Caged

Ever felt like you have been caged while there are vast expanses beyond those bars? In a place where you can see the world outside but you simply cannot reach out and touch? Cant get worse? Suck it up! it just did – it rains!

A moment when you feel like screaming your heads off! while feeling absolutely paralyzed emotionally, frozen while the world moves on oblivious to you.

PS: This is just a rant in pictures… my meeting room oversees a golf course!

Took me over three years to simply acknowledge that you are not around… They say time heals everything they were wrong coz’ today when I look back on Father’s Day the void seems more glaring than ever.

For every girl her Father is the center of her existence; her very own brand of Superhero. I have seen you overweight, I have seen you frail on the bed… but just that fact that you were there everytime I looked around made me feel safe. The world could explode and I knew nothing would go wrong coz’ you would be around. That’s why dad’s are so special.

It’s so easy to say an ‘I love you’ to mom, bro, friends…anyone. But, could never say those three simple words to you… “I am sorry”, I did not say it, but I miss you coz you were the only person I did not have to say it to – you just knew it didn’t you?

There are so many people who love me and believe in me, but I miss having that one person with that Quixotic faith that I could do nothing wrong. Today if I falter I have people who will pick me up and walk with me but I miss you coz there is no one yelling at me for being careless enough to fall. I miss you yelling at me. That’s why dads are so special.

Mom thought I should learn to cook, care and adjust she saw a woman in me. But you saw just a daughter whom you would take care of all your life.  I am actually angry with you for having broken that promise!

There are so many things to say, so many things on which I want advice, sometimes just want you around. Recently dated this guy who two timed me… I forgave, forgot and moved on. If you were around I would have never told you this… hehehe you would have shot him. But I miss having to hide this from you…

I don’t remember the first time you held me when I was a baby, but I know it must have felt like home. I know you had your flaws – you were very angry, bitter, demanding, unreasonable but even in all this I was your priority. That’s why dads are so special.

I still do stupid things so that I can get you to scream at me, to give me a sign that you are around and watching my back.

You know every man is flawed but no dad can ever be flawed. That’s why daughters are so special. Happy Father’s day. Sorry I missed wishing you on the last three. I love You Daddy

PS: You know I stopped eating chocolates as a deal off with God to keep you happie, so let me know if he cheats.

PPS: Planning on getting a tattoo. I know you will flip at the thought of it. But hope you would be ok considering it’s a love you message for you

Your Daughter

Every time I walk on a street I refuse to look over my shoulder, I enjoy the moment not capsized by fear of the dark and dastardly.

Preachy? Idealist? Quixotic? Let me tell you a story…

Yesterday I faced an incident, it was about 8 in the evening and I was walking back home through a posh locality and a guy (lets call him Mr. B******d for the lack of words) drives up on a bike and makes a ridiculous effort to grope me and rushes past. I fling an umbrella I had at hand and whack him on the elbow. He makes a brave escape as expected of his kind and the incident is over in less than a minute.

The post incident is the nerve wracking bit; once Mr.B leaves I am left fuming on the road, annoyed, vulnerable, angry and very frustrated about not being able to kick him in the gut. I screamed a few expletives, for once wishing I knew more.

I make an effort to calm my nerves and speak to a friend, and about 30 minutes later rationale kicks in.

No. This is not the first time I have been groped. If you are living in a city and are a woman, on an average you face at least one abuse a day. Be it a sleazy comments, leaching or incidents of intimidation.

My first thought was – Why ME? And then WHY at all?

Was it because I was in western clothes and looking pretty? I think not. I have gone through similar incidents when covered from head to toe in salwaar suit and once (for the first time) when I was 13 and cycling back home from school! So looks obviously do not matter, neither do clothes!

Is it for pleasure? I doubt that too. It was a split second incident – for which Mr. B took elaborate pains to hide his face, cover his vehicle number and zero in a spot which was easy to flee from and did not have many people how could react instantly. Is that pleasure? re-arrrgh-lly?? Feel like saying ‘get a life!’ its not even worth the effort!?

At this point I actually felt a mix of disgust and sympathy for Mr. B. How degenerated do you have to be in character to find pleasure in something so weird? Was it a form of mental sickness? Was it an attempt to feel more masculine by intimidating a woman on the street who is waaay out of your league? Or simply an attempt to vent frustration of his own failure in life? What ever it was…It must be a pitiable existence to be a looser of such magnitude.

The next big question was – What do I do? The first time I was 13 and I was too embarrassed to speak of it. The second time I was intimidated. But now, I am looking for answers. I know it is about being caught off guard and pepper spray won’t help? Self defense moves don’t help (my reflexes are pretty bad! I walk without hurting myself is good enough!)? What do I do? I got an array of advices “Do not to walk alone,” “Do not wear skirts.”

That’s not a solution!!!!! It if were, I do consider shifting base to Taliban! (Worse is when it comes from friends)

I do not know if such an incident will happen again? I do not know how good my reflexes will be to counter it? But one thing is for sure, I will not let a loser redefine my beliefs. I will not let one incident with a perverted mind redefine my character.

My issue is not the incident, he barely touched me. My issue is the stigma and fear associated with it – the incident was an attack of my dignity, spirit and independence!

So today morning when I woke up and was dressing up, I thought over the incident and concluded “F*** you Mr. B*****d!”. The sin is his, so should be the stigma.

Stepped out in a pretty dress and walked out with my pretty nose held high 

Anecdote: I have had the fortune of running into many exceptional women – this is dedicated to them. I also have been lucky with some of the men I have met – to them too 

Special mention: Aprita Mukherjee who religiously edits my posts and pushes me to write and sketch. The blog is thus half her effort

Azure Allure

The only reason I wanted to call this azure allure is because I think the word sounds soooo mysterious and I can’t imagine calling blue azure in any other sane conversation!

That apart, blue and green have been a classic combination, so have the cuts and flows… I have tried to combine all four.

The dress goes a lil shorter that a cumbersome gown, that I think gives it a more modern on-the-move touch. The streaming layering provided by the green veil still adds a fairy tale touch to the final peice…

Hope you like it

Anecdote: This venus de milo was done while I was talking on the phone with a friend… one particular floating head… promised I would mention… so here it goes…

And, had forgot to mention my previous two write-ups were edited by Arpita Mukherjee… It does sound weird that I am acknowledging this on the one write up she did not edit. But was long over due. And yes, she did click the picture of this sketch for me… Thankie…

My Wallet

Well the sketch you see though is a recognizable caricature of my wallet, does no justice to the battered tatter that I carry in the name of a wallet.

Well if not in terms of a sketch, at least in the write up this post is an eulogy to my companion of a long time… my wallet.

It all began when of all things fancy displayed in a souvenir shop in a small town in Switzerland for reasons un-phantom-able I picked this red brick like wallet, even as my brother rolled his eyes on my lack of taste. But of course I loved it to bits (well it is coming of in bits anyway…)

The wallet, which is quite often confused for a medical kit (I do not understand!!! It is white on red and not red on white!!!), has annoyed most friends of mine as I cling to it everywhere I go, ranging from fancy fine dines to shack like restaurants… It has annoyed two of them enough to pick me new wallets …

I got writing when a friend mentioned that a wallet describes the character of its owner! I to my horror am clearly in trouble as the tiny clutch is filled with bus tickets from yore, movie passes, ATM receipts, shopping bills, sometimes my phone, odd clips or anything stuff-able… Oh yes!! At times money too!! (Usually only in the first half of the month). There is absolute madness inside it, but with a method to it. For, I always find what I want, a rupee in a nook, a medical prescription thought to be lost, a bill three months old, a safety pin, a hand sanitizer, a lone lip color. Not all at the same time, but always miraculously there when needed.

Thus, I hereby re-affirm my ‘death do us part’ vows with my beloved wallet… To be honest I think of picking a shiney new wallet off the stands sooo many times, but none seem so right when I hold it. They have the looks, but never the persona. If you are the sorts who have a torn sweatshirt treasured over the years you would smile, else I see the smirk spread gloriously on your face.

But like friends, in life, some things are special the way they are…

Though shy of describing it as voracious, I could comfortably slot my reading habit to compulsive. I have had no particular pattern or favorites in authors save perhaps a Tolkien, Austen, Naipaul and very recently William Dalrymple… Else I simply relish a good read even if it were a hoarding on a street.

Secondly let me be honest I do not clearly qualify to be a critic but see no harm in sharing my views on Dalrymple’s latest book, ‘Nine Lives’.

Finally! before I begin, be forewarned that the author has been a favorite so my views may be coloured. I consider White Mughals and Last Mughals — authored by Dalrymple — as amongst the finest pieces of writing on Indian history. Objective views and dry research have seldom been presented in a more captivating and entertaining manner.

Coming to Nine Lives. It is one of the best travel writings I have read since Naipaul’s ‘Among the Believers’.

The book is a collection of nine stories from various parts of the subcontinent (mostly India). The stories are of the demi — if not the divine — powers which rule the minds of the people. The tone is objective and not preachy or critical, which I feel is the author’s best feature. The stories of the god, good, bad and bawd… slices of life served refreshingly fresh.

True it is that in India, art, culture, faith and belief mingle so closely that being a part of this society I forget where the mortal ends and immortal begins. There is a little divine touch we come across in each of our mundane lives, if we keep our eyes open. A picture on the street, the sacred ox, the evil cat, the classic lemon and chilies fending the demons, the black and red threads of luck… We carry our Gods with us!

Still in the book a lot of characters catch you by surprise, and leave behind an indelible mark: A young Jain nun, Prasannamati Mataji who is strong enough to leave all worldly ties falters when her friend dies; Lal Peri Mastani, a border line eccentric with a child like faith in her saint. Then there is one Tashi Passang who is torn between war and peace, a low caste part time jail warden – part-time day laborer who gets possessed by God, a sculptor who creates the creator. They whizz in and out of the mortal and divine worlds…

While the story of the young Jain nun plucking her head in an act of renunciation makes you cringe, the eccentric club wielding dancing Lal Peri amuses you, and the devdasi in Karnataka who is slowly dying of AIDs saddens you. The bards of Rajasthan and Kolkata lead you to an exotic world hardly encountered in our daily metro lives. The Theyyam dance 9 which I had the pleasure of watching once) is something I can vouch for as at least a one time watch to understand the rich tradition of dance and oratory, costume, charm and drama. The air seems enchanted in any of these set ups. Renowned Kannada poet Kuvempu who says in the western ghats the cumulative charms of the mainstream Gods like Vishu and Shiva fall short of the influence held by the demi Gods on the minds of the people. These demi Gods can be invoked and troubled with petty problems from family feuds to any other whims and fancies you deem fit of a divine audience (though I do doubt if major Gods have that sort of time). Even the Gods here are grey in their morals and habbits and almost human in their characterization.

The religion in the book is not in the temples, its like walking the bylanes – in flesh and blood! Here the Gods are in practice, in music, in art, in song, in a chisel, in a belief. They range from holy to unholy, preaching universal love to smoking up weed to guzzling down toddy and fresh

blood to scourging dead skulls. They are in renunciation as much in sensual orgy. This probably happens only in India where every step has a legend, a story, a myth… a faith.

The book no doubt makes for a wonderful read and what I like it better is for making us simply open our eyes to what is around us. For making us walk the bylanes of a remote region in ‘Bharat’ as we get stuck in the blaring traffic jams of a rapidly westernizing India.

Thank you Mr. Dalrymple for the beautiful documentation 

Sunshine

The summers are just about saying good bye and the skies are turning grey to welcome the monsoon here in Bangalore… All I miss on a cold, humid, rainy day is some bright sunshine… Well thus the design:

A straight cut, yellow dress which is sober. But the colour and the slight flare add a tempestuous dash to the formal outfit. The knee length brown boots keeps the cold and water away…

So, here is the musings of 25 year young woman on a rainy day… a li’l dress, a pair of shoes and some warmth Couldn’t ask for more…

Thoughts...

The last one year has been memorable, good, bad or ugly I do not know, but memorable yes. I feared I had lost my roses tinted glasses to cynicism, but no, I have simply learnt to see things as they are, instead of how I would have wanted them to be…

But still I sleep in peace for I risked it all to live that one dream. Its all right if the dream broke when I woke up the next day. It’s a dream – its was never meant to be. But I shall rest in peace as I would never ever look back and wonder ‘ if only I had…’.

Well that is peace – to know you haven’t given up on a dream, but have woken up to reality.
Rest In Peace

I am not conventionally beautiful, I don’t think I have ever cared… but yes I have tried to fit in. Everyone has a piece of advice… ‘straight hair is good’, ‘loose some weight’, ‘nails polish should never be chipped’… and the tragedy is I listen to them. Each day I loose my individuality to confirm with the factory line production churned off the parlours…

I don’t know if I’m right or wrong, but the admiration in those eyes which do not matter guides my life, its scary, but it is the truth. For years I have rebelled against the thought I would be judged for the way I look. But the truth is all of us judge people and almost always the looks do play a role… we look down upon an out of shape traffic cop taking a hundred rupee bribe, but we can live with corporate honchos in smug suits looting millions…

I have not figured why we do this, but the best part of us is always lost in gaining a nod of approval from people who do not matter. Bound by Expectations, Bound by Conventions I will live most of my life trying not to be me!

the scent of tradition

Anecdote: Back in my Delhi days I met this shy young guy from the North East – nondescript on the first glance; but of all people I met there, this one still stands out. We were all on the fast track of being globalized hybrid species – looking for commonality, but this guy stood out, for he reeked the scent of tradition amidst the mass products of Gucci, Esprit and Armani conformists.

He was a Boro, he held his identity with pride never thrusting it on you face, but never letting it go. In him I saw the true spirit of India – roots grounded in traditions while the shoots reaching out to embrace newer skies…

So strong was the impression of his tribe in my mind that months later while flipping through a magazine I saw a picture of a Boro woman dancing and out came my pencil and sketchpad…

This is not the most beautiful artwork I have done, but somewhere it has a part of my heart and soul in it. And of course it is dedicated to Deepak Basumatary (Boro)

And for those who want to know more… the dance is called Bagurumba, and is a traditional Boro folk dance… wiki link for even more info http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bagurumba (this bit was added courtesy reminder from Titu)