Under the banyan tree...

You are the majestic banyan.
With opinions hard as the aged trunk.

Like root tips soft and reddish pink,
are sent to earth and buried within,

You keep my dreams and my words,
safe from hurt, risk and wind.

So words die in my throat,
like leaves that wither as they sprout.

You are the majestic banyan,
your arms are riding long and long,

But I am a shoot gasping for light,
a patch of blue, a voice my own.

thank god! my dad is no fanatic.

My dad is the gentlest creature I know. He moves slowly, speaks softly, loves his history books and sometimes resembles a baby.

He is a man of the world, of intellect, and of many liberal views. He is also blessed with a slow, careful reasoning, which can make even Voldemort seem reasonable.

And that is why it is very scary when doesn’t question wrong ideas: because then superstition becomes tradition; and the mediocre becomes the alternate.

And you have no words to argue even when your insides are screaming that it is wrong. For what words can you offer a seasoned professor?

All you had was a basic instinct. And now, you doubt that too.

How can someone who tells that history is written by the victor not believe in folk tales that endure civilisations?

How can the man who firmly believes that all answers lie in the grey suddenly accept the least common factor?

How can he, who taught you to trust your woman’s instinct at 10, now say that listening to your heart is worthless?

And how can he of all people say that you are not supposed to apply what you learn?

Is it too much effort to stand up for small, little things because the next big research project is within arm’s reach?

Don’t battles have to be won in everyday life? Is the political not personal?

Thank god he is vocally secular. Thank god he hates Modi.

remorse

this space is my trash can. the only space where I can tell my deepest fears. everywhere else I play the parts.

films like Rocket Singh and Rock On make me very sad. for I killed my own company. and all the wonderful things it brought me.

because I didn't have the answers to all those questions thrown at me. because I had to make my family happy.

looking back I never did anything wrong. I worked so hard for I enjoyed every bit of it.


"live in reality," they said. "it is all dreams, it won't last," they shouted.
but what is real really? and what is anything without faith?
and what did they know to ask me to stop??

why did they make me feel like I did something wrong?? why did I have to do it silently, honorarily?? I think my colleagues would have actually said, "go for it girl!"

I wish I had some answers then. it is too late now.
but I trusted them to know better. and for that I feel cheated.

my only original doubt was that being girls, could we promise to be together always.

but now I think we could have worked as long as it lasted. and even if one of us had to leave, we would have faced it when it came.



but it is too late now.
-window siller

Prayer

“What do you pray for every day,” aunt asks, as I open my palm. The kum kum today is red, the light red of fountain pen ink.

I wish I could tell her that until the same time last year I hardly prayed for myself. That I prayed for my sister and all the women in my life. For the goddess would know that the women could do with more blessings than you.

And all of last year I have prayed to her to make things better. She does it in fits and starts, just like I choose to work. Just when I go to her smiling about a day like sunshine, she chooses to put my piece in the snake’s mouth. And there I am sliding down its belly to the bottom right away.

~~ O mother goddess, you who stood fierce in sacred groves, before they shut you in ornate temples. You, who aremade of clay, for all things must return to the earth. You, who take the braves as consorts and protect the animals and the seeds.

To you I submit like a child: clear this confusion in my head; show my way clearly to see. Should I make happy all those all around me, people who love so dearly me. Or should I listen to the replies stuck in my throat and hold up until I feel it is all just right. ~~

prayer: the window siller; pictures: Egg.

good to know: Sacred Groves of Tamil Nadu by M. Amirthalingam; http://www.fao.org/docrep/005/y9882E/y9882e14.htm

Footnotes in my head

3:00 a.m. trip to the loo:

I am fleshing a storyline in my head: must rope in that guy who shot those owlets at Nanmangalam, use local transport for flavour, get an illustration done of the travel route.

Come on, the dots illustration must move. It cannot stand there. I am wide awake now. Wait, is it a news story or a travel docu? Am I a film-maker or a writer?

Let me begin properly:

This is me. I edit news stories from about 11 a.m. to 7 p.m., sometimes 5 a.m. I used to make documentaries with my friends in the remaining hours. I used to do a 100 things in 10 mins and I used to be fine.

I asked my dad many times a day: "I want to quit and work with my friends." He screamed: "you are mad, you are a writer, do one thing.... steady job, respectable, respectable."

My dad never screams. He is a soft-spoken professor and always sweet. I must be wrong.

I did the graveyard shift for my friends. They adjusted. I love them. Sometimes we were happy, sometimes sad, mostly poor. But, oh, what fun we had.

But last year, at one point, when I could no longer answer questions of how I could manage to do this forever AND make money. I decided it was time to let go.

I must find people who are commercial for Stick. I must write in permanent black. Films are too expensive. Not for a middle-class daughter. And I must get an LIC policy.

I looked at that report but did not cut it for reference. I saw that festival announcement but did not jump. Those mails, those lists, those people... I painfully closed my eyes. I waved luck to Stick at the airport and it felt oh-so-sick.

I tried quants. I went shopping. I did family bonding. And I told myself "respectable, respectable." I had all the time to jog but I slept. My head felt rusty. Like the bhindis in the fridge, wet and stinky.

Maggie, Stick and I met sometimes. For doing books, for closing accounts. I could never do a sum to save my life but it felt like sunshine.

On a whim, months hence, we applied to a fellowship. It had history. The skies rained. My grey cells beamed. Colleagues loved me again, for I found my head.

In the long days since, for wait is habit to docuwallahs, I have tried many times. To write 8 coloumns of news print. I know I can wring it. It is in me.

But the thought of some tv journo making my a tale a 10 mins feature makes me growl. From the pit of my stomach. If it goes on air, it has my name on it buddy.

I can pop a pill for my head and hit the bed. But I have miles to go. I must become a serious birder. I must read so many books. I have to write so much, I have to learn that damn camera, I have to, I have to, do-oh-so-much....

When dad asks this time: "who are you? a writer or a film-maker?" I will say: "there was no contradiction in the first place. I write for films."