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Saturday, April 30, 2011

Us!

Dear He-Man,
Pappa always says never tell others about what happens ‘in’ the house. I think I know why… He has a clue that Mumma is a little… how do I say… odd. And since he married her, he too must be!
I ‘know’ they both are.
And I love them for that.
• Cos when Rahul’s mother is busy watching family sagas… I get to see Mumma do, or rather try to get through, Zumba… a dance program she tortured Pappa into gifting.
• And I love it every morning when her Singing Guruji comes over and they do Riyaaz. It’s been 1 year and she still doesn’t know he is deaf. Pappa and I do, but we never tell her.
• And then there is Pappa! He is the best father; we have our little secrets. And he loves Mumma to an extent where he is almost afraid of her. But the one thing that terrifies him and gets him hysteric is watching someone cut vegetables. He fears the person will end up chopping their fingers without realizing. Childhood memory. So Mumma can often be seen chasing him with a knife and an onion… It’s like Tom and Jerry.
• Sunita aunty is like the Queen of the house. Even Mumma is scared of her. She is our Bai, but I often hear Mumma saying she is her true life companion. Then who’s my daddy!
• Did I forget Amma, Pappa’s mother, my grand Mother who I have a feeling doesn’t like my mother… I am still looking for proofs.
I think I’ll stop here. But such is my family. Always active, always up to something, always making me laugh… Are we normal?
When I ask Pappa he says we are. Mumma takes the question as an offense so I have stopped asking her. You decide.
Sonu (I am 10 but turn 11 in 23 days. Big Boy)
Good Night He-Man.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Essay on: Profession I look upon as Noble.


Its early morning. The routine alarm tone wakes Sara. Margeret is asleep beside her. 'How beautiful you look'. whispers Sara planting a nimble kiss on Margerets forehead.

Tring Tring

A call from her Mrs. Donna catapults her back in time.

"Hows Denise doing? Did you feed her on time?''

"Yes, Mrs Donna. She's playing with the new doll you bought her for christmas", sighs Sara.

"Very well then, Sam and I will be a little late. Make sure she sleeps on time. Happy New years", as her voice fades to static.

Denise is inside her cradle fiddling with a skimpily clothed doll.

"Happy New Years my love", Sara calls into thin air.

...

It takes a mighty heart to do what Sara does every morning. Leave her two month daughter Margeret at her neighbours as she works all day, bringing up someone else's child, working as a Nanny.

Its beautiful and inspiring, her strength and love. Not because she does her job, but because she actually manages to fall in love with the child thats keeping her away from hers.

Which I believe is not something every one has the heart to do. So I look upon ethical care takers with so much respect.

'A Mother to many'. What can be more noble than being this person.

Designer diaries


The after-after-after party is a norm, so I bring home a new rabbit. Fresh into the jungle, just like I like! I am Tahir Kesu.
But why am I talking like we are in a lion king movie... because there is little humanity involved in what I am about to do. The thought used to bother me before but now it is like- when in jungle, be junglee!
Turns to look at me, he sees my adoring eyes... lets out an audible shiver. This is a crucial moment for a perceptive guy like me; because I can hear his angels talk to him... give it their last shot and I will drown their voices before they can penetrate into him, for I can’t lose him at this hour even at the cost of him losing self forever. Anyways he should have thought this through before putting himself on the shelf. So, ‘a glass filled with the best wine he has ever had’, I tell him where the wine has come from and how much it costs- For it’s this knowledge that will intoxicate him. Chugs, angels damned, he got himself served!
My turn now, 4 glasses and some pot, I am ready to eat.
..............................................................................................
He waits for me to get up, mind blank... or too full. Gathers his belongings, never looking at the mirror, tangled hair, wet face, mind, heart (How else can he be, I feel for him. Really), leaves before I can see him see himself like that.
..............................................................................................
Some more pot for me, fuck why do I have to be such a nice person. And it’s not like he isn’t sympathising enough with himself. Anyways...
I check my mail.
‘Hello Sir, My name is Shivam. I am 19 years old, aspiring model. Have attached along some pictures (They are home clicked sans make up)...
I have followed your collections and your next interests me especially, I feel I can model that very well.
My contact details are attached along too. Take care’
Hmmmm... Interesting!
...........................................................................................
My head aches, especially too. I need some fresh air. So I go to the balcony (Haven’t done that in a while). Wow! It feels so different, the rays of the sun without sunscreen on my face. Like they’re passing through me! I close my eyes.
Open them to see Rahul, my hot neighbour; he is an artist, spread out his canvas on the floor. He is into this crazy form of oil painting, its mad! I tell you... the way he works on the canvas! Walking over it pouring weirdly colours that seem to know where to fall and what shade to take. His brushes move like wands, I mean with such simple strokes he creates such brilliant shapes. (I think he knows who I am, and also that I try to include elements from his design and technique into my clothes.) Looks to me, I wave in admiration, both for his work and face!
‘Morning brother’
‘Morning Sir, Late night?’
‘Yeah... I was working on some designs’, I lie.
‘Oh good’, he smiles.
The rays of the sun are acting on me; something tells me it’s my lucky day. So I want to make the most of it... I ask,
‘Buddy, you have to tell me the secret behind how you do this stuff. You know maybe we could come up with a clothesline based on your designs. It will be sensational... and outrageously rewarding’, I try to tempt.
He smiles, his dashing youthful smile, and says. ‘It’s no secret, I am sure you can create the same designs, even better on your own.’
What he doesn’t know is that I HAVE tried to ‘re’-create his designs but even when they look the same, they are never as impactful. Like there is some colour or something missing. It’s bloody frustrating.
The irritation fills me.
I want to tell him this, when I see...
On his knees, Rahul bows to kiss his canvas.
And the moment he does, it sort of lights up! The secret.
....................................................................
Tears run down my eyes, and I can’t stand anymore.
Flashes of my mother praying before the pile of sarees every day before she sat to stitch them tower on me!
The secret.
The secret.
The secret.
An artist’s GOD, his CANVAS.
And all I have done is abused mine.
..........................................................................
*One of talent industries’ grass root enemy: Casting Couch must be done with!
Artists: Don’t abuse your canvas. Don’t abuse your God.