Critique Please !

I am learning that praise stagnates. I would rather have a harsh criticism than a friendly pat on the head. Recently I received a blistering critique for one of my poems from a person whose opinion I value tremendously. Others defended me, praised my work, refuted his charges. His charge was that with first half the poem raised expectations, which I had failed to fulfill in second half. A serious charge indeed. Friends advised me to ignore him, the poem was good, as a poet it was my right to stick to my words.

I re read the poem, understood exactly what he meant, re wrote the second part- which totally improved the poem. It added a closure that the poem badly needed. When I mailed the revised poem to him, he loved the new version but what he admired even more was my ability and willingness to self critique.

When we write it shouldn’t be for a pat on the back, or even instant adulation. We must learn to assess our work dispassionately, comparing it only with the best. If I want to write Humour Let it be compared only with the best humour literature has to offer. My Dad has that attitude. Anytime I make him read my words, his cryptic comment always is- "I have read better".
At first I was hurt by it. I told him "Dad, it’s by ME ! I wrote it" demanding that pat.
He just said – "So ?"

Mediocrity in any form should feel like DEATH to a creative mind.
I realized that to gain my Dad's appreciation I better be in the same league as Mr. Twain or Leacock. A tall order? Of course, but how else will I improve?

My Keepsake Box

My friend's elderly aunt had, what she called, a Keepsake Box filled with vague, unrelated things. Only she knew the significance of things treasured in there. When questioned about any pieces in it , she used to gently take that thing out of my hands, put it tenderly back in the box and give a mysterious smile.’ Just something a friend gave me”she would murmur. We all thought her a bit crazy but I was in love with that box. It stored such exquisite junk . I still remember the faint smell of old 'Attar' which wafted out every time she opened it.

I have seen a lot of ‘Keepsake Boxes ‘since then, filled with of truly fascinating and weird stuff.

Old letters, notebooks of poems, diaries, photographs yellowed with age, dried roses, handkerchiefs, are easy enough. But I really get curious about a bit of pencil, a button, a bit of ribbon (wrapped around a present I suppose), a sea shell, shiny wrappers of chocolates, only ONE earring, truly useless stuff- precious only for the memories attached to them. But the owners of these treasures can spend Hours going through the box and reliving each moment.

I find it difficult to relate with this passion to relive your past through keepsakes. I am a person who merrily throws away old letters, presents, greeting cards, travel mementos to the acute dismay of my more sentimental friends. As soon as the moment is gone, keepsakes become junk. I am generally known to have the sentimentality of a block of granite. In fact, friends have even stopped giving me any presents, even on my birthday.

Of late I have discovered words. I am still very new to this game. What fascinates me is the stories that are inside my head. Now that I have the eyes to see thing, like the boy in the movie Sixth Sense- ‘I can See Stories’!!! People, situations, events which I have witnessed long ago, people whom I have met and forgotten completely have started emerging through these stories. Whenever I write, I like to figure out WHO the person is. Then a shadowy face or a name comes out from my memory.

Recently I wrote about a Character called Tito. Every one liked that story and wanted to know who Tito was. I didn’t know where he had come from. But soon realized that Tito was a cousin, who was something of a Don Quixote with me playing his willing / unwilling sidekick. Then there was Suman, and Father Lobo and Boris.

It’s almost like sitting with my keep sake box. Names, faces, event, incidents, I am learning to mix and match them and create a character. The stories about neighbors, friends, stories I heard from my grandparents, suddenly I realized that I have been surrounded by story tellers all my life.

In the twilight hours with grand mother, pressing and massaging her tired feet and listening to her stories was a daily ritual. I can still hear her soft whispy voice telling me story after story. The family lore was passed on to me this way. Some day I would love to write about the time when dacoits attacked my great grandfather’s haveli, and how he saved the day thru sheer ingenuity.

Or the time when, to teach my gold crazy great grandma a lesson he had a large stone covered in gold and hung on a sturdy chain, and called it Bombay style necklace. She wore the heavy stone around her neck uncomplainingly till her chest started aching. My great grandpa was one smart man with a wicked sense of humour.

And the old parsee man we met on the way to Bordi who gave us a slice of bread each, because it was good to feed dumb animals. An old man with a twinkle in his eyes, he was exquisite. I will always remember him.

…..So many people, so many faces, waiting to have their stories told. I never feel alone with them around.

Now, time and again, I sit with MY keepsake box, remembering, smiling that mysterious smile, or at times feeling a lump in my throat and eyes going misty. Not all stories can be written down.

Tito and the Call girls.

"See, one more girl has gone in" Tito whispered to me urgently. I tried to take a look over my shoulder, but couldn’t. As the nature hadn't designed my neck to turn in 180 degrees, I had to depend entirely on the faint reflections in the glass door opposite me and Tito’s dramatic narration.

We were sitting in a fancy downtown restaurant. as we were meeting after a long time there was a lot of catching up to do. Right in the middle of ‘what happened to ...’ Tito broke off to exclaim in a shocked tone .."I say- these girls look like hook- I mean... call girls. Is this THAT kind of a joint?"

I was a little surprised to find this puritanical streak in Tito. I wasn't sure if I entirely approved.
In this metro city of ours I have stopped worrying about who does what for a living. From Barrister to Bar girl, each has to battle on the same turf every single day.

"Hmmmm ….May be they are" I mumbled into my wine. Having wine for lunch made me feel deliciously decadent. The heavenly aroma of the Balinese Pasta was causing a tingle in my nose. I was finding out that unusual though the combination might sound- Thai food and Merlot was a match made in heaven.

Tito was still focused on the call girls.
"Are they bothering you or something Tito ? Maybe we should talk to the management." I said.

"No-no-no … they are not bothering me. But just look at them! Such gaudy, skimpy, sequined clothes at this time of the day!" The girls had apparently violated not just his moral but also his sartorial conventions.

"It could be a private party you know- girls like to dress up." I tried to reason.

"Party? with Just girls? I don't see any guys! Why would they dress up if no guys?"-Tito's irrefutable reasoning.
So One dresses up only for male approval. Hmmmm. The day was turning out to be quite interesting. Tito was revealing a chauvinistic side which I had not noticed till now.

I swallowed the suggestion that they could be lesbians and uttered a thoughtful ‘Aaaah‘ with a wise nod.

"There is something awfully fishy going on in this place. They keep going in through THAT Door and come out after some time."

I could see that Tito was working up a fine steam. He always did fancy himself a Super Hero on a mission.
"May be some kind of an audition for a show". I felt compelled to offer some explanation.
"Ever heard of the casting couch? It could be THAT racket!" Tito said darkly. "A young girl could be in dire trouble even as we speak. I think I even heard a few shrieks."

I took a good look at the bevy of bubbly girls flitting around like butterflies, each one of them shrieking merrily.
"Naaah, no casting couch happening here, NOT with so many of them around."

I saw a girl disappear through that mysterious door. Now even I had started paying attention. Things were really looking interesting. As Tito had described,they were vanishing and reappearing like magician's assistants. I looked closely at them. None looked like they needed Tito to protect them. I told him to chill and enjoy our lunch in peace.

Suddenly there was a loud cheer of ‘Happy Birthday’ With all girls clapping and waiters striking up the music, it Was a birthday party after all. An All girl party ! I envied those girls. I was tempted to dump Tito and join THEM. The only reason I didn’t was because I wasn’t wearing a glittery-skimpy sequined dress.

We finished lunch, the bill was paid. Tito was now in a generous mood.

"Lets go and wish the B’day girl" He said magnanimously, his good cheer completely restored.

The B’Day girl was busy dancing with the cake platter on her head, so we decided not to bother her. We waved to the group as we left the restaurant.

And that mysterious Door? That turned out to be the Loo.

A New pair Of Glasses

I went to purchase a new pair of glasses. Alone.
Normally having friends along for selection of frame is a given. My friends-superior beings with creative temperament- have very exact and rather fixed ideas about what my face should look like. Don’t blame them really- after all, They are the ones who have to do the ‘looking’ where as I am safely Behind it- looking Out-so to speak.

The moment some one screams - Go get a hair cut, you are looking pathetic- I head out to the stylist,of THEIR choice of course.

So I went to purchase a new pair of glasses. Alone-as it was a working day.
I felt abandoned.
I entered the fancy showroom where I had been ‘Requested' to go.
I cleared my throat and mumbled-‘ I want new glasses’.

A guy- terribly smart in a jazzy pair of glasses- looking suave like the heroes of bygone era smiled kindly at me and reached for the glasses perched on my nose. I couldn’t have been more shocked or surprised if he had reached for the top buttons of my shirt.

I backed off – ‘Hey !’ and glared at him through my glasses.
‘Sorry Ma’am. Just wanted to look at the power.’
‘No need- My doctors prescription is here-‘ I waved it at him.
‘Just show me some good frames- and make the glasses.’
He again made passes at me. He needed the size this time.
I relented.

I stood blinking at a blurry world like a surprised owl.
People with 20-20 vision will never understand how a myopic feels without his glasses.
World gets blurry, you feel that every one is looking at you. Somehow you start talking a little louder as if you are hard of hearing. In an attempt to look 'Normal' your eyes either widen or squint.
You feel helpless like a baby.
The man left with my glasses leaving me alone in the dense fog.
I looked at the street scene. Something bright yellow went slowly past the shop window, could be yellow car, or a fat woman in yellow saree. Even the sales guy had started looking vaguely like young Cary Grant.

The man came back. He had several very trendy looking frames which he kept pushing on my nose, and showing me the mirror.
Now –if I could see myself in the mirror- why the Hell would I be in that shop buying glasses ? I selected a few by size and fit. I soooo missed my friends  And here I was faced by a smug sales person beaming at me ! Of course he was smug. HIS WORLD WAS IN FOCUS!
I tried one frame after the other with a growing feeling of helplessness.
I finally asked him ‘which one should I choose ? ‘
He was clearly taken aback, I don’t think any one ever asked him what he thought.
All he had to do was put frames before people and stand there looking like a moronic Cary Grant.
But he understood my dilemma and got in the act.
He put frame after frame on my nose, looking thoughtful, scurrying off to find a few more frames.
I was fast losing my confidence in him. I looked around. There were a few more guys standing around and watching us with what I thought 'pitying looks'. I invited Them to join us. Now there were 3 people helping me choose. I appealed to the girl at cash counter for a woman’s perspective. She strolled over to the counter and picked a few more, looked at my face , announced in a bored tone that they were all ok and left.
Bitch with an Attitude !!!

Just then one sales guy stepped forward. Why hadn’t he joined the action earlier I couldn’t guess. May be he was waiting to be needed, like now. He took a look at all the frames scattered on the counter and started rejecting them one by one. I could hear him give directions to the other guys. ‘Get that brown one… No not the square one… A one slightly curved…. Too large.. Get smaller frames…She has a small face…’.

I relaxed. I was in safe hands. The other guys started zipping out wonderful frames from the collection which they had kept hidden all this while. He kept pushing then on my nose one after the other. I liked the masterful way he handled my glasses- put them gently yet firmly on my nose, looked keenly and say softly‘ ok lets try this one now.’

I felt like a lamb who had found her master !
Finally we settled for one pair, I looked at Him for approval and got it. I looked around and saw beaming faces of other sales people- who were clearly relieved to have me finish my business.

I put my old glasses back on and the world was back in focus.
I was all business now, as if to make up for my earlier stupidities .
I briskly opened my wallet, zipped out my impressive credit card, handed it to my benefactor, guide and guardian angel and asked ‘When do I come for them?’

‘Oh ! I don’t work here. Just waiting for them to deliver My glasses.’

A Battle Won

My friend’s mom was diagnosed positive for the cancer of breast.I could relate with the trauma the woman must have gone through.The dreaded ‘C’ word-Countless stories about the dread of chemotherapy. Loss of hair, more than that, the loss of a breast .

My friend, a male, was confiding in me about his mother’s condition. Both he & his father were distraught at the thought of the operation, & the subsequent loss of a woman’s prized part of anatomy- her sign of ‘womanliness’- The Breast ‘!!! He wanted to know about the operation- how much damage will it do to her breast, will they carve carefully & remove only the malignant cells or cut it off completely?
Do they have to ??? Isn’t there some way The Breast can be saved?
To me, this was a prime indicator of universal male attachment & preoccupation with The Breast.

I answered patiently, as well as I could. It seemed to me that the fear was more within these two males in the family, the lady was fairly composed. I told him that with the fear of cancer recurring & spreading in future, it’s better to remove the breast completely. According to me, at 60 the woman had outlived the need to have a functional ( ?? ) breast. Her baby was now in mid thirties.

We had gone through a similar scenario in my house just a couple of years earlier. My mom had to go under the knife for the same reason but it was my Dad who told the doctors to remove the breast & further spread of cancer completely. A woman needs such an support from her man .

I felt my friend & his father shouldn’t have agonized over the loss. That must have made her feel even more incomplete and damaged.

Fables & Myths talk about Amazons, the race of warrior women who chose to remove a breast for easier & accurate archery. These one breasted women were a force to reckon with through out the world. I see a newly emerging race of urban Amazons around me, Women who have fought & won Their battles with cancer. Victors -each one of them.
It’s high time men too learnt to salute their courage.

The Tao of Windows.

( This is an entry from my old Blog. It is carried over in this one because my hopeless Inaptitude about all things windows still remains unshaken. )

Creating this blog was not an easy task. You may not believe me- but after creation this blog was lost....twice……Geeta will vouch for that.

Let me get one thing off my chest, I am just not a computer savvy person.
I went to the shop to buy a book to learn how to work with the windows. There were big – colorful books , Some were illustrated with pretty cartoons & what not. I admired the pictures, liked the glossy pages of the books – even managed Not to flinch when I read some of the prices …… but the problem came when I had to choose between ‘Windows for Idiots’ & ‘Windows for Dummies’.
I thought for a long time .. but couldn’t make up my mind where I fit in- Idiots or dummies. I even thought about taking a poll with my friends on this matter – but the names THEY usually call me by– nobody has written any books about Them yet !!!! At least, not pretty glossy ones with pictures.

Over the years I had learnt to live with computers, from an uneasy truce our relationship has progressed to actual affection & tolerance. But that doesn’t mean I understand my buddy. The words –‘ fatal error’ used to make me want to rush to call for an ambulance – we are all conditioned to fear some words- fatal is one of them. The only time I like that word is when people describe my charms as ‘fatal’ ;)
Then there is HTML & there is ‘Flash ‘. There was a time when ‘Flash’ had a different meaning. My way of spring cleaning is deleting every crucial file on my hard disk :P I am the sort of person who deletes the original program because there already exists a short cut on the desk top :P

Till this day I am unlearnt in the ways of the windows. The best use for them I think is for jumping out …………