Reverb 10.16: Getting By With A Little Help From Friends

An easy Reverb10 prompt and a predictable one but it’s the season to be jolly after all.

December 16 – Friendship

How has a friend changed you or your perspective on the world this year? Was this change gradual, or a sudden burst?

(Author: Martha Mihalick)

Of course I’m going to have to say at first that I can’t name everyone in my (lucky me!) mani-populated life. I’m going to focus specifically on people who changed my life tangibly in 2010 (as opposed to the gradual-but-significant changes others like my parents and best friend have been making over the years).

In the order in which they’ve begun making their impactful and earth-shaking presence felt in my life, my top 3 influencers of 2010:

1. Adi – My book is a better one to write and to read, for having felt the Adi touch. Adi opened me up to new books and new ways of seeing stories. Also, new ways of thinking, of feeling and of being with people and myself. Truly 2010 and my life have been a better place for having had Adi for a friend.
2. The boy – He contradicts me for the heck of it, he teases me to frustration. He challenges my insofar secure notions of men and relationships. He questions my beliefs on religion, politics and the world. He pushes me outside my comfort zone. He’s not always comfortable to be around. But yes, he makes me a better person.
3. E Vestigio – is not the galpal who’ll cluck in sympathy and say ‘Jerk’ when I whine about someone. She isn’t nice to me when I’m grumpy. She forces me to sit up and take a good, hard look at myself and my own excuses. She’d be the one that’ll say, “Okay, enough with the drama. Lie still and I’m going to yank your foot out of that sprain. It’ll hurt like hell and you’ll see stars in daylight. And then you’ll feel better. And I always do. She’s the bitter-tasting but very much needed pill of reality. Heh, but you know what? The bitterness is that of old wine. It gives me a high and so does she.

Reverb 10.11: What I Don’t Need In 2011 (And How I’m Avoiding Them)

A list! I love lists! And that’s only the first reason why this Reverb 10 prompt has me singing.

December 11: 11 Things

What are 11 things your life doesn’t need in 2011? How will you go about eliminating them? How will getting rid of these 11 things change your life?

(Author: Sam Davidson)

Fooo…..yes, I was all enthusiastic and eager and ecstatic (and other good-sounding ‘E’ words) at the thought of a list. But having discovered the list is (again!) about things that one has to bid goodbye to, my E stuff feels D’ed (dampened, defeated, disgusted, demeaned, disillusioned, devastated…).

11 Things My Life Does Not Need in 2011 (why not and how I plan to get rid of them):

1. Writer’s block:

I’ve faced this enough of times in the past year and can testify to it being the vilest, most horrible, uncomfortable, lonely, sickening feeling ever. It’s like being constipated for days on end and watching everyone else eat sumptuous tasty meals. It’s like being pregnant for eighteen months, watching your belly bloat to alarming proportions and wondering if the only way out will be for you to burst. *Shudder* Never, ever again, please.

I don’t really have a plan to get rid of the possibility of this but I guess I can keep my proverbial medical kit handy. Good friends, other career options and enough of distractions to tide me over till it passes.

2. Financial worries:

I’ve never been poor. But there have been times when money has felt a little stretched. Add a generous dose of good South-Indian girl guilt to that. That’s when if the outgoing includes items that are not mind-enhancing and matrimonial-prospect-inducing, they’re considered wasteful. Incoming has got to be a steady, predictable flow, no windfalls-followed-by-empty-periods for this one.

Considering I’ve chucked up a sensible, respectable career for a newfangled, alien venture like writing, am well past my sell-by (as prescribed by the Southern powers-that-be) date and show no signs of making up for it, pressure is high. Much of this of course, is self-induced which is the beauty of any childhood-implanted guilt. The recording plays on inside your head, long after the originators of the voices have fallen silent. Anyway, I really do not need the cringing self-doubt of dwindling savings with no albeit tiny-but-definitely-incoming money flow in sight. I don’t believe I have the nerve to go through with being footloose and income-free for very long. Which just means, I’ll run back to the safety and uninspiring boredom of a respectable job, again. And that’s the end of my writing career, my dreams and my self-worth.

How I plan to keep this wolf at bay is by thinking ahead and keeping open to income-generating options. Naturally, I have my pride and conscience and I don’t intend to resort to get-rich quick schemes. But I have chalked up a number of things that I can do and do well. There’s writing of course (all kinds) and also number-crunching, business analysis and a number of other things I’m still discovering. It’s still a tricky thing for me, marketing them in a way that doesn’t sound like I’m full of myself. But very simply, these are retailable skills. Money earned for work done is a simple enough mantra. And fingers crossed that there will be enough of takers for what I’m selling.

3. Emotional distance

One of the first things that I decided I wanted to do, when I quit last year, was to go back to being the person I was a decade ago. Starry-eyed, idealistic, passionate, uncontrollably alive. Also unfashionable, socially outcast and totally uncool. But I wanted that and I wanted it all, no exclusions.

A big revelation happened over the course of the year (through the novel and many wine-soaked conversations with E Vestigio and long distance phone calls with P, L and others). I cut out sarcasm. Then I whittled away at cynicism. I chipped off bitterness. And I’m gnawing away at polite behaviour.

The results are that I’m exploding more than once. I’m often caught at a loss for words or saying the most horribly inappropriate things at the wrong times. But I feel so very alive! The sense of being weighed down is going. Even though I’m actually a few kilos heavier than when I had a rigourous daily schedule, I feel lighter.

I’m not completely there yet but I intend to keep at it. Emotional distance from people and experiences is what I thought kept me sane. But it also kept me stifled, tiny and mostly dead. I’m letting go. Be warned, much madness up ahead but it’ll all be authentic, 100% me.

4. Poor health

Rheumatism. Spondilitis. Diabetes. All things that doctors have been threatening, are creeping up on me.

Malaria. Gastroentitis. Low blood pressure. Vitamin D deficiency. Weak bones. All things that have already made their presence felt in my life.

I was always a skinny kid but also a bundle of energy and I recuperated quickly. The most ironic thing about my health in the past decade was discovering that I was overstressed and vitamin-D deficient. On asking what I could do to get better, I was told to work less and play more!

That seems like wonderful advice to follow (even doctors say nice things sometimes). So I intend to worry less, laugh a lot more, eat well, run around like crazy in the sun – and hopefully live not just longer but better.

5. Unhealthy weight gain

As mentioned above, I was a skinny kid and I grew up into a lean adult. But shortly after I quit my job, I discovered that I was alarmingly fleshy for my snugfit jeans. I ended up getting a new wardrobe (of dresses and skirts) but that niggling belief that I was bloating hasn’t left. Of course I’m duly grateful that it’s only a little weight, that actually does look good on me. But I’m alarmed by the idea that it could just inflate (pun intended) out of control. What’s more, I really don’t want to add cholesterol, heart disease and other things to the repertoire I’ve listed above.

What I plan to do about this, has actually already been set in action. I signed up for yoga six months ago and did follow the regime for a good while. But the schedule didn’t suit me and I fell off the bandwagon. Mercifully for me, I also started swimming, an activity that brings me even more pleasure than health benefits. The weather has gotten a little too chilly to enjoy the swim much but I still managed to get into the pool 4 days last week and complete around 15 or more laps before shivering my way back to the changing room. Maybe I’ll sign up for a dance class too.

Persistence and patience are my friends and I don’t intend to let those sneaky kilos get the better of me.

6. Boredom

The killer of all things creative, happy and joyful, who would be scareder of boredom, than a storyteller (an entertainer)? Thankfully for me, the world is a treasure trove of interesting things and people and experiences.

I’m not going to deaden this by putting a schedule on it. Suffice to say that when something occurs to me, I explore it. A new hobby? An interesting person? A novel idea? I’m a sleuth for interesting experiences and each one I pick up only leads to bigger and greater delights.

7. Control

This is the other card in the evil side’s deck, supporting the first card of boredom. Control by family, by employers, by social norms, by stereotypes. It kills the spirit, it kills my soul and it damages my creativity.

I don’t have a plan to avoid every instance of being controlled by another person or entity. But when I do face one of them, I intend to stand my ground and not cave. Enough died, already.

8. Other people’s problems

Egos. Insecurities. Complexes. Weaknesses. Negative sentiments. I’ve had a strange affinity for all of these from other people. That, coupled with the ability to absorb and expand on all, I feel like I’ve been quite a bundle of other people’s nerves.

It’s rather tricky detaching oneself from these things without imposing emotional distance from them. I don’t get it most of the time. What’s more, standing up for myself has never come easy (no matter what the image may dictate).

No plan on this one either. Just the will to oppose it and hope that practice will make perfect.

9. High bills on clothes, makeup and socializing

This I really, really don’t need. I am no shopaholic but after a decade of denial, I decided to indulge. Now I think, enough of self-pampering and now for some balanced restraint.

This is the other aspect of keeping away financial worries – curbing the unnecessary outgoing along with building the possible incoming. I don’t really have to have expensive shoes that only last a month. Mumbai roads make dust of everything and none of the big shops guarantee any quality on this terrain. High-voltage partying has never been my scene and mercifully the social circle I move around in, doesn’t really cotton to it either. Mostly I am now okay with saying that I can’t afford it and so I won’t. Out with the fabulous lifestyle, in with some peace of mind.

10. Goodbyes to people I’m close to

This is more a fearful wish than an intelligent item on the planning list. Six months of 2010 were spent in trying to cope with saying goodbye to good friends, to notions of loyalty, to dreams of greatness. I know I learn from each of these experiences. But I’ve had a rough, really rough enough ride of it. I’m not sure I’m ready for another dose, just yet.

I can’t think of anything to put under 11 so this is going to be a list of 10. That’s my bit for letting go of control (even my own OCDness)!

BlogAdda 4: Is Your Blog Facebooked?

My fourth post (and the last one for this month) is up on BlogAdda. This week I link the blogosphere to the darling of social media – Facebook. As an incorrigible social butterfly and a compulsive blogger, I’m delighted by all the ways I have to marry these two interests.

This week I talk about some of the simplest and handiest ways to make Facebook work for a blog. Much of it is supposedly common knowledge and yet, I find most blogs that I follow, don’t use these methods. I follow all the ideas I’ve outlined myself and it works for my blogs. Here’s hoping it opens up new vistas for the readers’ blogs too.

(Click here to read the post on BlogAdda)

BlogAdda 3: Protecting Your Privacy

My third post is up on BlogAdda. Last week I talked about how to build accessibility for a blog through feeds and link-sharing mechanisms. This week I take a look at the exact opposite.

While the internet opens you up to a broad range of people and experiences, it also leaves you open to a number of undesirable elements. Fortunately, filtering mechanisms are available that can help you tailor your online presence with the level of accessibility and privacy that suits you the best. Privacy is as relevant an issue as accessibility and I felt that after talking about how to make one’s blog visible, it was vital to know how to also protect oneself online.

(Click here to read the post)

Mumbai Indiblogger Meet: 15Aug @Sea Princess #indimum

Indiblogger hosted a blogger’s meet yesterday at Hotel Sea Princess, Juhu. It was touted as the biggest such event and I think that’s a fair claim. The event actually began a half hour late, at 2:30p.m., by which time the hall was almost completely packed.

Registrations were done online by logging into the Indiblogger site. A display screen at the front of the room picked it up and kept a running tally on who had just walked in, a live feed of tweets tagged #indimum and those that mentioned the event. This feature was a really plus for a blogger meet since it allowed people to connect across the room and ‘interrupt’ or get into discussions just the way they would be able to online. It really kept the conversation, quite literally, running and the mood upbeat.

The first familiar faces I spotted were Arcopol, Chhavi, Mahafreed, Sahil, Payal, Teatattler and Netra. This event had all the hallmarks of a ‘typical’ bloggers meet with old friends catching up, people meeting offline for the first time, new connections being made and URLs/Twitter IDs being exchanged. The past meets have all been more like parties with people making random introductions and conversations. For an event of this magnitude, the Indiblogger team started with a loose agenda, which really worked.

The event kicked off with a ‘few words’ from the organizers and the sponsors. The HP session may actually have been quite interesting but the presentation was really boring and scheduled as it was, right at the beginning, I’m not sure they received much attention. BigRock’s presentation was much better, light and peppered with internet jokes and just enough information to keep listening parties interested in coming back for more.

The next item on the agenda was introductions (of the audience) which took the better part of two hours considering how many people were there. This may have run into boredom but the team worked it well by announcing a contest for the most interesting introduction. So introductions would happen, there would be gasps of recognition (and waving) from various places in the audience and live-tweeting. I spotted Kalyan across the room and a short while later, another person introduced himself by the same name and very similar profile. Normally I’d have had to keep quiet and wait till the end of a long session to connect up, by which time I may have forgotten or even lost interest. But I instantly tweeted him, which came up on screen and he replied. We got into a conversation about another member in the audience who suddenly saw his name pop up on the timeline and joined in too. Fun ?

I had a lovely surprise when I entered the room to find my Punekar friend Poonam, whose visit I had not known of. Later, during the introductions, I was deeply thrilled to hear a sweet-faced lady across the room introduce herself as the writer of Toerag. It was all I could do to keep from jumping up and down in my seat and yelling, “Here, here!! Remember me?!” Sangeeta and I have been readers of each other’s blogs for years now, right from back in the day when one visited every single link on the blogroll every day to check if there were new posts. In this day and age of instant updates, feed-readers and link-sharing, those seem like hallmarks of a bygone era. There’s a distinct pleasure in connecting with someone who remembers you from the days of yore.

One of the last introductions was a lady who claimed to have failed her 10th board, run away to Italy, fallen in love with one of the masters, left him to backpack and having run out of interesting things to do, began blogging. She ended by saying, “And I’m a storyteller.” She was the unanimous winner of the most interesting introduction. ?

The chai break that followed was really livened up by a cute little game organized by the team. Every member in the audience was given a chart to hang on their back, equipped with pens and asked to go around ‘leaving comments’ on other people’s charts. A simple enough idea but tremendously useful in bridging the gap between wanting to talk to someone and making the actual connection. I spoke and was spoken to by so many people, that I’d really have lost track if I didn’t have their twitter handles or URLs on my chart.

My Indiblogger meet chart!

The post-break session began with an impromptu quiz (hosted by a truly beautiful lady from BigRock) and prizes being handed out. This lead into a discussion moderated by celebrity participant, Gul Panag. I really have to give it to the lady for being way more than a pretty face. Managing a group of 200-odd people, all with opinions jostling to be heard and ensuring that people stuck to the point, stayed interested and didn’t get into fights – that’s no mean feat and the lady accomplished it with aplomb. We discussed self-censorship, comparisons with traditional media, authenticity of content, new trends, social activism online and citizen journalism. The discussion was carefully kept short enough so it didn’t peter into wasteful arguments.

The last thing on the menu was a select preview of the movie Soch Lo. I’m rather afraid I didn’t understand a thing and it didn’t enthuse me enough to want to watch the full movie whenever it is available. ‘Nuff said.

This is an account of the events as they happened but it doesn’t capture the essence of the fun and energy that marked the full day. So I’m posting some of my tweets, as they were live updates of things that happened (and because Twitter archiving still sucks).

• Indiblogger meet under way. Intros on. #indimum

• Bangalore accents are to Indian women what French accents are to Westerners. Ooh, yummy! #indimum

• Gadzooks! My crush-ey tweet just popped up on screen at Indiblogger meet. Eep.

• Pleasant rush of memories happening. Why did the blogger meets stop? #indimum

• HP talk at #indimum. Fairly interesting talk but blah ppt. Form does matter. Content is invisible if audience loses interest.

• BigRock does 140char intro. Agenda says ‘vision mission blah blah’. Am listening already. #indimum

• Celebrity spotting at #indimum! @Netra just walked in!

• found an envelope under seat saying Collect prize from prettiest girl at reception. Heh, nice. #indimum

• Intros of audience happening at #indimum. Next to me, @arcopolc taking notes.

• Amrish blogs abt mumbai since it is his life. Life, leverage and limits. Cute. #indimum

• Honest admissions at #indimum Ppl blog to up Google rank, earn on ads, bcos friends do it, bcos its the new geek thing to do.

• @finelychopped Hey, that sounds like you! #indimum

• Keema from Mizoram ‘as in Chicken Keema’ Lol, I like! #indimum

• Really good to see ppl blogging abt whatever comes to mind, stories, pictures etc. Tired of hearing of SEO, Tech etc. #indimum

• Heh, an Arsenal fan intro’d self as that and ended with ‘BOO you!’ to two ManU fans. #indimum

• IT IS TOO COLD HERE! #indimum

• Yay! @Sahilk plays knight in plastic armour & loans me his windcheater. #indimum

• Heard an intro from toerag.blogspot. Iv read her for yrs! Wish id caught her twitter id. #indimum

• SunshineMom is now Freaked-out Mom. #indimum

• Hardik Shah at #indimum wonders why everyone staring at him. @hardik, eh?

• Passing charts with strings and sketchpens. Everyone loves new stationery. Intros getting missed unfortunately. #indimum

• Next item on #indimum agenda: SWITCH OFF THE AC!

• Hot baldie alert at #Indimum. Men should not be allowed hair above the eyebrows.

• #indimum Screen refreshed after 15min. Bcos @gulpanag walked in? Her name still hasnt come up.

• Okay now we get to play with the new stationary. #indimum

• Hot girl in great haircut conducting pop quiz at #indimum

• This quiz in damn tough, ya #mahafreedstyle. #indimum

• All the guys rush to front of room. #indimum

• Ageism at #indimum. Am sulking in the left side. Grmph.

• @gulpanag speaking abt why UGC scores over mass media. #indimum

• RT @rati7 And d guy just wont shut up..

• Do bloggers self-moderate? I think the democracy of blogging does that already. #indimum

• @shrikant Stop hitting on the pretty lady, Neanderthal!

• Are we back on censorship?! #indimum

• If ur content is wrong/offensive/misleading, ull lose readership. Why are we still discussing censorship? #indimum

• @shrikant scowling at me for calling him Neanderthal hitting on @gulpanag #indimum

• ‘Good ppl are not visible & visible ones not credible’. Does that mean bloggers are incredible? #indimum

• @mahafreed says we are her eyes, her twitter timeline, bloggers. FTW! #INDIMUM

• The Banglore boys leaving! #indimum

• Now @gulpanag gets background score! #indimum

• @_alps and I giggling

• Soch liya, kuch nahin samjha. #indimum

• Much fun was had at #indimum. Old-style blogger hookups (face to DP/handle) in newer settings (live tweeting, posh hotel, freebies, contest)

• @abhinav_hee_haw Ah. Just the live timeline was a party in itself. #indimum

• #indimum made me fall off compulsive-tweeter bandwagon after going clean for weeks! Someone asked if I was the talkative one on the hashtag!

• @sahilk is funner in real life than on email. #justsaying

• received a delightful surprise when @_alps turned up at #indimum today. And another on meeting longtime blogger-pal @sangeeta_kini 1st time.

My congratulations and thanks to the Indiblogger team for pulling off a complex and really fantastic event. My only suggestion would be to consider proving WiFi access next time to ensure even more live coverage during the event. I’m looking forward to more from you guys!

Other coverage of the event (will be updated-drop in a link if you find something not featured here):

Mizohican: Chp.314 Indiblogger Meet Mumbai

Magali: The Wonderful Indiblogger Mumbai Meet (#indimum)

Firoze Shakir: Flickr

Anubha Bhat: The Indiblogger Bloggers’ Meet, Facebook Photos

Manav Dhiman: Indiblogger Mumbai Meet #indimum

Naveen Bachwani: Indiblogger Meet 2010

Jaydip: Once upon a time Blogger Met in Mumbai

Kalyan: We don’t need no chutney sandwiches

Juhi: Mumbai’s Indiblogger Meet from my camera

Renieravin: Flickr

Phoenix: Indibloggers Meetup

Shrikant: Deflowered by the sea-princess

Harman: The Indiblogger Meet

Viyoma: Indiblogger Meet: 15th Aug 2010

Ojas Mehta: An eventful Independence Day!

Neha Silam: Anything for a tee

Milee: A Place, Some Bloggers and Fun

Alumni Meet

If I had to write a book on ‘Things that they never told me about in b-school”, it would run into volumes that no one would read. I suspect that a lot of these things that ‘they never tell us about’ are not meant to be known to us at that time anyway. Some things you realise only with time, some things are experienced and understood only in the context of the right time-frame.

Being a student is something that is a way of life for most people under the Indian education system (only because I don’t know if it is different elsewhere). From our earliest memories, we are used to being the low life in the complex matrix of teachers, assignments, back-benchism (yes, as a noun), bullies, exams, practicals, notes, lessons, grades, degrees etc.

At twenty-something it abruptly comes to an end and you suddenly have to learn to live your life as ‘not a student any more’. Oh, yes I know there are people who go back to school but once you’ve had a taste of this side of things, you are transformed for life. I particularly feel it when I attend an alumni meet. The transition from aspirant to candidate to student to alumnus is not a smooth one. It hits you in sudden doses.

I worked for some time between my graduation and masters so I went back to college with a certain “must keep my eyes open and not miss a single minute of the experience” attitude. I had realised that old adage about ‘the best years’. Even so, the stark differences take some getting used to.

Attitudes change. Drastically. People and times change of course. But I’m talking about universal attitude towards a person when he/she goes through this aspirant-candidate-student-alumnus cycle. Suddenly the higher powers-that-be who couldn’t be bothered with granting you five minutes of their time to discuss your admission/work/placements are queuing up to shake your hand. Of course all of this is dependent on what you’ve done and how you’ve done it since they last left you.

I initially thought of this as akin to the ‘leaving the nest’ syndrome. But family is different. At a professional level, one’s alma mater is the equivalent of family but they aren’t bound to you emotionally in the same way. Hence you get used and abused and when the roles change, its time to return the favour.

Do I sound cynical? Well, it is disconcerting to find that the same people who misplaced your certificates (and ensured endless running around to universities, registrar offices et al for you), graded you badly because they thought you should have been home learning to cook instead and did so many other callous things…are introducing you as ‘someone the students would do well to follow, a fast-track professional, someone with a bright future, a worthy alumnus of this college etc etc’

But that is still bitching about faculty. One of my early mentors told me “You’ll find lots of contacts in college that could lead to jobs, business opportunities and such useful things. But you won’t find friends.” It really hit me at the alumni meet. Six months out of college and very excited about meeting my old classmates again, I arrived at the alumni meet. I’d been on the other side long enough, the organizers, the alumni group, the nameless, faceless students who ensured that the institute had links to all those who had walked through its halls. And now, I was about to sign my name in the Visitors book for the first time. I felt like a moth caught in a chandelier. Someone I didn’t recognize called me to invite me, someone else had a name tag ready for me, disembodied hands stuffed a bag of college paraphrelia into my arms and pushed me into the hall. And inside the hall, there was the same gathering I’d seen in the past years. Except the bunch that used to sport the Volunteer tags now had respectable Visitor passes. And everyone was flashing visiting cards.

I have attended several alumni meets now. And there are patterns that I didn’t catch at first. Patterns that repeat. The person in the centre of a crowd isn’t the one who was the most popular student. It is more likely to be that slimy lizard who stole your reports and who was the first one in the batch to get promoted.

What about your seniors? Ah, this is really interesting. Some of those creeps who bullied you all through the first days and then forgot you when you needed a mentor, suddenly want your email address. Oh and maybe ‘get together sometime for a drink and discuss some business opportunities’. And those great people whom you had fun with, who did give you some tips about your interview seem to be avoiding you. I guess it isn’t easy to deal with the idea that someone you gave a leg up to, zoomed past you.

What of those who fared more or less the same way as you did in college and now too? They are there of course….with uneasy looking smiles they tell you that they want to ‘circulate’ and that they’ll catch up with you later. Which they don’t. You may bump into them over dinner and conversations are guarded. And probing. No friends in this game, rivals it is always.

Of course all conversations revolve around who is doing what, who switched jobs and why. Everyone joins in, even those who haven’t worked since they quit college. Everyone has an opinion. And an agenda. Visiting cards are passed out, phone numbers exchanged. Everyone knows everyone else as well as someone’s boss, colleague, client, supplier. There is this seemingly casual camaradie while they bitch about a common contact. But each one is storing what the other is saying to be circulated back to the subject of common scorn.

I was stripped of my illusions at that one meet that happened the year I took a break from my job. It was close to the time I quit and a lot of people hadn’t heard about it. So I greeted the usual wave of handshakes coming my way and prepared for the charade ahead. Except most of those smiles visibly faded when they realised that there was no job/sale/contact coming their way. A few people actually cut me mid-sentence and walked off ‘to say hello to so-and-so’. The next year of course changed again. A new job, a new visiting card brought a few new handshakes and all the old ones too.

I still attend alumni meets. I guess I’ve become a part of the system too. There really are useful contacts to be made and maintained, even if I can’t stand them at a personal level. I no more get that very juvenile kick out of seeing my teachers faces when they realise I didn’t turn out a wastrel after all. Some things don’t matter with time I guess. I do like meeting the new kids on the block. I particularly enjoy talking to students. Maybe I just like advising people but yes, I do remember that there were a few people whose words changed the course of my life at one time or another. If sharing an experience eases someone’s way, I consider my debts repaid.

After each alumni meet, I like to take a stroll through the old campus. A college always looks weird when it is empty. But it feels even funnier to see strange faces sitting inside classrooms, lounging in hallways and generally belonging to the place that used to feel like second home to me once. The empty building just looks like I stayed back for a late class, after everyone left. I used to do that sometimes. And after I finished up work, I’d relax over a chai and dream about my future. Standing in that future right now, realising that all those dreams came true….is a good feeling. It makes even the alumni meet worth it.

Movie Review: AMEN

What’s better than spending Saturday night with a gorgeous, intelligent, witty and sensitive man? I had the privilege this weekend. Harish Iyer invited me to a private screening of the short film ‘AMEN’ based in part, on his life. My first question was to ask if I should dress up. He said, “No yaar, I’ll be there in my regular jeans and all.” Thank goodness for me then, that I’ve met Harish before and I know what his idea of ‘regular jeans’ is. Never trust a gay man who says he isn’t dressing up!

The movie was screened at Pixion, a luxurious 24-seater in Bandra. The poster shows a part of the famous Michelangelo fresco depicting the Genesis and bears the tagline,

“Life does not let you choose your parents or your sexuality.”

One social message is a heavy charge for a film to bear without getting typecast into the shoddily made, preachy documentary mold. AMEN touched on internet hookups, rape, incest, child abuse, trust issues and love, in addition to homosexuality. It is remarkable that a film could accomplish all of that without sounding like a laundry-list of the ills of society.

From a storyteller’s point of view, it was interesting to see how the team managed to make a powerful commentary about the life of a gay man, fraught as it is with much uncertainty, loneliness, fear, mistrust and anger….all of this through the very intimate portrayal of two characters. The film could have gone two ways – maudlin or sleazy. Instead, it came through as sensitive, realistic, disturbing but also thought-provoking.

AMEN is a 24-minute film with taut storyline and a certain freshness without the glitches of an amateur production. The characters were well-defined and both actors (Karan Mehra and Jitin Gulati) essayed their roles without any of the self-consciousness that one might associate with such a bold project. One of the best compliments of the evening came from Vinta Nanda (director, Tara). When she said,

“Ordinarily when you watch a boy-meets-girl story, the women associate with the heroine and the men with the hero. I am a woman but I was completely immersed in the story of two men.”

Personally I liked the two intertwining threads of story within the film – two characters who’ve come to a situation from different places. Their individual experiences have shaped them differently and as a result, how they come to terms with their lives and their sexuality is different. Everything that we watch and read about love stories involves a certain automatic slotting of characters into their gender roles, a certain, ‘It’s a guy thing’/ ‘That’s so girly’ attitude. But AMEN made me see the characters as two people, each one a unique set of emotions and experiences. It made me empathise with each one separately and isn’t that an artist’s greatest challenge?

One normally expects a certain kind of scene to draw a certain premediated response. The violence and intensity of the starting scenes were disturbing. However it was the subtlety of Harry (Karan Mehra)’s mirror scene that really brought tears to my eyes. The mirror, as a metaphor for self-reflection, for facing one’s fears and the subsequent connection of fingertip to reflection was beautifully done.

I also liked the way the conflict was resolved realistically and not in the conventional ‘happily ever after’ way. The ending completely satisfied me as a viewer and that may be the best thing that can be said about any movie.

The making of AMEN is probably enough material for another movie altogether. A labour of love for both Ranadeep Bhattacharyya & Judhajit Bagchi, the experience had them playing producer, director but also spotboy, technician, teaboy and scriptwriter. The shoot commenced over 3 days in a small bungalow, after which the team hand-packed the sets, bundled into a tempo and delivered back the props borrowed from friends and family. Midway during the production, they found even their tight budgeting would not cover the costs of the film. Then Harish put up a status update on Twitter about this and to their surprise, a stranger offered to help them. Expenses were often cut down but money would continue to make its way to them till they finished. Their online guardian angel, Tina Valentina, actually met the team for the first time only at the preview of the film. AMEN was helped greatly by an excellent background score, a gift from Jonathon Fessenden, Hollywood composer and a professional look/feel thanks to Prasonjit.

In sum, AMEN is a fine movie with a solid story that also carries a number of powerful messages. It will definitely be of interest to the gay community but also to anyone who likes good cinema.

(pictures from the AMEN Facebook Fanpage)

The Green Mile Was Not An Illusion

Seventeen was a year of much learning, all of it outside the classroom. The college library was a gruesome place, with the boys being seated on the ground floor and the girls banished to the mezzanine floor overhead. Itwas like being on a rather volatile Venus that would suddenly be attacked by giggly gossips wanting a vantage view of the latest heartthrob seated downstairs or sour-faced bookworms exerting their authority with shhhhing in the one place that they ruled.

Quite by mistake, I discovered that the little door wedged in between the reading room and the games room (open only to boys for some reason) was the lending library. The narrow entranceway opened out into a seemingly endless room that was never visible to visitors since it was fenced off by chest-high counters. But I discovered that the staff manning those counters, quite unlike the battleaxe librarian, were friendly. All one had to do was to pick out a card (indexed by author and title) and present it with one’s identity card. A whole world of free books opened up to me. I read pop psychology, textbooks of subjects that were not mine, thrillers, classics, chess bibles and P.G.Wodehouse. I may have been the only student availing of these facilities since I rarely saw anyone else there and if they did, they were usually looking up a study assignment. It was like having my own personal library, the kind I’ve always (and continue to) dreamt of having.

Once I had my latest borrowing, it would be slipped into the ubiquitious backpack that accompanied my campus life and I’d go back to being a regular irreverent, aimless teenager.

The bunch of people I hung out with that year were a motley crew, all of us misfits in some way or the other and banding together only on that one common ground. None of us were really friends, we were just the social glue that stuck the moments of real living in each others lives together for what could pass as acceptable on campus. For some, this real living was in drugs, three of them found it in music, one of them in her boyfriend and a couple in the subjects they had chosen to study. Mine of course, were books. And all of us were together to get through the moments that couldn’t be spent in what we would like to do.

I met Sam at an unearthly hour of the morning on a weekday. It was too early for the whole gang to band together and the few stray members that we were just drifted about awkwardly. We didn’t have all that much to say to each other and it wasn’t till the entire group was around that we could function as one entity. I was shuffling about, kicking a stone between my scuffed boots when I heard someone calling my name. It was one of the other gang members and he was standing with a guy I had never seen before.

This is Sam. He likes books. You like books. You guys should talk.

and with that strange introduction he left. Sam and I stared at each other for a minute before he broke the gaze and said,

Let’s get some coffee. Come with me.

The first thing I would learn about Sam was that he started every morning with two cups of pure caffeine, no sugar, no milk, boiling hot and straight down one after the other. The second thing I would realize is that the coffee acted exactly the way electricity would when fed into an appliance. He suddenly came to life. The surly face relaxed, his wide eyes looked straight at me and we got to talking.

We discovered that we both loved books with a passion that neither of us had encountered in anyone else. And that these fires burnt for very different kinds of books. But that feeling of kinship, it was like meeting a fellow human being on a trip to outer space and so what if they spoke a different language? At the end of that conversation, we parted ways promising to introduce each other to our respective book loves.

I carried my prized and much-thumbed copy of Richard Bach’s Illusions in my backpack the next day, almost sure that it would not need to be taken out. To my surprise, he was standing just where I had parted ways with him the previous day.

Coffee.

He muttered and I nodded. And after he was done, he produced a set of five slim books. They were a series, all part of one book, he explained. Then he added that they were not easily available and that he had gotten them from a cousin in the US. I held my breath as I admired the highly illustrated covers and read the blurbs. When I handed them back to him, I couldn’t believe my ears as he said,

They’re for you. Read them and then you can return them.

I felt a little easier about parting with a little piece of my heart, my Illusions, after that.

The book that he gave me was The Green Mile by Stephen King. It made shivers go up and down my spine. Many years later I would watch the film, my mind working out the finer nuances of story-telling and marveling but at the same time, those shivers still racing across my back.

I returned the books the following week, the same time that he returned Illusions. I didn’t wax eloquent and neither did he. But we had a long, involved discussion about why we loved what we did and what had worked or not for the other book. We finished half a pack of Fox’s sweets through that chat. Another thing I’d noticed in the past week, that he stopped by the shop outside college every morning and bought a pack. He’d eat just one and pass it around to whoever was around. Fox’s, always Fox’s.

It must have been a little over two months later when X (who had introduced us) gave me the news. Sam had been on partying on his birthday and was racing his car back home in the wee hours of the morning. Another car zoomed around a corner and crashed into him. There was a horrific collision and the car he was in was a wreck. He was saved only by the fact that the cops recognized him as the son of the DCP and rushed him to the hospital on time. I didn’t know his father was a cop. I didn’t know he was one of those rich kids who was allowed to drive in the wee hours. I didn’t even know anyone who had had a close brush with death.

A week later, he was back from the hospital and I went to see him. I had been warned that he was suffering slight amnesia but somehow that sounded like something that happened in Hindi movies. I sat on the sofa with my friend and made polite conversation with his mother.

Then he walked in and picked up a magazine. He seemed not to have noticed us. His mother called out to him telling him that his friends were here and then she left the room. He looked around with his characteristic restlessness and I found myself getting up and going to him. It seemed instinctive that I should lead him to the canteen for his caffeine hit.

But he looked up and focussed and it was the stare of a stranger. I stopped, unsure and then introduced myself hesitantly.

He said,

Your face…it’s familiar. But I have no idea who you are.

We looked at each other for a long minute and I realized he had no recollection of our conversations or indeed, our bond. After awhile he moved back indoors.

His mother came out and sat down and to my alarm, she began to cry.

Sometimes he remembers and calls me ‘Ma’. Then some days he says I don’t know who you are. That accident…I was so scared when he went out on his birthday. They say that bad luck…death hovers around people close to their birth days.

I comforted her the best I could, pointing out that he had had a very lucky escape and it was a good sign. What else could I say? He didn’t even know me. And I wondered, if one person stops recognizing the other, does the relationship end? What is a bond that exists only in my memory, but an illusion?

It was two months before I saw him in college again and he was rushing past in the distance. I watched him go to the gate and out. A few days later, he passed me again and didn’t even look up. I had blended into the large throng of humanity in the corridors. I didn’t exist for him anymore and neither did our conversations. We went our ways, moved into different circles and in time graduation caught up with us.

I would have liked to have watched the movie based on his favorite book, with him. But it came and went without him and I walked The Green Mile alone. I thought of him through every scene of the movie, remembering something he had said or something else I had read in the book and thought to tell him about. I hadn’t fully understood the story when I first read it but all those years later, in a movie and with the advantage of my years, I could begin to glimpse into his world and why he loved it so much. That is when I missed him the most, not being able to tell him that it suddenly clicked, that I sude

Five years later, I was leaving a restaurant, looking down at my mobile phone when I ran – quite literally – into a human wall. I mean that, when I looked up, all I could see was a broad, human chest. Then hands appeared, that grabbed my arms and an excited voice called my name. It was him. And how.

My campus fellow booklover had been scrawny to the point of starvation. I had always imagined that he was sort of my height but that may have been because he was always stooped over. And he had always given me an impression of blurriness, of thoughts and gestures happening faster than he could handle.

The young man in front of me was well-muscled and toned. There was an almost too-healthy glow to his face that went quite counter to the gaunt, caffeine-addicted expression I had known. This was a fine specimen of manhood and he was a complete stranger to me. We chatted a bit about what we were doing and exchanged phone numbers. He never called me, though.

Another three years later, I was sitting in a coffeeshop when a voice shouted my name across. In the time it took him to bound up, my friends had exchanged enough smirks and knowing glances at each other to put me on my most defensive ‘okay, everyone’s watching’ pose. After he left, they giggled and demanded to know who the hottie was, who was so excited to see me. I grinned and said,

He’s…ah, an old college friend.

What else could I say?

He’s that person but he’s not the guy I knew. It’s possible that he has never remembered our conversations and that he notices me now only as a woman, a member of the opposite sex, someone to be flirted with. I’ve never had a chance to tell him that it used to be different, it used to be so much more than that. And even if I did, what difference would it make if he never remembered it? I miss the boy I knew and sometimes I wonder if it was all just an Illusion.

But then I spot The Green Mile on the television listings or I hear someone mention it in conversation and an image of the caffeine-addicted boy-man snaps into my head. There is a definite memory of him and of me, of us and the green mile. We created that together. Right now I’m holding it alone. Someday though, if he can and does walk the length of that stretch, he’ll find me waiting at the end of The Green Mile.

Considering that it’s a story about darkness and life and death….and miracles, that’s quite appropriate, isn’t it?

Annie-Mal & A Girl Called Chris

While every day brings new books, every visit to the bookstore results in a fresh wave of delight, I’m drawn to my memories of certain books that once possessed me. Every book has a story and is also part of another story, its relationship with the reader. How can I possibly express what I feel about a book, unless I tell you how and why it happened to me?
I picked up Marg Nelson’s A Girl Called Chris at the raddiwalla. (I refrain from preceding that with ‘friendly neighborhood’ owing to the fact that he once hit on me). It had a plain white cover with an image on the bottom-left corner which on scrutiny revealed itself to be a sort of modern artsy rendition of a girl in colourful slacks slouching as if in a corner.

The story was simple but rather extraordinary. A young girl who has just finished school and doesn’t have money for the college she wants after losing her father. In search of employment, she lands up – in all places – a cannery. And amidst stuffing tuna fish into cans, she finds friendship, resolution, love, confidence and some life lessons. It was a sweet coming-of-age story and it was perfect because I was about the same age as the protagonist (a girl called Chris) when I read it.

The year I turned seventeen, my mother was hospitalized after a long illness. She was under care for nearly three weeks and then recuperating for another two months. Caring for her was more than a fulltime job and we struggled to handle it. Tempers were short and I was at the depth of my own adolescent angst. It was a dark, heavy period in my life. The monsoons were particularly heavy that year, our phone line kept going down and we didn’t have household help. In sum, while my father ran from doctor to lab to hospital, I struggled to manage housework, groceries and cooking, the biggest bane of them all. I think my fear of the kitchen came from that time since my early experiences are tinged irrevocably with a sense of dread, fear and worry.

I’d have my lunch at college and then get to the hospital to wait till 4pm for visiting hours. Patients were only allowed one accompanying person and my father or grandmother would be by her side. I remember one particular day when I got to the hospital a half-hour early. I sat down on a bench in the little patch of grass facing the building. And then it started to rain. I had forgotten my windcheater in class that day. There was nowhere else to shelter. So I sat under the tree, not flinching from the water, almost grateful for the cold drops that covered me from head to toe. It was one of the few times I felt something and something that didn’t hurt.

Once inside, I would sit with my mother for about an hour. Then when she had other visitors, I’d walk around the hospital, especially the pediatrics ward, hoping the freshness of that place would lift my mood. Most days it did. Except when, after days of watching an incubator baby, I found it empty and the child’s mother, an omnipresent feature next to it, gone as well. One dead and the other, who knows where?

I turned my footsteps in the opposite direction for the rest of my mother’s stay in the hospital. One day a young girl dressed like a patient in hospital white entered mum’s room and backed out immediately with a worried expression on her face. I saw her sitting at the nurses station often after that and even the surly nurses would be smiling as they spoke to her. One day I smiled at her and thereafter we’d chat everyday.

Annie was from London, she said. She was two years older than I was. She had had several boyfriends though ‘none lasted beyond a week or two’, she admitted with a rueful grin. Her parents called her ‘Anne-molle’ (Malayalam for little girl) and her brother called her Annie-mal. Sometimes I’d see her pirouetting or turning circles with a solemn expression, in front of the wall mirror in the nurses station. She said she had taken ballet lessons and was practicing.

I was clutching A Girl Called Chris one evening, having finished the last pages as I sat in the visitors lobby waiting for her. She came and sat down next to me and took it from my hands without a word and turned it over. When we finished our chat and got up, she took it with her.

Mum and grandmother who saw her through most of the day hours thought she was slightly ‘off’ in the head. Nurses’ gossip later brought in the news that she had been assaulted by her father and had run away from home.

The day my mother was discharged, I took a round tour of the hospital again, with even a shuddering glance at the pediatric ward. And at the end of it, as a special occasion, I went to Annie’s room. She was sitting on the bed, talking to one of the nurses as she nodded in my direction. I waited for a pause in the conversation then told her that I was leaving. She got up, came over and hugged me, an action that surprised me since I wasn’t used to physical affection with my friends. Then I asked her for the book. She looked puzzled and then she seemed to remember. She looked under her bed and on the table and then told me blankly that she couldn’t find it. No problem, I shrugged and told her to take care of herself.

I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me to ask her for her contact details. Or to visit her in the hospital later. I liked her. Perhaps I was a little scared of what I had heard about her past, even though she had never discussed it with me. But most likely I was just frozen into a suspended state of being and couldn’t feel anything human for a long time after that.

I never forgot Annie though. I miss my book also but I can’t think of it without also remembering Annie. And for what little it is worth, perhaps the spark of joy that the story brings is worth more to her than to me.

~O~O~O~O~O~

Marg Nelson’s A Girl Called Chris doesn’t seem to be well-known as its one Amazon entry doesn’t even have an accompanying image of the cover. I did find an entry on GoodReads with an image though it’s not the one that was on my book. I’d really love to read this book again so if any of you knows where I can find a copy, please do get in touch.

Retail Therapy

Today, I accompanied E Vestigio across the city. When I say across, I mean literally across. In the space of 6 hours, I’ve passed dug-up roads, flyovers, under-rail subways, main roads, a highway, bylanes and market roads. I’ve been inside a mall, foodcourt, chain store branches, thronged a bazaar, hunted down an inner-lane shop and bargained with roadside vendors. We started at Oberoi Mall, Goregaon East and worked our way south-westward ending at Santacruz station market.

Now ostensibly, today’s trip was her agenda, with routes, destinations and shopping lists laid out in careful detail. So how is it that I find I’m now in possession of three new handbags, two pairs of sandals, a ring, a bangle, an almost tee-shirt (returned for reasons we won’t get into now) and three packs of to-fry cheese fingers?

Let’s see, there was Inc.5 with whom my only experience so far has been these delightful creatures. If I hoped for a repeat of that, I was rather lured away by E’s more sensible and stable choices. I rather regret not picking up the omelette-yellow sandals.

Then there was the mannequin wearing a tee-shirt depicting ‘Him’ and ‘Her’ display signs, the kind you see on toilet doors in malls. Of course I had to check it out. I saw a really cool racer-back with a print of ghungroo-clad feet. Voila! It fit! It was only after I paid and looked at the bill, did I realize that I’d been charged about a third more than what was on the price tag. The salesgirl sniffed and stated pointedly that the price tag showed the material cost while any print was extra. E came to my rescue (or perhaps kept me from throwing a shopper-tantrum and screaming my head off). The tee was returned and we left. Oh well, the print wasn’t that great and anyway I can paint it on myself. Huh.

We lunched in the foodcourt, the largest, most varied one I’ve ever seen and it prompted me to exclaim,

The only other place I’ve seen such a food court is in Heathrow airport!!

Oberoi Mall has successfully pulled off what none of its earlier counterparts in the areas could. It combines the cool of the western suburbs’ InOrbit while also catering to the more ethno-diverse population in the eastern suburbs. Town be damned, Mumbai’s disposable income is never more visible than in the suburban malls. There is a certain new-money loudness in these places. There is also a refreshing lack of world-weary cynicism. E gushed and gushed about the food court before capturing our mood with,

Such simple things make us joyful, no?

Yes, indeed. We remember shopping centers, neighborhood kiranas and restaurant food. Malls, food courts and glitzy stores are still a big, very big deal in our lives.

As we were leaving, I just had to check out Rhysetta. Esbeda introduced me to colourful-but-classy bags; it was good to find another brand that offered the same. I was intrigued by a bright yellow bag with a black handle. The sunshine colour seems to have been my theme today. E very pointedly said,

If you wear them all together, you’ll be a dirty fellow.

…which of course meant I had to take the green instead. It’s neon green, not a dull/sensible colour by any stretch but I’m still rather in lustful desire with that yellow bag. Maybe I’ll trip back tomorrow to do an exchange. (Forgive me E, you’re just going to wear sunglasses when you see me next!!)

There was a black sequined bag I almost bought except that its strap looked more like a fracture-cast bandage on my arm than the mock-bracelet it was supposed to be. Undeterred, I stopped at another bag shop while E walked into the FabIndia. None of my shortlisted choices met with her approval though, so I walked out purchaseless. FabIndia, on the other hand, never failing to please, put me in possession of two bags. One is blue raw silk with buttis print and metal kadas for handles. The other is a black silk with buttis and looks like an open envelope. How could I *not* buy those?! Money is to be made so it can be spent on such wonderful things (okay, after the basic necessities).

The bazaars outside stations are throwbacks to creditcardless student days of raste-ka-maal-saste-mein bargains. My loss of the yellow sandals still smarted so instead we made up by buying two pairs of gladiators, one black-with-metal riveting dominatrix and the other brown-with-bronze buckles sensible chic. E’s superb bargaining ensured these two cost me less than the price of that one yellow pair.

And when all of this was done, I had burned off enough of calories and water-atoms to be ravenous. So I picked up the cheese sticks for dinner.

Yes, it all makes sense in retrospect. Try telling that to my wallet, though.

E thanked me at the end of the day for accompanying her on her errands. I said, “No, thank you. I had so much fun!!” Now I think she should thank me again. You see, when I shop on my own, I usually know what I want and how, where and for how much I want to buy it.

But malls, display windows and charming streetside sellers aren’t designed for people like that. They are focused, diabolical strategies to target unsuspecting people who haven’t really been intending to buy anything at all!! A good friend isn’t someone who puts up with bad roads, horrible weather and crowded stores with you. All of that is part of the thrill of shopping. A good friend is the one who is willing to take that final risk of putting herself in the eye of the marketer’s fire. It’s really like being on a diet and agreeing to walk through the diary products section of the store with your friend who wants to get to green veggies on the other side!

But this is all said in jest. At the end of the day, my toes hurt, my scalp feels itchy from all the dust and my face muscles feel like they’re sagging along with my limbs. But I’ve had an uncommonly long chat with a good friend, laughing, discussing serious stuff, being silly, grumbling about men, work, life and such, bitching about prices, brands, styles and other people. E Vestigio, poppet, thank you, love.

I feel good. Retail therapy? Maybe it does work after all.