Bounce on the Blog

Here we are.

2011-01-23T19:52:00.001-08:00

So, here we are. I lie in my bed, I am still, except for the jabbing of the pulse in my throat. I hear the washing of steel utensils, clanging together as they are carelessly dumped upon each other. I hear the rotting metal sounds of the old lift as it moves up and down the pit of this building. I hear the children shouting to each other, trying to get a last game in before they are dragged to their tables with math problems and history dates. I hear click-clack electric sounds of lights and fans in the other rooms, I know there’s nobody else at home, I am externalizing the nervous sounds of my veins as they burst with my own charged blood.

I try to calm myself. Other people have gone through this. I have read it in newspapers and seen it on television. Faced with a similar predicament, they had to make a choice. Even with all their indecision and weakness that caused them so much suffering, they suddenly found the strength to end it. They had a thought, they established a method, they conceived of a plan and finally, they actually implemented it. I tell myself, these are all people like me, people who accomplished nothing, but in one brilliant act of defiance found a side to themselves they never thought existed.

I imagine the neighbors coming to know of all this. I imagine them shaking their troubled, heavy heads, making tch-tch noises with their disapproving tongues. I imagine them putting together the pieces of the tragedy over dinner, relishing it in an uncomfortable way, how close they were to the whole thing as the events unfolded. I imagine them relaying the information to their friends and relatives, adding their opinion of me, of him, from our brief encounters through half-closed doors, through some hasty exchange of niceties.

If they knew it right now, would they want to prevent it, would they come to me and ask me not to go through with it? Would they share their private marital grief with me? Would they offer me solutions, ask me to wait it out, because whatever issues we may have, it all goes away eventually. Would they accuse me of being a coward? Would they say that this is wrong, it’s a crime, a punishable offence under law?

The truth is, I am a coward and this is wrong. However, I see no other way out. The knife has serrated edges, but it’s clean. It shows me a distorted reflection of myself. It shines in a sinister way. It will be effective, only if plunged several times. I haven’t eaten since morning. I wouldn’t be able to hold anything down anyway. I have made him dinner. All his favorite things, I thought it could be my last gift to him.

And then, I can’t help but think of him. I think of his reluctant smile, his fingers sweeping back the mop of thick, jet-black hair, I think of his quiet voice, I think of how I had dismissed him for being the ordinary, uninteresting good guy. I clutch my womb, now empty of the shameful mistake I made in my youth, all that adulation and attention that I had always craved for, that I had never received at home, how it found me, how it blinded me, how I fell and no one came, except him. For the first few years, I floated on a cloud of gentle, peaceful surrender. I was so surprised by his sudden transformation into this shining, powerful, golden warrior that I didn’t notice the squalor, the decline of my body, the difficulties of coping with a child, a husband and a kitchen.

I was the cause of it all. He no longer smiled, he no longer swept his fingers across his hair, he no longer fought for me and my happiness. He thought I was responsible. I lost the baby, he had loved her more than he loved me. I feel the guilt like stones weighing down my back, my spine cracks and gives way. I know deep down it probably isn’t my fault, I hadn’t done it deliberately. I am just so terrible at handling life, in one moment of carelessness, all that I consider precious gets taken away from me. I should have learnt long back. I should have held on tightly, I should have clutched to feverish chest all my values, my integrity, my dignity, my independence and my baby. My beautiful baby.

In that crowded market, she just vanished like a magic trick. He didn’t believe me, he went to look for her and didn’t come back for a week. That was when my hair started falling out, my nails turned black. Now, every morning his eyes stare at me with hate. Now, he doesn’t reach for me in bed, he no longer touches me. I can’t go on like this. My daily supplications, my ministrations have borne no fruit. Our married life is a deserted battlefield. This is the only option left. I say it to myself again, this is the only option left.

Then, the doorbell rings. It must be him. I open the door. I sit at the dining table opposite to his chair. He washes his hands and his face. He looks older, I hadn’t noticed how much he has aged in just a year. He has changed into a vest and white drawstring pajamas that hang loose over his lean, overworked legs. If he is surprised by the effort I have put into making our dinner, he doesn’t show it. This makes me a little angry but I know from experience it’s no use shouting at him. Asking him to notice this, to appreciate that, it only makes him crawl further back into a place where silence drowns out everything else. I want him tell him that it’s going to be all right. But, I don’t. I just summon all the courage I haven’t used all these years and clasp the knife with determination. He has finished his dinner. Now is the time. I must do it. I will do it. I know he won’t stop me because he has been waiting for me to do end it. I walk towards him, I run my fingers through his hair. Then, I take the knife and plunge it three times, into him. His eyes betray nothing. His body shakes from physical shock and he collapses, his head falls on the plate. I take the plate out from under his face, I run a napkin over his cheeks and I kiss his forehead.

I notice the blood slowly dripping from his body onto the chair and from the chair onto the floor. I realize I am covered in his blood too. I go into the kitchen, I wash the knife. I wash the dishes and put them back on the racks. I have to get cleaned up and leave before the police arrive.

Posted By,

Swati.

Your daily cup of copy.

The Safety Pins.

2011-01-21T04:08:00.000-08:00

It’s what they did. They put you on a bike and gave you a push. They pushed you so hard, for a while you thought you had learnt to fly the thing. You should have known better. You can’t even walk without crutches.

And then you say you don’t know yourself anymore. There are certain impulses you get that spring from a dark, sinister place, a place that remains like a wispy, elusive mystery, a place where the mirrors reflect nothing.

The pain you feel, you think it’s different, it’s not like the pain other beings feel. There’s a special, pure, crystal clear quality to it. You could wear it like contact lenses and look at the world, see everything for what it is. I am telling you now, that is not true.

The pain you feel is actually more like a rhinoceros. It’s ugly, bulky and leathery. It has warts on its skin and it likes to slosh around in mud. And just when you think you’ve lost it in the tall, brown grasses of the Serengeti, it comes charging up at you, brandishing its horn.

All along you were looking for your own personal stratosphere where there are no weather disturbances, where you can keep a straight course and not suddenly get ensnared in a turbulence that is not of your making. I advise you not to reach for it, it’s high up, you will sprain your arms.

Come to think of it, the turbulence is always of your own making, isn’t it? It’s no use blaming the government and the political parties. It’s easy to roll the dice, it’s hard to watch it fall to the number you hadn’t thought of. Because that’s when you realize you aren’t the one in control.

How long do you think the safety pins will hold?

Posted By,

Swati.

Copywriter.

Pondicherry Travelogues: Part I

2010-12-27T02:31:00.000-08:00

Pondicherry Travelogues:

The air hostess smiled at me as I was doodling in the plane, she stole a sneek peak and asked me if I had made it. I told her I had. She said, it’s nice, like I was in Kindergarten and had somehow managed to fill my wax crayon colours within the outlines of a complex animal figure or something. The men’s loo was taken so on the plane, I went to the men’s loo. Didn’t close the door properly and it flew open when the plane jerked due to weather turbulence. I think the male stewards caught a glance, I believe they liked what they saw because they offered me an extra glass of lime juice. I think Jet Airways is the coolest airline ever because they offered the latest albums of some of my most favourite rock and roll, heavy metal bands- AC DC, Metallica, Guns N’ Roses. They also had albums from two of my most favourite pop music icons- Michael Jackson, Madonna. It’s son exhilarating to be in a strange city, a city that I have never been to. As soon as the plane landed, I was filled with so much joy and anticipation, I have never smelled this city, I have never seen this city. I have never met the people of this city and I have never heard the city speak its language. Travelling makes me feel special because I know that I can enjoy places in an elevated sensory way, as the others plod along with their baggage and their mobile phones and themselves, as they make a thousand calls, get everything in order, they are missing something important. Thank god, I don’t have a cell phone. If I wanted to I could let myself loose in this city, I could lose myself in this city and no one would ever know where I was, no one would ever find me out, unless of course, if I wanted to let them know where I was. These people with their mobile phones, they should revel in the fact that they have made a transition from one city to another, one country to another, one continent to another, it is reason enough for happiness. Our forefathers, the people who created us, they couldn’t traverse such long distances in such a short time- this means we save time, which means we have more time on our hands to travel to places we haven’t smelled or seen before. We have been given this wonderful blessing, this unique privilege, shouldn’t we just take a moment out of our sad lives to admire everything in the moment. I am proud that I have made this transition on my own, with a little bit of help from my friends, of course. There are people in the world who won’t come to this city, they won’t know it as I will.

I can’t, I just can’t contain myself. Imagine, I have just crossed 1,329 kilometres from Mumbai to be in this city, right now, just a few hours before I was in Mumbai and now I am in Chennai.

I am the first one to arrive, I wait by the sidelines for my friends as I watch waves of weary faces walk by with huge overstuffed bags and every single one is carrying a carton, a giant cardboard box filled with who-knows-what. It’s a total mystery to me. I want to grab hold of them and ask them what’s in it. What are all these people bringing into the city in such quantities, what is this humongous object that this city does not provide to its people. In Bombay, the people going in and coming out of the airport have such little baggage, a backpack or a small, corporate-looking suitcase, it is de rigueur. What does this mean? That people in Bombay have everything and they won’t ever find anything in other cities that they won’t find in theirs. But, I guess, it also means that they are unwilling to share their largesse, their bounty. These guys have the stuff wrapped in some sort of a fluorescent green polyvinyl rope thing, are they afraid of their bags popping open and revealing some top secret content? I am stupefied, I am mystified. I want to know.

Quite cosmopolitan, Chennai is a veritable melting pot, has a sizeable Muslim population, but in the entire trip, I have just seen one mosque, I have seen many churches, many cathedrals, many multi-coloured, multi-layered typical temples of the south, but there was just one mosque and they can’t all go there. All men have moustaches and are armed with a withering, strict, military glance that they use to get through the day. You feel like they are getting ready to start a riot or contain a riot. It’s getting late, S.S and P.S are still not here. I try calling them many times from an Airtel booth outside the airport but I can’t get through to them. Then, I relax. I realize that if they want to find me, they will find me. A security guard asks me what I am up to, I tell him I am jotting down my thoughts on paper, he gives me a smirk, I think he thought I was copying the architectural plans of the airport or writing down the details of the security arrangement or something, maybe I do look like I am part of a devious terrorist outfit. Met S.S, apparently she has been at the airport for quite some time, turning it upside down, looking for me. She is the responsible one, she has planned and organized everything, the trip has manifested itself into a reality because of her. Anyway, so S.S and I went to this food stall at the airport called Sangeeta because we are always perennially hungry. We had some very average idlis and medu vadas, the sambar was depressing considering we were at the point of origin of all these beautiful, delicious things. However, the onion masala chutney was finger-licking good. In fact, S.S and I joked that the standard of the South Indian fare was at par with any North Indian joint serving the food of the south. Nonetheless, we had to wait for P.S who has missed her flight and was taking quite some time to reach. We found Muthu, the driver in charge of the white Indica that would take us to our final destination, Pondicherry. He is called Muthu, that’s his name, that is what he has been called his entire life, his parents thought it perfectly plausible to name him thus, no one bats an eyelid. There must be other Muthus like him in the city who like him have also gone thorough their entire lives being called that. I find this hilarious, but I guess, no one else does. Anyway, this Muthu, he looks threatening, but I think he is the most placid, content creature I have ever met. He waits for us as we wait for P.S to show up, she is almost 3 hours late. S.S and I sit in shade, we watch misplaced firagis showering each other with profuse hugs and kisses, they probably think its love, they probably cling to each other in the hope that they have found their anchor in the wiles of this world. I know they haven’t. It’s all transient, temporary. Everything.

But this city, this city doesn’t feel temporary at all. I can feel the tangible weight of its history bearing down on me, begging me to take a look. I wanted to see much more of Chennai, but it was not in the plan. Chennai is ancient, I get the feeling that it is trying to cope with the present, trying to bring the future nearer to itself, but it would rather just go back to the past. This is the similarity with Kolkata. That’s why this city calls out to me although Kolkata has lost me forever. The difference is that Kolkata is more proactive in digging tunnels back to the dark ages, this city is limping towards progress and growth and development and all those terrible things that signify Bombay. Kolkata is so busy sabotaging its present, it has no time to think except in terms of outdated communist principles that have been scooped out, laid out bare and hollow, to dry in the sun. Chennai is a thinking city. It’s a philosophical city. I like it, I like it. This city is endeavouring to build taller cement structures, it is trying to build flyovers, a functional metro rail, better infrastructure, I can tell this city’s heart is not really into it.

I think I want to call the Pondicherry trip ‘Three Cities’ because S.S came from Kolkata, P.S is coming from Delhi and I came from Mumbai. S.S starts about Kolkata, how inefficiency is so endemic in its archaic systems, how there is no way one catch a flight on time, how long queues are everywhere and nobody has any solutions to offer. Because, Kolkata doesn’t look for solutions, it looks only for the problems, the issues, the questions. In a way, I used to like that about the city.

The thing I love about being a strange city where I am the stranger is that I can be anyone, I can leave myself behind, I am very boring, after all, and I can assume the identity of whomever it is that I want to be. I can be fun, I can be adventurous, I can be a risk-taker, I can be an extrovert and I can be user-friendly. Travelling is therapeutic, I may be hurt, I may be dying, but I will come alive if I travel, I will repair myself and become whole again, if I travel.

Chennai is not pretentious, it’s counted amongst the top four great cities of India, but it’s very secure, it doesn’t feel the need to constantly prove itself, like Bombay does. In spite of the blinding lack of tall buildings, the main roads are spacious, sizeable in terms of width. It is only in the smaller sub-roads that dirt and dust fly around, I am guessing in the heat of summers, in the humidity, these areas could get oppressive. Chennai loves wall art, all its walls are covered with these indecipherable circular symbols that make up its script, they could pass for Hebrew but the curves are so fastidiously curvy, you would think somebody forgot to complete the circle. It’s an intriguing font they use, the colours are equally enchanting, I want to know what the walls say. I am sure they are not selling mundane things like soaps and cement and iron rods. I am sure they are quotes of some of the great Tamilian thinkers and philosophers whose names I do not know.

When this written language is translated into the spoken word, it sounds aggressive and it smoulders with a kind of raunchiness, a passionate, sublime version of raunchy, of course. We meet P.S, pleasantries are exchanged, she says I look the same, she says we will all keep looking the same till we get married. We get started on the car journey, it is going to be 3 hours long, sort of like the drive from Mumbai to Pune. I have gotten tired of the drive from Mumbai to Pune on the expressway. I have done it so many times, I can now predict with alarming accuracy the hoardings that will pass by, the colour of the buildings approaching, every crack, every bend, every sharp turn in the road. Even the mountains and the tunnels through the mountains that used to interest me so much hold no interest for me anymore. We decide to take the ECR, the East Coast Road, a scenic route to Pondicherry. All along the journey, we turn up the radio and listen to local FM stations, we jump up and nod at each other when we recognize a song that has been stolen/ borrowed by Bollywood.

There are lots of water bodies along the road, the traffic is light, we cruise along gaping at the greenery surrounding us as we leave Chennai and move towards the rural areas. The roads are like the posh, tree-lined avenues of Kolkata. I even see ‘Kash Phool’. This reminds of the ‘Pujos’ in Kolkata, ‘Kash Phool’ along with ‘Dhak’, they constitute this ubiquitous representation of the impending ‘Pujo’ season. Am I missing it? This cannot be. And then another reminder, a Tagore Institute of Engineering rushes by, there’s also a Tagore Medical College and a Tagore Dental College. It’s too much for me bear. Also, Ambassadors, fat, burly Ambassadors, the cars that every city in India has moved past, except Kolkata, I see them in Chennai. I will not spend these valuable moments reminiscing of a city I left long back. I see submerged farmlands with green dots, sprigs of new rice saplings that have been planted recently. I tell S.S that I would make a good farmer, I come from a long line of farmers, there was a time in my childhood when I could tell between the different varieties of rice and I knew the crop cycles, I knew all the little farming tricks and techniques. I don’t remember most of it but I can still tell just by looking, in how long a rice field will ripen, what kind of yield it will be. I know what to do to make sure your crops don’t fester and die, although there is no guarantee for anything, I know how to deal with different kinds of pests, I know. All along the road, I kept telling S.S about these things and she was surprised, I was surprised, I could still recall so much. Must be in my blood or something.

Along the road, sharp, green shrubs with thin, pointed leaves rise up in the air, I want to know what they are called. On the ECR, wherever you look, on both sides, the ocean is never-ending. It is flanks us, it follows us, it will probably do so till we reach our destination and beyond. That obsession with the roots, with the rudimentary, with the absolutely essential, it continues on the road to Pondicherry, the buildings are spare, no-nonsense structures, they look sturdy and that’s about it, they serve no decorative purpose. A majority of these buildings are colleges, Tamil Nadu will not tolerate illiteracy, education of its youth is of primal urgency. I don’t think rural Chennai is like the rural areas of Bengal and Orissa, with mud huts and thatched roofs. It’s getting hotter in the car, we are forced to resort to the air-conditioner as the air coming in through the windows is also hot.

With P.S and S.S around, a social, political, geographical, economical, biological, philosophical discussion is never far behind. P.S and I discovered we have something in common. We are morbid people. For instance, when we are on a plane, we think what would happen if the engine caught fire, there was no time for evacuation and the plane took a tailspin into the Arabian Sea. When we cross the road, we begin the countdown to when we would be hit by the ten-tonne garbage truck rapidly progressing towards us. When we are travelling behind a truck packed with iron girders, we think what if the flimsy ropes tying them together came loose and the girders pierced the windshield and went straight through our skulls. You get the picture.

The vegetation around the area is diametrically opposite- the tall trees remind me of the Fir and Pine trees in Canada and other colder regions of the world I have been to, the palm trees and the coconut trees dotting the landscape remind me of the hotter regions I have been to, the deserts of the Middle East. The ocean, the ocean. It is outside me. It is inside me. I hear its sounds. I talk to it. I have always had a connection with oceans, I remember a particular occasion when I stared at the waters of the ocean for the longest time, at Puri and tears came out of my eyes. It had nothing to do with happiness or sadness or any other emotion. Something to do with a state of being, a neutral state of being, like a tree, a frog, a stone, a lizard. We are all the same, anyway.

Copywriter.

Swati.

Bombay/Mumbai

2010-12-16T01:06:00.000-08:00

In the mornings, if you look out of the window, this city is like any other city. Underneath the roads that choke with engines and human engineering, the unbearable noises and that hum of a kind of impending doom, because this city can never sustain this pace, it will collapse on itself, there is a slow moving force, there are the last remaining vestiges of birds and trees, a glimmer of peace like a desert farce, a mirage, you can only see it when you are thirsty and hungry, on the verge of death, clinging to the air for sanity.

In the mornings, this city uncoils itself from the night and propels itself forward, throws itself like a desperate maniac into the future, like sagging guitarists diving off the stage and into the hands of fawning fans because the glory of the past is too far away, the present impossibly filled with teething pains and questions. Everybody wants to prove something and nobody knows what it is they want to prove. So, they go about their plans, when the traffic lights turn green, they devise little strategies, they create and destroy, it’s an endless cycle. The slow moving force, what to call it, a snake maybe, it slithers benevolently through its subterranean routes, hissing, whispering secrets and dreams into the ears of this city’s million souls. Starved, they feed on this hallucinogen; it keeps them from slashing their wrists. This city is like any other city, the only difference is, it’s not.

Coping with Copy.

Swati.

Just another stairway to heaven.

2010-12-05T20:30:00.000-08:00

It’s sweet and laconic and somebody dies while somebody else lives, but the story you are telling has already been told. See, the police lines you are trying to cross, to get to the other side, the side where it’s all too easy like peppermints and paper cuts, therein lies the evidence, and you can’t, you just can’t tamper with the evidence. After all, it’s the whole entire proof of your unwhole, unentire life.

The thing is, this is never going to end, every time, every single time you try to raise a roof over your brain and embalm your callused feet, every time you try to cover up all the scar tissue in expensive, 100% pure linen, they are going to chase after you because they don’t care about the two-year warranty and the two-bit, good-for-nothing salesman that smiled at you.

I am worried that you want everything and nothing at the same time. You have to pick a side because they haven’t made a coin yet where you get heads and tails simultaneously. See, the point I was trying to make got lost in the hyperbole again. But, what the hell, making sense is so overrated. Anyway, doesn’t matter. Remember this, come what may, you will have to pay the price for being yourself.

Wasn’t it Jimi Hendrix who said you were the voodoo child, but right now, it looks like he plain, white-faced lied. Hey, at least, the man had the coolest afro ever and lived till he was 27. You died when they pulled you out of the womb of Nagasaki, out of a Kryptonite mushroom cloud. Because when you make your way back to the source, everything you see, hear, feel, touch, smell and taste, everything you go near to, makes you weak, leaves you nauseated.

Meanwhile, do you know, what makes Robert Plant wonder?

Posted By

Swati.

Because good copy makes the world go round.

We are all in it alone.

2010-12-05T20:29:00.000-08:00

You are not all that right in your mind, see, and you were cursed with being alone forever, it’s something you can’t cure even if you get a cauldron of people and stew them over the fire of your expectations, your expectations from them to feed you with the ripe, promiscuous berries of their companionship, it’s like trying to make some kind of glue that won’t ever stick and the only thing that sticks, the thing that sticks is in your hair is the dirt in your nails. You have created an entire army of shadows, little slits for breathing in the air-tight container that you have stuffed yourself into thinking you won’t need added preservatives and artificial colouring.

Not every candy is a candy, the kind of candy you can lick and take to your stomach with the satisfaction that it gives you an abstract happiness, something you would otherwise never have found, only it’s ruining your teeth, see, it’s giving you cavities in your molars and weakening your gums and you are going to have to have pay a bomb to get a dentist to look at them and fill them up with some sort of a resistant Teflon coating.

You are trying to do stuff, putting in USB ports to check for compatibility, but there will come a time, and that time always comes soon when you’re going to have to safely remove the hardware, eject it and its contents completely from your system but they are lying to you, there is no such thing as safely remove hardware for people. Anyway, it doesn’t matter because, well, it doesn’t matter.

The constricting air of madness follows you to the ruins of your childhood, you always keep going back there, what are you looking for, there’s really nothing to see. And they are doing their best, you won’t believe it but it’s true, they don’t know the difference between the colours of grey in your head, and you expect them to put the jigsaw puzzle of your fucking life together, maybe frame it in a nice black burqa or something and put it up on sale.

You know, you promised to write little notes to the kid you see in the mirror, little notes in the back of your head, so she would always know which way to turn and you never kept your promise. So, you can’t, you just can’t call them liars and rest your face in the smoke.

Soon, you are going to run into a wall, and there is nowhere to go from there.

Posted By

Swati.

The Copywriter.

The end of a bad day.

2010-09-21T23:38:00.001-07:00

Maybe you had a crummy day at office, and your feet got burnt in the charred, leftover tobaccos ashes of your boss, maybe you felt your hair shrivel and curl like milk left out of the fridge for too long, maybe the skin on your bones started to rot and peel and accumulate under your fingernails, maybe you felt your brain expanding like a cold iron rod pushing out of your skull, maybe it was all too much, but you stood by it and watched and clapped a little, made a couple of jokes and took an auto home, then you got stuck in a traffic jam, and over the cheap leather upholstery of your auto and under the cheap phosphorescence of the light bulbs arranged into a circle on the roof of the auto, the smell of asphalt on the road and the tired tires and a thousand ugly monsoons, in between that leering helmet guy on the Hero Honda and the bored, sweaty family in the old Maruti 800, the impatience and the horns, the automatic braking systems and the power windows, something heavy fell on your back, more than the weight of your laptop, something dark and coloured, something blunt and sharp, something dull and brilliant and it was so utterly magnificent, so big, so beautiful and powerful and all-consuming, you had to stop. Your breath got sucked out of you and the impossible years behind your life, the months, the weeks and the hours you spent waiting, the minutes and the seconds, you spent convincing yourself of your significance, your purpose, you rub it between your palms, it catches light and falls apart, disappears into the load behind your back, the load, the surge, the wave embraces you and your heart explodes in your rib cage, and suddenly you feel the anger, the pain, the humiliation of everyone and I mean everyone stuck with you on that road, in the traffic jam, even the leering helmet guy on the Hero Honda and the bored, sweaty family in the old Maruti 800 and it is all so much, so much, too much to take in, within that moment and within that moment so much makes sense, so much love is created, like a vast, winged butterfly in a history, a story you have told to someone you know, the kind of story that only you can give away, a love like a delirium, a possessed vampire that feeds on the blood in your body and then, and then something happens again. You feel, you feel nothing. It’s gone like a ghost exorcised, a demon vanquished, but your body, the physics and the chemistry and the biology of your body is not there anymore, there’s just the autowallah singing, no not singing, whistling a tune, the music, it lingers in the air for a while and did you forget the tune?

Swati.

Let's keep it strictly about the copy.

The Untitled.

2009-10-01T02:06:00.001-07:00

To look you in the face, to see my smile on your lips, to burn, to covet, to pine and die; I feel you in the wet alleys of myskin. There’s a boy downstairs; with polka dot freckles, he sings me to sleep and says I smell of your dreams. Blue-grey, scissor-paper dreams; stuck on nursery scrapbooks.

To taste you in the air, to worship you like the moon, to melt, to seethe, to dissolve and die; I feel you in the moist palms of my destiny. You linger like smoke in my memories; alive and ancient; dense and dark. Thus, you emerge, from wisdom’s tragic ruin; blessed and anew. All at once, you become the disease and the cure.

Do you remember? When nights came cascading down the hills, twisting and writhing, petulant like a child stopped from mischief for too long; I hid behind you. And a pebble, round, smooth, made of sifted silk-flour; slipped in your throat. I loved you then, like stars on my lap and roses dipped in ink.

The things you brought me; my childhood, a broken wand and a handful of dirt. On a toy-shelf, between your plastic cars and your plastic soldiers, I lived; I belonged to you. Happily, I scooped out my heart; set it out on the road to Neverland; and then suddenly you grew up. But I still follow you; in autumn colors; in bamboo breeze; in the droopy branches of dusk; as days cease to be.

Posted By

Swati.

It's all about the Copy, honey.

Dil Bole Hadippa- Review

2009-10-01T00:18:00.000-07:00

Dil Bole Hadippa stands as a singular testament to the death of Yash Raj Films. Yet another disaster, in the long string of disasters unleashed by them in recent times, the box office now reacts to such debacles the same way we Indians deal with real crisis- pretend it doesn’t exist.

This film joins the ranks of other crass and similarly mediocre movies that have become the standard fare in a Yash Raj buffet- films like Tashan, New York, Dostana, Thoda Pyaar Thoda Magic, Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi, Ta Ra Rum Pum, Jhoom Barabar Jhoom, the list is endless. Oh, and if you can’t bring yourself to remember these names, it’s all right.

There was a time, in my younger days when a Yash Raj production would mean big things. We would all be swept up in the nationwide hysteria to channelize Simran and Rahul. They became instant cultural icons. To the masses they were mythic figures, intended to be idolized and revered. All that these characters did, all that they said, their hairstyles, their clothes, all of it was internalized to such an extent- it became a part of our everyday.

We projected our new-age aspirations unto them, revelled in their adventures, took personal pride in their victories and shed copious, melodramatic tears in their losses. We memorized the crisp banter, the light-hearted conversations and used it every chance we got. More than anything else, I have always thought these films possessed a certain charm, a certain personality. To me, they appeared to be grounded in realities, not our immediate realities, just the ones we wanted to adopt. In a way, Yash Raj understood young India, imported its quirks, its lingo and superimposed it against an essentially Indi-Punjabi set of ethos- the sentiments were honest, so we overlooked the ambiguous sermonizing and the overzealous value-spouting. The plots were exactly what we wanted them to be- escapist, sweet-natured fantasies that fit in well with the contemporary zeitgeist, so we smiled indulgently and said to each other, ‘…not implausible, no?’

Ah, those were the days, the days of heady euphoria. Sadly, today is not like those days. Today is the day of Dil Bole Hadippa, the day the memories of an old romance fade completely.

The film occupies a bleak landscaspe, although ironically replete with some of the most gaudy, blindingly colourful costumes and sets ever seen in filmdom. Everybody is a caricature- ready to burst into a song-and-dance sequence, mouthing dialogues that are so flat and uninspired, the only thing that occasionally rescues the lines from drowning is the ‘punjabification’.

Yes, there is a story, and it does look good on paper. We’ll feign ignorance at its similarity to ‘She’s the Man’. Better still, we’ll accept it and imagine how the whole shebang could be bettered due to its relevance, its resonance with the kind of society we live in. And that will leave us to marvel at the physics of how so much potential energy was converted to plain inertia. At its best, the story is like a lost kid, going through the motions of looking for the parents without having any faith or hope.

Shahid Kapur and Rani Mukherjee are good actors but they have nothing to work with here. Shahid Kapoor is patchy. There is no other word for it. He has actually taken bits and pieces of other roles and patched them together. You can spot the ‘Jab We Met’ and the ‘Kaminey’. Heck, you can even spot a little Shah Rukh Khan from ‘Chak De India’. The only saving grace is Rani Mukherjee who imparts some irrepressible freshness into her ‘Babli’. If one smiles at all, it’s because of her valiant refusal to be bogged down by the deadweight of a script.

And then there is the usual self-congratulatory referencing. It’s really becoming tiresome- we get it. You are ‘YRF’, the purveyor of our collective dreams since time immemorial, the true star who enjoys an undisputed monopoly over bollywood.

Yet…Does all this deliberate, almost systematic brow-beating and chest-thumping mean what I think it means?

I am quite sure it does.

Give this one a miss.

Swati Naik.

Can you smell the copy already?

Smoking is injurious to health.

2009-07-14T03:56:00.000-07:00

She holds the cigarette between her tentative fingers. The pungent smell of burning tobacco overpowers her nostrils and she holds her breath. She must get used to this. Damn it, she must like it. Crave for it, even. Her lips close in on the cigarettes as she tries to balance it in her mouth. With a flick of the lighter, she sucks in all the air her lungs will hold. The flame sets her cigarette alight and now, just now, the cigarette feels comforting. Slightly wet, it illuminates the dark room with sporadic bursts of dotted amber lights when she releases her breath. She can hear sharp protests emanating from the uneven brown flakes as they crackle and pop, stuffed inside the thin white paper. With each noise, a thin wisp of smoke reaches upwards like tendrils. Combining with the other strands of smoke, they dance seductively around her. For a moment she is lost in identifying the shapes of the smoke as the breeze twists it, contorts it and plays with it- moulding it in its bizarre wily impulses.

The others, they look at her with an expression that is curious and yet disinterested. They ask for her to grow up. They ask for too much.

The rancid tobacco haze progresses with impunity in her mouth. It inspects every nook and corner, leaving behind a sticky smell that clings to her pores, forcing them to open and absorb every detail of its peculiar aftertaste- it’s hoarse somehow, a little bitter. Its complex, she can tell. There are layers in it, hidden and conspiring, which reveal themselves only after successive drags. She tastes a virgin nymph- blue eyed innocence with a streak of cruelty. She tastes sarcasm- wry words laced with desperation. She tastes nostalgia- sepia memories fast fading into oblivion. Her tongue, shocked at the onslaught, keeps very still, taking it all in.

Slowly the tobacco haze seeps into her veins, running through her limbs, paralyzing her senses, incapacitating her thoughts, dousing her being. She is suddenly limitless, suddenly weightless and suddenly transparent. All that which existed before, the struggle, the pain, the sheer humiliation- it ceases and the future evaporates. Nothing matters, anymore.

Posted By

Swati.

Saving the world one copy at a time.

A tale of the crippling disability to cross the friggin' road.

2009-07-07T21:57:00.000-07:00

As I stand at the edge of the asphalt roads, ready to spring forth and devour the distance in a few leaps, with the raw kinetic agility of an Olympic athlete, I have to pause and remind myself. I can’t even walk straight without bumping into a lamppost. I am as sure-footed as a nervous goat on a tightrope. I have always regarded gravity with a sense of disbelief. And gravity, in turn, has frequently scoffed at my impolite dismissals, unleashing the full force of its wrath on me, especially in my school days when I was forced to participate in the very physical games of Kho-Kho, Kabbadi, Volleyball, Badminton, Hockey, etc. Ugh.[Shudders at the thought of wilful persecution by certain very vindictive teachers.]

Still, I persist in my rejection of it. I know, I know. Some really bored guy, who rather fancied himself as a genius, saw a falling apple and said, “whoop-tee-doo”. The whole world believed him. But why should I? At least in my mind, gravity is just another word for bad luck. It kind of accelerates the klutziness, giving it more momentum and sort of makes me more self-destructive than a mujahidin suicide-bomber. Anyway, coming back to the point, before I made the fatal mistake of overestimating my road-crossing capabilities, I curbed myself. And I stared helplessly at the nondescript crowd situated around me. Perhaps, somebody would rise to be my reluctant hero, eyes smouldering with disapproval and faint amusement, his strong arms stretching out authoritatively, causing the traffic whizzing past us to stop dead in its tracks. And then we would cross over to the other side, taking our own sweet time as he would give my hands a reassuring squeeze and say to me in his brooding baritone, “Close your eyes and think of me whenever you are at a crossroad. I’ll be there to carry you through it.” Yuck. [Must get the ‘Stephanie Meyer’ out of my system immediately.]

Well, it doesn’t happen. And I am jolted out of my reverie by a shrill horn that rebukes me sharply for harbouring such sickening thoughts. I take a step back and realize I am all alone. It’s been five long minutes and the humans that were previously consuming the air around me, causing my oxygen-deprived brain to spasm and hallucinate thus, have all crossed. How do they manage it? How do they spot the fleeting gap between the blur of the fast approaching vehicles? How do they manoeuvre their mortal bodies to pass so comfortably through the seemingly endless lanes of impending doom? Why is it that whenever I have to cross a particular road, the entire wheeled population of the city converges towards that point? And why o why do they never stop coming at me, trying to run me over for a vendetta that I have no knowledge of? Grrr…[Bristles with fear which rivals that of Marion Crane’s when she was discovered bathroom singing by her knife-wielding, cross-dressing motelwallah with mommy issues.]

It must involve mathematics. That’s why I am so bad at it.

Posted By

Swati.

Chief Copy Bouncer or something to that effect.

Bombay. A midnight rediscovery of the city.

2009-07-06T21:15:00.000-07:00

In the dead of the still night, I walk into darkness. The city lies stretched out before me in obscure circles. I spiral downward with the elevator as cold fingers rub the sleep off my eyes. I stare and find myself seated in a cocoon that reeks of leather and old spice. This beast that encloses me, it wraps me in the safety if its arms. The glass window rolls down and I finally smell Bombay. Yes, this is my Bombay. The Bombay I have waited for all my life. A Bombay that is soft and decadent, full of secrets like a demure bride. This is in contradiction to the Bombay of the day- wanton, crude and unrelenting. Tonight, I feel a part of her, my soul seeps into her veins and I think to myself. I think even if I die one of these days and the world moves on like I never existed, this city will mourn for me, always remember me and maybe a part of me will live on through its memories. Time feels like dewdrop upon a blade of glass- unmoving and contemplative. The rain has slobbered the entire city with its eager, wet tongue. The streets glisten with a satisfaction that could almost be post-coital. As we gather speed, the engine hums a melancholic lullaby and I feel the wind stroking my hair. I stretch my arms out to soothe its wild desires. This is a city of shadows- silhouettes that grow, suddenly acquiring rigid, rectangular shapes and then rapidly dissolving into a haze of neon. Strange yet familiar faces pass by in a distinct blur. If the city were a song, it would be ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. It’s devastating, overwhelming and deeply operatic. As we accelerate forward, the sea-link begins to make an unlikely appearance. It has somehow negotiated the wide vacuum between two islands, floating lightly above the untamed swirling waters. Even from far, I can see its absolute miracle. It’s poetic in its precise engineering. I marvel at the humans who saw it in their minds and were able to transform that obscure dream into architectural plans and blueprints, using nothing but science and some cranes to turn it into this. I see clearly the thin strands of white- elusive and slippery. They seem to magically hold the giant slabs of concrete. It reminds of a spider’s web as the cars from afar look like tiny insects caught in its invisible fold, unable to even stir. These white threads, they start at the same point, from the same elevation, stretched in a perfect symmetry from both sides of the giant pillar. However, they end up angled at regular distances from each other, its proportions strangely equidistant. Upon close inspection, it is revealed to me that these threads are reinforced by other threads placed at parallel degrees. As you move between them, they give the illusion of intersecting at various points. These points are somewhat transitory, as you tilt your head from one side to another. And again, the threads do their wild dance. They run towards and then run away from one another, tracing straight lines against the black sky. As the music rises to a crescendo, I think of a guitar somewhere, its strings being plucked by impatient hands. We don’t stop. We just keep going till we reach queen’s necklace. I remember my first tryst with Bombay and that one evening when I fell in love. I just sat at Marine Drive and I gawked, at everything- the people, the dogs, the cars, the buildings. The sun turned from white hot to golden yellow to burnt amber to crimson red till finally embarrassed at my overtures, it resigned and drowned itself in the Arabian Sea. Suddenly, I am shaken out of my stupor. The beast screeches to a halt, the traffic light says red. Red- it is definitely the colour of Bombay. Defiant. Passionate. Seductive. I now know the reason why I am so greedy for Bombay. Because she is mine, all mine.

Posted By

Swati.

Your friendly neighbourhood copywriter.