In December Company...

Let's go back in time. Retrogressive...no, not in the exact sense of the word. Simply that I am writing something that happened almost three months ago. And it might as well be news for some. (I wonder why I always write for others, and not for myself). December somehow always gets associated with things rosy, despite the gloom hanging heavy in the atmosphere. The rose in our case is quite a puffed one, and somehow manages to defy the famous Anarkali (yes, the one from Mughl-E-Azam) quote regarding thorns and roses.Such is the association with roses that their physical presence is almost unavoidable. We move through the path strewn with rose petals to the bed of thorns.

So, I went to his place. The Salim, I wouldn't hesitate calling him such fancy names, now that we know about his habits. And did I mention, this Salim happens to be my best friend. He has got this weird habit of laughing whenever he sees me. Half the times the explanation is supposed to be my hair, and the remaining half my shirt. This time it was no different. I had just done my hair, and courtesy that barber, who was so unwilling to cut my hair according to my wish that I had to be satisfied with the goose-flesh kind of hair that was left, and the white shirt I was wearing looked decent enough to fit 3 of my size. Somebody remarked that I was looking no better than an urchin, and only 4 days later did I realize this when I was frisked by the mahila police at the Guwahati station. The possible explanation could only have been molestation, I thought. The sky blue jeans went well with my Bata slippers. He was no fashion icon either. He uncannily looks like a jackal, with that mole somewhere near his nose, and that shabbily done facial hair. The hair on his head comes not even metres close to Salim's but still somehow, with the rosy Anarkali, he would do a perfect Salim.

He was supposed to come to my place before we went to the rose garden, (I hope you get the drift), but Salim, rose and drowsiness go hand in hand. I knocked on his door, and the lady that opened simply kept staring at me. I had never seen his mother, and simply took her to be her. 

"Can I see Salim....?", enquiringly.

"Sorry...we are not mughal gharana", the door shuts with a bang.

"Oh, please wait, (Jodha bai, I whispered under my breath)...I meant Anurag"

"He is sleeping"

"But he is supposed to have woken up by now. Would you mind doing the needful ma'am"

"Let me see...oh! and you can come inside"

Thank you very much, rajputani.

He comes in black boxers, and the hair which should have been undone is perfectly groomed. After a second I realize that it is Salim that I was looking at. The Salim with over 800 wives in his dreams.

He quickly gets ready, and without surprise, he did not need much time. Just a pair of trousers, ugly creamy ones and I found myself travelling at 40 kmph on the elegant Splendor.

"Dude, we are really going...I can't beleive"

"Why don't you concentrate on the road ahead?"

"No, I mean her father is a professor at such and such place, and I am afraid..."

"Shut up chicken shit, and let me do the talking if he pulls up a gun, alright?"

"But...OK"

I was carrying a monkey cap to pose as a credible explanation for my hair. The sudden draught was enough to get me shivering, and that retard thought I was nervous. Anyway, we were greeted with a no-expression-on-my-face look, by someone who I came to know only seconds later was the supposed gardener (if you get the metaphor), and that prevented me from second thoughts. We had come to meet her, but that Salim utters his name, the brother's, and I have to see the unforgiving face of...whatever. My only words were her name and the reaction was a confused look. He more or less understood. We were left in the company of the unflinching father, and four chairs. I was looking around to make myself at home and he was concentrating on the door the brother went through. All of a sudden, i see her peeping from behind the trees, from her terrace, and the only sound I heard was "O! Shit, they actually came"

Yes, she had someday asked me to come to her place. And as it always is with December, the previous day I had a brief sojourn with the other lady with the same name. I do not remember much after that.

Rang De Basanti

When we proceed towards examining the finer details of any form of art, we inadvertently decide upon tracing the background, be it political, be it social or be it an isolated form of existence. As highlighted by many eminent thinkers of the past and modern day, art as such is construed to be followed from and to follow, in itself, a very general form of a thought from which it emanates. The broader meanings of art, pertaining to recreation, somehow dilute these finer details. The ideas upon which the art is built, the process undergone in the interim (from the conception to the tangible execution of that thought), and the effects of the output on the environment surrounding the thought; not solely does this sum up the concept of art, but the overt aspect more or less is contained in these. The essence of this art however, needs an expression for itself, a mode, and not just means, to reach the final target, if at all it is meant to. Ignoring, luxury of which we can afford ourselves with, while discussing the theoretical basis and the desired outcome of the same, I proceed on to discuss the form, though most entertaining, but simultaneously, the broadest, the most diverse and at the same time, a very concerted form of expression, of representation and in terms of the effects, the domination.

I must however, disclaim at this juncture, the inclination towards the absurdity of, and the assumption itself that all art is meant to be interpreted in a way that goes on to conform with the most suitable ends, the contemporary society or the history as such. The point here is to credit the creative genius of the artist through an appreciation, even if positively critical, and not just undermine and belittle the effort citing the possible parallel to an existing culture or even an ideological hegemony. Art is as it should be, and the rights of democracy or the diktat of liberty guarantees every second individual to draw a totally different meaning as it should, but the fact that art is not ephemeral or temporal imparts a lasting soul to that form of art, and the success of that art lies in its ability to speak for itself, and not just be a passive mode of expression. Allowing many an interpretation of an art diminishes the motive behind the creation by a magnitude so great that the original gets lost somewhere in the middle pf these assumes states of mind the artist had been in. The success of art, methinks, is the connection it establishes with the spirit of the medium through which finds expression and the one where it is impressed upon.

Rang De Basanti is a quintessential form of that art, the art that has a soul, the art that is meaningful, all the time being very pertinent to the contemporary mindset of the society, and never forgetting that it is just an nart not a didactic or a doctrine, and hence it has to be vocal, simultaneously, about the plebeian connection as well, for what is art if not vulgar, what is memory if not shared, and what is an idea if not popular (I mean made known to the outside of its conception). The movie, (I think my first usage), aims at the conscience of the audience, it carries with itself, the idea of integrity and truthfulness, the burden of responsibility, the Promethean man, the feeling of a community, the strong undertones of love, the idea of knowledge from the prism of power and the expressions in their manifestations thorough the protagonists. It has a very nuanced hint of the effect of the third eye, the eye of the foreign, the effects of the beholder, the terms of conformity with the third eye and the solidarity and the degree of mutual acceptance of the no-so-own.

 Sue is a Briton, with roots that can be dug up to the imperial, so to say, the colonial master, Britain. The ancestor is shown to have been an important figure of the British presence in on of the most exemplar colonies, India. The light in which the story sees a path is the confession of an outer falsehood by a "seemingly" conscientious British "ruler". He finds it immoral to carry on the duties he has undertaken with the burden of responsibility. He has to execute the barbaric, violent natives, who at the same time, he says, were epitome of patience and persistence. This clearly brings out the paradox. The intimacy between the two parties is reflected through the mutual acknowledgment of qualities which overtly may seen hostile but somewhere there is a resonance of thoughts. And Sue, in her capabilities sets out to uncover this aspect of British thought. We see a dichotomy in the psychology, the exact manifestation of the acceptance of the evil, but framing it as a necessary evil. We can also project that individual evils are not subject to any hegemony. That the source of the knowledge is a very instrumental part in the way that knowledge is assimilated, that the form of that knowledge is itself not dissociated from the source. We see a Brit commoner, personally disturbed, but for the greater purpose assumes a falsehood. We see a seeker of truth, a desire to present the alternative side of knowledge.

The college kids, or boys as I must call them, represent an aspiration, the aspiration of a future that is independent of their present and past. The boys symbolize a feeling of emotional solidarity within a community however small it may be. The boys represent the "let-live" form of thought, when we come to know of their past and the present. The college represents a place of connectivity, a forum to rid oneself of all the individual strains, of backgrounds of families, or of emotions; and indulge in the shared ideas of liberty, of fraternity. There are strong currents anti-social elements, which represent the idea of a moral right of a particular form of aspiration to bring within its fold, the offshoots of the broader society. The hooligans represent the false notion of exclusivity of belonging, to a particular school of thought or definition of community. The introduction of the western immediately projects the incorrect perceptions of the west about the east, and the east of the west. This also presents the ideological hegemony present in both the societies.

The plot introduces the terms of the shared oneness. We can see the reluctance transforming into tolerance and then metamorphosed into acceptance and belief. Through this process, we are shown the re-representation of the Indian underground terrorist movement during the colonial rule; the lackadaisical attitude towards one's nation in the boys, even after having been active instruments of representation through a nationalist view.

The plot takes a turn and assumes a serious nation-towards march when the friend is killed in a crash. The representation again plays its part in the power circuit and through the media, it finds a general acceptance. Behind the scenes we are shown the concerns and the dismissal of these concerns by the power circuits through thr tool of representation. The truth is projected through the tool of virtue and morality, through the concept of linear and empty time, where in the viewer unknowingly fits the trajectory of the strong and then we see the rising of a common sentiment. The peaceful gathering and the tailoring of the opinions to meet the personal ends, is shown very meticulously. The conscience of a nation is shown through the candle scene. The following story constantly projects the mis-representation of the truth as the false, and simultaneous anger about the real-politik in the conscience of a people. The impulsive childish response of the protagonists ends with the slaying of the minister, and yet again this attempt bears no fruit. In this fact and the subsequent story, we are shown the concept of Gandhian time, where the myth is truer and stronger than history. The boys repeat the process of self surrender but are assumed to terrorists, and killed. We know nothing of what becomes of Sue, and the later stages after their killing, but this definitely is the point of view of a nationalist in the makers.

The creators, in short, try to present, if I may, represent the Indian history, through the present. The ideology of art speaking aloud for itself succeeds, as I find myself writing my view about it. Was it meant to be interpreted in the way I did? We never know. What we know is that whatever be the purpose, this art traces the bits of the formative stage of a nation, parallels it with the current state and seeks to make a comparison which even though might not have been intentional, it successfully does.

PINK and the PUNK

I have lately been disturbed a lot. Sometimes due to my own doings, and other times, simply. But the other day, may-hap, did something to alleviate a bit of this pain. I was at the department coffee shop, simply staring at the faces, hungrily gorging themselves with their pastries and sandwiches, when I had nothing to eat. Huh...I think I mentioned about the dearth of money. Yeah, I have been going hungry for nearly 5 days now. I think I should now try and go for a record. The mess here serves no better than cow-dung, though I doubt the purity of the mess food compared to the hype surrounding the benefits of cow-dung. I couldn't ask anyone to feed me with something...I am already in a huge debt...financially, emotionally...whatever. So, with my tongues hanging out, I had to ask one of the professors to help me get a cup of coffee. The professor winces at the stall owner, and I knew he was not very excited. Then something remarkable happened. Chitra came up to me.

No, fools, not to get me something to eat, but for perhaps some class notes. I wonder what made her do so...the charisma surrounding my persona, or the standing hair on my head, and chin alike...All the more, she, I think, is the only one who has never noticed me in the class. I don't carry any stationary (is it -ery?) to the class, and she never noticed this. Cool...So she comes up to me, and asks for the Network Theory notes. I am surprised. Was this something to propel me to committing a suicide? Nothing more disturbing could have occurred to me, ever in my life. Now I know that I like that subject a lot, and that I know a big deal of networking but people don't want to accept that. The professor randomly decides to award me two entwined naughts, the friend of mine mocks at me, yes the Cisco friend, and I have this pretty girl asking some help on networking...My life has been one perfect epitome of paradoxes and ironies. I hate people from IIT Guwahati, and i am dumped into the same institute. I look down upon the seven something pointers and i have been inflicted with this curse of remaining in the seven something bracket forever...and fighting to maintain that, of late. I enjoy Networks the most and I perform the worst in the same. The pretty girl seeks help in the networking course. FUCK.

OK, forget about this...I thought i was writing something about happiness. By the way, my Cisco friend always finds it odd when I am not moaning about my sorrows...hihi...So, when I saw her coming, i tried to fish my pockets for something that could allow me to exchange coffee with the shop owner. And fortunately for me, I get my id card. And before she could utter something I had deposited my id card with the out there, and waved him for a coffee.

"Hey, could you help me with something on networking"

"I am afraid, why don't you ask the topper...I mean he should do a better job to satisfy your needs, of all kinds (a silent chuckle erupts into a broad smile)"

"No, i couldn't understand..."

"Coffee??"

"...the part that you discussed with Bose...regarding CSMA CD...you see..."

"Ek coffee aur de do (signaling at the coffee-wallah with all the pride I could garner)"

"...Oh com'on...I won't have coffee...Bhaiyya mat dena...(turning towards me)...I dont like these coffee they prepare, and by the way, I didn't ask for the coffee...!!!"

"I thought you were..."

"No, first let us talk something about the collision..."

(Of hearts, i would have fancied).

Blah...Blah...Blah.

Yeah, somehow I managed to escape that brutal assault of hers, in any possible sense that could have been. And while on the topic, i noticed the silent pink lips of hers...She was wearing a pink frock...and that accentuated the pink of her cheeks...and the pink smell of her perfume reminded me of...nothing, exactly. The conversation ended with a customary thanks giving.

The rest was all painted in pink, the moment onwards. I thought of something relating to pink, in a way yellow relates to jaundice. After the classes, I thought of asking her out. And you bet I did.

"Hey, Chitra, umm...ok, I am not happy that you refused a coffee with me"

"What?!!!??"

"No, i mean i thought it would have been kind-of nice to share a cup of coffee with you"

"Oh! sweetie, I don't like the coffee here, I told you...please don't feel bad...and don't you dare think I am arrogant...(a chirping laughter)"

"Oh...no...I just...just thought that(a foolish laughter)...but now i know more and better, i think...right!!! (pass on a smile, and you bet she reciprocates). Ok so I guess thats all for the day..."

"I am afraid, Vivek, pretty much"

"OK, so have a nice time...an tastier and healthier cups of coffee"

I turned away with that, calling my friends name, and asking for a lift.

"Are you free...i mean you don't have any prior commitment for the evening do you???"

"No, but i have to go for...yea I am absolutely free...why??"

"No, i thought we don't have labs and I am not doing anything this evening...so why not give you a chance to share a cup of coffee with me...!!!"

"But you don't like this cafeteria, do you?"

"No, dumbo, and thats why i asked if you were free...so that we could go out for the..."

"Are you hinting a date with me...(a sheepish grin)"

"...Shut up...you punk!!!"

Smiles all around.

I'm Dead.

No, I am not. But then, don't people suck at metaphors. For that matter, I don't know if I do. Six and ninety hours it has been since I last smiled. Six and ninety hours since I have been disturbed by fits of  unhappiness, and as many hours since I ate something. I wonder why not-eating goes hand in hand with not being happy. I had a pack of cigarettes though, to calm down my nerves, and some aural exercise with Pink Floyd and Opeth. Contrasting images do I generate, I know, but my life has been tracing pretty much the same course. And while I try to drain out the depression, the Doors do no better than pull me back to their eternal haunting end, the end of everything that has meant or should mean, life for me. Why does the pain need to be exacerbated? I mean, why do I imagine more and more pain for myself, even when I have reasons to be happy? I know, I am not doing any better. I know there is no pain, and nor do I want imagined sympathies.

I can listen to the clamor outside, while I am sitting at my desk and reflecting on possible sadness that is to befall me. They are celebrating the birthday of some lousy bastard, that brat who banged his chick the other day, and now is profusely distributing cases of liquor to celebrate his happiness. I like whiskey, but I am in no mood to have some now. What do I raise the toast to? The two unkind noughts entwined together on my mark-sheet...or the hazy prospect of getting a job...or perhaps even bleaker the possibility of securing for myself a candidature in some management exam? Perhaps it is the unwillingness to go for an internship, or the idea of missing my sister's marriage. I don't know, I am not sure. The cigarette, just like the fading smile on my face, seems to be burning out very fast. Let me smoke my bit...

Yeah, ITC should actually be banned for producing such kickass packs. I am looking forward to switching to cruder forms...Meanwhile, the thought that troubles me at the moment is that I am not getting any help from my neighbor. I don't have any money, my jeans cries for salvation, and I am hanging on to it as the only refuge. Oh! and I just switched to Black. Fuck. Eddie Vedder haunts me to death. Do I have a troubled love life. Ehh....No. What do you expect from me? A screwed up life with nothing to cheer about? I am perhaps the only one to have something to cheer about. Someone told me about appearances that people conjure up, in order to look despondent when they actually have bags full of weed, and the moments of elation that follow...while others simply hanging their tongues out, licking every piece of ass that comes their way, and proclaiming their tryst with happiness, when every night they get fucked by the ideas of reality. What next...of course this is not a bit relieving, but still I am trying to ease myself, with a false hope that this forum saps out the sorrows of my fortune. Weird, right. But does barking at the tree produce any movement? Bark your lungs out, and the tree moves not a whisker. Write loads of accounts when actually they are products of your skewed hindsight. 

Someone knocks at my door, and asks me to join him in their celebrations. I agree to come within moments. I know I am not going. In the meanwhile, I was going to use that stall to drop a deuce, but somebody left it looking like a toilet mummy. Huh...no comfort even in my answers to the nature's call. What the hell !!!