The unfinished poem

This poem.

It’s absurdity,

It’s arrogance to show itself in public despite being unfinished.

It’s as if I wrote this for you. Or you wrote this for me.

Or we dictated someone to write it for us.

I have been meaning to write to you.

In red ink.

As I scribble my words, I feel drunk with power.

But I’m unable to find the right words.

Language seems to have failed me.

I know what I feel, I know what I want to say.

But, perhaps, language hasn’t invented those words yet

Words with which I can express my love,

My desire, affection and addiction for you.

I’m tired of being satisfied with the wind. 

I’m tired of hugging the pillow every time I’m in bed.

I’m tired of the fake solace the dream world offers.

And I’m tired of escaping into the world of fiction.

The poison has spread all over my body.

Nothing can be done now.

Only you can rescue me.

They say, poison kills poison.

I have been meaning to write to you.

But I’m unable to find the right words.

Unable to finish it.

Like this poem.

It’s absurdity,

It’s arrogance to show itself in public despite being unfinished.

Also published in Campus Diaries, an online portal for storytellers alike

Of reading erotica and extended debates

“So, basically, you’re reading porn?” More often than not, the question is followed by judgmental chuckle or shocked horror. For someone who is researching on erotic literature, one must simply get used to the idea that an encounter with prudishness coupled with shrewd hypocrisy is an everyday reality in our beloved country. On one hand would be those who would pronounce my shamelessness on having voluntarily chosen this topic, while on the other hand would be the same lot highly curious to know if erotica is really being written and is available for purchase.

As part of my research, I’m expected to do textual analysis of erotica and to do that, step one would be to read it. While my topic may sound exciting and interesting (it is, indeed), there are several challenges that I, as a [woman] researcher, face. Firstly, I can’t be reading erotica anywhere and everywhere, like any other piece of writing. It’s one thing to read Marquez’s Love in the time of cholera on a railway platform; it’s a whole other thing to read The Delta of Venus by Anais Nin in a local train, where people leer at the book cover that proudly flaunts the naked back of a lady. Much as we’d like to avoid saying it, we do judge people by what they are reading and books by their cover. It won’t be very “pleasant” and “decent” of me to be reading a book entitled that has the picture of a lady in a sari sans her blouse smoking away to glory, to begin with. Now, whether I read erotica for my own need for seeking pleasure or for a more “legitimate” purpose of researching extensively on it is, frankly, nobody’s business.

One of the many research questions that I’m looking at is the subtle line of difference between what gets constructed as erotica, and thus, by extension, aesthetically appealing and hence justified for consumption (at least by a certain section of society—the so-called “educated” ones) , and pornography casually and conveniently associated with something that is dirty, cheap and trash-worthy. Much has been written about feminist debates surrounding porn and how feminists stand completely divided on their stand, which itself has changed over a period of time. Andrea Dworkin and Catherine MacKinnon are one of the most obvious and vocal voices of anti-porn feminists who recognize porn as an exploitative industry and categorize it essentially as demeaning to women and something that should most definitely be banned. Most common arguments against porn includes glorification of rape and sexual assault, objectification of women, catering to the male fantasy, degradation of women in their representation, child sexual abuse and perpetuation of serious misogyny.

The other side of the spectrum has feminists who rationalize pornography as a celebration of women’s sexuality and depart from the aforementioned views. They see it as a platform for feminist expression and advocate for what they call feminist porn (and they insist that the word is not an oxymoron). Ellen Willis who is credited for having coined the term sex-positive or pro-sex feminism argues that [feminist] porn gives an opportunity for women to explore their sexuality and provides that rare space to articulate and achieve those hushed sexual desires and fantasies. This feminist revisiting of porn is linked to the feminist critique of censorship and borrows from the basic notion of freedom of expression that ought to be encouraged and not protested against.

In the light of these historical arguments that are primarily American in their location, let’s place the recent verdict of the Supreme Court of India that has proposed a ban on pornography from the Internet, the argument being that it is one of the chief facilitators of increasing violence against women. Going by past events, common sense would tell us banning something simply ends up increasing its sale or productivity. Ban a book? People would be more than curious to [illegally] download its e-version. Ban a movie? It’s all set to become a box office hit. As far as banning pornography goes, it’s hardly possible for that to happen given the fact that it’s a large scale industry in itself and there are several ways of accessing porn.

A ban is essentially a curb on the freedom of expression; in this case, that of art and content. Feminist porn, as claimed by feminists who support pornography, seeks to revisit porn and the things that it is accused of. One of the reasons why I decided to research on erotica is because it is a genre of literature that was never taught or, rather, brushed aside. Much like any other genre, erotica, too, has a lot of scope for women’s writing. A similar case may be made for porn that isn’t demeaning to women but seeks to revisit and reclaim it as a medium of feminist expression. What porn (much like media ads on beauty products and cosmetics for both men and women) has done today is create unrealistic standards of fantasy, promoting objectification and perpetuating gender violence in this process. Feminist porn and photography seeks to correct this by “challenging dominant conceptions of sexuality and power”.

Let’s look at the audience that consumes porn—openly and/or clandestinely. India is deemed as a country of sexually frustrated men (a generalization that is used by some to justify increasing cases of rape and molestation). We even have ministers watching porn during the proceedings in the Parliament. But porn is also consumed by women, whether or not they may be sexually frustrated. Those who watch/read porn have their own set of reasons for doing so.  India Today sex survey claimed that in 2006, a large percentage of women emerged as viewers and the figures are only increasing over the years. The survey that also sought to understand the lives and minds of women in small town India reveals that at least 30 per cent of them has watched a porn film at some point and at least half of those saw one at least once every couple of months.

That porn is a medium of women’s exploitation is still an acceptable and factually correct argument. But I’m yet to understand how its ban would reduce violence against women. Do those who rape and molest do so after having watched a couple of graphic pornography and learned the tricks of the trade? Isn’t the problem more in the mindset of the person who commits a crime that is essentially about power and not sex?

Now, if you will excuse me, I have three volumes of erotica to finish before I end my day. Thank you.

Picture courtesy Google Images

This post was published in The Alternative, an e-magazine that strives to make social good an everyday practice 

Serendipity

As he inhaled the nicotine, his past flashed in front of his eyes. The woman who betrayed him. The father who supported him. The mother who knew it all along but kept quiet. And the friend who advised him to forget it all and move on. As if it was that easy. He crushed the cigarette under his foot and mulled for a while. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop thinking of the mistake he had committed. Knowingly. Unknowingly. Willingly. He stared at the setting sun. Yet another day had passed. He couldn’t believe it had been so long. He looked at the skyline and felt the need to smoke again. Squinting his eyes at the mighty sun, that continued to display its power as it bid goodbye for the day, he lighted up his fourth cigarette for the day.

Two years ago, he lost his virginity to a Muslim bride. She was irresistibly pretty. Her kohl eyed face sometimes still visited him in his dreams. She rarely covered her hair, as was the custom in their community. And he was attracted to this little rebel in her. She was fiery, feisty and arrogant in her persona. There was always a pinch of rage on her face. O, what a sight! To hear her disagree. To stare at her unstoppable mouth that refused to shut up. To see the fury in her eyes when she disapproved of something. The subtle sight of victory on her face when he finally surrendered to her arguments. She enjoyed winning. And he loved losing to her.

Their passion was alive and aloof at the same time. He believed he had found love in her. He had never been so hopelessly awed at any woman in his life. Perhaps that was not the case with her. She had loved many times. Well, not exactly love. She carefully avoided any confrontation with that four-letter word. She enjoyed his company. And he was a good kisser. She didn’t look for a third reason. She didn’t need one. They spent days and nights together. He: unaware that she was engaged to someone else. She: reveling in his ignorance. Until one day, truth decided to show up on its own. She moved on. He was crushed.

As it started getting darker, he felt a chill run down his spine. His loneliness was pricking him like a thorn. The Muslim bride was a traitor. He obviously fell in love with the wrong woman. Like he had any control over it, he thought to himself, and lit a beedi. The cigarette packet had nothing but ashes left in it. He walked to the shore to meet the stranger woman.

__________________

As she put on her clothes, she mused  over the colour brown. The colour that reminded her of her lover. His skin, the colour of coffee sans milk. Brown. Dusky. She decided to drape her brown dupatta today. Somehow, today smelled of him. His aura. His mere presence. She sipped her glass of wine and fondly remembered her days with him. They had been together for two years. And it felt like she had met him, known him, felt him only yesterday.

It’s been a little over a year now since his death. Thirteen months ago, Fate took him away from her. Fate that brought them together. Fate that seemed to promise them a lifetime of togetherness. Maybe Fate had other plans; maybe even better ones. But she was too nihilistic to consider that possibility. She wiped her bindi. It didn’t go with her attire, she felt. But then, something looked missing on her face when she removed it. She put the bindi back on. A brown dot that seemed to suggest that it belonged there, no matter what she wears. It seemed to complete her. She sighed.

She finished her glass of wine, stole one last look at the mirror that always lied and left her apartment. The shore was a twenty-minute long walk. The weather was promising this evening. It played juvenile games with her brown dupatta. But she didn’t mind. It eased her conscience and she was more than happy about that. She had barely walked a couple of minutes when she felt a drizzle caress her cheek. Was she crying? She touched her eyes to check. Drop. Another one. This time on her forehead, narrowly touching the brown bindi. She touched her forehead and realized that the bindi had gone. It had left her, too.  She didn’t care to cover herself with her dupatta. As the raindrops touched her soul, she was reminded of her own mortality.

She reached the shore earlier than expected. It stopped drizzling. As she looked at the moody waves of the sea, she waited for the stranger man.

__________________

They both knew each other’s story. Their broken lives had felt a resonance. They had never met. They were strangers, after all. And yet the fact that they knew everything about each other was true. It was surreal. They had written letters to each other, read poems on the phone, even wrote stories and laughed about it. They had never known what it was like to be in the same place at the same time. They breathed the same air. They lived on the same earth. They stared at the same moon every night as they spoke over the phone and discussed its fading light. But they had never met.

As the waves growled angrily and shone under the moonlight, two figures inched closer. Two figures who had not known to be around each other and yet knew what it would feel like when they would be together. Alone. He breathed the air that she exhaled. And with the power vested in her as the perfect stranger, she kissed all his troubles away.

__________________

Of watching plays and observing the audience

Despite my likeness and affinity towards watching plays, in general, and the fact that I’m currently based in a city that boasts of a strong and rich theater culture, I have rarely had the chance to watch a play. Partly because of my hectic schedule and nonchalance but more so because I’m usually unable to find company to watch it with. But this time I did and probably because of the star cast of the play that I went to see. Between the Lines is a 105 minute-long play starring Nandita Das, who has also co-written and directed the play. Interestingly, the play has only two actors-Das and her real-life husband Subodh Maskara-who shoulder the entire play playing the role of an affluent lawyer couple, Maya and Shekhar, also briefly playing the role of the clients they represent in a case that affects their personal and professional lives deeply.

A little on the plot first: The lives of lawyer couple Maya (Das) and Shekhar (Subodh Maskara, Das’s husband) are thrown out of gear when both end up on opposite sides of a case. After years of not practicing, Maya decides to defend a woman who may or may not have accidentally shot her husband. Shekhar, a celebrated lawyer who never loses in court, is the prosecution. In the course of the case, Maya perceives parallels between her life and that of her client, a woman from a conservative family who is physically abused by her husband. Maya realizes that patriarchy exists not just in the home of people of the lower classes but even in the homes of well-educated folk. Shekhar might not beat his wife but he is embedded with regressive ideas of womanhood and wifely duties. (Source here)

Picture courtesy Chhoti Productions

The story is simple, the plot has some amount of creativity and innovation. A story that deals with the idea of womanhood (if at all it is something that can be categorized) and gender disparity can never grow old. What particularly impressed me was the finesse with which the two actors played their roles and didn’t make the audience feel that the 100 minute play had no more than two actors. It didn’t need any more actors; they filled up the void (if any). Das, as always is brilliant and exceptional acting is anyway expected out of her. My takeaway was Mr. Subodh who floored me with his strong stage presence, dialogue delivery and acting. As a debut performance, this was one par excellence.

But the story-telling lacked tight editing. The second-half seemed stretched and prolonged. A lot of scenes could have been done away it and the only reason they were tolerable was because of the two actors’ fine acting. A lot of the play’s flaws were covered up and easy to ignore owing to the use of props on stage and the interesting choice of background music, especially when Maya muses on her life as a married, employed woman. While some of the dialogues are clichéd and lack an element of surprise  the play works well with its dependence on dry humour. However, it was surprising to see an audience of about 500 people in that huge auditorium (Tata Theatre, NCPA). Not just because of the sheer turn out, which was very heartening, but because of their response during the play’s performance. In scenes that spoke of Kavitha’s (Maya’s client) domestic violence and her resignation to it as something that she deserves, the audience welcomed her ignorance with peals of laughter. If not anything else, it was disturbing to witness a set of elite and middle class people (presumably well-informed on issues of gender violence and gender discrimination) laughing at misogyny and sexism, when the play, actually, set out to achieve the opposite.

Nevertheless, it is a recommended watch. My rating: ***

Read other reviews here and here.
Nandita talks about her acting, co-writing, directing, producing and acting along with her husband.

The conspiracy of opposing thoughts

So, what is the big deal about kissing anyway?

How would you know? You’ve never kissed.

I almost did once.

You’re bluffing.

Fine. Don’t believe me.

No, I do. It’s just hard to imagine.

Why?

I can’t picture it. Maybe I don’t want to.

Well, then, you have a poor imagination.

No, I don’t.

Of course you do. Your visualization is selective and hence unreliable.

It’s nothing like that.

Fine. Live in denial.

Oh, shut up!

Well, if that’s what you want.

No.

No, what?

I don’t want you to shut up. I want you to listen to me.

I’m listening.

I had a dream, in which I saw that we were discussing about the art of kissing.

Much like how we are doing now?

Somewhat. But we aren’t discussing the art here, are we?

We can, if you want to.

Well, how do we? You say you have never kissed anyone before.

As if you have kissed a thousand times!

Are you implying that I’m a slut?

Would it matter if I did?

No.

Then, why do you ask?

My sincere apologies. Anyway, just so you know, I’ve never kissed a bearded man before.

Well, then it will be a first for both of us in some ways.

Indeed.

So, are we still going to talk about it or do something more?

We would do more. But this isn’t the right time.

Why not?

I don’t feel confident enough.

You don’t feel confident?

Yes. Why? Is that too difficult to fathom?

A little. Given your experience.

Experience doesn’t necessarily give you confidence.

How would I know! I’m too naive.

You aren’t. You’re just a novice. 

What’s the difference?

Just about an inch of ignorance between the two.

Ah. I see. So, when do you think we should be doing it?

I don’t know. I’m not sure. I can’t take all the decisions all the time. You tell me.

On a full moon night?

No. It would be too bright. 

On a new moon night?

No. It would be too dark.

I give up.

Why do you have to be so clichéd all the time? 

You can have a clichéd dream. I can’t suggest a clichéd reality?

What is so clichéd about that dream?

It’s the dream of a romantic fool.

I’m neither a romantic nor a fool.

If that would have been true, we would have kissed by now.

As really imagined by the author in a dream

Disciplined Desires

The lady hasn’t brushed her hair in three days. Work hasn’t given her the luxury to enjoy such a mundane activity. Her life has become as mechanical as she had anticipated the day she signed the company contract. Every day, she gets up at 7, narrowly escaping burning her hand while boiling the milk, picks up breakfast on the way from the roadside idli shop, as she heads to her office after commuting for 45 minutes. She works around ten hours every day, with some lunch and dinner thrown in between, and is back home by 10 pm. She’s usually too worn out to calculate if she worked overtime.

It’s Saturday today. The lady has a rare weekly off. And that’s how she has had an additional luxury—the opportunity to meet him. The man. She hasn’t seen the man in weeks now. He is as busy as her. Or so he claims. She reminisces on the days when she used to dress up, spend hours thinking of the colour of her bindi and wipe out that extra eye-liner that spread at the corner of her eye, minutes before meeting him. Today, her hair looks messy and she has no bindi; she hasn’t had the time to buy a new sheet since the last one got over a month ago. Where is the time? And does he even care how she looks? Should he at all? The lady brushes aside such rhetorical questions as she waits for him patiently at the station. Again a luxury. No, an indulgence she hasn’t had the time or energy to appreciate in the recent past—awaiting the man’s arrival in anticipation.

The man has been busy. At least, that’s the rationalizing he has relied on in the last couple of weeks. February has never been an easy month. Not because it is the conventional month for the proverbial blossoming of love—he’d frown upon such a morose assumption. It is the month when his students at the school have exams. He has hundreds of erroneous papers to correct and stamp their future careers with an A, B+ or a D-. If he is unlucky, he gets the job of invigilating exams during this time. It annoys him to be in a class not to teach but to merely watch sixty students vomiting together what they gobbled up a night before on the answer scripts. It makes him question the methodology of his teaching. It makes him wonder if he can even teach anyone at all. It makes him question his own skills and whether he has any that can facilitate a stable livelihood. Thirty-three isn’t a very cheerful age for a man who neither has a steady job nor a steady wife. Or even a girlfriend. His mother worries he might be gay. Well, he might as well be. That would solve a lot of his problems, anxieties and worries.

The lady tries to vaguely remember the discussion they had the last time they met. The man had then said he really liked and enjoyed the company of a certain woman. But he wasn’t sure if she was the right one for him. He had never been sure of anything. Not even himself. He was a brilliant singer but he barely cared to facilitate that potential. He ended up being a teacher because he frankly had no idea what else to do after having acquired his graduate, post-graduate and doctorate degree. His ease with the campus life had made him so comfortable in a student’s environment that its insulation became too reliable to let go. But when age and poverty hits you, you turn tables around. He loathed the idea of working for someone. His pride was too big for that to ever happen. He enjoyed the company of kids. He adored them. He believed they were the only species left that still possessed unadulterated innocence. He may not be sure if he ever wanted a wife but he definitely wanted kids. With whom didn’t matter for now. Maybe with the woman he has been thinking a lot about. The one about whom he wishes to talk of. To the lady who is waiting patiently at the station for him. Is there an irony here? He is more excited to talk about her with the lady than being with the woman he thinks he likes a lot. Perhaps he has feelings for the lady? Na! He dismisses that thought immediately. The lady would never be interested in a lost soul like him. In any case, why was he giving the lady a thought anyway? He is losing focus, he tells himself as he systematically tries to arrange his thoughts.

Clicked by Ankita Mehta (@AnkitaMehta2)

As he approaches the station, he catches her glimpse from the corner of his eye. The lady’s hair is messy. She isn’t wearing her bindi. And she looks tired. The company is sucking every ounce of beauty out of her, he infers. No. Wait. Why is he giving a damn about her beauty? He’s here to tell her he thinks he loves another woman. Not to wonder what the hell happened to her orderly hair and why has she suddenly separated from that little red spot that lightened up her forehead. She is texting someone. Probably me, he muses and feels a strange sense of glee at that thought.

The man arrives right on time, as the lady flashes him a friendly smile. After the customary exchange of greetings, he plunges right into “business”. He rants about how much he thinks he likes this woman. And how tormented he feels when the woman refuses to reciprocate his feelings. As he talks, he notices the lady’s obedient eyes: trying to absorb every tiny detail he shares. Why isn’t she wearing her eye-liner today? He enjoys taunting her for having spread them at the corner of her eye. He revels in pointing out her clumsiness. Today, he has been denied that little joy. As he talks of the woman, he pierces his gaze into the lady. She is too aloof. He’d never be happy with her. And no, he does not want the lady. It’s the woman who he likes, damn it. The woman. Not the lady. The lady is too sophisticated for his taste.

The lady listens patiently to his story. She likes to listen. It is an easy task. Easier than talking, she believes. As he finishes his tale, she waits for a couple of moments before saying anything. It’s a lot of information to process for the day. Things have certainly changed between him and the woman since the last time they met. Well, time runs, she muses. At least things aren’t stagnant. That’s a good start. she convinces herself. She has to convince herself before convincing him. It doesn’t work otherwise. She is no expert on relationships. But a divorce inevitably teaches you stuff. She is occupied today in work because that keeps her divorced from her ex-husband and his thoughts. Drowning in work is better than drowning in suffocation.

He doodles ‘anarchy’ on his jeans as she lectures him on love.

Of the pink city and its [literary] heritage

I have always wanted to go a literary festival (it’s struck off my To-Do list now). Just the idea of literary and festival put together intrigues me and makes me curious if such an amalgamation is truly possible. Arguably, the Jaipur Literature Festival is one of the most popular and sought after fests that people throng to every year since it began in 2008. A trip to Jaipur from Mumbai can be heavy on your pocket, given the sheer distance between the two cities. But I’m traveling on low-budget this time, which can be both fun and challenging. The fun part comes from the amusement of having survived on low cash; the challenge, of course, is how to manage in a cash-strapped situation. But the company of a woman with entrepreneurial skills helps immensely. And so with our little baggages of clothes and confidence, we head to Jaipur to be one of the many audiences this year of the JLF.

We’re fashionably late in our arrival. Late not just in terms of our train running behind schedule but also in terms of the lit fest that started a day before. But we know there are plenty of things lined up for the next couple of days. Our priority first is to make sure a roof above our head and one that doesn’t burn a hole in our pockets. The Dharamshala came to our rescue. With the tariff being as low as Rs.180 per night, we figure we have enough to splurge on other extravagances. We celebrate by having a wonderfully sumptuous brunch—mooli paratha and some masala maggi to go with it. We frown at the dripping oil but that’s the price you pay for taste apparently.

We decide to head to the venue to briefly figure out what the jazz is all about and make our plans accordingly. There’s a session on depiction of women in Bollywood that I want to attend, due to begin in a few minutes. After much negotiation with auto drivers (we pretend  we’re pros and know the route by heart…of course we don’t and the only thing we’ve figured from Google map is that Jaipur is circular in its topography), we reach Diggi Palace. As a huge crowd ushers inside, I am forced to wonder if all of them really are literary enthusiasts or is the large number a result of the fact the entry is free at JLF. Whatever the case may be, an audience makes an event successful, right?

At the entrance of the fest

We head to the Front Lawns for the session only to find it occupied. There’s barely enough space to stand. We listen for a few minutes until we decide to explore the venue further and come back if we hear something interesting. A discussion on Munni badnam and Fevicol isn’t too pleasing anyway. There’s colour everywhere. In the shamiyana, in the tents, in the turbans some ushers wear, in the stalls that sell indigenous items and handicrafts. We explore the “festival” part of the lit fest as we window-shop stalls (most of which are way beyond our budget even if we were unhappily employed). As I hover around, I absorb each face in the crowd. There are familiar faces—some I have seen before, some I’m trying hard to remember where and some I most definitely wish to avoid. I eavesdrop at conversations. I hear someone nudging a friend to buy her that exclusive junk jewellery at display. Rs. 1500, I make a mental note. Another complains her Ray Ban shades broke this morning and she’s really upset about it. That’s about Rs. 3,000, screams my oh-so-bourgeois brain. An old lady says she’s looking forward to getting her book autographed by Ms. Shobha De as she adjusts her Van Heusen bag. Is that from Khan Market, I wonder. I look at my own innocent bag (a gift from a friend who attended the Kabir Festival in Mumbai) and smile in amusement. I suck at math but I’m quick as a cat when it comes to such calculations. Well, I revel in my duplicity.

As the sun sets, the weather gets cold(er). I realize I have been divorced from Delhi winters for three years now and hence lost touch with it completely. I regret not having worn my socks as I shiver around food stalls that refuse to sell any appetizing item for less than Rs. 100. Math again. Damn! V and I decide to “indulge” in  some pasta. Mediocre quality, meagre  quantity. We are left craving for more. We head back as we have a long day tomorrow—quite a few interesting sessions lined up. We stop by at a shopping complex (the one we made a note of while on our way to Diggi in the afternoon) and hunt for something “Jaipuri”. It isn’t exactly a flea market but at least there is scope for bargaining—an art V is so much better at. She purchases a couple of colourful shawls and a Jaipuri block print cotton sari for me. I’m already excited to wear it. Before heading back to our Dharamshala, we stop at the roadside omelette guy to put our unsatisfied stomachs to rest. Our night ends with a “Regular Thali” (Rs.40) consisting of chapatis, dal and aloo. We crib about the oil again as we snuggle inside our blankets for the night in the hope we aren’t bitten by bed bugs. And we’re spared the horror! :->

Day 2 for us is pretty jammed. We have a couple of sessions to attend today and I’m looking forward to hear Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak speak. It’s a session entitled ‘Rogues, Reviewers and Critics’. Quite an experience to hear them talk and debate. I make notes as a diligent audience trying hard to remember all the literary criticism I studied in my graduating years. It feels like a million years ago. We then head to a session on ‘The Language of Literature’ and I’m enthralled by some of the points that Ambai makes. I wish my mother were here to hear her speak. As a reader and admirer of Tamil literature, she would have been mesmerized. As the session ends, the announcer states that the venue for the session by Rahul Dravid has now been changed. My heart skips a beat as those words sink in. That Dravid is going to be here was completely off my imagination and expectation. I barely noticed that in the four-day event schedule. I have no idea how I missed it. I decide I have to attend the next one; there’ no way I can miss it.

V and I head outside Diggi to hunt for food. We barely have a map or location in mind as we board the cycle rickshaw to the nearest “circle”. We turn into typical dogs as we sniff melted butter and cheese. It’s perhaps one of the most arousing smells ever for me, personally. We stop at Jaipur Hot Breads—a discovery worth cherishing. It’s a land of butter, cheese, cake, pies, breads, garlic and cookies. It’s paradise for V and me. We hog like pigs as our stomachs dance in ecstasy. I’m more energetic than ever to “meet” Dravid now. To avoid the rush, we decide to reach the venue a good 30 minutes in advance. Of course, in this process, we forget that we belong to a cricket crazy nation. As we head to the front lawns, we spot around 30,000 people already awaiting the session to start. My heart sinks.

V, unlike me, doesn’t give up so easily. We fight our way through the crowd and manage to grab enough space for us to sit on the ground and leer at whoever comes on the stage. It’s not just Dravid but joining him is yesteryear’s actor Sharmila Tagore, cricket critic and historian Suresh Menon and journalist Rajdeep Sardesai. Who cares? I can’t stop staring at Mr. Dravid. The session is quite lively, though completely diverted from the topic that was to be discussed in the first place. I don’t mind that as (personal) questions are directed at Dravid on his life after retirement. It’s as if someone fixed a hanger inside my mouth: I can’t stop smiling. As the session ends and people hog him for an autograph, I wonder if I should get one, too. I decide against it for two reasons. One, I believe I shall interview him some day. Two, I’m not sure how useful his signature would be. What would I do with a piece of paper that has RD’s sign on it? Why would I want anyone’s signature for that matter? (unless on a blank cheque, of course)

With such stream of thoughts, I stand outside the ladies bathroom with V’s bag as I wait for her to return. Maybe I’d be interested in getting a writer’s autograph, I continue to muse. I’d definitely be interested to look at a writer’s handwriting. That would be thrilling, I infer. Lost in these thoughts, a woman with a very familiar face asks the way to the loo. I direct her as I stare at her with my piercing eyes. I leer at her face for over three minutes before I finally manage to speak.

“Do I know you? You look very familiar and I have a feeling I have seen this face before.”

“I doubt that. I’m a writer.”

And I know it right then. She is Meena Kandasamy, a writer whose works I have closely followed, admired, read out to friends, forwarded to acquaintances and relentlessly pursued on social networking sites after being in awe of her poetry and her writing. It’s hard to believe it’s her. I had always imagined her taller in my petite bourgeois brain. We talk for about five minutes. I request for her autograph. She obliges. I’m overwhelmed. V pulls me away as I contemplate what just happened.

MK’s valuable piece of advice for me

We head to Johri bazaar for our much-needed city outing. It’s a colourful lane of artisans, masons, goldsmiths, silversmiths and roadside shops for stationary and anything fancy. Apart from jewellery, almost everything else interests my eye. Both V and I share a common love for books and stationary. While books are getting expensive, stationary is no far behind. Nevertheless, we do end up buying a bunch of notebooks made of hand-made paper (called ‘Bahi’) that look absolutely stunning. We’re happy with our purchase and I mentally visualize my monthly pass-book that has no space for credit and has all the space in the world for debit.

Our gigantic purchase!

Day 3 is highly “literary”.  William Darlymple, Jason Burke, Kishwar Desai, Sandip Roy, Tahar Ben Jelloun, Amit Chaudhuri, Anjum Hasan, K R Indira and Pavan Verma, to name a few (I’m too tired to hyperlink all these names. Kindly Google, oh curious soul!).
It’s a lot to take a single day. From talks on writing about love and longing to historical trajectory of a now war-torn Afghanistan to re-imagining the Kama Sutra: our poor brains are saturated. Tomorrow is the last day of the fest but we decide to give it a miss. We are yet to do some tourist-y stuff: visit the Hawa Mahal.

Colours splattered on the floor!

The palace is an experience in itself. It’s a paradise for those interested in historical architecture and photography. As I click pictures from any and every possible angle that my humble cell phone allows, I promise myself I’ll be back in this city again to explore more of its colours and not just pink. :- )