I managed to find time to sit through a movie after long. And I chose Robert Redford’s ‘A river runs through it’ more out of compulsion actually but oh well it inspired this post.

The movie was nominated for 3 Oscars and picked one up, for its excellent excellent cinematography. But I did not quite like the movie. Primarily because it relied too heavily on the narrator’s recounting, accompanied by still photographs to construct the story of a family of fly-fishers. I am unfortunately prejudiced. A movie should flow and move and unravel through the emotions, the words, the language of the actors.

But one line stuck on in my head.

When Craig Sheffer remarked without missing a beat about the perfection of form and of style of Brad Pitt’s fly-fishing endeavours. He affected an affectionate definition. Art.

And really what is art? Grace in language, refinement in advance, poise in stance, colour in view. And sometimes you can find it all around you if you just look a little harder.

When she eats with a rare gratification every meal, and every morsel on the plate.

When he describes with a singular passion and a personal erudition.

When she writes in her calligraphy and tilts back a tad to appreciate.

When he narrates with energy and seamless analogies.

When she sweeps vivid strokes and bright hues and tells not one.

‘Art stares back at itself in the mirror, but truly shines in other’s eyes’*

Yes, art craves the attention of an audience to truly thrive and flourish. To become a means of windfall and thus, complete satisfaction. So we search for art in galleries and auditoriums and museums. When sometimes it stares us in the face. If we only shed our insecurities of a collective approval, the next time he pulls on the cigarette with a pleasant effort to expel it in a streamlined form, maybe art will assume newer definitions.

And I leave you with this:

’This idea of a talking stick (Pinocchio) becoming a boy, it’s like a metaphor for art, and it’s the ultimate alchemical transformation.’


*a mischievous manipulation of one of Tarun Tejpal’s many aphorisms. Apologies.


I walked into ‘the boys’ house and proceeded to aim some carefully oriented blows at Suri boy’s posterior. ‘Wake him up with a KI-ss not a KI-ck!’ exclaimed Suri boy’s roommate. Minutes later Suri boy groggily theorized that as long as I did not wake him up with a KI-ll, he would live to tell the story [that punster boy him!]

I was anticipating an adventurous day in Bangalore. I was scheduled to meet my external project guide at Mindtree Consultancy, the company I am currently interning in. The office was in Global Village, some 25 km from ‘the boys’ house. After semi-frantic calls to my guide and my project partner, a hurried ablutions conduct, repossessing Suri boy’s ATM and [very expensive] cell phone, dropping him off at his workplace and a forty five minute solitary wait [which included going through ALL 800 of Suri boy’s messages without the imperative imprimatur of course, a random foray into a city-village and vociferous whining to Ara and the group] I was on the bus headed to Global Village. I also managed to sneak in a call to Suri boy wondering [with apparent concern] about his state minus the money and the telecommunication. “Naked.” pat came the repartee. I grinned.

The meeting with my guide was uneventful, save one minor scare where my guide insisted I give a demonstration as to what I understood about my project. I deftly [if I say so myself] digressed to more earthly [and non-academic] concerns of long hours of travel, three year old babies and the beautiful, beautiful Mindtree office. It really was. Colourful and wildly original.
The journey back [this time after an hour long wait during which I had no more messages to read :-(] was tiring, yet I felt a little proud. I have been in Delhi all my life and public transport was deemed unsafe by my parents, which means I either drove or was driven to everywhere. [and no, I ain’t some spoilt brat] I have never really traveled by public transport all by myself, and this was a first. Do NOT take away my lil’ pleasures. Hmph.
On my way back I stopped by Landmark [I incidentally hold a record of ALWAYS coming out with at least one book from there], and picked up Knut Hamsun’s Victoria and a collection of short stories by Wilde which is a happy parrot green colour. Happiness.
Headed back to ‘the boys’ house where I [finally] met B boy’s girl. I liked her instantly and persevered to impress upon B boy that he was tremendously lucky. He balked.
The next two days [yes, it IS becoming an incredibly long post] were spent in gay marathons around the city [and on its very dangerous roads]; a couple of hours in Purple Haze with some Audioslave, David Gilmour, Fool’s Garden and Draught beer; lots of cheese; meeting the respective girls of the respective boys [yes there were more] and swift swoons on being gifted The Last Mughal [by Dalrymple]. It is the most gorgeous book I have laid eyes on in a while.
And of course lending a patient ear to Suri boy’s girlfriend woes. I might have even made things better! Ha! You owe me Suri boy.

Now I am back. Blah.