A flash in a pan

That's how this entire month seems like...I cannot remember the last time something went by so quickly (though I always crib to Pt that it does, I mean it this time)I've written a lot today, been writing on and off since morning but somehow wanted to write here too...There is so much going on in my head, about articles to plan for the next month, ways to stop my hair from falling and stop worrying about why I'm not reading or listening to music much these days that I really needed to clear my head and write...keep writing.

I feel so lazy these days...I've always been lazy but the past couple of months I've taken a turn for worse because nothing excites or arouses me from the deep slumber I'm protruding into. Not reading, not doing anything merely planning and wishing that things would move on their own accord, which damningly never does happen.

Met Vidya Balan a couple of days back and man, she is one focused chick. She went to five places during her 10 hour trip to the city and nearly caused a mini- stampede in the mall I met her. I liked her though...she spoke well and didnt seemed to mind that everyone around her asked her the same questions. I hope The Dirty Picture works, always liked Silk Smitha and hope Balan can revel in some borrowed pride. Hell, no one deserves it more!

November blues

November is one of my most hectic months of the year along with May. November is the time for annual issue which basically means double work at the same pay which is certainly not amusing, it also means that I write so much that any more writing elsewhere means sheer fatigue. The irritants apart, it's a month I really love. One of my closest friends has her birthday this month and it brings cheer like very little things do, also it's beautiful in Hyderabad, with the winter just starting out and the concert/ theater season in full swing. A new tradition rather a revival of the old traditions is underfoot, that of performing at some of the best landmarks of the city, the forts, the palaces and the open grounds are brimming back to life and the background they lend to any event is unparalleled. The flip side being the impossibly long distances...but November also brings to forth the barely concealed fact to light that another year is fast slipping by without any significant achievement or change. It is always astonishing that an year has gone by quietly without any fuss whatsoever.

Months are so imbued with characteristics, January is always filled with the warm glow of possibilities where you think you are making this year count. February is thankfully, always short and spent dreading the impending summer. March is depressing always. Mid year for me, April and May are the fussiest with the unbearable heat and work making it a blur. June is cheerful, and brings a lot of hope along..weather wise or other wise. July marks a lull in work and my life begins again for me. August brings the rains and smiles, optimism and laughter, water and warmth. September and October, with their activities and festivities keep one busty. December is a daze often, spent wondering whether anything of value has been accrued for another year. November brings cheer for me, hard work and pleasure coupled...dinners and conversation... Friends and peace and bliss.

To making every day special!

Impressions

As another power cut makes it's presence felt, I think of the last time I met Jagjit Singh. It was this year, around May when I interviewed him. I have been a huge fan of his phenomenal voice and the depth of its melancholy, that he could generate so much pain struck me as an extraordinary gift. Having seen, the masterful " Arth" and losing myself in the two magnificent gems penned by Kaifi Azmi and sung with a pathos which tears your heart apart...all these thoughts were ringing in my head when I hopped and skipped to meet him. We did meet, for once the press conference was on time and I was almost bursting with an inner cheer that I was meeting a person whose voice was great company, one which does not question and whose presence calms you invisibly. When I started interviewing him, my first question was about his style of singing, to which he asked me about Faiz Ahmed Faiz, the great poet about whom I had only scant knowledge. Then he asked me if I knew his body of work, then refusing to answer any questions... all through the interview all I could see was a person who did not match up to the phenomenal gift he was known for- his voice. I came back that day with a sinking feeling in my heart that a person so big can be so small and chided myself for matching a person and his voice.

Needless to say, that put me off his music for I couldnt imagine liking that. A few months back, I was watching Shyam Benegal's magical " Mammo" in which Jagjit Singh made an entry back into my life with his magical " hazaar baar ruke hum...hazaar baar chale hum" This time I kept the voice away from the man and allowed myself to lose my knot of discord in the impenetrable depth of his sorrow which connects instantly with any one looking for a companion. The nature of sorrow is such that it reaches out to other suffering instantly, attracting it like bees to flowers, you identify the feeling and once the connection is established it is as impossible to breakaway from it as it is from your first love. The quality of Jagjit Singh's voice had that uniqueness... of wrapping itself around you, making it's hold around you so breathlessly quixotic yet rendering you unable to move away from it, divine and all consuming.

When Pt messaged me today that he passed away, I felt a pang that I never listened to him live. Impressions are such fallible, things that they stay with you long after you've turned your back away. Today, I am glad that I met some one like him, though not exactly what I wanted happened, he was a real tangible person who showed me that he was just like you and me: human but blessed with one extraordinary power, that of a voice which comes back to you the minute you shut your eyes.

These bloody Bandhs

I honestly thought I wouldn't write about this but with the madness reaching a crescendo I really wanted to protest my life coming to a grinding standstill with the only way I know...by writing. I've written about Telangana before (2 years back) but this time, the situation is so completely out of order that this is 17th day of an ongoing strike- no buses are running on the roads, with everyone from pujaris, news paper vendors, civic maintenance staff protesting on one day or the day, Hyderabad...this wonderful, magnanimous city of life and laughter is looking worse for wear and disturbingly, is beginning to tear because of the enormity of stupidity available in abundance. The Real estate lobby is crippled, all the IT industries have halted their plans for expansion and with even emergency services like medical aid on a stretcher, none of it is just annoying anymore its unnerving and scary. I am all for protest, protest is an individual right but when it turns into dissent and affects the life of everyone around it needs to be dealt with. The deafening silence of Delhi (busy dousing the flames of 2G) is resonant and I lament the fact that schools are closed, shops are burnt and traffic is thrown out of gear because some extremely jobless people feel like it. Another aspect which scares me is that most of us have become immune to this agitation just like the daily power cuts we are subjected to, indeed, I lived with myself for the past 17 days without even battling an eye lid.

What gives one person the right to disrupt another life and what makes one immune to it? Where will this lead to and what price will we end up paying for this?

Rumblings

When I was growing up I was roundly criticized for not exploring life enough...not many girl friends, not even the usual drinking/drugging retinue, not enough going out and certainly not experimentation. I was always clear as to where I stood and what I wanted. As a 15 year old in a disco, I knew that it was not a place I wanted to go back,ever. The definitive distinction of the parallels and the keen knowledge that they would never ever intersect was sacrosanct and simple. My distractions, my prejudices and my distorted beliefs were my cumulative effort to hold on to the only way of life I knew. Of late though, I've been questioning every action and inaction of mine, every decision I took and take and every choice is under a scanner. Am I growing up or growing older, or are questions merely knife edged extension of the doubts I am clouded under, shrill but omnipresent. I who like order and stability have developed a close knit relationship with chaos of every imaginable kind and the new strains of thoughts, new bouts of uncertainties do not unsettle me, I finally am welcoming them to my fold, not drawing invisible lines around me, not clutching at strings which were never present and not taming the confused cousins of these thoughts. Simple choices sometimes unlock doors which we never know existed and I hope that while this new tide washes over, the old guard only reigns in, not drain out completely.

Change has finally succeeded to seep through the doors, dressed as hope and certainly looks as delicious as desire but will it be as doomed?

Yellow boots and all

- I saw the wonderfully eccentric " That girl in Yellow boots" and was glad that movie makers, from the mainstream are willing to explore bold topics which are still taboo but bringing them out of the closet. Kalki was so delicate yet disturbing and I was really glad that she is getting roles ( albeit from her husband) that bring out the depth in her acting capabilities. Added to that was the wonderful back ground score, loved the movie.

- Interviewed the amazing Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma on the crazy Ganesh viserjan day. He was so tall and so soft spoken and super sarcastic when he told the Novotel PR that when he asked why there weren't any fruits in his room. He got an answer saying that that was a privilege only for VIP's...adding nonchalantly to the PR that he was not important but was merely hungry! The look on that PR's face was priceless!

- Read Aatish Taseer's new book but thought it was bollocks. I know he had a troubled life with an absentee father but three books based on the same premise? Seriously? And look at all female interviewers falling all over him....who ever said that only us poor men ogle?

- Redrawing boundaries, meeting new people and having fun...all of this sounds so weird especially when you've been away a bit but am meeting so many interesting people these days and having fun too.

- My first post from my latest gadget, do I see Sa smirk?

An ode to an old teacher

When I was in School, English was my favorite subject, something I did well in and something that I was interested and intrigued by. When I was in my Seventh standard, a teacher came in who was kind, clever and tolerant, more than anything else she was efficient and encouraged us to find our feet. She taught us for four years, dictation, prose, comprehension, Shakespeare...everything and till date I feel that the debt I owe to her is so immense that life will find a way for me to pay back. As things go, when I heard of her unfortunate and untimely demise I was unaffected and strangely reluctant to think of her. I dont know why, but I did not even react to it respectfully. When I shared this news with Pt, however I couldnt really stop thinking of her, the curved slant of her alphabets, the wry grin when she caught me found reading during a class and the word of praise from her I simply craved for. Grief for me never till now needed a legitimacy but today there was an overwhelming need for it, for something who understood what I felt, for an emotion which is too volatile to describe and for the burgeoning need to tell her and share with her that writing is now a part of my life, all thanks to her.

I last met her almost two years ago, when I took Oscar Wilde's "Picture of Dorian Gray" for her, it was so easy to effectively be back in time again, to call her Maam and try to impress her by wanting to tell her that I was working for a magazine. (which I didnt and now I wish I did) We take things so much for granted, I always reckoned that I could go back and meet her sometime but now that time has passed, that sun has set and that need turned into despair but that memory lingers on, of a warm teacher who rises above personal deficiency to reach out and a sinking feeling in my stomach that a part of my childhood has now achieved closure.

There are now so many things I wish I did, the first one being the thought I should have met her often but what remains is a feeling of gratitude, for teachers who show us the way in so many invisible ways and are never thanked for. For the many choices they offer and are never acknowledged and most importantly for being a part of our lives but never seeking a claim on their contribution.

To Manjula Maam. She who gifted me a love for a language. She, who was there.