August 30, 2011

This is a blog post

So, this one’s about losing touch. Losing touch of time. Losing touch of space. Losing touch of everything in between.

It has been an awful long time since I last wrote, so I have probably lost touch with how to write. Or the idea of an audience, a destination for my thoughts. This one’s about losing touch with my audience.

It has been a long time since I took stock of my roots. A long time since I looked back to where I have come from. This one’s about losing touch of my roots.

A quaint little evening, with a faint smell of happiness in the air, an imminent festivity and not so imminent chill of autumn. A silence that is on the surface, with the noise of restlessness inside, every pair of eyes I look into. This one’s about that silence on the surface.

A city of rotten dreams, dreams of fancy cars shriveled into a rickshaw seat, dreams of 70 mm shrunk into an idiot box, dreams of palaces stinking next to the gutter on the footpath, dreams of happiness pretending to exist in the eyes of unwanted offspring. The city of dreams. Stale dreams, stinking dreams, shriveled and shrunk dreams. This one’s about this city and dreams.

The hurry that knocks you off your feet. The rhythm that’s beating in your head, propelling you forward without letting you wait to take stock. The breakneck speed that gives you no time to breathe. No time to hold onto those happy moments that made up of all your memories. Just because you got the time to hold onto them. No time to look back to your roots. No time to write. This one’s about the rush that makes you lose touch of time and space. And so, this one’s about losing touch.

November 8, 2010

A tale untold..


Well, once I was a peice of cloth.
Too small to cover,
Too weak to protect,
Too tattered to shelter,
So they called me a rag.
There isnt much a rag can be
Apart from a useless part of an otherwise uself whole.
And so I was
Just a rag.
Till I met another rag.
Bigger and stronger
And yet not whole,
Caught in the wind,
Too in-the-flow
To let go.

We were both rags.
Both useless parts of separate useful wholes.
And they stitched us together
The stitchers.
Every stitch
They pierced us with,
Altered who we were
And created who we are.
The needle and thread
Sewed strong bonds
And yet we knew we were
Useless parts of separate useful wholes
Different in every way.
In texture and form
In the way light passed through
Our warp and weft
In the way we absorbed
Or let things glide over.
But we were together.
Bigger together than we were apart.
Slowly becoming
Strong enough
Big enough
And whole.

To them things were different.
To them,
The lookers on,
Together we looked lovely.
Beautiful in our contrast,
And complete.
They loved us,
Named a price,
And we were sold.
To wipe tears and bring smiles.
To bring cheer and look nice.
To just be there
Adorned, adored and awe inspiring.
For some odd reason,
They loved us
As we looked,
Together.

But they all wanted us
And so,
There was tugging
And pulling
Until it grew into a ruthless snatching
And we came undone.
By then we had forgotten how to be rags.
To be small and weak and tattered.
To be useless parts of separate useful wholes.
By then
We knew what
It felt to be loved.
But they gave away,
The stitches.
In the hustle.
And again we were,
Just rags.

As rags
We weathered.
We knew we were parts again.
Useless parts of... yes you know.
But not to them.
They still loved us,
For our form and texture,
For our color and weave.
For the way light passed through
our warp and weft.
For our loveliness,
And they each kept a part.
Apart.

When they pulled the threads away
They saw the holes
That had cut through us.
And overlooked.
You know,
They still thought we were beautiful.
But over time,
All they saw was
The loveliness fading,
The beauty gone.
They saw it reappear.
This thing,
About the way we looked.
And they knew what we were.
What they had made us.
It was then that they knew,
Apart, we would be just rags.
Smaller than before,
Weaker and more incomplete.
So they decided to sew us back together.

But there is this thing with sewing.
The undone cannot
Be redone as is.
As rags again,
We had to be trimmed a little,
Or the stitches would not be
As strong.
And so we were cut,
Made smaller.
Of another shape and size.
Different.
And stitched back together.

It was odd,
The way we looked,
Sewed back together.
Rough edges jutting out.
There was this thing,
That made us a lot less lovely,
Than before.
But yet again,
We became,
This whole that wasnt as whole
As the previous whole.
But was whole.
And that is who we are right now.

The story doesn't end
For none really does.
They all go on.
In a different time
And space.
All I know
Is though we were,
We are not,
Rags anymore.

August 17, 2010

Of Lies and Deception

I always wondered as a child why grown-ups had to lie so much. I particularly remember this one time at the bus stop with Mumma when she was telling someone an incident which was, let’s say, manipulated to sound more interesting. To me it sounded like a lie, the thing that could not be had from me, and I could not fathom why it was being used without a reason. Now that I am all grown up, I can’t say I don’t understand.

If memory serves me right, my initiation into lying came when I was asked to make excuses on behalf of my parents on the phone. Adults hardly realize what they are getting themselves into when they teach kids to lie, because once I understood the art of deception, my parents were my first victims.

Like in the 5th grade for instance, I must have had at least 20 absences from school on account of suffering from diarrhea. A trip to the loo every half hour, 10 minutes in, sound of the flush, the fragrance of soap on my fingers (not to forget he sorry face) and everyone was fooled. When it got too frequent however, Mumma made me come out without flushing, and well, my cover was blown.

Goes to show that the deception can only work well if, firstly, you can systematically control the frequency of your lies and mix them with unabashed honesty once in a while (unabashed honesty to show that you aren’t someone who is afraid of being honest) and secondly, you alternate blatant lies with omission on a few occasions.

A year back I was severely reprimanded by a friend when I chose to make a very unnecessary confession to someone at the risk of (and eventually resulting in) a week’s loss on the self esteem front. He said this –“You girls and your so-and-so-has-a-right-to-know! I just don’t get it. If you know it will get you in trouble, don’t say it! Don’t lie, but just don’t say it!” In retrospect I have to admit he was right. On a very live-for-the-moment level, but wise nonetheless.

There are a lot of layers to lying, owing to the fact that with lies you always have lots of options. I know people who would always use the most bizarre and in-your-face lie, to make it amply clear to you that they are lying and in effect, leave you speechless. I know people who always use the most neatly crafted lies with all the loose ends tied up and leave you with the impression that their lives are right out of a Sommerset Maugham short. I also know, and find most interesting, the people whose lies are very real and extremely ridiculous and hard to believe. The only option left with you in their case is to rely on the wisdom that a lie so ridiculous, can only be the truth, because if they were lying why didn’t they come up with something better? But I am yet to know a person who doesn’t lie.

Imagination plays a key role. Great skill and creativity are required to make us come up with the most unique alternatives to the truth. And hence, they call it the “art” of deception. Look around and I’d say it is one of the most well practiced art forms in the world today. In terms of honesty, there are only two kinds of people here; ones who are good liars (deemed honest) and ones who aren’t (deemed dishonest). If someone asks you to be honest with them, what they really mean nowadays is, either lie and be good at it or don’t lie at all! Consequently, honesty is indeed the best policy (pun intended). But what bothers me into writing so much, is not that people lie. It is the fact that the way things are going, it has become extremely difficult to not lie, and yet coexist at peace with those around you. The facades we all carry are so important to us, that we would rather lie than admit that what people see, when they accidentally peek behind them, is actually true. Is plain honesty really that hard to achieve? And if it is, then shouldn’t lying be made a part of the moral science curriculum, to give every kid a head start?