I have always been a dreamer.

But, these days I am not even able to sleep properly. A constant irritation itches on in my mind and I know not where it comes from. As a child, our own Doctor Uncle used to point out that diagnosis was pivotal to medication. I somehow found a deeper meaning in those words in connection to our daily lives even when I was a teenager. No wonder then that I got hooked to taking  "counselling sessions" of friends and followers. Boys and girls found an eager listener in me, and at the end of a long session of artless candour I would settle down to spray my sermons on them. Eventually, I got good at it. My words were often interspersed with vignettes of adult wisdom and placid maturity. I even developed a impassive style while speaking on the "most bitter-to-the-ears" issues to my subjects. Before I was into my third year in college I was quite a known "soothesayer" of sorts.

My ego latched onto that window of pride and soon, I had many from outside my immediate circle of friends flocking to me for "suggestions". Most "cases" were love related, some a touch more serious owing to the involvement of parents in the imbroglio, others simply "candy-floss" stuff .....the ususal " she loves me....she loves me not... ????" queries. These were the "cases" I slowly grew to be tired of because of their repetitive quality and lack of associated sub-plots. Interesting "problems" surfaced with time. A brother being too pushy at home, a domineering father or a overprotective mom intruding into the forsaken territory of teenage privacy. Some I was quick to respond to, to some I had no cure. Still, after  every such session accompanied with the characteristic intake of umpteen number of chaai and samosas in the college canteen I subconsciously started nurturing a philanthropic satisfaction inside me. It gave me a sense of fulfilment to be of help to others, some friends..... some distant. But, today when I suspect if I am suffering from hypochondria, stress or insomnia I hardly have a soul at hand to help. A person who can sort a few knots of my mind and my life. Someone whom I can fall back upon for few words of reassurance and comfort. Even today some of my old buddies, some married and some yet to tie the knot ring me up to keep me updated of their account of woes. Out of habit I blabber out possible solutions. Some call back to let me know of the efficacy of my advice. Some just forget. Typically so.

I wonder if being the "shrink" back those days has robbed me off a "helpline-to-happiness" today.

WOW!

From some of the comments that I have got on my last post, I felt like I had a serious chance writing columns for gossip-magazines. But, No. I am sure I would get bored after a while. Digging up celebrity-dirt and conjuring spicy stories out of thin air isn’t eternally alluring so to say. That’s just not me. The last article was a one-off thing; perhaps to try my hand at doing what I have always looked down upon- ‘Catering to popular voyeurism’. Also the brouhaha over ‘kiss-and-forget’ episodes getting newsprint and sound-bytes got under my skin a little and the last article (in a totally celeb-mag style of presentation which even humored me) was a sort of unburdening exercise.




Now, it’s back to my old self. Writing about myself, our surroundings and life in general, occasionally taking the detour to indulge in some spicy nugget of juicy news doing the rounds.



I hear Brazil has won again. Japan is reeling under another of its devastating earthquakes and that White House is not ready to change its policy on Iraq.



Until the next time I feel like typing something meaningful (more than this ranting post),



Adios.

The reports have been confirmed. The pictures are hers. And yes, she did kiss him.

 So, it was our very own desi-bombshell Bipasha Basu who cosied up to Christiano Ronaldo and the shutterbugs just couldn’t believe their luck.

As all the national dailies showcase the ‘kiss and canoodle’ incident with bold headlines and bolder snapshots one can’t help but wonder why the heck are we making such a fuss of it?

-         Isn’t it exactly what the sexy bimbette wants out of us?

-         Attention. And more tabloid space. And yaa, also some jealousy-induced-self-restraint in her looooooooooooong-time boyfriend (who remembers that dimply-simple Dino Morea nowadays? huh?) Beef-cake Mr. John Abraham. Don’t know about the last one but I see we are serving her plateful of what she wants on the first two counts. And that isn’t making me any happier.

But I have my doubts if the big-bucks Clinic All Clear deal is going to keep them together now. Now that Bipasha has sent out the message loud and clear that anyone and everyone under the generous sun (be it Saifu Baba or the Man. Untd star Ronaldo) who can guarantee her free publicity, she will be more than eager to kiss and please.

-God help the feminists of India.

One might assume that I have something personal against the sultry siren. But, let me clear the air before I proceed that I have none. I actually liked her in Corporate. She did justice to the role of the ambitious girl made victim to corporate crossfire. Ahhh! What a lovely scapegoat she made. Made my heart quiver with utmost sympathy.

But then, God won’t let me continue my benevolence and now she does this. And I am compelled to write a scathing blog which I hope she comes across sooner than later.

First she is the news for warming up to the recently-single-and –more- than- happy- to mingle Saif Ali Khan. One can understand her anguish and vengeful flirting as a retort to John’s more outrageous and less publicized philandering ( Blame it all on the go-soft-on-male-stars attitude of our media). But hellooooooooo!!! One fine morning they are again spotted together, hand-in-hand, posing for photos. Sweet nothings whispered into each other’s ears. Any clues dear readers? Any answers? Any guesses you can make?

-         The answer lies in their crore-rupee deal with Clinic All Clear to make jont public appearances for promotion. And to top it look-being-together too!

-          Just imagine the hypocrisy of it all!

But, Lady Luck had grander plans for Miss Siren as she got the invitation to host the 7-Wonders extravganza in London. And Whoa ! She finds sweet-talker-hellishly-handsome Christiano Ronaldo to share the stage with her. What a God gifted opportunity to match Miss Shetty’s recent exploits on the European stage. Thank you God!

They come together to Belem (A Night-club meant for gentlemen and women strictly) in Lisbon. Ronaldo shows her some tricky foot-work on the dance-floor and they leave together( use your imagination now dearies). Not to forget the Kiss-and –forget (John) in between.

And she says, it’s again “Irresponsible assumptions” on the part pf the media.

Yes, Miss Siren. All the time we thought all our girls till the time they flirted with our desi-brawns were entitled to their Satitywa.

You have shown us the REAL picture.

No wonder we make “Irresponsible Assumptions” like that.

My hair is all askew. My room looks like the ruins of a bombed building after an entire night of air-raids. I look at my image in the mirror. It is a different person. And I get lost in her eyes. A completely different girl looks back at me. My brain stops registering the present. I feel like an alien in a foreign land. And I look back at mom and dad as if they were strangers. Aliens from different planets.

The glass from last night on my bedside table with remnants of milk look yawningly at me. The posters of Cruise and Kaka seem like old traditions upheld by my supreme obstinacy to defy change. Though in between I have had the urge to put up many faces ...right from Roger Federer to Rahul Gandhi ( hmm...me getting politically inclined these days ) I have stuck to my ‘old-is-gold’ policy and the old faithfuls have stayed.

My modem-lights blink at me with an alarming effect which is lost on me with time.

I listen to hard-metal these days. Just for a change. And I seem to be liking some of them.

Always thought you needed to be a little “off your hooks” to actually like this sort of head-banging.......drum-pounding., guitar-wringing noises. But then, I think going by my own convictions....I am going a little astray from the road to sanity these days then. Can’t say if I am loving it or not.

Office is not fun these days. Work-loads are mounting. And so is increasing the amount of bitching, mutt-ing (that’s my coinage for menfolk practicing the art-form) and superior-subordinate tensions.

Adesh, Premangshu and Alok are at their supportive-best as usual. But I sometimes vent my ire on them. But, I repent later and say sorry. They are always the protective sort who blush and brush past all my pleas of  contrition. And again when times are happier...plans are chalked out. Elaborate arrangements of partying are made. Late-nights become as frequent as commercial breaks......and life chugs on.

Now that I have vented all my sedimented, stale energy which was bubbling inside me through this torture-of-a-post of mine....its time to move on and haul some serious ass. ( hee hee....different Jess..huh ?? )

And yes...I see I can now recognize the girl I see in my mirror.

Its the same me.

Like it or leave it .

You can’t ignore it!

As India gets ready for her first woman President and political alliances within and beyond the public-view brace to ensure her grand entry into the Rashtrapati Bhavan, few issues crop up in the mind of the reluctant observer.

It is of course a moment of great pride and honour for Srimati Pratibha Patil to be nominated as the UPA candidate for the Presidential elections and if all goes according to plan, she is set to be the First Citizen of the State within less than a month.

-Ostentatiously, a moment to be cheered by feminists the world over.

- A moment to mark new beginnings and if extension of imagination still be a tax-free exercise,

-A Moment of History in the making.

Still, a sense of unease seems to trouble my sensibilities as events unfold in the political circles. One of them primarily being the process of ‘Selection in the event of Elimination’ that was followed leading to the nomination. Isn’t it a matter of imposing shame and regret that a woman who is being so eloquently praised for her political acumen and understanding was kept in the political by-lanes of anonymity by the same people who now break sweat to cobble up the numbers for her election. Isn’t it a glaring incongruence to be promoting the liberal-feminist outlook of the Govt. when it actually is a consequence of rejection of five ‘male’ probables short-listed for the post.

Only political insiders would know the secret of the exchange of interests that took place behind closed doors leading to the nomination. But, one thing seems to be apparent. That being Mrs Patil’s selection only because she proved to be a politically viable symbol to rally the allies in support. So as things stand at the moment the election is set to mark no great leap for ‘womanity’ of India, no revolution in the path to female emancipation, and no promotion of the unique and celebrated ‘democratic traditions’ of India. Rather, on close scrutiny it stands out as a strategic masterstroke and at most a decision of impeccable political tact on part of the ruling alliance.

Still, as I set aside my super-cynical (though observant and logical) approach to the Presidential nomination, at the same time, I also have immense respect for ‘Individual will’ and Spirit. Therefore, I hope Srimati Patil absolves herself of the last traces of political manouevering and bias while assuming the Presidential chair and do justice to the immense expectations of an emerging nation and her people. And while she strolls down the Mughal Gardens, marveling at its exotic splendour the thought of the poorest of the poor writhing unfed in some shade of an unclad roof in the heart of Kalahandi doesn’t miss her mind.

I wish her all the best.

With reference to Firdaus’s latest post searching for “life” and its meaning, I think more than ever in the history of mankind, today, we are hard pressed to find ourselves answers to certain questions.

At this juncture when human values, affections, sentiments are being relegated to the backburners of daily attention, people don’t get enough time to sit down and spare a moment pondering their actions and their outcomes.

 Their purpose in life.

Their charted path to something popularly known as ‘Success’.

 Their ultimate goal.

I accept that the pursuit and attainment of Nirvana, liberating one’s mind from the clutches of Vaibhav and cultivating a sense of consolidated contentment seem too very floatingly philosophical to the urbane, ambition-driven youth. They give in hours of daily work; bear the daily drudgery with an inspired zeal and gusto to attain the comfort of luxury money can buy. I do accept their point that living in a consumerist economy where money promises to buy anything and everything the urge to earn more is but natural and competent. But in their single-minded motivation to acquire more they lose sight of what they miss. And that makes for quite a list.

For starters:

Yes, the mobile helps in keeping you in touch with the wide world. But does that empower it to make you loose contact with your inner selves. When have you last given yourself a moment of thoughtful retrospect (almost impossible when most of the times you are alarmed to reality by the new Filmi ring-tone doing the rounds)??

Yes, a trendy car means immense comfort in the sweltering heat and humidity, but, doesn’t it take the contentment of ‘sweating it out’ in a day’s labour and finally coming back in the evening to the warm comfort of family and familiarity.

Yes, e-mails are fast and convenient. But, doesn’t it rob you of the sheer thrill of knowing somebody took some of his/her time off to actually sit down and pen a letter to you. Just for you. And while he/she was carelessly chewing the pen-end, thinking of some teasing jabs or some old account to stir your sagging memory he/she was thinking only about you and ‘you’ alone. On the other hand, the e-mail might have been typed-off as a formality while the sender was busy browsing the net for his recent project.

Times have changed.

And so have we.

Perhaps, it’s the other way round.

Times have changed because we have changed.

Change is the only permanent entity in this universe and inevitable.

But the change within us could be more calibrated.

More gradual.

And most importantly more transitional.

 A life which combines all its sensitive perceptions along with the methodical acceptance of this ravenous revolution that is fast eating into our private space of peace is worth calling a LIFE.

All others are worth calling ‘also-rans’ even if they win the race they are running.

PEEVED

I have fire in my veins for now.
Don’t test me with your lies.
Let me run in wilderness.
Let my tears flow out late.
Let my soul get drenched in rain
Let me smell the grass.


I know your love flows for all.
But you know I crave for more
You hold me like a child in arms
You spurn me with a serene smile.
You kiss me gently like the breeze
And glide past me like time.


I feel like killing all like you.
Who know not how to love.
To possess your soul for once
And know your mind at leisure.
What secrets it would yield me then
The very thought gives pleasure.


Dear Ilander friends, with this poem......

 I  AM  BACK !!

The first thing that Bhiklu did after breathing in first whiffs of moist filth that Mumbai offered to him was marrying Sheilaa. Under the Monkey God’s auspices in a temple which bore tell tale signs of derelict austerity they shared vows of eternal companionship. Life would settle down to something smoother, Bhiklu thought. Sheilaa had other apprehensions in her agile mind.

Mumbai was like a rope full of intricate knots for Bhiklu. Everywhere he went he found glances of clean indifference or thin suspicion. Others eyed Sheilaa with a naked lust which made Bhiklu’s blood boil and feet sweat. He understood that this city belonged only to survivors and those who were maudlin or meek either surrendered to starvation or
cried retreat. He knew he wouldn’t do any of these two. He knew he had Sheilaa beside him for comfort and strength.

“It’s coming down in buckets today.” said Sheilaa as the overcast sky showed no signs of imminent clarity.

“Yaa. It’s what they used to call ‘raining cats and dogs’ in our basti.”, replied Bhiklu.

Sheilaa was busy tinkering with the utensils in her tin cup-board when she felt the sudden warmth of Bhiklu’s arms embrace her from behind. She tried to fend off his amorous advances with slight apathy and few loving curses. But as unrelenting as his father was in carnal affairs, Bhiklu saw a playful allure in all resistance. He knew Sheilaa. She knew it was only a matter of time before he would claim her and give her a completion she so grudgingly craved for all these years of courtship and canoodling.

With a sudden grasp of her shoulder Bhiklu pinned her down to the cot. With their faces separated by the width of a hair his every breath falling on Sheilaa reminded her of the fabled heat of hell. ‘Inferno’ they called it, she remembered. But now was no time to recollect. Now was a time to loose her self in his whispers and caresses and offer a prized surrender. A time to keep quiet let their love do the talking.
He would be kind and careful in the beginning, she prayed. She hoped he would be fair in division of this mutual pleasure they were to share this night. He felt his temples burst out with a throb of unknown violence. A mad rush of blood had blinded his vision and he knew he could have no more of this ‘cat and mouse’ game.

He made love to her that night. For the first time ever.

...........

“From a slum to another slum.”

That’s how Bhiklu’s life in Mumbai looked to him in the initial days. Growing despondent every day he started losing all hope of a ‘good life’ here in this Big City of million faces.
Sometimes while sitting beside busy footpaths which boasted glamorous footfalls every evening he marveled at the numerous faces passing by him. Some ex-pressionless, some listless, some littered, some joyous. He used to guess the origin of their emotions. How their day went. What went wrong. What made them smile blankly. What made their vacuum so overwhelming. What kept them going. What made them sing.

He used to pose such questions to his own rationale and tried finding suitable answers to them all. He knew the answer to his woes was hidden somewhere within these questions. Only that he needed to latch onto the answer.........to the right question.


...THis Episode was contributed by ZZ, Kush and Swati.

The entire credit of reviving my novel goes to Swati and Kush. I requested them to carry on with my 'almost sluggish' novel and they have done well to perk up things.
I liked their version very much......Now let's see how it all unfolds. I will also be following their narration closely. ....

....Hope to have you all with me in this ........

Here goes ,



***********************************************************************

Binodini Khanna stood looking through glass wall of her living room and at the tiny specks of light that went past blocks at slow deliberate speed. Smallness never impressed her. Her eyes moved up the stair of the yellow rectangles of the building in front of her and rested finally on Mumbai’s skyline that was at the same level with her.

From where she stood now, the past was just a tiny faded smudge on the oblivions she had left behind. She had come a long way and never had there been a need for her to look back. There was nothing there. She was Finance Executive, Karma Solutions and there.

For some reason, she had not looked at the calendar today to check for appointments. She knew what date it was and she had rested her mind at that.

Her mobile phone rang and cut through the silence that hung in her room. Prerona was calling. Her lips quivered and curved upwards in a smile. A controlled smile that was famous for its contemptuousness.

The conversation was short and to the point.

“Hi, I am coming over… Yes, now.”

“I missed you,” said Binodini with a seductive hint.

“I missed you too. And I know about the contract you got yesterday. Sourav told me. Besides, how can anyone ever say no to you?” continued the sweet voice humming through the speaker in a monotone.

“Sourav? Is he back?” She enquired with a tinge of concern that she couldn’t hide.

“No. Sourav just called me. I am his wife, you know. Anyway, he is going to come back next week. I believe he called you up as well. Didn’t he tell you? I think he is a little insecure about informing you of his plans. He knows you are quickly going to take his place.” The sweet voice drawled on in a melody that had enchanted Binodini right from the moment she had heard it first.

“Yes!” Binodini laughed, “I am going to quickly replace all the positions he occupies both in his personal and professional life. And I am doing everything  just for you. I hope you know that. Anyways, I have got to go now. Work beckons.” She said and hung up.

Somehow talking to Prerona on mornings like this always gave her the vigor she needed to get through her packed schedule for the day. She turned on her heel and set out to do the mundane morning activities. 

In the past three months, through the march of mind-numbing meetings, appointments with prospective clients, and her busy professional and social life, Binodini could feel something stiffening within her and taking a permanent shape. It was an organ in her mind for taking shape for the life coming ahead. Much like a species evolving itself with the hostile change in its environment—the life coming ahead. She would have to fight society for Prero. She would have to be the ‘man’ in their relationship.

Today the intensity was evermore. And flashing through her mind in a mocking dance of irreverence was a sense of the past. She thought she would sink into the concrete floors of her spacious, expensively decorated cabin with the sheer collective weight of her two lives.

Someone knocked on the door. She could see the soft curved outline of a woman in a green chiffon sari glinting seductively through the frosted glass walls. It had to be Prero. Sourav was miles away from them so they could afford to stretch their luncheon till late noon. The thought brought her some solace and she turned to the calendar to mark that date in red. She always did that when they went out. And then she knew:

It was on that particular date that her mother had breathed her last breath.

That was 10 years back.

Prero entered through the glass door and said:

“Binni...”

_____________________

end of this chapter

“ President   takes  a  tumble”,
shouted every front-page caption with the picture of a white-haired main struggling to get up on his feet, helped by aides and guards.

Make no mistake dear readers. This was no call for alarm. No calamity. No rush. No cause for collective concern or sympathy. The fall was just a harmless ‘trip’ over the carpet at the Sangeet Natak Akademi awards for Mr. President.

No bones cracked. No blood spilled...and by no imaginable stretch of imagination a case of - “Fall from Grace” for the great man.

Never.

But, still, the pictures of a clumsy fall seemed to grace every newspaper front-page, taking precedence over other more ‘pressing’ concerns of the nation. It almost seemed a national disaster or furthermore, a reminder which tried to impress something more grave, something more deep. Something which missed our busy eyes. Something which had an element of an indiscreet snide in it. Somewhere, I felt.

Firstly, I fail to comprehend what such a wide coverage of a Presidential triviality actually implies. A very normal and human one at that. Just a slip, trip and fall.

Is it just honest concern for his health alone? Or, Is it a reminder to the nation that he is getting old ? Is it a call for change ? Or, is it a tactical ploy of ‘Videshi Shakti’s  to lampoon our collective clumsiness by a symbolic public-fall of the Head of the State?

Mindless conspiracy theories kept apart I would like to point out certain things through this seemingly innocuous post of mine.

One:  A President is after all a human being, like you and me. Like any other person save his post and prestige. Then, Why doesn’t he have the liberty of making an accidental fall look foolish ‘only for a fleeting moment’, gaining his balance , rising up on his feet, brushing the dust off his suit and go about doing his business like any other man. Why can’t we give him this little space to be himself? Even in an event of an untoward fall which might have caused him some pain otherwise.

Two: Why is the press so disgustingly sensational about daily trivialities?

After all Mr. Kalam is no pop-princess that the tireless paparazzi would gain a priced glimpse of some of his ‘hitherto unpublicized assets’ in the process of a ‘trip-n-fall’ incident. He is just a very humble person trying to serve the nation in the best possible way he knows. By interacting with school-children, championing their cause, answering all the questions those blemishless, fertile minds can throw up to adults, and in the process hoping to build a better India for us all.

Three: Is it not a matter of collective shame for all of us (newspaper aficionados) that the press doesn’t have the gumption to stop publication of such a trivial matter concerning a great public figure like him. THE   PRESIDENT   OF   THE    STATE. The Supreme Commander of our Armed Forces. Shouldn’t it have been few from amongst us who should have registered their open disapproval at such gross absence of discretion on the media’s part much earlier?

Four:   Are we trying to make our Presidency glamorous by licensing unwarranted sensationalism? Is this a hidden policy of the state...or the media for that matter to intently make our entire political ladder seem alluring to foreign onlookers? Will it in any conceivable manner glorify our status as a nation?

We must realize that American standards are far from applicable in this half-sprinting-half-resting nation of ours. A Clinton-Lewinsky affair is not what one will get in here. Because, our Presidency is a position symbolic of Colonial redundancy most of the times and the actual executive powers are held by the cabinet of ministers. So, no personal glorification looks feasible or ‘saleable’..... so to say.

So dear press journos and cameramen, better slip a banana peel beneath Mr. Singh and keep your flash-bulbs ready for the kill.

“PM takes a public slip”....that would make some headline.

What say shutterbugs ????