tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167083312024-03-21T17:57:31.226-07:00everydaylivesVasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-31297000259315109982010-11-07T01:08:00.000-07:002010-11-07T01:55:43.703-08:00the cow story...of sadnessNow I seem to have moved from my diary to my blog. I am a little tired of noting down those itsy bitsy details and I would rather have a full fledged sob story. It is now clear. I write when I am low. I wish I was fully busy. These last few days, I have completed all my assignments and that has made me morose. Almost the entire last week I was at home drafting this and that including my resignation letter. Today it has left me sapped. I am looking forward to court tomorrow so that I can get into the procedure and rules. It has a comforting feel. I hope this sag with my Centre is over. I want to forget all of them for some time and lead my life without being accountable to them. Breaking away is always so difficult and so painful. But time heals, numbs the wounds, also sutures it. I wonder how life will be without being accountable to them. Something new to look forward to. I shall spend my vacation without feeling this obligation. By the way I also have my paper to finish redrafting. I have less than a month to look at it. It will be good to go to Pune. It gives a sense of what people are thinking and talking. But Pune is a city which doesn't excite me so much. What is there to do in Pune? I dont know. Maybe I am just low and feel unexcited about everything. <div><br /></div><div>I tried to work today. I have to draft a counter and work on an argument. It is all very interesting, but I feel sapped. The child is thankfully sleeping, taking her afternoon nap. S is out on one of his numerous outstation assignments. Today he has gone to Ludhiana. Even though it feels a good and new place, I am not keen to travel anywhere. He will be back day after, late night. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wish to record and devote atleast one small part in this depressing post to Puttu. To say the least, she has grown up. She now pees in the bathroom, shits in the bathroom and is most disciplined when I clean her bottom. I really like the way she gathers her frock or her skirt when she sits to do her pee or pooh. I am so touched by her sense of propriety in gathering her skirt and arranging it around her. She also now wears her pyjamas by herself. Rapidly she is becoming a small girl. There is no longer anything messy about her toilet. As against the dozen pyjamas that she would dirty even three months back, now it is just one or two. </div><div><br /></div><div>I bought her a pattu langa jacket for Diwali. A dark green one. She looked lovely in it. We went visiting to 236 for breakfast. </div><div><br /></div><div>After a very long time she is eating antibiotics for her throat infection which was threatening to turn into a ear infection too. She is much better now. I feel I have to record everything about her life lest I forget it in this routine life of mine. I tend to forget everything. What was momentous yesterday becomes so ordinary after a month or so. I live by the moment. I have to enjoy the moment lest it slips away like water. Somehow joy is so elusive, so ethereal. Whereas sadness is like a rock that is lodged in your head. It takes such a long time for it to melt, to break away, to disintegrate. Until then it keeps pricking you, nudging your blood vessels, affecting your hormones, producing a headache. Sighs. One can be so poetic about sadness. About joy and happiness I am scared to even acknowledge it even fleetingly lest it may disappear, lest I be cursed and become unhappy forever. </div><div><br /></div><div>She makes these delightfully long sentences. She also talks to herself so often. She is now so fond of saying Neeyamma Pichi! Poh...She loves to bathe and wear her pattu langa. We use the pattu langa to our own advantage in making her brush her teeth, eat her breakfast and so on. Then she goes downstairs while we are in office. Or office can be either outside or inside. Today I wrote a long letter about the inside-outside to my friend. It is alls o sad. My sadness is like a cow story. it keeps returning in every sentence. I begin a new story and soon I am mooning over my sadness. It is so amusing. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is cloudy outside. I still dont know how to take the child out and generally hang out. Once she insists on being carried I feel tired very quickly. It is not easy to carry a weight of 15 kilos. </div><div><br /></div><div>Deepu's mother-in-law passed away. She was terribly old, infirm, delusional and bedridden. God has relieved her from her pain. </div><div><br /></div><div>Why is it that I feel pained so often in my life? Why am I so often unhappy? Maybe other people do not dwell on their unhappiness like me. Maybe they are more happy and have a spring in their step. Maybe I am just a morose woman expecting too much attention from the world. When I dont get it, I sulk. Oh God! Am I a sulk? I hope not. But maybe, I am. </div><div><br /></div><div>One last solution for my sadness. I take myself too seriously. Learn to lighten up. Learn to laugh at yourself. Crack jokes at yourself. Attend court everyday and I think you will feel a lot better. Please lighten up. You are just one of those million souls who inhabit this earth. Definitely, you have a better life than so many others. Yet, I have to feel sad and low. </div><div><br /></div><div>Finish the counter and you shall feel better. Pay up Swaroopa the tailor. You will feel better. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-36317074047651337362010-10-02T04:32:00.000-07:002010-10-02T04:36:24.915-07:00I almost feel like Karthik calling Karthik. He set up messages on his phone and replayed it to himself. I shall write blogs and then read it later. Only I can tell myself what I should be doing and how I should buck up. Buck up! Buck up! What a lovely film it was. The idea was so good. <div><br /></div><div>Also, please do what you promised yourself today. Even that aspect is eating you up. You do it once and you shall feel a sense of achievement. I promise you baby. </div><div><br /></div><div>Take care</div>Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-75592951590053073802010-10-02T04:09:00.000-07:002010-10-02T04:32:00.159-07:00ReturnPhew! I am returning to the blog after such a long time. Never felt the desire to write in this medium at all. But today, in one of those low moods for which I am particularly famous, I looked back into the older entries of my blog and found that I have hardly changed. I am so disappointed that I am the same. There is nothing new and spectacular about me. The issues continue to be the same and I respond to them in the same old way. It may take another couple of months for me to settle in all the new decisions that I have taken. I am tired of speaking to my friends the same things. My complaints are the same and their responses continue to be the same. <div><br /></div><div>I am planning to take off for a while. I am going to the beach for less than a week. I just want to get away from this regular routine of housework, child work and court work. Also want to get away from seeing mails and the cause list. But right now I am so low that even the holiday feels boring and unattractive. Sitting here in this chair I feel that I will only end up getting bored out there. A sure sign that I am low and miserable. Last week I was so enthusiastic about my readings which I assiduously collected. But this week, I am not even looking at them. Last week was also bad as I fell sick with this virulent viral infection which took the breath away from me. Maybe it is a low produced by the viral infection. How I wish I can blame it all on the virus. It is definitely not pms. Or maybe all my hormones are screwed up and I am just depressed. Maybe I should just take a walk and exercise my body. Maybe that will drive out these spirits which are plaguing me. Maybe I should take Puttu and out and go to a bookshop and just buy some books. Maybe I should draft some petitions. But I am through with most of my work that I had set-up for the week. Tomorrow morning I shall also read the Warangal workers file and put my conscience in the clear. So, there seems to be no rational explanation for my feeling low. All this points to those wretched hormones. So there is something to the hormone theory after all. However, before I pounce on those hormones, I have to let my bile out about that stupid back massage. What a waste. It made me feel no good at all. It only made me worse. I shall not tell you all how much I spent but it is abominable. What do I do to get that money back? How do I punish myself? </div><div><br /></div><div>How do I laugh at myself? Why do I take myself so seriously? Just have a laugh. Laugh like Alekhya who lives her life without a care and without a tear. Nothing affects her and yet she is so full of duty and cheer. Please, I want my cheer back. I want to be cheerful. I dont want to be a sour face. I dont want to be a dump. Buck up girl! Buck Up! Buck up and do what you had planned to do for the next week. You wanted to read and write. Whether you write or not, atleast please read. Have a good time and read. And do look forward to your life. </div>Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-84717634551182245022008-01-01T03:36:00.000-08:002008-01-01T04:03:20.277-08:00The Cramps of Writing<span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">The last that I wrote was in July documenting facts of my illness. After that life overtook me and I never returned to writing my blog.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">Today is the first day of the new year. Last night was a great party with good music, dancing, and warmth. </span> <span style="font-size:85%;">Christmas was also equally good at Guntur. There was also so much shopping that needed to be done for Christmas as we decided to take gifts for all our Guntur family. So there was that excitement of shopping and journeying to Guntur. This was followed by the brief trip to Bombay and its attendant stresses. Benazi Bhutto died and I mourned for her during my trip to Bombay. Making new friends has also been on my list of issues. The breakfast meeting with the fashion photographer was, I could safely admit, as one of those good meetings exploring new friendships. At the end of the week, my body got too stressed and caved into its usual quota of cold and cough. This week was also the time of PMS and the arrival of blood The last week, as I look back, has been so busy. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The next fifteen days are the most stressful days of the month. I have to write a report of my field work of the last two months for the Family and Rights project. My part of the study is related to caste panchayats and their role in managing marital suffering. I need to produce a minimum of ten page note for the RC. The main themes that I want to document are the following: the number of organsiations that populate a bastia and how amost all of them are players in manging various kinds of disturbance, quarrels, conflicts. My attempt will be to map Addagutta basti as a site of intense political activity. Two, the caste sanghams that are mangaing conjugal/marital are very much servicing the state and acting as important agents between the various organs of the state and the people. Thus the MRO office, the local police station, the water and electricity boards are sites which survive on the activities of the caste sanghams and the other organsiations. Three, I want to focus on the issues that emerged in my interview about marriage, the inequality between the spouses, and the way one tries to cope with the various stresses of living together. Four, I want to write a page of the directions the study can take in the future. In all this will be stitched in the various readings that I have done for the study. So this is the rough plan which I need to put into action from tomorrow. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span>Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-50877817945000893842007-07-23T04:55:00.000-07:002007-07-23T05:44:02.204-07:00Infective Colitis: The Petrol Pump Views<span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc66cc;">The last that I wrote in this diary is 14th May. Life hasnt been the same after that. Been wanting to record the events that happened in the last two months. But I thought it was self indulgence and also maybe I didnt have the required mood to write. I am now getting back to some semblance of order, in terms of my public sphere work. Phew, it was such a harrowing experience. A tooth extraction followed by diarrhea for about ten days.I must have gone through antibiotics of about five kinds. Yet the body didnt stop excreting. A specialist had to be called, my colon had to be examined, and then lo behold, Taxim_O began to respond to my body. It was a miracle. I did not even know what has happening to me. I was reassuring myself that I have youth, energy, money and the connections, so I will not die. But the dear of death or some irreversible bodily injury was weighing heavy on my mind. The motions that began on 30th May continued till about 10th June and then they stopped, maybe a little reluctantly. For a long time I did not pee without thinking that I will also shit. I have been on a strict diet since then. I eat food which is sans spice, tamarind,w heat and in the early days, I was to avoid milk too. Slowly, ever so slowly I began to include milk, ragi and eggs in my diet. I am used to eat a fair amount of chilli, but I now use just a small red chilli for my seasoning. Not even pepper or ginger is allowed. Whatever my colon doesnt lie it ejects out. Last week was particularly bad as I ate some rajma and suffered for about a week following that. even now my shit hasnt come to its regular course. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc66cc;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc66cc;">How could I forget the arthritis? Soon after the shit began to flow, i developed severe pain and immobility in my right knee. This, the doctors told me was reactive arthritis. The bug which hit my intestines also hit my joints, specially the right knee. I was bedridden for about fifteen days unable to move at all. I could not rid myself of the pain with any painkillers as they would in turn cause acidity in my ravaged digestive system. It was only the hot water bag which was some kind of a painkiller. The pain was excruciating, preventing me from sleeping, walking and moving. Gradually as the digestive system healed, this also healed. Even now I walk with a limp and i cant squat to use the indian toilet. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc66cc;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc66cc;">The doctor repeated the colonoscopy and said that I was normal. But experientially speaking I am not normal. Anything that I eat, a little out of the ordinary, excites the digestive system. It has the power of debilitating me. I cant go to court fearing that I may want to pass motion urgently. A little stress makes me feel uncomfortable inside. Moreover all courts have toilets which are far away and Indian style. Anyway, I am learning to cope and manage my life independently. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc66cc;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc66cc;">During this phase of sickness I had to use the bedpan continuously. Began to develop a certain fondness for the bedpan. So many of my friends without flinching helped me use the bedpan. I owe my gratitude to all of them. i silently tell myself that I will return the favour whenever such a forbidding event happens. Came to terms with my body in such different ways. I am amazed the way my friends and my spouse did this for me. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc66cc;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc66cc;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc66cc;">I also thought so much about what modern medicine can do and not do. I have so much more to write about this experience as a critique of medicine. <span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc66cc;">This experience put the fear of God into me. I am still scared when I shit more than what is required. I only hope that I will recover in due time. Even as there are issues to record, I feel a a strange hesitation to dwell on this topic. Maybe I have still not developed the critical distance to look at it analytically. </span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc66cc;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc66cc;">This was my first ode to my illness. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc66cc;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc66cc;">There were alsos ome interesting events that happened in the last two months, but more of it in the next post. </span>Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-44781685528513001402007-05-14T02:50:00.000-07:002007-05-14T04:23:31.769-07:00a hot afternoon<span style="color:#3366ff;">The number of things that goes under repair in houses is really interesting. At present there are two tape recorders and one microwave oven which are not working. The first recorder has been sent to the repair shop three days back. Results are awaited. The second one has been lying in a repair shop for the last two years. One has not visited that shop so far. The microwave oven hasn't been working since the past one year. Finally the day has arrived today. This oven was one of the first of its kind to be produced in India, by the Kelvinator company. With some difficulty I tracked down the company and enquired if they still have any loyalties with their old models. Surprisingly they said yes and a technician will arrive tomorrow to repair the oven. In the meantime, unable to get the oven repaired, we bought a new oven. Once the oven gets repaired I am going to donate it to my women's centre. A donation makes more sense than selling it for a paltry sum. And somehow one is attached to the oven. Among the many kitchen gadgets, a microwave oven is my favourite, as it is so easy to re-heat food removed from the refrigerator. When I am living alone, I cook once in two days and keep reheating the food. Makes no sense to cook everyday just for one person. </span><br /><span style="color:#3366ff;"></span><br /><span style="color:#3366ff;">I have filled my fridge freezer with two boxes of ice cream. I want to eat ice cream this summer. If not summer when does one eat ice cream? I am not particularly crazy about ice creams. I eat them once in six months. This is the first time I have been so purposive about storing ice cream. The other event which I had planned for my weekend was to drink lot of watermelon juice. I am yet to go out and buy the watermelon. I will do it this evening. There is nothing like finding homemade juices in your fridge. On a hot afternoon to pull out a jug of chilled watermelon juice is the pinnacle of my homemaking capacities. But alas, many of these remain mere dreams. Ideally there should be a pitcher of buttermilk, nimbu sherbet and watermelon juice. I do not favour squashes that much as they carry high sugar content. As all you know, I am very particular about the amount of sugar that I consume. Let me admit that juices are only my domain, others prefer chilled beer. </span><br /><span style="color:#3366ff;"></span><br /><span style="color:#3366ff;">Last Sunday I celebrated the tenth year of my living with SD. Never imagined that I would live with him so peacefully and productively for such a long time. After all these years, I must say that I continue to yearn for him, and want to grow old with him. We went to a fancy restaurant and ate a five course meal over chilled mugs of unlimited beer. The evening was followed by another party celebrating my uncle's 60th birthday. We were drinking and making merry until late in the night. This being one of the reasons why i could not write my diary last week. </span><br /><span style="color:#3366ff;"></span><br /><div><span style="color:#3366ff;">Last week seems to have been quite productive. We made butter. There was a mehendi session for SD, myself and my SIL. There was a press conference on the Baroda issue. I read at least four days in the way. SD churned butter out of cream. There is about one kg of butter sitting in the fridge. Soon it will go sour. I am a city girl who has always bought my butter and ghee straight from the shop. Churning butter and making ghee are new experiences for me. I will take much needed advice from my MIL and make ghee out of butter this evening. </span></div><div><span style="color:#3366ff;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#3366ff;">Now let me come to the main event of today. I went to the driving school at Bowenpally and registered for a months' driving course. I am bent on learning driving this year. I paid the money and also got my learners license renewed. I am feeling most virtuous by the fact that I have achieved this. Most probably in the next three to four days I will join the course and begin my lessons. I liked the look of the school and the tutor who will be instructing me. A no nonsense teacher. I am grateful to my filmmaker friend for his pep talk las night. </span></div><div><span style="color:#3366ff;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#3366ff;">Now, I have to get back to my day's reading. I am hoping to read a chapter of Foucault. I am most pleased when I cover all aspects of life in one day. I do not expect to do full justice to them, but I believe in marking a nodding acknowledgment to all these sectors. My letter writing is also updated. Very happy on that front too. The Women's Centre matters are also under control. There is only one court appearance this week. Hopefully devote all my time to reading and reflection and of course driving too. </span></div><div><span style="color:#3366ff;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#3366ff;">Ciao. </span></div>Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1471191737436894392007-04-29T01:06:00.000-07:002007-04-29T01:35:36.698-07:00the diary continuesIt is important that one record the events of the past one week especially for a person like me. I am prone to depressions on the count that I did not spend my time productively. Without much ado here is the the record of what I did last week. I am such a narcissist that I do not mind being the only reader of my journal. Except to one or two of my friends none know about the existence of this journal. It is an intimate act. It is a private diary. On a hot lazy afternoon, if someone would be randomly looking at blogs, I would dare say that s/he will find it interesting.<br /><br />Monday: I was at home and drafted the appeal to be filed in the High Court.<br />Tuesday: I was at the centre and I don't remember a thing that I did. Did I simply loll around or maybe I did some administrative work. I just cant remember.<br />Wednesday: I was at court for half a day and then got back home. Maybe I read a little. I cant remember. The trial which would have begun in the month of May got posted to July. I am definitely happy about it.<br />Thursday: Worked in the centre, spent lot of time with three friends discussing politics and organisational dynamics.<br />Friday: I was again in court, and returned to the centre by afternoon. I also filed T's appeal int he High Court. The heat was so severe that no work was possible later. Evening, went out with friends to the tailors and did some nice shopping. i felt good that I spent time with the old friend of mine.<br />Saturday: Centre again, met lots of clients, advised them about how they could possibly use the legal forums. Evening, visited another friend whose father is in the hospital. Chatted to my hearts content on Saturday evening. Spread my wings and flew over the river.<br />Sunday: Quickly did a small piece of writeup for Rama, wrote an mail which was pending, gave my clothes for ironing and getting ready to travel. The toilet has to be cleaned, the clothes have to be dried in the sun, another set of clothes have to be sorted for ironing. Ah well, I also got my roof painted. We took our centres colleagues for lunch. Looks like this week has meant lot of socialising. My husband left on Wednesday evening. It was just a brief stay as a couple and then he is gone again. Except for venting my anger and sadness, i seem to have adapted to my single life pretty well. A small achievement which I am proud to note is that I read one article thoroughly through this week. Planning to read more the following week. Kant the father of modern rights has to be conquered atleast partly.<br /><br />What is my next week like?The following week whether in Guntur or here, I will wake up early and do atleast a minimum of one hour reading. Kant will be the subject of my morning thoughts. Apart from the readings there will be nothing much on my agenda. Next week will be quite busy at the centre. 3rd and 4th of May we are busy with the talks and interviews followed by other meetings. So my readings have to be packed only in the mornings. There is no court work the next week. I can also look forward to a full weekend. The first part of the following week will also be the time for my monthly period. I will bleed in steaming Guntur.<br /><br />will get back to you next sunday.Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-5160023360410900882007-04-22T08:54:00.000-07:002007-04-23T04:12:44.477-07:00resuming the diary<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLYNOcnyap8b3HjetnlNelir8R44G0o8GQU5XynaMZf52u3T8jOn9CbwEBUgVNBSJ1SFcwrscLa5_R0j3Y5YQzOc4cMjd2m50BhWJdwnCeW5vPn_lg1usEcMnvaJjXAWlKX32Zg/s1600-h/70190010.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5056579866180143938" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLYNOcnyap8b3HjetnlNelir8R44G0o8GQU5XynaMZf52u3T8jOn9CbwEBUgVNBSJ1SFcwrscLa5_R0j3Y5YQzOc4cMjd2m50BhWJdwnCeW5vPn_lg1usEcMnvaJjXAWlKX32Zg/s320/70190010.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="color:#666600;">Today is Sunday. Last week, I must say was quite an impressive week. On Monday I won an important case in the High Court. I managed to get a woman acquitted from a life sentence. There was such drama preceding this acquittal. The case and the drama has already receded in my memory. For reference to the exact details I can check my sent mails in Google. What would I do without Google? On Tuesday and Wednesday I attended the trial in Chunduru. I listened with attention to the prosecution arguing for the Dalits. Thursday, I lolled around in Guntur, visiting my FIl and spending time with Mom and Deepu. I arrived on Friday morning in Secunderabad feeling groggy and disoriented. I went to my office to get my bearings. Friday and Saturday were spent in the office, attending to small little tasks, writing letters, drafting invitations and chatting aimlessly.<br /><br />Many of my centres tasks are well underway. The outreach report has been sent to the funders. The website does not have too much work in its way. Right now I need to get back to my readings and also finalise my paper. I thought I could devote the entire month of April for this task but I guess the month simply flew away within no time. I am hoping that May will be a better month for my reading and writing. May is also the month for Vidya's trial implying cross examination of witnesses. This aspect still holds its dread for me. But I am hoping to come to terms with it. If the Judge gives a slightly longer date I can postpone it to June. Let me see.<br /><br />Today is Sunday. I spent most of my time in the hospital with Sajaya and her family. Her parents, and brother met with a car accident last night. But thankfully there are no major injuries except her father who has to undergo a surgery for the multiple fractures that he has suffered in his leg.<br /><br />Tomorrow I am hoping to stay at home. I am not sure if T's case has to be filed in the High Court. Her family is not too keen and I am wondering why I should be.<br /><br />I am hoping to write my journal at the end of every week. Writing everyday is far too ambitious. So whats the message for the coming week? Surely readings have suffered. I am yet to learn to drive my car. These are the two issues pressing on my cranium currently. Maybe I should have a system of waking up early morning by 6am and do an hour of readings. One hour of readings and an hour of car driving would be ideal to maintain my ambitions. I will be going to Guntur this Saturday to attend the trial at Chunduru. It will be posted for defence arguments. Yet another ambition is to write a small note on the ongoing trial. My list of ambitions is never ending.<br /><br />Reading, writing and car driving are slated for the following week.</span></div>Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1161781750214473952006-10-25T05:58:00.000-07:002006-10-25T06:09:12.636-07:00Music in the Bikaner Desert<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5922/1593/1600/F2110013.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5922/1593/320/F2110013.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5922/1593/1600/F2080028.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5922/1593/320/F2080028.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color:#ff9966;"><span style="color:#993300;"><strong>The Bag Piper in a remote desert village of Bikaner</strong><br /><br />I am back to writing this part of the story after a very long gap. It was the last evening of our desert journey. We pestered Maharaj and Raju for a dhani. We did not want an isolated dune or a farm. We did not want that uninterrupted silence. We wanted to be surrounded by the sounds of the village, to talk to farmers, women and children. At the same time, we did not want a big village, but just a small cluster of huts. Fortunately for us, it was that time of the year when the fields were being harvested. It was for this purpose that many huts were erected in the middle of the fields, called dhanis. Entire families had moved to these dhanis to water the fields, and protect them from the peacocks and the deer. The men would patrol these fields even in the nights to prevent deer from eating away the grain and destroying the crop. While we found them pretty and elegant, the villagers found them a nuisance, typical of the chasms between the insider and the outsider.<br /><br />Our guides Maharaj and Babu resolutely led us to a village. On the way we saw peacocks and deer in plenty. Maize, melons, gavarphali and moongphali were being grown in the fields. We would stop on the way, pluck ripe melons from the field and eat it. Not all were sweet but the juicy flesh of the melon was soothing against the heat. It was October; the beginning of winter, but the day temperatures still hovered around 36 to 38 C. S was trying to photograph the peacock hoping that it will open its fantastic tail. They were both dodging each other. Soon we arrived at the village around 5pm, a cluster of four to five huts. I think they all belonged to the same family, cousin brothers farming separate sections of land. The children in the village got very excited on our arrival. I was a little unnerved by their aggressive behavior. Their only conversation with me was to demand either pens or chocolates. Obviously they had encountered tourists earlier and the memory of chocolates and pens lingered.<br /><br />Soon, Maharaj and company set up camp, getting ready to cook the evening dinner. S and I walked around the place. Again the desert came up with its surprises. As we moved a few paces ahead there was a lake surrounded by old gnarled trees. That entire area was like a small forest, albeit a forest in summer time. There were peacocks and host of beautiful birds fluttering around. Some of the villagers were making their way from one village to another along this lake. It was twilight and a tranquil evening. Reminded me of on of those settings in the comic book Amar Chitra Katha. We were sitting on a rock, absorbing the surroundings. Upon the arrival of darkness we proceeded to our campsite and switched on the radio. It was pitch dark very soon. None of these areas had electricity.<br /><br />Very soon the news on our radio began to attract the other villagers, many of them going to their fields for their patrolling duty. The radio always succeeded in creating a level playing field between us and them. A few of them, mostly men would squat around the campsite and wonderful conversations would ensue. They enquired about us and we enquired about them. We compared notes on irrigation, education, health care, transportation, weather, food and family, a wide range of topics. In the middle of one such conversation about marriages and celebrations, one of them accidentally dropped a juicy piece of information - in the adjoining huts, there lived a man called Shankar who played the baaja. That immediately piqued our interest. Soon there was an interest in listening to the baaja. Not just us but the villagers, our camp comrades and of course the pesky children. I think one of them sent word requesting the artist to play the baaja tonight. We were told that he just returned from work and that he would definitely oblige us. We also finished our dinner in the meantime. Maharaj, Mangia and Babu were sprawled on their backs, contently chewing their pan masala listening to the radio. We were also similarly sprawled, listening, talking and half sleepy. The full moon was glowing steady in the clear skies dispelling the darkness around us.<br /><br />In this moonlit darkness pf contentment, we heard a distant sound of someone playing a musical instrument, obviously tuning his instrument. The notes were so strangely lyrical. The sound was coming from half a kilometer away. From then onwards it was a matter of listening to him as he began coming towards us. I cannot describe the magic of the night. I have been postponing writing this piece precisely because of the intimidation I feel about describing the ambience of this night: the music and the moonlight.<br /><br />We were about ten people sitting in a circle listening to him in rapt attention. He finally arrived at our camp site. A polite, humble, poor bag piper. Apart from tending to his fields he occasionally played his baaja for weddings for a wage. But he said that it has become a rare occasion. People prefer recorded music to the baaja. He told us that it was a long time since he played his baaja. The instrument was rusty and needed quite a bit of cajoling to be tuned.<br /><br />The music that he played was traditional music played in weddings and feasts. It was a deep, resonating, baritone music played in a halting manner. I am too poor with my words to describe that moment. I want to write a description that is beautiful and not sentimental or syrupy. My writing skills, I admit are too crude to paint that night. Anyway, soon Maharaj was so inspired that he began to dance to the music. There was clapping, fun and a camaraderie which gradually descended on this motley group of strangers. Maharaj then sang a beautiful bhajan, a bhajan in which all of us joined: Maharaj Gajananda aawoge, more sabha mein ranga barasaoge. (Maharaja Gajananda, please come and bring color to my court)<br /><br /><strong>The Morning After</strong><br /><br />The following morning, we went to that forest like area and spent a lot of time clicking photographs with the children. There were about ten children who were with us, tending to their goats. The goats were their playthings. Some of them went to the nearby school. We also visited Shankar’s home where he lived with his aged parents, lactating wife and three children. We spent many hours chatting with all of them, curious about their lifestyle and their survival stories. We just didn’t know how time flew. Shankar’s wife had just delivered her daughter, less than one month back. She was already back to work, taking care of the elders, the children, making food etc. We were also offered rotis and a curry made of cucumber. Anything that we heard, ate or experienced there felt heavenly. Surely it was the newness of the place, the unfamiliarity, the rural ambience and the simplicity of the living. Nothing in their household economy was wasted. Every item was subject to recycling. The flesh of the water melons was eaten, the skin was fodder for the goats and the seeds were dried and sold in the market.<br /><br />Shankar’s wife and I became great friends. I slipped in a hundred rupee note into her blouse, well hidden from the prying eyes of her mother-in-law. Again, such bonding is so amazing. It happens within minutes and crosses the barriers of strangeness. And most of it was non-verbal. There was an electric moment when she asked me to keep her baby and take the child away to the city. I was shaken by the gesture, almost wanting to spirit the child away on an impulse. She wanted to connect with me, give me something from her meager possessions. Soon, she pulled out a tiny vessel in which there was dried mehendi. She conjured up beautiful designs on my hands from that little mehendi, and left her presence on my hands.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Postscript</strong><br /><br />The desert safari drew to an end. We were dropped at the highway where we could board a bus to Bikaner. We bid our goodbyes to Maharaj, Mangia and Babu and the camels. They were anyway getting ready for the next batch of tourists. We felt lost and disoriented getting back to dusty bustling Bikaner. Thankfully we had booked our accommodation in Bhairon Vilas Palace which was an oasis in the town. It was late afternoon by the time we reached the palace. That evening, we sat in the spacious courtyard of the palace, chewing on the treasure trove of memories alternately feeling sad and happy.<br /><br />Even after a year as I remember the trip, I feel very nostalgic. There was certain simplicity to the holiday – traveling through the desert with the help of camels. The food was minimal but filling, the accommodation was tented, and that was it. It was almost an aimless wandering in the desert, gazing around, lost in thought and listening to the radio. The holiday became special because it provided such a radical break from the city schedules that we were so used to. It was no doubt a rugged holiday, with very few additional creature comforts.<br /><br />That evening and the next morning we walked around dusty Bikaner town buying pickles and sweets for our friends. We had heard that camel leather was easily available in Bikaner. So we looked around for this shop and finally found a small shop selling camel leather goods. We bought some shoulder bags which looked rugged and weather beaten adding to the memories of Bikaner. It was also coming to terms with the dust and disorder of Bikaner as the town began to grown on us steadily. There was a small sweet shop (Chotu Motu Hotel) which made mouth watering puris and a pickle of fenugreek seeds. To call is heavenly would be an understatement. We also walked around the vegetable and spice market, the camel hiring market and many of the lanes and by lanes of the town. By 2pm in the afternoon we were ready to board the train for the long journey ahead to our home town. </span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1142783625622970282006-03-19T07:50:00.000-08:002006-03-19T08:04:13.886-08:00What is a desert safari<span style="color:#993300;">When I was recounting the travel story of Bikaner and the desert safari a friend of mine asked me in all curiosity the following question. “Is it not boring to travel for five days in a desert on the back of a camel and doing nothing at all”? I thought it was an interesting question and a useful way to begin the story of the desert safari.<br /><br />Our original programme was to travel the desert through known contacts. S had a colleague/friend who knew people in Bikaner town. We had planned that through these friends we may be able to get a toehold in the surrounding villages. We dwelled on this idea for quite some time. But very soon we realized that luck played a major role in this elaborate chain and we only had a week’s time to spend in Bikaner. What if the villagers were hostile to us? What if we did not find the right village and ended up only traveling up and down? The doubts were getting to be a little nagging. In the meantime I began to search the net for travel diaries on Bikaner in particular and the Thar desert in general. The few travel diaries that I found were of people’s experiences of the desert through the desert safari. And some of them had very good things to write about the safari. Even though the accounts were few and far between it definitely piqued our interest. A quick search of Lonely Planet and the net enabled us to zero in on Vino Desert safari in Bikaner which promised to offer desert safaris. Now this seemed a good option of panning the desert. There was a promise of tents, dunes and villages which looked very inviting. A quick phone call to Vino also confirmed that the safari could offer us what we wanted and that too at reasonable rates. We promptly dropped our village belle’s contacts and settled for Vino’s desert safari. <a href="http://www.vinodesertsafari.com/A">http://www.vinodesertsafari.com/A</a> word about Vino. I must say that he was prompt and punctual in his responsibility towards us. We met him the day we arrived in Bikaner at the Bhairon Vilas Palace and settled the deal. We were to leave for the desert the next morning. Vinod has been organizing these safaris for the past ten to fifteen years and is very popular with tourists. Soon after meeting him we realized that he was serious about his job and also extremely efficient. He delivered what he promised. He promptly put us in touch with the guide, camels, cart and the men.<br /><br />We reached the desert the next morning where the entire team was waiting for us. We felt a little sheepish that we had such an entourage following us. S embarked the camel while I was on the camel cart. The first view of the desert from atop a camel cart was stunning. S said that the view from atop the camel was even better. He said that he felt like a king. Silence all around except the small trinket bells on the leg of the camel, the sound of the moving cart and the occasional talk of our companions. It was a breathtaking silence. There were tiny dunes all over. Occasionally some people passing by. We had to reach the village Rashipur that afternoon for our lunch. It was the village of one of the camel men. Our first view of a desert village. There were no roads. Camels all over. Some old houses, mostly dilapidated. The village mostly had new houses. The new houses being a sign of the prosperity of the times. The villagers proudly showed us these new houses whereas we were intent on seeing the old ones. They took pride in their newness whereas we hankered after the old. We wanted a certain kind of village to greet us. It made us feel so selfish. It was a contradiction that ran parallel to our desires. We rested in an nearby house. The electricity was off. It was a still silent afternoon. Flies buzzing all around. The camels were resting under the tree, munching on the leaves. They had a certain peaceful coexistence with the flies. Children were playing under the trees around the camels. S was trying to capture it all in his camera. It was quite a harmonious moment.<br /><br />We had four nights and five days. That evening we camped by the side of a maize field. The cook settled down immediately to cook the evening meal. It is amazing how the cart carries all the essentials. One can be stripped down to one’s basics. Basic food and shelter. The tent was set up. We then went and chatted with the owners of the field. The family was living there temporarily to tend to their fields. Some of them came to our camp site. We listened to the radio: the news, the songs and so on. The villagers drifted away and we finished our dinner. It was then lying on our backs and staring at the skies. It was a lovely cool night. There were no mosquitoes. Only dung beetles which were crawling all over. Not a very pleasant feeling.<br /><br />Sleeping in the tent was a little unnerving. Throughout the night we were waking up to sounds of animals. In my rich imagination I thought it was jackals and panthers prowling around. But to my disappointment I was reassured that it was only stray dogs that were hanging around the campsite looking for tidbits and doing their own investigations.<br /><br />The next morning we again set out after breakfast. There was really nothing to do. They would cook and we would eat. Then off we went to shit and pee in the fields. Having gone through the motions we set off for another day. The radio was our constant companion. Each busy with one’s own thoughts. We would stop here and there to speak to some villagers. We would pass villages where the camels would drink water from the troughs. It was doing nothing at all. The only important thought was a place to take a shower. Cool water on the head was all that I sought. Even as I am writing about it six months later, that scene is so vivid in my mind.<br /><br />A word about our camp mates. Maharaj, Babu and Mange. Maharaj and Mange owned the camels. Maharaj was the local strong man with contacts far and wide in the villages. Mange also owned a camel an doubled as a cook. Babu spoke English and therefore the official guide for the team. His English was hilarious not because he spoke bad English. He had perfected the language as a response to the white tourists that he was constantly guiding. One of our nodes of entertainment was to make fun of his adaptation of English and to force him to speak in Hindi. Maharaj and Mange were the silent men, but locals in the real sense of the term. They earned their livelihood through tourism and also agriculture. The camels were a main source of their livelihood. A severe handicap for Maharaj and Mange was their language. They could speak only Marwadi and very little Hindi. That was how Babu showed his one-up-man-ship with them. By being part of such a camp, one has to acknowledge the subtle tensions running between them. At times I resented being a witness to it. But on was being drawn into it. We couldn’t be snobbish and look elsewhere. They were three and we were two. Not always we thought alike. Not always we liked what they did or they liked what we preferred. To come to an understanding in that situation was important.<br /><br />It was 10 in the morning. The sun was still benign. We registered our request for a shower with Maharaj. He soon found a house in the fields where a Rajput family was living. I can never forget this encounter. The women were most interested in our arrival. Willingly they arranged water for a bath in their kitchen. They were so curious about my body, my clothes and the man that I was traveling with. It was wonderful to have a bath in a dark corner of their kitchen. They insisted that I wear my clothes in their presence. It was quite a sexual moment. I happily wore my clothes before their scrutinizing gaze. One of the women,a young Rajput woman with three children was the sexiest of the lot. She was a bundle of energy. I wanted to give her something to remember. I was not carrying anything extra apart from my clothes. I then pulled out my brand new panties from my case and gave it to her. I asked her if she wore them and then she showed the ones that she was already wearing. It was such a crazy kind of fun.<br /><br />S was bewitched by her. Her head was completely covered. S wanted her to remove her dupatta. She also wanted to take it off but at the same time unsure about it. But I guess she finally relented and the outcome was a classical one. One of those beautiful women. Maybe S has to add his own take of that episode.<br /><br />The safari thus proceeded from camp to camp. We camped four nights. One day was beside the maize field. He second day was atop a huge sand dune. The third day was in a scary shrubby field. Those dry white shrubs for miles around. The fourth day was again spectacular. We camped beside a small habitation. It had four huts, five families, about a dozen unruly kids and a pied piper. The story of that night requires a separate telling. </span>Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1142596141319560052006-03-17T03:46:00.000-08:002006-03-17T03:49:01.333-08:00Mumbai to BikanerThe journey from Jodhpur to Bikaner is quite fascinating as the region is desert terrain. It is 200 kms from Jodhpur and takes about five hours to reach Bikaner. In Jodhpur we were warned that we would nto egta ny food on the way. So we packed ourselves with lot of food in Jodhpur itself where the train halts for more than thirty minutes. From Jodhpur the train became progressively empty and the terrain more and more beautiful. Having the compartment all to ourselves we stretched ourselves in glorious comfort. I felt the true essence of my holiday beginning. Small railway stations passed by with people sitting in groups under neem trees. The roof of the railway station was the sprawling neem tree. There is something very beautiful about Rajasthani people maybe because of their colourful clothes and their turbans. They always look exotic to me. Maybe it is because of the way their images are sold by the tourist economy. Rajasthan in general and the desert in particular have a certain appeal to our senses. This is my second trip to Rajasthan and I admit to some kind of an attraction to that region, its deserts, climate, costumes, palaces and forts.<br /><br />To sleep in a train on a not so hot afternoon with a half opened book, I would say is the favourite fantasy of any train traveler. To occasionally peep through the barren stations where the train pulls in and out, to drink the sweet tea, the head throbbing slightly, waiting for your destination and reading through a book are the essential ingredients of this fanstasy. For a long time running away from home meant a long train journey, sitting by the window and see the world pass by. A unkempt traveler with a rucksack on his back, a pair of glasses perched on his nose, a book crammed in his bag has been my fantasy man. Oops, how could I forget the music. The ubiquitous walkman in hand!!! This is somehow the icon of freedom, of running away, of a footloose life.<br /><br />Bikaner as we read in the travel books was the north western part of Rajasthan. These towns are referred to as the desert towns. An hour before we reach Bikaner, the terrain becomes even more fascinating as the train cuts through towering sand dunes. One sees roads snaking through these yellow sands with very little habitation. There is sand everywhere and more importantly on the tracks. So as our train was going at full speed we had a sand storm effect inside our compartment with the sand being blown inside. There was nothing that we could do and very soon we were covered with sand. The passengers in the train then told us about the sandstorms which sweep through this region in the months of July and August. I was a little apprehensive considering my delicate respiratory system but then there was little one could do as we were already in the desert country. A beautiful part of this journey were some young singers who came to entertain us. They sang such hauntingly beautiful songs. As the train was chugging we had these singers singing local rajasthani songs. They came prepared with film songs but on our insistence they sang local bhajans and folk songs. Firm, strong male voices. Songa about the escapades of Meera. They were so beautiful. So haunting.<br /><br />Soon the train pulled into Bikaner railway station. It was a not so large station, a red deserted building at that time of the day. Our train did not have too many passengers as they had embarked at the earlier stations. We had booked at Marudhar Heritage hotel earlier. As we entered the city I was appalled by the dust and dirt of the city. Marudhar Heritage turned out to be quite expensive and not so atmospheric. It was basic and clean. We quickly showered and set out for the city. On a holiday there is nothing more to do except go out, walk around, eat, drink and look forward to new sights and sounds.<br /><br />My first impressions of Bikaner city was really a let down. It was crowded, dirty, dusty and nothing remotely atmospheric. There were forts and havelis here and there. But the overwhelming dust and pollution effectively chased away all touristy imaginations. The fort walls looked dirty and worn out. The massive gates of the fort was covered with grime. And one had to be careful of the sloshing drain water all over the city. The city which I had so much wished to visit was such a let down. I had expected a small town with lanes and by lanes, not this prosperous trading town. <br /><br />As tourists we tend to build fantastic images of desert towns and so on in our own minds aptly supported by guide books like Lonely Planet. So when one actually descends into a town, one has to adjust and reorient to its current avatar. Rather than blaming the city, I will blame my own fertile mind which locates a region in a certain framework.<br /><br />So the evening was some kind of coming to terms with these realities. S and I wandered across the busy lanes selling clothes, electronic goods, shoes and so on. We had read that Bikaner was famous for sweets. So we entered a sweet shop and ate rasgollas and jamuns. We also packed some sweets for our jouney. Following that we went to a pickles shop and bought some pickles too. The marwadi chilly pickle is really good. Green chillies filled with mustard and other spices. Our next stop was the provision store where we picked up Sangri, a typical desert vegetable. It looks like dried beans and even thinner than that.<br /><br />We had decided back home that we will dine in the Bhairon Vilas Palace. In such cases Lonely Planet is a good guide and very charitable to the budget traveler. Bhairon Vilas Palace is indeed a beautiful palace. The rooms are decorated quite aesthetically if not a little crowded with artifacts. Maybe the latter was made to lure the foreign tourist. But I liked the guiding principle of the aesthetics. One of the rooms has been converted into a cozy bar with high backed chairs and a regal atmosphere. The food was terrible but the ambience made it up for all the existential problems. On enquiry we realized that the rooms were not too expensive and quite affordable. After a few beers and some food, we returned to our hotel.<br /><br />The next day was Sunday and we would start on our five day safari. We felt good to be heading out in the desert. But I was cautious about my optimism. I wasn’t sure what new images and stories the desert would throw up. Anyway there was something to look forward to the next morning onwards.Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1130165067561936032005-10-24T19:05:00.000-07:002005-10-24T07:53:41.916-07:00Side Upper and Lower<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5922/1593/1600/F2070031-11.JPG"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5922/1593/320/F2070031-11.JPG" border="0" /></a> We arrived in Bikaner city on the evening of 8th October, 2005 after a long journey of more than 48 hours. Our routing was Hyderabad-Mumbai-Bikaner. We left home for Mumbai late evening on 6th October. S and I always make it a point to book side upper and side lower seats in any train. It gives a certain sense of privacy. One can recline any time one wants and also gives good protection to our luggage.<br /><br />The holiday began once we baorded the train though it took some time to unwind from the various work schedules. I was silent and withdrawn when we boarded the tain to Mumbai as I was tense and keyed up. Everytime I begin my jouney I have this premonition that I will fall sick. In my case my premonitions about my health are always true. However, despite my sickness I travel alomst once in six months to the corners of this wonderful country. I should confess that the excitement of travel has been an important part of my bonding with S.<br /><br />Unfortunately for us our seats (though side upper and lower) were adjacent to the toilet. Whenever the train stopped or someone left the toilet door open, one would be assaulted by the odours. We could do nothing about it. I became an expert at clenching and unclenching my nose through the journey. S had as usual packed his bottle of lime and vodka which he was sipping calmly, sitting by the window as the train rushed into the darkness of various towns and villages. We were occasionally delving into our 'food bag' for tid bits. Our dinner was rotis and brinjal curry plus the various goodies of our food bag. A word about our food bag. Whenever we are making these long journey we have a separate bag allocated for food stuffs and medicines which will contain nuts, dry rotis, pickles, sweets, digestives and so on and so forth weighing atleast a couple of kilos.<br /><br />We reached Mumbai at half past twelve. By now the holiday mood had set in. I felt light and good. We had a three hour halt at Mumbai. We decided to inaugurate our holiday formally by splurging at a good resturant with some chilled beer. Found a small Chinese restuarant and parked ourselves for the next two hours. Shared a bottle of beer and a plate of noodles. Since the price tag was heavy decided to limit our beer and food. Since I was holding the purse strings I made a note not to enter into expensive hotels. Yeah...The other thing was that I would handle the expenses of the trip. So I was paying for everything. S would have only have about ten rupees in his pocket, enough to buy some cigarettes or a bottle of water. This was a reflection of my new found status of the being the breadwinner for the family.<br /><br />Following this minor splurge we reached bustling Bandra station and boarded the hot and stuffy Ranakpur Express to Bikaner. Our tickets were confirmed only at the last minute. To our horror we again found our Side upper and lower berths adjacent to to the toilets. Between the two us us I am the snob, being sensitive to ammonic odours. S is cool about stuff like this. I got reconciled to ammonia and told myslef that this will not spoil the fun. Our compartment was packed to the brim with not only the regular passengers but also wait listed passengers. Marwadi men, women and children, beggars, bearers serving coffee, cool drinks, tea, tiffins jostled with each other in that tiny compartment. Very soon the marwadi tiffin carriers were opened and the endless tream of serving food began. S and myself were perched at our window seats trying to be oblivious of all the high voices around us, at the same time trying to catch snippets of conversations, curious to know their subjects of conversation.<br /><br />For me it was a new route. The train was chugging through Gujarat. So we encountered Ahemedabad, Surat, Anand, Vadodra and many other important towns of Gujarat. In all this melee we forgot to buy our dinner and were left only with dry chappatis and pickle which was also fun. It is strange how one feels hungry by 9pm and then sleeps by 10pm on the train. Even S who is used to eating and sleeping late turned in by 10pm. The lights are switched off and one cant even read. So the only alternative is to sleep. And promptly sleep catches up. Our marital practice is that I take the uuper berth while he takes the lower. I feel safe on the upper berth and tos ome extent not be an object of voyeuristic pleasure. I woke up occasionally to the strong odours of ammonia and promptly pulled the sheet all over my face. As if that would be any preventive. It was a cold night. We were forced to pull out our sleeping bags to stay warm. Since I was sleeping on the upper berth I woke up S to pull out the sleeping bags and jackets. With the sleeping bag under me, I felt so warm that I went off for another bout of good sleep.<br /><br />The next day dawned quite early with the tea wallahs making their rounds since 5.30 in the morning. We refused to wake up. Finally we had to wake up by 8am as the noise levels around was so deafeningly high tthat there was no way one could sleep.We woke up to the station of Pali Marwad which arrived at about 8.30 am in the morning. Many passengers were getting off these stations. Our compartment, much to our relief was geeting empty. By 10.30 am we reached Jodhpur. The ticket collector informed us to get some food at Jodhpur itself as otherwise we would not get any food on the way after Jodhpur. He further advised us that we should go outside the railway station to buy food. S was deputed to look after the luggage while I marched out to get the food. Jodhpur station was deserted and the sun was fierce. The train would halt there for about 30 minutes. There were many dhabas outside the railway station. I selected one dhaba and ordered jeera rice, dal and bhendi curry. I was already craving for rice. Within no time the food was ready and I rushed back with the parcel of food to the train. We loaded ourselves with food and water as we were warned that we will get neither ont he way. Bikaner was toa rrive at 4.30 in the evening. The train pulled out of Jodhpur and then began the best part of the journey. Since the food was hot we decided to have a brunch and gobbled the rice and dal as if we were starving for the last few days. The time was just 11am. The blue and pink buildings of Jodhpur rolled by. Jodhpur is considered to be the first halt ont he desert circuit of Rajasthan. The desert part of Rajasthan had begun. A certain excitement was building.Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1129515767600169192005-10-17T07:30:00.000-07:002005-10-16T19:22:47.606-07:00backWe returned yesterday from our travel: an experience that can be rated as one of my best. It was about 48 hours by train to return from Bikaner. the north western part of Rajasthan. I feel good having travelled to such extreme points on our functional map. I felt very groggy and disoriented yesterday as if I had a hangover. It was a mixture of feelings. A longing to stay back in the desert, the irritation of travelling 48 hours in the stench of dirty toilets, the impending work and routines that are round the corner. Peculiar to this confusion is a desire to make plans for travel all over again. I was hunched at my computer trying to look for other organsied tours in the desert. It is surely madness but it is also one way of coming to terms with the end of a holiday.<br /><br />We are now waiting for the pictures to arrive. The pictures have turned into a serious business, not just an exercise in nostalgia since our objective is to write our travel diary and post our pictures in it. There is also music to go along. We recorded some great local rjasthani songs. I have to now pull myself together to begin writing the 'desert notes'. <br /><br />I woke up this morning early to get into shape. After a holiday I tend to plan fresh for the next six months. My priority is to go to a gymn to exercise. Otherwise I find my body unfit and loose. The swimming session was buried unceremoniously quite early in its career. I am still not in the mood to learn swimming afresh and to come to terms with a new medium. I would rather go to a gym. Have to find a gym immediately.<br /><br />There is lot of work pending. Cases, writing, publishing the travel diary and so on and so forth. Since Diwali is round the corner, I also have to buy clothes for everyone in our complex. This is one festival that I like. So much of lights and bonhomie. <br /><br />Oops. I am really drifting. But thats how morning thoughts always are. In a sense taking stock of the situation. I feel I have been away for a long time. A good holiday gives a solid break from the routine. MAybe that is the way to measure the quality of a holiday. <br /><br />Readers, very soon u will find Bikaner unfolding before your eyes in prose and pictures. I am making a public announcement so that I have an accountability to write.<br /><br />The coffee tastes bitter this morning. My tongue is now used to the sweetened tea and coffee that I was drinking the last ten days.Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1128599390680826422005-10-06T04:25:00.000-07:002005-10-06T04:49:50.686-07:00prelude to the travelI will be travelling the next one week, almost ten days. How bland it seems as I am writing it out here. I have been so excited, so looking forward to this trip and yet it sounds so insipid. Unless you are careful with words they can truly screw up one's life. <br /><br />Maybe the words are deserting me. I will try and put it as simple as possible. I am travelling to the desert town of Bikaner which is more than 1700 kiklometers from where I stay. It will be a two day train journey. Afetr reaching Bikaner we are planning to go into the surrounding villages, camel riding and so on.<br /><br />We are armed with a radio, lots of boks. i am taking five books with me which is a bit too much for a week long holiday. I always dread that i will run out of books. <br />Looks like I am not in the mood to write anything today. I hope to write more when I return.Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1128441496660054482005-10-04T08:32:00.000-07:002005-10-04T08:58:16.666-07:00I miss my melancholyI feel sad that I stopped writing my blog so abruptly. I was writing almost two pieces everyday. And then I stopped. I know why I stopped. I was no longer lonely. i was busy. Busy having another person around, my man. It sounds sexy to have your man around. But my bane is that i relax and get rusty. My creativity stops. I need an atmosphere of bleakness, melancholy and loneliness to write. I cant write about happy moments. I like being happy but they are not great stuff to write about. <br /><br />Coming to my man. He came home and I stopepd writing. I hate to confess it. I dont want to go into the reasons too. Some are obvious. some are not. Maybe I dont wish to reveal them all. Some day i should write about my man. An extremely important person in my life not merely because I am wedded to him. Thats the least of the parameters. But I also dont want to be predictable about it. I realise I have some hangups about it. <br /><br />Anyway the last few days have been good in terms of work and discipline. I went through a severe pre menstrual stress where I was almost ill as my hormones were dancing aroud coming to their preordained balances. It was bad. If I were alone my blog would have been replete with the experiences of PMS. My readers missed it. But I am sure I will write later as I still have to go through many more years of PMS. It is a long way to go. <br /><br />Today I am rid of all the blood flowing out. Feel quite clean and proper. Despite being a feminist, I am yet to overcome the sense of dirt associated with my menstrual cycle. Maybe because it stinks and it hurts. So why should I like it? <br /><br />I am glad that i got back to my blog.Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1127239085396090492005-09-20T23:47:00.000-07:002005-09-20T10:58:05.400-07:00depression over the bayWell...it has been raining cats and dogs. I am tired of these rains. The roads are full of pot holes and flooded. It is muddy all over. <br /><br />But work continues with foggy old lawyers. Today is pent the whole day in the court library poring over the ingredients of perjury. I love this job. Our court libraries are noisy, dusty and over crowded. But I still like it. There were fruitful results at the end of the day. Tomorrow was slated for the cross examination of two witnesses but the witnesses have developed cold feet. All said and done the cross examination is an intimidating event in people's lives. It is a careful manouvering of facts: a transaction that covers the black and white aspects of our life. <br /><br />It is close to midnight. Half wet. There are ideas in the head. But the fingers refuse to coordinate with the ideas. Will give a better update tomorrow.Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1127097768887480462005-09-19T08:20:00.000-07:002005-09-18T19:42:48.890-07:00chose a difficult filmMystic River was the wrong choice. My light hearted day with lot of hope and optimsim got pretty mesed up with paedoplilia and murders. No doubt, it is a good film. For once a Hollywood film does not give s straight equation of crime and punishment. The intricate layers of history that constitute a crime is quite brilliantly portrayed. I have no complaints on it. Actually I shouldnt have complaints. <br /><br />Its all about paedophilia. Scares the shit out of me. I dont like to watch any of these violent themes. Unsettles me terribly. I like violence to be packaged like Kill Bill. Quentin Tarantino and Uma Thurman make me feel good. I want feel good films. Needless to mention that feel good has to be quality stuff. Is that the reason why I watch seedy romances? Maybe. But the truth is that I am also bored with those romances. How long can one watch such spineless films. <br /><br />We are anyway leading lives full of sexual assault and fear of assault. It is a childish feeling that I dont want to watch it on screen too. I want the screen to be filled with big heros and heroines doing their job against evil. Hmm. Sounds irrational. I anyway didnt promise to be rational all the time.<br /><br />An aside. I am really impressed by Clint Eastwood's directorial capacities. When I watched him in those cowboy films I thought he was macho. Never expected him to have such finesse. I am really surprised. It is also inspiring to see such a person who has grown old but doesnt give up and is bent on exploring his mind further. Thats the best part I guess. To be creative and passioante in ur life till the very end. <br /><br />I hate people is good form retiring without making an effort to explore their lives. Unless illness cripples my body I wil continue to be a public person, nay a public intellectual. I am wasted if I dont work.Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1127059581246892752005-09-18T21:45:00.000-07:002005-09-18T09:06:21.250-07:00simmering soupWhy do I have this compulsion to write everything like this? I am obsessed with this journal. I am constantly narrating to this stranger and to myself. I derive such voyeuristic pleasure in writing these notes, these musings. I have become so intensely aware of myself, my actions, my lows, my highs...my everything. <br /><br />I had a lovely evening out. Showered, gelled and perfumed, I set out to walk the downtown. Spent a couple of hours ambling around in one of those huge shopping malls which has everything from clothes to coffee and books. Drifted in and out picking up small gifts for a friend who is leaving. Thought of having a coffee but it was the time of day when I would have enjoyed a vodka or a beer. But no such luck in my city. Pubs are still meant for couples and groups of friends. Of course single men are most welcome in these pubs. Not so for sigle women. We can be grabbed and squeezed. Going to a pub alone is equivalent of being a whore. So that settled the matter. Fantsised for sometime about a pub which caters only to women or courteous men who accept a woman's no to be a no.The former may be possible but I have no hopes for the latter. I must admit that it is possible for two women to spend a quiet evening. Being single screws it up.<br /><br />Took a bus back home and enroute picked up a film from the nearby video library. Reached home, spent soem time with my aged father and then walked up to my apartment. Switched on the world space radio and set it to country music. Chopped vegetables, sipped some irish cream whisky and let the stew simmer. Decided to write a little before I settled down to 'Mystic River'. <br /><br />Mmmm...the soup/stew really smells good. Any takers?Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1127024301807203632005-09-18T00:00:00.000-07:002005-09-17T23:18:21.813-07:00difficult silencesI drank feni last night. Not much. But I hav a light hangover swimming around me. Any party means lots of hard work. There is work preceeding the party and alsoa fter the party. Glasses will be all over. If kids are around and then tidbits of food is strewn all around. So it meant lot of clearing up. Moreover I was alone. Felt a little sad for myself as I swept and mopped the house last night. Tried watching a film after that. I was so tired that I just slept off without waking up even once.<br /><br />It is a Sunday but I am working. Lawyers work on Sundays. I have to meet a senior lawyer with whom I am working. Maybe I will not go. I have to narrate a sad anecdote about him. I ahev know this senior lawyer for a long time. I respect him for his knowledge of law and his court room craft. Remember the client about whom I was narrating in the last blog? Well, the same woman went to meet him to study the case. I could not make it that day as I was held up elsewhere. My client went to his office along with her father. The senior lawyer quickly packed off the father on some errand and began to ask embarassing question. My client is a beautiful woman, fair, young and articulate.To her horror he began to quiz her about her sexual life. She was caught in a fix and found it difficult to either talk or not. After all it is a hierarchical situation. He is a senior lawyer and she is a litigant in distress. Further he also tried touching her. I think she managed to come out by mouthing some excuse.<br /><br />She later narrated to me the entire story. To put it mildly I was shocked and also angry. After a long discussion we both decided to keep quiet about the incident. This is how we deal with sexual harassment. We are silent most of the times. I am silent as his presence is vital for this case. It is too late in the day to engage another lawyer. I promised my client that she will no longer go alone to meet him. I feel wretched as I make these adjustements. With me this filthy old lawyer is professional and straight if not a little garrulous. He is careful with me as I am quite powerful. But men like this will only prey on powerless distressed women. Thats the worst part.<br /><br />Interestingly my client confides only in her rmother and not her father. The secret is shared between the three of us. We share and swallow this indignity.Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1126932023494707042005-09-16T21:17:00.000-07:002005-09-16T21:40:23.496-07:00saturdayIts a beautiful bright sunny day. It may seem that I am speaking like one of those cold climate peope. But we have had such a heavy monsson this time. It has been raining for the past three months almost conitnuously. I am a person used to droughts, water shortages and moody monsoons. Therefore many of us were quite puzzled by so much rain. But I am sure the tanks in and around our city is full. The barren countryside is so green. Farmers are happy. The rains have been so heavy that we were almost flooded. Bombay is an example. There is immense controvery about the reasons for these floods. The fingers point at indiscrminate building and encroachments on the streams and drains of the city as there is no outlet for the copious rainwater to drain away. Thats a huge subject with heavy stakes involved. An important issue but not for a bright Saturday morning. Let me leave it at that.<br /><br />I have a party this evening. Its a salad party. I have decided on three salads: a). chickpea. b) vergetables c)devileld eggs. Plus there will be vodka and orange juice for the adults and coke for the children. I need to shop now for the veggies, eggs and otehr stuff. I love to cok for a party. Cooking is such an integral part of my life. I feel anchored in my home only if I cook. At the same time I am not the routine cooking types from which most women have no respite at all. I like to cook selectively. If I have to cook rice dal and curry on an everyday basis I will end up crazy. Hmm. I think by an large I lead a privileged life. But I hasten to add that I fought tooth and nail to earn these privileges. Nothing comes free in life.<br /><br />This party reminds me of the film 'The Hours' where Meryl Streep plans and shops for her party. Quite a beautiful film.<br /><br />I will also get a film. The day as it is stretching out looks pretty good.Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1126838731014197192005-09-16T08:20:00.000-07:002005-09-15T19:45:31.020-07:00marital woesThere is such a difference between the contents of what I write in the evenings and mornings. Evenings, I only have morose writings to my credit. Mornings seem to offer more hope to the world.<br /><br />Today is going to be a long day. A tough trial in court. A mentally ill mother is my client. She has a child of five years old. The husband says thats she is mentally ill and ineffective and therefore cannot take care of the child. He proposes that he should have the custody of the five year old. The wife says that her illness was caused by the husband's ill treatment. She was not born with the illness. It was the violence of conjugality that produced the illness. Sounds familiar isnt it. There are many of us here who would attest to this fact. Marital incompatibility and marital violence is so common in our lives. I guess a majority live in marriages that do not suit them. But we go on for the sake of children, respect in community, loneliness, some sex, some love and so on. Not all of us separate. It depends on how we manouver some space and respect for ourselves. This does not preclude the fact that respect and space are results of major battles. Many of us do arrive at some consensus. <br /><br />Some marriages go completely bonkers. They are the ones that end up in the courts. My mentally ill client is one example. The child is the bone of contention between them. The child signifies many battles between the two of them. Except the child there is no other peg to hang their battles. The husband is trying his best to prove that she is mad, uncooperative at home, uninspiring in bed and most importantly a useless mother. He has caught hold of her medical prescriptions and letters to prove that he has ben living with a mad woman all along. The wife is battling his allegations quite courageously. She endured an elaborate seven hour cross examination with aplomb. The child becomes important for her status as that is the only way of proving that she is sane. This trial has been quite an eye opener for me in the sense that the battle for the child is not simply about maternal/paternal love for the child. It is a trial of establishing sanity. It is incidentally that the child becomes the pawn in the game. <br /><br />The other side lawyers hates me. He is a foggy old man who doesnt know what marital incompatability means or that society gives a certain sanction for a husband to ill treat a wife. I dont say that women/wives/mothers are innocent. But as far as sanction and those invisible rules of society go, it is the man and his family who set the rules for the wife. According to him there should be no separations. The home is a peaceful haven where the man and woman should coexist on consensual terms. However all divorce applications are evidence of the battle ground that a family or a marital relationship is. Yet in the face of this glaring evidence we continue to espouse the cause of the peaceful domestic space. Our films, our advertisements reinforce this concept of the guileless family.<br /><br />His lawyer thinks that it is all the woman's fault. Now that is a non negotiable position. My position is that we have to share faults and also understand the larger family frame in which these faults are located. It is true that my client has her share of problems. It is clear that resumption of the marriage is not possible between them. In such cirumstances would it not be best to separate amicably with negotiable terms of settlement?<br /><br />But domestic battles rarely fit the rational. They are contested tooth and nail. An eye for an eye. Marriage is something in which we have invested all our money, dreams and future projects. It is a big investment. So when such an investment goes awry, the battles are truly tremendous. <br /><br />The most common repsonse to a custody battle is that the child is suffering. I beg to disagree. The child moves between father and mother and gradually takes advantage of both the parties. The child also forgets in phases. But it is the adults who are worst hit. I am not sure if I will fight such a battle. I would be torn apart.Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1126798336631818862005-09-15T21:30:00.000-07:002005-09-15T08:32:16.640-07:00blown fuseI came home. It was dark. Unlocked the house and walked in. Switched on a lamp and the fuse went off. Silently told myself that I ahve to replace the bulb. Groped around in the darkness until I found the other light switch. Switched it on to see the loneliness spreading around. Threw my bag in a corner. Walked into the bathroom and switched on the geyser. My next stop was the kitchen . My housekeeper has made some food and tucked it into the fridge. I need to just cook some rice. There is nothing to do. I dont have the initiative to switch on the world space too. Walked into my office and switched on the computer. Chatted for a few minutes and then I back to my writing.<br /><br />The evening is the loneliest of all hours. I cant read as I am too tired. I dont know. This is depressing. i dont want to write anymore about this. reminds me of all the lonely people on earth.<br /><br />There are some who have the skill of writing poetry about loneliness. Most poetry and lovesongs are about being left alone and left behind. Coming to this interesting topic called love songs, I have a problem with the canvas that a love song spreads out. It is mostly so limited. One is either celebrating love and lust or lamenting that he/she has left. There are very few songs which cover the acres of middle ground that is there between these two extremes. Maybe that is the reason they are love songs. Exceptions are some of the blues traditions and old singers like Bessie Smith who have scripted some interesting songs. Otherwise they are all the same. Where are the nuances, where are the subtleties, where are the bylanes of love?<br /><br />How do i change the way my blog looks? I dont like the green which I am inhabiting.Atleast some comments on this topic will be appreciated.<br /><br />Some more later. I want to now read what others have scribbled on their blogs. My readers maybe wondering about me. Is this the way I spend my evenings? Yeah, most of the times they are as uninteresting as today.Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1126747814344722132005-09-15T19:30:00.000-07:002005-09-14T18:54:09.880-07:00morning ragasYesterday's low has pased. The morning is beautiful. I have this steaming cup of coffee on my table, Hindustani classical music playing in the background and I can manage atleast an hour of writing before I rush into the survial game of bathing eating and going out for work. My ideal time to wake up is a little before 6am. Its being competitive with the sun rise. But he always beats me at it. The dawn with its colour of the sky, the silence and the moist dew makes it the best part of the day. I am a morning person. The few days when I dont wake up early makes me very disorienting. <br /><br />An hourof reading or writing in the morning gives me a sense of purpose to my life. Before setting out to towork, i believe in working atleast a couple of hours to set the pace for the entire day. I may seem a moralist. My intution is that productive work requires an immense amount of discipline. It may be writing fiction or non-fiction, filming or photograpghy. The passion does not emerge unless one has invested long hours and thought in it. Quality stuff is not a freak entity or a matter of luck. I am slowly realising the hard work that is present behind the scenes.<br /><br />Coming back to my blog. I rememebr telling my readers that this blog began with the purpose of recording the minute things that make up our lives. It was and continues to be voyeuristic in its objective. A person who may be following this blog should be able to get an intimate sense of the perosn writing it. I very quickly realised the difficulty of sticking to my everydayness. It has already become boring to talk about my lows, showers, toilets and masturbations. To indulge in the self needs a different energy. Or writing skills that bring out a certain quality to the mundane. Or maybe a different concept to frame the mundane. Otherwise it simply stays as the mundane. I cannot boast of such writing skills or a framework. Instead I am planning to write about the ideas that animate me. It may be a film, a friendship, a newspaper article and so on. The mundane will find its space in these locations.<br /><br />My next post will be a review of the film Jagged Edge that I watched on television last night.Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1126750563460137142005-09-15T08:30:00.000-07:002005-09-14T19:58:56.333-07:00Jagged EdgeJagged Edge was filmed on HBO last night. Glenn Close acts the conscientious tough woman lawyer. She is defending a 'big' man who is alleged to have murdered his wife. I willc all him the husband. I walked into the film pretty late so I am not sure about the first part about how he contacts her or how she ends up being his lover too. So she is his attorney and his lover too. Defends him in court during day time and fucks him in the night. The typical Hollywood plot. She is a lawyer who believes in sending the guilty to prison and also makes sure that he is indeed innocent before she decides to defend. That is the Hollwood's conception of most lawyers, especially female. They need to have a cause and they believe in the cause to such an extent that they also have to become the accused's lover. Yeah, I am being sarcastic.<br /><br />The accused goes to trial. It is a close fight between the defence lawyer and the District attorney. Witness after witness coems to depose of the adulterous character of the husband. On one level any new witness throws the defence attorney into anxiety that she may testify against the husband. On the othe rlevel our defence attorney is also upset about the promiscuity of the accused some of which he has revealed and some of which he has concealed. So the trial runs on these two themes. A note on how the husband is alleged to have killed. He masks himself in black top to bottom and brandishes a jagged knife. He ties the woman's hands and legs to the bed post and then plays around with the woman's body. He cuts nipples, makes incisions in the vagina and so on and so forth.<br /><br />As the state's witnesses start streaming in the defence attorney begins to have her doubts about the husband. Witness after witness recounts the promiscuous nature and his plans of eliminating the wife. Glenn Close is not convinced of the husband's innocence. She is on the verge of giving up the case. At that point miraclously there appears a single line note asking her to bring a certain Julie Nelson as a witness. Glenn Close rushes to Julie Nelson's house and summons her as a witness. Julie Nelson testifies that eighteen months back she was assaulted by a masked man with a jagegd knife and a rope. She of course lives alone in a mansion facing the sea. Julie recounts the gory details of her nipples being slashed and so on. More importantly she points a guilty finger to another witness who is a waiter in a club with whom she was friendly. This same hunk of a witness has also been more than friendly with the deceased wife.<br /><br />We have strident scenes between the DA and our lawyer who is now convinced that the wife was killed by her lover and not by her husband. The next day the jury declares the husband "not guilty". There are scenes of jubiliation and that evening Glenn Close rushes to the husband's house and spends the night with him. The next morning we find a rosy Glenn Close with the 'morning after' look fondly looking at the man. The happy man goes out on some errand and in the meantime Glenn decides to change the sheets on the bed. Remember women lawyers are lovers and also good housekeepers. We see an impressive closet with piles of clean sheets. As she is pulling out a pink sheet she touches something metal. Her curiosity is piqued. She throws the sheet aside and fingers the metal. It is a typewriter. She pulls out a sheet and types. The type is similar to the letter that she had recieved informing her about Julie Nelson. Now Glenn Close knows that she has set free a psychopathic killer. She rushes out with the typewriter wrapped in her coat.<br /><br />Late in the evening the husband calls GClose to enquire about her health. Our lawyers spills the beans and says that she knows it all. Within a few minutes we have a masked man breaking the window in the lawyer's apartment and walks into her bedroom. Glenn CLose is freshly showered with gel in her hair and a white terry robe lying on her bed. The man in black and the woman in white. As he advances GClose pulls out her revolver and kills him at point blank range.<br /><br />Yeah. Its a film. And we should not expect realist narratives here. But that does not preclude us from exmainig the assumptions of the film. For this see the next post.<br /><br />Have to rush. Shit, shower, eat and rush out.Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16708331.post-1126713030707340752005-09-14T21:20:00.000-07:002005-09-14T08:50:30.720-07:00tired thoughtshmm. Why am I writing this blog? To answer this question I began to look at many blogs that constitute this blog world. Maybe it is for many reasons that one writes. First the interface of the blog is so good. Rather than writing on a white page of the word document, it is elegant to write in such a window. Two, I am in touch with my writing. Three, the distant hope that strangers will read it and comment.<br /><br />But I suppose at the end of the day it is a way of keeping in touch with yourelf. If someone reads it, I see it only as a bonus. Life does not offer too many bonuses anyway. It is a capitalist world. For a long time I thought of maintaining a journal but it never took off. The few times I wrote has been such a treasure trove for me. The journal is so important to keep track of thought processes. To know what your state of mind was two months or two years back. I forget and and only listen to what I am today. I only hope that I maintain this.<br /><br />More importantly this journal has the privilege of being anonymous. I can write anything. I hope to explore this terrian far better in the coming days.<br /><br />It is time to turn in. Feel too tired to even take a shower. But I cant sleep without bathing. I carry the pollution of the city. I am feeling lonely. Inexorably lonely. I have to cook my dinner. I hope there is something good on television. Otherwise how do I sleep. I dont even have a book to read. I should fix the bed lamp. The world space music is also boring. I think when one is on a low everything looks and sounds boring. Boredom is the outcome of depression. sighs. I am sure I will walk out of this if I sleep well.Vasudha Nagarajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06957165430756028452noreply@blogger.com0