To my best friend.

Dear Silky,

It your 16th birthday today. I have missed you every minute since you've gone. It pierces me like a physical wound. A grief that presses itself on the heart and lungs.

But I know you led an incredible and pampered life. More so a full life. And I will always cherish the 16 years of unmatched moments, unconditional love and infallible companionship you gave me. You were the best. The queen. The princess. The darling. You were pampered, sophisticated, unbelievably sensitive and possessive. You were there to ensure I became the person I am today. Thank you for coming to me.

To keep your memory alive, I will always strive to make lives of other pawed friends a happier one. One smell initiative in that regard is the group I have begun. http://www.facebook.com/groups/251994858216227/ Here I will inform and educate members on how to keep their little bundle away from harm. The precautions, symptoms to be taken.

And I will always write of the most precious moments you spent with me.

I love you. But I promise not to cry today. On your birthday I will think of all our moments together. You made me happy, and my life worth living.

Have a big chocolate slurp worthy cake up there and a giant chewy from me.

Love

Didi.

Silky Baijal

Princess, Silk, Cheeni, Cheeku, Chicklet, Cheekumal, My Love, Chhonuu so many names, and even more rensition of her's. That was my best friend. 16 years of warmth, sophistication and unconditional love. Of life and lessons. Of fun and tears. Of beauty and friendship.

A week into Silky's arrival when I was just about 11, I convinced the parents that she'd probably be missing her biological ones. We took her to meet them, and five minutes later Silky had darted back to us, sitting in my mother's arms, secure. Since the very day, my mother became Mom, Papa remained Papa and I became didi. And to younger siblings of friends, my parents became, 'Silky ke mummy papa'.

My best days would begin with a lick on any part of my face her toungue would find, and tiny paws running all over me. Soft cantering of paws on wood a few moments later would tell me it was morning. My fluffy little black alarm clock was my favorite, always.

Evenings saw warm welcomes. Like her world was complete when I camehome everyday. 5:30pm we would set out on our walk. The evening walk had to happen with me. Board exams, tests, fever was for lesser mortals. I waited for my half an hour with her everyday. I would keep talking to her as we walked. We went down the same roads, the same routes every single day for years. We met the same people. They greeted her the same way. With more warth with each passing day. She would walk, I would obediently follow. My friends loved her. They greeted her and met her before they met me. That is because she was way cooler, much more elegant and loads more fun than I could ever be. Friends fancied having a life like her's in their next ones. I still do.

One warm hug from my princess would tell me that everything would be fine. Her reassuring warm body against me every night told me she'd always be there. Our pillow fights, then bargains and finally compromises told me I'd never be alone. She listened to me through my tears. She celebrated my joys more than me. She lived through my sorrows more than me.

As she grew in years the fear of losing her gripped me every now and then, but her elegance never diminished. She would pause in her walks to meet new people, to get a new compliment on get a new hand to pat her. If our lives revolved around her's, her world was just us. She hated it if I returned having touched another dog. Her huge expressive eyes would give me a reproachful look, and for the rest of the day I was only allowed to catch a glimpse of her bushy black tail or just her furry bum. She was possessive and knew how to show her displeasure. Very very clearly.

Food to be fed with a spoon. Kebab with roomali roti ONLY. Feet to be wiped post walks. Mouth to be wiped post meals. Eyes to be wiped every morning. Jer High Chewies only. Precisely the correct balance of chicken and roti in dinner. Venky's chicken nuggets ONLY. Food to be kept in the Air conditioned room during summer. If having returned post fraternising with another dog, bathe before meeting the royal highness. We didn't make these rules. She did. We followed them. Princess, didn't I say?

I have spent the past week living by her photographs, talking to them, watching her videos and wanting to reach out to her through that veil. The home is silent, and the family incomplete without her and her little antics, her maddening preferences and her very comforting presence.

Friendship always had a differnt meaning for me. I hardly ever cared if I got into a fight, because I knew my most loyal friend was home. And that she would stand by me even if I was wrong. My adorable darling has gone where I can never see her again. No random lick, no cheery welcomes, no innocent requests and no bullying me into getting what she wanted. With her a part of me has gone. Thw silence all around is deafening. Its been a week, just a week, and it feels as though decades have passed.

I will never forget you Silky. No one can or ever will take your place. An inseparable part of me, my childhood and my life. Thank you for coming to me and spending your life so incredibly with me. And whenever I feel as alone as I do without you today, please come visit me in my dreams.

Your loss has weakened me. Take care. A big warm hug to you.

The Dirty Picture

Indian commercial cinema has begun to search its roots in stories. The Dirty Picture tells us one. Albeit in a seen before style, however the intent is clearly visible.

Under the verbose dialogues and the explicit sexual innuendos lies a narrative, however dealt with less sensitivity than was required to make a film that would have been extraordinary. With an actor like Vidya balan, who has submerged herself completely in the character, the film just doesn’t do justice to her craft, capability and the astonishing human portrayal she brings to her character. The narrative is predictable and therein lies the drawback.

'Filmein aaj bhi hero ki wajah se chalti hain' is what was said in the 80s. Which clearly here is Vidya Balan. She is fiery, uninhibited and blatantly realistic in her role as Silk. She carries the film on her very able shoulders, not once making us feel that we are watching merely a skin show repackaged. She takes us through various emotions in the film, whether as the wide eyed extra who cries when she doesn’t see her song in the film after it has unceremoniously been dropped, the pangs of hunger when she lives on sugar, and the frustration she faces when every attempt to realize her dream gets thwarted. And then across the spectrum when she is the star who is confident, and proud of her ability to shock. But what makes Vidya’s portrayal stand out, is the innate endearing quality she retains as the small village girl, sure of her abilities. She is honest and unpretentious of getting success in the way she does. Vidya breathes a human in the sex siren’s character.

Most of the dialogues of the film are unnecessarily verbose, however some stand out for their truth. Silk’s acceptance speech at the awards makes one want to stand and clap as the screen unfolds the ‘intermission’, and she promises to continue to be the way she is.

The second half of the film drags at several points, and the two songs there seem completely forced. The narrative could have delved more on Silk’s frustration, and the zid that she possesses to continue to fight till she finally gives up, glamorously. The last scene with Silk getting ready finally before she takes death’s welcoming arms as a refuge, is particularly powerful. And as the end credits roll, you understand that you too are a part of that fickle empty theatre that cost a feisty girl’s life.

Naserruddin Shah excels. As every single time. His portrayal of Suryakant, the superstar who has stayed, and used various victims as they came along, makes you want to hate him. His eyes speak volumes, expectedly. Tusshar Kapoor’s character graph was patchy, and his role unnecessary. His rendering of it however, is unworthy of criticism. Emraan Hashmi lent is character a visible restraint as Abraham who loves the art for cinema and is forced to give in to the demands of commercial entertainment. He surprises in his un-physical love for Silk.

Oo La La, brought back the 80s magic. And subtleties of Silk’s face becoming increasingly prominent in film posters etched her rise to stardom beautifully.

My last word still for Vidya Balan. You don’t feel you are watching anyone but Silk. From the authenticity of the weight she put on, to the expressions of self loathing, to pathos ridden laughter, she excels. It’s a pity the film didn’t. She comes as a relief in today's commercial Indian cinema, where actresses sell only on their looks. One of the few actresses who know and push the limits of their craft every single time, she astonishes in every frame. She is bold. Yes. And she is an actor. Yes. And Thank God for that.

Kho Jaao

Waqt ki taseer aaj kuchh meethi si hai

Gehri khamoshi mein ek chubhan si hai

Andhera apni or kheenchta hai mujhe

Apni hi aankh se ojhal kar dena chahta hai mujhe.

Behad kush hai aaj hawa

Chandni ko saath le, naach uthi hai hala

Aaj le udenge woh sang ek saathi

Jo kai baar aakar laut gaya

Kho jaao, ud jaao

ruk jaao, tham jaao

chhod jaao, simat jaao

Aaj apne hi gham mein

Ek nayi duniya dekh aao.

Remembering Miranda- Year I

I remember the systematic tallying of cutoffs and shortlisting of colleges basis the class 12 grades. And I remember the time my feet took me to the hostel gate of Miranda House, and I wondered how wonderful it would be to stay in that Victorian style building. Crazy form filling, mad ques, plenty of rolling eyes later I found myself at the submission window- acting as aloof as I could, pretending I was relaxed and casual, and as though my life did not depend on just this one college. I listened to girls as they talked of make-up tips, I listened to some others as they discussed boyfriend(s), I listened to some more who discussed subjects, till I found some who just stood there- exchanging warm, but hesitant smiles and casting dark looks at unknown faces. I joined the smiling clan, and encouraged the sentiment. And then as I was moving out, I found a girl dart up to me and tell me that additional forms were to be submitted for the hostel. She vied for the same seat. I loved the warmth and the simplicity of that friend, and I am proud to say she is one of the closest ones till date.

Admissions done, hostel admissions done. I was proud of the fact that I was a hosteler, I couldn’t wait to start that life. There were apprehensions of leaving Daddy’s comfort and Silky’s love, and mom’s scoldings. But I was that grown-up ready for the big bad world. July 15th dawned, and I found myself at the Department of History- where there was already some kind of faint respect being shown to the residents.  Till I was addressed as ‘Hey White Shirt’. A frown creased my brow! ‘WHITE SHIRT’? Well, I do have a name you know, you black shirt!’, I thought. Oh well! I made a mental note- this one will just be one of those, I will ‘keep a distance from’. Fat chance. She is again, one of the best friends.

Night. Hostel. I meet my room-mate who I will have many fights with later. And even later become good friends with, and help form a theatre group later. Pink Shorts. Announcements. 7:00 pm, attendance. SENIORS. ‘Good evening maam’ met ‘Whats my name fresher?’ and  ‘Get your facts right, fresher’. Its been 4 hours- how will I know everyone!! But that’s okay! This is still fun! Mess. And senior pounded a steel glass on the wooden table ‘GBM after dinner’. This met mad cheering. And I knew what it meant. But surprisingly I looked forward to it. It promised to be a lot of fun!

One day in that month- I sat next to a formidable senior. I took many gulps and attempted a conversation. ‘Hi didi, I am Saumya, I wish to join Abhivyakti, you are the lady who takes the auditions right?’ ‘Get the names right fresher, then lets talk’. I gulped some more, and caught up with her. ‘Sorry, Its room A-32, right maam?’. ‘READ the poster fresher, and don’t waste my time. I will see you at 8’. Damn! I got the society name wrong, the room number wrong. I saw my theatre dreams fade away. Till that night at 8. The next three years were to give me the addiction for life. All my time, energies, best friends and best memories were to come from the same bunch of mad mad mad people. Anukriti is what I breathed, lived and dreamt. Theatre found me.

A month later I was the cool fresher, had the awesomest friends. My black shirt friend came to the hostel. I became the formidable senior’s baby. I met some friends who reveled in madness. I became the responsible one! We threw water at each other, hollered in corridors, rehearsed till the wee hours of the morning, put oil on each other’s hair, wore each other’s clothes, discussed our love lives- or the lack of them, borrowed each others notes and criticized them, slept in senior’s rooms and were pampered to the hilt, finished balance in our phones, heard random announcements, joined various committees, borrowed money to make calls- many times phones to make calls, made people run errands, gave stupid SOSs! We screamed, we shouted, we sand, we laughed, and we cried.  We were welcomed into the fold. We found friends for life. As many did before us, in that dream.

I met the women I would most admire. Vocal, formidable, frank and astonishing young women, who left an impact on me so great, also giving me friendships I would most cherish. They taught me how I never needed to pretend, and how beautiful I was from within. They allowed me to scold them and pamper them like my equals- despite being my seniors. They encouraged me in what my heart desired. They loved me when I needed them the most. And they gave me memories that I hold even 7 years later, as my first year of the three that were to be the most memorable by far.

I wish I could go back. Just this once.

Boond.

Lelahatey patton ke beech se

Ek boond tapak jaati hai

Mitti ke seene se

Ek saundhi khushboo ke saath lipat jaati hai

Har zarrey mein

Ek ankahi daastaan hai

Pattey ke har reshey mein

Usi Boond ki kahani hai

Khush kar deti hai hawa

Jab kahin chehre se khe jaati hai

Kahin door se ek boond

Palkon par gir jaati hai

Aankhen band hotey hi

Door kahin ek sapna jaagta hai

Dil ke kone mein mehfooz

Ek chhoti si baat suna jaata hai

Khuli baahon mein

Baarish ke aagosh mein

Barastey aasman ke tale

Woh sapna haule se gungunaata hai

Bas wahin door uska

Chera nazar nahin aata hai…

Aankhen khultey hi

Sapna phir dubak ke baith jaata hai

Aankhon ka paani

Ashq banker usi boond se mil jaata hai

Ek chhoti si muskuraahat

Dil ke kone mein gum, us awaaz ko dhoondti hai

Aur aankhen ek baar phit

Band honey ka intezaar karti hain

.................

Aashiqui mein marne ka jazbah sab mein nahin hota.
Khuda Yeh mauka bhi sabko nahin deta.
Yeh to mausam aur asmaan uski nahin suntey,
warna shayad janaze par rone waala bhi koi na hota.

Khamoshi

The black and white frames restrain a rocking chair, and the haunt of the whistle in an iconic tune continues. Asit Sen’s Khamoshi, redefined the meaning of the word for me. While on one hand its almost romantic, on the other it is that one thing that can kill the very soul. The inability to vocalise, makes you claustrophobic. It’s the circumstances that compel you to hold back what you would most willingly say. It’s the feeling that’s closest to you, the one that almost makes you, that then engulfs you in despair. Through that despair, its impossible to breathe, think or break away. Its impossible to see, smile or cry. It’s a gut wrenching pain that you hold on to. Because without that pain you almost feel lost. Lost in the huge crowd of faceless bodies where you could well be one of them. Lost in a world of nameless identities running mechanically from shore to shore, clinging to their pain for recognition and acceptance.

What made me write all this? The beautifully crafted character of Waheeda Rahman in Khamoshi. He sensitive portrayal and her longing for the man she loved. The film gave me again, the undying power of a woman’s unconditional love, and no matter how hard she tries, she can never win a battle against it. It gave me what Khamoshi has always meant for me. A silent force that has made me restrain my thoughts into myself. Long after the film is over, the last visual of Radha (Waheeda Rehman) entering the same ward where she healed her two patients, with the soulful, pregnant voice of Hemant Kumar, refuses to leave me. The film reminded me, how patience, trust and love can win all battles. It re confirmed to me, my belief, that there is much more to the world than just plain selfishness. And it made me marvel and miss the time cinema was intelligent, strong and beautiful. The starkness of the scenes of the hospital contrasted the warmth exuded by Radha. The simplicity and innocence of the questions that Deven Verma asked, made me want to step out into the world and remind people of the simple existence we have all left behind. It is to the cinema of that time that I bow my head in shame when critics say Guzaarish was a great film. There was something about cinema of the time. The narratives were clean, and the characters well thought of. There was sensitivity and an incredible humanity with which our attention was drawn to the issues. There was a sense of being unapologetic when it came to repercussions. It was the time when songs meant poetry, much more than a mere love ballad. There was expression in the way notes were treated. The words were simple and stayed with you forever.

Khamoshi is a film to be watched. For its cinematic excellance. For Gulzar Sahab’s words that have been weaved through gossamer strands of music. For Hemant Kumar’s soul in the song that he lends his voice to, that will make you weep, even with your eyes closed. For Waheeda Rehman, who shone her brightest at the time. For Asit Sen and his vision. And for all those people outside in the world who need our help. Where compassion, sympathy and warmth will atleast help some make a headway into this cut throat world. Just for the simple reason, that there may be some humanity still left in the world.

Raat.

Kali andheri raat ko, kis cheez ka darr hai?
Akele hi woh sunsaan sadkon ko, ek khaufnaak sapne mein badal deti hai,
Chupe hue dar ko, ek kapkape saaye mein nigal jaati hai,
Ankahi kahaniyon ko, chupke se ek ansune gaane meh ro deti hai.
Is kali andheri raat ko kiska darr hai?

Ek lau ka, jo jalne se nahin darti
Ek awaaz ka, jo sannate ko cheerti hui, zehen mein samaa jaati hai
Ek vishwaas ka, ki kali andheri raat, jald hi dhalegi.

Turning 25.

So the clock chimes at midnight daily, but it is hardly ever accompanied by a jolt in the stomach. 25. It’s a pretty big number. Somehow pre 25, was like a license to your own carefree attitude and laziness. On the other side of 25, you are somehow expected to be more ‘responsible’, ‘aware, and yes, married. Basically in a few seconds where one hand crossed the number 12, you are ticking away to prepare yourself to get life’s terms dictated to you again.

‘Pachees saal ki ho gayi ho, aur kamra theek nahin rakh sakti. Apna ghar kaise sambhaalogi’ rings out every alternate day, with Daddy making a sullen expression and giving mom a Subah-Subah-kyun-pareshaan-kar-rahi-ho-usse look, and silently helping clean up the mess. ‘You have got to be more responsible towards yourself’ rings out the Mum’s voice in the evening. No daddy to help out this time, but just a defiant look that Silky (my closest companion during my growing up years- my Dog) gives Mum, while she snuggles next to me, as I shut my half open bleary eye, to watch the dream that was rudely interrupted by Mom’s uncanny untimely remark.

I love my existence. Tousle haired, carefree, full of a never ending list of everything I want to do before ‘settling down’. It’s a whirlwind around me, at work, theatre, other passions and personal life, all of which I juggle, with a ball or two stumbling off once in a while. Though 25 years have taught me a lot. Some pearls of wisdom that only experience could have taught me.

Mothers. Don’t ever take your mother’s remarks seriously. They are never meant the way they sound. The mothers are far more guilty than you think they should be. They are just awesome people, whose skills to annoy you increase just when you thought they couldn’t go any further. I-told-you-so never dies. And as many times as they might say ‘I will never discuss this with you again’, they will discuss it with you the very next minute, and you are safest if you just listen, and respectfully agree. Another good one that you here often is ‘When you become a parent you will know’. No exasperated looks permitted, just nod and say, ‘Mum you are just always right’.

Passions. Life is empty without them. You will hear, ‘Life is about making the right choices’. But who decides what is right? Its all about you, your choices, your passions. One feels strangely claustrophobic and immaterial when what you are most passionate about, is snatched away from you. Nothing else is ever the same. And you might realize that only years after you were drawn away, and then spend the remaining years in reconstructing your lost love and world. At the end of the day the desires are ours, the will to fulfill them is ours. The road we pave is ours, and so is the idea, should we act on it.

Being Vocal. There are just two ways to lead life. Either live through issues the way the world does, or take the responsibility of being the change that you wish to see. The easiest thing is to sit back and criticize, but ask yourself, what is it that we do to change what is incorrect. I am called ‘Naari Mukti Morcha’ by almost everyone I know. And trust me, it is a title I flaunt. In a world where people are ready to stab you should you disagree with them, I wear my viewpoints on my very in-your-face sleeve. I am vociferous, boisterous to a point of being intimidating. But I am proud of it. Because I am not prepared to live in a world that I have not at least tried to better, in case I don’t succeed.

So there. Yes I am 25. But not to get married and follow the norms that the society has laid out for me. I am 25 to now give back to the world I grew up in. To respect those who deserve it. To intelligently slap those who don’t. I am here to make those who think they own the world, feel ashamed, and I am also here to remind myself the reason for my own existence. Its me. My mind. My passion. My friends. And everyone who thinks that there is merit in looking beyond just one’s own self. I don’t carry baggage. I don’t give it. And I intend to keep things that way.

Till of course, Mom wins. And I end up getting married, to the man of her dreams, for me. I wish him all the luck in the world.