'how much will we swallow" ?

The song just changed from Prince's little red corvette to Eagles' hotel california. The same old playlist, the same old me.

Interesting day today. Koyel and i joined the protest at North Campus for a few minutes. Later in the day a talk on why the Indo-US nuclear deal is a disaster in the making. And as the absolutely delightful speaker (Prof. Achin Vanaik) said , "how much will you swallow?"
This question hangs in the air.

A rainy evening , momentary panic on being stranded on auto less dark road and finally day (almost) culminating in nice home food.

The same old playlist, the same old me.

City love

Wet streets that smell of rain, the fading day pierced by headlights of cars that look washed and clean, an old song playing on the radio and a shaky auto ride. I feel like a hedonist trying to drink as much as I can, of the beauty of the city I call home. It’s not your conventional beauty and nor is it a perpetual one. There are times when I hate the city almost with a vengeance. But today I feel a strange calm descend, I am happy; I don’t want the journey to end. If I could just keep roaming the roads of this city looking at the grand Lutyens trees that stand oblivious to the awe struck me, the lit row of shops in Janpath, that exotic looking Persian carpet which hangs at a window, that freshly painted bus, the white imposing CP at it’s seductive best, abstracted people, rows of ice cream carts at India gate, the smell of an old, dusty library with it’s old, dusty books hangs in my head. I want to freeze all of this, in now, a rainy Tuesday evening. To remember at a later time when I will hopefully be shaken out of my reverie by a child begging on the road or when I am felt up in a (freshly painted) bus.

While someone else would be contemplating afresh their love for the city. That’s how we live with her and she with us. Some love some hate.

“Pozzo- the tears of the world are a constant quantity”

--Waiting for Godot

Of love and other demons

Of love and other demons.
The search for what can never be.

Exorcise me then …try
I know you can’t .

They fake concern
I fake recovery.

Naphthalene balls smell of childhood winter clothes.

I like.

MISS DELHI

I am a woman and I do think about it everyday. For varied reasons, in varied ways. As much as I think about being alive, being a part f this world and living the life that I do.

There are days when this subconscious contemplation makes happy but there are also times when it leaves behind a bad feeling, the kind you want to rid yourself of but just cant.

The other day a couple of my friends and me literally got chased by men on the road at 11 in the night. We managed to get out of the situation but the immediate reaction of all those who ‘cared’ about us was, ‘what the hell were you doing on the road at 11 in the night?’

This question I feel is irrelevant, I mean why does a woman need to give an explanation for being out at a certain time? Why can I not go out for ice cream at 11 if I want to? Why do I have to end an interesting conversation, happening outdoors, at 9 because it is unsafe to take an auto after that time? Why do I have to wait at a party that I hate so that some other guy who wants to stick around can drop me home? Why can I not decide to walk alone in a park after it gets dark?

It is actually sickening to live with a gnawing fear which mysteriously surfaces after a certain time of the day, women living in this city are perpetually victimized. And this is done not only by the occasional a**hole (for lack of a more offensive word) but by the collective character of the city. This place teaches its women to constantly stay on the look out, it starts with the beginning of the day when a middle aged man driving a big car will stare at you, on your way to college, in a manner that would actually make you feel NAKED . Then there will be those who ‘accidentally’ bump into you, never forgetting to brush against your butt and in the evenings you inevitably go past a few ‘jolly young men’ who loose control of their facial muscles on seeing you, which makes their faces get stuck in a perpetual smile until you pass (and this process is repeated by the arrival of another woman).

And all this only comes back to us in haunting ways while walking on a deserted road at night. There are times when you desperately feel the need to be around a man, because you want to feel protected. And after that paranoia disappears you feel more helpless than helpless can be , what does all talk about dignity and independence mean if I cant decide what I want to do at a particular time of the day or night !

I feel like a helpless hypocrite when I criticize some women for constantly looking for reassurance and protection from the men in their lives, because deep down inside how much ever I want to break out of it, I HAVE to do it too.

But I only hope I can keep railing against it, even after being terribly intimidated by men in black cars and others.

Let it flow let it flow , let it blossom let it show

Every time I hear James blunt sing, I feel like a sop, but then the song ends and I hit the play button again.

Life is complicated, and so is the human head. And as I discover every now and then that I too am a mortal being. And not only me but the entire human race seems to be in a state of perpetual tizzy and what makes the whole situation worse is that realization only comes in phases.

I am pissed and this rant refused to leave my head and had to be transported here for public torment. (You may read public torment whichever way you like) .

music

String the night, there is much music left

Unheard, unsung

Of all the incomplete thoughts and things

Real people, poetic lives

Dark rooms

Locked cupboards

Sleepful nights

Sleepless dreams

Sunshine smiles

Warm hands

Broken looking glasses

Mouldy shadows

That half folded page

Desperation well concealed

Soliloquies

You have to still sing of these

To me

As we sit stringing the night

There is much music left

Unheard , unsung