Movies I will probably end up watching even though they promise to be terrible.

New Moon

Oh my god! How bad is the book?? The first one I barely skimmed through but this one, I could not get past the first two chapters. Seriously how is it possible to make vampires boring?(I'm sure there is an army of tweens planning my destruction now).And can the heroine be more annoying? Besides her limited vocabulary in describing the apparently unearthly like features of the brooding vampire, she has to be one of the most poorly written female characters ever! I mean come on look at Hermione Granger or Luna Lovegood. JK Rowling, whatever her flaws(some more obvious now), created really strong,well defined, likable characters- even if they did wobble once in a while.And I honestly don't know know why Kristen Stewart agreed to act in this travesty of a series. I actually find her very interesting. And I'm sorry Robert Pattinson cannot act. Yes he looks bloodless and his hair is teased appropriately but please watch the scene in Twilight(vomit) where he is (apparently) resisting Bella's scent(again,vomit); his attempt at looking tortured fails miserably. The guys looks merely constipated-not attractive. I was mildly interested when I found out he played Salvador Dali in "Little Ashes". Then I watched one scene in the film and well...less said the better. Still, I'll probably watch New Moon when it comes out because I am jobless and mean. I guess that doesn't say much about me.

2012

Blah blah! Another movie about how America saves the day. Seriously Hollywood. You're an insult to your cliches. Okay truth is I haven't watched it yet. (Duh! Hence the title) But this just looks like Independence Day (another gem of course) Oh! wait. It's by the same director. Go figure. But John Cusak! I have one question for you- Why???Remember High fidelity? ? Okay that's two questions. :s Are you one of those people who really identify with a smiley and find it to be a better mirror of what you feel than in fact your own face?(pulling faces in the mirror-I invoke my inner Calvin)

But on an aside read this delicious blog by an American, 30 something woman who loves Bollywood. Makes me fall in love with the "Indian film industry"(who are we kidding??) all over again.

Things to say. To people I love.

1- I love how you cut to the point. Even if when you cut it hurts. We should talk more or we should just sit-either way, the world makes a little more sense when we spend more time together. Probably because alone, we don't make much sense you and I. See how I am not making sense now?

2- I love that whenever you call I can hear you smile. I don't think you realise that I listen more to that smile than anything you actually say.

3-I love how we pick up from where we leave off. I love your cackle. You're such a goof and with you I'm goofier. And, I miss her almost as much as you do. Only almost.

4- You're like a breeze or like wet mud-so pleasant. And that might not sound like much. But it is. It's just enough.

5- I think you should get your butt back to this side of the world and just call me. I think you should share some of that happiness. You shared enough of your depression. And my poetry misses you.

6- I love that you're always there on my gtalk. What I don't love- that we don't talk as often because of this.

7- I wish you would brighten up a little. Heck(who says heck??) I wish I would. But I try. I try, so please just try. I think we need to be braver.

8-Life isn't that hard. Or it is. No wait it is. I'm sorry... it is.

9- We're going to have sooo much fun. I hope I don't ruin it.

10-I am your hydra you are my panda. This is not cryptic enough but neither are we. Thank god!

11-

12- I love that you're the only person who'll read this and bother to ask me who is who. I love that you bother.

Delhi

Today is such a wet day. The rain hasn't let up since I have woken up. I am listening to Sufjan and I am remembering Delhi. People who know what Delhi is like often have this strange expression on their face when they ask me about it-as if they're daring me to say something awful about it. And I usually do. I complain about the weather, the people, how much I hated the entire experience. But these days I find myself thinking about Delhi a lot with a surprising amount of wistfulness. Like I wish I could have made better use of it. I think I miss Delhi more now because even though it was painful being there, my relationship with it was more obvious. More laid out. It was a very love-hate relationship. It treated me awfully (at times)and I would malign it as much as I could- when it suited me. Often enough though, I'd feel like I was talking about an unwanted family member. The point of course is that it still remained family.

I live in Bangalore now. I feel like we're still withholding judgement on each other. It's a lot more uncomfortable-this not knowing. This sense of alien-ness. The inability to complain because my mind hasn't been made up yet. Delhi was also family because I had family there. I remember them now and I can't believe how somethings have changed. Maybe all this remembering is because of the rain. Right now, it's coming down like needles- piercing everything with sharp clarity. The fog that has surrounded me seems to be lifting from me briefly. And I remember things. I remember standing in our hostel bathroom and watching the rain at night glowing in the yellow light. I remember I calling me for this rain ritual of ours. I remember friends and I remember family. Maybe it's Sufjan. I first heard him with A. I remember lying flat on my back in her room- always listening to music and not talking. I don't remember what I used to think about then, but I remember being happy. Maybe because I didn't think. I was just.. being. If I could just be- I would go back. But being as we know it can't be contrived. It just happens. Delhi just happened. And that's how I must remember it.

Rainer Maria Rilke

For the sake of a single verse, one must see many cities, men,
and things. One must know the animals, one must feel how
the birds fly and know the gesture with which the little
flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back
to roads in unknown regions, to unexpected meetings and to
partings one had long seen coming; to days of childhood that
are still unexplained, to parents whom one had to hurt when
they brought one some joy and did not grasp it (it was a joy
for someone else); to childhood illnesses that so strangely
begin with such a number of profound and grave
transformations, to days in rooms withdrawn and quiet and
to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of
travel that rushed along on high and flew with all the
stars—and it is not yet enough if one may think of all this.
One must have memories of many nights of love, none of
which was like the others, of the screams of women in labor,
and of light, white, sleeping women in childbed, closing again.
But one must also have been beside the dying, must have sat
beside the dead in the room with the open window and the
fitful noises. And still it is not enough to have memories. One
must be able to forget them when they are many, and one
must have the great patience to wait until they come again.
For it is not yet the memories themselves. Not till they have
turned to blood within us, to glance, and gesture, nameless,
and no longer to be distinguished from ourselves—not till
then can it happen that in a most rare hour the first word of
a verse arises in their midst and goes forth from them.
—From “The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge

The secret lives of little girls

When I first told my aunt(former English Literature lecturer, lover of words and the one who helped in opening that secret window into books and their worlds) that I wanted to read Cat's eye by Margaret Atwood, she shuddered(a bit dramatic but I love her reactions) and said "Ooh that's a dark one" I didn't take her very seriously or rather I was actually inspired to read the book even more. I really underestimated how much this book would affect me. It's not just because it's dark or because it's about women. It's not even issue related I think. I started reading it and immediately related to it.

Have you ever had a friend while growing up who was the queen of the gang? Who everybody secretly hated but outwardly worshiped because the alternative-of standing up to her would leave you out in the cold? I did. Her name was D. She was the prettiest girl in our class and she made our lives hell. She was completely dictatorial. And we just followed her while wishing someone would just topple her over. So you wouldn't complain if you were told that you'd have to play the elder sister while playing princess and the witch, or god-knows-what we indulged in at that time. You'd rather be the nondescript elder sister in the play, than the rebel who stands up for herself in the playground and gets thrown out. Ya I was always the boring elder sister. D as you can guess, was the pretty princess. She would lets us know why we were worthy of her condescension and of course when we were not, she would inform us why. This would of course change at a whim. Now when I look back on all that I have no idea why we took it all. She was a kid. A stupid kid in pink. But then so were we. Maybe it was the pink, maybe it was the fact that she behaved as if she deserved worshiping- but the truth remains, that we let it happen.

Some friends of mine like A and G would shudder when they talked about her years later, much after she had left the school. I even remember when she came back once-I think we were in the 8th standard then. These two friends of mine didn't even look at her. I also heard she was pretty skittish about being back. I can understand that- it's harder for the perpetrator to look at her victims.

I think Atwood brings home a hugely disturbing fact about little girls which I see reflected in my childhood as well . We were awful to each other while growing up. Just awful. There's a major power struggle that exists that I think is either absent in boys or just less complicated. The worst thing of course, is that nobody knows about it. It's almost like this covert operation happening right underneath parents' noses who by the way, are too busy sniffing out their mischievous but far less harmful boys.I remember how we used to gang up on one person at a time and tell that person exactly what was wrong with her. Each of us went through it. And you never knew when it would be your turn. I remember the time it happened to me, quite clearly. We were in the 8th standard. N had left school and gone to Sishya-I was miserable without her and miserable with having to make friends with the others- those that I had neglected when she and I became friends. And it started slowly -the slight cold shoulders, the wondering, the looking over your shoulder, and then when finally they surround you to start the complaints you're almost relieved because it's finally out there and you can face it. It's hell. But you let it go- get accepted again, and the next time you participate in it? Someone else is the victim.

When I finished reading Atwood's similar account of peer torture I bawled my eyes out. I was in Conoor at that time and all I wanted to do was call my friends and reassure myself that we're not the monsters we used to be. Because we're still friends. And I almost feel like the way we treat each other now -all soft and warm and cuddly is to make up for what we did to each other before.We stand up for each other now. Whenever each of us is heartbroken or someone has treated us badly there are a flurry of emails that invoke a sort of inner sisterhood that bypasses distance, time, and yes even abuse. Because that's what it was. I think the fact that we're still around each other says something we never really acknowledge about love and friendship-that though we're often kinder to a stranger than we are to a loved one, there is a greater sense of validation in being around those with whom you share your failures.

(I just apologised to G while writing this. It's never too late for anything)

Unresolved. Don't know how to end this.