Recollections from a Diary. I

22nd Jan. This year.

A bitter morning.

It is as if winter has no intention of leaving any time soon. They heavy fog, as Dr. Saint half-jokingly puts it, has settled in the mind. And under the weight of this heaviness, the classes have resumed.

The cold clings to my depths and there something dreadful lies embedded. I must return something to a certain AW but I fear, at this moment, I am in no capacity to do so. I wonder if this alone is the cause of my present anxieties. Not really. Although, it adds to the burden. Lies have only begotten more lies and I seem to be going around in circles. It needs to stop; I need to step out of this nauseous circle. But where do I muster the courage? The strength?

J and I had an argument of sorts - not too damaging - half jovial, half bitter. Does man have an essence? He said 'yes'. I disagreed. Fervently, we both disagreed with each other. But I wonder now, if the disagreement lay in our opinions or exclusively for each other.

Evening - I must go for a run.

My clothes are wet, unfolded and untidy, spread all over the room like the remains of a bad argument.

Later.

Why am I keeping this journal? Is it only for my private writings and secret perusal?

Already I feel a little weary and dismayed reading what I have written here. (On the first day itself?) Something seems amiss, lacking. The more important thoughts are ever elusive and I fail to communicate them, even to myself. But is this journal reserved only for such thoughts. Is the 'petty' and 'trivial' too petty, too trivial? I guess I'm shackled to this compulsive search for statements of 'profound' significances.

23rd

At a stranger's b'day party. He's t be 21 this midnight. 21 - the threshold of adulthood, according to the law. A comfortable setting in the balcony, this night.

The stranger is J's friend. A charming man - slow-paced, unhurried. But again that must just be the inebriation.

Then there's this other guy with his long, artistic fingers and his hissing s's. He say he's doing law but he's not particularly interested in it. Anyway, what does it matter to me? Lovely hands! But perhaps that's about it.

26th

1 am. Happy Republic Day! I am not particularly distraught at the moment but I am a bit annoyed. It is as if 'they' impose the norm of happiness upon us citizens. Anyone deviating from this norm must be mad. But enough of this!

As you see, I'm not in my patriotic best. Never have been really! It is apathy I feel for this country/concept. Am I to feel guilt? Why?

Just got down with composing a song with AW. Quite a product really! And in just two hours! Don't know what is should be called though.

I had a chat with an old man last night. According to him, he had been a principal at a certain school, in Australia. He called himself Jon. A pleasant conversation. He had the maturity in his tone that is characteristic of such old men - he was comforting , kind and at the same tome rational, knowledgeable. One particular thing he said still reverberates. "You are lucky to belong to your generation." He was referring to its tolerance and acceptance of newer, progressive beliefs. But perhaps that tolerance, acceptance is really indifference. The time is such. One must witness so many things, be exposed to so many ideas - of a past of thousands of years and then the present with myriads of images, an eternal sleeplessness affected by television shows that run 24/7 and of course 'night life'. Et cetera, et cetera. How's the individual, belonging to this generation, truly to measure the immeasurable and qualify and quantify things? It does not understand what it is to be shocked - It has done it all, seen it all. 'Nothing to be done.' Its emotions are minimal, short-lived. No grandeur! And everyone's interested in themselves. So the individual of this generation is completely disinterested and indifferent. It feels superficially. At times, it may shout slogans of this and that on the streets. But its voice is muted the moment it is comfortably indoors. Ours is a jaded generation.

29th Jan

The days are getting warmer reminding one of the approach of oppressive summer. And with this heat, I am made aware of the brevity of my stay here, in Hindu College. I am not at all prepared for my departure. Too many things to be done; too little time. Time flies like a fleeting bird oblivious of my pining in its indifference.

Last evening, J confronted me with the knowledge he had attained of my furtive affairs in that gay networking site, PR. Some member from that site (with whom I had been chatting earlier in December) told J about my visits. What exactly did that man tell him, I can never be certain of, nor can I fully inquire!

The episode left me deeply struck with guilt. I wanted J's forgiveness so that I might release from that shame. But then again, why was I ashamed? Why should I be ashamed? I don't understand. I do know that my guilt arose due to moral convention and societal norms; but 'reason' (if I am in any capacity to employ it) redeems me. In fact, it negates any form of guilt that I may know, obliterating it as one breaks free from superstitions with the advent of scientific knowledge.

But then again, that very 'reason' contradicts so many things, so much so that it contradicts itself. And amidst its contradictions, I am tearing at all places.

Lazy afternoon - that's the name of the song. The one we were working on. And that's how this afternoon has been. The laziness is numbing; it keeps you in suspension. But behind that apparent numbness, all anxieties surface flooding me with their pessimism. It denies action and I sink into the realm of chaotic and poisonous thoughts. A lazy afternoon brings no rest. It is a burden.

The song, however, is good.

Hola!

On the terrace. A hot summer night and the Spaniard's wife fanned herself constantly. This habitual practice of cooling herself down gave one the impression that the fan was an extension of her anatomy. And so it might have been. It was a dinner party, 'for friends'. But I did not even know them. Nor would I think of strangers as friends just because, by some accident, we happen to be in the same party. I would like to believe that I was indifferent then but this compulsive need to be honest compels me to say that I was not. Of course I did not dislike them. But there was some kind of resilience on my part - partly angry, partly afraid.

I was angry because I was left out even though I was there, drinking beer, eating tortillas, sitting at the plastic table among white folk. (Sunita must have enjoyed their company!) I was simply left out as if I was some furniture. Or not even that. Because they ran short of chairs . They were saddened by the dearth of chairs!. But no one even truly cared for my presence. And why was I afraid? Because I did not want them to include me. I did not want to be taken by the collar to whichever dimension they were from. As if my world was lesser; I am not sure if I am ready to pass into another world, not when I'm unprepared - to be consumed by it!

So, angry and afraid, I kept myself at a distance from them. And it wasn't very difficult to do so. After all, we didn't even speak in the same tongue. Things were going fine, for them and for me, when suddenly one of the women, probably feeling sorry seeing how 'left out' I was, turned towards me, talked and after some unimportant words, irrelevant in this writing (although most of this is irrelevant; but then again, 'What is relevant?) she asked, "Why don't you learn Spanish?" And suddenly everything fell apart. I was at the centre of the table, stripped nude and under the gaze of blue, green and hazel eyes. I don't want to learn Spanish just because I've started meeting them. I have never even thought of learning the language, have never been interested in the culture. Till March of this year, Spain did not even figure in my geography! Not that I'm prejudiced; it's just that there have been too many other things occupying me in the last 22 years.

I said, "Yes, I would." C came to my rescue then; but he has become too weary of speaking to deaf ears. Before he would be thoroughly defensive and do all he could to curb this Spanish imperialism. But now, like me, he too sees that it's healthy to ignore certain things. And for that, I'm grateful.

Perhaps they sensed my silent rebellion against their conquests. And so, they withdrew. And even better, they started speaking in English. To accomodate me! I should be thankful, but you know, sometimes when you feel out of place, the corners become your shelter and you even love the darkness and the anonymity they provide. So, I hated this new spotlight I was given. And spotlights mean performance! So I performed, for their sake and for mine.

Oh yes, here I've deliberately avoided 'the sun and the moon' to embrace my 'idly' self. But you know, the distance between the sun and the idly on my plate is too great for my liking. I wish there was some thread tied to an enormous needle which would stitch the two together. But then again, if I was lost in some deep, dark forest and suddenly the path divided into three, I would never choose the middle one!

Fashion: Fun and Fisasco in the University.

From bohemians to bourgeois aspirants, native hippies to geeky ‘sciencies’ Delhi University is home to all – free thinkers, conformists, (pseudo) intellectuals, behenjis, each struggling in his or her own way to make it big. But it doesn’t mean that the hardworking, studious kids at DU are alien to fashion. Why not make it big looking good, eh? Answering in the affirmative, the DUites go out into the streets of Kamla Nagar, hunting for the latest tops in Benetton, purchasing pajamas in Paharganj, crowding the already over-crowded Sarojini or to indulge themselves in City Walk.

A civilization that so freely experiments with fashion, to satisfy that primordial instinct to look good, will undeniably go wrong occasionally. And so do the the DUites who often falter in their daily fashion endeavours. Girls sitting under the Virgin Tree, in Hindu, or sipping chai in D-school (Delhi School of Economics) are always quick to point out a fashion disaster if they happen to see one passing by. To tell you a secret, the men sitting inside the Stephen’s cafe do so too, but furtively, taking a break from thier intellectual verbal excesses. The ones who go wrong are usually the Delhi damsels, who have lost the ability to converse in Hindi, walking into class wearing a really tiny pair of shorts – not that the shorts are necessarily bad – It’s just that it’s a little inappropriate to discuss Shakespeare showing too much flesh. The behenjis are another lot under heavy surveillance. Rich colours suffuse these native species, from head to toe, with occasional bursts of gold or silver embroidery. The behenjis are known for their stubborn immunity against the changing tides of fashion. They wear Anarkali salwar kameez, the kinds worn by Madhuri Dixit in the 80’s, that haven’t changed in a thousand years and even in the sweaty heat of Delhi summer they walk about in their chaste set of suits! The boys too aren’t far behind. Wearing a baggy pair of jeans, with hundreds of pockets, everywhere, a DUite boards the metro at Kashmere Gate. Playing loud music in the train gives him the opportunity to prove that he too has a cool phone. The usual but never fashionable ‘My Dad is an ATM’ T-shirt completes the look! On the other hand, the average DU male ‘model’ with huge gym-manufactured arms, a slight protrusion in the abdominal region, wears a tight T-shirt, usually in the shades of metrosexual pink and a pair of tapered trousers that don’t necessarily flatter the behind.

To say that DU follows a trend would be very wrong indeed, especially when everyone, belonging to both the sexes, seems to be in a fierce competition to stand out. Looking good may not be the only aim that the ‘hep’ generation has set out for itself. In fact, looking good may NOT be the aim! So what does the word, ‘fashion’, mean to a student of Delhi University? A rather confident Aparna from KMC says, Fahion is just about me! Not about what’s ‘in’. But what does a statement like that mean especially from someone who wears a pair of shorts and a pink ganji that is in? Devika, from LSR, wearing kajal around a pair of lustrous eyes, clad in orange kurta and black patiala pants, enlightens us – Fashion is about feeling comfortable; what I wear depends on my mood. Today, I felt like wearing Indian and so I did. If tomorrow I feel like wearing denim, I probably will. The DU spirit seems to be seeking constant change, independence and to stand out. And for this reason, it might be safe to assume that the trend in DU is to not follow any trend. At least, not yet!


The thing about DU is that there is no average DUite. It’s a hotchpotch of young dudes and dames from all over India with occasional sprinkles of foreign students. D-school, probably one of the fashion arenas of Delhi University, is crowded with students from neighbouring colleges, apparently belonging to the New Age cult (or is this just another fashion maneuver?), bunking classes, gathering under trees for chai and smoke, to play the guitar, sing or to perform the traditional act of ‘checking out’ people. Here, Delhi University is at its most vibrant, colorful and often eccentric self. Young men with long curly hair wearing Paharganj pajamas and silver earrings are the usual visitors. School bags have given way to jholis putting a final touch to the Bohemian avatar. Occasional appearances in blazing pinks or sensual reds reveal the fact that the men are now confidently experimenting with the hitherto feminine. Girlfriends may be more modern wearing tight-fitting jeans or shorts, with Amy Winehouse hairdo and make-up. Some ‘chicks’ however, dare to go bold with short hair, strutting around comfortably in Fabindias. The North Easterners seem to be letting go of the earlier Hiphop influences and giving way to the ‘Emo’ look. Japanese Anime and Korean flicks seem to govern their (fashion) sensibilities.

2010 has seen DU at its craziest best, at least in fashionable matters. College reopens in the latter half of July. Till then the students will wait for the results while contemplating new looks they can pull off. Fresh faces will mean fresh targets for many; competition for others. But to all, it would mean change. And so, Delhi University waits, with baited breath, to witness another year in the lives of the thousands of DUites. Some of us, on the other hand, are simply interested in what they wear.

(for Gloria, July 2010)

First City: First Day at Work; First Assignment/Homework!

My first day with FIRST CITY was a pleasant experience although I was greatly alarmed to find myself arriving late in the office. Yet a pleasant smile welcomed me as I waited anxiously in the waiting room. All anxieties quelled, I was immediately taken in to the editorial office/room where I was introduced to an all-female group who would now be my colleagues.

Most of the afternoon was spent in reading the past issues of First City and collecting and constructing impressions of this very dense (and I use the word with much deliberation) magazine. Of course, what I read made me more and more apprehensive than at ease; I was suddenly perplexed as I beheld intense and intricate work that had gone in to constitute each issue. In the evening, the boss laid out a loose structure that usually holds the magazine together and a list of dos and don’ts that further gave me reason to worry.

So here I conjure up all strength and courage to perform this rite of passage: I give you here my impression of the magazine, FIRST CITY – A daunting task but one that needs to be done immediately. First City, in short, is a monthly magazine that informs Delhi about itself. Of course this is only one of its functions. The FC2 section coherently yet concisely lets the reader have a peek into the various cultural functions, be it dance, music, theatre, art et cetera. ‘Listings’ functions like a handy ‘yellow pages’; and to find one related to meditation and yoga was rather unexpected but nevertheless informative. The highlighted boxes usher the more impatient readers to focus on the more interesting events subtly but effectively.

I seem to be constantly echoing myself when I say this: First City is about Delhi and Delhi is a lot of things and by this logic, First City is a magazine about a lot of things. Devdutt Pattanaik, with his erudite articles on myths, religion and legends, Anoushka Shankar’s wistful expressions and her witty chin-puppets (Feb 2008), Amruta Patil’s clever sketches and plots, Nimret Handa’s ‘Beautiful Delhi’, among others, are to be found together within the magazine’s pages. I personally like the section where the magazine interviews the common man, where he/she is presented as an individual and not solely as a representative of his/her class. Similarly, the ‘Minute-Old Migrant’ is unique to First City. These two sections could perhaps be more elaborate although I do understand that doing so may not attract sufficient readership.

The more recent issues strangely have not provided film reviews. I think that section could be revived as I did find some reviews of various films in the older issues of the magazine. The book and music reviews are generally crisp yet enticing and the books and music picked up for reviews are from various genres. I believe, in the most recent issue, there is a section where the summaries of the more popular books are given. This pairing up of the summaries with the reviews works. Also, the various museums and monuments of Delhi could be visited and revisited. The ‘BANDAID’ section could definitely be revived as there are many new upcoming bands with newer sounds and experimental backgrounds.

The main article is the most unexpected in the magazine. From Jaggi Vasudev to Ashish Soni, First City has covered a wide range of topics and people. And this is the magazine’s virtue and luxury as it has no rigid agenda. The articles are usually interesting, well written and at the same time informational. The June 2009 ‘Writers’ Special’ was a rare collection, of writers writing about writers, and an exclusive read.

Another section that I like is ‘Walk’. However, in the last issue, ‘Walk’ did not do justice to Hauz Khas Village. The place is so much more mysterious with its archaic windows and its labyrinth alleys. The monument behind the village seemed to be obfuscated, in the article, by the many shops and boutiques. The photographs, too, were rather amateurish, concealing more and showing uninteresting details. Having said all that, ‘Walk’ as a concept is very potent as it has the capacity to lure the readers from their comforts right into the very gardens, parks et cetera that are written about. At the same time, it makes people aware of the various places that are rarely visited, but should be.

First City is a magazine about Delhi and like the city, the magazine has its many facets, eccentricities seemingly disconnected and yet at some level all the articles, photographs and even the advertisements seem to settle down in some kind of agreement, harmoniously in tune. And perhaps because it is about, around and within the city – a city that is the melting pot of cultures, where people of different races and religions live together in the same buildings, parks and share metro-rides – the magazine naturally allows itself to mirror its muse, Delhi.