Just be kind to one another

Sometimes, some things have to move you in order to actually make the effort to revisit your dusty blog page. Or maybe it is just me. I take comfort in the fact that everything I ever want to say can be compressed into a 140 character Twitter post or said on Facebook with all the appropriate hashtags. Blog posts, like these, are mere afterthoughts…like maybe I should have had that extra saunf at the end of my dinner…

The point of this post, however, is not that. Although, I seem to have a need to apologise to myself more than my two-and-a-half readers, as to why I am not posting often.

Coming back.

The last couple of weeks in Chennai has been tumultuous, to say the least. A woman was murdered at a railway station in broad daylight as commuters gaped at the incident in shock. Her body was untouched for two hours, and a writer (whose work I respected up until this point) made it a caste issue. Her body was untouched because she was Brahmin, she wrote, in what I think was her ‘Obama Out’ mic drop moment. Questions are now being raised about the girl’s character. Arguments, discussions, listicles, endless social media posts probing every possible angle to this gruesome murder. The culprit caught. The police get many pats on their backs. New developments on a daily basis.

Just when it seemed like we were ready to move past this, as is the case with most events like these – outrage and move on – that horrendous, heinous video of a man throwing a dog off the terrace of a building surfaced. I couldn’t bring myself to watch it. At least for a good two hours after the post went viral. I gathered courage, and watched the video on mute, afraid that the yelping of the poor animal would be etched in my memory forever if I heard him. Until, someone at work, watched it on full volume this morning and the whole floor heard it. The pitiful sound still haunts me.

Yes, these crimes were unwarranted for. The second one being a clear example of sadism. Yes, the culprits have been identified and hopefully, will be punished. But what really got my goat about these incidents was the fact that it happened right here in Chennai, the safest city in the world. The city which voted a woman into power because they truly believed that she could keep us safe like she has in the past. The city that is on every possible travellers’ list for its cultural vibrancy, its excellent food, and more importantly, its wonderful people.

I have always believed that the reason why this city, MY city, was so great was because of its people. The good samaritans who would disembark from their vehicles and help tow your car if you were stuck in the middle of the road. The kind neighbour who would smile at you from across your balcony and ask you if you’d eaten. The helpful cop who would point you in the right direction, after you’ve given up on your Google Maps, which took you in circles around the tricky bylanes of Mylapore. The autorickshaw driver who loves to haggle with you, just because he can and who you haggle with anyway, just to give in at the end. The tea shop guy who wouldn’t judge you because you are a woman asking for a pack of Menthols. The little people who make your little life a little better was what the city used to be…or so I believed.

And then, things like this happen and I feel moved enough to rethink my core beliefs.

What I need to remind myself, however, is that this is the city that sank just seven months ago and this is the same city that pulled itself back up with just the sheer grit and determination that humanity would survive. I still remember hundreds of people, who had the means, wading through waist-deep water to save someone they knew or even didn’t know, based on tip-offs from worried friends or relatives…to just give them a packet of food or water. I remember how hundreds of people disabled the passwords on their wi-fi networks so that people who had no network connectivity could Facebook call their loved ones to let them know they are okay. I remember how hundreds of people opened up their homes and hearts to strangers who were stuck in the water, forced to leave their homes and their lives behind. I remember how most of us thought of the strays on our streets, and let them in our compounds and put out food and water for them as well, not chasing them away with stones or insults, as we’d do on any other day. I remember almost all of us, making a solid effort to keep our road rage under control, and honk less on the streets. That one week seemed like an acid test, and at the end of it, we came out, smiling. We’d survived.

And, I remind myself that these people are Chennai, too…for the need of the hour seems to be the fact that we need to remind ourselves as to why WE are Chennai. I remind myself of those people who made a difference, remind myself that there are still people out there, who tirelessly (albeit quietly) make a difference and above all, remind myself that those people are the majority. And THOSE are the people who are still Chennai.

Pity

It has been two miserable years since I even attempted to blog. I must admit, I haven’t taken to blogging with flourish even in the past. Posts like these would wax eloquent about promises to myself to make an effort to write more often. And it is easy to break those promises, especially because you have made them to yourself. Blog posts happen out of misery, for me. It is a pattern I have noticed. I am miserable, therefore I write.

It’s been a tough couple of days. I was looking to write a note for a dear friend for his birthday and I remembered that I had once written something nice about him in a blog somewhere. And it was in that quest to look for the “something nice” that the whole downward spiral began.

It started innocently enough. I began reading old posts, which I usually do, in moments of weakness (which over the last couple of days, haven’t been few and far between). I diligently picked out favourites, relived memories associated with them. Cried a little over my grandfather posts, because it was simply just so sad, and there is not a word that can describe how much I miss the man. Chided myself for not writing more stories, because in that one moment of self-loathing, it felt like my imagination had died. It didn’t feel nice. More tears. Anger of not being able to write well anymore. Guilt. For making what I was once passionate about, my job. Fear, of never being as good as the writer I used to be.

One negative emotion after the other hit me like an avalanche and soon, I had no idea how I was going to pull out of this abyss that I seemed to have gone looking for, and fell into, on purpose. As I wallowed about in self pity and the down-in-the-dumps mood that I still haven’t climbed out of, a guy I’d sent a blog link to, told me something which still haunts me – ‘promise me you will write again’. What I can’t? What if I don’t have it? I am terrified of looking at a blank screen, choked up, wanting to say so much, but what if its a voice that had to be silenced? ‘Just go with it’ was his advice.

I cannot write like I used to before, I told my friend, who I was writing a birthday note for. Yeah, you cannot. You have gotten lazy, he said. And the hurt that that statement has caused, is still something I still haven’t gotten over.

I could promise myself that I should come here more often. Wipe the dust off this page and make a solid effort. But I am still unsure about that. Because, I suck.

Torrid emotions. Negativity. Identity crisis. More negativity. Loneliness. Sadness.  Write. Read. Rewrite.

Worst of all? Pity.

 

 

 

Happy Birthday Madras

What does one write about a city which turns a grand old lady today at 375? What does one who has spent a measly 28 years in this city, write about her, that which has not been written before? How does one, who has never lived away from home, write about home? As I muddle about these inconsequential dilemmas, a realization hits me – my Madras doesn’t need a grand introduction.

I am a second generation immigrant in the city, which means my parents decided one fine day that they were ready to build the rest of their lives here and hence I was born here by default. Once a land of opportunity, my Madras welcomed everyone with open arms and she still does. Which is why, when someone comes down from some-other-state, (pun maybe intended), and complains that there is nothing here to see or do; all I want to do is scream into a pillow. In my 20-odd years, I don’t think there has EVER been a time where I did not have a place to go. Have you seen a sunrise on the Marina beach? Have you climbed up the tower at Anna Nagar Tower Park and had a bird’s eye view of the city? Have you ever walked through T. Nagar haggling with the shopkeepers there? Have you done everything on the list of 100 things to do in Chennai? No? Sorry, then you don’t have the right to complain.

Last evening, as I was riding through an intricate by lane in the heart of the city, Mylapore, I came across a huge pile of rubbish that I had to swerve to avoid. Obviously, it reeked of various kinds of garbage which were in various stages of decomposition. It was sad really, because Mylapore has a smell about it – one that is unique to just this part of the city. If you were to go near the temple, the air is heavier and smells that heady fragrance of jasmine flowers, camphor and burning oil. One street away, a tantalizing whiff of molaga bajji frying in vegetable oil invites you to bite into it. Three doors away is a small non-descript potti kadai that serves the best rose milk in the city. This is one of the ways I experience Madras – by the way she smells.

Just the other day, I forgot my headphones at home and was therefore subjected to the ordeal of the sound of traffic in my 10 kilometer commute to work. I was aghast for most of it, but when I turned lanes in the middle of somewhere between Choolaimedu and Nelson Manickam Road, I heard the most amazing sound – a cuckoo! I mean, a cuckoo for crying out loud! It brought back memories of a time when I used to stay in MMDA colony with my grandparents and we used to put food out for the birds in the bird bath. It reminded me of the time when I was the happiest – which was in Appuppan’s house that was at the end of street lined with gulmohar and bougainvillea trees. For those who really listen, the winds carry a lot of whispers here – they can be of a time forgotten or of a time that is yet to come. For Madras lives in the echo of the temple bell, in the buzz of the tiny, tiny poochis that get in your eye at night when your ride, the honk of that enraged MTC bus driver behind you, the clackety clack of the rails as the MRTS trains thunder on them and of course, the most beautiful of them all the gentle crash of the waves as it kisses the shore.

If you have lived in the city as long as I have, you learn that there is a world of cuisine beyond the idli-dosa-vada-filter coffee that is waiting to be explored. As much as I love my kaapi, I still salivate at the thought of Moroccan mint tea at a cute French bistro near my office. For every idli I have, I take comfort in knowing that there I can dig into a plate of steaming momos at the Tibetan joint in Choolaimedu, any day I want, except Monday. Through this gastronomic journey, I have put everything in my mouth, right from sushi (which is a dish that baffles me to this day) to a roasted quail that is drenched in frangipani jus, but here’s a little thing that I have discovered –nothing and I mean NOTHING can beat that feeling of satisfaction that you have at the end of finishing a kalyaana saapadu, spread out on a banana leaf. Nothing.

Finally, what do I say about this city, which has given me my whole life? I have laughed here, cried here and loved here. I have met some of the BEST people I will ever know in my life, right here, in this city. I got over my aversion of cats, when one fine day, a little bundle of joy literally walked into my life. Today, her baby kitten sleeps on my bed, commanding it as her own. I have made some of the best friends here and discovered a new phase of my life every couple of years here. I have ranted and raved about this city, to anyone with half an ear and a willingness to listen. Which is why to me, Madras will always remain to me my closest friend, deepest confidant and my biggest source of inspiration.

For a true Madrasi, August 22 is just an excuse to celebrate the city. Because, for a true Madrasi, every single day is August 22.

Lungi dance? Tribute to Thailai’waa’? No thank you

Today, the word moronic got an all new definition. It was just another day at work and while slave driving my thinning team to meet our deadline I stumbled upon a moronic masterpiece. So moronic, it naturally had to be a Twitter trend. So moronic, that one had to read the words Honey and Singh together with a straight face, without crinkling up in disgust.

However, what will really have you – and by you, I mean any self respecting south Indian, crinkle up their face in disgust is this brand new song from Chennai Express named Lungi Dance. I feel ridiculous even typing it, so imagine the levels of repugnance that someone who has actually wasted 3 minutes and 32 seconds of their time will experience. I do not wish this kind of punishment on the worst of my enemies.

Fine, we forgave Shah Rukh Khan last time, when he thought that the average south Indian, fiercely protective of his curd rice, preferred a touching of jam over his vadumanga. We even forgave him for his pathetic efforts at looking Tamizh and even worse trying to sound like a Tamizhan. However, Lungi Dance will bring all that agony back. It is like Ra.One all over again. Only this time, it is Deepika’s accent that is more annoying.

If this song is supposed to be a tribute to Thalaivar, then I nominate Santosh Pandit to pay a tribute to Amitabh Bachchan – a Holi song on the lines of Balam Pichkaari, sans any kind of colours, or even better an item number along the lines of Sheila Ki Jawaani, without Katrina.

For those of you who haven’t watched this song, it is an open insult to everything that any self-respecting Rajini fan’s beliefs. So, here is a suggestion – do not watch it, for you would have to put up with Shah Rukh dressed in a suit, Deepika in a chiffon sari and a buffont that went out of style ever since Asha Parekh stopped acting. Also, you will notice the absence of lungis being sported by the protagonists (gag) in a song that is named lungi dance. To make up, everyone in the background, also dressed in suits, wear lungis over them. Yes, that’s right – that is how we wear our lungis. Over a three piece suit. Well done.

I do not even want to get to the lyrics of the song, which is seriously in a state of critical conditionum (think Aiyaayayaaa from hey, wait….Aiyaa). Thank you Honey Singh, but I’d rather “miss that  chance” and the lungi dance for obvious reasons. Anna ke jaise chashma lagake… he croons and the visuals have a failed attempt of SRK attempting what is a sacred Rajini-move. Rajini – One. Shah Rukh – Zero.

Fine, I will admit it. I am not really a Rajinikanth fan but I do understand the kind of mass hysteria that the man commands. It is sacred and respected and Honey Singh, along with SRK, Deepika and that abomination of a director by name Rohit Shetty (who claims to be a south Indian ironically) have clearly stepped into some dangerous territory. Get this right – We are CHEnnai and not Chinnai. And sooooooo “well-researched” the film is, that at the audio launch, the makers had the gall to refer to Chennai as a “junction”. And to add insult to injury, they even spelled Chennai wrong in Tamil. Like Honey Singh encourages us, I encourage the makers of this moronic song to go and “Wikipedia Padh Lo.”

Thank you Mr. Rohit Shetty and every other director from Bollywood who have managed to stick to the cliché of south Indian stereotype. Thank you for making moronic songs like these, for we are clearly amused.

For those of you who’d still like an ordeal, here’s the link to the video. Please note how the description on YouTube reads: “Must Watch King Khan’s Special tribute to South Wonder Rajnikant… The Amazing Lungi Dance of ShahRukh Khan & Deepika Padukone will definitely make you Dance With Them.” For some more giggles, scroll down to the comment section.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=sXVmrn7fCUA

Because, You Are The World’s Greatest Grandfather

Dear Appuppa,

It’s been a month since you’ve gone, but to me it feels like yesterday. In fact, there are times when I feel you are still around and that you haven’t really left any of us. It is during moments like these that I realize how much you’ve touched my life – not just mine – everyone else’s – in ways so profound that I cannot even begin to explain.

I remember getting that call from Sudha valliyamma that morning and somehow, I knew that it was going to be bad news. The worst part of it was telling Amma, Appuppa, and I had to do it. It was gut wrenching and the most terrible thing that I ever had to do. Everything else was a whirlwind after that. Time seemed to pass by in a haze as the insanity of the entire situation took over. Throughout the train journey there I was trying to grapple with the fact that I would be entering the house that didn’t have you in it. It poured all night Appuppa. It was poignant and beautiful.

I remember waiting for you to arrive on the day they were to cremate you. The rains refused to ease up, but still there were so many people who came. The house didn’t leak much, miraculously. We all knew how much you liked order and cleanliness so we were constantly cleaning up after the slush. The phone was ringing off the hook and people were constantly calling to check in on Ammumma and to ask after you. It was so surreal. I made an effort to read the card that was printed in Malayalam. You’d have been proud of me – I managed to finish the whole thing.

There was a deathly hush when they brought you in(pardon the pun). Tears flowed uncontrollably because it looked like you were fast asleep. As we all sat by your side, saying prayers in chorus and reading from the scriptures, I remember not being able to take my eyes away from you. It was by far, the saddest moment of my life thus far – yet, strangely, I felt a kind of peace too. My mind ran though all those beautiful memories you’ve left me with. The house at Razak Garden, you feeding me lunch every afternoon when I was three, the many, many, many stories you’ve told me, all the gardening you made me do at Sree Vihar, how you used to make us cricket bats and stumps out of wood every summer, the swing on the mango tree in front of the house, the bird watching we did from the drawing room on lazy summer afternoons, your innovative chappathi rolls that we had for dinner in the train when you used to come and take me away for the summer…all of that came rushing back to me. As I was sleeping in your old room  – the kezhakke muri, I remember how we used to spend afternoons there – me in the middle with you and Ammumma on each side. You’d be telling me about your early days growing up or a story about Amma. I loved those conversations Appuppa and even today, I can hear them in my head – it is like it just happened yesterday. When I was in the room, I even got a whiff of your Old Spice aftershave and it was comforting Appuppa – because it really did feel like you were there.

Even though you were in terrible pain, especially towards the end, no one ever talks of it – just like you never did. Every night that we were there, we’d all sit at the dining table and talk about all the good times we’ve had with you. Once or twice I even remember looking to where you usually used to sit at the head of the table and imagining you to be there – eating your dinner of 2 chappathis and drinking your customary kinnam of pulisheri (or 365) like you used to call it.  We would tell stories and laugh – there has never been a sad story on the table, I promise. We’d talk about your obsessive compulsive disorder and your  constant need to keep everything spic and span. I am trying not to disappoint you and even remembered to wash my feet before getting on to the bed.

We were going through a few of your things and we found what I can only describe as a treasure trove of memories. A  bunch of letters neatly filed away – most of them from Sree chitta, Suresh ammavan and Amma. We also found a lot of your house plans, which again brought with it a flood of memories. I have salvaged what I could from those – for it was my biggest dream to have you do the floor plans of the house that I would build someday. I fully intend to put whatever I found into good use Appuppa and that I promise you. I also found the receipt of the HTML course you made me take the summer I turned 15. A 1000 ruppees for a month long course. Thank you Appuppa for constantly encouraging me to learn.

Everyone misses you Appuppa and I miss you the most. I miss you even when  I don’t think about the fact that you are gone, or that you will never call me again to wish me Happy New Year, or Happy Birthday,  or when I make a conscious effort to pretend like life is normal. I miss you when I make an effort to move on – because I am scared that if I do get past this, there will come a day when I forget to think about you. I’ve been dreaming about you almost everyday and I’d like to think of these dreams as you checking in on me to make sure that I am OK. I take comfort in that fact Appuppa, although it may sound really creepy or like I am mentally disturbed. Please don’t stop visiting.

Ammumma is holding on Appuppa. Don’t worry. Amma speaks to her everyday and I do try and call her when I get time. I really should make an effort to call more often. I am sorry I didn’t do it when you were around. One of the few regrets that I have. If you are near God, please tell him to pay a little bit of attention to Amma. She seems devastated and like you she’s trying to keep it all in and not worry the rest of us. You know her better than all of us put together. She really could use a break.

I still remember the last thing I told you when I visited you at the hospital – “Be a good boy” and I remember you smiling and closing your eyes contentedly while I kissed you goodbye. I should have said I love you, because that is what I wanted to really say.

Thank you for all the memories Appuppa – because without them, I am nothing.

I miss you.

Love

Nandu

 

Hope lies in ambiguity

For me, the movies have always been my shortcut to escape – from life – but not from reality mind you. For I believe, and I say this not to sound condescending, escaping reality just about catapults you into another one – like Woody Allen’s subtle masterpiece – Midnight in Paris. The text of the movie was so simple, yet the subtext, divinely sublime. There is no greater pleasure for a writer, or any lover of literature for that matter, to transport themselves into the time of Hemmingway or Wordsworth – wine and dine with them, discuss politics, poetry and most importantly the seamless beauty of the written word, which seems to have made a silent exit today.

As I write this, the urge to open up a browser to ‘research’ what I am about to write, I will admit, is tempting. Blame it on the monotony of my writer job – the urge to verify facts, getting your copy or your article or your story or whatever else you choose to call it, right. When did we stop writing for the love of writing? Worse still, when did we convince ourselves that we couldn’t write, creatively enough, just because we work in the business of writing? An epiphany of this sort is something odd to have in the middle of the night. But then, if you’d actually think about it – aren’t we thinking all the time? Aren’t epiphanies just waiting to happen, if you’d just let yourself go there or think closely enough?

Rambling on as it may seem, I do have a point. I recently happened to watch two movies – yes, as a part of my daily ritual of convincing myself that I do have a life beyond the confines of the dreary gray walls of my surprisingly large office and the equally dreary peeling walls of my miniscule room that I share with my teenage brother. The movie, I confess is not a new one. In fact, the first one is about as old as the aforementioned teenage brother. But as I watched Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy gracefully carry a film shot entirely over a day in Vienna, in Before Sunrise, I began to think how I missed watching this masterpiece of a film before.

So brilliant is this story, it is almost laughable at how simple it is. The boy meets girl on a whirlwind trip in Europe, on a train and falls in love, is truly the stuff that most dreams are made up of. And while on trains, ever noticed how all great movies, language or region no bar, have this singularly breathtaking albeit important scene that is shot in a train? Why Before Sunrise worked for me is the fact that it touched upon every emotion, right from the time the credits rolled out. There was music, laughter, happiness, passion, love, comfort, beauty, just the mere of being in the ease of each other’s company – everything that ‘felt good’. “Why do we make life so complicated” Celine asks Jesse as they lie on the grass drinking borrowed wine. For me, that line summed up just about the entire film, which to say the least was uncomplicated as it gets. No conflict, no drama. Just a man and a woman talking literally about everything under the sun, stealing a few kisses, looking at each other when they think the other one isn’t noticing, drinking wine and walking around a beautiful city knowing the time they have together is limited, but making the best of it all the same. Why couldn’t we be more like that I wonder? Take each day as it comes, live every second to the fullest, let yourself go and not give two hoots about what anybody, not yourself included would think! More importantly let yourself love, with the kind of freedom that you can only give yourself. Like how Jesse says in the movie “We always make fun of love, but at the end of the day, isn’t everything we do in life, just a way to be loved a little more?”

So transported and moved I was by this masterpiece that I thought the sequel, made astoundingly 10 years later, would fail miserably to take me back to the streets of Europe, where strangely, everyone seems to find love or have a torrid affair. Before Sunset, I confess was far more exciting, especially since a 10 year timeline seems to be a lot  to catch up on, especially when your flight leaves in an hour. The couple not only pick up with ease from where they left off, but seem to genuinely share the same level of comfort that they did 10 years ago. It might be a remarkable piece of acting, but I think, a restrained screenplay here is the hero. Awkwardness, which is literally the first thing that you’d expect the couple to feel when they lay eyes on each other, seamlessly “dissolves into molecules” as Jesse so endearingly points out is his current state of mind. While marriage, life and children even, are what encompasses every normal middle aged man’s life, or a woman’s for that matter, there is always a quest for more. In fact, there is a poignant moment where Jesse and Celine discuss in a quaint little French cafe in Paris, the want for having more things – and why it is very important to have desire – whether it is to have sex or simply to buy a pair of shoes.

When I talk of these movies, how can I not talk of how they end? The promise to meet each other again in six months before Celine gets on a train – a young and stupid couple trying to be practical and mature about making a decision. A decision, 10 years later, they say is the most stupidest thing that they ever did. But then think about it, haven’t we ever made bad decisions in love or in life. Where we have promised ourselves and the people we love that we would do something and eventually, blame time when that promise is broken? Before Sunset has chemistry, so much that you can almost reach out and touch it and it’d shock you. However, the film doesn’t see Celine and Jesse share a kiss of longing or passion even. In fact, the most romantic part of the film for me, is when she croons the Waltz to him at her apartment in the midst of brewing camomile tea. That singular song for me – the way she carried herself when she sang it and the way Jesse looked at her as she sang it, was as good as any scene where the couple try to chew each other’s mouths off.

Happy endings I confess have been far less in my life. Then again, I am not the only one with problems. Ambiguous ones are better spaced out and I must remember to be thankful for them  – for I have come to understand that in the murkiest of ambiguity lies the biggest hope.

Ranting about Responsibility

 

Its 3am on a Thursday morning and for the life of me, I can’t get to sleep. Wait, I remember going through this before…two years ago when I was just starting out at a job that I absolutely hated – no detested, so much – that I’d be up all night, wondering what the hell is wrong with me that I can’t seem to get to sleep. Like any other normal person, I googled all my symptoms and came to the conclusion that it was depression. And I had every reason to be. I hated the advertising company that I worked for. And by work, I mean getting there at 10 am, looking at the faces of grouchy men who wished they’d die rather than give me ANY work to do, and bearing the torture that I called work for 8 hours and scooting home. That was what my life was like, day in and day out for an entire month – that and my self-inflicted insomnia.

Then  I found a job that I truly loved and the world was all beautiful and rosy. I was hopeful and positive and loved living in all those wonderful moments and cherishing all those lovely friendships I made.

Yet, here we are, once again, two years later – 3 am – still awake. And no, I don’t need to google it this time.

Yesterday was a weird day. I whined and whined about work. Drank 2 cups of coffee, wrote nothing for the third day in a row and generally whiled away the time at work – waiting to get back home. Somewhere in between all the work that I was pretending to be doing, a very good friend of mine wanted to know if I could take a trip abroad next year. You know, it didn’t take me much time to figure out that I wouldn’t be able to afford it.

I am 25 years old – turning 26 next month actually. And all I have to show for it is a few bylines I have published. I have absolutely no money saved up for whatever calamity might strike me in future. In fact, ironically, I am in debt – something that I hoped to get out of soon. Thanks to my new found responsibility, that day seems to be far away.

Up until a couple of months I thought I had it all figured out. I had the perfect job, which I was willing to throw away without thinking it through, simply because the opportunity of doing something that I’d always wanted came along. I FINALLY felt like that my life was taking off and that for once in all these years, I was at the steering wheel – in complete control of my life. I said goodbye to my wonderful job and my wonderful friends, packed my bags and moved to another city. Life was almost perfect.

I tell myself now that I took it all for granted. I should have seen it coming, it was all too easy. And that funny thing called circumstance, brought me back home again. I was doing the right thing, I told myself. The responsible thing. I was doing what any “good” daughter would do. My parents raised me right. They were happy, so I thought I’d be happy.

How wrong was I? Am I happy? Of course I am not. Here I am at 3 am, writing for the first time this week. And what am I writing about? Trying to deduce whether I  am happy or not. What does that tell you?

There is something else that you realise when you are on the wrong side of 25. You start to grow up. You know, you’d hear it all the time – from relatives and others around you, who marvel at the rate at which you’ve metamorphosised from a screaming raging beast of a teenager, to a more calm and collected adult. You nod and smile and think that you are finally there and that you’ve made it past all those exams and those constant tests that you took as a child. And then, you realise that it is not nice being that grown up person. Because – and there is no nicer way to say it – when you are on the wrong side of 25, you realise that you are not all grown up – but you are all alone.

Startling isn’t it? But just think about it. When was the last time, you called your best friend for absolutely no reason at all – without any hesitation? Of course, you call her or him out of habit. You make that date for a weekly dinner or lunch or even a movie – provided everyone can decide on a place, time, mode of transportation and of course the cash situation. When you are on the wrong side of 25, you kiss goodbye to all your 4am friends. And you know what the worst part is? You don’t realise it, until one rainy morning, when the clocks ticking and you are in bed tossing and turning wondering why you cant sleep.

Priorities change. People change. You are not in a place in your life where you want to head out to the pub and drink till you can’t think straight. You want to curl up in bed with a good book and a drink and just purr your day off away. You don’t exactly want to make a trip with your single girlfriends half way around the world because you think you cant afford it. The fact is, if you really wanted to, you could.  You don’t realise that you don’t want to yet. So you end up feeling guilty. And you helm and haw about the fact that people are going places and doing things and generally being normal, while you are stuck in a ton of your own crap, in a dark place, whining about how unfair life is.

I admit it, I am a compulsive whiner. Nothing is ever good enough for me. I have to find fault with every little thing, like I am some crazy person. I cannot stand it when something is out of place. Ironically, it seems now like my entire life is out of place.

So, what can I do?  I can rant and rave and complain about everything that I think is wrong with my life. Of course, I know I have to fix it and I know only I can. But for once, just once, I wish I didn’t have to take that responsibility. Now is that really too much to ask for? Is it?

It used to be about trying to do something. Now it’s about trying to be someone

Normally, the Oscar film lineup is something that excites me no end. I love tracking down the list of nominations, painstakingly obtaining DVD’s (and/or) scouting painfully through endless torrents to download a high quality print, or searching the net patiently to find a website that streams the movie online for free. This year however, things went horribly awry. I was in the middle of moving to a new city and although I did hear of names being dropped, I never had a chance to repeat my yearly routine.

Once I moved back, I seemed to suddenly have plenty of time in my hands. Since I have nothing better to do on the sleepless nights that taunt me of late, I turned back to my yearly routine of watching films online. And last night, after a slew of hardcore rom coms, sitcoms and just plain comedy, I decided to watch a “serious” film. Naturally, the film that first came to mind was The Iron Lady. And, thank God it did.

One must be brave if one is to take the wheel

The last time I remember seeing Meryl Streep in action was in that lovely film called Julie and Julia, where she played that magnificently awesome character of Julia Child to perfect precision. Now being a foodie, and a self confessed admirer of Ms. Child, I must confess that there couldn’t have been a better personification of the culinary legend than Meryl. However, seeing her as the batty old Margaret Thatcher, who suffers from a hallucination problem, was a revelation indeed. I sat astounded as the film went back and forth, essaying the iconic years of her life. Needless to say, her acting was nothing short of brilliant.

There are many defining moments in the film for me. Scenes, dialogues, words and mere facial expressions that just stand out and make an impact. There were moments when I was chilled to the bone, moments where I was nothing short of inspired, and moments where I was nodding along in agreement. Singling them out would be difficult, but here’s me, giving it a shot:

The proposal scene: When the bespectacled Denis Thatcher asks a nervous Maragaret to marry him, with a bemused smile, you can literally see that she wants to say yes and have the perfect fairy tale ending. There couldn’t have been a better use of an almost kiss than this scene – where after she accepts his proposal, pulls back, before sealing the deal. She warns him that she would not be confined to the bondage and drudgery of household work. “I will never be one of those women, who stay silent and pretty on the arm of her husband. Or remote and alone in the kitchen doing the washing up for that matter. One’s life must matter, Denis, beyond all the cooking and the cleaning and the children. One’s life must mean more than that. I cannot die washing up a teacup” she defiantly barks at him. (Recall: at the end of the film, she actually is shown washing a teacup, right before the credits begin to roll) It was Inspiring to say the least, to see a woman, especially a woman of that day and age, put herself first – despite all odds. Even more inspiring was the smiling Denis, willing to put up with all her demands, promising to love and cherish her. Stuff that dreams are made of, really, if you ask me.

One’s life must matter, Denis, beyond all the cooking and the cleaning and the children

10 Downing Street: After achieving the ultimate dream of being a Prime Minister, the entry into 10 Downing Street has to be one of the most brilliant scenes in the film. She stands right in the middle of a circle of reporters, who have crowded around her, waiting for a statement. She quotes from the Bible, following which there is this surreal overhead shot of the crowd dispersing. Very symbolic I think of the whole film. The filmmakers rub it in your face again, repeatedly, that as a woman prime minister, she stood alone. Her entry into the iconic building is gooseflesh inducing – every bit as touching and poignant as her exit.

If the right honorable gentlemen could perhaps attend more closely to what I’m saying, rather than how I’m saying it, he may receive a valuable education in spite of himself!

Sink Them: The Falklands War is undoubtedly the turning point in the iconic character’s political career, and the steely determination with which she commands the attention of her entire cabinet and the army, who are anxiously waiting for her decision, is, for the lack of a better word, awesome. Her grit, her ruthless commitment and most of all, the power in her otherwise shrill squeak is nothing but bone chilling. Made me want to rewind to the scene more than once, I assure you. Another scene which stood out for me was the one where she drives off to the Parliament, in her little car, while her twins run behind her screaming and crying for her not to go. The lack of emotion on her face, the purposeful drive forward, without looking back, honestly just reminded me of all the times I have turned MY back on MY family. And trust me, it’s not a good feeling.

With all due respect sir, I have done battle, every single day of my life

Being Maggie: My image of Margaret Thatcher, to be honest, was that she was a ruthless person. Only when I did see the film did I realise that she actually had to be. However, the film is rife with plenty of scenes that showcase her human side – her  ladylike behaviour or so to speak. Take for instance, the “I may be persuaded to surrender the hat. The pearls, however, are absolutely non-negotiable” line or her smart handbag that’s a staple on her arm. Or, her repeated references to the fact that she’s a woman – “Economics is just like managing your household” and  “Now, shall I play mother,” to a gaping American, who tries to pursue her not to go to war. Here’s a woman, who has fought against every “honorable gentleman” who has stood in her way and walked out with her head held high. The way her hands shake after she’s virtually dismissed her cabinet following mistakes in the timetable that was drawn up, just remind us of the fact that there are plenty of moments where she has faltered – but ALWAYS in the privacy of her own self, without a soul around. However, the most touching scene for me in the film, that showed me that there was in fact a human being behind that facade of steel was the scene where she begs her dead husband, not to leave without his shoes.

If you take the tough decisions, people will hate you today, but they will love you in generations

I leave you with one of the dialogues from the film which has stayed with me till now, 24 hours later. I am going to write it somewhere, where I can look at it all the time and assure myself that I will be fine.

Margaret Thatcher: Watch your thoughts for they become words. Watch your words for they become actions. Watch your actions for they become…habits. Watch your habits, for they become your character. And watch your character, for it becomes your destiny! What we think we become. My father always said that… and I think I am fine.

We will stand on principle, or we will not stand at all

P.S: Initially, this post was intended to be a review . However, I don’t think I’d want to review the film. I may sound ambitious, obnoxious even – but I appeal to everyone of you who’s reading this post to watch the film. The scenes I have described above, are not intended to be spoilers if you have not watched The Iron Lady. I could only hope that you feel what I felt when I saw these moments, experience what I experienced. And if you have watched it, please, please do watch it again.

The day I broke a nail, met Ruskin Bond and got inked (Yes, in that order)

Friday was not just like any other day, but I love the fact that it wasn’t. In fact, it is days like these that I look forward to, and when they happen – it is almost always unexpected. And I love it. Yes, OK. Sorry about the gushing.

So, if you are one of those readers, who have just stumbled upon this post, let me tell you this. I am a journalist. Fine, a features writer, but trust me that’s a form of journalism too! You know all those lifestyle stories and film news you read in your supplements first thing in the morning, before moving on to how the ruppee fell again or how inadequate our country’s lawmakers are? Wel, we are the ones who painstakingly inform you about your lifestyle! So yes, it IS a serious profession!

So, in the course of my short span of working as a journalist, ok ok features writer, I’ve had the good fortune of meeting some very interesting people. And on Friday, 8 June 2012, I met this real cutie called Ruskin Bond. For those of you who haven’t heard of him, here’s a gist of who he is. The man is about 200 years old, and he looks it! He’s got the cutest face that an old man could ever possibly have – replete with the wrinkles, the hanging skin and the potbelly. Oh, he writes for a living – no surprises there I guess 😀 He’s India’s most celebrated children’s author. That’s about it. Rest you can google, if you are interested of course!

The thing with me is that I have brittle nails. You might wonder why I am bringing that up now. But wait, I have a point. So basically, I was at Taj Club House to interview the legendary writer when I decided the best thing to do was freshen up. I did, and just as I was getting out of the loo, I jammed my finger between the door. And yes, I broke a fingernail. AND it bled!! Now, for all those of you cynics out there, sitting and shaking your head, thinking, “Oh there she goes, she broke a nail and complaining about it” – let me tell you something. It really hurts! Especially when you break it too close to your skin and the cuticle comes off and it bleeds. And last week, I’d broken a toe nail, since I’d banged my leg against the cot, and that hurt too.

Now that we have established that broken nails can hurt, and the fact that I can whine and whine till your ears bleed, let’s move on.

So I met him this afternoon, chatted him up. We laughed a little, reminisced a little about Nainital, the characters in his books, talked about James Bond and at one point, the conversation was almost poignant. Never once did those bright green eyes, hidden behind his simple glasses, ever lose its sparkle. He chatted with gusto about things close to his heart. What took the cake though was the fact that when I gave him my copy of ‘Our Trees Still Grow in Dehra’, he remarked “Ah, this one has got some interesting stories,” and proceeded to write a message in it. I didn’t look at what he’d written until I got outside and I was astounded. There on the second page of the book, written in neat, crisp letters were the words “Dear Nandita, wish you every success and happiness in life. Love Ruskin Bond.” I was stumped. This man is 78 years old and he can write with the same steady hand that someone in their prime can! (I shall upload pictures soon, in an update to the blog)!

The name is Bond!

After this really adorable interview, I was at a loss for things to do and whenever I am at a loss for things to do, there is only one person I call. Nomitha Nandakumar. See the thing is, we’ve been planning for weeks now to get a tattoo done. It was only after the second Diet Coke in Subway that we realised – planning is truly an utter complete waste of time. Impulsive decisions you make are always the best ones. So, we decided to go in for a consultation and finalise our tattoo designs and headed over to Fountain Plaza, with her BOSS in tow. Now, Hema is literally the coolest BOSS that anyone can EVER have. Like literally. The tattoo idea interested her as well, and she decided she’d come along with us. But that’s just it. She came along and then chickened out of actually getting it done. So, there we were, in Fountain Plaza, with Hema and deciding on the designs, when the gracious, and almost completely inked in every imaginable place Tarun told us, he’d do it for us in 10 minutes. Impulse took over again and we decided why wait? And then, we happily nodded and told him the two words that would set his cash register ringing – Go ahead!

For all those who want to know the end result. This is what it looks like. (The wrinkly thing you see is a bandaid and not how my skin looks). The tattoo is literally a representation of the cause and effect karma. And for all those of you wondering if it hurts, let me tell you this (and I am not kidding when I say this) It really doesn’t hurt. What hurts is the time after, when you have to shell out the cash! Sigh. I guess all good things come with a price tag these days. Damn you, this generation/developed world!

Karma aint no bitch this time

So that’s my story of a really awesome day. Productive? Hell yeah!

P.S: If you landed on this page thanks to my Facebook update, you’d probably know that I have gone all out and gushed about the man already. But, here’s a secret – I have this thing for old men, and I really couldn’t resist putting this one up *grin*

25 minutes later edit: My good friend Sagarika pointed out that I need to reword my “this thing for old men” again. So when I say I have a “thing” for them, it means I find them incredibly cute (thanks to the fact that I was brought up by my grandfather – but more on that later, or just read previous post). So all of you who think like Sagarika, that’s NOT what I mean! Happy Sag?

Once Upon A Time, She Was Young

When she sits back to think about it, she wonders really what it was that inspired her to write. Perhaps it was her early association with stories, thanks to Appuppan. She had had fond memories of growing up to the comforting sound of his voice, telling her those very same stories you and I grew up with. The Thirsty Crow, The Fox and The Grapes and Little Red Riding Hood became childhood heroes (in some cases, heroines) and her four-year-old self was tireless in the pursuit of getting another story told by her grandfather.He would sigh and shake his head in mock desperation and begin in that baritone of his

… Once upon a time.

That in its entireity, was her earliest memory of storytelling. While the librarian at school introduced her to Malory Towers and Famous Five at the appropriate age of 8, she’d stare longingly at Sweet Valley and Nancy Drew. When she managed to get her hands on them finally, her insatiable appetite for novels threw her to the mysterious path of Danielle Steel and Sidney Sheldon at 13. Her childhood heroes and heroines had graduated from being crows and foxes to real men and women – almost all of them were the typical Western stereotype. The men were certainly tall, handsome and not to forget, passionate lovers (a’la Danielle Steel), while the women were the ones she drew inspiration from – they were all fierecely independent, a genereous mix of beauty and brains and of course, perfect! She wondered if Tom Sawyer existed and longed for a friend as true as Huckleberry Finn. Under the strict gaze of her mother, who was all but encouraging of her reading habit, she dutifully underlined words she didn’t understand to look them up in the dictionary later on and laboured through well-thumbed copies Dickens and Jules Verne.

When she began to write, she realized that these were the characters that she created in her stories. She gave them different names, referred to them in the third person and painted rosy pictures about their looks and their personalities. And all of them had a story to narrate.

Growing up among the gulmohar trees, she drew plenty of inspiration from nature. When she realised that she did in some weird way possess a love towards writing as much as she did to reading, nature took on similies and synonymns in her poetry. Dark, often about death, her poignant poetry phase was something that remained like a distant memory to her parched soul. Sonnets that spoke of Kohl lined skies and The Hand That Rocked The Cradle grew into elaborate narratives about Suicide and Men with Umbrellas. Unrequited love, yearning and passion resulted in Weddings in Poster Colour, which was the product of more mature writing.

And then, she grew up.

What she came to understand in the entire process of becoming a writer though, was that inspiration is never really very far away. Even today, she picks up the phone to hear the voice that started it all and it never disppoints. Although the baritone has reduced to a shakier version of its original self, she can just about imagine the sparkle in his eye, as he tells her about the time he travelled to Baharin, the friends he made at Bengaluru or the way to the krishnan kshetram in the next town. She brushes away his pleas of increasing the cost of the phone call, for litte does he realize that it is his very stories, his simple anecdotes, the glimpses of the full life that he’s lived is what makes her the writer, no, the person that she is. She tells him that she wishes she could become half the person that he is and he smiles at her – that ever knowing smile. A moment’s pause later, he begins, ‘When we were in Delhi…’

And thereby hangs another tale.