. There's a major difference between KL Saigal, Dilip Kumar, Shah Rukh Khan and Abhay Deol's Devdas. The first three films were faithful to Sarat Chandra's legendary novella, while Anurag Kashyap's deviant take on Devdas is contemporary and in the process, differs from the original work. And perhaps the real narrative of the film exists in its poignant background score, executed almost perfectly by music director Amit Trivedi. <br /><br />In Dev. D, the film captures the essence of wealthy business class patriarchal Punjabi families of Chandigarh. Dev, or Devendra Singh Dhillon, is the son a rich Punjabi businessman, who was sent to London when he was very young. But the seeds of love had already been sown between him and his father’s business manager’s daughter Paro, or Parminder Kuldeep Singh. While away, their love only grew, slowly edging out the young innocent infatuation giving way to more concrete sexual demands. And on the occasion of Dev’s brother Dwij’s wedding, he comes back home. Their obsession with intimacy is arrogantly complacent, but complications grow, as their youthful banter turns to misunderstandings, and they result in Dev’s rejection of Paro’s love. Paro in turn, almost as if to mete out punishment for Dev, agrees to be married off to a wealthy businessman, a widower with two children. Her decision borders on compromise and convenience, as Paro puts marriage before sexual gratification.<br /><br />Following Paro’s marriage, Dev’s remorse alienates him from his family and friends. And what follows is a journey of self-destruction. Dev moves to Delhi from Chandigarh following Paro, who after marriage settled in Delhi with her husband. Dev makes excuses to talk to and meet Paro. Paro, now a married woman complies to Dev’s demands, but stands her own ground as well, and quite clearly asks Dev to move on with his life and forget her. This second rejection, this time from Paro, shatters Dev’s will for even self-pity. He drowns in a sea of intoxication and substance abuse. During this he meets Chunni (Chunnilal), a middle-man, who introduces him to Chanda (Chandramukhi), a young prostitute. <br /><br />Chanda has her own story, distanced and abandoned by her family following an MMS scandal, she gets drawn into prostitution. She meets Dev and develops a friendship that helps both of them cope with their individual crises. But the day Dev realises that despite all closeness, Chanda is still a prostitute, the inherent patriarchal obsession with ownership over the lover’s physical body hinders his dedication and trust. So, he leaves, and trips into a even heavier trauma. Dev, in his intoxication, gets tangled in a hit-and-run case, and his ailing father dies of shock. After this, through a series of even more misfortunes, Dev realises the true worth of the women in his life, and he realises his real allegiance and returns to Chanda. Dev confesses finally to Chanda that he never really loved Paro, he only obsessed owning her. <br /><br />The references and innuendos used throughout the film punctuates cultural stereotypes that exist within the Indian context, as well as the visual arrangement and use of dialogues are all in-tune with the young generation. The portrayal of Punjabis in the film is almost perfect in comparison. The recurrence of ‘values’ as a theme is integral. This has been projected through the female characters in the film: Paro as the village belle, is not stereotypically shy and coy. She is up front, straight forward and bold. Again, Chanda is the only character in the film, whose fate was uncalled for, but she makes no excuses for it. She is a prostitute but she is not sorry about it. Thus, she is a complete contrast to Dev, who is inherently, but not literally, apologetic. The interplay of rural-urban and tradition-modernity is shown through the relationship of Dev with the two women in his life. <br /><br />Every character in Dev D, has been positioned beautifully to portray a specific nuance of the film narrative. The cast comprises mostly of newcomers, except Abhay Deol himself, who was also responsible for the concept of the film, which is, again, the most innovative angle for the entirety of this film. In the original novella, Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay spoke of his own times, punctuated with the instances of class and caste differences, alongside the colonial rendezvous of tradition-modernity dialogue. Chattopadhyay’s Devdas has been read several times for screen and stage interpretations, but by far, Kashyap’s treatment of the analogous quality of the characters is flawless. <br /><br />Coming back to the Weberian debate, the film may be dissected into four main sections of plot development according to the narrative. 1) The sense of loss- betrayal, rejection and death, 2) Kinship ties- role of family and relations, based on a strictly patriarchal sense of the term, 3) City as the site of trauma- wherein, the urban space provides for the existence of a dark, almost villainous, persona, in the absence of a real anti-hero, and 4) Fate- as recreated through destruction, realisation and ultimately resolution. These four sections are all intimidated by characters, which are however much downplayed in the film; evolve through the fantastical turn of events. <br /><br />1) The sense of loss- betrayal, rejection and death: Dev’s character develops through each of the aforementioned sections. For example, in this part, we can look into his authoritative development through the sense of loss – through betrayal and death. Firstly, the loss through betrayal occurs on two levels, the first being Paro’s, although misinterpreted by Dev himself, it was betrayal on one count. The second being Chanda’s, where again Dev had created his own reality and the harsher fact betrayed this. Both these cases have deeper repercussions on Dev. On both counts, he himself created the illusion of betrayal, almost as if to spatially distinguish himself from the culprits, in this case Paro and Chanda. Thus giving rise to the opportunity for his traditional authority to grow out of his father’s own position, something like a psychological coup. So, for the ultimate transfer of authority the loss of his father was the final element. Dev’s father’s death was the climaxing point of Dev’s retrieval of his authoritative character, which he willingly was bypassing by his irresponsible behaviour. So the loss of his father took over that one last quarter of his faulty character.<br /><br />2) Kinship ties- role of family and relations, based on a strictly patriarchal sense of the term: since the film revolves around rural Punjabi wealthy families, the depiction of kinship ties are absolutely contemporary in nature, which is why Dev’s character is infused with elements of the rich young brat, sent to London, disinterest in academics, drug-abuse, taste for unrequited love, etc. Thus his relationships with those around him are also overshadowed with such elements. Such as the introductory scene in the film, where Dev and Paro’s relationship is established; followed by his relation with his mother, father and brother are also briefly touched upon, it all seems very casual and the positions of authority are forced on him, and not naturally digressed. This proves the waning and charitable quality of traditional authority that Weber debated. Dev’s father holds the supreme authority, but his power over his subordinates is unofficial and subjected to questions.<br /><br />3) City as the site of trauma- wherein, the urban space provides for the existence of a dark, almost villainous, persona, in the absence of a real anti-hero: In Dev D, the film revolves around the story of one character’s part of lifetime, winding through the build-up of a crisis and eventually the resolution of the crisis. Here the crisis being ‘love’, and the feelings it exudes in an individual, and the actions and reactions these feelings generate within the individual and other individuals around him, and the environment in which the whole story unfolds is an undivided dark spectrum – as represented through an urban space. This urban space provides the stage for the characters to display and conduct their roles, as pertaining to their socio-cultural relevance. Since the actual narrative lacks atypical representation of cinematic characters – i.e., a hero, a heroine and a villain – the attributes have been virtually assigned to other forms. For example, here, the city stands as the villain, where Dev finds his vices and grips them on for the longer part of the film. Even in the original text, Devdas moved to the city after his estrangement from Paro, took up alchohol and met Chandramukhi in a brothel. In Dev D, Dev not only takes to alchohol, but also hard drugs to initiate his inner-peace, and found Chanda as a solace in New Delhi, having had travelled out of rural Punjab. So the urban space provides a moral-free zone, and can be compared with the notion of the typical villain, who also is conscience-free. But unlike the regular depictions of black and white, Kashyap created a great gray space, where Dev and the city mingle to form the quintessential anti-hero; this can also be related to a number of historical depictions of popular traditional authoritative heads in literature and cinema.<br /><br />4) Fate- as recreated through destruction, realisation and ultimately resolution: This is directly in relation to the understanding of traditional authority as Weber argued. To begin with, fate is entwined with the one who begets traditional authority, because it is that one form of authority and power that is transferred through birth, property and association. Thus, in Dev D, the element of fate looms throughout, despite almost all of the action-reaction sequences being in direct control of Dev’s whims. Thus one may argue that fate decides the formation, destruction, realisation and resolution of the life-aspects of Dev, quite like his authority, which was given to him, not acquired.<br /><br />Coming to the characters of the film, a basic understanding of the theoretical premise is necessary before delving into the analysis. Weber’s theory of authority claims that in pre-modern and modern societies, there has been a hierarchy of command of which everyone must adhere to. In order for this system to operate, there must be someone in charge or otherwise known as authority. According to Weber, authority is power accepted as legitimate by those subjected to it. Weber outlines three forms of authority in modern societies: traditional, charismatic, and rational-legal. These forms of authority are ideal pure types that are rarely "pure" in real life. Based on this understanding, we can categorise the characters in Dev D, simply by analysing their personalities and grouping them. To begin with, the relationship between Dev and his father relies on the traditional authority, where it is passed on to Dev from his father, after he returns from London, despite the still existing signs of Dev being a spoilt child. In more concrete terms, Dev’s father also confesses to spoiling him, but unashamedly so. The repercussion to this being Dev’s brother Dwij’s an inherent dislike and mistrust for Dev, as it so occurs around the space of a traditional authoritative position, which so often gives rise to the proposition of change and rebellion, in its strict political interpretation. However, this form of authority that so exists in the mere disposition of Dev’s character, is objectionable from its ideal typical understanding. For example Dev’s substance abuse to counter his rejection – which in itself was self-imposed, unlike in the original novella, the rejection of Paro came into the plot of the story given her lower class-caste status, and not a simple misunderstanding. In an ideal typical situation, Dev would have taken it into his stride to put things right, but in Dev D, given his traditional authority, Dev rejects Paro for her alleged intimacy with another man. The transfer of authority from his father to Dev happens within the narrative and interpretation of the story, and not so much within the characters. Yet, the change is inimitable and permanent. And there are two characters who stand up to this transfer of authority, the first being Paro, who calls for a change of technique herself by demanding reasons for Dev’s rejection of her love and questions his own intentions, as he too had shared physical intimacy with Rasika, the sister of Paro’s later-to-be-wed husband. The second resistance comes from Dwij, who constantly has to deal with favouritism shown toward his brother Dev, as he remains while Dev gets an education in London, and gets continuing financial help even when he has flouted his adult responsibilities and run after Paro after having rejected her. Although Dwij’s resistance is passive, it influences Dev’s decisions after he has reached the brink of self destruction.<br /><br />Dev’s own traditional authority is countered by Chanda (Chandramnukhi), who can very well be categorised under charismatic authoritative personality. She holds a stronger reign on Dev’s life and decisions. The relationship between Dev and CHanda borders on a theoretical platonic exchange. The sense of loss and betrayal brings them closer, and Chanda’s charismatic personality puts her in a position superior in practice than that of Dev’s. Although based on Dev’s own characteristic disposition of authority, he primarily objects to the charisma of Chanda’s character, but slowly the essence permeates his own personality, giving rise to the culmination of Dev’s resolution. In an ideal typical paradigm, Chanda creates the atmosphere for the transition of Dev from a hopeless self-destructive man to a hopeful man who values his future ambitions. This is exemplary, as in most case, as Weber himself also argues, the ideal type does not exist, but in this case, albeit analogous in nature of formation, however, Chanda’s authority claims a higher position than that of Dev’s or for that matter anybody else’s in the film. <br /><br />In fact, the entirety of the protagonist’s narrative is entwined with those of the women around him. in plain theory we may say, that Dev’s character is incomplete just by itself, it requires those of the women around him to formulate and act. To begin with, Dev’s mother was held responsible by his father to be the one who spoilt him – thus meaning that the initial phase of psycho-social development of Dev took place within the protective circle of his mother’s love, care and reproach. After this, his character grew in the space of being away from the women he desired, his mother and Paro, both for very different reasons, but based on the feeling of desire no less – the first, a desire for motherly love, and the second being more carnal in nature. Thus so far, we may argue, that Dev’s persona develops through the presence or lack of the important female roles in his life. Then, comes the crisis – where Dev rejects his own requirement of feminine love. Despite being a very strong character, Paro lacks the apparent masculine strength Chanda exudes. This is a transformation in Dev’s character, where after he feels he has been betrayed by Paro, he discards his relationships with the very women he eternally sought alliance with, his mother and Paro. He forms a sort of understanding of the good woman, as personified by his mother and Paro – being traditional and homely as well as loyal – and becomes attracted by Chanda’s complete lack of that exact element, she was the quintessential fallen woman – a prostitute, porn star, drug-abuser and very brute when it came to emotional interaction. This quality in Chanda attracted Dev, as it was completely in opposition to the kind of women he had sought so far. It gave him a sense of foreboding, fear and strangely enough security bought with money. He felt Chanda’s company could be bought with money, which left him with a sense of ownership as well as superiority that can be found in an employer-employee relationship. This particular variety of emotion helped Dev grow inside, into that traditional authority he had acquired from his father, it gave him the very same feeling of being in the main authoritative position, the driver’s seat. Even later, when he realises his mistakes and makes a decision to reach a resolution point in his life after all the mayhem, he is still driven by his attachment to Chanda, and not by single-minded determination. In other simpler and perhaps unacademic words, Dev’s character does whatever he does because of one woman or another, his life revolves around the relations he has with women, in this case his mother, Paro and Chanda.<br /><br />Finally, I must add, that the most important part of the narrative of this film is its background score, used beautifully throughout the film, which helps create the tone and mood for the visual. The eighteen song sound track is responsible for the tremendous success of the film in the Bollywood Box Office. Anurag Kashyap quite brilliantly has lifted the basic structure of the story from Chattopadhyay’s novella, and has fitted it in a modern context, because Chattopadhyay wrote about his own times, yet it is timeless in its feeling and emotion. Kashyap has taken the courage to entwine the reality of the story and bring it to a cinematic form, and has made no excuses for doing so, which is perhaps why the film is so grounded in its understanding. And the most interesting fact being that, he has used the creative space of an ‘adaptation’ to give the story that much-needed ending that Chattopadhyay lacked courage to execute. Also, in a modern context, this particular ending is much appropriate, rather than a godlike disposition of the protagonist to pine away to death for a lost love. In fact, in Dev D, the protagonist is never really the quintessential ‘hero’, quite contrarily; he is the ‘anti-hero’. In the film, none of the characters are completely in one particular white or black idealisms, rather all of them have shades of grey, thereby providing a much bigger space for these personalities to manoeuvre their positions within the plot. The story of Dev D is essentially that of a coming of age narrative, based around relationships and the trajectories of these relations. <br /><br /><br /><br />READING KALI AS A COMPARATIVE STUDY<br /><br />According to David Kinsley, Kali is first mentioned in Hinduism as a distinct goddess, related to war, around 600 CE. Scriptures like Agni Purana and Garuda Purana describe her terrible appearance and associate her with corpses and war. The oldest mention of Kali dates back to Rigvedic age. The 'Ratri Sookta' in Rigveda actually calls her as Goddess 'Ratri' and regards Ratri as the Supreme force in the universe. In the Tantras, she is regarded as the Shakti (Power) of The Great Mahākāla (a form of Lord Shiva). Her portrayal on dead bodies in crematorium symbolizes her presence in the hearts of devotees who have killed their Earthly desires and want Supreme Consciousness in the lap of the Ultimate Mother, Kali. In another form, she is regarded as the destroyer, the Mahakali as Kali Tantra says-"kāli kālanāt" meaning Kali is the one who finishes. Kalika Purana depicts her as the "Adi Shakti" (Fundamental Power) and "Para Prakriti" or beyond nature.<br /><br />Kali comes from the Sanskrit root word Kal which means time. There is nothing that escapes the all-consuming march of time. In Tibetan Buddhism Her counterpart is male with the name Kala. Mother Kali is the most misunderstood of the Hindu goddesses. The Encyclopedia Britannica is grossly mistaken in the following quote, "Major Hindu goddess whose iconography, cult, and mythology commonly associate her with death, sexuality, violence, and, paradoxically in some of her later historical appearances, motherly love."<br /><br />It is partly correct to say Kali is a goddess of death but She brings the death of the ego as the illusory self-centered view of reality. Nowhere in the Hindu stories is She seen killing anything but demons nor is She associated specifically with the process of human dying like the Hindu god Yama (who really is the god of death). It is true that both Kali and Shiva are said to inhabit cremation grounds and devotees often go to these places to meditate. This is not to worship death but rather it is to overcome the I-am-the-body idea by reinforcing the awareness that the body is a temporary condition. Shiva and Kali are said to inhabit these places because it is our attachment to the body that gives rise to the ego. Shiva and Kali grant liberation by removing the illusion of the ego. Thus we are the eternal I AM and not the body. This is underscored by the scene of the cremation grounds.<br /><br />Of all the forms of Devi, She is the most compassionate because She provides moksha or liberation to Her children. She is the counterpart of Shiva the destroyer. They are the destroyers of unreality. The ego sees Mother Kali and trembles with fear because the ego sees in Her its own eventual demise. A person who is attached to his or her ego will not be receptive to Mother Kali and she will appear in a fearsome form. A mature soul who engages in spiritual practice to remove the illusion of the ego sees Mother Kali as very sweet, affectionate, and overflowing with incomprehensible love for Her children.<br /><br />Ma Kali wears a garland of skulls and a skirt of dismembered arms because the ego arises out of identification with the body. In truth we are beings of spirit and not flesh. So liberation can only proceed when our attachment to the body ends. Thus the garland and skirt are trophies worn by Her to symbolize having liberated Her children from attachment to the limited body. She holds a sword and a freshly severed head dripping blood. As the story goes, this represents a great battle in which she destroyed the demon Raktabija. Her black skin represents the womb of the quantum unmanifest from which all of creation arises and into which all of creation will eventually dissolve. She is depicted as standing on Shiva who lays beneath Her with white skin (in contrast to Her black or sometimes dark blue skin). He has a blissful detached look. Shiva represents pure formless awareness sat-chit-ananda (being-consciousness-bliss) while She represents "form" eternally supported by the substratum of pure awareness.<br /><br />By not understanding the story behind Mother Kali it is easy to misinterpret Her iconography. In the same way one could say that Christianity is a religion of death, destruction and cannibalism in which the practitioners drink the blood of Jesus and eat his flesh. Of course, we know this is not the proper understanding of the communion ritual. Attaching the idea of sexuality to Mother Kali has no basis in Her at all. There is nothing that associates Her with sexuality in the Hindu stories. In fact it is just the opposite. She is one of the few Goddesses who is celibate practicing austerity and renunciation.<br /><br />From a Tantric perspective, when one meditates on reality at rest, as absolute pure consciousness (without the activities of creation, preservation or dissolution) one refers to this as Shiva or Brahman. When one meditates on reality as dynamic and creative, as the Absolute content of pure consciousness (with all the activities of creation, preservation or dissolution) one refers to it as Kali or Shakti. However, in either case the yogini or yogi is interested in one and the same reality — the only difference being in name and fluctuating aspects of appearance. It is this which is generally accepted as the meaning of Kali standing on the chest of Shiva.<br /><br />Although there is often controversy surrounding the images of divine copulation, the general consensus is benign and free from any carnal impurities in its substance. In Tantra the human body is a symbol for the microcosm of the universe; therefore sexual process is responsible for the creation of the world. Although theoretically Shiva and Kali (or Shakti) are inseparable, like fire and its power to burn, in the case of creation they are often seen as having separate roles. With Shiva as male and Kali as female it is only by their union that creation may transpire. This reminds us of the prakrti and purusa doctrine of Samkhya wherein prakāśa- vimarśa has no practical value, just as without prakrti, purusa is quite inactive. This (once again) stresses the interdependencies of Shiva and Shakti and the vitality of their union. Thus, Kali as the goddess exudes powers that complete creation, it completes manhood. We can return from this point to our current discussion, of the film Dev D.<br /><br />The few references that maybe drawn around the fictional and mythological characters of Dev D and Goddess Kali is between Chanda and Kali. Chandramukhi or Chanda represents a different dimension of femininity, as does Kali like we have already discussed. The different forms of Kali are the different personas of womanhood. Despite the book-view, Kali is not dominantly related to motherhood or the traditional roles associated with women, she is the creator and destroyer at the same time, she is dark, she is naked, and she is adorned by garlands of severed human heads. As we have already discussed, among the many possibilities of reading this mythology, one may definitely be argued to be as that of a warrior, which is why the dark skin – symbolizing war-paint, which is why the garland of human heads – symbolism of war-exploits. Though, this warrior’s war may not always be a mythical war, it may be symbolized to be the fight of every woman to stand equally beside her man. <br /><br />Like Kali, Chanda is also a fighter, she has fought with her own predicaments as well as the opportunity for a better life. She has fought with her fate and won, which is why the complacent behaviour about being a prostitute, she is never shown to be repentant of her decision to become one, neither does she think her fate is responsible for her being a prostitute – she considers it to be a definitive decision on her part and is unapologetic about it. Although regret seeps in much later, when she realises Dev cannot be a part of her life if she continues with her profession – but then again, we can relate this to Kali’s usual persona of standing on top of her husband Shiva, tongue hanging out in shame. Like Chanda, Kali is not ashamed of her personality, she is a warrior, she resides in darkness, fights with the monsters of darkness, yet her bashful side comes out when she encounters Shiva on her path. This is symbolic of the fact that Kali as a goddess is peerless – in courage and achievement – yet her heart lies within the shackles of Shiva’s control; but then again, Shiva – like Dev – does not want to encage Kali’s persona within his own boundaries, he simply chooses to ignore these attributes until it becomes too much, which is its said Shiva is the only one who can control Kali’s rage. In Dev D, Dev turns out to be the turning point for Chanda as well, as it is for her love of Dev, that she walks out of prostitution, and set up a life where Dev may have a proper place. The image of Kali that we see, is that of the calm after the storm – i.e., Kali still in her warrior form, but becalmed by Shiva’s presence. Similarly, Chanda being the fighter that she is, is ultimately calmed down by her love for Dev. It is striking how mythology repeatedly bases itself in fact and fiction, because eventually cinema, despite being fiction, is based in facts of human experience and thought. So in Dev D, it is hard to tell, if Chanda’s character was otherwise based in mythology, but again, the eventualities are based within the twilight zones of fact, fiction and m,ythology. Thus Kali and Chanda are both women woven around their men, and their men are incomplete without them. Thus the mythological debate of creation bound in man-woman union, thus the ultimate twist-in-the tale of Dev D’s very different outcome in the end, in comparison to Sarat Chandra Chattopadyay’s novel of eternal love being synonymous with unrequited love. This particular feather goes solely on top of Anurag Kashyap’s hat, for it was he who formulated this eternal union of man-woman creation of the perfect self.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />References:<br /><br />Weber’s Theory of Authority (Economy and Society, Vol 1)<br /><br />Kali (The Black Goddess of Dakshineswar) Elizabeth U. Harding, Nicolas Hays, 1993<br /><br />Encountering Kali (In the margins, at the center, in the west), Rachel Fell McDermott, Berkeley : University of California Press, 2003<br /><br />Shakti and Shâkta, Arthur Avalon (Sir John Woodroffe), Oxford Press/Ganesha & Co., 1918<br /><br />....and many many blogs and newspaper film reviews, so Don't screw me over plagiarism. I have used so many articles, I am sorry to say I have lost track of most of them. If you find your words, inform me, I shall add to the reference list.Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-40574780543394045582010-04-04T13:20:00.000-07:002010-04-04T13:22:39.828-07:00Boggling Bits from the Brain BugsIts been awhile since the brain-bugs spoke. So here's a direct contact:<br /><br />"Hello humans. We are Kamalini's brain-bugs, although we do not call ourselves that, for we are highly evolved creatures beyond human-comprehension, but for convenience's sake, we shall refer to ourselves as thus. Anywho, we have not spoken directly before, we justnpreferred to grid Kamalini's mind into numerous crusty crates of thought boogies; so that they trigger strange thought-processes from time to time. But recently, she has been hidrating too much, resulting in a flooding of these boogie quarters. Its primarily because of the heat. Also, we think the heat is also vaourizing some of our technical support... we tried programming her thoughts into making her feel home-sick, but her reactions were limited to updating status messages to signify the want. We blame Facebook and Twitter for this. These are making an already lazy species lazier still, especially in thecase of our host-body, wherein the aforementioned human we home in, has gone to the extent of spending entire days sittin gon a chair, hitting buttons on an obsolete machine you humans call LAPTOPs. So, coming back to the point of this monologue... we are looking for a new host. Although, we DO have certain requirements, we ARE open to negotiation. So here are some of the things we are looking for:<br />a) Host must have at least two of three mentioned vices - sex, drugs, and Rock 'n Roll.<br />b) Host must be between 15-75 years of age, otherwise its just darned dificult to get ANYTHING done.<br />c) Host has to spend at least 16-20 hours awake, or else we DIE. Better still, insomniacs.<br />d) Host must not be host to other forms of bugs or bugular forms. Just creates political instability and hampers work for us.<br />e) Host must be slightly overweight, for we are demanding creatures, and lankies don't bode well for us.<br />f) And lastly, host must be a non-vegetarian, because... well, its just more options that way.<br /><br />So, interested candidates must email/snailmail their curriculum vitae to Kamalini, and we'll take care of it thereafter. Negotiations regarding the reuirements are subjected to the whims and fancies of our group, and we are not approachable for any explanations whatsoever. So good luck!!<br /><br />As for our current host... she is too fickle for our fun, everytime we think she'll go for a particular thought, the strain changes. Its like waiting at the tube station, and the train comes, but it keeps opening and closing its doors. Its utterly frustrating. When and as we leave our current host, there may be drastic changes in her thought processing and analytical skills, but no worries, no one really thinks much about them, as most of the humans around her think and act even lesser. If any of you reading this are amongst those, please take offence, for it IS directed toward all of you. If not... well, who cares then.<br /><br />Adios!"<br /><br />Thanking my brain-bugs, Kamalini signing off.Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-17139254344212368502009-10-21T03:57:00.000-07:002009-10-21T05:02:12.939-07:00300 YEARS LATER!Almost 300 years ago, a bunch of Englishmen jumped off their canoe on an unassuming little river port in Bengal, India. They loved the Bengali cuisine, Ilish maachh, Alu Posto and the hairy poets wearing long discoloured robes. They loved the demure wife-burning, Kaali-worshipping menfolk who lived on these shores. Undoubtedly, they knew nothing about fish'n'chips or Scotch whiskey, so they thought that these legging-wearing, wig-proud outlanders might teach them a few tricks! Of course, who knew that they had more market economy in mind than bunny-in-a-hat. <br /><br />Nonetheless, the so-presumed cultural exchange got bad, the pot-bellied siesta-loving Babus of Bengal and their Nawab couldn't really match up to the Royal Navy's debating skills, not to mention the accents, and ended up signing a contract in a foreign language. Too bad for the Nawab, but good for Calcutta! The three villages of Sutanuti-Gobindopur-Kolikata were squeezed together to form good ol' Calcutta! Which went quite well for some of us, for about a century, until the English started teaching us English. What else could we do! Before, if the English swore at us, we just thought it was another difficult word, but now.... ah well, you get the picture. <br /><br />So, with this education bit, things went out of control, and along came a man, who looked like Ben Kingsley, talked like Ben Kingsley, but was, in fact, someone called Gandhi. Now this man went really berserk, and threw a tantrum that if the Englishmen didn't leave the country, he'd just sit and die. Its difficult to fathom why one emaciated, half naked man's dreary threat could sway the English pride, but they DID leave. But not before they sort of played 'Operation' on India, which mostly constituted of amputations followed by faulty sewing-up jobs thereafter. Well, that's another story, but here... they left India into three separate nations. I think they got confused with the initial efforts they made with combining the three villages of Bengal. I'm guessing they were feeling, "Bloody hell! Yaw mate! Let's just leave these buggers the way they were before, Yaw!"<br /><br />After they left us, we got lonely, we tried associating with China. They didn't trust us. I think we were too Right-Wing for their liking. However, the USA was more friendly, they sent Hillary Clinton and her husband (Who was that guy again? Oh! He made sex tapes with the Lewinsky girl? No? Oh I must be thinking about Michael Jackson) to take pictures in front of the Taj Mahal. I think they were hoping we'd give up Saddam Hussein or Bin Laden if they shacked up with Veerappan or Dawood Ibrahim. However, none of this worked that much, becuase they were both in DisneyWorld, Orlando, USA.<br /><br />So, coming back to our disgraceful attitude towards a free India, and autorickshaws don't help much either, we decided to fight back. Well, not exactly, after all, we were never fighters, it was the Persians who came to fight us first, and were very surprised that we would rather eat out samosas than go out and fight, so they settled down in this peaceful land. The Turks and the Mongols had similar experiences too. (See, that's why we look so different from each other!) Therefore, the only way we could take our, let's say revenge, on the plunderers is to give them a taste of their own Scotch whiskey! How? Buy a Scottish island! Give it to a man, who shows qualities (at least fashion-wise) of another famous scantily clad man. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyX5WDVw2jJCUrlSZcQVQ3X9QFYkxjEmp-744TQgXtPlVSSFxHvGFuRECIIZyD1e0HxR0E77Z5v5dKX82rPkZX4yxop383fVxsKr_tnXJx1V4oIp7DM233jJ5JgRdpTRTs5-cGdA/s1600-h/0809_Baba-Ramdev_yo_387323t.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 294px; height: 349px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyX5WDVw2jJCUrlSZcQVQ3X9QFYkxjEmp-744TQgXtPlVSSFxHvGFuRECIIZyD1e0HxR0E77Z5v5dKX82rPkZX4yxop383fVxsKr_tnXJx1V4oIp7DM233jJ5JgRdpTRTs5-cGdA/s400/0809_Baba-Ramdev_yo_387323t.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395021029337274626" /></a><br /><br />Baba Ramdev is thus, India's answer to all those years of forced cuisine, clerical jobs, painfully slow roadways, badly planned urban spaces and not to mention the ingrained and dismally permanent association of Bengalis to that with prudish behaviour and the invention of the word "aantel". So, no matter, how mad Baba Ramdev made Koena Mitra and Shilpa Shetty, I support him fully, to slowly take over England. (Scotland is right next to it right?) After all the Surds' plan didn't work out. We have seen how mad these English can get over 'yoga;, remember the Beatles?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju6bJRjo34nfmgkcvTX6vRGd2mxNnaxuWfDTxx3lH0FMLnbE1ETZqG4tjO8NL9nEHSouZPeT-GqhM78MlV7fFpDKnygEGJNLAR8QbvIxlOJYZNU9hVQVFL9qQHviGvoEOn27aCYw/s1600-h/AllMyLoving.gif"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju6bJRjo34nfmgkcvTX6vRGd2mxNnaxuWfDTxx3lH0FMLnbE1ETZqG4tjO8NL9nEHSouZPeT-GqhM78MlV7fFpDKnygEGJNLAR8QbvIxlOJYZNU9hVQVFL9qQHviGvoEOn27aCYw/s400/AllMyLoving.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395021877961602562" /></a> "All we need is Love" - for yoga, to get back at the buggers for using our shores to dump scrap iron and bad temper. We got the scrap iron used up, but the bad temper became an integral part. Yaw!<br /><br /><br /><br />Anyway, so finally after almost 300 years, we are approaching a moment, where we may avenge our English raiders. And in any case, its way too late to take revenge on the Persians, Turks or Mongols, plus they are not very well-off themselves either. Now that we are on the road, I would like to remember the days when the English-folk would swap leggings and wigs for the moustaches and wives of their on-shore counterparts, and everybody would be happy and high. Those were the glory days! However, revenge is a sweet word to those who have seen Ben Kingsley play Gandhi. Thus, Baba Ramdev has all my support!!<br /><br />(I'm hoping we take prisoners when we win, I want Jude Law for my personal collection!)Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-24666188366704971322008-11-25T01:47:00.000-08:002008-11-25T02:42:09.097-08:00Little Red Riding Foot12:15 p.m, outside the examination hall I find Suthopa waiting. She has finished her paper, an hour and a half early. Well, so have I but only by an hour. I was getting fidgety in my chair when I got the shortest of calls from her, I knew the worst had happened. She had finished well before even the wussiest student, and was now scared to leave the hall alone and by herself. Ah! What are friends for! Despite the fact that we were sitting in different rooms, our heads were connected by what Feluda called Telepathy. I remember the scene from "Sonar Kella", where the Rajasthani cops gets worked up at the real Dr.Hazra's mention of the word and says, "Telephone - yes! Telegraph - Yes! Television - Yes! No Telepathy!!!" Profound! But well, our telegraph, err...telepathy worked and I finished a bit after her, and therefore her phone call rescued me from my shame of having finished the paper early, and I was suddenly walking out of the class, with a pride akin to Achilles who's just conquered Troy (alone, without cheat papers!). <br /><br />The first thing I notice about her is her Socks... bright red soccer socks. Now, where and how she acquired these is a mystery, for she has sworn never to divulge the truth after we spent the last two hours going at it. Nonetheless, I deliver my best smile upon Her Majesty, and she flicks it away with a grimace. Why? Her paper did not go well... To be honest, I knew this was coming, as she had spent the weekend, mostly under her undoubtedly warm and extremely inviting blanket, or watching movies on her laptop, or playing "Age of Empires", or coochie-cooing (serious discussion with a potential life partner)... But, what was worse, she had only two questions to choose from in the exam and both were from the same topic, with comparisons with the same other topic. One of which she was unaware of. Sulking, we made for the stairs outside our centre, to sit our bottoms down and sulk some more about it, and then crib about the terrible state of affairs with everybody who passes by.<br /><br />It was good! Was my reply to the first, "How was your paper?". Suthopa's answer to the same was very unlike me. She didn't even answer, she made a face and told the person how much she hated Anthropology (the theory part of which was our paper for today). Then she just turned away and lit a cigarette with rage that burnt into the matchstick. <br /><br />It was okay. Was my reply the second time around, when the questions were asked by somebody else. By now I was fidgety all over again. Suthopa was now complaining about how she had read things that were unnecessary, and how she could have just slept without having had taken the pains of going through those readings. <br /><br />It was terrible! Was my answer when the third person came along. The question was annoyingly repeatative, and I could not stand it anymore. Suthopa was on the verge of tears, and she kept threatening to break into them if anybody uttered so much as a word of that paper again. And then Khushal came. I breathed in relief! I knew he could make fun of everything and get away with it. He always does. Ah! Khushal, we call him our (mostly mine and Suthopa's, but from time to time Siddhartha's) Biaatch! He is, and proudly so! And thankfully he cannot read this blog! Not because he 'cannot' read, but because he won't. <br /><br />In some time, Siddhartha comes along, with his little bootyliscious...ahem! And the air became immediately lighter. Suthopa stopped cribbing, not altogether, but mellowed it down a few notches. But then our new obsession arose... her pretty red socks! We sang to her, "My heart is like a red red sock!", we rhymed for her, "Little miss muffet, sat on a tuffet, with a big bucket, wearing red sock-et!" (for the sake of rhyming!)... and her wails of disgust were dismissed by our persistent one liners on her really really red socks. Poor Suthopa, sleepy and weary with last minute re-visions could only muster up, "I'm so gonna get back at your asses! Wait till I'm well rested!"...which is somewhat very similar to what Khushal usually resorts to when his wit fails him, "I'm going to answer that when I'm feeling wittier!"<br /><br />All said and done, we managed to get Suthopa out of her depression, with jokes on her... a bit mean, I agree. But its not everyday Miss Red Riding Foot comes to school with us! Her red soccer socks, or sockers :D will not see the light of day for a long time now, for she knows we will keep reminiscing this red socker afternoon for quite some time. So much for anthropological analyses, if we were to derive one out of this one would come to the conclusion that friends are made to make fun of you until you can no longer stand them, that's when they are not friends anymore. Ha ha! As for us, I believe it is a strange ritual of poking fun at everybody so that no snooty bitch survives the test of being our friend. <br /><br />As for Miss Red Riding Foot, I'm sure she's inside her warm little castle of soft blanket, dreaming of mangshor jhol and mishti doi.Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-65214964857185088002008-11-10T08:50:00.000-08:002008-11-10T23:43:40.921-08:00A canvas in the sky...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeTV2Ugr5J7o80xEd1AqKTX52ZvEfRO363EOg_zryxRapySX_iA6tR4qgrZOtAdrgeVAVMTaO_rixGMpy4k-JGkniUuK0CjKl8D098gwYaHoQj5jLr2mJqddtwj2R7GQCXY7Ag4w/s1600-h/DSC00116.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 236px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeTV2Ugr5J7o80xEd1AqKTX52ZvEfRO363EOg_zryxRapySX_iA6tR4qgrZOtAdrgeVAVMTaO_rixGMpy4k-JGkniUuK0CjKl8D098gwYaHoQj5jLr2mJqddtwj2R7GQCXY7Ag4w/s400/DSC00116.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267142501864249138" /></a><br /><br />An early morning chill, a bird and a cigarette... is what it takes, for me to pull my socked feet out of the soft quilt and start thinking, I began to pace my tiny room, often knocking my knees into the bed's foot...or the odd crunching sound beneath my chappals, of something that I had no interest in finding out. I'm searching clumsily for a matchbox or a lighter, or anything I can light my darned cigarette with. Shivering slightly, I brush around unimportant space fillers inside the only drawer that I own, wondering why I have so many things I don't need. I make a mental note to clear out the junk later at a more sensible time, and then I find a matchbox with three sticks left in it. I sigh... just my luck. But anyway, I strike the tiny stick on the box, and my room is suddenly lit with a golden glow... I light my cigarette, and take a long slow drag. The poisonous smoke fills my lungs in an instant. It feels good. It feels like the end of a over-stretched movie, that is not even that good but you must sit through for some reason. <br /><br />It is still quite dark outside, although there are signs of the oncoming dawn, in the slowly reddening Eastern horizon. I get a clear and direct view of this from my window, but for not even once had I considered pushing the curtains away to get a glimpse. I don't know why, I just never did. Turning to my bed, I see Billu, the cat that stays with me when I'm in my room, sleeping cuddled in a fluffy ball of purring bliss. Somehow I don't want to stir her air, and decide to head for the terrace. Holding the cigarette carefully between my lips, I put on my trademark Adidas jacket, that people are so weary of and complain as being the only thing I'm seen in post November chill. Well, with the winter in these parts, I could not care less about being fashionably clad. So, on comes my blue jacket, and I grab a bottle of water on my way out, and bolt the door loosely from outside. The sting in the air is sudden, like a gush of cold air during the onset of monsoon, it doesn't stay long, but long enough to wake every inch of exposed skin. <br /><br />The mirror at the end of the corridor shines like a mercury slab, and as I get closer it forms a blurry shape that looks like me. I avoid it, and walk towards the staircase that leads to the terrace at the end of fifteen steps. An odd count, for a particularly unused set of stairs. As I reach the top, there is a fresh cool, awaiting me in an unabashed lingering stoic. Its dark here, there are no halogens to curb the dense darkness that engulfs me. I wait for a moment, as the darkness slowly turns to half visibility, I enter the open. Small steps take me over the labyrinthine mesh of internet cables strewn all over the place, with tufts of weed growing out of lifeless concrete. I take a last drag and stab out the fading glow of my cigarette. It lapses, wasted and used, into the shadows lapping around my feet. I move on, without emotions. Passing through the jungle of dead leaves, peacock feathers, I found myself a spot atop the water reservoir, up a small rickety and rusty ladder.<br /><br />The night is already turning to a purple haze, and there are golden streaks creeping towards that oblivious horizon. Under my seat, a damp cement parapet, there is a thin column of stalactite, formed from the dripping of over-flowing tank water. The sound of the droplets sometimes reaches my ears, on nights quite this this. Tonight its dry, there is no water to spare. I reach out and touch the strange shape, it breaks and falls in my outstretched palm. I bring it closer. It feels like sand, and smells like moldy ice from the back of the freezer. I let it fall, and wipe my hand on my checkered pajamas. Suddenly there is a rush of cold that sweeps against my face like a wave of ice cold water. I clutch my jacket and pull my legs closer into a more fetal crouch. It feels warmer instantly.<br /><br />I look out into the night. It feels like I am perched on the highest tower of the city, looking over, like a guardian angel, or like a bad omen waiting to fall on a bleak destiny. I feel like a bird of prey, waiting for morning to break, to fly away in search of the amaranthine. I feel like a pirate on his lookout, searching for another ship to break out of the horizon. I feel like God, looking down on earth. The city looks asleep, it seems in a deep slumber, unaware of my plans. It is peaceful, so are the hearts beating in its serpentine alleys. <br /><br />The sky is curiously splashed with colours now. There are patches of blood red, but mostly a pinkish glow underrates the yellows and blues that are slowly morphing into the canvas, like the muse of an eccentric artist. I'm overwhelmed at its beauty, at the sheer simplicity of this mundane celebration of timeless phenomena. Although I now believe that each dawn is different from another, like every person is different from the other although we are all of the same flesh, blood and sinew. <br /><br />A peacock caws very close by. I'm jolted out of my misty subconscious. I stare at the brightening dawn and stand up on the concrete mass ragged by dried moss, remnants of a distant monsoon. I see a few lone souls, running into the foggy span of the road, by my hostel building. The climb down is dizzy, but I manage. I walk back to my room, feeling very different. The thoughts in my head are different, away from my refuge of sarcasm, I feel heavy with a strange feeling. I realise I'm homesick. I have never experienced what I just did, back home. I open my room, Billu looks up curiously. Did she miss me? Did she know I was gone? I pat the top of her head, open my jacket, and curl right back to sleep, with a tiny tear feeling its way down my nose.Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-50001045503309820062008-11-09T14:44:00.000-08:002008-11-09T15:04:59.339-08:00Of Smooshes, Vikings, Singing Lotuses and Cockerels...How many times does a person turn 23? Well, to be honest, as many times as that person wants to. But in my case, it was to be only once. Only once was I to experience the pleasures of being in a perfect limbo... a concentrated love bubble that refused to pop, for one whole day! <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Chapter 1 The Vikings</span>: I had everybody I needed, and wanted. Each a person I adore, in different ways, and I think each of them deserve to be mentioned in detail, before I embark upon a narcissistic soliloquy about 'yours truly'. Suthopa, the one who stuck by me through thick and thin, then there was Himadri who stuck by her through thick and thin... and I have seen both their thick days and thin days, now its mostly thick :D nonetheless, they were there. And they have been there, no matter how when or wherever, no questions asked, they have supported me. And then there was Zalla, the mysterious beauty from across the border, if it were not for her lost key, I think we may have never become any more than two girls who live on the same corridor. Well, if Khushal was here, he's probably call me "ditch-er" for naming him <span style="font-style:italic;">after</span> his sister, but I somehow love this brother-sister duo, and despite our never-ending efforts, they are nowhere close to our goal of Ross-Monica-esque friendship. But I love them both in any case...and even more so because Sitaram makes it such an activity. Its field day for me, all I have to do is get both Sitaram n Khattak boy really high, and they look after the rest :D I still remember, Sitaram was the first class fellow of mine I ever met, and I had exchanged elbow nudges with my friend and hushed a "Oh he's so cute!", as that very moment he had decided to turn and ask, "So how do u fill these?!!!", and there was no looking back... and the best part is, he has an even cuter woman in his life, I'm so glad Michelle was there too to watch me get older, she's so cute.... I think I remember her asking me that evening, "What have you done today? You look exceptionally radiant! I can almost see myself on your forehead!!!" Ohmigosh..... I dont even know if that was a good thing, but I felt very very happy :) There was Siddharth, I met him here in JNU, despite the fact he's an illegal import from Delhi University, his heart lies here with us, a great guy. We have had our rows of shouting and fighting, but I suppose that enhances the whole Love-Hate relationship...ha ha ha! Damn he can be obstinate, and irritating, but what I just love about him is he's a great sport, and Oh! there is this other thing too! He's a English Language major in DU, but when he gets high, grammar takes a backseat with him, and that is adorable about him, he fights inside with his consciences, quite like Snowy having to decide between a bone and an important paper he must take to Tintin. Adorable! :) So, then there was a few of my other friends, Satty, Kirti, Sameer.... people I do not get to see much around, especially Sameer n Kirti, but I know that they will be there if and when I need them. People I can count on...although I may not see them often, good students do not cross ways with those unlike them too much, not good for neither :D And I almost know how juvenile this sounds, but that's that. And then there were my surprise guests, Martha, Per and Pär. Martha is an astonishingly simple girl, she's sweet and very very warm, I love that about her. We went partying with her once, and I can vouch for this, but I have not seen anyone gel her moves so well from a "Billo Raani" to a "Infected Mushroom" song. She's a real sweetheart, and Zalla completely dotes on her, which I find a tiny bit J of at times. But I like her, a no-hassle person, I like people like that. Pär, I have known a little less than 24hours perhaps, of all the hours we've spent together, I like him best the day I met him, although he is equally sweet always. Him and his bicycle, its a common scene around the campus, and popular he IS. No wonder, he's such a sweet, soft-spoken person, that if he were to be metaphor-ised, he'd replace the cucumber in "as cool as a cucumber"! He's awesomely calm, and a budding Sitar-ist, as intriguing as that is, he's also majoring in Persian language in JNU. I guess, by far he's the most docile European I have ever met :D and somehow I like it that way. On the other hand, Per is almost a practicing doppelganger of his namesake. He is exciting, talkative, funny, intriguing, lovably loud at times, extremely warm and a great sport. I found my partner in crime in him, and we could keep talking about Tintin and Asterix (no, not ass-tricks!), sunsets, travels, binges, vikings and everything else under the sun. Its been some time since I was able to do that, just start talking without having to go through the awkwardly embarrassing silences and pauses between conversations, and lame small talks, like: "So how do you like the place/ Is the food good/ Are you going to be here for some time/ What exactly is your work....blah ...blah...blah"...he became the hero of my latest invention, the intergalactic secret agent "<span style="font-style:italic;">Agent Liljas: Spy from the Sky</span>". (More of this coming soon...)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Chapter 2 The Smoosh</span>: Well, the chief guest (by that I mean ME) arrived at the stone table (by that I mean the concrete table at Godavari Dhaba) at the promised hour (by that I mean two hours before the guests). And then the horsepiss(by that I mean Contessa XXX Rum, which had to be our only choice for the night, as ALL the shops were out of Old Monk, or even an equivalent) was brought, so were the candles along with a cake. The cake.... MY BIRTHDAY CAKE!!! As ecstatic as I was, we had planned to do the honours (by which I mean the cake cutting ceremony) atop PSR: Partha Sarathi Rock - the highest natural point of Delhi, which happens to be inside the socialist jurisdiction of JNU, and thus was but the highest natural priority :D And thus, at once we started towards our destination, on the way we were being rowdy like always. And then it happened, the event that marked the beginning of the night's unpredictable turns. As I remember it, we were walking and yapping away to glory, when Suthopa said she wanted to call Himadri and asked me to hold the box of cake, I said yes, and she turned to me and happily thrust the box to me without waiting for me to hold it.................. and it fell. It just fell, it slipped out of my grip and touched the tarred street with a deathly thud! My heart stopped, I was dumbstruck! I couldn't move an inch! And then Suthopa and Zalla picked it up and started arguing about who dropped it... And then others joined us, and then more... we kept arguing, and how lovely and uniquely different it would be to cut a smoosh!!! My smoosh, My Birthday SMOOSH! Goddamnit! It was supposed to be a great night for me! But we began with smoosh... SMOOSH! My SMOOSH!!! Then I lost track of the argument and just walked on, in any case it was a chocolate smoosh, and I'm not into chocolate at all. So, it was just another smoosh now. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Chapter 3 Singing Lotuses and Cockerels</span> : So, the night moves on...and so do we, as we reach the PSR, we settle down for the night, and what a night it is. If I was Stephen King, I would write both <span style="font-style:italic;">Birds</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">Cujo</span> around that place about that night, with a hint of <span style="font-style:italic;">Pet Cemetery</span> too. Spooky...and amidst that we were beginning to celebrate my getting one year closer to death, well yeah - Sylvia Plath and Tibetan Philosophy sort of a way too, but also because I stopped believing in Armageddon after I saw the movie, so death to me now means growing so old that my chin wrinkles will tickle my belly which will be closer to my knees than you-know-what. But then it was time to attack the smoosh with the knife, despite the overpowering desire to attack others with it, I yielded to the former and began<br />slashing it up... and working my way around the circle, along with warm hugs (the best part!!!) from everybody, even Khattak Boy! (Khushal barely ever gets an arm's distance with anybody, forget a hug...even on Eid!) There were blinding flashes of camera coming from Zalla's hands, her shutter bug kept bugging us for the rest of the night. But it was nice!And somewhere in this Per managed to light this brilliant contraption that suddenly caught a flame and opened up in petals, like a lotus (how thoughtful! *battes eyelash in quick succession*) and started to sing "Happy Birthday To You" in a very Chucky-ish way... and it went on and on, sitting in one corner... So, then the gang pounced on the cake and it was reduced to ignored icing and a lone cherry...the singing lotus went on in the meanwhile..... Then the poisons were unleashed, Rum - Vodka - Whisky - and God's gift from the hills... altogether all hell broke loose ( I have been trying to use that expression for months, now is the time to do so in full throttle! - that being the other coveted phrase...this is like dream come true, literally!)... and while the singing continued spookily in the background, people started to complain... it was getting a bit weird. But we carried on, cheering and gulping the horsepiss down in large swigs from our flimsy plastic cups... and I started getting phonecalls and I was consumed in gushes of happiness, knowing no bounds - I was jumping in joy. And the singing continued in the background. Then it got really annoying, which was when Agen Liljas suggested I perform a <span style="font-style:italic;">Mazel Tov</span>. Well, I was susceptible to all forms of suggestions that night, and I agreed. So, the singing lotus was set up on the stone for its sacrifice, and I took a long breath, concentrated my strength on my right foot... and Lo! I smashed it to smithereens in one go!!! Everybody shouted "Mazel Tov" in joy.... notice how people become one with strange religious rituals just with a wee bit of intoxication (does this mean getting the world drunk may take care of all the raging hostility?). And after a bit, someone said, "I kinda miss the song now!"...and suddenly the song came back.... spooky as it sounds, it was tenfolds there at that moment. It was spine-chilling, okay maybe not <span style="font-style:italic;">that</span> scary, but was really freaky. And from then on, it kept dying and coming back to life for hours... I suppose it wasn't ready to die, but couldn't really survive my footjob. So it bobbed somewhere in between life and death…from time to time. And, we went on with our party... I began to slowly lose immediate reactions, things were beginning to get slow... I was asking silly questions, which I remember now because I really was asking them, only perhaps given a situation without five pegs of horsepiss down, I wouldn't have. But as far as happiness is concerned, the tide was running high... everybody was getting slower (or maybe I was seeing things differently), but the sloth caught on. At one point of time, I started forcing people to pose for and with me. At one point I was James Bond, and I forced Per and Pär to be my 'chicks', to which we decided to resort so as to not refer to them as the grammatical opposite of 'chicks', which would be cockerels, or even worse cocks! Well, as all PG-13 will know what it means, apart from the masculine of Hen/Chick...it was but an obvious decision, even intoxicated! At this point, I was so happy, that I decided to sit down, then lay back and then throw up... after which most of the night is blurry, and dashes of laughter and innumerable pokes from directions kept punctuating my Deserted Island dream-sequence with (hmmm ...) Orlando Bloom and ( :D AAAH!!!) Johnny Depp and (for some reason) Ashton Kutcher. Also what I remember is that Zalla kept tugging at the hem of my shirt, trying to cover my tummy, although I was very happy she did, I quite don't understand why she did so. Nice ... and very strange! Indeed! A little later, I felt myself being taken somewhere, and I jabbered on the way, two people (hopefully Zalla and Sid) were literally carrying me as my ankles sort of grazed the paved road...and it felt strangely liberating in an ironic sort of way, but it did to me then so I cannot argue about it now, also since it felt good, I won't. And then I slept, like a baby... happy and hungry (I had forgotten to eat the whole day out of excitement)...everybody I loved and cared for had wished me, sent me their love and gave me their time, to sing me Happy Birthday, eat my smoosh and get drunk with my booze, and I had two hot cockerels pose as hens for me!!! :D It was a happy happy day...And in my head the lotus was still singing "Happy Birthday To You"<br /><br />06.11.2008 will remain a spectacular and eventlessly wonderful, very very drunk Birthday. Go VIKINGS!!!Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-76613233345676110372008-08-20T23:54:00.000-07:002008-08-21T00:19:19.291-07:00it does come back around...Well, I really don't know where and how to begin this. But noticing I'm one sentence down, I think I've crossed that hurdle already. When I logged into my blogger account this morning, I was actually planning on writing something else. Like a 'comeback' thingy... but as it turns out, I'm not a good planner, and my plans tend to generally not go according to themselves. So, this thing that I noticed is, the title of your new post comes first - here it goes, "Do we all start with a Header in mind?" I mean, when we write something, do we more often than not start with an actual within quotations topic title in mind? Like when I looked at the Title bar, I kept thinking, for about thirty seconds... well, its not that much I know, but yet... who knows these same thirty seconds might have been of immense importance, power and life making significance to someone somewhere! But, I used them to ponder upon a virtually and immediately resultless thought. And I came up with an idea, that, I will try and write something according to the first thing that my extremely volatile mental factory churns out as the day's first Title. Today's is "it does come back around..." Now where on earth did I acquire that from, only Lord God knows, but now its more of a challenge, than just an idle passtime to fill my blog with interesting 'looking' posts. Being fairly boring myself, this is all I have to procure a stable interesting persona... Nevertheless, my present preoccupation is that its turning out harder than I thought it would be. <br /><br />I try and remember, what exactly the idea was behind this curious Title, when I came up with it, but as always, my memory basks in the glory of having confused me to no ends, and is continuing to do so. Even my standby memory falters, as to what may been my thought string, when I decided on this Title. But alas! Nothing comes out. I suppose, its a game... to find out if everything we think in our heads are actually linked by stings, if all our thoughts have six degrees of separation! Perhaps not, or perhaps yes, and it is for this exact reason that we feel disoriented at our own thoughts, and sometimes somethings make sense out of the blue! Curious, very curious!<br /><br />But, for some unforeseen reason, it finally comes back around. So it does come back around. Here, for example, I started with a question... a question that dragged on for two whole paragraphs, but then I ended up answering my own question. And I realised, when we have dialogues with our selves, we tend to ask more questions, unabashed at the otherwise shameful feeling of chance embarrassment, and then also answer these queries as if a thirst inside to prove an omniscient quality. I am the raw deal of this, I do it all the time. Talk inside my head, have fights, ask curoius questions and demand instant answers... but ultimately I do oblige and answer it. So, it does come right back, the answers, because mostly the questions form because we know the answers... quite like the fact that we start writing with a Title in mind! See... "it does come back around...".Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-76559137059010293462008-03-30T16:07:00.000-07:002008-04-04T10:39:55.671-07:00The Adventures of Pinku the Frog<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0D1QXqQZc8L9pB1aU2W5BTeWRzolFnIJHjf0p6P0N_n5fmrCBnewllgVR2GDqVtY85JaeujTwieKnY0hmSACd-LPtjZ_HYXEDiw_954LeyRSeMBZmk-pKThOT4PReEH3JzW_EAA/s1600-h/animated-frog-2.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0D1QXqQZc8L9pB1aU2W5BTeWRzolFnIJHjf0p6P0N_n5fmrCBnewllgVR2GDqVtY85JaeujTwieKnY0hmSACd-LPtjZ_HYXEDiw_954LeyRSeMBZmk-pKThOT4PReEH3JzW_EAA/s400/animated-frog-2.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183676298625508786" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Chapter 1 Pinku and his Friends</span><br /><br />Once, there was a tiny little green frog called "Pinku". Pinku loved hopping around his lake, from one lotus leaf to another. He loved the nice fat flies buzzing over the huge Lilies, he'd jump on a leaf and catch his favourite fat fly and munch happily. He loved his home, a small muddy alcove in between two mangrove roots. Sometimes he would sit in his enclosure and spend an evening singing latest croaks, which his friends would have had requested earlier of him… the thing is Pinku loves to croak. He loves the sound of his voice as he forms a huge croak inside the base of his throat which would turn a fine shiny banana green with effort, and then finally blowing it out, slowly as his throat would deflate back to a dark shade of musty green. But Pinku liked to feel the tire, the fatigue after a good croak. He’d do this for a living, thought Pinku the frog. But how could he do it alone? He needed friends to help him pursue his dream…and friends he had aplenty.<br /><br />Pinku loved swimming in the lovely lake; he would jump to the slippery green bottom sometimes, to talk to Tabz, a big blowfish. Tabz the blowfish liked to make grave boomy noises with his big yellow gills. They played hide-n-seek together, amongst the lake ferns and weeds. They, however, had met later; their friend Akko, a charming young duck, with a fine shiny green collar and strong hind quarters, had introduced the two. It was a funny meeting; at Akko’s party, in a tiny puddle by the lakeside. It was Akko’s birthday, and Pinku was supposed to croak for the gathered audience: which, apart from the birthday duckling and Pinku, was peopled by Tabz the blowfish, Dave the otter, Chumbie the squirrel, Pritty the chirpy woodpecker, who herself had hatched only a month earlier, and Nobby the yellow snail. So, as the party was swinging on, Chumbie and Akko began to pester Pinku to croak their favourite song, a classical number, and finally after much coaxing, the reluctant star gave in. He began on a throaty note, taking it higher as he went; everybody was mesmerized with Pinku’s magnificent croaky rendition of the song. As the final note was about to end, with a very difficult croak-note, the calm was broken by a deep grim and grave vibrating boom around. Pinku stopped half note, shocked, as did everybody else, who were by now trying in their own small ways to sing along. It so appeared that the sound had come from Tabz, who was nestled near the edge of the lake where the party was. Everybody waited, for Tabz to say something as to why he interrupted the beautiful croak, that too at the very last note, because it was not really every day that Pinku would agree to croak a classical piece. When Tabz realised everybody wanted him to say something he said, “What? I didn’t do it on purpose! It was all that birthday mud-cake! I never burp that loud!”. And everybody burst into laughter and the party carried on, however, Pinku felt very offended, for somewhere he knew Tabz had done it on purpose. Which was true, to this Tabz had confessed later when the two were best of friends, saying “I could not take it anymore buddy, all of them foaming over you, and you sat so far from the edge of the lake…I wanted some attention too!”. Now they laugh about it, but it is true that they really detested each other when they met. <br /><br />Pinku and his friends spent the days in fun, playing and singing and sometimes eating together, when Pinku would catch nice and fat flies, and everybody else would also bring their favourite foods and they would all have a great feast together by lake, laughing and making jokes. Sometimes Akko and Pinku would race, Akko would swim as fast as he could paddle with his bright orange webbed feet and Pinku would make amazing leaps from one leaf to another, towards a spot Tabz would be waiting to blow a grim trumpety end signal. And naughty as always, Akko would sometimes try to gain distance by flapping his icy-white wings. Chumbie would squeak with laughter from his branch, as Pinku would jump a little farther to win. Dave, their other friend, was a quiet little otter, he loved being with the others but he was the quietest one, he would float on his favourite log near them in lake and clap his hands, as the others played and spluttered about. Sometimes Chumbie would join them on the bank, he did not like the water much; he had fell in once when he was younger and he was scared of it ever since. But he loved his friends, so he’d enjoy it all. Pritty joined them once in a while, her nest was a little far from the bank, so her parents asked her not to fly very far too often. But she wanted to peck a hole on Chumbie’s branch soon to start living near her friends. So these were Pinku’s friends, friends he loved very dearly. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Chapter 2 Pinku and the Poet</span><br /><br />One day, Pinku was sitting all alone in his alcove, humming a little tune he had heard the other day from Pritty, she had come meet them by the puddle on the far end of the lake. And there she had stated in a very excited chirp, her story about how she had met Jimmy the handsome colt, who was passing by her tree with his herd. He was shiny and black, and very very articulate. Pritty was fawning over him, and he let her sit on his back and peck bugs from his silky mane. But, what was more interesting was, that Jimmy was a poet. He was, as Pritty told them, a poet… which they did not understand. They had never met a poet. Chumbie had asked in surprise,<br />“What is a poet? Is that a name for ponies?”<br />Pritty had chirruped madly at their jokes and had replied,<br />“You’re all just jealous! Jimmy is an artist! He can rhyme words and make beautiful poems in his head… Ahh! He’s so brilliant! And you know what? He sings his poems!”<br />To this, Pinku, who was silent all this while, sat up. He cleared his throat and asked,<br />“What do you mean by singing his poems? Like he puts words into tune?”<br />Pritty was a bit taken aback, for Pinku always joined in on the fun, but he sounded serious when he asked her the question. And immediately the tension in the niche rose. Everybody was now listening in, Tabz who was almost dozing off till now, was wide awake, and Chumbie climbed down from his branch a little, to have a better view of the scene, and Akko and Dave who were both swimming around, slowly floated towards the bank where Pinku was sitting.<br />“I mean, his songs have words. Words he puts together in his mind”, said Pritty.<br />Pinku took a long pause, while the others waited with bated breath. Then he said, with a visible croak forming creepily under his throat,<br />“What words? What are they about? I have never heard of songs with words in them.”<br />Pritty looked from Tabz to Chumbie to Akko, but they all seemed to avoid her eyes. She finally said, “Well, he sang one to me. It was about the storm, and how birds ride the storm when they are far from home and stuck in it. Its in beautiful words, as Jimmy put it.”<br />The croak that was forming in Pinku’s throat finally belched out, and it was surely not a pretty one. And Dave who had swam unmindfully towards the gathering, was closest to him, and was knocked off guard on Pinku’s croak, and fell off the log he was floating on. Tabz, who was also listening in cautiously so as not to miss a word, gave out a sudden loud boom, that he was holding back for quite some time now, and blushed green around his gills in embarrassment.<br />“This Jimmy, as you say, sings in about birds and storms…what else does he sing about? Can he sing like me?” asked Pinku, and Pritty was at loss of words, she looked around for someone to help her out, but everybody seemed eager to know the answer as well. She took a few gulps or air, pecked on the worm she had brought along with her, but she didn’t seem very keen. Pinku waited, so did everyone else. Finally Pritty said, “Well, its very different. You croak well Pinku, in fact you’re the most amazing croaker ever!” To this, Pinku turned a slight purplish hue. “But,” Pritty continued. “Jimmy can sing his poems like I have never heard before, my mum and dad are always talking about different songs, and how all sorts of birds can sing so well, though we are not the song bird type, but we are very aware about things like these!” She sounded almost teary, “Jimmy can sing songs like never before. And I have heard him sing. Even though he carries a saddle and there are humans accompanying him, he is always humming beautiful songs, as if he has no care in the world!”<br />Pinku stretched his hind legs and jumped towards the edge of the lake, as if about to jump. Everybody was breathing in silence, as if dreading the worst, but afraid to speak a word…but Pinku did not jump, he sat by the lake and said in a heavy voice, “Can you sing to us what he sang to you?” and he turned his toady head towards Pritty for an answer. She was staring at the worm, avoiding all eyes, which were fixed on her, she said in a small voice, “Yes. The one I heard him sing. But I’m not a song bird, I can’t sing. But I can tell you how it goes…if I remember it.”<br /><br />And so, Pritty had sung a tune, in a strangely woody chirrup. Pinku stood the farthest from her, while the others gawked, pricking their ears (those who had them) to listen carefully. He memorised the tune, because Pritty had faltered at places with the words. The words…how did he never think of putting words in his songs…how come he never thought of becoming a poet! He stopped humming. He wanted to hear the poet sing, be there in person when Jimmy sang! Yes! He told himself. That is what will put his mind out of misery; he will learn how to put words into tune! And instantly, he jumped out of his alcove and formed a deep croak in his throat. When he finally croaked it…he was sure all his friends had heard him, and as he had expected, he saw a yellow mass swim towards him beneath the water followed by a handsome white duck. He heard Chumbie scurrying down the branch and Dave was only a little away, swiftly brandishing his tail to reach the spot quicker. As they all gathered, they looked anxious, almost as if having been expecting the call. Pinku cleared his throat and said, “I have been thinking, since Pritty mentioned him to me, I have been thinking about meeting him. What do you fellas think?”<br />Tabz spoke in a grave voice, “Brother, if you think you should, I am certain you are right!”<br />Dave nodded in agreement. Akko, however, smiled and said “Hey buddy, don’t you think you are putting in too much thought into this? I mean, who knows, what if Pritty made a mistake?”<br />Pinku shook his green little head and replied. “I do not think Pritty would make such a mistake. But, if you wish to stay behind you can, I will go and find out this poet singer myself!”<br />Akko swam closer and pecked Pinku on the head affectionately and said, “I am where you are my friend. With you always.”<br />Chumbie climbed down from his branch and said, “I will find out where his herd grazes and if it is safe for us to go there, because Pritty had mentioned humans. Let me find out and we will go!”<br /><br /><br />...to be continued!Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-83547601188471046652008-03-23T08:21:00.000-07:002008-03-23T08:38:48.585-07:00Indistinct Blabbers of a Biased BloggerAh! Delhi... Dilwalon ki... Is it? Or was that the line from Delhi tourism advert? Like I care...but, whatever I do, I get irritated, angered, flustered, embarrassed, ridiculously emotional, shocked or even surprised...its a sure thing that I cannot simply ignore it. Life belongs here, now... and so be it... As the city gets warmer, I shop for new shoes, the kind that won't melt as the pitched roads start fuming in a month or so... The umbrellas spring out of the bags, lady-like and masculine, with equal grace... flowery...patterned...dull black... ...frilly around the edges, double coated... heat resistant... UV protected...all imaginable variations. The evening cups of tea will soon be exchanged for "thandai" and "banta". <br /><br />Now that I come to think of it, well... the place isn't all that bad, save maybe for the fact that there are more chances I'd get mugged, raped, abducted (by near-alien intelligence, and not the E.T sort), or addicted... to various unhealthy activities. Then again, its a city where I know more surprises await me... good and bad. They sort of come in pairs... one good one bad, if not worse. Although my first love will always be my only love... My Calcutta is impeccable, the sweat, grime, dirt, smog... the waking up into surrealistic pleasures brought on by Promoder cha... the hustle bustle of Dharamtalla, the biriyani of Biriyani Galli, the crazy beggar woman in front of New Empire, she's very much still there... the quickies to Shovabazar ghaat... the walks through Boi Para, and the impregnated smiles on the face of Jhantuda...the bookshop owner... I owe my Gibrans, Coelhos and an odd Perry Mason or James Hadley Chase...ones I sat and read all through the afternoons and never bought, to him! The visits to T3, one joint (as in food joint, ah! silly me) that still craves...besides Oly, the pub that beckons love even through its ever-grumpy waiters n moth-eaten couch-like things one usually sits on in there... Even Salt Lake... around and around its labyrinthine gol-chakkars, the place is dear... the parks we'd scale walls into... the school I once claimed to belong to... the crazy people I met there... the craziest things I've done there, been caught doing those... and returned to resume. It all bubbles back into my head... Those shadows I walked past, ran past... and then ultimately got swallowed by... everything is a part of me. <br /><br />Everyday I wake up feeling I could be there... But I guess, there's an explanation as to why I'm not. Sometimes, life requires us to understand the meaning of things, a little differently than the usual peek into a dictionary... sometimes, understanding means to really feel what it is supposed to. I'm thankful to my fate, that I'm now able to comprehend this love, that I've perhaps never felt foe anything or anybody else. I love Calcutta, almost as if it were a person, because being in love with a person keeps the option of reciprocation open... and I feel I'm loved back, by the city.Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-49532926325437500452008-02-25T04:26:00.000-08:002008-02-25T05:41:25.032-08:00Vicious Circles of Weak-endsIts my Monday greys again... blue is too cheerful to be even considered. I woke up, reluctantly... I never enjoy waking up, and I mean it with all possible puns intended, I never did. But mostly, its an act of compulsion, peer pressure, parental advisory, duty or lose motion. In my case it was extreme disgust... it was MONDAY, and that was all. But the fun fact being, the other day, I took this quiz on <a href="http://facebook.com/">Facebook</a>, to see how lazy I was... they said I was a "supermom"!!! Meaning what? I hope it doesn't mean I'm too lazy to use contraceptives!!!!!!!!! Maybe, I ain't getting it right, but I've had a perpetual ego battle with Mondays, especially sice it comes right after my weekend. Life's unfair, okay, message burnt home... but this unfair??? Seriously, I think its time we came up with a revolution or something ... to include Mondays into the weekend... <br />But, then... what happens to Tuesday? So this is a vicious circle of market mechanism. All this brouhaha about weekends... makes the rest of the week so criminally offensive. Like, no one even has a term for week-starts!!!Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-89891367125474269312008-02-24T00:33:00.000-08:002008-02-24T02:36:11.279-08:00Another weekend, just slipped through...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd2V3-KnFCo7lzaIw8O2O2mBpSHavskiYJm37HqTKJoMCQuC_qAgu3nhi-Ee386Euq21lsQ0Pz7SGRyx-7hG383R2zs0LvKWn1RhGfOPUIU4q_expVqzhp-DTGAFq4GkTuwYuNiA/s1600-h/F%C3%B6ur+m%C3%B9zket%C3%A9%C3%A9rz....jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd2V3-KnFCo7lzaIw8O2O2mBpSHavskiYJm37HqTKJoMCQuC_qAgu3nhi-Ee386Euq21lsQ0Pz7SGRyx-7hG383R2zs0LvKWn1RhGfOPUIU4q_expVqzhp-DTGAFq4GkTuwYuNiA/s400/F%C3%B6ur+m%C3%B9zket%C3%A9%C3%A9rz....jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170493034842702498" /></a><br /><br /><br />Its sunday today, and its around 2 p.m now. the weekend is almost over, and it seems the last two days have been anything of an excitement, since I moved here. Well, the big thing being, being I now have an internet connection in my hostel room, a luxury that had eluded me before this (in JNU). So my over flowing enthusiasm was understandable, even to me. the first web page I checked out was 'facebook' of course, then 'orkut', then 'hi5' and then 'yahoo'. It was clearly a desperate measure to get back in touch with humanity... as it seems now, it was surely a mistake to be made on the very day an internet connection comes creeping into my arena of melancholy solitude... as expected I was hooked... for almost 26 hours... Then I slept, for hours... and look at me now... my weekend is almost over!!! And I'm still holding on to the shreds of the last few hours of my weekend... saying it was "The Best, and Most Exciting" and things like that... Fact is I'm still alone and pretty lonely, even when all my friends are virtually peeking out of little thumbnail pictures... All so small and insignificant... its almost like the same feeling knowing I'm so far away, they all are starting to look smaller.Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-12703134405469591152008-02-22T09:03:00.000-08:002008-02-22T09:24:02.930-08:00Back on Earth<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_CtrF_0SAg9woYYn5zbXQm-W5wYrmYj6ufWoIP7cKI_l4QvpvRQREVLQ7oss32n_jaU3EByrhuSaD7BJYHEl0kv76SC7B5GT1_Zh2Larhp8T7jyqG034q3h_qgBxbKAlIqcFFA/s1600-h/DSC02925.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_CtrF_0SAg9woYYn5zbXQm-W5wYrmYj6ufWoIP7cKI_l4QvpvRQREVLQ7oss32n_jaU3EByrhuSaD7BJYHEl0kv76SC7B5GT1_Zh2Larhp8T7jyqG034q3h_qgBxbKAlIqcFFA/s400/DSC02925.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169852552139653778" /></a><br /><br />And what a great place to begin with, this December I was actually here in person, close enough to click it... an achievement by itself. It was one of those getaways that matter more than the ones you plan, budget and execute like any other corporate deal. Life here was on slow motion, people smiled without reason, but no one thought they were insane, for the sane amongst us do not laugh without an exchange, in cash or kind, we do both. <br /><br />A whole day, out of a city I so love, out of a life I so crave... and yet it all seemed so desirous, so out of reach and so so wonderful... and thankfully Shortlived.Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-1151572376174382252007-11-27T14:07:00.000-08:002007-11-27T02:40:33.497-08:00Phantom of the OPARA: A true underdog story<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4983/3228/1600/DHNADA_BW.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4983/3228/400/DHNADA_BW.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><br /></span><br /><br />The cultural and intellectual variation, which I’m quite sure is imaginarily so, is great between those from the Main Building and those from elsewhere in the college. Every time the editorial committees of magazines, newsletters, as well as the drama club, seminar forums, etcetera are formed: I being not a part of the finer grey matter, find that ‘they’ are the ones who walk the red carpet of Literature clutching elbows of great men and women, and I, like the rest of us non-carpet material, are left to scavenge like the desperate paparazzi…trying to cope with both disciplines, I mean the awe of ‘their’ and the load of our own.<br /><br />It’s an “A-PARA” & “O-PARA” racism that prevails between the two, and mostly the great divide dwells in paper. We find ourselves in the “WHAT NOT TO BE” columns once in a while…not to mention the ‘butt’ of inter-academic jokes. And sometimes the seniors and professors act like KKK catalysts; we have ‘skinheads’ too: ‘they’ are the ones who never mingle outside their class or act out of their state, and smirk on our lesser mortals’ existence out of their extraordinary circle. And we are left to chew on our hats, shoes and cockneyed intellect.<br /><br />For the greater part of my two and a half years of college life, I have envied their un-cut beards, un-bathed personas, disheveled hair, and those curiously old and patchy paperbacks, clutched tightly in their smelly (but greatly so) armpits, poking out just enough to make me nervous. Yet, I could neither consciously nor purposefully imitate their profound intellect. ‘They’ are the ones I will hate all my college life, and wish my jeans looked as bug-eaten, or my fatua looked as frayed, or I looked as impossibly aantellectual.<br /><br />Why is it that people like me, who love to play with the simplicity of the language are always lambasted by the self-proclaimed pundits of English Language…while their ornamented presentations win prime pre-dominance…even if half the country cannot even make a sense out of that Swarovsky article? The Pradas and Guccis of this parallel universe are always the ones who edit and process all linguistic manifestations of the college…<br /> …while I, the Phantom of the O-PARA, hover around hallucinating about my own.<br /><br />‘They’ are the ones who end up behind desks at the offices of New York Post or London Times, while we are left here to pitch sales quotes for baby food that patronize ‘them’…<br /><br />Address for grievance retrieval, due to the above post:<br />Presidency College, Kolkata<br />College StreetKamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-68019002524138477842007-11-27T02:26:00.001-08:002007-11-27T02:26:57.943-08:00So, I'm finally back to my blog, and this time around I promise to do justice to the web space I'm using up for no great deal. I do, I do...Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-23281864590426408822007-11-27T02:02:00.000-08:002007-11-27T02:25:34.974-08:00Delhi si JahanSo now.... after months of cribbing... Delhi is finally a place, humans can also call home, otherwise i was putting up a 50001:1 chances that I'd settle on Neptune rather than Delhi. But its really better now, I've travelled through the city, walked its manicured roads, stopped at pedestrian traffic lights and crossed with others. I have seen what Jama Masjid looks like in the dark, and how very different it is with daylit domes protruding out of singularly noxious biriyani smokes. I have seen what C.P, as they call it, becomes when no one's looking. I have smelt the perfumed frufru and the pungent gentry, both falling over my shoulders with oblivious grace.<br /><br />For a fact I know, Delhi never sleeps, even if the bars are shut by 11:30p.m , neither are the roads ever empty... the dogs, the prowlers, the poor, the homeless... and the young ventures to spunge out a little fun from right below the extrea conspicuous crime fighters. Still, there are less of them with a bulge above their belts, or a balding headset, someone told me, "...arre, thats because more of the wear pagris MAN!".... well, that could be true.<br /><br />But for now, Delhi is another adventure for me... its one more city for me to go FIND OUT. Before the rapists, perverts, voyeurs, thieves, gundas, dakus, etc. and other petty criminals find me out. On that note.... MAN! I end.Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30156316.post-86564727928067895792007-04-05T13:29:00.000-07:002007-04-07T10:46:45.786-07:00O Father...can you hear them come?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwB0bOtSWN4UABuK5FsyoeuooFzCrbSMGXoNEYvPGgtAum4Y4qFripiXNEdjYlnxUJZTwMcXBK_q2tXSwFifzU-m1RF6oV6ryhD9HCDrFQK1jn1SDEBqD_qC-jbrZ7-L_fTS99YA/s1600-h/IMAGE_598_.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwB0bOtSWN4UABuK5FsyoeuooFzCrbSMGXoNEYvPGgtAum4Y4qFripiXNEdjYlnxUJZTwMcXBK_q2tXSwFifzU-m1RF6oV6ryhD9HCDrFQK1jn1SDEBqD_qC-jbrZ7-L_fTS99YA/s400/IMAGE_598_.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050047279056709666" /></a><br /><br />O Father,<br /> Here they come again.<br />They have killed your child,<br />And now they want you.<br />They have burnt your home,<br />And now they'll burn you.<br /><br />O Father,<br /> Here they come again.<br />They dine on your backyard,<br />And now they'll take it from you.<br />They've slept in your bed,<br />And that's where they'll gag you to.<br /><br />O Father,<br /> Here they come again.<br />In the darkness of the night,<br />And they say they fear none.<br />Can you here their guns?<br />If you cannot hide then run.<br /><br />O Father,<br /> Here they come again.<br />To promise you forsaken dreams,<br />Of wealth in your own hands.<br />But before, they must shoot you,<br />With guns of distant lands.<br /><br />O Father,<br /> Here they come again.<br />They've raped your daughter, <br />And buried your boy.<br />Now they'll build fences on our rotting flesh,<br />Here they come Father, Ahoy!Kamalinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014393699578585799noreply@blogger.com1