Typing out loud

 Dil Se (1998) A Film by Mani Ratnam The third installment of Mani Ratnam's thematic trilogy, which explores love in the time of political turmoil, is an example of parallel cinema. It was the year when Kuch Kuch Hota Hai was released and became a commercial success. Though Shah Rukh Khan's character in Dil Se is similar to many of his roles, the film itself was different from what he was signing during those days. Amarkant Verma, a program executive at All India Radio, visits Assam to gather people's opinions on development in the state, fifty years after independence. The very first scene begins with a heavy storm, where we see Amar in a red jacket and Moina at a distance, covered in a black shawl. Amar is transparent—what we see is what he is—but Moina hides her childhood trauma within her. When she leaves the station, Amar remarks that it is "the shortest love story in the world." But we know there is more to come. Dil Se captures the seven shades of love as d...

 I recall missing the train to Puri nine years ago; the Duronto Express leaves the station sharply at eight o'clock. The memory feels fresh, as if it happened just yesterday. This distinct feeling of missing a train, watching it leave the station ever so slowly, has stayed intact with me. Nine years ago, Baba could still run with a suitcase over his head. This bittersweet memory returns to me as the train leaves the stinking city behind. Watching your parents grow old, aging slowly before your eyes, feels like missing a train. This terribly helpless feeling clings to me as the train passes, leaving the stinking city behind. As the train passes, it also leaves my ukulele at yours and your harmonica at mine.

  There is so much that happens in a year, oh, so much that changes over the course of a few months. It feels as if each night brings a change and each day is a new life. Yet, it is the same old life in so many ways. You get up on the same old bed, brush your same old teeth or don't, eat the same old breakfast or miss it, wear the same old clothes. Now, you might contradict me here, saying you wear new clothes at times, but you have already experienced wearing new clothes for the first time at some point in your life. The rest is a repetition of that experience, just like the rest of your life is a repetition of a repetition of a repetition that means nothing. Monotonous and meaningless. There's so much that changes every year, and yet so much remains the same. I lost someone this year. Someone I held dear. Someone I spent too many nights with. Nights are special. Nights are somehow more intimate. As if it takes nights to trust each other and open up. The night unfolds convers...

 What it is like to know a place.  To know the momo guy who will give you a little extra of your favourite chutney, to know the shop that provides the cheapest photocopies, to know which route to take to avoid waterlogged roads during the monsoon, to know the nearest stationary shop that sells all the unnecessary things to cater to your obsession, to know familiar faces of shop owners, beggars, or people you would find in the same metro compartment every day, to know the correct switch to the washroom or the exhaust fan, to know the correct key among a bunch of keys, or to know which corner of the balcony gets more sunlight.  After all this, you get to know the streets; the streets that smell of cigarettes, specific flowers, turpentine or the streets that smell of deep-fried food. In a city like this, streets get crowded with people and vehicles, and crossing them alone in a crowd, gets lonely from time to time. These are the times, I resonate with how Joe felt about lone...

 Another year has passed - in unfinished novels, in unfinished canvases, in unfinished syllabus, in pink sunsets, in rainy afternoons, in virtual friendships, in online dating, in watching random interviews, in reading random articles on the internet, in Hemant afternoons, in horror movie nights, in Ruskin Bond monsoons, in greens, in longing for mountains, in newfound love for ghazals, in Moheen, in dim-lit rooms, in cooking for dear ones, in white sauce pastas and jhal muris, in stalking unknown Instagram profiles, in unwritten paragraphs, in Facebook fan groups, in love for The Office, in struggles with technology, in meaningless zoom calls, in making PDFs, in last-minute submissions, in suffocating masks, in love for blacks and whites, in messy hairs, in scratched glasses, in long afternoon walks, in window seat of public buses, in getting lost, in amateur photography, in amateur strumming, in lamest of jokes, in inexplicable love for films, in a love-hate relationship with wri...

 What did you lose in order to gain political correctness? And what all did you lose in order into gain that moral high ground ? Exactly how much did feminism offer you and how much did it take away in return? What box you were taken out of and what box you were put into? How much did you sell yourself for? Or how little did you sell yourself for? What did you pick up when you gave up smoking? Are you familiar with the comfort and the disappointment that follows when you put someone on a pedestal ? What all do you go on losing, as a price for your hunger for knowledge ? How much does stardom take away? What price do you pay for your narcissism at the end of the day? What cost do you pay for your privileges ? Did your privilege also allow you to follow your passion only to make you realise that you have fallen out of love with it ? Do you also feel guilty knowing that there is a little girl out there, too young to have her first period, being raped, just while you rant about the poc...

 Last weekend, I traveled back in time, to a city where you would find Johnson babies, ceiling fans that still change voltage from time to time, wooden almirahs, yellow lights that attract insects, whistles at midnight, desserts that are served in a Cerelac bowl, tube lights that switch on with a flicker, restaurants that receive phone calls to take orders, and a father who can still handle spicy food.  It's still a city, but just a little less of it.  As nostalgia slowly hits you, you realize you are old enough to be nostalgic. You realize with a snap that there was a pre-COVID. You witnessed a time when Snapdeal was a thing, 9Xm was a thing, and Imran Khan was a thing. And the fact that it is not just post-Jio, but also post Shahid's chocolate boy phase. You realize every generation will have their own Don, and you have already had yours.  Maybe this time you too experienced an unknown Durgapur, not the one you packed in a suitcase when you left for Kolkata. 

It is amusing how certain roads always bring back certain memories every time I pass them. The green, soothing road that led to my school. Or the filthy, crowded, narrow lane that led to a claustrophobic doctor's chamber in Rajabazar. The busy market astride such lanes, that sold items of no specific order. The road that had a huge water tank I was scared of, as a child. Or the road where I got lost for the first time. The road along which, we shared a bottle of cold drink on a summer evening. Or the road on my way home, that had an old woman who reminded me of my late grandmom. The road where a transwoman returned me a change of ten rupees, noticing I didn't have much money in my wallet. Finding kindness amidst the scarcity of it is overwhelming.  Of the roads I walked with a friend, I walked with a date, I walked alone.  The roads that were kind to me and the roads that were too fast for me. Their footpaths, buildings, shops, cafes and ATMs. Their bends, lights, shadows, cha...

 Your apartment feels like home. In the course of the last few years while I befriended you, as if I befriended your apartment too. Completely unaware of it. I can't recall at what point the walls of your home grew too familiar to me.  I have grown too close to the potted plants in broken coffee mugs, the diwali decor that stays there throughout the year, the kept aside broken window but most of all the sunlight.  As I was brushing today, I realised your place has eleven windows and that leaves us with so many windows that we still did not sit by.  Your place will always be a reminder of shared Maggie's, best of conversations, first times, ugly fights,  and of how we said let's go and didn't make a move. And I will never know how to separate your apartment from you.  In the last two years of feeling completely homeless, your apartment gave me a home.

 It was that time of the year when the sun shines bright and the wind blows cold. As if it is summer in the hue and winter in the air. This is my favourite kind of weather. I get myself out of my sweater and put it back on every few minutes. Road trips, bright yellow and a familiar restlessness.  It has been a month since then. I joined a music class last week. Everyone plays something throughout the class. Seems like every conversation has background music to it. It feels weirdly calming.  Somedays I love how a harmonica sounds or the smell of turpentine while I paint. Pretty flowers, window seats and the pink sky during sunset. The other days, I don't.  Sunlight plummet on the white door of my room; making it look yellow during the afternoon. Yesteryear was slow and so much about such things. Leisurely and passive. Just the way I like. But March is here again.