India ain't suicidal. Having said that... read on.
See men fall and die
caught undignified in their hurry,
watch them all dead in their beds
smiling blankly at the thief.
look at them laid down in coffins,
other damp squibs curling in the sky.
shun the dog splayed roadside,
laud the rich man enshrined in his chair,
scorn the woman famoulsy obituarized,
but oh i'll have the prettiest death.
how dull to die with no thought of death,
how commonplace to meet it serenely,
i'll laugh and snatch and kill old age
and arrange myself beautifully.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Monday, August 28, 2006
Heaven It Is!
For those of you who read 'Between Heel and High Water', just to let you know... India finally bought calf length black suede boots. If that means something more, your guess is as good as mine.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
The Glass Menagerie
I was going to put up some lines i found in a diary which are very unlike India to have written. But then i came upon this:
" My favourite poem... beautifully desperate and so easy to relate to."
Here's what she's talking about - a poem by Alicia Ostriker, untitled:
Passing that fiery tree—if only she could
Be making love,
Be making poetry,
Be exploding, be speeding through the universe
Like a photon, like a shower
Of yellow blazes—
She believes if she could only overtake
The riding rhythm of things,
Of her own electrons,
Then she would be at rest…
If she could forget school,
Climb the tree,
Be the tree,
Burn like that.
…She doesn’t know yet, how could she
That this same need
Is going to erupt every September
And that in 40 years the idea will strike her
From no apparent source,
In a Laundromat
Between a washer and a dryer,
Like one of those electric light bulbs
Lighting up near a character’s head in a comic strip—
There in that naked and soiled place
With its detergent machines,
Its speckled fluorescent lights,
Its lint piles broomed into corners as she fumbles for quarters
And dimes, she will start to chuckle and double over
Into the plastic baskets’
Mountain of wet
Bedsheets and bulky overalls—
Old lady! She’ll grin,
beguiled at herself,
Old lady! The desire to burn is already a burning! How about that!
ps: i owe Gnarls for this putting me on my way to discovering this one.
" My favourite poem... beautifully desperate and so easy to relate to."
Here's what she's talking about - a poem by Alicia Ostriker, untitled:
Passing that fiery tree—if only she could
Be making love,
Be making poetry,
Be exploding, be speeding through the universe
Like a photon, like a shower
Of yellow blazes—
She believes if she could only overtake
The riding rhythm of things,
Of her own electrons,
Then she would be at rest…
If she could forget school,
Climb the tree,
Be the tree,
Burn like that.
…She doesn’t know yet, how could she
That this same need
Is going to erupt every September
And that in 40 years the idea will strike her
From no apparent source,
In a Laundromat
Between a washer and a dryer,
Like one of those electric light bulbs
Lighting up near a character’s head in a comic strip—
There in that naked and soiled place
With its detergent machines,
Its speckled fluorescent lights,
Its lint piles broomed into corners as she fumbles for quarters
And dimes, she will start to chuckle and double over
Into the plastic baskets’
Mountain of wet
Bedsheets and bulky overalls—
Old lady! She’ll grin,
beguiled at herself,
Old lady! The desire to burn is already a burning! How about that!
ps: i owe Gnarls for this putting me on my way to discovering this one.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
India Q and the Temple of Gloom
In a candle lit room with the perfume of peppermint wafting thru the air, strains of music can be heard as three priestesses sing lustily along with all the fervour that a prayer demands.
They are lying on the floor, eyes wide open, staring beyond the room walls, silent but for the words to the songs, “yeah.. you bleed just to know you’re alive” and then others go “sometimes I feel like I don’t have a problem” and then again “Just remember when a dream appears”..
There’s no one like a young girl to make a God of something she knows and doesn’t understand.
Alanis, Paris and I have worshipped at the Altar of Gloom for the longest time. Like any other God he can be benign and angry, tease our senses with a happy gloominess, a knowledge that we can feel.
And like all the great Gods, sometimes there is no reason for His presence. We can wallow in it just for the heck of wallowing in something that can be reached and believed. And if music has forever been used in temples, ancient and shiny, to sharpen the worshipper’s mindless devotion, then we three have been High Priestesses for the longest time.
After college, the temple lay bereft for a while, the High Priestesses flown to try the world. But they met again and found that the God had lived.
For anyone who has ever understood a blue song or got a peculiar joy from lyrics you’ve not written, or sat looking at truck lights passing away on a distant highway with some kind of scratching in your inside; wanted the clouds to rip away from you as you plunge through their depths, string less; for anyone who’s ever wanted to burn and live;
For where there is youth and a desire for life and love, the Gods shall bless us in all their bounty and there shall always be the Temple of Gloom.
And like different Gods bind different people into one force for good or ill, here we are...
Still bound.
Coz I know that you feel me somehow
Fly the ocean in a silver plane…
Lonely as I am together we cry.
They are lying on the floor, eyes wide open, staring beyond the room walls, silent but for the words to the songs, “yeah.. you bleed just to know you’re alive” and then others go “sometimes I feel like I don’t have a problem” and then again “Just remember when a dream appears”..
There’s no one like a young girl to make a God of something she knows and doesn’t understand.
Alanis, Paris and I have worshipped at the Altar of Gloom for the longest time. Like any other God he can be benign and angry, tease our senses with a happy gloominess, a knowledge that we can feel.
And like all the great Gods, sometimes there is no reason for His presence. We can wallow in it just for the heck of wallowing in something that can be reached and believed. And if music has forever been used in temples, ancient and shiny, to sharpen the worshipper’s mindless devotion, then we three have been High Priestesses for the longest time.
After college, the temple lay bereft for a while, the High Priestesses flown to try the world. But they met again and found that the God had lived.
For anyone who has ever understood a blue song or got a peculiar joy from lyrics you’ve not written, or sat looking at truck lights passing away on a distant highway with some kind of scratching in your inside; wanted the clouds to rip away from you as you plunge through their depths, string less; for anyone who’s ever wanted to burn and live;
For where there is youth and a desire for life and love, the Gods shall bless us in all their bounty and there shall always be the Temple of Gloom.
And like different Gods bind different people into one force for good or ill, here we are...
Still bound.
Coz I know that you feel me somehow
Fly the ocean in a silver plane…
Lonely as I am together we cry.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Between Heel and High Water
Once in a while I go through my closet and I find that I have more clothes than I did the last time. I'm a hoarder – good stuff, bad stuff.. I can make myself throw away nothing. So my room is the cleanest place of stashed away memorabilia.
Shirts that went out ofstyle years ago, papers and diaries that have nothing more interesting written on them than the lyrics of songs or list of appointments of a year gone by, every gift ever given to me – ugly ones in drawers ready to be put on display when required.. incapable of parting with anything that means something.
Paris and I shifted house. Since the job of packing annoys me as it can only annoy someone with too much of unwanted luggage – I decided to trash without thought. And I did. Two suitcases filled with things that hadn't seen daylight in more than a year.
And then I came to my silver heels.
These heels had been my soul (terrible pun) for a long time – stilettos of the sexiest kind, they were a standard of the woman who cannot be expected to stay, a woman who will dance when she feels like and slide them off and chatter in a moment. This stiletto-shod girl could make men drool and girls envy. Though they had pinched my feet for some time now, I resolutely refused to throw them away. That day I stopped amidst the dust and mounds of cartons and stared at them.
My bandana slipping off my forehead, and shorts looking morosely ill fitting I put on the footwear again. Sigh. Oh the joy of it. I stand four inches taller and distinctly start looking sexy. I know if I keep them on a little longer or walk around in them, it'll start to hurt.. but really is that reason enough to throw them out?!
These were the heels in which I had enticed my first love, these were the heels in which I had gone for my graduation, these were the heels that had been borrowed by my closest friends for the most illicit purposes. These were good stuff. Why throw them?
But I did. Sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself is to throw the good old stuff and create space for new. Sometimes the best thing you can do is forget even the good with the bad. Sometimes the best you can do is go buy the newest pair of white calf length stiletto boots and realize that you've outgrown them silver heels.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
WHITE
As promised.. Here's a poem written by Alanis while The Four were in college. Found it in a letter written from India to Shade...
"That damn Lupin, he's such an overbearing ass, i have no clue why u like his philo class so much. He's attempting to get Alanis to change some lines and punctuation before White is published in the college mag. Not surprisingly, she held firm. It was her poem and her meaning. The punctuations fell where she willed them and to change them (ostensibly for the better) would reduce meaning. As a wannabe poet, i whole heartedly agree."
“Brown” is what the farmer says, the color of earth is.
Blue to a scuba diver or Neil Armstrong.
Pink to six year old’s, Aerosmith.
Green to a gardener.
Red to a Cardiologist.
Black to the blind.
Yellow to the sun.
Orange to the birds that fly past it.
Purple to Govinda.
Grey to my grandmother.
Gold to Goldilocks, blonds, the God’s.
Silver to the optimist.
White for the snow and the clouds above to Tenzing or the Icelanders.
White to any European during the imperialist regime.
White to all the browns, blacks and yellows that represent one universe, at that time.
It never boiled down to skin, bones and blood.
It’s about what the eye meets.
What lay on the surface.
White the coral beneath the ocean.
White the cleanest sand.
White the sky when it chooses to be.
White the color of our smile.
White the palm’s of our hands.
White the bones beneath any skin.
Red when you open the white skin.
Red when you open up any skin.
Yet we do not live in harmony with our surfaces.
We toy with the color’s we have.
Slay the green.
Rot the grey.
Spill the red.
Blue for background.
Black and brown as base.
Yellow for finishing touch’s.
White left behind.
We have a perfect world.
With differences.
Colorful.
"That damn Lupin, he's such an overbearing ass, i have no clue why u like his philo class so much. He's attempting to get Alanis to change some lines and punctuation before White is published in the college mag. Not surprisingly, she held firm. It was her poem and her meaning. The punctuations fell where she willed them and to change them (ostensibly for the better) would reduce meaning. As a wannabe poet, i whole heartedly agree."
“Brown” is what the farmer says, the color of earth is.
Blue to a scuba diver or Neil Armstrong.
Pink to six year old’s, Aerosmith.
Green to a gardener.
Red to a Cardiologist.
Black to the blind.
Yellow to the sun.
Orange to the birds that fly past it.
Purple to Govinda.
Grey to my grandmother.
Gold to Goldilocks, blonds, the God’s.
Silver to the optimist.
White for the snow and the clouds above to Tenzing or the Icelanders.
White to any European during the imperialist regime.
White to all the browns, blacks and yellows that represent one universe, at that time.
It never boiled down to skin, bones and blood.
It’s about what the eye meets.
What lay on the surface.
White the coral beneath the ocean.
White the cleanest sand.
White the sky when it chooses to be.
White the color of our smile.
White the palm’s of our hands.
White the bones beneath any skin.
Red when you open the white skin.
Red when you open up any skin.
Yet we do not live in harmony with our surfaces.
We toy with the color’s we have.
Slay the green.
Rot the grey.
Spill the red.
Blue for background.
Black and brown as base.
Yellow for finishing touch’s.
White left behind.
We have a perfect world.
With differences.
Colorful.
Monday, June 26, 2006
An Ode to Maya
If India were to read this..she'd raise her brow and say, "D, this isn't an ode.. it's not in appreciation of Maya." (Well.. that would certainly be tough).. but i can't very well call this a sonnet (more than 14 lines i'm afraid), an elegy, a metaphysical poem, etc.
So it's in appreciation of a interesting conversation on a pleasant afternoon.
The ball glittered and swelled,
with jewels on breasts and veils on show,
fantastic masks birthing fantastic eyes
A Peacock, a Harlequin, a Whore.
Golden liquid and red bubbled,
kings and queens were laid flat on stone,
white gowns got painted leafy green,
And birds of prey stalked the floor.
There a Highwayman grabbed a Goddess,
and there a Vixen smiled at a joke,
glasses may have clinked and raised a din,
the chandelier splintered on secret doors.
But a woman in white, or sea green, or was it red?
in a mask of gold, or silver, or black?
Sat in a corner and looked about,
not a wallflower, not a showgirl,
just Ego willing to wait it out.
So still she sat, so still,
how long she would have stayed,
it cannot be told.
but then there was a diversion.. a shout
and in that moment it was red she glowed.
She turned her eyes and watched a man,
beautiful and compelling, dressed in flesh,
eating and drinking and kissing with fervor,
Filling his appetites to the core.
Her body loosened as he sipped women and wine,
warming her with glances from slanted eyes,
and when she moved with a need for drink,
he smiled a slow sly smile.
she moved past columns,
pedastal now empty,
carried forth by a force
of little doubt.
the goblet gleamed in her feverish eye,
her graceful hand reached out,
almost touched the amethyst crystal
but instead stroked a thin mouth.
Like a cold gleam, blinding
in a flash she looked white.
The flush in her senses
quietened and quenched,
the strength to build walls
and a different hunger spread.
this man was elegant,
patrician and sharp,
he beckoned with his mind
and broke her apart.
still again, she stood
torn between the two,
beguiled and tempted,
commanded with reason,
indulgence and abstinence
a dance that wasn't new.
But now it was her turn,
her tune and her power,
the men wait for release
and Ego sways about.
So it's in appreciation of a interesting conversation on a pleasant afternoon.
The ball glittered and swelled,
with jewels on breasts and veils on show,
fantastic masks birthing fantastic eyes
A Peacock, a Harlequin, a Whore.
Golden liquid and red bubbled,
kings and queens were laid flat on stone,
white gowns got painted leafy green,
And birds of prey stalked the floor.
There a Highwayman grabbed a Goddess,
and there a Vixen smiled at a joke,
glasses may have clinked and raised a din,
the chandelier splintered on secret doors.
But a woman in white, or sea green, or was it red?
in a mask of gold, or silver, or black?
Sat in a corner and looked about,
not a wallflower, not a showgirl,
just Ego willing to wait it out.
So still she sat, so still,
how long she would have stayed,
it cannot be told.
but then there was a diversion.. a shout
and in that moment it was red she glowed.
She turned her eyes and watched a man,
beautiful and compelling, dressed in flesh,
eating and drinking and kissing with fervor,
Filling his appetites to the core.
Her body loosened as he sipped women and wine,
warming her with glances from slanted eyes,
and when she moved with a need for drink,
he smiled a slow sly smile.
she moved past columns,
pedastal now empty,
carried forth by a force
of little doubt.
the goblet gleamed in her feverish eye,
her graceful hand reached out,
almost touched the amethyst crystal
but instead stroked a thin mouth.
Like a cold gleam, blinding
in a flash she looked white.
The flush in her senses
quietened and quenched,
the strength to build walls
and a different hunger spread.
this man was elegant,
patrician and sharp,
he beckoned with his mind
and broke her apart.
still again, she stood
torn between the two,
beguiled and tempted,
commanded with reason,
indulgence and abstinence
a dance that wasn't new.
But now it was her turn,
her tune and her power,
the men wait for release
and Ego sways about.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Cause and Effect
5 Reasons why the women who can't drive, can't drive...
(most certainly written soon after the bike lessons)
1. We are essentially fatalists. If an accident can happen, it will happen. If it can’t, it will still happen.
2. Women are thinkers. Since we can’t be expected to concentrate on the road and save the world at the same time, we choose to save the world. Okay.. sometimes instead of saving the world we’re thinking about the gorgeous dress in the window.
3. It requires trust to be able to drive without getting a heart attack. You have to trust the idiot in front of you not to brake suddenly. You have to trust that the guy in the snazzy car isn’t going to want to prove himself by veering close to you. Women don’t trust easily. Obviously except for when we love someone.
4. Women are multi taskers by nature. We are genetically programmed to talk on the phone, cook and go through work at the same time. Driving curbs our natural instincts.
5. Shy women especially can’t drive.. you need to have a good abusive vocabulary. Either you abuse or you suffer from high blood pressure.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
I'm an Indolent Panther I am
The law of the jungle favors the big people. The lion may rule but he’s really got to learn to move around the elephants with stealth and style and apparent nonchalance.
Mars is leaving for Cesspool. He’s got a new job there with TV19. Though he’s joined on for a web magazine they’re launching, I suspect that Paris is fantasizing about him on TV.
With him gone, I’ve got to pull up my socks, pull down my helmet straps and get my ass ready for a bike lesson.
And so.. at 5 in the morning, Mars and I are up and riding out. He sits behind me and clips out instructions.
“Start button. Accelerate.”
“Never use the brake and accelerator together.”
“Don’t go into sand and water.”
“Slow down at the speed bumps.”
He’s quite a good teacher, ofcourse he'd be better if he had nerves of steel. Our approaches are different.. he doesn’t want any accident at all and I’m just aiming not killing anyone.
Okay this is not bad.. whee.. I’m riding on a road. No problem. Heh.. I’ll take Paris to Chocolate Dips on the bike next time she comes. Though maybe we should walk when we go there. hmm. Or.. O crap! O crap!
I hug the side of the road till we’re almost in danger of kissing the trees. Mars sighs.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting out of the way of the truck,” I say belligerently.
“Okay. It’s a little extreme but you should ride the way you’re comfortable.”
We ride some more. I studiously stick to the left side. My left arm is hurting from clutching the brake so hard. A truck passes by and I don’t shudder. I think I’m improving.
I’m almost ready to whistle, (only I don’t know how), when suddenly I feel a change in the sound in my ear.. it’s a silent whooshing approach. My body feels the hum and generates the fear.. it’s one of those silent, speeding killer buses.. I just know it. All of their own will, my throat, lungs and lips form a choir and start whistling. A lesson from the King and I.
The elephant passes by and I am alive, safe. I am a survivor! Fit. Ha ha!
This bit of success goes quickly to my head. I veer off the side of the road and cheerfully pick up my speed. I’m not an expert yet so I can’t look down and check the speedometer but oh I’m fassssttt. I giggle to myself. I wonder how fast I’m going. Must be 100 at least.
I enjoy the moment.
Mars approves, “Very good. You not only need to know the rules, you should also enjoy a ride and feel the bike. But slow down now,” I smile smugly, “stick to 40,” heheh..i'm so fast i'm even scaring the flying Martian, "it's good you're comfortable at 60 though."
What?!! 60? a measly 60’s that fast? I’m obviously a dare devil only in my imagination.
In the next 20 minutes I discover while I may follow all the rules of the jungle, there’s no saying that other gazelles and cheetahs and lions will do the same. I’m secretly resigned to the idea of being a mole but it’s a fun thing to learn so I stick at it.
I start humming. I don’t know why but I’m singing you’re to good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you, lala heaven to touch.. lalla so much..
“India dammit, you’re going to break my back.. avoid the damn holes and slow down at the speed bumps.”
“Umm.. yes yes.” I nod vigorously to show I got it.
Mars isn’t very trusting. He repeats all the instructions.
“Never use the brake and accelerator together.”
“Don’t go into sand and water.”
“Slow down at the speed bumps.”
Thoughtfully he adds, “Keep a straight line, but you can veer if there are potholes.”
I’m adding one of my own to the list. No thinking while riding. No wandering while riding. Think straight. Keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the wheel. Oh. . roadhouse blues.. Keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the whee-eel. Roll baby roll, roll baby roll, baby rollll.. all nigh-
“India! Ind-ee-a, god. damn. it!”
Eeps.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Will it rain, do you think?
One of the nicer things about living in a city like Cesspool is sitting by the sea. I’m supposed to meet the girls after my run at the Seaside Cafe. (seriously lacking in imagination but you couldn’t get more sea side). I’m running late.
I zip into the place. It’s empty as usual. Beyond the huge glass windows all you can see in the distance is the sea and blackness. Closer are the rocks and filth. We never look at it, just into the horizon. Maybe that’s that makes Cesspool a city of achievers and dreamers. Everyone is avoiding looking at reality.
I pant my way to the chair opposite Harry and Sytar, “others?”
“Gaia’s caught up in a press con.” Harry grins wickedly, “Some toothpaste launch no doubt.” Gaia’s a reluctant FMCG reporter for a news channel. She’s pushing for her own environment based show.
“Sky?” I wheeze.
Sytar shrugs. On cue her phone beeps. Message from Sky. I raise my brow.
Won’t be able to make it. Got work. Really wanted to come.
This time I shrug. “So what were you guys talking about?”
“Back ups”
“Ahh.. I guess everyone needs to keep a contingency guy.”
“Computer backups, India, computers.” Sytar shakes her head. I grimace. Harry looks interested.
“So you have one huh? A back up?”
“Sure. Got him lined up a year ago.” I slouch in my chair with legs stretched out looking superior.
“Who? George? J.B? That Wodehousish guy from college?” Sytar can’t believe it when I keep shaking my head, “who else would you make your backup?”
“The flaw in your reasoning is that you think I want safe backup.” Getting into the spirit of things, I lean forward, indolent pose forgotten, “see.. why would we need a backup who’s a friend? I mean he’s your friend and if you’re settling for less then you may as well agree to the arranged marriage. But if you want a true backup, then get yourself a backup not of compromise but a romantic adventure.”
The words romance and adventure together shoot energy thru me, kind of like if Indiana Jones rappled up the Empire State Building to meet Annie (Think Sleepless in Seattle not Orphan). I sigh and look into the distance trying to look both adventurous and romantic. The effect is spoilt by the sudden arrival of the waiter.
“Fresh Lime water” I mutter. He disappears.
Sytar looks incredulous, “A romantic backup? How does that work? You can’t just plan to fall in love.”
I smirk., “Look, you remember I’d gone for that book reading at Rain?” I get nods. “well.. I met a guy there. He was one of the readers. And it was corny but he looked so familiar. And after an hour of covert glances, we finally asked each other if we’d met.”
Harry and Sytar groan and snicker, “Couldn’t you guys come up with a better line?”
“It wasn’t a line. That’s what makes it so crazy.. both of us thought we’d met but we’d never been in the same city ever. Then..”
I’m interrupted with, “..a past life connection,” from Sytar and, “so he must have been hot” from Harry.
I shake my head, “not particularly. Nice voice.”
“A not- hot backup. Sheesh India.”
“I’m not done. A few weeks later I went for a friend’s directorial theatre debut. Well, this guy was in it. And as I sat at the back of the auditorium watching the set being put in place, I suddenly hear him say thoughtfully, ‘India’.
I looked up and quaked out a ‘yes?’, he looks back, startled, and puzzles aloud, ‘no, umm.. sorry.. just thinking aloud.
I go back to pretending to read.”
The other two are looking at me suspiciously.
I grin, “So now if love doesn’t happen to me, I’m going to happen to it. I’m going to track this guy and proposition him and the very idea of it is enough,” I gather breath, “for what is love if not anticipation, for what is love if not hope and adventure..” I’m catching steam, my eyes are just about to start gazing when the waiter reappears with a chocolate truffle.
Straight-faced he says, “Patsy?”
As the girls burst out laughing, I mutter a yes.
I zip into the place. It’s empty as usual. Beyond the huge glass windows all you can see in the distance is the sea and blackness. Closer are the rocks and filth. We never look at it, just into the horizon. Maybe that’s that makes Cesspool a city of achievers and dreamers. Everyone is avoiding looking at reality.
I pant my way to the chair opposite Harry and Sytar, “others?”
“Gaia’s caught up in a press con.” Harry grins wickedly, “Some toothpaste launch no doubt.” Gaia’s a reluctant FMCG reporter for a news channel. She’s pushing for her own environment based show.
“Sky?” I wheeze.
Sytar shrugs. On cue her phone beeps. Message from Sky. I raise my brow.
Won’t be able to make it. Got work. Really wanted to come.
This time I shrug. “So what were you guys talking about?”
“Back ups”
“Ahh.. I guess everyone needs to keep a contingency guy.”
“Computer backups, India, computers.” Sytar shakes her head. I grimace. Harry looks interested.
“So you have one huh? A back up?”
“Sure. Got him lined up a year ago.” I slouch in my chair with legs stretched out looking superior.
“Who? George? J.B? That Wodehousish guy from college?” Sytar can’t believe it when I keep shaking my head, “who else would you make your backup?”
“The flaw in your reasoning is that you think I want safe backup.” Getting into the spirit of things, I lean forward, indolent pose forgotten, “see.. why would we need a backup who’s a friend? I mean he’s your friend and if you’re settling for less then you may as well agree to the arranged marriage. But if you want a true backup, then get yourself a backup not of compromise but a romantic adventure.”
The words romance and adventure together shoot energy thru me, kind of like if Indiana Jones rappled up the Empire State Building to meet Annie (Think Sleepless in Seattle not Orphan). I sigh and look into the distance trying to look both adventurous and romantic. The effect is spoilt by the sudden arrival of the waiter.
“Fresh Lime water” I mutter. He disappears.
Sytar looks incredulous, “A romantic backup? How does that work? You can’t just plan to fall in love.”
I smirk., “Look, you remember I’d gone for that book reading at Rain?” I get nods. “well.. I met a guy there. He was one of the readers. And it was corny but he looked so familiar. And after an hour of covert glances, we finally asked each other if we’d met.”
Harry and Sytar groan and snicker, “Couldn’t you guys come up with a better line?”
“It wasn’t a line. That’s what makes it so crazy.. both of us thought we’d met but we’d never been in the same city ever. Then..”
I’m interrupted with, “..a past life connection,” from Sytar and, “so he must have been hot” from Harry.
I shake my head, “not particularly. Nice voice.”
“A not- hot backup. Sheesh India.”
“I’m not done. A few weeks later I went for a friend’s directorial theatre debut. Well, this guy was in it. And as I sat at the back of the auditorium watching the set being put in place, I suddenly hear him say thoughtfully, ‘India’.
I looked up and quaked out a ‘yes?’, he looks back, startled, and puzzles aloud, ‘no, umm.. sorry.. just thinking aloud.
I go back to pretending to read.”
The other two are looking at me suspiciously.
I grin, “So now if love doesn’t happen to me, I’m going to happen to it. I’m going to track this guy and proposition him and the very idea of it is enough,” I gather breath, “for what is love if not anticipation, for what is love if not hope and adventure..” I’m catching steam, my eyes are just about to start gazing when the waiter reappears with a chocolate truffle.
Straight-faced he says, “Patsy?”
As the girls burst out laughing, I mutter a yes.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
I am Jack's Burning Rage
In tribute to all of us in the world working dead end jobs, staring at computer screens and waiting to grasp/ create that one stairway to employment heaven, i am going to post one of the poems India wrote when she was in a job rut and watching her ideas run by while she sat on the sidelines.
I'm born of the wind and the fires it stokes,
The earth my feet should not feel.
I rage as he burns and weep as she blows,
But still the earth holds on to my feet.
I run and run to shake off my tormentor
But now my parents don't seem to know me.
I'm born of the wind and the fires it stokes,
The earth my feet should not feel.
I rage as he burns and weep as she blows,
But still the earth holds on to my feet.
I run and run to shake off my tormentor
But now my parents don't seem to know me.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Waiting Atop the Empire State Building
I write this for those who understand.. and the others I care nothing for.. so said Ayn Rand about Fountainhead.. (and felt about most of her works, I think). I wish I could say the same.. but I don’t think I'm that self actualized yet.Like all the best writers I'm writing a love story... and to top them I'm filling it with love affairs. The first began on a regular day in school.. pigtails, knee length socks, an as- yet- unspotted- face (hormones kicked in soon after). I had no idea that I'd start so young or that a teacher would force me into the meeting- but she did. She told me of him and I couldn't wait. That very day I stayed up till 3 cavorting with him. He was rather correct but first love is first love.. and I knew no better for the next 2 years. Fitzgerald Darcy walked into my life.. a single man in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a wife.. and truly I have never wavered from that edict since. Every man I meet is a possible. And why not? They don't know better.. unless they have Darcy's good sense to come up to me and say 'long have I struggled..' yada yada and profess their undying love.
As the years have passed he has mellowed in my mind and become the one I remember with fondness.. first flush and tenderness. I owe him my loyalty and sweetness but can he bloody his head for me? Will he wring and writhe and torment himself and me as only the deepest, darkest love can? The question came and feeling guilty I locked it away.. but then I met Heathcliff. Bye bye Darcy. I love you, I really do.. but this man is for me. Darcy understood. Stayed in the shadows and watched me pick up another man.
Heathcliff is less tolerant, he won't let me love another. What started one purple streaked evening has become forever. Nothing less will do.
I meet other men and sometimes I love them a little, I admire them and wonder about their minds. Take Dostoevsky's Raskolnikov.. wouldn't one want to talk to him? Why does he wander so? 'Lies lead us to the truth'.. and he could have been one lie for me on the way. Or Aragon.. now there's a man that I could never be sure whether to love or just be awed by? Like Eowyn I mistook respect for love. We girls do that once in a while. He suits Arwen better. No regrets there. And then there was Roark.. the one man who tempted me beyond fidelity. Just as capable of stirring agony. As earthy, as single mindedly passionate. He spoke of his work and I felt he was God about to create man. Such was his power.
I found that he was taken.. a friend had loved him for years and one thing a girl can never do is poach on a friend's territory. There are many fish in the sea and about as many emotions.
Sometimes I wish that I had met Heathcliff a little later. But shit happens.(I'm mixing my references… but movies are so succinctly spot on).
I guess you've just got to live with the man written for you.
----
This is dated years ago.. I have it on good authority (which means India was yakking as usual).. that since then she has been owned by Francisco Domingo Carlos Andres Sebastian D'anconia in part and Atlas Shruggred in full. She is resolutely keeping Heathcliff locked away. This time I wonder who shall win.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Pollyanna Flower in a Norwegian Wood
Maya came thru.. with not one.. but three sketches. Obviously i was right (ahem).. art really is about faith. Here's her represntation of Alanis. I couldn't have got her better. .i probably, couldn't have gotten her at all.
One of India's favourite poems is written by Alanis. If i can get my hands on it.. i'll put it up.. It's called White.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
AS GOOD AS IT GETS
not *ing Jack and Helen
I’m sitting at my desk pounding away furiously on the comp. I know my boss is looking at me through the glass partition smiling benevolently. He thinks I’m working. Infact he always thinks I’m working. When he sees me reading a book he happily assumes that it’s for work. When he sees me type he just concludes that I’m writing up my report on said book.
I’m hardly ever working.
I keep hoping they’ll fire me. But the problem is most people in this office think I’m a genius. I suppose it’s because I wear glasses and have an opinion. It’s true that I work diligently and well.. fast. I read scripts real fast. I write my evaluation real fast – trashy, what?!, no way!, maybe, must call for narration, yet another triangle, etc. So they let me do as I please. This irks me. It irks me more when the same mediocre people feel they need to check up on me just to keep the hierarchy in place. I like to be treated lightly. I like people to pander to my ego while letting me know that they’re just pandering. More than anything I like to be left alone.
Which is why I’m in a bad mood right now.
“So you will read my script right? Right?” the voice buzzes in my ear like a particularly annoying fly. I turn a freezing look on my colleague. His sandy hair is flopping around his face under a turned around cap. His eyes are puppy dog and smile sweet. He’s a nice guy. I thaw the glare and dreg up a smile, “I said I would and I will. Just not now. I’ll take it home with me.” That’ll give me time to come up with gentle comments incase it sucks.
He looks suspicious. Clutching the bound pages to his chest he murmurs, “But u live with a whole bunch of writers. What if one of them steals my story?”
I stifle a grin. “umm.. I’ll make sure they never know I have your script.” I try to sound firm instead of questioning.
He still looks hesitant. I smile at him bracingly. He slowly hands me the script. I quickly stuff it in my bag and pointedly turn back to the comp. I know he’s shuffling behind me. My back turns colder. He leaves.
I’m the queen of vibes.
TICK. TOCK. TiiiiiiCK TOCCCK .tickticktiiick. tock (Time in office of cource)
Sytar opens the door, “bad day?” she nods towards my hand leaning on the door bell.
“Same old,” I grunt, “Read a few crappy scripts. Heard a decent narration. Oh.. but I worked on one of my new shop ideas. Made the project summary.”
Sytar shakes her head. To my friends I’m strange. I’m probably the only person working in an award winning Film Production Company who wants very little to do with films. I spend most of my time pretending, practicing or preparing to be a capitalistic rich conglomerate owner. I have a chain of stores. I open either a new one or a branch of an old one every other day. My press conferences are a study in wit and elegance. I do a lot of anonymous good deeds. Infact it’s a wonder I’m not already a force to reckon with.
She ignores my subtle plea to pitch the new idea to her. Instead she informs me that we’re all going out for a movie. “the new Cruise film.” I groan. I do not like Tom Cruise.
I do a quick think. Hmm.. shouldn’t have groaned. I try a new tack, “oh.. damn.. I really wanted to watch that.. but you know.. got work.” I try to look disappointed but sagely at the same time.
Sytar ignores me, “Harry already got your ticket. We’ll watch Matt Damon next time.”
I don’t know when to give up – “It’s not about that. I like Tom Cruise, I do.” Think faster, think. I go for the fool-proof one. “Actually I’m short of money. Don’t want to waste on films when there’s a budget to worry about.” I do a very good pathetic impression.
“No problem. Gaia’s treating.”
Now I really do groan. “Fine. Whatever. But next time we’re going for either Matt or George.” I stalk inside.
Sky’s putting on earrings. I look dissatisfied for forms sake.
She looks at me in the mirror and says, “You know you never have to worry about money, right?”
That’s the problem living with friends.. I may not have to worry about surviving but I do have to watch Tom Cruise.
Today is a day for groans.
I’m sitting at my desk pounding away furiously on the comp. I know my boss is looking at me through the glass partition smiling benevolently. He thinks I’m working. Infact he always thinks I’m working. When he sees me reading a book he happily assumes that it’s for work. When he sees me type he just concludes that I’m writing up my report on said book.
I’m hardly ever working.
I keep hoping they’ll fire me. But the problem is most people in this office think I’m a genius. I suppose it’s because I wear glasses and have an opinion. It’s true that I work diligently and well.. fast. I read scripts real fast. I write my evaluation real fast – trashy, what?!, no way!, maybe, must call for narration, yet another triangle, etc. So they let me do as I please. This irks me. It irks me more when the same mediocre people feel they need to check up on me just to keep the hierarchy in place. I like to be treated lightly. I like people to pander to my ego while letting me know that they’re just pandering. More than anything I like to be left alone.
Which is why I’m in a bad mood right now.
“So you will read my script right? Right?” the voice buzzes in my ear like a particularly annoying fly. I turn a freezing look on my colleague. His sandy hair is flopping around his face under a turned around cap. His eyes are puppy dog and smile sweet. He’s a nice guy. I thaw the glare and dreg up a smile, “I said I would and I will. Just not now. I’ll take it home with me.” That’ll give me time to come up with gentle comments incase it sucks.
He looks suspicious. Clutching the bound pages to his chest he murmurs, “But u live with a whole bunch of writers. What if one of them steals my story?”
I stifle a grin. “umm.. I’ll make sure they never know I have your script.” I try to sound firm instead of questioning.
He still looks hesitant. I smile at him bracingly. He slowly hands me the script. I quickly stuff it in my bag and pointedly turn back to the comp. I know he’s shuffling behind me. My back turns colder. He leaves.
I’m the queen of vibes.
TICK. TOCK. TiiiiiiCK TOCCCK .tickticktiiick. tock (Time in office of cource)
Sytar opens the door, “bad day?” she nods towards my hand leaning on the door bell.
“Same old,” I grunt, “Read a few crappy scripts. Heard a decent narration. Oh.. but I worked on one of my new shop ideas. Made the project summary.”
Sytar shakes her head. To my friends I’m strange. I’m probably the only person working in an award winning Film Production Company who wants very little to do with films. I spend most of my time pretending, practicing or preparing to be a capitalistic rich conglomerate owner. I have a chain of stores. I open either a new one or a branch of an old one every other day. My press conferences are a study in wit and elegance. I do a lot of anonymous good deeds. Infact it’s a wonder I’m not already a force to reckon with.
She ignores my subtle plea to pitch the new idea to her. Instead she informs me that we’re all going out for a movie. “the new Cruise film.” I groan. I do not like Tom Cruise.
I do a quick think. Hmm.. shouldn’t have groaned. I try a new tack, “oh.. damn.. I really wanted to watch that.. but you know.. got work.” I try to look disappointed but sagely at the same time.
Sytar ignores me, “Harry already got your ticket. We’ll watch Matt Damon next time.”
I don’t know when to give up – “It’s not about that. I like Tom Cruise, I do.” Think faster, think. I go for the fool-proof one. “Actually I’m short of money. Don’t want to waste on films when there’s a budget to worry about.” I do a very good pathetic impression.
“No problem. Gaia’s treating.”
Now I really do groan. “Fine. Whatever. But next time we’re going for either Matt or George.” I stalk inside.
Sky’s putting on earrings. I look dissatisfied for forms sake.
She looks at me in the mirror and says, “You know you never have to worry about money, right?”
That’s the problem living with friends.. I may not have to worry about surviving but I do have to watch Tom Cruise.
Today is a day for groans.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
The Gypsy Song - Part II
India isn't much of a poet (snigger).. more like sporadically possessed with words that flow only in poem form.
What follows here is the result of a nights dream and daylights hope -
I dream of red and gold,
Dances of shades that i've never seen,
A shimmer of silver in the pale blue sky
That came to me in the blackness of sleep.
Leaves of silver, pieces of bottle green,
Colours of the wind,
And purple depths of layered seas,
Drape the bare skin that clothes me.
A gypsy, a gypsy
Without a caravan,
Ready in skirts that flirt with her feet.
What follows here is the result of a nights dream and daylights hope -
I dream of red and gold,
Dances of shades that i've never seen,
A shimmer of silver in the pale blue sky
That came to me in the blackness of sleep.
Leaves of silver, pieces of bottle green,
Colours of the wind,
And purple depths of layered seas,
Drape the bare skin that clothes me.
A gypsy, a gypsy
Without a caravan,
Ready in skirts that flirt with her feet.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
The Biggest Lizard
The Flanagan clan with its god fearing aunts and warm hearted uncles, wild older generation and goody two shoes young un’s, portly little tykes to devilish girls has two things in common.
One : Lizards scare the shit out of them…
No family gathering is complete without at least one discussion on their latest nightmares starring lizards. If Titania dreams of being under attack by a ruthlessly well planned army of lizards then India ‘knows’ that a breed of flying lizards will soon sweep in. Myrine avers that if you stare at them, they lift their ugly little heads and stare right back contemplating jumping on you. Piper has threatened Philip (her husband) that the next time he thought to play any trick on her involving them, she’d be heading straight for the divorce courts. Mars and Mrs. Havisham still shudder when they recall their particularly close encounters with lizards. (Mrs. H and her three kids have spent a good part of their lives in a hot village with lots of little creatures for company. This would be when Titania, Mars and India were between 3 to 11 years old) There was the one time that a monitor held Mrs. H prisoner outside a bathroom and her kids inside a tub as it held court on the bathroom floor. But that’s another story. Suffice to say that with a lizard in your hand you could get a Flanagan to sign away their child. Or at least their house.
The second thing that can set them off is their dog – Cykie. Short for Cyclone. This gorgeous, giant sized Alsatian with the dopiest brown eyes you’ve seen is the most adored dog on the planet.
Cyclone is Mars’ dog. He was gifted to Mars by an old, dog loving neighbour and got home against much opposition. The opposition lasted the first 5 minutes. Cyclone was born to be loved. A fat, cuddly looking cotton ball, he abhorred movement. Mars, his siblings and their cousins spent an entire afternoon wondering if Cykie was deaf because he refused to move. He just looked at them patiently as if waiting for them to realize that he doesn’t want the ball and he really rather sleep. By the time they finally caught up with this ‘Why bark when you can sleep?’ ethos, he had cultivated new ideas.
Everything was his. He must be the centre of attention always. All humans are friends and all animals are enemies.
This last caused as much trouble as pride. While they could gleefully laud how he had single handedly mauled a pack of street dogs that attacked him, they also had to contend with him seizing and shaking a neighbours dog by the throat. He was a great conversation starter. People everywhere stopped to sigh over him and for years the three were known as Cyclone’s owners in the neighborhood. But this was also the single minded dog who dragged India all over a thorny field because a pig had pissed him off and he just had to take a bite out of it. Never mind the chain tangled in India’s sweater.
This force of life, a vegetarian (!!!), music loving zen master was the focus of all the love in a mostly non-tactile, undemonstrative family.
If India had one shadow in her heart, it was the thought at the back of her head that Cykie was a dog and dogs get older faster. While traveling for work, she’d often try to grapple with this fear and then abuse it with a ‘oh.. he’s young yet. Just 10.’ And then a hurried prayer ‘let it happen when I’m not there. Let me be busy. Let me be away.’
It didn’t happen that way. One very normal day, Cyclone vomited while on his walk. It was not out of the ordinary. Mars decided to take him to the vet. India went along. The vet gave him an injection and put him on a ice cream diet – cold liquids were what they were to feed him. Grin. Cykie was going to love this. They rode back home in a rickshaw. Cykie imitated a flying dog the entire way. He periodically pushed half his body out of the rik, ears flat on the side like helicopter wings to feel the cool air. Then he’d dizzily slink back, shove his nose in a corner and cover his eyes with his paws. Only to do it all over again.
On reaching home, he got his belly rubbed while the three discussed changing his food to some special pedigree dog product to avoid colic in future.
He didn’t want to chase the ice cube but no one wondered about that.
Early the next morning Mars and India came back from their jog to find Titania hugging a wheezing Cykie. His stomach had swelled up more. Mars called the vet. It’s 7 in the morning. He isn’t in. India called a friend to get his vet’s number. That vet isn’t in either. Meanwhile Mars gets the vet’s home number. The vet gives a medicines name. Mars runs out to get it. Titania and India sit by Cykie hugging him, pleading with him, please stop wheezing, crying. Mars rushes back with the medication and tries to drip it down Cykie’s mouth. But Cykie’s prone and can’t lift his head. They’re all crying. The vet’s asking them unrelated questions, ‘Is his tongue turning blue?’
Somewhere they know what it means. ‘NO.. NO.. the tip’s still pink, the tip’s still pink’
I don’t know what the vet said to Mars. As they hugged and kissed Cyclone, he passed away.
Mr. and Mrs. Havisham were not in town. They called to talk and in the manner that only elders have of working around grief, brought up burial. He had to be buried. Mrs. Havisham suggested a cousin’s garden. The three refused. India suggested a tree near the river where Cyclone had been sniffing the previous day. Mars checked it out and refused. ‘My dog will not be buried in such filth.’
Finally, the perfect place. Salvatore’s garden. If Cykie had loved anyone as much as Mars, it was probably Salvatore.
Wrapped in a blanket with red and blue bikes racing on it, a 20 year old keepsake from Mars childhood, Cykie went to Salvatore’s garden. They took turns digging the ground. And still wrapped they lowered him in. The memory of his black, brown, golden body covered in white salt with a yellow flower on his soft nose has stayed with India and afforded her a peace she would have doubted when she thought of this day. And India is glad she was there to see him enjoy his last ride. He’s the happiest memory she has.
And another favourite topic of discussion. His acting skills, his willingness in letting Eve, Pearl and Ray maul him, his love for beer, him.. he’s still the most adored dog in the world.
------
An excerpt from India’s Sleep Travelogue:
Later that night I slept only to dream of a narrow bathroom. I’m trapped in a corner of it watching the fattest, ugliest lizard. The damn thing is looking right at me. Then suddenly it falls to the floor, scuttles around a bucket and disappears.
One : Lizards scare the shit out of them…
No family gathering is complete without at least one discussion on their latest nightmares starring lizards. If Titania dreams of being under attack by a ruthlessly well planned army of lizards then India ‘knows’ that a breed of flying lizards will soon sweep in. Myrine avers that if you stare at them, they lift their ugly little heads and stare right back contemplating jumping on you. Piper has threatened Philip (her husband) that the next time he thought to play any trick on her involving them, she’d be heading straight for the divorce courts. Mars and Mrs. Havisham still shudder when they recall their particularly close encounters with lizards. (Mrs. H and her three kids have spent a good part of their lives in a hot village with lots of little creatures for company. This would be when Titania, Mars and India were between 3 to 11 years old) There was the one time that a monitor held Mrs. H prisoner outside a bathroom and her kids inside a tub as it held court on the bathroom floor. But that’s another story. Suffice to say that with a lizard in your hand you could get a Flanagan to sign away their child. Or at least their house.
The second thing that can set them off is their dog – Cykie. Short for Cyclone. This gorgeous, giant sized Alsatian with the dopiest brown eyes you’ve seen is the most adored dog on the planet.
Cyclone is Mars’ dog. He was gifted to Mars by an old, dog loving neighbour and got home against much opposition. The opposition lasted the first 5 minutes. Cyclone was born to be loved. A fat, cuddly looking cotton ball, he abhorred movement. Mars, his siblings and their cousins spent an entire afternoon wondering if Cykie was deaf because he refused to move. He just looked at them patiently as if waiting for them to realize that he doesn’t want the ball and he really rather sleep. By the time they finally caught up with this ‘Why bark when you can sleep?’ ethos, he had cultivated new ideas.
Everything was his. He must be the centre of attention always. All humans are friends and all animals are enemies.
This last caused as much trouble as pride. While they could gleefully laud how he had single handedly mauled a pack of street dogs that attacked him, they also had to contend with him seizing and shaking a neighbours dog by the throat. He was a great conversation starter. People everywhere stopped to sigh over him and for years the three were known as Cyclone’s owners in the neighborhood. But this was also the single minded dog who dragged India all over a thorny field because a pig had pissed him off and he just had to take a bite out of it. Never mind the chain tangled in India’s sweater.
This force of life, a vegetarian (!!!), music loving zen master was the focus of all the love in a mostly non-tactile, undemonstrative family.
If India had one shadow in her heart, it was the thought at the back of her head that Cykie was a dog and dogs get older faster. While traveling for work, she’d often try to grapple with this fear and then abuse it with a ‘oh.. he’s young yet. Just 10.’ And then a hurried prayer ‘let it happen when I’m not there. Let me be busy. Let me be away.’
It didn’t happen that way. One very normal day, Cyclone vomited while on his walk. It was not out of the ordinary. Mars decided to take him to the vet. India went along. The vet gave him an injection and put him on a ice cream diet – cold liquids were what they were to feed him. Grin. Cykie was going to love this. They rode back home in a rickshaw. Cykie imitated a flying dog the entire way. He periodically pushed half his body out of the rik, ears flat on the side like helicopter wings to feel the cool air. Then he’d dizzily slink back, shove his nose in a corner and cover his eyes with his paws. Only to do it all over again.
On reaching home, he got his belly rubbed while the three discussed changing his food to some special pedigree dog product to avoid colic in future.
He didn’t want to chase the ice cube but no one wondered about that.
Early the next morning Mars and India came back from their jog to find Titania hugging a wheezing Cykie. His stomach had swelled up more. Mars called the vet. It’s 7 in the morning. He isn’t in. India called a friend to get his vet’s number. That vet isn’t in either. Meanwhile Mars gets the vet’s home number. The vet gives a medicines name. Mars runs out to get it. Titania and India sit by Cykie hugging him, pleading with him, please stop wheezing, crying. Mars rushes back with the medication and tries to drip it down Cykie’s mouth. But Cykie’s prone and can’t lift his head. They’re all crying. The vet’s asking them unrelated questions, ‘Is his tongue turning blue?’
Somewhere they know what it means. ‘NO.. NO.. the tip’s still pink, the tip’s still pink’
I don’t know what the vet said to Mars. As they hugged and kissed Cyclone, he passed away.
Mr. and Mrs. Havisham were not in town. They called to talk and in the manner that only elders have of working around grief, brought up burial. He had to be buried. Mrs. Havisham suggested a cousin’s garden. The three refused. India suggested a tree near the river where Cyclone had been sniffing the previous day. Mars checked it out and refused. ‘My dog will not be buried in such filth.’
Finally, the perfect place. Salvatore’s garden. If Cykie had loved anyone as much as Mars, it was probably Salvatore.
Wrapped in a blanket with red and blue bikes racing on it, a 20 year old keepsake from Mars childhood, Cykie went to Salvatore’s garden. They took turns digging the ground. And still wrapped they lowered him in. The memory of his black, brown, golden body covered in white salt with a yellow flower on his soft nose has stayed with India and afforded her a peace she would have doubted when she thought of this day. And India is glad she was there to see him enjoy his last ride. He’s the happiest memory she has.
And another favourite topic of discussion. His acting skills, his willingness in letting Eve, Pearl and Ray maul him, his love for beer, him.. he’s still the most adored dog in the world.
------
An excerpt from India’s Sleep Travelogue:
Later that night I slept only to dream of a narrow bathroom. I’m trapped in a corner of it watching the fattest, ugliest lizard. The damn thing is looking right at me. Then suddenly it falls to the floor, scuttles around a bucket and disappears.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Artless Observations
The reason for the lack of faith in the world is probably the excess of it.
Scared by the bunny boiler gleam in Maya’s eye I shall be using her representation of Mars.
I'll put up art work on Monday. But I can wait no longer (my face is turning blue), so here are the protagonists in the Affairs of India Q.
The Cast of Characters:
(in no particular order) (what nonsense.. ofcource there’s an order.. even if it’s random)
Paris (of no surname): the friend. Drop dead pretty, put together and supremely competent, Paris has but one failing, okay two.. uhh.. maybe three.. a memory that would make a goldfish feel proud, the attention span of a flea and an astounding lack of tact. On the plus side, she remembers that she loves Mars and that she has no choice but to love India.
Mars Flanagan: the older brother. Mars has transformed over the years from a ‘I’ll-bash- u- before- I-speak-to-you’ kind of guy to a yoga loving madman. He’s an automobile enthusiast/designer with thoughts he calls ‘brain passengers’. The boy older women dote on; his inability to be anything but nice (even with the neighbours!) causes Paris immense grief.
Salvatore: Mars’ oldest friend. An honorary member of the Flanagan clan. (not an honor he always wants). If James Bond was also the boy next door, you’d get Salvatore.
Piper Gardiner: a married cousin. While no one can say for certain what lies beneath the dark eyes, Piper is still the one stop place for a sense of comfort, discussions, troubles solved and fun.
Myrine: The oldest Flanagan sister. Big woman, big voice and big heart. Brash and naïve, the word for Myrine is simple.
Ms. Sheila Havisham – the mother. Has a tendency to be a camel on the verge of just getting the last straw but with the survival skills of a cat. A woman of many parts, she passed on her expressiveness to India, her creative flair to Titania and her nose to Mars. Thankfully she kept her sense of humour.
Mr. Havisham – the father. Mr. Havisham is the absentee father who one day decided to wreak havoc in his kids’ lives by ‘becoming involved’. A widely traveled, social and generous guy, he’s a split between the saint and the dictator. Unfortunately charity doesn’t begin at home in this case.
(note : yes.. the surnames don’t match their children’s.)
Titania Flanagan – the older sister. She did Mars and India no favours by being the perfect daughter. A shrink, a cooking artist and a budding jewelry designer, Titania is freelancing on all of this while looking for an actual job – she’s groom hunting! Now, if only they could find her either Tarzan or George of the Jungle she’d be really be happy.
Carmen: a maternal cousin. Excruciatingly polite, Carmen’s the original iron hand in the velvet glove. Don’t expect him at family functions (unless they don’t involve family), don’t expect him to answer questions (unless with another question) and don’t expect him to sit around (unless it involves drinking beer). But you can expect him to turn up if you need him.
Alanis: If birds of a feather really did flock together, the chances of Paris, Alanis and India hitting it off would be dim. Flap flap. Alanis is the original wild child. Though she says, she’s hardly wild, it’s a relative world. Highly intelligent, grimly displeased and warmly generous, no college memory seems complete without Alanis’ presence or marked absence.
Katharine: The fourth of the three. The four friends spent most of their time either in India’s house or Kat’s car. Infact her chauffeur has been privy to more girl talk than any man alive! Which reminds me, If Katharine has a problem, it is that she’s a member of business royalty. And believe me, that’s a big problem. From restrictions on career choices to men, Katharine is the original poor little rich girl. Disarmingly down to earth, suddenly wicked and inherently grid oriented, Katharine has but one passion – to dance.
J.B. Aldair: India’s first love. A smooth talking charmer with rare moments of sweetness. India caught a couple. Whether passionately arguing or coldly contemplating, J.B always has a point with three sub points and they’re always going somewhere. His being a lawyer is really just incidental.
Shade: India’s friend from college. Now in another continent. The friendship has only grown with distance. While Shade thrives on pretending to be cynical, India thrives on pretending to be a romantic. They’ve both fooled themselves but not each other.
Smith: A friend of Mars. Descended from one of Medusa’s victims, stoical Smith is a constant source of bafflement to friends and family alike. Dry, practical and inscrutable, the one reason his friends have hope for him is because he suffers from the restless leg syndrome. Obviously something’s waiting to come bursting forth.
Quinn Bingley: Another friend. While his father is aiming to launch Quinn as the next big CEO, Quinn’s ambition is getting people to acknowledge him as the funniest guy they’ve ever met or to lead the country’s cricket team in the next World Cup. The fact that he has absolutely no training will obviously make his triumph all the greater.
The friends who were also fellow lodgers:
Sky Bennet: also a cousin. As happily spaced out as a doper on a binge. Somewhere in her self induced haze, she’s transformed from a highly energetic mad person to a single minded workaholic. The tabla and ghungroo’s that medleyed in her soul either aren’t playing or the auditorium’s empty. And she doesn’t miss it.. India does.
Gaia: A diminutive Hitler with space issues. Can be prevented from going to war by a strategically timed game of badminton or a movie watching plan. Loves all things living except humans.
Sytar: a bespectacled recluse who only gets animated when you discuss Rhett Butler, pasta or books. A voice like a siren while singing and foghorn while talking. Sytar marches to her own drum, plays a secret tune and waits for her serenade.
Harry: Harry read her first film magazine when she was 4. She had her first breakdown when she was 5. She ran away from home 6 times. Got into fights x times. Fell in love a couple of times. Now she’s not just writing movies but living them. One unforgettable scene at a time.
A huge family with close ties, a gaggle of adorable nieces and a nephew.
Other friends: Audrey from post grad and George from school.
Nieces names : Nikita, Eve, Pearl, Anya, Rosalie.
Nephew: Ray
Maya Jones.. whom you’ve already met is going to continue with the art work. It is my intention to always use her work (that is.. some of it) simply in acknowledgment and appreciation of her sheer umm.. zeal and irrepressible spirit.
Scared by the bunny boiler gleam in Maya’s eye I shall be using her representation of Mars.
I'll put up art work on Monday. But I can wait no longer (my face is turning blue), so here are the protagonists in the Affairs of India Q.
The Cast of Characters:
(in no particular order) (what nonsense.. ofcource there’s an order.. even if it’s random)
Paris (of no surname): the friend. Drop dead pretty, put together and supremely competent, Paris has but one failing, okay two.. uhh.. maybe three.. a memory that would make a goldfish feel proud, the attention span of a flea and an astounding lack of tact. On the plus side, she remembers that she loves Mars and that she has no choice but to love India.
Mars Flanagan: the older brother. Mars has transformed over the years from a ‘I’ll-bash- u- before- I-speak-to-you’ kind of guy to a yoga loving madman. He’s an automobile enthusiast/designer with thoughts he calls ‘brain passengers’. The boy older women dote on; his inability to be anything but nice (even with the neighbours!) causes Paris immense grief.
Salvatore: Mars’ oldest friend. An honorary member of the Flanagan clan. (not an honor he always wants). If James Bond was also the boy next door, you’d get Salvatore.
Piper Gardiner: a married cousin. While no one can say for certain what lies beneath the dark eyes, Piper is still the one stop place for a sense of comfort, discussions, troubles solved and fun.
Myrine: The oldest Flanagan sister. Big woman, big voice and big heart. Brash and naïve, the word for Myrine is simple.
Ms. Sheila Havisham – the mother. Has a tendency to be a camel on the verge of just getting the last straw but with the survival skills of a cat. A woman of many parts, she passed on her expressiveness to India, her creative flair to Titania and her nose to Mars. Thankfully she kept her sense of humour.
Mr. Havisham – the father. Mr. Havisham is the absentee father who one day decided to wreak havoc in his kids’ lives by ‘becoming involved’. A widely traveled, social and generous guy, he’s a split between the saint and the dictator. Unfortunately charity doesn’t begin at home in this case.
(note : yes.. the surnames don’t match their children’s.)
Titania Flanagan – the older sister. She did Mars and India no favours by being the perfect daughter. A shrink, a cooking artist and a budding jewelry designer, Titania is freelancing on all of this while looking for an actual job – she’s groom hunting! Now, if only they could find her either Tarzan or George of the Jungle she’d be really be happy.
Carmen: a maternal cousin. Excruciatingly polite, Carmen’s the original iron hand in the velvet glove. Don’t expect him at family functions (unless they don’t involve family), don’t expect him to answer questions (unless with another question) and don’t expect him to sit around (unless it involves drinking beer). But you can expect him to turn up if you need him.
Alanis: If birds of a feather really did flock together, the chances of Paris, Alanis and India hitting it off would be dim. Flap flap. Alanis is the original wild child. Though she says, she’s hardly wild, it’s a relative world. Highly intelligent, grimly displeased and warmly generous, no college memory seems complete without Alanis’ presence or marked absence.
Katharine: The fourth of the three. The four friends spent most of their time either in India’s house or Kat’s car. Infact her chauffeur has been privy to more girl talk than any man alive! Which reminds me, If Katharine has a problem, it is that she’s a member of business royalty. And believe me, that’s a big problem. From restrictions on career choices to men, Katharine is the original poor little rich girl. Disarmingly down to earth, suddenly wicked and inherently grid oriented, Katharine has but one passion – to dance.
J.B. Aldair: India’s first love. A smooth talking charmer with rare moments of sweetness. India caught a couple. Whether passionately arguing or coldly contemplating, J.B always has a point with three sub points and they’re always going somewhere. His being a lawyer is really just incidental.
Shade: India’s friend from college. Now in another continent. The friendship has only grown with distance. While Shade thrives on pretending to be cynical, India thrives on pretending to be a romantic. They’ve both fooled themselves but not each other.
Smith: A friend of Mars. Descended from one of Medusa’s victims, stoical Smith is a constant source of bafflement to friends and family alike. Dry, practical and inscrutable, the one reason his friends have hope for him is because he suffers from the restless leg syndrome. Obviously something’s waiting to come bursting forth.
Quinn Bingley: Another friend. While his father is aiming to launch Quinn as the next big CEO, Quinn’s ambition is getting people to acknowledge him as the funniest guy they’ve ever met or to lead the country’s cricket team in the next World Cup. The fact that he has absolutely no training will obviously make his triumph all the greater.
The friends who were also fellow lodgers:
Sky Bennet: also a cousin. As happily spaced out as a doper on a binge. Somewhere in her self induced haze, she’s transformed from a highly energetic mad person to a single minded workaholic. The tabla and ghungroo’s that medleyed in her soul either aren’t playing or the auditorium’s empty. And she doesn’t miss it.. India does.
Gaia: A diminutive Hitler with space issues. Can be prevented from going to war by a strategically timed game of badminton or a movie watching plan. Loves all things living except humans.
Sytar: a bespectacled recluse who only gets animated when you discuss Rhett Butler, pasta or books. A voice like a siren while singing and foghorn while talking. Sytar marches to her own drum, plays a secret tune and waits for her serenade.
Harry: Harry read her first film magazine when she was 4. She had her first breakdown when she was 5. She ran away from home 6 times. Got into fights x times. Fell in love a couple of times. Now she’s not just writing movies but living them. One unforgettable scene at a time.
A huge family with close ties, a gaggle of adorable nieces and a nephew.
Other friends: Audrey from post grad and George from school.
Nieces names : Nikita, Eve, Pearl, Anya, Rosalie.
Nephew: Ray
Maya Jones.. whom you’ve already met is going to continue with the art work. It is my intention to always use her work (that is.. some of it) simply in acknowledgment and appreciation of her sheer umm.. zeal and irrepressible spirit.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Waiting to Exhale
I was not planning to be tardy.. the introductions are all written and ready to go.. to give you an idea.. 19 of them. Friends, family and sadly no foe. The drama shall all be inhouse.
But my artist..Maya Jones, a cherubic dimpler with a witch's laugh, nasty actions and pure thoughts, who was thrust upon me by her enthusiasm (and mine).. is acting temperamental. She insists on delivering sketches a little later in the day.
Since the only thing i excel at are stick figures (innumerable kinds) and blocks of colour (what an eye i've got!), i'm at her mercy.
As i have never seen any art work ever from Maya, (not even a stick figure), this is a leap of faith.
And since all art is about faith (what shit!) (but i've got to round this up).. I will wait.
But my artist..Maya Jones, a cherubic dimpler with a witch's laugh, nasty actions and pure thoughts, who was thrust upon me by her enthusiasm (and mine).. is acting temperamental. She insists on delivering sketches a little later in the day.
Since the only thing i excel at are stick figures (innumerable kinds) and blocks of colour (what an eye i've got!), i'm at her mercy.
As i have never seen any art work ever from Maya, (not even a stick figure), this is a leap of faith.
And since all art is about faith (what shit!) (but i've got to round this up).. I will wait.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
The Introduction....
This blog has been in the works longer than Rome. One would think it was owing to my laziness, but one, two and three would be lying. It is infact owing to my perfectionism.
The decision over what to blog about can only be rivaled by my confusion over what tattoo to engrave on self or whether to finally switch from chocolate ice cream to butterscotch. But my conundrum has been solved by the Hand of God. While sneaking around (as is my wont) (obviously you will get true representation of characters here), God handed me my muse. The Diaries of India Q. This is no paltry collection. Ranging from everyday incidents, things to do when pregnant lists, games invented, actual dreams noted, poems to philosophical observations on life, I had found my material. I’ve stolen the stuff. Now I’ll make up pseudonyms and protect my rights. Ha ha.
So finally..
The Affairs of India Q.
Because:
If I’m lazy, she’s made an art of lying about; if I’m practical, she’s immensely so; if I’m boring, she’s spontaneous; if I’m attractive, she’s gorgeous; if I’m a great liar, she’s charmingly candid; if I have multiple personality disorder, she just has multiple personalities.. in short not only is she more write- worthy but she also possesses a motley crew of friends and relatives that defy caricatures and hyperboles to make moulds so original that, in fact, I shall stop here to introduce them all.
The decision over what to blog about can only be rivaled by my confusion over what tattoo to engrave on self or whether to finally switch from chocolate ice cream to butterscotch. But my conundrum has been solved by the Hand of God. While sneaking around (as is my wont) (obviously you will get true representation of characters here), God handed me my muse. The Diaries of India Q. This is no paltry collection. Ranging from everyday incidents, things to do when pregnant lists, games invented, actual dreams noted, poems to philosophical observations on life, I had found my material. I’ve stolen the stuff. Now I’ll make up pseudonyms and protect my rights. Ha ha.
So finally..
The Affairs of India Q.
Because:
If I’m lazy, she’s made an art of lying about; if I’m practical, she’s immensely so; if I’m boring, she’s spontaneous; if I’m attractive, she’s gorgeous; if I’m a great liar, she’s charmingly candid; if I have multiple personality disorder, she just has multiple personalities.. in short not only is she more write- worthy but she also possesses a motley crew of friends and relatives that defy caricatures and hyperboles to make moulds so original that, in fact, I shall stop here to introduce them all.
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