Time.

                                                    

                                                             Life.

       Time. The four letter word that encapsulates all and everything. Something that transcends us yet plays us like a musical instrument. We dance to its tune,forcibly or voluntarily. It's in the seconds that tick by your watch and also the irretrievable moments lived in each. Urging us to make the best possible use of here and now, because face it, that's all we have. To make mistakes and learn to live without regrets .Work harder today, so tomorrow is comparatively comfortable. I remember my professor telling us in class once, “It is not time that is passing. It is us.”

We are passing, descending slowly into nothingness, fading gently away. All we can hope to do is have led a life that make us cringe and anguish over things we did rather than the ones we were too scared or prudish to do, at all. A happy life cannot be guaranteed, it has to be constantly negotiated. You can do everything right and yet have things go horribly wrong. Trust your instincts, let your mistakes be your own. Stay busy and don't over-think it.  

When away..

I miss,

the familiar warmth of the winter sun,

that nip in the air around this time of the year.

feigned lethargy at impending chores,

marigold blossoms everywhere,

tasting my mother's first selroti

to make sure the elements are just right.

“more sugar”,I let her know

“everything else is just perfect”,it always is.

I ask to be taught. “No!”,she says

always the same answer.

I miss,

the diyas, the aarti, the sweets, the laughter,

the visits, the “bhaileni” and the “deusurey”,

my mother, my sister, my family,

my father the most,

the different days of “tihar”

each more ridiculous than the next

idiosyncrasies, card-games, dancing,

drunken brawls, tiffs and spats,loud noises.

the half-day fast for “bhai tika”,

the immediate satiating of appetites afterward.

Generally,I miss home.

Identity crisis much?

Growing up in a fairly liberal household with a newar hindu father and a buddhist bhutia mother, big terms such as nationality,ethnicity and culture was never something we ever encountered or bothered our tiny little heads with.
When I finally began understanding the logistics, the history and the geography I found myself to be embroiled (pardon the drama) in quite a cultural soup, you should see the size of my head now!
Waves of knowledge washed over me depositing its fair share of unsettling silt on my mind. What do I call myself? I am a heady mix of both my parents and I don't really conform to the idea that children should only be known after their father.
An agnostic, I like to believe in destiny, not in gods and idols yet in my darkest and lightest moments I do slightly remember and/or reprimand "God", and its always a larger than life human-like figure, preferably meditating, oblivious to my rantings,a phenomena I don't  feel any other connection to.
I am from Sikkim which was an independent country once upon a time, now a part of this magnificent country India and live in its capital New Delhi. I speak Nepali, although its actually neither my mother or 'father tongue',its the lingua franca of Sikkim and the areas surrounding it.
The newaris as a community are said to be from Nepal but when recently our family tree was charted out, my great-great-great paternal grandfather ( atleast 6 generations above) was a 'taksari'  to the then King of Sikkim and was from Rangpo, which is in the heartland of Sikkim. My maternal grandfather is said to have migrated from Bhutan to Pedong which is very close to Kalimpong which is very surprisingly in West Bengal. I have always thought of myself as a true-blue Indian, replete with the "chalta hai " attitude, taking procrastination to new levels.
I absorbed and loved the history and the politics yet there is a sense of detachment that I cannot fully shake off. Lack of representation in major fields could be one reason, extreme ignorance of my fellow Indians could be another. But holding ignorance against a group of people especially Indians, is extremely wrong being the extremely diverse and extremely intolerant country that we are.
So, with all my bouts of identity crisis, my heart swells with pride and leaps to great heights when a Nepali speaking individual from Sikkim, cuts a deal with an international publisher with the help of a very famous literary agent with the same intensity as when I cheer,cry,gloat over the triumph of our cricket team, shed copious amounts of tears as SRK loves,romances and dies onscreen and feel proud tears welling up my eyes whenever our national anthem is on. You wouldn't know which box to tick with all of that.I am an Indian yet so much more.I think we take on identities not looking at the past but a culmination of our present and where we see our future and given a choice I wouldn't have it any other way.

Borderline Ennui

“Why?”,
most people who know me would ask if they ever read this. Especially at this phase of my life when I am doing nothing. To them I'd say,well this is the best time as I have so much of free time to think of everything that I can be bored of in life. Like a job, to start with,probably marriage then kids,old age and the final cherry on the cake,death. Just to think of having to go through all these phases of life gives me ennui.
With a post-graduate degree in English Literature, I'm single,unemployed and an on/off bitch. I live each day as per the dictates of my mighty mood. There is no routine whatsoever, I eat,sleep,read,procrastinate as and when I choose to. Needless to say, I am lazy and very happy at that. I have never held a job in my life and I am 23 years old. If only being an avid dreamer was a full time job.
I am self-obsessed and self-critical to the point of bipolarity. Sometimes I think I'm more a 'thinker' than a 'doer' and I don't see a pressing need to change anything. Yet I know, deep down in my presumably clogged heart that I will be happy and successful someday and things will come as and when they are supposed to. This month I embark on a relatively new journey that clashes against most of my current beliefs and I know which side I have to be on.
This will probably be the first step to all that I am afraid to face in life,but better this than always wondering, “What if?” . With a slight twist I'd like to use the quote, Falling is not failing,failing to get up after you have fallen is failure in the true sense of the word.
 So until then I struggle with ennui, for the task before me is mighty and the path ahead is fraught with not only difficulties but also responsiblities with equal chances of both,falling and failing.

A slice of the 90's Bollywood through my biased eyes

Long long time ago,in a kingdom not so far away, there lived a little girl who had just discovered the immense possibilities that a square shaped electronic box held.
 Ok,that girl was me and although I don't exactly remember the first thing I ever watched on T.V.,it must have been a Nepali movie on the V.C.R of which I only have vague recollections.
It was the very early 90's, I must have been 3-4 years old. What was constantly viewed in our home however was a cassette which had the popular Bollywood songs of the earlier decade or so.
Those I remember very well even now,it was ever so dearly watched. Then the antenna arrived and with it the much loved DoorDarshan channel which had me hook line and sinker and a T.V addict for life.
Growing up, I watched a lot of television and would sit wide eyed through DD's weekend matinee films with hundreds of commercials wedged in between. Time didn't matter, I would sit a movie through ,even for a long time after I started to know which ones were really bad and easily avoidable.
 It was then I became a die hard Shahrukh Khan fan and watched all of his movies, mostly on DD, cinema halls weren't encouraged then.

 So there I find myself, entranced with Bollywood at a time where like everything else in India globalisation or vague ideas of globalisation was setting in.
 What came out of all that was an extra colourful film industry which varied from crass to cheap ,skirting around vulgarity in Govinda's oversized multi-coloured pants. Trying to be and redefine “sexy” but not quite getting there.
The 90's were an unsteady time when Bollywood was trying hard to find its place and mainstream cinema trying hard to incorporate nuances of the stories that the silently swelling megapolises were espousing. The setting had shifted from the village into the city with gusto and a determination replete with catchy tunes and absolutely hilarious lyrics using repetitive words which had no meaning whatsoever yet without which songs seemed incomplete. And believe you me I loved and lapped all of that melodrama, and although I pretend like I am offended by their crassness today, I know all the words and dance steps to “chura ke dil mera”,”gore gore mukhde pe kaala kaala chashma” “ye kaali kaali aankhen” and the like.

 There will always be a part of me that wants to be elitist and turn my nose at “inferior” cinema,full of loopholes and mass hysteria but I also feel that we need our own space to grow in and the kind of cinema we have here is unique, simply in the variety we get to see today.
Some are good, some blatantly copied and some "inspired", yet these movies hold a very special place in my heart which I cannot forgo or ignore because its such a big part of my childhood. For now,I will be content in singing these songs in private lost in the haze of memories.

A Close Shave!

The repercussions of having been recently robbed?

Besides running short of the perennial cash that was your bank account via debit cards,you lose sleep(a lot) and a lot of crime fiction heroine stories fill up your head, claiming your constant attention. So besides carrying out an all night-er(given that its exam month),being awake at 5 in the Delhi morning when the climate miraculously (or if you ask me, apocalyptic-ally ) decides to take a turn for the better would lead to life changing revelations one would argue,but hardly so for me.

 It was cool that morning,in fact so cold, I got chills, very very unnerving for a mid-May morning. It was Delhi for crying out loud. So I stood on our verandah gazing meaningfully at the horizon, trying to delve the deeper meaning of life,reflecting. on the past, thinking how a mug of steaming hot black coffee would befittingly make me a Nescafe girl when this huge eagle thinks it funny to suddenly swoop from behind and try to grab me away by my hair. Not so funny for me, given our weight proportions,the eagle's scaly talons and the sudden jolt to impending reality. Okay, I'll admit, the very notion of the eagle wanting to carry me off was a tad bit funny but only in retrospection. I was frightfully annoyed then and physically hurt (mentally too but thats another story). I curse loudly and am immediately thankful nobody was around to admire my extensive vocabulary and linguistic abilities that can spew abuses in three different languages. The eagle then perches itself atop a nearby tree and eyes me derisively. Whether it was self damnation at the failure to carry me off or preparing itself for a second try, I didn't stick around to find out or make polite conversation with seemingly the only other living being in close proximity. I rush inside, call it a day and sleep to crime fiction dreams again. How connected is the robbery and this incident I cannot say, all I'll say is I can never look at another eagle or a motorcycle with normalcy ever again.

kafkaesque,anyone?