In the Name of the Lord

I remember as a kid, I once flicked a beautiful sharpener from a friend's house. On discovering my thievery, my mother made me throw away the sharpener and promise to God I would never repeat that act. Fear of the lord or my mother somehow kept me away from repeating my act ever.

Many 'God Promises' and 'Thank Gods' later, I realized that humankind has often resorted to using the name of this being(s) called 'God' in many ways. While some have been honourable and moving, many others have done nothing but wreck havoc in life. 

The concept of God is very vague; agnostics believe nothing can ever be found about it, atheists argue it to be a myth and every one else believes in one manifestation of this power or the other. While what I think is irrelevant in this context, what has been irksome to me is how in the name of this lord, people have even got away with murder!

Religion as a concept is a part of your belief system. No one can question it as long as it remains within you, as a faith. Do ghosts exist? Is there life in outer space? What happens after death? These are other questions as difficult to answer right now as the existence of God. While the future may hold revelations, current data only allows us to practice our faith in the privacy of our selves, without thrusting it on another without irrefutable facts.

But when the elephant lord has his birthday celebrations for over a week, I wonder why I need to suffer silently in traffic as a bunch of random people dance, as if possessed, to 'Selfie le le re' in a procession.

(Devotees carry idols of Lord Ganesha, the Hindu deity of prosperity, for immersion in the Arabian Sea in Mumbai. Photo: Reuters)

Crazy drum beats of decibel levels that would put the best of night clubs to shame, huge pandals that encroach on pedestrian paths and roads, masses of painted embellished idols dumped callously into the sea, and the entire time, my life and its movements at the mercy of these merry makers!

Mind you, I love celebrations and I love the Indian culture of breaking into song and dance at every instance. But at what cost? Would my belief of a UFO sighting anniversary (again a concept I could compare to religion as it can neither be proved nor disproved) allow me to take a crowd to the streets with dhols and dhamakas? Would I get a police permit to put up stalls, a huge space ship and disrupt traffic in the process? I am pretty sure I will be considered a loon.

How is it that when a mob of people believe in a single concept, the nation nods in agreement to any atrocity? And how is it that other minor beliefs get laughed at? Isn't this the same reason we all buried the Godhra incident behind us, although not satisfactorily solved? Isn't this religious obsession the root for why we do not value another's convenience and routine and pause not when we disrupt it?

Celebrate all you will, but do so in a way that another's life does not get affected. It is wonderful that people make sweets for one another, learn to dance in abandon, forget past differences and embrace in a 'Ganpati bappa moriya'. But please don't you dare block the road I travel by after long hours of work and with the prospect of cooking dinner looming ahead.

As my boyfriend said, any alien looking at Earth now will find us wacky, praying to a half-human half-elephant, randomly dancing in the roads and throwing colour. It isn't even Holi!

But please do this in a way that you respect my paganism, my neighbours agnosticism, my cousin's atheism. Else, the God you pray to, is not a tolerant one! 

Lord of the Rings meets Harry Potter

Imagine Snape saying this in his voice! :P

The Tale of the Many Troubles in a Freelancer's Life

It has been more than a month. It wasn't easy to convince myself that I will quit the world's best media organization, Disney, to freelance. Friends and family were worried that the insanity they always sensed around me had probably materialized. My parents, sister and boyfriend, thankfully understood that I was simply doing the right thing and with their support, I gulped back the fear and took the big bungee jump into freelancing.

It has not been easy!

Thankfully, I didn't expect it to be and that made all the difference. I knew it would take at least three-four months for the money to be sorted and schedule to be clockwork. But I must say, the problems I encountered were of an entirely different and amusing nature.

What do I eat?!?
If you know me, you know how much I love good food! At work, there was always some diet chivda or biscuit or a canteen at my beck and call. There were assistants who I had to nod at who would deliver instantly, a cup of piping hot chai or tomato soup or what I had grown to depend upon- the Cafe Coffee Day cappucino. With about 4 machines a floor, I was in paradise. Once I began to freelance, I began to encounter the problems of staying at home in a locality that wouldn't deliver unless you order a minimum of Rs.500 worth goods. I never had anything to snack on!

I have begun to furiously research food blogs and bug my friends for snack recipes. Instagram helps immensely, as well. From toasted flax seeds, watermelon seeds, sunflower seeds and sesame seeds to mug-cakes and microwaved potato chips - I am trying them all! 

If you are plunging into the freelancer life, while sorting finances, get hold of a recipe binder and start jotting down inexpensive (and healthy!) snacks you can make at home. It helps and how! Drink plenty of water and do not forget to try and get some exercise alongside.

Bad, Bad Server! No donut for you!

Yet another bogeyman I have been facing is erratic internet connection. Ever time it fails, I fight my urge to fling my Macbook out of my balcony (yes! I am blessed with a balcony in Bombay). I must concede, I have tried everything from screaming, threatening and wheedling the customer care agents. Yet there are days when the net simply rebels like I do with my parents. 

There just aren't enough places in Bombay where you get good free wi-fi. What you can figure out are places like libraries (that let you use laptops) or offices and homes of friends' where you could put up to get the work done. It helps to get a good data dongle as a backup to your broadband. However, I am yet to follow my own sound advice and hence, I continue to suffer.

No time!

The most irritating part of freelancing is the seamlessness of time. I was one of those boring kids who wrote 'You must exercise your will power' on her wall for reasons I can't seem to remember. But some how, it has helped me over the years only a few times! (Ha! Assumed it helped every single time, eh?)

I find it immensely difficult to concentrate and write. I get distracted by articles and keep reading stuff online for hours! Thankfully, I am not a social media addict and spend not more than 10 minutes collectively in a day on it. However, the fascinating universe that the web weaves always traps me in one of its silvery threads. What I have begun to do, is find the exact time when I function the best. Mornings are great for me and so are the slow quiet afternoons. Towards night, my screws begin to loosen up and I drift. Find your optimum productivity slots and use the many million apps and sites (I am trying Moosti now. In the past, Ommwriter has worked wonders) to help you face this demon.

Take a break!

I never anticipated how time eats itself up and the same crazy loop of days haunt you with their "You have not finished even one article" taunts. However, I try not to work more than my stipulated hours in the day. NO MATTER WHAT! It is very important that you find a way to unwind whether you have been productive or been staring at beautiful pictures of your dream holiday location. 

Thankfully, this needs no motivation. I have a few rules - I cook at least a few times a week. Since my maid leaves in the morning, I have no choice but to make dinner from what she has prepped for me (unless I get damn lazy and order). I am experimenting with new types of pastas and salads. I occasionally hound the net for some recipes with whatever I have in stock. Either way, I have had some yummy food made by my own hands in recent times.

I also watch a movie a day. This has been a practice I have maintained for almost a year now. If not a movie, at least an episode of a sitcom is a prerequisite watching. This is an immense source of joy to me! 

I have restarted sketching and uploading it on Instagram (cooking, art and photography. No selfies). There is something calming about colours and good stationery. I intend to do this as often as possible.

These apart, I have no idea what other crazy conundrums await me on this path. Not many websites tell you about how hungry you get when you work all by yourself and how important it is to unwind EVERYDAY to feel a balance. I hope to try and put these here so similar sufferers can take heart again. Meanwhile, I wish myself and all other lone rangers out there, the best on the way. May the force, creativity, money and good food be with us!

Short Story- 28

She was playing by herself. In the corner of the attic, facing the column. A line of dusty light, coming from the high window from above, illuminated her.

"Oh pillar" and she clapped thrice.
"Caterpillar". Thrice again

I stood in the side and waited for her to stop. She knew I was standing there waiting. She had a smug smile about herself. But she seemed relentless.

I lost patience. 
"Where is that box?" I asked her.

She stopped playing and looked up at me. That annoying smile was still playing about the ends of her lips. She looked impish. Close cropped hair. Twinkling black bead-like eyes that were small, but somehow appeared big because she opened them wide. As if having prayed for big eyes and not having them, opening them wide to compensate.

"Which one?" she asked, smiling knowingly.

"You know which one"

"No I don't" she said, and let out a silly giggle.


"The memory catcher's dream box?" I told her.

"Look around. Can't you see it?" she asked, looking at me with pity and still smiling.

I did not reply. I continued to stare at her.

"You are in the box," she said.

"You are lying. This place is in ruins. The box is wooden. It is carved. It smells of sandal. You KNOW it! You had it first!" I argued.

"It crumbled." she said and suddenly looked sad. Tears welled up in her eyes slowly.

I kept looking at her. I couldn't believe it!

"How could you?" I asked, nearly choked.

"You grew up and lost the key. Why did you grow up? Didn't you like it when you were me? WHY DID YOU GROW UP?" she shouted and wept.

She tugged at the ends of my dress and collapsed in a heap on the floor near my feet. 

From her pocket, a key fell out.

Off the top of my head-11

They always escape- finding little gaps in the brick wall. I had left those for little stems to shoot out, green as the pensive ocean. But they used it instead. They never left stealthily. They loosened the bricks more, when they shuffled their way out roughly- gaps widening and making my wall look shabby and unromantic.

Sometimes I wake up to find they are gone, and then, only the graffiti is a remainder. Colourful graffiti that will constantly claw my eyes till they will pop out of their sockets and crawl into the secrecy and warm safety of my treasure chest.

They never stay. Either it is not cosy enough. Or it is too cosy, lavish and luxurious. It is never a Goldilocks state where they can snuggle in the crevices and let the wind cradle them. It either gets too hot or remains too cold.

The wall was built with hope for mortar. Slowly time, patting it gently to ease, knocks off crumbs first, and pieces later.

Someday, the wall will fall. And there needs to be no escape. There never would be a place to stay in the first place!

Postcards with love

I will dig out from my chest of unwritten postcards
and on the one most faded and with curling edges
old and most cherished
I will write you a love note today

Leave me then your address scribbled on a torn slip
tuck it under my doormat when no one is looking
And when the world goes to bed
with stealthy footsteps I shall come to pick it

 

In fond memory of Ashish Lakhia

(PHOTOGRAPH by: Mohammed Farooq)

It was a hot Sunday morning. I was woken up by the phone to hear Ashish Lakhia had passed away. Ashish Lakhia-collector of things, writer, documentary filmmaker, artist and a man brimming with stories was no more!

I couldn't collect myself. Snatches from my film kept playing in my head. His voice echoed.What is it with voices? Why do they always hold so much more?

We fled to the Jama Masjid. Anywhere else, and we would have split into two like a peapod. On the way to the masjid I had seen a fire and emergency water tank while Lata's voice constantly resonated the line '...chale hi jaana hain' from 'Baahon mein chali aa' and I couldn't shut it out.

In Jama Masjid, there was silence and the metronome of a bird. It was bright.I wore my glares and wept behind it. It felt funny to be hiding little things like tear drops in such a wide expanse. Could I get some glares to hide the weirdness as well?!

The silence, the stillness, the incessant voices in my head- everything was driving me mad. How can someone who talked so much, who collected things like a hoarder, who left behind scores of memories even in those artifacts, not exist anymore?

He was brimming with fantastic bizarre and wild stories. His eccentricity was what drew me towards him as a subject for my documentary film, and made him endearing. There was a lawless charm about him that enchanted me even the first time we had met.

I hate the past tense when it comes to people. Death can't make a clean cut, ever! It always severs so shoddily-parts of the flesh dangle loose and messy. 

There was something about the open space of the masjid that reminded and settled for me that Ashish Lakhia wouldn't walk and talk again- in life. But I have some memories strung together when I want to hear the crazy genius again. When I wish to hear a tale. Of some fascinating object. From that fascinating man.

Rest in Peace Ashish Lakhia!
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Watch The Creeper, the Alien & Other Stories, my documentary film about him:
http://vimeo.com/27297074

Vienna

"Dream on but don't imagine they'll all come true
When will you realize Vienna waits for you"

Vienna- a word I've come to toggle with. Give it meanings at different phases of life the way I please to. Mid-way I started to be fascinated with the concept of the actual city. A city pf possibilities, of miracles. Before Sunrise, assured me it probably is. "Daydream delusion, limousine eyelash" used to echo in my head along with "I’m a delusion angel, I’m a fantasy parade". Words that were so mystical in nature to me that I once drew them. With bright orange and fancy pink. Fuchsia almost.

Vienna also remained the shape-shifter it had been. Words that rang true every time Billy Joel uttered them in his wonderfully clear voice. I always imagined him to be around the corner with a baby grand, flirting with its keys and not looking me in the eye, but looking deep into my spirit still.

Mostly, I wanted to cry every time I heard the song. Weep in the corner like Jennifer Garner did in 13 Going on 30, where I first heard and fell in love with the song. How did Billy Joel scale over preachy and reach that spiritual beyond that those words echo with! Vienna always felt like mine. Like I own it in my many ways. Somedays as a thing. Some times as a person. It was always more painful when it was a person. But Vienna had some old-world-charm about it. Where I could snuggle and sit and feel finally at home and accepted. Vienna never wanted me to work harder, or be better, or look prettier or thinner or slowerdumbercommonplace! Vienna wanted me to be me and always promised to wait for me.

Off the top of my head-10

Life crumpled like a paper left to burn alone. No wind to tarry its death, no water to douse its fears.

Off the top of my head-9

She and struggle, went back a long way.

As friends or as foes, she never could tell.