Another deluge. Water in the house, about a foot, all the rooms.
At this rate I will perfect the art of singing oh la dee, oh lah da life goes on...
Which is what I sing at times like these.
We’re ok now.
Again, something told me to “move!” and I did.

That distant hill sheathed in rolling rain-mist is charcoal-white, a Japanese landscape. You rush for the cell, but it pours, a minute too late.
Now there is something to this but I forget what.

No, I could not find it online.
Have been singing it in my mind these past few days; and this afternoon, aloud, surprised to get the high notes right. After so long- twenty seven years.
The school prayer?
Antara mam vikasit karo antara tar hay/ Gurudev Tagore

It has taken me so long to even guess-fathom what it means.
Maybe now the setting is right for comprehension.

Shredded green papaya sizzles in the wok.
Intrigues. The first time I’m ever making this. Not the usual “get-it-done-now” auto-mode.
How our minds crave something new. That sense uptick. The anticipation.
Even in micro doses from apparently unconnected sources.Interesting.

Noticed: Asopalav and gray sky mirrored in a glass-like puddle.
Yet an image is at best, an image.

Maybe I was kidding. Half joking.
Maybe not. Best if you don’t know.
But you almost choked on that morsel, Baba.
Startling reaction. Wow.


An almost saucer-shaped moon floated lazily in a milky halo past a starless-sky.
A rare sight for the city-sky. Rare, given the looming monsoon. Touched.

Yesterday was spent watching.
First, the rain and that step outside the gate, waiting for a noah-like deluge to rise to just-above-THAT- step level. After which it would rush into the house.
But thankfully it didn’t.



Today has been spent watching.
First the skies.
For the gale that the met dept promised but hasn’t happened as yet.
No high speed winds. No pelting rain. Just standard-issue clouds.
I could use some drama.
Some fireworks and thunder.
Been such a weird, strange, awesome day.
Goddamn strange.
“Oh really??!” Wild-eyed quality strange
Thanks.
In that karmic cycle that governs your life and mine, I owe you majorly.

If there were no dust on the mirror, there would be no driving need for it to be.

Something reminded me of that eventful year in class 4 when I went away to hostel, cajoled wheedled pleaded, but in a sense ran away. In the years after I’ve learnt that other skill- taking it, not answering back and staying quiet and staying the course. Both have their uses. Trick is to know when to use which particular trait. Half my life done and I still haven’t figured that out.

Stupendous thunder. First you think proud of the utilities and aircon at the beautiful plant building, the anthem-rumble of rough industry. But no. huge drops of rain. In the distance a temple on a lone mountain-like hill, lit afire by thunder, its flag flutter, the proud temple town of champaner. Or so you think you see, and surely it must be there, for one sees what one wishes to.Exhilarating lightening rips apart the sky. Lights up the expressway. Rolls of thunder. Just beautiful. Silver quick, too smart for the camera. Taillights and wet crs are all that’s captured. But what an exciting ride. Charged!

Below: the squalor of the 60 ft road, Dharavi.
Above: a peepal glitters over a rain- wet tin shack.
A canopy of madhumalti, red and white and green interspersed.
Cobalt blue sky. Freshly cleaned. Cloud streaks like a kid’s finger painting.

Dharavi. Asia’s largest slum, under redevelopment; luxury towers and bare flats for the slumdwellers will coexist on precious real estate a few years down the line. A black billboard says: Strike on the 18th. Fight for your rights. A 400 sq ft flat a must! Can’t help wondering, a year or two down the line, the slumdwellers will return, and the laws of Darwin will play out, and some will own several flats, some none.

The prayer meeting. Silent. Except for the drone of the rotating fan.
Dignified. Outside, a gentle rain glistens on the road and you walk skipping past puddles as you make your way home. Thoughtfully.

Jasmine strands for sale. White and orange, in heaps on green plantain. Starkly beautiful. Heady perfume. Why does it seem cloying, stale, fit for the dustbin the next morning?

First the dust storm, fine dust swirls brushed off the trees and buildings, the chandni and the lemon tree by the corner. Somewhere, a window slams. Sundry pieces of paper race on uneven concrete. A change in the air, a different smell, the smell of first rain. Thunder. Great big plops of rain splatter on gray, an art deco pattern. And then the downpour. Everyone rushes out to splash and get wet. Fine spray held with wonder on palm and face.

Continue with the thought thread on word-tags, meaning.

I watch her hobble.
The walking stick makes a ratatat sound on polished marble.
I watch her bent form stop-go and shuffle across the room.
I watch him by her side. Gray-haired, worried. Alert to every move she makes.
They’ve been together since 1945.
Ups and downs. Almost rags to, well, good.
No, the doctors don’t know why she’s ill as yet.
From one corner of the window, a golden temple spire is visible. Siddhi vinayak.
On the far horizon, the bandra-worli sealink cuts a lazy line across silver.
What will be will be.

My angel-mother’s b’day today.
She taught me how to smile. How to walk.
Beholden.
Thank you, A. mummy.

~
S. gave the group a treat y’day. Vada pao.
His niece cleared the 12th boards with 80%.
College, dreams. A fighting chance.
Kuch bhi ho sakta hai.
S stays in a slum.
India Shining!

Comprehension.
Not the connecting of disparate clues for an out-of-the-box conclusion.
Nope. Not the Eureka! sort.
Simple stuff, you know?
Like not having to think about the way you take to work everyday.
Or what a word means without having to force- think.
Not rocket science.
And that child with a learning disability is taken on a merry ride all over the suburbs, a normal Rs. 40 fare ballooning to Rs. 150.
Because he can’t.
Humbling.
Much to be grateful to the skies about.

You talk about randomness, Chinese philosophy and life events, but it is intrinsic in the brain wiring to look for congruence, patterns; a forced alertness is futile. Stupid too.

Overhead a storm breaks.
A mist washes over a distant hill. Lush wet.
One grimaces at unit processes. Like one did, long ago.
Drying, milling, blending, crushing.
Life processes?

A deadline looms.
Then it compresses.
Good.