Monday, February 28, 2005

a short story

Their eyes met. She looked away. Pretended she didn't notice. The connection, the gaze. It happened again, and then and there a idea took birth in her head. It was a like a voice that spoke to her, a conversation in voice-over. A short story, she thought. Why don't I write a short story with this dramatic Bombay High Court in the backdrop? Of a lawyer (the ones whose eyes met) and a girl, just a simple girl, who comes to the Court every other day fighting for justice, looking for a divorce. Why don't I make their eyes meet, then a simple hello, a conversation, a samosa in the cafe, a walk down the historic but dilapidated stairs of this Courthouse. Why don't I make them fall in love with each other, and then why don't I introduce life. You know the thing that usually fucks up these idealistic, romantic ideas that take birth in your head and are put to their grave in your head? Why don't I make him the lawyer who's fighting for her husband, without realising it? Why don't I make him suffer, why don't I make his life hell, as he chooses between his case and his love, and why don't I make him win the case? And lose the love. And why then don't I, the writer, enter the scene and make the lines blur, and go back to the first scene.
Why don't I write a short story?

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Why am I not blogging?

Why am I not blogging? Why are all my blogs of late starting with a question? Why am I going from one question to another? Why is the answer to most questions 'I don't know'. Why can't I rave and rant like I really want to? Why have I made the blog public? Why didn't I just keep it to myself so I could write what I really wanted? Why am I not able to write a confessional like others can?
I don't know.

Sometimes...
You have nothing to say
Winter changes to spring
The calendar moves a month

You have nothing to say

you stay rooted, fixed to the spot
why can't i move the spot, travel the hemisphere
why is why the most indefinite word ever

you have nothing to say

you try to write
express, string letters into a cohesive sentence
but the mind travels, darts back and forth, compels you to stop thinking

you have nothing to say

why do you need to say
words, speech, why are these important
the dialogue continues
in your head
where it should

sometimes, you should have nothing to say

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Me

Does a polythene have free will? I'm wondering. (Those of you who haven't figured, this is going to be a really weird blog so take it at your own peril). Anyway, so. Does a polythene have free will? I was sitting in an auto, early morningish, and I was looking out and I saw this black polythene flitting along the pavement. Just like that. No breeze, no one pushing at along, it was just sailing away. So I thought, who decides for this polythene where it goes this morning? Does it have free will? Is it a master of its destiny...Is free will only assigned to living things, to human beings?
I don't know... these days there are a lot of things I don't know... I have this hollow, empty feeling. It's like being lovesick minus the tears. And I can't believe it's for a city. I always hate Delhi when I'm there but I think it now symbolises and sort of signifies an important part of my life. It is the city where I have spent 10 years minus two in Chandigarh, so 8. More importanly I think it's the city where my friends, former colleagues are... my freedom, my independence, my mobility. I've been whining to people... you can't imagine what familiarity means, even if it's roads, trees, knowing when a certain row of trees in DLF will blossom into a huge yellow bloom. Knowing the ways, not feeling lost. Where is my adventurous spirit? Why can't I discover? Why won't I go for a movie alone... I don't know. On top of which listening to songs such as Amanda, Hotel California, Free Falling are not helping (it's a random selection; download the new yahoo messenger and go to newscast launch radio. Then choose My Station and you don't have to choose, they just keep playing one song after another...)
The train. I watch people. Two girls will be sitting next to me and one will be telling the other her entire life's problems. They just don't care if anyone can hear it or not. I am more reserved. I look twice around me before launching into a conversation like that in a public space. Some sleep. Someone is apologising profusely to someone at the other end of the line. I put msyelf in their shoes and imagine what their life must be like back home. Three young girls are going on about how some boy called Rahul eats like a pig. I stifle a giggle....
You know it reminds me of my days as a child, heading eastwards in a train. Maybe taking the Rajdhani from Delhi to Calcutta as part of the Howrah party (as the east-bound lot was called when we were heading home for holidays from boarding). The train would start at some 3.30 p.m. and you could see the small towns bordering Delhi turn to small villages and by evening when the sun was setting they would become hamlets... A lot of the route is very green because rice cultivation is big in the east. It is just beautiful, like reading a book in your head, like a mobile painting, and then the people. Someone getting home from work, after his day at the fields, children playing in the courtyard, scruffy, dirty, not a care in the world, some woman sitting at the chulha in her house. What is their life? what does entertainment mean? When they hav sex, in their one-room house, what happens to the children?
I have forever wanted to live another life, be in someone else's life, go through what they go through, compare notes with myself, because only I can experience that life and react the same way to situations and people... my other life is living in New York... but of that, another blog, sometime.
As of now, I am existing. You exist and you live. Sometimes you do both, sometimes you don't.