Friday, December 31, 2010

Steppin' on 2011

Another five hours and kaboom!, we present you 2011. :)
So like every year, since 2008, I shall now write a farewell note to 2010 and welcome 2011. That's a little hard to do when you can't remember much about the year that went by, but at the same time, remember the slightest of things in the most intricate way possible. (Dear readers, I've stopped making sense) :)

Anyhow. The past year has been no exception to being a roller coaster ride. It had everything, starting from new experiences like the Boards, new people, new things, wants, ambitions, love,drifting apart, friendship, heart breaks, achievements, euphoria, epiphanies..
11th grade was supposed to be the year of adventure and self-realization, yada yada. Well all of that happened. Shit happened. A LOT of it. I was hardly in class the whole year, cause I was either out on a competition or up to something else. 11th grade taught me what's it like to actually fail a subject, and laugh about it. 11th grade initiated new friendships, fun, laughs, jokes, pet names.

Apart from school, year '10 has kicked some serious sense in to me. I figured it's useless screwing your head over things and people. It's just not worth it. At the end of the day we all are individuals with different lives, thoughts, and everybody wants different things. There's no point expecting a lot out of people cause you end up with disappointment. Not always, but that's where the difference lies. The expectations that have to be full filled will be, the one's which don't- there's not point screwing your day and head up for it.
I've learnt to chill. To be on my own, pay heed to things and people who pay heed me and be happy with life around me, and let it be.. Yeap, I sure have learnt to let it be. Things will work out if they have to, and if they don't- I've learnt to move ahead.

Like every year, I made good decisions, and bad ones. And like always, I don't regret them. None at all. Few achievements that  I made this year made me very very proud of myself, and I'm glad I could live up to my own expectations.. There was a point of time when I felt absolutely unworthy and untalented, but it was a phase and it's passed. I've learnt that at times, you need to figure out what you want, and not always worry about the rest of the world. It's not worth it, if it doesn't make you satisfied and happy. There's no point being sad and upset about some nagging thought or reason that keeps you dead and deprives you the adrenal of the living. Cause I swear, as the cliched goes, life's too short- you need to live it. Not for the world, but for yourself. People who have to stay will stay, forcing any body's presence won't etch that person in your book, it'll only erode the feeble remains of the good memories you might have made together. When something ends for the good, it's better to just close it with the final dot and treasure it as an experience that helped you grow and made you smile.

As the past year reflects on my mind, I'm so happy and content.. cause the people in it are the ones I always hoped for. Few people have been a rock solid pillar for me, through thick and thin.. They've truly helped me realize myself and the latent strength that was dormant in me. I've realized that there are some relations that'll never fade away....cause they're a part of what I am now, and they'll grow old with me :)

I might not ever be perfect, I'm not competing for it either. I'm flawed. I'm happy for what I am, and I hope to always toast a cheer to what a beautiful bokeh of colors my life is becoming with each and every second ticking by with the imperfection of perfect people, things, and the time- that's only running, but I'm catching up well with it :)

For those of you who're in my life and those who are about to enter in--- A very happy new year to all of you. It's been a joyride and it just becomes better and better with time, as you guys multiply and my entourage just grows bigger and brighter.
For those of you who aren't --- I wish you all the same, and good luck. And whatever the reason be for drifting apart, for the good or the worst- I am sure to miss you somewhere, some how, in some odd minute of the day :)

Cheers to all of you guys, and lets bring in 2011!



Much love,regards and well wishes,
Nil.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

I like to sleep like a log.

Good morning, World. I woke up a bit back and I slept like a frikkking LOG today! After a very long time. Hardly got any sleep last night, so I figured I'd sleep in the sick room in school........but when you have an annual day in a week, the teachers are on the hunt for office bearers. Try coming in sometime during the annual preps, students with badges almost look like slaves being sold in the auditorium to the smartest of teachers. And no, I'm not trying to be funny.
Anyhooo. Coming back to sleeping like a log. I've never been the sort to sleep in the afternoons.. Irrelevant.

Okay so I don't remember studying in school in the past....two weeks? Cause that requires being in class which is a criteria I'm most opposed to when you're given the opportunity to "work" for the grand annual day preps. (LOL grand my rear). But the rehearsals are crazy fun. Today morning was EPIC. The drama teacher's pretty much never been real-life in his whole career, cause his normal self is so effing melo dramatic!
Speaking of which, mind you, I'll be dancing in the beaches of Goa when our Grand Annual Day is executed. I'm just merely helping.
YES. Oh yes, hate me some more darlings, I shall be in Goa in a weeeeeeeeeek! :D 
I've had bloody enough of Delhi, and so I resigned to the beach which is the ultimate feel-good runaway. (had enough of mountains this year!).. I can't even WAIT to be there in the middle of a nice beach, a nice hat, shades, naariyal paani, and a good read!
I can taste heaven already =D



I'm really looking forward to 2011. Cause I'll be off for a trip again in the very first week with school friends. Considering it's my last trip in school life, I'm pretty damn sure there's going to be some Major partying, ladies and gentlemen. And theennnn, I shall come back only to start afresh and hope that year '11 will be better than 2010. I mean not that 2010 was bad, but surely not what I'd preferred. Anyhow, that's alright. I'll be in 12th grade in about six months, or less actually. Yay? maybe not. I'm looking forward to it anyway. 11th was kinda... laid back? really REALLY laid back. I mean sure there was a lot to work for, but 12th grade's going to sort of be.. a bigger push to work on something and kick some ass, if you know what I mean?

Yes, I ramble a lot when I wake up. A LOT.

okay it's about to be 11 and I shall go back to sleep now and look forward to the Delhi trippy that's due tomorrow : )

Gnite, World.
Peace out.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Wild and flawed.

A perfect isolation, a perfect sculpture, a perfect skin, a perfect language, a perfect person.

What a waste. :) 


What's isolation without the anxiety of interference?
What's a sculpture without a missing angle to think more about the artist?
What's skin without the signs of youth or age?
What's language without tongue twisters that make you smile?
What's a person without accepting a perfect blend of flaws and perfection with love? What's a perfect person worth if you can't feel a human touch? 


I adore flaws, I adore wild. For perfection is something that I might appreciate but rather not have. Not by the world's definition, no.  For perfection to me is a mosaic with just enough colors to confuse me and help me think straight. Perfection, to me, is a hue that lasts just long enough for me to want to remember it as long as my mind allows and my heart enjoys. Perfection to me is a mad glint of brilliance and innocence on an uncared face which still commands respect.
For perfection, to me....is wild and flawed. Very very flawed. :) 


-Nil. 


Wednesday, December 15, 2010

We want some rant!

Do you know how annoying can winter get? Specially for people like me who don't believe in sweaters? Every time I go on Facebook, I see cheesy people ranting on about how winter reminds them of love, romance, memories, songs, sobs, sobs, sobs, blah blah yada yada. Which is awesome for them. No offense, really. And in usual days, it wouldn't bother me. I give a penguin's feather to what people think of winter. And weirdly enough I actually started liking the season. But no. Winter feels crap now cause it's just so.......woolen.
yea, I'm weird. deal with it.

And JUST when I'm in a mood to rant about all the miseries and fortunes of my life, my darrrling mother calls to tell me that I'm supposed to move my rear and get ready for a wedding to which I don't intend to go to. But some how, I have a very funny feeling that she'll chop my head of into tiny pieces and feed them to my loving dog who's always hungry and happy.
If you haven't figured already, I'm talking from in between my teeth, and just cause I sound sweet doesn't really mean that I'm very happy about the on-goings of my crazy residence at this very moment when I can hear TV shows at full volume, my brother listening to his bike roar (he's always been peculiar), the dog barking and not to mention THE COLD.
AND IN THAT COLD, I AM TO DRESS UP FOR A FREAKING WEDDING AND LOOK PRESENTABLE WHEN ALL I WANT TO DO right NOW IS BURY MYSELF INSIDE A HEATER AND BLOG FROM THERE, if there's any connection.

I'm sorry if that hurt your eardrum. Actually, I'm not.
So this week has been eventful. VERY nice, actually. Getting into details will make me happy, but today is one of those days that I'd rather be grumpy in. You know what I mean, right? so don't text me, do yourself that favour. Or else, you shall receive a reply in upper case which will be a spectrum of delightful screams and shouts. Thank you very much.

Now. I should switch my computer off which gets to sit at home and chill every day, without having to worry about food, clothing, grades, people or WEDDINGS.

I'm irritated.
Bye.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

The asylum's sleep.

He read her name in the newspapers.. Sipping his black coffee, the one with the perfect blend, he flinched. Confused if it was the bitterness of the taste, or the bitterness that penetrated his insides. He knew her..Oh he knew her so well. The long years of bereft had left him puzzled staring at the newspaper.. the old dust of comfort, the comfort of escaping had only been too thick to be splashed over with water and the carvings of memories to be revealed.

"You know Tarun, you're forcing and letting go off people. People who're trying to hold on to you so tight that they're the one's who bled. And the stains of those remain on the cloth you just merely shrugged off.. but when the time comes, and when the smell of those blood stains get unbearable, you'll try to wash them away but they'll keep disappearing and appearing again.. and again.. that will ultimately lead to lunacy."  - he remembered what Rajji mama told him once..


His phone rung. He didn't pay attention to it, and kept staring at the photograph. The photograph of that one woman he hadn't slept with. Of that one woman he hadn't hidden anything from. Of that one woman he found a best friend in. Of that one woman he tore out of his life. 


He remembered those long walks in the street behind her house. The one time when they both walked in silence with their respective packets of  uncle chips. The one time when they both had so much to talk about that they literally completed each other's sentences.
He remembered all those 18 years of winter, summer, spring, autumn. They literally saw each other grow up.

His phone rang the second time. He ignored it, yet again.
..... He heard the heaven's growl, up above. They were soon going to cry to the dominating black clouds. Just as denial stepped into his eyes...his heart. Just as he chose to be oblivious. Just as he slowly and strongly detached her from the delicate mirage of raw cotton threads loosely knot together- his life. Just as he stopped responding to her efforts.....and just how finally, one day, she gave up... and cut his call the one time that he bothered calling back. That was the last call he made.

~*~*~*~*

"Oh Mr. Shah, the bell for dinner rung twice! Why haven't you reported yet?!" -- the nurse came bustling in and ranting. The nurse of the asylum.

"What? Who are you!? What are you doing in MY house? Security!!" 


"Oh dear you haven't had your medications for the day have you darling? .. oh dear.." - The nurse said sympathetically, reaching out for the sedatives.

"Medications? What, don't you see? I'm enjoying my coffee and reading about my old friend! who are You?!" 


The nurse looked at the glass of water that he fumbled to hold like a coffee mug.

"Mr. Sha---" 


"OH so it was you who tried calling me! Don't you understand it's not nice to disturb people while they're busy, m'love? I'm meeting an old friend after a long time" ; he said, a dangerously lopsided smile as a mad glint trickled into his eyes.

"No, Mr. Shah. You don't have a phone. It was the dinner bell. This is not your house. You're here in a mental asylum, and you're doing really well for recovery, Mr. Shaa--- " 


"NO NO NO! I'M IN MY HOUSE! I ... I AM TARUN SHAH. DON'T YOU TOUCH MY COFFEE! YOU CAN NEVER MAKE THE PERFECT BLEND! LET ME LOOK AT MY MANJARI! I'VE SEEN HER AFTER SO LONG. .OH GOD OH I.. I .. missed my dear dear friend so much!" ; as he resigned to violent tears......

"Guards! some help here.. the periodic attack, come quick!" - the nurse yelled out. And the guards followed to handle something that they were only too used to, and were well practiced for.. It was getting worse with Tarun's age..

As the asylum heard the cries and shouts of Tarun Shah the second time that day, the sedatives slowly lulled him to sleep. Sleep that was dreamless, uncomfortable, and filled with an unexplained longing. The longing to reach out, to reach back to those 18 years of the four seasons when life was only simpler, and escaping was never an option for him.... When he'd never give up on his bestest of friend, Manjari..

While Manjari's face on the newspaper smiled- white and lifeless- as the headlines screamed the death of a famous dancer. 



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Photography Credits: Niloy Ghosh Dastidar.
And I'd like to take this perfect opportunity to introduce this amazing photographer's (a very dear best friend of mine) recently started Photo Blog. You can check it out Here. I'd advice you not to miss it! :)

Awaiting all your feed backs on this one!
-Cheers,
Nil.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Dear mom and dad

Dear mom and dad,
Hi. It's 12:45am and I'm blogging, and you hate that. You hate the fact that I'm always up so late, working on something or the other glued to the laptop and earphones stuck to my ears. You dislike the fact that I'm so tech-savy. You dislike the fact that I text so much and am on the phone pretty often. You don't like it when I read novels till 3am in the morning, you disagree strongly with my sleeping cycle. You don't think I get enough sleep. You think I'm exploiting the limits to which my body and mind can take "it". 
And I agree. I am. But hey mom, I'm 16. That's how every teenager grows up. That's how your daughter will grow up. And I know somewhere behind all the shouting and the protests, you're okay with that. You know it's natural. 


Over the past few years, there's been so many transitions in me. The metamorphosis isn't over yet, and it shall continue for a while. And perhaps you're more aware of that fact than me. 
I'm in this phase where I feel like this tiny ant staring out to the world with dazed eyes. Extremely excited about what awaits me, and etremely scared at what I might have to go through in the journey of reaching my goals, as well.  I'm discovering places, people, emotions, paths, ideas that are new to me and become old by the clock ticking by in seconds. I'm extremely sorted and confused at the same time. I make mistakes. SO many of them in a single day.. and to be quite honest, I enjoy making them. For I have the liberty to, everybody does. That's how we learn the same lesson every time, only in different ways. I heard that thought from a dear friend of mine, and it really did leave an impact. I will keep making mistakes, and I'll keep learning, and forgetting, and learning again.
All I'm saying is, trust me. Trust your daughter with her decisions, she won't let you down :) 


I'm a happy person. I know I have the saddest face when I'm off, I know even more that it upsets you both more than anyone even if you don't show it all the time. But I need you to know that I'm content and satisfied with the person I am and with the person you have made me. Sure, I struggle to be something better everyday, and that fight will go on till the very last day of my life (god I'm just 16) ... but don't worry about how I feel about myself. You both have taught me to rely on emotions and rationality- both. You have taught me love. And perhaps that is why, I have a strong faith. A faith which is not about idols, gods or goddesses. . but about the fact that good things happen to good people. Sure, life can be unfair at times. But that's alright. What's life without a pinch of salt and sadness? We'd never learn to truly appreciate happiness then :) 


Mom...... you're the most amazing lady I've ever come across. The amount of strength your hands and heart hold, perhaps an army full of soldiers wouldn't be enough to substitute that. You've been just the right balance of strictness and easy-going. I might not tell you all of this when we fight, but it's important for you to know that I couldn't go a day without you. Even as I write this, I swear my eyes are moist and there's a weird lump in my throat. Your girl has always been the sentimental kinds, you can't blame her. She's seen so much of love and felt so much warmth. She's bound to be over whelmed! 


Dad.. you're my hero :)  I mean it. Perhaps if I could even be a quarter of the kind of person you are, I'd be the happiest person on Earth. It doesn't matter how young I was or how old you grow, you'd always be the strongest man I'd have ever come across. Your humanity and immodesty of the zillion achievements leave me in awe.. I look upto you so much, baba. I just really hope I can make you proud some day.


I respect the both of you with all my heart. I could never love anyone more. For all those years of childhood and all these years of difficult teens, I could never thank you enough for being there for me, always, rock solid. I could never equal up to the kind of living legends you are to my eyes, and I only hope to be like the two of you to my kid. 


Mom, I know you hate the fact that I don't take care of my skin. That I look so wild all the time. So unruly. So casual. "Such a boy" -- as you put it. But your daughter is growing up, and she'll learn all of it. And I know you know that better than me.
And dad, I'll try to give in more hours to math okay! .. That's a very tiny request compared to all the kilos of requests you've fulfilled for me :) 


I want you both to know that I'm a better person cause of the two of you. I'm writing this letter tonight because I feel it was important for me to let you both know a few facts and figures about your kid ;) 
Cause I know you guys are anxious and worried about me growing up, just like me :) 


Don't worry. I'm on my own, with your shadows never being out of sight. And that's going to keep me going to places we all hope for. I love you both, and I could never thank you enough for the unconditional support you both have given me- be it writing, dancing, studies, or whatever. You've been there, and the best part is, you've never disliked me making mistakes. You've just always taught me to be careful the next time and learn well the lessons that every mistake taught.
Maybe that is why, I'm bold enough to stand up for myself, shout a different opinion, and hope to make a difference. 
For hope is what keeps us going. :) 


I should go now. I promise I'll do only five.. okay ten more minutes of Facebook, and then go to sleep :)
Goodnight mom and dad,
see you tomorrow when you two try to drag me out of bed for school :) 


-Your only and only crazy daughter.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

.....of busy weeks and catching up :)

Hello there folks. So I've had a crazy week. It's been packed with something or the other to do, and I enjoyed it :) Cause it wasn't the pissed-off-busy, but happy-busy. Yes, I know, I know. I've stopped making sense. But that's what you can expect out of a sixteen year old after a week of madenning rush. Anyhow. The starting of the weekend was amazing. The movies and then dinner :) After quite a long time, I went back to being random and found an old friend, again. It was fantastic to get out in the cold and catch up about the randomest of facts. Haah, never mind that the chicken for the dinner sucked ;)
But it was nice. Informal. Laughs. Jokes. Memories. Thai food. Oh oh not to forget the last minute arguments at the ticket counter for the suddenly decided movie that ended up impressing the both of us.
I'm glad the craziness has started again :)

There was Atreyi's surprise birthday party,too. Damn was it nice! Her face was priceless when we girls showed up at her den and cut the cake at 12. All of us danced and hogged like pigs.. Not to mention the car ride that followed with nine people stuffed in one car :D

Oh and there was the Ramjas Annual debate yesterday that Remya and I went to. We did a pretty good job, and made it for the finals. And I got to know today that I also won the best interjector award. So yeah I'm happy about that :)

The cold's finally set in. I used to loathe winters.. I don't mind them so much anymore. Actually I've rather started to enjoy them. Ofcourse, it's a little odd when I have everybody on the road staring at me wearing a half sleeves tee with jeans while these guys are already out with their winter woolens, but whatever. The breeze is actually pretty nice and pleasant :)

Went over to Shiv's after a loooong time,today. Haha had the speacial maggi after a bloody long time.
I might be going to Raghu Dixit's concert tomorrow, but not quite betting on it yet. Eco paper on Monday :|
There's a reason why everybody hates Mondays. No seriously, I think it should be banned. For that matter I think we should only have Fridays, Saturdays, and a LOT of Sundays :D
I'm going to be starting on a book on photography tonight :) (If economics allows it) should be fun. I've been out of touch for a while.. Infact, I've been out of touch from a lot of things. I should really get back, perhaps this year I'd get back to all of it. I hope to. :)

SO. You guys update me with what's been up?! I'm totally over the morbid, anti-social mood, and am all set for all the unanswered texts,calls,emails! How's the weekend going, guys?
Update update updateeeeeeee!
Okay, so it's past midnight, and I'm sleepy. So gnite, World. I shall wake up and ramble tonnes more tomorrow morning :)

Sweet dreams,
Nil.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

From a forgotten writer.



  From a forgotten writer

They say the days of fame are over for me,
I have grown old to the pen that was once my slave.
They say my verses are grey now,
my writing isn't living and awake anymore, as it used to be..
It sleeps. 

I see so many pseudo writer boys now..
all of them dazzle...dazzle to the flashes of the cameras.
The emotion to sign is resigned to an expensive Parker,
while the old fountain pens are forgotten...

I lived an era,
an era long enough to truly find readers.
Readers for whom literature doesn't end..
Readers for whom writers like us begin.

From a forgotten writer,
to a remembered world..
cheers to you,
cheers to you for abandoning my words,
for else, I would have never seen the evidence of the ones who truly remember.

Thank You, World.
You are too big, for me to exist.
And too small,
to engulf me.




-Nil.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

I just stopped by to say Hi.

I'm sick of finiding myself blogger templates. I need something that suits me, and I can't find it. It's useless.
I've been in a morbid, completely anti-social mood. For reasons that you wont blame me for. I'm getting annoyed when poeple are poking me about what's been up, because I'd really appreciate being left alone in a quiet bubble with loud music right now. Okay that makes no sense.
I'm going to ramble. So you have the choice of not reading it.
Are you still reading this? Whatever. Okay. Then, listen.
I don't want to go to school tomorrow. The four day long vacation has been... not a vacation at all. This Diwali was a bitch. A bitch that was almost like the world celebrating my agony. Almost everyone-including me- expected a bloody sentimental post after it, but my mind had other plans. And that was ramble. And that's exactly what I'm doing.
I'm taking space.
I'm exhausted with my head ramming over things that are just ending up screwing my head up. The song by Beatles- "Let it be" has and is going to be my motto for a while- till I get my shit together.
I have stopped giving a damn to people who don't give a damn about being there for me when I need them. And well.. I'm basically done with acting all Mother Teresa like. You want me to give a damn? You need to give a damn about me, other wise, Ciao. No seriously.

I should be doing Math now. I have tuition after school tomorrow. My tuition teacher is determined to make my life miserable.
I went and spent a LOT of time at my sisters' place today.. after a long time. It was amazing. And.. for once.. I wasn't bothered about the number of calls/ texts I was getting.
For all of you who I haven't responded to- I'm sorry. I shall get back to you guys soon, very soon. Just cut me some slack for a while, and we shall catch up in no time.

I realized mango ice cream is awesome. I realized that at times, it's okay to shut up and just.. be.
I'm excited to meet an old friend. But I'm just not excited about meeting people.
Yes, I'm so not making sense right now.
I want to huddle up in a blanket and sleep. I've been sleepy and cranky and not hungry at all since about two days. I hate eating. It makes me puke. And shit I sound so weird.
But sleep is good. Sleep is awesome.

I was watching 2012 today. I thought Mayans are stupid. I don't anymore. Actually maybe I still do. I don't care, right now. The movie disturbed me, and that did not help.
I've decided to not keep in touch with people who call me only when they  need help.
I HATE PEOPLE WHO CAN'T FIGURE DIWALI IS OVER AND ARE STILL BURSTING CRACKERS. I AM SO SICK OF THE NOICE,PLEASE CUT IT OUT ALREADY.
No offence intended.

I'm going to go do some Maths right now, because my life sucks :)
I hope assholes like people who pick on 16 year old's pockets go and burn in hell.

And to the rest of you, the World.
Chill.
My next post shall be much more calmer, sensible, and would have less BS.

GET ME ICE.

PISSED OFF.
-Nil.


P.S- This post was about saying Hi, right? Well, Hello.

Friday, October 29, 2010

One of those evenings..

Today's evening was one of the quiet ones. After a long long time, I had some time alone, without anyone coming up to me or a million phone calls.  I decided not to sit on the internet or study. I switched on the computer, and put on a real old play list.. It had been such a long time since I'd heard Advaita's hamsadhwani or mere yaar.. It had been ages since I last sang out loud to Hey Jude and Yellow submarine..Let it be.. 

Aaah..what sweet memories. Even today, there lies that virgin innocence in those tunes that remind me of clouds of thoughts, days, hues of conversations :)

Sigh.. it was one of those evenings.. 



Signing off.. 
Nil.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Grace.

As she stood up from stage, beautifully tackling her red bordered raw silk saari, her elegant smile truly bowing down to the audience, I was once again held grabbed by the ground under me, fixated, looking at how grace floated in those slender arms.
As the audience boomed in applause, she however remained grounded with a subtle smile, and just a hint of blush. Oh what poise that lady held. What a bold figure commanding respect.
Her short poker straight hair complimented that thin face with the warm color of biscuit- her complexion.
It was just how charming her movement, her expressions, her eyes were, that I adored, apart from her music.

Ananya Swamiranganathan. A celebrated artist of 25. South Indian, with 20 years of carnatic music training.  Her CDs were splurged around my studio.. and I was officially her stalker for about seven years. I had never missed a single concert, an interview, a newspaper clip, a CD of hers. But till date, I had never spoken to her.

Let me introduce myself. I'm Vinayak. Vinayak Malhotra. I'm the CEO of a small studio that I own, where I and a couple of my other professionally unsuccessful co-workers make music. And perhaps that explains my stalker-ish behavior to good artists.
Oh,and I'm mute.

Perhaps the reason to exploiting my ears so much is because there always has been silence on my tongue. And perhaps, I enjoy this exploitation so much because I can keep the art of melody just to myself, without having to share it around, opposing to them when they say art and knowledge is to be shared.
Yes, I'm a selfish person.

Anyhow. Coming back to Ms. Ananya. You know, in an artist, a musician, rather. .what we look for is melody of course, and a sense of depth. A sense of depth that needs to be powerful enough to hold that listener just strongly enough to not feel suffocated in the delicate mirage of unadulterated feelings.
That balance is so rare to find, that perhaps it's almost as good as finding an alchemist among steel melters. 

Her voice contained a fluidity, an alcohol of sorts, that melted as soon as she touched every note.. Her eyes, perfect half moons, forever smiled to a growing dream in its lashes..

Her music grew in me over the years. My eyes would half close to Raag Malhaar or Hamsadhwani in her sweet voice, soothing my nerves, stitching resistance to the ferocity of my dreams.

As I came back to reality, staring at her, grounded, her eyes chanced upon mine and she gave me a familiar smile I'd been receiving since about seven years.  I was the most loyal audience of her's, and perhaps the silence of an introduction was only pleasing.. For both of us identified with music and silence- which as they say, have the strongest voice.

I left, unintroduced, as always.

~*~

Ananya's prime years as a musician ended a little too quick. Being a south Indian brahmin, she got married at 27 and was the mother of a beautiful baby girl by 30... and like many of those dragonflies who were destined.... or rather expected to fly all summer, she shriveled into a firefly for who only day remained, and her glow faded as the night was forgotten.

*~*~*~*~
"As she stood up from stage, beautifully tackling her red bordered raw silk saari, her elegant smile truly bowing down to the audience, I was once again held grabbed by the ground under me, fixated, looking at how grace floated in those slender arms...........
...........Her short poker straight hair complimented that thin face just like her mother's with the warm color of biscuit- her complexion.
It was just how charming her movement, her expressions, the same eyes were..... that I adored, apart from her music."


As I saw Meera mirror what Ananya used to be to my eyes, I wanted to scream for the first time. I didn't care how much of a noise it might sound, the exult of a mute man, I wanted to shout loud and clear, for joy. Perhaps it's that grace that overwhelmed my heart to pound to the reflection of beauty, or perhaps it was the brittle heart of a man who was now too old..

Or perhaps it was the legacy of music, that keeps you going, to imbibe in you, those passionate emotions to make a mute man resent having a silent tongue for the first time in his life. Perhaps, it was the legacy of that one woman I shared my emotions with the most, whose daughter carried the same humanity and grace that touched my heart with its tender arms, to lead me to realize that the dragonflies carry on, and that the night is never actually forgotten.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Waiting for your feedbacks!
Much love,
Nil.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

As the dhaak starts playing.

It starts in early September... when the naked play grounds are slowly dressed with bamboo skeletons of pandals that end up looking so magnificent, and find themselves frozen and captured in photographs for people to cherish.. when those cultural programs start in Shiv Mandir, with competitions of all sorts... when all of us friends go and waste hours and hours in the late evening listening to absolutely rotten karaokes and "classical dance" by "ladies of the colony" which is actually nothing but moving hands and legs uncoordinated with nervous looks spilled across the stage.. but we all still go, and be a part of it. Because it marks the beginning of a celebration.. A celebration that compels people to look around wide eyed at the grace that each and every idol has, even when it's not adorned in costly banarasi saris and stands of bare soil with that sweet smell of hard work and skilled labor. 

As mohaloya dawns, the familiar songs buzz in every radio of C.R.Park, and around Delhi... when the chills set in on everybody's back.. Durga pooja's a finger away. It never bothers me to wake up at 4am and sing infront of the whole colony, all those typical mohaloya songs.. because that excitement in the air is never more evident than that morning of melody.

As pooja starts, food isn't cooked at home anymore, and the stalls in every pandal earn crazy loads of cash. There's some or the other artist singing every evening, or some dance troup dancing to entertain the super enthusiastic bongs and non bongs. The organizing committee guys deck of with the flashiest of clothes and sit in their little cubicle looking like the dudes of the freakin' world, and look like they're giving away noble prizes when they give away residential passes to us xP
The volunteers of my age are complete dogs. They wear the badge to have chillout sessions while distributing bhog (it's an amazing experience, just fyi. I loved doing it) and to get free entry and food to the pandals. And to basically look important :P 
And omg the bongs......... Silk clothes are IN. Okay. Trust me when I say it. Everybody wears silk, and ethnic wears, and look all amazing. [Umm, ok not everyone] but most of them anyway! 
All of us teenagers have cash on us, for a change :D and we eat like pigs. Hog. Literally.

Chairs are pulled and groups of friends and family sit in circles to enjoy the day, with food, music and ofcouse, the idols they adore completely. Everybody crowd around in the evening for the aarati and the dhunochi dance which is just gorgeous and perhaps theee most beautiful part of the day. {Didn't do it this year :( } The roads don't have cars, they have long  threads of people, and crazy lines with people chattering and clicking photographs on self timers. 

As dashami rolls by, people get sentimental. The ladies go for shidoor khela, and rest of the people join in around afternoon to watch all the trucks take away the idols for Visarjan... that's a celebration of it's own, when all of us dance like maniacs and scream "Aschey bochor, abar hobey!" which means "Poojas shall be back next year".. the dhak plays at it's best, with people doing their last minute prayers as they see the face of the gods and goddesses fade away as the trucks gather speed. 
 
Slowly everyone wishes everyone Shubho Bijoya , stuff sweets into each other and hug like maniacs.. And draw alponas in the entrances of their homes.. slowly people start updating their statuses on facebook about how awful they feel and how much they miss poojas already.. and the thousand comments on the newly uploaded Pooja albums...... 

Sigh.
It sure is a celebration. A celebration which is so close to my heart, that as they say-- I don't cry that it's over, but I smile that it happened. (Modified,yes)

This year's pooja, like every year gave me few of the most amazing memories.. ever. 

Durga pooja can never loose its charm,
cause that sweet beat of the dhaak always echoes somewhere in my heart, and makes me smile to the wait, that's always worth it :)

Shubho bijoya! 




























-- Drum beats,
Nil. 

Saturday, October 9, 2010

This game of Truth and Dare.

 Funny, this game of Truth and Dare.


They said I have to choose, if I dared truth.. I’d have to answer a naked honest answer to whatever they might ask.. If I chose dare, I’d have to reach the finish line of that task.. with no backing out, whatsoever.
I always chose truth. Because that was a big enough of a dare.
I was never scared. I had nothing to hide from the world.

Still, I had this lurching pull in the pit of my stomach every time the bottle spun to me. I delft this uneasy excited quease in me.. Did I not want them to ask me something? … Or did I really want them to ask me, that very question. That very answer that never quite escaped my lips, and yet, I wanted the world to know. I wanted the world to know how I felt about that one question.
Because it made a difference.
Not to them, but to me.

Thank god they didn’t ask me that regret I held. Thank god they didn’t ask me about that hint of sadness that somehow lurks in the hues of my crazy euphoric self. Thank god they never questioned that smile of irony, that I hoped they missed. Thank god.

But what a pity, they never asked me why I held that regret. What a pity they never asked me why that sadness lurked even in the brightest of lights. What a pity they missed that smile of irony, that smile, that perhaps would have let open everything that I might have held in me, for a while. For a long while.
I wanted to be heard.
Or.. maybe I wanted to carry those smiles and perhaps laugh about them on my own, when I grow up. Grow up to not feel so strongly about everything and anything.

But who am I fooling?

Yes, I wanted to be heard.

What a pity they found the game boring just when it was reaching its prime.. Funny how I want them to ask me.  Ask me just those few questions that maybe I asked myself, the most.

Funny, this game of truth and dare.



-Nil.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

What his old age taught me.

This post is a fiction half merged with reality, as a tribute to someone.. 
I hope you all enjoy it.




What his old age taught me.

My grandfather always detested History books. When it was first introduced in fifth grade, I remember- The revolt of 1857, I went to him running, reciting all the facts of all the leaders and soldiers... It was the first time I was studying what dada studied. I'd be sitting for a hundred marker examination for the first time, just like how dada sat, every year.
My grandfather, however, threw my book away. And scolded me, telling me that all my new school taught me was a history that was for the sake of having that subject in the Indian education Board. I was an eleven year old, to whom his grandfather's roaring voice was only a harsh scold, and nothing that could have another meaning.. I was young. I never understood.
I ran to my mother, big tears swinging in my eyes, like a boat on the tip of a mountain. My nose cried,too. And my mother, the sweetheart that she forever was, wiped my face with her pallu, and kissed me.
"Arre mera raja beta!" , she said, and started tickling me.. My sadness was held on to my childlike brain only for those few moments, however they vanished as soon as my mother, someone who was perhaps the most comforting life that mended me every time I was broken kissed me that one sweet love, and tickled all my problems away, that seemed so big and old, back then..

As I grew, my lessons involved many more revolutions, wars, partitions, protests, honor killings, and patriotism. As I grew, my grandfather's loathe to my books faded, however I never experienced its absence.
I still didn't understand.
I stopped trying. I stopped trying to figure out why did History displease this old man of 76. I thought he was old enough to grow out of stubborness.
Hah.. I was such a child,still. Such a child to never realize why such an old man of 76 bothered to still be stubborn..

I grew up, I got a job, by 24 I was well settled. My elder borther ; dada had long left home after fighting with my father.. He left home to find another home, in a foreign land. Funny how I realized that blood doesn't matter when you make family.. Funny how I realized a lot of things. My father had died, of a heart attack. My mother, I and my grandfather were the only ones who lived in our mansion like bungalow in Lucknow.

I remember, it was late evening.. I returned home, to find darkness inside the house, my grandfather sitting on his rocking chair, listening to Kishore Kumar. The orange light from the lamp beside him refused to hide the hue of moisture that sat on my grandfather's eyes.
"What's wrong? Why aren't you asleep?" I asked.
"Rajje mere, sleep died years back for me.." 
"What do you mean? Why do you look this way? Why are you crying?"
"Nothing.. Just remembered home.. ghar di yaad aa gayi.."
"But this is home.."
My grandfather smiled. The irony was so evident in that old wrinkled smile..

"This can never be home.. I left.. I was thrown out of home decades back."
I looked at him. Trying to figure what his twisted words meant. I was still such a child, in front of that long white beard, and those million wrinkles that carried so many lives, so many memories, so many years, such a long life.

"My home is Pakistan."


My forehead uncreased. After 24 years of holding a grudge against my grandfather for ignoring me when I wanted to share my vision of our nation, the flashbacks only pierced me with invisible slaps, jerking me to realize the obvious that had been right there in front of my eyes for so long. I always wondered why such an old man of almost a century of experience could never grow up enough to grow out of taboos and old school thoughts.. But I realized, that it wasn't about taboos. It was a bruise, a very cruel one, that worsened only with age, and he just learnt to wince in pain a little lesser and lesser everyday at the world, as the world moved ahead, reading everything that textbooks taught them, and thinking that they knew the past too well, perhaps better than the ones who experienced it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Waiting for feedbacks!
-Nil.

It can never stop being a rush of things.

Hey there.
The month of September was a dog. October...isn't quite lifting my spirits up. Although I'm supposed to be all kicked about the pujas, but I just feel real bland and bleh.

It's been a rush lately.. I've been either socializing or been completely underground for long periods of time. Both, provoked by tonnes of things.. however that never stopped something or the other coming up.
I don't think I've had SO many tiffs with people ever, I don't think I've felt so upset on things that shouldn't matter. I've been wanting to write, there's been SO much in my head, but it's almost like the moment I start typing, every thing screams in my mind, but godamnit doesn't help me type, not even a bit, not even at all.

The past month has been that of realizations, too. I realized certain huge losses that were somehow ignored by my own eyes.. just that I'm not too sure if the losses are mine, in actual..
doesn't make sense?
Oh I know. Doesn't to me either.

I've been shopping like a retard. I've been expressing myself a little too boldly for a lot of people to handle. [Lol, whoever said blatancy was appreciated?] .. and well, things have just been too quick for me to be able to catch up.
I'm sick of my phone. I'm sick of being connected all the time. It's usually not with me much,these days. So I'm sorry if I haven't replied to your texts/calls. It's just one of those phases when I'd rather listen to quiet than music. Where I'd rather keep a straight face instead of a mosaic of reactions that it usually is.

The whole world seems to be living in Delhi all of a sudden. CWGs start from today, although the day seems relatively quiet. The roads seem fine, and well, the TV I haven't bothered opening cause I really don't need a thousand news channels stating the obvious that I've been hearing since like 83490404 years, yes the games have begun... and lets just hope they bring us no harm, if not anything.
God I sound so pessimistic to my own ears :|
Not good.

Ok bye people.
Have a nice sunday :|

-Nil.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Because madness lets me write

"Only those things are beautiful which are inspired by madness and written by reason."

^That was something I read in a friend's status update on Facebook, a day back. And I swear, I haven't stopped thinking since then. It was almost like everything I thought about the way I write and my inspiration was put neatly into  14 words. There, done.


I write. I write a lot, of course you guys would know, you guys have been the most faithful readers of my rants ever. 
I'm someone who is extremely opinionated, instantaneous, out going and crazy. I like to think different, or think commons differently. I like to jot everything that hits my neurons, even if it's something as random as "A guided success" [this one came to me recently]. When an idea hits me, I have to write. Not cause I'll forget it, but cause I know I can best describe it only then, when those feelings are intense and nascent. I vent out when I write. I put my laughs, my sarcasm, my hate,disbelieves,and my believes into words. Those words reflect naked the facts or the essence of a shy truth that creaked into my thoughts somewhere,somehow. I write about fiction. Or so I'd like people to think at times.. I write when I imagine myself in someone's shoes. 
I write, all the time.
But what really hit me was the fact that madness inspires me to write. I say this because my being is nothing but madness proved [no chuckles, please] and I couldn't be happier about that fact. 
Being mad helps you grow.  Being mad helps you see the world a little better, perhaps quite differently.
Being mad helped me to resign to insanity. Insanity helped me with a lot of blots of ink on my paper, with a few paragraphs that somehow managed to be sane enough to help someone out there in the world. To help that person find his insanity again, and thus resign to happiness, which he found. 

My madness surely has a reason.
and that reason, I've learned the hard way. That reason echoes me, and myself. That reason helped me realize that madness has lead to greatness. Not in green notes, but in being remembered.
That reason helped me mold myself  into a person of preaching originality. That reason taught me that giving up yourself for the world was just not worth it, because you constitute a part of the world :)

And hence, my writings have a reason. A reason inspired my madness.
And hence, writing is the most beautiful art to me, ever. Because it's lead me to lead a life of choices that I create. Choices, which aren't in the mercy of sane people ;)


Madness is good. 

-Nil. 

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

The Birthday.

The Birthday.


And she was celebrated,
celebrated with the fanciest of decors,
the dessert, the frocks,the violins,
the people, the Mayor himself.

To the town men,
an invite was a luxury.
The cab men waited for rides to be hired,
just to get a glimpse of the illuminated pride- The House.

The grandeur of the entrance,
never so splendid,
boomed with the compositions of notes running high and low on the chellos
The handsome guards,
with the silent smiles of a good feast,
and all the ladies and gentlemen grooming out of their coats of diamonds and pride.
Yes, 
it was quite an impressive celebration.

The firecrackers fired high into the starless night,
as she was carried in soft satin.
Carefully tucked in, inch by inch into the mother's bossom,
yes she was costly.
She looked around to what looked like day light,
so many lights, so many silky curtains flaunting the dome above.. 
She looked around, 
at the Mother - 
who smiled, but saw silence in her eyes when the Father looked,
the nervous smile,
the pretense of gold,
was this really ... A birthday?




-Nil. 



Friday, September 17, 2010

Boom boom boom para! :)

It's 1:14am in the morning, and no I'm not sleepy at all. I was listening to Shaam- the song, from Aisha. Please listen to it, it's one of those songs that make you smile.

I was reading this other blog..where a girl was describing her birthday, and how her mum used to bake pies for her, and she used to run around the house, waiting to cut that and blow the candles..
And it took me back to my thirteenth birthday...and the birthdays before that..
Oh they used to be parties, alright! The whole house used to be brimming with kids, of all sizes :P Short, tall, skinny, healthy.
I used to be in my special birthday girl outfit which used to be either very blue, or pink, or white. :) Getting ready for my "birthday party" used to be a task! All my girlfriends and I used to be locked into my parent's bedroom, dressing up, and putting lip gloss which used to be such an accessory back then :P
hehe.. and once the party started, oh boy the dancing! My friend Asmita used to always get the hit songs, [god our obsession with "All rise" and "one love" haha!]. And we used to have the craziest of games, with the widest of grins, sweaty red faces cause of all the dancing. Oh the picture sessions mom and dad used to do... come up to our terrace party and click pictures of all of us, and we'd all learnt the "Yo" sign [which later, I realized after 2 years meant "Devil's horns :P], so we used to pose with that in maximum of the pictures.. and all my friends would want to stand next to me, just cause I was the birthday girl :)
After the long hours of dancing and games that involved mud and water [yes, I'm serious :) ], my mom would finally come and announce dinner. The whole family would join, and the feast would begin!
The food was usually lots of Bengali stuff.. my friends absolutely adored the menu.. most of them were non-bengalis, so for them, mustard fish was heaven :P
And once our dinner was over, we'd all sit around in a circle, and chat. Chat about the most important things in the world, about what the other teacher in the XYZ section said to the ABC kid. And how the last birthday party in Mc.Donalds was so much. And how all of us had "grown up" so much..... :P
And then we'd quickly shift to the topic of return gifts :D (yes, we were grown up 11 year olds..) .... After hugging all my friends goodnight, as they left, I'd look at my sister with a naughty smile, andddd.......

Gifts!!!!!!! 


Hahaha.. my sister and I would sit in my parent's bedroom, and open up all my presents, and go Oooohh and Aaaah on the goodies.. God, the excitement was crazy!
My sister is about 9 years older to me. That never mattered,though. She used to be equally excited, and we'd both decide what I'd do with which gift.
And I used to look forward to her gift the most.......and till date, her gifts are still the best ones I've ever received. :)

As I grew up, my ways of celebrations changed. Now my birthdays don't usually have a crazy party with tiny motu kids and parents running around the house. Now we usually go out to eat like crazy, and have a nice time with pizzas/coffees/whatever. It's still a lot of fun.
But this 16th birthday reminded me a lot of how my birthdays used to be originally.. and nothing can beat that :)
There was so much innocence in the way we in our 11 year old selves danced to "Bunty or bubbly" the hit then, or all of us shoulder to shoulder going right and left on "All rise". Those memories are old.. those memories are so much of baby fat!... and those memories are, and always will be the ones that would find me when I'm listening to happy songs, for these are the memories that are a series of sepia colored photographs in the album of my mind. And they're always going to nudge me whenever something turns up infront of me, that somehow, somewhere joins hands with those memories.
And oh these somethings are everything around us-- songs, chessboards, the telephone, that crumpled letter that lies in the back of your wardrobe, the scribbles in the back of your notebook, the people around you, and yourself :)



make a memory today :) 




-nil. 

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

I remember this girl..

I remember this little girl.. this girl with pigtails and fringes falling on her forehead. With cute little frocks, and an evergreen mischievous smile.

I remember this tomboy.. arm wrestling with the boys of the class, scaring each and every soul as the "Gundi" of our class.

I remember this rebel... fighting with all the teachers and putting fried cockroaches with me in our particular rival's English book.. almost dying in fits of laughter when our mission was accomplished, looking at that girl scream her lungs out in class. Yes,nobody messed with Us.

But alas,
I only have a memory. A memory of what she used to be. A memory of someone I used to know.
That little girl hasn't come back, for quite a while. She hasn't come back, home. 

I remember this girl smiling at me with childlike innocence and mischief glinting in her eyes.. Those eyes are now bloodshot with alcohol screaming in them, and that girl... that girl is now soiled under short dresses and high heels.


(A post, for a lost someone)

-Nil.

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Here's to you, Ma'am.

As a fifth grader, I was the usual kid. Loved to play, family was the hugest horizon, slightly an introvert at school, hated Math, dreaded remedial of any sort, dirty handwriting, hated my class teacher even more.
As a 10 year old, 5th grade was a huge huge deal. Somehow, it sounded "grown up" just cause we were shifting to "SST" from "EVS". I can't help but laugh when I think of that :P

I always loved English. I always finished my English book before any other kid even bothered to check its index out. So this year, as in 5th grade, I had tonnes of stories of my choice, and we had a new English teacher.....

I remember being scared of her, because she looked darn strict, and she looked like the "No nonsense"  lady. I enjoyed her classes, because I liked the way she made us all speak what we felt instead of telling us the interpretation of whatever the text was. However...I didn't quite take her strictness very seriously, and went on writing in an untidy handwriting, in an extremely unorganized copy which was almost falling apart with no index.
It didn't matter to me much. I was a 10 year old, doing her homework on time, and enjoying the simplicity of life and worrying about stuff like what my mother might have given me for tiffin. 
Then came the first copy submission of fifth grade. I stood in the line, kept my copy on the pile, and went back to my seat to chat with a friend who used to be my best friend. After a while, I heard my name being called in a very stern manner by ma'am. I walked nervously, she looked dead angry. She held out my copy which was pretty much torn and tattered and calmly yet with anger spoke loudly and said "Class, this is a copy. Is it?" . She scolded me left right center in front of the whole class. I was shocked, cause I never thought a messy copy was a big deal. I was shocked because for the first time, I was being scolded in front of the class by a teacher. That incident somehow hit me real hard.
I went back home that day, and fixed my copy first thing before touching a single piece of rice.

Few more days went by, I had a feeling my English teacher hated me. And that used to upset me, cause I loved the subject. My spellings were horrible . And everyday, I'd be asked to write each and every wrong spelling a minimum of ten times as correction. And mind you, a single paragraph of mine had at least three spelling mistakes.
However, these punishments only made me adamant to prove to my teacher that I was a good student, and that I wasn't the back bencher sorts. I wanted to show her my love and respect for the language.

With time, my spellings became better. It took a lot of time,yes, but nevertheless they kept getting better. With time, my English teacher started encouraging me to keep going.. Her emotions were very careful, she never gave away a lot of them. Probably that is why, I had a balanced head when I started getting better and better. 

She noticed my answer writing style. They were always original.. She asked me if I write, I told her I did. She asked me to show her some of my work, I remember her advising me very seriously to keep writing. She told me she saw something in me, my writing. She had faith in what I wrote.
And that's how it began. My diary. My first step to writing.
Once I started, there was no end. I'd run to her first thing after every single thing I wrote. From the most kiddish to the silliest of poems. She never laughed at them,though. She only smiled, and told me that I was good, and that I needed to keep going.

Years passed, she was pretty much one of my very close friends in school. I never hesitated to reach out to her at any point of time. She'd be there, no matter how many test papers she might have had to check. She'd carry my work home just so that she could give me a feedback.
She introduced me to the SCHOLASTIC Writing Awards competition, and told me that I must write in the fiction category.
She's the one who asked me for a box of sweets the day the results came out. She broke the news of my story to have won the 5th position all over India. She hugged me to the memory I still cherish when she told me that my story had been selected with 23 other top entries to be published into a book.

This dynamic lady made me. This lady gave me the strength and the confidence to speak out, and speak different. To speak my opinion. She made me realize that I could make a difference with a pen and a paper. She's the reason why today, I am a published author, with all my spellings correct in place.. and I stand somewhere.
She's the reason I believe in A Teacher.

I have so many memories that I cling on to,even today ma'am. I have so many memories which make me cry for the happiness and gratitude I feel for you. A blogpost is not enough for the keyboard to capture every memory that still seems to be painted fresh in the canvas of my mind and heart. I can never repay what you've done for me, I can never repay that extra effort. But I swear I'll try to make you proud someday, someday when I make a difference in the world.

I know you're reading this ma'am,
and I just wanted you to know, that I miss you. And Thank you. I stand tall because of you, ma'am. I stand as a confident 16 year old ready to unleash her thoughts on to a paper without the fear of acceptance, because of you.
Because you taught me, much more than English. You taught me persistence,humanity....and more importantly, you had faith on me.

Here's to you, Mrs. Suman Anand Ma'am.
A very Happy Teacher's Day to you. 

Yours only,
the girl with the untidy handwriting,
Nilanjana.  

Sunday, August 29, 2010

Something greater,something greater in You.

This post of fiction is dedicated to someone very close to my heart.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I saw that white skoda in the toll road. I thought twice on the fact that a lot of sand fell out of its Dickie when the car hit the speed breaker. Soon that thought was overruled by Indian Aristocrats,my favorite band, playing on the radio. While Shuddhi-their famous track, sent me into a semi trance, I almost reached out for the pack of cigarettes in the dashboard, when I suddenly realized my aunt sitting next to me enjoying the trance she was sent off to, as well.
"Yeah, she's cool. Bloody cool at 60. Just not cool enough to see her 19 year old nephew smoke."
I went back to driving with a smile.

"You know...Ramashish.. this lead singer.. used to be quite a heart-breaker when we were in college together. Oh he was such a charmer, I tell you. Those green bell bots with the cream silk shirt and the wayfarers he used to wear on Fridays to college.. All the girls used to drool over that chap!" , she said.
I tried imagining this guy I called my idol in the clown like clothes my aunt's teenage-hood considered hot.
This guy with the most amazing Fender guitar (Dave Murray Stratocaster) I've ever seen , wearing Green bell bots with a silk cream shirt. I concentrated on Torrent, before every preachy feeling in me for the poster-guy of Rolling Stones I considered God, melted to ashes.

"But pishi.. I thought you never gave any guy a second glance while in college?.." I asked, being a complete jerk and smiled slyly.
"Naa ofcourse, I never looked twice at him! I was just saying... acha let me listen ok. You just drive!" ; she replied in her sweet Bengali accent, looking away, trying her best to hide those memories of flirtatious youth that were so evident in the blush that slipped into her already rosy cheeks.
"Women!" I laughed, and shifted my gear. My aunt looked at me and gave a shy smile.

We were on our way back from Noida. My aunt had some work there. It was about 11 in the night, and we both, Indian Aristocrats fans were drowned in their music, while my subconscious mind managed to drive, and not get us killed.
That's when it hit me.
It had been fifteen minutes since a white Skoda had been following me. Each an every turn, every fork, it followed me.
I increased my speed to a 60 and hurried,as smartly and quietly I could. The car over took me, sped faster and zoomed away leaving my car smeared in dust.
"Sunofa!" I quickly stopped, when I realized for the second time,I wasn't alone. I was pissed. "These goddamn jath!" I said.
My aunt was silent. She was trying to look hard at something in the distant.
"Ric, turn the car around." ; She suddenly said. Her voice was serious, and somehow hid a hint of fear.
"What? Why? The main road's going to take us ages pishi, this ridge is fine."
"Just listen to what I'm saying. Just turn the car, Ric. Now!"
Her voice now screamed panic. I tried to follow where her eyes were fixed.... That white Skoda. The same one that had been following had now halted on the road in front, and five men wearing shawls and with guns, signalling me to stop the car.
And that's when I saw another appalling reality; There was a flag of an opposition party stuck to the car. I immediately understood what was happening. My aunt; Mrs.Rukhmani Ghosh was one of the leading  leaders of a progressive political party. A few weeks back, she beat Keshav Das in the elections.. These men stood there to kill her. I saw the dickie opened with sand and big bags inside.. I didn't even want to allow myself to think what they might have been for.
I had heard about this dirty tactic rising in Delhi and Calcutta. I had heard about certain selective opposition-party leaders sending out men to loot,rape, and kill women and men who went ahead of them in the Party. But I just couldn't believe my own aunt was the victim-to-be.

It was too late to turn around. There was a driver in the Skoda, they'd just end up chasing us, and it would lead to a showdown of blood. I was numb. My mind felt blank. I was 100 meters away from Death.
Something kicked in me. Something jolted me inside. I heard my uncles voice who told me once upon a time ;


"Ric, in life, somewhere there will be a mere five minute when you're an eyelash away from destruction.. Nobody will be there to help you,then. No matter how much you preach that guy sitting above, you'll just get silence from the clouds. That's the time when you need to reach out to something greater. Something greater in you, that heroes out as your own Saviour." 


It was either two innocent lives getting killed, or killing five Satans. It was either an unfair funeral dirage, or a national anthem- somewhere a favor to the Nation.
That's when I hit the gear, increased to an 80. The five men didn't seem to budge. I sped. I wasn't going to stop. When I was 50 meters away, there was a point when my eye met with one of the guys. I hit the gear the most aggressive hit and lapsed on 120. I felt a beast in me. I felt a Nation in me, striving to kill such epidemics- such filth of politics. As I sped fast, I could see fear hit those ten eyeballs.
I was 3 feet away, when they realized I wasn't stopping. They jumped out of my way, and I sped off to what lay as a perfect horizon.

My aunt was fielded. They wanted to kill her. They wanted to kill someone who wanted to bring a change, a stronger change than fear that haunts the minds of people, today.
She wanted to bring out a voice.

It takes a lot of guts to decide to kill someone when you have no right to. It takes even more guts to decide that in 30 seconds. It takes a lot of guts to make up your mind, and not choose the road of roses, but choose the one for the greater good.

But when the police puppets, the world, the god above, and the constant cacophony of voices in the universe fall silent, it is something greater, something greater in You that speaks.
Learn to listen to that voice. 


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Awaiting your precious feedbacks, as usual.
Much much love,
Nil.
:)

Thursday, August 26, 2010

A lost friendship, but a memory I find within.

It was one of those random school years when all of a sudden, new kids flow into your school as a fresh year starts, and there's tonnes of excitement about the new faces, the cute ones, and the smart ones. And no matter how old we grew, there was always this thing about looking forward to school just cause you made an interesting new friend.
He was that. That random new friend who didn't talk much but was somehow someone you wanted to figure out. His silence was a constant indication that there was something going on in his head, which was a constant mystery. When he spoke, he spoke soberly, calm and composed. Never was he in a rush to make the other person hear what he thought. And when he listened... You felt like you were the most important person in the world, waiting to be heard.

My attraction for him was completely platonic. However, the few words that made out of him compelled me to try and trace where they came from, and which cobweb of a thought's part were they. When I spoke, the way his eyes fixated at my face was almost like he's peaking deep into what's in me, and reading in between the lines to what my voice tried to deceive.

We didn't talk much in the beginning. I decided he wasn't my type the moment I realized he wasn't a chatter box like me. He chose to sit with the dorkiest guy in class. The fact that he didn't like tomatoes was the final cherry on the cake.
Ciao New Guy, not very nice meeting you.

Every day at school,every class, I'd be looking around bursting bubble gum balloons rebelling and expressing boredom, and he'd do a better job of it by drawing hate cartoons on the back of his notebook sitting on the front seat in front of the teacher.
Now that, I liked.

So slowly, I started finding things I liked. Things I hated. And slowly I started finding him. He never let out too much quickly. So every time, I was left trying to find the latter end of the story.. The more frustrating it was, the more I got hooked to it.
With time, I realized he wasn't all about silences. He spoke so much. So very much. We started exchanging emails, texts, phone calls, and then finally started meeting up in the evenings. It was strange, cause we didn't really talk much in school. He didn't have the time, he was in the student council which leaves you with nothing but the classes to attend. Every other spare second would demand you to be out of class.
But probably that was the beauty of it. Probably that is why, I could talk so much to him. Maybe that is why, that space was maintained.

He being a Gujrati had a totally different upbringing compared to my Punjabi upbringing. He had crazy curfews at home, while I.. I couldn't get tired of roaming around the streets at odd times, singing loudly with friends, clicking photographs, and all sorts of time-killers.
He and I belonged to different worlds. Yet, there was so much beauty in the very fact, that it was always a pleasure to read each other and where we both come from. It was always fun to over react a little and go "wtf that stuff happens at your place?!!"
It was always fun, to realize that a person who has no idea about my roots cracks up with me in the middle of the night laughing his rear off trying to picture a funny tradition- not making fun of it- but laughing at the funny "nice-ness" in it [as he liked to put it].

We did our share of craziness for the two years that followed. We did our share of making every teacher hate us while still getting staright As. He had his first time night-out partying, thanks to me. I had my first time to a Kumb Mela, thanks to him.

Four years later, after school and graduation finished, Those photographs I clicked in the Kumb Mela were selected in an international Photography Exhibition by the UN. And my career took a new turn from a boring HR job.. And he.. my gujrati best friend- left for Manhattan to follow his call for singing.


We're no longer in touch, it's been years I've heard anyone speak of him now.
But it hasn't been long enough for my old self to forget how a random new gujrati school boy taught me a lesson- A lesson to realize that memories are in abundance.

It hasn't been long enough for my wrinkles to forget when he told me sleepily,once upon a time - "Your imperfection is perfection to me" .
Each an every wrinkle of mine, carries a smile. A smile to a memory a gujju guy taught me.


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Waiting for all your feedbacks!
Ckear skies and memories,
Nil.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

It's Saturday, tbh ;)

Playing Now: Free fallin' by John Mayer.

It's one of those lazy Saturdays, when you decided to skip school and just sleep. I got up an hour back or something, and I've been in a super pepped up mood - chattering away to glory, smiling a little more than needed, jumping up and down, giving my dad retarded looks, hogging on breakfast, saying "HIIIIIIIII" to my neighbor when he looked all grumpy getting up at 10am on a holiday, his wife giving me nervous looks [lol], and nowwww- sitting in my room, with all the doors opened, watching the rain pouring outside occasionally, listening to good music, and writing.
Yes, life's gorgeous, innit?  :)

Last week has been very eventful! My friends and I were busy with a debate for the British Council. Taking that as a very convenient reason, I went over to Remya's to "Prepare" for it, however we I ended up staying over at her den, watching movies, catching up and singing loudly in her balcony till 2:30am in the morning, giving the whole colony a nice lil over night concert :)
When her mother finally started to yell at our retardness, we went to bed, which was only another of our tactics to keep her mum and all of us awake ;D
I kept sniggering "dude this is so gay this is SO gay!" whenever she'd lean to switch on the AC or turn over to talk. And my occasional "lol" with a straight face left us in fits of laughter.

After that, we ended up giving the online test for the debate which was just about OK. But whatever, the stay back at school on last Saturday

SO. Now, I'm going to carry on listening to some nice music, while you guys can get a cup of a nice hot coffee, and sip on it sitting on your verandas and smiling at the Rain God being so generous ;)


Happy Saturday,folks!!! 

Oh and please enjoy the rains! :) 
A wiiide grin,
memories are in abundance :)
Nil 
:)

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Because she makes me happy.

I have been nursing her,
her tender frail hands move around in play,
with nothing but the stars above the cot she lies on.
The stars are always silent,though.

I have been scared,
for all of you think it's not worth it.
For all of you think,
she's not worth it.

But have you ever seen her smile?
Have you ever seen her tiny eyes crinkle at the dream only her heart knows?

I have seen.
I have seen her soft touch turn into a silent kiss,
I have seen her sleep in my arms, as an abode to the tired pilgrims.
I have heard her cry, turning into those nightmares that her mother can only wipe tears for.
I have heard you all, ask the mother-- Why?

And I have told all of you,
over and over again.
Because her baby dreams make me believe,
I was a baby,too.
Because her innocent mind made me believe,
that I needn't think so much with the mind.
Because,
and just because,
she makes me happy.

-- Nilanjana,
18th Agugust,2010.



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Waiting for all your feedbacks,
-Nil :)