I'm making plans to go watch Avatar today. These are plans that've been in the making for 3 weeks and have caused me to ask big questions like - am I not worthy of love?
If they succeed today, I will know that the universe loves me.
I hope the film doesn't suck, though...
_____________________________
Next day:
1. The universe loves me.
2. The universe loves me like an annoying elder sibling that enjoys when I suffer mildly.
3. The universe enjoys a bit of buttered popcorn while watching me suffer mildly.
4. Avatar is an alright movie that at times is stunning and at times nausea-inducing (I saw the 3D version. Dizziness is part of the experience.).
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
While Walking
Listening to Tori Amos’ ‘Happy Phantom’ (a happy, happy song about death) and it occurs to me: If when we die, our souls migrate to another world where they convene on a regular basis post mortem, what happens to our identities?
Maybe there’s a place where each and every identity is dumped – a Salvation Army for lives lived. Imagine them mingling at a soiree, bumping into others that gloved the same soul at different times.
A ditzy South Indian, then, bumps into a soldier from the East India Company (if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from Raaz-Pichle Janam Ka, it’s that everyone was at some point either a British or French soldier in the 1800’s), a Navajo Indian and Billie Holiday (hey, a girl can dream) and they are all wondering just how long it’ll take that soul to learn that if a guy doesn’t call back after a date, he’s just not that into you.
Also while listening to Tori: walked past a pretty young girl who was all dolled up (read, not dressed up in oversized frumpy clothing like me) and just out of nowhere, thought, “skinny bitch!” Obviously, the thought was more verbal than internal because she looked up startled and really, really hurt. So, skinny bitch, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. I hate it when people judge me on the basis of my looks too.
Maybe there’s a place where each and every identity is dumped – a Salvation Army for lives lived. Imagine them mingling at a soiree, bumping into others that gloved the same soul at different times.
A ditzy South Indian, then, bumps into a soldier from the East India Company (if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from Raaz-Pichle Janam Ka, it’s that everyone was at some point either a British or French soldier in the 1800’s), a Navajo Indian and Billie Holiday (hey, a girl can dream) and they are all wondering just how long it’ll take that soul to learn that if a guy doesn’t call back after a date, he’s just not that into you.
Also while listening to Tori: walked past a pretty young girl who was all dolled up (read, not dressed up in oversized frumpy clothing like me) and just out of nowhere, thought, “skinny bitch!” Obviously, the thought was more verbal than internal because she looked up startled and really, really hurt. So, skinny bitch, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. I hate it when people judge me on the basis of my looks too.
Opposable thumbs
Current status: mammal without opposable thumb. Sprained (or strained, whatever yanks your medical chain) the muscles that attach my thumb to the rest of my hand. The cold makes it worse...it turns me into one of those painful Delhiites who brag about the winter ('at least we have seasons') in summer and then use it to garner sympathy when it actually arrives.
Back to the lack of opposables. I can't change gears in my car (good thing I rarely drive, then), I can't open a jar, I can't change channels (yes I can, don't know why I said that), I can't do the dishes, I can't knit or play the saxophone. I can't fly a Sukhoi.
Bummer. I'm cold.
Back to the lack of opposables. I can't change gears in my car (good thing I rarely drive, then), I can't open a jar, I can't change channels (yes I can, don't know why I said that), I can't do the dishes, I can't knit or play the saxophone. I can't fly a Sukhoi.
Bummer. I'm cold.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Yes, I have an opinion too
The 3 Idiots controversy fascinates me. It even delights me. It's wonderful to see the infringement of a writer's rights become front page/ Breaking News. I never thought I'd live to see the day.
We're a whiny lot, us folk who write for a living. We bury ourselves in our caves, are obnoxiously anti-social; we use not just ours but our loved ones' private experiences to gain personal glory, are disdainful of the more 'business-minded' folk to whom we happily relinquish our fortunes and then bitch & moan when we get exploited. Yes, we're truly an ungrateful bunch of sissies. Why should anyone care?
And they don't. They really, really don't. Films get magically made (especially if Aamir Khan is the lead actor), stories get plucked out of the stratosphere like babies get dropped by storks. Throw in a wad of cash (never enough, I can assure you. Chetan Bhagat's reported 10 lac fee is in my book, peanuts) and one's responsibility towards the (un)friendly, neighbourhood writer is over. What do we want anyway? An award???
Yes, well, we kinda do. We want to be acknowledged as the progenitor of the idea that you twisted and morphed into your film. We want you to admit that without this seed of an idea, you wouldn't have the bushels of profits sprouting up in your bank accounts.
As someone with an idea of the dynamics of screenwriting, my first instinct was to side with Raju Hirani and Abhijat Joshi. When a work of literature is adapted to big screen, the screenwriters, in effect, create a whole new work of art. No matter how much of the book is infused in the script, writing a successful screenplay is a subtle craft that requires the skill of true artists. No one should ever, ever forget that when viewing 3 Idiots.
Also, I have never really enjoyed Chetan Bhagat's writing; even within the light-hearted, popcorn genre he occupies (Nick Hornby, who also navigates the same space is a far superior writer who manages to keep things simple and then craftily sneaks the emotion in). I remember watching an interview of Bhagat's, when another film based on his book was being released. He came across as a slightly crass and, well, classless dude. Also, for such a highly educated man, he made a colossal blunder by signing that ridiculous contract. He made the classic mistake that I've made a million times - signing something without reading the fine print. He's an Idiot (haha) and he deserves what's happening to him.
But, here's the thing. It was his baby. No matter how deformed, banal and stereotypical in form, it was his. He's the guy who dreamt up of these characters from the static in his brain. He's the fellow who took the time and the effort to stare down a blank MS Word page and fill it up with plot, dialogue and life. This is not a man whose name should appear as byline after the still photographer's. That's just wrong.
Which is why no matter how much he whines and no matter how valid the argument that he shouldn't have signed that godawful contract, by making a ruckus, he performs a very important function. He sheds light on a form of injustice that's rarely brought to light. I wonder how his case would hold up in a court of law or how much respect & credibility he'll be left with after taking on India's Conscience, Aamir Khan, but I for one will be grateful because he didn't choose silence, that he didn't keep his big mouth shut. By shouting "Injustice!" from rooftops, he gives the Big Idea a right to live. And for that, he gains my vote.
We're a whiny lot, us folk who write for a living. We bury ourselves in our caves, are obnoxiously anti-social; we use not just ours but our loved ones' private experiences to gain personal glory, are disdainful of the more 'business-minded' folk to whom we happily relinquish our fortunes and then bitch & moan when we get exploited. Yes, we're truly an ungrateful bunch of sissies. Why should anyone care?
And they don't. They really, really don't. Films get magically made (especially if Aamir Khan is the lead actor), stories get plucked out of the stratosphere like babies get dropped by storks. Throw in a wad of cash (never enough, I can assure you. Chetan Bhagat's reported 10 lac fee is in my book, peanuts) and one's responsibility towards the (un)friendly, neighbourhood writer is over. What do we want anyway? An award???
Yes, well, we kinda do. We want to be acknowledged as the progenitor of the idea that you twisted and morphed into your film. We want you to admit that without this seed of an idea, you wouldn't have the bushels of profits sprouting up in your bank accounts.
As someone with an idea of the dynamics of screenwriting, my first instinct was to side with Raju Hirani and Abhijat Joshi. When a work of literature is adapted to big screen, the screenwriters, in effect, create a whole new work of art. No matter how much of the book is infused in the script, writing a successful screenplay is a subtle craft that requires the skill of true artists. No one should ever, ever forget that when viewing 3 Idiots.
Also, I have never really enjoyed Chetan Bhagat's writing; even within the light-hearted, popcorn genre he occupies (Nick Hornby, who also navigates the same space is a far superior writer who manages to keep things simple and then craftily sneaks the emotion in). I remember watching an interview of Bhagat's, when another film based on his book was being released. He came across as a slightly crass and, well, classless dude. Also, for such a highly educated man, he made a colossal blunder by signing that ridiculous contract. He made the classic mistake that I've made a million times - signing something without reading the fine print. He's an Idiot (haha) and he deserves what's happening to him.
But, here's the thing. It was his baby. No matter how deformed, banal and stereotypical in form, it was his. He's the guy who dreamt up of these characters from the static in his brain. He's the fellow who took the time and the effort to stare down a blank MS Word page and fill it up with plot, dialogue and life. This is not a man whose name should appear as byline after the still photographer's. That's just wrong.
Which is why no matter how much he whines and no matter how valid the argument that he shouldn't have signed that godawful contract, by making a ruckus, he performs a very important function. He sheds light on a form of injustice that's rarely brought to light. I wonder how his case would hold up in a court of law or how much respect & credibility he'll be left with after taking on India's Conscience, Aamir Khan, but I for one will be grateful because he didn't choose silence, that he didn't keep his big mouth shut. By shouting "Injustice!" from rooftops, he gives the Big Idea a right to live. And for that, he gains my vote.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Ritual
On the last day of every year, since I was in school, I've been making journal entries that sum up the year : mostly things I'm grateful for, experiences and people that propelled me to the next level of personal growth (or were just a lot of fun).
For some reason, I'm unable to do the same thing this year. Not because I'm not grateful - this year has been singularly life-affirming, the ups and downs have been monumental but not catastrophic and I feel as though I've surfed through them and emerged more intact than I was going in. So it's not lack of gratitude, rather it's the insistence of two words, buried deep inside & dying to come out, that makes me do things differently...
The first is Fear. For as far back as I can recall, this word has held me in a vice-like grip. So much so that I'd started to believe it was inseparable from me. Fear in speaking my mind, fear in liking what I liked, fear in living the way I wanted, fear in reaching out to other people, fear of allowing others to reach me. Fear of the dark, fear of the outside, fear of the new, fear of the unknown, fear of the future, fear of everything I didn't immediately understand and fear of myself. Last year, I began to grasp where this fear was coming from and how it had sometimes saved me from myself. This year, I realised it was time to let it go. Fear had served its purpose and now it must leave.
2010 then, must kickstart the Year...no, the Decade of No Fear. It must be one where I speak my truth, live the life I know I was put on this planet to live and be the most authentic version of myself as I possibly can. I'm excited.
The other word is Trust. It's come up a lot in the last two weeks, more in the context of 'lack of'. I hurled it at someone and had it hurled back at me. When I launched my 'No Trust' missile, I meant no harm, thinking it was nothing more than armour to protect me. How could it ever cause damage? But when it was lobbed back at me (meant, I'm sure, to innocently graze my shoulder and whizz past) I realised just how explosive and destructive it could be.
Trust, I realised, isn't this flaky tool of the weakling or the naive. It isn't detrimental to my inner strength. It doesn't take away from my ability to protect myself. Trust, in fact, allows me to experience everything I've been too chicken to experience all this time.
I don't know...things are still a bit jumbled up in my head. When I say I'd like to trust, I mean it. And I also know that like 'Love', it is more an action than a word. I have no idea how I will allow this word to become a living, breathing organism. As for today, I guess I can start at the very beginning. I can start with trusting the process of life.
The other word is Trust. It's come up a lot in the last two weeks, more in the context of 'lack of'. I hurled it at someone and had it hurled back at me. When I launched my 'No Trust' missile, I meant no harm, thinking it was nothing more than armour to protect me. How could it ever cause damage? But when it was lobbed back at me (meant, I'm sure, to innocently graze my shoulder and whizz past) I realised just how explosive and destructive it could be.
Trust, I realised, isn't this flaky tool of the weakling or the naive. It isn't detrimental to my inner strength. It doesn't take away from my ability to protect myself. Trust, in fact, allows me to experience everything I've been too chicken to experience all this time.
I don't know...things are still a bit jumbled up in my head. When I say I'd like to trust, I mean it. And I also know that like 'Love', it is more an action than a word. I have no idea how I will allow this word to become a living, breathing organism. As for today, I guess I can start at the very beginning. I can start with trusting the process of life.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Plug
If ever anyone - especially a woman - gets the opportunity to listen (live or in illegal download) to Ani Difranco perform her poetry, she must take it.
------
"My I.Q." - Ani Difranco
when I was four years old
they tried to test my I.Q.
they showed me a picture
of 3 oranges and a pear
they said,
which one is different?
it does not belong
they taught me different is wrong
but when I was 13 years old
I woke up one morning
thighs covered in blood
like a war
like a warning
that I live in a breakable takeable body
an ever-increasingly valuable body
that a woman had come in the night to replace me
deface me
see,
my body is borrowed
yeah, I got it on loan
for the time in between my mom and some maggots
I don't need anyone to hold me
I can hold my own
I got highways for stretchmarks
see where I've grown
I sing sometimes
like my life is at stake
'cause you're only as loud
as the noises you make
I'm learning to laugh as hard
as I can listen
'cause silence
is violence
in women and poor people
if more people were screaming then I could relax
but a good brain ain't diddley
if you don't have the facts
we live in a breakable takeable world
an ever available possible world
and we can make music
like we can make do
genius is in a back beat
backseat to nothing if you're dancing
especially something stupid
like I.Q.
for every lie I unlearn
I learn something new
I sing sometimes for the war that I fight
'cause every tool is a weapon -
if you hold it right.
------
"My I.Q." - Ani Difranco
when I was four years old
they tried to test my I.Q.
they showed me a picture
of 3 oranges and a pear
they said,
which one is different?
it does not belong
they taught me different is wrong
but when I was 13 years old
I woke up one morning
thighs covered in blood
like a war
like a warning
that I live in a breakable takeable body
an ever-increasingly valuable body
that a woman had come in the night to replace me
deface me
see,
my body is borrowed
yeah, I got it on loan
for the time in between my mom and some maggots
I don't need anyone to hold me
I can hold my own
I got highways for stretchmarks
see where I've grown
I sing sometimes
like my life is at stake
'cause you're only as loud
as the noises you make
I'm learning to laugh as hard
as I can listen
'cause silence
is violence
in women and poor people
if more people were screaming then I could relax
but a good brain ain't diddley
if you don't have the facts
we live in a breakable takeable world
an ever available possible world
and we can make music
like we can make do
genius is in a back beat
backseat to nothing if you're dancing
especially something stupid
like I.Q.
for every lie I unlearn
I learn something new
I sing sometimes for the war that I fight
'cause every tool is a weapon -
if you hold it right.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Girl Before A Mirror: A Facebook-ish Critique
Having already been told by Facebook on an earlier occasion that I would meet my maker via lethal injection and that I have a couple of secret admirers pining for me somewhere on this planet, I didn't expect much from a quiz called 'A Painting That is Me'.But then the Girl Before A Mirror by Pablo Picasso popped up claiming to be, well, me.
After the ooo-look-at-all-the-colours reaction (I love visual art but am not the most educated about it), the next thing I noticed was her body. Shite! How does Facebook know about my tummy? How does Facebook know that horizontal stripes look like crap on me? How does Facebook know about my struggles with my hairdo? And how does Facebook know what a non-traditionally great looking babe I am?
Then and only then did I turn my attention to (forgive me, Pablo) the mirror and the fact that she stands opposite it, not just looking at but reaching out to her reflection. According to me the actual girl is way prettier than her reflection (a fact she'll never know, so focused is she on what she sees, thinking that this is what everyone else sees of her as well). I love the half moons of her face - much more serene than her reflection. There are powers this girl possesses that her reflection never will. Yet, she clings to that reflection.
I've been doing a lot of 'mirror work' recently. It's a meditative process of sorts, a highly charged and extremely powerful way to get to the core of oneself and make changes at that elemental level. It involves chanting positive affirmations to oneself while looking deep into your own eyes. It's a completely no-bullshit technique, you can't hide from yourself. If you feel ridiculous, there are things to uncover, if you feel resistant there are things to uncover and if you feel a deep sense of sadness there are things that need to be healed.
And then one day, you look into that mirror and you say something fabulous to yourself and your insides don't fight it. They vibrate with the recognition of the words you're saying. The reflection and reflected come together.
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