shamiana

Way back in 1952,  Rene Clement directed  Jeux Interdits, a French war film. It was based on Francois Boyer's novel of the same title. The film captures the horrors of the war as it disrupts everyday life, traumatizes children and kills innocence. What happens on a macro cosmic scale in war torn Europe, is reflected in the micro cosmic reality of the central protagonists: Paulette and Michel Dolle. As audience, we live the moments through these two characters. Music overpowers the narrative and haunts one for days. Very similar tonal quality can be sensed in Christopher Nolan's war film: Dunkirk (2017). It is amazing how both Clement and Nolan bring out the essence of human grit, basic survival instinct and an underlining sense of guilt that engulfs us all when we approach: war. For a war movie, Dunkirk is actually eye pleasing. There is hardly any blood to be seen. The beach, water, sky, cliffs all have been shot spectacularly. Yet, we know this is not a holiday experien...

The heat engulfs and stifles her, Unbearably dull and hopeless Life has nothing to offer She never chose this life. Perhaps, the moment had come To make a choice Between a bottle of morphine And a rope. She ensured no one was home She saw the bottle kept on the table While the rope hung from the chair She never knew how to decide. With a Herculean effort she leaped onto the chair Moved on to the table and began to play with the Empty bottle of morphine with her claws Now, this was the life she loved.  

I:  “Did you read my blog?” You : “No, I don't react to mediocrity.” I: “Well, that explains why there's no self analysis.”

As the bell went off, she picked up her pre-packed satchel and raced to the gate. She wanted to be the first one to step out. It was the first drizzle of the season. Thrilled by the chill, she merrily opened her blue umbrella with bright pink flowers (mocked by her all-grownup - sister as a "childish and too girlie" choice !). She did not care. She loved the rains. The puzzling puddles and funny faces that one can see in them! The ripples set off by cars as they whoosh past her and the joy of taking the umbrella off one's head, staring at the sky while still keeping your eyes open was incomparable. At times, clutching your umbrella tightly, lest it would fly away with the wind. She loved to watch drops trickle down from the umbrella, to stick hand out from umbrella and splash the water on puppies and kittens and steal a quick glance to look out for any discipline-conscious adults around you. All this was fun! As she head home she thought of all these joys and also of the...

किती वाट पाहिली तुझी? वाटले, येतोस की नाही.आकाशात ढग दाटले की चाहूल लागते तुझी.मंद गार वारा आणि त्यावर स्वार होऊन येतात त्या धारा. कधी शांत ,अबोध रिमझिम तर कधी दमदार बरसात, तर कधी गंभीर संततधार अशी अनेक रुपं तुझी! कधी थोडा विसावा धेतलास, तर आसमंतात शांतता पसरते. लहानपणी छप्परावर नाचणारा तू, आजही साद घालतोस.छोट्या छोट्या कागदी होड्या बनवून त्या साचलेल्या डबक्यात सोडायच्या. बुडणार त्या हे माहिती असायचे , पण त्यांच्या क्षणभर तरंगण्याचा केवढा आनंद वाटत असे. तुझे स्वागत आईनं केलेल्या भजीने व्हायचे. त्या अल्लड वयात तुझ्या तुषारांचा रोमांच! उफाळून आलेला समुद्र आणि मेघांनी मोहरलेले डोंगर ! कधी अचानक दिसलेले इंद्रधनुष.सगळे अद्भुत. प्रणयाच्या क्षणांना तुझ्या संगीताची साथ! तुझ्या धास्तीने लोकलचा केलेला प्रवास आणि कितीही पैसे मोजून घराकडे घेतलेली धाव,मग  आलं घालून चहा आणि सगळ्यांची विचारपूस. तुझ्या बरोबरीचे अस्थानी पराक्रम आणि तद्नंतर मिळालेला  औषधांचा खुराक,हे कधी चुकले नाही . घरी एकटेच असताना ,तू सोबत करतोस की कुठल्या अनामिक भीतीला निमंत्रण देतोस, हे कळलेच नाही . जितका अल्लहाददाय...

He stole a glance at his watch. It was 7 already. Even if were to start from office now, he would make it to the restaurant by 8:30. His wife would be upset. She hated waiting. The Manager was certainly crazy to come up with an urgent meeting in the evening. It was the fag end of the day and everyone had plans. The meeting went on for a few hours. He knew his boss was certainly headed for a divorce! Who keeps meetings on Valentine’s Day? She knew he would be late, again. After all, it was Friday. Valentine’s Day was particularly insignificant for them. They never celebrated it when they were courting so now after marriage it seemed ludicrous to celebrate. She thought of all the previous Valentines she had dated on this day: men with smoldering looks and generous wallets; with swanky cars and sexy jackets; She often compared them with her husband and counted her blessings. He was her man: rich and sexy he was not. He was not a gallant;no knight in  shinning armor. But, he ensure...

Sadhguru wanted me to repeat "I am not the body;I am not the mind." I continued meditating for a while and had an epiphany. Spiritually speaking, yes, "I" here, refers to the immortal,formless and divine soul. However, as much as these guided meditations ask me to let go, the more I cling on. I clutch tight. Maybe the mind never wants to let go. For me, "I" am the mind, the body and  the soul, all packed into one. I enjoy the sensual pleasures that the world offers me. I love the act of creation and the pseudo God like status. My self craves to lose itself in the act of creation. The journey sublimates the self and continues to redefine the boundaries of excellence. Well, it could be that I have an ego. But then, who doesn't? Atleast, I don't have ego hassles with people.  Maybe i need to redfine the whole project, change the angle. I am the body and I am the mind. yes, that is so simple to follow. In fact, I should take care of my body and my mi...

It was that time of the year again when Jake knew his wife would ask for money. The festive season starting with Christmas and ending in New Year was a burden, financially and emotionally. In the two years of marriage, all his wife would do was nag. He knew that’s what wives usually did. Nagging is their occupation.  She would complain he was getting on her nerves. They would fight incessantly. Peace was unheard of, except when she would be either out for work or with her friends. So, here was Jake pensively drinking his troubles away. His marriage had hit rocks so a bit of scotch on the rocks would hardly make a difference. Lately, he had begun to imagine life without her. How splendid! Wishful thinking seemed to do him well. He would chalk out various plans to get rid of her. Opt for legal separation? No, that would be too much of hard work. Meeting a counselor, arguing with meddling friends and nosy relatives, and paying the lawyer’s fees was impossible. How about throwing h...

As I entered the YP gate, I realised I might be asked for an ID. I had none. Luckily  I was not. I walked to the HSS Dept, calling my friend, constantly. Well, she said she would be late. I nervously strolled about. Disoriented and clueless. Was it not here that I learnt to ride a cycle? Where was Mafco the one mecca for school kids? Nowhere to be seen. I went along. Continued till IDC...Well, here's where we would come and check the acoustic sweet spot er the echo! I wish I could go home. This place was my home till last month. No longer anymore. Why was is it so tough to fight back those memories and tears rolled down. There were lots of people I could have called. They would have welcomed me in their homes may be for lunch or chai or even a stay over. But, it can't be the same. So I did not make calls. I continued to walk for some more time. Going to LT(yes, that's what it was called), Convo and finally came to coffee shack. Had a cuppa. helped immensely. The phone buzz...

Thank you for being: My friend My guide My confidante My colleague My student  Thanks for :  stealthily making lemon juice at midnight  coming on long bicycle rides on the IITB campus  taking classical music lessons with me  making me read and forcing me to write  bumping into me at Strand  fixing train timings and screwing them, too  motivating me to attend Sanskrit lectures discussing "Tom Joad" with me learning French and tolerating my dismal linguistic skills translating "tum se hi" singing "Tere haath mein" from Fanaa listening to the endless drone that are my lectures sharing my Kafka and Sheldon Cooper obsession becoming the victims for my culinary experiments sharing a samosa paav with me losing your mind over Paradise Lost parsing sentences scanning poetry looking for SPOCA and glides calling Gus a scoundrel and taking that as a  complement sharing a silly chain with me doin...

"Hi there! What are you writing?" "Nothing much. Something that you said the other day when we last spoke of the issues bothering you, as in me." "Whose voice is it anyway? Who's talking: you or me? It's like coming and going Who knows what's real?" "Stop! you confuse me. Why don't you leave me alone?" "That defines my being" "Being what? A nut?" "I prefer :ALIVE" "Shut up and let me write" "That's from Donne" "Well, let us just say Donne inspires me" "You suck at writing. Accept and move on" "Well, how could I excel at anything,with you watching me- always " "Should we part ways?" "High time already" "How would you write without me" "I would write like a mindless mad creator" "Maybe you could choose to write in third person; Takes the pressure off."

John had had a long day. All he wished for was a whiskey and soak himself in the tub.Just then the phone rings.It's a call from his wife, Mary. Reluctantly, John answers the phone. Mary tells him that she would be  late and that he might order Chinese for dinner for she would grab a bite at the University cafeteria. John does not mind. He's got used to being alone. Lately, this had become a pattern with Mary. She would call and cancel at the last minute. No prior intimation. John enjoys his bath and the whiskey. Then, he orders Chinese. Eats his dinner while watching TV. Mary has had a long day. All she wants is some food, a glass of wine maybe and loads of sleep. She has not slept for days. She opens the door with the spare key that she wears around her neck. She quietly gets in. Has a quick shower.She opts for a cup of cocoa, rather having the take away from Chang's Palace. She creeps into bed very gently. John is snoring by now. She curls up to him and dozes off in an...

Gurupoornima is about Gurus and disciples. As a teenager, my mother pushed me into learning Hindustani Classical music. I had been learning the form for some time now. I had not developed a liking for it. I was very apprehensive to approach Prof Malshe. For, I knew that he would have high expectations from his students.Nevertheless, I did meet him one day. Surprisingly, he agreed to teach me. I remember Sir started off with Raga Yaman . After making me sing a few notes, he noted that my voice had that tonal quality required to take up Hindustani Classical music. Thus, began a musical journey that I would cherish for the rest of my life. Every year, Prof Malshe's students (read:shishyas) would organize a Gurupoornima event on the IITB campus. Sir would allot Ragas to each student. It was a common practice, for freshers to start the morning session with "Ishastavana" (an invocation to God) the others would follow as per their respective seniority. In  the evening  Mals...

It has been raining all day now. She listens listlessly to the sound of continuous rain.The incessant drizzle almost fizzles her out. Unwillingly, she tries to go back to work. She has to finish  writing her paper.She has been invited to read at a HSS conference in Cal Sci. She picks up a book she's been meaning to read.Reading might provide an instant escape from the boredom that descends upon her. All in vain ! She lights up at the idea of a hot beverage: tea, maybe.Music might help too. Her favourite tracks are already on the playlist. She turns up the volume. Suddenly, her face glows. Bryan Adams is reminiscing about the Summer of '69. The song takes her back,a decade, almost. The spring time of life! The blithe spirit that she was she would enjoy every moment of her existence. Full of the insouciance that defines youth! She smiles and rushes to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. She sits cozy and comfy on her bean bag, sipping the  hot,aromatic, cinnamon flavour...

I keep down the book. An acute sense of shock surrounds me. Kazuo Ishiguro's A Pale View of Hills has moved me,deeply. We know memory can play games. We use memory to unmask reality, seldom do we realize that memory and reality can be seamless.Memory is a mask,too. Perhaps more stubborn and opaque than reality because it is careful constructed. Memory reflects upon the past. The past is constructed through memory. The events and characters remain hazy like sepia toned photographs. This lack of clarity and credibility permeates the novel. Estuko remains cunningly deceptive. We continue to form and modify impressions about her. We see her as a mourning mother, grieving over Keiko's death at the same time she is trying to reconcile her relationship with Nikki.Interestingly, she never becomes a victim-social,domestic or political. Ishiguro talks about post War Nagasaki: how nothing could ever be the same again. Ishiguro talks about the post War life in Nagasaki. The times pre...

It's 4:55 in the evening. I am done with lectures and college chores. It's been an eventful day as always. I'm furiously packing my stuff away: some into the locker, some in the bag and some to the bin. It's 5:00 and I rush to the office,sign out for the day, and start for home. I walk nowadays. Resisting every possible temptation like a snack or maybe a ride back home :) I prefer to walk. Suddenly, I realize it's just me! I am all alone! Alone, not lonely.There's no one to keep me company : crazy and callow students or mature colleagues. The pure joy of being yourself, the essence of existence comes to the fore as it eclipses my desires and cravings.Apart from walking I indulge in other activities; at times I hum to myself, revise conjugations, dream endlessly about the future, reminisce the past. My imagination takes me places as I walk alone.Carelessly treading my way home,I find my body actually letting go of stress with every step I take. If there's a...

It was our first date.  The monsoon kept its word. I failed to show up.  The verdure cool breeze sudden showers incessant pouring -  everything escaped me. Never realized Work Deadlines  Responsibilities Promises  Ate up my time.  Would I make a second date? Next year, maybe.

The intoxicating scent of mangoes, The summer songs of cuckoos, The sweet fragrance of first showers, Remind me of a distant past. Parched land and shriveled cattle scream for water. I cannot look them in the eye: my family. Braving hunger, poverty and injustice. I question myself: Did I fail them? I look for answers; find none. Suicide seems a lucrative option. A new career avenue, almost. Soon, this too shall pass. We continue to live:silent and resilient. In God we trust.Everything goes up: Prices,debts,corruption, deceit, Not a word of solace; not an iota of shame. Can somebody hear me? I'm sure you do. Your tender heart trembles in pain. But I know it's all in vain. I know it's a losing battle where no one gains.

Supervision I entered a room filled with a silence full of anticipation and anxiety, penetrated by  nervous clicking of the pen, tapping of feet, a rummage through the bag for the elusive hall-ticket/pencil/calculator/"lucky pen". My arrival was burdensome for many but a welcome relief for some. Mechanically, I started with the instructions:  an order to keep away their books, cellphones(switched off),notebooks and bags, a gentle reminder to use a black pen and a request to "double check" their hall tickets.   As soon as the question paper was distributed one witnessed familiar reactions: a fearful staring at the wall, or a heavy sigh of relief, a slight chuckle, a devilish smirk maybe,a last minute prayer,or a helpless and hopeless whistle of despair...all these set the mood in the exam hall.  Then, began the ordeal. The meticulous signing of the answer books, (first and foremost: an eye for signatures), a scrutiny of the hall ticket coupled w...

ठकीचे आजोबा नेपोलिअनचे चरित्र कपाटात ठेवले . वाटले पाठवू आजोबांसाठी नागपूरला . हल्ली ते फार वाचत नाहीत असे ठाऊक होते तरी वाटले पुस्तक पाहूनच बरे वाटेल त्यांना . पुस्तक अजूनही कपाटातच आहे . साधारण गेली दहा वर्षे तरी लुडविगचे नेपोलेअनचे चरित्र मिळाले तर आण असे ते मला सांगत होते . आता चरित्र मिळाले पण उशीर झाला खूपच … उन्हाळ्याच्या सुट्टीत अगदी ठरलेला कार्यक्रम असे . पुण्यात सगळे जमायचे . आम्ही चार नातवंडे . त्यात मी एकटीच नात ( म्हणून खास लाडकी )! कैऱ्या , आंबे पत्त्यांचे बंगले , आजीने पुरविलेले खाण्याचे लाड , रात्री गच्चीत रंगलेले झब्बुचे डाव ; सारे काही सुंदर , उत्साही आणि शांत आजच्या भाषेत “डी - स्ट्रेसिङ्ग “ . लहान वयातही अतिशय आकर्षण वाटे ते आजोबांच्या पुस्तक संग्रहाचे . तत्त्व - ज्ञान , इतिहास , उत्तम कादंबऱ्या , कला अशा विविध विषयांवरील ग्रंथांचा अतिशय व्यवस्थित ठेवलेला खजिनाच ! “ ही सगळी लायब्ररी तुझीच आहे” असे त्यांनी म्हटल्यावर काय आनंद वाटला होता . अ टेल ऑफ टू सिटीज हे त्यांच्या कपाटातून मी घेतलेले पहिले पुस्तक . आठवतो अजून साधा प्रसंग - आजोबा : शाम...