13th april, 1919

It looked like any other bustling street in north India. Hand rickshaws strewn across the sides. A music shop selling tablas and sitars. Three shops that sold pictures of gods mounted in bright golden frames. Sack cloth and scaffolding covering an old building. Lost tourists fighting a one sided battle as they haggled and fought with guides and rickshaw pullers.

And then I saw the sign. A weather-beaten arch, the type face beginning to fade. It said Jallianwala Bagh.

Under the sign was a courtyard. Three doors, two cycles leaning against them. Some men on make shift chairs supervising the scaffolding, listening to their radios. And a narrow wooden door behind them.

The doors were open. I felt nothing.

I slowly walked past the door, into a narrow lane. Surrounded by high walls. I looked up to see the sky, a narrow blue strip. A green creeper had pushed its way through the cracks in the wall.

I kept walking down that narrow hemmed in path. Till i reached a sign. It said:
General Dyer conducted soldiers for firing on an innocent crowd of Indians through this passage.

Loud boots. The incessant march. Clattering over the stone surface. Left right. Left right. Filing in. One after the other. The passage is filled. The clattering is louder. The entrance is blocked.

Silent. Goose bumps. Suddenly.

I remember the lines Sarfaroshi ki tamana aaj humare dil mein hain. Bhagat singh. Udham singh. Simon go back. The rowlatt act. Everything jumbled as it all tumbles out.

The thing with history is you can bury it. In textbooks. Under scaffolding. Behind an innocuous facade.

But once it’s in the mud, the ground, the sky; it’ll always be in your blood.

serious thought to an alternate item girl career

This new year,

Rakhi Sawant will rake in 40 lakhs.

Katrina Kaif will make a cool 1 crore.

And Bipasha Basu will carry back 1.5 crores in her clutch bag.

All by shaking a leg. Okay, make that booty and boobs too.

Is it my mood or do you also feel like turning your face skywards and yelling, “ where’s the justice in this world?"

heavy stuff

Can you juice exhaustion?

Serious. I feel totally run down today. I think it’s been a combination of two weeks of partying, loafing, eating out, travelling, scrubbing, train journeys. And now finally flat out dead weight. My body refuses to cooperate. It just feels heavy and lead like. My legs are wobbly. My head aches. My eyes refuse to stay open. And I have so much work. Groan. Moan. Bitch.

So I’m wondering if I can enjoy this feeling. Be conscious of it. Don’t ignore it, don’t stress over it, just keep it...in the moment.

Think my yoga classes are going to my head.

I’m turning guru.

If I could, I would tell you I love you

I never wanted to be anything like her.

Which is sad. Because she loved me like no one else.

But love, like we all know, is just as straight and simple as a tangled mass of overhead wires over a DDA colony.

She loved me the way she knew how to. Strict. Scared. And vulnerable.

All because she never believed in herself enough. She didn’t go to college. She didn’t work. She was never financially independent. Or wildly popular.

And then she married a man, who was everything she was scared to be. He loved everything new. And he was fearless.

So again, like we all know, love is a burning thing, and it makes a fiery ring. Well, this one made a ring that trapped them both.

She scared. He happy. She fearful. He gregarious. She friendless. He loved by everyone. And the more everyone fell in love with him, the more uncertain she became.

Because, you see, he was the only thing she had.

Then she had me.

And I sensed all her fear, all her insecurities. I didn’t understand them. But I knew I was the only one she had. To take them out on.

And I built a wall around myself. I kept her out. I blocked her from my head, my mind. I was scared of her moods, her temper, her questions, her expectations.

So I ran away. Only to return with my return ticket firmly in my pocket. With a friends number at hand. With enough money to flee at the slightest chance.

For years I battled my demons. The biggest was will I ever turn out to be like her. Sometimes I found myself using the same words as her. Or the same lines. And however innocuous they were, they chilled me. The same words? The same lines?
The same fear. I was turning into her.

Then, something changed. And two years back we started to talk. On the telephone. First short conversations. Then slightly longer. Initially a little hesitant. Then a little more confident.

They came to meet me. Yes, love is a burning thing. And it makes a fiery ring. But this time it looked like they were bound by it. Some good, some bad...but well, like we all know that’s love.

So anyway, they met me. It was a start. They met me some more. I visited them. A day, two days... and now a week.

Then today I saw dust. In the bookshelves. I saw a high cabinet that had fingerprints near the handle. I saw a toaster that looked like it had been used and then kept on the side.

And I saw her. A little more human. Not so exacting. Older. More willing to forgive. Gentler. Happy.

And I realised she’s making an effort. To battle her demons. And she’s been making one for the last two years. It’s not that easy to change. But she is trying her best.

That’s when I realised I still don’t want to be her.

But neither do I want to be without her.

Then...this is to us. And the effort we make.

to do list

daniel craig

daniel craig

daniel craig

: )

with the lights out its less dangerous

There are days like these

Restless

Itchy

Like a coiled spring

Not unhappy

Not sad

Just physical

Could

Run a mile

Dance till my heart stops

Looking for

Exhaustion

A heartbeat that stops me from breathing

Sweat

Running down my back

Just physical

Like ecstasy

Like tripping

Like dancing under strobe lights

Like hair flying

Like forgetting i’m alive

Like not seeing

Not sensing

Just knowing

This moment will explode.

I do

The next best thing.

Nirvana.

On full volume.

The drums kick start

The guitar is hard

The sound courses through my body.

Thank you Kurt Cobain.

May you rest

In the disco of my brain.

quantums of sula

So last evening i get a call from z. She tells me “want to do something crazy tonight.”

Now that’s always a great way of getting my attention. So of course i immediately agree. Turns out my instincts are sharp because the crazy thing includes free booze, free food, total timepass and a party where i will not know anyone.

Nothing tops my favourite list like “not know anyone”. I don’t know about you, but i have this thing for parties where i will not know people. Always thrilling. Always brimming with possibilities. Never give your real name. Never state your correct occupation. Talk to only those whose faces you like. No boring polite conversation only because tomorrow you will feel bad that i ignored you. And best of all, you can keep bumming cigarettes off strangers without having to worry about them doing the same to you later.

Anyway so then B calls. And I relay the news to him. He decides to join us too.

The party is being hosted in a lounge bar by the sea. It’s by a company that’s having this splash out james bond party for its super exclusive customers. And the girl who’s invite we are piling on to, only knows z. The stage is set for madness.

Needless to say we are the life of the party. We drink like a small lake between us. I, who have been off alcohol, start with rose, move to white wine and then sometime much later realise I’m drinking the red stuff. We storm the gambling tables. We cadge cigarettes off people. We comment on everyone’s clothes, boobs and wigs.

And then we hit the dance floor.

Well, I’m sure the party was a success. And I was very drunk. Because at some point when I was pleading with the DJ to play “one shong, one laast shong”, some strange men came up to me and said, “ Thank you for the danshing!”

They thought we were being paid to do all that stuff.

Damn. I have a new career.

(PS: too hung-over to tell you guys about the characters at the party. That shall be my next post. Mr ill fitting wig man, Miss can’t keep your boobs in your shirt, Miss nice skirt from lokhandwala, Mr airline guy who’s wearing a feather boa across his neck. And Miss is that a man or a woman! And they thought we were being paid to entertain them???!!!)

patterns on the wall

when you lie

i see

blank walls

with marks

where pictures hung

a matteress

resting against

the walls of moving van

plastic packets

old newspapers

empty bottles

scruffy door mats

all left in the landing

i see

silence

wet eyelashes

a tap that drips

a clothesline that's empty.

when you lie i see

my life without you

and i make myself believe you.