I just moved from Blogger to Wordpress. Blogger is for losers, I figured.

As part of my daily routine of trashy blog reading, I was looking at this article on identifying the best thirty seconds of your life. Questions like this make me feel awkward, because I haven’t had a tragic life, so surely I can come up with an intensely happy moment. A moment that is, as the cliché suggests, as perfect as a picture. These are not moments of victory, of achievement or of, I don’t know, earth-shattering orgasms. But, while amount of dredging through my mind yields a single such memory, I know that I have been happy. I suppose the reason why, for example, doing really well at something doesn't count as a happy memory in my mind is, well, I don’t know. That sentence lost itself. But I can tell you this, that happy memories are lit with a diffused, soft brightness, like sunshine through leaves. Victories, on the other hand, are hard and shiny. They are also two-dimensional, like a picture. I can never relive the memory of a victory- I can only see it like a picture on the mantelpiece. But I can live a happy memory, again and again. I can step inside it, walk around and stay for a while. I suppose that one arrives at happy memories often by accident. There is no association to be made, no larger significance to be added. Which is why it would be hard to pull them out, because what thread would you pull them by? But every now and then, a thread presents itself. Like, a friend of mine is going to Coimbatore. I have been to Coimbatore once, when I was very young. When I told my mum about my friend’s trip, she reminded me of the time we were there. It was during the Pujas, and we, my Mum, my Dad, my brother and I, were looking for any pandal. We were walking on this broad pavement, lined by young tamarind trees. Raw, green tamarind hung from the branches, and the sun shone through the leaves. I jumped up and down, trying to pluck the deathly-sour tamarind. It was a moment of unadulterated joy. I am not surprised that I forgot about this. Now, because of my friend, I have a bookmark for this day. 

"Do not let evil make you believe you can have secrets from it"

What does this mean? When I googled it, this came up. And this. I must read Kafka's Zürau Aphorisms. And I should probably eat better.

But also, listen to this.

To search for the unblemished truth all your life, and yet to recognise that such truth may not exist- that is who I want to be. Our greatest achievements are often acts of hopelessness, made with a conscious suspension of disbelief. I suppose that is why I love Orwell so much.

How do you serve dissent?

Do you serve it in a bowl, with a serving spoon? Or do you take that bowl, stand at the corner of a street, and pour it all over people?

So I don't write anymore. I used to write, and I used to write because I really wanted to. I would think of something, and write it as I thought of it. People sometimes read what I wrote, and sometimes, they even had things to say. Comments thrilled me, but what thrilled me more was the fact that I could write. That every so often, I would not have to labour over words, and what I wanted to say would be what I wrote down. Then, I stopped writing. And people stopped reading my blog. No one reads this anymore, because no one expects anything to ever be written here. I think I can start writing again. And if you are reading this, shut up.

Cloud Atlas

I love David Mitchell. I don't love him the way I love Kazuo Ishiguro. For Kazuo Ishiguro I have a wistful, secret love. I like to lie in the spaces between his words and cry. But David Mitchell. I love him like I am drowning. David Mitchell gave me my happy place. It is a scene in a forest, from The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet, that I go back to when I need comfort. A snowy pine forest on a slope, under siege by bowmen. It is an odd place to seek refuge, but I find it there. And Cloud Atlas. It was described somewhere as a Matroyshka doll, but I find that description inadequate. I don't want to undermine anyone or anything, but it is a bit like the Universe. You know, how it is about everything, and everybody. I know what that makes David Mitchell, and I don't find that idea unbelievable. But Cloud Atlas. What is that animal? How was it ever written? And how did the Wachowski siblings and Tom Tykwer ever make a movie out of it? You can't tell a story like Cloud Atlas, primarily because it isn't one story, it's several, and not just six. You can pair up any two stories, and they would make one story. Likewise for any three, or four, or five. To make a movie out of Cloud Atlas one needs to love the book, and movies. One needs to love the book enough to want to be true to it, and one needs to love movies enough to believe that such a movie could be made. And this film was a labour of such deep, abiding love. You feel it in every frame, in every actor cast, and in every sequence shot. The movie is steeped in a desperate desire to tell a story. Imagine the book in your hands. Now tear it int pieces. Now put it back together. Only this time, take six pieces from six different stories, and put them together. Make as many sets as make sense. Now arrange them in sequence. That is Cloud Atlas, the movie. But doesn't the makeup jar at times? Of course it does. Most people would hate Hugo Weaving as Nurse Noakes, but I loved him. His makeup was terrible, but what was important for me was the continuity between the different roles played by the same actor, and that was preserved. I could believe that Nurse Noakes could look like Hugo Weaving in drag. Some women do. But what was truely terrible was Halle Berry as Jocasta Ayrs. She looked like she was made of CGI. At no other point does the makeup get that distracting. In fact, I found it fun to spot the actor and make the connections. That David Gyasi was Autua and Lester Rey, or that Doona Bae was Somni-451 and Linda Ewing, were like Easter eggs to me. But Jocasta Ayrs was ghastly. She had this unearthly golden glow, like Angelina Jolie in Beowulf, or Ryan Reynolds in every movie, and did not look real. She could have been played by Andy Serkis for all that I knew. But the movie resonates. I love telling stories, and as storytellers would know, telling someone the story of a novel is hard. You must work hard at distilling the core of the story, embellish with adequate details, and create something that stands on its own feet. Cloud Atlas does that. The colours are brighter, the themes more distinct, and the movie becomes what an adaption should aspire to be- a retelling. It doesn't adhere to form or structure or sequence, and it creates some that there never was, but it does so in a way that you feel- this could have been there. The story could be this. This doesn't change much (I am looking at you, Zach Snyder and Watchmen). I don't know if my opinion is compromised by my love for the book. But I don't care. For a movie adaptation of a book that is a mobius strip of infinite sides, Cloud Atlas does remarkably well at tearing that strip apart and piecing it back in a different, yet recognisable form. I see my book in this movie. And that is more than I could have hoped for.

This is from the A.O. Scott's review on the movie "Whip It" in the New York Times:

"The leader of the rival squad, Iron Maven, Bliss’s nemesis, is played by Juliette Lewis, whose scenes with Ms. Page have an extra dimension of pop-culture resonance, since Ms. Lewis was the Ellen Page of an earlier era."

Ms. Page here is Ellen Page. I know that I would feel the pop-culture resonance that A.O. Scott spoke about, and now I want to see the movie just to see two women, who personified the whip-smart but awkward girl in two different eras, interact with each other. The funny thing is that Juliette Lewis was Juliette Lewis before I was old enough to appreciate who she was or what she represented. Which is to say that I have only a second-hand memory of the cultural significance of an actress, and I can still appreciate how she fits into pop culture, despite the fact that we are talking about the pop culture of an earlier generation. Which is to say that I watch too many movies and spend too much time on Wikipedia.

This is what my playlist looks like right now-
Elisa- Dancing
Chantal Kreviazuk- Leaving on a Jet Plane
Jewel- Hands
Madeline Peyroux- Between the Bars
Kings of Convenience- I Don’t Know What I Can Save You From
Lord of the Rings- Gollum’s Song
Turin Brakes- Rain City
The Decemberists- Of Angels and Angles
This blogpost isn’t about anything in particular. Just listen to these songs and tell me if you like them.

I was sitting in my college library, working on my friend’s laptop. Sifting through the music on her laptop, I found the Amelie Soundtrack. Suddenly, the lights went out. And in the dark, the first few bars of Le Moulin rang out. If you’ve heard La Moulin, then you’ll know the part when the accordion stops and the piano starts playing. Try remembering how the piano starts. Better still, play the song as you read this. Now imagine the fluorescent lights in a large, dark hall flickering to life with this music. If you can do this correctly, and if you are in company, like I was, then you will do what I did. Breathe deeply, reign in the urge to smile broadly, and feel like the universe went out of its way to make you very happy.

Of Things I Like And Things I Learn

I like beginnings. I also like ends. Some of my friends would tell you that I like everything, but that is not true. I do not like the colour yellow ochre, and neither do I like it when quotation marks are used randomly. But, as usual, I digress. And I like digressing quite a bit.
So, I like beginnings. I like the beginning of a new year, and there hasn’t been a single year of school that I haven’t looked forward to. I like the chance to start afresh, I like how everything can be different. And most of all (and this is close to being my most favourite thing in the whole wide world)- I like the possibility that things are going to happen. New things, things which have never happened. The whole world could change in innumerable ways, and I don’t know how. It’s enough to make one giddy with joy.
But if one must begin, one must begin the right way. With the right mindset, observing the correct rituals. I believe in rituals. They are the primary reason why I can never be an atheist. Because, when I pray, or when I light an incense stick, I honestly believe that the act in itself is significant, that lighting that stick has indeed brought me closer to God. It’s a childish understanding of rituals, I am afraid, but one that has stuck with me nonetheless.
So, as I was saying, I believe in the right ritual. And starting something new with the right frame of mind. You see, I have a problem. I don’t learn lessons very well. I am always eager to learn them, however. Tell me a fable, and I will take it to heart. If only for the next day or so. If self-improvement books weren’t so corny, I would read them all. I am a strange sort of masochist.
So, because I don’t remember my lessons for long, I must remind myself of them periodically. I have a tiny notebook in which I write everything I learn. Of course, it takes a fair bit of reminding to actually write in it. I also have favourite books and movies that I keep going back to. Which, at last, brings us to the much-awaited point. I just saw Amelie.
*big grin*
I love the movie. Love it to bits and pieces, and then I join the pieces together and love it again. The Amelie Soundtrack is one of my favourite albums, right up there with the White Album and In Absentia. I listened to Amelie when my bus rolled out from Calcutta on a rainy dawn. I listened to Amelie in the backseat of a crowded bus, and I listened to Amelie in the dark, under my blankets, in the middle of the night. I love the music, and I love it only slightly less than the movie itself.
Which is why I reserve Amelie for special occasions. For those days when I need something to tilt my chin up. To learn, again, those tiny lessons which I keep forgetting. To not be cowardly. To not be too fond of stratagems. And to seize tiny moments. Oh, and also to not be afraid to lay yourself open once in a while, even if it’s to expose yourself for the cotton-candy stuffed bag of marshmallow mush that you really are.
So I watched Amelie again. I’ve taken note of my lessons, and hope to remember them when I wake up. For my third year in college.

Stonewall

"And we felt that we had freedom at last, or freedom to at least show that we demanded freedom."

Stonewall no more.

Do you remember a time when you used to hang out in Archies Gallery? I used to. That was before we had coffee shops- a period which coincided with the time when we never had enough money to hang out in coffee shops. So we used to meet at the local Archies Gallery, and giggle over the cards. Yes, we were very unimaginative. But shops were entertaining back then, and secretly admiring a Tom Cruise poster while pretending to be asexual was still not completely lame.
I was reminded of Archies Gallery for one particular reason. I remember, on the morning of my thirteenth birthday, I went there to buy return gifts for my friends. I bought colourful pads, pencils and stickers, and little paper bags to put them in. Because I had bought quite a lot of stuff, I got something free. The guy probably gave it to me because no one else would buy it, but I loved it, nonetheless. It was a keychain, but I transformed it to a badge and kept it attached to my duffel bag for a long time afterwards. I wasn't too young to appreciate irony or irreverance, and to my unformed sense of humour, the keychain/badge had both. And it allowed me a little irreverant shrug of the shoulder each time people asked me if I really felt what the keychain/badge said. I'd say, "I just thought it's funny" and feel so incredibly cool. Honestly, I was a dork. And keep that thought to yourself.
Anyway, the keychain/badge said this- "I Miss Michael Jackson".

I was watching Aliens, when I noticed something. Ripley’s cat, which is a tabby, is called Jonesy. Now, why is that significant? It’s because tabbies are orange-ish red in colour. And Jonesy is the name of my favourite character in Stephen King’s Dreamcatcher. And Jonesy was a redhead. The movie adaptation happens to be one of my favourite movies. As is Aliens.

I needed a compass.

My father gave me a compass. It has a brushed steel casing, and the interior is black, with white and green lettering. I always knew that west lay to the right of my house, and east was between the house with the screaming baby (there has always been a screaming baby, even though they have lived behind us for almost a decade) and the pink house which has been under construction forever. Oh, I actually knew where north for what it was, and not just as a point between east and west. This was because my neighbour, a Feng Shui enthusiast. stopped me in the middle of the road when I was in my tenth standard, and told me to position my study table so that it would face the north. But north lay in the corner between the door and the wall, so that never happened. That was the first and the last time I ever spoke to him. He died last month. This month, they painted his house for the first time since I moved to Saltlake. Which was, what, fifteen years ago?
Anyway, I am going to make a survival kit of sorts, and the compass goes in first. I will carry the kit around with me at all times. You know, just in case apocalypse struck.

I love a movie where the girl tells the guy that his cheeks are adorable and that she wants to fuckin' chew on them, and where the guy tells the girl that her face is so pretty that he wants to smash it in with a sledgehammer. I think it's hilarious.
Also, I just noticed that the picture on this blog is very appropriate. I do have the habit of biting my lower lip a lot.

My Favourites

Here's a truism- there are certain things that you keep going back to. They are known as your favourite things. They don't actually have to be things, they could be people too. Then they become your favourite people. To exercise precision- there are certain things and certain people you keep going back to- they are known as your favourites. You don't always favour them above all others. For example, I am not always in the mood for The Beatles. My best friend and I don't always like talking to each other. But like the Beatles, I know that my need for her company will continue throughout my life. A thing becomes your favourite when it recognises a permanent need in you, and fulfills that need. I say permanent, because, quite obviously, people change, and concomitantly, their needs change. But you see, your favourites recognise early on that indelible part of you that refuses to change, no matter what. Which is why, it is important to have favourites, to like certain things above others, to love some people a little more. To distinguish the delible from the indelible.
Woohoo! Delible is a word!

Terror

My mum and I were on our way to pick my father up from Howrah Station. Usually, we just send the car, but we decided to tag along this time. I love these trips to the station for several reasons. I like long car rides and the time they give me to let my mind wander. And I like the Howrah Bridge. Even if I can’t see the river, I like looking at the rivets and bars that hold the bridge together. I look at a particular rivet and wonder how important it is to the entire structure of the bridge. Or a particularly small piece of steel, serving no apparent purpose, catches my eye. What would happen if that piece wasn’t there? Would the bridge collapse?
And thus my mind travels into the familiar (and strangely comforting) territories of mayhem and destruction. But today, when I was crossing the bridge, an odd thought skipped line and found its way ahead. What would happen if a plane were to crash headlong into the bridge right now?
I got an image of a plane diving nose first into the road, right in front of me. Would the bridge collapse? I should get out of the car then, and run back. But if the plane has crashed right in front of me, then I won’t have the time. Okay, we’ll make the plane crash a little ahead. I will then get my mum and me out of the car. Do we run backwards, or do we jump into the river? If the bridge collapses right away, then running back won’t help. Also, I don’t want to risk losing my mum in the crowd. So we jump into the water. Does my mum remember how to swim? More importantly, can she swim in her silk sari? I know I can, but I am not sure if I can swim and hold on to my mum at the same time.
And before I knew it, I was terrified.

I was browsing through Wikipedia as usual, when I decided to read up on the September 11 attacks. As I started reading, it struck me that the song I was listening to was Fiona Apple's version of Across the Universe. She was singing "Nothing's gonna change my world", and I was staring at a picture of a plane crashing into a tower.

We're rambling again.

I am constantly amazed by several things. Amazement is what I survive on- if I were to lose the ability to find commonplace things uncommonly strange, then I would, for the first time in my life, be genuinely bored. And I can’t imagine what a horrible feeling that must be. On the other hand, rather, on a separate and parallel hand, it is also a matter of amazement how I see that what I consider amazing is actually quite commonplace. This duality of the mind, the ability to see something from your perspective AND a general perspective, simultaneously, is also quite interesting, albeit commonplace. But we will talk about some other day.
But what I was saying is that I hope I never stop being amazed. I hope I always look out of the car window. To be amazed is to allow another slightly absurd idea into your mind. And I like the idea of collecting absurd ideas. It's, well, absurd.