What can passion do for you

Last night, I watched the new Hindi movie, “Rock On” starring Arjun Rampal and Farhan Akhtar. It is human tendency and media’s obstinate nature to hype up movies, but for once, I wasn’t disappointed. The movie lived up to its buildup and glamour. Maybe I am more biased about the success of this simple yet obvious film as it touched on all the aspects of life that excite me – dreams, friendships, relationships, hope, and the importance of passion.

Rock On is a story about four artists, who happen to be the best of friends and share a common love, music. The four start “Magic”—this indomitable and the invincible band. The guys perform, breathe, sing, celebrate, and fight life as a magical group. The music is contemporary and in tune with the times. Some might call it an acquired taste. I was extremely impressed with their make up and attire. When in college, they all dressed like the hippie, rock band musicians with their chic T-shirts, cutting-edge hairstyles, and funky jewelry; as working professionals, you could see an altered, individualistic wardrobe—a reflection of their economic, mental, and social status. What’s further interesting is what broke up this group in college and brings them back together after ten years, is their common passion.

So, why am I blogging about Rock On? Not just because I am an ardent fan of Bollywood. It’s rare that a movie convinces me on a philosophical level without an emotional upsurge. Sure, Karan Johar’s films remind me of my good old college days; Yash Chopra keeps the notion of naÔve romance alive; Madhur Bhandarkar has me convinced that the world is a lonely, scary, dysfunctional place, but it was Rock On that taught me a very important lesson—the need for passion. Not in a romantic or sociopathic way; just as a lifeline for personal sanity.

With age and time, our commitments and attitude change—some willingly and others because of societal expectations, especially for South Asians. I mean, we are a milestone driven community. Society defines standards of appropriate time for education, marriage, and children. Somewhere in the journey of striving to not displease others, we go with the flow and lose our sense of self, and in turn, our passion. Question is, are you happy doing that?

I can hear the sighs echo as I write, but think of the times you felt a genuine smile encapsulate your visage. Jog down your memory lane and dig up emotions that make you happy. I bet you, following your passion would take a significant place. Most people relate passion with their past. “When I was in college, I was on the dance team.” “I learnt years of classical Indian music. I have won awards too.” “I won athletic competitions when I was younger.” “Painting used to be relaxant.” So, why stop everything now? Clearly, you haven’t forgotten about the things that bring you bliss. Reminiscence is a temporary solution.

One of my friend’s dad (he in his sixties) is in a band. He has his own software consulting firm by the day, but in the evening, he and his cronies really hit it. The wives are their permanent groupies. They play at functions. My friend’s mom believes that her husband radiates mirthfulness when he’s around music.

I look at women from my mother’s generation. Things were different then, so most of them didn’t work. By the time they reached their middle age, they were affected by globalization and now they suffer from empty nest syndrome. The ones with passion have embraced reality on a positive note; the ones whose life has only been about doting their spouses and children, constantly whine about seclusion. Well, you can impart cheerfulness only if you are blithe from within.

Last night, after we finished watching Rock On, I said to my husband, “I believe human life is such a waste if there is zero passion involved. There has to be that one thing that stirs up the emotions and kicks up your zeal even at wee hours of the morning.”

Life is insipid and barren with just a monotonous schedule. I understand that we live in a demanding world, but I believe it’s imperative to take out that time to follow your passion. Even if it’s for a few hours a week, devote time to that one thing that brings out the true smile from within. People say, “I don’t have the time. I have too many things going on” Well, you have to create it then. Marriage, kids, and family are an inspiration; don’t use them as an excuse for your self-created rut. I have friends with kids, who have full time jobs yet pursue their passion. I believe, they are successful in every aspect because their inner self is happy. That's what passion does for them.

More until next time.
Xoxo

Copyright © 09.25.2008

“The only difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer.” – Oscar Wilde

Life imitates Bollywood

An honest confession: I have been feeling a little uninspired this week. Maybe my right side of the brain has been working overtime and is in need of a break? I mean, I do not have a case of writer's block, lack of imagination or exhaustion from my world of words; just languor in expressing my thoughts. Sure, it's been a verbally demanding week—both at work and with my other writing commitments, but this isn’t the first time where I have had to juggle my day job (the one that pays the bills) and my true passion (you all know what it is). As the French would say, words are my raison d'être (the reason I exist--well, almost).

To confirm I wasn’t losing it, I spoke with few friends of mine who are in the creative field—to get a sense of how each person works and if they have gone through that “not-in-the-mood” phase. The conversations revealed three categories:

First category: There are few who discipline themselves to write or paint everyday—a friend, whom I absolutely admire, wakes up at 5a.m. everyday to paint. Mind you, this is despite a full-time job, kids, and a successful career. Not to forget, she is an epitome of hospitality.

Second category: These people truly need to be in the mood to create their work. Most of my writer/painter friends fall under this category. They delve into their work and then don’t look at it for six months.

Third category: People in this group are never devoid of ideas or inspiration but are unable to devote time as much as they would like to for disparate reasons. Another friend, who is an avant-garde and noteworthy artist, falls under this category. I met up with her for coffee earlier this week for tête-à-tête, and we sighed about the challenges of fitting it all.

So, anyway, I have been trying to nail down “that” core reason for my apathy. It’s been haunting me! Maybe it's the tanking market accompanied by the fear of near and dear ones losing their jobs; or, perhaps, it’s the current election scenario in the country. I wonder if there is a reason that only my subconscious mind understands but doesn’t reveal.

The other night, on my way back home from my poetry workshop, I revisited my activities from this past week. Sure enough, I had an epiphany. I realized why my behavior has been so “not-like-me” this week. The culprit for my tedium is, Chamku, the worst Hindi movie of 2008 (yet).

Chamku, (What an alluring name. Of course I am being sarcastic!) starring Bobby Deol and Priyanka Chopra, is a movie where the main protagonist, Deol, looks perpetually bored. He is the King of Ennui in the movie. Through glee, love, and trauma, Deol has a disinterested look. Given the appalling and confusing story as well as direction, can you blame him? He was exuding the truth, if anything. If you have watched Chamku, you know there is not one good thing about this film based on nonsense. Of course, my husband disagrees, since he thought Priyanka was worth the mental exhaustion.

What I am trying to say is that who knew bête noire Bobby Deol’s apathy would rub on me? But then again, when it comes to Bollywood, I am quite impressionable:-) . I don’t know about life imitating art; what I do know, is my thoughts emulated (even if subconsciously) Bobby Deol’s attitude. Scary, right?

More until next time.
Xoxo

Copyright © 09.18.2008

“Film as dream, film as music. No art passes our conscience in the way film does, and goes directly to our feelings, deep down into the dark rooms of our souls.” - Ingmar Bergman

Is necessity the mother of all inventions?

In one of my writing classes, to encourage the fruitful fusion of the right brain with the left side, the instructor suggested that we go crazy with our imagination. She asked us students to invent an equipment/machine (in our fantasies) and write a few lines about this "dream come true" piece. Okay, so this machine could perform any function that you wanted. The caveat: it could perform only one core task.

Anyway, when the time came for us to go around the class and share our imaginations, I was dumbfounded by some of the choices. The classroom was redolent of New York attitude. Each one of us, even in our fantasies, chose to invent utilitarian objects, in turn, making life easier for ourselves. Like automatic dog poop picker, mugger alarm, subway sound-deafener, tourist-repellant etc. I was one of those who chose to invent a machine that would give a 30-second buzz to men adorned with jewelry--like zinging them and throwing them across the room. I mean a thin chain across a man’s neck or a wedding band is one thing; but some men can take it too far with piercing and metal indulgence. Well men, here is a newsflash: call it sexist, but most women get nauseated when you flash your bracelets, earrings, and other strange piercing and blind us with metallic reflection.

I digress. Anyway, about fifty percent of the class shared a common desire. How strange is that, right? They wanted to create a remote that would mute kids around them—kinda like the Adam Sandler movie, “Click.” None of these people came across as children loathers. They didn’t mind the presence of kids in their world; they just preferred not to hear them.

Let's talk about the "mute- the-child-" remote that most of my classmates decided to invent. The few of us, pretending to be socially appropriate, expressed our surprise at the choice. I mean, how could they say such a thing? Aren’t children lovely etc. etc. etc.? The truth is, every adult, at one point or the other in his or her lives, has desired for a gadget of the sort. I have friends, who love their children, but would trade in their vintage jewelry for moments of silence. Still, I pondered over the candidness with which my classmates opened up their heart.

The same evening on the subway ride home, in my continued state of bedlam, I was rudely introduced to the adage and the reality in "necessity is the mother of all inventions." A lady with two kids (maybe 8-year old girl and 6-year old boy) hopped onto the subway. Okay, my Indian customs and attitude coerce me into offering a seat to the elderly, pregnant, and people with children but at 10:30p.m., on a weeknight especially, I wish I could care less. I mean, by then, I am out of compassion and full of cynicism, hunger, and exhaustion. You know what gets me the most-- people embarking on the sympathy bandwagon and cashing on the situation--like this lady. With a pitiable face, she stood right next to a few us --”Poor me. I don’t have a seat.” Before I could replace my irritation with empathy and offer the woman my seat, someone else decided to earn “good karma” points and did the good deed.

Uh-oh! Biggest blunder.

The baby boy (old enough to have a coherent conversation) decided to pollute the subway car full of ornery commuters with his shrieking and yelling. He wasn't in pain; he was being a pain by throwing unnecessary tantrum for attention. Everyone sitting around the family had the same look and thoughts too, "Get off the train. It's too late in the night for this drama.” The mother looked aggravated with her child and a bit mortified too. Twenty random strangers giving you the “I hate you” look cannot be pleasant for anyone.

Anyway, at one point, I thought something would happen to this kid if he didn’t stop screaming and drowning in his tears. After 30 minutes of howling, this brutish boy decided changing strategy for attention. He started singing, "If you are happy and you know it, clap your hands". He expected the rest of the commuters to join his choir and scream our lungs out. I think his mother agreed with him. Ironically, happiness arrogantly exuded the train when the wailing kid decided to embrace it. The song was like spreading salt over a wound.

It dawned onto me what my classmates had been venting about all evening. When my stop finally came, I mentally apologized to them. I could finally vividly see the genius as well as agony behind their fantasy.The train ride taught me that necessity is the mother of all invention. I guess, Bose came out with those soundproof headphones after genuine market research. Maybe my classmates were a part of their focus group. Who knows?

More until next time.
Xoxo

Copyright © 09.11.2008

“You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance.” ~Franklin P. Jones

Is it “aphrodisiac” or African American Disiac?

I was watching reruns of “Two & Half Men” the other day where the adorable kid, Jake brings up the interesting and delicate issue of “political correctness” aka the title of this blog.

Okay, I grew up in a culture where you told it like you saw it. There was no sugar coating or time spent on cogitating about the right words. The notion of “It would hurt someone’s feelings,” was unheard.

One of my best friends, who has green eyes and light-colored skin (I am not referring to Aishwarya Rai, in case you Bollywood starved readers, like me, are wondering:- ), was told by her father that she looked like “white shit.” The words of wisdom weren't shared in a derogatory tone; it was more like “as a matter of fact.”

One extreme: In South Asian culture, commenting, assessing, and analyzing another person’s physical traits are never condemned, especially if you are a woman of marriageable age. Hell, the matrimonial columns flaunt rigid physical requirements (caste and community specific at times). Most people want women who are tall, slim, and fair to guarantee good looking future progeny. This unwarranted list of physical traits is bragged about nonchalantly.

The other end of the spectrum: As a debutante in the American Society, I was introduced to the world of “political appropriateness” in an unanticipated way. I am like Chatty Cathy, so in one of my conversations with a random store owner, I casually referred to “Native Indians” as “Red Indians.” His face turned white--like he had seen a ghost in broad daylight. I was bewildered by his response. Later that evening, I was told about the genius of “American opinionated rightness.” I should have said “Native Indians” to the store owner; Red Indians refers to their skin color.

I remember thinking, “How hypocritical! You chase people away from their land and make them relinquish their being, but this poor immigrant has to watch it.” I regurgitated what I was taught in school. South Asians find a sense of comfort in allocating color-related names to people. We never say blasé colors like “white, black, brown” etc. We have clear definitions in each color category.

A short tale: This friend of mine and I have the most unreserved conversations. He addresses me as the “Indian girl with an incomprehensible Indian accent.” He then shakes his head like a pendulum--reminiscent of how people in certain southern and western parts of India talk and continues to make fun of samosa. Well, I address him as “the fat, white boy from the Midwest on a staple diet of potatoes, who could never own even 1/1000th of my Indian brains or charisma.” Sometimes, I sing “Go white boy! Go white boy!” We both love our rapport. There is no malice whatsoever in our banter though I can smell activists a mile away trying to drown us in the world of “Gee that sounds abhorrent. How dare you!”

The layers of diplomatic American vocabulary inducted by sanctimonious, pseudo intellectuals, and guilt-ridden individuals are nebulous. Who truly gets them or even follows them without errors?

I am constantly under the pressure of what is an okay expression to use—the avant-garde word for house wife is “home maker”; “secretary” is now “personal assistant.” Should I say “African American” or “Black”? What if the person doesn't have an African heritage, like Barack Obama. Then what? My journalist associate confirmed that Associate Press recognizes the references to “Black” and “White.” Hmm. This clarification came from a “White,” sorry “Caucasian” woman, who for the most part is disliked by others around her.

I am not in favor of the South Asian apathy towards words but the American over protectiveness exasperates me at the same time. It’s de trop. Fear and scare tactics shouldn’t be the reason for human compliance.

The shackles of bigotry or human inappropriateness won't break unless people change their attitudes and become more accepting from within. Dousing everything with “politically language” doesn't solve the core of the problem.

More until next time.
Xoxo

Copyright © 09.04.2008

“How clever you are, my dear! You never mean a single word you say”— Oscar Wilde

My relationship with the city I love to love and hate to hate….

An article in yesterday’s New York Times on newcomers adjusting to New York, eventually, took me by surprise. It was as if the author had peeped inside my mind, body, and soul and presented the conundrum of it all to the world with eloquent words.

My ode to NYC: People, who know me, are au fait with my “New York” attachment. I swear by the city. I have to say, it took me minimal time to adjust to NYC. In so many ways, it always reminded me of Mumbai. Be it the commute, cynicism, rudeness, brusqueness, valiant spirit, resilient attitude, the exasperation to the 24/7 energy. Plus, New York like Mumbai, but unlike most other cities in the US, allows you to retain your quintessential core. I have always been able to celebrate my proud Indian heritage in this city without having to put on an accent or a garb I didn’t want. The journey of getting comfortable in my own skin in my formative years was easy because I was in a compliant city like NYC.

I have pursued dreams which would have remained a fantasy had it not been for New York. I believe, the relationships that you form in this city go a long way as they aren’t made out of convenience or scarcity. You are exposed to a pool of like-minded people from disparate ethnicities and not just people from the same regional/traditional background.

I can feel my heart undergoing metamorphosis: There was a time when I couldn’t find anything wrong with what NYC had to offer. I took every downbeat word directed towards the city extremely personally. Today, I can feel the magnetism of NYC wearing off. I feel a little burnt out from the city. The rush and the commute are beginning to get to me. Living life on an agenda is beginning to lose its appeal. I wonder what has led to my partial transformed view on New York. It just couldn’t be time or the fact that I am busier now more than ever.

An associate suggested organizing a soiree at her place to get us few writers together and commemorate our achievements. What a noble and fun idea, right? Sadly, with the problem of over scheduling in New York, we couldn’t pick one date universally suitable to all. More often than I can count, people (including myself) check their Blackberrys’ to schedule even a coffee get together with friends, forget acquaintances. Sometimes you finalize on a date three to four weeks from the time you send out an invite. It’s not because people do not want to meet; au contraire. It’s the paucity of time, another issue hovering over New Yorkers. I mean, my very close friend and I couldn’t pick a suitable evening for an aerobic routine in Central Park this summer. Lo & behold, summer is almost over now.

I was sharing my story with a few friends at a dinner party the other night. They recommended we relocate to Upstate New York—far from the maddening crowd. Their condominium Upstate has every amenity that interests both my husband and I—indoor heated pool, gym, walking trail, tennis court, squash court, barbeque pits, amicable dwellers etc. etc. They suggested that with the train station across from their complex, I could continue to pursue my challenging NYC lifestyle without actually living there. The arrangement would be best of both worlds!

My husband has always enjoyed the concept of the suburban quality of life: a large house with a humongous study, picturesque backyard, and tranquil environment. In a heartbeat, he’ll move out of the city.

The question I ask myself: Am I detached enough from NYC to attach myself to the suburbia or am I just going through one of those love-hate phases of my relationships with the city? In the past nine years, haste, sarcasm, aloofness, over scheduling, and over commitment have become such a big part of me (like the rest of the New Yorkers), I wonder how and if I will adjust to normalcy.

More until next time.
Xoxo

Copyright © 08.28.2008

“I wonder what it is in the New York air that enables me to sit up till all hours of the night in an atmosphere which in London would make a horse dizzy, but here merely clears the brain.” James Agate

I Believe in Miracles!

This week, I was thinking of focusing “my belief in miracles,” on two core points—the earlier than expected release of my book, Pabulum, and the last minute tickets to the “Unforgettable” concert. A friend’s inability to attend the “sold out event” translated into my husband and me going for the Show. What can I tell you about the event? It was pleasurable at times, but there were enough occasions where my insides coiled, and I threw up internally.

The journey of miracle took a detour: I got a sweet note with a query inside the shell of request doused with surprise. “Why haven't you written on the Olympics yet? Nothing”:-(

I have been meaning to share my views on the Olympics but could never pick out that one aspect that I wanted to write about. To me, the Olympics are more than just competitive games; it’s like this miraculous psychographic research where each victory and loss yields rich, robust data.

A few weeks ago, we were at a dinner party at a friend’s. Anyway, one thing led to another and before we knew it, some fervent discussions transpired between our comrade about India's lack of participation in the Olympics, China's noteworthy feat, and America's obsession with #1.

Here are my twocents: Like the rest of the world, I too am in awe of Michael Phelps. He truly is a miracle in the swimming pool. I enjoyed watching him glide through like a finless dolphin, BUT it bothers me how the American media discounts every other athlete's contribution. Agreed, Phelps has set new records, etc. etc. etc.; however, is it fair to limit the glory to just the gold medalist? Isn't that an appalling example to set for the young, naïve minds? Either be the best or don't be. Newsflash: not everyone can be the THE BEST; it’s the #2 & #3 that gives #1 its golden meaning, if you will. Anyone who aspires and strives should at least be given some acknowledgment. A team is triumphant with combined effort and not due to one person's endeavor.

On a separate note, it's miraculous to me how China has managed to efface the struggles of a developing country. What outstanding presence and performance--an all-rounder if you will. The Chinese parents are driven in a non-academic way. They send their kids to gymnastic camps from the age of three, and it shows! Not just the people but also the city of Beijing looks resurrected. The Chinese government and the populace care about being the best overall and that is a miracle for a developing country.

I am aghast at the South Asian apathy to sports. Why don't our Indian dreams envision a non-academic world for just once? We are a nation obsessed with beauty and brains. We are on the world-level plinth of universal beauty pageants; every one knows of our scholarly capabilities, but what about sports? Please, don't use “cricket” as an excuse for sports all the time. Granted its fun, but why can't we broaden our horizon for once? To me, like portly baseball players, stout cricket players are an eye sore. Even at the Olympics, we miraculously won a few medals here and there, but it bothers me how callous we are towards it.

We are a nation of “intellectual extravaganza”. If we put our mind and heart to something, lo & behold, there is no one stopping Indians. Is it the issue of lack of government support or the Indian mentality of equating success with the overall percentage in the “board exams”?

Sometimes over the weekend, my friends and I go to Brooklyn Bridge or Central Park in the mornings. It is a magnificent time to work out and probably the only time of the day I am willing to soak in the never-ending madness of Manhattan. Anyway, on more than one occasion, I have pointed out to my friends that there is never a South Asian to be seen at any of these outdoor places. You see White, Black, Latino, and East Asian kids playing baseball, trotting, or relaxing in the strollers but never South Asians.

Why are we, as a race, so blasé in physical activity? The seed of significance of athleticism seems to be lacking. True miracle would be if Indians acknowledged the existence of non-stereotypical professions and the government/society embraced it openly by creating the right opportunities. Only then can we compete truly on a global level.

More until next time.
Xoxo

Copyright © 08.21.2008

“I often take exercise. Why only yesterday I had breakfast in bed.”—Oscar Wilde

Dispelling the myth of modernism….

Growing up, when this surge of modernism started engulfing India, I remember one thing distinctly--women rushing to salons (the infamous beauty parlors that lurked around every “paan shop”) and morphing into plucked chicken. “Bob cut” and “modern” were the buzz words and considered synonymous with being au fait with the latest. Tragically, few could carry the coy yet boyish looks. The majority created an insurgency wanting you to gouge your eyes out.

Just because something is in vogue, it doesn't mean you got to embrace it--esp. not as an adult. That's what teenage is for – a time period when it’s chic to experiment with the most awkward of looks. It's like me in “skinny jeans”. Seriously, for this fashion faux pas, I will have to pay people--for the pain I would inflict on their eyes:-)

Where was I going with this rattle about modernism? Oh yeah, Vidya Balan, the upcoming (down going would be her own doing) Bollywood actress. This talented, traditional Indian beauty, who looked pulchritudinous in “Parineeta,” looks ghastly with the modern look of short hair and archaic western garb. If you ask me, she has made a complete fool of herself by being a part of the herd.

I was watching “Kismat Konnection” the other day and couldn't believe her gauche looks in the movie. It was like déjà vu. Didn’t she look abominable in the other movie, “Hey Baby”? Someone needs to tell her that the sixties called and want their hippy hair and démodé clothes back. Unless she aspires to be a “femme fatale” for aliens in Area 51, tone it down.

I am amazed at how irresolute and insecure people are of themselves--eagerly waiting to morph into someone they aren't, even if they come across as an imbecile. Modernism is about keeping in tune with the times--intellectually and philosophically without forgetting your traditions or sense of self; it’s not about throwing on a mini skirt, chopping off your hair, and smoking a cigarette just because the entire world is doing so. Modernism introduces you to your “own calling.”

You’d think age bestows you with confidence and self-pride, but I guess, emulators and self-doubting people aren't cognizant of those emotions. Now, are they?

More until next time.
Xoxo

Copyright © 08.14.2008

“It is only the modern that ever becomes old-fashioned.” - Oscar Wilde