Why do men express love/ affection in such odd ways? The number of times I've heard women being referred to as a 'child' or a 'doll' or their judgement and intelligence dismissed as if nullified by their cuteness, is alarming and disturbing. It makes me wonder if love only means an intense desire to protect. And protect out of a sense of possessiveness. Personally, I find it simply impossible to like back such nut jobs.

I wonder what would happen to me if I had no access to mirrors. Would I care about a bad haircut if I couldn't even see how it looked. Or threaded eyebrows. Right now I find it hard to walk by a car without staring at my reflection. Its not because I need to reassure myself of my staggering beauty.. Its probably more to do with my inability to accept myself physically just as people around me haven't been able to accept the way I look. Too thin is a curse too, you know. One would imagine that after 23 years of looking at my skinny self, people would get over my appearance. But these 'skinny legs and all' never fail to be a conversation starter in my world. Sigh..

It's amazing how certain words acquire such specific meanings in specific contexts. The words 'struggle' and 'chance' for example, can never mean the same thing to a non film walla as opposed to someone who has spent years in Bombay trying to get one opportunity to do what s/he wants in films. These two words sum up a range of experiences and emotions so specific to any dreamer in the city. Struggle becomes a shared experience, a phase, an obstacle, and also something that defines and makes valuable the possibility of a 'chance'.

So many must have gone through this ordeal for these words to have such fixed alternative meanings.

The History Project 2

The Anglo Arabic School, Ajmeri Gate, Delhi.

A few students of this school have undertaken to explore their own histories over the summer. Sitting under the arched enclosures of this school, whose history itself goes back almost three centuries, these boys come together each week to talk and write about the past from their own perspective, having gone round the narrow streets and lanes of Old Delhi, speaking to strangers and asking questions about the city and life within it. This exploration has already produced a beautiful yellowed map from 1857 showing Delhi as it existed during the Revolt. A kind old gentleman was kind enough to lend this treasured map to the kids for their project. Here's hoping the quest throws up more such wonders...

The History Project

When I was in school, one of my least favorite subjects was history. Text books full of events, dates, figures, narratives; teachers with nothing to offer in addition to the text, their primary function being reading the textbook out loud as a way of explanation- the subject sucked the joy out of life. I couldn't understand the point of it and eventually I came to the conclusion that the only reason why society would expect its children to learn up these details was because it was afraid everything would be forgotten. An apocalyptic scenario presented itself in my head. What if all the books were destroyed? What if all the Elders were killed? What would happen to our past? And so, I thought, everything else in the world must became secondary to collective memory. And a collective memory so perfect, that the same sentences rang in everyone's heads year after year, each having mugged up the same books.

I realize now that it is not simply a fear of forgetting that motivates historical study. And also that the kind of histories we studied in school were biased, simplistic and deeply problematic. We grew up believing in the sanctity of the historical narratives provided to us and the validity of the prejudices that came with them. No one told us histories are subjective and incomplete. No one told us all of us were historians too. The fear of being overwritten necessitated the creation of a hegemonic view of the past.

No teacher ever attempted to question the biases of the text. Or to add stories that might not have been inked. Not until Chitra Maam, in class 11, crossed out, slashed, skipped, scowled over, and over wrote the text book. She never taught from one book. She even refused to teach from the prescribed textbook one year for its blatantly obvious political and religious prejudices. She made us contextualize each other as well as rulers from the distant past. We played characters, sang songs, listened to music from different parts of the world, fought historical and contemporary battles verbally and learnt to see reality as a fuzzy, messed up construction.

I remember becoming aware of history as a personal story in her classes, and not something out there, unapproachable and unconnected to my existence. I became aware of my position as both subject of history as well as its writer. It takes one History Project to change your perspective of the world around you; especially from a teacher who always remained a student of history herself.

I blew golden bubbles

And swallowed a silver cloud

Then let your cold blood flow

And took away your purple shroud

I wept a few frozen tears

And watched the warm sun drown

Then saw a feather fall silently

And drank to your fallen crown

I heard the wind whisper secrets

And lies often told

So I left you to your dusty splendor

And watched, as the ash turned cold.

Here We Still Use an Mp3

When you design your life to maximize procrastination and slowness, the soundtrack nature and the modern urban reality offer, turn out to be largely insufficient and sometimes purely annoying. Isn't it usually when a giant truck throws buckets of hot black smoke into your face while its engine sings the most ravaging tunes that the desire to plug in those earphones is strongest. Then there is also the need to imagine parts of your life as sleek montages set to the perfect score.

Some fun artists who have lent their words, voices, guitars and pianos to the soundtrack of my life the past year...

Angus and Julia Stone

This brother-sister duo from Australia make some really heart warming music. Julia's beautiful, eccentric voice lights up songs like For You and And The Boys that anyway win you over with their gentle, drifting lyrics. Angus works up numbers like the immensely popular and addictive Big Jet Plane and Yellow Brick Road with a delicious guitar solo at the end. With fragile melodies and lyrics, their songs have a wonderful soulfulness. A breezy- folksy feel runs through their songs, perfect for a lazy summer afternoon.

Personal Favorite: For You

Regina Spektor

She makes words do things they didn't even know they could. Her music is weird, eccentric, odd. She breaks words up, screams, swears, beatboxes, tells magical or irrelevant stories and sings without a care in the world. Quirky lyrics with extremely hum-able tunes, she brings something new to each song she sings.Her songs are sometimes so poignant and honest. They reflect the way she sees the world and experiences it as somewhat of an outsider. A misfit. Highly refreshing.

Personal Favorite: The entire album- Begin to Hope + One More Time With Feeling

Faiz Ahmed Faiz

The year 2011 has been about Faiz and his poetry. And through him discovering the wonderful voices of Iqbal Bano, Farida Khanum, Nayyara Noor and Ali Sethi. After Ghalib, this has been my second serious attempt at understanding urdu poetry. Listening to Na Ganwao Navike in Farida Khanum's haunting voice makes the poem even more beautiful. Nayyara Noor similarly sings Tum Mere Paas Raho with so much love and tenderness.

Personal Favorite: Raqeeb Se (Nayyara Noor) and Dasht-e-tanhai (Iqbal Bano)

Fabrizio Paterlini

This man makes the most delicious tunes on the piano. Sometimes haunting and sad, but also deeply inspiring, and hopeful, he can do wonders with his piano. I wonder why no one's picked up his tracks for a film. Gorgeous music.

Personal Favorite: Veloma and Profondo Blu

Scenario1

He had the gift of the gab. If nothing else he knew he could talk his way in and out of anything. He’d spent most part of his life talking about the most random assortment of things. His mind had the ability to jump from a conversation about birds to one about figure skating without pausing to look for a link. Sometimes he had trouble forming sentences- out of sheer lack of time to think through the next thought that was already bubbling in his head. As a kid, he’d decided he would invent a device that could record one’s thoughts without one having to say or write them out. Words always seemed to sound better in his head. Even so, he’d managed to work his way around this curious quirk of his. He always had a story hidden away in some corner of his mind, waiting to be told at the slightest enticement. People loved listening to his tales and he absolutely loved the sound of his voice.

But something strange happened on the morning of 23rd of December. He woke up with a bizarre sense of having awoken in a dream. His world seemed odd… almost like a slow motion film. He felt that his body wasn’t his own. His hands, legs, mouth, lips, toes… it was as if they belonged to someone else. He got out of bed and wandered about. Everything was in its place just as it was everyday. Tea. Newspaper. Plants. Even the ray of sunlight through the window fell at the exact same spot on the floor. And still there seemed to be something missing. Something wrong and misplaced.

What had actually happened to M was nothing out of the ordinary. The night before, as he downed his last glass of whiskey and dozed off, his thoughts, jokes, witty remarks, plans for the next day, leaked out of his head, on to the pillow, over the desk, and into oblivion. What millions wish for each day- a completely serene and blank mind- had somehow spread across and engulfed the densely meshed and complicated insides of his mind. Except M didn’t quite know what to do with this sudden slowness and listlessness he now felt inside of him. All his life, he had not for once paused to ponder over matters of such obvious routine as the amount of sugar he preferred to mix in his cup of tea.

And here he was, stirring tea with such concentration and effort as if his life depended on it, completely oblivious to his mother's gaze and uncontrollable fits of laughter. .

Someone somewhere wrote about the joy of being bound to something.

Freedom means nothing. It isn’t desired.

When does one stop demanding liberation?

When one loves perhaps.

Maybe we can only truly fall in love with someone we don’t really know at all.

The smell of fresh paint. Empty rooms. Curtain-less, naked windows.

My entire life, packed in big black trunks by my side, I stand in the middle of a room that was somebody else's till yesterday, but now was to be my sanctuary.

I always knew whether I'd like a new house or not. I would rest my head on the window pane and stare out. And I would know. Like a framed piece of art, or like the sea splashing against ancient rocks, that window to the outside was my way of knowing whether the space would allow me loneliness, solitude and quite simply, staring.

This.. here.. now.. where I stand. Is not home.

And those lights shining in the distance are not stars.

The world is an intensely boring place. Sometimes.

Like those freezing winter mornings when you have to get up early.

Those sweaty summer afternoons in rickety autos on dusty old city roads.

Like those half awake nights spent staring at a computer screen.

Those three hours wasted filling up blank answer sheets.

Like those few months when you decide music is just a phase you‘ll get over.

Those books that you read that only borrow words and steal characters.

Like those timeless days spent mending a broken heart.

Those few seconds of a half hearted kiss that drove us apart.

Like those trees that never grow old.

Those conversations that make you feel so cold.

These Eyes glaze over.

Spiral was drunk

How could she Walk the Line?

I wonder why life is designed for most part only for waiting. Waiting for something to happen; someone to meet; somewhere to go; some thoughts to go away; some feelings to come back.

How odd it feels to wait. The world seems to dance around you in circles while you sit completely still. Everything radiates with happiness while you wait for a speck of color to fly towards you.

Shouldn’t we be walking in its path instead. Shouldn’t we be dancing in that circle. Or at least standing outside, pointing at it and laughing.

Save The Shop Around The Corner

For some years now, Sundays are spent in my part of the world with books. The lazy afternoon sun offers itself up and by early afternoon the balcony is transformed into an odd mess of mattresses, cushions, books and music. An afternoon is thus spent reading and carefully peeling and gulping down oranges.

I remember as a kid my favorite part of the week was when my parents would take me to the bookstore to pick out books. I grew up in some of the smallest towns of the country and consequently the book shops weren’t really the way they are now. Small and cramped bookshops doubling up as stationary shops were where I got my regular doze of the classics, Nancy Drew and Enid Blyton from.

Sundays still revolve around books. Apart from the exquisite winter afternoon sun, Delhi also offered the wonder of Daryaganj. The streets of Daryaganj get carpeted with thousands of books, mostly second hand, each Sunday morning. Walking through those narrow lanes, crowded with book lovers, picking through texts that often take your breath away- a rare ancient edition; or beautiful hand cut paper; a chance recommendation by a stranger; or even a wonderful inscription on the first page- the place is the very anti thesis of every other book experience the city has to offer.

The norm here is of course bookstore chains. Having navigated through the lanes of the many Oxfords, Landmarks, Crosswords in Delhi and Bombay I have come to seriously despise these spaces. A recent trip to one such store evoked a sense of such laziness and boredom that I found it impossible to pull books out of racks. 10 minutes and I was out.

An Oxford lover once, I do find it remarkable how one’s attitudes change so dramatically. But I no longer find it possible to enjoy these bookstores. Supremely organized, structured, texts placed alphabetically within racks leading up to the citadel of the cash counter, bookshops have been reduced to the single act of buying. Engage one of the employees in a conversation and you will be surprised at the impossibility of it. A ‘where can I find this book?’ inevitably leads one straight to the god almighty of modern civilization- the computer. That is perhaps an obvious necessity for a bookshop that stores everything that was ever published without a concern for or relationship with the text itself.

Despite the attempt to hegemonize book transactions-overpriced coffee and couches and stationary and the meaningless sales- there are a number of alternative spaces where buying books is actually fun. Janpath for example houses one of the most peculiar bookstores. New Book Land, an outlet of Midland, is a curious circular store that stands under a large peepal tree. Stacked up to the top with books, many of which lie outside one‘s field of view, it really is quite a mystery as to what one might find hidden away in some corner. One end of the shop has books stacked in racks, spilling out on to the pavement. The best part of the shop is its owner, who it seems has read everything that he has in his store, and always makes interesting observations about the books you pick out and suggests his own favorites too. One might have intended to simply kill time by looking over some books but a visit to his shop always ends in an empty wallet and a handful of books.

I don’t write this out of a sense of nostalgia. I think this aimless strolling in and out of big bookstores, reflects how sterile, commercial and almost industrial spaces alter our relationship with what and how we read. The joy of reading is in the act of reading itself. A parent or friend or a friendly book keeper’s abstract personal favorite would find its way into my hands and the beauty lay in discovering the moments where we both might have shared a laugh or shed a tear. This has now been replaced by blurbs that glorify and valorize using the heaviest adjectives, but its never possible to really figure out what might have been appreciated in the book. The focus seems to have shifted from ‘I’m reading’ to ‘I’m reading this’. A reading of one bestseller necessitates the reading of the next; simply by virtue of it being a bestseller and the praises showered on it by some of the best from the literary world.

I don’t think a bookshop is merely a space where people come together to buy and sell books (maybe it is in a purely materialistic and unromantic sense). To me it is a place where the most incredible dreams, ideas, stories and imaginations are stored. A bookshop should be a space where people share the experience of discovering and reading a book and not simply and primarily buying one.