I have been living in a different world for the past two weeks. Days have rushed by with a blur; writers, poets, graphic artists, independent publishers and book designers seem to be spilling onto the Jude campus, the one site where book-creators and –lovers congregate, in the absence of an official annual book fair, courtesy the state government’s indecision in appointing a permanent fair ground. So the campus has ‘literally’ been teeming with academics like John Kerrigan and Jaqueline Rose, writers like Maggie Ferguson and Kunal Basu, independent publishers from Argentina etc, book designers aka Trinankur Banerjee and Pinaki De, and film makers like Anurag Kashyap (Remember No Smoking?). Last week, Robin Robertson swooped down on us, and dazzled all in a poetry-reading session where he read a few of his poems from his latest collection called Swithering which has bagged prestigious literary awards He has worked in publishing for more than twenty years and the books which he helps produce , usually make it to the top ten bestsellers list in the UK. It was such an experience to just sit and listen to someone who has been on both sides of the fence; the side which creates the book in a fundamental sense, and the side which shapes it, moulds it and packages it as a saleable commodity to the public. I had till then, only been a part of the former; I read books, and sometimes buy them, but never had the chance to look into the book-making process as such. Most of us in fact are oblivious to the publishing process , and have little or no idea about the various considerations which go into converting a manuscript into a proper book. Things like book design, the importance of typography, the layout, the cover, chapter divisions, copyright issues, matter so much to a publisher, and affect the ultimate look of the book in numerous ways. But the buyer doesn’t think twice about them, before buying a book, even though he/she might have been attracted to it precisely because of such features, in the first place. I often think that since a publisher does his best to make the book look good, and treats it as a commodity , selling a book is really no better than selling a cake of soap. The only difference is that while there you can print Kareena Kapoor’s face on the wrapper indiscriminately without thinking about which brand it is, here you try and coordinate the subject matter and the form, because even though all soaps are essentially the same, all books are not. So if you’d have to design a cover for a book, you’d first have to know what the book is about. In that sense, book-making is a far more involved process than soap-making. The saddest part is , however, that there are more people on Earth who buy soaps than books.

Post!

I wrote about ten posts in the last ten days. Did you read them? (‘You’ here implies the three and a half people approximately, who read my blog.) I don’t think you did, the primary reason being of course that they are still in my head. All ready, to be posted, with the t’s crossed and the i’s dotted. And ready to go to the press, so to speak. Except for the fact, that I have the inexplicable habit of delaying transference from head to PC, and well, in this case, not transferring at all.

The saddest part is that now I cant remember what they were on. There was one on a sleepover get together with friends. That should have been fun reading, if I would have written about it at all. Suffice it to say, that I did think of including juicy tidbits, like who bitched about whom, how we all sat up till four in the morning talking, and how we planned to make voodoo dolls for unnamable persons, and stick as many pins and needles into them as possible. Being the extra-virtuous souls that we are, we of course didn’t carry out the voodoo plan, but it’s in the background. Just need to buy the pins.

Another blog post was on my version of award ceremonies. Film of the year- Taare Zameen Par, Actor of the Year- Darsheel Safary, and Businessman of the Year- Shah Rukh Khan, for single-handedly maneuvering Om Shanti Om into being the block-buster of the year. Come to think of it, srk has turned out to be my cheese omelette, and for people, who don’t have any clue what I’m talking about, please ignore. Its one of my enigmatic lines; I make sure to put a couple in each post.

One of the reasons why I have not been able to post in spite of hoarding up such post-able material in the head, is that I have been having 12- hour workdays at the end of which I’m only capable of shoveling food in and sleeping. If I feel too energetic, I stare at ‘sarabhai vs. sarabhai’ on star one, and then go to bed.

Such is life.

A balancing act.

A flurry of movement.

A tango in stilettos.


And I don’t want to slow down.

Me and Me!

There is something magical and ethereal about the river. As far back as I can remember, I have always loved going to the riverside. Especially the ganges, in kolkata. Other rivers which flow past alien cities do not hold the same charm and the same nonchalance which the ganges does. It is frothy and exuberant, cheekily lapping against the banks, with gay abandon, answering their stolidity with quicksilver charm. And yet possessing unfathomable depth and a serene stillness, a grace and a certain reserve, a quiet shyness in the way it calmly flows on in tandem with time. Standing on the bank, staring, we are mere spectators. Sailing on a boat, with a canopy of twinkling diamonds overhead, we can feel the blueness of the water slip through our fingers, but not hold it for long. The fisherman on the nauka can only gauge its exuberant surface, and the fish which lie on its bottom, only its depth. It is , for me, a hazy dream. Elusive in its entirety, the river, is dreamt by both the fisherman and the fish, but realized only by the sea, its ultimate destination. I went to the riverside with my friends the other day as someone, I think it was Anarkali, had wanted to go to Scoop, the icecream parlour, which stands on the banks. We saw and walked past couples, children, old people, hawkers, balloon-sellers, and boatmen, for hours, talking , till the moon peeped out from a tuft of clouds, and R-fish, a friend of mine, said that it reminded her of a song (I forget which) from a Bengali classic. The river, and the moon seen through the veil of a tree’s dark branches, she said. I said it reminded me of Vikram Seth. And someone else suddenly started talking about Milind Soman, I don’t really know why. The river has different effects on different people, I guess; bringing up impressions and memories of times past . We soon left for home after that.

Talking of home, I have painted my room in shades of yellow and I think my brother is going to have a fit when he sees it. Somehow he’s got the idea that yellow equals fluorescent. Considering that my cousin, D, had suggested writing graphiti on one whole wall, and my friend R-fish suggested painting it ‘like a picture of , say, the African serengeti’ , I think that I took the wise path. Yellow looks good. I like yellow.

In other news, I have also turned out to be a surprisingly good cook and revised the phrase ‘necessity is the mother of invention’ to ‘necessity is the key to cultivating culinary skills.’ I should actually thank my mother’s genes for this, because she is the best-est cook in the whole wide world. Relatives and friends from near and far ring her up to beg her into revealing her secret recipes. Which ranges from succulent roast chicken in a smooth spicy gravy to milky-white creamy firni, which melts in your mouth. My father, on the other hand, will not be able to boil an egg, even if you put a gun to his head. He is most likely to say ‘Ofcourse I can do it!’ and then shout twice; once for someone to go get him an egg, and the next time to find someone who can drop it in a pot of water. He is the original Uncle Podger. His Uncle Podgeriness has however not stopped him from becoming a very strict judge when it comes to food and he ranges from ‘I don’t think I’ll have lunch today’ (which is zero) to ‘not bad’ (which is ten) on a scale of 0-10. I have been consistently getting a nonchalant ‘it’s ok’ which is like 9 out of 10 , everyday for the past two months. Enough to establish my credentials as the true janasheen, of the culinary department of the Azim khandaan. So, till another river trip or till I cook up something more interesting than this, ciao.

Quotable Quotes from the Land of Jude

Sometimes they teach, but most of the times, this is what they do. My profs rock!!


* “For a long time I have been taking classes with two people. Sometimes three. This is so disconcerting.”
- Prof PB, on being faced with a class of 40-odd.



* Amlanda in a Milton class: " There's no help for it, really... no help at all... you know, they say this when a man is going to get killed... well, as I see it... we shall have to read the whole of Paradise Lost."


* Dibyajyoti: “He goes to Hell…”
Prof SukChau: “Yes. But he doesn’t stay there, poor man..”
-on wanting to know the story of The Divine Comedy.



* “Bertrand Russell’s third wife – he had many wives and girlfriends – he really really did believe in free love.”

-Prof PC, on Bertrand Russell.


* On having been sent by Amlanda to tell Prof SKC ( the Don) that there’s a phonecall for him at the office

Me: Sir, there’s a phone call for you..
Prof. SKC: Is the person on the other end attractive?
Me: Umm, that’s impossible to know, Sir..
Prof. SKC: Ask, ask..you must always ask.
Me: Well, Amlanda (another prof) is doing all the asking
Prof SKC: Then it must be my wife!

After going and receiving the call, he continues, ‘That was a singularly unattractive gentleman professor from Burdwan who wants to get his daughter into the department. I am not receiving any calls you bring me news of ever again!’



* “In the first scene of the movie Henslowe is being tortured for failing to pay back money. Henslowe had enough money to buy all the torturers of England at one go. But who wants reality when you can watch Gweneth Paltrow? --Prof SKC on the film, Shakespeare in Love.




Toocool. :)

Bovine Intervention

Governmental agency, is undisputedly, the rock-star when it comes to planting superfluous and baffling objects in public places, and giving everyone a sore-eyeful. No, I’m not talking about Prasun Mukherjee here, in case you thought so. What I am talking about, is the cow, or rather, the clay model of what can only in the most benevolent of moods be termed a ‘cow’ , in the heart of a newly opened jogger’s park in kolkata, called Elliott park.

I happened to go there yesterday, with M and a friend of hers, N. Having heard about its beautiful rolling lawns, and abundance of multi-colored flora, and having a bit of time to spare, on route to our final destination, the three of us enthusiastically threw away good ol’ hard earned money (they actually charge you for entrance to the blighted place!) anticipating much pleasure, and respite. I was feeling quite proud of myself by then, to have actually entered a jogger’s park. It was something I had been planning to do, for approximately the last three and a half years ( “walking..it’s the best thing..the air does wonders for your skin, too, you know..and anyway, you’ll get into the habit of getting up early..getting up early..it’s the best thing ..”) , but hey, its never to late to start, is it?..

Half an hour later, I knew how right I’d been all along to avoid all such avowedly health-enhancing practices. I had seen the ‘cow’. And whoever has seen it, will know how dangerous such sightings can be to the general health, mental stability and aesthetic sense of any unsuspecting soul. It was a bit of a camel and a cow, with a tiger’s paws, and a dog’s tail. Also, not to forget the lolling bit of red tongue. And this intruiging entity, mysteriously stuck in the center of a bed of rongons and jabas. The tenth cow, Khushwant Singh would have said, but unholy and of suspicious pedigree.

I would really like to meet the sort of people who get these brilliant ideas, and get away with it. Without due recognition and acknowledgement. But that , my friend, is precisely the case with them . You never see who planned with malicious glee, with a rub of the palms and a glint in the eye, who did the offensive act, who put it there. It seems to just spring up from the ground, drop from thin air. It has no origin and no end. It remains unchallenged and unsullied. It’s the govt.’s way of making life beautiful, we all know, but hey, Buddhadeb Bhattarjee didn’t come in the dead of night and stick it there, did he?

It’s a mystery worthy of Holmes and his elementary sidekick. And till its solved and the criminals duly punished, I hope and pray that we are spared from further aestheticising enterprises. Take away the cow, take away the hideous sculptures from the Nandan complex, take away the mysterious hoardings which show a couple of grinning men, and the line ‘friendship between brothers’ or words to that (sniggering) effect written below them. The city of Kolkata does not deserve them. It is an artist’s city; but if this is art, we could do very well without it.

incoherent ramblings

I have been ill for the past few days. Fever, headache, the works. I am told that I should value the royal treatment I’m getting right now, because there may be a time when I possibly wont be pampered this way. Sigh. Yes, people keep telling me all sorts of horror stories. And I used to think that I’m the only subject matter expert when it comes to those.

There is something serenely delicious about listening to a song like saiyyan on my ipod in the dead of night. The rhythmic pulsating music and the hauntingly beautiful lyrics beat a pattern in the still air like a butterfly fluttering its shivering wings and weaving its meandering way through the fragnant moonlight. And to think that no one apart from me can hear it. It’s almost like eavesdropping on a private conversation without too much guilt.

Apparently, I’m not. Infact, the blogsphere is replete with examples of people who insist on writing only horror stories. Bad relationships, grueling work schedule, james bond-ish relatives who kill with a smile..you name it, they have it. I know life isn’t all hunky-dory but surely once in a while there could be something nice and pleasant to write home about? The most likely cause for this is that the horror stories make good reading and therefore attract more and more blogreaders. Kind of like a ‘lets see whose linen is the dirtiest today, shall we?’ community, maybe. As real and as depressing, as say, world news.

I have been watching Indian idol a lot. Maybe I too have the lowest common denominator taste when it comes to television. But its quite entertaining, really. Most of them are very good singers who probably learnt to sing flawlessly at the age of three and are too busy now trying to learn to be modest about the whole thing. The judges are more entertaining, actually. Especially udit narayan. He’s just not right for this sort of show, where you are expected to walk off the stage every now and then and defend your favourite with flared nostrils and high decibels. He’s the kind of person who probably utters two words in three hours and that too with hesitation. Decision-making doesn’t come naturally to him. ‘Aapne accha gaya’ he mostly opines; with a half an hour interval between two words.

I quite like Shashi Tharoor. He writes a weekly column for the Sunday times. When kids collected stamps, as part of a necessary childhood ritual, he knew about the Slovaks and Yugoslavia and the Gulf war. There was a time when I was similarly interested in world politics but as I learnt, world news, especially the daily suicide bombings in the mid-east can be grueling daily consumption for anyone. Its kind of ironic, that while things like these keep happening, and give enough reason for depression, I do remain contentedly happy at a different level of consciousness. What a bundle of contradictions we humans are. Like a Japanese doll. Layers within layers.

What if decisions could be outsourced? You don’t know what to wear and you get a phonecall and you know. Or you don’t know which girl to get married to and the next time you see someone, she has a big tick-mark on her forehead. No rational planning involved. No intense internal monologues. In a sense, decisions are outsourced. Someone up there makes up our minds for us; we just realize it later. We have to discover the decision , after it has already been made. I just wish the process of discovery could be made easier.

my first story, barring the one i wrote about the dentist and sadly didnt get published

Every year the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival celebrates the spirit of Mumbai with a week long cultural programme. It incorporates film screenings, dance performances, music recitals, food festivals, plays, creative writing workshops, visual arts exhibitions and heritage walks. It also hosts a number of competitions, such as the Flash Fiction contest; encouraging awareness about the arts and urging people to give expression to the dormant creativity in them.

Flash Fiction (also called micro-fiction or short-shorts) presents a simple challenge: tell a story with all the classical elements: a beginning, middle and end, a conflict and resolution, a credible protagonist…but do so in a very limited number of words.

Here’s an attempt.


She was a pretty, young thing. In fact, I quite liked her. But the day she rolled her eyes and said, with a short, sharp laugh, ‘Love, what’s love? It’s all rubbish, yaar’ to her best buddy who was nursing a broken heart, I knew I had to step in. I stalked her day and night, hiding my boyish golden curls under a cap and my bow and arrows in a huge slingbag. I followed her wherever she went; watched her keenly when she interacted with people. But she was close, very close. And then, one day I saw it. Her eyes danced as she spoke to her boss, her smile a bit too ready to please. I knew then that I had won. I strung an arrow to my bow and let it fly. It struck her heart in the middle of a conversation with him. She suddenly blushed and stuttered. ‘Ha!’, I exclaimed, ‘there, done’.
Revenge was sweet. Very sweet.