Chiffonesque

Last night was good fun. I love last minute plans. A friend of mine and I went to this hideously designed ‘Bar and Kitchen’ opposite my office. It was strung with unholy Kermit green lights and looked so desolate and haunting – it’s called ‘Spirit’. I, being short of cash, couldn’t afford anything as fancy as Pop Tates. (And when Pop Tates seems fancy, one can only imagine how short of cash I was.) To add insult to injury, I got into a Standard Chartered ATM near office. First of all, the machine talked… Welcome here, and we are processing this and that, and please enter your card again, etc . These things should come with a mute option. Of course, I have never encountered a talking ATM machine. So, when I first heard, Welcome…hmm humm…Mukta…whirr…humm humm…Raut , excuse me, but I was scared. I looked around quizzically, because of late I have been praying really hard and given that God does work in strange and mysterious ways, one never knows. The obnoxious guard, however, stuffed his

I just got myself a razor-sharp haircut at Bandra. I didn’t intend to, but I was really impressed with one of those celebrity stylists in the salon I was at. Here’s how my socks got knocked off: PYT (in a stunning white halter dress and red stilettos): Hey! What if this cut doesn’t suit my face? Stylist (with tattoo, biceps, and torn jeans): Then change your face, sweetheart. Now, nothing impresses me as much as a stinging sense of humor…unless it is directed at me of course..and most times, even then. I really liked the dude, and asked him quite sheepishly if he would cut my hair (which is already short.) He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and began. For a really long time, he almost shredded each strand of my hair. Listening to Jimmy Hendrix, that too. I don’t like Jimmy Hendrix. But no-one really asked my opinion about the music. The PYT, looking more ravishing than ever in her new bob-cut, sang along and whistled and stuff. I made a face because the dude was actually ‘split

It is very close to my favorite season of the year and I am feeling tired. In fact, more than tired, I'm feeling jaded. What's going to be new and different now? Routine swells of time will pass, days will come and go, nights will spread and recede, and time will pass. What's going to happen? Sometimes, I wonder if it is such a good idea to keep a diary. I write to keep track of the winks and nudges of the Universe. To get a sense of perspective. But there's no perspective to be had because I can't see the boundaries. I don't know where anything begins and where anything ends. If you do believe the law of karma, how can you say a particular incident is a cause or an effect? And if you can't determine even something as fundamental as that, then does it mean you have to be on your toes all the time? And why is it important to make sense of all this, in any case? Because...I think minds are condemned to reason. There is nothing more annoying than faced with the

The other day, a couple of friends mentioned that those who put up their pictures on sites such as orkut or facebook, etc. deserve to have them misused. Their rationale is that if you don’t want someone to take your picture and use it on a porn site, don’t take the risk and have it up on the Web. I don’t agree with this line of thinking and not because I am idealistic (which is the euphemistic tag for ‘stupid’.) What’s ‘asking’ for it? With the crime rate so high, do you ‘ask for it’ if you step out of the house and get mugged or beaten or something? With corruption so rampant, do you ‘ask for it’ if you approach the courts and not get your due? There are plenty (I mean p-l-e-n-t-y) of people, women included, who think that ladies who tempt fate by wearing provocative clothes shouldn’t complain if they get eve-teased or molested. They ‘asked for it’. These are people I have studied with, I work with, who are currently having their applications processed at Brown’s. In such a scenario,

If we posit that all of us are interconnected by common frailties and strengths, if there is indeed a universal base and a universal blanket, then is there anything like minding your own business? Maybe getting up, close, and personal with a rank stranger is simply a different way of looking into the mirror. When I try to figure out your life, am I not trying to understand mine? Do we really expect people to stay out of our lives? Or perhaps we, in fact, expect that people will beseech entry and then always be mindful of the privilege when it is granted. What is it that rankles when someone asks an invasive question? What makes a question invasive? Is it contextual? (For example, if I weigh a 100 kilos, questions about my weight will be invasive. If I weigh 50 kgs, it is not. If I’m 28 and a partner in a law-firm, questions about age is okay. If I’m 45 and a struggling writer, then it’s not.) Does our disapproval stem from the notion that the ‘questioner’ is not required to concern he

I just had this bizarre vision in my head a few minutes ago while I was in the cafeteria. I saw myself unleashing a little frog to roll atop a striped ball. Then I got myself a huge butter dish that had a block of frozen, mild-yellow butter. I proceeded to slice up a thick slice of butter into sharp, perfect squares on a lilac china plate. After I’d made a little heap of such squares (that look like scrabble squares in a prettier shade of yellow), I took up a miniature glass and silver pestle. The pestle had a lovely inscription in Baroque-style calligraphy running around its girth. I put in a clump of sea-salt, thyme, and pepper and ground it all coarsely. Finally, I sprinkle this over the butter slivers and relished it all, picking up each one with my pair of golden chopsticks. I could even taste the flavored melted grease sliding down my throat. Meanwhile, the little frog has leaped up to a lily pad made of hosiery and netted velvet. All this felt so real for about three minutes. Re

How I wish the day would end Quickly, swiftly, fast; How I wish I’d get out of it, Finally, in the end, at last. How I wish the day would begin Fresh, new, and spitzy How I wish my time would shine Clean, sparkly, and ritzy How I wish I did some things Important, crucial, sublime, Instead of just say something And get synonyms to rhyme.

Well, no-one’s going to believe me now. Not after the way the film has been shredded in the papers. But, what the heck – I really liked Dus Kahaniyan. If anything, I liked it so much I didn’t even get up during the interval. I didn’t need a break – I wanted a start-to-finish steady continuum. Now, as a writer, I know that it is more difficult to be succinct than it is to be wordy. It is a challenge to crunch and distill ideas so that only the core remains. Perhaps that’s why I admired the episodic format of the film. Somewhat based on Jeffrey Archer’s ‘A twist in the Tale’ (in intent, not content – though the story of ‘Rice Plate’ and ‘Sex on the beach’ seemed vaguely familiar), the movie is made up of 10 episodic films. They don’t really have a common theme running through them, other than a quirk at the end. My vote goes to the film of Mahesh Manjrekar and Neha Dhupia. It is a fabulous example of a story that makes you sit up. And not because of its message (there’s ‘Puranmashi’ by M

I am working from home today, and just when the research got heavy, I turned to a book of poems. Came across two poems. At first glance, they seem to have nothing in common – one is of the season of remnants, Autumn, and the other is about a donkey – an animal on the fringe of literary or artistic work. But, a little below their surfaces are plaintive songs of residual heartache. Autumn by Walter De La Mare There is a wind where the rose was; Cold rain where sweet grass was; And clouds like sheep Stream o’er the steep Grey skies where the lark was. Nought gold where your hair was; Nought warm where your hand was; But phantom, forlorn, Beneath the thorn, Your ghost where your face was. Sad winds where your voice was; Tears, tears where my heart was; And ever with me, Child, ever with me, Silence where hope was. The Donkey by G.K.Chesterton When fishes flew and forests walked And figs grew upon thorn, Some moment when the moon was blood Then surely I was born; With monstrous head and sic

When I’m coming down with fever, I crave sweets. Actually, it’s not really craving – just a wistful longing of the palate for something sugary, syrupy, creamy, etc. When I am really, really unwell, I think about chocolates. When I’m hearty and ready and able to kick imaginary butt, I dislike sweets and I find chocolates dismal. Except for…no, there are no exceptions. Chocolates have as much appeal as Paris Hilton’s dog. I have been thinking about the mutt for quite a while now. I wonder why. It can’t possibly be normal. I thought about the dog when I was getting a pedicure. Was wondering what its paw-prints would look like if its paws were dipped in scarlet nail-paint and it trotted all over an ermine coat. (What’s the dog called, by the way? The dog with no name – an unworthy successor to the cat made famous by Capote in Breakfast at Tiffany’s…I like breakfasts though. I love breakfasts with cooked stuff – not out of the carton variety, like cereal or bread-butter-jam, etc.) In any ca