Happiness is an elusive bitch.

The human mind works in mysterious ways. It constantly yearns for things that will make it happy. And when it finally gets what it wants, the mind moves on to the next best thing. When we are home, we yearn to travel. When we travel, we yearn for the familiarity of our bed. When we are young, we hanker for the One to settle down with and spend the rest of our lives, happily ever after. In the happily -ever -after phase, we want to be untethered to experience the life we gave up at the altar of love.

There’s something very unromantic about possession. The hunt is always more exciting than the kill. As long as it adorns a show-window, somebody else’s arms, is on somebody else’s bed – our heart desires and obsesses over it. Life becomes a series of ifs. If I get this promotion, I will have a better sense of self-worth. If I get that woman, I will truly be happy. If I get that dress, I will look beautiful. But it doesn’t work that way, does it! Your mind continues looking for excuses to be content and happiness continues to be an elusive bitch.

The woman of your dreams turns out to be an attention seeking shrew who leaves you drained with her constant demands. That promotion turns out be a nightmare and you realize you don’t have time for your family anymore.

Familiarity turns even the most beautiful into the ordinary. What looked like the Garden of Eden from a distance turns out to be just a grassy patch with a lone apple tree.

We start taking the splendour, the excitement for granted. The euphoria of getting what you always wanted lasts a few months before we start getting used to it.

Getting used to, is the worst thing that can happen to us. Taking her kindness, his unflinching friendship, her love for granted. Sadly, the only time we realize how much it meant to us is when we are about to lose it.

The thought of letting go brings out the worst in us. We cling, we claw, we threaten, we beg, we dissolve into tears. We become pathetic versions of ourselves.

Isn’t it why, happiness lies only in the past and future, while the present is just a chore to be dispensed with! We realize the magic of the moment, only when we consign it to our memories. Nostalgia is a seductive mistress. It’s tough to let go of her.

No wonder, happiness continues to elude us. It’s because we make a habit of it and then start complaining of boredom. Happiness is not a milestone to be covered. It’s savouring what we have been blessed with.

The truth is, there is no ideal man, love or life –it’s what we make of what we get.

Ideal is a state of mind and not material things.

To a Sklylark: “We look before and after, and pine for what is not; our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught” - Shelley

Confessions of Social Media Addict

My guest post as Blogadda's Premium blogger. Posting it for all who have yet to read it.....

When Sheila joined Facebook, it was confirmed what she had suspected all along –she was beautiful. One never gets tired of hearing the truth. So, she started uploading a new profile picture every week. Gosh! You still look the same, Hellow gorgeous, Hey beautifool, wanna be freinds? Life had never looked this good. In fact, her side profile with her tongue sticking out got her 105 likes. That night she started accusingly at her husband and said –do you have any idea, how lucky you are?

Her status updates were another story. From initiating debates on plight of women in Afghanistan, to ungrateful maids, to the rotting state of the economy, to sharing images of deformed babies to feed the starving in Ethiopia –Sheila was now feeling like the prettier version of Oprah. Realizing that her quick wit and superior intellect needed a bigger platform, she started a blog.

Pen is mightier than the sword, outrage is stronger than nonchalance.

Sheila was the centre of a universe she had created,just like a toddler is for her parents. Look at me Mommeee, I am flying! 26 ½ people called me brilliant. Ain’t I awesome, Ma! Her little achievements, sob stories and rants had an audience spanning continents. Thrashing sentiments out of her keyboard, brandishing her opinions, she was out to change the world.

She made a grand entry to the Twitter world. Mayawati sent an e-hathi to welcome her, Mamata demanded a roll-back, Abhishek Manu Sanghvi invited her to his cottage for an in-depth discussion about her career, Meira Kumar asked her to “baith jaiye, shant ho jaiye”. But Sheila knew, in reality they were quaking in their boots with fear. She, the queen of satire, who could nip ballooning egos in the bud, destroy careers by writing secret diaries on behalf of celebrities and tweet the meanest jokes at their expense. Being funny was never this fun. Outraging in 140 characters had never felt this good. Newspapers were falling over each other to publish her tweets. Sheila Sharma was now India famous in Gobargaon.

Outraging in 140 characters had never felt this good.

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A-musing gets a new life

I am writing from Brisbane, my new home for the next few years. Home has suddenly become an ambiguous term. My pen hovers uncertainly over the permanent address box. With permanence taking a long break, transience has become my reality.

The day we were moving out, our press-wala asks me – I heard you are leaving. Are you going back to your own desh?

A Bengali with no roots in West Bengal, I grew up in Delhi and spent the last eight years of my life in Gurgaon. The NCR is my desh and I’m now in videsh, feeling like an “Englishman in New York”. Taking in the unfamiliar faces and accents, straining to hear sounds of laughter, eyes caressing the beautiful river that runs through the city, hugging myself to keep warm as we take a midnight stroll without fear stalking our minds, a little worried that our streamlined, unchaotic existence in Brisbane will rob me off my inspiration to churn out satire....That I’ll no longer be able to work myself into an angered frenzy, spewing venom in the naive hope that my angst will miraculously change the world.

My organized mind feeds on the chaos that surrounds me.

The last few months, I have constantly been beseeched by the same question – so, how does it feel to be moving out? And my reaction was always the same. Silence. Because I had no words to describe the swirl of muddled up feelings. Of being unmoored from familiarity, anticipating alienation and loneliness, yet excited about a new innings in my life.

We never tire of complaining about the monotony of routine, but when change stares at us in the face, we are filled with confusion. Will I be able to make new friends? What if I don’t like it there! And most importantly, will I be inspired enough to write!

My blog is part of my life. I’d hate to let go of it so easily.

So, you will all have to put up with my transition, my mood swings as I search for a new identity.

We spent our Saturday with a lovely couple, their two dogs and a lazy cat, at their country home. Their house is a happy clutter, the kitchen counters overflowing with culinary experiments. They are grandparents but their sense of adventure is still intact. They grow their own fruits, vegetables, nuts and herbs, spending hours under the sun tending to them. Taking off for hikes with their pets and coexist happily with the wildlife that surrounds them. A kangaroo hopping past their gardens is everyday business for them. Gigantic spiders often take a pee break in their bathrooms.

It made me yearn for a life I’d be too scared to live.

It also made me realize that you have to let go to savour life that cannot be controlled.

P.S The Aussies can’t seem to get my name right. Suddenly I have become Swami Agnivesh’s favourite drink – Pee.

Alice Goes Down the Rabbit Hole

Courtesy - Random House

Our Lady of Alice Bhatti is Mohammed Hanif's second inning, a tale I think is best described as a 'doomed love story'. Of course there are many layers in the narrative that elevate it above and beyond the typical romance- Hanif also brings in the plight of the "choohras": the sweeper caste; and the Christians living in a predominantly Muslim country. He weaves in elements of religious fanaticism and theological uncertainty.

Alice Bhatti is a renegade: a nurse who takes no nonsense from anyone, who takes nothing for granted, who has been a victim many times but has never stopped fighting. The story begins with Alice's return to Sacred Heart Hospital after a stint in the Borstal jail. She is guided by Sister Hina Alvi as she tackles the day-to-day work at the Sacred Heart.

Teddy Butt is a body-builder who works as the 'man-who-handles-the-dirty-
jobs' for Inspector Malangi's 'Gentleman's Squad', or G-squad for short. A man of few thoughts, and fewer words, he is willing to throw aside everything to impress his boss.

Their romance begins with a chance meeting that leaves Teddy in the grips of infatuation bordering on obssession. It is an unlikely pairing (to say the least), and Hanif never lets the reader forget that. Throughout the story, the reader is given constant, subtle hints about some impending misfortune. The other characters stand as helpless witnesses to their romantic intelude, but each one has a niggling, ominous feeling about it. Noor: the young man born in Borstal, who rose to a position of much importance at the Sacred Heart and takes care of his ailing mother wants to protect Alice, the woman he loves; and Sister Hina Alvi: the pragmatic, matronly head nurse at the Borstal, who warns her of heartbreak and the futility of love.

I say with much relief that Hanif has toned down (somewhat) on the 'Ew Factor'. Apart from a vivid description of nipples in the beginning, the story is comparitively tame. However, if you pick up 'Our Lady of Alice Bhatti' expecting to find gooey romance, I suggest you direct your attention elsewhere. Hanif never hesistates to give the reader a taste (or dollops, more like) of harsh reality: a place where mindless violence, jealousy and grief go hand-in-hand with love and loyalty. At times, though, the grounded 'real-ness' of the story can get a little hazy under a veil of surreality: something that gives it a dreamlike quality...a quality brought out in the unexpected ending.

A Blackened Reputation

To Dear_God@gmail.com
 
Subject – To Report Abuse

Wassup God,

Long time no see, no hear, no speak – I hope you are not trying to be Manmohan Singh!

On a serious note, I am writing to you to express outrage against centuries of abuse I have suffered in the hands of your greatest creation, mankind. Generation after generation has engaged in vilifying my “good name” for absolutely no fault of mine. I am but just a shade minding my own business but now spend most of my time howling in agony like a hungry hyena at the unfairness of it all. Could you please ask your assistant to hunt for the devil who initiated this ugly campaign against me?

My name is being exploited to describe all things evil and undesirable. I mean, there are so many others they could have picked. Why just me! I have become a slur to my own name. I wish I could drown and melt into nothingness.

Guess what, it has become even worse. A hirsute Baba, with a wink deadlier than Diggy’s conspiracy theories is spearheading a kranti that has taken away my shanti. He’s associating my name with ill-gotten wealth stashed away in Islands with difficult to spell names. A collaboration that has earned me nothing but disrepute. I concede that he is simply using me to endear himself to a nation with an attention span of a 3 year old, but did it really have to be me?

I think I will sue that man and live sadly ever after, drinking lauki juice on his island in Scotland.

As if it wasn’t bad enough to be associated with cats that bring bad luck...sheep with a villainous character... a day that’s tragic... a heart that’s devious....a skin that will relegate a girl to a lifetime of misery.... a colour that’s racist! As if there were no colours to choose from! Tell me, what’s wrong with the “red sheep of the family”, a “blue cat crossing your path”, “a mauve heart”. Yet it had to be blackmail, black-money, black guard, black-eye...a face blackened to shame...Uff!

I suspect mankind is colour blind.

My sob story doesn’t end here. After watching White hog all the limelight for centuries, I now have to put up with the agony of Grey being celebrated as the next-superstar! The very name “fifty shades of grey” is turning women into a red faced, panting, and giggly mass of gloop. What does grey have that I don’t?

But I must thank these women for turning me into a style statement, using me to flaunt their curves and hide flab. The superstar, who prefers me to be picture perfect on the red carpet. The girl who lines her eyes to appear mysterious. The coffee that keeps his adrenalin pumping.

But I refuse to be placated with these small consolations. I want you wave your iWand and make this politics of colour disappear into thin air. I’ve had enough of me, sitting on the Opposition benches, feeling like L.K Advani. My life feels like a grid failure with no hopes of recovery.

God, give me hope, show me light and make life fair for me.

Waiting for Glory

Sincerely yours

Black

P.S – can you please send cartons of Fair & Lovely to Baba Crusader? After all, all he needs to do is slather those notes with the lotion, to make them legal and white.

Surviving a Delhite

Courtesy - Google Images

I share a love-hate relationship with Delhi. A Bengali who has seen the capital since her nappy days, I have been witness to the slow but bumpy transformation of this outpost for displaced Punjabis to a teeming megapolis of millions. Home to some of the biggest markets in Asia, a city where multinational opulence rubs shoulders with decaying Mughal splendour, the stately Shantipath that fills you with awe, wide avenues lined with trees older than your granddad’s memory, the beautiful bungalows – it’s tough not to fall in love with Delhi. What I simply abhor is the attitude its populace never tires of flaunting.

The Delhite is a species devoid of manners, full of self-importance and lacking empathy.

Blame the extreme weather, its fast paced tempo and its law resistant neighbours: there’s that indefinable thing about Delhi that changes you. If you are genteel, soft-spoken, law-abiding – may God help you. The astounding variety of punishments good manners can fetch you in this city is astounding. Your toes will get trampled. If you are in a queue it will magically keep getting longer in the front. If you take the Metro, someone will invariably shove her well fed ass in the sliver of space next to yours and literally push you off the seat. If you are brave enough to drive, you will be honked at incessantly even at traffic lights. If you are stupid enough to walk, someone will either try to run you over or kidnap you for fun.

It’s as if your mere existence is an irritation to many.

In Delhi it’s very important to know who your Dad is. If you are driving within speed limits and it is unacceptable to the fella driving behind, he will come up to you and ask – tere baap ki sadak hai kya(is this your Dad’s road)? If he’s in a better mood, he might ask you the profoundest question of all – Pataa hai main kaun hoon? (Do you know who I am?)

It helps if your Dad is an important government official. It spares you the agony of standing in queues at 15 different counters and when you finally see light at the end of the tunnel (read the clerk), you will be turned back because your bank statements for the last 25 years were not submitted in triplicate. Either sarkari naukri makes you ugly or the sarkar is benevolent towards the looks-challenged, but the fact is, you will find some of the ugliest specimens working for the government. Coupled with an attitude to match, a visit to a government office is like a trip to hell.

Standing in a serpentine queue, with the probability of the smelliest man standing right next to you, the fan on the ceiling moving at a speed which will give a snail a complex, only to come face to face with a gormint clerk, whose main mission in life is to make you realize that life is not a bed of roses.

It certainly helps if your Dad or even an uncle related to you by satellite is a Deputy Secretary in the Department of Animal Husbandry. Chairs appear magically, files move at lightning speed and if you are lucky enough you get tea in china cups that’s only three years old.
 
Delhi also brings out the Olympian in you. One has to be the faster, higher and stronger to survive. Years of scarcity, rationing and reservations have conditioned us to believe that if we don’t push to get there first, things will run out. Seats, admissions, tickets, space, opportunities or even food laid out at the buffet table makes us starts jostling as if our life depends on it.

Any other vermin encroaching upon our space deserves to be pushed off from the face of Earth.

In movie halls, people refuse to switch off their phones and insist on conducting business negotiations just when the heroine’s mother is about to die. Our gestures reek of impatience and we have long deemed simple sorry and thank-you’s as unnecessary. All we need is a small trigger to burst into a string of profanities.

I’d hate to think that there’s nothing right with a Delhite. In fact a Dilliwala is all about dil - harsh but large hearted, ready to beat all odds with his never-die spirit, enterprising despite government apathy and a stifling bureaucracy – we have learnt to survive on jugaad. We shop in swanky malls in our Calvin Kleins, check out the latest accessories at the DKNY store, yet uninterrupted supply of electricity and water remain a dream for us. We buy mammoth generators to counter load shedding, install heavy duty water pumps to tide over Jal Boards’ ineptitude and bribe our way through sarakari ennui. We Delhites always manage to find a way out of misery.

Everything about us is larger than life – our over the top celebrations, our Swarovski studded handbags, Chunnu ki Mummy’s diamond necklace and his Daddy’s sedan. If Chunni ki Mummy can drive you up the wall with her “kitne ka liya” queries, she will also make sure your kid is taken care of if you are late from office. Mr Sharma may quarrel with you over parking space but will knock at your door on Diwali night with a mammoth mithai dabba in his hand.

Loathe him, love him but you simply can’t dismiss him. After all it’s the spirit of a Delhi-wala that keeps the city alive.

This post is now on... IBNLive

When Pune had a blast.

Terrorists unlike ordinary mortals work silently and when they do perform – they make it to the front pages of national dailies with a bang. In India, they have a weakness for Wednesdays – a seemingly innocuous day of the week, which is neither much-hated as Mondays nor worshipped like Fridays.

It was again a Wednesday when Pune’s busy Junglee Maharaja Road was rocked by a series of bomb blasts. News channels spent precious hours speculating on facts that didn’t exist, the camera flashing the same images in a loop convinced that the viewers were loving it. Everyone from the waiter at MacDonalds to the bhaaji vendor was approached for opinions informed.

Since the blasts were low intensity, the police claimed it was an act of mischief and not a terror attack. I suspect naughty North Indians. Two days of sweating without electricity and look where they landed, planting bombs on unsuspecting cycles and smelly garbage cans.

As panic and fear gripped the city, Pune’s Chief Commissioner tried to calm frayed nerves by declaring – “No need to panic, the blasts were low intensity”. Unfortunately, people were too busy screaming to pay any heed to him.

Conclusion – ask before you scream. Bhaiya – was it terror or mischief?

Twitterati did its bit and asked Puneites to stay safe. Those who were un-frightened enough to check for twitter updates, made sure they did not rush headlong into the nearest garbage bins.

No one died but two individuals were stupid enough to get injured. A certain Mr Dayanand Patil picked up a plastic bag at the venue of an ongoing protest by Team Anna, when a bomb inside it went off in his hand. Since he was unfortunate enough to survive the attack, the police took him in custody for interrogation. Mr Patil now more famous as “the injured” man, will enjoy a few more days of police hospitality after it was discovered he had travelled to Jordan in 2003-04, despite his poor finances.

As expected, the CCTV’s that had been installed to monitor terror activities, were not working. Pune Municipal Corporation was waiting for a few more attacks before finalizing payments to the contractor responsible for its maintenance. Quoting the great RR Patil, the erstwhile Home Minister of Maharashtra - Bade bade shahron maine aisi chhotee chhotee batein hotee rehti hai.

It is now learnt that faulty design and poor quality of ammonium nitrate reduced the intensity of the blasts. Cash strapped terrorists with no regard for quality can now be safely blamed for creating mischief and forcing the police to make statements that make no sense.

Sushil Kumar Shinde, India’s self-confessed excellent Minister for Power, who was rewarded Home for plunging half the country in darkness, has yet to make up his mind whether the bomb blasts were part of the celebration to welcome him or just boring terror attacks. I don’t know what type of attack it is...It does not seem that it’s a terror attack, so how can I say it’s one? I don’t have any update on the probe and have no immediate plans to go to Pune. People who can’t kill or maim, have no right to be called terrorists! The only thing Shinde has conceded to is, that the attacks were spontaneous and expressed his disappointment at the lack of spontaneity.

Our elected representatives were quick to condemn the attacks and admitted to lack of specific intelligence. It is unreasonable to expect our intelligence agencies to act until they get specific inputs. Something like - Dear clueless government, the bombs will be wrapped in brown paper and will go off at 7 PM at Bhendi Bazar. Now that’s what I call specific!

The aam-admi wondered what if it’s him the next time! He let out an involuntary shudder as he imagined his body being torn apart by shrapnels from a crude bomb assembled by a disgruntled citizen, brainwashed into believing that killing is the only way to azaadi.

The killer and the killed both victims of a system that is deaf, blind and dumb to the cries of its citizens.

But life has to go on. Who has the time to mope, when there’s a new bombshell in town dying to bare her Jism on 70 mm screen?