One for Democracy

I am an Indian.  I was told in my formative years in school, that I belong to the biggest democracy. I was told that I am given rights, that, if violated, could be contested, fought for. I was told, in the many years of rehearse and regurgitating that my classrooms forced out of me, that many a lives worked and fought for me to lead a life of respect where I am given, just given, Rights. While there are others who live under tyrants, capitalists and communists, I was given RIGHTS. I was told all of this, and I was made to rehearse and regurgitate and I did. And so I remember.

As I began to form my own opinions because of this mighty democracy that was born into, I began to witness, bit by bit, year after year, one by one, my rights being contorted, and made a mockery of by mobs. By unreliable, dishonest, undemocratic mobs. I found that my country’s most celebrated painter had to die in exile. That I cannot dress the way I want to, hang out in the places that I want, it began to dawn on me, that maybe, just maybe, what I was taught was inaccurate. Text book. A mere presentation. I began to see, that maybe, my democracy is a sham.

But what kept my faith hanging by the frail chord of an ailing string, was sadly the fact, that I am not a painter. So nothing irked me per say.

Today it seems, the shackles of my democracy press against my veins. Caging me into a forced lifestyle.
Today, it seems, that my Freedom of Choice is being taken away from me. And I am hurt, humiliated, frustrated and disillusioned by this mighty democracy. Today, I am tired of this sham.

You cannot tell me what movies I should watch, the PG13 phase is over now. I am an adult. I work. I pay my taxes in thousands, every year. And I am a human being, brought up with the ideologies of a democracy that offers me choice, opinion, liberty and dignity. All of which are being taken away from me today.

I have the RIGHT to like a particular kind of music. Personally, I love folk, rock, heavy metal in any language, so  long as it makes musical sense to me, I like french music, I’m beginning to dive into the world of house and techno, I don’t like trance at all, I love jazz, fusion, psychedelic, and gosh, the list is endless. I MAKE A CHOICE to listen to the music i like, or explore new music. But ONLY I get to make that choice. My mother never asked me not to listen to something because it wasn’t her kind of music. She, having been brought up by the same ideologies of our mighty democracy, allowed me to enjoy my rights, allowed me to make my own choices.

Why do you believe you can force me to listen to the kind of music you want me to? Or eat at the places you think I should? You are not my mother, not my guardian, and certainly not my friend, and your absolute disrespect for my opinions, doesn’t warrant you or your opinions to matter to me. Not one bit.

I am insulted by, what now looks like the custodians of my democracy. When you tell me I can’t dance at a club, because you want to curb bar dancers, you are then telling me, that I, a hard working tax payer in this country, a natural citizen of India, am dancing for money at a club. You are insulting me by telling me that you are unable to see a difference between me and a bar dancer, and I am insulted, not because I think bar dancers are bad, but simply because I am not one. And I don’t want to be categorized with one, just like I wouln’t want to be categorized with a politician, because, I AM NOT ONE.

I DO NOT want to listen to hindi songs, or Kanada songs when I’m at a pub/club/bar, because I DO NOT ENJOY THEM. I MADE THAT choice. DOn’t you see? My democracy says I’m allowed to. And when I’m paying my hard earned money for a sisxty of whiskey I bloody well get to listen to the kind of music I want to. If clubs/bars/pubs that play local music do not survive then it does not make any BUSINESS sense. You cannot FORCE me into giving them business.

So maybe I like to dance at a party in a club, maybe I just like to sit on a comfortable couch with my friends, drink my drink, pepsi, wine, coke, ginger ale, I get to choose see, maybe I like  none of that. maybe on most days, I sit at home, with my doggie and my music and a book. But are you telling me, that should I WANT to, YOU are taking away MY ability to CHOOSE where I’d like to go, what I’d like to do there?

I do not get into brawls, hell, the most number of brawls I’ve seen are on your tiny unplanned roads in Bangalore. I am not a hooker and I don’t know of any club that I go to that provides the service, I am a human being, who loves different things, I love fashion, I love chicken, I love beef , I hate pork, I do not like the sambar made in Karnataka, I prefer the Tamil Sambar, I am a universe of likes and dislikes and YOU CANT TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME. I do not break the law and don’t you even dare to tell me that liking loud western music with my beef pepper fry is a crime. Don’t tell me letting music flow through my veins and letting the music talk through my body is a crime. DON’T.

You’re spitting on my Freedom of Expression. You’re trampling over my right to choose, and the only thing I can think of is fleeing. Going away from a place that does not understand me, respect me, my dignity and my right to choose. I want to leave this country, because I am disrespected here. My art is disrespected here. I want to leave to a place, where my fundamental rights aren’t toyed with. Next time somebody says this country’s going to the dogs, I won’t stop them.

Stop your false democratic parades. This democracy is a sham. And today, I give up.

To Anna's Little Champions

Well, you did it. Stood up, stood your ground, and fought for your way.

I don't know what will happen in the parliament, but I suppose now, I wont see you paying off a cop for no fault of yours. I suppose I won't catch you breaking the law. Maybe now, you'll get through to college without donations, get your hall tickets without paying up. I guess now if you fail your exams, you fail your exams; without finding some professor in the university to buy into clearing your paper. You're too resolved against corruption for that yeah?

I like where this is going.

I hope to find the lot of you pelting stones at an Empire or any restaurant you find open after eleven in the night, you do know they pay the cops to be able to stay open don't you? But since you're into starving yourselves, and lighting candles, I guess these restaurants will witness, many an empty nights, haloed by your quiet candles, symbols of how much you despise the dark and deceitful corridors of our corruption.

I hope now, our streets will have drivers and riders who have really earned their licenses, buses where every passenger gets a ticket, new houses that get their water supply without bribing the concerned organisations. I know you will go thirsty and dirty than pay someone up to get your work done. I have never seen a more resolved lot than you, and boy, I am in awe.

Now that we’ve all come together like never before, I suppose no more downloading movies off the internet then? No more songs off the net, now that we're fighting corruption, why not add stealing off the internet to it too? I guess we have to give up our ways and I'm really proud to know your kind for being this... how shall I say it?  Determined to set things right yes?

Good. This is good.

So tell me, the thousand, hundred, fifty odd people appointed to see the country bribe,corruption and flea bag free, are people like you yeah? People who don't pay to get their work done.  People who would rather die than take a little extra money. People who don't dream of owning three houses with their government salaries? So next time you're asked to pay to get your papers, to get into some place or out of it I guess you'd rather stay put, than get your work done with money. You're sure right? Really?

Well that's good too then.

So what will your next battle be? Tough exams? Heavy school bags for kids? How about we fight for the preserving of our culture and traditions? Don't you think we're losing our identity? How can we let that happen? Next time one of you is convinced beyond reason that women should NOT be working, but should be at home, looking after the holistic development of their families, I urge you to please, stand up for your believes, show up on our social networking sites and catch the nods of our many hungry thirsty rebellious youth, craving for a battle.

So yeah, Anna's little minions, you've done it.

Forget about the North East of our country, still struggling to be noticed. Forget our farmers, forget child trafficking, hell, why don't you conveniently forget the fact that it's you who facilitates, breeds, harbours, feeds and nurtures corruption.

I know you're looking within. And I know, that because of you, Little Champions of Anna, I will never have to pay above the meter for an auto again. I won't ever have to worry about not having the funds for a medical seat. Nor will I have to worry about keeping my shop open if I don’t pay the hafta.

Sure, it was nice, the stint. We all need a revolution. I know we want to stop corruption. But tell me please, what do you know about this drive you so faithfully participated in, apart from the two key words: Anti Corruption.

Are you sure you did the right thing? Tell me, do you finally feel good about yourselves?
The time now really is to see How much of Anna you really are. I certainly am nothing like him.

SInce When Did Royalty have to Work?!

Today, I have managed to wake up on time, but I don't want to work. I just don't. I just don't feel like it. And I don't want to go.
It's not that I don't have an amazing work life. I do. But my not wanting to work feeling is so strong today, that I'm about *this* close to quitting.
See what I really want to do is take off and go. Somewhere. Anywhere. I know I only just got back, but I want to go. I think flight is sinking in again and that's a little worrisome.
I don't know why I am this flighty.  Something about being grounded that just doesn't work for me. I need to know that I have somewhere to go. When I'm on my way back form that somewhere, I need to know that there's somewhere else I can go. The nomad in me is taking shape of a travel junkie of sorts, and I'm not complaining.
I need to go. EVERYWHERE! I want to live out of a suitcase. Eat strange food, meet amazing people breathe different air and write! Oooohh boy... this is not helping the fact that I need to be getting ready for work right now... So quit.. or be wise..???

This is when I miss my royalty status. You see, I used to be a Princess, in the city of ... luxur. And as small as my city was, boy was I rich! It so happened that our Royal Scientist one day made something you modern folks call a Time Machine. See that's the kind of shit we got down ages ago bitches.
.... Okay this was going to be a very interesting story about my true identity, one I have managed to keep concealed for  eons now. However, modern civil, un-royal iving calls for my being wise and demands that I get up from this beautiful almost royal bed of mine, change from my very royal Ts, and make like a tree and leave. ..

..Perhaps another time then mortals. For now, it's time to chase the greens.. or the browns.. wait.. weird blues and reds?!

....

Walking back home on an evening that isn't quite there yet. Lucky to have gotten off work early, grateful for the amazing place I work at, I see two men, talking, flirting, clinging to a prostitute. They're laughing their letchi laugh. Thirsty to get off, and you can see it in their eyes.

I wonder then. how so much good and so much bad finds this strange ratification on planet earth.

I see her surviving. And I see them... Well, I see them being Human.

This being human thing still perturbs me from time to time. All that power. And the futility of it all too. For all the clue we walk around so insolently with, we really haven't a clue.

We're a bunch of frightened, seemingly civilized monkeys who really know nothing more than what we believe we know.
Our beliefs make us. As amazing as that sounds, it's still quite unsettling. How much of what we belive is true anyway?

They hold her by the hand and pull her away into one of the buildings and as I watch them go, I'm suddenly glad to have this home I can go to. Sit in. Lay pointlessly in. Happy to know, that should I take flight, I can come back. Sometime. Anytime.

♪ The time you ran was too insane We'll meet again, we'll meet again ♫

Cob webs fill up the walls of this chaotic mind, and the frantic chords sounding off of a rusty guitar make way for comfort. There's a certain intangible truth in a dead man's song.



The magic of it's ringing wisdom. The occult surrounding the thoughts of he who once was man, but now is dead. Or the curious, haunting calm that can only come from slipping into the mischievous couloir of an ever growing past.

The  breathless harmony that takes over from the music of the now dead, is enslaving. There is this sweet, seductive silence that fills up inside; with each key gliding into those very veins that were a mere tool just a few moments ago. The succor of his voice, crawling ever so tidily and bursting out of the tips of your fingers and toes. And the satisfying predictability of it all.

There is an aggravating calm in consistency. In what seems to be an almost contorted way-repetition dulls, but consistency, comforts.

Often times, you need some things, to remain constant. A certain way of life, certain patterns, and certain people. Patterns are easy to keep, if you really want to. Lifestyles are easy to maintain, if you try hard enough. But the people, those you can't keep.

So in those many rampageous and muddled moments when the rickety tiles of what is, my only ground, seem to tremble and spiral out of control into a foreseeable lacuna and state of bleak nothingness, I let the dead man speak; and It is through the delectable words in his ghost songs that I am pacified. The predictability of his rehearsed chords, lets me dive into the ocean of his notes and through his words, I find my pattern again. Forgetting the inconsistency of human relations that seem as flighty as my heart.

I let the cursory breeze of this chilly night mingle with his words, feeling comforted, in his mystifying melody.

On reaching God.

Sometimes I try to reach God. Somewhere inside. I hear nothing but the tenuous calm that floats within me in deep silence. And despite my mortal unknowing; I somehow *know*. I could be anywhere. That doesn't matter.


Sometimes that works.
Sometimes it doesn't.

Sometimes I try try to reach God. And my pulse quickens, because I know the disheveled confines of my room won't do. I know an evening walk won't do, and so I make my way into one of the chambers they say *some* God pays attention to. I walk in, because I have no where else to go.

I don't go to pray. Prayers frighten me; because God has a way of not answering.
I go to find my silence again.

As I sit there, marveling at man's seamless imagination and dexterity; I see others, human, like me walk in. Kneeling, crying, hoping, *praying*. And the piano begins to play almost on cue, as the voices rise in unknown faith, each word growing wings, making its way up to the angels, their voices believe exist.

I cannot find my silence here, amidst tears, and desperate pleading- Talking to this figure that stands firm with the strength of all their hopes.
I see hunger in their eyes. And I see haplessness.
I kneel, I stand, I bow, I light a candle, but I don't know why.
I wonder if my thoughts are worthy of attention, between the many tears that surround me. 

I cannot get passed my inability to see beyond the literature, and lose myself in the moral confines of these Gods of right and wrong. But I cannot deny that feeling of something calm setting in when inside a designated house of god.

It could be the collective faith of a great many unknowing mortals like me, that helps me momentarily forget the bureaucracy of it all and feel the magic of the faithful. It could be the exigent and prodigious hope that is insatiable the moment you step in. The unburdening; transposing of a pain that would otherwise consume the weary.
It could be the collective yearning. It could be anything.

I sometimes try to reach God. And muffled between the saintly tingling of the church's bell, and my little my quiet space within, sometimes, I think I reach God. Sometimes I don't.

As far as you can tell

As much as you know, in the quietest corners of your mind, that you're "probably" better of this way. Sometimes, you still wish it could have been just a little bit different.
Sometimes, in those secret musings with your heart, you can't help but be candid, be unrealistic, be silly, and poetically sullen; wishing, that things could have been different.

Nothing needs to be wrong with how things really are, its just that the picture could be just a little bit different. Couldn't it? And you wonder why not.

What if she didn't have to die that way, what if he didn't have to. What if she loved, what if he stayed and what if, just what if, he still breathed... towering over me like the figure I often wish there was.

...Though I know, I'm "probably" better off this way.

Wishing things were different...somehow helps me blame reality. .... That it's not my fault. But all of reality's doing. So "what if" you played it differently life?

Would it really be that bad if you could be nice sometimes?

Lightening Kisses. [You could say]

.... I cannot fathom what love is anymore... I try to lose myself in lightening kisses, indulging in sophistry; something I already know is an apocryphal story, still I let it play.  I do not know the heart these bones encase anymore so I let it flutter and beat, making me feel I may know it a little after all; I let myself believe. I let myself believe my lie so I can be wafted in the moment. So I don't see myself. I don't hear the stranger beating in my chest. Beating at it. So I can forget. Forget how much I do not know the person, sitting there, pushing her hair to one side, clinging to her fears, expectant like a child again.

It isn't that I don't despise the waking up, the silence. It isn't that I don't despise being told by a stranger to move on.  Not because I like thinking "but you don't know me, and you never tried." Not because I enjoy feeling less of myself in a soul that is fast becoming more than a stranger to me. A soul quickly turning into a distant mirror that I cannot look into.

I do it because I love the lie. The scent of that little lie brewing, makes the chaos disappear, the silence disappear and the emptiness then masquerades into budding, thriving, grooving life.
Yes, I love the lie, because the lie is the only way I feel any control over me. Over this life. Over this quaint planet harbouring me, without telling me why. 

I cannot fathom what love is anymore. I do not know who I am anymore, and I can feel my mind crumbling. So I trace my steps, chart my map just so I can garner the hope of something more, some time soon maybe, before I give in to this abysmal void taking over my space and my existence. So I trace my steps in the congenial purr of the evening. But I do not know if I must retrograde first. I do not know where to begin.

So I sit put. I can't move, till I know where to go. Bouncing between a hiccuping tomorrow and a  today that's caught firmly in yesterday's deep and dingy moor has taken it's toll on me. So I sit still, arms down, flags ready, under the evening sky.

There's something about the evening that makes me think. Nothing like the skies thousands of meters above the ground. Not like the phantasmagorical clouds leaving room for imagination.
There's something about the evening. The silhouettes. The yellow orange. And the many lives that pass by me so freely.

It grows darker. It's night. And the tears have done their rounds and tired. I move. Not ahead, nor do I look behind me. I walk away. Into a night of company, a night of noise, a night of lightening kisses. So I don't have to decide for just a little bit longer.

Sometimes

Sometimes, you just want to die. Not so much for the death part of it all. But sometimes you want out. You want to flow into the waves of sound and fly away in it.

Sometimes you want to be right. You want to be desirable. You want to know that you've got it too. After all, this is the only life you remember. 

Sometimes you want to be like everyone else.. so much better, so much free- er, so many more things to do.

Sometimes you just want to feel 23. Without the chaos, without the debris and without the bleak feeling of what lies ahead.

...

It's strange why we meet the people we do. As random as the universe really seems. There is some deep undervalued pattern harbored by her, muffled with her jarring chaos. There is a secret behind her every move and each of her warnings. There is reason.

There is no regret in things done, undone, things we think we should have done. There is no regret, because the universe will have it no other way. The possibilities are limitless, unforeseen and unforeseeable. The possibilities are haunting. The possibilities exist. And there is but one path to be taken; and it is simply the one that you took.

The universe likes to make us believe that there are no strings attached in this puppet life we feel gifted to have found ourselves in. We forget though, that there was no choice in our coming. There is no choice in our going. And no choice at all in the mess in between.
She chuckles while she watches us "try". Sometimes... she pities us; but she wont dare let the jig be up. We're all the entertainment she's got.

We carry on though, masquerading with our lives; attending one ball after the other. With eyes well hidden and a protected heart; marching forward into unknown time, ticking ever so slowly in unaccounted for seconds, seeping forward, right into the chaos.

There's no telling why we meet the people we do, and why we do the things we do. There's no telling why the universe won't just tell us we have no choice, right at the very beginning, instead of alluding us toward that final truth of choice-less-ness with her almost invisible messages lit up by dimming neon lights.

All that's left now, is waiting. For the next scene, the next act, new entrances. Some grand, some quiet. All that's left now is a costume change, a different set up and better lines. All that's left is for the puppeteer to  drag us...now to the left.. and now right. Until that final exit even before we're ready.
But there's no complaining, the Universe would have it no other way.

***

Just a Little Before I Die

Today I met a singer. Well not really met one, but more so that I came to know of one when he slowly popped out of the group of 30 and decided to sing farewell to a colleague leaving. And I realised.

There is a little bit of someone in all of us. The quiet singer, the quintessential novelist, the closet painter, the delusional businessmen, the arty actor and the oblivious and very ignorant rally driver, there's someone in there, almost always hidden, somewhere in there, in all of us.

So what happens to these little characters we so truly are somewhere in between growing up and earning a living? Do we given into the bitch that survival is? Is that what happens? Or do we simply forget? I don't know. But seeing that man I don't know, don't want to know and probably will never meet again, singing there, swimming in the confines of his sheer vocal melody.. I wondered,.. how many hidden whats and whos were out there with me tonight.

How many closet rockstars and dreamers stood there, in the same room with me, with the music, the instructions and the magic of the moment taking charge.
I wondered how many non-conformists stood there in line, beating the drums as they were told, and I wondered what happened to them all.

And then.., suddenly it hit me, how all of them, right there in front of me, swaying to the instructions of the man with the drums, of how all of them right there, beating to the whistle, turning to the beats, and smiling, enjoying the little 45 minute break they seem to have been promised after a grueling year of labour... almost every one of them, was an example of what I could be, if I didn't hold on to my bearings right and if I didn't hold to that little neha screaming for attention inside.

So I realised, standing atop a chair with a camera in hand, hands aching, watching people dance and make music to the ears and instructions of someone they've never even met before; that there's very little time left. before the fire loses it's sight and focus... And I'll be damned if I ever found myself there....
...So, standing atop a strange looking chair, camera in hand, strangers in front of me aware of how their every move was being taped...by someone they didn't even know and probably wont remember... I realised, just how much I need to do, to keep myself from fading into just another corporate story; promising myself, never will I be on the other side... waiting for a chance, in a group of about 30 odd zombied  ppl... waiting for a chance to be able to sing..just so I could say adieu...

So balls to the silly plans that never work. It's time to live, just a little before I die.