Feeling Better

I haven’t written anything in a long time. I haven’t been able to, I’ve been too busy. Busy wallowing in equal parts of self pity and self loathing. Depressed, dejected, feeling dumb and dull, I’ve lost the ability to articulate my opinions. Have a conversation. Write. Think.

I’ve spent the last couple of months eating, sleeping and sleep walking. I’ve “done” quite a bit, but none of it has registered over the persistent throbbing dull, sad feeling. The only things that come to mind are unpleasant breakdowns I’ve had, failures and dead ends I’ve hit in the past few months.

I’m being dragged through college by family and friends for a degree and the promise of something better after (just) one and half years more. I’m due to give my third repeat exam and at the rate my CGPA is dropping I wonder if I will be able to convince my college to let me out with a degree, much less convince some other college to let me in without a capitation fee.

I’ve been waiting for something to happen. Every day, every hour, every minute of my existence I pray for something to happen. Something which will come, sweep me out of this funk I’m in. But nothing happens unless you make it happen and the only things that I feel I can make happen are, to put it bluntly, not pleasant.

So instead I am going to write about what all has already happened to me, what I’m grateful for, and what some of my coping mechanisms are. It’s a little gratitude post, it’s going to tell me that all is not lost, that I still have a life worth fighting for and the means to fight that battle.

One of the most important things that has happened to me is blogging. It’s been a year since I started blogging, and words cannot express how much it means to me. Nonetheless I will make a short feeble attempt at explaining the role it’s begun to play in my life. Blogging gives me a sense of accomplishment, something that I badly need in the face of my failing academic career. I’ve been accused of TMI on my blog, but I don’t really care, being brutally honest on my blog has helped me deal with personal issues and insecurities with a sense of humour, it has helped me come to terms with a myself that I wanted to hide. It’s helped me understand that these insecurities are shared by others and that if I say it out aloud, I will have received and given empathy. Blogging is an outlet for a great deal of frustration, whenever I find myself in what would earlier have been a stressful or anger inducing situation, I now tell myself to take a step back, observe the situation with a sense detachment and humour so that I can blog about it later. And when I fail to achieve that state of detached humour, writing invariably calms me down and helps me sort out the very strong opinions and emotions I feel.

I owe blogging to my friends and sisters, hereinafter referred to as friends. I owe a lot to my friends. They read my blog, they listen to me and they love me. I doubt that anybody will find so perfect a combination of love, craziness, intelligence, individuality and spirit than what’s housed in my hostel. Often when I listen to other people talk about their friends, I find myself pitying them for not having mine. From my school days (when I would walk around alone in the lunch break, eating food continuously, trying to look busy, so that no one would notice I had no one to hang out with) to today (where I have in my room a wall painted bright red by my friends, so that as they explained to me, when I’m depressed and have locked myself into my room, I can look at the wall, and remember that I have friends, that I am a person people want to be friends with) I have come a long way. And it’s because of them. I’ve found my happily ever after.

Then there are the parents, they listen, they counsel, they support, they put up. I have faith in them. They are individualists and I know that whenever they have to make a decision regarding me, they think of what I would want, instead of what they want for me. They understand that I’m not them, that their values aren’t necessarily mine and that I will do things differently from them when the time comes.

So, I’ve written. The tears which prompted me to write this post have dried up. I’m feeling a lot better. From tomorrow, I will begin taking baby steps towards even more betterhood.

Instead of sleeping for hours and hours in my room, I will sleep in various rooms across the corridor, while the owners of the room do whatever it is that they’re doing. When you’re depressed and not in a position to talk to others, laugh with them, this is an easy way to gently ease back into a social life. I will resume jogging, I have no self-control when it comes to stimulants of any variety, food, music, alcohol. Jogging is a “safe” stimulant, but I end up abusing jogs as well. Once I’m in the routine, my body begins to yearn for the jogging high, I spend the entire day waiting for when I can go jogging, unable to do anything but look at the clock, when something threaten the jog, like rain or a dinner plan with friends, I get panicky and worked up. When I’m jogging, I find myself unable to stop until I’m exhausted. I will not let that happen. I will listen to anyone else who needs to talk. Because to know that you’re not alone, is the most important thing. I will ask for help when I need it.

(for those of you who are wondering, I started writing this post on the 9th of January. That day all that I could write before I gave up was the first line, also I have given and passed my repeat since then)

'tis the season to be sorry... or not.

It’s that time of year again, when my eyes go all puffy (due to an excess of sleep). Where my back gets a cramp as I sit obsessively at my laptop for hours together (watching movies). When I stop moving out of my room, talking to anyone, interacting with anyone (because everyone refuses to).
Oh yes it’s exam time and while everyone else is busy studying I can feel my brain shut down, cell by cell. I can hear the whirr of my usually hyperactive head turning into a wheezing hacking noise as it slowly grinds to a dead halt. Brain for sale. Slightly used. Very damaged.
On the other hand, I’m finally free! Free from moots, vivas, projects, tests, teachers who irritate, classes which kill, classmates who I’d like to kill (To classmates reading this, I like and respect you outside the classroom. A lot. Just not in class.)
I hate vivas, I hate having to go and face teachers and justify what is an obviously crappy project to them. I hate having to look at their disappointed faces, as they try to ask intelligent questions on an idiotic piece of work. I squirm and feel guilty when they’re nice and let you off easy. I squirm and feel guilty when they give me the “underachiever - pull yourself together” tough love talk.
I like deadlines, they bring order to my otherwise chaotic world. I might not always make a deadline, but I will never ever make it when there’s no deadline, or even worse when a deadline keeps getting pushed around and is in effect no deadline at all.
I like exams, they get over in one clean and silent swoop, unlike presentations, tests and other forms of continuous assessment torture which go on and on with no end in sight and keep getting moved around, involve one on one interactions, mess, noise, confusion and cheating.
Exam time is bliss, sleep, movies, alone time, fixed deadlines, what more could I ask for? Silence.....

The Sound of Music

My grandfather used to be paranoid, he worried like all grandparents are wont to do that I’d go deaf listening to pop music, and every time I saw him he would warn me about the dangers of listening to loud pop music (complete with anecdotal evidence taken from The Times.) “In America and London, 12 year olds go deaf listening to loud music through their ear phones” it was the ultimate condemnation of western popular culture. He needn’t have worried. Back then.
Way back then I didn’t listen to pop music, nothing, zilch, zero, mute, no hindi filmy music, no backstreet boys, no nothing. It was vulgar, shameful, used words like “sexy” and was not allowed in our house. And I would comfort my grandfather by proudly telling him that I don’t listen to pop music and that I would never listen to any pop music. Ever. Yet I remember cringing and feeling embarrassed in front of the cool kids in my sisters birthday party when we had to play passing the parcel to “the sound of music” instead of “Whigfeilds- Saturday Night”.

Then one day they showed this little, story-less, black and white movie on TV. It was an important movie and the entire family gathered to watch it, and I was hooked from that first indefinable twang of a chord of “A Hard Days Night”. I might have been sitting in my parents bedroom circa the new millennium but in spirit I was transported back half a decade, cheering, crying, running after and swooning over the Beatles. I have never looked back since then. Except to find those old, classic songs and bands (and movies) of course.

I worry now, that I will go deaf. (Turning down the volume on my ipod). Anyway, music makes my world go round, straight, up to the skies, it takes me everywhere, and I take music everywhere I go. I started listening to the early Beatles , ABBA, show tunes, Petula Clark, Simon and Garfunkel, the carpenters, Nancy Sinatra and other old pop songs on my mothers recommendation who warned me that while sexy songs were not banned, bad music was definitely barred from entering our house
I moved onto the later Beatles and bands like The Who, led zeppelin, Queen, Pink Floyd. And before I knew it I was listening to all kinds of music. I revisited the lost pop music of my youth and realized that most of it was now “uncool” trash. This means that I can with a very straight face and clean conscience tell people that I never got caught in the Aqua, Backstreet, Britney craze, my music tastes are far superior (what? I like Boney M in an ironic way and umm... Britney and Mika.....)

Today I jog, stride up and down corridors, jump around and live life to flashdance, songs from musicals, eye of the tiger, Rahman, Shankar Ehsaan Loy, Guru Dutt, Backstreet Boys, Bhajans, Brahms, Beethoven, the beatles and weird Al Yankovic. I listen to what I like. Whether its un-cool or cool, popular, indie, obscure, classic, old or new, even good or bad.

At a recent party, my ipod was being used as a jukebox. Everyone was dancing furiously to the latest fast paced noise in vogue, when suddenly the song changed and a melodious nun started singing in a crystal clear voice “she. Climbs. A. Tree. And. Scrapes. Her. Knee.” I stifled my laughter and ran over to a very baffled looking guy who was standing next to my ipod, jaw hanging and muttering “I thought it was Maria”. This time I was not embarrassed by The Sound of Music in front of the cool kids. You see, if I like a song, I will listen to it, and even my grandfather can’t do anything about it.

Daddy Issues

Firstly I could never call my father daddy. He has always been addressed by the traditional Telegu “Naina” and referred to as “My father” by my sisters and me. Even when I was a 18 month old, blindly aping my hero-worshipped older cousin and saying everything he said, I began calling my mother “Mummy” but my father remained “Naina”.
Nomenclature while indicative is the least of the issues. The main issue is not even that my Father doesn’t understand me(I’d trust him to pick my friends, my career, the books I ought to read, the life I can and ought to lead). But rather that I don’t understand him. I don’t understand how he understands me so well, what he does or did, and why, what he’s thinking, how he judges people, how he judges me (understanding and judging being different), how he got to be the super-liberal that he is coming as he does from his uber-conservative family. Everything I know about my father, his values, his life, his opinions is through my mother. My father, in short remains this mysterious, intimidating, quiet, hard working, brilliant, congress supporting, can’t remember having hugged (and I’m sad/sorry to say this last part) ATM.
It’s not like we haven’t tried. Imagine you’re a 19 year old, culturally confused, guilt stricken, ADHDd girl, trying to gain some gyaan from her father on how to deal with college (he went through the same thing after all, balancing family values with new-found freedom, the pressures of a professional course et al). You pluck up your courage and ask him what he did in college, how he spent his time, you stammer and you stutter and after minutes spent trying to frame the conversation in your head, imagining a nice heart to heart, you get this reply “TT- I played a lot of TT in my spare time”.

My mother still tries to get us to talk, and he very sweetly does call me every now and then enquiring about my state of affairs and finances, the weather and my health, but I still hem and haw and I’m no closer to sharing myself with him the way I am able to with my mother or even you who’re reading this blog and nowhere near getting him to talk about himself.
If I’m bad my sister is worse, she isn’t able to extract conversations from my mom and has to use me as the guide to understanding our mother. Knowing how it feels to not know a parent, I decided this situation required some expert interfering and subtly ordered my mom to start talking to her. The next day I get a call from my sister, who tells me that mommy rang her up and whined to her for an hour and she wants to, but doesn't know how to tactfully tell my mother to stop whining because,...... thats how life is. Just imagining the sight of my mother being told that “thats how life is” by my very lost and extremely lazy and unaccepting sister makes me want to burst out in laughter and made me realize that some people are just not meant to talk no matter how closely they’re related.
I tried to cheer up my sister by telling her that I’m not able to talk to our father which didn’t cheer her up one bit since neither is she. So I asked my sister for permission to tell my mother the whole story in a humorous manner, and it was grudgingly granted. My sister then messaged my mom on gtalk telling her that soon she and I would be laughing at my sisters expense, this she thought could be another opportunity to chat up our mother. Unfortunately my dad... ooops my Father saw the message and called back wanting to know what the joke was. My sister has given up. Naina if you read my blog, now you know. I love, admire and respect you and if we can’t talk, well, I'm not worrying, thats How life is!

Sing. Smile. Dance. Blog.

There was a young teacher who got married and left for the US of A. Then there was the young teachers old teacher who left to go live with her son in Anand. There was the teacher with the irritating grandson who went to visit her other grandsons and never came back – they were presumably easier to live with. There was the teacher who sounded like a toad with a cold on the phone and beautifully powerful when she sang, she shifted to Hyderabad, presumably to be with someone near, dear and not irritating. Not to be outdone, we left the next teacher, we didn’t go anywhere, we just stopped going there one day (I’m still hazy as to whether we told her we were dropping out).
AS a result of such intensive and extensive classic carnatic music training, today when I sing (Rasputin by Boney M being my favoured song) I bring tears to the eyes of my friends.
In his autobiography “Moab is My Washpot” Stephen Fry, the Gay-ly Profane P.G. Wodehouse, rants, in capital letters spelling out F-bombs about his inability to connect with his peers because of certain musical shortcomings. I empathise. When you can’t dance without tripping, sing along to the latest singalong song without people leaving the room, you’ve lost out on a very important and primal form of socialization, of connecting at a level beyond words, you my dear friend are out of sync with the rhythm of life. To make matters worse as Fry points out, its’ not like we’re tone deaf, If Fry and I were tone deaf we wouldn’t know what we were missing. But for someone who traces her cultural awakening to watching “A Hard Days’ Night” and falling head over heels (literally, when I tried to dance to them) in love with the Beatles, its just plain old cruel. With apologies to Brendan Behan, It’s like being the eunuch in a harem, you know how its done, you hear it being done every day, you just can’t do it yourself, it’s like being a critic (gasp)! Shudder.
This weekend I danced, I shut my eyes, stopped caring about my hair getting messy, what other people might think, other peoples feet and danced. WooHoo! Jodhpur Riff, I went to listen to Dharohar, a project/collaboration between Rajasthani Folk Artists and Jason Sigh a Beatboxer, it was absolutely fantastic, you just had to get up and dance to them, I started out with foot tapping, swaying, and bobbing my head trying to look dignified, until I finally gave in and started jumping around like crazy. Then there was Swarathma, an urban-folk-rock band from Bangalore who have issues with this classification according to their facebook page, but since I don’t know anything about their music except that it kept me dancing and I have been listening to it all Sunday and all through the writing of this post I will submit to the superior wisdom of the writer of the RIFF Pamphlet, use the classification and declare myself a fan of urban-folk-rock-bands. I went to listen to Antonio Rey one of the world’s top three Spanish guitarists, and watched Farruco a third generation flamenco dancer seduce the crowd. I didn’t dance, but I definitely drooled. And for the finale there was Sivamani, the most recognizable name in the line up, I danced again, but mainly I watched and admired the potted out hippies grooving to his beats, until that is, Dharohar came up to Jam with him, and kicked his ass. Ramu does dance. To Dharohar, with enthusiasm. With a smile.

Can you hear me Cheer?

My hands are sore and my throat is cracking, from too much clapping and wooting. I’ve had two consecutive weekends of fests, the colleges first ever sports fest “Yuvardha” was held last weekend and the Jodhpur RIFF is being held this weekend. I cheered at them, I cheered a lot.

My cheering has always embarrassed my sisters, when you’re sitting next to the girl with weird hair who’s the only one clapping and screaming encore in the otherwise silent auditorium, you’d be embarrassed too. My cheering takes classmates and friends by surprise, I am not exactly known for my spirit, being aware of what’s going on in college, or even what whathisnames name is. Add to this the fact that I don't know a single thing about football (it’s some sort of team sport which inspired quidditch!), and it’s umm weird that I'd come scream my lungs of at a football match in the blazing jodhpur heat instead of brooding about morality and goodness in the comfort of my darkened and suitably gloomy room. In fact a slightly ignored and disgruntled boyfriend accused my enthusiasm for Yuvardha as bordering on WAGish. But the truth of the matter is that I clap equally hard at sitar recitals, people taking an unpopular, un-cool stand in class and “National Seminars on Multiculturalism in India: Constitutional Provisions and Future Remedies”.
I like to clap, I like to cheer, if you have something you love doing, and the will to follow through on it, take opportunities and the courage to do it in front of an audience, I think you deserve to be cheered, and told to go for it (irrespective of how much you suck at it). The only thing I seem to be able to follow through on and do in front of a large audience is cheer!
The cheering seems to go hand in hand with my never wanting to tell someone not to do something. No matter how daft or dangerous the idea you put before me, I would tell you to go for it because if you don’t take chances, don’t do what you want to, you might as well not live, and you’ll never learn. Of course I’ll also try my best and hardest to be there if you crash and need a shoulder to cry on, or someone to come bail you out of jail at 4 in the morning.
This also seems to be a difference between elder sisters and elder brothers. Elder brothers want to protect their little sisters, elder sisters want their little sisters to go live and learn even if it means getting hurt. At least I want my little sisters too, I am never going to tell them that I have been through something, so that they don’t need to.... I’ll never ask them to learn from my mistakes, they need to make mistakes for themselves. I want them to do whatever it is that they want to do.
So, you know what? Go! Do something. Shut that laptop down, pick up a guitar, kick a ball around, whatever it is, I’m Cheering for you. Woot!

Theres a monster in my Fridge!

Its 12 at night and though I am well fed, nay stuffed on some excellent Mediterranean/Italian food from Fresc co's excellent all you can eat buffet, I am feeling hungry! Very very hungry!

Since I am at home (those of you who thought there was an all you can eat mediterranean/italian buffet in Jodhpur, I am sorry for having led you on), kindly, well-meaning but sadly ignorant friends have suggested that I simply raid my fridge, what could be better than home food after all?

Pretty Much everything, including my college mess food, would be an honest answer. My mother has given up cooking. Instead the cooking is left to our maid of 10 years, who seems to have spent the last 10 years un-learning any cooking she might have known when she first came to us. The fresc co dinner was in fact to make up for the singularly unsatissfactory lunch I had consisting of some burned Bhindi, sludge like Sambar and Soggy rice. Even my longing for a simple curd rice could not be satissfied, for when the curd in the fridge was inspected it turned out to be sour chunks of Ice a couple of days old.

The curd however was the least of the horrors that the fridge contained, consider as an example the 10 day old Rassam. Unlike Wine and Cheese, Rassam does not getter better with age (Unless you're some sort of mutant disease carrying bacteria looking for the ideal breeding ground). When Rassam has spent 5 days in a fridge, the Ghee in the Rassam congeals and floats to the top of the bowl, forming a greasy green gloop, below that lies a layer of mud coloured water which is resting on a bed of sludge made up of Dal and lightly rotting tomatoes. Rassam which has wasted in the fridge for 10 days should not be described publicly.

If that isn't enough to put you of food forever, theres the Tori, Lauki, Tinda Ki Sabji made without any Fat, any Masala or anything that makes food taste good. Then, there are the tins of grated coconut and dried Curry leaves and bags of shrivelled up lemons and green chillies. Yum!

My mother is (was?) a good cook, I remember a time when my Tiffin Boxes were famed and would be devoured by hordes of hungry classmates even before the bell for the first period of school rang. It's just that ever since I left for college, she's developed this antipathy towards Kitchens and all things domestic (when I come home, I am met not with pampering, but rather a paper containing a list of chores). Why? I don't know, whenever I ask her she mutters something darkly about freedom, not wanting kids and poison. Some kids can't wait to go home and have a nice meal. Me? I can't wait to get back to college and eat a meal without the fear of being poisoned by my mother or food poisoned by my maids cooking.

Thou shalt not blog publicly ...... (who knows what people might think)

I study in a small desert town, and the first proper rain of the season is always intoxicating. When the grass turns a lush green, and the ground is coloured in a multitude of deep reds and browns. The sky is washed a brilliant blue, and the scent of water on the ground hangs everywhere. I wish I could bottle this scent, wear these colours and feel this way forever, Wet Earth.

My two best friends and I woke up to this earthy yet ethereal feeling last evening, and decided to enjoy every minute of it. We went to a close by dhaba frequented by our College students, sat outside, enjoying the rain, the weather, the glorious feeling, good food, ourselves and the company.

Did we do anything wrong? Apart from smoking in a public place (I’m sorry, I apologise for that, allow me to put out that cigarette) I can’t think of anything, yet popular public opinion seems to be that we did a very stupid thing. We ought to think before we do things like this!

There was the guy at the dhaba who followed us into the city, fell at my friends feet, begged her not to take him wrongly, that he considers her his sister and asked her not to smoke openly. I honestly thought for a second that he meant it for her health, when I remembered that he’d been smoking too. He asked her not to travel publicly and not to eat at hotels or else her reputation will be spoiled and presumably no one will want to marry her. We ought to have thanked him for his concern, promised to be good little girls and quietly moved on. But there’s a reason the two of us are best Friends, and both of us immediately launched into an incoherent argument with him, “you were smoking! What if we were boys? No we won’t!” He got more agitated, we got more incensed. Finally our third friend had the sense to tell him, that we had heard what he had said and would consider it, he let go of my friend’s feet and we drove of fuming.

There were the guys at college who told us we had it coming and that girls should never got to Dhabas on their own. You have no Idea what people might think. There were girls who agreed. There were friends who were surprised that we went to the Dhaba on our own without manly men to protect us. There was my mother, who very thoughtfully pointed out that the new flexible and accepting me, might actually agree with him ten years down the line after reconsidering and re-evaluating what he said.

Let’s give the guy at the dhaba a break, he doesn’t know better. I’ll pass on my mother, I think she was trying to be funny or making a point. But I refuse to listen to the Big-Town-Kids-Stuck-in-a-Small -Town, with their bored, utterly condescending attitude, they’re worse than the guy at the Dhaba. They pretend to know better, they ought to know better, yet they don’t. They are the ones who need to be the change they keep saying they want to see. They’re hypocrites who think it’s OK for girls to party with them, get drunk with them, sleep with them but not OK for girls to go to a dhaba on their own.

I’ve been told I need to stop reading books, and learn to be a good human being instead, that girls should leave swearing to boys, I’ve been told by guys that they don’t believe in feminists so I better keep my mouth shut. That if I keep spewing feminism, I’m going to die sad and alone. I intend to die screaming my head off, so what if I’m alone and no one else can hear me, I’m doing it for me.

DAS: bringing adventure sports to the Masses

I went rafting this weekend. I Bumped, flew out of my seat, hung onto handles for dear life, nearly fell out and barely escaped with my life. Whatever people tell you about White Water rafting let me give you my personal word that it cannot compare with Rocky Road Rafting.

So how does one go Rocky Road Rafting? Well first of all, you shouldn’t have a plan and definitely no tickets, plans and tickets are fatal to road rafting. What you need is a little bit of crazy and a burning desire to drop everything and run away (run anywhere…… but not Rajasthan, the roads are good in Rajasthan). Land up at ISBT, Delhi (that’s the inter state bus terminal for those of you who are jet-setters, and not bus-sitters out there) in the middle of the night, look for the rattiest public bus (the smellier the better) driven by the most enthusiastic looking driver (the smellier the better, though investigating this too closely is not recommended), into Uttar Pradesh (or Madhya Pradesh, the roads are terrible for driving ergo excellent for road rafting in these two states). Scramble on board elbowing out of your way the paan chewing dude, the 80 year old grandma, Bunty, Babli and their kids Chunnu and Munnu. Make for the back seat (you may sit in the middle or front if you have heart problems), secure your luggage, secure yourself and hang on for the ride of your life as your driver takes you 80 miles per hour over potholes 80 inches deep. If you did your research carefully and picked a craz- I mean experienced driver, you can be assured of the fact that not a single crack on the road will be missed (despite the fact that the busses headlights aren’t working) and if your driver is a real sport he’ll speed up as he approaches the really good pot holes.

If you reach your destination in one piece, thank god …………. profusely. Then proceed to take part in the nearest adventure sport available, Hang Gliding, River Rafting, Bungee Jumping, Mountain biking on narrow dirt roads or temple stampeding (the other less acknowledged but extremely popular Desi Adventure Sport (DAS)) trust me the experience, the thrills and the heart rate levels will fall way short of Rocky Road Rafting.

A New Shade of Green

I’m a museum tripping, fort viewing kinda girl. I like guides (the printed and the breathing), pamphlets, badly written ASI Boards and random pieces of trivia, this is best exemplified by observing my school trips to museums. I will for the sake of brevity (hah!) limit myself to one example, our class 8th trip to the arts and handicrafts museum in Delhi. While the rest of my 200 classmates and companions in their quest for learning and knowledge ran through the museum learning essential life skills such as social networking, physical feats of multitasking like walking talking and eating while dodging the random teacher or two and of course little snippets of actual fact – “I swear I saw them holding hands .....”, I went around trying to learn about the Ikat sarees of Orissa. Solitarily staring at the plastic reproduction of an authentic weaving handloom from the early 1990s, Fascinated by the moth eaten Puppets from Northern Rajasthan and cribbing to anyone who’d listen (mostly myself or the unfortunate teacher who had to trail me) that there wasn’t enough written up about the wonders of tribal peacock fans.

In London the storybook Cottages, the Lush greenery, the clean streets, the big shops and the spell binding stage shows all made me wonder and marvel, but none made me want to move to London. It was only as I wandered through the 13th museum and passed a gaggle of high school students being instructed on the colours in a painting that I realized that a delicate hue had begun to colour my countenance. The Instructor called it Fern Green, I call it museum envy green.

I don’t care for their Castles, we have our forts and they can keep their Princes, I prefer Farhan Akhtar, I don’t need clean public loos while I have my home and the Delhi metro will catch up with the London tube eventually. The promenade by the Thames is tempting but the cold and rainy weather means you can never enjoy it. Their Food is blah and bland after a while and so long as the Big Chill exists I won’t miss their cheesecake either. Who wants green everywhere when we have green, reds and browns and a whole rainbow of colours in our landscape and who wants picture perfect cows on Rolling Meadows when we have our sacred mud and dung caked cows on pot holed roads. If I move to London it will be for the museums. So that I can spend hours roaming those vast magnificent halls, reading every line, hanging onto every word of the nice lady on the audio guide. So that my kids can learn to draw stick figures and tear paper to make kites surrounded by the masters. So that I can learn everything I want to know about mummified cats in front of a genuine Mummified cat. The knowledge, the visuals, the atmosphere, the thrill (I am thrilled by museums, thank you very much) call to me, they beckon to me, come to London they whisper seductively in my head (stop feeling sorry for me, I have fun!). But I think I will wait for the day when these museums will come to India. Until then I will content myself by advising my kids to (like my friends) focus on life skills, physical dexterity and gossip when they visit Indian museums and petitioning The Arts and Craft Museum to correct their Ikat Saree label, Ikat Sarees come from Gujarat.

of Devs, Dads, Dimples and a Deol

I did two things over this weekend, one that I never thought I would do, and one I never should have done.
I never should have gone to see Dev D with my Dad. My dad is pretty chilled out about the movies, he likes arty, serious cinema which my mom does not (my mom can watch only mindless action mixed with humour, or Mindless romance mixed with humour, or Humour, real life is arty and serious enough for her), which is why my dad now looks to his daughters for company if he wants to watch something serious. So I figured, what the hey! Here’s a chance to show him bold new Bollywood, even if he doesn’t care for the story he’d like the technical accomplishments, the songs, the direction, the production values, the acting. Aaaaaaargh! I forgot about the Sex, the drinking, the language and the fact that the protagonist is a self pitying loser who we are supposed to sympathise and cheer for after he has run over and killed an entire slum (by the way, said actions are perfectly acceptable in English Movies). It was awkward to say the least. Perhaps I could have pulled it off better had I not already seen the movie (“the reviews were so good..... but this is ......”). But now my dad thinks I identify with Dev D so much that I want to see it twice! More than that it’s a serious lapse of judgment on my part (my daughter doesn’t know what I’ll like or not like). We drove home in silence. When we got home my mom asked us how we liked it, my dad grinned and said it didn’t pass by him. Maybe it’s ok...... but he is never going to take another movie recommendation from me.
I never thought I would fall in Love (this is not a crush) with someone from the Deol family. Abhay Deol is not John Abraham (my long time crush), in all senses of the word “not”. The guy can act, he can pick movies, he does his own thing, he takes avant-garde art courses in New York (steel welding anyone?) he thought of Dev D (the movie I liked so much, that I had to watch it again, Dad or no Dad), he has dimples (Ok John Abraham has dimples too)! He is smart, a smooth talker (swoon) and utterly cute. I know we are soul-mates, no one loves the movies as much as I do, I like art, I like Dev D, I like dimples and have some vague ones myself. We’d be perfect together. I’d help him pick movies to act in and he’d help me with my job as an art museum curator. We’d talk (about smart things ya’know) and take art courses (Blowing glass in Budapest, Tile glazing in Turkey......) and do other things (smart things ya’know) together. Papparazi shots of the two of us would feature our adorable dimples, awwww........ they could call us Soudeo or Rambhay.
John Abraham (should you ever read this blog), I may crush you to death, but for Abhay I’d gladly Die myself.