There are times when:

When you want that phone to ring/beep, but it just won't.

When you want that stranger you just met on the street to turn around, but they just won't.

When you search through the racks of the library frantically to find that one particular book, but you just won't.

When you run your eyes up and down repeatedly through that list to locate your name on it, earnestly hoping that you might've missed it the last time, but you just won't.

When you want a particular story you're reading/ movie you're watching to take a happy turn, but it just won't.

When you want that train/flight to run behind schedule for merely ten minutes, but it just won't.

When you want someone to treat you the same way (if not better) you treat them, but they just won't.

When you want the doctor to just smile at you and say everything is fine and that there's nothing to worry about, but he just won't.

When you want someone whom you secretly liked and whom all your friends hated in college, to turn out to be great, but they just won't.

When you want the people who are the closest to you to understand your problem without you even having to express it, but they just won't.

When you see a four year child completely absorbed in a cartoon series that you had once watched with as much of interest, but now, no matter how hard you try, you just won't.

When you learn about a new development in your friend's life and you want to genuinely feel happy about it, but you just can't.

When you want to say really nasty and mean things to someone who's a complete douche-bag, but you just won't.

When you want life to stop being a bitch for once, but it just wont.

When you want to stop ranting about life and just live it, but you just won't. :)

निजगाद सा यदुनन्दने

I wish to twirl in your darkness, 
wrapping it around my fair self.
Let your darkness permeate my very soul 
and dye me black.
Taint me, for purity is banal.

Let your darkness
prance upon my barren self.
Let it rise like thick smoke,
eclipsing me and my doubts.

Let it drip along my form,
drop by drop, 
washing away my vanity and frailty.

Smear me with your darkness.
Allow me to dissolve in it.
For this form is too tiresome to bear.
Bless me with ignorance 
which only your touch could accord.

Let your darkness grow on me, 
and consume me.
Let it camouflage me
in this dark night, 
in the cosmic darkness
that knows no bounds.

I don’t wish to be seen; 
conceal me in your dark embrace.
I wish to be as close to you as your darkness.
I want to be you.
Let your darkness eat me away 
leaving behind no residue.

                                                   

For Once

For once let's fly and never come back.
For once let's make it a magical night.
For once let's forget everything else.
For once let it just be you and I.
For once let's not judge and be not judged.
For once let's overlook the imperfections yours and mine.
For once let there be no fear.
For once let the anxities be suspended.
For once let not the uncertainities ruin the moment now.
For once let the prudence hang lose.
For once let the eyes speak.
For once let the word be felt not heard.
For once let's touch moonlight.
For once let's capture the twinkle of stars.
For once let the silence of the night permeate our souls.
For once let's lose ourselves.
For once let's try to find each other.
For once let's forget the wrong and right.
For once let's make it a magical night.
For once let it be just you and I.

The Ancient Youth

“Arts fac, baithiye, Arts fac! Bees rupaye. Baithiye!" (Arts fac, sit, Arts fac! Twenty rupees. Sit!")

Angai wondered, as she emerged out of the metro station, how these rickshaw-pullers always slotted the people without erring, how they somehow knew that person like her would go nowhere else but Arts faculty. She was in hurry and in no mood of haggling. She nodded and boarded the rickshaw silently. On her way to Arts Faculty she saw a motley of students passing by—walking, chatting, munching, making faces at each other, nudging each other. They all looked so charming to her.

“bhaiya khule nahi hain?”

She got off the rickshaw after rummaging through her wallet for change for a minute or so. As soon as she stepped on the campus of the University of Delhi, the words of Alisha, a dear friend, echoed in her head, “soak in some campus air for me when you go there.” She felt like a foreigner encroaching upon her property. It was Alisha’s campus. Her heart ached for Alisha. She wished she could go and salvage her from her house arrest. She wished she could just go argue fiercely with Alisha's parents and ask them to let her be, let her fly, let her breathe.

She reached the first floor where she was to submit the form—her form. Another attempt. She was anxious. She took out the form from the bag. The form had become limp, maybe because of the weight of her hopes, she thought.

“That way. Window number 53. Submit your form there,” a gentleman told her.

This was a familiar territory. She was acquainted with those classrooms. She had attended a few classes there. They seemed inviting. There was something so romantic about those corridors; they had an old-world charm about them; something very organic.

Her eyes met a slew of students waiting much before him to submit the form. Some were making inquiries; some were fanning themselves with their forms; some were cursing the prolonged lunch break. The wait seemed endless. She observed all of them closely. Her gaze was glazed with awe. These were the students who had studied literature formally. They had read Derrida and Foucault as part of their curriculum. They had thrived on Shakespeare, and had breathed Wordsworth and Keats. And here was she, merely on a caprice. How farcical it must seem to them if they got to know about it. They’d laugh, she was positive. They had formally read literature; whereas she...she merely lived it. Yet she, a student of medicine, was there...among them; trying to be one among them. Why, she wondered. Everyone she knew would either find her decision amusing or absurd. The people sharing the latter sentiment certainly outnumbered those who shared the former.

Though she vociferously defended it, she herself knew how impractical and unsound the decision was when considered on financial and professional grounds. Maybe she did not want others to tell her that. Why, she wondered again. Was it to prove a point? If yes, then to whom? No. Not to others definitely. She could have continued with her medical practice, had that been the case for that would make his kin so happy. Then? To herself? Maybe yes. It wasn’t just a course for him; not just another thing to be done. It was a decision as queer as her. It could be something that would define her. She knew she deserved to be there regardless of the result of the entrance test. He knew how deeply he revered the subject, how she slept with Othello pressed hard against her chest, how she had read so much into Faustus, how her eyes would light up every time there was a discussion on Austen or the Bronte sisters. She wanted to belong there. She too wanted to be part of that system; to be able to gripe about it legitimately.

“May I borrow that pen for a second?”

The girl standing next to her obliged. She wrote her phone number at the back of the Demand Draft which was to be submitted along with the form. The queue had moved a few inches forward. She spotted something-- a someone rather. How could she have not noticed this boy till now? The boy stood tall and lean; his complexion clear and glowing; his face bespectacled. While the rest of them were constantly fretting, fidgeting and grumbling, checking and re-checking if their documents were in place or not, this fellow was standing with his sang-froid. This nonchalance was magnetic. To Angai’s fanciful gaze he looked like young and solemn Buddha. The ancient youth was biting his lips and was lost in some sort of deep meditation. His entire demeanour suggested as if he was gravid with some profound realisation. He certainly seemed to be on the brink of it, if not fully realised it.

Angai was happy. She had found an engagement worthwhile. This should help him ignore the crawling pace of the queue and the humid summer. No, the attraction was far from sexual. The boy looked too pristine to evoke any such sentiments. This attraction was pure. Something similar to what she had felt for Priyank. In her head Angai had walked up to him and said “hi” already; the boy, too, had flashed a broad smile and took keen interest in this random stranger who had walked up to him to strike a conversation; they had hit off instantly; they were sitting in some cafe conversing seamlessly and the conversation segued from literature to philosophy, from politics to their personal lives; they had contemplated on the purpose of life, or the incoherence of life by now. That was all that Angai expected—his company. But, as always, that was all in Angai’s head. All these things only happened with others. Angai either read about them or heard about them.  The queue had moved. The boy had submitted his form already and left. All Angai could do was to watch the back of his navy blue shirt, drenched in sweat, disappear slowly in the crowd.

“Form dijiye...” the clerk peeped from behind the window.





                                                           

Let's Talk Bombay Talkies

So, a couple of days back I (finally) got an opportunity to watch the much acclaimed and the much talked about Bombay Talkies. I am no connoisseur of cinema. I blatantly confess my inability to appreciate the finer nuances and technical aspects of cinema as a form of art. My appreciation of the movie is hardly based either on the apparently superficial parameters such as: popularity of the star cast, merit of the director(s), locales in which the movie is shot (I couldn't have cared less if ZNMD was shot in Satpura instead of Spain), or the more profound aspects such as the intricacies of plot construction, nuances of characterization, art direction, verisimilitude of the story etc. Or maybe these factors influence me subconsciously without my being fully aware of them. All I mean to say is that I don’t go in with a check-list in my hand. 

By and large, I've realised, that the one thing that appeals to me the most in a movie, or any form of art for that matter, is its potency to stir emotions, thrum the strings of heart, as it were. If the movie does that, then, at least for me, it redeems itself of all other inevitable flaws that it has; for art is the extension of humanity not divinity; and perfection is not a human realm. Yes, there's always a better way of doing, saying and creating things. But that should not preclude one from appreciating the beauty of the art form as it stands now.

Perhaps, that's one reason I've never been copiously pleased by Sci-Fi, action flicks, or even thrillers for that matter. I may enjoy a rom-com here and there, but it won't be something that stays with me. Whereas the movies which may be apparently nondescript but manage to ripple my emotions usually persist in my memory, influence me, and become a part of my life.

I was told that Bombay Talkies is my kind of movie. I read the reviews and the broad story line and had an inkling that I might actually like the movie. However, within few days of its release the movie had raked a storm of discussions in the intellectual circuits. The critique was highly polarised. 

Of the many things that caught people's fancy was Karan Johar's bold, serious and overt depiction of a homosexual character in his short story.

 While there was one section of the top crust of humanity that hailed it as the coming of age cinema and commended K Jo's daring, the other section panned the movie for depicting the gay character in a negative light-- allegedly as a "husband-snatcher". 

I for one think that perspectives of the critics on both sides of the fence are a little too loaded. It was a story. And a story should be seen as just that. A story is a small fragment of someone's reality. By passing a judgment on a story we implicitly pass a judgment on someone's reality. While I could not see in what manner was the gay guy trying to "snatch" the husband, I would not be surprised at all even if he were depicted so. Are we saying that queer people are sacrosanct and are not as susceptible to human follies as straight folks? 

In fact, not even once does the wife in question begrudge the gay man or show any sign of resentment toward him. She begrudged the husband. And mind you the grudge was not ascribed to his being gay, but to his deception-- for keeping her in dark, for donning a facade all through their married life. 

I think people missed out on the larger message that Karan wanted to convey through his story (and also by deciding not to marry himself) that while it is not wrong to be gay, it is wrong to be deceitful. 

The story commences on the note: "Homosexual hu main...homosexual. Chakka nahi hu. Na chakka hona galat hai aur na homsexual hona. Samjha!! (I am homosexual not a eunuch. And there's nothing wrong in being either. Understand)"

And the story ends on the note: "...jhooth bolna buri baat hai (it's wrong to lie)". 

I think these two lines sum up the entire essence of the story and define its premise. People failed to read this underlying and subtle message. 

It was not a case of a gay man alluring a straight man to sleep with him driven by lust. The husband was a closeted gay man himself. If anything the gay man should be commended for having such an effective 'gay-dar' (just kidding. lol). 

Surprisingly, I always empathise with women in such cases. No matter what, I somehow I cannot see how under any circumstances--however extenuating-- can a gay man choose to put a woman's marital life at stake. Maybe few years down the line when I am more experienced and more mature I may come to terms with this aspect of queer existence especially in a socio-cultural milieu like ours, but for now, I can't but be a little judgmental. 

For me the high point of the story was when the wife after all the sobbing and weeping breaks into a smile and concludes that now she's free and it's over. I loved the sense of liberation she experienced in that moment. I loved how she felt absolved of the guilt of not being appealing enough for her husband or not being worthy of his love. 

I can't imagine the agony-- that constant self-doubt, that constant guilt of being incompetent, that constant sense inadequacy on the count of not being desirable enough for her man-- of that woman caught up in such a marriage. 

All this while the wife dressed up seductively only to elicit gaze that makes her feel desirable-- something which her stoic husband could not accord her. 

I loved that moment when the wife is shown wearing a blood red lipstick post the confrontation she has with her husband. She was now dressing up for herself and not to please the husband for a change. It is that sense of emancipation that thrilled me.

The husband belittles the gay man, because he is not able to digest the gay man’s courage and unapologetic disposition.  He turns hostile towards the young man not because he was miffed by the unseemliness of the young man’s move, but his own inability to resist temptation. The violence was not the fallout of prudery; it was the fallout of fear—the fear of confronting one’s own desires. The husband saw in the young man what he himself could never be.

While the story subtly censures the lie pulled off by the husband all his life, the story also briefly reveals the rather mordacious ramifications of accepting and being vocal about the truth of one’s own sexuality in the land of “Satyamev Jayate”. The young gay man is subjected to vehement violence and barbed remarks (physical and mental torture) at the hands of his own father finally culminating in the ouster of the young man from his house. The price that hundreds of queer children have to pay for speaking truth, nothing but the truth, about something as innate as their sexual orientation. Sad and shameful, isn’t it?

I wonder why people overlooked these aspects of the story and either went about extolling the story or excoriating it left right and centre. 

Like any other anthropological existence, Queer existence too is so diverse and complex that no one film, or story, can do full justice to it or present a panoptic view of it. One story can only portray one dimension of queer reality. Censuring the story is saying as if that particular dimension is non-existent. 

I feel that the best thing about a story —a realistic one-- is that it’s a slice of life. It can be good, it can be bad. It can’t be right or wrong. 

Phew! Well, talking about the other stories: Zoya’s story was extremely endearing. The way it subtly questioned and subverted our notions of (hyper) masculinity was indeed praise worthy. The way the child innocently gives up on hewing to his father's ideas of how boys should be was touching. " But I hate it. Mujhe nahi maarna goal-voal. Goal maaro...goal maaro...goal maaro."

 Honestly, I don’t care even if it was a rip off from some western movie. I loved it! Period.  

I am ashamed to admit that this was the first time I witnessed the genius of Nawazudien Sidique. And I must say all the praises that I’ve heard about him were not even one bit exaggerated. He is certainly a ‘Nat-Samraat’ in making. 

The three child artists were also brilliant. The first one’s unassuming rendition of the melodies from the golden era of Indian cinema (Hindi film music to be more precise); the second one’s mere smile when she sees her father return home with a story was more eloquent than any poesy; the third one’s expressive eyes which dilate and light up when he sees his mother’s stilettos and slips into them tugged my heart. The fine depiction of pathos, helplessness and a consuming sense of urgency on Vijay’s face when he is unable to get through the gates of Pratiksha (Mr Bachhan’s residence in Mumbai) is truly remarkable. 

All in all, I connected with the movie at various levels. It is one movie I’ve seen in a long time that will linger on for some time to come. It was simple (nothing grand or ostentatious), subtle and yet effective. 

                                                             

  

Of Love Awe and Resentment...

Dear C,

I am sorry to have been writing to you so late. It’s been long overdue now. But I am sure you’d forgive me.  Why won’t you. You’re magnanimity personified. I don’t think I even need to tell you how electrified I was upon seeing you after almost five years. You could see it in my eyes, couldn’t you? You could see my eye-pupils dilate as I walked closer and closer to you. In fact, I could hear your presence much before I could see you. I was thrilled. My gait was competing with my heart-beat.  I don’t know what exactly draws me to you. I think, it’s more of intrigue than love.

There’s so much we owe to you, and most of the times we don’t ever realise your importance. I admire how you go on about your business silently, while everyone thinks that you’re just loafing about. They don’t see what it takes to be who you are and how difficult it is to be who you are just because you don’t show it; but when you do, even the mightiest tremble. Now, you see, this is another reason I am so deeply fascinated by you. You wield so much power; and yet you are not bumptious. Well, most of the times. You know your limits well. Your grace, notwithstanding your rather formidable immensity, is something that renders me in sheer awe.   

I could spend hours at length staring at you -- just looking at you meditatively without uttering a word. And I love the way you stare right back at me with the same meditative gaze, as if trying to whisper something in my ears — maybe the secret of life, its origin, or its culmination. I am sure you know it. You’ve seen it all. From you it all began and into you it would be all laid to rest. When I see you I somehow I feel that all my thoughts are being subliminally subsumed by you. And I think you are one of the few who has the fortitude and resilience to withhold them without showing an iota of disdain or alarm.  With you can I be assured that the brine immanent in my eyes is-- and will always be-- less than that in yours. It’s a consolation of a different kind. Maybe you won’t understand.

Feeling your cold body touch mine makes me feel connected to the past, the present and the future simultaneously. I feel as if I am here, I am there, and I am everywhere your vast expanse spreads. I can’t even begin to imagine how you engulf so much in you when even the little that remains bare seems endless. Yes, I feel, that’s one of the most remarkable quality that draws me toward you: you are deep. Unfathomably deep. In others I always seek depth; and in myself I always seek height. Shall I tell you a secret? I fancy my heart as mysterious as yours.

I can’t still forget that night when your entire body was glazed in shimmering moonlight. For the first time, I saw the moonlight dance. It was dancing to the symphony created by the sound of waves swashing against the shore and the bombination of the blowing breeze. A symphony I had been longing to hear for many years now. I only felt bad for there was no one with me on that full-moon-lit and vernal night who could truly appreciate this surreal moment. There was no one with whom I could amble on your shores hand in hand. There was no one to who could recite a poetic verse or two to commemorate this splendid moment. There was no one who could be my anchor on your shores or in my life.  I often say this, and I say it again: I’ve never had very big aspirations. I’ve always looked for joy in small little moments such as these, but when one is denied even those, then, one is bound to feel a little resentful. Won’t you second me, O Mighty Ocean?

With fondest love

aviD


                                                               

Cheese Spread

The mother must have gotten used to it by now. It was not the first time it had happened: sometimes it would happen multiple times in the same day. He would snap at her for no reason, or for a reason too picayune. Today it happened when she was edifying him about the importance the scrubbing the crevices of the kitchen-wares lest dirt should settle there and won’t just budge. “I know all that already, mother. Don’t tell me how to look after the kitchen. I’ve known it all my life. It’s hardwired in me. There are better things I need to learn from you. If only I was half as street-smart as you.”
“’Hard-wired!’ damn! That was the word I was looking for today in the school. Your snapping does me some good, I must admit” mother returned.

Not knowing what to say, he just smiled. Mothers...

And then came the routine process of deconstructing the reasons of his crankiness in his head, and the pangs of guilt. Maybe it was the lumps in the white sauce. He should’ve stirred it slowly adding the milk carefully in small quantities. But he knew how to fix it. He got it off the flame once it was done and passed it through a fine sieve. And there was his white sauce—smooth and perfect— all set to be added to the cheese spread he was preparing. He somehow just knew the remedy. No one had taught him all that. It just came so naturally to him. He amazed himself with things such as this.

Or maybe it was the conversation that he had had with an old school-friend today. She just wanted him to be there for her if (God forbid) things don’t work out between her and her boyfriend. “I’d just want you to be around when I am raising the baby. I’d live next door to you, or somewhere in the same locality as yours. Whatever! I would never have an iota of physical or financial expectations from you. Just be there mentally or morally or whatever the f**k they call it.” The lines played out and rang in his head verbatim. It cannot be a coincidence that another dear friend had said exactly the same thing—almost word by word— to him. It was a bit eerie. What should this arrangement be called? Quasi-marriage? It was a commitment however unconventional. Wasn’t it? A commitment he wasn’t sure of—at least at that point in his life. He loved both of them very much. Each of them was such integral part of his life. One with whom he had spent the most adventurous and blissful days of his school life. And the other who had practically initiated him into his youth, and had helped him explore those facets of his existence which he himself was unaware of. Yet, he could not willingly give his consent to either of the proposals. There was something that held him back. Perhaps it was a matter of allegiance. He could not commit himself to something that he wasn’t sure of fulfilling. His life was not entirely his. He owed it many others. He couldn’t be selfish no matter how hard he tried. Everyone was busy envisaging and designing his future for him: parents, sibling, few close relatives, friends—without asking what he wished for. Ironically, he himself had not taken any call yet. What if he doesn’t even live that long. Envisaging so distant a future seemed a smug exercise to him. Nevertheless, each possibility was equally satisfying and would come with its own set of prospects and consequences. But he wanted the latitude of exercising his choice. It was his life too, after all. What he’d want ten years down the line would depend on his frame of mind then. Why would someone want to lay his/her claim on it. He also knew that eventually he’d end up hurting at least one of the parties, which was again something he’d never want to do. Expectations: the root cause of all the sufferings, in this world.

Or perhaps it was the new territory (a dating website) he had ventured into lately. It was quite an “it” thing among his peers. It was transformative exercise for him and nostalgic too. The same array of emotions had rushed through him as did when he was merely twenty one years of age. The same set of misgivings, realisation of inadequacies and the worst of it all—hope. Hope: something that he had conveniently managed to inhume under the overlay of his academic and career pursuits. It was a fun(ny?) place undoubtedly. But he realised that there were no takers of what he had to offer. And what was expected out of him there was something that he was incapable of. He was trying sincerely though. He had seen a couple of known faces there, but he was too prudish to walk up to them and greet them...at least there. In the real world he would wonder if he could ever manage to foray in to those dark and animalistic recesses of the minds of the apparently decorous people; in the virtual world, on the other hand, he would try to seek the humane side of the clientele thereof. “There must be something more than that to them, more than what meets the eyes” he would think in each case—former and latter. But the very initial few visits to that zone had taught him that all the qualities that he had acquired with such a lot of perseverance were of absolutely no value there. Who cared to what length he could go to get that just the right texture for his white sauce and prepare the most scrumptious cheese spread his parents had ever tasted.

Mother patted his back upon tasting it. “You are quite something. Honestly, I had never expected it to be this delicious” she said as she munched on the toast.