bikhre toote tukde, saare jud rahe hain dheere dheere haule haule..
betuke se sur wo saare mil rahe hain, dheere dheere haule haule..aaine ka dhundhla chehra khel raha dheere dheere haule haule..

nanhi si ek jaan ne apna bachpan khoya
khauf ki maili chaadar odh ke soya
bebas akela bezubaan chupchap roya
barson se ye behte aansoo tham rahe hain dheere dheere haule haule
khul rahi aankhein jo ab tak nam rahi hain, dheere dheere haule haule
aaine ka dhundhla chehra khel raha dheere dheere haule haule..


If I may say so, yes, I am an admirer and a supporter. I don't want to see the rolling millions and the commercial brilliance, of this show. All I want to see, discuss and debate over are the issues that remain, tragically, stagnant. Think about it. Female foeticide, dowry, child abuse. We've been reading, watching, hearing and witnessing them for aeons. But when we watch a re-run of the same old issues, once again thrown back at us through the telly, by a man we've been hardwired to know as only an artist who works with a script, the weight of the reality, once again crashes down like an iron ball. Here, there is no blaming or pointing fingers and naming. Here, they talk of solutions and facts. I like that. I like that, once again, Sunday mornings have become important days that get a family together, to watch and learn, of what is hidden behind the everyday hub-a-dub.

I remember, as a kid, every weekend was spent in the matchbox flats of the Saket DDA colony, where my grandparents stayed. I was welcomed by the religious curry rice cooking of my dadi and the smell of a freshly opened pack of cigars, that my grandad inaugurated, to signal that the weekend had begun. Sunday mornings, my brother and I were woken up early, and sent for a shower, because we had to get ready to watch 'Aap ki adalat', with the entire family. We would crouch beside my granddad on the floor mattress, with our cereal bowls in hand, and watch wide-eyed and confused, a pseudo court room session on TV. A fake-hair-half-bald-spectacled man would, in short, be royally taking someone’s ass, and that someone, would generally be a known-household name. My granddad and dad would share a smirk and my mom and dad would 'tut-tut' with worried expressions. My brother, perhaps pretended to understand what was going on and would accompany the studio audience when they got the cue to laugh. I would just be, simply, quizzical, and wonder why I wasn't let out to play in the balcony. However, even then, at that young age, in my state of absolute cluelessness, I still knew, Sundays' were important. The fake-hair-half-bald-spectacled man was doing the right thing by asking cheeky questions and making people sweat. Everyone would become happy when the victim was going to pieces. But in the end, for some strange reason, the judge would 'baizzat rihah' the person and end the show.

Not exactly, but I kind of get a strange nostalgia, as I wait for Satyamev Jayate, every Sunday at 11 AM, and think of my late grandfather. He would definitely watch this programme too, religiously, wearing his trademark white kurta-pajama, and watch the programme intently without a word, slowly smoking his freshly opened pack of cigars and make no comment before or after the show.

I've put up a link of a song sung on the second episode of the show. It has the most beautiful and simple melody and soulful lyrics.

I know this show could be one of those, that come, make an impact and go, and along with it, goes the ignited spirits and motivated actions. But for now, what I see, what I hear and what I learn is more than I thought was possible through a commercial social-awareness show.

Kudos to Aamir Khan and a salute to all the survivors who talk about their lives. I know this sounds cheesy, but what the heck. Satyamev Jayate!

It’s chronic restlessness that I feel all the time. No, it wasn’t the constant leg shaking, nail biting, teeth grinding that gave it away. It was actually the perpetual ill health on Thursdays that was an alarm bell. For one, the bad health is mostly a concocted one, that stems from boredom and a sudden lack of monstrous work.  I’m sick, though not physically. I’m sick, psychologically. After the ritualistic slogging throughout the week, Thursday’s, that promise lighter ‘times’, actually, make me nervous.

Let’s put it this way –I need to be busy. It’s an addiction now. When I can see and feel the clean black wood shining bright on my table, and my desktop clear and the blue-green sea wallpaper smiling sleepily at me, I gasp for breath.

Yup, some –‘coholism’ this surely is.

So take up your makeup

And pocket your pills away.

We're kings among runaways

On the bus mall.

We're down

On the bus mall.

-The Decemberists

As I type this out, I see some really bizzare pictures scrolling on their own accord on the indiatimes site. There's something here about Shilpa Shetty's baby shower (wait! She was pregnant?!), Shahrukh Khan with daughter Suhana (is he still suffering for removing Ganguly from his team?), and some nude woman's photo shoot (who're you again?), Malaika Arora looking really bloated (pity), KS Ravikumar's daughters wedding (how'd they get hold of her wedding album?).....its going on, I can't sit through this anymore. Oh, for the uninitiated, you should know, indiatimes is possibly the worst site ever made by any brand.

Coming back to the Times of my life, both inside and outside. Let's just say, end of April and begining of May has been relatively eventful. There's been a short trip, there have been trips made by friends, there has been peace, there's been a little promotion, there has been a marginal appraisal, there have been sincere career misgivings, there has been lots of work and a small stint opportunity in the glam world which was dutifully rejected.

Anywhooo. Let's bullet this, shall we?:

1. Rudy's visit this time, was like Dilli Darshan. All directions, every corner, four days in 8 plates, we skimmed the city like a pair of wide-eyed tourists.

2.  I read this brilliant book called 'I know this much is true', recommended by a friend. Honestly, its review and cover, when I saw online, were slightly over-the-top  and extremely dark. Not that the book wasn't it. It was. It was bleak, depressing and emotionally, a really heavy read. But you know what. There are two kinds of dark. One is repulsive, the kind that pulls you down. And the other is one, that in a mysterious way, actually, ignites hope and leaves you teary and, yes, happy. This one's the latter.

3. Haridwar and rishikesh happened, and much joy and happiness and peace followed. I sat by the Ganga, at this isolated place, behind a not-known ashram. Just me and the river. If you just watch the fast current and emmerse your feet in the ice-cold water which seems to have just freshly melted from the glaciers, you get a brain freeze. But it's an enjoyable one. You're thoughtless, for all the while that you sit by the river. At the cost of sounding like an eccentric, orange- robed, all-knowing sadhu, that Ganga has something very unique about it. I don't know exactly what it is. I think that river breathes.

4. Weird-golden haired-frog look-alike takes the same Metro as me, in the morning. Once she pointed her finger at me, with her eyes bulging and in a thunderous voice said something that sounded like a prediction, "You work in BCCL." I didn't know if it was a statement or a prediction. I nodded. She then continued with her prediction-like voice, "Share the auto with me." And I said, "er..no? I prefer walking to office." After which she continued to stare at me like I was mad, with her eyes bulging out more. It costs 15 rs, really. Did I really turn down a great money sharing offer that would slash our budgets to half? I think not. Anyhow. She still stares at me, maybe she's punishing me in her mind. How can anyone in the world turn down such a great auto-sharing offer, she thinks.

5. Peeking continues, and all chats, mails, messages, are still read. Sometimes commented upon.

There could be more points here, but there aren't. Simply because, this isn't twitter or facebook, and I cannot possibly make it seem thrilling and exciting. That's it. Signing off.

Love.

A little less sugar and a litte more
spice,
within these we do the rounds,
spinning like dice.

Bring in the winter
Break away from  the heat,
Nothing lasts forever,
The world looks bleak.

Their world isn't round,
their words do not resound,
they follow the lines,
they've never seen signs.

Little living,
full of sinning,
bigger thoughts,
with lesser meaning.

No space for passion,
no intrinsic satisfaction,
The buck moves here,
the creations know fear,
heartfelt is nothing,
just walk along, strutting.

It's true. There isn't ever enough time to soak in an emotion. It comes flooding in like a mili second and that's all you're made up of-joy, regret, hope, love, fire, disgust, passion. But as the reels move in quick succession, many thoughts, emotions and ideas transpire, between shifting of sands, between the ticking and tocking, between the pushing and sliding.

Sometimes, maybe these conflating emotions need to pause.

"I'm glad to be a commoner.
When I saw what was behind the shutterbug, the fame and the dulcet smiles to keep the green accounts loaded, I felt pity.
I felt a sense of relief, in the darkness, where faces and farces were camouflaged safely.
We all looked towards the one under the light, his eyes darting uncomfortably, his being scanned by the furious pens.
I left the hall, one among the crowd, one among the averagers, one among the one's who would never be on the other side.
One among the one's who were free."

“I felt powerful, the one who rode on the evocations produced for the world to read.
The glamorous creator, the feared insider, I represent the mass, I lead their minds.
 I felt all-knowing and a dictator.
I always opined,
they read and complied."

"A dalliance was created, I felt tiny and raw.
Her skills were famous, her name produced awe.
She spoke to those who know it all,
She left the hall,
and I was left humbled,
a new perspective was born."

Whenever i come back, the air on railroad is making the same sounds.
And the shop fronts on holly are dirty words

We peered through the windows... new bottoms on barstools but the people remain the same, with prices inflating.

As if saved from the gallows.
There's a bellow of buzzers and the people stop working and they're all so excited.

Passing through unconscious states.
When i awoke i was on the highway.
I close my eyes and I am not where I should be.

I'm back to where I never belonged. There are files, folders, food and fickle fast thoughts here. My mind strays between desks and decaying corners of the creeking doors, while my fingers do the talking on the plain white sheet. I am distracted and the world is disapproving. While the sands and dry hanging greens once again find a will to live with the patter of every drop, I chew on what is left of a pen. I look out and realise what every moment my eyes and loaded conscious screams out, aloud.

I don't belong where my being is subjected to contradiction. There is no love, then it must be found. There is no love, there is none found. The union of the thoughts are not in compliance with its results. Surely, living inside a fragile cucoon needs a symbiotic relationship with its  indestructible creations.

I need a change. I need not a new life, but a better living.

And so, with the shuffling of the melody inside my head, I swam along the shores of my dreams till I saw the creek, up ahead. I saw there was a distant horizon, an open happy sunshine with none to guide to reach and catch the bright orange. There were no shapes nor shadows. There was nothing.

But there was music.

I proud to be Indian. There was much talk about how this movie title was grammatically incorrect. It should've been either:

I am proud to be an Indian

Or

I, proud to be an Indian

However, as always, we, detail-loving, 'fault finding' DNA fabricated beings always, and always, continue to miss the point. The point being, the movie which was positioned to pump in some essential doses of patriotism in the ones who lived abroad and to get them to realise how wonderful their nation is, and ofcourse, to stand up against the ones who abuse your identity. This much agreed, the original-muscle-man-body-double- pinocchio -nosed-young-brother tried to, rather loudly and aggressively get the point driven home. Love thy country, love thy countrymen and go back home, suckers. A little bit more of wham-bam-thakyou Sam followed, with a feeble sub plot of love thrown in. People came out of the hall, smirking. Hah. "Nice action movie". "Not so nice action movie". I proud to be Indian was substituted by I proud to be an angry bulldozer with great dole-shole.   

Many such movies were made. A highly not-one-scene-not-unoriginal Dhana Dhan Goal, only promised to show' singleexpression man', running around the huge screen in shorts. There was also an item number, and some great clothes, and shoes thrown in. Which all seemed like the main plot. Which wasn't the case. We go back to, love for the country, stay royal, please be proud to be Indian, etc., which was initially, somewhere in the mind of the director, which somewhere, very easily, got overshadowed.

The point here is not an attempt to write an earth-shattering movie review. It's just a thought with a shadow of frustration.  Why aren't we all self-motivated, proud to be Indians? Why can't we do away with films which aim at reformatting our minds to channel them towards a feeling of oneness with our identity?

Maybe it's cool to trash our country. Maybe it's cool to tweet about it too. - Bah, we're in a good-for-nothing-land-of no-good idiots #truestory. Maybe you're right, completely. Maybe you're wrong. The issue is not with the 'maybe you're right', the issue is, have you tried to find out how 'maybe', you could be wrong?

We're in a broken, rickety boat, and we're sailing towards shores we know not. There may be broken fragments peeling off, there may be holes and rusted corners within the boat. However, we do have two things, which cannot be denied, brushed off and contested.

Hope, to reach to the other side of a new world, which is promising

And , we have, well, ourselves.

Hateful, pathetic, and dying as our country maybe. It's so, because we build it that way.

And it's ours to mend.