Not that I blog too frequently anyway, but do check out these links while I am gone for a week.

My friend Leo's slightly strange but hugely entertaining blog. He's just become a respectable member of the working public by joining Time Out Mumbai, which, by the way, is also online now. Do check out to know what to do, where to go, what to eat, etc.

Arts and Letters Daily, my fix of 'ideas, criticism and debate'.

My former editor's fine essay on the Indian sense of independence. And another on partition. A powerful economy of words is what one must learn from these.

One of my must-reads of the season, which I will buy soon is M J Akbar's Blood Brothers. Read a rousing piece on the author by another of my former editors, and an exceptional writer. Scroll down the page to Tailor of Telinipara by Sankarshan Thakur.

Am I a feminist? Ever since I've formally joined the Blank Noise Project, this has become a very preodminant question in my life. As I have moved from providing backroom support for my friend Jasmeen into a more concrete role of planning interventions, chalking out strategies and having to deal, every single day, with a million questions about women's rights, it plays constantly at the back of my mind.

I have never read Gloria Steinem or Germaine Greer or, even, Simone de Beauvoir's classic The Second Sex. In fact, I have only just begun to read Naomi Wolf's The Beauty Myth and it's riveting. I don't subscribe to stereotypes. None of us at Blank Noise do. At Blank Noise, we don't stage dharnas or sit-ins. Neither have we addressed conferences and made strident stirring speeches anywhere. Our interventions  aim to be inclusive, educative, impactful and very empowering. While I stood in the VT Subway last Friday evening, I was struck by how just standing around and staring could make me feel more in control of a public space, which, under normal circumstances, would still be a threatening one. Does that make me feminist?

I am so angered by this statement made by a senior Army officer. Does my indignation at his insensitivity and my bafflement at his perpetuation of stupid stereotypes make me feminist?

I have not undertaken any sort of study of feminism. I have not read treatises and books and compared them to chalk up what sets one apart from the other and which one theory might hold more water. I am not an academic and cannot ever aim to be one. But, from my tiny role in the international struggles of women, from their right to equal pay to their right to independence to, in so many places, their right to live, I have realised that feminism is too large to ever be defined and too layered to encourage stereotypes and too urgent to be pushed aside by any prejudice or any misconception.

Today, more than ever, women play much larger roles in every area of life. Today, more than ever, we hold positions of power and authority. But we're also still fighting the glass ceiling everyday. We're still threatened in public spaces. We're still stereotyped and categorised and subjected to judgement and expectations in ways men never are. If a deep engagement with these issues, if an awareness of their gravity and a compelling wish to participate in debate makes me feminist, then I am one. There, I've said it.

This is not from the Bollywood song. It's the poem by Sahir Ludhianvi. I had to clarify.

Magar yeh ho na saka aur ab ye aalam hain
Ki tu nahin, tera gham, teri justjoo bhi nahin
Guzar rahi hain kuchh iss tarah zindagi jaise,
Isse kisi ke sahare ki aarzoo bhi nahin

Na koi raah, na manzil, na roshni ka suraag
Bhatak rahin hai andheron main zindagi meri
Inhi andheron main reh jaoonga kabhi kho kar
Main janta hoon meri hum-nafas, magar yoonhi
Kabhi kabhi mere dil main khayal aata hai

So it's been a bit of a blogging hiatus. Too much happening, both within and without. There's the reservation ruckus, about which it is indeed very difficult to form an opinion. Because on the one hand, it seems a terrible idea to allow in a certain amount of people without even considering their credentials, their capacities and their intelligence to cope with what admittedly are very demanding courses. On the other, though, to dismiss them is also impossible. The simple answer would, arguably, be a merit-based system of affirmative action. But this is India where caste and religion have too many deep-rooted historical references and even more convoluted social significance and thus, it is impossible to arrive at a conclusion that would seem even faintly sane.

What the UPA government seems to have decided to do is remain pig-headedly focussed and go ahead with rather alarming disregard of the democratic voices being raised. It is rather disturbing to watch. Visuals of the Mandal stir and Rajeev Goswami come to mind. But let us wait and watch. I am a cynic and don't know how much democratic protest really achieves in this country. Rang de... left me cold.

Which brings me to another interesting thought. Well, interesting to me at least. The very name of that film has acquired a certain bearing and significance in world. Pop culture and all that. Terribly fascinating. Wonder what Bhagat Singh would have made of this! Anyhow.

Let us, however, cease being flippant.

Watched Da Vinci Code today. Such fuss. Such hype. Such a waste of that time and energy! It's a common film. You sit through it for the very reason you read the book. It's an engaging mix of history and art and factoids and mystery. Of course, here the mystery accounts for naught. And darlings, if you haven't read the book, don't bother watching the film. You may as well nap. To make up for Dan Brown's shockingly pedestrian writing there is Tom Hanks' shockingly disinterested acting. Audrey Tatou, though, looks so much better than she did in Amelie. I won't review this film because I have nothing to say. I had some very good popcorn and most enjoyable company and therefore, it was an afternoon well spent.

What I did watch on Friday night and thoroughly enjoyed was Ang Lee's Sense and Sensibility. I love the classics. Period. All of them. I swallowed them whole and then again. Even today, if I am ever in need of a quiet, satisfying time, I turn to the classics. And this film was so wonderful. Emma Thompson and Kate Winslet are the epitome of those women. And Hugh Grant. Sigh. If Colin Firth had somehow found his way into this, I would have run out, bought the DVD and treasured it more. Even so, this is a must-watch. I wanted to walk around all of today, speaking in the clipped British accent and wearing long, flowing chiffon gowns. Hmm.

Ang Lee is a god and that's all there is to it. What a repertoire. This film. Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon. And Brokeback Mountain, which is easily the most touching film I have ever seen. Add to it The Hulk. The man is sheer walkingtalkingbreathing genius.

I LOVE Jeanette Winterson. Her books are absolutely delicious with their wonderful writing and delectable ambiguity about the gender of the protagonist. Written on the body is one of her finest and here's my favourite passage from it:

Why is the measure of love loss?

It hasn't rained for three months. The trees are prospecting underground, sending reserves of roots into the dry ground, roots like razors to open any artery water-fat. The grapes have withered on the vine. What should be plump and firm, resisting the touch to give itself in the mouth, is spongy and blistered. Not this year the pleasure of rolling blue grapes between finger and thumb juicing my palm with musk. Even the wasps avoid the thin brown dribble. Even the wasps this year. It was not always so.

I am thinking of a certain September: Wood pigeon Red Admiral Yellow Harvest Orange Night.

You said, "I love you."

Why is it that the most unoriginal thing we can say to one another is still the thing we long to hear? "I love you" is always a quotation. You did not say it first and neither did I, yet when you say it and when I say it we speak like savages who have found three words and worship them. I did worship them but now I am alone on a rock hewn out of my own body.

CALIBAN
You taught me language and my profit on't is I know how to curse. The red plague rid you For learning me your language.

Love demands ex-pression. It will not stay still, stay silent, be good, be modest, be seen and not heard, no. It will break out in tongues of praise, the high note that smashes the glass and spills the liquid. It is no conservationist love. It is a big game hunter and you are the game. A curse on this game. How can you stick at a game when the rules keep changing? I shall call myself Alice and play crocket with the flamingoes. In Wonderland everyone cheats and love is Wonderland isn't it? Love makes the world go round. Love is blind. All you need is love. Nobody ever died of a broken heart. You'll get over it. It'll be different when we're married. Think of the children. Time's a great healer. Still waiting for Mr. Right? Miss Right? and maybe all the little Rights?

It's the clichés that cause the trouble. A precise emotion seeks a precise ex-pression. If what I feel is not precise then would I call it love? It is so terrifying, love, that all I can do is shove it under a dump bin of pink cuddly toys and send myself a greetings card saying `Congratulations on your Engagement'. But I am not engaged I am deeply distracted. I am desperately looking the other way so that love won't see me. I want the diluted version, the sloppy language, the insignificant gestures. The saggy armchair of clichés. It's all right, millions of bottoms have sat here before me. The springs are well worn, the fabric smelly and familiar. I don't have to be frightened, look, my grandma and grandad did it, he in stiff collar and club tie, she in white muslin straining a little at the life beneath. They did it, my parents did it, now I will do it won't I, arms outstretched, not to hold you, just to keep my balance, sleepwalking to that armchair. How happy we will be. How happy everyone will be. And they all lived happily ever after.

This is a bit late to blog about the closure of the Kudremukh Iron Ore Company Limited. That happened on December 31, 2005. But I am reminded of it because around this time last year, I was in Kudremukh, a bit incognito, to write about the pollution caused by the mining activities.

A year later, it's heartening to know that slurry no longer flows into the Bhadra river. However, for me, this was just one story, one 14-hour-drive through the Ghats and one byline, no matter how deep my concern. For people like Praveen Bhargav, Jagdish Krishnaswamy, Ullas Karanth and their colleagues, it was a battle drawn out over many years. Man against beast. Industry against environment. People against people. For, though I feel terribly relieved that KIOCL will no longer cause gashes in the verdant Ghats, I cannot help being concerned about its laid-off employees. Like those of KGF, another nightmare that refuses to end.

"Where are you from?"

I never know what to say when asked this question. And I get asked it all the time. Like the other one - "What caste are you?" Or, "You are South Indian? How come you don't look like one?"

And in between irritation at being asked my 'caste' in this day and age and remorse at not being dressed in a langa-dhavni with mallige in my hair, I wonder how to answer the first one. Warangal. Vijayawada. Hyderabad. Secunderabad. Delhi. Chennai. Bangalore. Mumbai. Bahrain. Muscat. Seychelles. Dubai. So many places in between.

I am from some nebulous place, straddling five countries, where they make people a bit weird, a bit eccentric, a bit mad, a bit high-maintenace, a bit confused, a bit rude, a bit polite, very vague and highly moody. Don't even begin to look for it.

We all love our cities. Some, very eloquently.

Her name is Meagan Sitara Bouvier. And she's quite the beauty with the rockstar parents. Can't wait to see her and be cool aunt! :-)

What is it about this ghazal that just captivates? The essence, perhaps, so eternal in this fleeting world. Or, just Farida Khanum's voice. Or, the sheer beauty of wondrous words set to a touching tune.

Aaj jaane ki zid na karo

Aaj jaane ki zid na karo
Yunhi pehloo mein baithe raho
Aaj jaane ki zid na karo
Hai mar jaayenge, hum to lut jaayenge
Aisi baatein kiya na karo
Aaj jaane ki zid na karo

Tum hi socho zara, kyun na roke tumhe
Jaan jaati hai jab uth ke jaate ho tum
Tumko apni qasam jaan-e-jaan
Baat itni meri maan lo
Aaj jaane ki zid na karo
Yunhi pehloo mein baithe raho
Aaj jaane ki zid na karo

Waqt ki qaid mein zindagi hai magar
Chand ghadiyan yehi hain jo aazad hain
Inko khokar mere jaan-e-jaan
Umr bhar na taraste raho
Aaj jaane ki zid na karo

Kitna maasoom rangeen hai yeh sama
Husn aur ishq ki aaj mein raaj hai
Kal ki kisko khabar jaan-e-jaan
Rok lo aaj ki raat ko
Aaj jaane ki zid na karo
Yunhi pehloo mein baithe raho
Aaj jaane ki zid na karo