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A Traveler's Saga

Photo taken at Plitvice National Park, Croatia by Vibhor Dhote Oh! What are these days I have found myself in! The bagpacks I carry n...

Saturday, April 22, 2017

Being Desi in a Foreign Country: Sweden

“I am not hungry,” he said with a visible frown on his face.
 Tim was a Russian musician who was tired having traveled all the way from Bangkok to Stockholm without proper sleep that day. We both were couch-surfing at Stockholm for the first time, the way many travelers do when they wish to meet new people, and our host was out with his friends for some time. It was a crazy evening and the three of us had gone out but I had to return mostly because Tim wasn’t feeling well and he didn’t know the way back home and partly because I couldn’t afford the club we were in.

The clock had struck 12 in the midnight and I knew I was hungry. I am not sure if this is because I am a foodie, a fatso or an Indian but I simply cannot sleep if my tummy indicates it needs something nor can I imagine others not being hungry when I am. Tim was adamant that he’d not have anything, since he was too tired to get anything and too upset with the sudden change in temperature he observed between the two countries, while I knew he hadn’t had much to satiate his hunger from the evening. I insisted and he said he’d just drink some cold milk since he doesn’t eat very late at night. I hate doing kitchen-work, more so for someone else. But like all the times when the mother India in me wakes up, I saw myself warm a glass of milk for him and serve it in a tumbler. Imagine the plight of a girl who always had food served for her in a plate on the table, no matter if she is in India or any other foreign country, no matter if she is living with her parents, friends or acquaintances. But somehow I realized the plight would have been mine to keep forever had I not kept my ego aside and shown some hospitality although I wasn’t the host.

Later when I believe his hunger was satiated because his hours-long frown was gone, he thanked me and I think he also smiled.

Sometimes, such gestures keep you smiling whenever you recall them. Sometimes, success isn’t an accolade you won or a large amount of money you received but a smile you’re able to bring to someone else’s face.

 It’s only when we step in a foreign land we get the opportunity to focus on how we react and/or act when faced with certain situations. When in India we are hardly bothered about ourselves, focusing more on the next goal, on the next day. But when I stepped into one country after another in Europe, mostly solo, for three months I had more time than required to ponder upon my own ways.

If hospitality is one way Indians relate themselves with, the other would be ‘Jugaad’ – a low-cost solution to problems also seen as some sort of frugal engineering. My budget for my travel in Europe would not be preceded by the adjective ‘shoe-string’ when it came to my eating habits; but when it comes to buying any other material I’d shy away from spending anything.

It was when I realized my Snow jacket got torn at a visible place that I attached a tiny owl badge on top of it, hiding the embarrassment. It was when my backpack was torn at places that I simply took out some band-aids from my first aid box and put them to cover the tiny holes on my bag. Whenever I met people and they asked me why, I’d say it’s my style statement and sometimes, they’d agree.
I remember not buying another phone for weeks when both my cellphones fell in Greece’s water rendering them useless. I’d then just pick a tourist map from any nearby store and go visit the places with its help.

My ways were more Indian than I ever saw them to be. I go to continental restaurants but still insist on eating Biryani with hands in Biryani joints. I love eating French bread but a hearty meal is the one that has rice or roti in it. A polish guy I once met said I don’t have the typical Indian accent he had expected, maybe because I have an Assamese accent he hadn’t heard before, but I still nod my head the way Indians do, somewhere between a yes and a no.

This reminds me of Lufthansa’s new TVC of the service being #MoreIndianThanYouThink. Having done my MBA in Marketing from MDI Gurgaon, I notice advertisements from the customer’s point of view as well as a marketer’s POV. The ad is humorous and it tells a story and maybe that’s why it has struck a chord with everyone who has seen the ad. The brand recall is great since you not only remember that there is an airline that excels in hospitality and serves Indian food but you also remember its name. And when there are so many Indians flying to and out of the country, it is good to have an airline to prefer over the others.

Do check out Lufthansa’s latest ad below and about the campaign here, and drop in your comments if you’ve experienced Lufthansa’s Indianness

Thursday, April 20, 2017

Dress Up

It’s funny how one’s life goes through highs and lows
But we put some kohl and brush our brows.
We someday realize we have no one but foes;
So we sit back to paint the nails on our fingers and toes.
For that might be the way one can drop that frown,
To let not the world and its people pull you down,
For I can see my life all blue- the hue I dread
But I can change my hair to a better shade of red.
I may wake up to find a messy work life
But I can neatly braid my hair and pretend it’s all fine.
I can find my job dull or whine that it’s not fair
But I can take out a magic wand and curl my hair.
I may cry all I can, as if I’m trapped in Medusa’s lair
But tomorrow I’ll still show up with a confident flair.

Wednesday, April 19, 2017


My favorite color is the shade
of your cheeks
wet with drops
from the salty sea of your eyes
when you are guilty of
making an innocent mistake
like writing "writed" for "wrote"
doubting if you can still write a good quote,
calling yourself not a writer
even when the pages of your diary
are filled with a million notes,
even when you die everyday
but wake up to write
for a theme called Hope.

The Bedside Lamp

How can this be love
If every time you turn off the bedside lamp
My soul shivers in fear that it isn’t you,
That your dark shadow is a metaphor of my dark past,
That each time you twist and turn on the bed
The wooden creaks swim into my ears
To remind me of the monsters I met before I met you,
To instill a fear of uncertainty in me
That the person sleeping next to me is no one
But a nightmare of all the memories engraved deep
In the folds of my skin, in between the crisscross of my veins
That I dare not sleep on the other side of the bed
For that dark place isn’t mine to take,
That I dare not turn sides to sleep facing you
For the monsters of wounds might crawl out
From under the bed if I don’t keep watch,
That I dare not snore for it might wake you up
And you, like all the shadows I wish I didn’t remember,
Would paint new scars on my arms
Like tattoos on someone’s face gone a little wrong
By brushes tainted by another colour
Mixed with your hue of love- from grey to black?

It isn’t love if every morning I run to lock the doors
When you go out to work and I need to look at a mirror
To see if I aged from the previous night,
To observe what a sleepless night can do to my face,
To place a fist on my chest and wonder if my heart is still intact,
To learn to smile when you come back later to my lair
And pretend it’s love when you turn off the bedside lamp.

Monday, April 3, 2017

Embracing Change

(Article written for 2017 issue of The AECian, Assam Engineering College)

When Professor Satyajit Bhuyan asked me to write an article for The AECian I had absolutely no idea what I’d write on. What can I write for the magazine I was an editor of some four years back? What do I write for its readers that they haven’t read before?

Having found no specific answer to these questions I sit down to write just the way I blog – pouring my heart out. When Bhuyan sir mentioned “The AECian”, it took me back to 2013 when I had worked relentlessly for it. At those times the students would write articles on paper, instead of MS Word, and submit it. Imagine the pain of first decoding someone else’s handwriting and then editing it, not to mention, the typing and re-typing required by the publishers. I remember having a discussion with Bhuyan sir regarding changing the submission method so that our writers submit soft copies making it easier for both the parties. Our tech-savvy professor welcomed the idea and I was glad about it. 

When our environment changes, it makes no sense if we stick to our old ways. We need to embrace the change and move forward. Of late, each year, each month I have embraced nothing but change – from changing locations in India and abroad, to experimenting with new habits, new things to learn and do.

When I write about embracing change I cannot not mention how Guwahati has changed over the time. I remember my last year in AEC when we used to take the college bus to go to a certain part of the city and hop on city buses to go further. Today I’m back in the city after four years and find myself not having the first instinct to call a cab via Ola or Uber. I wait for city buses and get a shock when the auto-driver doesn’t ask for a fortune to go till a certain distance. 

With this apparent increase in commercial vehicles comes the rise in Black Carbon pollution levels in the city. Thanks to urbanization- the change businesses embraced to move forward with constructing malls, showrooms and hotels. 

Oh, how we hate change when it is not in our favour! The same change I would love to show off when my friends from Delhi give the city a visit and notice the brands available here. The same change I hate every time I need to use my scarf to cover my face when I go out.

With the changing city, there are other changes our hearts wish to resist. The current placement scenario in India is not that great (Demonetization, Trump and what not?) and hence, those who’d be in the final year at AEC might not be having a clear idea of the future ahead. Grieving about leaving the carefree college life behind and then worrying about the uncertainties ahead.

 However, sometimes ambiguity leads to great things – pursuing Masters in a domain of interest in the country or abroad, putting some efforts and risk for a new business in the city, being a contributor of the ever-increasing start-up culture in India, indulgence in social welfare and so on. People leave high-paying jobs to follow their passion. People leave studies to go for a job of their interest. An MBA after a MBBS degree and a masters in physics after leaving successful businesses – the world has probably seen all kinds of stories. I know some AECians who are on their way to break-even their newly started businesses. 

These stories are nothing but patches of hope for a changing future. And all we as witnesses to these changes can do is to gear up to embrace this change and move forward. Adaptability is a skill only life can teach you, a skill that only ameliorates itself as and when we embrace change. 

Monday, March 20, 2017

Story of the Bitch… Face -_-

For those of you who haven’t met me in person, I must, before writing about the miseries of wearing a bitch face, write why I say I have a bitch face. I am a plump woman with a round face and I vividly remember my batchmate at MDI, Nikhil, claiming that my “default face” is similar to a sad smiley, which implied people who didn’t know me would find it difficult to approach and talk to me. Similar were the thoughts of my Capgemini FLP (Freshers’ Learning Program) mate Alakananda who had said that if one sees me from a distance one gets the impression of someone with an attitude of arrogance.

When a person is not smiling, it is quite understood that the person is either thinking something or listening or doing anything but not smiling. When I am not smiling people ask me, “What’s wrong?”
I remember my first job at Capgemini when our senior Sashank would complain out loud, “ye ladki roti kyu rehti hai?” And since he would not give much opportunity to me to reply, I would just vent out at Rahul Ghosh, whose seat was right next to me, that I was not sad, I was just not smiling.

I think of myself as a jovial person but every time I cannot smile during a conversation because either I am thinking of something or I am just listening like I am gathering information, my face would just give up on me. Being void of any facial expressions, my train of thoughts would be interrupted by, “Did I say something offensive?”

I remember explaining to people that because my face is fat I need to put much more effort to smile the same length in comparison to a skinny person, hoping that they would buy this logic and not trouble me more when met with a weak smile by my face.

If you’ve seen even one episode of any stand-up comedy you’d know that when they make a joke they don’t laugh themselves, keeping a serious face while the audience laughs out loud. When I make a joke in such a manner, my close friends laugh while others just wonder if they have been told something offensive. When I’m sarcastic, people sometimes, when they don’t think I’m stupid and I meant what I said, laugh. But when I’m not sarcastic and I ask a question I genuinely want to know the answer of, people do assume that I’m being sarcastic.

Do you remember the last time you’re exhausted when you’re about to call it a day after hours of tiresome traveling or working and all you need is to lie down and sleep? I can’t remember the last time I was so exhausted and sweating but not asked if I had a bad day, because every time I have to wave my good-byes after going on a trip together people ask me either via a text message or in person whether I was upset with something.

People often ask me why my candid photos on Facebook or Instagram are such that my face isn’t facing the camera while I look at somewhere distant. This is because those of my candid photos where I am reading or looking at the camera, I look as if I am going to kill someone.

Have you ever just walked into a party where everyone is having fun but you just walked in and are just looking for a friend or everyone’s looking at their cellphones and so are you? In such a scenario, people would ask me, “Why are you so judgmental?” and leave me wondering if that’s how my face looked to them.

 The saddest part of this story is that my face still hasn’t learnt. It didn’t learn when I was a pampered kid and my father would sometimes wonder why I turned out this way that I had to cry to get the things I want while I concluded that because I sulked so much my face turned permanently sulking. And even after years of being told to smile or being asked why I am sad, my face seems to still have not learned a thing.

I write this post because I find these humorous memes on the internet and I do not wish to laugh alone. I write this post in the hope that someone would comment saying they have this problem too. I do not know many people who have this problem because those who probably have this issue wouldn’t be approached by me and vice versa for mostly the same reason. -_-

Monday, February 27, 2017

Writing Something New

Words engulf him
The way he gulps his scotch
One glass after another.
He grabs his pen
And writes down his love
Pages after pages.
He passes a smile at me
At times when he isn't bothered
About how he looks
When his teeth is shown,
When his hair is uncombed
And she passes him by.
He writes a note for her
Without reading
The stories I've to tell.
He asks me, sometimes,
As he drops his note
In her old letterbox.
His thick eyelashes flutter,
A gulp in his throat,
Drops of sweat 
On his forehead,
He fumbles as he utters,
"Have you written anything new?"

Wednesday, February 15, 2017


I am often taken back to the old corridors of our previous house - the one that saw us grow old. Its windows would let the fresh air in that would blow over our text books, those trophies we won in school, the notebook our father kept- the notebook he had kept for future knowing not that the internet would soon take over and maybe obliterate its value.
He would keep newspaper clippings safe of the featured poems written by my sister and by a younger me, unaware that soon we would go so digital we would lost count of the URLs that would hold pieces written by us to be lost forever and maybe, found again someday.
It’s funny how we talk of nostalgia these days when we would still have a lot of photographs capturing our smiles, the places we visited, the fun we had and the people we met. For me nostalgia would sometimes take me back to those days when we used to run around in the house - all four of us, the smiles that were not captured by any camera, the moments untouched by any cellphones, the thoughts uninhibited by any selfish desires of the future.
Oh, how do I say now that I’d miss my college days when there is so much more just for reminiscence?
The science project I could not make myself, for which, mother would’ve to return from work, do her chores and still make the work presentable. The same project a teacher would throw away for she wouldn’t know any better than to crush a child’s dreams for her angst at her own family’s shortcomings. A matter I would not understand until years later when I find myself at the age of 25 and still imperfect. A matter I would probably not understand again when I’d turn wiser or kinder as years of experience would embrace this restless soul.
Probably there would be videos then to look back at these days we’re talking of. “Batch Photo sessions” and Facebook posts, Numerous blogs and maybe this note. But who can bring back those golden days of the people whose lives have so changed, of the days when dawn would break at 6 and the day would end at 20 when midnights were just times scary.
20 years later maybe it would be time to reminisce these days when we sleep at 4 and wake up at 12, when we would talk of the brilliance of a professor long gone, or of a dear friend who had gone so far. As of now, maybe I’d just retain the innocence of those four “children”, make sketches of the past, if I could make any better, of the people I loved but never saw again, of memories I’m not so sure of, if they were stories or thoughts of realities so grave or realities better than my now, of my old house that still waves its hand every time I walk by its lane, the echoes of our laughter still etched on its dying walls. Another coat of a new paint- Nostalgia of this age.

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Dear Death

Come if you have to,
Knock on my door and wait till it's unbolted,
Throw a stone at my window;
If it's really you, let me know.

Come not like you did ten years ago,
Carrying him in a bag of flesh and bones.
If his dying face, his mother cannot see
Come not this way, this year, this week...

Come when it's time
The way you came yesterday,
Sat near his grandfather's bed-
A cup of tea served,
His glasses neatly folded on the little round table
Beside his daily dosage of news and pills,
Leaving when he was asleep.

Come not like the way you came
Some five years ago, in a local train,
He hung himself after he wailed
Or it was you with his roommate
Who pushed him to death.

Come not when he promises of seeing me again.
Come when the goodbyes are not so hard.
Dear Death,
Bring not the friend called fear with you
Bring not regret and grief too.

Come when you have to
But not like the lover who hopes for a future.
Come not like the broken pieces of the lovelorn's heart
That find a new home with each passing cloud.

Come when it's time
But touch not the ones left behind.
Come with the darkness of the night,
Come like another sunset on a desert bright
Where every sunrise is a promise, a hope
Where all we ask for
Is the sun to set a little too late
Where we're gay too
If it sets a little too soon
But never do we ask
For it to set when it's time...

Saturday, December 31, 2016

Lost in Europe

Five years back on this day I wrote my first ever blogpost. So, despite the fact that I haven’t written much after I returned to India from my Euro Trip, I decided to celebrate the 5th anniversary of my blog with another blogpost. And although it’s been a month that I am back here, memories of Europe remain vividly etched on the canvas of my mind and I fail to not reminisce them every single day, every single night.

Some of the questions I faced when I returned (and I still face sometimes) were about how much I spent on the trip, more so because I was the one who had managed to spoil three cellphones and one laptop during the trip. But besides these major damages there were minute disappearances that kept on happening with my trivial belongings. Surprisingly, I felt happier when I lost my clothing items since it implied that I had to carry less in my baggage during the rest of the trip.

Here’s a list of items I lost during the Euro Trip and the places where I lost them because sometimes such are the marks we, humans leave.

1.       Jewelry Box in Aarhus, Denmark – The first loss, of course, needs to happen in the first country I landed in. And somewhere amidst all the packing and unpacking I did to make my rucksack sufficient to sustain me for the next two months of hopping from one country to another, I lost that little box containing the best pairs of earrings I owned and had initially packed to wear at various places.

2.       Miscellaneous in Mykonos, Greece – The next loss happened by the time I had realized that I packed too many clothes and shoes,  and if I needed to take my travel seriously I needed to let go of the desire to wear “that perfect attire” for “that perfect occasion” all the time. It was before heading to the beach that I washed a few clothes and hung them outside the camp where we were staying for the night. In the evening when I returned from the beach party, I found my essentials still hanging on the thin wire but two t-shirts, one pair of shorts, another pair of trousers were all gone. I was disappointed that the last pair of item was new and I wore it only once, but for the rest of the items – I was glad.

3.       Towel in Venice, Italy – Remember how the thief of Mykonos had left my essentials and stolen only the clothes? In the camp in Venice, just the opposite happened – I had washed and hung only my towel and around 7 pairs of essentials and returned in the evening to find nothing. Albeit funny and unexpected, the incident was, my next worry was that I had to urgently pay a visit to the Supermarket. :-P

4.       Jacket in Vienna, Austria – The fourth loss was heart-breaking. I loved the jacket I recently had bought. I vividly remember throwing my jacket on the bed before tucking my blanket and going to sleep. The next morning I searched everywhere in the hostel but I couldn’t find my beloved brown jacket.

5.       Warmer in Zagreb, Croatia – I had, in Aarhus, packed my rucksack for only two months’ travel and the travel didn’t include places covered with snow. (I was supposed to get back to my luggage after two months and get warmer clothes to stand the snow). But it was when I was in Marseilles, France that I decided to visit Switzerland for which I needed warmer clothes, having lost one jacket already. So I bought a body-warmer from that place, wore it in Switzerland and then when I went to the place where I didn’t need it - Zagreb, my first stop in Croatia, I forgot to pack it in while checking out. When I was walking to catch the bus from Zagreb that was booked previously, I recalled the black body-warmer lying unowned on my bed in the hostel but there was no time or reason to go for it.

6.       Scarf in Maribor, Slovenia – It was a cold rainy night. I had my raincoat on along with a cap to cover my head and a scarf for the neck. I was walking from the train station to the students’ hostel where I was staying. Minutes later, I realized that the scarf was no longer wrapped around my neck. I imagined it lying somewhere on the pavement, getting drenched in the rain deeming it unviable to be picked up and worn again. I ditched the thought and walked forward without looking back.

7.       Shorts in Barcelona, Spain - I eventually had concluded that I had stopped losing stuffs. My bag wasn’t very heavy anymore. I had thrown three pairs of shoes in Berlin, Germany to reduce the weight. My laptop had broken already. The selfie-stick, which didn’t serve any purpose had broken already. There were hardly more stuffs to carry so there wasn’t any. But when we were about to hit the sea in Alicante and I was supposed to find my pair of shorts in my bag which I had worn the previous night in Barcelona, I realized it was no longer where it was supposed to be. It was probably the last thing I forgot to pack.

Because post this, every stuff that I did not bring home were things that were supposed to go.

#LetItGo J

Monday, November 28, 2016


I let you go like some old habits of mine- Checking your Facebook profile every minute I touch my phone, Reading our old messages for signs that would tell you don't love me anymore, Putting a burning cigarette in my mouth every time I thought of you, Exhaling the smoke every time I realized you aren't with me.
But such are the habits that do not die- You come back to me one more time, You collide with me on a busy street on some Saturday morning, looking at someone else's photos from that phone in your hand; I let you go like the wine of Venice I swear I would never drink again, I let you go like the promise of never writing a poem again Yet I hold a new bottle of wine dearly in Vienna, A few blank pages and a new pen sit by my side in the cold nights when I would sit in a train and try hard not to think of you.
But such are the ways with thoughts- When I close the doors, they find a new window to come in, Rotten like the smell of the dried fish you used to cook, Fresh like the love bites on your neck that I don't recognize, Disturbing like the memories I have dug graves for some five years ago, Like the way I don't forget my own mother tongue even if I hadn't spoken in that language for years.
But such are the ways with the way we talk- That your dark grey eyes wouldn't look at me anymore, That you'd speak but only to say something in a language belonging to people who once ruled us using words that don't resonate with your feelings, That you would look back but only to check if you forgot something, That you would see my tears but think it is the lack of sleep in my eyes, That you would see my smile but not smile back at me anymore, That you would not understand why I do things I do the way you used to read my mind only a few years ago, That you would see my burning cigarette but think it is just a new habit I picked.
But such are the ways of my habits- That every hour is a closure, every hour I quit Only for a new beginning but the same old shit.

Tuesday, November 8, 2016

Perks of Being a Crybaby – Paris to Port Bou

I always thought it was to my disadvantage that I can never hold back my tears when I need to. I have cried in places I swear I wouldn’t. I am the person in a movie hall who cries whenever the protagonist is in a bad situation. I am the person who is going to cry when you tell her something bad about your own life. And if I don’t, in front of you, I am going to run to the washroom a little while later to let the tears flow, after patting my back for holding them for a while. Reminiscing the conversation and crying later just before sleeping is my thing to. I have lost the count of the times I have cried in the presence of someone I wouldn’t want to show my sensitive side to. But that’s me – 25 and still a crybaby in situations of frustration, anger and sadness, with no consideration to whoever is around me.

I remember the time I cried in Venice in front of two guys I just met that day and two other guys I had known only from a couple of days. But that’s a story for another day; today it’s about how being a crybaby didn’t ruin my day.

I had to travel from Koeln HBF (Germany) to Madrid (Spain) via Paris (France) for which I had to change some four trains, the reservations for all of which I got done in Koeln itself. My hostel in Madrid was reserved too and paid for. I must remind you here that reservations in French trains are extremely costly, in comparison to everywhere else in Europe. While the reservation from Koeln to Paris costs around 25 euros, the reservation from Paris to Port Bou was for 22 euros; and this was despite me holding a Eurail pass of some 1000 euros.

I reached Paris Nord quite fine from which I had to take a metro to Paris Austerlitz. It was a wait of one hour in Austerlitz before the train would leave, and I, quite insouciantly, decided to enter the waiting train at the nick of the time. Pampering myself with some delicious hot chocolate, I finally decided to join the queue when there was only 20 minutes for the train to leave the station.

It was then that one of the Train Managers showed me that the reservation I had was for a wrong date and hence, I wouldn’t be allowed to enter the train unless I get the tickets changed. I had done the reservations in Koeln and I couldn’t even use my usual way of scolding the person at fault and get it corrected. So I ran to the information office at Paris Austerlitz station who answered that their office is closed and they can’t do anything about it.

I came back to the manager narrating the issue and also emphasizing on the fact that I really had to catch this train since all the subsequent reservations have been made. His solution for me was to buy another reservation now. Another 22 euros! I pleaded him, told him it is a lot of money for me, gave him various reasons so that he would allow me to board the train but he just shook his head uttering a firm no.

At that profound moment of rejection, I could have easily paid 22 euros for the ticket and then got the wrong ticket reimbursed later at Koeln without any hassle. But without any further thought, my dear tears decided to break down, like they always do.

After a couple of tears trickled down my cheeks, I took a deep breath, wiped them off and asked the train manager to sell me a new ticket.

Needless to say, I didn’t actually have to pay for a new ticket as he, the manager who saw me breaking down, just gave me a new seat and asked me to get on the train that was now leaving in some 7 minutes or so.  Yes, I am on that train now. J

Saturday, November 5, 2016

A Traveler's Saga

Photo taken at Plitvice National Park, Croatia by Vibhor Dhote

Oh! What are these days I have found myself in!
The bagpacks I carry no longer feel that heavy;
What have they lost if not for a few coins, a few notes,
some letters written long ago, a few locks, a few clothes?
Or is it the loss of some fears, some shackles, some thoughts tied to their waist belts several years ago?
Where is the fatigue? Where are the tears that drenched my pillow?
Where is the inability to wake up early in the morning and the incessant desire to sleep forever?
Today, every time I close my eyes, I need to type, I need to write.
Where is the indolence, the procrastination, the lack of, as I would say whenever they ask, the "limited time"?
What is this insouciance called?
Where have eloped the eternal need for love, money and the things I've already sold?
Why Plath has shut her eyes today whom I so deeply adored?
Bukowski's Bluebird is set free now while Sahir's pleas I dearly hold,
Because when he asks his muse not to leave before the fall of the dusk
My muse cures my day, lures my night and finds some more of my trust..
Oh, what do I call this courage that I rely less on the metaphors today?
More than heard, more than understood, more than being just okay.
What do I call this love for the stars unseen, the aroma in the air
the sound of the leaves fluttering as they breathe the wind?
A stranger's smile, a traveler's note on my bed,
A black burnt pebble from the mountains,
A lock I stole the key of which I returned,
I have picked up with fervour, an orphan cone of a pine.
But how do I keep away the only fear I see now?
That someday, when I am back on earth, back on the ground
Away from these half-built walls, these lit up streets, these lost clouds,
Maybe I won't ever be the same, the way I am here now.

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

Ae Dil Hai Mushkil: Movie Review

I needed to write something, as I always do, and I believe the best way of writing is when you’re on a train. Right now I am enroute Krakow from Wroclaw, Poland and listening to the song Bulleya from Ae Dil Hai Mushkil, which reminded me to share what I felt after watching the movie.
Official Poster Copyright to Publisher/Distributor/Graphic Artist of the movie

I think the movie is dispensable, despite the entire buzz around it. Glimpse of The Breakup Song did develop an inclination to watch the movie for me, but when I listened to the entire song it was quite a disappointment, thanks to the awkward opening of the song and Badshaah’s rap the lyrics of which reminds one of nothing but the movie Jab We Met. What’s with “use phone mila aur gaali de, photo jala ke kar de raakh”? Couldn’t find new or better ways, eh? I do like the songs Channa Mereya and Bulleya though, thanks to the lyricist. Most of the songs I love are for the lyrics than the music but of course, without a soothing music even a great song won’t be bearable. (Kitne dafe, subah ko meri, tere aangan mein baithe, maine shaam kiya, Say Waah to Amitabh Bhattacharya!)

Only last night I watched the movie and the first part, I felt, was such a cliché. A guy and a girl meet, they travel and have a lot of fun- don’t we have enough of that right from DDLJ? Are there no innovative ways of falling in love or am I asking for too much? It definitely reminded me of the recent Ranbir Kapoor and Deepika Padukone movie Tamasha. Thankfully, the love in ADHM is ek tarfa- something fresh and not much talked about in Bollywood.

Aishwarya Rai Bachchan comes to my rescue after half of the drama is over. Well, watching Fawad Khan was soothing too but he didn’t really have much to do as an actor in the movie. Aishwarya, however, is a treat to the eyes, and a song to the ears. I have never admired her more in any other movie. Hats off to the dialogue writer, Niranjan Iyengar, for writing such beautiful lines for her to speak in the movie! Same relief I found after listening to the words coming out of Shahrukh’s lips. Had it not been for these two actors, who are neither my favourite nor have they ever been, I wouldn’t be able to tolerate the movie much.

I remember when we realized, in Budapest, that SRK and Anushka would be there in five minutes for a song-shoot for the upcoming movie ‘The Ring’ I was more excited to see Anushka than SRK. After watching ADHM, the exact opposite feelings have just overcome my little heart.
Pic Courtesy: Robin Singla

Aishwarya plays a strong character of a Shayara, the word I learnt only after watching ADHM, in an admirable way. Ranbir plays his role exactly the way his character demands him to. Anushka and Ranbir have been good actors, no doubt, and hence, their acting skills seem impeccable as they both do justice to their roles- more for Ranbir than for Anushka. However, the first half of the movie disappointed me so much that I couldn’t really feel empathetic about the characters which I usually do in other movies. Oh, I have cried my eyes out watching numerous movies and if I didn’t feel a thing for these characters, I am not sure how others are taking this. However, one characteristic of the central character Ranbir which I liked, and which I think is something new on the platter, is that he wouldn’t want to sit alone or be alone (although I don’t know how he turned up in the club alone if that’s so) but this is one behaviour we often find in people we meet, making his character realistic.
The airport scene had to happen, like most Bollywood movies that try to leave an impact, this time in a fresh way – Thankfully, although I had guessed it would be that way. Anushka didn’t succumb to Ranbir’s pleas – another thanks to the Karan Johar. Anushka’s Sukoonghar could have created better dialogues with the concept of Tedha love but, surprisingly, I see my Facebook News Feed flooded with this dialogue, so maybe people are embracing it.

I don’t have much against the movie because the concept on which it was built was supposed to be good, right from the beginning. But it just couldn’t make me not think of how the scenes are predictable, the screenplay a bit repetitive. For instance, Ranbir begins the movie with an Interview and I simple cannot not think of Two States.  In retrospect maybe one can survive after watching the movie once, but that’s it.

Watch this movie if you cannot become tired of hearing so much about love. Watch this movie if you have nothing better to do and you could certainly do by looking at some pretty faces. Don’t watch this movie if you want to watch something emotionally impactful or something feel-good Bollywoody happy-feelings wali movie. But do watch this movie if you do not feel the way I do.

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

A Stranger’s Invite And The Transvestite: Night-Out At Nice, France

I am at Budapest now, in a safe and comfortable hostel, as I narrate my story of a few days back. Strange is this age when we think we are capable of experiencing all kinds of adventures. Maybe we are, when we leave matters at the hands of destiny, situations and have a strong belief that in the end all would be well. Or maybe we aren’t, maybe we just experience one fluke after another until the day the bank of chances will run out of serendipity.
It was at Nice where I was supposed to spend the late hours of night; I had a train to catch at five in the morning and I reached Nice at around midnight. The time from midnight till dawn was supposed to be spent walking around the city – after all, why would a youngster give in to spending money and sleeping in a hostel just for some five hours?
Europe has been a place of freedom for a woman like me. I can never imagine roaming around the streets of Gurgaon, where my college MDI is located, in the evening. Traveling around Delhi at night sometimes does send chills through my spine. And in Guwahati, my hometown, I am supposed to reach home latest by 7:00pm, always. Safety for women is probably not India’s forte.
No wonder, women like me find it liberating in countries like Denmark and elsewhere in Europe. I have traveled alone to a few places here and found it extremely satisfying being away from the inhibitions we, women of India, usually face in the dark. Aarhus, my student exchange location, in Denmark has proved to be the safest place I have ever been to. As a result when I traveled to Nice, I didn’t second guess if I could travel there alone; it was nothing to be asked here.
One of my college mates, Sarin did notify me that Nice is a “shady place” and hence, it would be safer to go for a night-out in Monaco instead. Yet, I met a stranger in Marseilles, who is a musician by profession and around 45 by age, who said there is nothing much to see in Monaco and hence, Nice would be a better and safer bet. I left the discretion to my situation – the first train from Nice was at 5am and that from Monaco was at 6; so Nice, I decided.
As I walked out of the train station towards the sea-side, I saw a McD open, relieving me of my late night hunger pangs. Groups of people walked around the city, and although I was a bit worried in the beginning for my own safety, I felt extremely happy once I reached the Massena square. There were figures of meditating humans that change colours after a little while – from green to orange to red to pink. It was beautiful as I sat on one of the seats, a guitarist sat on another and played a softer version of ‘Smoke on the Water’ (A Deep Purple song), two kids practiced stunts on their skateboards, and a bunch of youngsters laughed and talked loudly. There were homeless people, for sure, but they just found their own places to sleep and did not bother anyone around. I immediately wiped off all my thoughts about Nice being a “shady place”.
Courtesy: Wikipedia
The night proceeded into darkness as I traveled around looking at various museums, cathedrals and statues. Some pubs were open making the place not entirely devoid of people, and a patrolling car roamed near the port being vigilant about the happenings there. The cops in the car never stopped me for my passport but they did notice me whenever they passed by me, making me feel surprisingly safe. In India, I don’t remember the last time I saw a policeman at night and felt safe.
Courtesy: Panaromio
Thus four hours disappeared into the dark of the night, as I got tired of walking around and talking to strangers returning home from the pubs or camping near the beach. I decided it was time to slowly walk back to the train station and wait for it to open to let the passengers in. Most of the people had left by now – the tourists on their cycles, the city dwellers on rickshaws and trams, the boozers on others’ shoulders. As I walked towards the city I only saw two homeless men, one asking the other for a cigarette after being refused by me.
“I saw you in Monte Carlo,” said a man who just crossed the street to walk besides me. I smiled and explained that I was there earlier in the day time.
“You don’t have a place to stay?”
“umm.. No. I decided to spend the night traveling around the city,” I explained.
“But it’s not safe here at this time of the night, not in the city.” And thus, a chill ran through my spine.
He, who claimed to be a Nice-dweller, then started talking about how unsafe it is at night that “Mediterranean people can kill you for a cigarette.” His stories made me more and more tensed as he offered that I could spend the next hour at his place before I could catch the train. His offer seemed sans bad intentions and although I refused, I did mentally consider his proposal.
“Don’t worry. Just stay at my place till the dawn. I hope you have something to eat,” he reassured me and I obliged.
He then began speaking about how unsafe it is in Delhi when I said that my college is situated near the capital city of India.
“Rapes happen frequently in India, ain’t it so?” he asked as I gulped in fear.
It was when we reached the lane of his house, that I said I wish not to sleep at his apartment as there wasn’t much time to do so.
He exclaimed, “That’s okay. I can’t sleep too because I do drugs. So there is nothing to be worried about.” This scared me out of my wits. I tried hard not to show my surprise and asked what drugs he did.
“Crystals,” he said and smiled.
“I have no clue what that is.”
“You don’t do drugs?”
“Okay, we’ve reached my place,” he said and pulled out a key ring that carried a heart-shaped red pillow of the size of my palm.
“I am actually living at my friend’s place,” he explains as he opens the door.
I look up at the top of the door only to find out it wasn’t a house; it was the door of a hotel. The woman in me, having read so many crime stories before, now imagined ways to get out of the mess I dipped myself in. I still wondered if I misjudged him and he was a genuine person who was honest about his habits.
“Oh, you know what’s funny. My friend is a transvestite,” he added.
And no matter how much open-minded I have tried to be my entire life, no matter how many articles I have written or arguments I have gotten myself into to fight for the rights of those who aren’t straight and misunderstood or looked down upon, at that moment I couldn’t be anything else than scared. If there was one more person in the room, a transvestite or not, I knew I could be in trouble. Being on the streets was troublesome too, but at least there was a scope to shout for help or to be found by some cops or other civilians, the filmy me imagined. The benefit of doubt was out of question and so I excused myself, as polite as I could be, saying that I want to see the other side of the station.
“But it’s not safe,” he reasoned, ironically. At that moment, I could not tell what was safe anymore.
“If I feel unsafe I will knock on your door,” I lied.
“Sure. Your decision. Give me your phone number.”
I gave him my number, took his, left the place as fast as I could and did not look back.