The many names of Jalebi

In addition to the name Jalebi, our girl is addressed to in many ways. Some:

Her European name: Jellybean

Colloquial Assamese: Julapi, Jilepi

French: Madame Julliet

Mexican: Jalebi, like Jalapenos.

American: J-Bee

Moslem: Mehjebeen

Bihari: Jalwa

Nickname(s): Jelfi, Jalibi, Jelu, Salebi, Jelpi (?)

Secret name: M*****A

Other name(s): Coco, Chocho, Mocha (sigh, predictable.)

Also responds to: "Who wants a coooookie?" and "Who did?!"

This list continues to evolve and grow. 

You live

Between the chaotic dullness of everyday nothings.

In the space between two thoughts.
In the pink-purple-indigo-orange overcast dusk.

In the first sweet, smoky sip of tea.
Within awkward silences.
The place between ticking temporal knives and
their deliberate postponements.

When the song strains towards its climatic finish and
cryptic lyrics reveal themselves.
In obscure realms of random memories
projecting themselves at random moments.

In between delicious, wicked words in print.
In late night confessionism.

In the wind - with no beginning and no end.
In many textures of shadows.
In manic/depressive dispositions.
In words, disguised as friends.

In surfaces that reflect an idea or two.
In the profound belief
of perceptual differences.
Well, in differences, of all sorts.

In those fleeting moments of affirmation
that backtrack before long into playful stupidity.
In the graph of that crazy lovable spiral.

In the fluttery dilation of pupils.

Futility.

Morbid sensibility.

And it's abandonment.

And especially thrive
within
instinctive
elemental
wild/gentle
cautious/unabashed
mind-melting
thought-pixelating
EXCRUCIATING
euphemisms.

Rainy Tuesday night

A few days ago, two of my very good friends got engaged to each other and I went to be a part of their big milestone in life. A smiling, happy, young, blissful couple on the throes of their new life together and fiercely excited about it. Both families bustling with so much energy that some didn't know what to do with themselves. Elders bestowing benign smiles on the couple, boisterous aunts drunk on wine and letting loose some hectic dance moves, tanked up to the nostrils with festivity and jewellery, merry-making, ritualizing at every opportunity, officially satisfied with the union of two kids that were always just meant to be a large part of each other's life.

So, last Friday morning, I found myself on a train to this event. I had a single berth and next to me were a family of four. A young father constantly on his phone who I suspected was having an affair with someone else while a haggled wife tried to contain the kids - an infant boy and small girl of about 10- but I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt when I later heard him sing lullabies to the little kid, putting him to sleep and dedicatedly wiping off the infant's puke from their suitcases, compartment floor and own pants. Some time during my 8-hour journey, the wife asked me, "Didi, what time are we reaching?" I wondered how much older I looked to her or was it just a form of addressing a woman of similar age? I bought two books by the late Khushwant Singh, Train to Pakistan and The Company of Women, simply because I was guilted into buying them by the vendor, who gave me a painfully impatient stare while I checked out the books he was carrying. Many amputees thronged the train, begging for money, with almost identical amputations which really made me doubt the imagination of the begging racket mafia. After giving away some of my money to some of the earlier ones, I just shook my head at the ones who came in late. Hijras aggressive as usual marched up and down the compartments and left me alone. I was glad because if they had stopped at my berth, I would have struck up a conversation about the rights of the transgender community and whether they were aware of any people in this region who worked for them. At one point, the wife and husband went off somewhere while the woman politely asked me -didi- if I would watch her daughter for a while. That's when the little girl proceeded to tell me which of her subjects she has not done her holiday homework for, among other things. 

At the engagement, I displayed a sufficient amount of enthusiasm, not that I had to really try because I was truly happy that my friends had made it through the odds and were going to happily be at each other's throats for the rest of their lives. I dressed myself in a pink, very modern-looking mekhela sador, went through the hair/make-up/heels/jewellery drill and pulled off a decent job considering I had actually not put in this much effort in my appearance in about 4 years now. I tried my best to calm down the to-be-bride when she was freaking out about being late to the event but I don't think she wanted my advice ("relax, it's YOUR engagement, stop taking calls now, we're just an hour late"). After about an hour, when the rings had been exchanged, I made my way to the bar and got myself a glass of wine and sat down because my feet were already aching. The night turned out to be a pretty happy one, with a lot of dancing, bootlegging after the bar was closed, being pulled up by the relatives of my friends to dance, obliging, last minute hunting for Bollywood music which was on demand, giving and receiving compliments, delaying dinner, taking photos and the other regular wedding-time shabangs. 

Something about the significance of my two friends getting engaged managed to put me in an incredibly strange mood the next day. We went out for lunch, shopping and dinner with both the families and I was exhausted the whole day, looking terrible and feeling irritated. At one point, when we were driving from one mall to the other, I longed for a cigarette and was struck by the premonition that I had completely destroyed myself, past, present and future, with my choices, habits and thoughts. I was deeply pitying my own tragic affair called life for about 10 whole minutes, while everyone chattered on in the car, and made a note to blog about this particularly disturbing feeling. My legs were tired from all the walking, my face and hair so greasy and disappointing and my responses were becoming lesser and lesser obliging and enthusiastic, as I dully nodded along to apologies for drunken dancing by aunts and the mother-in-law-to-be the previous night. I could no longer bear the formality or the saccharine since I had my own in-head chaos to deal with, while the families wondered how to communicate with this strange, quiet, chain-smoking, single Assamese girl. 

What triggered my chaos on that day was something negligible, that ought not to be mentioned here, for self-preservation measures, at which I am pro. It did however spiral me into seeing clarity, astral-like, what would be of me if I did not take charge of my self right now. The whole trip had jolted me into some sort of mid-life (yes, because I am surely not going to make it to a hundred) crisis, with graphic detail of my own mismanagement of resources and opportunity, time wasted and currently being wasted, degeneration, reality- bitten and rabid form, abandonment and regrets, etc. spirals of dubious nature. How far was I willing to allow this chaos to perpetrate though? And with such a passive, meaningless trigger (that shall not be mentioned) nonetheless. 

I will let it perpetrate to the extent of a carpe diem-like fervour to end my blogpost and go do something else, rise tomorrow to forever change the way my life is directed right now. In a small world, on an exceptionally rainy Tuesday night, at the right place and time. Hazzah. 

Status quo

I haven't been doing much lately, in terms of productivity.
But that doesn't mean anything, because there's always something on in my head.
Either planning, retracing, dreaming, procrastinating.
I have a lot going on, just nothing to show for it, yet.
But if you believe me and take my word for it, I might tell you what it is.

That's kind of the basis of everything to me right now. Me getting by on my own word. Those castles in my head that get visitors, whenever I see that someone wants to hear me out. But I do spend time mapping it all out. Replaying something or imagining something- endlessly in those rooms. I've found that I am unable to have long conversations with anyone because I lose interest while they are talking and find myself roaming around those large, airy rooms of my own. And when it's time for my response, I try not to say the first thing that comes into my mind.

I probably can't stop talking about myself. It's really surprising that when I'm in the company of some specific people, I don't. Does that make me a total hypocrite? Because I probably would like to say something or ask some questions that bubble up inside me and mostly have to do with myself. Is that cowardly? Or is it just something to do with my equation with them?

So, these rooms are large. Pretty well organised. Designed. Some of them are visited way more than the others. And I really think one of them just contains all the things I can't have. One for sure is filled with all the ways I can be the boss of everything. One is all the raison d'etres I have ever felt.

 Do I have castle-to-castle rivalry? Well, yes. Favouritism.

Maybe if it wasn't for my recent lack of productivity, I might have had to keep dousing raging flames in one chamber and then the next. I've had warped visions in some, hazy and smoke-filled, confused. Some with violent flood, damage and destruction. Some morbid with ugly, wild, gesticulating projections on every side, closing in every time I walk in. Some plain painful. Some so intensely beautiful and musical that they end up repressed and locked for fear of losing them.

So it's really nice to be able to enjoy all of this at a simmering temperature. That really sounds a lot like coming-of-age to me. I understand now what it means to be aware of your own self, no matter what ecstatic or pitiable state it may be in. The rooms are no longer random, but chosen, deliberated and necessary. The frequency of their operation is not only emitted but also absorbed. The time taken to understand this is perhaps the most crucial absorption of all. And that each time they are occupied by a conscious me, they evolve.

Nothing beats the human spirit more than change. It's the one unstoppable force, this linear nature of time. And no one can put any numbers on that. No one can read these hopeless numbers.

It's infinitive then, my lack of productivity.  I can call it an imperative journey, an astral must-do, if you ever want to hover above the grind of institutionalized productivity.

Thoughts?  

Follicular - The movie

An AQUEOUS HUMOUR production

FOLLICULAR is a documentary film about the ‘all types that make the world’. In cities and towns where appearances, fashion forwardness, conformity, or the lack of which, marks popular judgement and social constructs, Follicular is an independent film that takes a look at the relative individuality of people.

We introduce the film through commonplace sights and sounds- everyday instances that shape our public personality and perception. The crew explores people of different ages, backgrounds and cultures, with very different ideologies and self-concepts. This is apparent in the three different segments of the film. Follicular is a probe into the consciousness of individuals through a basic physical manifestation, hair. Dressed up, dressed down, non-existent or in irreconcilable conditions, it documents an uncanny exploration of this physical attribute and its internalization.

Follicular is the maiden project of Aqueous Humour productions. On sultry and humid home-town afternoons with friends and a pack of cigarettes, the mind tends to wander around people, conversations, impressions and ideas. Then one tends to make a movie.

-June 2013

Here's also a rough, RANDOM, unfinished trailer of the film, with no subtitles, bad quality sound and confusing edit, which does no justice to its content whatsoever. Still, since we've got no better option at the moment and are very lazy to resume work on this project, watch:

Also, to redeem ourselves, here's a clip of the introduction/opening of the film. May be equally confusing without the remaining the 47 mins of the film, but what the hell. Excuse low upload quality. I've had to reduce from 13.9gb to 40mb!

Music of Follicular by Peter Cat Recording co.

The reason the entire movie isn't online is because last year we had decided to send it out to the film festival circuits once it was complete. Well, it's still not complete. We need to put in one more little clip somewhere in between, subtitle the whole movie, get it approved by the censor board and cut a good trailer, unlike the earlier one. That's a lot of work. And we be lazy. And distracted. And frustrated that we can't get this done with. Vicious loop. All there on a post-it that I look at everyday. 

Ghosts

'Leave that one on', I said, just in time.

Your fingers left the switch. The lamp glowed. Soft, warm and swaying slightly.
As if it were me.

Vitreous

With the moonlight to guide you, feel the joy of being alive. 

The day that you stop running is the day that you arrive.

The night that you got locked in was the time to decide. 

Stop chasing shadows, just enjoy the ride. 

-Enjoy the ride, Morcheeba

22nd Jan 2014-8:59 p.m.

I wish I could pause my mind.

I wish for a moment, I could tell someone, anyone, exactly how I feel. Spill all on a bare canvas, a blank page, soak it drunk in the ink of my thoughts. I am not supposed to repress and bear down this way. At least, let me make the smallest of gesture, an minute exhibit, a glance, a touch, of expression. How I find myself locked within infinite walls and boundaries of conduct and deliberation. Am I going to end up in some sort of mind prison, alone, starving? No, I'm already there. It's a very strange new territory, familiar only at rare times but still so distant and alien. Uncomfortable. Annihilating. Exhausting. Starving. Saddening. Aching. Draining.

Hopeless. 

Midnight insight

Let these words speak.

Let our eyes never meet

cause even if you love me,

what would the people think?

What would they do to you?

They'll just keep fighting

and I'll keep writing, to you.

Even though I fly through the smoke,

doesn't mean I made the flare.

I might have fire in my throat,

doesn't mean I made the flare. 

-Dragon

by Breathe Owl Breathe

Rogue

The winter that I had been waiting for has come and gone. But I'm still
here, trapped inside the ice cube that I slide into my tall glass of amber warmth. I'm covered in cuts and bruises, wounds and injuries of many blows that I delivered to myself lately. I am a shape unhappy with myself, twisting wavy strands of my short hair around a lot after a hot bath to make me feel a little more presentable to myself. I wake up feeling drowsy, from heavy dreams and heavier eyelids, to go about a day that has little to reveal itself for me. When I think about how I have reached here, it all melts into a hazy and fragmented ether. It seems I have lived many lives already and that I'm newborn now, taking shaky steps for the first time with no particular direction in mind. Everyday, I see at least one thing that inspires me, and it may as well be something very small but it's there. It also leaves just as soon as it had come. I've already allowed myself too far into a realm so obscure that I cannot withdraw without some awful tremors.

I've realized that over the last decade or so, my perspective on my self and my reality have changed many times. It's hard to admit that I feel like I have regressed. When I read things that I had written earlier, maybe a few years ago, I am jealous of my old self. How dulling it is to find that I have not moved higher, better. Somewhere, my ego and defiance, faint glimmers of hope, show themselves to me and I like to dwell on them before moving on to another cigarette. More than ever, music has become my constant companion. Just today, I thought about how I used to relish, and really relish, being by myself most evenings. Now I make desperate attempts, and loop playlists, so that the silence doesn't consume me and my thoughts, and possible loneliness. It really is the kind of winter that I wanted to share with somebody. And sure enough, I did find myself warm in the glow of a secret happiness. But just as it started getting comfortable, it was asked to vacate. The madness of contemplation overdid itself.

I'm finally 25 years old. I realize that there's surely a long way to go, maybe in this exact manner, and maybe not. I'm done dealing with juvenile issues like finding my "identity", purpose, and jargon like that. I feel a temporal complacence that is extinguishing what was left of any burning passion and drive to be constructive. I am the looper. I am the bitter-sweet hangover of a beautiful evening, even if for the wrong reasons. I am the drunk call you can count on to pick up the phone. I am an ugly remnant of what used to be a quirky, laughing, predictably tragic entity.

The possibilities of growth are endless. Like an emotional decision taken in haste, spouting off in mad directions, where an infinite chance to seize what ought to be rightfully yours beckons. The sky is clear tonight and the moon almost full. I however, am emphasizing on a zero-content, chock full of bullshit conundrum. An unhealthy type of nothingness. It's the strangest thing you can find your self at- places that you didn't know existed within you, happy places, and yet, a dreary misery over the mess you have made out of it. These cuts and bruises on my body are but reminders that I have been sliding, slipping, clumsily teetering my way through what is NOT the worst and lowest point of my life. Too often I find myself preaching words of advice with such a forceful confidence that even I am alarmed by my vehemence. These words are, of course, what I myself need to hear most. Not that the boomerang has returned back to me. I strap on my jacket of denial and turn face the other way.

Chances are, I am an addict. To nothing in particular, yet certain patterns jump out at me. I tried to psychoanalyze what latent troublesome bit of my past is manifesting itself in me right now. Failed. There is  nothing except for a taste for indulgence that I have acquired. An itch that i just have to scratch. Trouble that I just have to create. Work opportunities that I just have to ignore. A song that I just have to listen to. So indulgent that the opulence of it all disgusts me in return. Friends and acquaintances appear to have evolved, some of which I like, some I look at with mock-interest.  No one seems to be thoroughly disapproving of me and I wonder if anyone, anybody really knows me at all. And where do I begin, if I want to unwrap myself to somebody, without coming across as a half-baked solicitor of poor judgement?

It's all easy to say that I need to take one day at a time. One simple, looped day. One entirely fluctuating, mood-driven, unproductive, cold winter's day. Entirely spent in the hopeless pursuit of unfruitful ventures, rhetorical assurances, meaningless interactions, egotist pride. The magnetic romantism of this type of life is very strong to a mind as fickle as mine right now. There have been choices made that bear testimony that I have absolutely no logical reasoning to my behavior/personality/opinions. But who runs after logic in cases like these? Don't answer that.

That ice-cube that I mentioned will probably melt one day. And I will see that all is fluid around me. Simply water that takes the shape of whatever it is contained in. And the cyclical nature of my days will take shape into a consolidated, meaningful, well-reasoned existence. Healthy, happy, loving, understanding, well-behaved existence. Might even look good on me.