being brown

Posts tagged “My Creations

Work Monotone(ou)s

Wistful monotones emerge from my keyboard

I look down to see whats causing them

Only to feel silly for,

These are my fingers

Flying over the keyboard

Causing the monotones.

Listless monotones emerge from my keyboard.


The Apology of the Metamorphosee!

She should have been an actress! Every opportunity she gets, she perfects the art of doing or saying something she doesn’t mean. It had become  entertainment. The only downside, she reflected, was that the better she got at it, the more she did it and the more fake, or to use Holden Caulfield’s word, phony, she seemed.

The last few months had offered her lots more opportunity for ‘acting’ than ever before. She had changed jobs, cities and careers leaving everybody but herself in a tizzy. From social work, she started working for a corporate. From being solely in activist circles, she was rubbing shoulders with men and women in IT and business. A cousin asked her in jest, “ So how come you have gone to the dark side?” What he was asking  was , “ Why this drastic change in career?” She didn’t know it then but his words were an ominous sign of what was to come from friends and acquaintances everywhere.

And sure enough, so many people have since raised their eyebrows and expressed shock and horror at her seemingly sudden change in jobs. An activist friend even said, “I see this decision of yours as reflecting some kind of disillusionment that you have felt work-wise and I really believe you should talk to somebody about it. Otherwise what in heaven’s name will prompt you to take such a job??” Another friend said after some consideration, “ I get you need a break from all this. But I think I will really worry if you stick at this corporate job for more than two years. I think I will give you a year and start questioning you after.” Another activist acquaintance, who rarely ever spoke to her, tried initiating a conversation, obviously to make sure she had heard right and to intervene if possible.

Because, obviously she was in need of ‘intervention’. There can be nothing logical or rational about this decision and she must be very very disturbed to have taken it without giving it much thought. Because obviously, she hadn’t deliberated on it and it was clear that it was an impulsive decisions because she hadn’t spoken to anybody about it.

Forget the activist world, an uncle from the ‘normal world’ asked what this huge change in career meant? Which is a normal enough question, because well there has to be some reason why you stop hanging around with ‘activists’ and start becoming a ‘corporate bitch’. In fact, his opening statement was, “ What is this I hear? Why have you joined a business consulting firm when you have worked with the likes of Ms Blah Blah ( name of activist).” Detecting some discomfort from her side, he went on, in a soothing, compassionate voice, about the metamorphosis she was going through, about how her grandfather held on to his ideological beliefs whatever else he did for his career and about how it is ok to compromise. Because, obviously she was compromising.

To be fair, she didn’t protest either, finding it more convenient to go with people’s assumptions than to launch into a philosophical discourse about her decision. So, she dons a melancholic mantle; she wears a face that looks as if this decision has squeezed every ounce of emotional energy out of her; she punctuates her conversations with heavy breathing and supersonic sighs, she nods profoundly when people say, “its ok. We all make compromises;”and, she looks appropriately down at her feet  while talking of this decision. She is  not clear how successful her acting is or whether she is good at it at all ( She loves it, though. And despondency always came naturally to her).

Eyes darting hither and thither, furtively,  hands cupping mouth, whispering, she lets out another of those supersonic sighs, whispering, “forgive me, but I don’t feel like I have compromised anything. I wonder what kind of an activist that makes me?”


Mumbai

Uncaring,
Cold, impersonal, apolitical,
steeped in apathy.

Where dreams made of brick and cement
Have turned to dreams of brittle glass.
where dreams were once woven fine
the fabric faded and the dreams came undone

Where love is what they say it is
Singing in the rain, dancing around trees
Where love is made in full public view
On some Scandal Point, some seashore, or dark avenue

Where every rumble of the electric train
Is the heavy breathing of a people’s strain
Where sleep comes as sweet relief
From breathless existence ,hope and belief

Where a stormy gale that burst in from the sea
Rustles that one solitary leaf
where the rain that comes with that stormy gale
lasts four months, the city’s sins washed away

Cold, impersonal, apolitical,
steeped in apathy
Who cares!


Old-Chappatti Laddoos

Here is a recipe I invented ( using old chappatti is  my friend Rucha’s idea but i am responssible for mixing up the other interesting ingredients).

Ingredients

1. Two old chapattis (one day old)

2. One teaspoon ghee

3. One table spoon jaggery ( if u have a sweet tooth, more)

4. 10 almonds

5. 10 walnuts

6. Half a handful of lightly roasted groundnuts

7. Half a teaspoon of flax seeds, lightly roasted (this is a dicey ingredient, if you make for children, leave this out….children may not like it)

Tear the chapattis into small pieces and put them in to the blender along with the other ingredients. Blend until a thick paste is formed. With your hands make small laddoos.You can experiment with other ingredients as well. i also add a teaspoon of cinnamon powder.experiments in the kitchen

Makes for a great prebreakfast snack…kids will love this and its sooper healthy. Plus its about making use of left over chapattis. I love it.

Caution: don’t eat all of it …..it serves 2 or 3 people….its too heavy for one person.


Painted and Naked

They were there, ready for use

The pallet, my face and my muse

Careful strokes and then bolder yet

Suddenly my face is someone else

The godly colours and the devil hues

It was for jest and they were new

When the clown’s smile just stuck on

The heavenly folly just carried on

How can you make love to me?

I can never strip completely

I tried both Kerosene and turpentine

Will not my face peel away this time?


Words are superfluous

With inspiration like the Brahmaputra, the internal conflict is whether to put words to my feelings and kill it for myself but bring it alive for others or just be selfish.

The brahmaputra and the gulmohar

An almost bare tree on the banks of the brahmaputra

The boughs of the gulmohar threaten its flowers

untitled

A boat acknowledging the setting sun

fishermen after a day's work

Fokir !

Rickshaw colour riot


Life’s lump lies in its coffin

Well before its time, to boot.

I put it there, you know,

Lest time should grab at the reins

Or hold a gun to my head.