What are words worth?

This is not a review. It is not an attempt to critique or summarise a film that many have been talking about in different ways. But yes, it is a response of some kind, to a movie that I watched in an serendipitous matinee moment. I found myself a completely willing participant, happy to be taken in by the melodramatic retelling of what is undoubtedly a motivational story, even without Bollywood's embellishments. I found myself choking at the appropriate junctures, shedding a tear and wringing my hands at others, smiling and cheering mentally when things went the right way for the protagonist. I found myself heaving a sigh of relief when the almost-moment yielded to complete victory. All sports movies finally do this, and Mary Kom was no exception. When the national anthem was played in the movie to her final win, the entire auditorium stood sharing the pride of victory, much like the way they clapped when the Chak De girls scored their goals or the boys in Lagaan beat the vill

When a weekend begins with making a to-do list, it's a sad state of affairs. Especially when that list is overwhelmingly work related. I made the list Friday night and now, close to 48 hours later, I have done two and a half of the seven tasks I set myself--and mind you, that was a pared-down list! I suppose one can take some satisfaction in having spent time doing things that were not on the list--a habit I have mentioned before . But this time I really don't want to talk about the list itself but the tendency many of us seem to have developed of setting goals for weekends. This past week I've read more than one article exhorting us to eschew work emails when we're not at work, or limiting online time when we should be off, and so on. Reading, agreeing with, even sharing on Facebook is one thing, and actually doing what we have so enthusiastically liked, is most emphatically, another. (alert--moving to an ostensibly unconnected thought) A couple of years ago a s

I open the cupboard and stare into its messy fullness, wondering where to start. I reluctantly take out a bunch of papers and begin rifling through them. A keychain falls out, begging to make the transition to the other side of possession, where it can rest peacefully among other trash. It is asking me to be trashed. I pick it up, my hand makes the short arc to the bin and then stops. Wasn't this the key ring I used to carry my first dorm room key? All of thirty two years ago? I pull my hand back and open my palm to stare at it and the images come rushing back. "Maa, the milk is boiling over!" Have to stem the memories and pay attention to boring details such as scorched burners and spilt milk. Ten minutes later I'm back and the keychain, fortunately, gets thrown where it belongs. But I find a picture frame with some stars pasted on it. No picture, but that's no matter, I know what used to go there. My daughter's kindergarten photograph, after she made th

These poems were part of a call for submissions by Prakriti Foundation in early 2013, a collection titled "Not Silence but Verse". Some Tanka and some Haiku. But all born out of an everyday anger. Breaking glass cuts through skin, teeth, hair, mind, to settle deep, in memory. ... Fingers filter sleep letting it escape for good like the child’s blanket that was slid off silently to reveal my growing pain. .... I could give a damn about outraged modesty when it is my self the totality of me into which rage has been poured. ... The sound stuffs itself out of hearing range; one law, that’s all it would take to quiet the fear and turn the panic to peace. ... His gaze unzips me from bus-stop to work and back wreaking possession.

"They sell fish and buy cars," said my friend and host, most matter-of-factly, as we watched a shiny white sedan draw up by the dusty track outside the house. She was referring to the rapid replacement, over the past decade, of lush paddy fields by aquaculture ponds that brought quick riches for a large number of entrepreneurs in the region. Of course, there are also several stories of those quick bucks making an equally quick exit, but there's no denying that West Godavari is one of the most prosperous areas in the undivided state of Andhra Pradesh. But I wasn't really here to engage in an economic analysis of the district. I was, in fact, here to disengage from analysis and simply take that much needed break from a non-stop series of deadlines. It was the first step in taking my own advice seriously (ref: my previous post). So, here are a few moments from that pause in my city-fied routine. I find myself, an unlikely pilgrim at the Ramana Kendram in Jinnuru

It's two weeks into the year and it already feels old. This year crept in on slow legs, carrying on its prematurely aging back the burden of false promises and stillborn ideas, dressed in a new veil of shiny hope. From time to time this covering slips off to show us that underneath, there is little that is new. It is just the inexorable passage of time. Yet we accept the fiction. We choose to be intoxicated by the effervescence of the market and charmed by the seductive ringing of bells of various kinds. We wake up on a day marked as the beginning of a new calendar and believe that we are changed. That the world is changed. Yes, I received my share of phone calls, emails and text messages. I stayed up till past midnight and colluded in a round of hugs and handshakes. I posted a post on Facebook and responded to others' posts as well. I willingly contributed to the conspiracy of expectation and excitement. After all, ritual is an important part of our lives, and the ritua