Friday, January 23, 2004

My blog is going all the way downhill and I cannot seem to fish out some scintillating pieces of blogisms to save my life:) It is at times like these that I resort to spilling the guts...and presenting you with my reading list.

I have been reading Henry Miller "Quiet Days in Clichy" a hedonistic, racy, sexually loaded breezy read. I skimmed it breathlessly...smiled at some turns of phrases, soaked up a little of the parisian whore house atmosphere and was done with it.

Amitav Ghosh's "The Shadow Lines" was next ...A slightly dissapointing read. I confess I enjoyed his documentary style prose in 'In an antique Land' more. This was a quasi-exotic oh-so-quaint-calcutta-lanes kind of book, steeped with longing and immigrant angst! *yeah AGAIN*!

I am preparing myself to get down to doing some real work in the weeks and months ahead. I shall be back with jottings of a, hopefully, more sparkling nature soon.


Thursday, January 01, 2004

Hello World

Sumptious and Sinful Chocolate Cake, Red Wine, Dreamy Muzac, Balmy Bangalore weather, Stars and the easy laughter of 6 other Women! thats how my my corner of the world looked when the clock stuck 12!

Happy New Year All ye readers, may ye multiply in the year ahead;-)

The past few days have been wonderfully Lazy. I am reading a nice book, The Immoralist by Andre Gide, which my Friend Roopa lent me. Also! I have made new friends & found greater joy in the company of my Family! They seem to be growing sweeter by the day, letting me carve out my own space be it in intimate personal spheres, or gently encouraging me while I make professional decisions.

The year ahead seems to be glowing with possibilities. Here's to a Fitter, Fun, Fabled New Year.

Friday, December 26, 2003

Sylvia and Inconclusive LIFE

I am reading Sylvia Plath’s journals. In the early years she seems like a headstrong, impassioned colt like figure. I can almost conjure her up thus (*evil grin*! At imagery ahead): copper red curls cascading down her shoulders while she rides a metaphorical barebacked horse. She is blazing with ideas, grappling with and ranting at her various conflicting needs and identities: page after page.

While it might be fascinating to examine the thought processes of a writer as she/he sifts, sorts and selectively remembers…and reams might be written on how exactly a writer creates a quilt of patched revelations and omissions.

Yes while critics might deconstruct endlessly how omissions say more than the revelations. While I can divine and scorn the fact that each one of us deep down is a sucker for insouciance: for it is “sooo bourgeois” to advertise “effort” and craft is always preferably concealed.

While I belong: to that vague clan, that disbanded band: the ilk of writers and I too can spot the need --to strive--- to retain a throwaway air- from miles away…I don’t DO much of this “peeling away of layers” to a book or its author.

Am I then a disinterested and even more grievously offensive – oblivious to nuances- kind of reader? Or maybe I am vain and petty enough to be unable to concede superior writing? Am I every writer’s secret nightmare! Am I like my dad who reads the publishers address with the same care he does the best lines in the book...Hmmmmm. No

Heaven forbid, though I have been known to like a book for the flimsiest of reasons that I promptly forget at the end of it all….I think I am worse than all of the above; I am at time a non-romantic reader. As I reader, I am what I have never been in real life and in my OWN writing: decidedly non-flamboyant. I am a grounded, straight laced reader.

I have never been “overawed” by books. I have been quietly glowingly appreciative of it in parts, quite endearingly, easily satisfied like a child at a single line et al…but apart from quietly cheering when I stumble upon the much touted “answering chords”, I don’t consciously take books and their characters with me, forevermore.

The case in point is Sylvia Plath, though I find points where I intersect with her- I was a bit like her when I am 18 (save for the manic depressive bouts) - I veer towards violence bought upon by schizoid fits instead- I am not overwhelmed that we have thought and felt alike.

Do I sound as if I feel cheated, that I am unable to be swept away by the book-frenzy that people invoke at lunch tables. Do I sound scornful, resentful:) that everyone seems to be having a jolly rollicking time, No. I don’t quite buy the belief that the measure of great book or even life is just HOW much you are swept away. Am I then going to answer your unasked question and tell you what I think IS the “more correct” measure of how powerful things are? No again. How tactfully boring? Hehehe….no in fact the point I think I am trying to make in my irritatingly convoluted, big unwieldy worded way is THAT! I think there is NO measure of how powerful things REALLY are. Most things in life are wholly inconclusive at least I would like to maintain my inconclusive air…and I hope life never deals with such damning evidence that I will have to run into the security that judgment and watertight values- claim to provide.

Saturday, December 06, 2003

Pedestrian Pictures

Some songs become disgracefully familiar- those are the songs that are relegated to usage when cars reverse. Unseasonably unreasonably cheery they chime “Jingle bells” under an obscene summer sun.

Some words too are firmly resigned to a life of omnipresence, omniscience. They settle stiltedly to form dispensable conversations, almost worse than the awkward pauses they share their spaces with.

Forlorn garish posters of heroines in cyber centres and tea shops– in by lanes we absentmindedly throng, Is there a story these over exposed snapshots of our life ache to tell? Would they recount a tale of milk curdling resentment, indifferent appeasement?

These fragments of thoughts, songs, ideas, words, things - hang around with a faint apologetic air, as if they are secretly ashamed to belong- in a world that has left its grubby fingerprints all over it. Do I hear them clamor halfheartedly for the anonymity and disuse of the past, or is just my over heated and ultimately wordy self again asking to be heard?


I recently visited the Strand Book stall fest. I succumbed to temptation and bought like a DOZEN books, Lord save me. Most of them are books worth owning, non-fictional, non-contextual essays by authors like Saul Bellow, Mario Vargas Llosa etc.

As I was picking out books I chanced upon the- ‘Alchemist’s’ & ‘Fountainhead’s’ & others of their ilk- books trying valiantly to surface from beneath the miasma of mass hysteria to which they had been subject.

As for the newer books, still relatively anonymous, things were not any better. Reading glowing reviews I was amused yet saddened for words used with such abandon. I was bored enough to keep count! Of the number of instances I saw ‘Tour de force’ appear. Every books was ‘a marvel spanning 3 generations’ that exposed the ‘frailty of the human spirit’ ALL while ‘celebrating the quiet strength in each of us. Ah how wonderful that these works could straddle all possible binaries that exist- and then some more.


Usability is a word that I have stumbled upon not so long ago, but you know what, It does not take an expert to figure out that the new version of hotmail does Not have any of those fancy-shmancy ideas at work. I feel like my inherently vast reserves of clumsiness have multiplied many times over, when I cannot open a mail in a new window by clicking on it. All it seems to be is an unequivocal soothing blue while I string colorful curses together. Ok crib over, can someone give me my old hotmail right back?!

Tuesday, November 25, 2003

Strawberry Serenade

If I were a font right now I would be sparkling and doing a shimmery shake~ Today has been a shiny-happy people day. I have just been spent the last few hours being cosetted, having my hair *ironed*, fussed over and streaked! in ruby-red and copper bronze no less.

Rita Spratt, the hair salon owner was a Marvel. I was watching as she brought in insight, expertise, charm and a non-snooty assesment of her clients all in an elegant way! It is a such a pleasure to watch people who enjoy what they do - they help me renew my glow and goofy life-grin all over again.

I have been playing pretend-fashioniasta, reading the scrumptious Martin Amis in fits and starts, working-writing and having a string of late nights lately. Nothing much in my life is blog-worthy:) and I am still waiting to be swept away by an epiphany, moved by a raphsody...until then I shall make do wonderfully with my delecatbly pink shoes and matching hair to boot!

Tuesday, October 21, 2003

Purple Prose!

I am here, at work at 7 am - racoon eyes and bedraggled jacket et al. I looked at the misty mirror in our *ahem* graffiti-stricken, wood paneled lift and felt a sudden pang...In less than a week I shall be nowhere near my workplace of over 1.4 years:)

Purple conference tables, a plaque that proclaims to no one in particular 'Attitude Yogi', espresso downstairs and a chiller-than-thou attitude are just a few of the things that Made my life at PurpleYogi special. I smile to think of the wet-behind-the-ears big eyed chica I was when I breezed in here...seemingly, not much has changed if what I looked at 7 am is anything to go by...

Braving the risk of sounding syrupy, I cast an indulgent eye at our lunches, when conversations would be peppered with stray references to Derrida and Altaf Raja. Existential Angst would attempt to displace animated discussions about the vada pav wala on the 4th street off the 5th bylane (yes in Mumbai).

Hmm, I am happy to leave, but it is not before I wallow in fond rememberances of the people I have met, the conversations I have had and the grown up wings I have sprouted, all while I was supposed to be working.


Friday, October 17, 2003


Brown fingers sear the silky gray
Of my dress as I dab a blue to line
The tumult of my eyes
I smile a smile that is smudged
By your raspy request
that lay, cloying-perfume like in the air

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?