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Ok so I am no poet. I only dabble in poetry in utmost secrecy.  I am just a person with a major issue with leaving things unfinished. I scribbled the first four lines on a sketchbook in class one day simply because I cannot draw well enough to make any sensible doodles. It took me three months but I FINALLY finished it! This piece has been the sole cause of my excruciating writers’ block lasting the said months. And that is the only reason I’m daring to put this up.  Here goes!

A cruel game of love it goes, cupid once chose to play

He, a dark knight and she, the fair queen - the story came to be

A lonely glance, not one word, consumed all lines drawn

A set of rules, a game of chess and all else in between.

It rained lives on the battlefield, the story goes to say

The stench of hope, a peaceful wind with haunting nightmares to keep

The moon in all his silver glory, bright over the crimson ground

Shone over the knight’s studded sword and the queen’s golden crown.

And soon enough they heard, it’s said, a strange melody in the air

A tune so slow, an eerie steady, much too silent to be

As walls collapsed, a fire so great it tore down the guards of will

The Gods of fate sat far above, conspired in misguided glee

A test of loyalty, a clash of faiths – the story then comes to speak

Of sleepless nights under glittering skies, a tale not meant to be

The gift of choice, a bane so great, the truth so wrong and yet so right

For what is choice but a fanning breeze in a storm when destinies collide.

She felled his castle and bishops too; he, her soldiers and her pride

In a perfect world they’d leave it all but not in here- not black and white.

As each raced towards the other’s king, neither did dare look behind

For what they feared was a ray of hope, a promise of release so divine.

His armour glistened in the sun, the rays danced on his shivering arms

A clash here and a quick swish there, the fair king’s neck under his sword

He caught a glimpse of her golden hair, soon swept away in a tide of victory

“Checkmate!” came a disembodied voice, a voice that quivered with boundless joy

The Gods looked down as they rejoiced in the triumph of scripted destiny

And so it ended, another game, another day, yet another loss

But their little game had changed it all, a divisive kink in the chain of fate

That bend all rules, even those of chess, should such a second choice be made.

Put in shackles with her head still high, she watched him lead the victory march

He, the dark knight and she, the fair queen – the story so came to be

He turned around, a second glance that yet again consumed all lines drawn

For today there were no more games and nothing else left in between.

Of Freezes and Falls

I am a dancer. In fact, if you ask me who I am I would probably shuffle between that and ‘I am a writer’ depending on who you are. But in the present context and with reference to this note, I am, first and foremost, a dancer. Because that is what I have been doing from when I can remember. 

There is no rush like the one you get when you are on that stage, the music so loud you almost feel the beat hit your heart and the crowd is cheering you on. Or when you get your ever first standing ovation. Or when in between a routine you look through the corner of your eye and find 8 others in impeccable synchronisation with you. Or when you get good enough to call yourselves a 'dance crew'.

This is my crew - my 'after-hour activity'. And this is one of the best and one of my last times on stage with them. With only 9 very average dancers and a fancy name nobody could really pronounce to start with, you could say we have come a decent enough way. Those 8 hour after-class rehearsal sessions weren't for nothing after all.

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We should be ashamed. Each and every one of us should, right now, be bowing our heads in shame. I do appreciate us coming together in large numbers at the India Gate, shouting slogans in front of the CMs residence, holding all those vigils. Don’t get me wrong for I do laud the sense of brotherhood and comradeship that seems to have awakened in us. But I am ashamed. I am ashamed that it took one girl living out her worst nightmare to bring it out. I fail to comprehend what it is that makes this one girl different from all the others over all those years? That she was raped in a moving bus that plied through some very busy areas of the city while the assault was in progress? Or that she had her intestines pulled out by an iron rod that was thrust into her? Or the fact that she lay naked, exposed and bleeding by the road for quite a while before help arrived? Or is it that she is ‘a fighter’ as her doctor terms it because of her sheer will to live? Because I dare you to tell me that none of the other girls before her had the will to live or the spirit to fight.

‘Amanat’ – because that is what the fourth estate seems to have christened her – is fighting for her life in a lone hospital room. ‘Amanat’.  ‘A priced possession’. Seriously? She is a priced possession because she was brutally raped and violated to the point where she was barely alive? I can bet anything that if there wasn’t a legal clause that made it punishable to divulge the identity of a rape victim, her name, her photograph and almost anything you wanted to know about her would be all over the NEWS by now. The ethics of the media can be called to question here if you care to bring up the girl in Assam who was molested and groped by an entire mob of men as a Cameraman stood by and filmed the entire thing. The media portrays ‘Amanat’ as a heroic survivor. Well, let’s get this straight. She is no hero. She is the victim of a brutal assault that stripped her of more than just her dignity – a simple girl who now faces the horrifying prospect of not being able to eat even a single meal or lead a normal life. The last thing she needs is to come out of that hospital alive and find herself a national celebrity - the involuntary champion of a cause that should have been addressed eons ago. And face the fact that the gruesome details of the attack upon her are the objects of Facebook statuses all over the nation. That would definitely be therapeutic. Do not trick yourself into believing that we are doing her a favour by sensationalising her case and her story. In a way, we are effectively victimising her.

While the entire nation is at India Gate, in front of the TV in anxious wait for ‘Amanats’ recovery or busy changing their display pictures to black dots, there is yet another woman who claims to have been gang-raped in Delhi by five men who were no strangers to her. And an innocent THREE-year old who is fighting for her life in a Mumbai hospital after being raped by her own father. And yet another lifeless body of a girl that has been found somewhere with what the Police call ‘obvious signs of rape’. Tell me they suffered – are suffering - any less. I genuinely commend all those people who are pushing for a change now. Do I support you whole-heartedly? No. Because I feel guilty and guilt makes us want to stop and reflect. Guilty that we turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to all those other women before this. Guilty that we kept quiet as they were publicly and unashamedly blamed for what happened to them – the clothes they wore, the company they kept, the choices they made. Guilty that it took one girl to be assaulted in as brutal a way as had never been heard of before for us to get up from our couches and do something about it. Guilty that I kept quiet – keep quiet – every time I was teased or approached or touched inappropriately by some deprived guy in a very public place.

I sincerely do hope we change something. That we manage to effect more convictions in cases of sexual assault, that we agree on more rigorous punishment than the 7 years we now equal a woman’s dignity to, that we see safer streets and parking garages. But as we push for it all I ask is that we do not use that semi-conscious girl in a hospital bed in Delhi as the reason. All I ask is that we draw on our sense of humanity and morals and keep her out of it all, give her ample space and time for recovery while we fight the battle. All I ask is that we do not further elevate her celebrity status to the point where in the future, irrespective of whether we succeed or not, she will be known as that girl who got raped in a bus in Delhi. That we spare her from those looks of scorn and sympathy, the judgement and the sheer social stigma that comes with it all. Because after the furore has died down and the cause is yet another sheet for our leaders to ponder over, she will be alone in her pain and face it, having publicised it considerably, we will not be there to bear it with her. Hence, all I ask is that we do not fight for her. Instead if we are fighting, let’s fight for us.

To Bollywood, With Love

Bollywood, my love, here is a friendly thought. Stop! Step back. Take a break. Go on a vacation somewhere far way. Refresh. Find yourself once again. Then, come right back. We all need to take a breather once in a while. It is about time you took one too.

I grew up with the ‘Rajs’, the ‘Simrans’, the ‘Rahuls’ and the ‘Anjalis’ you put in my way time and again and you know what? I didn’t mind them one bit. I did not have an issue with the unending fields of mustard, the dancing flowers, the flying dupatta or the train that is invariably leaving the platform. Nor did I mind the dirty cop, the evil mother-in-law, the scheming sister-in-law, the angelic son, the bed-ridden mother, the angry father or the all-forgiving, ideal ‘bahu’ who probably made life difficult for the real-life bahus of the time. So you see? I have taken everything you have thrown my away in near-sportsmanlike spirit – never questioning your efforts or your film-making abilities. But right now, at this very moment in time as your very ardent fan and well-wisher, I am pleading with you to stop!

It all started with Munni. The item song was back! And who better than the girl who made a trend out of dancing on train-tops to do the honours? Munni had just about finished her last ‘thumka’ when Sheila came along blowing her right out of the water. The quintessential‘item number’ had just been redefined. The country was still reeling under the effects of these last ‘numbers’ and the acts that came with it when there came Shalu who claimed to better Munni and Sheila. Now that was saying something. It was quite easy to ignore Shalu. But before I knew it, the item song had caught on! And how! It came to a point where even a, say, serious thriller with controversial political undertones had to have an item song in it. It became an unwritten rule. “Here’s an interesting script! How do we sell it? Let us make a complete mockery of the exceptional storyline, add a fight scene in a bar and then have our heroine strip down to her bare essentials and do a scintillating dance number to a catchy song!”

And then came the Rajnikanth phase. The unanimous laughter to all the jokes was still ringing in my ears when your heroes unashamedly started defying Newton too! Bending bullets, single-handedly decimating an army of highly-built, ferocious thugs, creating tornadoes of dust, riding two bikes at a time in one movie and then two horses in the next. Entertainment! In came Prabhudeva and suddenly Bollywood was in ‘South mode’. Sonakshi Sinha moved in with her dark shades and became the epitome of the crazy village belle who looked extremely South Indian but was somehow expected to fit into a North Indian village setting. ‘Aa ante amalapuram’ became ‘Aa re pritam pyare’ with not one, not two – but three actresses dancing to it. 'Ringa Ringa' turned into 'Dhinka Chika'. Lyrics stopped possessing even the ghosts of sense. Salman was the new Vijay. John was the new Suriya. And Sonakshi Sinha was Trisha, Asin and Nayanthara rolled into one. You churned out movies every week – almost like an essential routine. Your songs, your scripts and even your actors started looking, sounding and seeming the same. Your films went from being visual renditions of stories worth narrating to a bunch of scenes aimed at complementing a heroes biceps or a heroines ‘assets’. You made a movie about heroines, titled it ‘Heroine’ and promptly put in an item song. You could not have been more apt.

So here is the thing. I do not want to watch any more ‘snazzy’, 'bold'  item numbers. I don’t even like the phrase anymore. Being a dancer, that is definitely saying something. I do not want any more six-packs or eight-packs or chiselled bodies that are reminiscent of the very Gods of Greece. I am tired of them all. I do not want to hear about another son of a sardar. I do not want any more size-zeroes. So Bollywood, my love, take a break and redefine your priorities. Give me more of the ‘Rajs’ and ‘Simrans’ for all I care. Or even the evil mother-in-law. Give me substance! Give me ‘Shaitan’. Give me ‘Barfi’. Give me a story. Give me an experience. Give me anything but what you are giving me now. So, stop. Think. And for heavens’ sake, come back when you are ready.

And In Today's Headlines..

I am huge fan of the NEWS. No, I am not the ideal teen who knows everything about everything. But yes, I do like to be aware of what the general populace is up to. And thanks to all those dedicated NEWS channels out there, I do come to know of a lot of high-priority, life-changing stuff. Like how ‘Brangelina’ adopted a kid from yet another impoverished country followed by an hour-long feature on how all their other kids are doing. And there is absolutely no telling you how thankful I am, that on the ‘Abhi-Ash’ wedding, there was ‘Exclusive Coverage’ which included some hazy, extremely unclear video grabs of Aishwarya Rai sitting in a car on her way to the venue. I also heard about Rakhi Sawant’s next attempt at a wedding on national TV, that major twist in the absolutely unpredictable storyline of ‘Balika Vadhu’, the next ‘hot item-number’, the newest size zero, the…  Wait, what did you say again? The Indian Women’s Kabbadi team won the World Cup? No, I did not hear much about that. But hey, did you hear about Sunny Leone?

Remember when all the NEWS we had were those thirty minute bulletins that were aired twice or thrice every day and were presented by average-looking NEWS-readers? Things have changed. The presenters look better. The channels look more sophisticated. Also, the tiniest event is dramatized, enacted or animated and presented with a serious- sounding voice-over that makes it seem like your life just changed. The NEWS is transforming our lives into a slow-paced Hindi soap - with the twists and turns and the vamp we all love to hate but still watch.

Yes, I respect the fourth estate. I am, what one might call, a ‘wannabe’ journalist myself. That said, here is another thing I have noticed. Everything everyone says nowadays is said with the invariable motive of giving the press and the people something to talk about while they busy themselves demolishing the system in smoother, subtler ways. I recently caught a glimpse of a feature on a respected NEWS channel as part of the assembly elections in a state. There was a politician ranting at a public event about how this other politician “gets up at 4 am in the morning, works for 5 hours and then starts drinking”. There was also something about a “Patiala Peg” and how “he takes it neat”. In the era which has redefined ‘corruption’, ‘money-laundering’ and all those other words that can undo a nation, how can we allow a drunk politician to exist? But that is, of course, ignoring the fact that in some of our states, the government itself sells subsidised alcohol. But no! A politician who drinks? Unacceptable! Who cares if he’s qualified or not corrupt or the biggest money-launderer in history? It all fades in comparison to the fact that ‘he takes his drinks neat’, because that right there, is undeniably the perfect yardstick to measure his credibility. The way I see it, this is the only thing the above statement implied. If you can think of a saner motive, I would be extremely interested to know.

We were made to read “A Brave New World” by Aldous Huxley in school. In it, the author suggests that in the future, all important information will be lost in a stream of irrelevant data that will be relayed to us continuously. Now go watch the NEWS. Watch that ‘heart-wrenching’ story of the reality show contestant. Watch the ad for that couch that can be successfully dragged around on rocks for whatever reason without causing any damage whatsoever.  I even remember watching this show where they zoomed in on a picture of a celebrity taken at some event, highlighted a portion of her arm in red and suggested that she needed instant ‘hair-removal’. Imagine the amount of irrelevant things that are being fed into your mind. Not all of us are a Sherlock Holmes with an attic for a mind that holds no data that is irrelevant to his immediate existence. Which is why, while we know of the Copernican theory, we also know how many kilos ‘Ash’ gained after Beti-B.

The NEWS today is tailor-made according to what we ‘want’ to talk about, not what we ‘should’ be hearing. But wait, I am a Libran – born diplomat. Hence I have to say, I also admire NEWS channels who, in times of crisis relay information round the clock (except when they do real bright things like broadcast a telephone conversation with a hostage (who might just be a politician) on National TV that reveals where a large group of targets are hiding inside a terrorist-ridden building). It is the other days I refer to – days when you and I are out of ‘interesting’ topics to gossip about. That is when some NEWS channel promptly throws us bits of information on the latest ‘Bikini Babe’ or the newest set of 8-pack abs and lo! In less than a second, the winning Kabaddi team, the corrupt minister and the martyred soldier become history. And all is right in the world again.

Just Another Train-Ride Home?

There are a few things that I CANNOT travel without. My wallet, my ticket, my phone, my music and/or a book are my primary necessities on a journey. It so happened very recently on an extremely last minute journey back home that I forgot two of these pivotal things – my music and my literature.

And so it came to be that I was sitting at the window in a rather empty train with absolutely nothing to do sharing my seat with an elderly man who did not seem very friendly. After a few minutes of wringing my hand, fixing my hair and reading and re-reading ancient texts in my inbox, I gave up and decided to escape into my last refuge-sleep. I had only just dozed off when another man walked in. Middle-aged with a make-shift French beard and wearing formal clothes, we’ll call him Mr Unemployed. Now, Mr Unemployed starts a conversation with the unfriendly elderly man who in fact turned out to be a politician. So Mr Unemployed and Mr Politician start talking about the roads in Kerala with Mr Politician defending his beloved ruling party in every way possible. Perfect!! And then the tea-vendor comes and they buy two cups for themselves. Nothing abnormal there. Mr Politician says Thank You. Hmm, Mr Polite Politician. Has a ring to it. The vendor leaves and Mr Polite Politician realises that he has been given extra change in return. He gets up immediately, runs after the vendor who is already on the platform and returns what is not his. Mr Polite, Honest Politician! They both finish their tea. Mr.Unemployed promptly throws his cup out the window. Mr Polite, Honest politician decides to wait till the next station, detrains and throws his cup in the dustbin there. A politician who is honest and polite and has a civic sense! Now, I’m impressed!

 And then Cool Student walks in. Faded jeans, a random graphic tee and headphones in his pierced ears. Mr Politician gives him a disapproving look. Mr Unemployed promptly starts a conversation with him too. So it turns out Mr Unemployed was working with something and got laid off during the financial crunch they faced. And after the 15 minute answer he gave to Mr Politician’s query as to what he does now, I figured he just didn’t bother looking for another job. Probably has enough work managing his French beard (which I noticed was dyed black with one strand of white hair left out to add the contrast). Mr Honest Politician detrains and I’m a little disappointed. I direct my attention back to the conversation between Cool Student and Mr.Unemployed. They talk extensively on various subjects of primary importance to every ‘Malayalee’ with Cool Student talking in Manglish (Malayalam with a little bit of heavily accented, grammatically incorrect English thrown in)– only I was just not interested any more.

That’s when Orthodox Pop-in Law walks in. He does a recce of the surroundings, shoots disapproving glances at Cool Student and signals someone waiting behind. In walks, Shy New Wife with Extremely Young Husband. Clad in a burqa that covered every inch of her body except her eyes, she sat next to me coyly as if she was scared to move or talk or show any sign of life whatsoever. I tried desperately to make eye contact with New Wife. Her eyes were fixated on the floor. After a few attempts, she looked at me. The shock in her eyes! She took one look at me in my T-Shirt and tights with my legs propped on the seat, loose hair all over my face and looked down so quickly that I immediately regretted trying to mingle with her. Young Husband, on the other hand, amused me to no extent. He would wait till his father’s eyes shifted from his general direction and then slyly, put his hand on his new wife’s hand, rub his feet against hers or simply look into whatever was visible of her face. It was a scene right out of a cheesy Mallu movie.

Around the same time Cool Student tries to start a conversation with me. “Where are you going?” “What do you do?” “What is your name?”- (runs his hand through his hair Shah Rukh style)-  “Malayalee ano?” Disheartened by the one-word replies, half-hearted nods and grunts he gets in return, he gives up.

 A while later, my station arrives. As I get out of the train to meet my brother and a few cousins, I realise that the journey didn’t seem so long after all. I guess our peculiar fellow-humans are the best entertainment available to us. Each different, each new. For what can a Sherlock or a Bourne do that Cool Student can’t! 

One For The Boy-Who-Lived

I have a confession to make. I was one of those kids who actually waited for their Hogwarts acceptance letter on their eleventh birthday. There, I said it. Call me stupid, impossibly-imaginative, childish or plain obsessed. I am eighteen now and guess what? I still don’t regret it! No, the letter never came. Yes, I was a tad bit disappointed. But no, I certainly don’t regret hoping that it would come. Here is why – because that tiny little tinge of hope kept me excited and happy for weeks. The very thought that something beyond the ordinary, something magical may just happen gave me wings. There was, obviously, the more logical and practical me screaming her lungs out constantly and expressing her displeasure. But for the first and last time, I chose not to listen to her. For all the people out there who just don’t understand what the big deal about the Harry Potter series was, I suggest you ask all the people who do. These books might not go down in history as ‘classics’. But they sure were a phenomenon. They may not be the best-endowed in grammar and literary devices nor are they exactly ‘enriching to the intellect’. However, they are pure entertainment and in their own subtle way, highly enriching at the emotional level. It simply gave people hope. Hope that maybe there is a world intertwined with ours, hidden in plain sight,  that is so similar yet so different, full of magic and extraordinary things, totally disconnected from our mundane lives and where all your dreams are just a flick away.

 JK Rowling was successful where all others failed. She made people believe. She gave them hope and they grabbed on to it as tight as they could. They connected with the orphaned, bespectacled boy wizard with the lightning shaped scar on different levels. For them, it was more than the unfaltering friendship, the love or the triumph of good over evil. It was a world they could escape to. This non-existent world was, ironically, something a surprisingly huge portion of people today believed in and drew hope from, irrespective of nationalities, languages and other irrelevant barriers. Ask yourself when the last time was that the whole world, or at least a huge chunk of it, believed in something together and you’ll find the answer to why Harry Potter became a global phenomenon. He brought the magic back into our lives. He taught us to let go and believe in the impossible.

As for me, I still slip away into my magical hiding place where the biggest academic problem is how to turn water into wine, where I can fly around on broomsticks, my pet is an owl, where luck is liquid and mermaids exist in reality. Let’s just say an eleven year old boy came into my life one day and it hasn’t been the same since.

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