Fear of awkward silence

22 08 2013

The most terrifying thing about meeting new people is the inevitable sales pitch you have to deliver for yourself, justifying your reasons for being, for doing what you do or in my case, do not do. In recent years, this is the one thing I’ve come to dread immensely.  It makes me want to crawl under the bed and stay there and never come out.  It begins innocuously, a simple question ventures out in the open, for the happy purpose of ‘breaking the ice’ and getting rid of the awkward ten second pause that follows the announcement of names.  I spend this time usually grinning like my life depended on it, and successfully scaring or scarring the poor soul stuck with me for life.  If,  I haven’t managed to drive them away then, I suppose my inherent Geek manages the job soon enough.  It can’t possibly be the fact that I speak ten thousand words per second about how the drive through Mehrauli made me feel so District 12. Nope. That can’t be it. It has to be something else.



One of my teachers in college used to call me ‘scary-looking’.  I suppose my scowling artist persona didn’t go down quite well with her but I have learnt since and worked on reducing my ‘scari-ness’. Thus, taking leaps and bounds from where I was then, I am now the smili-est person you’ll ever meet, scowls not present within a fifty mile radius.  I smile like a Cheshire act whenever I meet somebody for the first time, and I really believed it was working out well for me until someone told me that constantly smiling and being happy all the time was making me look obnoxious and would I mind toning down all the talking please, it’s getting on our nerves.  Why don’t you just sit and pipe down for once, let the sound of somebody else’s voice float about in the air.  Well, alright.



Stuck as I am, between two extremes, I find it takes a delicate balance to determine just how much talking should be done to keep the awkwardness at bay and yet allow the sound of myriad voices to bounce off the walls.  There’s nothing worse than someone talking all the time, every time. 



And that would have been fine by me, provided someone actually made the effort to pick up the slack.  But if that isn’t going to happen, for god’s sake let me talk at least we’d be free from declaring mundane inanities like,


“Oh, it’s raining.” 


“Yeah, they said it’d rain all week.”


Ho hum. A few murmurs of assent. Then, silence.



Fun, fun times.  





Final Destination 4 or Let’s get creative with human play-do!

11 09 2009

Alright, I admit I was not exactly expecting a sublime cinematic experience by watching Final Destination 4, but yeah, on the off chance I thought….hey, how bad could it be?

Very bad.

So the basic premise of the movie is to tell the viewer that Death cannot be cheated, in which case, go ahead Death. Toss the Rev. John Donne (him of The Sonne Rising, Valediction Forbidding Mourning, and Elegie: To His Mistress Going To Bed fame) out of the window and tell him that Death may indeed feel proud since it’s out to get you!

And once Death has decided you’re on the menu, nobody, not even Rajnikant can deliver you from that fate.

So moving along, our movie has four teenagers in the Hollywood tradition escape death owing to a supernatural vision descending on one of them while they devour fries at a car race.

The flustered teen manages to rush his peeps from the stands and out on to the street just seconds before a car crashes, a beam falls from the ceiling, some mechanic guy gets impaled on a bench and a whole host of other icky scenarios involving blood, guts and metal parts happen at random in very quick succession.

Thence begins the saga of churning human body parts being tossed here, there and everywhere on the screen. People get slammed by ambulances, a lady gets her eye gouged out by a rock caught under a lawnmower, a PYT escapes getting scraped into pancake batter at the car wash and one unfortunate All American boy ends up spilling his guts all over a public pool because he…cough….gets drained through a tiny hole at the bottom of the pool.

Oh joy.

The rain’s a moody lady

9 09 2009

Right about now, this very minute, 4:37 pm.

Its been promisisng to be a wet, windy and rainy sort of day for hours. The wind’s been blowing since morning and even with the twisted, sadistic luck my neighbourhood has with the rain, I can almost smell rain on the air. The trees are swaying in their characteristic slow, swishy waltzy way. Trees have a real feel for the entire dancing thing I think. Don’t believe me? Just go watch The Two Towers again. all those ballroom dancers you see on TV are no match for good ol’ Treebeard and company.

I’m hoping and praying that the first drops of raincome just before the sun goes down. That’s when rain is that its most beautiful. It’s twilight and the soft grey light of the evening becomes blurred as the drops begin to fall. It’s at times like these when its possible for anything, almost anything to be possible in the world.
Days like these are responsible for more than half the scifi and fantasy literature written in the world today. There’s something so magical, stern yet beautiful about a dark raincloud ont he horizon. It feels like its easier to believe and speak of dragons, of sorcery and witchcraft under a grey, wet sky.

I know for sure because that’s when I begin to mould the threads of my imgination together to form stories with the fantastic coming alive.

What do you think?

Anger Management

6 08 2009

I don’t know what it is about angry people that is scary. Maybe its the twisted features of their faces, or the fact that all angry people (I mean ALL angry people here – you, me, your mother, her two thousand and fifty five relatives) all of them end up looking ridiculous as the anger mounts.

Now you may get angry over the state of the roads in Delhi, or the guy who has never heard of deodorent standing right next to you in the elevator or even the pesky kids that draw squiggly lines on the dusty windows of your car, but all of us angry people like to think that “our” anger is justified and upheld by the gods themselves; because we are oh-so-righteous and we know what we’re talking about and the other guy (everyone doing the perpetrating of injustice and evil ergo disagreeing with us and making us angrier) is plain WRONG. Don’t ask how we know it – he just is!

Don’t ask us why we’re angry. We just are.

Anger is fine.

Rage is fine.

Fury, too, is fine.

What is not fine is the way we gladly leave our humanity and compassion wilting in the dust when anger takes over. It’s alright to angry as long as you don’t forget that the person you are railing and ranting at is also a human being with feelings that have to be considered. You may consider yourself justified in screaming, shotuing and generally making a nuisance of yourself but if yourself through the eyes of the person you’re busy shredding to bits, you might perhaps reconsider the antics, and cool down.

Varun Gandhi wants better security…what a laugh!

5 07 2009

Poor little boy Varun Gandhi…victimised and traumatised by antinationals who want to kill him. How funny is this? Maneka Gandhi seems to enjoy a very selective memory where she conveniently forgets that her son is the man who promises a crowd of people that he will effectively cleanse his constituency of a certain community – is that not tantamount to murder? But Varun Gandhi himself is a victim. Because he has not been given “adequate” security. I really want to know what adequate security is.

Perhaps we will find out once we figure out how to protect the scores of people who are living every day in fear expecting to be swatted like flies by the poor litte boy.

When jokers throw punches….

8 02 2009

In the frenetic hours before starting a blog, I’d decided that this would be a blog that people would sit up and notice.  Something was going to be said, and by Gawd! It would be something momentous, stupendous, marvelous, remarkable, fantastic, something that would serve as a fearless catalyst to lingering moments of epiphany, something that would seize the reader (MY reader) by the unmentionables and make them want to burst forth in a creative supernova. 


That’s what I’d decided, and I thought it would be pretty smooth sailing.  I was going to talk about big, weighty issues that in part or as a whole commented upon the existential question, world politics, what’s holding us all back from coming together as a nation, a country, a planet even.  The state of education, the exploitation of women, global warming, the fact that the Male Chauvinist Pig refuses to die out, even natural selection fails us there (Get that no-good rat Darwin! This is not what we signed up for and we want our money back!)


The trouble with natural selection is that even if you admit it makes sense that the fittest should lead, procreate and continue the march of mankind on the world, somehow, owing to a twisted joke some guy with a Metaphysical hold on the universe decides to play on us, it almost never happens these days.  If it did, I am sure that the strain of weakness and the utter incapability to appreciate strength in another would be eradicated in all men cutting across class lines.


In this post though, I’m going to tackle the Mangalorean wimps who beat up girls in a pub. 


The inability to see strength, confidence and above all power in the hands of another, or as we learned to say in discourses of gender and inequality, ‘The Other’ really cannot be called anything apart from a debilitating weakness.  It is weakness and a deeply rooted sense of inferiority that leads to an almost ritualistic sense of inflated ego and perception of self that is supported through the conscious and deliberate dehumanizing and destruction of the ‘Other’. 

When a self image is defined and sustained only through an acknowledgment of difference and opposition from the Other, it leads to a problematic and uneasy construction of identity that is prone to rupture and decay as time passes and such constructions (that are static) find it difficult to negotiate with new systems of self recognition and identity. 


A man who identifies himself as a man only because he is something that does everything a woman cannot do and should not do will find it painfully confusing, infuriating and mentally destabilizing to watch a woman, indeed an army of women literally kicking his arse while they surpass and outclass him at what he does and does not do.  For the cardboard cut-out males produced by the million in this country and others, the revelation that a female is capable of using her mind, her body and her brain to function so that it serves her purpose and empowers her is a blow to the family jewels, an attack on the fortress of manhood, an act that robs them of everything precisely because their idea of self and self worth is determined by what a woman is NOT in relation to them.  It symbolically rapes them and leaves them devoid of a sense of being. 


According to the Mangalorean wimps, they are men:


1)     Because they have a Y chromosome in their DNA strands.

2)     They are anatomically men

3)     Wait, you need more reasons than that?!!!

4)     Well, they’re smart BUT they can’t be expected to think – that’s just too much trouble.

5)     They are brave BUT they need to be in a group of 10 to 20 guys to feel safe beating up three girls outside a pub.

6)     They’re custodians of Indian culture BUT it’s alright for them not to know what that ACTUALLY means.  I mean, how many things do you expect the poor fellows to remember when there are important things like Culture Defending to worry about.

7)     They are not scared of anyone BUT they piss their pants if they see a girl from their community talking to someone outside the charmed circle. (This is because they know the number of female options open to them is dwindling even as they speak and they really can’t afford to have these Other Religion guys come steal their women.)

8)     Profanity is their big ticket to manhood. Unless they can spout two or three curses involving copulation, they really don’t get the feel of being a man.

9)     They can talk and debate too BUT they would rather roar and growl and create several high pitched animalistic sounds to sounds how fierce they are. An extended vocabulary is for sissies.

10)                        They’re doing all of this to protect women. 

11)                        They really don’t get what the big deal is, all they did was beat a few girls o teach them a lesson, isn’t that the Vedic way to doing things anyway?

12)                        They’re getting their lunches packed.  They got tipped off that there are lewd, indecent and naked figurines of men and women involved in gruesome acts of Foreign Influence in Khajuraho, so they need to go there and bust things up.  It’s not temples; no way!  That’s just Muslim propaganda!  Our gods and goddesses were very well behaved and proper. 


When you have a psychosis as messed up as that, it is no wonder that some of these men have to prove that something still moves and breathes in the blocks of wood they carry above their shoulders. 

What say thou?

Spills, chills, spooky thrills…

2 02 2009

Alright, so that’s probably not the proper way to go about learning how to rhyme, but that’s all I am capable of at the moment.  Picking up from where I left off in the Lansdowne post, we didn’t do much the first day at the Mess. 

Nervously went down to the Mess for dinner….why nervously? Simple.  It’s a Army Mess therefore, you are supposed to arrive dressed in formal clothes, which means, at the very least trousers, tucked in shirt and formal shoes for men, and a sari, dress or salwar kameez with heels for women.  Quaint? Very.

Only problem was, my husband had completely forgotten about mentioning this tiny little rule to me so we were effectively at the mercy of the Mess superviser for any victuals.  The supervisor was a very decent sort of chap though and he allowed us in despite our obvious lack of formal dress. 


At night, we slowly walked back to our cottage.  the howling wind shook the windows and made them stutter.  What would have been a terribly romantic walk in the moonlight was reduced to a kind of lumbering march uphill with our hands thrust deep in our respective pockets and chins down, so that we could walk through the freezing wind without our noses falling off our faces. 


Once inside, I can’t say that the situation improved.  The room we had was originally part of a larger room with four or five fireplaces, which were divided into smaller rooms to accommodate more people.  What they didn’t take into account was that these rooms were built to be heated by fires.  And now, that you can’t build a fire inside the room since the fireplaces were boarded up and plastered over…..the room was freezing!

Have you ever tried to sleep while a window rattles ten inches away from your ear?  It’s downright impossible.  you turn so your ear is directly perpendicular to your pillow, which is fine for about ten seconds, after which your ear is crushed and a million pins plunge head first into the side of your head in protest.  “Heaven’s sake!  Turn over woman!  Are you trying to kill me?  I’m the thing that lets you hear , you inconceivably idiotic glob of glue!”

Turn again, lie straight and the wind whistles in your ears…..swoosh swoosh…it’s no good.  So I decided to sit at the window and look outside.  I figured there wouldn’t be anybody outside, and it would be dark so eventually I’d get bored and would fall asleep.  Plus, the whole ghost-at-Lansdowne thing had been weighing on my mind and I thought that the middle of the night would be the best time to see evidence or remnants of a spooky spectre floating about. 

Ten minutes of relentless staring out the window yielded no results, I must’ve looked half out of my mind, staring into the black night.  I don’t know what I expected.  Perhaps I was hoping to see a perfectly formed ghost dragging chains about like Old Marley or maybe I even might have expected the modern, effects-enhanced Nearly Headless Nick variety.

But I sure as hell did not expect this.  Nothing was happening.  The disappointment was unnerving.  The wind swirled about in the leaves, branches swayed.  It was a perfect night for a ghost.  Perfect.  Dark, stormy (somewhat) and annoyingly cold.  The set was flawless, the light (no light)  just right and the sound was clear, but our star performer didn’t feel like making an entry. 

What tantrums. 

The next day, we trekked to Tiffin Top, from where you get a unrivalled view of the valley and the Himalayas.  The weather had cleared completely so we could see the snowladen peaks of the Great Himalayas directly in front.  Incidently, the best time to visit Lansdowne is from September to October because the weather stays clear and visibility is at a high.  chart

 So you can see for miles on end.  The Mess supervisor was kind enough to point out several peaks to us, some were names after Englishmen, others were fortunate enough to keep their vernacular names.  Some peaks visible are Badrinath, Kedarnath, Nanda devi, Nanga Parbat, Chaukhumba – which is a rhombus like peak, with three high points visible from the Mess.

The best time to see the mountains is sunrise.  As the first rays of sunlight fall upon the peaks, they seem to burst into flames and turn pink.  As the sun pushes itself out of the shadow of the mountains, the pinkish glow on the peaks fades and gives way to the brilliant reflection of sunlight – gleaming white. 


 I sought the Mess supervisor out after dinner.  I wanted to know about Roberts, the ‘presence’.  At first he seemed reluctant to tell me anything, but persistent cajoling finally brought him around and he told me that strange things happen around the Mess and especially in the cottage where we were staying – the cottage named after Brigadier Roberts, who was a decorated officer of the Regiment.  . 

The grand piano in the Mess begins to play mysteriously after everything has been shut and locked down.  The billiards table in the museum section of the Mess is another favourite.  Entry is restricted in the museum, formal dress rules apply and you form a tendency to speak in whispers once inside.  The museum is chock-a-block with Raj memorabilia.  Humoungous skins of tigers, panthers, lions and leopards adorn the wall, alongside the stuffed heads of deer, wild buffaloe and Tibetan gazelles.  Their glassy eyes stare down at you,  the fierceness of their lives reduced to a spectacle.  

The floor of one room is laid with tiny pieces of bone china.  Apparently a shipment of bone china coming from Delhi got smashed en route to Lansdowne so the officers decided that it should be put to use as flooring.  And the final room houses the billiards table.  It’s a huge 19th century affair, shipped down from London.  Brigadier Roberts was very fond of the game and the Supervisor confirms reports that the billiards balls are scattered as though after a rousing game on some mornings when they unlock the museum to air it out. 

Other instances include a benevolent sort of corporal punishment.  Guards who fall asleep on duty at night are roused by a resounding slap across the face.  When they sit up, flabbergasted and horrified, there is nobody around. 

I nodded sagely and wandered back to the cottage.  The night felt creepier today, perhaps it was because I had heard tales of a ghost from a source who seemed the picture of rationality and reason.  But ghosts don’t exist and I wasn’t about to start believing in them just because a few men left alone on a hillstation Mess believed so.  Right?

That night I couldn’t sleep again. After much tossing and turning and getting told off by my husband that I was being a nuisance, I stood and calmly pulled my sneakers and jacket on.  I crept down the stairs as nimbly as I could, taking care to walk on the tips of my toes.  Lights were out, it was pitch black outside.  I couldn’t see a thing.  I switched on the light on the porch and sat down in one of the big wicker chairs facing the mountains. 

I must have sat for about two minutes when a creeping sensation climbed up my throat.  It was scary.  I was scared, no…. terrified.  The night was quiet and black.  There was no sound, not even the sound of the wind.  I looked towards the Mess.  Nothing.  No footsteps, no birds chirping, nothing.  It felt like the silence of a graveyard.  No! I was determined to think of Oompa Loompas and Popeye the Sailor, not graves and Marley and dark, dank places. 

I don’t remember when I heard it  first.  But it was distinct.  A slow,  snarling, shrill, scratching, scraping animalistic sound.  It was like nothing I have ever heard before.  It seemed to come from all sides.  I sat straight, like a rod.  I closed my eyes and stood.  Turning towards the stairs, I ran.  I clamoured up the stairs like a fury, burst through the door and jumped into the bed, covers firmly over my head.  If  my husband was shocked, he didn’t show it, he simply held me tight and didn’t let go till morning.  I didn’t speak of it, neither did he ask, but I think he must have guessed what happened.

As we began our decent back to Delhi, out of the hills and into sanity, I looked at him and said, “Hey, you were right.  They do have a presence up here.”