Into Thin Air.

The blemishes are too many
To fade, to forgo
To be forgotten.

She wants to break open
To run free and wild
To write poetry
And have someone read it out to her.

She wants to understand
The song the bird hums each morning
The message the breeze carries within
To capture the dewdrops and store them forever
To save the memories from dying.

She wants to seek comfort, to find solace
In the joy of a baby's laughter
In the tinkling of the wind chimes by her window
In the pitter-patter of the raindrops on a cold winter night.

She wants to wrap the spirit of a shining star
In her scarred and wounded palms
And keep holding on to it
Till the end of eternity.

But the blemishes are too many
To fade, to forgo
To be forgotten.

Twitch your nose. And laugh. Now

There is a sad sad song I just heard  and couldn't help but think about the many things in life that we take for granted. No, we don't do it deliberately, or do we?

When was the last time you hugged your mother? Or danced in the rain? When was the last time you bought your pet gifts? And laughed with your nose twitched at a cheesy joke? Or cooked for your best friends? When was the last time you remember remembering all these things?

When will we learn to value that which is ours, without focusing on acquiring that which is not ours? When will we learn when to be satisfied?

Don't you mistake me. I am not trying to establish dictatorship. AND, mind you, there are SO many things I take for granted myself. I am so used to, it had turned into an emotional construct. But I am trying to not. Before it is too late.

Go, curl up in your bed with a cup of hot coffee and a book by your side and listen to your favourite song and watch Kung Fu Panda later. And when it rains, don't forget to count the drops. Haha, dance, I mean.

Starting Line.

My flight has been delayed by 2 hours, I am sitting at the boarding area staring joblessly at a 2 year old baby rolling himself in the dust of the airport floor. What an age to be in! Bored to death, I decide to read random articles and chance upon this- http://www.indianexpress.com/news/that-boy-in-yellow-nail-polish/1041760/0

I suggest all of you to read it. I love the way she has put forth the idea of cliche and anti-cliche.

Haha, it also reminds me of how we used to dress up Aryan, my nephew, as Radha. Such a cutie he is. Its a long story, I'll tell you some other time.

A lot of things have been happening around. The Delhi Gangrape case is blazing the news and social networking sites. And I can't help but relate the article to the case.

Where does it all start?

Gender stereotypes stem out from a child's social setting and most importantly, upbringing. Boy children are expected to only play with violent superhero toys, or cars, or you know, 'boy' stuff. Girls, are meant to play with barbie dolls and other dolls and other dolls and kitchen sets and basically 'girly stuff'. Boy clothes are blue. Girl clothes are pink. And so are the rest of their belongings, room, bedspread, towel, accessories, even stationery. Fairy tales teach little girls AND little boys that the princess is a weakling, a damsel in distress, waiting to be rescued by the strong prince charming. And in reality, the same little girls and the same little boys fall for this rationale. In a more conservative set up, the sole purpose of a daughter's life is to get married and serve her husband and cook for her in laws, while the boy is to grow up to be the man of the house, and step out of the house to earn a living - these ideas being enforced into a child's mind right from the time he/she are born.

While this trend is the most prevalent in this part of the world, given its patriarchal orientation, we have seen some change over the last few years. Attempts have been made to empower the girl, make her 'strong like a son'. However, like Lalita Iyer mentions in her article, we celebrate it when our girls do boy things and not enough when our boys do girl things. A very common thing we get to hear from parents of a accomplished successful girl is - "Our daughter is our son". On the other hand if the boy decides to take up a 'girl oriented career' (trust me, there are stereotypes related to jobs we are all aware of), he is often ridiculed at. Boys are not meant to cry, sensitive responses from boys are labelled as cowardice. The male ego is not born, it is made to develop.

At a lot homes, examples are set for children, the wives have domestic roles, she is meant to stay home, have babies, look after them. Her 'job' is looking after household chores. She is meant to serve her husband sexually and otherwise if required, not complaining and not asking for anything in return. She is expected to have learnt all of this from her mother. The husband is the provider for the family, he has therefore the right to do whatever he wants, go wherever he wants AND sleep with whoever he wants.

Besides these, there are other societal influences. Alcohol is a boy thing. Visiting temples is a girl thing. Going out is a boy thing. Sitting home is a girl thing. The idea of good and bad is mostly settled by the society and in this part of the world, anything 'good' for boys is bad for the girls.

When the same boy grows up to be a rapist, I wonder why the people get surprised. If you haven't taught a child to be sensitive and respectful of all other people irrespective of their identities, how do you expect them to respect the freedom of a woman?

I urge you to think deeply, the concept of rape is largely associated with power play. Though sometimes, it could be a case of revenge or sheer sexual impulsiveness, mostly it is about gender identities. It is about the man believing that he has more power than the woman. In these cases, rape becomes a platform to assert this notion of power.

In my opinion, rape is psychopathological. It is not normal, but with the kind of edge that men are given over women, the society seems to sanction it. And the society is made of people, like you and me.

There has been a very strong response to the Delhi case. Castrate the rapists, people say. Hang them to death, others assert. The rapists deserve the punishment too. In fact, I believe they deserve to frikkin Rot In Hell. But hanging them is not a solution. It is too easy a punishment. They need to be made to realise the gravity in their deed.

We need to dig deeper. We need to talk about eradicating rape. We need to stop talking about consequences but start talking about the root cause of it.

We need to sensitise people, especially men. Pathology has treatment, and if rape is a case of abnormality, there has to be a solution to remove it. The solution lies amongst us.

This incident left me shaken and crippled with fear. And learning martial arts will not remove this fear, neither will killing the criminals. Stricter laws need to be enforced, policies need to be changed, I agree. But what requires change the most, is the mindset of the people.

When I grow up, I want to have a daughter. And a son. And I am going to teach them to respect each other and the rest of the world irrespective of their gender identities.

The process of changing the society is very slow, the only way I can start is by changing myself. And so can you. And I hope someday change will happen, if not for me or you, for the strong girl fighting for her life at the Delhi hospital today and for hundreds of others who fight this battle everyday. I have this dream.

On an unrelated note, my flight is here, the food they gave me is horrible and I can't wait to get home. 

There is so much more I want to write, and will soon.

Death.

Reading Lolita In Tehran, by Azar Nafisi.

Excerpts from  Part III, Chapter 33.

"Less than an year after the peace, on Saturday  June 3, 1989, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini died. His death was not officially announced until the next morning at seven a.m.,... thousands had gathered outside his house on the outskirts of Tehran...

...I remember the morning we heard the news of Khomeini's death. The entire family had gathered in the living room, lingering in the state of dull shock and bewilderment that death always brings with it. And this was no ordinary death. The radio announcer had broken down and sobbed. This would be the way with every public figure from then on, whether they appeared in mourning ceremonies or were interviewed individually; weeping seemed to be a requirement, as if there was no other way of expressing the magnitude of our grief.

It gave us all a feeling of unity and closeness to be sitting in the living room, with the inevitable smell of coffee and tea, speculating about the death: desired by many, feared by many, expected by many and, now that it had occurred, oddly anti-climatic to both friends and foes... I always associate Khomeini's death with Negar's simple pronouncement- for she was right: the day women did not wear the scarf in public would be the real day of his death and the end of his revolution. Until then, we would continue to live with him.

The government announced five days of national mourning and forty days of official mourning. Classes were cancelled and universities shut... Everything felt blurry, like a mirage in intense heat. The blur remained with me throughout that day and all those days of mourning, when we spent most of our time by the television watching the funeral and the endless ceremonies...In death, there was a need to humanize him, an act he had opposed during his life...

... but I remember feelings and images. Like bothersome dreams, images from those days mix with sounds in my memory as they did in reality: the announcer's shrill and exaggerated voice, always on the verge of breaking, the mourning marches, the prayers, the messages from high-ranking officials and the chanting mourners, drowning all other sounds: 'Today is the day of mourning! Khomeini, the breaker of idols, is with God.'

...The events of the frenetic day come to me in fragments. The glass coffin I remember well, and the flowers arranged in the container were gladiolas. I also remember the swarm of mourners-it was reported that hundreds of thousands had began to pour into Tehran, a black-clad army waving black flags, the men tearing their shirts, beating their chests, the women in their black chadors wailing and moaning, their bodies writhing in ecstatic grief...

When I heard that many had died that day and that tens of thousands were injured, I asked myself stupidly what sort of status these dead would be given. We gave people more rank and more space in death than in life. Opponents of the regime and the Baha'is had no status, they were denied headstones and were thrown into common graves. Then there the martyrs of war and revolution, each of whom had his own special space at the graveyard, with artificial flowers and photographs to mark the grave. Could these people be ranked as martyrs? Would they be granted a place in heaven?...

The government had set aside huge supplies of food and drink for the mourners. Alongside the frenzy of beating chests and fainting and chanting, rows upon rows of mourners were to be seen on the roadside, eating their sandwiches and drinking their soft drinks as if they were out on a holiday picnic. many who actively disliked Khomeini in his lifetime attended the funeral... I remember talking to a middle-aged man on the staff at the university, who lived in the poorer, more traditional part of the town. He described the busloads of neighbors, disenchanted with Khomeini and his revolution, who had gone nonetheless, like him, to the funeral. I asked him why he went. Was he forced to go?  No, but it seemed the thing to do. Everyone was going - how would it look if he didn't? He paused and then added, After all, an event like this happens only once in a lifetime, doesn't it?
... The Government in a move to turn Khomeini into a sacred figure, tried to create a shrine for him close to the Behesht-e Zahra cemetery. It was hastily built, without taste or beauty: a country famous for some of the most beautiful mosques in the world now created the gaudiest shrine to this last imam. The monument was built close to the burial place of the martyrs of the revolution: a small fountain gushed sprays of red water, symbolizing the everlasting blood of the martyrs.
... At the start of the revolution a rumor had taken route that Khomeini's image could be seen in the moon. Many people, even perfectly modern and educated individuals, came to believe this. They had seen him in the moon. He had been a conscious myth-maker, and he had turned himself into a myth. What they mourned after a well-timed death - for after the defeat in the war and the disenchantment, all he could do was die - was the death of a dream. Like all great myth-makers, he had tried to fashion reality out of his dream, and in the end, like Humbert, he had managed to destroy both reality and his dreams. Added to the crimes, to the murders and tortures, we would now face this last indignity - the murder of our dreams. Yet he had done this with our full compliance, our complete assent and complicity."

Bal Thackeray died. Ajmal Kasab died (rather, was killed).
Or did they really?

I HAD to post this. 

Sheets Of Empty Canvas

"I believe that believing that we survive, is what makes us survive."

- Dr. Izzie Stevens, Grey's Anatomy

You know, I want to take a road of my own. Yes, be famous and all that shit. But that's secondary. YES, it is. This post is non contextual and introspective. And broken, in pieces. Like I am.

I want to take the journey. I think I am already in one. I want to walk. The endless path. I want to travel and not arrive. No human affiliations, no material aspirations. Just go on.

I want to feel the wind on my hair. Listen to the trees sing. I want to see the grass greener. I want to cross over. I need to cross over.

Whats on your list?

Have you ever gazed at the stars for so long that you know one from the other? If you haven't, get a life, do it tonight. Stare at the starry starry night. You're worth it. Trust me.

This space talks to me. The world tells me I am no different, but the twinkling stars have another story to tell. They shine on to me. I am not different, but I am special. You are special, too.

I am not different. But I am the difference. And I make a difference. I know I do. Just the way you do too. Our aspirations may be different, but we are all bonded by them. I am a dreamer. And so are you. And nothing else matters.

I want to hold on the dreams. Never, NEVER, give up on them. No matter where they take me, no matter what is at stake. 

I have so much to learn. So much left. Still.

But I won't give up.

I believe I survive. And I won't give up.

Be happy, happy, happy! :D

I woke up to some random song blaring at my ears today. It was 1 'o clock in the afternoon, but - Hey, its a Sunday! Apparently my roomies were having a 'very good time' in the lobby (which is right next to my room) absolutely oblivious to the two people trying to get some sleep inside the room. I sat up, and for two long minutes made a face *pissedoff*. Like you'd get scared of me had you seen me then.

But then, I thought hell why? Why should I be pissed? It was a peppy song playing *radhalikesthedancefloor*, I like the dance floor too, didyu know? :D
I danced all the way to the kitchen (much to their shock), danced myself to the breakfast and all the way back to the room. Woohoo. :D

Now Playing: *chal bhatak le nah Baawre. :')

You know, life's going good that way. I haven't been able to finish 'Reading Lolita in Tehran' and its been a month, I have turned into sucha slow reader. Talking of change, there are so many other things that have changed. But you can't expect change to not happen you know, whether you like it or not. Like me turning into the 'Angry Young Man'. (although the more I get angry, the more I learn to channelise. And the more I learn NOT to implode.) Oh, and the seasons, 'changing'.

Winters are here! Honestly, I don't like the cold one bit. :/

What I DO love about Winters, is the Golden sunlight. Rare and beautiful. 

Anyway, Winters are here. I am a angry young woman. and the times are changin' my friend.
And the truth is, you cant do a thing about it, except for be happy.
Because every winter comes with its own share of sunlight.

#nowplaying:

And this song makes me miss Sweta so much!

*ami shudu bashoori-ro shoore te. :')*

I love Sundays! I am so happy. :D

P.S. - My blog is in Coma, and I am the doctor. \m/

Tiny little things.

Of late, I realise, I have stopped writing for myself. Like totally. I don't know whether I have been inhibited, or practically busy or both, it cannot be used as an excuse. And I'm sorry. So this, is my official comeback to blogging, for the time being at least. And I shall try to be as frequent and punctual as possible.

There is so much to start with. SO much.

The last years been super complicated. 2nd year. Phew! I scraped through and that's about it. But the best thing about your past is that it has passed. :D So, coming back to now, I'll just have to say Yay! I don't how much this makes sense but it is 4:03 in the dark and dirty morning and I am supposed to be free writing so please bear with me.

I watched Barfi! and laughed and cried along. It is incredible how tiny little things can bring sheer joy into your life. Tiny little things like a song. And something someone said. An  insignificant moment. A gift we remember from childhood. Tiny little things like characters in a movie. Jhilmil. :') 

I can't tell you how much I loved every bit of her. Every single bit.  

"Itni si hasi itni si khushi, itna sa tukda chand ka
Khwabon ke tinke se, chal banaye aashiyan..."

I tutor a group of autistic students as a part of my NSS, and there is SO much they add on to my life. 2 hours for one day each week becomes a lifetime for me. Tiny little nuances. Gaurav laughing out loud for no reason whatsoever. The mini heart attack you get when Yash approaches you with all his superman energy. Shubham's endless rants, Aditya's endless stories. How stomach aches are directly proportional to homework for Shivam. And Sahil's adrenaline rushes. And Amit's sudden bursts of artistic enthusiasm. And Priyanshu. His naughty smile followed by a puppy face. And his jooosh. How all of them unanimously turn to the window when they hear a plane pass. How playing ball means the world to all of us. How they can dance to the music I can't even listen to. 

Tiny little things. Like little drops of water.

P.S. - Thank you, wirewilltangle. My blog is alive again.

Teri Keh Ke Lunga...

*I wrote this as a part of my english assignment.*

Directed by: Anurag Kashyap

“Ik bagal mein chand hoga, ik bagal mein rotiyan,

Ik Bagal mein neend hogi, ik bagal mein loriyan.”

Gangs of Wasseypur is story based on real life incidents that happened in Wasseypur and Dhanbad across 30 years and 3 generations. Kashyap has kept the movie undoubtedly real - except for certain stances of dragged unnecessary scenes of humorous action - the ordinariness of it is what makes it extra-ordinary, the unconventional “evilwinsovergood” ending strengthening its ties to reality.

The plot is a very complicated story made simple. Gangs of Wasseypur is a story of revenge across generations. Set in Wasseypur, a village in Bihar, the movie initially revolves around the increasing differences between the Pathans and the Qureshis, while the Zamindars take advantage of this gap and prosper out of it. Ramadhir Singh, the most powerful coal mine contractor in town kills his sidekick Shahid Khan on discovering his plot to overpower and possess his own coal business. A witness to this is his perceived brother – ChachaJi and 7 year old son Sardar Khan. Growing up, Sardar Khan has only one resolve – to seek revenge and kill his father’s murderers – Ramadhir Singh and his aides -the Qureshis. And thus starts a legacy of payback and betrayal. A story expanding over families and sons and sons of sons, till Faizal Khan realizes that it should have all been over with Shahid Khan’s death - this, after he has lost his entire family, except for his pregnant wife and ChachaJi. It has certain masala movie nuances when children from the enemy families fall in love with each other but this can be explained away as an attempt to bring peace. This movie speaks of another important human action – betrayal. The movie ends with Faizal Khan’s half-brother ‘Definite’, this one man he trusted his life on, killing him. The irony however is important to be noted, while on one hand Definite betrays his brother, he does so to keep his mother’s trust. The good man dying while the bad survives- the perceived villain winning while the hero perishes – this ending is avant-garde in Indian cinema, something the audience might have been repulsed by, but it justifies the real life incident this movie is based on. The last scene is Faizal’s wife – Mohsina and their child dreaming away to a beautiful Mumbai Backdrop along with the most consistent character in the movie, ChachaJi.

The acting is at par or I could say above excellent. Richa Chaddha plays Nagma, Sardar Khan’s eccentric 22 turning into 60 year old wife and has stood out. Manoj Bajpai is true to his talent; Huma Qureshi has an important role to play in the second part and is scintillating with her dialogue delivery. The “parmisan lena chahiye tha nah” pierced through many hearts. The cast has done a brilliant job giving in to what Kashyap had expected and there are simply no complaints when it comes to that. The one man proving his worth has however been Siddique, his character going through the most transitions while he effortlessly juggles around. Even his ‘philmi-ness’ has managed to look real.

The movie was released in 2 parts, and unlike the first part, which is ‘perfectly fit’, the second certainly has some extra baggage – these relatively unreal sequences constitute around half-an-hour of the whole movie if put together. The scenes however complement the dialogues and the acting. In spite of the extreme amount of violence, this movie does not hurt the eye. It is explicit in terms of sex and vulgar use of language, extremely overt in the latter in fact, but the language has been used finely to create the required environment. Humour is immense and woven with violence; it adds to the unconventionality of the movie, something only Kashyap is capable is doing of. (Who else would call the characters of his movie Dephinite and Perpendicular?) Intricate human emotions are portrayed through relationships and romance. Although not shot at the original locations, the film will push you into almost similar surroundings of the standard Indian village in Bihar. The movie attracts mixed audiences given its language and outer appearance. This movie has explored unknown territories to emerge as exemplary in case of the “new” in Indian Cinema.

What stands out the most in the movie, apart from brilliant acting, is the sensational music by Sneha Khanwalkar. Khanwalkar has managed to fuse the west with the east, folk with classical, music with noise and create something refreshingly new and original. The explicitly ‘cheap’ innuendos used in the lyrics combined with the electrifying sound effects have given birth to a new genre in Bollywood.

Amidst the backdrop of revenge, betrayal and violence, Gangs of Wasseypur has a much subtler message to offer – the message of resistance and peace.  Despite instances of backstabbing, it speaks of being together through difference and of friendships beyond boundaries. And it speaks of love. It speaks of choices and wrong choices and most of all it speaks of human weaknesses and tolerance. Gangs of Wasseypur has no heroes and no villains. It is a story which begins with circumstances and ends with the same.