Shifting Clouds

Sir Alfred Lord Tennyson, author of one of my and many a CBSE students' favorite poem  'The Brook' derived a sense of security from an eternal, unfailing stream of gushing water. He evoked in all of us a sense of insurance from something that will never cease, that will withstand the tests of time and events (Pollution must not have been on everyone's mind in the early 1800s). While the poem continues to give solace to  me, it got me thinking- Is it the ever constant or the ever changing that really keeps us going?

The clouds standing above me speak

In words of a dark and somber shadow

To let me know, to let me believe

The mournful song in me plays in every piano.

Too often are they regarded as

Omens of gloom and despondence

Too often is an overcast afternoon

Spent with listless indolence.

They stand between the land and sun

Keep standing still till the wind billows

To lay bare the sparkling blue skies

Gleaming gaily on the earth below.

Now the sun glows in all it's glory

Leaving no leaf, nay a petal untouched.

The birds come out to chime their songs

As if with a euphoric spirit clutched.

I bask in the lively kindness of the sun

Let it kindle in me a flame of jubiliance

I don't shy away from it's honest sultriness

But rather embrace it in all it's exuberance.

Even though I know the clouds will return

To cover the sun and bar my view

I won't dwell morosely upon the thought

For they will shift again to reveal the sky anew.

There may be times when I want to choose

Between the sunny glow and the dreary gloom

I shall accept I'll never have any control

In what shade the skies above me assume.

For the Love of

"Shrishti! I need that piece by midnight. Have to complete the design and send it for printing" read the text from Kanan. The message lay open on Shrishti's desk besides her laptop, serving to remind her of the impatient nature of time and of her dear friend. Shrishti was the editor of her college newsletter, a job she had taken for her love of the read and the written word. However her inadequate technological knowledge would have prevented her from taking the job if not for Kanan, who had rescued her from the many mundane technicalities of MS Publisher. Kanan had the official designation of 'Designer and Co-editor'  for the newsletter and did everything from deciding the layout to making orders at the printer. He however chose not to meddle too much into the print and always had Shrishti approve the final edit on the second last day of the month, before sending it for printing on the very last.

Shrishti stared at her laptop screen blankly with intermittent glances to the table clock. It was 11.15 PM already but the words were just not coming to her. She had finished a thousand word plus article but couldn't pen down the last two sentences.  The article had started off as an analysis of the romantic plots of the nineteenth and early twentieth century classics but soon had her grumbling about how literature had irreversibly blighted her real romantic life. She had spent many a Valentine's Day alone with a book, or rather in the company of her numerous beloved lovers from the delightful world of print. She had longed to be in battle of wits with Mr Darcy who was aloof but engaging. Darcy's honesty and quietly caring nature had defined her definition of a man. She had envied Scarlett for having the love and affection of a lover as ardent as Rhett Butler and hoped to be kissed often, by someone who knows how to. She looked for the maturity and companionship of Mr Knightley, something all boys her age lacked. How would any guy today hold a candle to the ideas of romance that had slowly come to possess her. Her love life was as dry as parchment with not a drop of the passionate deep blue ink.

She glanced at the clock again, it had slowly covered a quarter of it's circle and only 30 minutes remained till her co-editor imposed deadline. Some deep thought and contemplation later, she finally figured what mood she wanted the article to end in and typed in…

"Over the centuries, countless poets and authors have been advocates for love and have tried to portray  the universal phenomenon in an infinite number of manners. Every love story, whether truth or tale  holds it's own unique piece of love and romance. Nevertheless, the greatest love stories exist when two very ordinary individuals come together to create something extraordinary."

Shrishti, slightly satisfied, went through the whole article again to look for any mistakes. She attached the word document into the email to Kanan which she signed off as

"Love is difficult.

Sorry for the wait."

Still slightly perturbed at the echoings of her lonely heart, she made herself a cup of coffee and started going through the Flipboard travel section. She was in the middle of a cover story into the mountain ranges of Vietnam when she got a mail from Kanan.

"Dear Miss Editor

Agreeing entirely with your view that the greatest love stories exist when two ordinary people come together to create something extraordinary , I think the two of us could potentially make an epic love story. We could have sex on the typewriter and create babies on print. And you have to agree with me here, nothing is more extraordinary than words on print."

Anatomy of an Autopsy

[I write this post as a med student and may sound a lil detached. Don't judge me.]

It all starts with death, as ironical as that sounds. Closing of the windpipe, blood filling into the brain or a clot of platelets plugging into one of the arteries that supplies the heart. Death is defined as the stoppage of the tripod of life namely circulation, respiration and brain function. The person's heart stops beating and the ECG shows a flatline which with several sincere (and sometimes not so sincere) failed attempts at cardiopulmonary resuscitation, continues to be prostrate. A doctor at the site, if any, declares the biological process of life to be irrevocably finished.  This pronunciation of the inevitable is received by relatives of the deceased with many a  tears and wails and by the intern, who already has a mile high pile of paperwork with a sigh. If the cause of death is suspected to be unnatural or in case of a sudden death due to unknown circumstances, an autopsy is requested. Religious outlooks to autopsy often play a role. Hinduism has no inherent objection to an autopsy with the only condition being that all objects are returned to the body. Else the deceased shall be borne blind or deaf or heartless in their next birth (Does seem to explain a lot that goes on about here). With many a paperwork and policemen later  the 'body', as it shall be called now on is delivered to the hallowed mortuary, which mostly is a very smelly place. It is here the person  body is welcomed into a new life, #thepostmortemlife. Now, depending on the status of the body (Yeup, baap ka naam works even here) and also on the level of laziness of the forensic pathologists, the body is either sent directly to the autopsy table or is sent into the freezer. The autopsy table is much like a stage, with medical students craning their necks on both sides to get a view. (And you thought we'll leave you alone when you die? Ha ) Regular ordinary boring deaths are only granted a post-mortem by the I-don't-think-his-job-has-a-name man,  the non-doctor or more inappropriately  the Daaku Daddy. However, out of everyday fun deaths are graced by the forensic doctor himself.  There are many procedures for the conduct of an autopsy. All begin with the stripping of clothes, examining external changes, cracking open of the skull etc. The skull vault is hammered through to pull out the brain. An 'I' shaped or a 'Y' shaped incision is made extending from the area of the neck to the area of the pubis and the rib-cutter is brought in. The organs are then removed either in one swift yet strong pull or one by one. Each organ is then cut and sliced through to reveal any anomaly that might indicate the cause of death. The alcoholic's liver is yellow-tan and nodular. A befouled meal will reveal the poison in the stomach.  Hereby demanding a change in the famous idiom to 'taking a secret to the autopsy table'.  The honour of slicing up the brain is often endowed upon jittery 2nd year med students, often to regain attention of the students who have by now realized how boring an autopsy really is. The brain is an exquisite organ to cut into: to cut into what till just a few hours ago determined the essence of a whole person gives you such a sense of power. Plus it's really soft and squiggly, almost like jelly. By now, a cause of death is generally figured out and the post mortem report is filled, complete with the alleged history and findings and opinion regarding cause of death. And also attendance is taken. All the cut up organs including the brain are stuffed back into the chest and abdomen and a running stitch is made down the centre. The scalp fold is just put back on like a monkey cap. The body is then given brand new white clothes, packed away and sent off, to be reduced to nothing but ashes. What a waste of new clothes.

Her Majesty: Queen

I have never ever written anything about a movie, never having felt passionate enough for what goes on in the screen. But Queen has made me get up from the comfort of my bed to pen this down at 12 in the night.  

It has been more than a week since I watched Queen, but I still am not over it. The songs are still playing on loop, and my heart is still singing London Thumakda. The movie didn’t have any extraordinary storyline, wasn’t shot in the Swiss Alps nor did it feature an exceptionally good-looking cast. But what it did was make me extremely happy, the smile still fresh on my face!

The scene with Rani pasting her wedding card on the wall in an Amsterdam hostel keeps on playing  in my mind. How simple, yet so powerful. Life is never fair, never will be and you will, at some time go through something that hammers at your shell. But why fixate on that and make your life dejected and doleful when you could make it about the next glorious happiness. Rani could have easily gone deep into the vicious circle of self-pity but she decided to go out and explore Paris, the city of Love alone, on what was supposed to be her honeymoon.

We all laughed out loud at the scene in ‘Kink-Kong : The Sex Shop’ and smiled gleefully when Rani was discussing about breaking her Virginity ka Vrath. We’ve seen such scenes exploiting the much hushed-up topic of sex before, but the difference was that here our parents laughed with us, without any awkward moment. Because Vikas Bahl knew hilarious from indecent, and the word sex wasn’t just added for the sake of it. He treated it like it wasn’t sex at all.

Maybe I’m partial towards it because it was at it’s core a movie about travel.  Backpacking in Europe, living in hostels, meeting people from all over the globe, new adventure every second. Isn’t that the dream? But what’s more to it is that how a simple and homely girl from middle class Delhi does it. She hasn’t looked up into Lonely Planet or made elaborate day-by-day minute-by-minute plans, instead she goes to random clubs with her waitress friend, gets drunk, dances freestyle on the stage and strips off her cardigan (and puts it away in her bag. Oh Rani! ). She gets the Dutch to eat extra-spicy golgappe with the help of a Japanese, a French and an undeniably cute Russian. She shares her first kiss with a passionate Italian chef and dances drunk in the red light district of Amsterdam. She gets the true essence of a place so strikingly different from anyplace she has ever known.  

The most alluring part about the movie is the depth of each character. Vijaylakshmi is fierce and a total hippie  but a soft mother. Taka is tiny and comical but has a tragedy he’s coming out from. Papaji is a typical overprotective papaji but loosens the strings to give Rani freedom to go out on her own. Even Vijay is first shown as a chep Delhi boy chasing Rani. Tim is a big black ‘bouncer type’ French man but offers to sleep in the hall so  Rani can sleep in the room. Rukhsar aka Roxette takes up prostitution for the sake of money, but isn’t weepy or regretful about it.  Rani embraces all of them for who they are, not having her feelings ruled by any stereotypes. She praises Rukhsar for taking up a job that is so ‘hard’, not shameful. She lets the boys share the room, having overcome her initial fear and awkwardness. She grows enough to not feel the need to make Vijay feel bad for leaving her and instead thanks him for if it wasn’t for him, she would’ve have discovered herself.

Rani reflects something in all of us. Our hopes, our inhibitions, our baniyaness. She is playing me on the big screen, and she is playing you.