I once saw a pair of eyes – listless, faraway eyes that stared into infinity. I had never before seen ones that were so cold. They belonged to a little girl who otherwise looked like any nine-year-old, except that she was not.
I saw her dance and her movements, although a tad awkward, seemed pretty ordinary. And then I tried speaking to her. She did answer me, but only as if she were rattling off a lesson learnt by rote. The stony eyes lit up slightly at the mention of a teacher, apparently a favourite. But then, it was perhaps not as much from love as from habit, which is how most of her acts were.
The teacher said it was almost like the girl sat in a glass room, all by herself. It was her world, where she couldn’t let others in even if she wished to. “This is characteristic of most autistics,” the teacher pointed out.
I asked her to identify colours, she did. I asked her to read, she did that too. But I asked her what colour the tree was, she stared at me blankly. She probably hadn’t ever been taught about it that way. And then she turned away from me and continued with her act of staring into nowhere. I thought I was an intruder into her perfectly guarded world.
I came home that day and tried writing the story. It took me a long time because there was so much that I wanted to say, but did not find the right words. Then in the end, I wrote the story. Not because I wanted the world to know about scores of people like the little girl, but because I wanted myself to count to my blessings.
Here’s the link for the story-
http://cities.expressindia.com/fullstory.php?newsid=221824
Monday, July 30, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
Identity crisis
On Wednesday, news came that a certain Monica Bedi, was granted bail from a prison in Hyderabad where she had been kept in connection with a passport forgery case.
Television channels flashed images of the woman visiting her native village in Haryana apparently after a long gap.
And then comes the piece de resistance. The people of the village showered petals on her, the media of course as usual struggled for a ‘share of the pie’ and a triumphant Bedi thanked God saying that her ‘experience’ had made her a strong person.
What was all this? Why was this Monica Bedi beaming so shamelessly and glowing like a demure bride almost as if she was visiting her husband’s home for the first time?
Who is this Monica Bedi? I thought she is the one who was extradited along with gangster Abu Salem in 2005, was his companion and was herself convicted in a fake passport case. I thought she is the one who was earlier declined bail after she told the court that she had lost her passport in Lisbon.
But I guess, I am completely wrong. Because why would someone want to give her a ‘hero's welcome’ if she is the same Monica Bedi. In fact, today a news channel also interviewed her asking her about her aspirations for the future to which she replied that in addition to returning to acting, she also wanted to get married. Truly, she has to be some other Monica Bedi. Otherwise this whole drama lacks explanation. This must be some other Monica Bedi who has nothing to do any of the above-mentioned cases. (Photo courtsey PTI)
Television channels flashed images of the woman visiting her native village in Haryana apparently after a long gap.
And then comes the piece de resistance. The people of the village showered petals on her, the media of course as usual struggled for a ‘share of the pie’ and a triumphant Bedi thanked God saying that her ‘experience’ had made her a strong person.
What was all this? Why was this Monica Bedi beaming so shamelessly and glowing like a demure bride almost as if she was visiting her husband’s home for the first time?
Who is this Monica Bedi? I thought she is the one who was extradited along with gangster Abu Salem in 2005, was his companion and was herself convicted in a fake passport case. I thought she is the one who was earlier declined bail after she told the court that she had lost her passport in Lisbon.
But I guess, I am completely wrong. Because why would someone want to give her a ‘hero's welcome’ if she is the same Monica Bedi. In fact, today a news channel also interviewed her asking her about her aspirations for the future to which she replied that in addition to returning to acting, she also wanted to get married. Truly, she has to be some other Monica Bedi. Otherwise this whole drama lacks explanation. This must be some other Monica Bedi who has nothing to do any of the above-mentioned cases. (Photo courtsey PTI)
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Memories of the 'window'
When I was riding to work today, I smelt fresh varnish somewhere. And as scents always have this inexplicable ability to bring back memories, in no time I was filled with nostalgia.
The smell of fresh varnish always takes me back to the days I spent in my grandmother’s house in Mumbai as a child. The house next to the famous Siddhivinayak Mandir, was my favourite destination during school vacations. There was a garage close by and ever since I have always associated the smell of varnish to my countless vacations spent at granny’s place.
Since I had never seen the garage from inside, to me it always looked like a dark, mysterious place from granny’s window. The window also overlooked several other things. Among them was a tiny shanty where a woman called Indira stayed. It would be fun to see the cauldron of activities taking place around the hut with Indira’s family members always busy with some or the other chore.
Then there was a huge palm tree that swayed angrily with the breeze, an enormous open ground that served as a mini stadium and the convent that my mother went to. In fact, one of my favourite activities was to look at the school building trying to imagine my mother as a little schoolgirl, wearing a uniform and hanging around with a group of friends.
Today, neither the house nor the view from the window, are the same. The garage no longer exists. Temple authorities have eaten up most of the area in and around granny’s apartment. Indira’s hut was demolished years ago. The palm tree was probably felled and there is a high-rise building that blocks the view of the convent.
Nonetheless, even today whenever I look out of the window I can see all those sights, for they are so deeply etched in my memory. They can demolish the hut and uproot the tree, but no one can touch my memories.
The smell of fresh varnish always takes me back to the days I spent in my grandmother’s house in Mumbai as a child. The house next to the famous Siddhivinayak Mandir, was my favourite destination during school vacations. There was a garage close by and ever since I have always associated the smell of varnish to my countless vacations spent at granny’s place.
Since I had never seen the garage from inside, to me it always looked like a dark, mysterious place from granny’s window. The window also overlooked several other things. Among them was a tiny shanty where a woman called Indira stayed. It would be fun to see the cauldron of activities taking place around the hut with Indira’s family members always busy with some or the other chore.
Then there was a huge palm tree that swayed angrily with the breeze, an enormous open ground that served as a mini stadium and the convent that my mother went to. In fact, one of my favourite activities was to look at the school building trying to imagine my mother as a little schoolgirl, wearing a uniform and hanging around with a group of friends.
Today, neither the house nor the view from the window, are the same. The garage no longer exists. Temple authorities have eaten up most of the area in and around granny’s apartment. Indira’s hut was demolished years ago. The palm tree was probably felled and there is a high-rise building that blocks the view of the convent.
Nonetheless, even today whenever I look out of the window I can see all those sights, for they are so deeply etched in my memory. They can demolish the hut and uproot the tree, but no one can touch my memories.
Rashtrapati Pratibha Patil
It’s decided. Pratibha Patil will be addressed as RASHTRAPATI. Allaying the debate over what a woman president should be addressed as, Patil was on Wednesday addressed as Rashtrapati when she was sworn in. While women activists argued that the term is ‘gender-biased’ and ‘patriarchal’, experts said it is just a nomenclature for a constitutional post and had nothing to do with gender.
So be it. After all, what Patil does in the five years of her tenure hardly has much to do with being Madam President or simply President.
So be it. After all, what Patil does in the five years of her tenure hardly has much to do with being Madam President or simply President.
Give me a break
Saas Bahu dramas seem to be a pass̩ now. What rules Indian television at the moment is a slew of talent hunt shows Рmost or in fact all of them based on music. So you have a Sa Re Ga Ma Pa (in Hindi, Marathi and may be all other regional languages too), Indian Idol, Fame Gurukul, Voice of India and so on.
Following the same theme is not new to Indian television. Like when it’s makeovers, they happen in each and every soap opera. When there are generation leaps they again happen in each and every serial. Hardly surprising actually, because most of them are products of the same factory, the one run by the Queen of Soaps, a certain Ms Kapoor.
One lazy Sunday afternoon when I happened to switch on the television (guess I should rephrase it a little, for it was Sunday afternoon alright, but a lazy one, may be not. For a journo, Sunday means work) and there I was, being bombarded with a whole lot of these talent hunt shows, mind you on each channel, one after the other. And the participants all looked the same. The females over made up, wearing garish clothes one would think twice before wearing to a pub, and the men all with hair boasting of shades of brown, burgundy, purple, red, in short anything but black.
And then there was the gang of judges, all going by varied names depending upon the creative or not so creative side of the producers. While some prefered calling them prinicipals, some called them gurus, others termed them mentors. Nonetheless, they were all the same. Arguing, shouting, blaming, and if you think all this for the performance, you are wrong. For they did it to each other.
And then one was left wondering – what are these platforms for – to showcase the talent of singers? If so, why on earth do these guys have to do all this – right from going in for that makeover to crying at the drop of a hat?
One is reminded of some of the old timers, shows that were yet to be given fancy names like reality shows or talent shows, ones that purely showcased talent, minus the looks, the sobs and the money.
Like the old Sa Re Ga Ma, minus the pa, which I have now started believing simply stands for plain pain, which the show is becoming day by day.
The old Sa Re Ga Ma hosted by Sonu Nigam had participants who were performers in their own right. Most were hardworking individuals, with an intense orientation in music, who did not care how their hair looked like as long as the swar was right. Several of them have today made a name for themselves, albeit in their own local circuits – Bela Shende, Hrushikesh Ranade, Prajakta Joshi-Ranade are all names to reckon with in Pune’s music circles. And there might be several like these in other regions too.
The Ranades also made a re-entry in the new Sa Re Ga Ma Pa, as a couple. With the makeover, the two looked funny, almost grotesque and disappeared from the show within a few weeks, without a trace.
Then there was Meri Awaaz Suno, one of the first shows of its kind, on good old DD. The show gave Bollywood, the diva - Sunidhi Chauhan, who won the show as a kid, in a frilly frock.
So here is just a tiny request to all these so-called promoters of talent. Please preserve the sanctity of the art. Stop commercialising itt by trying to turn people into sensations overnight. It is years of dedication, hard work and much more that goes into making stalwarts. You guys are simply belittling their efforts by these shows.
Following the same theme is not new to Indian television. Like when it’s makeovers, they happen in each and every soap opera. When there are generation leaps they again happen in each and every serial. Hardly surprising actually, because most of them are products of the same factory, the one run by the Queen of Soaps, a certain Ms Kapoor.
One lazy Sunday afternoon when I happened to switch on the television (guess I should rephrase it a little, for it was Sunday afternoon alright, but a lazy one, may be not. For a journo, Sunday means work) and there I was, being bombarded with a whole lot of these talent hunt shows, mind you on each channel, one after the other. And the participants all looked the same. The females over made up, wearing garish clothes one would think twice before wearing to a pub, and the men all with hair boasting of shades of brown, burgundy, purple, red, in short anything but black.
And then there was the gang of judges, all going by varied names depending upon the creative or not so creative side of the producers. While some prefered calling them prinicipals, some called them gurus, others termed them mentors. Nonetheless, they were all the same. Arguing, shouting, blaming, and if you think all this for the performance, you are wrong. For they did it to each other.
And then one was left wondering – what are these platforms for – to showcase the talent of singers? If so, why on earth do these guys have to do all this – right from going in for that makeover to crying at the drop of a hat?
One is reminded of some of the old timers, shows that were yet to be given fancy names like reality shows or talent shows, ones that purely showcased talent, minus the looks, the sobs and the money.
Like the old Sa Re Ga Ma, minus the pa, which I have now started believing simply stands for plain pain, which the show is becoming day by day.
The old Sa Re Ga Ma hosted by Sonu Nigam had participants who were performers in their own right. Most were hardworking individuals, with an intense orientation in music, who did not care how their hair looked like as long as the swar was right. Several of them have today made a name for themselves, albeit in their own local circuits – Bela Shende, Hrushikesh Ranade, Prajakta Joshi-Ranade are all names to reckon with in Pune’s music circles. And there might be several like these in other regions too.
The Ranades also made a re-entry in the new Sa Re Ga Ma Pa, as a couple. With the makeover, the two looked funny, almost grotesque and disappeared from the show within a few weeks, without a trace.
Then there was Meri Awaaz Suno, one of the first shows of its kind, on good old DD. The show gave Bollywood, the diva - Sunidhi Chauhan, who won the show as a kid, in a frilly frock.
So here is just a tiny request to all these so-called promoters of talent. Please preserve the sanctity of the art. Stop commercialising itt by trying to turn people into sensations overnight. It is years of dedication, hard work and much more that goes into making stalwarts. You guys are simply belittling their efforts by these shows.
Little somethings
Holed up in a room that reverberates with the sounds of flowing gutters, potholed roads, traffic woes, political gimmicks and squabbles, grouses, malice and much more (like they say whatever is negative forms news), one often longs for a whiff of fresh air.
So on most days I struggle to spend time at the window that overlooks the scenic Sinhagad, quaint old houses and the blood red gulmoher. Standing at the window, my belief that small things in life matter, only so much gets strengthened.
So on most days I struggle to spend time at the window that overlooks the scenic Sinhagad, quaint old houses and the blood red gulmoher. Standing at the window, my belief that small things in life matter, only so much gets strengthened.
Obsessions
Sometimes it is so important to have obsessions in life. And when I say obsession, mind you I am not referring to those mammoth ones that encompass one’s entire life. I am talking about little obsessions that make life exciting. They could be anything ranging from hunting for a rare song to pining for a day off from work to craving for a pastry. The problem with us is that we get so hooked up running behind the larger obsessions in life that these smaller ones just go unnoticed and largely neglected. While the larger obsessions occupy every second to the extent of making life uncomfortable, the smaller ones provide the oft-needed excitement and will to carry on despite the drudgery of routine.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Here I am :)
Finally, it’s time to say ‘I do’ (want to maintain a blog .. people, please don’t jump to conclusions) Is maintaining a blog the ‘in’ thing? Well, I don’t know. In or no, I think it certainly is the ‘done’ thing. Especially, if one happens to be a person who writes to earn a living. On any given day, all the writing is so purposive, so specific, that it needs to convey something. Then what happens to one’s own ideas – those that want to be free of any bias, any prejudice, any boundaries. They stay shut within, struggling to find a vent.
So here I am, raring to go. Penning down my thoughts on the mundane things in life that mean nothing and yet mean a lot. And for a change, there will be no deadlines, no editors and no purpose. Wish me luck people as I embark on the journey!
So here I am, raring to go. Penning down my thoughts on the mundane things in life that mean nothing and yet mean a lot. And for a change, there will be no deadlines, no editors and no purpose. Wish me luck people as I embark on the journey!
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