The most messed-up generation ever?

Wikimedia Commons

We're such a messed-up generation. Addicted to our cell phones, going about our lives like dissatisfied robots and never entirely sure whether we're in love with our partners or not. In fact, we may just be the most messed-up generation ever. We don't lead pre-planned lives the way our forefathers did. We wake up everyday to the threat of a world war or the destruction of the planet due to climatic reasons. We don't know where our lives are headed and we are bombarded with so many options everyday that we can never be sure we've made the right choices. We talk to people we've never met; sometimes regularly and we're often not affiliated to any one culture, philosophy or way of life. We are more exposed to ideas, books, music, movies, people and places than ever before - so much that our lives don't make sense to us any more. We have more knowledge at our fingertips than we can handle; yet the answers to questions that truly matter, elude us. We express ourselves constantly; yet we feel there's no one to listen. We're constantly multitasking - on the phone while watching television, texting while reading, listening to music while walking. Our attention is never focussed; we are always fragmented, distracted and removed from the moment. We fear very little and the word 'duty' makes no sense to us. We are free - yet we are bound by our families with their expectations from a time we haven't known and a world that makes constant demands on our time. We want to be moral; yet our rationality permits us to understand immorality. We want to be good; yet material pursuits make monsters out of us. We have resources but we are clueless about how to use them best. We have ideas but we often lack the passion to follow them through. We have to struggle for nothing - and so, nothing means much to us. We live in a world where anything is possible if you have enough money for it. We live in a world where addictions court us every step of our lives. We live in a world where, as a Facebook meme said, free wifi is easier to get than water. We do not have the crutches of religion, marital compulsion, duty or pursuits of honour. The onus of lending meaning and purpose to our lives - it's entirely on us. And the path we choose to achieve that - the sky is the limit, there too. It's exhilarating and frightening at the same time. Because with so much at stake and so much in our hands, the responsibility for both success and failure lies entirely with us. We are a generation who cannot admire a beautiful sight without wanting to capture it for posterity and then sharing it with the world - all within seconds. We are a generation who cannot feel relevant without a virtual alter ego. We are a generation who can go days without speaking to our immediate families but cannot spend more than a few moments without Internet connectivity. We are a generation of contradictions and I have no idea how we are going to extricate ourselves out of this mess.

Self(ie)-analysis

Courtesy: Adam Rifkin (Attribution license)

You've done it. I've done it. We've all done it. So let's do away with the judgement and try and look at selfies as a tool for self-analysis.

The day may not be too far off when psychoanalysts ask their patients to take several selfies and then submit them for assessment.

Think about it. There are so many clues to one's personality in a selfie - the way you look at the camera, the kind of emotion you choose to portray - sensual, defiant, innocent, arrogant; the tilt of your head, the parting of your lips, the flare of your nostrils and the angle of your eyebrows.

Facial cues are not all there is to selfie-analysis. The clothes you decide to wear for this 'prescribed' photo shoot can speak volumes as well. Are they provocative or the kind that would draw minimal attention? The venue is another significant element. Do you click the selfie in a more private or a public setting?

Some of the behaviours and traits we might project through selfies are:

• Attention-seeking behaviour
• Self-esteem (high or low)
• Happiness quotient (width and exuberance of the smile)

I suppose psychotherapists could provide their patients with a few predetermined settings and scenarios for the selfies; or other specifications that might help them assess the images better. Armed with a background knowledge of the patient's issues, the selfies should reveal more to the therapist than they would to a lay person.


The only issue here is that the treatment might work better with women as they are in general, more prone to taking selfies. And they're usually better at it too. But with women, a lot of other factors would come into play - the fact that we are more used to being objectified and also more aware of the effect our appearance can have on people and situations.

Maybe, you could take a look at your selfies yourself and see if they tell you a story you haven't entirely been aware of. Do they show you a side of your personality you never knew existed? Or a tinge of unexplainable sadness or glee?

Selfies could actually be the doorway to a lot of personal insights that were hidden to us until the widespread use of phone cameras.

The drinking cesspool

Annie Mole (Licensed through Creative Commons)

It always begins the same way.

I have one (ten) drink too many, black out or fall asleep, wake up with a pounding headache and a general feeling of hatred (as opposed to the previous night's benevolence) towards humanity and spend the day ruing those last few (many) drinks and my predictable lack of good sense.

Then, I decide to go on a 'detox'. 'Never' is not something I'm brave enough to aim for even in my hangover-ridden state. So I opt for a week-long detox. Assume that this resolve is made on Monday morning.

Monday night. My will stands strong. I go home after work, without as much as a nod of acknowledgement to my favourite Old Monk.

Tuesday dawns, bright and guilt-free. When I get off from work, I find a mischievous thought straying into my mind - 'Just one beer', the thought says. 'One beer at Marine Drive would feel so good and hey, beer has less than five per cent alcohol!' But I ask the thought to go take its wily suggestions elsewhere. I go home once again, alcohol-free. I'm so proud I feel like I've contributed to saving humanity (and maybe I have, considering the things I'm capable of doing when drunk).

Ah, Wednesday. Now that's a tricky day. Because I get off from work early. And that usually means a movie or drinks and dinner with a friend. The evening loses considerable sheen without coke and rum to look forward to.

6 PM. The moment of decision looms nearer and nearer. That stray thought has now multiplied by a million. And all of them have only one thing to say - 'One drink won't hurt!'. My friend compounds matters by slyly suggesting a beer. He knows that's my weakness. One beer. Because of the five per cent alcohol escape clause. And because it lasts longer than a drink.

There is a moment - one moment - when the situation can go either way and then I collapse on the wrong side of the cliff. I give in. That sip of beer goes in - cold, flavourful and oh so satisfying. And I forget about that Sunday night. I forget about my resolve. None of it makes sense. Except the fact that beer by the sea, with a friend in tow is one of the best small pleasures that life has to offer.

Sigh. And that's how it ends. Every damn time.

My resolve never did stand a chance before the lure of light-headed, carefree happiness, otherwise known as alcohol.

It's better that we don't talk about the days following Wednesdays because I'm sure you can guess what happens. One beer turns into two and sometimes joins hands with chocolatey Old Monk. And every successive drink pushes my moral resolve a little further to the door, until it's out altogether. I watch my resolve sigh resignedly and wave me a forlorn goodbye, while I sip away like there's no tomorrow.

By the way, if you're reading this today, it's Tuesday now. So you know what stage I'm at. That's right. No drinking this week. I swear!

Thank you.

Courtesy: Ankita Shreeram

The other day, mom brought a book on gratitude from our local library. The author suggested starting every day by expressing gratitude for everything that's good in your life. I ran through the list mentally and thought I'd be done within seconds. :P But then, when I actually sat down to do the exercise, something magical and heartbreaking happened. The list was endless. I began with myself and then the things and people that populated my life. Then I realised it didn't end there. I had to include all the films I had seen, all the songs I had heard, all the books I had read, all the paintings I had set my eyes upon, all the trees whose breeze I had been cooled by, all the birds I had waved at in the sky. What's more, I even had to include the films I would see, the songs I would hear, the books I would read and the paintings I would gaze at, in future. There was no limit to the things I could be thankful for. And the bounty was more than I could bear. We don't really understand how blessed we are until we start measuring our wealth and our happiness by experiences rather than possessions. Because when it comes to the experience of the sea or the sun, the beggar on the street is as blessed as the CEO in his ivory tower. And I imagine, if we really could recall glimpses from our past lives, we'd recall faces and smiles and sensations; rather than the expensive cars we owned or the couches we sat on. How silly it is to even entertain thoughts of poverty or inadequacy when we have all these senses, capable of absorbing so much beauty. And how silly it is to be scared or to ever allow yourself to be miserable when the next smile is only a sunset or an embrace away.

The seconds turned into minutes and the minutes walked past, but I remained seated there in my veranda, cross-legged and teary-eyed, while dawn smiled indulgently, caressing my skin with her sun-warmed finger tips. If you're reading this, I suggest you perform the gratitude exercise too. You might be surprised with how much there is, to be thankful for. And then you feel so wealthy, so full and so gifted that you wonder how your frail human body will be able to bear it. Unimaginable that the whole world should be at your feet; that an ocean of books and music and dance should await your eyes and ears. Unimaginable that within this one tiny life, there is so much to be lived. Unimaginable that we still have words like 'boredom' in the dictionary. 

Worms and demon.

 

Courtesy: Ark (Licensed under Creative Commons)

Worms.

 

Deep drags of air..

Peace settles in.

Doubts like worms

Crawl deep inside

Make way for serenity

Temporarily.

Worms will fester

Beg for food

But you must be unkind.

You must let them starve

Wither away

Turn to ashes

Forgettable dust

To be blown away one day

By a puff of certainty.

***

Demon.

 

There's a demon in me
And he loves to caress unsuspecting strangers
Stretching out his claws, scouring for blood
And if he finds it, he wants more
And then I know
I'm done for
And so is the unsuspecting stranger
And so they all run away from me
Screaming for their precious lives
While the demon and I
We sigh
In unison
Lonely forever
But together in our bloodthirst
Sometimes he goes to sleep
For a day or two
Or even weeks or months
And then I manage to lure a stranger into my life
I manage to be familiar with someone for once
And then the demon awakens
As I'd always known he would
And again he runs
Again I scream for him to stay
But the only one who stays
Is my demon.

Come clean.

Courtesy: Sunshinecity (Licensed under Creative Commons)

Come clean,

Because those twinges of guilt

Will poke you in places

You didn't know existed

And then colour your dreams

In shades you'd have never chosen

They will invade sentences

Pushed back from the tip of your tongue

At the very last moment

Panic

Will come too close for comfort

Caress you with icy finger-tips

While you plaster on a fake, brave smile

Regret

Will come chasing

Even as you try to outrun it

On legs already tired

By countless deceptions

Come clean,

Because the mirror will tell you stories

You don't want to see

Random words will show you insights

You don't want to hear

Your heart will sear

Doubts will knock on your door

The sound echoing

In the corridors of your wrinkly sleep

Jumpy

Edgy

Confused

You will be a ghost

Of the self you used to be

Come clean,

Or you may wait

Until the fruits of all those lies

Are too sour to eat.

Morning bloom.

Pic: Ankita Shreeram

The sky unflowers

From ink to light

Stretches lazily, and sneezes

Sending the clouds a f l u t t e r

They dot the sky

In different directions, patterns

Each seeking -

A different vagabond destiny.

The trees stay aloof

By now, immune

To the charms of the waking sky

Until one is teased by a passing bird

And giggles,

Sending whispers of cool wind

Into drowsy windows.

The wind sneaks

Into sleep-soft skin and puffy eyes,

Curled up bodies and slumbering blankets,

Until the whole world unflowers

To join hands with the morning sky.

The trees have ears.

Amaan and Ayaan Ali Khan at Kala Ghoda Arts Festival, 2014 (By Ankita Shreeram)

The trees have ears too. They grow attentive, when there's something magical in the air. Like the sound of the sarod. And the tabla keeping pace with it. And the cheers of an adoring audience. Some of whom are hearing these instruments for the first time. And some for the millionth. For some, it's the first time their soul has been touched this lovingly. For others, it's like coming home. But for all, it's something more sublime than the everyday living experience. Something that transcends daily trivialities and makes that moment the only one that matters. Something that makes the hair on their arms stand to attention (perhaps they have ears too) and the moisture collect in their eyes in a way that's neither happy nor sad. What the moisture does is to make you feel connected to your own life force. Most times, I feel like I'm leading a stranger's life - performing actions on autopilot while my true essence lies restlessly elsewhere. But back there on the steps of Asiatic Library, with Amaan and Ayaan Ali Khan performing for me in flesh and blood, I didn't feel that way. My fingers strummed the air as though they'd always been familiar with the movement of the sarod. It seems almost impossible to believe that this music did not always exist. That someone actually crafted the instrument and divined the ragas. Because why else would my body, mind and soul recognise and sway along with it as though re-igniting a friendship forged through the ages? The trees maintained an unearthly stillness, even in the cajoling breeze. Even the light of the setting sun seemed muted, as though paying homage to the magnificence of the sarod and the tabla. And I felt timeless. Ageless. Care-less. For once, everything made sense. Everything was perfect. Nothing was amiss. The ever nagging doubts and fears at the back of my mind lay subdued. And nothing could have convinced me that the feeling wouldn't last. I'm convinced afresh now as I write, with Amjad Ali Khan infusing magic into my ears. What is time after all but the space between two strums of a sarod or a sitar? Eternity lives on, in the endless alchemy of a single note of music.

A case for routine.

Courtesy: QuotesEverlasting (licensed under Creative Commons)

Call me boring but I like routine. I like stability. I thrive on seeing the same faces and hearing the same well-loved voices everyday. My favourite sliver of the sea and my standard order at the cafe I've always cherished - they bring me peace. They bring me comfort and a smile that never lets me down.

I like waking up in the morning, knowing exactly what I can look forward to; the familiar streets that I will tread on and the well-memorised routes I will take to reach my destination. The assurance of having a job and a home waiting for me everyday; of a life I have created consciously (with a little help from others, and lady luck) - they help me sleep at night. They make me express gratitude every morning when I wake up, to the ray of sunshine that filters into the room with precisely the same slant everyday.

I like the hypnotic lull of my similar days; the way I can sink into them without a care. I like how I can float along on their security, while my mind explores uncharted territories. Because if both my body and my mind are cast adrift - I will be too lost. I will be too busy trying to forge a new way to enjoy the strangeness and the newness. Adventure should come in the right doses; like surprise shots of tequila. Too much of it and you may not be entirely sure of who you are - when you look into the mirror.

I feel the need to speak up for monotony because too much is made of excitement, wildness and free-spiritedness. And too little is made of the charm of things one can rely upon to lift one's spirits. Yes, nothing lasts forever, and that's all the more reason to value and nurture the people and experiences we do have access to. Waking up in a different place every day of your life will eventually tire your spirit. Because you need time for things to sink in deep. You need time for love to grow on you. You need time, for things to mean something to you.

I like being anchored because there's only so much change one's spirit can take; only so many spins one can regain balance from. I like it because only then do foreign shores seem truly alluring. Only then do alien lives and sights and sounds excite me with their intoxicating unfamiliarity. I like it because intoxication is good only in short bursts - make it perennial and your mind will ail.

I like routine because without it, travelling wouldn't seem as magical as it does on those rare moments that I'm able to get away and take a few greedy sips from the sea of adventure. I like it because only then do I appreciate the times when life takes an unpredictable turn; when a chance occurrence brings me face-to-face with sweet chaos.

I like routine because this life is not that long and I'd rather see a face I love every single day than a million faces that I might never learn to love. 

By the wayside

Courtesy: Afiler (Licensed under Creative Commons)

 The wayside was littered with dreams I'd once dreamt
And with versions of myself that I'd hoped to be
"What is this place?" I asked the listening air
"It's the place you've all along refused to see."

It was the place of lives un-lived & desires un-done
Of people I'd never met & parties I'd never gone to
Of friends I'd never made & sentences I'd never said
Of poems I'd never written & feelings I'd suppressed.

Their only raison d'etre was to be trapped in my memory
Or rather in the cobwebby corridors of my unwritten history
"This place needs a good sweep," my invisible friend said
The one I thought I'd left behind in the veranda of my childhood
But dusk came by & I remained standing in the company of what wasn't meant to be
I remained mesmerised by the thought of setting them free.

From a shadow's desk

Courtesy: Dvs (licensed under Creative Commons)

You go to the beach. So do I. Glad for the sunshine. Unlike you, I die everyday. Sometimes more than once a day. Rebirth isn't painful though. It's almost inconspicuous. Wherever you go, I follow. When you pause, I look up at you, wondering if you notice that I'm there. I marvel at the detailing in your face and wish I had that too. It's lonely out here on the ground. When you were a child, you'd talk to me, play with me. We were friends. What changed? Why has adulthood changed you so? Sometimes I wonder if I'll get to be a real person once you die. Yes, your death will be my liberation. But I can never transcend this lifetime until then -reborn though I am every time the sun peeps out. Sometimes I cross paths with my non-human cousins. The dark selves of trees and animals. And even inanimate objects. We exchange the strangest of stories. A tree's shadow told me of a child who outlined the entire shape and then coloured it with crayons, making her feel almost like a real tree. Almost as good and worthy. I wish that might happen to me too. A little colour would be nice. Do you know, sometimes when you sleep, I defy the laws of science and dance across the walls like a drunken loon. Once, you were about to wake up while I was doing that. I nearly died (for real I mean) that day. Imagine walking into the sun and finding no shadow self to tail you and keep you company. Imagine if I wasn't there. Maybe you'd notice me then.

Rosemary

Dave Nakayama (licensed under Creative Commons)

Macaroni never tasted this good when Agatha made it herself. The recipe was the same - no rocket science after all. But there had to be something that maami (that's what she called her nanny) did differently. Agatha thought about it as she savoured the rich smell and softness of the cheese. Perhaps it was voodoo. Maami looked quite formidable after all - her skin wrinkly and her eyes narrow, rather like a witch. Agatha giggled at the idea. Maybe maami muttered spells under her breath as the macaroni rotated in the oven. Or perhaps, there was a magic herb she added to the sauce. "There's nothing magical about it," Maami said, stirring ferociously in the chilly winter noon. "It's called rosemary and that's what adds the flavour to my macaroni." "What does it look like?" Agatha asked. "And does it have anything to do with roses or someone called Mary?" Maami laughed, the ladle pausing to shake along with her merriment. "Rosemary means 'dew of the sea' in Latin." She cocked her head to look at Agatha. "People used to believe it could ward off witches." The young girl gasped. "Did you just read my thoughts, maami?" "Why, what were you thinking?" Agatha considered. If maami already knew, this was just a trick question. She decided to go with the truth. Even if maami was a witch, she wouldn't hurt her, Agatha was certain. "I was wondering if you might be a witch." The soup had now reached a boil. "Well if I was, the rosemary wouldn't let me stay here, would it?" That did make sense. Satisfied, Agatha went back to her macaroni while Maami shook her bemused head.

Best two hours of 2013?

Anoushka Shankar: Wikimedia Commons

Often when I put pen to paper, it’s because I feel like visiting someplace new; or revisiting a particularly charming place. Today, I want to revisit the two hours I spent in Anoushka Shankar’s company, albeit two floors apart.

She sat there, graceful as a lotus, the sitar nestled in her able hands. And she might have been strumming the strings of our hearts, for all we knew. Because every sonorous twang felt like the resonance of a suppressed memory. When she played, I was no longer Ankita Shreeram, writer and resident of Bombay. I was just a throbbing being, kept alive and sculpted by the notes that danced around and into me. What is so intoxicating about losing all sense of identity? What is so right about not being who you are but just a bundle of uniquely-hued energy?

Her ‘voice of the moon’ might have made me cry but my soul was too busy celebrating. Perhaps it felt like it was finally receiving some attention – a rare treat – because all other times, I only fed my thoughts and my base senses.

To her right, there were the cross-legged, sedate shehnai (trumpet) and mridangam (South Indian percussion instrument) players. And to her left, was the Italian percussionist, the cello player with his hair tied back in a sleek bun and the slender African singer Ayana, whose luxurious voice made me weep to hear Norah Jones (sweet but not Ayana) in the original recordings. Western and Indian classical instruments came together in a joyous union that rode high upon choice Carnatic ragas.

Four days ago, it had been her father’s death anniversary. It had also been the date when the Delhi gang rape happened in 2012. “I poured all my darkness into this song – ‘In Jyoti’s name’,” Anoushka told us. It should have been ample warning of what was to come. But I was still deeply shaken and disturbed by the urgent, pained notes that ensued. It was just what it should have been but I couldn’t wait for it to stop.

But the other tracks from ‘Traces of you’ (her new album) – Metamorphosis and Lasya among them, helped me recover. But that would be unjust, because they did more than that. They inspired, soothed and uplifted. They made me feel truly blessed to be alive; to be there in that hall for those two glorious hours, and have the fortune of listening to such masterful melodies. This is living – my heart told me. And I believed it, choosing to forget for that moment the monotony that greets me every other day. But that’s not really true, is it? To breathe and to exist – in synchronicity with the Universe, is a blessing far too great to be clothed in the grey rags of monotony. Now when I revisit that beautiful place, I believe my heart’s whispers again. I believe that I am happy. And there was never any reason to be otherwise.

When the concert ended, with dazzling individual pieces by each of the supporting musicians, I was convinced that those had been the best two hours of 2013. But of course, it’s easy to be overwhelmed in the immediate aftermath of things. Now that the sheen has been dimmed by the unforgiving dust of time, I wonder if there might be other contenders for that title. It has been a pretty good year after all.

The three kinds of talk

Wikimedia Commons

The other day, while trying to explain my introversion to a friend, I realised that there are three kinds of talk:

1. Social talk
2. Routine talk
3. Real talk

Social talk is the endless jibber jabber most of us engage in everyday. It is the conversation that flows at parties and large dinners. It is a life-saver when you meet someone new and if you are no good at it, well, you'll end up hemming and hawing your way through awkward 10-second encounters, the way I usually do.

Not all social talk is shallow, though I wish that were true. It is the art of presenting one's knowledge in topics of mass interest - such as films, television, fashion, music and food - in the most entertaining way possible. I have found that sadly, literature is rarely a topic of mass interest. Nor is analysis about why we think the way we do and the mysteries of the universe. Little wonder that social talk is far from my area of expertise.

But if you can master this art to the extent that it comes naturally to you, (most often this process takes place as we grow up but some of us manage to get through it without much socialising and pay for the omission later) then you are guaranteed help from folks whenever you need it, and usually, success at a faster pace than the the ones who aren't adept at it.

Routine talk is what we practise with family and the people we live with. How was your day? What shall we have for dinner? When will you reach home? Is your cold better? You get the drill. Far from being boring, routine talk is a great source of comfort for most of us. When it comes to people we love, the mere exchange of words is a pleasure - even if those words are nothing monumental.

Now in the digital age, a strange phenomenon is taking place. Routine talk is being exchanged with complete strangers thanks to chat and messaging services. But as long as it serves the same purpose - that of reassuring you, making you feel that the mundane details of your life matter and you are not all alone, I think it's absolutely fine.

But real talk is where the magic of communication resides. These are the long, heart-to-heart conversations one recalls even years down the line. Real talk heals, inspires and rejuvenates. And it is with only a select few that we can indulge in them. I would put any conversation with some 'substance' in the realm of real talk. And I believe this is indispensable for one's happiness. One can survive without social and routine talk but real talk? That's non-negotiable. And cultivating relationships with people with whom we can enjoy this privilege, is an effort one has to be willing to make (note to self).

One observation that came up in my conversation with the aforementioned friend is that a lot of talk does not make one an extrovert. If most of your talk consists of social prattle, then you may be as closed up as an introvert who barely speaks. True extroverts are those who feel comfortable sharing intimate details of their life with all their friends. Then again, may be the definition of 'extrovert' is broader than that.

In conclusion, the things we say are a disorderly combination of the consequential and the inconsequential. Too much of the former and you're broody. Too much of the latter and you're shallow. Just the right balance of both - and you're the friend who's always in demand. Me? I'm happy with my pointless theorizing. :P

10 - The girl who died next door

Wikimedia Commons

Death. It comes in myriad ways but the one distinction between all these ways is the pace and it’s corollary - suffering. The nature of death is defined by whether it is gradual or sudden; whether it comes in bursts of suffering or one swift stroke. Death from burning – long and torturous; but death from a fatal bullet wound – instant and merciful. If I ever had to murder someone, I’d go the merciful way. To spare myself the torture of watching of course. Why should another person’s pain bother me if I can’t feel it? Compassion, most of the times, is feigned. Feigned until people are convinced they truly feel another’s feelings – an absolutely illogical and fanciful notion. Compassion traverses the blind area between imagination and reality.

Of course, all this conjecture about death applies only to the living. Suvarna’s death on Shayan’s canvas was another matter altogether.

I spent my days on tenterhooks ever since the day I’d seen Shayan in pieces over (dead) Suvarna’s aging. I kept waiting for the day when it would all be over and I was never certain if it was happiness I felt – or fear. Perhaps I’d always had an inkling that it wouldn’t be pretty when Suvarna’s spectre followed the footsteps of her physical self. I was driven crazier by the fact that I could confide in no one. I took to recording my exchanges with Shayan on a private blog I called ‘The girl who wouldn’t stay dead’. On days when I’d had too much wine, the title would crack me up and I’d giggle every now and then, while I typed macabre words.

Monsoon had made way for the suffocating warmth that was the city’s sorry excuse for autumn. I’d have to add that to my bucket list – experience autumn in its faded mahogany emptiness. While I was musing aimlessly thus, I heard a deafening crash from the house next door. It sounded like a cupboard, or something of that size and heaviness had toppled over. And then there was silence. Unadulterated silence. No screams of pain, no shouts for help. No excuses to offer for my immediate panic and compulsion to check on Shayan.

His apartment was filled with smoke and the acrid smell of it. The man had turned into a monstrous smoker. The haze made it difficult to see and for a few moments, I blundered forward blindly; my eyes watering. Then I saw him. Slumped on the floor, sobbing, while his beloved easel lay on the floor, the palettes of colour leaking into the tiled flooring.  I allowed myself to dwell over the strangely beautiful sight of different colours forging their individual paths and tributaries on that pale white expanse. Then I pulled myself back to the pitiful figure in front of me. What aspect of that was capable of charming a woman? Nothing at all. And yet there I was, a repulsive mass of unbidden concern. “You stink.” He looked up, tear-stained face and all. “It’s over,” he whispered, so low that I had to read his cracked lips. “Finally.” He didn’t seem to have heard me. “I have no reason to live any more. All I want is to die.” And he collapsed into wracking sobs on the last word. This was insane. With a sudden burst of righteous anger, I grabbed Shayan’s largest painting brush off the floor and tore through his last painting with its pointed end. Shayan may have screamed but I did not hear him. The torn canvas gave me the rush I imagined murderers felt when they severed veins. I drove the brush through every painting I could lay my eyes on. I hacked through her doe eyes, her luscious lips and her lustrous hair. I drove It through her very soul and I found mine rejoicing.

And then I felt, rather than heard him rise off the floor. With a flash of warning from my primitive sense of self-preservation, I spun around and caught his arm before he could bang my head with the heavy painting he held in his hands. “What have you done, you bitch?” he raged. “How could you kill her like that?” “I didn’t kill her!” I shouted back. “She was already dead! A simple fact you could never fathom!” and then I was rushing out of his apartment, away from him; away from his sapping insanity.

I moved out of my apartment that very night. Since several months, it had brought me no peace. And now I was in desperate need of some.

You might ask why I’d been so obsessed with Shayan that entire while. Why had I allowed his madness to impact my perfectly normal life? Why hadn’t I just let him die in that apartment, which I had anyway eventually done? I don’t have an answer to that question. Any more than I have an answer to why Suvarna insisted on extending her sorry life on paper. All I can say is – there are some impulses none of us are powerful enough to ignore; whatever may be the consequences. Or perhaps – because of the possible consequences. For every dark turn that my relationship with Shayan took, there has been an alternative turn glimmering in the corridors of hope. My subliminal hope.

(Concluded)

Memoirs of innocent artifice

Pic: Ankita Shreeram

From a dusty drawer, the ghost of a scared child peeps

From another, a stoic teenager

The child has scrawled a Wordsworth quote

Sitting pretty on feigned adulthood's moat

Heartfelt essays now bear the dust of lies

Of a pretence in half-hearted disguise

Memoirs of innocent artifice

In a blue jewelled box, a seashell lurks

A piece of joy, locked away for posterity

Un-caged, the memory flies

Loosening its grip on a heart that sighs

For all its inhabitants, condemned to be temporary

Time has left arrogant stains on the creatures of my past

Kept alive like bloodless vampires

Staring at me dolefully

Why have I not spared a single thought for them in all these years?

Never held them to my bosom

Or fed them with my lusty tears?

Erasers, mechanical pencils, dog-eared notebooks and glittering cards

A child's possessions

But childhood is no more than a fleeting memory

Devoid of sensation, of smell, of touch or sound

Childhood would be a fancy bed-time story

If not for these accusing diaries - hard-bound

I save some from the ogling bin

But none of them matters to me

Not really

Nothing feels real except the chiming of the clock

And sometimes, not even that

Some relics I wrestle with, like this delegate card

My hand hovers, and is pulled back by my pleading, bleeding heart

Like a husband held back by an emotional wife

The husband succumbs, the card returns

To the Pandora's box that is my nostalgia.

Listen to something someone recommended.

Listen to something someone recommended. Imagine the way the beats and synapses flowed over their senses and teased their limbs into unconscious movement. Dance imperceptibly, and wonder if they did the same. Smile at the sudden, soft notes, and wonder if they were enraptured by the very same ones.

Listen to the singer's voice, the secret lyrics and wonder if they were meant just for you - a coded message from the one who recommended the song. Drink deep from the fountain of words and marvel at how they've been redefined by the music they are set to. Catch yourself blushing at certain phrases and look around quickly to ensure no one's watching. Find the song suddenly playing in your head when you're at the entrance of your train, wondering what to have for dinner. Allow the music to intrude, when you're at a pressing meeting at work or when you're strolling past the chana-wala at the turn of the street. Welcome the song with open arms when you're lying in bed, weary from the day's travails and disappointments. Along with the song, will come thoughts of the one who recommended it. Listen to the imagined ghosts of their sighs, even as the singer croons.

Feel your heart skip a beat in those initial few strains of music, before the vocals burst upon you like an expected, yet sudden shower. Watch your skin break out in goosebumps when the singer travels territories you never even knew existed. Walk in those unexplored realms with the one who recommended the song. Notice the words and the music mutating every time you listen to it, like a living, breathing creature. Like a shared force between you and that person. A sinuous thread of magic, wavering in the wind, changing colours and sparkling every time either of you smiles.

Everyone I know.

Ancestral voices by Firsov Kubla (from Wikimedia Commons)

everyone i know,

wants to tell me who i am.

everyone i know,

points at pinpricks of darkness and light

within me.

as if i didn't know they were there.

everyone i know,

tries to make sense of me

find the key to messy mystery

draw a map of my psychic history

trace the origins of my insanity.

everyone i know,

pokes and prods with sadistic glee

my squirms are their sorry victory.

everyone i know,

insists on reminding me

on rare times when the sunshine pokes through

that i am porous

and i will never retain the warmth long enough

to recover completely

to regain wholly

what i was once born with.

everyone i know,

revels in chiding me

that i know nothing of real pain

that my woes are but contrived

children of a needlessly cynical mother.

everyone i know,

is a voice of annoying wisdom

a speaker of irrefutable reason

a paragon of what i should be.

everyone i really know

is just another part of me.

One quarter please.

Courtesy: Ankita Shreeram

If I asked you to describe yourself first thing in the morning, before anything had befallen you, you'd still do it without skipping a beat. You'd probably give me the same answer every single morning. Perhaps you'd say "I'm a friendly, amiable person who likes going out and meeting new people. I like black and I love jazz. I like to dress comfortably and my favourite travel destination is Ibiza. My idea of a holiday is to relax on the beach with a beer by my side." In this vein, you could probably go on until I asked you to stop.

On the eve of my 24th birthday, I ask, what makes us such great authorities on who we are? Is there any law that stipulates that one's likes and dislikes must remain constant all through one's life? Why do we wake up every dawn with the burden of our memories - with voices of a dead past telling us who we are, what to do and what to wear? I don't want to get into a relationship because memory tells me that I have difficulty communicating and sharing my life beyond a point. Memory tells me that true intimacy scares the living daylights out of me. But what if I chose to discount all of that and make a decision based on instinct alone? Instinct comes from the heart, perhaps even a primitive knowledge of the soul. It does not come from colourless knowledge of facts that have long since breathed their last.

Memory is grossly overrated in our nostalgic, reflective times. We go over events and statements with a mental microscope like detectives seeking clues to an unsolved mystery. We ignore the present and choose to stay cloaked in a secret world built upon the pillars of things we've seen, heard, smelt, touched and experienced already. Sometimes, we shake off the cloak to find more fodder for this world. But we always go back. Always.

On 13th September, I shall celebrate Independence Day. Independence from the shackles of my own memory; from that strange soulless identity that tries to teach me what my fabric is made of. My fabric is a mutating, magical thing. It never remains constant and it is certainly no slave to yesterday's events. My fabric can be sewn into a different pattern every single moment of my life. And I can change the colour of the threads with a single thought; with the simple flick of a switch called intent.

I am completing nearly a quarter of the century that most humans these days seem to live and I'm still bound by memories of childhood, of innocent fears and baseless reservations. Hiding in a dark corner is a scared little girl who refuses to leave the safe confines of my head. This birthday, I must release her. I must let her walk away into the sunset of my past. While I stride forth into the sparkling future. Adulthood, unlike memory, is sadly underrated. Adulthood is confidence, freedom and the sensibility to absorb and appreciate art. Adulthood is indeed a doorway into everything that's miraculous and beautiful. 

Monsoon goddess

Courtesy: Ankita Shreeram

The sky peers at us

Through half-closed eyes

Irises a soothing silver-tinged gray

A gaze that wills us to believe

In the charm of a glow-less day

Darkening canopy of cloudless firmament

Somehow muting the downward sounds

Causing us to move with somnambulant ease

Slowing our heart-beats

And the pace of our ever-rushing feet

Birds – oblivious

Trees – felicitous

And humans? Humans – ignorant

To the warning of imminent storm

The sky is a crystal ball

But we choose not to see

Our innate clairvoyance submerged

Under layers of careless thought

Spotted aloe plants look on stoically

As sheets of rain dance violently

On tar roads and peeling windows

On bald heads and rusted, tin roofs

With every step, she seizes a little memento

No, the rain never returns empty-handed

She will scrape away tiny bits of you

But she will also leave behind

A precious whit of her own soul

A fair barter, in her swirling eyes

Sometimes, she comes wearing bangles

Their raucous jingle jangle

A worthy accompaniment to her primitive music

She is both musician and dancer

Both puppeteer and puppet

Some babies press their noses

To misted windows in glee

While others scream in terror

Pressing against their mothers’ breasts instead

Some would like to pirouette along with her

On diamond-strewn streets

Others wish murderously

For the music to be silenced forever

Today she dances a tribal dance

Her movements feverish

Her music unsettling

But yesterday, she performed a measured Kathak

Her lashings graceful

The thunderous rumblings almost poetic

She is a woman of many unpredictable moods

But I am swept away by every single one

For I am her daughter,

Nestled in her bosom when I was born

On a glorious monsoon morning in September

The city plump with its fill of rain

Belly positively bursting with stormy goodness

I drank from that fountain as a babe

I drink from it still and guess what?

It still tastes the same. 

Of broken glasses and beer.

Jagged edges.

When glasses descend

kiss the ground

with  stunning brutality,

their edges acquire a unique beauty.

Broken shards surround their romance

collateral damage

in a quest to stand out.

Once smooth

glasses are now instruments for damage.

Poke them into your palm

and you might draw blood

glistening beads of life force

the very colour of the wine

that once rested in those glasses.

But now,

jagged edges

are all that remain.

The beer and the sun

Courtesy: Ankita Shreeram

One glass of beer and a walk in the sun

All we wanted was to have a bit of fun

Cobble-stoned paths and shuttered shops

One canvas beneath and one besides us

One to tread on, the other to run fingers by

We had shut out the sun but it continued to burn

In a dancing flame in the pit of our stomachs

And when we felt the flame diminishing,

We abandoned cool cobble-stoned causeways

Hopped on to a black and yellow magic carpet

Ands sailed apace to have another sip of sunshine

Two glasses of beer and another walk in the sun

This time my feet wanted to dance, not to run

Shadows of overhead leaves danced on our arms

While the monsoon sun kissed our beer-warmed fingers

Golden warmth smiled through my lips

And voices of joy sang through my eyes

When the sun went down, so did the fire in our bellies

This time we let it die, happy to cradle the ashes

There would be another walk in the sun

Another look at children's toys and posters that promised to brighten your days

Another stop at raucous bars and another dance on rain-kissed streets

On a day not too distant from this one.

Harbour view

Courtesy: Ankita Shreeram

 Bright golden stars

Float upon the distant sea

Like jewels strewn with a careless hand.

A reluctant moon spies on their asymmetry

Perhaps plotting a tidal wave

That would reassemble the jewels

Into a perfect half-circle

Cast in the moon's image - 

Ode to it's narcissistic beauty.

As the sea joins hands with the blackening sky,

The golden stars acquire a salmon halo

Like a scarf made of spider web strands

And then steeped into salmon-hued glue

To keep the golden warmth safe

From the hungry water,

The moon's covetous eyes

And distant observers ashore.

Silence.

My feet

Sing songs of sweet agony

My muscles

Tell tales of disharmony

But my mind

My mind is in deep slumber

A nudge

No answer

Don't desert me, thought-buddy

Silence and I, we're awkward strangers

But now we're left alone

Like a man and a woman on a first date

Hesitant but fearfully hopeful

I take a tentative sip

From a glass full of stillness

Silence fidgets, then relaxes

The room darkens

Quietens

We smile, hands lying on the table,

Uneasily

I keep looking around for familiar intruders

Memories, regrets, analysis

But this is thought paralysis

Silence begins to melt

Though the room is cool

Melds into the velvety darkness

Leaving me alone

A heavy serenity

Wrapped around me like thick smoke

Inescapable, strangely comforting

Now I don't want my thought-buddies back

But I know they will come

Already, the door is opening

Inch by inch

Silence, she won't stay too long

A hard woman to woo

Maybe next time

I should let her take a sip instead.

Blur for clarity.

Let's crush the paper

bring the corners together

the world folding up

maps shrinking

distances blurring

let the sun shine on all of us equally

At the same time

let it illuminate all our eyes

at once

let seas heave into mountains

and mountains collapse into cornfields

let the world fold up

maps going up in flames

forests melting down on us

continents merging

boundaries blurring

let it all end

come together

fire and ice

deserts and icebergs

a storm unimagined

a tornado unforeseen

let it take our smiles and our tears

Our dreams and our fears

And hurl back at us

Something more honest, purer

More magical, truer.

Thank you, Robert Frost, who wrote, 'Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction, ice is also great, and would suffice.'

The Girl Who Died Next Door - 9

Almost blue.

(Story so far: A new neighbour moves into the vacant apartment next door to Kavya, a television professional. His name is Shayan and he's an artist. The apartment had been abandoned after Suvarna, the teenaged daughter of the family that lived there, committed suicide. Shayan becomes obsessed with Suvarna's spectre and paints her day and night, allowing her to age and live through his canvas. His obsession comes in the way of Kavya's strange fascination for him, and keeps their story from ever becoming something more than a neighbourly friendship.)

I saw Shayan so little these days that it almost felt like I'd gone back to my neighbour-less days. I was almost blue, because I wasn't sure that it mattered whether I saw him or not. Chet Baker's Almost Blue seemed the perfect choice for the moment. As the mellow notes caressed my weary, melancholy soul, everything seemed clearer; all those times Suvarna had averted her eyes from me, in fear I had thought. But suddenly, I was reminded of a woman in the train who bore burn scars all over her neck and arms. Her eyes had held the same furtive, frightened flutter. One might have perceived it as hostility but fear was what it really was and perhaps, a call for help. Was Suvarna's seeming avoidance of my company a convoluted cry for help? Were the rumours about the servant true after all? And if so, perhaps she was having her revenge on me for not coming to her aid; for not hearing her silent, veiled pleas. Perhaps that was why she had chosen to monopolise Shayan's canvas - both physical and mental. That canvas seemed to have become her playground; a sorry substitute for life. Sorry? Really? My mind whispered. It was right of course. There was nothing sorry about the medium Suvarna had chosen. Within his palate, Shayan possessed every fathomable colour; every hue known to mankind. Did life offer such a wide choice? It does, but the tragedy is that much of this choice is out of reach. If our lives were paintings, there would be a dominant spectrum of colours in each but none would boast of every colour in the kaleidoscope. None would be able to say - "I've seen it all." Perhaps, living within Shayan's brush-strokes was not such a bad idea after all. Idly, I contemplated haunting Shayan when I died.

***

The doorbell rang one Saturday morning, while I was deep in alcohol-induced slumber. In my dream, I missed a step but before I could plunge headlong into nothingness, my eyes cracked open. For a moment, I thought I was suspended in mid-air in a land of no-return. Sometimes I think I had a narrow escape from being marooned in that world of no sensations except heart-stopping dread. My head spun when I stood upright. It seemed that the phantom of last night's inebriation was still determined to haunt me. I decided not to fight it. With the honey-brown phantom's arms wrapped snugly around my neck, I walked unsteadily to my door. When the clouds cleared, quite unlike the stubborn monsoon sky, I saw a dishevelled Shayan shuffling on my doorstep. His eyes simply wouldn't focus on one single spot and I wondered if he could have possibly downed more whiskey than I had the previous night. And then he surprised me by reaching for my hands. "Kavya, you have to help me. She's going to die and I have no idea how to stop it! I simply cannot stop painting." I watched his features contort with pain and desperation and contemplated upon the warmth in his fingers. I like people whose hands are warm and heavy with something pleasant. People with cold, clammy hands make me want to jerk away with a combination of distrust and repulsion. "Show me," I said, and followed Shayan into his apartment. Our hands were still entwined and I had to hold my breath so stop his warmth from seeping into me.

His apartment looked even worse for wear than the last time I had set foot in it. And yet, the blasts of colour that emanated from the portraits carefully stacked all over, somehow made the rooms beautiful. And I hated them for it. I hated the fact that every stroke resonated with careful deliberation and loving perfection. I despised the softness in her features and the dreamy wistfulness in her eyes. I wanted to shut my eyes against the realisation that that was exactly what Suvarna might have looked like, had she made it past the turbulence of her youth. "I wished I'd known," I found myself saying. "Known what?" "That the servant was molesting her. I'm sure of it. She tried to tell me, many times. Not in so many words but in several other ways. I wish I hadn't been blind." If I had bothered to listen, Suvarna would still be alive, Shayan would have never been a part of my memories and he would still be smiling and sane. He would still be himself and not this raging mass of despair that now stood over me, refusing to let go of the comfort of my skin. I jerked my hand away and for a moment, enjoyed the hurt that crossed his face. Of course, that was immediately followed by regret. That seemed to define most of my life - impulse followed by regret. "Where's the last painting?" I asked and followed the motion of Shayan's pointing fingers. There she was, Suvarna, in her twilight days, her beautiful features wizened by the curvature of years and her milky glow dimmed by the shadows of approaching oblivion. "I don't want her to die," Shayan whispered, the thickness in his voice like a coil around my bones, pressing until they threatened to snap. I made the mistake of speaking my mind. "Isn't it a good thing? You'll be free, at last." Bony hands were gripping me by the hands and enraged eyes threatened to set my face aflame. "Free?" Shayan said, the low decibel of his voice pooling at the bottom of my heart like inky fear. "These have been the best days of my life, Kavya. I have never felt so absolutely absorbed in my life and my art as I have felt these last few days. With every wrinkle and silvery strand that I paint, I find my soul shrinking. I fear there may be nothing of me left when she's gone." With a start, I realised that my eyes were moist. This was unexpected. It struck me that Shayan had spoken of Suvarna as though she were his soulmate. "Why don't you ask her what to do then?" I said coolly, wrenched his fingers off my reddening arm and managed to walk out of his apartment without shivering once.

I spent the next hour staring vacantly into the morning, from my perch on the balcony, resisting the strange moisture in my eyes.

(To be continued)

In a Bombay train.

 

Courtesy: Jorge Lascar (Licensed under Creative Commons)

 Loud, cackling women

Erratic. Not in sync

With the rhythm of the

Train’s wheels

Or the drums beating in my ear

Or the fine whirr of the words

Rising out of my book.

Harsh, raucous speech

Abuzz with tawdry, uncontained excitement

Mutating, no longer human.

A foreign tongue

Of a foreign species.

The drums beat harder

The words rise swifter

Their music interspersed with

A voice I know so intimately

A voice I could name in my sleep

The railway announcer’s voice!

Youthful, splendidly even-paced

Like she had been born for this purpose.

For answering that existential question

Of where we are headed

And where we will eventually go.

If my life is indeed a train journey

And I don’t get to choose

Who travels in my coach,

I’d at least like to choose

The colour of my train.

A woman peers at my book

A little longer than necessary.

Frightened, I wonder

If she can see the words rising up as well

If she might want to seize them

Before they inhabit my mind.

Drums have now become

The mellow ripple of a piano

A beggar sings of love, of unrequited passion

The cackling has quietened

Human again

But not yet sublime.

And here we are, at yet another station

New coach members

New scents of aspiration, desperation

Vacant bliss and noisy frustration

I must permit them

The familiarity of my skin

Of the vibrations of my thoughts

Which have now become confused,

Misdirected mass

Of cackles, croons and cloistered cacophony

Rainbow of sounds

Bouquet of annoyance.

There I see men clad in orange overalls

Weathered skin darkened

By the passage of time.

Peering into unexplained mysteries of the railway tracks

And if I peered along with them,

Would my skin become weather-worn and shadowy too?

Buildings struggle to wriggle out of their foundations

And coconut palms strain to kiss the clouds

As we pass

But not a single nod of greeting

Not a whit of acknowledgement

We’re strangers – them and me

But we see each other everyday.

We’re strangers – the world and I

Though we breathe each other everyday.