Chiffonesque

I went to see another movie and thought of several things. Some were my very own observations, some others can be credited to the erudite company I was with. (I shall not name them because a few of them will ask me for money, and mean it.) But most of these observations, to my knowledge, have no grounding in anything more substantial than what can be dismissed as a shrugged-off 'just'… 1. If Salman Khan is dancing with several women at the same time, then none of the women are Indian. The prancing pulchritude must be tall, blond, and Nordic. Oh yes, and it must be a large group, a bevy, an assortment of many. But he is looking very fetching these days - definitely deserves this new mantle of being the collective noun for PYFTs (pretty, young, foreign things). 2. This observation was made by a very close friend of mine with who I have spent numerous hours watching boring movies. We share a bond that can only arise from being suckers of cinematic punishment. We have seen Bewafaa

Dear Job, As you know, I’ll be leaving you soon. As you may also guess, I’ll miss you a lot. But what you may not know, and what I must tell you now, is how much I love you. Sure, we did get off on the wrong foot. I mean, I was with you for the money; and you were with me for the labor, and that’s always mulch for foolish expectations. But that was only the first week, wasn’t it? That was before we got to know each other; before you found out that beneath this hard, arrogant surface was a girl who could do anything for the promise of creative writing. And beyond your cold, exploitative demeanor, I saw how earnest you were in giving me a chance. Do you remember how you helped me build a parallel world? You were the first to introduce me to all these concepts and theories and this iceberg of knowledge that I didn’t know existed. You showed me the magic and the madness of pedagogy – of how the mind works, of why and how people learn. You know, when you’d try and involve me in this mire of

This post has its roots in my nebulous misanthropy. I do not like people too much. I am fascinated by them the way one is curious about anything that one doesn't like - the noise in the dark, perhaps, or that thing that floats in the custard. It is doubly fascinating for me because I'm not only the eye that observes, but I'm also the thing that floats in the custard. And now, there shall be no more talk of dessert flotsams because I like custard. Anyway, Ambuj suggested that I make a list of things I like. But that's entering into a heap on a muddle on a mound of so much. Therefore, I thought of what I'd like to be. In school, we used to write essays that involved exciting personifications. We'd write the autobiography of a pen, of the apple tree in the school compound, of our needlework teacher who was as human as the first two. (I lied about the third one.) I used to love that. So, here's a list of things I'd like to be. And if it matters at all, I wan

Setting the stage Let's say you're a satisfied, successful person. You are well-heeled and neat. There's no dirt under your finger-nails, your nose is always clean, and you smell fresh all the time. Your home gleams with polished silver and scrubbed marble floor. Your workplace is free from litter and organized into little neat squares and stacks. Then one evening, as you sit down to catch up on your correspondence, you see a leper across the road. His limbs are deformed and there are stinking, pus boils on his body. He sits amidst muck and looks at you. You look back at him, his environment, his filth; and then inexplicably, you see yourself. What would you feel? When you found out that his world and your world is one? When he and you are the same? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Scenes Alpha - Kappa Two years back, I remember getting drunk on a l-o-t of tequila. (I love that name, by the way - tequila . It's tempting enough to be alcoholic; but too proud to be a vice. Som

Last weekend, after a really long time, I went to the movies. And what can I say, it was a Rip Van Winkle experience. For starters, there clearly are no other colors in the world except for purple and yellow. So, whether it’s DNA (newspaper), FAME ADLABS (cinema halls, Cadbury (chocolate), Purplex (club), Jolly Jimbos (playschool) – everything is purple and yellow. And the exact same shade . Like, those fruit mocktails that you get in all Shiv Sagar outlets. They all look and taste the same. If you were blindfolded and given a sip of the mocktail, you wouldn’t know which Shiv Sagar it’s from. Similarly, if you were jolted out of your sleep and something in purple and yellow were flashed before you, you’d be flummoxed. You wouldn’t know if you’re looking at a DNA hoarding, or had to pick up your child from the school, or had to bribe the bouncer at the club, or what. Purple and yellow. The new dilemma since black and white. Also, going for the movies is now, officially a scheduled budge

Some people put uncomfortable furniture in their houses on purpose. They do that to gauge how unsuspecting guests will react to discomfort. This, by the way, is an exceedingly humorous 'timepass', if you're not too concerned about bad karma or Italian vendetta. (The last bit is based on an insightful episode of Johny Bravo. That man is genius.) So, some guys have the centre table located in what is probably the centre of the neighborhood and not the room. So if you want to reach out to take that kebab or put down the glass, you'll need to extend your arms and risk dislocating a vertebra. (which, as my stupid cousin peering over my shoulder just pointed out, is not located in the arm..my point is that such strenuous stretches are bad for the back as well. This is what I meant. I have such Complan-deprived cousins!) Then they'll have gaddis so soft that it feels like candyfloss. These mattresses do make that statement of 'cultured, refined poet, also humanitarian

Oh I’ll tell you where I am alright! I’m in this tubular excavated space in the wall that, in Bandra..and only in Bandra, is known as a trial room. I’ve come here to try out a pair of jeans but clearly, not being a hobbit is a disadvantage. So, I bump here and there and stamp my own feet twice. To add to that, there’s an infernal low-slung fan that gets switched on when my head bumps against it. I have to try out two pairs – one black and one blue…to go with my bruises, am sure. Ah! There’s much to be said for denim metaphors. Then there’s the waist size. My waist is, say ‘x’. So if I try out a pair of jeans that says Waist size: ‘x’ , it should fit me, right? Well, turns out it doesn’t. And it’s not even those low-cut, circle the hips thingies. It’s a regular pair; but then again what does regular really mean anyway. My extremely foul friend stands outside bubbling with insult as she listens to Rabbi. ‘What’s taking you so long?’ ‘These jeans aren’t fitting me.’ ‘Why? You said your wa

As I write about this incident now, there’s a vein throbbing in my head. My jaws are clenched and I’ve removed all sharp objects from around me. But despite the steady grip of fury, I ask this question with a very stable, healthy, intellectual curiosity: What do men mean when they say they’ll call on Wednesday? Now, I’m a woman. I’m supposed to be complexed with a smorgasbord of moods. I’m supposed to wilt at the prospect of something and bloom at the promise of another with no rationale in sight. I’m supposed to be temperamental and wild and petulant; the unicorn, the centaur, the keeper of many secrets. And yet, to this emotionally pretzeled creature such as myself, ‘I’ll call on Wednesday’ does mean that the man making the statement will actually call on Wednesday. That, as it turns out, is pure, virgin naïveté. Because ‘I will call on Wednesday’ actually means ‘I may call on Wednesday’, ‘I probably won’t call on Wednesday’, ‘I will sit and stare at ants give birth to other ants

Thanks to Nagesh, I have a gmail address as well. It is...guess! guess! No! Guess once more! (Okay, here's the thing. It's lunch time in office and this girl is acting cute with a boy who is sitting on my chair. So I'm getting irritated. She's wearing a Beavis and Butthead watch for God's sakes! I'm imitating her.) Guess no ooooo....... (Okay, he's up now.) My gmail address is: mukta.raut@gmail.com Therefore, all missives to be sent there. Again, thanks Nagesh. Gmail is spiffy! PS - That watch is rather nice though! Geez! It's digital! Shuxdom!

Let it be known, let it be said Long after I'm gone and dead; That in my lifetime, from so far, I reached my office in half an hour. I lost my scarf in the whizzing ride And yet I take it in my stride I write forced poems and I laugh And cheerfully script my epitaph. *Waits for applause to die down*

Rajeev and I became friends because of the way alphabets are arranged on the keyboard. There’s a ‘Y’ next to the ‘T’ and sometimes, when you type fast (in my case, using all of three fingers), you hit both alphabets together – even though you didn’t mean to. So, one day I used the office messenger service to ask him: ‘Are you busty?’ He replied: ‘No..and stop rubbing it in. By the way, I’m not busy either.’ Anyway, Rajeev’s like that. If he were a category, he’d be ‘Miscellaneous’; if he were a color, he’d be something with an ‘ish’ suffix…bluish, pinkish, hazelnuttish. If you met him, you’d think he was one of those guys who’d sit in the Stalls of theatres and hoot and whistle…or he’d be one of those who’d know Gunther’s last name. (Gunther – waiter in Friends who has a crush on Rachel.) He described anything excellent as ‘CLAAASS!’ That meant first class I suppose. If something were boring, he’d call it ‘jaded fuck.’ That always conjured up a bejeweled mattress in my mind, so I

Last week, days and nights rolled together to form one long, wet continuum. In such continuum, sometimes there was respite. I’m writing about the experiences I had during that respite. The exact date and time I do not know. I just remember those moments as the time when the rains had stopped and the air was filled with mojo. ***************************************************** Wee hours, Marine Drive It’s an even indigo sky. Rain falls softly like scales of a silver fish. The sea is torrid but is generally behaving itself. The roads look freshly coated with paint – that’s how wet roads look when they don’t have potholes. This is Marine Drive. It now looks neurotic and beautiful – like the brink of sanity; like the psyche’s twilight zone; like the rim of a whim. This is the unreal Mumbai where there has been no flooding. Rain and its attendant despair are still meiotic. My friend and I have driven here in silence listening to Dire Straits. We get out of the car and walk towards the Dri