Snow on my Window

My desk is covered in books and greeting cards, mom’s kitchen is filled with the emanating smell of cookies, the fairy lights have been guiding the dark hallway and my soul is screaming, “Christmas!” It’s the most beautiful time of the year again, and my heart feels as wintery as the weather. At times I get the feeling that I might just be Elsa’s descendant. I don’t know what it is about this festival that turns me back into the 11-year-old snuggling under her Pooh blanket and reading about Harry vanquishing Professor Quirrell. Maybe it’s the smell of the snowy breeze or the high of sugary candy or just an uncanny interest in the roots of this tradition. The longing for memories gone by, and hope for roads yet untraveled. My head is singing the carols whose lyrics have slightly faded, and my hands are all set to excavate the cheesecake.  

Meanwhile, my not-so-secret Santa is busy preparing my gifts.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Till I write again,

Creative Insanity.

A Not-so-Pretentious Movie Review

Okay, so, here’s the thing: I write when I’m in my head, I write when my emotions are scattered all over the goddamn universe, and the several milliseconds in between (a fact you might have noticed if you’ve known me for a while). And so, I decided to scribble this down while the Tamasha-hangover is still fresh in my mind; because this movie turned me into a lovelorn maniac.

I’m not going to get into the gory details, since I presume everyone has already been fed with eclectic reviews about it being an unnecessarily lengthy movie and shit like that. Let me break it down to you in a slightly simple manner: those who found the movie boring, are the ones who didn’t understand it. You need a certain amount of patience and gray matter to decrypt the complex human tendencies Imtiaz Ali attempts to portray. You see, his hunger as a storyteller prods him to cross the boundaries of the mundane, and step into a mystical land; a land meant for artists and the like. This is what makes him ahead of his time, and one of the best writers and visionaries Bollywood has ever seen.  

I can list down a long parchment of reasons as to why you should watch Tamasha, but my chatty blogger tendencies can’t keep up with the busy schedule of my readers, and so here goes:

You should watch it because Corsica is probably a place adjacent to Hogwarts, as it pretty much looked like a city where all the magic happens, and also a place I’ve added to my ‘most-definitely-must-visit’ list. You should watch it because the only thing as pretty as Corsica, is Deepika herself. So subtle, so poised, so elegant. She’s what a painter dreams of. And, and, AND, the reason why you should abso-frikkin-lutely MUST watch Tamasha, is because Ranbir is a powerhouse of versatility. His talent and charisma sparkle throughout the movie, and he owns the soul of the character with dignity. Ved is the kid you were, and the man you wish you could be. Ranbir and Deepika’s chemistry electrifies the screen and overflows down the ambience. If certain moments seem a little tedious, remember it’s all worthwhile since this is a story that will tap into the nostalgic corners of your memory. A story so poignant, it’s like poetry in motion. And the thing about poetry, is that not everyone gets it.

So, to all the story-lovers out there, and the rest of mankind: please go experience this tale.

Till I write again,

Creative Insanity. 

Hello from the Inside

Rich, pretty, popular. Quiet, clumsy, outsider. The concept of permutation and combination is a myth.

I have been weird my whole life; happily trapped inside my kaleidoscopic world. The black box. I was the kid hiding behind the desk hoping no one would call out her name. I was the girl at the restaurant who didn’t know how to hold a wine glass. Is he trying to talk to me? Is it okay if I don’t talk back? Oh no, don’t walk away. Nevermind.

I took bedtime stories seriously. They were supposed to make you dream of open fields and unicorns; and so they did.  No, I didn’t want the pink frock. I wanted the grey tee with Harry and Buckbeak on it.  “Why can’t you read louder?” Because my reading voice drowns in my head. “Why won’t you stop shaking your legs?” Because I have restless leg syndrome. Because I was not meant to stay in one place, and I never am. I’m both here, and very far away.

All those kids laughing at me. They wouldn’t believe me when I said shooting stars exist. They do. I saw one. I made a wish. I wished for the noise to stop. I wrote. I wrote till the journal yawned, and the poems ended with a lullaby. I dreamt. I dreamt of a night sky filled with stars waiting to shine down.

I don’t want to go to the party. Why are you dragging me there? Why is the music so loud? Why is this drink messing my already messed-up mind? But, I studied for the test a week back. “Such a nerd!” I smiled. She thought that was an insult. Silly girl. I was Hermione with bad hair and brown skin.

Whoever invented fandom merchandise was a genius. My t-shirt has Sheldon claiming he’s not crazy. Ooooh. A cute guy. “Who’s that on your t-shirt?” Sigh. Goodbye, mister.

“Oh simple thing, where have you gone? I’m getting tired and I need something to rely on…” *cries* “What happened?” Music. Music happened.

Pyjamas, pasta, Midnight in Paris. Woody Allen is my spirit animal.

Let’s pause. Let’s rant.

I’m an introvert. I’m both friendly and awkward. I’m both sane and demented. I’ll either travel for 12 days straight or not get up from my bed for a week. I either love hard or hate vehemently. If you find me complicated, I won’t chain you down. If you tolerate my finickiness, I thank you. If you share my insanity, we’re probably best friends.

After 23 years of existence, I’ve realized that my eccentricity is inherited. I was born with the will to own it, and is something I’m going to proudly pass on to my kids. (Also, my daughter probably won’t get dinner if she’s not a fangirl and doesn’t know how to pronounce epitome. Just saying.)

Did I tell you soliloquies are a part of my daily calendar?

Gotta go now. Barry and Oliver are out saving Central City.

Till I write again,

Creative Insanity. 

In Tolerance with Intolerance

“Sedition case filed against Aamir Khan over intolerance remark, claims he tried to divide India.”

“Intolerance Row: Fans To Boycott Shah Rukh Khan and Aamir Khan Films!”

“Snapdeal disassociates itself from Aamir Khan's comments on intolerance.”

For the past two days, these headlines have been cramming my TV screen, and honestly, I’m kind of sick of it. Aamir Khan is wrong. India, in fact, is the most tolerant country. It tolerates corruption, ridicule, bullshit, debauchery and frivolity. However, the only thing India is intolerant of, is logic and rationality.

I’m not someone who likes to share my so-called opinion just because the rest of the population is doing so. But this issue has really gone out of control. Let’s rewind to the initiation point of this 

controversy, shall we?

“When I chat with Kiran at home, she says, ‘Should we move out of India?’ That’s a disastrous and big statement for Kiran to make. She fears for her child. She fears what the atmosphere around us will be. She feels scared to open the newspapers every day.”

First of all, read the whole statement properly. If the rational side of your brain has been corroded by ignorance, then let me break it down to you in a simple way: all Aamir Khan meant was that his wife, who, by the way, is one of the most sensible filmmakers of our country, is worried about their child, and feels that maybe they should move out of India to provide a more secure future to their little boy. But, BUT, Aamir himself found this thought of Kiran’s appalling; which totally negates all the criticism being splashed at him.

Secondly, what gives the media or anyone else the right to protest against a decision made by two parents? What gives them the right to poke their long, jobless noses into a matter that is totally private? If tomorrow they do decide to move out of the country, nobody has the authority to stop them.

Thirdly, maybe it was a mistake on Aamir’s part to make such a comment without realizing how viral it would get considering his stature as a star, and our country’s preoccupation with blowing things out of proportion. But did the media just have to dwindle this to the level of cheap journalism?

Aamir Khan’s statement relating to his wife’s concerns towards their child was turned into a ridiculous game of Chinese Whisper. This simply proves that the world basically needs something, just anything, to talk about. A few days back it was people changing their Facebook profile pictures to show “support” towards those killed and massacred in Paris, Syria, Beirut, Japan, and so many more countries whose name didn’t make it to the headlines. Now it’s the whole Khan being anti-national hoopla; and tomorrow it will be something else. The media needs its fodder, and unfortunately we provide it with the exact amount, with a cherry on top.

Aamir Khan is one of the most socially aware actors of Bollywood. He not only makes movies that voice out social issues, but has also been associated with shows and campaigns that try to make our country a better place to live in. Yes, he charges bucket-loads of money for it. Why shouldn’t he? It’s his name and face that drives the audience to listen to him. He’s doing his job, and getting paid for it. I see nothing wrong in that. Please stop ostracizing someone for absolutely no reason.

Let’s wait till the next petty headline hits the internet and we all paint our walls red (pun indeed intended). 

Rantings of an English Major

A few days back, as I was appeasing a deranged friend of mine while he thought the equations of physics were going to eat him up, and sharing my own agony of the upcoming finals, he snidely remarked, “What are you getting worried about? You’re a student of English Honours. All you guys have to do is study a few poems. That’s so easy!” Knowing better than to argue with a silly, little boy’s ignorance, I laughed and said, “Yes, it’s easy indeed.”

Of course it’s easy. Being a student of English Literature is the easiest thing in the world.

Delving into Beowulf, Paradise Lost, Inferno and Odyssey only to find that they are either 12,000 lines long or are skillfully divided into a dozen books. Oh, and they’re written in dactylic hexameter and iambic pentameter and God-knows-what-efftameter. Your pick.

What’s the difference between a synecdoche and a metonymy, you ask me? I’ll answer that from beyond my grave.

Explain Rhetoric and Prosody? Maybe a few lifetimes later, when I’m reborn as Dryden’s great-great-super great granddaughter.

Enduring hours and mega-hours of lectures on the apparently acute yet crucial difference between Colonialism and Postcolonialism, Modernism and Postmodernism, Classicism and Neoclassicism.

Remembering which plays do Ophelia, Portia, Emilia and Hippolyta belong to. Keeping in mind that Cesario is actually Viola in disguise, who, by the way, is Sebastian’s twin sister. Not to forget people constantly referring to Shakespeare as a ‘novelist’, and claiming that Romeo and Juliet is the best love story they’ve ever read. Try reading his sonnets cryptically dedicated to The Dark Lady and The Fair Youth. Easy breezy.

Deciphering the stubborn mess initiated by Plato and Aristotle, and carried forward by the rebellious Byron and Shelley. Did you think Keats’ romantic poems bear any similarity with Lang Leav’s limericks? Think again.

Rowling’s Harry and John Green’s Hazel are brave, yes. And so were Shaw’s Eliza and Salinger’s Holden.

No, feminism wasn’t portrayed only in Queen and Kahaani; it’s engraved in Plath’s bold revelations and Austen’s subtle sarcasm.  

Fitzgerald knew we’re all drunk on love, Hemingway knew better than to glorify war, and Eliot knew this world is a big waste land.  

Epics, dramas, classics, contemporaries.

Poets, writers, prophets, idealists.

Mark Twain’s American Dream, Chinua Achebe’s African Literature, Toni Morisson’s Slave Narrative.

Salman Rushdie’s Magical Realism, Amitav Ghosh’s Partition Literature, Vijay Tendulkar’s political satires.

Literature is vast. Literature is an ocean. Literature is decades and galaxies of stories and imagination and reality and possibilities compressed and wrapped in the form of a subject; an institution. And another thing Literature is? It’s easy. Easy for those who love it. Easy for those who treasure it and nourish it and worship it and live it.

And the easiest thing of them all? To smile and pretend it’s easy.

I Remember You

Hello, world.

So, my blog has basically been behaving like an angry friend, who is mad at me for being too lazy and ignorant. Honestly, I can’t blame it. Apologies for the long hiatus. SO much has happened, and so much has been happening. I’ve been on the run for so long that I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to stay still. Pack, travel, unpack, repeat: this has been my schedule for over 2 months now. I don’t remember the last time I sat down to just mindlessly stare at the ceiling. Here’s a recap of a few of the zillion episodes of my recent daily soap of a life:

Added to my embellished list of travel diaries is now another name: Banaras; a place I’d wanted to visit ever since the love for vintage grew in me. It was glorious. Every bit of it. The ghats, the Banarasi Pan, the kaanch ki choodiyaan, the early morning sunrise, the dingy Banaras ki galiyaan… the hype is worth it, guys. Totally worth it. It was a trip of my soul dipped in jalebi’s syrup and rinsed with sunshine.

I officially got bestowed with the title of a post graduate; of a Masters in English Literature. Yes, the day me and my batchmates had been looking forward to since the summer of 2013 finally grazed us with its presence, and set us free. Convocation ’15 was as surreal as the whole journey preceding and leading up to it. Still can’t believe it happened, but it did, and I'm a mixture of happy and relieved and nostalgic and happy again. 

So much more to talk about, so much more to write about; but my jet-lagged body is preventing my droopy eyes from letting my tired fingers to type any further. I promise to write more, and better, and soon. Promise.

Till we meet again and I write again,

Creative Insanity.

Sillage

And when you finally call,

Moments or seasons or years from now,

And you ask me how I’ve been,

I’ll say I've been fine.

There were nights so dark,

I couldn't see through the maze

To find my way to breathe again.

I was fine.

I remember my voiceless screams,

So that I wouldn’t wake up the nightmares

I had so much difficulty putting to sleep.

I was fine.

The glass on the floor, blurred

With the scars on my wrists

While lying upside down. 

I was fine.

The sweat on my forehead,

The salt from my sunken cheeks,

The taste of blood in my mouth.

I was fine.

Reaching for air and grabbing

The hollow bubble of your memories,

Stinging my pink flakes.

I was fine.  

Choking on my own cough, 

My throat clenching with

The memory of your laughter.

I was fine.

The blames, the fights, the marks,

The letters, the vows, the stars,

The incomplete bucket-list.

I was fine.

Our songs, the broken snow globe,

Our places, the cracked lampshade,

Our secrets, the empty couch.

I was fine.

A child, a man, a shadow,

The person, my person,

Lost, betrayed, gone.

I was fine.

When you ask, I’ll say,

With love and fire in my eyes,

“Thank you for asking,

I've been fine.”

 - Sayantani Sarkar.