Look

We threw the relationship out of the window and now we have one.

vellore

The vividness is disturbing. The intricate details linger, in shapes, in colours. Places have an invisible force- vellore in particular does-it clings to those who've been a part of it. I can still strongly smell it's warm familiarity, not because of frequent recall, but because the aura still surrounds.

What a life that was. The freedom was gaping. There was untamed madness in the air, as perpetual as the smell of weed, amidst lazy class-goers and couples huddled on footpaths. There were the trains - I strangely miss them the most. Outside college, there was endless space, there was the hustle around cmc, there was kasam, there was china town, where you couldnt stay an hour without bumping into three people you knew. Vellore had its secrets- you had to know where to look- under shady trees, beneath your feet, in thorny bushes, in pacific bay, in burma bazaar, in bus 1 and bus 2, and of course, at katpadi station (carrot samosas!). Sometimes you had to look in tasmac.

The vellore sky was enormous. You just had to look up to see the Orion and be reassured that all's quite well with the world.

It's now slowly sinking in - my reactions have always been late and drawn-out - that I will use the past, inaccessible tense whenever I talk about this home of four years.

mince curry

The Barn Owl's Wondrous Capers by Sarnath Banerjee is a gripping graphic novel woven out of strikingly colourful threads of history and modernity, madness and sanity.

The plot begins with the protagonist unexpectedly inheriting his grandfather's possessions, including the controversial journal, The Barn Owl's Wondrous Capers, which records the events of eighteenth century British Calcutta, a time when the city cauldron bubbled with several atrocious activities and scandals. Begins then, the long and arduous search for the journal, amidst lusting men and women, psychics, skull-crackers, drunken priests, stoned babus and more, who all -- in spite of their eccentricities -- seem strangely real.

The artwork tells a tale in itself. The characters are dynamic and captivating; the aftermath can leave you seeing them in patterns of bathroom tiles. Banerjee speaks with a casual, nonchalant wit that takes a minute to grasp, cleverly beckoning for a reread. That moment of enlightenment annotates exclamations in the thinking mind. Digital Dutta, who appeared first in Corridor, Banerjee's first novel, takes us through the journey of his own character, and leaves you feeling well-traveled.

Entertaining, explicit, hilarious and poignant with a philosophical undertone (I almost had to refer to a thesaurus for that) the book is just awesome oly ya. Only upon the second read does one realise the ingenuity of this work; the careful stitching together of elements, the mixing of those 65 essential masalas, to produce something that will awaken, shake, disturb and indulge all your senses.

glimpse

It dawned upon him that the body travels but the mind stays unmoved, as confirmed by the great Arab traveller Ibn Battuta. He realized that sitting in his North Calcutta house, he had a pretty accurate idea of what the world outside was like.

By not travelling, he felt more travelled. Both in space and time.

- from The Barn Owl's Wondrous Capers by Sarnath Banerjee; referring to my favourite character Digital Dutta.

the journey

I remember exactly how our household back then used to sound - I always picked up the background noise. Lata and Kishore played in the mornings, alternating with MS Subbulakshmi. Both my parents being music buffs, a lot of subconscious listening went into our childhood. I was introduced to ABBA/Cliff Richard/Carpenters by my mother. My dad listened to a lot of BMK, and I remember downloading his thillanas one day at hostel because I suddenly pined to listen to them. Strange what you grow up on never leaves you. Michael Jackson was so much a part of our everyday lives that I still sing the same wrong lyrics from a permanent etching into memory, a reason why to this day I say mos-cow. I don't think I could ever forget the cover of that Dangerous tape, and the white ribbed plastic that made it easily identifiable long after the paper peeled off.

I owe many many hours of happiness - the kind of happiness that does not require and cannot be shared with anybody else- to a little black tape recorder that offered the discovery of and escapade to another realm. I never felt like I needed anyone - I was content. I think as we grow older we start looking for other people to make us happy.

I got gifted piano instrumental cassettes on every birthday- most of them being Clayderman. After that I moved on to Yanni and quickly tired of his arpeggioed style. I hadn't much exposure to jazz/blues- so most of what I played was old 60s and classical. I'd pick up songs at home, spending hours at the keyboard, and then go back to piano class the next day and try it out. Nothing compares the wood richness of heavy-keyed piano sound.

My brother started listening to different kinds of music when he was at school - I would curiously listen to his tapes - Bryan Adams, Deff Leppard (letsgetletsgetletsgetletsget "drunk!") , Duran Duran, Eagles, The Beatles, Knopfler, dinchak party music, Silk Route - they all featured on his playlist. Clapton, Pearl Jam, the Smashing Pumpkins and Simon and Garfunkel were introduced after a while. Ah, to have an older brother. He also opened my window to jazz (how could you not have heard Take Five?!). Sweet discoveries of Brubeck and Chick Corea followed.

Long after CDs were around, I still bought cassettes and stuck to my faithful black cassette player. We exchanged cassettes at school and I listened to friends' parents' old ones - ranging from old country to blues to classic rock. We were extremely lucky to have access to the Internet. I spent hours crawling the web referring to my ‘pop hits of the 60s’ handbook and downloading as many as I could with a dial-up connection. I used to listen to Yahoo Radio back then, when YM was awesome (and they still had Doodle!). Brilliant stations, brilliant songs. A lot of the music i got was through a personal journey of hunting online and retrieving. Zz Top, The Doors, Cream - all were painstakingly downloaded. Digital Dreamdoor was my bible (and to my great delight, introduced me to ELP!).

Harmony fascinated me. All my friends were in the school choir (both those who sang and those who lip-synced) and we'd get together every break, singing songs from printed sheets of lyrics. Of course we sang a lot of boyband songs, but what the heck. Singing in church was an experience - the organisation of the choir was brilliant and I loved how all the parts would come together finally and echo in all their fullness.

College opened up many many new worlds. Grunge and metal: Kamelot, Pain of Salvation, Maiden, Pearl Jam, Temple of the Dog, Dreamtheater, etc. DVD collections arrived one day from Bombay - in it I found entire collections of progressive rock and fusion. Alan Parsons, Yes, Asia, ELP, Rush. The amount of time I devoted listening to those bands I cannot fathom now - I don't know how I had the time to listen to each and every song, find the ones I liked, and find favourite bits in those songs (I love this part!). I got to meet some amazing musicians who changed my life. I listened to different guitarists for months, before I comfortably settled on Satriani for his grace. Dave Matthews Band, Steely Dan, Jamiroquai, Bobby McFerrin, Shakti, Prasanna, Floyd, Extreme, Fleetwood Mac, Mr Big ; King Crimson, Tower of Power, lots of jazz - everyone had something to offer, a band or song to suggest till it became as much a part of the listener as the offerer. After some time, all of us at college had the same collections in our hard disks- some of them who would be misnamed forever. The newer Jamie Cullums, John Mayers, Jack Johnsons. Zero, Motherjane, TAAQ- there was no dearth of fresh music. The college bands, the others that came and went at fests. Acapellas, acoustics, live shows, a bunch of friends sitting and jamming.

Of course, bus rides always had interesting music too - Remo being my all-time favourite Tamil hit!

Sometimes I feel like I belong more to these songs than they do to me. I know where I'm living my parallel life.

ideals

He did not know how wide a country, arid and precipitous, must be crossed before the traveller through life comes to an acceptance of reality. It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched, for they are full of the truthless ideals which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life. They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross of life. The strange thing is that each one who has gone through that bitter disillusionment adds to it in his turn, unconsciously, by the power within him which is stronger than himself. The companionship of Hayward was the worst possible thing for Philip. He was a man who saw nothing for himself, but only through a literary atmosphere, and he was dangerous because he had deceived himself into sincerity. He honestly mistook his sensuality for romantic emotion, his vacillation for the artistic temperament, and his idleness forn philosophic calm. His mind, vulgar in its effort at refinement, saweverything a little larger than life size, with the outlines blurred, in a golden mist of sentimentality. He lied and never knew that he lied, and when it was pointed out to him said that lies were beautiful. He was an idealist.


- from Of Human Bondage by Somerset Maugham

The book

And then it turns out that I published off a book :)

A collection of 49 poems in free verse, published by Writer's Workshop, Kolkata. Those interested in buying copies please mail writersworkshopkolkata@gmail.com or request a copy at http://www.writersworkshopindia.com/modules/contact_plus/

Beam.

breaking barriers

sometimes all you have to do is ask.

trick

Sympathy, when offered, can hurt ego.
Sympathy, when not offered, can hurt.

TAAQ at HRC Hyderabad

I screamed myself hoarse.

After four years in Vellore, and getting to see most of the gigs around in Bangalore and Chennai, but somehow managing to miss TAAQ each time, the wait was finally over.

The show was brilliant. They started off with one of my favourites, Look at Me, and by the end of the song I was already filled with that feeling only Bruce's tu ta paraburapurooo can express. The new song, Where the State has No Name is a bluesy, catchy number and has one of those choruses that comfortably settle down in your head. A total singalong song. I really liked that they wrote this one. I've always believed that TAAQ is an intelligent band; from their lyrics to the structure of their songs, there's a characteristic subtle wit that underlies. They're classic, they're contemporary. They reach out to the audience with songs like this one, and previously, with Keep the Promise, One Small Love and Shut up and Vote.

It was the first time I heard them play their signature cover, with its long intro (oh what tones on the guitar!) delightfully breaking out into Roxanne. At this point I glanced at the bouncer, contemplating my fate if I did get hysterical. De-arranged was anything but. I love how all the parts come together in their songs. I grinned throughout the show, and everytime Bruce went hic! during Drunk I grinned a little more.

Its always interesting to observe musicians during a live show. Bruce, with supreme confidence, picking, strumming, singing away in his strong steady voice, doing his plectrum-dropping act; at the same time not losing track of the audience. Rzhude, closed eyes, completely with the flow and completely enjoying himself, his thick basslines underlining clean riffs. You could almost hear him say as he cradled his guitar: this is my baby. Rajeev, swift, fresh young energy. I squinted at him intently for a large part of the show, counting in my head. Jason (haven't heard him play before), effortlessly fiddling about on the keyboard, bringing out some mind blowing solos like it was child's play.They played a fun version of Wonderwall with some interesting chords there. Mighty strange was mighty good, so was Bend the World. Paper Puli was trademark. And finally, Surrender stole the show. (Nice harmony, shouldaii shouldaii still rings in my head.)

The only disappointment was that there was no song from This Is It. They got our groove, yes, but what happened to mom made butter skies and all that?

But moving on. You can listen to TAAQ at home, scribbling those clever lyrics down with your tongue sticking out. Drive with them to work and do a BLM into the window of the nearest car at the signal. You can jog in the mornings with that TAAQ playlist on your iPod. Blast their music on a Sunday afternoon in an empty hostel.

But TAAQ, live?

Oh what a feeling.

walk

Every morning I go for a fifteen minute walk. Even though there is some sort of a jogger's park nearby, I stick to taking the long and winding road. (Which winds back to square one and does not lead to anyone's door.) I tried walking in the park a few times, but the sight of so many people out for their morning exercise was overwhelming. Plus I like straight roads better than having to go around a circular track over and over again.

I see the same people everyday during my walk, and now I feel like I almost know them. There is uncle in the white t shirt and shorts, who walks with his son. Boy is usually dressed in blue and insists on pushing his red tricycle with great care. I suspect he's got an imaginary friend. They seem a happy pair, father and son. Once they got mom along and there was a whole new dimension to the picture.

Another companion is the great dane who confidently strides down the road like he owns it. His owner, a small man about the same size looks meek, positively scared and at heel.

Bespectacled aunty holds two big bulldogs on either side that look only half as intimidating as she does.

Short man jogs in the opposite direction, looking remarkably fit.

Old uncle gently ambles along with his Dalmation, whose head perpetually is in the nodding state, quite an agreeable dog. Dog peers at passers by, nodding and stepping towards them till uncle gently and absently pulls him away.

Strangers to each other, yet the mornings of our lives overlap.

kadambi booksellers

I have been living in Marredpally for quite a few years now, and every time I cross the main road, a big sign that says Kadambi Booksellers catches my eye. I had heard that it was an old bookshop, full of rare books, but had never got the opportunity to take a look inside. I walked into the shop today, expecting to find ancient treasures, but what followed was nothing short of a life-changing experience.

The owner of Kadambi, a man who is into his 84th year, sits at the front fumbling about with a radio. R N Acharya, who started the bookshop over 60 years back, tells me how the store has evolved over the years- starting off as a small bookshop in a garage to becoming one of the major landmarks in the city, and finally shifting to the current location on account of 'road widening' at Clock Tower.

The shop is neatly stacked and is organised by category. There are whole racks of NBT books, and it was thrilling to see the collection. The shelves are covered in dust; yet the books seem carefully preserved. He knows exactly which book is where, as he fingers for the book he wants to show me. 'Come read anytime', he says. 'You can stay here the whole day and nobody will disturb you.' One section of the shop contains technical books, mostly engineering, that he wants to distribute for free. 'Impart knowledge, not exploit knowledge', he tells me as he shows me his own personal collection of books that he read at school, standing on the bench for not doing homework. ('But I consistently topped my class!' he adds.)

'If you have the time, I will give you a synopsis of my life.' R N Acharya was born into a well-educated and modern family. His father was multilingual, a graduate of Presidency College in those days (three generations above us) and a correspondent for Reuters. His mother worked for LIC and even drove a car. After her early death, his father left the city. Acharya and his brother got jobs as clerks in the army and took care of the younger ones. Later, he started selling fiction books and also worked as a newspaper delivery boy. His shop picked up over the years and brought him to where he is now. He showed me photographs of his family, a collection of letters and postcards.

He talks of India before and after the British Raj, of readership, of the education system, of his own struggle for survival. 'It is only now that you have these modern conveniences. Back then, things were very different..' I realise that his voice speaks for his entire generation. So much about him reminded me of my own grandfather. While he uses an old typewriter to put his thoughts on paper, his brand new computer sits on his desk, covered with a blanket.

Here is a man who has regularly corresponded with politicians and literati (even Somerset Maugham-imagine!), has had bigwig customers, has earned the respect and goodwill of everyone he has interacted with, and is sought after by authors and publishers from all over the country. Yet, he humbly says- 'I have braved through the times. I don't know how, but I'm still surviving. I earn very little.' Acharya plans on writing a book, which will tell the story of his life. But I urge each one of you to go see him in person, drop by the oldest bookstore in Andhra Pradesh, buy a book, meet this simple yet heroic man who is an icon of generations.

The birthday post - 22

(older ones here and here)

I think I'm proper adult now.
Its sinking in.
Have not stopped chewing nails though.
The hectic year has demanded it.

In may I was at undergrad college, in june I was pursuing an mba, in july I found myself at a publishing firm.

21 has got a nice ring to it. It sounds more confident of itself than 22.
23 sounds nice, I guess because its such a prime number.
22 is stuck in between.
But then the middle is supposed to be the best part.

I like really long emails almost as much as I like moderately long letters.
I still prefer a short letter to a really long email though.
I still am a bundle of contradictions.

I realised I'm not really in favour of genetic engineering. Haw to the biotechie.
I miss walks. Thats what I miss most about vellore. And the space.
I love cows. I own a bracelet with wooden cows on it.
I hate time zones. Its so difficult to communicate esp if the time difference is six hours.

I realised I need a catalyst for music.
It doesnt flow out of me the way it does from them.
The only thing I want badly is an electric piano/fodu keyboard. \
I used to love chocolate ice cream, now I'm tired of it; I never liked mango much; I dont seem to like strawberry either; and I can't stand butterscotch; I used to like vanilla till my brother told me he doesnt like it and now I'm doubtful too.
I love mango/orange bar though, the kind that makes your tongue orange.

My five weeks in Chennai were the craziest five weeks ever.
The amount of support I got from both family and friends was magical.
I love train rides in Chennai.
My emotional graph is all spiky.
I'm nowhere close to being stoical.
I get extremely affected by things.
But I can also be as solid as brick. Ha.

Strange things annoy me. Like foot-door-stoppers.
Like filing nails.
Like when people sing happy birthday, most people touch the lower notes (usually the 6th) at the third line (birth).
I love kids.
The one thing that can make me happiest is rain.
I'm happy to be home.

I'm picky about words.
Like I'd never use the word 'regards' unless I absolutely have to because I don't like the sound of it. It doesnt have any kind of heart or soul. Putting a warm before it just makes it sound like something that absolutely cannot be warm.
My favourite fruit is the orange because I love its sound.
I'm terrified of anything underground- tunnels, mines etc.
In a man, I seek simplicity.
I like things to go my way.
Sometimes I insist they do.

Guys are strange beings but I think am beginning to understand them now.
I dislike cities and traffic and lights and noise.
Another year gone by and the word cute still tops the compliment list. Where is smart and outgoing?

Clouds fascinate me.
I will bear a big smile the whole day if its cloudy.
I will hop around making high pitched excited noises if its raining.

I hate being corrected by someone who I know is right.
I love animals.
I love naming pets and since I don't have any, I name my friends'.
I can't last two days without rasam.
I have seen that love works wonders.

I have a quick temper.
The year has been megaeventful. Dhamaka sale oly of life changing incidents.
I tend to be extremely dramatic.

Birthday calls are the best.
I feel loved.
I always have something to say.
I like reminding people that I'm around.
I am superwoman.

something to write about

today I saw a fat dachschund puppy clumsily walking along the street, and it was the oddest, sweetest thing in the world.

muse

I opened notepad today, because I felt like writing. I stared at it for a while, wishing I could doodle on it, but resorted to chewing my nail instead. After a few minutes of staring, I lapsed into that contemplative mood where a multitude of thoughts stream in my head and I cant seem to capture all of them. It's much like those runners at the bottom of news TV channels - where you catch some part of a line in a glance, wait patiently for it to reappear, eyes glued to the screen, but inevitably miss that bit again.

So when I can't capture my thoughts while they're being thought, it's a problem later on. During my rethinking, I find that there are lot of gaps. Is that a memory problem? Because a re-thought is actually a memory of the original thought that you're trying to bring back? Either way, I can't seem to find some thoughts once they're thunk out. Or rather, I can't seem to find thoughts when I want to write them down. Missing links. Which explains why there is so much discontinuity in my writing. I reread my old blog today, and cringed at the staccato presentation.

But then again, I was never good at writing prose or composition, I think. A considerable amount of effort goes into it. I think writing sentences itself is a challenge. And I find it a complete drag, having to succumb to the rules of grammar and sentence construction. ( And to think I'm an editor, at that!) A sentence is supposed to make complete sense, which I find rather troubling. What if I don't want to make complete sense? What if I just want to leave my sentences hanging in mid-air? Full suspense creation, ha.

It's easier for me to put a bunch of words in verse, especially since I think in pictures. Writing free verse is like spray painting a wall. And writing prose is like having to colour inside the lines.

However, this is only my perspective. I find my sentences too bound by themselves, too dry, and I need to figure out a way to let them loose. I have read some compositions that have made me marvel at the writer's ability to put his ideas so simply and fluidly. Its only when I'm trying to say something that I get stuck. All other times, when I'm not really bothered, I seem expressive enough (eii wait ya, I'm telling no).

Sometimes I wonder if language itself can fall insufficient of expression.

Words have shape and sound, and silence is space.

the same old

Change is inevitable. That's a universal fact. You try to cope with change, and before you know it, you're changing with it. Try to resist, and you change all the more. Obstinacy doesn't get you anywhere. Accept, accept, that's what they've been preaching. I wonder why it is that even though all the wise men have been drivelling it into our heads that we should 'go with the flow', it isn't applicable easily.

Change is stealthy, you didn't even realise when it had crept in. It seems sudden, always. But it's been sitting there all long, growing, in one dark corner of your room, waiting for you to acknowledge its presence. In due course of time, it turns into an attention seeking, gleeful monster, poking and prodding you. Since its there to stay, you might as well get acquainted with it.

Change makes you think, change makes me think. It is the curtain in between scenes that morph into each other in a strangely disconnected way. And the characters run about excitedly, confusedly, changing costumes, going over dialogues.

Change sucks you in and lets you out.

It binds, it sets you free. Go through it, turn it over, walk around it, wallow in the whys, but there's only one way out.

Skip to point now.

just

I went to a school for slow learners/mentally challenged children yesterday.

I met a boy there, S, who is autistic and is something of a musical genius. He plays the piano, guitar and sings. He played a few songs on the keyboard and I was absolutely mesmerized. S sang softly even though the room was noisy. His eyes shone as he played and chords just flowed out of him. It was clear he was somewhere else, he was part of the song. He composes, too. I asked him if he understood what harmonizing means , he said he did. I sang a few songs with him and it was one hour of absolute bliss.

It was exhilarating to have connected.

Five weeks in Chennai

I've explored a considerable amount in the past five weeks. It has been been nothing short of madly tumultous but exhilarating all the same.

I went to the beach plenty of times during my stay. I love the beach. I love the ships and their tiny lights against the vast blackness. Oh, and the lighthouse! Just fascinating.. especially with all those Enid Blyton tales absorbed into my system. This part of the Marina is charming. The beam sweeps over sea the in a majestic circle.. and the spotlight falls on a building during its course! I always wondered how the residents of the apartment might be sleeping with that big round yellow beam shining through the windows every few minutes, its quite amusing. I can watch the sea for ages. It just fills me up with that half-thrilling, half-calming, lifting feeling;the cup runs over but keeps getting filled up like PC Sorcar's Water of Ganga. With every rise and fall of the waves I get a little higher.

Am going to miss the city, sorely. The Saravana Bhavan coffee, Oxford Bookstore, Landmark on NHR, the Madras Terrace House. The kittens in the hostel, the walks on Sterling Road, the walk to college, the guinea pigs, the train rides, the music, the friends.

"The old order changeth, yielding place to new."

contemplative

I suffer from two syndromes. One is exhaustive overthinking and the other is overthinking in exhaustion. Both don't seem to be very productive.

new

Before I can recover from one college life, another has begun. A sprawling leafy campus, endless classes and new faces. And the old friends and the music. The mad jumble-tumble of a schedule is about to begin.. in the heart of this dirty, hot, happening, charming, growing-on-me tamilian city, so full of sweaty activity.

Life has been updated.