A breaking thread moment.

I dwell on these, I've been told not to dwell on these by the wise ones I know. I am not the sort to carry advice on my sleeve. I am all about proving people wrong. People and people alike. Self realization - a very basic human notion has been slighted by us - phantoms of fortune. Call me old school, but I am all about bringing it back.

xoxo.

This Woman's work..

Writing Tharoor off came easy and yet we hardly seem to bring to consequence the work of this woman, who leaves behind a crunchingly distasteful legacy of darkness and stone. Estimates of what she might have spent on her beloved statues add up to a whopping 80 crore (including expenses for security and maintenance)

 But the irony of the fact is she hasn't generated enough funds to initiate the Right to Education Act. Yet after being mauled by some bitter criticism she veiled her reluctance to do so by holding the Centre responsible for the implementation of the act.

But apart from everything else one prime clincher that takes us a step further in adjudging her failure as a leader is the absolute lack of compassion. Her refusal to provide for any sort of compensation to the debilitated families of the CRPF jawans who were the unfortunate victims of the Dantewada massacre, while she adorned herself with a multi crore garland  (and diamonds sometime back) is nothing short of appalling.

The goodwill ensconcing the heart of a politician (a leader nonetheless ) has a few obligations if nothing else.

So while we analyze the demise of Tharoor's political career and his foot in the mouth social blunders or Chidambaran's adamant ego that broke down as he tearfully tendered his resignation after owning up to the Dantewada tragedy spare a thought to India's very own army of inglorious politicians who bask loud and clear in the country's backyard and keep getting elected over and over for the years to come, refuting the very possibility of change that there is - that there has to be.

I stop right here, saving us the suspended consequence of our inaction and ignorance amidst a cloud of blatant hypocrisy that persists.

Donald Barthelme

But have you noticed the slight curl at the end of Sam II 's mouth, when he looks at you? It means that he didn't want you to name him Sam II, for one thing, and for two other things it means that he has a sawed-off in his left pant leg, and a baling hook in his right pant leg, and is ready to kill you with either one of them, given the opportunity. The father is taken aback. What he usually says in such a confrontation is,"I changed your diapers for you, little snot." This is not the right thing to say. First, it is not true (mothers change nine diapers out of ten) and second it instantly reminds Sam II what he is mad about. He is mad about being small when you were big, but no, that's not it, he is mad about about being helpless when you were powerful, but no, not that either, he is mad about being contingent when you were necessary, not quite it, he is insane becasue when he loved you, you didn't notice.

- The dead father.

21st cenutry romanticism

He sits there, upstairs like somebody's ghost

I go visit him

I bring him cake

He throws it away

and yet he takes.

Miss Parker and the vicious circle.

Please God, help me write like a man.

-Dorothy Parker.

The edge of reason.

At first there was trouble and nothing more. The land was barren and the fields were unkempt. Slowly we carved a life for ourselves out of trouble. Harvesting  some thought and planting a culture we forged on ahead into a fallacy. Then we grew discontent and weary with the sun, rain, wind and storm. So we walked straight back into trouble.

And then all the madness began.

The day after thunder.

The end of this one sided, constipated conversation was marked by a bitter irony.

So how is it that I end up talking to your ego and not you?

Slam goes the glass.

Ego. The cataclysmic bird that flew way too far only to wind up in a barbed bush.

There..I say and place mine on the table. Half open.

He couldn't part with his though.

The night was starry and stone cold dead. You could whisper and be heard with astounding clarity.

On the night like this I cut that man in two, because what I am looking for is more than a piece of his mind.

So I am having quite a tough time doing the math on my life.
I'd need some help with that.

A Hypochondriac? The buck doesn't stop there.

Me? A Hypochondriac? Quite a baseless allegation.

Though I might have faked panic attacks before Math exams and confounded a few friends here and there with paranoia and a propensity toward self destruction, it was all in good time.

So then it happened.

At a fancy little place. Having some fancy food. It could have been the prawn, chicken or the curd based chutney. I never knew and will never know.

Damn these mosquitoes I said when I came back home.

Where ? asked the others obliviously.

And then there was this maddening heat. But it was only summer.

Two hours after having a very over the top meal, I was famished. Another clue.

So I dug deep into the fridge and bought out some milk. Protein shake at two in the morning. Whoever heard of that.

Woke up on a nauseatingly bright Sunday morning. All good in time except that my hands were swollen and my bulbous fingers stuck out the over ripe palm of my hand.

I itched like an addict denied of the very stash s/he yearned for.

After cooling down under the shower I developed a migraine yet again this couldn't be a post LASIK after effect because it had already been a month since I had gotten it done.

The diagnosis read Cholinergic utricaria : An autoimmune allergic condition (basically a hypersensitive reaction to the body heat) that is supplemented with a host of other unrelated rather stange symptoms ranging from mood swings, depression, migraines etc etc all of which I wasn't a stranger to.

Fancy name huh?

Apart from medication what would help me get better?

Consistent exercise they say.

wtf.

xoxo

But the tweets would continue nonetheless...

It kills me to watch Tharoor walk out of the great Indian political coterie. One last strand of intellectualism wantonly wiped out. Its back to the Mayawati's and Mulamyam Singh's and Narendra Modi's and AXECUSE MI how can we forget -  the Lalu Prasad Yadav's. The nature of this post does not however discuss whether or not Tharoor is guilty, infact considering the twists and loopholes in the system we will never know. Never know what each of them (Lalit Modi and Shashi Tharoor) had on their minds and up their sleeve. So we wish all well in the end.

Lalit Modi can kick back and relax for now and finally zap the deal on the much awaited Gujju team that he so dearly wished to include (pardon the racist ideology..its an anathema that befalls every individual inhabiting this country and I happen to be no different.) So Mr Modi (ermm Lalit ie) you better have your fun while you can. You better do, yeah cmon get kickin with your raunchy cheerleader companions before the IT sleuths come knocking at your door, and the media starts off with an expose' of your haunting criminal records.

All this squabble over nothing. Come on, we deserve better.

As for Tharoor, he ought not to be felt sorry for. An ex UN diplomat and a competent author, he definitely will come across more charming things in life. For now atleast he can tweet in peace without having to worry about another erupting scandal. 

Raising a toast to myself..

I just realized that this happens to be my 101th post. Although unread, unpopular and irregular I believe in a little celebration..So I am going to wear my hair down and ride off into the night.
A presto.
 

Alla

Forty one bloody degrees. With my lemon flavored Fresh Wipes almost nearing exhaustion, I finally decide to step outside the car and wait inside the premises of the clinic. Government run organizations barely provide any respite from the heat (except if you happen to be a politician ie) but I decide to take my chances anyway.

My doc friend signals me a I'll be there in ten and I sit down on one of creaky chairs in the waiting room under the wailing fan and wait.I glance at the local language newspaper lying in front of me and when I realize that I can't read a decent sentence without dissecting it disrespectfully, my shame gets the better of me and I look away.

'Alla? Get back here.'

My first impression of Alla is that of an eleven year old, it is only later that I learn that she is actually twenty two. Her beanstalk like figure patiently waits at the gate and her bony fingers break a crisp biscuit into four neat parts. She hurls those at the stray dogs now gathering around her. The dogs meanwhile trying hard to conceal their surprise at being fed this morning, or any morning for that matter, regard the biscuit pieces with some suspicion. Nonetheless after some sniffing around they quite relish the feel of cream and sugar. They look at her greedily for more, their tails up in the air ready to start wagging as a token of their appreciation. But somewhere in the depths of her tiny brain Alla is disgusted at being regarded with suspicion. She frowns and walks back inside.

Alla is wearing a screaming red blouse that adorns shiny buttons at odd places. It sticks to her and from afar she looks almost flat chested. Below is a terribly long black skirt with pint sized plastic coated mirrors at regular intervals. Wherever she goes, she has to drag herself along to get moving and yet she seems to leave something behind. It indicates her lack of confidence. Her hair is pulled back firmly into a pony that looks ready to be ripped off her head. She looks quite healthy by ordinary standards and beautiful even if it only weren't for the harelip. Her eyes are curious,ovoid and coffee colored.

Ears and nose all well and nicely proportioned.

Only the prescription that she is fiddling with is a bit disturbing so as to speak of.

Chlorpromazine (Largactil)

Haloperidol 10 mg twice daily.

While her mother keeps her baby brother from crying, Alla is folding her prescription paper until there is nothing left of it. How she wishes it just goes away. Once, twice, thrice and there..almost gone. Her mother catches her doing what she is doing and furiously smacks the back of her head while snatching the piece of paper away from her.

Alla is red faced and close to tears. An insult she would remember for quite sometime now. Days even, weeks perhaps. Months later when even the slightest memory of the event has faded to dust, Alla would wake up crying because she just wouldn't forget.

Alla shows the classic symptoms of schizophrenia. It doesn't stop at that she also suffers from a severe version of obsessive compulsive disorder and anxiety. And to think I jokingly referred to myself as an obsessive compulsive maniac, I clearly had no idea what I was talking about.

Alla is terrified of switchboards, my doc friend continues unfazed by my reaction. She thinks that there is someone watching her through those holes. Keyholes are terrifying too, so are cracks and half open curtains. They are all watching. She has actually cello taped every crack and hole back home. She hasn't even spared the toilet seat. Sometimes she won't even go out because she thinks maybe they are watching her though the sky!

While all this sounds like an interestingly high on LSD experience to us, think about what a nightmare it must be for poor Alla.

Alla stands on the brink of a volatile future. Her family can't afford psychiatric treatment, only drugs sometimes to keep her down. Luckily for Alla there are quite a few NGO's that have sprung up as of late and that are championing the cause of mental health and related issues. Alla's parents aren't really convinced of the promise and the future they seem to offer. They want her married off as soon as possible so that she would become someone else's headache. This family of six survives on the father's meager wages as a tailor.

There might a have been nights when Alla must have stayed awake for hours together, while the fear of somebody being out to get her continued haunting her.

Reality escapes her Kafkaesque imagination.

For Alla and the like, happiness lies at the bottom of the chest, covered by layers of guilt, doubt, suspicion and insecurity.

I hope she finds it someday.

Meanwhile the family is wondering at what cost should they bear the burden of this madness that they can never really understand.

'As long as she doesn't kill anybody' says her mother.

I'm thinking..

I am thinking what it is like for youngsters like ourselves to grow up in a confusing and distorted culture of thought and paranoia where the choice to believe or not to is constantly being threatened by the likes of popular culture on one hand and enduring toxic tradition on the other.

I am thinking to what point could our judgements regarding sexuality, freedom, morality, pathos and life be stretched until broken or scarred.

I am thinking at what precise point did the killer think it was alright to shoot and kill.

I am saying this because everyday we are faced with a choice - of seeing a man die, a child beg and a woman fall. Of going to work and not caring, of turning on the telly that displays a plethora of  accidents, affairs, scandals, calamities and realizing that these people on those screens are just like you, and just like you they believe that a good breakfast could start off the day with great enthusiasm and so would a good night's sleep. You could smile at the waiter and not know he doesn't have a home to go to and you could smile at the foxy secretary not knowing that she gets beat up by her man.

Very Quoteable indeed.

Better drunk than a whore I'd say.

-Anthony Hopkins in Short cut to happiness.

Before I left.

I imagined pretty much of a party before I left the city. Endless coffee, conversations and hugs with people I thought I truly cherished. Quite contrary to that the days grow on me while I sit at home. Seems like I have managed to wrap up an extra layer of flesh on me. The other day I read Fireflies in the Garden by Robert Frost.

And I just thought I'd put it in here : Not because I think it has some queer sort of a significance and certainly not because I think I can relate to it but becasue I simply love it

Having just said that I realize the that I have taken the longest time ever to get there- halfway into the gist of those very lovely words.  In the course of an ordinary and rather boring day how many of us do things purely for the love of it? I wouldn't be needing any more fingers than the ones already adorning my pale little hands to make that count.

Fireflies in the Garden

by Robert Frost.

Here come real stars to fill the upper skies

And here on earth come emulating flies

That though they never equal the stars in size

(And they were never really stars at heart)

Achieve at times a very star like start

Only ofcourse they can't sustain the part.

So I am going to keep doing what I do well or atleast I am going to keep trying.So should you.