Pursuing happiness

Of all the qualities that people my generation have, the one I respect the most is the sheer irreverence we tend to have for certain things. And a part of this irreverence is the casual detachment most of us have towards a couple of things in life. Something that was a prized possession once (even if in our thoughts), transforms into a memory--- good or bad, you don't know. You gave birth to a dream and began to live it as well. You nurtured it with utmost care and believed in it when others mocked your obsession. You realised that they were right, but pretended to move on hoping for the impossible to happen. You grow with the dream, the dream grows on you. You bloat with the hope of an impending happiness. And then...


.... it is all over. You can't figure out why or how? It's just over. What comes along is another hope, another place where you can find happiness. It is like a shallow pond that has nothing to offer you except for a momentary high. This is when you realise you are dreaming...dreaming once again of greener pastures, those subtle drops of rain and the flower beds. Your flight of fancy has taken off pretty well. Will it come to an end soon. Maybe, maybe not. It's the rise before the fall, its the salvation preceding the doom

The Other Knight

It took me a week to realise why exactly I liked The Dark Knight. There were great special effects, Batman had a new vehicle to drive and finally Heath Ledger. I must confess I like such psychologically s*****d up characters but this one certainly takes the cake. You see, for me, first impression is not the last impression ... it's more of a teaser. SO WHAT DID I DO?

After a rather gruelling day at work, I decided to watch the film again… alone. And so on a rather lazy Thursday evening I went to see the latest installment of the caped crusader’s latest adventure. After a second watch, the movie seemed to be a parable of the eternal good versus evil conflict. It seemed like an extended lecture on Milton's Paradise Lost, for this wasn't just yet another that heavily banks on the popularity of the heroism of the superhero in question (sometimes even imposing it), but it was something more.

I found most of my answers in the Joker. Being a sceptic myself, I found the anarchist in the Joker more appealing. He is very similar to Milton’s Satan (in the early sections of Paradise Lost). Like Satan, he too questions the authority of an established order, in this case as a self-proclaimed vigilante. Like Satan, he too convinces people to sin, and in fact succeeds in transforming Harvey Dent to a potential murderer (remember the way the serpent convinced Eve to eat the apple). Like Satan, the Joker too, admits being an 'agent of chaos'. It’s a choice he has made seemingly because of a father who was “a drinker and a fiend. And one night he goes off crazier than usual. Mommy gets the kitchen knife to defend herself. He doesn't like that. Not. One. Bit. So, me watching, he takes the knife to her, laughing while he does it. Turns to me and he says "Why so serious?" Comes at me with the knife,"Why so serious?" He sticks the blade in my mouth. 'Lets put a smile on that face!' And..... Why so serious?” He also remembers his wife in one of the most poignant scenes in the film. “I had a wife, beautiful; like you. Who tells me, I worry too much. Who tells me, I ought to smile more. Who gambles, and gets in deep with sharks. One day they carve her face. We have no money for surgeries. She can't take it! I just want to see her smile again. I just want her to know that I don't care about the scars. So I stick a razor in my mouth and do this... to myself. And you know what? She can't stand the sight of me! She leaves. Now I see the funny side. Now I'm always smiling!”

A viewer never really gets to know if all this really happened or if this is just a figment of a 'psychopath's imagination'. But what seemed more real to me was the fact that the character, pretty much like his other half (read Batman) makes an attempt at heroism through a battle that's more psychological than physical . His heroism is anarchy, chaos, anything which could shake the very foundation of an otherwise acceptable existence. Come to think of it, there's a lot that binds the destinies of these men. Both have had seemingly troubled childhood. Both choose to hide behind a mask and most importantly both, in their own ways, claim to be vigilante. While one attempts to don the hat of a saviour, the other is the self-proclaimed new "classic gangster that the city needs".

What I liked about the film was the way Batman's pedestalisation is deflated in the film. This time Batman wants someone to take forward his legacy (through DA Harvey Dent who ultimately goes against what he once stood for), wants to be with his lady love (who chooses someone else over her long time love interest), makes a choice as to who to save (he saves Harvey Dent while Rachel dies in a trap set by Joker) and finally accepts to wear the mantle of a Dark Knight (even though he has not killed Moroni). In a nutshell, towards the end of the film, even though he remains a guardian figure, but by then the society he's been protecting has already turned its back towards him. The Joker wins the battle.


So what exactly makes the Joker more convincing to me?

a) He wants to puncture the deification of Batman by asking him take his mask off. Once the mask is off, would the hero be still worshipped? Probably yes, but even then at least he would come across as a more human a figure.

b) He doesn’t want to kill the superhero because ‘you complete me”. In a rather poignant scene in the film, the Joker says ‘You just couldn't let me go could you? This is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. You truly are incorruptible aren't you? You won't kill me out of some misplaced sense of self-righteousness, and I won't kill you, because you're just too much fun. I think you and I are destined to do this forever.” They truly complete each other. Probably that's why neither of them wants to kill each other.

c) Millionaire Wayne aka Batman is just too heavily dependent on technology to rescue him (probably because he can afford it) while the Joker falls back on his dry wit and presence of mind. That proves more powerful as the narrative progresses.

If the negative characters are so deeply etched like this one, a day will come when movie buffs like us would go and watch superhero flicks for such super'villains'.

Surviving Brida

Reading about a quest for fulfilment has rarely been this predictable an experience for a Paulo Coelho reader. But there's always a room for exceptions. The author's latest book, Brida, delves on quintessential Coelho themes --- search for wisdom (read Soul mate), magic, failures and self introspection. The story is set in the eighties where a young Irish woman embarks on a journey, both physical and psychological, to find her Soul mate. In her endeavor, she seeks the help of a witch, Wicca and a 'wise man', Magus. To attain that everlasting wisdom she does not mind spending a night in the woods, even though it scares her to death. She "dances to the sound of the world" and wears each and every cloth in her wardrobe because "everything that contains energy should be in constant movement". Twenty one year-old Brida's journey might be a novel experience for her but not for a Coelho reader who has treaded on similar paths before as well (remember The Alchemist and The Witch of Portobello). However, there are moments of self introspection. For instance when Brida is advised to wear all the clothes in her wardrobe, she wonders "Perhaps Wicca had overstepped the bounds of her power. Perhaps she was trying to interfere in things she shouldn't." At this stage, the reader can't help but celebrate the protagonist's pragmatism, so what if it lasts only for some milliseconds.

Pitted against her is a witch, Wicca, who like Magus, sees 'the gift' in her and helps her 'find the Soulmate'. For the uninitiated, Wicca is also a term used to refer to a modern version of an old witchcraft religion. While Brida is still jostling between the ifs and the shoulds, Wicca, on the other hand is a complete believer. Magus comes across as more believable of all the characters. One gets acquainted to the genuinity in his very first meeting with Brida, when he realises 'he had met his Soul mate', but simultaneously wonders 'She's pretty. But I am twice her age." At yet another poignant stage in the narrative he realises his masculine needs are more important than the ones he has being a Teacher of the Tradition. And then there is a moment of realisation, "The Magus watched Brida lie down on the ground. He tried to concentrate only on her aura, but he was a man, and a man always looks at a woman's body."

You certainly can't miss those one -liners that form the core of all Coelho narratives. "We might know the how, where and when of being here, but the why will always be a question that remains unanswered." or "Gardeners always recognise each other, because they know that in the history of each plant lies the growth of the whole world."


The novel is pacy and just in case you feel too compelled, you can read it on a lazy weekend afternoon.

A drink and a heartbreak later...

A drink and a heartbreak later, you begin to wonder if life was just incidental to living. Even if it was, it has to be lived. There are things to look forward to and people to run away from. Every high has to be cheered for and every fall has to be lamented. Happiness is not just over-rated, it's also overpriced. We all have our Godots to wait for. They turn their faces when they see us, only to return when they aren't needed any more. The tragic farce is that you live your life but that life never lives in you.

A bit of Neruda

Nothing beats Pablo Neruda. Of many of his poems that I have read, this one's my personal favourite.

Thinking, Tangling Shadows

Thinking, tangling shadows in the deep solitude.
You are far away too, oh farther than anyone.
Thinking, freeing birds, dissolving images,
buying lamps.

Belfry of fogs, how far away, up there!
Stifling laments, miling shadowy hopes,
taciturn miller,
night falls on you face downward, far from the city!

Your presence is foreign, as strange to me as a thing.
I think, I explore great tr5acts of my life before you.
My life before anyone, my harsh life.
The shout facing the sea, among the rocks,
running free, mad, in the sea-spray.
The sad rage, the shout, the solitude of the sea.
Headlong, violent, stretched towards the sky.

You, woman, what were you there, what ray, what vane
of that immense fan? You were as far as you are now.
Fire in the forest! Burn in blue crosses.
Burn, burn, flame up, sparkle in trees of light.

It collapses, crackling. Fire. Fire.
And my soul dances, seared with curls of fire.
Who calls? What silence peopled with echoes?

Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude,
hour that is mi9ne from among them all!
Hunting horn through which the wind passes singing.
Such a passion of weeping tied to my body.

Shaking of all the roots,
attack of all the waves!
My soul wandered, happy, sad, unending.

Who are you, who are you?

(From Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair)

An ode to opium

A man of few words but many languages, Amitav Ghosh traces his journey as an author with Anamika Chatterjee

Sitting cosy in his suite at Taj Mahal Hotel, author Amitav Ghosh sips his coffee and reminisces about the good old days. “I can see The Claridges from here. That's where I had my first book party. Those days I had a motorcycle and I remember parking it outside. The magic that happens with the launch of your first book never comes back." Cut to present, Ghosh is out with his tenth book, Sea of Poppies, that delves on the issue of opium trade in colonial India of 1830s. “After Glass Palace, I wanted to write another inter-generational book and I started thinking about it in 2004 when The Hungry Tide came out.”
Often regarded as an author who's quite generous with descriptions, one is compelled to wonder if writing a trilogy offers him more liberties. A notorious laughter follows as he explains, "While writing a book you can keep changing some things towards the end or the beginning. But in a trilogy, you have to keep your options open. Moreover, Sea of Poppies was the foundation of the trilogy. It had to be solid and secure." The author admits that he would have loved to cover at least 30 -40 years in the trilogy but then “500 pages later and I have covered just 8 months. I know there are readers who just like to go from point A to point B, but such a reader should not pick up my book.”
This book also set Ghosh his toughest test as researcher, as he “never had such a wide range of characters from different backgrounds”. But what about the British ones that have according to many reviews been “stereotyped”. The Observer review, in fact calls it a "clever parable for British colonialism". On a rather defensive note, he points out, "By the end of the book, everyone is a villain. It'd be ridiculous to put in some goody goody Englishmen. My book is about drug smugglers, convicts and transporters. I am certainly not going to go out of my way to create good English schoolteachers because clearly it isn't a book about them."
Striking a balance between history and fiction is not an easy task, not even for this “master storyteller”. He offers the metaphor of clay to explain his position as an author. "History is just like clay. We have to respect its unyielding nature. A writer's job is pretty much like a potter's. He gives a shape to the clay by using his imagination."
Ghosh whose first book, The Circle of Reason, came out in 1986 feels it is much easier for a writer to get published now. "When I started out, there was just one publisher in Delhi, and I think he used to publish business books only. By then my first book had been accepted in England, and I desperately wanted to get published in India. So in desperation, I went to his office with my manuscript and knocked the door. The chapraasi opened the door and let me in. He saw my manuscript and asked, "Yeh kya hai' and I said, 'Saab, yeh ek novel hai' and to this the chapraasi said, "Novel… nikal jaao."
Ghosh also has his share of favourites when it comes to Indian writing in English. “I enjoyed reading Above Average by Amitabh Bagchi. I am told Indrajit Hazra's The Bioscope Man and Tabish Khair's latest are interesting.” Even though the author thinks that Indian writing in English has been accepted worldwide, he admits that it is at the risk of stereotyping several themes and characters. "If I see the word, 'arranged marriage' in the blurb or at the back of the book, it annoys me. But stereotyping is happening everywhere. When we pick up an American novel, we tend to expect themes like gangland warfare or the mafia.”
Even as there is a buzz that The Hungry Tide will soon be made into a film, the author wants his involvement in the project to be "minimal". “Filmmaking is a distinctive art. I tried it after I wrote The Shadow Lines, in 1989. Mira Nair who is an old friend wanted to make Mississippi Masala and I was to do the screenplay. Mira, her husband and I actually drove down to deep southern America and had a good look at the Gujarati motels for our background research. But gradually I realised that it wasn't my cup of tea." But Ghosh also reveals that The Hungry Tide is an option right now by a Bengali director, Suman Mukhopadhyay who has been working on it for some time.
An adaptation works best "when a filmmaker completely reimagines the book", so believes the author. "I know the writers of several books that were made into films by Satyajit Ray and none of them were happy with the films. I told them that the films were much better than the books."
Married to writer Deborah Baker, Ghosh is also a father of two children, who have never read any of his books. “ I am actually grateful that they haven't read my works. You know when you are young and writing novels, you have to tell yourself that your mother might just read your book, and when you grow old, you keep your children in mind while reading the book, because there are things in the book they shouldn't be reading about. So I am actually grateful that they don't."
Confessing that he’s rather self-indulgent, Ghosh says, “I write for myself and my circle of friends. Sometimes when people open my book and read, I actually wonder if this would make sense to anyone. I guess that's something that only your editors and publishers can tell From Circle of Reason to Sea of Poppies, the author has indeed come a long way, but he doesn’t seem to think so. "My friend, Mukul Kesavan says that I have moved back to The Circle of Reason. The prospect of spending 10-15 years with these characters has been deeply pleasurable. In a way my friends have seen my life change and I have seen theirs changing too.” He also admits that solitude is quintessential to writing. “Months go by and I see no one but my wife and my kids. Sometimes I come out of my house and wonder why there are so many people here. Your book becomes your only reality then. It is important also because if your book does not become your reality, then it won't work." Well, considering the writer is aiming for a hattrick this time, it seems more solitude awaits him!

Casting a literary spell

His latest indulgence as an author has yielded yet another bestseller (read Brida). Paulo Coelho shares his success story with Anamika Chatterjee in this e-mail interview.

Themes like spirituality and mysticism are recurrent in most of your works. How do you rate Brida?
When I start a new book, I approach myself from a different angle. In The Alchemist, for example, I was trying to explain what writing meant to me. The way I found to do this was through a metaphor. In Brida, I explore the life of a woman who dives into sorcery and experiments with different magical traditions. Through her life and character, I explore many themes that are dear to me, such as The Great Mother, pagan religions and the different perceptions of love.
All stories, characters bare the seal of my personality, but each has its own path, its own identity. It’s only by living intensively that I’m able to gather enough experiences, emotions, that later on guide me when I decide to write.

Your books are said to have “changed the lives of many”.
Readers are always very inventive. I remember once an Indian reader sent me a letter saying that she had offered one of my books to the Ganges. I thought this was such a poetic and beautiful thing to do.

Brida was written in 1990. Why is it that it came out for publication after almost two decades?
When I wrote this book, ideas such as the feminine face of
God were still alien to most people, but now, I see a shift in perception — people are more open now to the intuitive perception of the world and are less easily seduced by the fixed rules of the society. And that’s why I came out with Brida in its first English translation. I think her time has come.

Would you say that there’s a certain formula for a bestseller?
I don’t have a ready-made formula to apply when I embark on a new book, but I’m always controlled by my discipline, compassion and a sincere eagerness to understand myself.

Any message for Indian readers. I think the best advice is always to not follow any advice. Try life by yourself. Freedom is people making their decisions by themselves, not giving it away for a guru to answer and decide for them.

Condemned to remember

I beg, cry and pray for freedom,

Hoping you will grant it to me some day

But at times my vision blurs

And I cross the line in a haze!

A blasphemous silence is all you have,

A gift you offer me every day,

I have accepted it graciously

Knowing that I won't ever find that ray!

Sunset has become more beautiful than ever

For it reminds me of a speechless you,

That moonlit night, that starry sky
All they offer are countless memories of you!

An ocean of happiness is what I hide

It makes me weak, but often strong

The memories will die their own death

and I shall know I was always wrong!

That road we walked on still bears our footprints,

That palace of dreams still echoes our laughter

So what if you didn't hold my hand,

I always knew there wouldn't be a 'happily ever after'!

Kol katha

Going back to a city after more than a decade can be extremely depressing. My recent visit to Kolkata just goes on to prove that only too well. Last time I visited Cal, as most in my family love to address it, was when I was 12 years of age and completely doted on small bribes like the Bijoli Grill ice cream soda, daanedar mishti , the human rickshaw.... and the list is endless. While packing my bags I had hoped to be in the same old Cal, but alas! The city has changed a lot in these years, and if the residents are to be believed, things have changed only for the better. Malls and multiplex invasion have paved way for the formation of a clan that I'd personally call Kolkata GenNow. These aren't your regular youngsters in denims and Nike t-shirts. This is a bunch that has a cigarette placed perpetually in their hands (smoking is just incidental here), prefer a loose tee with a worn out jeans and most importantly, is all set to criticise anything that's remotely Delhi. To see this kind of a crowd in the malls was rather unexpected, but when some of them happen to be your friends, you can't do much about it except for listening patiently.

For these youngsters, Delhi isn't a place-to-bge primarily because it has no culture. And why not? "People there behave as if they have come from savage lands." "They can't even respect women or the elderly. There's just no safety." "The feeling of belonging among Delhi-ites is missing. It could be because most of them are migrants." My rather politically correct answer was " If you can live in Delhi, you can live anywhere."

After encountering the abhorrence for Del;hi, my next tryst with a rather unusual complain was how come being 23, I was comfortably single. My cousin's argument was 'Make full use of your freedom as a financially independent woman." Her views were echoed by some aunts , even though the uncles stayed out of the matter. Little did the women realise that by forcing a freedom on me she was, in fact, limiting the notion of freedom most of us have young women. Her reasons... "In Kolkata, women start dating as and when they join college." I giggled for a while thinking that in most parts of the country the progression takes place rather early. I presume that's the reason I was taken to the malls even though I pleaded to go to places like New Market, Digha and Gariahat.

After the isms were thoroughly analysed in our chatting sessions, it was time to pay a visit to the Ganges. If there's a singularly most divine thing that a human beiong could do, is to try boating in the Outrum Ghats. As you look around, you feel you are floating in the water.... you reach a point where you are somewhat closer to redemption. This singular indulgence atones for all the isms that are imposed on you for being a Delhi-ite.

As she liked it

Accompanying a friend in love for shopping is almost like playing Shakespeare's archetypal court fool...someone like Touchstone (in As You Like It). There is something very comical about spending hours accompanying a woman whose very purpose of existence for that very day is buying a 'wallet' for a 'friend' who, of course, has been promoted from that level to being a potential lover. Sadly you know you are not a part of this 'reality', but yet you embark on the Odyssean journey of finding that precious little gift.

This Sunday evening, I played a Touchstone to an old friend who was on a similar trip. Our search, rather hers, for that peeeeeeerfect wallet made us walk through the dinghy inner circle, in CP, twice. I could see the shine in her eyes as she was looking for that wallet. She picked one, but threw it aside after the size of the wallet disappointed her. She wanted the size to be bigger than regular wallets. Traditional wisdom suggests that a large wallet helps keep men more money. The lady's explanation was quite simple. "If he can't fill this wallet up, I shall know that he's not worthy of my love." Not that I believe in the money-is-not-everything dictum, but the fact that she said this was a reason enough for me to laugh at the whole exercise. A gift had to be given to the guy, and the gift had to be a wallet, and the wallet was expected to0 be full in all days, all the time. And finally, she laid her hands on a reasonably decent wallet and spent Rs 1,000 on it. (Of course I was lamenting the fact that I'd get a Patrick French and a large chocolate croissant with lemonade at the Oxford Bookstore for that amount). However, I wasn't in for a complete disappintment either. I was treated with a bhutta and a bunta for my services and of course, some tips on how to win a suitable guy in 10 days. By then I at least knew one ... buy him a big wallet.

One fine day

A breeze lifting that unruly lock of hair, murmuring leaves whispering something, figures...part human, part animals walking aimlessly on the street, pages of books written hundreds of years back turning on their own, clouds overpowering the sun... and the alarm rings and I head back to editing a story on 'how to be size zero'.

Dial M for mediocrity

I crave for a thing most of you detest
coz you believe in faking an intellect,
I love mediocrity, for it makes me who I am
unsure, uncertain, wrong but always correct!

An affair to remember

Had someone asked me five years back where I'd like to see myself few years down the line, my answer would have been a snobbish, "Masters in post colonial literature, University of Massachusetts." But that was then.... a time when I wouldn't know how to spell Massachusetts. Thankfully after five years I do. Being a Bong, mastering the art of speaking and writing English well is more of a cultural demand rather than an intellectual one. I chose to remain loyal to it. And I did have good reasons for my loyalty. The language came to my rescue after I scored a horrendous 73.5 % in my 12th standard.

The lack of sobriety in the marks that I had scored was a reason enough for me to join a course that valued the REAL intelligence of a student. I was, of course, trying to avoid the fact that unlike the fortunate duds of my batch, I had scored less and had to make most of what I got. And after a series of entrance exams (PS: DU conducts entrance exams for English Literature, much to the relief of Bong students who crack it most of the times), I knew which college I had to finally settle for.

Away from the hustle bustle of the North Campus, was JANKI DEVI MEMORIAL COLLEGE, a place I was to go for my grads. To say being in an all-girls' college was a rather painful experience would be an understatement. Women, women and more women, life at JDM was almost like a feminist movement I was forced to be a part of. The first class began with Ismat Chughtai's Lihaaf, a tale of suppressed sexuality that gradually transforms itself into homosexual love. Being in a women's college, and studying Lihaaf, was scary, but the fear in question was a rather naive and juvenile. My romantic interests and preferences remained in the malekind. Yet there was the other 'kind' men, some hundreds of years old and some not-so-old, who came to my intellectual rescue. Shakespeare, Geoffrey Chaucer, Amitav Ghosh, TS Elliott, William Butler Yeats, Charles Dickens, Samuel Coleridge, Dario Fo, Henrik Ibsen and many more. This not to say the women didn't hold their own. Jane Austen, Ambai, Margaret Mitchell and Chughtai, of course, were forces to reckon with. It was then that my love affair with the language began. It had by then also become my best friend- helping me get an admission, being my USP at the college interviews...so on and so forth.

To add to that dream-like state were the wonderful, wonderful lecs who not only taught me the texts, but also helped in understanding life beyond English Literature. Of course, my notions had been rather rosy then. I had a rather extended honeymoon with language. Topped twice, was even a rank holder in the Univ once, won a paper presentation (it was great coz there were just two teams). It was blissful, a match made in heaven. After three years of being a Bachelor's student, I decided to take the love affair to another level - Masters. Thankfully my scores were good enough and I got the admission directly. Of course, fate (read my folks) had some other plans.

Media had always been a seductress of its own kind, and my folks couldn't help but get entangled in its clutches. I was asked to appear for entrances at Mass Communication Research Centre, Jamia (Mommy dearest loved the idea of me going there coz Barkha Dutt studied from the college some eons back) and Indian Institute of Mass Communication (IIMC). After some odd cribbing sessions, I gave in, and agreed to appear for the entrances. I prayed to God every day that I must not clear the entrance, but then God seems to help those who do not help themselves. Unfortunately, I cleared both the entrances. Jamia being a more "prestigious" institution, was an obvious destination.

What began then were mad , mad sessions on film history, photography, radio , TV journalism, short films, and all the things that did not interest me one bit. A year passed, and brought with it a sense of discomfort. Expectations were soaring , and as always, I had to live upto them once again. Qualified for a media scholarship interview and met a reputed mediaperson there. After a rather long question-answer session (where every possible thing I knew about was scrutinised), he offered me a job right in the middle of the interview and asked me to join his organisation, one of the most popular newspapers in the country.

The man, in question, is of such high stature that it took me an hour to come to terms with the fact that he had, in fact, offered me a job. Waited endlessly for him to come out of the interview, and when he did, he gave me his visiting card, and said those golden words, "Come whenever you want, the job is yours!" Everyone in college cheered for me...the lecs had a new found respect for me. I knew then that I had to give up my loyalty for English Literature and move on to what I thought then were the " greener pastures". But the subject has always had a way of making its presence felt in my life. As and when I joined, my bosses detected my USP in the English language and quite unexpectedly I was to edit stories on pages. My return gift was the beat that I was to cover- books. The joy was, of course, unparalleled.

Now after two years of being in the business, the language has made a senior copy editor out of me. I discover the language every day, and sometimes even celebrate the reunion!

Revelling in hopelessness

Even though he never c0mes, Godot clearly is a genius! He's nothing yet something! He's a belief, he's a myth! He slowly creeps into my world and transforms it completely. For good or for bad, I don't know. He slowly makes his way to my mind and convinces it of a change, that otherwise is not likely to happen. He tells me that there is no forever, yet asserts that there will be no end! He forces me to write, yet tells me there is no point! He is vague and he is sublime! But still he is there somewhere! He's my biggest curse and my only hope!

Art of darkness

A familiar road is always deceptive. I tread on it and get cheated every day. It holds me back. It prevents me from knowing the unknown. I fear the sunshine, it darkens my spirit. As the darkness sets in, I see the vaccum getting filled. It is only in the darkness that I can cry. It is only in the darkness that I can accept my failures. It's all for good, it's all for good! At least I become the person I am. Once, I've cried, once I've tried, I see a ray of hope, not in that familar load, but in that unfamiliar road!

Death of love

When we were together,
we laughed, we cried,
then came that moment
when even our tears dried!

We sat on the highway of dreams,
hoping to feel the raindrops
But then a bell rang,
and there rolled a fresh corpse!

We went ahead, hoping to see it
there was no shape, no curve,
fearing and loathing, we neared it,
only to realise it was our love!

When love died, THEY conducted a funeral,
Everyone came in black, only INDIFFERENCE came in white
When THEY asked the reason
INDIFFERENCE said, "Brothers, even I go with the tide!"

To see me that fateful day,
you walked on those sun-kissed roads,
As we killed each other,
we realised being in love was not about breaking codes!

The world is not a good place for lovers
it loathes, it conspires, sometimes even connives,
But we, the damned, insist on waiting,
for when eternity ends, Godot arrives!

--- Anamika Chatterjee

Journalism or generalism?

"I have been working in media for eight years, but I can't say if I have been in journalism for eight years."

This isn't an original line, but an extract taken out of a friend's application for a scholarship. Just liked the thought...

License to flirt

I just came across this post I wrote last to last year about Holi. So here it is

I've always felt that apart from being the festival of colour, Holi actually adds some wanted ....and at times unwanted spice in people's life. Considering the way most men function, I have reasons to believe that for *some* of them it actually serves as a societal sanction for venting out their innate perversities. Now, before I go any further in proving my theory, let me tell you,,,I love the festival too....because I have rarely played it. Just as I was standing outside the verandah of my house, I saw a 16-year old chap holding both the hands of this girl I happen to be friends with,,, and rubbing her face with colours. IT COULD NOT HAVE BEEN A MORE DISGUSTING VIEW. Now for most of you, it may not even be a case of eve-teasing....but I think otherwise. The girl apparently has rashes all over her face and this was the reason she did not want to be smeared with colours. This 16 year old jerk had the audacity to go to her lace and drag her out only to put colours on her face an throw a bucketful of ater on her. How singularly annoying is that!!!! Anyways, even if you see some of our classic Hindi film songs on Holi, you will notice that the festival has been projected in a similar fashion. Be it Rang Barse where a married Amitabh Bachchan romances his ex....or the Ang se Ang Lagana where the lyrics are explicit but do sum up the way the festival is played.

Dreams or despair

There are ups and there are downs. There are highs and there are lows. But life goes on and mine is going on as well. So what if it royally s******? So what if I am unhappy? Life's just going on. Creativity has gone for a toss and RJ cares a damn about my existence. Sometimes, I am not quite sure if he acknowledges it at all. But me being 23 and utterly stupid, spin fancy yarns about a possibility of companionship. Everyone around me seems to have moved on and for the better. Most friends and colleagues are exploring alternatives, making choices. I, on the other hand, am stuck in the haven of a secured space (which, mind you, is killing me every day). RJ, on the contrary, has a wonderful , wonderful career ahead of him. He's young, bright, ambitious and most importantly self indulgent... lady luck is bound to shine on him soon. No, I am not jealous of him. Just that I want to believe that I matter to him...maybe in some rather insignificant way. One odd SMS in a month, one odd phone call made in weeks makes a world of difference to me. It's enough to keep me happy for a fortnight. But then lady despair knocks my door again, transporting me into a world of nothingness where I begin to... WISH YOU WERE HERE

Random

I haven't exactly been the happiest person on the planet and difficult situations, difficult people have only added to that.

Chains of Mephistopheles

Things haven't really been hunky dory. My world is turning upside down , quite like this

Random stuff

Hmm....I am actually wondering what to write......

Here I got this one. It's been ages since I did a story for our paper. Never mind that! Was just thinking about good, old days of writing. It was like opening a Pandora's box... A bit of seriousness, a bit of spice, and a whole lot of imagination....and the story was a perfect page 1 piece. Only that boss didn't quite share the feeling. You see like all great writers in the world, even I used to think that my writing skills are God's gift to the world. But journalism has its way of teaching you a lesson. The copies are chopped, sometimes wisely, and sometimes in the most mindless ways possible. But on a fewer occasion our copy gets its due. The quarrel and conflict between the reporters and the editors dates back to the time immemorial, and goes deeper than the two world wars the city has witnessed. Sometimes even I have been accused of editing callously, but on most occasions I have understood it as a means of constructive criticism. However, I must confess that listening to such criticism hits you under the belt...

Crushing the crush

It's first day of the year and unlike people who are high on the New Year spirit (all puns intended), I'm not quite thrilled. 31st was a great evening , but as I saw some not-so-cute couples getting cosy, in stead of feeling quite amused as I usually do, I felt quite bad... not for them, for my self.

Officially, I can't claim I haven't been in a relationship. For whatever little time I was in one, I must confess dear readers, I FELT STRANGULATED. Not that the guy in question was an epitome of villainy. He was just a regular, snooty, incorrigible man. I had known him for a long and thought that he could be a guy any girl could fall back on for support. Much later did I realise that it was the other way around. I have always felt that women are born with maternal qualities, and these emotions come out best when they are dating/going around/are married to a man. And men , even when they are in a relationship, look for these qualities in their existing or prospective better halves.

Cut to present, there is somebody I know who promises to be an exception. My fondness for this gentleman has increased manifolds ever since I came to know him better. Not that we talk frequently. An SMS is exchanged in a month or so. And so, now you know, where the realtionship stands. As I asked a friend on the New Year's eve if asking him out would be the right thing to do, I felt I had opened Pandora's box. She stated the following reasons not to ask him out

1. It'd mean compromising on my dignity because the chances are that this dude may not have similar feelings.

2. Even if I get into a relationship by asking this man out, he'd have an upper hand, because I was the one to ask him out.

3. What if he doesn't pay the bill for the dinner.

Good. So that's a reason enough to stay single. CRUSH YOUR CRUSH BEFORE HE CRUSHES YOU...

I am actually wondering if it could be true...