The Dramatic monologues of Gunjeet Sra

Observations

2012-02-09T16:54:00.000+05:30

The following excerpt was written for a band while they jammed. As I waited for them to finish, I began this ramble and in a morbid way, bits and pieces of it came true this January They are mad. Careless and irreverent about possibilities of what they could be. Their dreams a smoky haze lost in the strums of their guitars. Shadows of their futile exercises lie discarded as evidence on the walls of life. Songs on spot, trance on the microphone, the happiness of it all a little too contagious, a psychedelic void threatening to suck you in. Like a meteor chasing the earth, it will all realise one day in, perhaps a crash that could eliminate the stars or make way for the black hole. But right now, it was the start and in some sort of twisted play of fate it all seemed like the beginning of the end. There was decay in the room, its smell, sweet and sticky, hard to decipher, but its presence pervaded into my being as I sat and observed the paradox unfold before my eyes.They were young, arrogant, selfish opportunists whose pseudo-all cultural consuming stance would begin to change the way they looked at the world and cause ridges where once bridges had been. It would take time for them to realise that they were all left hanging mid air, suspended between the burning bridges of ego clashes and a struggle for power. As I prophesies about their life, I feel a hand on my head; it’s one of them, curious about my rambling. I ignore and hit mute in my head. Day after day, they go through the process of concluding their daily chores of musical notes while their minds wander and spirits fragment the subconscious. Tucking gently into precocious memories, that are neither strong nor as passionate as they will them to be. Very soon they will be bit by reality; it will crawl unto them like a shadow and surprise them with its gravity. Charade will then become the preferred game, naïve enough to think that they could pull it off, they will make it grotesque and plastic, eventually blowing it up in the sweet leaf. Its fragrance stinging nostrils, pungent and fresh long after its death. Change would come sweeping in, not like a lauded hero, but like a loving mistress, gliding gently through the night. Forming new attachments, extensions and desperate attempts at reconciliations. Underplayed, silent movie style—unhinged forever, no longer jaded, just oblivious to their many afflictions. An anti-thesis that defined the naïveté of an entire generation of the hungry and the foolish who thought they could pave way for magic to come.

The Orange Notebook

2011-12-27T21:41:00.003+05:30

It is strange what a missing diary can do. To a quiet writer a diary is everything. I have been keeping a journal for as long as I know. Throughout boarding school, throughout the farm years, throughout college, post-graduation and work, my pen has chronicled my passing whims and fancies. A lot of exaggeration, a little bit of truth, heaps of dreams, aspirations, reflections and experiments have gone down on neatly ruled edges of paper that I have clung close to my heart. My diary has been my best friend and my penseive—something to offload on, ramble in, wallow in self-pity, and put myself back together. It is fragmented pieces of my consciousness throughout my living years and now they are missing. My current diary was a concoction of my adult life. It chronicled my fears and attempts at novel writing. Sometimes I played with words on paper, sometimes I wrote the truth. But that little orange striped notebook was something that I was saving up for later. A reservoir of thought that I would eventually put into the protagonist of my novel. It had everything, plots, theories, some writing experiments. Its loss has made me irrational and heartbroken and it is going to be a long time before I can deal with this.

What happened to Bollywood? Katrina did.

2011-12-19T17:31:00.002+05:30

If reel is meant to reflect the real, then Indian women have a bleak deal ahead of them. Thanks to their gyrating, hip swinging, skin baring, waif like role models who have brazenly sold their minds for moolah, making this the age of bimbos. It was Facebook that got me thinking. Bored with monotony, I logged on to the website and the first things on my home page were two links. Both caught my attention, because they were about two film actors who are the anti-thesis of each other. One was about the reigning queen of art house cinema, Vidya Balan and how her curves and off-beat choices denied her the title of a sex symbol and the other one was about the obvious reigning queen of Bollywood, Katrina Kaif in her new song Chikni Chameli for Karan Johar’s Agneepath. The Vidya Balan piece expectedly had no comments. Art house cinema and voluptuous women are often denied the cool acceptance of the new generation. While Ms. Kaif had generated a huge amount of uproar, from sexual innuendos to Katrina ki har galti maaf hai to the brazen content—all had warranted attention. That is what the producers expected and that is what she delivered. This is the simple fact why she is the number one girl in Bollywood these days. Katrina Kaif has managed to do something other heroines have tried and seldom succeeded, make a career based entirely on good looks, an ever changing avatar and playing the general bimbo game. She has set precedence now for a generation of women to enter the film industry on the basis of only these two things, good looks and a seemingly air headed approach to life. So what makes the ‘BIMBO’ such a successful game plan? The reasons are obvious. Men are not threatened by such women as they have such non existent expectations from them. In return, such women are treated like a treasured pet, they don’t complain, they only sulk and they adore. Men love that! Kaif has used the same philosophy to climb up the bollywood ladder. Not to negate her hardwork, we know how tough it must be to stand infront of a camera, blinking unimpressively time and again, trying hard to get an expression or mustering enough simpering to look pretty and get through a shot. Doing a string of accessory roles in multi-starrers with loads of short skirts, revealing dances and still maintaining the baby doll, lolitaesque air.It was sad to see her bring back the “Baby” era of Bollywood, but seeing her do porn star moves in Chikni Chameli has made her one of the worst sell outs in Bollywood Industry and that is saying something. Even Mallika Sherawat as Jalebi Bai is better. But she still doesn’t sell as well as Katrina because she doesn’t pose as the virginal girl next door. The Katrina charm lies in her ability to bask and nurture stereotypes. Perhaps her education qualifications can be blamed for her lack of a strong feminine stand that commands respect. And considering the fact that she is the one with mass appeal, it will be another decade before we can revisit mainstream Bollywood with meatier women roles. Until we can find a Madhuri or even a Juhi, dignified commercial actors willing to experiment and demand woman centric roles, we will be stuck in the age of Bimbo.

my column on sexual liberation

2011-10-19T02:14:00.000+05:30

Hit this link

Being a Writer

2011-09-22T10:12:00.000+05:30

I walk around these days feeling like I am getting choked. It’s almost like no air passes my lungs as I struggle to come up with words that will fill up the empty pages and help me deal with my soul. I am a writer, but times are hard and words are harder to get by these days. My last published work was never. I am 25 years old and for the last seven years of my life I have been waiting for my moment of glory or epiphany to come by. The words have rotted after years of negligence and I am struggling to make sense of it all. I mean, I want to be the next Nobel laureate but preoccupations of life are getting in the way.
I can’t say this about other writers, but the blood flows a little erratic in my veins and I walk around proudly bearing the badge of crazy. I am proud, indifferent and yet excruciatingly aware of every glance that comes my way. I am selfish and self-destructive. My life is my project, that’s what I like to believe and I live in a story. My reality is different. My universe parallel. I am the fallen star, the angry arch angel running out of steam. Everything is a story and I am a different person every day. I am a slave to my moods and I follow every whim, you could call it self-indulgence, I would call it an experiment. I have no regard for anything or anyone but my art and how it affects me. A borderline obsessive, a junkie, a mind suffocating with ideas that are waiting to burst forth. I am a procrastinator. I thrive under pressure and I need a mentor. I am in bad need of a mentor and I don’t mean a psychiatrist. I need something/someone to be the inspiration. I need nothing. I need. I need myself. I need not. Intensely critical of every sentence that is strung together, I read books with a critical eye. Bad books displease me, good books make me jealous. There is no young contemporary author I adore, but I have built myself an envious literary lineage that could charm Virgina Woolf. I know I am talented and that validates my sloth. I am an excuse running out of time. I suffer from inertia, insomnia and an intense love for love. I love nature. I hate romantic poetry. I love modernism. I hate war. I am a contradiction of all stereotypes. I am a conformist. I am an empty vessel that changes characters day by day people to people. I am everything yet nothing. A somebody that is a nobody— a hope gone wrong, a cancelled promise

Ice queen

2011-07-11T18:18:00.003+05:30

It could have been...if not for the alcohol on your breath and if your actions matched your words. If there was conviction and faith. A little bit of bravery, a salutation that would make me believe….a sign that would negate the feelings of betrayal. If there was no swan song…no bittersweet symphony and if I could be convinced to feel…yes, then it could be. But life is not ideas, its clarity…sleep walking is drudgery assigned to those who carry not the conviction to follow life through all its transitions. There is no zombiness for me, only life and dreams which I live every waking hour—fearless about their repercussions on my mind body and soul. Then how can it be? When my heart beats a thousand times a day in reverence to myself? And yours to every thought that fritters by? It cannot.
It could have been…if I had known the darkest abysses of your soul, every shadow, inspiration and inhibition. But all I know is your shape shifting mask, transient, just like my heart. I know what is today may tomorrow no longer be…then what is the point of what could have been? There is no fire only stone cold calm. A little late...a little lost...I see no reason for a rude pause...because it just could not have been.

The wise one

2011-07-05T16:20:00.007+05:30

Define a very boring day at work?
One where listlessness and inertia seeps in and it feels like the clock hands have been chained and every minute feels like eternity.

What makes one get bored at work?
The realization that everyday perfectly slips into another and before you know the entire year has passed, that is the moment you start to nervously palpitate and examine dreams vs ambition vs reality and finally have an outburst like
a. Quitting your current lifestyle and making a completely foolish choice
b. Marriage
c. Inertia, stagnation and more boredom
d. Running Away

What does one do once the novelty of an outburst wears out?
Nothing. One learns to live with the fact that no matter how much you love something, if you are expected to do it day in and day out at all hours, passionately, trying to give it your best. You are eventually going to get bored of it.

Wisdom is keeping it simple, keeping it clean..one day at a time

Not simple. Trust me

Excuse me, its temporary insanity

2010-12-14T18:23:00.002+05:30

Exercise Discipline.Exercise restraint. Exercise
That seems to be the ticker running in my head, like on India TV, breaking news in neon colours flashes through my brain at the calmest hours. Making me frustrated and furious. Frustrated at the ability of the mind to be active and running when all you want it to do is shut up and Furious at my in-ability to follow a set pattern.
I am very serious when i say this--on a regular day when i am walking around or just doing what i gotta do, these lines often pop in and out of my head
Turning and Turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer, things fall apart, the centre cannot hold, mere anarchy is loosed upon the world
And I don't even like Yeats!!!
So what do i do? Nothing. It's simple, its denial..but then if you know its denial does it seize to be so? I know I dont make sense, but the point is do i want to? It is so stupid to be making sense all the time. Though even at times when i feel my most sensible, I am quite a spectacle. My hair is graying.I know..I know. I shouldn't sound like a housewife preoccupied with the effects of aging, but I can't help it, I am 24 and I am graying. What started as one distinguished silver line is now an unruly pattern that is soon going to disrupt normalcy if it doesn't stop.
And guess what? i am also bored. I am just thoroughly bored. With the pattern of life, food is starting to disgust me (now thats a shocker) So is the general meaning of my life. I feel life needs an overhaul.
Like maybe a pet that i can stuff with food and watch him stare at me. Maybe i'll also go bald, but then that would make me look fugly, so i'll pass. Maybe I will just hibernate. Maybe I'll just be...Maybe? But then, who knows. My feelings are as reliable as the Delhi Police. I will just exercise exercising. Maybe.

The Year of Stupid

2010-12-13T18:45:00.003+05:30

My birthday always does this to me, makes me reflective. So for the last 10 days or so i've been meaning to rant and shrink myself, but travelling has kept me busy. Scouring through four cities a day to get a glimpse of a glorious story is not pretty, you almost always end up in the rear seat of the car, mouth wide open, eyes lolling, too exhausted to do anything but sleep. So here I am finally, in one place and too restless to work.. therefore..anyway, the point is, the more I think about it, the more I realise that the last one year has been the year of stupid for me. In my artistic search of experience(just a polite way to describe complete indiscipline and self-indulgence) I have managed to completely mess myself over. Now when I look back to the wide-eyed charm of my 22nd year I feel like damaged goods. So what is it that I have exactly done? Here is my list of things I wish I had known sooner:

1. Camping in the middle of Uttranchal in the height of winter is always going to be unpleasant. The fact that you love mountains is not going to matter when all you are worried about is how to stay away from a frostbite.
2. Writing THE manuscript and not having a back up can make all that hard work go to waste.
3. Stalling wedding plans and having no prospects because you are too busy chilling with your bestie is going to make mum think dirty things.
4. Too much work is going to do to you what Angelina did to Brad--kill your looks faster than you can say run
5. Curiosity is almost always going to land you in trouble
6. It is sometimes all right to shut up and play dumb
7. Too many expectations lead to total collapse of a relationship, within seconds
8. The thing about challenging your convictions is, that when you are finished you no longer know the person you are
9. Artistic experiences can be lived without. True art is not decadence but discipline
10. If you feel stupid, its always a good idea to just stay at home
11. Chaos only sounds good in theory, in life it becomes exhausting and bitter
12. Sometimes parents make you do things that you hate but will eventually grow to love
13. There is nothing wrong in being traditional and it's got nothing to do with feminism
14. Staying at one place for too long will make you hate what you love
15. It is not wise to trust so easily. Having faith is good, but too much faith too soon can almost always be bad
16. It is never too late to turn around. Everyone is allowed a year of stupid

Experiment 101: Epic Fail

2010-07-22T14:38:00.004+05:30

I am mourning a loss.
Aborted and purged suddenly
Through shock and guilt,
The trespasser abandoned,
The subject- up in smoke!

Hunger, the insatiable hunger
The angst of a debauched soul
Outsmarted by reality
The illusions no longer hold

i love these illustrations I wish i knew the artist

2010-07-19T18:19:00.002+05:30

2010-07-07T14:47:00.002+05:30

Perhaps it was the sudden change in weather that got me reflecting about life.. the rain had washed away the muck of the city and life was starting to take shape of a feeling, the gnawing sort--nerve-wracking realization's that have silent powers of giving you perspective.It's strange how one incident has the power of affecting the course of your life and changing your entire being and i thought of her...of how life changed the moment she gave up existence at nineteen

Not so Awesome

2010-05-21T15:38:00.003+05:30

I've always wondered what is it that makes people obsess about their 'image'. Is narcissism a product of the times we live in or is propaganda a mere marketing technique that makes even the wannabes of the world feel like celebrities?
Take for instance the Facebook group -- Team Awesome, probably created by a bunch of high school boys and self-loving individuals who think that the only way to prove how awesome they are is by trying to outsmart each other. Since all my male friends seemed so gung-ho about being a part of the so called awesome brigade, i decided to check it out one morning. Registration was simple, all I had to do was press the join button and I was on my way to feeling very with it and awesome in life, the group has some 3000 members, majority of them Caucasians and male. Point 5 are the trying Indians, who...errr lets just say are trying still to prove that they are awesome. Which brings us to the question of how does one prove their awesomeness--its simple, you just find funny pictures and contribute them to the group..your awesome quotient is directly related to the shock value and yuppiness of the picture-- one can be anti-semitic, anti-feminist, anti-humanity it doesn't matter as long as you have the swagger to match your contribution, you then fight it out in witty wars and still maintain solidarity. Quite pathetic actually but one needs to give the boys credit for a few things -- the seriousness with which they participate in this venture, their deep belief in their awesomeness and the available free time on their hand to focus on trivial issues..what they don't realise is, its neither funny nor witty but just pathetic propaganda that makes them look like real life losers and virtual heroes.
Anyway I failed the experiment by my non-ability to take my awesomeness seriously and provoking the ire of the Awesome Police by daring them to ban me..but my sarcasm seems to have gotten lost on the shielding bubbles of self-love..fun nevertheless! :)

R.I.P

2010-04-16T15:51:00.002+05:30

Crack.Snap.Free-falling
It died this morning as I sat watching the birds at play. The tautness of the bones finally crumbled and a wave of brittle emotions washed over. Exhausted I stood up to leave but my feet faltered and the heart beat three mournful beats.Dead.Dead.Dead
Relief was such an unexpected visitor that it took me over the guilt bridge which lapped and moved hard against the tide. Burn, Crash, Burn.
Silences, then the terrible silences of a dangling conversation with chains of ivory snaked their way around my being and sat nibbling at my ear. I picked up a glass to drink water and it snapped..spilled...flood..wake up!!
Then I saw the sun, the planet was on its orbit and everything was right with the world. Summer was kind and my hair glossy, the honey-dew well worn skin shone with contentment and my spirit was loved and indulged.
The experience--Over!!

Neurosis

2010-04-13T17:00:00.001+05:30

Like everyday, it started with mad rush, which was a result of constant miscalculations of temporal and spatial factors created by the Heroine. Who, as she sat to write this down, suddenly struck a long chord with reality. The loud humming sort of chord. The dream dismembered. Disenchanted with the world she stood confidently to take the full blow of misery and pain that were soon to follow, but then, the pen stopped working and the world momentarily lapsed into nothingness.
It came into being with restlessness, the mad restlessness of a starved mind and a caged body in an environment that thrived on freedom. A strange paradox, that reverberated and pulsated through her entire being..I am I am I am. Then the artist awakened and tottered to find the remnants of the last seizure--some landscapes and doodles that made sense only to her mind, an exercise in part to get to that perpetual pulsation in the temples over and done with, once and for all. But right at the moment of elevation, the wind blew long and hard. It was harsh and distracting in its beauty and played with the soul…every swish struck a chord that bought musical tears to her eyes. The I was forgotten with every new step into the garden...nature had weighed her down and once again she just sat waiting, almost longing for the cycle to start again.

hmmm

2010-03-08T14:09:00.003+05:30

It's a lazy Sunday evening. Of late almost every evening has been lazy. Made expansive and sunlit. Pungent. Life flows easy, it's music, it's feeling, parallel and non-linear.Today is a little different, the urge for sobriety has set in after days of binge, like a cloud the fettered embers of irrational irritation start to sweep over me as I itch restlessly for the world to make sense again.
Conversation is dead. It died, the last time I tried hard to grasp at it. Words have been rendered meaningless and expression has taken centerfold. Wild and uninhibited, the human mind runs amuck, mocking the obvious, spiraling out of control.

Lost in transition

2009-11-05T14:54:00.004+05:30

Sometimes it's relief to find a stereotype and then stick to it. It's a sign of reaffirmation to the self that you are not the weirdo or the other. So, as a personal exercise and for my mental stability I have been trying hard to look for a box to box myself in.
My initial quest's were naturally occupation related and the first thing I did as a young journalist trying to forge an identity was bribe an older gentleman into getting me enrolled in the press club. that being done I sauntered towards the rickety domains of the building and looked forward to the feeling of finally arriving, no sooner had I arrived when I realised much to my horror, that was the wrong hole to pick. My age played against me and I felt like an intruder amongst all the serious narcissistic truth telling writers of the country. Truth be told, I like politics but it does not interest me enough to have long political tirades with people who are miffed with my too young-too brash opinions. Completely humiliated and utterly at a loss for the reasons of my ostracistaion i left the club, but not before vowing that the place was too shabby for my taste, maybe good enough to have some liquor with friends when times were rough, but not good enough to hole myself in.
Then came the feeling of rejection and utter remorse. My boss caught me looking glum and trudging along office, not a person to give up such moments of self-inflicted misery, she was quick to haul me onto a chair and badger me with questions, when I finally relented, she pointed out that the choice of place had been completely wrong and I should try something more balanced "something arty, but not farty, a little like couture for art darling! Go to a place that fills your intellectual needs without dumbing you down, Try 401 at Defence Colony. It is the place for you lot." and I did. Oh boy I did.
So this is the scene, I walk into 401 and the conversation comes to a standstill. I feel like I'm naked and a blush starts creeping in as I question to myself if my hair is a mess or are my shoes a mismatch. It takes me five minutes to realize the problem. Me, me Me. 401 is a hip place, it attracts young intellectuals, who are arty but cant help being farty. They are the lot, whose idea of fashion day in and day out is a heavy dose of Kohl, accented with stunning silver jewelery and for clothes they alternate between cottons and silks. While I alternate between alternative, Indian, minimalistic and punk, depending on my mood. That day was minimalistic, one woman was quick to point out "Babe, you're at the wrong do, you are too swish for us jholewalla's and we fail to understand your views of left liberalism-it doesn't exist..try zest girl, you'll fit right in" I left, but not before I burst her little bubble of Utopian Marxism being a has been phenomenon and my utter disrespect for some people who refuse to grow up. If nothing else, that did it for me and I left feeing abandoned. Until that moment i had always considered myself a bit of an intellectual. Resolved to start a new life i gave zest a try.
So, I walk into zest feeling quite self satisfied in my LBD and Gucci clutch and guess what?? I feel right at home. I sip on some champagne and discuss the latest issue of Harpers, until the latest It set walks by muttering "OOOh thats soo yesterday.. You're still wearing black you poor thing! Come, here let us enlighten you. Wont she make a nice project B, lets do her up. This Jhollewalee" Thats it. Thats when i'm done. Done with zest, done with the entire boxing business. I leave.
On my way out I haul an auto, take out a book and kick off my heels while i adjust my hair in the mirror and try to read simultaneously. Then i do the tricky bit of doing all three and also applying lip balm. Very soon I'm at my living quarters, I brew myself tea and plop myself on my pillow. I've found my box.

MOTHER MAY I

2009-08-11T16:43:00.002+05:30

Mother May I
Play a simple game
Of knights, armors
and damsels in distress
Mother May I
Build Stone castles
On an ivory land
Fair and unparalled
Mother May I

Plunder and Bloody them
With vicsious shape shifting swords
and declare it revolution
Mother May I
Kill the Princess and Rape the Knight
Give them a voice of treachery
and call it history
Mother Maty I??

schimzisms

2009-04-13T15:57:00.003+05:30

I feel strange these days.. not the usual strangeness that comes with being me..but a tad extra!! maybe it's PMS. But the funny thing is, that i am constantly coping with PMS. I spend my month trying to get over it or dealing with it.
Pop culture has conveniently come up with these isms that make almost everything acceptable. Too much shopping equates 'retail therapy' too much food is labeled 'comfort eating/stress eating' too much happiness is almost always 'denial' and sadness is well always 'depression' . In short, all ways lead to those shrinks, that i personally find very disconcerting.
Every shrink that i have ever encountered in life has been moralistic and judgmental. Probing boundaries that I am uncomfortable with and taking almost voyeuristic pleasure in my misery and personally, I'd rather talk about my issues to a friend than to a random stranger, who charges me by the hour. It almost feels like we are buying their empathy and reduces one to a miserable existence that mocks the whole idea of friendship and conversations.
I once saw a brilliant friend of mine reduced to a jumble of emotions by an incapable psychologist. Since i attended all her therapeutic sessions with her, i observed the pattern. My friend would complain, the shrink would nod and sometimes would interrupt her with encouragement and garbage like- You need to take a stand, you blah , you have been hurt. These were things i could have very well said to her without charging money. I think, it gave her comfort to let all out to a random stranger. Who would say next the moment one stepped out.
It was a a confession. The only difference being, over here you'd be eating some analytical garbage and stuffing yourself with prozac instead of reciting hail Mary's. Nevertheless, personally it does nothing to redeem your soul because in the end....your soul is for your own keeping

xhdehxr8p

2009-03-23T14:24:00.002+05:30

Been bitten by the restless bug once again. How do people manage to stay in the same place for
such a long time is really a mystery.....wanna go away someplace so sick of the mundane attitude of life. want new me . want new life....

Experiment no 54

2009-03-19T16:44:00.002+05:30

I have a thing for unrequitted love and all things toxic. This affinity for all things masochist is uncomprehendable. Yet at every point in my life- i have had this one relationship, that has given me passionate grief.
People come and people go. My life a swinging door my heart their favorite cafe.
Every single time, i lay myself dramatically on the alter of their love.

...

2009-03-18T16:00:00.002+05:30

Lost and found.
I wish life were that simple. I dont know where i am right now, where will I be, where am I going. I dont know what I want, but I do know what I dont want. I'm hoping that is a start. I also do know that I is important. I makes me. and that, as a writer it is must that I view everything from a distance without losing myself, Eliot called it objectivity, Yeats named it Phantas Magoria. But whatever it is, its elusive to my being. Too much feeling- negtive = emotional garbage. Control, discipline.
Not like water tumultous and formless, spilling over. Yet, thats what I find easily relatable- a riverbed that abandons, meanders and is continuously flowing.

2008-11-24T18:34:00.003+05:30

Will we ever be able to rid ourselves of our mothers? Is this a worry that plagued them while growing up as well? Why are daughters the mirror images of their mothers, regardless of the education they get, the places they are raised. The Core is always the splitting image of the woman who birthed you.

Its the knowledge of shared flesh and blood. When they look at us, do they see themselves?
My mother and I, we have the same blood that runs through us. I am her flesh. I have her stubby fingers, the same awkward feet, tiny miniature hands teamed with a sense of fun that borders on eccentricity and deep trenches of burning thoughts and an anarchist side that causes unfailing gaps.

I often wonder how she fails to acknowledge a miniature her when she sees me sitting across the room. For her, I am blasphemous and absurd. 22 years have failed to calm the stormy, heated tornado that’s our relationship. Someone once told me that the more a daughter knows the details of her mothers life, the closer are the bonds of sisterhood. I do not know if this is true, but the more i reflect on it, the queasier I get.
I know the details of my mothers life, they are segmented into my brain from the perspective of a hungry bystander. I know the smell of her skin, the texture of hair on her head, the softness of her face, the roughness of her hands, the dark determination in her black eyes. By knowing the time of the day, I know exactly what she is doing. I know the way she chants and the exact direction in which she stirs her cooking pot, I know that she pretends sleep when depressed and her sighs say a thousand words. I know that she sits and waits at the porch when we are to come home. I know she does not sleep the night before. I know her hugs, I know her love, its tough but I’ve learnt to love it.
The question is, Does she know mine?

life

2008-10-07T12:54:00.003+05:30

I thought of Reflections

Observations

The giant meaningless chatter

The drone of buses

The clanking of horns

The sleepless city

Soured nightingales

The once majestic beast

All lost

in decadance and complacence

Their voices ringing

Saved.

from being obsolete

Chitvan

2008-09-09T17:19:00.003+05:30

Its been two years now and that's a really long time.The reality of her existence is already a dream and before time plays its part in making me forget in entirity the details of our relationship..I'm going to write about it...This is something imprtant for me, i'm not doing it for anyone but myself.
I remember not remembering her
Do you remember to breathe? She was just there, someone i ate slept woke up and exchanged notes with, from boys to life to friends to siblings..sigh..siblings...the biggest contention in our lives. We wanted to be each others siblings...(we were cousins) that was our parting shot always.."i wish u were my real sister"
In a way we were, no night no day- she was my 1 am friend, the person you talk shit with after getting drunk.I was her therapist and we talked for hours everyday.When i was in boarding she would write me long letters that were filled with gorgeous stickers and secrets..oh those petty secrets that seemed so important then. There was a period when she stopped writing and i would berate endlessly letter after letter, warning her that this was my last letter to her. When i met her that winter she told me the only reason she didnt write was because she loved those angry letters soo much. I remember chasing her around the house after that.
She could make me laugh, really could. The best times were when she came to pick me up at school during holiday's, I recall being so excited and happy..the whole feeling of finally meeting someone you really love..the warm hug and the mandatory slap.Oh god i loved her. I remember once she made me laugh so much that all my food spilled on her face, we were eating in Papaji's room and ended up messing the whole place up. She was very stubborn too, as a child had long staright hair and hated tying it, her mother got so sick of her that she got it chopped..as a result it was my satin hairband that had to break.
We fought, we fought a lot. Our fights were the drama in the family. When we grew up, Chitvan became a looker and all the attention she got from boys, bought many problems for her personally, she turned to me for advice and we anchored each other through the ups and downs of life.
I taught her some trouble, she taught me tricks.She lent me courage and I taught her to be strong. For 19 years of my life she was my anchor through all the trying times, and i wont lie and say that i did not take her for granted. I did all the time and even she did too. That was the complacent comfortability of our life together. For 19 years I did not feel the need to be terribly self destructive. She rendered loneliness obsolete. Answered all dumb questions. Was always there.
Then i went for a holiday and one morning it was all over. People may scream from rooftops stating that it was not my fault, but somewhere in my head i know i did play a part even though unwittingly and i would like to take repsonsibility for that. I know I did not display the best of my behaviour, I could have done better.
I also know that it makes everyone uncomfortable when i talk about her, but what everyone fails to realise that i need to, i want to..its natural, i'm not being a drama queen i'm just remembering someone who shared a life with me for 19 years and i miss her..i always will..

chaos

2008-08-25T12:56:00.003+05:30

The hinges that held all the neurons together in my cell filled brain have finally unhinged and no matter how hard I try they refuse to neatly assemble themselves back together. Yes I've tried everything...from changing my job, to taking a vacation to even changing the style of my hair and getting a new wardrobe...nothing seems to be working for me.
Like Madame Bovary, I feel unsettled & dissatisfied for no apparent reason. The brightness of my future should be blinding me right now, but on the contrary there is no glimpse of greatness in all the petty tasks that i undertake everyday. The mundane mediocricity of everything is extremly ovrwhelming and the mind is constantly in search of utter freedom
I dream of gold paddy fields and sunkissed hills, the wind on my face and a weather beaten brow.I dream of revolutions & the power of Ideas, I long for anarchy & chaos. The placid comfort of my current lifestyle is irritating and it seems if this kind of pettiness comprises life then I am not made for it.
How strange things look from a distance, everything perfect & in the place..while on the inside its all unsettled and has been like this for a long long time

The Bell Jar

2008-08-25T12:24:00.002+05:30

Trapped in a maze,confused with reality.Lost and searching in the bearings of one's mind for that elusive world that completely sets you free. Day after day after day, the copies of the one day that you had, clock works clock hands..toc tic toc tic toc pass the sand through the hourglass that one calls life
While your existence just sits in rapture, frozen and observing with morbid fascination as life passes you by. You who were once young and so filled with Idea's that your whole being vibrated with them & looked up towards the opportunities that were bound to come your way. Idea's that would define, revolutionise & redefine the core for days to come, the Idea's that have rusted in the cobwebbed corners of your brain.

21: with no expiry date

2008-08-10T23:26:00.003+05:30

My mother came to Delhi yesterday and like all good Punjabi mothers the aim of her life is to see her two daughters settled and happy in life. Settled for her implies a good looking Punjabi groom who is not only sauve and sophisticated but also 'khandaani'.
listen, i'll have to continue this later as mother has just discovered the art of dramatic monologues is aiming witty insights at me about 'punjabi khandaans ' from a safe distance.
For her I am a terror daughter.
Not only am I stubborn, ( i am parading around as a 'silly working girl' when i could just spend my time traveling and doing hobby classes) read,I refuse to vegetate, but also 21 with No expiry date
ITS UNBEARABLE NOW, I MUST PICK THIS UP LATER WHEN I HAVE THE TIME, BUT oh! WHAT A PAIN TO BE A 20 SOMETHING WOMAN IN AN iNDIAN SET UP. i WISH I WERE REALLY UGLY- IT WOULD SAVE ME FROM ALL THE "RISHTA'S & THE AUNTIES"

What's in a name? That which we call a rose

2008-07-31T18:42:00.003+05:30

The bards words never meant more to me than at the present moment.. I am in the middle of an existential dilemma these days.Like everyone around me i've learnt to build my identity around my name and the fact that I am passionate about my name denotes alot. Very meticulously I've earnt to ignore the dull commonality of the word Gunjeet and picked up a part in order to formulate my own comfort zone. I've christened myself Gunj & that's what everyone calls me ...Gunj..sounds pretty simple and has a very anarchist feel to it.
It all started the day I ran into Terrence
Terrence: I know another Gunjeet Sra
Knowing Terrence and his fascination with my blood pressure level, I let it pass. I came home did my usual thing, switched on the internet and the phone rang .It was him again, I half yelped and half barked into the reciever
"What????"
Terrence: And she calls herself Gunj.
click. Dead
It took five minutes for me to collect my thoughts..i wish it had taken longer but ever since its been a nightmare. My first reaction was 'So what!', then it moved on to incredulity and finally some curiosity. I was ready to encounter the other who was a click away.
Five minutes later I was back on my bed and frowning. I was disappointed. With my next sentence you might loathe me but that's what I am, hard on others, hardest on myself. If this Gunj was going to be my namesake I had hoped that she would live up to my expectations but she had failed miserably, not only was her tone rigorous, the commonality of everything she said was disturbing.
In my head I have this mental image of myself as some sort of demigoddess and here she was, so glib and so obvious. I could have dealt with that if it had ended right there but no her reference was was not in isolation..
In days that followed, my friends happily invited her into their lives, and my best friend gladly made her the 'other', refusing to give up his right to know the other Gunj regardless of how uncomfortable I felt with it. He then went onto allude to the both of us in his blog. I know it was irrational but it drove me mad. It was like having a shadow, which was not yours!!!
To many, this post will seem foolhardy and pointless, some might also think me to be on an ego overdrive.But the truth is, I have tried very hard to be where I am and I guard my personal & individual space ferociously. I have also made the mistake of building my identity around a name and at the moment I feel quite lost.
Like the Alice in Through the Looking glass I feel i've encountered both ,Tweedledum & Tweedledee -enantomers of the self & the other. I can no longer relate to my name, it doesnt sound as nice anymore. It's like, everyone is testing my patience.
There is one thing that I now know, no matter what name one calls me with. The essence of my individuality lies in my soul ..I'll always be what I am and No one can take that away..namesake or not!!

Writers block

2008-07-28T16:01:00.001+05:30

Empty canvases, paper sheets mean the same, an artist or writer, must fill these up, in order to build something new. a little bit of madnes being mandatory. Passion! anyone can have that, but, its madness that is essential to creating something new.What does one do when the passion is dries up an only the madness remains or when madness overpowers passion. Then, you are a shadow of your former self. Where, with every stroke,you think you are creating a masterpiece- in reality, its just gibberish, comprehensible only to self.Insanity-I've glimpsed it, at times i've glanced at it, other times i've stared at in on the face. It's lived in me, posessed my soul,gnawed at it until i had eto shake it off or get others to help me. I hate getting others to help me. it feels as if, with every step they mock, they rip, they too tear you apart.You see, my reality is different-its warped for the world. everything at times seems a blur and i shift into my own consciousness.Sometimes, life looks like early fogged wet marshy mornings, at other times..the future looks so brilliant that i cannot bear to look at it in the face. My mind plays tricks and on perfectly happy days i want to end it all.Swinging between paradigms and shutting out reality in a minute have become some sort of habit. sometimes, the world moves too fast and i want it to stop- to take a breather. I feel chaos!! the noises too loud.Derelict decadance all around me. ...The cause i live for...already dead! the principles i live on...lost forever...alienated from the world.An amalgamation of everything...my soul. Spinning towards insanity day after day. Life has become a series of contradictions

2008-07-28T15:58:00.000+05:30

Talking from personal experience, i find it extremely difficult to get along with my parents.. and i write this not as a matter of pride or in a rebellious outburst but in deep angst and pathos .The fact that i cannot get along with them, gives me many a sleepless nights and quite a few bucketfull of tears .Should we be grateful to our parents for the education that they have provided us ? absolutely yes. But, ambiguity enters when alienation begins, what must we do when the very education they gave us is the tool that builds ridges across our canvas and threatens to rip it apart.My parents took up the task of educating me quite seriously and put me into an elitist school where i was to learn the ways of life in a proper british manner. Like all children i hated the boarding school and later came to appreciate it, it gave me fierce independence, great individual space and stimulation for my creative abilities. It also made me realize that i could dream- dream big and also achieve whatever i wanted. My alma-mater drilled in me that i “own “ the world...it believed in every person being a solopsistI was in harmony with my parents all the while i was in school..it was only when i stepped into the real world that the trouble began....i said literature..the whole family chorused IAS....i said, college first...they sang only girls...after much ado i did manage to enter into a college of my choice and study literature ....I don’t know if it was the worst thing that i did or the best..the moment i opened those books, did my alienation begin, starting to question everything i realized i too was in the middle of an existential dilemma..to top it my teachers ...they opened up such avenues for me ..the kind that my family shuns and i jump at.I have become a specimen of sorts in my family now, i am the other...the wierd sister- cousin a person whose causes and passion are things to be laughed at... my parents have adopted the semi indulgent- delusional approach. Where they feel that one day i’m just going to chuck being myself and turn domesticated .I cant believe, that after all my hardwork and dreaming, they want me to be domesticated. The mere thought that they think they posess my life and can chain my soul is appalling . What is the purpose of education when in the end you have to be the good daughter?? Cant a woman choose when and to whom she gets married? Is it too much to ask for?If this is what it has to come to in the end then i’d rather not be educated..its better to live in a fools paradise than to be educated and forced to live against the very principles i stand for

2008-07-28T15:55:00.005+05:30

Ripe lusty mango groves
Romanced by
Hungry thirsty bees
Clustered from dawn to dusk
With them
Who come first to lick the juices off
Participants in the divine
Brazen Orgy
Of over laden beauty and greed
Sucked at and made
Raw again
By parasites who have orgasamed their thirst
The mango groves
Thirsty with lust
Wait for another summer
While the lovers languish
Cursing the rain