Nothing.

So, here's an early resolution kick-starter to my New Year's resolution.
Yes.
Blog more.
From now on, this moment, I'm going to blog unstoppably.
Words are going to spill incessantly from the nib of my fountain pen.
I mean, to sound less romantic and more real; from the push of the keyboard. (We live in the 21st Century, don't we?)
I will blog about trivial things, that don't matter, much like most of the things we do in life. I shall:

Chirrup about the color of the sky,
Or maybe about a song that made me sigh,
Streams of my thoughts shall culminate in this blog,
Oh, dear old peasant, hear out my morose song.

Yes, and my rhymes will not stop.
My words will not stop dancing.
They will shimmer and prance across this space on the internet.

 What are you going to do about it anyway, sweety? :)

So, here goes.

More than a week ago, I finally picked up the much talked about 'The Fault In Our Stars'.

I did not like it. At all.
I know, you're already writing in that hate comment, but do hear me out.

The book is about the romance and the love story of two teenagers afflicted with cancer.
And still the book couldn't get me to care about it. Before reading this book I was expecting an emotional ride, all I got was a pedestrian street walk.

My primary concern with TFiOS was that I found it extremely fake. The characters were mere cardboard cutouts who were all articulate whenever they felt like, at the author's whims. They talked in a way normal teenagers don't and the worst part is all the teenagers talked the same snooty way. While the parents were painted as bumbling fools, hardly aware of feeling and emotions.

Hazel and Augustus acted way, way more mature than their age. Their love too, was a bit too quick and a bit too forced. I mean, a guy walking around with a cigarette in his mouth and not lighting it up to do justice to a metaphor? What is that all about?
The extravagant date too, was all a bit too much; perfectionism does that sometimes, it pushes over the thin edge of realism.

The overplayed part of the author being a cranky old man with the archetypal side-story attached. Oh come on!

Of course, there were a few moments in the book. But those moments lay solely in the beauty of those well-strung words. I couldn't see or hear the characters speaking them in my head at all.

My favorites were:

“My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations.” 

“Some infinities are bigger than other infinities.” 

But when I read these quotes too, it was as if John Green pushed back my hair and whispered these words into my ears. It definitely wasn't Hazel talking to Augustus. The characters remained still and I wished they would speak.

Maybe it's related to the hype it'd created beforehand. And we all know, expectation does suck out the joy, doesn't it?

Oh, also, new developments: Two days ago, I started this page called 'Snippets' on Facebook. It's about short stories and just writing, writing.
Snippets

                                                                   ***

It's Christmas Eve!
Although here in Gurgaon, we have a unique way of celebrating, that is, the Christmas Carnival.
How?
Dance to the tunes of Honey Singh, oh yeah!
Because give the man a white beard and a red suit and the resemblance will be uncanny, no?
Who needs Christmas Carols, when we've got some sexist-lyrics-doling-out-pop-shop-punjabi-music?
Why aren't you YoYo-ing with me, now?
You want some ram-leela-ram as the side dish?


 Here's a cute little Christmas song wishing you a Merry Merry Christmas!


Ta-ta!

Train to Memory Lane

His groggy vision sharpened up slowly as he reached for his spectacles, squinting against the rudely switched on, almost blinding fluorescent light by the latest intruder to his sleep and the occupant of berth number 34, onboard the train racketing towards the  doorways of his home-Udaipur. The figure in front of him de-blurred and said, “I am extremely sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up.”

Her voice had a silvery resonant quality and he quickly straightened up against the blue leather to see a girl, in her mid-twenties, with a pasty complexion set against the contrast of her jet black hair; dragging a suitcase with her pupils dilated apologetically. He didn't mean to stare, but her presence had dove inside his hippocampus and shaken up buried memories. He knew her, he had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, a phenomenon he thought occurred only in movies and over-the-top fictional novels. All he did has blink at her in bewilderment, trying in vain to place her face in his sea of memories.

She dragged her suitcase, conscious of his blatant gaze on her. Pushing her case beneath her seat, she met his eyes and caught him staring intently and then he embarrassedly looked away quickly. Not much could be said about his looks, he looked average at best, though his disheveled hair and now creased clothes didn't help him much in this potential romantic setup. The radii of his dark circles, tattled of nights spent burning the midnight oil, while his quivering hands revealed the inhabitancy of the butterflies in his stomach. It was going to be a long night, she thought, shuddering in the chilly night air, breezing in through the cold grills of the window.

 Was it her again, after all these years? Purab thought to himself. The same almond shaped eyes, the sharp nose, and the cleft chin. Surely, it was her, Akriti. Sweet, lovely, perfect Akriti.  His first love, when he was just fifteen, an awkward fumbling teenager. After so many years, in front of her, he didn’t feel any different, all his pubertal anxiety rushing back like an unwelcome guest. Did she notice him? Remember him? Apart from the orthodentistry meted out to his now pearly whites, he was pretty much the same. Her nose was buried deep into a book, oblivious to the pandemonium her entry into this small berth had created in his mind. He picked up the newspaper from his side and opened a page at random, discreetly glancing at her from time to time. Romantics these days! As if his sheer contemplation will turn time back in time and topple her in his arms!

 But how could she not recognize him? They had been wading that dangerous emotion called love; days had melted in each other's company. Their conversations ranged from everything under the sun to up above the clouds as they talked about their goals and ambitions. It had definitely been young love hadn't it?  One-sided love, Purab corrected himself grimly. To quote his friends, ‘he was the one playing tennis while she was the one playing squash’. It had turned out she was romancing the most popular guy in school. Of course he was heart-broken, almost to a point of depression, until the point he decided to devote his entire time and life to studying and fulfilling his father’s dreams of being a doctor. After admission to the elite AIIMS Medical College, accompanied with congratulatory compliments from relatives from every corner of the world and a picture in the newspaper holding up a V-Victory sign with a look of pride equivalent to solving World Peace etched across his face, he could say he was finally over her.

He switched his introspective gaze to look outside the window into pitch darkness with the cold air blowing his hair helping him play the part of the brooding, lost in love hero perfectly. He looked into the moving abyss outside, this was the reason he loved darkness, it was almost meditative in nature, clearing up the jammed thoughts in his head. The blackness reminded him of all the time that had passed and how much it had changed him, it straightened his perspective and an inkling of ego spouted in his veins.

Now things were different, why should I be afraid of her? He rhetorically questioned himself. She was the one who walked away and should be ashamed, not me. He would handle the situation in a sophisticated, gentlemanly manner though. The idea was to make her realize what a gem of a man she had missed out on. Maybe taunt her a little, enough to never let her play with tender emotions so callously. He gleamed delightfully at the opportunity. He would brag about his many awards, the burgeoning career that lay in front of him, that cute girl he was dating currently. He might even call her his girlfriend for theatrical effect. She would feel loss pain and regret; just like he had, years ago. Too little, too late. But he would ask her out once, lead her on, take her out for an uptown dance party. And then when she was right in the trap, vulnerable and with emotions exposed, he would look her right in the eye and turn her down. He yearned to see her eyes welled up with dejection, leaking into rivers for him. Yes, he rubbed his hands with excitement; that was the plan.

The sadistic streak in him gained momentum and he finally cleared his throat and said, ‘Hey. You seem familiar. Do I know you from somewhere? Sacred Heart School?’ he enquired with one eyebrow arched up.

 ‘I’m sorry, you must be mistaken’, she shook her head.

 ‘Aren’t you Akriti? Remember me? Purab? Class 9th?', raising his voice against the background announcement of arrival at the Udaipur Railway Station.

 ‘No.’ Derision creeping on her face, she closed her book and kept it aside waiting for the lunatic to go away.

 ‘But how can it possibly be..’, his voice trailed off, standing up and pulling out his trunk hurriedly, willing to disembark from the train and the uncomfortable situation at hand.

 As he was leaving he caught a blur of the book she was reading, it was titled ‘The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers’. 

He stepped out into the sticky Udaipur night air, more puzzled than ever. Suddenly, it hit him, like an upturned bucket of water, his eyes widened and a chill shrieked through his spine, rushing to the very tips of his now numb and curled toes.

He remembered last week’s Nephrectomy class, wherein they had dissected a human body.

Memory does play funny games at times.

A special thanks to Jessica, my dazzling 15 year old sister for coming up with haunting ideas in that wondrous little head of hers.

Susegad

"So where do you study?", inquires Aunty.

"BITS Pilani Goa Campus", I say with a hint of cringed pride.
"Goa!?", her eyebrows form the peaks of Mount Everest.
The Aunty is rushed to the nearest hospital.
Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a little.

Okay, a lot.

But studying at Goa really does have that impression on most people. This idea is not limited to only Aunties and Uncles having a more than socially acceptable level of interest in my life. My Delhi-ite friends too have painted a much too rosy picture of my life. No, our college definitely does not have a private beach; we certainly do not spend every night at 'Tito's'; no, I've never been offered drugs and no, our classes are not held at the beach with students sipping pina coladas while solving complex equations.

I swear to God, I can launch a whole series of 'Ripley's Believe It or Not' centered on life at BITS Goa.

While we do have the pleasure of visiting a beach to break the monotony of college life, my life is far from as exciting my friends make it to be. Yet we do get to witness almost everyday, a freshly painted firmament by a dexterous hand in hues of purple, pink and golden, resonating with the calm Goan mood; Did I mention the stars at night? They dot the night sky so brilliantly, scattered uniformly into the abyss. Maybe I'm succumbing to the grip of nostalgia as I write this but the swirling rings of smoke and dust in Delhi do not offer a helping hand to save me from the puddle of reminiscence I find myself so frequently thrown in.

Shaking out of my entrancing flashback, I mean to say that though a typical student in BITS Goa is not the wild party animal people imagine to be, there is a certain charming air about the laid-back, Goan way of life which soon gets absorbed into your veins. To a Delhi-ite, (or any non-Goan for that matter) this lifestyle may come across as unprofessional and inefficient; for instance, shops and general stores having a tiny window of comfortable opening and closing times; but Goans desire very simple things in life, a comfortable (not extravagant) flow of income, good food, sleep (lots of it) and just to be happy. There is no rat race here, people jostling, elbowing against each other to attain something so obscure while missing out the small beautiful things in life, which sadly how it is in Delhi. People stop and not just to stare but to share stories and memories with each other. You know what makes me so sad? Recently, Delhi experienced its first few showers. I quickly rushed to the balcony of my apartment. Not a single soul was out, not a head peeking out of the window to relish the heavy downpour. If one does not have time to appreciate the little sweet things in life, then I guess the end of compassion is not far.

Maybe Susegad- which is the relaxed and indulgent way of life is not meant for everybody and too much of it will hinder the growth of economy but it never really hurt anybody to take things just a wee bit slow, did it?

                             

The Three Words

She shuddered in the icy air as a gust of wind ruffled her hair violently. Her eardrums were beating with the incessant hollow echoes of the breeze, hindering her ability to think clearly. She felt a sudden chill run up her spine, which had utterly nothing to do with the external atmosphere.

He’d said it. Finally, those words were out in the open, uncaged, prancing in the chilly air, flowing in the space between his languid mouth and her brooding ear.

Those three words which were so loosely thrown around in today’s age, stolidly in conversations with not-even-acquaintances, held a different meaning for her altogether. For her, it was almost blasphemous to think that these three musketeers were passed over so breezily amidst air-kisses in elite parties; flung out of the blue and thrust upon in telephonic conversations; assigned in Monotype Corsiva font as a footnote to the sweet chime of ‘You’ve got mail’ accompanied by a non-committal ‘See you soon’.

They sat apart, unmoving, hesitating to say anything, perfectly motionless in the swerving air, like some sort of a pre-duel ritualistic mad dance.  

Under the shade of her thick eyelashes, she chanced a glance at his face. His face was perfectly expressionless, revealing neither regret nor any kind of expectation. His brows were relaxed and he seemed to be a little too interested in his cuticles. The stillness clung on, intermitted by the hollow shrieks of gusts of wind, imploring the two to voice their opinions.

She gave up to the nagging grandmother of a wind and broke the silence.

‘You really mean it?’ she said.

He nodded slowly in response.

A tear silently rolled down her cheek. She had waited and waited for so long, that it felt surreal when it had finally happened. Things had seemed dark for some time and she had begun to think of surrendering to her family’s orthodox whims. She felt a sense of elation flood her senses and under her breath, began humming to the tunes of ‘Love Is Here To Stay,’ the tessitura of which seemed to increase with each passing refrain.

Their eyes met, his face partially covered in the white moonlight and their eyes crinkled in unison.

She touched his hand and whispered, ‘See you tomorrow.’

She hurried back home, skipping along the gravel, a crimson color flooding her cheeks, her jaws aching with happiness and burst into the warmth of her humble cottage. Her mother looked at her expectantly and as mothers sense every emotion brewing in their child’s heart, through an untold telepathic connection, she knew something had happened.

‘He said it, Mother! Oh, he said it.’

Her mother smiled and took her in her arms, ‘I’m so so happy for you.’

‘The pay is not much,’ her voice muffled in her mother’s hair, ‘but I get to sing every Friday with the Symphony Orchestra at the Churchill Theater.’ She bubbled and sobbed with tears concocted with the two cacophonous elements of ecstasy and pure disbelief and whimpered, ‘Mummy, This is it. Finally. I am hired.’

How to spot a bad movie without actually seeing it.

I don’t really watch a lot of movies but when I do, I make sure that I watch the absolute worst, trashiest of the lot. Yep, the Cinema really brings out my self-mutilating alter ego. The sunny flipside is that after all these years, I can now almost accurately predict the absurdity quotient of a movie.

“Can you show us how?” interrupts the reporter, jerking her mic in my direction.

"I can’t show you”, I say, pausing for effect. “But I can tell you”, I give a lopsided smile and continue..

 

1.       Music
 
I knew it. Even before Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani was released I knew it would be a super cheesy movie. And I was proved absolutely right. Maybe the only reason I watched the movie was to gain true faith in my psychic abilities, or maybe it’s just the alter ego all over again.

‘Tujhe Scene Main Dikhake Film Golmaal Ke
Naam Tera Hi Likhaya Maine Wedding Card Pe
Aaya Dilliwaali Girlfriend Chodh Chadh Ke..’

If the lyrics are in the language Hinglish and are even slightly as intellectual as the aforementioned, run child, when you still can. Or even Pinglish (Punjabi+English).
But don’t make the folly of judging a song solely by its lyrics, take the lyrics from the song - ‘Telephone Dhun Mein’:

‘Telephone Dhun Mein Hansane Vaali
Melbourne Machhali Machalane Vaali
Digital Mein Sur Hai Taraasha
Madonna Hai Ya Natasha

Zaakir Hussain Tabala Tu Hai Kya..’

But the music is by Rahman and the beats are peppy, hence, the movie ‘Hindustani’ is quite good.
 
 

2. What's in a name? That which a call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet 

      No. Mister Shakespeare, that logic doesn’t apply everywhere. 
      Have you ever heard of a millionaire named Chhotu? A celebrity called Gudiya?  Or consider the reverse. Ever heard of a peon named Vikram Jaysinghania Rathore? Even if there was, I’m pretty sure he would have been instantly promoted.
 
Bittu, Delhi-6:
This name is still digestible if it was given to a male, but a girl Bittu? Please. That name refuses to budge past the oesophagus.  The best part about making your own movie must be being the ultimate puppeteer of all the trivial yet important details.  If the strings are lose, the puppet is definitely going to fall, no?
 
 
Bunny, Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani:
 I see it, I see the startling resemblance. Whoever named him, I offer my deepest condolences to his children.

Uncanny, no?
 
 
The name of the movie, is obviously an important detail. Yet there are movies like Shakalaka Boom Boom and Ta Ra Rum Pum. And people watch it.

      No, I haven’t watched it!
No. No.
Okay.
Maybe once.

                         
 
 
 
3.       (Un)wanted Species

Do not watch a movie with Himesh Reshammiya in it.
 
               

                                 I Love You O Sayyoni-X3. Koi Shaq? What's up?

      Or E-muah-raan Hashmi.
Or Tushar Kapoor.
Or Sunny Deol.
Or Bobby Deol.
Or Akshay Kumar.
Or Salman Khan.
Or Ranveer Singh.
 
The first one primarily because it’s a double dhamaka of visual plus auditory torture.
Go on, splash this comment on Page 1 if you want. But this is my opinion and I care two Hoot Hoot Dabbangs about it.
 
The reporters scribble furiously.
 
4.       Crazy Promotions
 
If a month before a movie’s release you spot the actors in a plethora of Reality TV Shows like singing and dancing contests, comedy shows, game shows, cookery contests, pet shows, steal-your-girlfriends-show, sell-your-boyfriend-show, see-who-can-fart-the-loudest-show and so on, then chances are that the movie is as intelligent as Mallika Sherawat’s interviews. 
      Yes, once the idiot resides in the idiot box he rents a space on the big screen as well.

Classy, indeed.

 

The worst is when promotions are subtly (read: not) inserted into the script of daily soaps.

 
See what I mean?
 
 
5.  Too much of a Good Thing?
 
I know how with all the tips I’ve provided you, it might seem like the right option to watch only the good movies. But sometimes, don’t be hesitant to watch a Tees Maar Khan. You need to taste the Karela in life in order to enjoy the Chicken Biryani. Life is not monochromatic, it’s black and white combined together. It’ll not only help you to stop taking things for granted but also make you realize the value of your time and money. Life is like…uh wait..(I take out a piece of paper and read out. Damn it, I should have planned this better) an onion! You have to weep in order to to cut it properly.
 
A teardrop silently rolls down the cheek of the reporter to my right in the dark grey suit. 

                    

To be superficial is the most joyous thing ever.

I know, I know. You’re perturbed. Wasn’t this blog, coming from a young girl, supposed to have a more optimistic, cheery tone? Wasn’t this supposed to be a journey of self-discovery, a happy-ending wherein I embrace my true self?

 Well, let’s get real shall we? Our main purpose in today’s world is self-satisfaction and happiness.  Oh, wouldn't it be just lovely, to be so emotionally numb and distant that you don’t fog your little brain with problems concerning people other than your own self. When you are so hollow inside, nothing in the outer world disturbs you at all. What are the reasons of our unhappiness most of the times? The audience, the whole audience in the world outside that is constantly judging you, measuring you up, stereotyping you and taunting you. Superficiality provides us with an effective shutter to shun out things that might adversely affect you.  But don’t be fooled, being superficial is not an easy task. It involves elevating yourself on a pedestal so high, that you cannot even see the people around you; you are the king of your own flowery mini-world. 

The first thing that popped up in my head at the mention of ‘superficial’

So here am I with my new motto, being wonderfully shallow and not perpetually pondering about the meaning of life. Not brooding over current world issues; not caring about other people. And being a happier person; taking life less seriously. If only it was possible.  Whatever mask we may adorn, the veneer scrapes out, sooner or later. We all are, at one point or the other seduced into acting a certain way- for wealth, love and power. But some people have the capability of sustaining this facade. Or are they born this way (without any references to the above picture)?  Here’s a toast to all those superficial beings! It’s not an easy task at all. As difficult it is being you in this age’s pressurizing society, it’s equally tough not being you.

PS- The author of this little article sincerely hopes that the sarcasm has reached out to her sweet imaginary readers. 

Ra-Who?

“Can’t we go to the other temple Mumma, it’s a lot cleaner”, I said, grimacing as I maneuvered myself away from a soup of poo. Huge grimy dogs were loitering around, following visitors who carried anything that remotely looked like food in their hands. No sooner had we stepped out, three little kids dressed in rags and with soiled faces started following me saying, “Didi paise de do, Didi de do”. “I have no money to give” I muttered, opening out my arms, to show them that I, in fact had none.

We had come here on a mission, it had been detected that the reason for my frequent illnesses was actually because of a guy named ‘Rahu’. Men always create problems, don’t they sistaah?(*black girl headroll*) Strangely, I had no clue who he was. Just a loser who was stalking my life and eclipsing all my happiness.  Well, damn him! As there was no option for me to file a restraining order against that creep, I had to get rid of him by conducting the prescribed puja and after that I would go back 1188 miles away to college the next day, happily ever after.

Meet-Rahu, the creep responsible for all my troubles. Dashing, isn't he?

“Inhe Rahu ki puja ke liye kaha gaya hai?” Panditji said, his brow furrowing worriedly looking at me sympathetically as if I’d just been diagnosed with cancer. Thick horn-rimmed glasses, a shiny expensive-looking watch glistening on his wrist and a grey waistcoat on top of his dhoti, he looked more like an IBM working professional rather than a priest. We followed him inside the gallery of statues, to stop in front of Goddess Durga. She’s always struck me as the most perfect symbols of feminist rage; with powerful eyes, a trident in her hand piercing bad-man Mahishasura(I admit it, I had to google his name, forgive my unbaked Indian mythology knowledge) and a lion at her feet. I was happy that out of all the myriad Gods and Goddesses, it was she who would, um… I don’t know, get rid of Mr. Rahu for me.

But it wasn't all so easy. Panditji told us that Rahu ki puja takes a long time with weekly mini-pujas, concluding with a havan. He said gravely, “It is like when you are administered medicines, you have to complete the whole course to cure the disease”. We nodded our heads severely in response. But because my mother had come equipped with all the puja paraphernalia, he told us that he would perform a quickie for “temporary relief”. And so began the indecipherable chanting, and we folded our hands obediently. A staccato ringtone buzzed from Panditji’s pocket, interrupting our little party, as he flourished out his Iphone and silenced it. After it was all over, he fished out his visiting card, saying that in case of any 'emergency', he was just a call away. I tried to straighten my face as my giggles had already started erupting. My mother, clutching money in her hands asked, “Yeh kahaan pe..?.. yahaan… ya phir” glancing towards Devi’s statue and at him, her awkwardness very visible to me. “Wahaan pe”, he said, pointing to Devi’s feet, in a very professional manner.

As we came out, I asked my mother, “He will be the one eventually taking the money, right?” 

“Of course!” she said and she, my sister and I laughed all the way as we drove back home.