Insignificant.

Like a humming bird in the lushest forest

Like a spider that trails along your walls

Like an invisible cicada in the midst of the forest

Like an earthworm in the farmer’s soil

Like a caterpillar camouflaged on a tree

Like a sneaky scorpion in the endless dessert

Like a cockroach in the tallest pile of dirt,

Like a lazy snail inching across the street

Or like an ant, marching across every nook and corner of the earth.

That’s how small and insignificant I feel sometimes.

I know, it’s a phase or a mood and it’ll pass, just like most phases in life. Maybe that’s why people want to do big things in life, so that they stop feeling so small. Am I really that insignificant? Did I ever mean anything to anyone? I keep reiterating in so many posts that people always matter, but I do wonder if anybody agrees with me. Does anybody really care? I also wonder why these questions are buzzing in my head at 11 pm in the night. Maybe it’s okay to feel small sometimes. Maybe we all feel small until we do something really big or someone comes along your way and makes you feel big or that you do matter. Until then, you go on with life and create as many distractions as possible for you to not feel that way. I keep thinking about what Christina Rossetti meant in her poem ‘Remember me’. It does baffle me and also haunt me to an extent. It’s an incredibly beautiful poem, but the meaning of it scares me somehow. She tells her lover to remember her when she’s dead and long gone, although she isn’t dying or anything close to it. Why does she do that? Why does that thought occur to her? Anyway, at the end of the day, we’re alone in the race of life, aren't we? Maybe we’re not. But that’s just the only way you think when you feel like darned tiny ANT at 11 30 in the night. Or MAYBE i just wrote a whole bunch of gibberish. I really can't be sure of anything. Oh, well. 

Psycho, indeed.

I’ve always had this aversion towards horror movies ever since a friend of mine made me sit down and watch ‘the Ring’, which is supposed to be this cult horror movie. This was quite a few years ago and it genuinely did scare the daylights out of me, although I find it absurd that it did now.  I mean, some person coming out of a television screen and trying to kill you isn’t expected to be that terrifying. Psycho, I had watched a few years after the ring experience with my mother, who thought that ‘Psycho’and ‘Rear Window’ by Alfred Hitchcock are two movies I really must watch. My mother always said that the very famous bathroom scene in Psycho gives you goose pimples and really does scare you; as opposed to the same friend who made me watch the ring, who said Psycho was a joke and the bathroom scene was anything but scary and that she laughed through the film. Now that I’ve watched both of them and yes, I understand that Psycho isn’t a horror film by genre but I feel incredibly silly to even compare the two films. Psycho is immoderately better than some silly new age horror film of the 21^st century with strange ghosts coming out of television screens and killing people. Horror films today have no story and meaning to them; they seem almost pointless to me.

Coming back to Psycho, the main character, Marion is shown to be on the run with a large wad of cash and eventually has to stay at this shady looking motel for the night. The proprietor of the motel, Norman Bates seems to be this young, amiable chap. He asks Marion to have dinner with him and over dinner he tells Marion of about his mother who is mentally ill. Norman comes across as a nice, genuinely friendly, amiable chap. Afterwards Marion is shown to be taking a shower, during which a shadowy figure crops up from behind the curtain and stabs her to death. The scene really is quite haunting with Marion’s echoing screams. Norman Bates then comes into the bathroom to find Marion’s body. We are expected to believe here, that Norman believes his mentally ill mother is responsible for the murder and he has to cover up for her. Through the film, we see this detective come up to the motel only to be murdered by Norman Bates and then Marion’s sister and fiancé are shown to come to the motel to find out what is happening in the suspicious motel. Norman Bates is quite nervous and fidgety when the detective and Marion’s sister and fiancé turn up unexpectedly and question him, leading them to believe that something fishy is up. During their visit, we see Marion’s sister almost getting murdered by Norman Bates, who is dressed as a woman. We are also horrified as the corpse of his mother is revealed. After this sequence of events, we finally understand that Norman Bates was the killer all along.

Later on, it is revealed that Norman Bates has a multiple personality disorder, and he had killed his mother when he was younger after finding his mother in bed with another man. He probably never recovered from the guilt of the incident and assumed his mother’s personality too. In the end, after everything is revealed we are shown that his mother’s personality is the dominant one within him.

Psycho was such a great classic suspense and thriller film created by of course, the renowned Alfred Hitchcock and I don’t think the brilliance of the film could ever die out with generations. The film makes you cower away in parts, make you sit up on your chair wondering what’ll happen next, it even makes you want to close your eyes in parts. The director really is a genius, for the film is so spectacularly made. Each and every scene seems well thought out and brings about some reaction or the other from the audience. It surpasses most films similar to its genre in today’s day so easily. Apart from all the praise for the direction, the acting is good too. Anthony Perkins gives the audience the jitters with his wonderful portrayal of the spooky Norman Bates with multiple personalities. The entire film has this eerie feel to it, especially towards the end. The huge success of Psycho is probably because everything seems so real and plausible in the film, so unlike a ‘Nightmare on Elm Street’.  It really is a must watch film, even if you don’t like other films of the same genre; Psycho is just something else, it’s incomparable. 

THE BICYCLE THIEVES!

First of all, the movie is shot in Rome, and despite the post World War 2 ravaged conditions the city still shines out with its beautiful streets and quaint alleys, making you envy everyone living there. Rome really is so incredibly charming. However, the situation there is evidently quite disastrous with unemployment as a major issue. The Rome of that day was probably very different from the dazzling Rome we see and gush about today.

The movie focuses on a man called Antonio Ricci who is extremely hard up for money and is trying his utmost to keep his family, which comprises of his son and his wife going. He gets offered a job that needs a bicycle as part of the contract, but affording the bicycle is a problem. His wife offers to sell off all their sheets for him to afford a bicycle. Your heart really goes out to the family. It reminds you that even cities like Rome were at some point in time, at the brink of poverty. It makes you think that there is hope for India too. Everybody is of course overjoyed at the change events. However, the happiness is very short lived when we see Antonio Ricci’s bicycle getting stolen on his very first day at work. We feel his agony as he chases after the thief who seems to have been long gone.  We see the emptiness and sheer pain in his eyes as he watches the same bicycle his wife sold their sheets as dowry for, being taken from him. He is absolutely distraught and rushes to the police for their help. The police, very typically is not of much help and claim they have better things to do than go looking for a mere bicycle all across Rome. They leave it up to Antonio who then takes his son along with a few people and sets out to look for his lost bicycle. The bicycle may have just been one bicycle for the police; but it was so much more to Antonio Ricci. The bicycle was his job, his source of money and his family’s happiness. Despite the low chances of him finding his bicycle, he doesn't lose hope and give up. He can’t give up that easily now, can he? His son and his wife depend on him after all. What is also heart wrenching is we see his son, a boy of probably not more than 10 years going to work every day. That will probably be considered as child labour today.

As the movie progresses, we see how Antonio tries endlessly to find his bicycle, but unfortunately to no avail. At the beginning of the movie, we had seen Antonio mock his wife for visiting a seer when times were tough for them. We now see Antonio himself visiting a seer when he is utterly desperate to find his stolen bicycle. It shows us how desperation makes us do things we otherwise would never even consider doing.  All their ceaseless attempts at finding the bicycle seem to be failing. In the midst of the commotion, Antonio hears cries of a boy who is drowning and thinks it is his son. It turns out he was mistaken. He then takes his son to quite a posh restaurant where they leave behind all the pressing problems on their minds and enjoy a good meal and drinks. Who says it isn't okay to let go of all life's bloody nagging problems sometimes and just enjoy a drink?

Toward the end of the movie, there is quite a shocker that awaits us. Antonio spots a bicycle resting unattended and we see him contemplate stealing it, just the way his bicycle was stolen. We see him circling the area trying to make up his mind, making us sit up and wonder what he will eventually do. He decides to take the bicycle and just as he starts riding it, we see all hue and cry being raised and Antonio being closely chased by a few men. The men catch him as he tries to run, and we are heart broken to see his devastation. His son is left in tears as he silently watched his father steal a bicycle and then get caught. We see the depths of Antonio’s angst and desperation as he eventually succumbed to human weakness and tried stealing the bicycle. The sheer desperation and the trying times faced by poverty stricken Rome has been brilliantly depicted in the film by Vittorio De Sica , evoking so much emotion in us.  The film really is worth all the applause and praise it’s been given; so yes, if you haven't watched it already, do watch it! :)

Runner-up no more.

People always seem surprised when I say I support Andy Murray. They expect me to be a Djokovic supporter or worse, a Nadal supporter like themselves. The very thought of supporting Nadal gives me the jitters. I mean, he scratches his butt before serving each time. At least it looks like he scratches his butt. And he has this routine which goes like this – Adjust shorts/scratch butt – tuck hair behind ears - tug at nose – tuck hair behind ears again – serve (Finally). Anyway, enough about Nadal and his very odd, wild and disgusting habits. Back to the man who’s just won Wimbledon 2013.

3 years ago, at the 2010 Australian Open Final, Murray lost to Federer. After the match when he was asked to say a few words during which he broke down mid-way and said, “I can cry like Roger, but it’s a pity I can’t play like him.” That converted me from being a hard core Federer fan to a Murray fan. However cheesy it may sound, but those words struck a chord in me. He was acknowledging the greatness of Roger Federer. Now, after that match, the road forked into two – either he would accept that Federer was too good for him and he couldn’t ever beat him OR he would do whatever was in his capacity to overcome the loss and fight back and believe in himself. Ever since then, he’s been silently entering nearly every Grand Slam semi-final or final, but strangely he goes almost unnoticed every time. Nobody notices his consistency and persistence. Nobody thought Murray had it in him to win a grand slam. No, he isn’t supremely talented like Roger Federer and he doesn’t have the massive power that Nadal has, but he had something else in him. He had the determination to win. He never gave up. He overcame not one loss, but 5. Losing 5 Grand slam finals didn’t stop him from continuing to follow his dream. He wasn’t a defeatist. It takes so much more to lose 5 times before coming up and finally winning something. The joy of the victory is probably 5 times that of someone who’s won it in their first shot. Andy Murray inspired me, inspired more than a Federer or a Djokovic ever can. Ignoring the whole hoo-ha over the fact that he was the first Brit to win Wimbledon after 77 years and all that, he made me believe that losing isn’t a big deal; you can always pull yourself up and win the next time.He proved all those people wrong by winning Wimbledon. He had the strength to not give up and to keep fighting. He grew up, from being that cranky 22 year old who swears uncontrollably to the man who calmly won Wimbledon by beating the World Number 1 in straight sets. Not everybody has it easy for them. Murray didn’t – he didn’t have an easy straightforward, smooth road built for him. He had one with many thorns and obstacles, but he overcame them. He won. He won, despite all the hurdles.  

To all those people who criticised him for not smiling enough and for not being as much of a charmer with a great sense of humour like Novak Djokovic - Yes, he does smile, and a beautiful smile too.  

Sea shores.

So it’s been a while since I wrote. The last few months have been very strange. I’ve been so anxious, frantic and confused most days, that I couldn’t figure when I was PMSing and when I wasn’t.  Oh well, I guess everyone has phases. But I really can’t be blamed, after all the pressure I was under. 8 months ago I was pining for a fresh start and now I finally had the chance to get it. And I did. I wanted something different. Or did I? See what I meant when I said I’ve been confused. Confusion is just part of the journey they say. And if they don’t, then I say it is. Yes, it definitely is.

Well that was 8 months ago. 1 month ago, I wasn’t so sure. I didn’t know which way to go. Every single day had been like a blurred photograph, but a blurred photograph that I was desperately hanging on to and refused to delete. But then, life goes on. The blurred photo should be kept away if not deleted and new and exciting photographs that are in focus can be taken and kept. I’m going to keep both, the blurred ones and the ones in focus, because both matter and are a part of my memories. And all memories are part of your past, and your past makes you who you are today doesn’t it? I don’t know if my metaphors are working; but what I’m trying to say is that everyone matters, however long they’ve been part of your life. Memories aren’t just memories. They’re part of you, they’re etched in you. Every day is probably like a page turning in a book.

I guess life works that way. People come and people go. Some leave an impression and some don’t. A few years ago, a school teacher, my favourite English teacher rather had praised an essay I had written and then afterwards she asked me if I was a sensitive person. The question really baffled me then. I had no answer. I didn’t know if I was sensitive or not! But now, I think I am. Whether I should be happy about that or not is a different thing. I hate that people leave. I wish that wouldn’t happen. It’s just like the sea shore. The waves come like people, wash the shore and go back, where they belong, in a sea of millions of people. They come, touch you, move you, leave an impression and go away. Most of the time. There will always be the few adamant waves that will stay. Anyway, the good thing is that memories can always be relived, right? The present is what really matters. So i'll just live in the present. Life is what you make it and so, i'll make the most of it.

No Qualms

Change. That’s a word that has held different meanings for me at different points of my life. When I was a kid, there have been times when so much changed all at once, but I never blinked an eye about it and just went with the flow of things. A new city, a new home, new friends, a new language – none of it bothered me. Yes, I was apprehensive and scared, but I accepted the change with no qualms or worries. I didn’t fully understand or realise that my life was changing and that things wouldn’t ever be the same. Sometimes I wish that were true even today.

Do we really ever want change? Or do we not? A few months back, I prayed for things to change. I prayed for better days, for something different, for a fresh start, a second chance. Now I’m not sure I want it. I’m afraid to leave things behind. I hate that a person’s past will always cling to them and they can never shrug it off, however much they try. It becomes part of them, I guess. One thing I’m sure of. Change scares people, however old they are, however strong they are and however much they deny it. Whether we want change or not is probably irrelevant most of the time. It just happens and the best we can do on our part is to go along with it, take things in our stride to the best of our capabilities. Although, I feel that if we want to genuinely turn things around, we always can. Change can be brought about by us, as much as it can be by chance. Sometimes, taking a risk, making yourself vulnerable, rooting for change can do wonderful things. So I guess there are always pros and cons.

This is definitely not from a very worldly perspective of things. There are too many things in the world that NEED to change. And mostly, we don’t allow it, because we’re scared -  scared of the consequences probably, although we’ll never admit it.  

The other day, a friend of mine told me, “Change is the only thing that’s permanent sometimes.” Maybe I understood it or maybe I didn’t. But what I understood was that sometimes this change is good and otherwise it isn’t. But it happens, and there isn’t anything we can do about it. Sometimes, we bring about the change and sometimes it just comes our way and jolts us. But it’s our job to accept it with all its ups and downs with no qualms, because that’s the only way to move forward. We don’t want to hang back in the past and go backwards now, do we?

Rising, after a whirlwind.

These last few months have flown past me, like some storm that I couldn’t escape from, changing me and everything around me as it flew past. Just like that quote by Murakami that says "When you come out of a storm, you’re never the same.” They’ve brought out sides of me that I never knew existed. They’ve made me hide behind imaginary walls that I built around me, made me zone out everything I cared about. They’ve been like clouds, blocking my view of the sun, preventing me from seeing clearly, blurring me vision of the world. They’ve had me reliving memories that had been buried so deep, I hadn’t thought about them in years. They had me burying my head in my pillow every night and wishing I was 10 again. They had me wishing people never had dreams, because when dreams aren’t pleasant, it’s scary, because you have no control over what happens in your dreams. They gave me insomnia, something I never thought I’d ever have even in my wildest dreams. They made me remember all the things I had started and gave up on, and wishing I could go back to that time and change all those decisions. But I know one thing for sure. I won’t ever do that again, I won’t waste the time I’ve got and I won’t give up on things that easily. I won’t let that horrible ghost of laziness win again, if I’ve got the choice. Life just isn’t worth wasting; living it, is worth it, even with all its ups and downs. No, I won’t let the last few months bring me down; I’ll make the best of everything I’ve learnt from them and start all over. I’ll try my best not to hide, because hiding just isn’t my thing anymore.

Noise Pollution, NOT Music.

Some old friends of my parents came over to my house for dinner a few days ago. They have a son about my age. I’ve never really met him before though or I don’t have any recollection of it. Anyway, this evening turned out to be an incredibly fascinating one. Basically, my knowledge of heavy or black metal music or whatever the hell it’s called, increased by a tremendous amount, thanks to him. Apparently, you can only be a true music enthusiast if you listen to Iron Maiden and Metallica. I dislike both.

Firstly, I do NOT think metal is music. Weird, long haired, heavily tattooed, pierced guys screaming their lungs out at me definitely isn’t music, even though they claim it is. Eric Clapton sang rock music wearing a simple shirt with a pair of old jeans and his guitar. He didn’t need a thousand piercing and tattoos all over his body or a disgusting leather jacket to claim that he was indeed the God of Guitar. I know this is probably the most trending genre of music right now, especially amongst boys, but I don’t really get it. I never will. Nor will I ever get the Nicki Minaj’s and Jessie J’s or all the other thousands of rappers or hip-hoppers that are out there. Recently, there was this huge hype about this band called Swedish House Mafia who were coming in to the city to perform live. It lead to hoards of teenagers paying crazy amounts to watch them, even though half of them had probably never even heard of them before.

Anyway, the interesting part of my evening was when I was scrolling down this guy’s music list and I came across some names of heavy metal bands. One of them was Dying Foetus. Was this some kind of sick joke? How can that possibly be the name of a band?! After I recovered my senses, I scrolled further down, only to lose them again and again. There are bands with names like Sick Puppies, Butthole Surfers, Cannibal Corpse and FleshGod Apocalypse! I couldn’t believe my eyes. I stared daggers at the boy, wondering if he was sane or whether he had a depression problem, and he only replied with, “hey! It’s not easy to come up with a band name. Why don’t you try coming up with something?” I wasn’t quite sure about how to reply to that, either tell him he needs to see a doctor because he listens to bands with names like dying foetus or tell him that musicians are supposed to be creative people and they REALLY ought to be able to come up with slightly less violent, gory names. There is also a song by a band called Necrophagist called Mutilate the stillborn. What kind of song is that? What has become of this world? I don’t there are many bands that pay any attention to the lyrics of their songs these days. It’s sad, really. In that list were also some absolutely hilarious names like I set my friends on fire, I butter the bread with butter, I killed the prom queen, Herman’s hermits and Puddle of mudd! It makes me wonder whether music has just become a medium of letting out your frustrations while using tonnes of swear words. There is a difference between letting out your frustration and expressing yourself. Is music no more about spreading a message or telling a story, may be like the Beatles did? And what exactly is the attraction to all this heavy metal bullshit? Is it just a fad, like so many other things? Have teens lost just about all their individuality in this day and age? I don’t understand. It baffles me to no end! How is it that bands with names like ‘Butthole Surfers’ actually have a fan following? I don’t think I will ever understand these things and I don't think I even want to try to. It’ll all just continue to be a mystery to me.
Anyway, fun evening.

A Whiff of Life

When I first moved to Bombay from Calcutta, the first question most people asked me when they met me was always, “where do you like it better? Bombay or Calcutta?” My answers have been different at different stages. At first I always said, very diplomatically, “I like both!”. Although I feel the honest answer would’ve been that I missed Calcutta, I missed home. Those years, it was still home for me, however awed I was of Bombay, the city that never sleeps. Everything was different in Bombay, the atmosphere, the streets and the people, most importantly. Bombay was the city of the glamorous and the stylish; it was the hot and happening city with Bollywood and all the celebrities. It would’ve been odd and un-cool of me to say I liked Calcutta better. But through the years, my answer changed, and very genuinely too. Bombay soon became home for me. It became home because of the friends I made and also probably because the more time you spend in a city, the more you grow to love it. In the same way, I learned to love Bombay – the life in the city, its laid back nature, the lights, the paani puri, the different kinds of people; and before I knew it, I was a Bombaywala too! Calcutta seemed like a distant memory – it wasn’t home, but it became the city where my grandparents stayed and where I went to spend my holidays. I used to think to myself, “how can people live in Calcutta? It’s such a boring place!” Even my parents agreed that Calcutta had deteriorated, it wasn’t the same place anymore. Each city has its attractions I think, its own charm and I don’t think that can ever fade or deteriorate. It’s this charm that sets every city apart from each other. Calcutta has its own feel. The rickshaws, the rasgullas, the people fighting, the morchas on the streets, the yellow ambassador taxis, the dirty mini buses and even the horrible pollution makes it what it is. My teacher once said that Calcutta was the only extremist city in India. That’s probably because they don’t take things lying down, they fight. Only in Calcutta will you see a taxi driver and man driving a car screaming at each other, and soon you’ll see a huge crowd gathered around them also joining the fight; all this in the midst of a traffic jam. They fight because they care. That’s something you don’t see in many cities, especially Bombay. Yes, people are friendly, but indifferent to you in many ways. They don’t care about your life or your problems; they have their own problems to deal with and that’s more than enough for them. I like the fact that Calcutta doesn’t have that many high rises, at least not like the ghastly ones in Bombay. When I went to Calcutta on my last trip, I met one of my old friends. He told me how he goes around with a couple of friends and explores the nooks and corners of the city in his free time. On one of his excursions, in an old, tiny lane he found a famous chai wala whose family has been selling tea for over three generations. It makes me see the difference between the two cities. When I might have been out spending 100 bucks on coffee with my friends, he might have been exploring the city he lives in and drinking a simple tea from a roadside stall. The simplicity moved me. He doesn’t seem to care all that much about having a fancy phone or the latest play station. There’s much more meaning to his life. There’s probably so much more to Bombay than meets the eye, so much more to see. Do I even know Bombay at all? I realize that by becoming a Bombaywala, I’ve just become like one of them, not caring about anyone’s but my own life, not bothered about issues, not bothered about anything. I hate it. It’s nice to care, to be sensitive towards people around you, to keep in touch with friends, be with them through tough spots, help out, maintain relationships that matter, however small and irrelevant they may be, to be nice to people, to make a difference. Isn’t that what life’s about?

After having lived in Bombay for 12 years now, I’ve grown out of being awed by it. Bombay is somehow too busy, too indifferent, too ignorant to care, too worried about their shopping not being done. Everybody’s just running around, living their own lives, with no qualms about not having returned a call or ignored a message. Nobody cares. It’s this “don’t care” attitude that frustrates me. I don’t want to be this person.

People call it the city of the rich. I find that absolutely disgusting. It just shows how blind we can be. The government recently made the sea link, apparently for our convenience. When you’re chilling in your car going over the sea link, guess what the view is? It’s acres and acres of slums before you see the high rises. The government has all the money to build sea links, but non to help the poor? The hypocrisy amazes me. And I actually thought it was the city of the rich and glamorous.

I particularly enjoyed this trip to Calcutta. It was very different from any other trip I’ve made there for some reason I find hard to fathom. I think it was because 2012 was a hard and tough year. It was quite an ordeal. And just being with your family makes you forget the complications, makes you forget the bad times, makes you feel that everything will be fine. It brought back memories of my childhood, of better days in my life. It made me feel that people do really care, and not everything has changed. It reminded me that family would be there, when times are rough and you need help, and when there’s no one else. It made me feel like there’s more to life, more to this world than what meets the eye. I agree with the saying “home is where the heart is”. Only I still don’t know where my heart is. All I know is, you feel at home when people love you and you love them. Home is where people care.

A journey.

The sound of the pebbles crunching under her feet as she walked, kept her hooked to reality somehow. The wind blew hard, making the dirt fly into her eyes, blinding her momentarily. She walked, undeterred… Her curly hair making swishing sounds as she moved forward in her solitary journey. She felt this overwhelming sense of freedom, something she hadn't felt for an incredibly long time; but it was mingled with a sense of loneliness. She promised herself she would be strong and walked faster and deeper into the night, past the silent houses and the sleeping trees, all of which were so familiar to her. She was never afraid of the dark, even when she was a kid. She felt it was the most peaceful, soothing and yet dynamic time of the day. She often used to tell her mother she was going for a walk in the evening and not return for a few hours at a stretch, leaving her mother frenzied with worry. She would wander farther and farther from her home and listen to the owls hooting, various animals calling in the distance while sitting against a tree. She loved the serene hours spent there...

Where hope reigns

Maybe it’s possible,

To forget the pain,

Start a new journey.

And catch the fast train

Maybe it’s possible,

To begin again

In a whole new world,

With unfamiliar lanes

That bend and swirl,

To only rhythms of their own.

Maybe it’s possible,

To break open the chain

And live in a world,

Where only hope will reign.

Maybe, it's only this hope, that's teetering at the edge, that eventually matters.