Celebrating life!

  You stepped across my silences you unheard my whispers for help and now that I’m fighting back you call me names and turn your back. I am the child of this soil the backbone of your economy yet you care not that I go to the dogs. And so I stand at your door day in and day out with my brothers in arms, asking, pleading, forcing you to think about the law you passed against me and my kind. You and your co-conspirators can no longer do as you please for we will fight back as it is our sustenance after all that you have tried to take away.

            This award-winning, multi-national production of 2013 piques not just one’s romantic interest but also intrigues one. The Lunchbox is a tale of certainly lunches, but it is much more than that. The movie tells the tale of Ila Sehgal who wants to bring romance back into her marriage by possibly trying to cook delicious lunches for her husband. She sends the lunches through the famed dabbawala system of Mumbai. Due to a mix-up, her lunch instead gets delivered to the widower Saajan Fernandes, who is about to retire from his job as an accountant. Realizing the mistake, Sehgal sends a letter with the lunchbox to Fernandes. The exchange of letters starts of a friendship between them that eventually leads to much more. The tale here is not in the telling but in the portrayal of everyday events, in the life of the characters, through the epistolary mode. One gets to know of the simple and the complex thoughts of Sehgal and Fernandes through the...

 Commission, commotion Surrounded by people and noise I stepped into a world unlike my own. Taking matters into my hands I called together my team and when the counter called my turn, I nudged my way through to get our equipment. And there started the journey through a nightmare of ups and downs, of paperwork and wax sealing, of setting up a booth and a sleepless night, of endless voters and tying up loose ends, of a night of rains and working without electricity, as we worked our way back to the collection point to stand in queues and crowds so that we could know we hadn’t go form A written ‘n’ number of times. The magnanimity of it struck when it was finally sealed and done. The voting was over!

Mirroring nails he slips on his face greasy green the white skirt encircles and entombs his already large hips. He readies himself for the performance as he imagines how they will see him today Keechaka to be killed yet again by Bhima aka Vallala. Villain Rapist Evildoer What not. Would they ever see him as noble? As a man of great talent? Not just the man Sairanthri asked to be taken care of? After all didn’t Keechaka possess charm and masculinity? Wasn’t he worthy of being followed? Sighing he walks to the stage. Who would listen to a poor actor’s thoughts For Keechaka exists only in the realms of the theatre. The world of the make believe stops at the edge of the curtain for that is where reality steps in to tear away the world of dreams. (Based on a reading of the play Marattam)

Chiselled, hammered, pierced, drawn upon, cut, enamelled, bejewelled, painted, decked out in finery: she was meant to be a testament to their everlasting love as well as his beloved’s resting place. He was never meant to be a part of the picture. Yet today it is the final resting place of two great lovers that history has made known by this monument in white. Now she stands tall, though robbed and raped of all her finery and splendorous garments, millions continue to marvel at her - as she bears witness to great love and passion that erupted in the making of the wondrous - lo and behold - Taj Mahal.

“Your profession?,” they ask. “Dancer!,” they exclaim. Ha! And Ha! They laugh in his face. How is he supposed to look after his family they think aloud in their head and on their faces, for passion has no place in their calculations only a Bharat Ratna can save him from their disappointed stares as they watch his retreating form going for his next successful stage performance.

She traces her fingers nimbly on the ground here, there, everywhere not stopping for a beat. She must finish the drawing before it is dawn. She stops not for breath she stops not for break she rushes without a blink as she painstakingly draws every line. It is her first here. They will judge her today too. The new bride will be measured by the intricateness beauty and dexterity of her kolam . It is finally done. Just as dawn appears and the mother-in-law steps out with a yawn. “Hmmm” “Nothing like mine, daughter-in-law” “But this will do.” She finally breathes.

You confuse me men of home you tell me you want to snuggle on cold mornings. You tell me I am the apple of your eye and yet you surprise me next day with your wedding invitation. What was I to you? Mere chattel? Only to pass your time? Why then did you hound me when I was perfectly happy on my own? Why did my solitariness irk you? Was I another conquest on your list of things? How could you scum of the earth? It is not just my curses you have earned. My tears carry a far greater weight than beknownst to you for they carry the pain of a thousand desires unrequited.

Just when I thought I could quietly sit and photograph the event the student announced my birthday on stage. The entire audience of 200 rose up as one and sang the happy birthday song O my! There was no quiet anymore. Who would have thought I would be cutting three cakes in a day at my age and receiving a bouquet to top it off? Who would have thought That this quiet woman in the corner had won their hearts as well?

You want me to be like her? she who wears a smile made of sugar & ties her hair in a plait & has a featureless face & wears nondescript clothes & has a colourless personality & smiles & smiles & smiles till the sugar melts like her? O     No Even if you have ensured I am totally buried under all her kind her copies her photostats I'm no ordinary woman you ∽∽∽∽∽∽∽∽∽ see I'm extraordinary. 

You ask me the moment I am born to cover myself with that blackish-red cape because my breasts are too big because my stomach spills out because my back shows because my what-not is visible. I wear my cape as you desire as you society asked me to. I wear it like my skin but now after all this time centuries and millennia I grow tired of it. I wish to remove this dastardly skin/cape. B e g o n e . You are no longer mine. Snake skin-like I shed you. I will wear What I please.

Leaky faucet nose exploding bomb cough temporarily blocked ears endless Meenachil eyes blistering barnacle headache facial bones that torture melcow to the world of allergies.

Chug chug   chug goes the train I ride past vistas of brown and green as memories of journeys long forgotten go past I wake to such scenes from before. Chennai wakes something in me What I do not know Neither anger nor angst it is I know could it be elusive happiness? Or nostalgia of seeing friends from yore?

They said they were moulding her as they broke her back they said they were shaping her as they tore her skin they said they were beautifying her as they burnt her lips in the hopes of destroying her. And then he came And helped her stand on her shaky two legs. She then knew she could be As beautiful as she wanted to be: The black swan.

The dancer cannot dance for her heart is breaking from he who betrayed her. Yet when it is time she graces the stage for the dance must go on if all is to be well with the world. And so she twirls and twirls, lost in the dance as she ignores her breaking heart and moves forward with a smile and an invisible tear, the dancer and the dance now one.

Standing at the crossroads I see the devastation left behind by “water, water, everywhere” - remnants of sorrow on the roads and river banks. As people begin rebuilding their homes and lives, I wonder for a moment whether this was natural or manmade before as a united front we enter ruins and leftovers to begin life anew from the flood’s devastation.

Now most people wondered why we went to Armenia. It is neither a popular destination nor well-known. I am glad though we went because as a culture and photography buff, I found it amazing. The country is warm and welcoming and in April   - when we went – is a great time to visit as there are not all that many tourists. But be warned your jackets are required: it is still cold. We went via Indus Aurora Holidays based in Delhi. Email and telephone were our only means of contact. Yet the entire tour went beautifully and we were impressed. Our guide Mary Mirzakhanyan was the best and extremely helpful and thoughtful. Of course we had slight hitches at the airport as is to be expected when you are going to a country nobody has heard of except in the violent sense. But they soon gave us the green flag and we were all set to go. Our journey was peaceful enough and we had a breakfast of croissants at Costa Coffee before we made the transit at Sharjah airport. Air Arabia proved to ...