Category Archives: real

Women and Men in My Life by Khushwant Singh or telltales on the rich and (not so) famous

Khushwant Singh may his soul rest in peace. In the time which has elapsed his soul must have found a body. We will know when the writer in the person starts to erupt out of its being.

Khushwant Singh’s memoir Women and Men in My Life is divided into two parts, women he knew or wanted to know (I have a good reason for saying that) in the first part and men he knew in the second part. Twelve women and eight men, in fact.These are sort of character sketches not critical portraits but nevertheless sharp, witty and provocative reading material. If you like to gossip behind people’s backs that is.

He loved women with beauty and personality and was bowled over by women who had both. He was drawn to different women, like moth to flame to seek out their stories. He wanted to be captivated and captivate them, spend time with them to understand where they came from, how it shaped their personality and made them who they are.  Women he wrote about varied from Amrita Shergill (the only name I was familiar with) to the beggar maid who he didn’t know, to people who formed a part of his social circle.

The men he wrote about, in far less detail I might add, included Chetan Anand and Inder Sain Johar among others.

Khushwant Singh appeared to be an incorrigible gossip, taking great pleasure in exposing others and loved a scandal. What I liked  about him ,was that he was a great sport when the joke was on him and thought nothing of saying what he felt, even if it was downright offensive. He lived life on his own terms and was completely unapologetic about his choices. But how his wife and family put up with it, is what I would like to know.

Sometimes it is hard to believe that it is about real people he’s met during his lifetime.  Too saucy for it to be believable and sarcastic to the point of being caustic.

While reading this book the omnipresent question in my head manifested even more strongly- how much liberty can a writer take? And how many friends walked out of his life in a huff or threatened to kill him, after the book got released?I can never do what he did, writing an expose on people he knew personally and some he called friends.

I read the book in between hospital visits so I can’t be a fair judge of the writing but addictive it definitely was. When I was in the hospital. It promptly lost its charm when I came home. Only to be picked up again when I needed to be distracted.

This is a book from my grandpa’s library but thank goodness he hasn’t read it. He got it as a gift with a magazine subscription. I recently found out that nine sketches were missing from the book when I saw a much fatter book sitting on a shelf in a book store. Honestly you can never trust the freebies that come with a subscription.

Nonfiction which reads like fiction, blurring boundaries. A book which can teach you how to draw different characters while keeping you entertained, with many cringe worthy and is he for real moments, is how I will remember the book.

Stupid is as stupid does – Forrest Gump

OK so here I am. Back after ages ! It feels that way even though it hasn’t been quite that long (Theory of relativity anyone?). Either way does it really matter? It’s just enough that I’m back. So the question is what I have been doing with my time? I have two lovely excuses- one, I was ill. Two, I was depressed because of it, which, literally made me unfit of even thinking coherently. Though that’s stretching it a bit (I am not known as a drama queen without reason but that’s also where I get my sensitivity from and also microanalysing stuff!) it’s the honest truth. I can hear my friends scream psychosomatic disorder because of the things going on in the department which I admit was a blow to my self esteem and ego. It doesn’t help one bit when one feels useless on top being close to being an invalid(that’s an exaggeration). There’s no use talking about dignity, not now at least. One thing I do have is a clear conscience. Ergo, sleeping isn’t a problem , which is a relief.

I have been ill for quite a while now. Should I say I am on the path to recovery? Hell no, I don’t want to jinx myself. Oh laugh all you can. I never believed that either but the words have a strange way of getting right back at you, so in this fragile state I am not going to risk it. Although I’m no stranger to chronic illnesses one never does get quite used to it, the tragedy and the monotony of it.  I really wish I could put “it” at the back of my mind (like it’s nothing but a walk in the park with some lovely shoes on to protect my feet) and live unchanged, unscathed by battle scars so timidly fought. I so wish I had been gallant but don’t expect knightly behaviour from me, not when I am at my lowest ebb (really lousy explanation I know). Every little thing changes you and shapes you into being who you are and the process is never-ending and compelling and directional. You learn, you live and you grow and that’s that.

 Illness compels me to think more deeply than usual and I tend to get philosophical (more than the usual craziness). All the big questions start haunting(or is it hunting) me (since I can’t employ my usual devices and run away) and I almost suffocate with the need to answer them. This time it’s time, the final time to GROW UP. There won’t be another call. Either I’m on it fully or dangling off the edges, holding on for dear life or the plane leaves without me. Childhood has long passed and so have the teenage years. And I’m about to be done with university and step into the REAL WORLD (as people keep reminding me every single day). Gee am I that dumb and naïve? Seems that is what most people think( I wish I could care a flying fig about what they thought about me). Yes I’m stupid (at least the blog title is justified now).

What are the questions ,you ask? Nothing, just basic stuff.How far have I come? What have I achieved? What is my contribution to the world? Am I good at something?  What is the meaning of my life? What is my role? What does it all mean? Where does it all lead ,if it leads anywhere in the first place?  What is the connecting link? Is this supposed to make sense in the end, all the strings tied up neatly and knots removed?
I did try to write but who the hell wants to read all this, a mass of jumbled intangible thoughts? Hence, no post for months and add to that I have taken to meandering more than is usual (read acceptable). I start somewhere and end up completely different and in between touch some points which become the fodder of many other independent posts (or so I would like to believe so please humour me). So in the end there’s a lot of mish- mash and I end up not that satisfied with “the treatment of the matter and the way it is presented” and so it stays ( read languishes )in the drafts folder and pending till I decide it should be worked upon so that it sees the light of the day, which it seldom does.
Doesn’t make any sense, does it?
P.S. The drafts folder is overflowing so I have taken up the gargantuan and arduous task of emptying it in this life time. Alas, readers bear with me.
P.P.S.- If you don’t already know, the quote “stupid is as stupid does” is from Forrest Gump.

Define Love


Love is a soulful melody.
An earful keeps you going for life.

Love is a delight.
Of delicious aromas and pungent smells.

Love is where silence speaks volumes.
Eyes the true window to soul.

Love is doomed from the beginning.
Expectations paving the way for destruction.

Love is optimism personified.
The glass always appearing half full (of warm soothing amber coloured honey ).

Love is a pessimist’s heaven.
The glass always half empty( of poison).

Love is a boon.
It saved the human race, fierce competition aside leaving space for humanity and humility.

Love is a bane.
An opiate which can leave you feeling high for days, months and years.

Love is a safe cocoon.
Shielding you from harsh reality engulfing you in its kind embrace.

Love is cold-blooded.
Mercilessly breaking hearts which can never be whole again.

Love is a fresh flower.
Wafting its fragrances far and wide.

Love is effervescent.
Perking up sad, sorry days where it’s the only bright spark.

Love is doldrums, sad and static.
Where it’s not love at all but a heady infatuation.

Love is eternal.
Forever and unending, binding until death comes knocking.

Love is in the moment.
The moment is all you have, instantaneous and fleeting.

Love is selfish.
Throbbing with desires and wants.

Love is selfless,
where the I has dissolved.

Love is the light of a thousand shining suns,
gleaming and illuminating the vast empty canvas of life.

Love is the pitch black of the night,
no one in sight,inky blackness all around.

Love is a feeling, a state of mind.
A tender touch, a shared moment, a life together.

Waving off all definitions
Love just IS.

This was my second poem posted in the Goodreads writing section.

I am what I am (am i really?)

Does anyone really like you for who you are?Naah. 
If you could change your attitude to became a bit cooler…morph your personality and you know, become more optimistic,pragmatic…if you change this a bit…tweak that a bit…it would be perfect.The list is never ending !
Is it possible to be just who we are without any masks,shedding all layers, inhibitions and just be simply who we are without any adornments?Can we dare to be who we are both on the inside and the outside?
Of course there are people who live and behave as they choose all the time and it takes guts and oodles of self confidence to stand against the wind and stand for what you believe in.Some  are their own people no matter what.They will not give up on their principles come what may.
But what about those people who are constantly in between personas, moulding things,   situations and people(as they see fit) with their chameleon(sorry you got dragged in between) like character so that they have the better end of the deal.I’m not even going to go into the whole questionable morals and flexible principles part.
How do they sleep at night?Beats me ! I have trouble sleeping even while playing slave to my conscience most of the time,I shudder at the thought of avoiding it or blocking it completely. The answer is not sleeping pills though for some it does work.
There is a probable explanation for that.I think their  weary conscience has finally shut down after being ignored for ages.That niggling voice in the head telling you to do the right thing has fled and for good after being silenced many a time ,even reprimanded for speaking out of turn and not bowing down to your whims and fancies. Chances are it might come into its own again and resurface when it is really needed.