I feel that a man may be happy in This World. And I know that This World is a World of Imagination & Vision. I see Every thing I paint in This world, but Every body does not see alike. To the Eyes of a Miser a Guinea is far more beautiful than the Sun, & a bag worn with the use of Money has more beautiful proportions than a Vine filled with Grapes. The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the Eyes of others only a Green thing which stands in the way. Some see Nature all Ridicule & Deformity, and by these I shall not regulate my proportions; & some scarce see Nature at all. But to the Eyes of the Man of Imagination, Nature is Imagination itself. As a man is, so he sees. As the Eye is formed, such are its Powers.

-William Blake

(i couldnt resist. what a man!)

Gibberish

"I paint", he said by way of introduction.
"Yeah?" I nodded, thinking about dinner.
"I direct plays too", he persisted.
"I dont watch much", I insisted.

It was a long party. And the only person i had counted on had decided to back out last minute to see a match. Hell, i wanted to see that match. It was my team playing. Instead here i was at this 5-star lounge drowning in martinis, air kisses and one-sided conversation.

"Oh honey, its been ages! Where have you been?" red-lipstick-black-hair-turned-blonde-turned-brown-asked.
"Here and there" I muttered.
"How does the color look?" she preened.
"Fascinating", I said through my teeth.

A man was giving me the eye from over the bar. A woman was giving him the eye from the stage. Painter-cum-play-director was conversing with model-type-bimbette.

"Oh but i absolutely adore plays" bimbette with her hands all over painter-cum-director.
"My plays always have a social message, its absolutely imperative that they do" while guzzling another whiskey-n-soda.

Rich golden kanjeevaram sarees. Clingy black tinier-than-handkerchief outfits. Bright maroon lipstick. False eyelashes. False smiles. Face lift. walking liposuction advertisements. Plastic surgery noses. Heady scent mingled sweat mingled something else.
Married-superstar sneaking glances at wannabe-starlet. Three Mercedes, 5 BMWs and a poodle called Baleno.
Blonde-fashion-designer male bonding with top-model-turned-struggling-actor.

"No ofcourse it isnt the same dress i wore last year! How could you even suggest such a thing?"
"London, dahling! London ofcourse".
"You looks so thin, you sly thing"
"What is with that oversize tee? She must be pregant."

Nose rings. False tattoos. False breasts.
Psychotic. Psychedelic. Claustrophobic.

The Dj played "Khallas" Remixed.
I texted for the score.
Pass the martini someone.

Seriously.
Everything sucks.

Wish List for the Day

I want to meet someone exciting. Someone whom i would want to meet again the day after. Whom i would want to talk to again after the first time.
I want a new soft toy. Yes, in case you were unaware of the fact, i absolutely adore them. For some odd reason people stopped giving me softoys after i turned 15.
I want to be 16 again. I loved being 16.
I want to erase some people from my past. Just because they were irritating...and i dont want to know them now.
I want to erase a bit of me in the past. i wouldnt want to know her either.
I want to do maths. Calculus actually.
I want my dad here.
I want Boomba here.
I want to go to Oxford. I really, really do.
I want to get wet in the rain.
I want to write something more meaningful/interesting/funny.

Okbye

Sid

His name was Sid. Short for something bigger. What..I don’t know. Everyone called him Sid. All his friends. His mom. His maths teacher. I called him Sid too.
One day while we were walking, I called him Siddy. Unconsciously. I hadnt even noticed. He turned to me, his eyes flashing. "Its Sid", he said.

I cowered. And nodded mutely.
We walked...him still angry, and me much disturbed.

************************************************************************************

We played together as children. He could make up brilliant stories. We had our own collection of mythical creatures more wonderful than any unicorn you might meet on the road.

When I played well, without messing up my lines he would pat my head.
Sid found a dog on the road once. A week later, he found it again.

Someone had kicked it around too much. It died.

************************************************************************************

When I was 7 and he was 9, his aunt asked Sid whom he wanted to marry. I looked away knowing very well what his answer would be. When she asked me I looked at Sid, and said "No one."
When I was 16 and had my first boyfriend, his aunt had died. Sid had left home for good.

************************************************************************************

Years later, I saw him again in a seedy bar. He bought me a beer, while his eyes danced around brightly. We didn’t speak at all. There was simply too much to say.
"Did you see Kill Bill?” he asked me, at length.
"Part 1 or 2?", I asked.
"I don’t know. Its doesn’t matter" he sighed.
He got up to leave, his glass half-empty. "Hey", I called out. "What is your full name?"
"Sid," he said without turning back. “Sid.”

A Public Matter

Not a victim of the darkness. Not accosted in isolation. Not the quarry of a pre meditated intention. Violated in broad daylight—before staring, unfeeling, unknowing eyes. He has not yet touched my body but has succeeded in destroying my soul, my dignity, my carefully nurtured self-confidence. I have been raped, fully clothed. I have witnesses, where no one will speak. My tormentor turns around to wink and leer some more. I open my mouth to speak, to scream, to protest. Instead…I just get off the bus.
Hoping at first that it is just a stray incident.
Hoping next, that I would never see him tomorrow.
Finally, just praying, that they wouldn’t go any further than that.

What is it that causes women day in and day out to feel uneasy with their own being? What makes them check and double-check the clothes they wear every morning? Every moment of the day, what makes them so conscious of the fact that they are women?

They have gone to the moon. They have reached for the stars and touched them. They have flown aeroplanes and romanced the skies. Somehow its on solid ground that they cannot quite assert their position. They are reminded repeatedly of their femininity, and its associated or simply assumed subservience.

I like the look of what’s underneath those clothes. I am bored and have nothing to do. I am appalled by your insolence. I don’t like you looking around with such confidence. I will ogle at you because you have the audacity to stand tall like I do. I do not like you staring back at me. Yes I will touch you, whenever and wherever I want.
You deserve it because I can see your calves in that skirt. You deserve it because your arms are exposed. You deserve it because it is my domain. You deserve it because you think you are better than me.
You deserve it. You are a woman.

‘Boys will be boys’? Is that the answer to every question raised and then crushed or blown away? No of course you didn’t mean any harm. It was just a one-time thing. Besides it’s being pointlessly blown out of proportion. Why make a hue and cry over such a small incident?
Patriarchy. The necessity to control, to dominate. To diminish. The reason why an average male considers himself a born ruler. At least over the women. The weaker sex. The reason why it becomes important for them to stop the women from moving forward. From leaving them behind. The dogma instilled in every masculine heart—women are born to serve. The insecurity. Of losing the control, the power.

It is never only sexual. Suppressed sexuality is only one of the excuses. There’s also the matter of showing who the actual boss is, has been and will be. Satisfying the libido is as important as satisfying the surfacing mental fears and insecurities.
If she is silent or cowering, victory is achieved. If not, lets take it to the next level.

It saddens me that they think this sort of action enhances their masculinity, asserts their dominance.
It saddens me that they think it puts them back in the race.
It saddens me for they think it can be a substitute for fairplay and hardwork.
It saddens me for they think they are using their power when they are basically displaying their insecurity before the world.

They think it makes them men.
I pity them…because it’s the last thing that they are.

PS: Sorry for the venom. But this was due for a pretty long time.

Group study Day 1 today. Not too bad...we sorted out our probable question through an infallible method--only doing the ones we like! Came up to a total of 70 odd questions. Guess we do like a lot of things.
We decided to divide n rule. Or divide n study.
We smoked up the last joint.
We deliberated whether the person yelling her head off next door was possesed.
We told ghost/spirit/pret-atma stories.
Shorty got scared-too scared to go to the loo.
Preeta scared her even further.
Both Shorty n Preeta have ghosts or like beings in their houses.
I dont. Except the person who was screaming next door. But she isnt really a ghost. Not really.
We dreamed and dreamed and dreamed. About Oxford, and NYU and Harvard. And post-modernism, and photography, and Nikon-SLRs. And decided to get into Oxford for all its worth. And then go to NYU and/or Harvard. And make a short film. And a magazine. And write a book.
We talked. about some very nice mesho (whosenameicannotremember) who said "Ami boro-lok, tumi chhoto-lok..". And Erich Segal. And Doctors. And scholarships. And back packing across Europe. And the way Preeta talks.
And ate biriyani. And some really nice coffee.
We planned a sleepover next week. My place. A study sleepover. A discussing-answers-and-explaining-Blake sleepover. A getting-through-boring-EdwardII-together sleepover. I dont think we'll get much sleeping done.
I cleaned my room and organized stuff. It looks more study-able now. But not as nice. It clouded. And looked beautiful.
Shorty finally worked up enough courage to go to the loo. The girl next door didnt yell anymore even though we waited and waited.
They left.

We did not know then that we were a generation.
Okbye.

"Majhkhane roga hoyechhile...abar ektu mota hoye gecho na?" Followed by irritating laughter. Grrrr....sighhh!
I need personalized diet. And swimming pool in the terrace. And gym-at-home with personal (and hot) instructor. And lots and lots of natural activity. Like walks. Cricket matches. Travelling. Playing luko-churi. or catch-catch. And picnics where u yell and run about. And motivation to get my ass off this stupid computer chair and step out of this room.
Sighhh....i need winter. And childhood.

(PS: the blogger in me is back with a vengenance. These exams....! They'll make me do anything, but study.)