FAKE TRUTH

A strand of light, a strand of colour

2012-01-26T04:21:00.000-08:00

In her laboratory she tries to figure-
Psychology of the inanimate;
Objectifying the movements of life.
In the film of portrayal of her life-
She acts like herself; plays self,
dressed in the drapes of red curtains;
As they fall when the show begins.
In her chocolate factory she counts-
Wrappers of the chocolates consumed;
Wrappers of chocolates, yet to be used.
In the school of producing knowledge-
Says good morning to one;
Good night to another.

Acknowledgment (for the book yet to be written)

2012-01-16T13:49:00.001-08:00

This is my first book. It is not, however, for the first time that I'm writing this sentence. Ever since I was learning the alphabets of the English language, I saw the multiple universes that they held within them. My knowledge of permutations and combinations is not sufficient to calculate the diversity and possibility of each one of them. But I do sincerely believe that each language and its building blocks contain a multiverse of emotions, experiences and times.

It has compelled me to write and lose myself in the territory of thoughts, some of which I've visited more often than the rest. I have my personal favorites too, such as the idea of creating a small house and decorating it with interesting interior inspired by the wit of graffiti artists. It often finds itself fighting with the thought of never settling, for my attention, but is good friends with the thought of me creating a wall-hanging. Ah, petty thoughts! They don't understand that I can't ink all of them, and hence keep popping up in my mind. The leader of their clan is the thought of me writing a book. They all collectively admire it and wish all success in the world for it.
This is one of the reasons why I always knew that I'd have to write "this is my first book" somewhere, sometime. Every alternate year I used to attempt writing an acknowledgment page. My family has constantly inhabited it, even if a long period of quarrels surrounded us, since I knew it will definitely disappear (reappear and disappear)^n by the time it got published. As you must have observed, foresight is one of my characteristics. Friends too, have been sitting like kings and queens on it. I've never been able to conclude it though. Of course, having not written the book might be one of the reasons.

(To be continued...)

Devolution

2011-12-15T10:21:00.000-08:00

Take a picture of your dream,
And frame it tonight as you sleep.
I'll come by and hang it on the wall.
You wouldn't even notice, I know.

There are so many stories
In just one frame,
Which one do I throw the light on?
it's always difficult to exclude.

What is my mind but
A collection of words I don't waste.
Pick one randomly and
The odds are high; it'll be your name.

I don't deny the possibility;
Of you having nothing to do with this.
I might have just created it all,
With the words that linger in my head.

Happy Diwali y’all.

2011-10-26T05:21:00.000-07:00

Everyone's Diwali

Today I worry not of the horny cars which shout on top of their digital voices, or of the birds that will die tonight (owing to their sensitivity which cannot live through the sound of crackers), or of people with doors kept open for Lakshmi’s blessings. Today I’m worried about all that chocolate that I won’t be able to eat.

I’m 19.5638 years old, blessed (not really) with a 23.0638 year old brother.

We still fight for chocolates. We are a result of early exposure to the commodity of chocolates. They made it impossible to inculcate the habit of sharing. Today as I sit here typing this post, cultivating the virus responsible for cold and cough inside my poor body, I am worried. My system does not recognise a festival without provisions of eating chocolates. And that is exactly what is forced upon me due to untimely illness. Well, I’m sure my brother will have a Happy Diwali. As they say it, it’s the times that are harder, which make us realise how much we love our family. Ah. Surprise. They were right.

My Diwali

King Of Diamonds

2011-10-24T02:31:00.000-07:00

The pack of cards you play has an extra queen today,
But the Jack isn’t giving up tonight,
He is in no mood for chess.
Play the usual jazz, or all that you know;
No one's dancing to your tunes tonight.
And until you saw the mirror,
Did you know who you were?

Raise a glass in the melancholy of your victory,
For you shall always be the king
Of times never seen.
Dilly dialling couldn't save you,
From your own bronze, copper and ferriage.
Tick Tock, the clock's savage slap.
Flying, the birds are,
Neighs the cosmic horse.

The spades are no more rivals.
They'd conquer the hearts & clubs with your help.
Now that you've seen the mirror,
Do you see what I saw all this while?

Mirage

2011-09-23T06:08:00.000-07:00

This raindrop is special
As it reflects the sun
As it blackmails her
As much as it predicts its own fall
As and when it suits him
As if it were unaffected
As per the laws of the universe
As for this time and space.

The epiphany of his golden locks
is unafraid of being extinguished.
The diamonds of her veil,
are still terrified of sparkling.
Queer this camouflage is,
Which they seek in each other.

Mechanical Favours

2011-09-09T11:19:00.000-07:00

The cells trapped
in lithium
Nerves are wired too
The soul has acquired rust

Turn on the tear gear
The laughter was timed for daylight
See the stars, See the moon
See how they don't care

How can there be an end
To what never existed
Did you not time it right
Oh lord of mechanical favours

The cells trapped
in lithium
Nerves are wired too
The soul has acquired rust

Dear Girl in yellow boots

2011-09-05T18:04:00.000-07:00

One of my closest "best friend"s, Ishita is pursuing film making from XIC, Mumbai. Yes the kinds that saves the adjacent seat for you and follows the bro code. On one of those destined prolonged moments when it rained heavily in Mumbai, as it did here in Delhi we happened to be enjoying the downpour over the phone. It was the lull which intrigued us in random conversations about our glorified laziness. We were both very hungry when we began our conversation and normal people were asleep, at around 3 A.M. We were both very hungry when people woke up. I even experienced the cock in her neighbourhood crow like a professional sound recording of an alarm clock, at around 5 A.M. We were both very hungry when people left for work, at around 9 A.M. But we were also very sleepy and decided to sleep then. During this hunger induced chit chat, we discussed several interesting topics, like we always do. But this conversation was essentially about subtext. Her teacher keeps asking her to look for subtext in all study material available in forms of films(primarily), literature, music etc. She told me how stupid film reading can be at times. Mainly because it is impossible for a film maker to bring each and every aspect of minute detail to the notice of the short attention spanned audience. For example, an apple is used as a symbol of longings/desires/everything that you should stay away from. Try and notice how it might be quietly lying out of focus while a lot of action takes place on screen.

A still from 'Darna Mana Hai' 2003

We then talked about the colour theory. She told me about a great book which covers this topic called "If it's purple, Someone's gonna die". The title itself, is an example of what many film makers follow. It's creepily accurate. Try observing in films.

If It's Purple, Someone's Gonna Die by Patti Bellantoni

The next day I saw posters of the film "That girl in yellow boots". I obviously related it with the colour theory and experienced a deeper understanding of the posters, thanks to the knowledge of the 'subtext'.

Patti Bellantoni's introductory page on 'Yellow' says-

(Click on the picture to magnify)

Needless to say, I watched the movie ASAP. (Spoiler Alert-The content posted below contains information that might spoil your movie viewing experience)
The "Bunny rabbit meets Julia Roberts" girl Kalki, plays a patient, brave and upfront young girl who is out on a turbulent journey. While she's looking for her father whose unconditional love is all she seeks, that love also serves as a bait to survive the rat hole life she has built for herself. She compromises with her dignity and gives 'happy endings' or hand jobs to people after massage to gain a few extra bucks that she needs in order to feed corrupt embassy officers/visa department/postmen/police. She does it all with a smile on her face, for her own happy ending. That which remains constant, is her feet clad in yellow boots. Whether she is waiting for her visa application to get approved, or walking down the streets, or returning home, she is grounded in the tint of innocence and signified warnings.
I personally do not like the colour yellow. It puts me off. But I do like the mustard fields of DDLJ(Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge). It's probably the controlled amount of yellow which stops me from hating them. However, shockingly, I love the use of this colour in this movie. It's not just the colour yellow, but yellow coloured boots, which make all the difference.
The last scene of the movie just steals the show away when she takes off her boots and walks with joyous music playing at the backdrop. Her journey was over.
That girl in yellow boots is a brilliant piece of cinematic pleasure which carefully uses the colour theory and crafts a visual, sonic, emotional and symbolic equilibrium.

But then again, these are the views of the girl who longs for a rainbow umbrella. You might think differently.

PhotoCredits-http://www.flickr.com/photos/yein/with/2785596455/

Thumbs Up

2011-08-27T10:35:00.000-07:00

"मैं धारक को १० रुपए अदा करने का वचन देता हूँ "

It appears to me like the Indian one rupee coin is asking for a lift. It's a silent 'all the best' to people using it, as opposed to the two rupee coin which publicises 'peace'. But at the same time, a one rupee coin asks people to value it. To understand what it takes to be the lowest denomination that can be spent. What is the significance of Indian currency today, I wonder. No, I'm not thinking about the attributes of globalisation and trade here. The recent 'India Against Corruption' campaign has led me to to critically evaluate the value of money.

The politics of symbolism can not be side lined. That we see when Anna is compared to Gandhi today. When you raise questions about Anna's supposed 'sanctity' and try to nullify his comparison with the much celebrated 'father of the nation', does it not make you question that perhaps Gandhi too, was a result of algorithmic image building?

Then what's the use of reality and objectivity in public space when people are almost averse to it? How difficult is it for those who are mechanically trained for understanding a sugar coated language of emotions and sentiments, to percieve 'objectivity' that we talk about?

Let's not forget, Gandhi is imprinted on each and every currency note in India.
Heaps of money, We continued to build.

Anarchy

2011-08-26T05:00:00.000-07:00

I cannot drive, Even my brother can't
He learnt twice, I never did.
Now come on, admit it.
Women can't drive.

From Sanskrit
To Hindi
We've travelled miles
From neutrality
To the living attributes of inanimate

Aeroplanes, the remarkable agents of commutation
Computers, the geniuses
And homes were men.
Trains, books and huts remained female.

Oh how men painted women
As powerful and the future of
The free country they dreamt of
Oh how women painted themselves
As caged in walls of the past

The intellect speaks in silence
About democracy and its ways
But the floating heads give it away
The rule of none, is what they want
Men and women, all alike.

Ah, they're mushrooming.
Symptoms of anarchy.
Treatment, none.

Animated

2011-08-23T10:01:00.000-07:00

This was my first attempt at making a .gif file. The frames are inconsistent but I still love it. :)

Credits-Rajat(for discovering the talent in these images)

Thenks, Benks

2011-08-10T04:53:00.000-07:00

When I went to Paharganj on a hot Sunday morning, I discovered a lot of the walls, shutters and random objects of scribble value autographed by the name of 'Benks'.
Who is Benks? I wondered. "Some guy who has nothing to do and hence wrote his name everywhere" said my cousin who was accompanying me.
After a considerable amount of research and googling, I found out that Benks who is famously known as Banksy or Benksy is a British graffiti Artist known for the irony and political bend in his work. He is apparently the highest paid graffiti artist in the world and his identity remains hidden even after several attempts of unmasking him. His real name is probably Robert or Robin Benks.

What brings him to India? I speculated. But then I concluded that probably a fan of his made an attempt to familiarise us Indians with him in support of graffiti art.
You can see his work on his website here-http://www.banksy.co.uk/index.html

**Graffiti art is often seen as an unlawful activity defacing public property. However, another trail of thoughts reflects upon it as a marvellous method of opining silently.**

Try photocopying a coloured dream in your mind. You'll get blots of black ink.

2011-08-01T04:31:00.001-07:00

Mausam Adyatan (Weather Update)-A one minute Radio script

2011-07-28T01:02:00.000-07:00

When I say I love my course, I say it for a reason.
The first assignment given to us in the second year was to write a one minute radio script for any channel, on any topic, with no limitations of space and time(The geo-astro space and time, of course. It costs a lot otheriwse :P). It was an assignment for the paper in Broadcast Journalism.
It has taught us that one of the features of Radio is that the programming is done in a manner which is apt for its audience. It is regionalised and concentrated in that regard. Deriving from that, I was sure it had to be entertaining and funny. I chose to write a programme that delivers weather updates in a witty, conversational way since I thought that it was one of the few things which could have been justified in a minute's time. Hindi, as difficult as it could get, was obviously chosen to beat the wireless transmission of monotony.
Credits-
1.Purnima Malhotra for listening to my blah blah, since it is impossible for me to work without constantly chattering on gtalk.
2.Google Translator ;)

Here goes the script-

सुप्रभात!
आज के मौसम अद्यतन में आपका स्वागत है.
प्रसिद्ध संगीत निर्देशक अनु मलिक के प्रसिद्ध गीत "देखो बारिश हो रही है" के इंटरनेट डाउनलोड लगभग पचास प्रतिशत बढ़ गए हैं. भारत के आसूचना ब्यूरो की माने तो इसका कारन है दिल्ली में हुई भारी बरसात. जहाँ गाज़ियाबाद पर इंद्र देवता ने अपनी कृपा नहीं बरसाई, वहीँ नॉएडा में हिमपात के खंड भी पाए गए. कुल मिलाकर इस दिन को ताज़गी प्राप्त हुई. मुख्यमंत्री शीला दिक्षित ने इंडिया गेट पर "शीला की जवानी" पर अद्भुत नृत्य करते हुए अपनी ख़ुशी ज़ाहिर करी.
आज के लिए केवल इतना ही. यदि जिंदा रहे तो कल की संभव बरसात में फिर मिलेंगे.

The Eternal Timelag

2011-07-27T09:46:00.000-07:00

She closed her eyes to take that jump into the pool of meditation. It was her addiction that not only comforted her, but also took her to the valley of strangers where she had no expectations. That was always pleasant. But on the other hand, her thoughts caged her with the fear of loss. Certainty could come and jolt her anytime. The wing of ideation always took her to the flight of dreams. If you build a castle out of sand, would you rather let the waves destroy it or do that on your own? She did ponder upon. Yet the waves became a friend that she entrusted, not herself.

She did want to capture those waves in her words, but their lucidity always escaped her ink.

If only one picture could define you for a day, which one would it be?

2011-07-03T10:21:00.000-07:00

Tell your story walking.

2011-06-30T12:21:00.000-07:00

Umang Sabarwal invited you to the event “SLUT WALK DELHI”

Genuine curiosity made me click on the event page to find out what my college senior was inviting me for. It read like a women-fighting-for-their-rights event. I’m not a feminist. I have issues with women fighting for their rights. I’ve never believed that I need to fight for what is mine. I just need to know it, assert it.

That was it for me. I did not hit on any of the three buttons- Attending, Not attending, Not sure.

A few weeks later there were sparks of debates revolving around this on my home page. People I knew but Umang didn’t, had reached the page. It obviously meant that the event was getting noticed. People were taking interest.

One of the concerns which I found valid, was that the name was essentially urban centric. It did not take into account the rural aspiration. (This point validated in my head only till the linguistic barriers, and not perception based immature lines of control.)

I read a few posts and comments and I was genuinely surprised by the creativity that was going waste. Billu Balatkari had issued rape warnings against anyone who dared attend this event. Of course he had plenty of supporters. (Do I really need to advocate the event anymore? Oh yes, for the high intellectual capabilities of some people, I guess I need to. They have a tendency to ignore anything which is simple enough for everyone’s understanding since theirs is the mind that has been cultured for complicated sentences. Exclusivity is essential, especially when you want to fight about how this event is exclusive in nature and hence, stupid.)

I shared the event page, manually selected a lot of people’s names to send them invites, apart from clicking on ‘Attending’. If you know me at all, you’d know how much of a hard work this is.

If any other sensible person has the same question as many others and which remotely looks like ‘Why the name?’, this is one of the points. It made me come back to it. It made me want to attend it. And yes, I’m important, just like many others who had a similar experience. Sadly I took it for granted, that women are equals of men. The mindset of people exercising their freedom of speech on the event page, made me realise that I needed to exercise my freedom of speech too. Balance, is important after all. I gathered my thoughts and I opined. To put it in a nutshell my opinion is broadly in support of this walk. To me, it isn’t about delivering a message to the rapists, it is about delivering a message to the society. To those who think India isn’t ready, are very well forgetting that I’m an Indian. To those who say that talk to the society in the language that they understand, I have a simple question to ask. I did not understand ‘oh you are carrying a laptop. But the charger is with me.’ either. Initially, that is. If you must know, I was wearing salwaar kameez. I had a laptop bag with me, and I genuinely confused his words for ‘reality’. Until I heard his friends laugh and my heart pound with fear. To those who think that this trivialises serious gender issues, well congratulations. You’ve maintained the dignity of the problem. Get a character certificate for victim-blaming and frame it on the walls of your fakery. I’m proud of your achievements. To those who think it is about redefining immorality, I ask who defines morality? If you think that existence of a girl is shameful, go die. If you think it is immoral that a girl is walking on the streets, go die. If you think it is immoral that a girl is wearing bikini, rape her. She must be punished with your imposition upon her. You’re right. Nothing is worse than that. Moral policing is your birth right. But of course, you are not the rapist. You’re just somebody who thinks that she is wrong. You’re just someone who thinks that even if she is raped, she inflicted that upon herself. But may I tell you that this is what this walk is aiming at. Towards uprooting the support a rape receives, in the form of unsigned consent. That of the girl, and the society.

The list of people I’ve addressed here is huge. But there are many points that I haven’t been able to account for. I realised that when I switched on the TV. Shobha De’s one of the issues(as aired on NDTV), apart from many, was that even men could start up their own ‘Stud’ walk. But, I’ve never heard any boy finding it disgraceful, to be called a stud. My friends would blush, if you called them a ‘stud’. Just like this one, another of her very immature concerns was that it takes away the grandeur of womanhood and ironically, she found this walk very immature. I smiled, when she was speaking. I do that when I have no answer for someone’s stupidity.

Madhu Kishwar, in another debate show put up by Barkha Dutt on NDTV, concluded beautifully. She got reminded of Meerabai’s bhajan “Mere toh Girdhar Gopal, doosra na koi” where in Meerabai was humming the tune of indifference towards the societal structure. She was immersed in Krishn bhakti and didn’t care for the honour of womanhood. What Madhu was getting at with this in mind was, that this song is sung even centuries later by people, including a Subbulakshmi, invoking symbolism.

My only concern here is, did anyone ask Meerabai what difference will it make if she writes this song? Did people make obnoxious remarks about her sexuality as she sung for Krishna? Did she face a hard time deciphering innuendos aimed at her? If not, then maybe the methodology of battling with the changed ways of aiming women needs to undergo a change too.

Lastly, my biggest disappointment was Seema Goswami’s views on this. She is one woman I look up to for her bold attitude. But her lack of insight into this issue, was plain sad.

All this while, I haven’t been fighting for my rights. I’ve just been asserting. My logic is not feminist. My approach just responds to patriarchy.

The thoughts never ended. I’m still opining.

Spoiled

2011-06-23T10:28:00.000-07:00

Pierce through the light that falls on my eyes
And reach me in the darkness that illuminates me.
Change the walls of my room,
Colouring them wouldn't work.

For I'm merely failing,
Yet again in imagining
What it used to be.
When I used to breathe the air.

I forgot the reasons,
That I made up myself
For it wasn't easy to convince me.
There were many reasons to that.

Take a wild guess,
And then work all your life
In taming your instincts.
Let that veil of laughter hide.

For I'm merely failing,
Yet again in imagining
What it is
That I'm breathing.
It isn't just the air.

The Plucking Array

2011-06-10T09:57:00.000-07:00

I know thy dilemma,
Mona Lisa.
'ts upto you
to be or not to be
what I can only paint.
Now, or never
you tell me,
Forever is not an option.
But chose, if you
To be,
The golden dust, and the black rust
Will wrap you forever.
I made a promise to my self
I'm breaking it, with this poem
One line, at a time
That's the geometry of this poem.

Bold, Italics and Underlined

2011-05-08T23:32:00.000-07:00

Bold, Italics and Underlined

It has become a pattern now. I click on ‘new post’; start rambling and then stop. It doesn’t make sense to me. I leave.

I return with another thought. I click on ‘new post’; start rambling and then stop. It doesn’t make sense to me. I leave.

They all remain to be drafts. Drafts with immense potential and a great thought behind them. There are thoughts bursting in my head but I’m unable to reproduce them in my words. Probably they don’t fit in my logic anymore, the logic which has experienced a renaissance. But this is not like me. This is not me.

You know of that inner voice? The one that speaks when you write? It has its own characteristics of pitch, volume and stress which transcend into words-bold, italic and underlined. It’s magical how it shapes each and every letter with the clay of thoughts. Almost as if the world is stopping for you to take a notice of it, just to deserve a mention in your words. But what when the world stops stopping? It is almost unachievable to put it into perspective. And I’ve been experiencing that.

My inner voice was calm, composed, and content. Now it's impatient and competing to be the first. Though however logical, I don't like it. We all detest change after all.

What happened? I question myself. And the answer is… the urge to be heard. The pain of losing a thought. That of not being understood perhaps? But how would that affect the way I write? May be not. But it does affect my inner voice.

All I really need is a break from these petty sentences, I concluded. A long sentence shall end my misery. Talking to long sentences might help. I get influenced easily to change my originality. Long sentences. With fewer full stops. A sentence that contains my entire thought. Without which, I can’t write.

Not long ago, I told a friend how the knowledge of the term ‘writer’s block’ has hit her hard. (Writer’s block—Noun: An inability to write) She believed she had been suffering from that for about a year. But I suspended all her claims on the basis of the understanding that once a writer, always a writer.

Am I too suffering from that? Not if this isn’t a draft.

A thought. A sentence. A long sentence.

A long sentence, as contrary to what many people believe, is not a sign of ambiguity or lesser lucidity but about precision and ability to render a thought unafraid in the flow of its purpose, its capacity, its talent.

The joys of clicking on 'Publish Post'. :)

Origami

2011-03-20T08:05:00.000-07:00

The sketch is etched. And the remains are torn. Of a plane. Or a bird.
The words engraved and the walls cut.
The graves dug.

In a show of hands,
The hands will move in awe
To applause
The brilliance of the incision.

But.
the cards have something else to reveal.
The petals and rainbows,
To say the least.

Words Remain the same; Meanings change :)

2011-03-05T10:43:00.000-08:00

I only Know

2011-03-04T11:22:00.000-08:00

I only know
What you want me to know
After all.
It's a silent war
Of words I don't know
Cuz I only know
What you want me to know
After all.

Romance of dimensions
Diminishes my sight
I don't know
Whether there exist some more
Cuz I only know
What you want me to know
After all.

I love it When you repeat
The lies that I know
Are true
Cuz you don't even know
What I want you to know.

Earth to earth, Ashes to ashes.

2011-01-12T00:14:00.000-08:00

If you build a castle out of sand,
would you rather let the waves destroy it
or do that on your own?
She often pondered upon

'Let's play a game'
He said after a million years of play.
'I will be invisible
For a while
Forget me if you
I will reappear.'

A raised eye brow, enlarged eyes,
Followed by a cracked forehead
Carried on the legacy
The blues and greens
that once were
Is ablaze with ardor
Of the decision he made

kohl for eyes
Red for lips
And stars for jewels.
I have everything I need, which he gave.
But would that exist
Now that he ain't

'You'll find yourself
On every page of my life
How may I begin
To burn the pages of my life
I call ceasefire
If you cease to exist'

She called for rain
And thought
She could
Be mesmerized in its sound
But the only sound that she heard
Was of the past
When he was mesmerized in her eyes, while it rained

If you build a castle out of sand,
would you rather let the waves destroy it
or do that on your own?
She often pondered upon

She danced
In ecstasy and
Thought she'd be lost in herself
But only to spin her wheels
As she knew no other
Than to dance to his tunes

If you build a castle out of sand,
would you rather let the waves destroy it
or do that on your own?
She often pondered upon

And that I ever existed
Means something to you
Is enough for me
To exist forever.
But here I have to say goodbye
And leave behind
The cause of my existence
With crimson smiles.

If you build a castle out of sand,
would you rather let the waves destroy it
or do that on your own?
She no more pondered upon.

Abiding by the rules
Of his game that he laid
He was back
To love her like never before
But the life that she sustained
Was earth to earth, ashes to ashes.

Indian Press::The Fourth Estate of Democracy?

2011-01-09T21:24:00.000-08:00

Democracy is described as “a government by debate and discussions as against arbitrary diktats.” For debates, one needs freedom of speech and information. This freedom of speech and information is provided properly by the Press which, over the years, has acquired a special status for itself. It is known as the fourth estate of the democratic realm. It is an ideological state apparatus and a subtle manipulator which provides a selective construction and representation of events happening in society.

Art lies in concealing art. Greater art lies in deciphering it.

An important function of the Press is to correlate and interpret the events in order to enable the people to obtain a perspective and to understand the significance of the events. The events are evaluated and interpreted, the motive being to mobilize the opinion of public. The Press has come to affect not only public opinion, but also, public choice. For example, a large share of news stories are based on politics and the statements of politicians, while a magnifying glass needs to be arranged to find stories on religious, artistic, sporting, scientific, health related or recreational stories. This automatically gives a message to the reader that political features are of more importance.

Walter Lippmann recognizes Journalism as an essential part of the democratic process. Public opinion is the prime mover in democracies and the Press plays a vital role in organizing public opinion. Apart from being an agent of political development and socio economic change, it is also a mirror of the society it rests in.

For a country like India which is the world’s largest democracy, being regarded as the respiratory system of its egalitarian setup, is indeed a huge responsibility and power. It becomes essential for the Press to maintain a balance between these two domains. Where instances such as media’s probe into Jessica Lall murder case reassure the faith in justice and empower the Press as a helping hand in governance, the same community of journalists is questioned when it comes to controversies such as Radia Tapes controversy.

“Within a fortnight after Jessica Lall was shot over her refusal to serve drinks, an ice-cream parlour attendant was allegedly shot dead for not stocking a particular ice-cream brand. What happened to that case?” asks an article in Reuters pointing towards the plutocratic nature of the Indian Press.

The concept of trial by media has also aroused debates of its authority and validity versus its significance. “In recent times, the media have lived by the dictum of ‘guilty till proven innocent’. Perhaps the concept of trial by media has now come back to sting the media itself!” said Rajdeep Sardesai on the leak of Burkha Dutt’s telephonic conversation with Nira Radia.

Peepli Live is an interesting movie that exemplifies the concept of ‘media circus’ in India. It depicts how it is impossible to neglect an issue taken up by any one channel or newspaper and that the prime focus of the media is to make money out of airing anything.

In what is rightly called the Age of Information, purveyors of information are an inevitable influence on society and government. What kind of influence? A good influence, most journalists would say. American Supreme Court Justice Louis Brandeis put the journalists’ case succinctly in his famous remark that “sunlight is the best disinfectant.” In other words the press, by exposing flaws in government (or business or academia or the other powerful “estates” of modern democratic capitalist society), helps to correct those flaws.

But this view is not widely shared outside the media itself. Polls consistently show that the press is unpopular. While complaints vary, many of them can be distilled into two basic ideas. One is that journalists are biased and their reports are not balanced or objective. The other is that journalists, by exposing matters that ought to be nobody else’s business, trample other citizens’ right to privacy.

Issues of press responsibility, bias, and invasion of privacy have all been sharpened by the arrival of the Internet as a new force in the media. The Internet has changed things in at least two ways. First, it has speeded up the news cycle—the time it takes for new developments to be reported. Second, it has lowered the barriers to entry: anyone with a computer and a modem can be a media mogul. These developments have increased competition in the press and, some argue, have lowered standards of reporting. Accuracy suffers from the rush to beat the competition, especially when beating the competition is a matter of minutes or seconds rather than hours or days. Increased competitive pressure also makes it harder for the media to maintain traditional taboos on subjects like the sex lives of politicians. New arrivals may not have the same standards of accuracy or discretion as traditional news media have had. Yet, once a piece of information is out on the Internet, it becomes hard for the media to ignore it.

There is some truth to these concerns. But they also echo alarms that have accompanied advances in the media since the arrival of the printing press. Each innovation has produced worries about lower standards and the dangers of making mass communication too easy. Yet each has promoted democracy by making people better informed and making it easier for them to express their views.

Another condemnation of the Press includes rampant advertising. Perhaps the best communicator that India has seen, Mahatma Gandhi on receiving advertisement support for running a newspaper wrote: “It is now an established practice with newspapers to depend for revenues mainly on advertisements rather than on subscriptions. The result has been deplorable. The very newspaper which writes against the drink evil publishes advertisements in praise of drinks.” Apart from a conflicting viewpoint which the ads lend, the sponsorships have also started controlling the content of the stories in some way or the other.

There is also an ethical decline as a consequence of changing market realities. In a highly competitive news universe, access is the key, a privilege that is often dependent on building personal equations. Film journalists, for example, are expected to give favourable reviews if they want an ‘exclusive’ interview with a star. Lifestyle journalists rely on sponsored deals to travel the world. Political journalists get identified with individual and ideological camps to get ahead, often with a brazen disregard for neutrality. Business journalism is even more difficult because the commercial muscle of major advertisers can conflict with the notion of journalistic independence.

The theory behind the state of Indian Press as it is now, is that truth has a natural advantage over falsehood, provided that information and argument are as freely available as possible. The more information and argument—whether true or false, wise or stupid—the more likely it is that truth and wisdom will float to the surface while falsehood and stupidity will sink. The Press, as the powerful Fourth Estate in our society, is making information and argument more plentiful than ever.

Whether or not the Indian Press is fulfilling its role as the fourth estate depends largely on where this role starts and where it ends. But the blurred borders of its role make it difficult to conclude. However, it wouldn’t be unfair to say that in spite of being criticized for crossing the line and basing every feature with the viewership turnovers in mind, the Press is working towards the vision of Media Utopia where the Press, the Power, and the People walk hand in hand.

A day in December to be remembered.

2010-12-11T11:14:00.000-08:00

We Are The Team ♥

Unconventionally, at its best.

2010-12-03T07:11:00.000-08:00

It's like waiting for the sun to rise
And then watching it all along
Until it leaves.
Leaving the music of oblivion all over.

They're on the same page, for sure.
Thinking on the same lines.
But the words refuse to replicate
What they have in mind.

All they could think of
was nothing.
When they could be this forever.
But it's true, forever never comes.

illuded

2010-10-08T13:01:00.000-07:00

It's not just about the words, is it?
Not even about the images, or was it?
About the songs we heard, and took for truth. Really?
No it was never about them.
And it isn't.

Discovering the colour of Happiness

2010-09-11T18:24:00.000-07:00

Discovering the Color of ~~Happiness~~

A vibrant range of colors, a buoyant ambiance and melody of contentment is reminiscent of ranging festival-Holi. Sharing joy, sharing colors and sharing water balloons…………….here I am with my cousins.

“Ishaan, don’t throw water on the floor. Someone might slip. And that lucky one could be you as well.”

“Tina, don’t keep the faucet unlocked, you are wasting a lot of water.”

I took charge of the troop, until a senior officer stopped by.

“And what about the water that you are filling inside the balloons?” It is my elder brother, Amit. “What kind of banking is that my dear Arzoo?”

Oh no. Why did he have to come here? Now he will go and tell mom about that. Ahh……He has no other job in life but complaining about me to mamma. But hey…hold on….what am I scared of? Why shall I be afraid of him when I have done nothing wrong? Absolutely nothing!

“Oh come on bhaiya…….it’s Holi time. If we will not play Holi today then when are we going to play Holi? Maybe when we grow sixty or enter seventies like you just have. Correct?”

“I don’t want any more excuses. No need to argue with me.”

I wish there wasn’t. I would have loved to pilot a peaceful life.

“Isn’t that enough that you have spilled the entire water, which was kept as a store, onto the floor?”

“I haven’t thrown any water on the floor.”

“Oh yea…I am sorry. You have done something better. The water is not thrown, as I just said. I truly apologize for that dear.”

That’s fine that my brother is trying to progress.. Now I don’t really mind introducing him to my friends.

“Beg your pardon Arzoo. I don’t know what happened to my eyes. I couldn’t even make out that you have carefully kept the water on the floor.” Said the monster in my life as everyone giggled.

Is this fair? The ones who were filling water balloons and wasting water are laughing at me….giggling at me…and I m being scolded for the offence.

Certainly not!! Now I can’t bear this anymore.

“Dad!!!” I shouted on the top of my voice. He is the only person at my place who could deal with this fiend.

“Dad! Amit is making fun of me. I hate him. He insulted me in front of everyone. He always ends up doing this same thing. Please scold him. Tell him that he is the worst brother on this earth. Throw him out of this place…or I will leave.” I narrated him my part with full expressions.

“Dinner at funhouse tonight?”

My dad is a wise man. Isn’t he? He can’t throw Amit out and he can’t even think about his life without me. Moreover, Amit would never apologize for being himself.

“Ok” from me explained him that I was ready to give him this favor.

******

BLACK-It’s the color of my life. I can’t even buy shades to apply on the faces of my folks. I can’t gift them joy on this auspicious festival. I will be going to work today, and tomorrow. So what if its Holi tomorrow? Rich people will celebrate. They will still go out to dine. They will still come in to dine.

I work as a waiter at a prized food court-funhouse.

Voices like “one glass of water please” have become a part of my existence. The “please” in this command is just a verbal turn of phrase. It is nowhere expressed otherwise.

It’s ten in the morning. The apricot tint is all gone. I must not be late to work. Or they will fire me from humiliation too. If I work hard during the festive time, I might be bequeathed with a bonus.

********

“Ajay, you have precisely five minutes in your hands to clean up the tables. It’s prime time.”

My boss needs no introductions. Funhouse is no funny, he keeps telling us. The obviousness of his post increases as the clock prepares to tick an eight. The only source of my entertainment and contentment at this time is the popping champagne like fizz in people who come here. They buzz with anecdotes of their daily life. Kids merry with the idea of their favorite food, wives celebrating the fact that they are free from kitchen, and husbands relishing this gift to the family. Perfection in imperfect ways.

“I want fudge!” I overheard an excited squeaky voice of a little girl preparing to demand for an expensive ice cream.

******

“I want fudge!”

“Yes Arzoo, let everyone decide their flavor. You will get your fudge. Amit you wanted a?”

“Umm, let me think over it again for a few minutes dad. And what on earth are you carrying in your hands Arzoo?”

“It’s a water balloon. Get your eyes checked, blind man.”

“Maybe we should get your mind checked. WHY? Why are you carrying this little plastic wrapping water?”

“Because it’s cute. And I am going to gift it.”

I sincerely wish Amit weren’t drinking water at that particular moment.

“Gift it? To whom?” he said while sprinkling water on the table.

“Anyone, but you. Decide your flavor!”

“One please-fix-my-little-sister’s-head-PLEASE.”

Blehh. I couldn’t care less. One fudge, and game over. I needn’t waste my energy on this blind man.

After precisely 22 minutes, Amit made the most important decision of his life. It turned out that he was going in for a fudge too. He has it every time we come here. But each time, to sound original and exciting he takes his own sweet time. He then went ahead with the proceedings of placing an order. While he was still at it, about 13 minutes later, mom told me to join him. I’m pretty sure she meant ‘help’ him, since he was obviously not doing a good job. But by the time I got up to help him, he had to speed up and come back with the order slip. Ego issues stem in men as early as their existence. Anyways, I was waiting and waiting when suddenly a waiter caught my attention. He was smiling but seemed to be sad. I gave him the little water balloon, and he gave me a huge smile. Probably the best gift I ever received. It made me feel good about being me.

Needless to say, Amit made a huge fuss about it, complained to mom about how stupid I were to be doing something like this, and reacted as if this was the most embarrassing moment for him. He even managed to convince me that I had done something brainless. But I knew, I wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t have been.

******

Other Side Of Me

2010-09-06T14:06:00.000-07:00

It's a weekly carol,
I shall sing it everyday.
I shall withstand the transience,
of what I understand.

When my shadow chose to impersonate
you, I knew
It's pretty how words mean so much to us.
Sometimes, the sound of them speaks much more,
than they could ever mean.

I wanna stand where it rains on one,
doesn't on the other side of me.
'cause it is that other side,
that is a drowning fish.

To Sir, with love.

2010-09-05T04:13:00.000-07:00

The meaning of the word “teacher” has evolved as much as I have in the past few years.

When I was a child in kindergarten, I perceived it to be someone who gave me guidelines relating to anything and everything from ‘how to sit’ to ‘how to stand while singing the national anthem (which was also taught by her)’, from ‘how to speak’ to ‘when not to speak’ and going even up to ‘what to speak’. The word ‘teacher’ automatically created an entoptic image of reliability. One of the few conversations that I can recall exactly from that phase is of my 1^st grade teacher declaring this in a P.T.M that she was not just a teacher. “I teach them Hindi. I teach them English. I teach them Maths and Science too. But I’m also their servant, their mother and their friend.” She said.

Things began to change as I approached high school. The bond I shared with my teachers became more formal as ‘how to walk’ was no more a subject of concern. Other more important subjects such as history, geography and chemistry came into existence leaving little room for the evaluation of that bond. But I did learn from quite a few of them the concept of a “guru”. Even though I couldn’t relate to it, but it was somewhere there at the back of my mind.

The only time when I actually understood it, was a few months ago while taking classes for English from Akhtar Sir. Yes, it’s funny. I never thought I’ll take English classes. Easiest subject right? But I did, in the hope that they will make me even better. And they did. More than I knew. I was in a dismal tune that time. But he motivated me and made me believe in me again. On one rejection in a stupid college, he said-“Don’t worry. It’s not your loss. Life surely must be designing something better for you.” And as it is said, people don’t come to know but their words have a much greater impact than they can think of.

Thank you sir.

For welcoming me to a world where butterflies carry the colours of a rainbow even into the darkness of gloom

Where stars twinkle day and night

Where one tells a million lies

To discover a fake truth.

Thanks a lot, you’ll always be my favourite teacher! :) Believe in yourself, and believe in what you do. It never goes waste.

Happy Teachers Day.

y du ppl typ lyk dis?

2010-08-29T13:43:00.000-07:00

Hey people!!
Yes I know I'm not keeping up with the promise of posting everyday, but well...I'm probably the only visitor of my blog, so who cares? :P
But in any case, if you ever make the mistake of entering my blog(thanks to my adverse publicity) and the destiny is such that you land up on this post, please answer my question
ie.-WHY do people type so pathetically while they're chatting/texting?
Does it make them cool by any chance??
Or does it make them feel young and in tune with the popular fashion??
Well then grab a piece of mind from me, and stop it.
It is not only annoying and deceiving the very idea of communication, but also projects you in a very unprofessional light with streaks of unawareness. It is NOT cool. It is NOT young. On the other hand, it is LAME! Very LAME!

I'll give you a few interesting examples-
A friend of mine, Radhika, types in this hysterical way.
of becomes o
on becomes n
and also becomes n {So you have to be very intelligent to figure her messages, luckily I am}
is becomes s
to becomes t
that become tat

Another friend of mine, Akriti has an amazing drunk way of expressing herself. I have known her for about 4 years now, and I do not get her on text, EVER.
two, to and too too becomes 2.
drink and drunk become drnk.
plain, plan, plane become pln.
And yet if you don't understand what she means, you are the one who is sleepy.

Yet another dear friend of mine(Yes I'm surrounded with these people), Aakanksha is the best case.
She signs off by saying-
byeeEeEEeeeeEEEEeeeeeEEE
LooOOoOOooo0oO0o0OO0Ooo0OOooOOOOooOOoOOoOOove yoOooOouUuu
aknsha

When I talk to my dad on text, it seems like I am talking to my future son.
Even he uses this acclaimed language of the aliens.

And well what to say about Akhtar sir. He is an ENGLISH teacher!!!! And a pretty good one at that. He writes amazingly well, and you can refer a few of my earlier posts for his comments on them. They're sufficient to be called as a post on their own. You'd want a teacher like that all your life, but of course not everyone is as lucky as I'm :P
But, it's disappointing to read his informal texts. They make use of this brilliant literary concept.

i h8 t. jus s mch. plz dn uz t.

The new beginning of a possible end

2010-08-25T13:51:00.000-07:00

I see all these amazing blogs and they inspire me so much, to blog more often. It makes me look down upon my blog and see the number of my posts per month. Then I look down upon my life. What do I even do all day?
1.I have to get up at 7 in the morning. (Never happens)
2.Get ready by 8.10. (Never happens)
3.Respond to Aashna's textual ultimatums and phone calls by saying "Just a minute! Am coming downstairs!" (Always Happens)
4.Reach college at about 8.45 for the 9'O clock class (Yes, surprisingly, always happens. Thanks to Hitler Aashna)
5.Text Tavleen, Radhika, Gautam, Suveer, Akriti, Shreya etc etc etc.
6.Survive through boring lectures. (Thanks to Facebook)
7.Go to the canteen (which is the best BTW) and eat something-just anything.
8.Take an auto back home (Now this is the worst. Given the amount of rain that has been flooding our college gateway, the auto wallas get to throw all sorts of tantrum, as though they are paying me for the ride.)
9.Reach home, eat lunch, sleep.
10.Wake up, switch on the computer. Waste time. Do the assignments/Journo Junction work.
11.Go back to sleep at about 3 A.M.

Not too much of an exciting day, is it?
It is so boring and frustrating. In fact I've started hating it now.
So I might as well start writing. It really is something that makes me feel better. It makes me sane.

So this is it. I will move on from publishing just my poetry and write about anything and everything from now on. I have to survive the DU life after all. It can get pretty insane.

Oh and I have to submit an assignment on "Barriers to Communication" by 10th of September. I hope I get the mind to do it.
Cya all,
And as it is customary (Well from now on :P)
~Cheers~

I judge you on your Judgement

2010-08-25T13:21:00.000-07:00

Blogging is fun. Isn't it just comfortable to spill out everything in one go and not having to think for a second that the person who is being entrusted with this knowledge is judging us? Even though, it's worse because I'm letting out my entire day to you, without having any clue about you reading this but it still gives me a sense of satisfaction that I may never know about how you judged it. Whether you raised an eye brow or two, or projected an expression that I might just hate, or probably stuck your red tongue out--Doesn't Matter Really, because I shall never know!!
But yes, I confess. I am a part of that world too. I judge. And I hate it. It's an involuntary reflex. No matter how hard I try not to judge people-because eventually my opinions get thrashed badly by what's real- I just cannot avoid it.

Wanted a war to end cross border terrorism

2010-07-24T06:56:00.000-07:00

A war is a struggle. It is the highest form of confidence in one’s notion, that competing against its opponent seems urgent, seems essential. On the battle field of ideas, concepts and a world without bloodshed, this is how I describe war. But its impact could be more bloodcurdling than that of a war fought with arms and armors. It could bring about a revolution, a change.

Terrorism, on the other hand is capable of bringing about a change too. A change nobody desires. It instills fear in the minds of the people. It converts a peaceful living environment cherishing the existence of happy families residing in it, into a burning misery. It transforms employment into redundancy.

Terrorism emanating from the countries we share our borders with, is technically the face of global terrorism. If it is not halted, time would come to a standstill to watch this dearth of humanity.

I am Ashima Madan, and I am against terrorism. My conviction in my opinion is strong enough to spark off this war to end cross border terrorism. But the question here is— Are you ready to fuel it?

Rhythm of Flash

2010-05-19T11:34:00.000-07:00

A picture doesn't capture
What a moment does.
Just the faking smiles
not the broken ones.

But a song speaks out
What the words cannot.
The melody, the lyrics
not just the broken words.
Just the broken words.

I see no clicks, no flashes
Just a real smile
got no words to write it
but i could....but i could....

If words could say it all
I'd believe you.
If reflections were who we are
I'd be you.

Circling The Edge

2010-02-28T22:21:00.000-08:00

When the dreams begin to change

And the dawn isn't enough

to break free of the spell of their magic

When black and white

transcend the reality

into shades of grey

You know you're growing up.

When the mirror isn't enough

to tell you who you are

And to view yourself with

an other's eyes doesn't please

you anymore,

You know you've grown up.

When the last traces of winter sunshine

cannot be captured

in the strands of souls

which lay cold

You know you've grow beyond you.

When the other key to you

locks you down

in the prison of eternal

fakery

And your key to you don't work,

You know you aren't growing,

No more.

22nd February 2010