Lapses of lingy…

Gloria In Excelsis Deo


…In unison we belt out these sacrosanct lyrics which mean ‘Glory Be To God In The Highest’. 

’We’ are an eclectic bunch of individuals who have come together to experiment. And the result is ‘Showboat’, an ‘experimental’ jazz group. Showboat is religiously conducted by Alan, a confirmed jazz addict and musician extraordinaire. The man is quite a wizard where it comes to his knowledge of music and he is well-versed with the subtle nuances of every genre of music right from classical to jazz to Broadway and fusion. 

The choir is experimental for many reasons. One being that even though we function as a choir, we also pride ourselves in going solo. Yes, every one of us who will do own rendition of numbers which complement our timbre, tone, pitch and persona. Alan visualizes me as the protagonist of Sunset Boulevard. Now that’s a scary thought because she is an erstwhile Hollywood star who has now lost her sheen, and who is still desperately trying recapture her days of glory. She falls madly in love with a younger man and plays the  woman scorned when he falls in love with another. Alan also visualizes me as Mary Magdalene, the whore who loves Christ. This does a lot for my ego now, doesn’t it? 

I sing from the pit of my tummy, with flair and zest, but squirm silently within. Because I am agnostic. I was born into ‘God-fearing’ Roman Catholic family and stick out like a sore thumb in a palm of God-fearing fingers. As a girl I went to church as do the brigade of ‘good catholic’ girls and boys. But one fine day I asked myself, “Why?”

Why do I subject myself to lackluster, ignoramus sermons Sunday after Sunday?Why must I listen to O So bourgeoisie church choirs?  Why must I give excuses to Peter, Paul and Harry as to why I no longer wish to attend mass?

I am a rationalist and if given a cause to believe, I will believe. But sans proof, faith in an imageless entity is proving to be a difficult task. I cannot force myself to believe or practice organized religion. 

So what do I believe in? I believe in love, peace, hope and humanity. I believe in being tolerant, unprejudiced and forgiving. If one cannot believe and practice these mortal virtues then what immortal virtues are we trying to attain through organized religion?   

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Turquoise Blues

A statement, an action, a display of pure indifference all enough to trigger off a sense of inadequacy, a feeling that sits on the edge of human consciousness, ready to attack at any moment. This moment is wretched, a moment when the world feels like a hopeless place to live in, a moment when I feel the need to curl up in the foetal position in some obscure corner of the world, far away from the madding crowd, groping for reassurance. Away from jealousy, insecurity, animosity and mediocrity until I manage to recuperate from this maddening spell of self-doubt and negativity, and step back with into the periphery of human contact with a fresh dose of self-esteem.  
 
Contrary to my image of ‘invincible independent woman of today’, I have fallen emotionally prey to the insensitive attitudes of mere mortals. These individuals have manifested their personal appeal in the deep recesses of my sensibilities and as hard as I try, it’s proving difficult to shake off these chimeras that hold me captive.

At times like this the present seems unbearable and the future grim. It reminds me of being marooned indoors when a downpour of rain outlives its romantic appeal. At times like this a quote by Eleanor Roosevelt comes to mind. She said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

The meaning of these words ring true, but the principle is harder to live by than to appreciate.

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Creative Ways To Convey Mundane Messages…

Will you be my shopping conscience?
You want valuable inputs while shopping for the latest additions to your wardrobe and you think a certain guy (could be friend, boyfriend or hubby) is up to the challenge. This line will prick his conscience before he manages to say ‘NO’.

I am feeling creatively bankrupt.
(Contributed by my eloquent friend Altaf Abid)
A way to tell your boss that your reservoir of creative juices has just dried up.

I want to listen to ‘soothing music to massage the weary muscles of my mind’.
A genre of music which helps your mind de-stress. The choice of music could vary from head-banging heavy metal to mind-numbing pop depending upon the sensibility of the person.  

This one falls under ‘Conversations With Myself’
I wish I could step out of myself and swat me.
Your inner voice, pleading with you whilst you are in the process of doing something exceedingly stupid. Like making out with some moron when you are totally pissed. Or settling for an unappealing figure whilst negotiating with your soon-to-be boss even though your gut tells you that you are worth more and hence should be quoting a more appropriate figure.

Wanna add to this list?

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Today I am totally bogged down with work…and it’s a bloody saturday of all things! I have this sneaky feeling that I am turning into a workaholic without even realizing it!…

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Now Why Does Altaf Like Rushdie? …

Today is one of those days when nothing particularly fetching comes to mind to write home about, so do forgive me for meandering in my train of thought. I should mention though that ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ by the immortal Charles Dickens is proving to be a worthy read. His writing is so visual that the reader can picturize in his mind’s eye, every subtle nuance of the scene being described.

That’s the true talent of a good writer, though you might beg to differ. For instance my buddy Altaf, swears by Salman Rushdie, but honestly I cannot make head nor tail of what the man babbles on about. What do you have to say about this Altaf?

On a different note, last night I met up with an acquaintance from college who we shall refer to as Hawthorne. Now this particular individual is a good friend of another good friend of mine from college. He also happened to have a 4-day relationship with yet another friend of mine during those footloose ‘n’ fancy-free college years.

Cutting to the present, I serendipitously kept bumping into him every now and then, so we exchanged digits and decided to meet up. The plan was to catch some authentic Goan fare at a restaurant in Bandra. The meal turned out to be some chef’s convoluted idea of Goan food! Thankfully the company was more engaging.

In the course of the conversation, my friend admitted that my reputation in college was anything but Epicurean! He considered me to be all pious, prim ‘n’ proper. And this picture of piety was painted for his benefit by none other than my friend of the 4-day relationship! Hmmm… Well, I suppose no one expected this juvenile to be capable of any delinquent tendencies. Now, some of my friends may beg to differ…!
 
Wicked ole’ me decided to have a little fun at the cost of dear mum. I zipped across an email to the old romantic, relating the events of my night out, being particularly felicitous whilst describing the profile of my friend. He works for an international research agency. He is Goan. He is single. And he makes intelligent conversation. Am still awaiting a reply from her…he he he!

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A Buttclenching Fetish…

Today has sprung up just way too many ups and downs for a mere mortal like me to handle! …arrogant people, crazy people, dumb people, people of all mind-sets, people with fetishes and people with not-yet-but-soon-will-be diagonised mental illnesses.

For instance I know this one individual who goes by the handle of ‘buttclencher’ and gets obsessive about it. If you find a ‘buttclencher’ chatting on Yahoo! or MSN messenger, doling out ‘gyan’( Hindi word for knowledge but read here as unsolicited advice) on a discussion forum or blogging furiously, it’s him…my friend with a buttclenching fetish!

Now let me tell you about the people in my office…there are a bunch of designers who think they have conquered the universe by their sporadic spasms of creativity…then there is a dumb bimbo who thinks she knows it all, but in reality knows absolutely zilch…then there is a Bengali Babu whose witticisms and spontaneous repartees manage to salvage any dull day…then there is the boss who mails me precisely 652 times a day…

I must also relate a strange experience I had at the Olive lounge Bar, a popular watering hole in Bandra. My ex-roommate and myself dropped in for a drink…we bumped into some acquaintance for hers who adopted us for the evening. A drunken friend of his also found us and fell in love with us instantly. She proceeded to pour out the story of her life, while we played Agony Aunts and listened politely. 3 drinks down and we called for the cheque, our friend insisted rather vociferously on footing the bill( featuring abominable figures) and then proceeded to drop us home. We never set eyes on this odd couple ever again!

BTW, my masquerade as ‘Epicurean’ was busted! The real miss-creant showed up. She is sensuous indeed! 

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                                The Life And Times Of

Her name means ‘African Warrior Princess’. Her voice is soothing and borders on the husky. Her music seems ethereal.

Her music came into my life at a time when I really needed to hear those profound words and soothing tones. Her music gently massaged the weary muscles of a tired mind and worked like emotional balm on a broken heart.

Those metallic sounds  made me realise that life must go on, that tomorrow just might hold the promise of an interesting new development. My favourite songs from her album ‘Life For Rent’ are ’stoned’ and ’see you when you’re 40′. They echoed my sentiments when the time was ripe and they gave me strength and courage to wake up to a new day and stare it in the face without flinching.

Surpirsingly, this woman who is today one of UK’s largest artists, was written off by brother Rollo, at a young age. But Dido persisted and made it big. She may not be every guy’s typical eye candy-poster girl, but it’s very likely that her music features in your CD collection.  

Don’t try singing to her lyrics though, because they are not very singable. The words don’t dress up the main tune or beats very well. Many words sort of just linger on and fit unevenly around the beats and you will be left wondering when the next lyric comes in. Tricky but very exciting to sing nevertheless.

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* Epicurean* …Is How The World Perceives Me!

In a strange development through a yahoo groups forum, I discovered how I am perceived by certain individuals. The story goes like this…this particular clique comprising of cousins and their friends, decided to include me in their onlne dalliances. I subscribed to the forum and proceeded to check the previous posts from other members of the forum.

Apparently, some anonymous individual who goes by the name of Epicurean has also joined the happy group of friends. Who could this mystery person be? My cousin Sandeep insists that it must be Ms. Diniz. Savio vouches that it’s me.

By definition Epicurean means ‘ a devotee of sensual enjoyment’. So I played along and confessed that I am the ‘mystery woman’. Meanwhile the real miss-creant is still flirting with anonymity!

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 Transmission…A Must-Read

If you like books, especially ones with an element of satire you, will enjoy Transmission by Hari Kunzru. I picked it up on a whim at the Goa airport while in transit. For once I did a very bourgeois thing by purchasing a book which has generated lots of media hype in recent times and commanded the proverbial “one million dollar advance”.

When I buy a book, I always read the first sentence of chapter one. I do not read reviews or the epilogue printed on the back cover because they tend to make one prejudiced and often tend to dictate how one ought to think. The first sentence of Transmission seemed alright. It gave me a feeling that this book will be filled with insights about the world and how it functions. I like books which decipher the subtle nuances that we tend to miss in the chaos of daily life. Our intuition spells out something to us, something which we cannot fathom because our intuition seems intangible. But the truth is that it is tangible. If we bother to dissect each hunch, we will realise that there is a logical reason why we feel the way we do, even if our minds demand otherwise..

Back to Transmission. It’s the story of 3 individuals, each nursing their own own ambitions, hopes and dreams in a world filled with unscrupulous people. Arun, the IT-geek from IIT,  Leela, the No. 1 actress in Bollywood and Guy, the new-age advertising guru.

Arun hails from India and travels to America to carve a niche for himself. He discovered that life is n peice of cake on the other side of the world. Finally he lands a job and a good one at that. He’s a virgin and gets deflowered by a tatooed, bisexual American woman. The experience is sacrosant for him and he visualises himself to be in love. He is ecstatic. But little does he knows that his world will come crumbling down any moment. He gets the pink slip. Life begins to fall apart and he must take adequate measures to sustain his job…

Leela Zahir, is the flavour of Bollywood. The face that sells on the silver screen has an expression that does not reach her vacant eyes. She has a mother-from-hell who plots and plans her career to scratch and in the scheme of things makes her do some unmentionable things…

Guy Swift, is the fast-talking, savvy ‘ideas’ man. He owns an ad agency known as Tomorrow *,  ‘possesses’ a sexy girlfriend, Gabrielle, jet-sets from from one place to another, appearences portray that he has the world at his feet…or at least that’s what he feels. Suddenly, the venture capitalist which funds the agency threathens to pull the plug…

Gabrielle, eye candy to many has a brain and sensitivity to match. She plays a significant role in the story…

In the meantime, a virus known as Leela.exe dances her way through millions of computer screens, wreaking havoc across the world. Who started the virus, and how does it affect the lives of our central characters?   

My verdict is that it’s a gripping read, but I must warn you that the ending is abrupt. BUT I still recommend  Transmision. After all, it’s not only the destination that matters, but also the journey.

This journey was worth the trip. 

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Zombies At The Gym

It’s 7:15 a.m. I hear the wail of a siren. It gets louder. My saccharine sweet dreams are nipped in the bud. I wrestle with the sheets and try to locate the source of the racket. My cellphone alarm urges me to wake up, and stick to my resolution of keeping gym appointments.

I stumble out of bed, fight off Mr. Sandman and stare with a feeling of impending doom outside the window. Sunshine is lost in the horizon and all that stares back is the prospect of a rain-filled day of slow trains and yucky feet. I begin the morning trudge through the chill of the breeze, chocolate-brown slush and a violent downpour of rain.

My resolve is strong. I make it to the gym, a snazzy looking outfit equipped with a steam room, compact lockers, a low-fat food bar and trendy equipment. 3 women are sitting at the reception discussing the latest in Page 3 gossip.

The self-absorbed career-oriented set are already huffing and puffing their way to fitness nirvana. The best machines located in the line of vision of the television set are already taken. Today’s broadcast is eye candy in the guise of raunchy music videos. Everyone seems lost in their own train of thought, possibly plotting and planning their manoeuvres for the day ahead.

My new discman keeps me company. A CD belts out dance music and techno beats. With peppy music in my ears, my pessimism dissipates and paves the way for progressive thoughts. Like the hard-bound copy of a Charles Dickens’ A Tale of two Cities which waits to be read, a google search  on the life and times of Dido which needs to be conducted and the weekend which needs to be eagerly anticipated in the next 4 days.

After an hour of cardio, breakfast follows at the low-cal gym bar. I sip on freshly crushed watermelon juice and tuck into a surprisingly yummy, supposedly low calorie chicken wrap at super-subsidised rates.

I look in the mirror. The light bounces off my cheeks. It’s a good sign. My skin is glowing. I feel pleased…

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