Wednesday, December 25, 2013

#9 exile

Most of us love to create little gardens in our ports.Unearthing little plants and giving them a whole new place to expand in a selected area. They are ‘given’ the small pots as their settlements.

Green and brown make a great couple.

When the wanderer in me navigate my way through hosts of heads yearning to catch up with one smiling face, I must share: I return cold more than often. Everybody in an unfamiliar pot is robbed off their state of belongingness. ‘I don’t know you’ becomes the wear of community togetherness. From a distance the drums beat, the conches do not blow…the priest performs his time tabled ritual, Goddess of strength with her children look for it.

Autumn festivals are a great unwinding times bringing under their umbrella a prism of life. But with every move from one ground to another the gregarious creature in us dies a silent oblivion death. Doesn't it knock us all, a vertical ascend lets us lose…it tears into pieces the essential cords which make us a social being. The connection...the entanglements, the share of pranks and laughter,the coming together in pain, in grief gets squashed under the wheel of never at halt city traffic.

Yearning for a home not in a page, but a real mother,father, siblings and furthered home never leaves us alone. 

Our life in exile continues from where it all began. 

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Tuesday, December 17, 2013

# 8 season of mist

We all want to tell our stories. Warm, tender, twinkling moments we all want to share. 

When I opened the door this morning, thick mist blanketed the open field that greets me lush green every morning. This morning the open lay had some other share to do. It wanted to conceal, it wanted toplay hide and seek, it wanted to play the lamb. The mist was joyfully all over playing prank.

This is how autumn mist tenderly put her feet on my arid land.

White, moist sky and pasture land just in preferable sync.It is time to get frenzy in festive color. It is the time drum beatings and sticks would reverberate from the thick forests of human habitat. It is the time when most are packing for their bracketed homegoings.

My home in the hills must be raining. It must be cold. It waits for my autumn appearance and each time… I have atrocious narrative as an excuse knocking at the door, convincing those yearning, those waiting arms, “not this time, next year for sure.”

I wait for the next autumn, the “season of mist and mellow fruitfulness” every year. And each year the mist of a make up conceals the shadow underneath my eyes.

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Tuesday, December 10, 2013

#7 surprises

Books are never worth bartered treasures. They are worth every sink, every musty smell they leave as age catches up with them. Life breathes in the pages as a butterfly in the wide open.  

 Each of the pages hold rich texture. The blanks between the lines too hold a lot more than the fast racing eyes can catch up with. It gives us space to store our thoughts and images the text helps us to develop.

                                        

In each pages the search for meeting an assumed moment becomes a pulsating process. As the eyes ferrets out through the lines, our mind begins to travel through the similar tracks. There is this uncanny symmetry of peace, of getting carried away, of distancing from the present to the kingdom the book leads us to. It introduces us to new world encompassing,overwhelming, worth every escape.

There are twists and turns too. But who doesn't like surprises? Surprises are everywhere and they never leave without any teaching tips.Surprises make texts and life both worth every wait.

Surprises leave us smiles and tears alike. I am not strong enough to admit that they let us grow, but for sure they let us flow, like a brook that goes on forever.

                                        Aha... "Men may come and men may go
                                                             but I go on forever."

Life goes on filling each pages: flowing, splashing, augmenting.

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Wednesday, November 27, 2013

In Memoriam


A flower plucked too soon...

One long year. My cell phone still has his numbers. There are times they get dialed by chance. I know I shall never get to hear from him. Never. Strong are his family members and an inspiration is his sister. I haven’t met people such as them who are living each day with sheer strength. 



pic courtesy:google
Every time I have felt loss of hope, loss of so many other things which he alone was privy to, I have read, re-read texts written by him, messages, mails sent for keeping alive his words, “ It’s a challenge, take it!” I am now left with those alone and those are my treasures for the journey i must take all by myself to meet him again. A visit to his Facebook page.. no longer frequent. IT PAINS!!

I have lost someone who was watchful enough to see I wasn’t crumbling within, many others he knew would end up saying the same. He had been a true confidant. Everybody’s listener, guide and a one to one at that. 


It has been hard for all of us to accept his absence. It certainly is difficult to stay composed and wish wherever our buddy is to be in peace if that’s what death gifts. But we do.


                              “ If tears could build a stairway, and memories a lane,
                               I'd walk right up to heaven and bring you home again.”


~ On one of my best friends’ first death anniversary :the 26th of Nov’2013****************************************************************************

Monday, November 25, 2013

#6 key


If we see the moon coming to its full size, we also get to see it gradually disappearing…Its appearance changes and with it changes the view of all that is visible in the open. Sometimes, there is a need of artificial light to see the street we are on and the other times it’s otherwise.

Alignment of grief, happiness and nothingness bring life to full view.

Such are the ways life poses divided: happy, sad, piece by piece sad and piece by piece (in modern language) “okay”. Each of these orbital phases help us evolve, become humble and receptive/ rejective in more than accepted believable terms. With time we learn to train our emotions. There are times when grief overwhelms our friends and family. We see them break through different layers of sunkenness and we find ourselves positioned in a firmer place: coaxing, coalescing, combating a situation hard for the self to retain the sang froid. But we do it,nevertheless. Just letting them know, “I am here”. It is just “I” that can be offered at a time when the waning period strikes the other. It doesn't establish our detachment but our strong steering ability.

Such moments come to us in bulk. And strange enough for us to believe we need no crash course to upgrade ourselves…the steering ability just happens. 

                                                  

With both the lock and the key in our hands we are an amazing piece of creation. There are times we are hemmed in locking our abilities, our emotion, our nature and there are times we are to flung open the doors.

The key unlocks when the judge in us turns it the way we think is right.


©p.db

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#5 baby pink times

A lot walks to and fro when one sits down to brain out all that our childhood stay put. In its warmth, in its soft breezy fragrant arms the memories of the houses we grow up in, the fingers we held firm while toddling around the larger world breathes fresh. Those talks of the “big people” always kept us curious. What did they talk all the time? Such and more childish questions prowled into our little minds. Any older kid trying to rough us into his/her arms and dishonoured we felt, saying and sometimes murmuring too, “I am big enough now.

Today when we position big enough, all that we have walked past seem so pleasant. A walk into the houses we grew up in, we breathed our first, the people who wiped our drools and loved to hear us utter the incognizant babbles…Everything, I mean everything seems so dear.


Childhood holds the treasure no treasure box packed with the riches of the world locks. It holds our baby pink times. Times of pure,unquestioned, undefined belongingness.

                                                “till the heart of me weeps to belong
                                 To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside”

To be loved. To be loved unconditionally is what we grow up wanting from life. And lets believe we already have it around us…It is there sitting pretty tight letting us accept, want, glorify our failures our successes, our good and not so good times. And thus we are… taking a walk around the planet earth, overwhelmed, questioning, bookmarking...tagging all that comes and does not with us.

And suddenly the world opens wide...

Monday, November 18, 2013

#4 lump

Since long the clouds have lumped together and are in full sight. They seem to have grown fond of this place. Its dark, its teary, its there hanging high!!! Just staring, guardianing each unique pieces of Creation. They are heavy with promises, thick with hopes.When a month or two back it was blistering and we all had boiled in the agony of light, complain became our constant company. Now it is pouring and pouring quite unknockingly.... The sentient species that we are, we love to puzzle ourselves with ifs and buts, thises and thats. Nothing halcyon excites.
Such is the plight of our mind. The dark and the light seemingly bonded but we choose to look the other side.

I choose to sketch the ear to ear smile all the time. And pass it on to the next. Smiles tear away the woven walls between you and me, between each thread. And let me share with you a secret: the clouds most often drop in the laughter while I  pass in thunder. They are the friends we look for when drops from seas and ocean surge in our eyes. And... we are left never alone.

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Wednesday, November 6, 2013

#3 belles-lettres

Gormi Jokhon tutlo na aar pakhar haowa Sarbote – thandahote daure elum – Shillong namak porbote” (When the heat of summer could not bemet even with fans and soft drinks, I rushed to the hills of Shillong)

You have been here not ones but thrice! O great bard! Under those pine trees your words blossomed. Clouds here come blanketing fast, pretty fast, just the way your verses pace into the hearts of your readers….pouring life to breezy, hazy thoughts..As I strolled in and out of a rich, fertile piece of plot, the richness of it made me walk opulent of scheming prose. Jeetbhumi* laden with belles-lettres hasn't as yet shown signs of molting when all others around have. It stands somber,emanating pedantry holding the beacon of wisdom. The pine trees still fans the pillars ones which lent its shoulders to the ageless bard. 

Even the alphabets must have had their share of joy in coming together for you...

A hundred bow and a plenty more…

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*Indian Nobel laureate Tagore stayed in this house in Shillong( capital of Meghalaya, India)during his second visit in the year 1921 owned then by his niece, Manisha Debi. 

Monday, October 28, 2013

#2 Flickers


pic courtesy: google
 Not often would we have most known faces flow with us in our dreams, exclusive. Wrapped in rainbow, the arc of each color soothes the sight and we alone ascertain which one to palm in. Not all dreams melt, not many drizzle but most of those many leave the footprints of hope. One moment the flicker( of hope) is visible and the next minute it dissolves into thin air. When flickers walk past we must like little children run after them for those are the moments that will make us rich, rich of life, of spirit, of goodness.

And a good soul doesn't hold on to the richness he/s earns...he/s shares them with all...

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Wednesday, October 23, 2013

What my mother didn’t tell me


                          Growing up isn’t so crotchety when a doting mother takes to hard labor and see her off springs placed a little better than where she has been. Like every other home, there were differences of opinion, of judgments, the weekly “bellows burst” in the home I was born in. But then dinner times we had our share of laughters, our share of sharing the loaf of bread too.

My mother, a meticulous warm cent per cent pure housewife with the strength of a ten armed goddess held up the tent we were sheltered under. She was the door to entrance and exit checking, securing, locking, unlocking all that wanted an access to our layout. Thus most community gossips, society sweet- sour talks never found ways to our ears. There were always these words to guide us: “you mustn’t return home with trouble”. Trouble here meant complains or seeds of it from people we were hanging out with and people who were keeping a tab upon our growing up days. It isn’t easy for girls growing up in India with the kind of mindset spread across. But fortunately I could circumnavigate all the tangy talks. They quite became redundant in my busy life with no room for anything but my own little world with handpicked people to disperse the varied tinctures of emotion. One thing she taught was not to pay much heed to the idle mouth. 
Her words became our gospel.

                "There will always be someone to talk..there will always be someone to spittle loads of discouraging words on you…but you go on, paying no heed."

This pleasant misty world wasn't here forever. The second tenure in an unguided world just opens the door to a sultry clear world. It demands response. It prays for reaction. One’s sweet talk goes through uncountable scans, ifs and buts. Honesty here becomes silent fugitive. One’s politeness is the others’ reign.
Most people outside our mother’s nest would wait, watch and hunt for troublesome moments which bring us a step or two down from where we had been. It’s a world where we are being predated upon. All our education, our degrees fail when it comes to facing real- life challenges. It isn’t warm out there, its skin burning hot! It has very few incubators to pamper us and certainly has no red carpets spread to welcome our niceties, our boisterous belief and Jane Austenian ironed out principles. We are out and out absolutely on our own.
Falling, flipping, fidgeting and picking ourselves up come on a rotation. Each of which teach us the ways and means to be in and out of avalanche in front of us. They make us strong, they make us go- for- it people.
In no way am I saying that my mother failed to teach me, she just did not tell me that there was a dark, dim always challenging one’s wit and patience kind of world out there preying outside her honeycomb.
People in the open enjoy belittling the other. They salivate on fermented tell tale. They take variety as their spice of life far too seriously and those who cannot be a part are made the sitting duck.

My mother did not tell me... there were society scumbags I should prepare myself for. Instead of nurturing a coconut, she jealously guarded a rose from the sun. But that was my mother. Life did not as it does not.

Life is full of storms: fierce or dwarf and so are the giants and demons all over. We just need to armor ourselves with the warmth our mothers have wrapped us with and become seasoned beings if nothing more. Rowing the boat as expected till we are timed-out.


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Monday, October 21, 2013

#1 Frozen Times

eh the last leaf. ( pic courtesy: google)
More than often it so happens that even the best of sights seem unpleasant. Such times are frozen times. Communication snaps, delinking resumes its position. In a frosty snow clad earth the tuft of a live being pulsates. Every beat resonates announcing close to last. 

We avoid speech, we avoid seeing eye to eye, we avoid all possible lanes which lead us to the cacophony in the nests man made. During such stretches… one prefers to remain canned. And yes, on occasions very very rare there is a knocking on the lid that lets us rise up a bit, open the lid, bathe in the sun, soak up the bristles of fresh air left as though only for us.

We let the rays of light touch the coating…peeling off the dim dark us. Those, my friends we preserve for times to come, for us to redeem when again the lid is just about to close down on us.


 Pouring ourselves out to someone who bears it all in those frozen times only ensures we do not fall a trap the second time and lose out on some lovely sunny days. 


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Saturday, September 28, 2013

the road not taken

After a long bit of time I would be sharing something personal from my nest. 

courtesy: google
My husband is a son of a man: an octogenarian, a voracious reader, a man of measured words, a genius some say. He can now partially see things around thus can no longer enjoy reading English texts but manages to read Bangla( Bengali) and loves to move around with the agility of an eight year old kid. I have always seen him as a humble, sensitive being and above all a wonderful husband and a doting father. There have been times I have heard him talk of his days with immense fondness picking each words very very carefully and thanking more than required to for the days he has survived fighting, moving and taking walks in the journey of life. He is just like any average grandpa you might come across while you are out on a stroll. Observing, calculating steps and gently whispering to himself. He loves to go for his regular walks and that he hasn't missed in all the years he has been around, taking a walk on planet earth. Even if the clouds warn of an impending thunderous downpour he’d be adamant on taking his usual walk. This morning he did not go for his regular walks and wasn't showing any sign of desperation. He wasn't in the mood to take the road. Naturally his wife and sister- in- law got little inquisitive because yesterday he reached home carrying a broken umbrella (he is compelled to walk around with) and offered no explanations.On being coaxed for a long period of time, he came out with a confession: he was hit by a fast moving vehicle and thus he isn't considering taking a walk today. He wrapped up the conversation at that.

As a conscious human being too many thoughts crowd my mind. Some would say why let him out, some would ask why not keep the aged people with us (since we are working and living elsewhere)? Too many such questions will pop up. But I have few things to share here: we all will grow old, we would be medically advised to keep ourselves as active as possible and should not let age shell us in. My father- in- law is old. He is feeble. But he has all the right to walk around anywhere he wishes to till the time he can. Can we not have some patience while driving around and letting the aged people live the way they want to unharmed without spurting curses like “why the hell are you out etc”? Do we after a certain period of time come to think of quitting lives ones we retire from our respective careers? This incident has disturbed me and I am sure most of us with our aging parents and aged grand-parents go through similar incidences and they do leave us all disturbed& harrowed. 

Sometimes I feel it is just not about age, it all about display of patience, respect for life.

A patient driving can let someone live a life God wants him/her to live… Can we not be human without being told to be one????

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Saturday, July 27, 2013

3650 days


With the date of wedding anniversary approaching, each day I am left wondering what have I as a person hit and missed from the marriage that society so compels everyone to go through. Good/bad marriages scattered all over and very handful few decide to be on the other side of the fence: watching, wondering, wallowing.


I for one did not cross over anticipating a dreamlike home, all glitter and gold. In plain simple language I did not nurse any hope from this society compelled institution. Marriage was always about convergence of  two individual with varied tastes both in terms of food & reading, distinct method of functioning: organized/un-,  and above all to live with one whole being (while in most cases its more than difficult to house our so many beings inside of us) under one roof!!!That certainly is a big deal. For men, I guess it is adequately different. Going by their flexible nature and with lesser-used heart, men navigate with ease.

For an independent (economic and otherwise) woman it’s a pole transit!

Its about making a space in a new family, a new individual to become habituated to living with; keeping him updated about your whereabouts, your spendings &savings, your preferences and the list… endless.This is how the institution knocks off. And let us for goodness’ sake keep our in laws in a bracket. They are there, they are there: some with magnifying glasses, few more with their inch tapes (respond this way & not more), and rare few with watchful eyes following all that you do and mostly you don’t. Pretty acceptable! Seriously the modern woman needs no training to escape their scrutiny. In India television serials are aplenty with advises and second, third opinions. (If Suhana* has a Utopian family to fall back upon, one has to constantly pinch oneself that all that appears on the screen are deceptive.)

With time we sort of begin to follow the path the new family strolls upon. Wanderlust a tad opposite direction would only mean brewing hostility.

When I put my step forward into the new family… there was this sea difference. I was alone being the wife of a single child. The rest (cousins & the stretchable relationships) were either after each other’s blood or were mouthful with venom, which straightaway promised that a closed club was my lifetime shelter. A passionate journalist who eats drinks sleeps talks sings news, finding everything else beneath his standard to talk or bring to his attention had picked me up as his ‘legal roommate’!


In a decades time I have learnt how to give up my passion. Listening to my favorite artist(s), watching a romcom/ a high drama were a loud “what’s this!!!"mind you,  the don’ts are not exclusive. They stretch on to the visitors too. The reclusive, the news-deep people are our regular visitors. In ten years time I have adapted myself to understanding politics. Earlier like most middle- class family member most politicians were known to me till TV news/radio news were seen or listened to. Discussion with my father on a particular news content stretched to a paragraph or two. Post marriage they became a part of our TV watching, book reading, dinner table, lunch table (every believable spaces one can imagine of) conversation. We did not&continue to not have too many heads to turn around to catch up a decent chat or two. I did make it quite clear I didn’t quite enjoy gossiping about people I knew so the common picks were unfortunately the practitioners of politics.


(pic courtesy: google)
Surviving 3650 days under the common roof is certainly not a child’s play. It’s a game in the chess board, one wrong move and you are checked. With a puckered face the other player cannot continue in the game. He/s has to stay focused. When I say game, it means its fun. Its fun when the other fails to read you and you want him/her to read your silence. Hide and seek, most frequently things go unsought after. Yet you are in the game. Modern houses break for the lack of being in the game. Despite the surrenderings from both parties some couples relentlessly live through the highs and the lows of it. That is the fun. When every morning we rise up with the sun, each wake up becomes a new beginning. A new daybreak opens up new horizons. If  few of my hobbies, my interests, my likings have taken a backseat, I have also developed unusual others.

Yes there have been war of words. The cruel silences followed. The nasty thoughts of breaking the sand house never left us but honestly the next moment something else have put mud on the thoughts. Call it play of fate, the sand house continues to survive the wrath of time.

Can we ever contest the small notes Darwin left for us to pick up the thread from? Well they have stood the tests of time and reasoning...


    Marry-
"Constant companion,
(&friend in old age) who will feel interested in one,—
object to be beloved &played with.  Home, &someone to take care of
house—My God, it is intolerable to think of spending ones

whole life, like a neuter bee, working, working, 
nothing after all.— No, no won’t do.— Imagine living
all one’s day solitarily in smoky dirty London House.—
Only picture to yourself a nice soft wife on a sofa with
good fire, &books & music perhaps— Compare this
vision with the dingy reality of Grt. Marlbro’ St.Marry—Mary—Marry Q.E.D.,


Ten years and still some more of them...(if it pleases God) .


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* Sasural Genda phool ( a popular television serial) 



Wednesday, June 5, 2013

Talk

“I quit!” He scribbled on a plane paper and jumped off the building. He died. “loser,” sniggered the world. Life went on as before.

Quitting got no solution. It never does.

I have lost a student, one of my best friends and one of my colleagues' turned friends' teenage first born son to it and let me confess, it isn’t easy to bear the loss and to confront the losses in the faces of the we never knew family members, especially parents. While again, there are also those kinds, the eraser-hearts who can move on. 

For me, my observations, my memories remain static, irreplaceable.

2 decades past...

My best friend attempted suicide due to parental pressure of scoring full marks (this was the talk of the town when he passed away) in physics/maths. Born to a genius family and a withdrawn person in nature, he quite made the subject to be on a suicide watch. But no one cared. Not until it was too late.

My student was grappling with his own identity conflicts. He was a women cased in a man’s body. You can’t be so in the hinterland of India. Tongues were wagging all around, no one gave him the space he needed to know himself, not even the ‘artist’ parents he was born to. He too quit.(sad, he was just about to begin his soon to follow career after working under an acclaimed fashion designer)

3 years back

My colleagues' son was an adolescent, full of hope, a creative genius and struck by cupid. A simple refusal was all it took for him to quit. He left behind some lovely hand-written poems.

These three people lost early in life had two things in common: they were au fait and sensitive. In this modern society, this is a lethal combination that works as a catalyst to suck out the marrow of life.  

Marx underlines this narrative of a conflict in our ‘modern’ society: “having shown up the contradictions and unnaturalness of modern life not only in the relationships of particular classes, but in all circles and forms of modern intercourse.” 

While most battling out life’s war, pre- positioning themselves on suicidal radar, would say, “easier said than done.”I’d be a bit optimistic in saying: “Life is not about giving up, it’s about living it up…”


give warmth
  Too many youngsters resort to self end owing to "abused friendship, deceived love, frustrated ambition, family suffering, repressed rivalry, dissatisfaction with a monotonous life, suppressed enthusiasm, are indubitably the causes of suicide in more generously endowed natures, and the love of life itself, this energetic driving force of personality, very often leads to putting an end to a detestable existence ( Marx's note)." Most younglings I have come in touch in person with confessing to attempt haven't given new reasons. BUT! But I have heard an echo in their voices, "we want to talk to someone, someone who understands us, not make fun of us or ignore us".

We have grown in number but so in our lethal deafness. Our purchasing power has gone up and we have conveniently replaced warmth of relationships with goodies. Expensive mobile phones have enhanced connectivity but severed connection. We rarely now connect with each other!!!

Right things at the right moment don’t happen all the time. One has to have patience. Patience and life dive deep. On a very serious note, family, friends, siblings can keep a slightly off the track being engaged in mundane, frivolous talks. Tagging along or giving time to that suppressed enthusiast will let him/her battle out the internal conflicts. Who doesn't have an internal conflict? Everyone does, but we don't self end our existence! Do we? Don’t die. Please! At least not by choice!

Every suicide breaks me down. They smack our failure as individuals, as society.

Talks really help.

So talk…just talk!

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Saturday, May 11, 2013

out of a fighter

If a citizen of any nation is touched let alone killed, the governing authorities of the concerned citizen make their presence felt loud and clear. In our country, no matter how hard one tries to prove his patriotism, love for nation etc, he either is outcasted as a jingoist, a fanatic or a terrorist. It is sad we have got ourselves ruled by those silent puppets who talk diplomacy. A community gets no justice even after 29 yrs; a powerful nation sets up its tents, throws attitude; an Indian prisoner beaten, murdered; women at large raped.

Too many lives at stake, too many sentiments crushed. What we get in return is mouthful of POLITICS.


With a poor front, the rest of the world is at an advantage.



dalbir Kaur, (pic courtesy: google images)
I have been kind of getting drawn towards this woman Dalbir Kaur (Sarabjit Singh's sister) for the sheer courage she displayed. The undaunted voice, the strength of an individual to voice her resentment, her grievances for the failure in handling her brother's case and the other Indian prisoners in Pakistan in getting him back and many more sharing a similar kind of status, to the country. After his death, a different language had echoed for a while. The governing party appeared to have arrested the strength she holds. Call it her innocence or the apt move of the regime, in both cases there is a loss of a nationalist.

The outcry now is louder than ever before. And perhaps it stands justified. There has always been a callousness or shall we call it the political attempt of pushing behind an issue for some appropriate time and never getting its due hearing until its lid bursts open.



Sarabjit Singh (pic courtesy: google images)

It is possibly the lack of option which compels us to recycle the same band of corrupt people into the pedestal. The submissive, the meek, the self-centric few continue to become puissant. Between the bigger controversies and bitter scams a laid back nation is let down constantly by each govt voted in. 


The country's self esteem at stake. The game of chor police (thief-cop)continues inside-out of parliament.


With each movement (-likes of Anna movement)a hope flickers. Probably there could be a better system at rise and each time one  is disillusioned. In India hope survives till its gestation period.


Meanwhile, I am waiting to read more of Dalbir Kaur's interviews and also keeping a close watch at several awards which would soon be decorating her; pushing, coloring a political figure out of a fighter. 



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Monday, May 6, 2013

Why do parents bring their children to watch an ‘A’ rated movie???

In the heat alert regions in India, one is left with very little option to spend weekends/vacations. No T.V shows and no constant shower (the tap water is ever ready to boil eggs/ tea leaves) can help you bat out the heat. Summer has been pretty tough this season.

We had some good movies released this Friday and thus the best way was to watch back to back movies to evade at least a days’ heat. Hopping to the first one which had started a good 15 minutes before we entered, I realized I was in for a jolly good temper rise. And guess what, it didn’t take too long!

An  ‘A’ rated movie was houseful . To be honest I did not know it was ‘A’ rated till I woke up this morning to check in the censor board rating for the movie. Poor husband, he had to bear earful! I felt humiliated sitting through something that was less than entertainment, more than humiliation. Explicit violent scenes, adult encounters, profanity, expletives most of which I couldn’t follow. There were applauses, whistles at every adult dialogue delivered. Rightly said by a distributor “in India movies are made for whistleblowers.”

By the time intermission happened I was writing a note on the movie on my cell phone. Why was I there? My husband enjoys all those maar-dhaar,(read action films), now he wouldn’t have preferred going unaccompanied plus we had the plans to watch back to back movies.

Intermission: surprise!

I know most wouldn’t be. There were parents with their grown up and growing up kids, kids who question their parents for all they cannot follow. These kids were out with their parents watching their favorite action hero John Abrahm in adult act, molesting, raping his beau, cursing her b**c*** everytime he needed her. Lets forget the bloodied scenes which grab the EQ factor.  

Soon I had walked out of my personal trauma for having to sit through the movie to buy little peace for ourselves. I was all over the theatre mentally.

pic courtesy : google
Taking children below 18 years to an A rated movie, who are these parents: accidental?! While I am very very sure most of my friends wouldn’t even spare a thought of watching a movie like Shootout for Wadala, I went through a gamut of emotion putting up with the language: both verbal and anatomical. When I a full grown adult had gone through so much, how could parents with children in the theatre obliterate the thought of the kind of influence their children were pushed to through the explicit scenes of violence and sex?

We are in anyway a regressive lot, and through unlocking the key to participate in contents highly damaging, how can they be sure that the next teenaged rapist could not be their son!? Our earlier generation in any case doesn’t like to discuss matters related to sex and violence, let alone counseling them at a time when need be.

We are running through a rough time, molestation and rapes are almost  settling down as the norms of Indian states. And this is the time when a picture like Shootout to Wadala releases to full packed audience with uncivil content. With most schools/colleges/universities on a break, it is disheartening movies such as this are out there to let out ones anger, frustrations through sexual exploitation. What melted my eyes was when I overheard a kid asking his dad “papa, john kya kar raha hein?” ( "papa, what is John doing?") I really wanted to overhear the response too which the papa didn’t, he just pacified him by handing over his pepsi bottle!

Ones out of the movie hall, I did see couple of my students too but I knew I couldn’t be moral policing them. After all they were adults!

The question I returned home and got arguing with my company is that the theatres must get far more responsible in restricting the children below the prescribed age. The censor board too needs to check on the season the films are released. Summer breaks are a great time for getting into the theatre and therefore films with adult content should be out keeping in mind a point such as this. There is another attitude that Indian parents have to probably get over with, “mere bachche hein, tujhe kya problem hein”(my kids, what is your problem)? 

The problem is these are the children who will become the citizens of a nation. And one cannot completely be certain if they will take home accolades or public mash.

( we couldn't manage tickets for the second movie for all the shows we had planned to watch).  

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