Whats in a Story?
 The Jaipur Literature festival this year was brought to the limelight on account of injustice to Mr. Rushdie. But what also happened there was that people flocked united in the search of the next big story. No not the press, media hype kind - but the real McCoy, the real deal - the quest of a story. There even was a discussion with a set of very esteemed panellists including Javed Saab on ‘Kahani Kisse Kehtein Hain’. I must add here that I did not attend the Lit Fest this year, but I write nevertheless about it – such is the power of words, you can experience, retell, dream about something, anything real or not.


What lies within a story? In the last 6 months I interacted with writers across the world in a forum by the Oxford University on Creative writing. The forum was not so much about ‘learning’ to write good stories (can you?) but about interacting with authors who come from various walks of life. We all gathered and talked about stories we read and each one of us always had a different take on the works of the said author. Virginia Woolf's Kew Gardens – is it about beauty? Or are the details tiring? Or The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman - what works in that story? Is it the desperation of the woman stuck within the walls of her room, is it her imagination or is it actually her insanity that we read about, spiralling out of control?

In the last 6 months I also had a chance to move from being an author to wearing the hat of an editor. Grey Oak Publishers had a novel idea – a collection of stories on the theme of love. But no, not the mushy variety, but love in all its hues. Stories that broke your heart. Stories that were set in ‘our’ world. The Pièce de résistance? The opportunity to work with debutant and seasoned authors. The Landmark and Grey Oak short story competition had brought to light several new authors and their stories, and this was the chance to work together and build something out of nothing.

So the question then was what makes a story? How do you select a story out of a heap of gems? And more importantly, the writer inside me asks – what sort of story should one write? To answer this would be tough. So I read. Satyajit Ray, Manto, Haruki Murakami, Ruskin Bond.. Then I read more – Virginia Woolf, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, W.W. Jacobs. And then I returned to the stories shortlisted for the collection written by so many talented authors.

What I found was this. A story is something that has soul. It could be a familiar place that you travel to. Or a new one. It could be a horrible character or an endearing one. It could be past tense or present. It could be something that stays with you for days. Or it could leave you, resolving the story’s inherent conflict, in the moment that you read the last line. In all of this and in any of this alone, lies the heart of the story. The reason why it was written. To exist as a person, as a being, with its own magical identity.
This year I’ve been published twice with 2 books and 3 stories. Turning Editor has helped me ‘see’ things I once glanced over – this includes grammar, punctuation etc but more importantly includes tuning my mind to the world and its stories in a more holistic way. The marketer in my brain is cueing me to tell you about the books I’m in and here they are – ‘Urban Shots Bright Lights’ and the valentine special ‘Urban Shots – The Love Collection’ also edited by me. Please pick these books up. If not for me then to read new authors and have a new experience through those pages.

Have my own stories hit that mark? I don’t know. But as with any author – new or old- we must discover and explore our worlds in the hope of putting to paper something that we processed through the sieve of our perception. And then we must write of it nakedly. Therein lies the soul of the story. Therein lies the key to answering ‘Kahani Kisse Kehtein Hain”.

5 Things You Didn't Know about the Summer in the Middle East

So you have heard that the temperature soars to 50 degrees in the noon time in the Middle East.. but did you know:

1. You can find burst car tyres on the roads. Something as small as a rock can do it cuz the roads are so hot and when the rubber hits the road in this weather, even a teeny tiny rock can have catastrophic consequences.

2. No one is smelly - Perfumes are sold in the truck load. The nationals here use Itr which is a concentrated version of perfume and as they walk by, you will only get hints of lemon, musk and Frankincense

3. This one is for my fellow ladies. Its wise to hestitate before you use the jet spray and taps in the bathrooms. The water here is so hot that I actually scalded my fingers today while trying to foam the face wash. You can imagine the rest of the 'challenges' on this one.

4. They wear a burqa for a reason. In the day time, it is criminal to subject your skin to those harsh rays. I once went out wearing shorts, thinking I need a 'cool look' for a hot day. I came back red and blistered. The clothing just protects you from the harsh sun.

5. Never leave your sunglasses in the car. Neil tried doing this once. And he's still applying aloe vera to the spot where the glasses sat on his face.

The Bottle That Travelled


Those who know me know that I come from a cross cultural background. My dad’s a rajput from Himachal and my mom’s a mallu. I speak a smattering of Malayalam, accented in all the wrong places and am mostly confused for a Bengali than, well, a mallu-rajput.

A day ago, my dad landed in Muscat Oman and brought with him a bottle of oil (?!) as a present for me. Which brings me to the subject of this story.

It all started when my mother visiting my house many months earlier made a heartbreaking observation. My hair wasn’t as lovely as it used to be. Now you have already been introduced to the fact that she is from Kerala. Add to this the revelation that ‘Leela aunty’ (pronounced Leela aundy) was in Chingoli, Kerala on one of her ayurvedic treatment trips and lo and behold, my mother had found a solution to all of my woes. A call was made at precisely 8pm Muscat time and Leela aunty was briefed.

2 days later 3 bottles wrapped in the local newspapers and restrained in a million rubber bands was handed over to Leela aunty. Leela aunty then handed them over to my uncle Joy (cuz only names in Kerala can be so vibrant) in his town of Chenngannur. The bottles were then handed over to his daughter who was visiting from Delhi, Shiny Chaychi (Malayalam for sister, she’s my cousin). Shiny Chaychi brought the bottles to Delhi and handed them over to someone in my dad’s church. On the next Sunday, after service, the bottles were handed over to my dad. My dad tied a few more rubber bands and cello taped it till a drop didn’t dare slither away. He boarded the flight to Muscat and arrived a day ago. Bottles in tow.

It took me a total of 30 minutes to unwrap one of these bottles. It had been mummified to the point that when the bottle actually revealed itself, it was a David of the Goliath of the layers of paper and cellophane that its personality once exuded. On the label, a scribbling of Malayalam.

For the sake of the travel its endured and the hands its changed, I hope my hair will be shiny once again.

Being 29. For a Day.

As I write this note, I am just a few hours away from turning 3 decades old.


30.

Most women would refrain from publishing their age stats on any kind of medium so I guess one thing age has made me is brave. I have spent the first hour today thinking about how I would like to spend the last day of my twenties something. Movie, shopping, friends? I have finally zeroed it down to not rushing, but enjoying the day - as it comes.


They say that in your 30s you come 'into' your own. I look back at the last 9 years - college, my first job, falling in love, getting married, making friends, making enemies!, late nights at work, my terrible back injury in 2005, job interviews, driving to work - there are so many memories. Each of which have helped me become a more 'settled' person.

So as personal achievements Before my 30th birthday, Ive debuted as an author, learned to pick myself up from my injuries, become a better professional, friend, daughter, aunt, sister.

And as my good friend Khalil Gibran puts it "Your living is determined not so much by what life brings to you as by the attitude you bring to life; not so much by what happens to you as by the way your mind looks at what happens.”

A day away from 30 actually feels really good.

Down the Road : My Debut as an Author!

A bunch of friends gathered around the top of a lounge bar on the evening of the farewell of the 3 Musketeers, Manu, Sneh and Pranav. Bosses say kind words, friends wish us luck.


And then one word sticks – Sneh, write, this may be the chance for you to become author.

Several months pass, blogs written, short stories in Oman – and then I meet the folks at Grey Oak, a publishing house who innocently ask – Would you be interested to write?

Hop. Skip. Jump.
Hop Again.

Months later, here’s Down the Road – an anthology of campus stories that remind you of those “good ol days” when Maggie constituted for breakfast, lunch and sometimes dinner; Professors took interesting names such as “Mendakk”; and romance was about “liking” someone. In this upcoming release you will find in print 2 of my stories written after much reminiscing and coffee.(Hop. Skip. Jump)

Coming to bookstores across India, Landmark/Crosswords/Reliance with the launch dated from first week of April at various cities : Delhi, Mumbai, Pune, Bangalore, Chennai, Hyderabad.


Watch this space for more!

Short Stories in Oman : I lash out




It must be the moon.
It makes me feel different each time.
Out beyond, I see you - you with your family telling your kids to be safe
You with the lover, holding hands and watching the sunset
You with the lonely gaze, standing there watching your footprints disappear
I reach out to the shore, only to drift back again
I want to be a part of your memories, but I have to return home
There is a stirring deep within me
But I must always be lonely, this is my destiny
I must always be a wave, a ripple, a river, a stream.

I must always be alone.

For I am the sea.

(Written at Qantab Beach in Oman where the waves lash out at your feet, almost wanting to drag you away with it)

Short Stories in Oman : A Morsel full of compassion
As the smell of fried chicken wafts into her living room, Shanta Sunderaman realises it is too late. It had become her daily 10am ritual to run to the windows and seal them shut to avoid the smell of non vegetarian cooking from floating into her impeccable maintained Brahmin house. But alas, she would have to do her "dhoop batti" puja and chants again to purify her space.

For months after moving into her little apartment across her husband's office in Muscat's business district, Ruwi, she had complained about how difficult it was to follow their age old traditions. "But this not India, Shanta.." her husband had refrained.."we must adjust". So now Shanta did all she could to stay true to her gods.



But today she had had enough, "atleast she can close her window!!" she thought to herself as she marched to drape a yellow dupatta over her new suit, saris are so much easier but "One must adjust!". She avoids the lift and walks down a flight of steps and rings on the doorbell of Flat 14.



Almost instantly the door opens revealing a sweaty faced woman in a Hijab* (*A scarf wrapped around a woman's face). "OH!! its not the delivery man!" exclaims Miriam and smiles. "I am Miriam and you must be the new Indian family upstairs, come sister, don't be shy" and she opens her door to reveal an array of trays laid out on the floor and tables.


Shanta opens her mouth to say something but decides against it and walks in precariously.

Miriam rattles away "You see, I am a single mother and I make non vegetarian lunch meals for working Indians in these offices. The money is not very good but it helps me get by and I was waiting for my delivery man who is late AGAIN today!"


"And how rude of me - I didn't even ask your name!, Anything I can do to help you my sister?"


Shanta puts down her dupatta on a sofa close by "I am Shanta, Can I help you chop those vegetables - you look like you could use some help.." She smiles and rolls up her sleeves.

Short Stories in Oman : On a Zephyr



The sun streamed into the room lazily through the mosaic tiled windows. Rafeeq rubs his eyes and leaps out of his bed. He goes over to his new spider man bag, bought after much pestering and then many thank yous "Shukran abba Shukran" to his father. His new books with the gleaming brown paper covering are lined neatly inside. He bends over and takes a deep whiff which tranforms into a smile on his face.


"Yalla !!" - his mother yells from the kitchen, hands smeared in the lunch she is packing for him. "You don't want me to come there! Get ready!" Rafeeq quickly runs to the bath, half mindedly washes his face and brushes. Its his first day of school and he dreams of running around the playground, kicking ball and scoring goals over dust clouds kicked up by his opponents on the other team.


********


"Yalla Badar!" Rafeeq's mom yells again. "You will be late for your first day at school". Badar clumsily picks up his new spiderman bag and heads towards the door where his father waits. "Atleast say bye to your brother!", Badar throws a glance at Rafeeq who is now attached to more tubes than he can count.


I would say bye to him, but can he even hear me..he thinks.

Dev D !!

Dev D has done it. A modern twist to the weepy saga of a love struck maniacal romeo who turns self destructive. Abhay Deol plays the role of a new age (and very hunky) Devdas who loses his true love Paro (played by Mahe Gill) by trusting a scheming third party. Mahe Gill plays role of a small town girl who is (secretly) sexually liberated and not afraid to express her true feelings for Dev.
The plot and screen play is beautifully adapted to show modern issues and the relevance of a classic tale like Devdas in a modern world. Whether it is the long distance love between Dev and Paro and internet exchange of mails and nude pics(!) or the planning of their little tryst in the fields; both Abhay Deol and Mahe Gill play their roles to the T.
I was slightly disappointed by the casting of the lady who played Chanda ( Chandramukhi) in the film, but the character was meaty enough to hide any big flaws. Abhay Deol too has shown that he can pick films that showcase his talent whether it was Oye lucky or DevD.
The real winner is whoever did the camera work on the film – Dev’s drunkenness is captured magically with high speed visuals and interesting angles. The background score is to die for – Emotional Aatyachar this one is not!

Hamlet - The Clown Prince

Over the last weekend visit to Mumbai, I had the good fortune to watch a play at the Prithvi theatre. The play titled “Hamlet, The clown prince” has been running to rave reviews and packed houses for days and so it was only proper to drag myself out of a nice Saturday slumber.

Hamlet, the great Shakespearean tragedy, vividly charts the course of real and feigned madness—from overwhelming grief to seething rage—and explores themes of treachery, revenge, incest, and moral corruption.

This play however, was an interpretation from the eyes of 6 clowns. The tone of dialogue delivery is a “French English” where repertoire of dialogue is played out with a French accent.

The play begins with the protagonist, a soulful yet sad clown doing somewhat of a high speed summary of the plays great moments. What is commendable is the way the actor was able to spin out such a realistic “fast forward” of the storyline. One would imagine a play of the nature that is Hamlet to be a serious and text book version of the great play written by Shakespeare. But it is the playwright’s ingenuity with which this tragedy has been transformed into a witty, humorous screen play.

The actors on stage – many of whom I regret not to know the names of – were remarkable in the way every actor on stage should be. The dialogue perfect, the timing was spot on. What was interesting to note was the quick wit displayed by them while interacting with the audience. Prithvi is quite an intimate theatre and so the laughter shared seemed like that amongst good friends. I would like to see how this translates in a theatre like the NCPA with its capacity for larger crowds.

And if this wasn’t enough- the play goes straight on for 2 hours(or was it more.. can’t tell… was having such a great time), no breaks.

For those of you who haven’t caught this yet- please do yourself a favour and put this on your to do list for this month.

Wet Sand

My next couple of blogs will be on the greatest written love songs in the world of rock and alternative music. It is in music that I found great insight and meaning into the world of love and the emotions it brings out.

While this is not necessarily the best of all love songs- In “Wet Sand” I found a melancholy feeling in its melody and the lyrics. Here’s my interpretation of this song. The song begins with the protagonist talking about his shadow side being amplified.. meaning all he feels next to him is his shadow when he wants this loved one to be there. But in the presence of his shadow he feels dissatisfied and alone. Its all very “elementary” and obvious to him.. but its also frustrating. In his innocent love affair with everywhere he talks about the wanderlust he has been a part of but that it means nothing. He knows that this person “is the best I know” and the line seems deeper that it appears.

In the agony of being apart from the one he truly loves, he feels his “sunny side has up and dried”. He knows that with every collision or argument his universe shifts into a new low. He realizes that what he did not recognize his true feelings for this person and he them for a momentary high of power in the relationship. (“The travesties that we have seen, Are treating me like Benzedrine”)

He goes on to dream of being with this person.. walking in the sun.. getting to know her and saying that he’d really try. He wants to make her his bride and leaves the thought hanging of who its for the better for.

The second part of the song goes on about how Norma Jean’s despair (Marilyn Monroe) is nothing compared to what she seems to be going through. He’s thought about it now and he has no doubt.. perhaps this is after he seems to have lost this love.

The last part of this song is the part which blows me over. The lyrics could mean a million things for each time it is sung. It has this strange quality of sounding different and possibly meaning all of the different things each time its sung out-
“You don’t form in the Wet Sand” – He knows now that she is divine and of an angelic quality and so she does not form in the wet sand.
“You don’t form in the Wet Sand” – When he walks he sees his footprints and not hers and he wishes for a second chance.
“You don’t form in the Wet Sand” – He is with this person but every time he wants to hold on to her, she washes away like the wet sand.
“You don’t form in the Wet Sand” – He finds her temperamental and does not know if he has her or she even exists or if it’s just a part of an illusion.

The song has a quality of going back and forth in time periods, sometimes reminiscing and sometimes talking about a moment in the present. Its lyrical genius makes it impossible for a reader to understand whether the protagonist is talking about the now or the past.

And for those of you who haven’t heard or paid attention to the lyrics, here it is:

Wet Sand - Red Hot Chilli Peppers
My shadow side, so amplified,
Keeps coming back dissatisfied
Elementary son but it's so...
My love affair with everywhere was innocent,
Why do you care?
Someone start the car time to go...
You're the best I know

My sunny side has up and died,
I'm betting that when we collide
The universe will shift into a low
The travesties that we have seen
Are treating me like Benzedrine
Automatic laughter from a pro

My, what a good day for a walk outside
I'd like to get to know you a little better, baby,
God knows that I really tried

My, what a good day for a take out bride
I'd like to say we did it for the better of

I saw you there, so unaware,
Those hummingbirds all in your hair
Elementary son but it's so...
The disrepair of Norma Jean
Could not compare to your routine
Balarama beauty going toe-to-toe

My, what a good day for a... let it slide
I'd like to say we did it for the better of

I thought about it, and I brought it out
I'm motivated by the lack of doubt
I'm consecrated, but I'm not devout
The mother, the father, the daughter, yeah

Right on the verge, just one more dose
I'm traveling from coast-to-coast
My theory isn't perfect, but it's close
I'm almost there, why should I care?
My heart is hurting when I share
Someone open up and let it show

My, what a good day for a walk outside
I'd like to think we did it for the better of

I thought about it, and I brought it out
I'm motivated by the lack of doubt
I'm consecrated, but I'm not devout
The mother, the father, the daughter, ohhhhh

You don't form in the wet sand,
You don't form at all
You don't form in the wet sand.