23:29 IST
Parents' Room, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

Day 7

A sequence of thoughts for a story-of-sorts for the screen?

The story attempts to reconstruct Dadi's life through her own words.During the process, the storyteller attempts to draw commentary on the concepts around time, memory, the pointlessness of existence, loneliness, the strive to give purpose, how the right and wrong is decided upon etc.

1. [Disclaimer]: All characters appearing in this work are real. Any resemblance to other real persons, living or dead, is a happie coincidence.

2. [Papa's pearls on motion, time and space]: Time is motion. Time is inextricably linked to motion and space. An animal is unaware of time. Doesn't understand the concept of future... (his image will come in flashes of black and white)

3. Papa's VO will be accompanied with Johnny Ripper's track Some Things Last a Long Time.
Images/video shots - Papa flashing, lower-half-face of a girl in the mirror changing expressions in time to music, dadi's ring's reflection in the car window, dadi's wisps of hair flying while she sleeps, curtains, Surabhi's nailpaints, old photos, [some more], random streets of Ferozepur

4. Slowly fade away the song and the visuals....focus in on Dadi's black-n-white narration of the house of Ferozepur. Pick up points.

5. Zoom in on the Ferozepur trip. Select footage and voice-overs in such a manner that there is no real clarity on finding the right place.

.....to be continued

01:13 IST
Downstairs Room with Table Fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

Tiring, pointless, day. Someone told me once that a point does not exist. So pointless in itself doesn't make much sense, does it? Kunzum. Social media updates. Coughing. Chatter-patter with the marketing guruji. Cough. Wait for the boss. Cough. Sister arrives. Trundled to the puny-parantha-maker. Placed order. Sat on chairs. Discussed plans for the day. A girl walks towards me and stops in front of me. I recognize her but can't recall her name. Introduce her to sister as my friend from Kunzum then look at her and apologise for not being able to recall her name. She looks upset. But tells me it, and lunches with us. Phew. Trundle back to Kunzum. Say hello to the work people. Begin transcribing one of Dadi's interviews. Love the process. One of the tech bloggers comes to visit. Asked him about good editing laptops. He suggests Thinkpad over Ideapad. And an Air over everything else. He's an Apple freak. Nothing to do with those round, red, juicy, nutritious things mind you. Boss comes. Boss goes. No talk. Stupid. Walk till bus-stop. Bus arrives after exactly five minutes of wait! (small joys) Home. Dinner. Lots of gossip with the sisters. Talked to boi. Read about Time and am thoroughly confused. What the fuck is it!?

Goodnight. Love.

02:45IST
Downstairs Room with Table Fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

The day started with a film viewing - 1947 Earth. The film, a narration by a seven year old Parsee girl was a story set in 1947 in Lahore. She told a tale through her grown-up voice overs of her nanny, her two lovers and their circle of friends and the entire community. People identified themselves by their religion first. It depicted a time of communal tension, where friends became enemies simply for belonging to a particular religion. Lovely film, beautiful score, vivid acting.

Then sleep took over. 8am came. I got and decided to snooze. Mom came to wake me up. I shooed her away. Dadi came to wake me up. I shooed her away. She called me 'pagal' and went away in a huff. I giggled. Got up, got dressed and heaved and panted and wheeled to Kunzum. We had seven annoying shoots today, where my job was to be the windmill. It is a job assigned to utterly useless people. They look at the time and flail about their arms after a certain specified period. In this case it was 10 minutes.I thoroughly hated it. Got a bus home. Had food. Delicious hot chicken soup. Came downstairs. Procrastinated. Wrote a food review. Talked to the boi. He gives me so much hope :) hugs. Began watching Fire. It keeps stopping. Will probably sleep now. Nighty night lovely bloggie.

22:07 IST
Downstairs Room with Table Fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

Day 6

Dadi burps a lot. Not tiny sounds erupting from the throat, but large ones, that originate from the stomach and gurgle up the oesophagus, where on the way they make the upper part of the esophagus vibrate, creating that resounding dull sound. In dadi's case it is a long drawn dull bell-dong. And it occurs repeatedly, and it happens pretty much all the time. It is a mixture of the medicines she takes, along with her problems with indigestion perhaps.

Dadi makes a trip to the roof and downstairs on the ground floor at least once a day. It is part of her routine.

I was reading City of Djinns today. The book, from the outset, feels a bit exaggerated. The book isn't fiction. The book is a perspective on the history of Delhi. Mr. Dalrymple has narrated a number of true stories of real people - some were affected by partition, some by the 1984 riots, some by the emergency in 1977. The stories are also backed by paraphrases from other history books, and press clippings, giving events a backbone of support. But the stories of the people themselves, they seem a bit exaggerated. There could be several reasons for this:

1. The memory of the people interviewed. As I am learning from Dadi's project, memory is a strange thing. I don't think a person ever remembers a blow-by-blow sequence of events of an occurence. Memory is perhaps visual, and one remembers things that leave the deepest impression. One weaves a story around that impression. It may not make sense. Also, while telling a story to an audience, there is an instinctive desire to exaggerate. I feel that. It leaves an impression. The WOW factor. Perhaps that also plays a role.

2. Mr Dalyrymple's own interpretation. I don't mean to be a racist, but Mr. Dalyrymple is Scottish, with western sensibilities. He isn't used to loud voices, a generous spirit, gesticulation, highly-charged emotions. For him, the characters could very well be aliens. Hence his perspective would be different from the perspective of an Indian observing and asking stories of our past. For him, these are new sights and sounds, very different from the cold, bland, dry (though wonderful) British sensibilities based on logic and reasons. His interpretations would thus be an exaggeration as well.

Combining the two, it is safe to suppose that the accounts are colourful, though not entirely reliable. As Julian Barnes says it so perfectly ' History is that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation.'  (who's memory?) It is thus a combination of the two.

A great exchange between a history teacher and student in a history class on history (from Julian Barnes' The Sense of an Ending)

'...historians need to treat a participant's own explanation of events with a certain scepticism.It is often the statment made with an eye to the future that is the most suspect.'

If you say so, sir.

And mental states may be often be inferred from actions. The tyrant rarely sends a handwritten note requesting the elimination of an enemy.

If you say so, sir.

Well, I do.

A person's own narration of events of a past may not be factually entirely correct, or the way they happened. Subjectivity is a vice/virtue of all humans. But once we know that, we can thread a story around the nature of the person's narration of events. Find a pattern. Find the personality. Weave a story around that perhaps?

00:35 IST
Downstairs Room with Table Fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

I need to tell my boss that I need time to make the documentary. I want to offer working part-time with him. What if he refuses? I still need to tell him. It doesn't feel right not doing it. He is a nice, honest man. As honest as the tiny black ants marching home. Let's do it. Met the big boi today. He's a big beefy man with light, brown eyes and a flop of hair that falls on his forehead. His eyes are as still as the calm before a storm. When he laughs, they disappear. Tiny slits appear in its place. I really like his company, and I love my tiny hand in his big, warm hand. Makes me feel safe.

Hugs. Good night :)

23:34IST
Downstairs Room with Table Fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

Kunzumed again. I quite hate that place now. Not just the pointless tasks, it's the routine of waking up every day and getting ready to wheel the rickshaw to the same place every day. The same thing, day after day. The routine of life. Boredom. Death. If only I could get hold of ONE freelance opportunity, I could easily ask Ajay to go part-time with Kunzum. Makes life a lot easier. Transcribed a bit of Dadi's conversations. I'm still not able to grasp the essence of her talks. No big ideas. Just descriptions of events, places seen, people seen with. People are extremely important for her. I don't know what I'm going to do with this. :/ What have I started?

00:41 IST
Downstairs Room with Table Fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

The day passed by as days pass by. The sun came up while I was sleeping. Up at 7am. Snoozed till 10am, the usual affair. Today was slightly different than the rest, because today was the day we voted. Delhi state elections covered a major part of the day today. I went to a school to cast my vote in a big ballot machine, punching a bright blue button with the symbol of a broom next to it. It belongs to Aam Aadmi Party. A brand new, nine month old party, with big and beautiful ideologies. They deserve a chance. Hence the vote.

Autoed till Kunzum. Wanked around on social media for a bit. Was about to start transcribing when in walks the big boss with his troupe. He stayed on till silly 7-o-clock and I got nothing done. Boo.

23:43 IST|
Downstairs Room with the Table Fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

My last post was on October 31. Today is December 3. A whole month and two days, nothing written here. It is all a blur. Fragments. Today was a pointless day as usual at Kunzum. Felt sleepy and agitated throughout the day. Wanted to start work on transcribing the various random interviews with Dadi. But was not seated on the right system. Smoked three white little sticks of death. Thought about the pointlessness of my work. Felt lethargic and fat. Saw clips of a brilliant episode on monarch butterflies from BBC Life. I'm quite messed up at the moment. Life is slipping by again. And I feel I have no words to describe anything. I forget it all.

00:01 IST
Room with the Table Fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

Day 5

I feel like a loser. I need to spend more time with Dadi. And all I do is go to work, meet friends, come back, watch films and sleep. I don't talk to Dadi. I'm such a loser. I need to get up on my feet and fucking start this shit. There will be no story unless she tells her stories. What the fuck am I doing!? I need to get footage. More and more footage. More interviews. More stories. I'm such a waste. Why the hell did I take this up anway? This is stupid. Need to do something about it.

Capture these moments in the story. Of frustration. Need this to be an honest journey. Fuck. It all looks so polished and pretty in my head. SUCH a fuktard.

00:23IST
The downstairs room with the table fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India


Today I slept, coughed, heaved, saw Sherlock, tried writing, heaved, coughed, slept. No wanking. Small yays. It is bronchitis time of the year.

Day 4
I have been trying to come up with some sort of a coherent sequence of events to make sense of Dadi's project. It has to be an honest journey. It has to have the perspective of her grandaughters. Explicitly. There will be a slide explaining the explorers' jobs. Clarity on the POV achieved. Gives me a lot of freedom. Means I explore her life the way I see it. It will be a straightforward, linear story. From her birth till the present. I'm keen to explore the origin of things. Of life. The evolution of man and more importantly, his thoughts - the idea of community, geographies, boundaries - and neatly tie it all up with the journey of a lady's life. Born in 1928, till today. Today represents the day the project completes. Her childhood in Ferozepur. Her working life in Delhi (Rohtak Road). Her married life in Krishan Nagar. Her kids. The aftermath of Dada's death. Her kids' marriage. Life in Inderpuri. Retirement.

Now, the film needs to capture HER. What she liked, disliked, her insights, her habits - So far I have got her speaking a bit about her travels and a lot about her illnesses. She gives random, little stories from her past. Its as if there is a massive vessel of memory-strands swirling in her head. One strand gets picked, and she speaks of it. Sometimes, someone's conversation triggers the memory. Sometimes, it is all random. There are these fragments of stories inside her. Of her own actions, of the things people have said to her, visuals of places and events mixed with her own clinical emotions. She's beautiful. How the hell does one capture all that in a film!?

Memory. Her stories are an accumulation of her memories. Similarly, all those things that her brothers and sisters and the staff say about her will be an accumulation of her memories as well. Memory. We play with that. This is one of those click moments. Clickety-click-click.

This is a story of an old lady, who talks about her self by picking on her memories.

23:31 IST
Room with the Table Fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

DAY 3

So I bought the handycam. Canon Legria MF H56. It says it has an HD CMOS PRO sensor, 10x zoom, wifi, headphone jack, adjustable frame rate along with a number of manual adjustment options. I have no idea what anything means. I plan to read and understand the workings of my camera over the next 2-3 days. And I plan to maintain an open blog on this. For example, HDMI stands for High Definition Multimedia Interface. What the fuck does that even mean!? I use these words all the time but have no idea what they mean! Plan to read and write.

Dadi lay on her side of the bed, her body tilted towards me. Her eyes were closed. She looked old. Wrinkly. Tired. I want to do this soon. WRITE.

00:26 IST
Downstairs Room with Table Fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

DAY 2

Paid an advance for a Canon Legria HF M56 camcorder :) Things are finally moving in the external world! Tried making a timeline-of-sorts on Dadi's life - marking landmark events. Birth, shift etc. Not much success. Too many fill-in-the-blanks. Plus how does one define 'landmark.' Her definition of the word. Important events in HER life. Read up a bit about the cultural scene in India during the 1950s, the time when Dadi shifted to Delhi and started working as a teacher. Some pretty cool stuff in the film industry. Music was widely appreciated. The muslim writers found refuge in the film industry after partition. They wrote poetry, which were used as lyrics in songs. And therefore, the old black-n-white sing-and-dance routines we see on TV today is far more 'soulful' than the crap spewed out by the current lyricists. Not like there isn't good music today. But its less than yesterday. Meethe pravachan se he jeevan acchi tarah vyateet hota hai. Meethi boli, prem ki goli.

18:40 IST
Parents' Room, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

DAY 1

I flipped through pictures today. Dadi showed me a small collection of elegant memories of the black-and-white era. She has albums - about six (that's how many I saw today). These are pretty picture books - big rectangular, leather-bound hard covers (probably made of cardboard) with paintings on the cover panels (Dadi painted one of those herself!) and black pages within. The black pages contain tiny stickered hooks for placing the photographs. She flipped through the pages and got me to see scores of pictures - in black-n-white, sepia, and old-world coloured modes. One wasn't exactly black-n-white, but there weren't any other colours except black and white. Perhaps it was a faded form. One album had thick, super-smooth pages with photos embellished on them. That looked like the work of a professional. It was. Some Dutta photographers had done it.

The photographs were of her younger days - when she was principle of her school, when Dadaji was still around, when papa was a tiny tot. She was slim; small eyes, long face, smooth skin, long black hair in a single braid, and an air of confidence about her lady-like elegance - something I haven't quite seen in anyone else. Perhaps she was well aware of her elegance? Because she loved heels and make-up and was always seen to be dressed impeccably. Perhaps her father, who in pictures looks like a lord had seeded ideas of 'always look your best at all times' at an early age and Dadi, who speaks highly of him was the only one of the seven siblings influenced? She still lays a lot of importance to appearances. Dunno.

There were pictures of her receiving awards from some very important people. She used to call those very important people during the annual day function in her school. The very important people include Mrs Indira Gandhi, Mr. Lal Bahadur Shastri, Mr. Prithviraj Chauhan etc. She has a number of pictures of those. We took a look at one photograph, one with her, Mrs Prem Sharma, Mrs Ghera and a couple of others - all surrounding Mrs Indira Gandhi at her residence. Mrs Gandhi was seen holding a paper and reading what was written on it, while the rest looked on at her. The picture belonged to a year she could not recall. But one look at that black-n-white glossy image, the smile faded from her face and her decibels lowered. She said 'This picture is taken the day we went to Mrs Gandhi's house. Mrs Prem Sharma's husband was posted in Assam (she said he worked for SIB. Will check what that means in a jiffy) and was kidnapped by some people there. She had written this letter seeking help from Mrs Gandhi. Her husband never came back.' Dadi couldn't remember much after that. Flipped the page, topic closed.

There were some pictures of Dadaji. Despite his height (not taller than mine), he looked regal. Square face, small, intense-looking eyes (how do eyes look intense...I tend to fall for such eyes and can never really explain to myself what I mean when I feel the eyes look intense) Perhaps I mean steady. Not flitting. Dunno. Dadaji - a thin moustache and a square build. In all the pictures I saw, he was dressed up in a suit. There were quite a few work-related ones. Dadaji worked in SIB - he was a special information officer of sorts for Press Information Bureau. I am not aware of complete details of his life at the moment, but know snippets. Will write those snippets. Snip snip:

He worked for the Home Affairs ministry and was responsible for carrying out tasks for them

He wrote pieces for PIB

Dadi says he used to come home and weep over getting someone killed.

In the pictures, he is seen with a group of foreigners. One of the pictures had a  newspaper article cutting. I cannot quote anything because I fail to recall even the headlines (memory, memory, blowing in the wind). However, the gist of the article was that a group of international delegates (from countries like Turkey, Hungary etc) had come over to visit India. The article quoted each minister praising the country. Most quotes talked about how such a 'diverse country' lived 'in peace together'. My thoughts flit. I just realised I am talking from memory here. A memory I created this very afternoon. And as I type from memory, I already feel a little unsure of the exact details of things - for example did all the quotes really talk about diversity and peace? Or is that my presumption? Or am I being lazy and for convenience sake, have decided in my head that diversity and peace must be the obvious topics? Am I looking for the easy way out because I just don't want to get up to look at the articles again? Yes. I think so. Although, I am going to make the effort to quote an apt quote from a book I am re-reading. Here goes:

I need to return briefly to a few incidents that have grown into anecdotes, to some approximate memories which time has deformed into certainty. If I can't be sure of the actual events anymore, I can at least be true to the impressions those facts left. That's the best I can manage.

~ The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes

The article looked like a press release and was by-lined Special Correspondent. Think Dadaji wrote it himself. When was it dated? Can't recall. Sigh. Memory. Among the pictures, there was one with a small card as well. It had a cartoon figure of a cart and children and inside it was a thank-you note by someone (international delegate perhaps) thanking 'my dear Vohra' for his 'arduous but fruitful work' and for the India Tour of 1966.

There were pictures of papa - mischevious eyes. Dadi's eyes lit up when those cropped up. She loves her kids. No opinion on that. A factual, objective fact.

So this is a gist of the very many pictures I saw. And in all probability, this is a start to Project Dadi. A diary will be maintained for such random jottings often inspire ideas. If nothing else, they organise the mind. And my mind needs it more than ever now. Dadi, you are a star. And I plan to tell your story to the world. My way. Your love will be my guiding light.

23:51 IST
Big Dining Hall, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

Lord Krishna was born today. He's the blue dude, shown playing a flute, or chasing girls, or licking white butter off his hand; adorning a peacock feather. So he was born today and to celebrate the auspiciousness of the day the country was given a gazetted holiday (which essentially means official, or government-related. Which is funny because a gazette means a newspaper, so gazetted should mean newspapered?) The market outside my house was choked with people and lights. More noise than usual. Ugh.

I went through a number of 'literary websites' today. 3AM, The NewerYork, Million, Alt Lit...interesting websites discussing forms of writing, types of writing, and containing lots of writing. I likey. Hearting this stuff.

OK this is becoming boring. Think I'll take-off for the night. Goodnighty lil bloggie. You keep me going :)

21:33IST

Room with a table fan, Inderpuri

New Delhi, India Crappy day crappy day. Why do I bother? Puked in the dirty office loo. Too much LIIT last night, plus some crappy wrap. Did not suit the digestive organs. Must not do this again. The puke was quite disgusting, as puke is supposed to be. It was a mildly yellow, almost off-white, the yellowness of grilled paneer perhaps? Might as well be. Had a load of those milk-made cubes.It was mixed with bits of dark-green straw like things. Must be some leaves I ate with the paneer wrap. Crap. There was no wiper or napkin in the loo. And I had puked all over the basin. Some bits could be seen stuck on the mirror above the basin. I held my breath, stuck out my index finger and tried twirling the ugly mess inside the little drain-hole of the basin. Round and round merry-go-round, the finger made tiny circular motions. It was rhythmic. Could hear Jose Gonzalez in my head "How low....are you willing to go....."

Anyhoo came home early and slept and lazed and slept and lazed and felt miserable about life in general. Read up an article talking about an apparently brand new insight into rapes. It said poverty is a cause for rapes. Wasn't sure if I agreed. Will try to understand that in the next few lines: Rape. In my basic understanding, rape is an action word. It can be used either as a verb or a noun. 'She was raped' 'A rape happened'. The word denotes an act. The act of having a sexual intercourse by force, without the permission of one of the members participating in the act. It essentially means - I say no and you still do it. You force your genitals into mine, without my consent. That's wrong. Invading private space without permission is just wrong. Hence rape becomes a crime in the eyes of law. Law of nation. Not law of the universe. The universe doesn't care. It just is. Duh.
Now, news in our claustrophobic country talks a lot about rape. Incidents are reported dime-a-dozen, statistics are drawn, reasons are cited, insight is sought. A lot of ink and type has gone into discussing this carnal act. One question people seem unable to answer - why are rapes so common in India?
Lack of education, poverty, lack of inherent civic sense, no control over instinct - seem to be some reasons given by the thinking lot of the country. I don't know. Let's think. Rape is a sexual act. Penis in vulva. Penis in anus. Genital in genital. A FORCED act. But a sexual act. I say 'but' as if I'm trying to justify it. I hope not! Let's see.
Why do we have sex? We are living, sexual organisms designed to mate to produce more like us. Hence the sex. It is the first step toward procreation. So what's the big deal? Bonobos have sex all the time, all other species do. Why not us. We do. But we do it when we want to. And no one forces us to. So all animals do it because they want to? Isn't this an age thing? When you become of age, reach puberty, your sexual organs mature, you have these hormones that want you to do it more often than normal? That happens with all animals, don't it? So it is a sexual act, driven by hormones - not rational thought. So where is the 'when you want to aspect?' It is driven by instinct. Your instinct and perhaps you are driven by it.
OK, now that we have gained a bit of clarity on the purpose and process of the sexual act, we come to acting the act. An instinctive desire in a 'structure' a 'system', the 'society' aspect of it. Does it require curbing? 
If all men and women, when they reach of 'age' can have sex whenever they want with whoever they want, then? That isn't the case right now, is it? There are restrictions. Proper behaviour. We aren;t bonobos or salmon or fire flies. Coming of age has nothing to do with free-willed instinctive sex.

But we aren't talking about when can we have sex. We are talking about forced sex. Forcing to do it when we don't want to. The two aren't really related, are they? OK here's a reasoning. In my opinion, men because of their testosterone, like to assert a sense of power. It is a hormonal thing. A sexual intercourse, injecting the squiggly-wiggly sperm into a female body is the ultimate assertion of existence. It makes him feel powerful. A hormonal thing. Perhaps THAT is what he is trying to exercise, and perhaps that is what all living species do. An attempt to assert their existence. We know about it because we think. Other species don't.

As far as consent is concerned, on an instinctive level, that is not really a concern for the man. And by the way, I talk about men raping more than women raping (which also exists) simply because men raping is more common. Women also rape, but they might have different motivations - something led by a rationale, not necessarily instinct.
Explaining the act does not make it right. The uneducated, educated, rich and poor males - all feel that they the act is a stamp of their 'manhood'. They aid in pro-creation after all. Women probably don;t feel the same way because they have to carry the burden of the child. They have ONE egg. Men have squillions of sperms. They have a hose pipe that can be injected into any plug and get on with it. It is an urge. Of establishing their existence. Their one-upmanship.
So we probably understand why sex happens, and why rapes happen, and why men do it more than women? Now the next question is, why does it happen so rampantly in India? I'm not sure about the truth in the question. Sure, street-rapes are far more common here than anywhere else in the world - but domestic rapes occur a lot in the countries. The source of this info is two of my friends from different countries. Not entirely reliable, but then. Aaho. This is where education comes into play. Education helps us to think. To reason. It helps us understand our instincts. Why we behave the way we behave. Maybe education would help you understand that a woman is NOT a injectable-machine. That women DO NOT want to have sex with you all the time. That a consent is important. Strangers don't rape strangers, in the lands outside of India. Here, it doesn't matter so much. One attractive thing of beauty and all hell breaks lose. Maybe education, and the strugglesome living have a role to play - strictly for the 'desolate area being raped by strange men'. And maybe an utter, childhood disregard for females is also a reason. So maybe Rahul Bose and Cordelia Jenkins are kind of on the right track. Educate the young clinically and completely. Make them aware of sex and sexuality. Make them aware of the wonders of reason. Ignorance leads to impulsive acts. While I am all up for listening to impulse, when it comes at the cost of someone else, one needs to think. So the urge to indulge in sex is not wrong. If it is with the consent of the other member, it is not wrong. Rape is wrong. Even if a child is brought up in a harsh environment, lives in steepest poverty, he could still reason, respect women couldn't he? If he were told about it perhaps? This was long. Very long. I'm tired now. Sleep. Love. I'm not sure about the truth in the question. Sure, street-rapes are far more common here than anywhere else in the world - but domestic rapes occur a lot in the countries. The source of this info is two of my friends from different countries. Not entirely reliable, but then. Aaho.
This is where education comes into play. Education helps us to think. To reason. It helps us understand our instincts. Why we behave the way we behave. Maybe education would help you understand that a woman is NOT a injectable-machine. That women DO NOT want to have sex with you all the time. That a consent is important. Strangers don't rape strangers, in the lands outside of India. Here, it doesn't matter so much. One attractive thing of beauty and all hell breaks lose. Maybe education, and the strugglesome living have a role to play - strictly for the 'desolate area being raped by strange men'. And maybe an utter, childhood disregard for females is also a reason. So maybe Rahul Bose and Cordelia Jenkins are kind of on the right track. Educate the young clinically and completely. Make them aware of sex and sexuality. Make them aware of the wonders of reason. Ignorance leads to impulsive acts. While I am all up for listening to impulse, when it comes at the cost of someone else, one needs to think.

So the urge to indulge in sex is not wrong. If it is with the consent of the other member, it is not wrong. Rape is wrong. Even if a child is brought up in a harsh environment, lives in steepest poverty, he could still reason, respect women couldn't he? If he were told about it perhaps? This was long. Very long. I'm tired now. Sleep. Love.

25/8/13
00:30IST
Toy Room, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

(This incident happend on Saturday, 25 August 2013. I did not have access to the internet at the time of typing. This was typed on a word document. Posting it now.)
Horrific day spent tweeting away. Handling an account with over 4000 followers is hectic and tedious. Especially when the followers are petty little twonks. So we had some kind of a wanker deal with a massive pizza brand, where  they wanted to run a contest with us asking followers to answer five silly questions about largest things on the planet with the hashtag #SizeMatters. (they are introducing large sized pizzas at no extra cost.wowsers) The contest started. People went crazy tweeting answers. I went a little crazy tweeting questions and random little fillers like ‘way to go!’ ‘five more minutes!’ One question – about most populous city in the world had a debatable answer. I decided to go with Tokyo. Some people said Shanghai. Those that preferred Shanghai were a little too adamant about Shanghai. ‘Wikipedia says its Shanghai! HOW CAN WIKIPEDIA BE WRONG!?’ ‘How can you trust any other source!?’ They threw outdated links at me (my twitter handle) and told me my sources were incorrect. I stuck to what I said, apologized for the confusion and closed the account. I am not in the mood to write this. Shitty write. Goodnight.

00:15IST
Room with the table fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

Saw 'Jobs' today. A film based on the life of the late great Steve Jobs. The reason for Apple becoming a fruit with capital A. The film starred Ashton Kutcher as the main protagonist (the word is as old as 1671, from Greek - protos (first) + agoniste (competitor) all here. In dictionary we trust). I haven't yet looked at what the reviews said of the film and I haven't even seen the trailer of the film. I went and saw the film though. My review is based on what I saw.

The film felt slow. If it was a biography of Mr. Jobs, then it felt a bit patchy. As a viewer, I wasn't sure what the director was trying to convey to me. His life unfolded in a linear order - first the hippie and the traveller. That part showed him a reckless lover, a self-absorbed soul, someone with a deep desire to connect with the 'universe', someone who wanted to do something meaningful. He took random classes - calligraphy, computers, philosophy. He went travelling to India (no idea why India of all the places). Then he returns to Silicon Valley after his travels, finds a job and starts working. People don't like him because he is an 'asshole'. Good with work but an asshole. He wants to do something 'insanely cool.' Gets a business idea and a genius friend. Together they toil and create Apple. Then the film goes on to show his growth, his love for his work, his decided stance to stand by only those with a potential to be more productive for the company, his no-sympathy towards his friends. Some Bob Dylan numbers were thrown in, to showcase Jobs' attachment to Dylan. The film had a semi-circular script, I thought. It began with him introducing the iPod and towards the end (when he is going to be made CEO of his own firm) he is shown dumping an old walkman into the bin. I felt that the director really, desperately wanted to convey the spirit of the man behind the cult following of his brand to the audience. But he was also tied up with unfolding the events of his life. He could have focused on one thing, perhaps, and allowed the other to come through on it own. Not knowing a lot about Mr. Jobs' life, I felt that he was a bit of a cunt. His greatness came through only in the form of speeches, and his ability to recognize the right people for the job, and his business head. The APPLE man, the man who loved his product and felt that it was an extension of the individual, it just didn't come through to me.

Oh well. Other than that, slept a lot. Tried writing a piece of fiction. #FAIL. Fuck me. Goodnight.

00:37 IST
Room with the table fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

Worked from home! Worked on some crappy articles for a content creation platform. Pays peanuts. Still, some-peanuts better than no-peanuts. Went to the dentist. BFG of a man. He poked at and scaled my teeth with a long, narrow, silver pipe that jetted strange liquid in the mouth. Was 'cleaning' them up - removing the yellow tartar. Another sitting and my teeth would be perfecto. This is becoming shitty. I am sleepy. Sleep I will for now. 

22:35IST
Hall with the table fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

The day slipped by in a hazy daze. Or a daisy haze? Or a lazy daze? Or a lazy hazy daze? Omit the 'lazy' bit. A haze. In a daze.

Sitting on my work-desk, with a screen screaming PUBLISH CONTENT NOW! straight at me, my head buzzed like a bumbling bee with questions.

WHY AM I HERE???

Because your parents fucked. (it was also giving answers, apparently. My head is cool like that)

WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE???

Working.

WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT??

Its also called 'doing something'

YOU DON'T LIKE IT! WHY ARE YOU DOING IT!?

Because it pays my bills.

WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SHIT??

It gives me money that allows me to live.

WHY THIS SHIT?

Because I don't have any other 'shit'.
DO SOMETHING ELSE! YOU DON'T LIKE THIS! YOU ARE TIRED AND GRUMPY AND ALL-WIRED-UP-ABOUT-EXISTENCE-AND-PURPOSE WITH THIS SHIT! CHANGE YOUR SHIT!

I don't want to come to office.

OK!

Shut up. I'm working.

QUITIT!

Yes. Soon. Fingers crossed.

So that was my day. Other than that, came home early. A traffic-ridden journey home became pleasant because of the beautiful pink sky with massive, cotton--candy, fluffy clouds. Smiled away all the way. Passers-by stared at my face. Must think I'm demented. Oh well. Listened to a lot of Josez Gonzalez. Will buy camcorder soon. Feeling exhausted. Itchy hands. Goodnight.

00:35IST
Big Dining Room, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

Just finished a book. Breathe, a fourth installment of Riders of the Apocalypse series by Jackie Morse Kessler, who, Wikipedia just told me is an American author of fantasy young adult fiction books. This one was an interesting read. Riders of the Apocalypse (again, according to Wikipedia) were the four horsemen - white, red, black and pale riders symbolizing conquest, war, disease and death as per the book of Revelation in the Bible. In this fourth installment, Death becomes suicidal. Death needs to be saved. Because if Death dies, the world ends. Not knowing much about plot construction, I found it to be OK. The book doesn't delve deeply into the characters or their ideas. It worries more about the movement of events. Which is OK, I guess. Oh and balance. The Horsemen are responsible for maintaining a balance on earth. To stem the overflow and replenish the underflow of things - living and non. Loved that bit. Additionally, some lines are worth noting:

You people and your words, he said, rolling his eyes. You invest so much meaning into them. 
Words have meaning, the boy said. That's the entire point of them.

Words mean exactly what the person hearing them wants them to mean. Apocalypse is just a word.
A word that means the end of the world!
It's a word, Xander. It doesn't cause the end of anything, except, perhaps, my patience.
The book delves into loneliness, mostly. Loneliness makes you dream of another reality where you are not so alone, where you have hope of a better tomorrow, so that the present life's harsh reality becomes bearable. Loneliness causes depression. It makes you suicidal. You grow cold and numb and lose hope and the will to live. The book deals with all that. It touches upon the Mobius strip -  its a strip given a half twist and joining the ends together to form a loop. If two ants were to crawl on both sides of the strip, the only point of interaction for them would the the edge, the joining point of the loop (or maybe not even that). Death is considered to be the Mobius Strip. I did not understand why. Nincompoop.

Anyhoo, twas a good read, a good way to spend a holiday. A holy day for Indians apparently, as we were granted official freedom from the British today, 34 years ago. Other than that, I wore a skirt and ate a lot of junk food. Fat Ninja.

22:16IST
Room with the table fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

I want to leave my current job. I dislike it. What do I do? That's the story. Let us start from the start.

Once upon a time there was a man, a very rich man. One fine day, he decided to quit his job and go traveling. He traveled the globe for six years. He absorbed all the sights and sounds. And he maintained a record of all that he saw and felt in the form of a written + photography journal. Upon returning, he decided to make this his full-time job - travel writing and photography. Hence was born Kunzum Media Lab, a publishing house that creates content based on travel - little-big-cheesy factoids on travel. Information with a wow factor. Infotainment. It deals with blogging, photography, making videos, publishing books, e-magazines - all based on travel. The content is mostly created by the owner. He has a small team (including me) that edits and curates it. Being rich, he started his own travel cafe - a space for people to relax and read and use the free wifi and devour endless cups of coffee and tea and cookies. At the end of their session, they have the choice to pay-what-they-want in an honesty box by the door, or leave. Sad to notice that most just leave. Still, some generous souls come up everyday and help the cafe maintain its operation costs.

My role here is an administrative one. I'm supposed to keep everyone up-to-date with what is happening in the cafe and at work. Ensure everyone completes their tasks on time. Edit and curate content. Create media lists. Promote the brand and its events and its partners and offers on social media platforms. Organise events. Help the 'creatives' on their shoots. It is a boring, relaxed routine and a dull, pointless job. I don't enjoy it. Hence I want to leave. Good enough for you?

00:29IST
Room with the table fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

So I have this Macbook Air, a super light, super smooth 'top' electronic device with a screen and a keyboard sitting on my lap. It's been sitting on my lap for over a month now. For someone who belongs to a generation that worships work by tapping on keys instead of scrawling on sheets, I feel proud of what I own. That's a lie. I don't really own it. I just use it all the time. It belongs to a colleague at work, who gave it to me the minute I asked if he had a spare one. People don't give Apple products like that. It isn't an apple, you know. It's Apple. But the sweet soul gave it, sans charger. So I needed a charger. And I bought one, today. That's the real story, really.

Apple has a cult following. Cult is a small group of ardent fans of a phenomena, brand, band, thing. Hence Apple products tend to be expensive. Cult buys it no matter the price. This one charger I needed for a three-year old Air (love the way we capitalize Air and Apple - making them all haughty and happie) was for INR6000. My meagre income does not allow such fancy expenses. I needed the charger though. Hence I needed an alternative. In comes OLX.com - a website where buyers and sellers of electronic products meet and make merry. Found a number that stated 'used Apple mac charger in good condition for INR1500' I read it thrice - the number of zeroes. (never ceases to amaze me, the way zero can change your life). I still couldn't believe it. I wanted to call that number. It began with an 8. 8 is a gentle-looking digit. The bullshitter in my head coaxed me to punch the number. I called. The ring rang thrice. A man gave a short 'hello' on the other end. A conversation ensued. The important bit was his voice. Gentle, uncertain, pathetic. Trusting. He sounded quite pathetic when he said 'haan, mera Macbook chori ho gaya tha. Charger reh gaya. Ek saal purana hai.' (yes, my Macbook was stolen, and the charger was left behind. It's a year old). He sounded so uncertain when he said 'I live near Badarpur, and I work in Gurgaon. Don't know if I will ever come to Hauz Khas Village (where I work). I liked it. The bullshitter in my head coaxed me to trust it. That's the real story, really.  I asked him if we could meet today. He was uncertain again. 'Kitne baje tak aayengi aap?' 'Metro par miloon?' (What time would you reach? Are you going to meet me at the metro station?) I wanted to pull his cheeks. Voice made him sound like a man with big fluffy cheeks. I left early. En-route Tuglakabad metro station on the very violet line, a little girl with a big tummy was dancing holding the train's pole. Her shimmy moved to the beats of 'Sheila ki Jawani' in my head for some reason. Ugh. After dancing, she looked up at the train station names and spelt out G-o-v-i-n-d-p-u-r-i. Then pronounced the word and did a little dance as she said it. Second child in two days noticed to be dancing to an internal song. Are we all dancing to a tune in our heads? I know I am.

As I reached the station, I got a call from the Voice. He asked me to meet him in a car parked just outside the station. For the first time in the day, I had a minor panic attack. Why is he calling me in his car? Can't he meet me at the metro station? Problem of parking, he stated. My head began to churn - thought after thought. So if he kidnaps me? Must not get inside the car. So if he makes a grab at my wallet? Let it go. If he makes a grab at my laptop (will have to take it out to check if the charger works) Really, let it go. And what if he throws acid on me? Froze. What kind of a sadist would weave such a tale. Shutup. Just don't get inside the car. So I went. A silver Skoda just outside the metro station at 7pm. Reached the car. Tapped on the window. A man - with big fluffy cheeks turned his head toward me and smiled. Rolled down the window. I smiled. A relief. It was the cheeks this time. Got out my laptop. Got it checked. Paid the money. Thanked him. Farewelled him. Happiness. I got a charger for a dirt cheap price!

Not such a wanker of a day after all. Despite the pimping that is my job.

23:08IST
Room with a table fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

So I have a job. A place to go to every morning. Offer my services till a certain time. Come back home in the evening. I get money for this job. Money (plural) is a bundle of rectangular paper with a standard design and a stench of skin and sweat. Owning it is partly owning freedom. It buys a lot of things.

The job - I work for a media company that deals with travel related things - it writes about travel, it created videos on travel, it owns a space full of travel books and photographs of the owner's travels. It also organises events to promote travel. Travel, to the owner, and hence the company I work for means - visiting a place and saying WOW and telling the world about it. Information with a WOW factor. Infotainment. Hence I work for a travel infotainment company.

My work is mostly administrative. I co-ordinate shoots. I get hold of contacts details and put them together in a spreadsheet. I post event updates on Facebook and Twitter. I upload videos on YouTube. I check for spelling mistakes. I respond to queries. I make sure everyone gets the message. I sometimes write nice things about shitty places. It's a wank-all job that a-dime-year-old with a decent hold over the user's lingo can do. I feel wasted and tired and upset most of the time. The hour long autorides to-and-from work put me in a trance. I mostly end up looking at the wheels of the vehicles passing by - going round and round and round. Small wheel big wheels fast wheels slow wheels rickety wheels backwards wheels. But all moving wheels. Constantly. Like Time. In continuum. The Cunt. 

22:37 IST
Room with the table fan, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

WANK WANK. Up at 8. WANK WANK. Drowsy and throat-achy. Snoozed for an hour. WANK WANK. Zonked, got up and ready. Rain outside. WANK WANK. Splashed my way through the slush and the smelly, standing water with the sister. Got an auto and went on a long ride to work. WANK WANK. Reached work. Mechanical work. Admininy work. Boring work. Wanker work. WANK WANK. Throat ached some more. Read up a blog post by Anand Gandhi. Not so wank wank that. Was titled 'Is Enlightnenment Googleable?' Key takeaway for me? All artists aspire to create the impact that music creates - one doesn't seek to find meaning in it. One only feels it. Experience sans context. How random and blissful. I don't remember everything I read or watch. I remember things in bits and pieces. And things I do myself stay within me. No wanking there. Back to wanking now. Left work early. Woop woop! Out in the muddy, sludgy, slushy waters we waded through, my sister and I roamed about for two hours in search for an auto. No auto. Metro we took. Travelled back. Now writing this shitty write. Tired. Qwank.

00:21 IST
The Big Dining Room, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

A month and four days have gone by since I last wrote. Things happened in these 35 days. Not a drop of change in me. Except becoming a big balloon.

Went to office in a sleepy state. Auto rides tend to put me in a trance. And then when the ride ends, the end-of-trance makes me sleepy. I tend to be half-asleep most of the time. I feel lost. I look aged, and lost.

Thoughts. Lots of thoughts. Too many thoughts. Bursting in a nano-second. Age is doing this. Not letting me hold on to anything. They slip away, these ruddy thoughts. Must hold on to them. Meditate. Sleep. Again.

Came back home. Gorged on a lot of food. Played word association with cousin. Most productive work of the day, was that.

Much written, nothing said. Good night.

23:41 IST
Dadi's Room, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

External - Third day at work. Felt a little less lost. Been given a fancy title - Asst. Editor and PR Manager. Don't think I like the PR Manager bit one bit. Can't really be bothered with promoting the brand on social media or any other media. Content creation is fine. Went to Nizamuddin Dargah for a shoot. Very chaotic. Did not know what was supposed to be shot. Shot in the foot. Rain happened. Lots of happiness from within erupted into smiles outside. Recieved email from Melissa regarding a studentship opportunity for PhD students to do research on navgiating spaces in New Delhi for single women. Extremely interested. Fingers crossed for eligibility. If given an affirmative, will try to write up a proposal in all earnestness.

Internal - woozy. sleepy. confused.com. thoughts still flit to him. the elusive blog.

00:23IST
Toy Room, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

External - First day at work. I work at Kunzum Travel Cafe. I manage their communications and content. Was lost. Evening came by and I told the boy all the things I have wanted to tell him, just not the way I would have liked. He responded. Negative.

Internal - Lost. Sleepy. Sweaty.

00:18 IST
The Bus-Stand-View Room, Colaba
New Delhi, India

Has my life begun yet? Not sure. Bombay is humid. The head feels fatigued. Movement is sluggish. Life is passing me by, and I just stand and stare in a daze.

External - Arrived in Bombay three days ago on Yuva Express, a train created to suffocate mankind. It is a cross between a DTC bus and a toy train. Compartments are tiny, the aisle is narrow, seats are cramped even for a small person like me. 18 excruciating hours from Delhi to Bombay. Have to go back the same way. Never again. My gay friend from Cardiff is slowly getting used to the Indian life - the traffic, chaos, dust, heat, lack of personal space, loud gestures and thoughtless speech. He understands me better now, I hope. I travel. Cabs, locals, autos, feet. Sister is slightly upset with me for not going around with her. Don't think I am that bothered. On to the internal

Internal - A sense if disconnect from the family. Not bothered to meet friends or family in Bombay. Not bothered about consequences. Can't be bothered. They are not going to be of any aid to me in my life. Not a part of aspirations. Not in my thoughts. I wish them well. But I can't be bothered. Hooked up with a friend yesterday. Strangely, felt like I was cheating on the boy-in-my-head-who-exists-in-the-external-reality. Sense tells me to do something about it. Antisense says just go with the flow. Flow feels hot when he is in my thoughts. He makes me feel like a child. Alive. Happy. Nervous. Excited. Need to start some form of an exercise routine soon. Becoming blubbery again. Eeeesh. All for now. Night night

23:02 IST
Toy Room, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

External

Got up at 4:30am. My head felt completely blocked with dripping cotton. No swimming today. Went back to sleep. Got up again at 6am. Went for a walk upstairs. The heat got to me in 15 minutes. Came down. Breakfasted, internetted. Finished reading Metroland. Quite a book. No plot. But such lovely depth into characters. Bathed. Lunched on bhindi roti. Yum. Began to read friend's novella. Thriller. Interesting. Not the best flow of writing though. Met up with a friend. Thinking of playing bang-bang with him. My Y is crying for it. Home. Dinner. Ate chatar-patar. Weight gain on its way. Must control. Now writing to you. Will sleep shortly.

Internal

A mess. Unemployment never did me any good. Have almost made up my mind that a corporate job is an absolute no. The scripting job sounds massively interesting. If only they revert soon. Social research, writing and then communication related stuff for that, that's what I want to be involved in. Small, meaningful projects with more control. Fingers crossed for life to begin soon.

22:48 IST
The Toy Room, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

I realised some things today. A job and an ambition rarely go hand-in-hand. I cannot let a job get in the way of my ambition. Similarly, I cannot let my ambition get in the way of a job I need to do to earn money. If my ambition could give me the monetary pleasures required to sustain the self, life would be laa-dee-daa. But that isn't the case. My ambition is an elusive thing. It exists, I'm sure it exists. It is hovering about, floating somewhere, sans direction. I will discover it some day. It might be the day I dissipate into nature. How free I would feel! But while that journey continues, there must be a source of the tangible income. The income can be gotten through a job. A job is required.

I must maintain a record of the internal and external realities. So that when I am on my deathbed, I can read and smile at the self's strugglesome journey to find the floating feather.

22:34 IST
The Cool Room Downstairs, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

I did get fucked-bloodied-offed. They emailed. They rejected me. A well deserved rejection. Maybe I should reconsider prostitution. At least it gives money, something I quite desperately need.

I realised some things. I get these freakish fountain-like epiphanies while in the jung ka maidan. I do not read news, unless I really have to. Therefore I am not cut-out for journalism. Research - maybe. Journalism - not. Copywriting - I should try. Blogging - get your lazy bum to start something.

I have not been honest enough to myself. I try to figure a way out. Life is not like that. One can't keep figuring a way out. I need to confront myself more bluntly. Sieve the good from the bad. I do not know what I should be doing. Except for the important fact that I really need a job. I feel pretty useless. And fat. Momo.

00:50 IST
The Cool Room Downstairs, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

The stage is set. There is a room with a round table, three chairs around it and bright white light. I sit on one of the chairs and look around, not really looking. My bag is on my lap. I keep it on the floor and clasp my hands together. I close my eyes. Several minutes later, the door opens and in walk two very highly regarded names of the industry. We shake hands, they sit, ask for my CV.  Questions begin

Q: So why don't you begin by telling us what you are doing now?
A: blah blah blah .....blah blah.....blah blah

Q: So you wish to join a news bureau, what was the big news of the day that you read in the paper today?
A: staring at the table
Q: Even a topic would suffice
A: I read. I can't remember

Q: No problem. What interesting piece of news did you read in WSJ India today or in the last week?
A: staring at the table. look up. My brain is frozen.

Q:  No problem

Rest continues.

Horrible interview. If I was the interviewer, I'd just say FUCK bloody OFF. How dare you come to my office and waste my time like this!? How dare I.

23:54 IST
Toy Room, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

Early morning summer breeze in Delhi has a distinct sense of coolness about it. It almost feels like I have a little AC cut-out-window in the room, cool air wafting in and mixing up with the warm dry wind of the fan. Woke up early to go to purani dilli. Its empty in the mornings. Quite a pleasing sight. Except for the garbage every ten steps on the street. And clothes hanging from bunches of electric cables overhead! But no matter what time of the day, Jama Masjid ALWAYS takes my breath away. It startles me every fucking time! Walked along the City Wall, a fortress-like structure of the 'seventh city of Delhi', built by Shah Jahan. I don't get these numbers. Delhi is one city. What the fuck is the seventh and eighth thing all about?? Must find out. Anyhoo, the wall badly maintained. Climbed up and walked like a queen, looking DOWN at the puny creatures of the earth. A halwai was furiuosly stirring his halwa in a giant kadhai (big enough to hold the moon) with a massive bamboo stick! Dry heat. Dry hair. Irritated. Lack of fucking space caused irritation today. Banged doors. Must not do this. Im not 18 anymore, even though I can't bloody WAIT to get out of this place, just as I had felt several years back. Must act my age. 12? Shutup. Job job fuck-job-ing the job.

00:09 IST
The Living Room Downstairs, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India

Wanker-of-a-day. I'm beginning to understand the little things that used to irk me in the house. The things that pushed me out and find a life of my own on my own. I hate the earth-shattering noise decibels of the telly. Dadi is deaf. She jams her nose up close to the screen and still can't seem to hear the shit her shitty serials spew. Papa is a bit deaf as well. His vacant expression as he mindlessly flips through channels doesn't help. I don't have any control over my environment. There is no space for me. There is no me-space in the house, where I can shut the fucking door and do whatever the fuck I want to do without having people barge in at their own will. Its fucking annoying. I don't like being given service. It makes me a lazy blob. It makes me not bother to do anything. Helping out is not in my DNA. I won;t help unless I am absolutely exclusively asked to or needed. I hate mum hovering around - looking lost and hyper. She keeps asking the most pointless of things. Get a life mom! You really need a hobby. I will help you find one. And get you absorbed in it. Your children are grateful for your love and affection but I'm afraid they are not going to save you. They have lives of their own to lead.Only you can save you.

These things still irk me to death. They will push me out of the house. Find a fucking job. Earn some money to pay my rent. All in good time. Can't bloody wait.