As a kid I had this firm belief that all we do throughout our lives is in accordance with a definite script. That every single person has a sharp, unconscious, built-in and regularly updated awareness of their role and that the very purpose of one’s existence was to act it all out to the satisfaction and amusement of immediate superiors. By ‘superiors’ I mean people with higher authority – in my world, that meant parents. And at every level, superiors decided the basic outline of the script their charges would enact.
The way I saw it, we were all theatre artists. And the ones who got to the big screen were the ones who made it big (with respect to others at the same level), which is why they were on the receiving end of all that fame and adulation, all that bhav. So just like we could go to Vishnudas Bhave Natyagraha and Prithvi Theatre to watch people enact certain stories, I figured our superiors were watching us too. Big Boss style, absolutely.
So you had the bachchas who were their parents’ puppets and so on until you exhausted living familial hierarchy; then came some mid level authority I never thought about; and at the very top of that controlling pyramid sat The Gods. Oh yeah, I was a believer back then, Dadi took care of that… I have fond memories of those times. No, don’t try it now.
Getting back to my story – which I believe you’re still somewhat interested in since you’re still reading :P – I used to visualize usually homogeneous pairs of Gods and Goddesses in stereotypical God/Goddess garb (flowing black hair (white for Brahma), loads of skin show, glitzy blingy ornaments, silky satiny rhinestone-studded clothes...) sitting on separate sofas that flanked a coffee table loaded with grub (they always always always had peanuts), laughing at the antics of us mortals as giant spools of real time recordings played on giant Videocon Bazooka screens. Laughing good naturedly, indulgently, never mockingly, but laughing nonetheless. Real time? Dunno how they did it man.. Even then, I could see how it was funny… I mean c’mon, you have all these humans falling over themselves to be promoted just some more, wanting to be in a position that allows them to decide the actions of so many others around them. By the time a global drama inclusive of all levels was actually put together, it was probably a holy comedy of errors. Pun, haha, pun.
I always wondered if tapes of the part I was enacting were important enough to be viewed by the Gods themselves or if they only reached the city-level authority for perfunctory checks and were then tossed aside. Never did quite manage to figure that out. Nor did I work out how the tapes reached the gods (Bluetooth ka baap?) or how scripts were communicated to us actors – we just knew what to do and went about doing what we had to, unaware of this twisted manipulation. Mind you, we experienced joy, frustration, ecstasy, sorrow, anger, embarrassment and just about every regular emotion you can think of while we were at it.
Doodlebug, a short film by Christopher Nolan and crew, was what brought this eerily vivid piece of imagination to the surface. Tried uploading but Mom's lappy doesn't seem to approve. Do look it up.
And just in case the idea of Hindu gods living on Indian land and ruling/governing/ manipulating/spying on the entire world offends you, my 5 yr old self apologizes. That was what I knew, okay? Apologies all the way from the bottom of my heart, all sincere.
PS – Please don’t start working out why my mind/imagination works the way it does/ the way it always has. You might be tempted to suggest I take up Management, seeing how I had pyramidal admin structures, checks and controls, authority and regulation all worked out at the age of 5. Don't. You might be tempted to probe tomes on Psychology and comment on my concept of the unconscious or reveal that it has to do with a repressed desire to control / act / manipulate / tell stories / eat peanuts. Speculate all you want, just don’t tell me. The way I bombed my Psychology end sem, I don’t think I’ll welcome anything connecting me and the subject for a long long time to come.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas
This isn’t a movie review as much as it is a post of frustration and absolute helplessness. It’s one of those times I wish I knew more, never enough, of everything – language, history, people… Language so I may express better. History and people? I don’t know how to explain those. You either get it or you don’t.
I’ve spent a small, probably insignificant amount of time in the last few years looking up details about the Holocaust. Books and movies, the internet and reference guides. The usual. Since History textbooks in school would fly out the window before they elaborated on the period (“Jews were subject to inhuman torture.”), I was lucky to have a mother who was more forthcoming.
Anne Frank’s diary was, and do pardon me for putting it this way, an ideal introduction to the Holocaust for a kid. No, no kid should have to know about something so ghastly. But then no kid should have to live in a world that saw something so ghastly. Ideal? Shall we replace that with ‘appropriate’? I don’t know.
Ideal is hypothetical – Grade 12 physics said so. So do historians, philosophers, gamblers, parents of teenagers, realists and anyone who knows. Damn them all.
I’ve been trying; I can’t say a thing about The Diary Of A Young Girl –or indeed, anything to do with it– without feeling like what I’m saying is wrong. It’s not about being politically correct, it’s not even about what I think is wrong; it’s about how I feel when I try and put my thoughts on paper. Every word seems out of place. Inadequate. Just see the words used so far dammit – inhuman, ideal, ghastly. They simply do not do justice. Words like ‘disgust’ and ‘anger’ mean nothing because hey, aren’t those the words we use when we speak of nasty smells and broken mugs? You’re angry because someone didn’t call you back; you’re angry because millions had to live through “inhuman torture” – Really?
There was The Great Escape, but the spirit and faith aside, it dealt with how a bunch of prisoners of war found a way to beat all odds and break out; sunshine at the end of the tunnel, catchy music to boot. There was Schindler’s List. Oh Lord. There was Vikram Seth’s almost biographical account, Two Lives. There must be hundreds and thousands and thousands of books out there that refer, if only fleetingly, to the Holocaust. And during practically every such book or movie, your stomach clenches, you choke up and pillow covers get replaced.
I don’t know how far it is the collective suffering that elicits reactions and how far the individuals stories. I don’t know if I’m a masochist. Why it makes me think of a dagger being forced in and twisted in a neat circle, I can’t say. In the light of it all, everything else becomes so trivial, so fast it scares me. It makes me want to do something for all world over – Jews, Germans and otherwise. Somewhere, I know chances are I won’t do a constructive thing about it. I know nothing can be done for the people who perished during those years. For their families and souls, in their memory and all, yes. But nothing that would be any help directly. It all just feels like a failed cause, much as we may say being humane now will make a difference. I ramble.
This is one of billions and gazillions of posts, letters and notes written all over the world. Some furious, some intimate, some showing solidarity and others helplessness. As a blog post, it’s pretty useless – unless you decide to go look up the few samples I’ve mentioned. It isn’t entertaining, funny or informative. It’s my take on something that garners a unanimous, identical opinion worldwide. It’s long, it’s vague and it’s repetitive. But it’s something that needed doing. Don’t be surprised if you come across a repeat.
Bottom line? No one deserved to live that life. And no one deserved to die like that.
I’ve spent a small, probably insignificant amount of time in the last few years looking up details about the Holocaust. Books and movies, the internet and reference guides. The usual. Since History textbooks in school would fly out the window before they elaborated on the period (“Jews were subject to inhuman torture.”), I was lucky to have a mother who was more forthcoming.
Anne Frank’s diary was, and do pardon me for putting it this way, an ideal introduction to the Holocaust for a kid. No, no kid should have to know about something so ghastly. But then no kid should have to live in a world that saw something so ghastly. Ideal? Shall we replace that with ‘appropriate’? I don’t know.
Ideal is hypothetical – Grade 12 physics said so. So do historians, philosophers, gamblers, parents of teenagers, realists and anyone who knows. Damn them all.
I’ve been trying; I can’t say a thing about The Diary Of A Young Girl –or indeed, anything to do with it– without feeling like what I’m saying is wrong. It’s not about being politically correct, it’s not even about what I think is wrong; it’s about how I feel when I try and put my thoughts on paper. Every word seems out of place. Inadequate. Just see the words used so far dammit – inhuman, ideal, ghastly. They simply do not do justice. Words like ‘disgust’ and ‘anger’ mean nothing because hey, aren’t those the words we use when we speak of nasty smells and broken mugs? You’re angry because someone didn’t call you back; you’re angry because millions had to live through “inhuman torture” – Really?
There was The Great Escape, but the spirit and faith aside, it dealt with how a bunch of prisoners of war found a way to beat all odds and break out; sunshine at the end of the tunnel, catchy music to boot. There was Schindler’s List. Oh Lord. There was Vikram Seth’s almost biographical account, Two Lives. There must be hundreds and thousands and thousands of books out there that refer, if only fleetingly, to the Holocaust. And during practically every such book or movie, your stomach clenches, you choke up and pillow covers get replaced.
I don’t know how far it is the collective suffering that elicits reactions and how far the individuals stories. I don’t know if I’m a masochist. Why it makes me think of a dagger being forced in and twisted in a neat circle, I can’t say. In the light of it all, everything else becomes so trivial, so fast it scares me. It makes me want to do something for all world over – Jews, Germans and otherwise. Somewhere, I know chances are I won’t do a constructive thing about it. I know nothing can be done for the people who perished during those years. For their families and souls, in their memory and all, yes. But nothing that would be any help directly. It all just feels like a failed cause, much as we may say being humane now will make a difference. I ramble.
This is one of billions and gazillions of posts, letters and notes written all over the world. Some furious, some intimate, some showing solidarity and others helplessness. As a blog post, it’s pretty useless – unless you decide to go look up the few samples I’ve mentioned. It isn’t entertaining, funny or informative. It’s my take on something that garners a unanimous, identical opinion worldwide. It’s long, it’s vague and it’s repetitive. But it’s something that needed doing. Don’t be surprised if you come across a repeat.
Bottom line? No one deserved to live that life. And no one deserved to die like that.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Spread The Word!
It's funny how moods work. Then again, it's supposed to be this huge hush-hush secret, how moods work. One semester of Psychology revealed that moods have no cause, no reason - emotions are the ones with some point, some reason, some logic behind them. Bloody blessed point. Oh, well. So next time someone asks you why you're so moody, feel free to directly quote Her Awesomeness (Yours truly) and indirectly, Vinay Prabhu, and brush em off. There, good deed for the day done.
Screw previous moods and conversations, I'm all happy right now! The giddy variety, yes =)
I actually typed up a list of songs ("in no particular order, off the top of my head" =P) that tend to make up for most things distasteful. Songs that do funny things to my mood; and I mean funny in a good way. Songs that I carry with me and plug into just about every time I can. You know, that token favourite-music blog post every blogger simply must put up. Well guess what, I don't think I can do that, atleast not right now. Just previewing the post made me feel so vulnerable. Felt like I was sharing something intimate, something that's mine and mine alone. So lets call it The List That Wasn't and leave it at that. Boo hoo indeed.
PS - By one semester of Psychology I meant 10 hours of absorbed reading, get that right.
PPS - I happen to know the most awesome people ever! Moment of realization and gratitude, if you must. Immediate family, some friends and uh-what-are-we?, I love you guys. Go on, spread the word. And if this post was too flaky/senti/mushy for you, bah, just be glad we don't have conversations at 2 AM =P
Screw previous moods and conversations, I'm all happy right now! The giddy variety, yes =)
I actually typed up a list of songs ("in no particular order, off the top of my head" =P) that tend to make up for most things distasteful. Songs that do funny things to my mood; and I mean funny in a good way. Songs that I carry with me and plug into just about every time I can. You know, that token favourite-music blog post every blogger simply must put up. Well guess what, I don't think I can do that, atleast not right now. Just previewing the post made me feel so vulnerable. Felt like I was sharing something intimate, something that's mine and mine alone. So lets call it The List That Wasn't and leave it at that. Boo hoo indeed.
PS - By one semester of Psychology I meant 10 hours of absorbed reading, get that right.
PPS - I happen to know the most awesome people ever! Moment of realization and gratitude, if you must. Immediate family, some friends and uh-what-are-we?, I love you guys. Go on, spread the word. And if this post was too flaky/senti/mushy for you, bah, just be glad we don't have conversations at 2 AM =P
Monday, April 5, 2010
Wantowrite Wantowrite Wantowrite
^ Commendable.
Uuunfortunately, that does nothing for me. *sigh* The joys of being a journalist in the making..
It's one of those days, it is.
Noon saw me grinning. Inspiration! I'll just get to the keyboard and type. Arbit stuff. Let it flow. In no time whatsoever, a blog post will be ready! :D. Now see, that's pretty much the best mood any couldbe-wannabe-but-mustneverbe blogger can be in. Out of nowhere comes this innate confidence that you can write, write on demand and write well when you get down to it. You rest your padded behind on the swivel chair and dayum. Pop goes the bubble.
See, I've been thinking. No, not the 'serious, analytical thinking' that makes up the right half of my mental activity scale. More on that later. But what romance novels call fleeting thoughts? Good kid. Those are what I'm talking about. Of course, the girl in the novel has 'fleeting thoughts' for a week at the end of which she invariably lands up with the guy of her dreams (I refuse to call the bugger Mr Right or worse, The Prince In Shining Armour. Go die, you damsel/dhikra in distress.), the job she always wanted, just the right mix of Bob The Builder inspired "YES WE CAN!!"s and I-have-it-all-and-I'm-only-25-take-that-bitches-! She gets the house, the pet and all that lovin'. Even better, no one in the picture needs to go back to her childhood days, dig out ABBA records and moan about how The Winner Takes It All. No sirree! All's dandy, rosy pink, crunchy crisps. It's a dream. How, you ask? Because of those fleeting thoughts.
Well I'll tell you what. When fleeting thoughts uh, fleet, fleet is ALL they do. They come, they sit, they go. And nothing comes off them. Fact of life. I assure you the birds and the bees will bring to your life more joy, happiness and "all that lovin'" than my flitterbug thought revelation ever will. At best, someone'll call you a flibbertigibbet, you'll spend an hour trying to say it right, you'll look it up on Urban Dictionary and Google and whatever else you've ever heard of for the origins of the word. Or you'll take the easy way out - grin and chuck it. And then? And then nothing.
So while I could have written about how I'm being uprooted and gaadhoed bang in front of PIS, Nerul - prime location as far as bus routes 23 and 25 are concerned; how the kid sister will now have full rights to be a prissy preteen because hey, half of it is what her new school advocates; how I have more existential crises and does-anybody-care moments than I care for - oh yes, very regular teenager like; how I am (EVEN MORE teenager like) so desperate for some bhaav and affection right now; how I'm at a loss for topics to talk or write since none manage to interest even me for more than 15 seconds at a stretch... fuck it. So while I could have written about all of that, I won't. Ooh rebellion. Not. How I wish I was cheap enough to repost that cartoon.
Must the blues run the game?
Uuunfortunately, that does nothing for me. *sigh* The joys of being a journalist in the making..
It's one of those days, it is.
Noon saw me grinning. Inspiration! I'll just get to the keyboard and type. Arbit stuff. Let it flow. In no time whatsoever, a blog post will be ready! :D. Now see, that's pretty much the best mood any couldbe-wannabe-but-mustneverbe blogger can be in. Out of nowhere comes this innate confidence that you can write, write on demand and write well when you get down to it. You rest your padded behind on the swivel chair and dayum. Pop goes the bubble.
See, I've been thinking. No, not the 'serious, analytical thinking' that makes up the right half of my mental activity scale. More on that later. But what romance novels call fleeting thoughts? Good kid. Those are what I'm talking about. Of course, the girl in the novel has 'fleeting thoughts' for a week at the end of which she invariably lands up with the guy of her dreams (I refuse to call the bugger Mr Right or worse, The Prince In Shining Armour. Go die, you damsel/dhikra in distress.), the job she always wanted, just the right mix of Bob The Builder inspired "YES WE CAN!!"s and I-have-it-all-and-I'm-only-25-take-that-bitches-! She gets the house, the pet and all that lovin'. Even better, no one in the picture needs to go back to her childhood days, dig out ABBA records and moan about how The Winner Takes It All. No sirree! All's dandy, rosy pink, crunchy crisps. It's a dream. How, you ask? Because of those fleeting thoughts.
Well I'll tell you what. When fleeting thoughts uh, fleet, fleet is ALL they do. They come, they sit, they go. And nothing comes off them. Fact of life. I assure you the birds and the bees will bring to your life more joy, happiness and "all that lovin'" than my flitterbug thought revelation ever will. At best, someone'll call you a flibbertigibbet, you'll spend an hour trying to say it right, you'll look it up on Urban Dictionary and Google and whatever else you've ever heard of for the origins of the word. Or you'll take the easy way out - grin and chuck it. And then? And then nothing.
So while I could have written about how I'm being uprooted and gaadhoed bang in front of PIS, Nerul - prime location as far as bus routes 23 and 25 are concerned; how the kid sister will now have full rights to be a prissy preteen because hey, half of it is what her new school advocates; how I have more existential crises and does-anybody-care moments than I care for - oh yes, very regular teenager like; how I am (EVEN MORE teenager like) so desperate for some bhaav and affection right now; how I'm at a loss for topics to talk or write since none manage to interest even me for more than 15 seconds at a stretch... fuck it. So while I could have written about all of that, I won't. Ooh rebellion. Not. How I wish I was cheap enough to repost that cartoon.
Must the blues run the game?
