It's Friday, I'm in Love

These guys really got it right !

The Cures, were a band from the '70's, and somehow, those guys seemed to know so much more ! Maybe, they weren't distracted with all the App downloads our generation is burdened with.

I was link hopping (because, really what else makes sense), and I came across this - http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/i-want-a-tuesday-kind-of-love/
That's when I knew, I belonged to the other camp. The camp of crazy loonies who talked a lot, drank a lot and thought a lot.

This is my reply. Why I won't settle for anything less, than a Friday kind of love.

Anything surreptitious could come and go, but this, I would've wanted to wait for, to crave and ache for. It shouldn't come too easy and it shouldn't come quick. It has to be alive with moments of palpable tension, with chemistry and sometimes downright hate !

Don't give me something I can ignore; that's an eventuality I will reach on my own. I want to stay up all night talking, only to be exhausted and regretting it the next day. Where there's stability, tempered with a pinch of madness. I'll take giddy fits of giggles over quiet smiles. Hand me those burning secrets, you can keep the knowing it all.The surety that you will always come around, mingled with the anxiousness of how to dress us up. I need to be entangled in every mystery that makes them who they are, and when the mystery is over- make a new one up.

I want to do my bills knowing that I ceded some control, to someone else. The power to make me come undone. I want to brush my teeth, resolving to get it back everyday.  A Friday kind of love, when you're a part of their everyday nothings, while plotting subconscious dreams of grandeur. To be able to let loose, be out there alone, fighting your demons. All the while knowing, if you do look back, someone is standing there- to hand you the second sword, so you can fight your fights harder.

A Friday kind of love, isn't poetic or candy floss romantic, it is blood and gore and your favorite drink afterwards. It is the quiet knowledge, that while every new person can be a day of the week, I'll be the weekend night you wait for. The weekend Knight to get away from the laundry, and the job lists. A Friday kind of love, is going back to your childhood and making castles out of your blanket. The world outside is mean and fierce, but inside the torch can keep you warm. It can keep you young and alive.

A Friday kind of love, is grabbing pizza and talking about the imaginary friends you had. Some that you still do. Loyalty is no longer a penny a piece, and not enough people talk about what could have been, what should have been. It is a conversation of endless loops of hashed old ground. You want to talk till your mouth is dry. It is sitting somewhere, knowing that the regular stuff, the everyday stuff is a few days away. This moment is all you, all you've ever wanted to be. As ridiculous a career choice, as a Ballerina tutu wearing, astronaut.

A Friday kind of love, is the one you can't wait to tell your friends about, the next day at brunch. It's ridiculous and sometimes annoying. It's a little impractical and entirely too hopeful, it's pressured by a thousand and one expectations. But you look forward to it, day after day.

When the rest of the week weighs heavy on you, you can wear a wicked smile.
Knowing fully well, that you conformed and compromised Monday to Thursday, but Friday you were in Love.

The What-If Productions.

Her-  Passion can sometimes be overrated. Peace, you see peace, is where stability, welfare, growth and the good things lie.
Me- But, Passion is what Woody Allen movies are based on.

Ok, so that only wins me the argument in my head.

The Peace vs. Passion argument is overarching and can extend to almost any emotional context. I’m batting for Passion here, and if you disagree then shut the f***k up.
That, was a case in point.

Passion has been getting a bad rep for being symptomatic of violence, craziness and general evil. Peace is the other harp playing, potato-eating, White cousin. Ask a kid to colour passion and peace, and they’d pick out red and white. Ask a young graduate to colour, and they’d do the same. Passion is the bad guy, the crazy, angry, smoker dude. Peace has Provident funds and health benefits on its side.

It’s been said that chasing a passion, can leave you broke, frustrated and worse, lonely. But, true loneliness is experienced when you deny your passions. When they’re put aside for propriety, the ‘better thing’, and being safe. If you’re carrying around that sort of gap- it never really goes away. Playing it safe, choosing what is ‘best’ (read : what causes least discord within me and outside), without inconveniencing myself or anyone will not help  join Oprah’s Shiny Happy People club .
I concede that passion is a condition of the privileged. But if you are, if you aren’t struggling to make ends meet- why aren’t you out there, doing what you’re passionate about? Consumed in what makes you tick ? And creating?

Create. Destroy. Create. Recreate. But  do it, and own it.
(Hyper, high-pitched inflection of tone is much harder to bring about in text).


The question hour on this, doesn’t stop with just you. There are those chinks in our amour, called relationships. I don’t know any, which haven’t gone through the peace/passion debate, at least once. When you’re in the throes of everything going to the Bar at Rockbottom, you’d give a limb for Peace. Heck, you’d give up the relationship for peace. So many often do. Sometimes, it’s worth it.

 But, here are my two cents- every time you have given up a relationship for peace, is when someone else’s passion was driving it.  Driving you insane. You couldn’t take that passion. Thought it was tiring, almost like Scarlett O’Hara on crack.
The view looks completely different when it’s your own passion steering your twosome. Or, when both your passions collide, and combust in a beautiful constellation in the sky. To stay or not to stay, takes on a whole new shape.
Then you’ll probably call the case - Messers Love vs. The State of Settling.

Here’s my Sunscreen Song- Don’t settle.
Sure, the passion will rock your boat (often in more good ways than bad). Weather that storm, because when you have the peace you once desperately coveted, you will look at Woody Allen movies and what-if.
Picking passion won’t always make it easy. It’s almost like picking an angry, tempestuous child. But, he is your child and you know when you pick him up -- that no matter how well behaved, Miss Suburbans peaceful boy is, you’d pick your brat over him, every time.
Play on the team of your passions. It could lead to madness, to Middle Earth, and if you’re really lucky, delirium, but every moment of that life will be yours.

YouseeAlan, that’s the big reason I play on this team. No two people have identical passions. These things are as unique as your fingerprints, and sometimes, as hard to separate from who you are. And there’s no peace greater than that.

If God was a barista, I’d be all

I’ll have a cup of Passion please , extra large, no milk.
This will be to go.

Ishaqzaade - A Sociolgical comment on idiocy!

Ishaqzaade -I want my movie money back !

Two things will happen if you read any further:

1. Spoiler alert. I have no intention of hiding the lack of brilliance, which was the movie script.
2. You will realize that it is in fact possible to time travel. Habib Faisal (esteemed director of said movie) will take you on a beautiful regressive journey set in the picturesque town of Almora.

The movie revolves around a simple middle class town where electoral politics are de rigeur.
 Parma (local beefcake, strutting around with revolver and a toothy smile) is the Hindu grandson of Surya Chauhan. Zoya, waistcoat strutting (two marks to the stylist here for some authentic styling), MLA-wannabe, daughter of the Muslim political candidate.

Parma and Zoya hate and mouth off choicest abuses, to one another. One sunny afternoon, Zoya slaps Parma. Parma in turn holds a gun to her forehead and plays a game of blink. Zoya wins and Parma proclaims his undying love for her by accosting her, in a dilapidated government college, ladies loo. Undeterred, by his ability to scale water pipes and identify unknown exits out of the ladies loo, Zoya promptly falls for her Stalker Man Charming and becomes “pareshaan” (Side Note- Decent song)

Of course, the above abusive relationship is solidified, by Zoya giving up her womanhood as a gift. This, only when Parma marries her, in a shady garage attested by  his two charming friends.

Parma, reveals that he has now “ruined” Zoya and thus avenged, the one slap a year ago. Cue evil laughter and cocky strut as Zoya crumples into a “ruined” heap.

After a lot of bad editing and useless gun shots in the air, Zoya finds herself at Parma’s house. Her lost virginity, costs her Pop the elections. Of course, the reason being “the guy who couldn’t control his daughter, cannot control our town”. Control, being key here. Slow clap for this reference to democracy !

Parma’s mom meanwhile finds Zoy-crouching tiger hidden dragon on the terrace- trying to take the apple of her eye (5-time-graduate-fail) son’s life. Being a woman of reason, intellect and evolved morals, she quickly drags Zoya in, ties her up and proceeds to beat Parma.
Zoya now must, make good this deal and stay with Parma (Yes, Parma- he of the chivalrous, ‘let’s do it in an abandoned train’ move). Zoya must now live, with Parma. Because, without, she will be killed. You see, she is a maligned, dirty woman. Not only has she had sex, she has also married a Hindu.

 To prove her point and save their love, Mumma Parma takes a bullet and makes a hasty exit from this Magnum Dopus.

Once Mumma P has gone, it suddenly hits Parma. “Shite! I kinda messed up here- I will now say sorry and fix this”. Scoring one point for character turnaround, Parma takes Zoya to his favourite bar girls’ home for shelter. The bar girl is told that she must not touch Parma anymore. Zoya will hit him and Zoya will clean his wounds. It was like the Stockholm syndrome met an abusive relationship and had a baby called – THIS MOVIE.

Zoya truly falls in love with Parma, the day he stops her from dancing for fun with those “bar girls”. “Oh, thank you Darling, you controlling me and wanting to kill for me, is what makes us ISHAQZAADES.” The now happy twosome, decide to flee Almora, but not before meeting and pleading for Zoya’s dads forgiveness.

On the happy occasion of Mother’s day (when I saw this), we saw Zoya’s mum pleading with her dad to not shoot, at his only daughter. We’re not sure what he is mad at, a) that she was “used” by a Hindu, or b) that she decided to fall in love and marry him or c) because she cost him his seat ? Nevertheless, Daddy goes chitty chitty bang bang, on both their asses.

Eventually, the two political honchos form a coalition (no reference, to National politics here). The joint statement issued is- Lets kill ‘em fools, they will cost us some much needed religious fanatic votes. 

Meanwhile, the two lovers are running around the building saying stellar things like “ Hey, bruv! Let’s not have kids, they will also be hunted and killed like us. This is all so pointless”
Faisal, drove this shipwreck home by Zoya’s brain wave- “Darling, let us kill each other. I must admit, since I have no self respect and decided to fall for you post abuse, your arms are where I belong.” Parma- “nooo.. err.. noo”. They go on and shoot each other, three times, in the stomach.

Because, really, that’s how it’s done.

Wanderlust

She looked down, staring into the steep, vertical drop . The breeze hurt her eyes, but shutting them was not an option. The city spread out below, like a haphazard map of badly made Lego buildings.

A plane flew past, quite low for a plane. A boeing-747. She had learnt a lot about planes. The trajectory they took in the air, the pollution they could leave in their wake. She happened to notice a young blonde staring out of her plane window. Craning her neck, desperate to capture the visual of the city from her window. A little bit of extraordinary to distract her from her mundane life.

She mused, that maybe their lives were parallel. Hers and the blondes’. In that one instant, that was the only thing, both of them wanted, a little bit of something special and a little bit of rock ‘n’ roll.

People watching, was her favourite pastime.

Her friends thought it was an embarrassing obsession. They said, it was eerie if somebody caught you looking at them, sizing them up. It was an invasion of private space. Maybe that was, what was wrong today- all this Private Space. A person could drown and get lost in all the space. Merging identities and blurred lines was what separated humans from animals. There were times, of course, when she had walked right into trouble- staring at the wrong crowd. And there were times, when staring at other people, was her only connect to sanity. Staring, as they made and un-did their lives. Every word, flex of muscle, eye twitch telling a whole new story. If you’re walking too fast, it could only mean that you’re on adrenalin- happy or otherwise.

She had always thought there were two kinds of people in the world- Those, who lived their lives on adrenalin and those who didn’t.

 It’s those who didn’t, that she learnt to watch out for.

 Those were the ones, whose moves and emotions were well cloaked. Dealing with them was like playing chess blindfolded- you always had to be sure that you weren’t putting your kingdom at stake. This was true across states, across accents. Most motives stayed the same too- you’d think, religion and money were key drivers. She believed, simplistically perhaps, that it was all a larger algorithm of Love and Acceptance. If you had these, you only chased smaller thrills. It’s when you didn’t have these, that you could destroy- yourself and others.

 Her friends thought, she changed base so often because she kept looking for ‘bluer skies’. But, it was a burning curiosity to know who people were. Were they all different, Instagram- filtered versions of each other? Or were they like different characters in different books, tied together only by outer constitution?

The skies ironically stayed the same. They looked the same from the Grand Canyon, from the north tower of the Notre Dame, a tiny village in Cyprus, or even from back home. The view below the skies changed often- sometimes like a Yeats poem come to life, but more often than not it was a hideous art Installation. An almost sardonic comment, on the obscenity of concrete, men are capable of.

The nights were tough, yes. You had to always be on the lookout for predators. She often fantasized about the surge of power she would have felt, had she been a man. There would be no looking over your shoulder, no debate on who looked at you as you and who looked at you as meat. You’d sleep easier- could travel further. This distinction between men and herself is what she wore like a badge of honour. I am not you- but I saw things that you were too busy to look at, things your masculinity obliterated from your view.

During frequent travels, she grew accustomed to recognizing sounds, footsteps, even the change in wind direction could foretell an incoming storm. Storms which she had survived, thanks to the kindness of strangers. Those who’d let her take shelter- they were the ones who didn’t say much. They never faked affection and her go-to trick was, to look out for shifty eyes. If someone had shifty eyes, you stayed away. Far, far away.

There were other valuable things she had picked up.

The world is a shifting image. One day power shifts, and with it so does art and prosperity.

Being a child did not necessarily instil goodness in you.

The game of economy and stock markets was only really made up of people. 

As, was war.

Shaking off the heavy feeling, she rose to leave. Staying to stare was always a delight, but her friends were meeting for brunch. It was a terrace garden and the lady always put out the best stuff.

She rose into the air, flapping her tired wings. Through the corner of her eye, she saw her visiting friend. He did a loop within a loop.

Male ravens could be such show-offs. 

Mon Paris, Summer of 2011.

Photo Credit : Me *smug grin*

It opens at the close.

Beginnings are really, where it all starts.
Everything.  The tone of the future is set in the beginning.  You either spend the rest of your time sorting that out, or wanting to get back to how good it was, back then. Especially, when you were a kid.
You really had it made then, didn’t you, you smarmy faced bugger?
All you did was eat, burp, poop and be adored. A life expectation, we never really let go of.
What else is Greatness, but the desire to be adored, even as you eat, burp and poop? Speaking of, what is love, if not just that?

It is this constant chase, of going back to the beginning that determines everything ! Most relationships are constantly chasing the high of when it was new and fresh. If you were twisted and game-playing in the beginning, then you spend a LOT of time un-doing that good work, but the imprint of beginnings remain till the end.

Similar wisdom, governs books. The tone of any self-respecting novel is rooted in its opening lines. I can usually tell a lot about the author and the book, depending on how it began.

There is Nabokov with, “Lolita, light of my life and fire of my loins.”
We could juxtapose him with ol’ man Woodehouse’s.

 "Jeeves," I said, "may I speak frankly?"
"Certainly, sir."


Who could always be held against , the lyrical poetry of, “ Once upon a Time”.

It’s almost like the author is warning you- this is it. It could be better, it could be so much worse and it could just be a trap. This is why I pay so much premium to the opening lines of my many, now half-written, books. These opening lines are the most honest work of every writer. They are probably the words of organic creative genius- or excellent editing.

Almost several thousand Microsoft Word docs, exist on my desktop. No filing or classification governance has been imposed yet. There is complete and total anarchy amongst the, almost hundred, icons covering my screen. And sometimes, late into the night, I suspect they  plot rebellion.
I have now collated,  for posterity and copyright, the 14 opening lines of my various best sellers. This does qualify for a Novella.
 (Yes, I have lofty dreams and ADD. )

It could have been midnight, but you really couldn’t tell.


Jane’s annoyance at being called Jane is where the trouble started.


His yellow pin lapel and plaid pants screamed Fashion hara-kiri, but it wasn’t really polite, to criticize a dead body’s sartorial choices.


She threw her head back and laughed, drowning out her lovers’ tired snores, and rudely awakening him to self-doubt.


It wasn’t really what the room contained, but the remnants of what it used to.


The way the dinner was laid, forewarned you, of the company being expected.


Twenty minutes of staring at a man, could teach you a lot about his integrity.


Yet, she continued to love and pity him, alternatively, in the same night.


Every morning he furiously rowed - beads of sweat would form on his forehead, trying in vain to compete with the biting cold.


If they had just stopped, for one tiny second- It would all have come to a natural end.


The earth shook beneath her feet and she panicked, who would finish dusting the china table, in case the Jones’s made it alive?


They sat in a circle, it was a social commentary on where life had brought them. It was also, prudent utilisation of the living room space.


If time could stop, it would. But it didn’t. And so, it went on.


The night stretched ahead. Dark and long. He had already eaten the last piece of the pie. There was nothing left to do, but despair.