My Private Domain

A broken spirit OR reality hitting home?

2008-11-30T17:08:00.006+05:30

The other day one of my classmates, who is based out of Singapore, wrote in to ask if all the Mumbaikars amongst us were ok. We all wrote to reassure him and more importantly ourselves that the latest attack on Mumbai had not really affected us. At least, I wrote in with this reassurance. Lot of people wrote after me saying that the spirit of the city had taken a beating, that we are no longer resilient (A word I had used!). At that point of time i did not agree, but subsequently every writer/anchor/journalist/scribe dedicated reams of paper to this very issue and they all reached the conclusion that this time the city was scarred AND scared. That this time, Mumbai was not going to pick up the pieces and return back to normalcy the next day. That this time the city was angry, hurt, shattered and scared...no longer resilient.

It gave me a lot of food for thought. I read articles by a lot of renowned scribes and known celebrities hammering the same point into my psyche. The power of their anger, the fervent appeal, the emotion and heart-wrenching despair in their words were so strong that at first I was inclined to blindly agree with them that yes, my city was no longer the same, that something had broken somewhere, that its innocence was forever lost. But I decided to think things over, to form my own conclusions based on my analysis of the situation. The conclusion was that while I understood things from their perspective, I now had a context to apply it to. And this gave me the power to disagree with them, and the ability to reason out my disagreement.

Mumbai has seen a lot over the last 15 odd years. The riots tore the city apart in December 1992, Mumbai burned in March 1993. The floods drowned it in July 2005 and the train blasts brought it to a temporary standstill in 2006. Hundreds of lives were lost, thousands injured, almost everyone had a story to tell about a loved one, a relative, a friend, an acquaintance whose life was shattered. These incidents of violence in a short span of 15 years are more than most any city would witness in a century. Mumbai could have easily let itself sink into a deep abyss of never-ending violence and revengeful sagas. Yet, every time someone - be it a politician or a gangster or a terrorist or even Mother Nature - tried to sink the city, the people shrugged it off and moved on. This never-die attitude of the city became famous for its "spirit". Songs were written on it, movies glorified it, novelists wrote books and earned millions for capturing it, and the journalists & celebs went gaga in their respect for this spirit. So what changed after 26/11 that this spirit has suddenly died? If you ask me, something has, but at the same time nothing has.

Besides the riots, no other incident I mentioned lasted more than 24 hours. In fact in the case of the serial blasts of '93 and '06, they were over in a manner of minutes. Also, the media was not there to capture every single moment of that living terror. 26/11 changed that. The siege of Mumbai lasted 3 whole days. The duration of the attack benumbed us and hurt us more, we felt as if we were no longer safe anywhere. News channels were reporting the incident live from the Taj/Oberoi/Nariman House without taking any breaks. The initial reaction of everyone was that this was just gangwar. The shock registered only after we knew that the city's most iconic station had been attacked, the disbelief was complete when we lost 3 of our top cops who had the ability to lead the counter-attack from the front, and the gravity of the situation hit us only when our beloved monuments were taken hostage. Through all of this the media was there, reporting every single minute of the day and night. We saw the Western Dome of the Taj on fire, we watched as Commandos were air-dropped on Nariman House, we sighed in relief when the hostages were evacuated from Oberoi. We were present every single moment, living it with everyone else in the city. This was no longer hearsay, this was happening in front of our eyes. And that is where the difference lay. This is how things changed, because every Mumbaikar got a taste of the tragedy.

At the same time, nothing had really changed. There were still people dying, families being torn apart, stories of valour being recounted and losses being mourned. It was quite the same as it was during '93, '05 or '06. Had I been a journalist I would still have applauded Mumbai's resilient spirit, because despite the siege not being over Mumbai was back at work on Friday. In fact, the suburbs were quite normal that day, with trains, buses, cars, rickshaws and taxis plying quite as usual, the only difference being that the South-Bombay bound traffic was minimal. The only reason all the celebrated journalists are going around claiming that the spirit has broken is that for the first time the reality has hit home for them, and it has hit hard. If you look deeper you will realize for yourselves that every attack before this has targeted the common man, the middle-class worker, the suburban commuter. '92 riots happened in the alleys of the slums, '05 floods were at their worst in the Western suburb of Santacruz, '06 hit the middle-class man who travels home by train every evening in peak hour traffic. Even though '93 blasts ripped the heart of Mumbai's business district apart, which is mainly concentrated in South Bombay, the people who died were the commoners who either worked there or had come to grab a quick bite at lunchtime. And though a five-star hotel like The Juhu Centaur was a target, it was again in the suburbs...too far for the townie to really understand the brevity. 26/11 changed that as the terrorists attacked the elite. For the first time in their lives the people who give their opinions to the media and the top writers and journalists, realized that they were no longer safe in their hallowed five star comforts. They faced reality with all its grimness. They came face-to-face with violence and fear. That is why they say that Mumbai has lost its spirit, that it is no longer resilient, that it is angry. The truth is the common man has known and felt this all along, he has only pulled himself up because these important people told him to. He has just lived in the hope of there being a safer Mumbai someday. A hope that I live for and hence, remain resilient for.

Cheap trick or Marketing gimmick?

2008-05-15T16:41:00.002+05:30

Ok, this time I am expressing an opinion...not publishing another one of my original creations. I don't know how many of you have read in every newspaper/website or seen on television, that two of Bollywood's mega-celebrities have recently begun writing their own blogs. These two gentlemen, lets call them Mr Tall and Mr Short, are arguably two of the finest actors of their generation to be seen on the big screen - at least in Indian cinema. They are however, not the most media-savvy or adored people. Don't get me wrong, the people of the country absolutely LOVE them, but somehow they have never really endeared the media. I work with a News Channel and I can vouch for that - at least from what I have observed. There is however another gentleman, lets call him Mr. King, who is the media's darling (at least of the people who matter; everyone has detractors and some detract just to grab some attention) and rightly so, as he gives them what they want. He really knows how to play the publicity game and he manages to stay in the limelight, as much for his on-screen histrionics as for his off-screen business ventures and sports associations. He counts as his friends some of the most commercially successful directors, producers, actors, choreographers, designers, et al. He is smart, funny, witty, approachable, seems down to earth - a complete showman without appearing to be a publicity hound. Yet he keeps his personal life out of the spotlight. He gives the media just enough information as to keep them happy, but he is intelligent enough to not really reveal much either. He knows how to play the media well, and they certainly love him for it. He never makes pretenses of being the best actor around (he credits Mr Tall & Mr Short with that title), but he is definitely the bigger star - a superstar.
Everyone seemed happy with their own titles and life looked to be hunky-dory for all in Tinseltown. And it was. Until Mr Short, followed shortly by Mr Tall (I love that sentence somehow :P) started, believe-it-or-not BLOGGING! Now, there is nothing wrong with expressing yourself through a blog, especially if you are a much loved celebrity and people want to know more about you as an individual. But there is something definitely wrong if you start taking potshots at your colleagues, and extremely offensive one's at that. Mr Tall wrote some nasty stuff about one of his co-stars of yesteryears (you see Mr Tall is a sextegenerian who still romances nubile 18 year old nymphets and 60 year old golden dreamgirls with equal aplomb) followed by taking some potshots at the Minister of Health of all people! Now, the Minister definitely deserves to get his head checked, so I have nothing against people detracting him. But, Mr Tall was not satisfied with putting down another sextegenerian and a Union Minister. No Sirree. His ego had not got a sufficient enough boost. Or maybe his blog had not got enough visitors. Considering he was paid a pretty obscene amount of money (some put the figure at a whopping $27 million or Rs.115 crores), his sponsors want to see hits/comments or whatever it is that they will help them calculate the ROI. Hence, Mr Tall decides to turn his attentions to Mr King. He points out, in a LOT of detail mind you, how it is that when he was hosting a certain show on Television the show was garnering X number of Rating points, but now that Mr King is hosting another show on the same channel, the ratings seem to have slipped way beyond expectations. What he fails to mention in this analysis is that the ratings of EVERY show in the prime-time band have taken a hit following the launch of the IPL Cricket Carnival, the Baap of all Manoranjan. What he also goes on to mention is a little fact that absolutely no one in the industry was even aware of - he had been offered the same show which is currently being hosted by Mr King, but he had thought that it was not good enough for him and hence rejected it. Sour grapes anyone??
Now coming to Mr Short. He, on the other hand made some very strange remarks in his latest blog post. He talks in detail about a very smelly dog who is in desperate need of a bath, and who licks his feet, is fed biscuits by Mr Short, and generally does everything a lovable attention-seeking pooch does. Nothing wrong with this, except that the dog in question quite co-incidentally is named after......(big drum roll) Mr King! Mr Short goes on to clarify that the caretakers of his vacation home adopted and named the pooch after the superstar, and he had no idea till after he bought the house from the previous owners that the house comes free with caretakers and dog. Do I sense an insecurity complex (an Eiffel Tower sized one) here? The post in its entirety seems innocent enough, however the media nevertheless is making a huge fuss over it. Picking up only those points which highlight the derogatory comments and completely ignoring the explanations by Mr Short. Mr King however, is too busy to even have the time to reply as he has his fingers in too many pies at the moment - what with owning a team in the aforementioned IPL to hosting his own show to creating animated movies in his SFX company to producing movies to actually acting in them.
What no one seems to see however, is that in all the resulting fracas, the blogs of both Mr Tall and Mr Short are getting way more publicity/hits/comments/page views than normal and in fact, most people (yours truly included) are realizing for the first time that such blogs even exist in the blogosphere. So while, they got a lot of negative publicity for writing what they did, the negative publicity is bringing in the eyeballs which is what the sponsors wanted. So the sponsors laugh all the way to the bank, the gentlemen get their 15 minutes of fame and a chance to get back at a rival who has consistenly outshone them in popularity and commercial viability, and the consumers get some sleaze, which is what most attracts them anyway.
But what the more enlightened people like you and I need to do is to sift through all the pfaff and see the real picture. And coming back to the title of this post, I leave to all of us to decide whether this is a cheap trick to get back at someone or whether it really is a well-thought out marketing gimmick that the "Intelligentia" in the media and consumer world are falling for.

Guess who's back?

2008-05-07T15:58:00.006+05:30

Its been so long! I just can't believe it. When I last posted I had promised to get back in a month. Its been a year!! To be honest, work sucked everything out - my creativity, my somewhat-decent poetic talent, and the desire to even just write. As I put my thoughts into words for the first time in a year, I am struck by the changes in me; none of which have been for the better. I have hardly written, not just here, but even to people who I used to correspond with regularly. People who were my friends, family and sometimes both. Does being a part of the corporate rat race mean that you stop being yourself and turn into one of the million rats? Does it mean that all your life, your time and your energies are concentrated merely on surviving and trying to escape unscathed through the battlefield? And what does success mean? Because as one of my wise friends used to say, even if you win the rat race, you are still just a rat. I had promised myself I would be different. I had sworn that I would not sink into the mire of this ugly battlefield. But now I find myself at a stage where I am battling just to survive each day. Everyday I sink deeper into the depths of an abyss that I might not be able to come out of. But I am desperate to see to it that I emerge. I promise myself that the next job will be better simply because I know what I want now. But do I really know what I want? Will I really be happy doing something else? And will I surely be able to resist getting lost in a never-ending maze? Because honestly, thats what i feel right now - trapped like an animal in headlights.

In Transition

2007-05-11T10:22:00.001+05:30

So its been a week since I started work. Not mich has changed in life, contrary to my expectations in the previous post. I still ask Dad for pocket money, I still have not been given much responsibility, I am not yet independent, but at the same time it does not feel like I am a carefree student either. That much has changed for sure. More, much more will change at the end of the month when I get my first official grown-up paycheque. That is when the transition will be complete. And I will post again only then. Till then, take care and wish me luck :-)

A new day has come

2007-03-02T01:49:00.000+05:30

Today I turn 22. Now while to many it may not seem like a milestone I suddenly realize that this is the turning point in my life. From here on my life is going to undergo some huge changes. I complete my MBA, I will no longer be a student. I have a new job, I will now be a working woman. I am going to earn my living, no longer do I need to stand before Dad every Monday morning for my weekly pocket money. I am going to join the cut-throat Corporate world, no more will I lead this sheltered protected life that I have always led. I am going to be responsible for everything that happens in my life, my decisions are going to be my own and people are going to accept them and more importantly respect them. It is a scary thought to be physically, financially and emotionally independent, but at the same time it also feels great. Because I know that I will be fine. I have handled so many changes in my life, stepping into maturity and being a grown-up is not going to be that tough a task! Here's to hoping that the coming year is great and looking forward to a new life :-)

Air Dynamics

2006-11-21T11:41:00.000+05:30

Recently when I was in Bombay I read article in The Times of India which talked about how Jet Airways was discriminating against its Indian passengers by not serving them non-vegetarian food on the Bombay-Gujarat bound flights. The same airline was serving it to foreigners traveling with them. Indian passengers were served with non-vegetarian food only after they put up a fight. The excuse given to everyone was that they had not selected the "non-vegetarian food" preference while booking their tickets. When I read that I was a little surprised. But when my friend himself went through that twice (on an Indian Airlines flight) I decided that it was time for some action. I don't know what is the procedure to be followed. Whether simply writing a letter to the newspaper would be enough to ensure that something is done to end this discrimination, I do not know. I don't even know if this matter holds enough national importance to start a signature campaign. But what I do know is that this is injustice and for centuries our clan has put up with injustice silently. I think its time we took matters into our own hands. The internet medium gives us this opportunity to do so. And I want to make use of it.

My questions to you all are:
Do you think that the Airline is aware of this issue? Do they know that their crew behaves in this way?
Is it a policy to not serve non-vegetarian food on flights bound to a certain state?
Is it a violation of law or denial of fundamental rights to refuse someone their preferred food, or is it only discrimination?
What possible action can be taken to solve this problem?
I await your comments/responses/suggestions.

Happy Birthday J & R!

2006-11-21T11:19:00.000+05:30

Today is a happy day, so it is a happy post :-) It is one of my dearest friend's birthday today. It is also the birthday of the person I love the most in the world, besides my parents. So here's wishing the two of you a very Happy Birthday and a terrific year to come. May all your dreams come true. And hope you give me a rocking party :-P. So here's a poem written only for J! Love you babe.

She is sweet and she is nice
She is a little sugar and lots of spice
A little naughty with an impish streak
She has been known and called a freak

Dainty and Pretty, Delicate and Pure
Turn on her temper and be fried for sure
Wonderful and loyal, friendly and warm
She exudes oodles of charm

Her hair is unkempt, he room is a mess
About everything she loves to make a fuss
But be her friend and you will know
The woman behind the spotlight, yet the star of the show

She is so funny she can keep you in splits
When you are around her, you gotta keep your wits
Today she turns older, and a little mature we say
But she should never change we hope and pray

On this day, your birthday, this poem goes out to you
We pray that every one of your wishes comes true
Have a great day and a terrific year too
But never forget that we will Always Love You!

A new beginning...

2006-08-10T01:04:00.000+05:30

This one was written in class:-P. Heck I know, but I was bored, I am unhappy, put the two together and the best thing to do then is come up with a poem. This one has been coming for a while now. It is not as good as I wanted it to be; not as emotional as I had hoped it would be; did not bring about the “All-Important & Essential Catharsis” that it was supposed to have; but it is still something that I wrote. Pseudo, wannabe and childish as it may seem, it does still reflect to a certain degree my current frame of mind and it did give me some comfort. So read on, and as usual, brickbats and bouquets are welcome:-D.

Ad Infinitum

People come, people go
The God up there watches the show
We down here lose our hearts
It seems no more than a game of cards

We lose our peace of mind
Mere mortals, just mankind
The hurt and sorrow still remain
Time can only numb the pain

Blindly we think all is not lost
We give it all up at a cost
Hoping that this time it is true love
Possibly the will of the One above

Thus continues this never-ending chain
It will last, come hail or rain
Nothing shakes the romantic’s faith
Because it is better to love than to hate

Writer’s block

2006-08-06T01:29:00.000+05:30

Sometimes life brings you to such a stage that you are forced to look back and evaluate yourself. At such a time I am generally able to write - it is my catharsis. But this time round I am faced with a serious writer’s block. I am unable to put words to the turmoil within me, which is possibly why I end up suffering far more. I just hope this block ends soon because I need to get back to living my life fully.

The Sound of Music...

2006-05-21T21:37:00.000+05:30

I wrote this story when I was 17. Actually the story behind the origin of the story is equally interesting. We had a subject called Communications Skills (known to all Arts students of MU) that was one of the few classes I actually enjoyed. That is because our professor used to encourage our creative writing skills. Now one fine day she enters class armed with a tape recorder and a cassette in tow. She told us all that she was going to play the music and we had the freedom to write whatever comes to our mind when we heard that music. We could translate that music into words, we could pen down our thoughts, or we could plain and simple write why we thought that this entire exercise was mind-numbing and a pointless waste of our precious time which would be spent much more fruitfully savouring the delights of the canteen. Bottom line, do what you want to do. And this is what came out of me. So without further ado…

Once in a full moon.

It was a full moon night but the forest was dark, very dark, as the moon had not risen as yet. It was also very very quite, eerily so. The trees were still. There was no breeze to lighten the stifling air, no movement among the trees, no rustle among the leaves, no prowling nocturnal creatures, nothing to quell the sense of some unknown, looming fear. It seemed as if the entire forest had fallen into a deep slumber.

Suddenly the dead leaves on the forest floor crackled as a heavy footstep fell on them, the sound like a gunshot. Someone was about at this unearthly hour and that someone was in search of something. He had heard something in that forest.

He heard it once more, that haunting lilting melody. He looked around, searching for the origin of that melody. Faster and faster went the music, and faster he ran, panting heavily by now, looking around him wildly, for any sign. He ran on and on till suddenly… there it was, he wondered how he could have missed it, that one solitary house, in that deep, dark forest. Now he strode towards it as though possessed by that trance-like music, till he reached the door. Here, he hesitated, but then making up his mind, he pushed the door and entered the room. It was illuminated by one single bright light. The room was bare except for a piano- and a girl. The girl was very ordinary to look at, even plain, but beautiful at that moment as she played that music, totally engrossed in her own world. He stood in the middle of the room, looking at her, glad that she could not see him, or she would have screamed.

The night ran on, with the music playing- sometimes wild and fast, sometimes slow and soothing. The girl never tired of playing, as if it was the last time she would ever play, and he listened. Till it was dawn and the first golden rays crept up the sky. The forest was slowly shaking off its slumber. The birds began to chirp, the leaves began to rustle, there was life all around. And then, suddenly, the music stopped. She arose and walked to the fireplace. He wanted to stop her, but as the sun’s first ray fell on him, he screamed out in pain. His body was writhing in agony, but all he wanted to do was to stop her. Her outline became fainter and fainter and the pain shooting through his body increased, till all of a sudden, everything was calm. The girl had disappeared and where the wolf had once lain, lay a man. A man, a wolf, a werewolf. And he knew that he would have to wait till the next full moon, when he would be able to see her again, till the next full moon night.

Love hurts

2006-03-03T20:37:00.000+05:30

When I dream about the future,
Your fingers you snap
When I talk about a life together
You turn your back

Yet when I confess my love
You gladly accept
This is getting too confusing
I never know what is the next step

I spend entire nights just crying
I spend whole days just thinking
Who is the one at fault here?
Who is the one to blame?

I know I promised I wouldn’t talk this way
I know I swore that we’ll live only for today
But if you truly love me why are you afraid?
On these unknown grounds, why do you refuse to tread?

Aaand.....we are back!

2006-02-26T01:37:00.000+05:30

Long time since I posted. But well, needed some topic to write on. After quite some time I am back with my old theme: Loneliness! Some of you may complain, but then you can never make everyone happy anyway. So I might as well make myself happy and put up my first really good poem, written when I was 15.

I stand alone…

I stand alone, a lonely desert tree
The loneliness comes out to bite at me
I look at the oasis so far away from me
I wonder what happens out there that I am not allowed to see

I stand alone, a lonely desert tree
I bear the sandstorms blowing around me
I stand through the sunlight so scorchy
I bear the cold night with fingers so frosty

I stand alone, a lonely desert tree
But what do I do when my roots turn against me?
I have neither food, nor water in me
I look around and, what do I see?
I see my dead bark lying beside me

I stood alone, a lonely desert tree
I bore the sandstorms blowing around me
I stood through the scorchy daylight, frostly cold night and loneliness biting at me
I wondered at the oasis so far away from me

I stood alone, a lonely desert tree
But now, I lie alone, a lonely dead tree

Classroom catnappin' capers

2006-02-09T14:47:00.000+05:30

This post is an ode to all those like me who are dedicated dozers during classes. This is for those of you who catch up with their forty winks and more when the going gets tough. The teacher pointedly ignores your efforts at rousing yourself from your slumber, and your friends and mates pinch you in a desperate attempt to keep you up. This is in memory of all those who died waiting for the bell to ring. R.I.P.

Somnambulation in class

Eyes droop, heads loll
Looks like the sandman is on a roll
As one we try to shake off the slumber
An unsuccesssful attempt, as our minds just get number
The professor drones on, unheedful of our drowsiness
The flood of information rams into our weary senses
Sleep seduces us with her obscene overtures
The bed beckons, Alas! No escape from this torture

Jill isn't a dull girl

2006-02-08T15:00:00.000+05:30

A lot of my friends, after reading my poems, feel that my life is full of sorrow, loneliness and problems. Hence this post, to clear their misconception. I tend to write poetry when I feel any one of these two emotions:
Firstly, and mostly, when I am hurt and upset. Poetry for me, is a means of getting over my sorrow. By penning down my thoughts I am able to deal with my problem and get over it.
Secondly, when something moves me enough to actually write about it. This poem is of the second kind...

Someday I may go places...
Someday I may travel far...
Someday I may even be at peace...
But someday, I will touch the stars!

Someday I may be very wealthy...
Someday I may have immense fame...
But someday in Golden Letters,
I will surely etch my name!

Detoxification

2006-02-08T00:05:00.000+05:30

You may wonder why I am beginning my blog with a poem, but this poem has been an integral part of my life. When i wrote this poem i finally said goodbye to one part of me, detached it from my mind, made it a thing of the past. It represents truimph over hatred and anger. Hence...

Detoxification

On the hard, cold rocks
the splinters cutting my feet,
the chill spreading through my body,
I stood, watching the sea.

The many-hued dance of the waves-
blue-green-brown-grey, reflecting the sky-
I watched, as the waves broke on the rocks;
the froth forming one moment, disappearing the other,
in a continuous cycle.

Feeling the spray hit my body,
moist, glistening on my skin,
the smell of salt in my nose,
I stood, poised to take the plunge.

Diving, I was ready to shatter and be shattered.

As I sank deep down into the bottomless fathoms
my lungs screamed out in agony.

My brain tried to stop them, but my limbs had a mind of their own.

As if in a trance, I watched my hands and feet propel me up,
up towards the surface, towards air, towards life.

Breaking the surface, the first breath of air was dizzying, intoxicating.

Bobbing up and down, I felt the water cleansing my body, my soul,
the past getting washed away, dissolving into nothingness.

Getting ready to return back to the world,
glad to be alive, I knew,
I was clean,
I was pure.