Monday, December 29, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
December has been tumultuous, a month of endings. Of turning points. Of cleaning up clutter. Also of learning to trust gut feel. Of honesty, of the most painful kind, with oneself.
And of learning that reality and imagination are two completely different lands.
Perhaps it was paradoxical to run into two ex-colleagues from work now doing other things in the land of greenbacks. Their excitement was startling. Stunning. Where did it all go, one wonders.
Dont feel like explaining any of this.
Monday, December 22, 2008
That outpouring of Silent Night ringing out which I heard from my balcony; and silently sang along not knowing the words, amazed at the crystal clear quality of the baritone on the different scale. I was suddenly happier.
That civics and sociology session with that wizened autofella, a Brahmin from the hinterlands who was vehement about not even considering a “ gujeratein” from a different caste for his college educated, bank-employed son, for whatever would the extended family and the tauji and babuji and the village back home say… I think I managed to convince him to at least interview the girl- “tanik chaal chalan dekhein aap”, though I did draw heavily on the scriptures and invoke Maharshi Valmiki and Lord Krishna's migration to Dwarka in the process. All’s fair.
Chocolate cake. Steamed. Thank you, Quaker Oats.
And the slight, if steady progress with both the Aunts. If its not bad, its good.
Slight hint of a chill in the air most mornings. Spectacular sunrises, etched palm leaves on gold.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
The raw energy of the street play presented at the park, the roaring national anthem, and rapt attention with which a completely mixed audience watched the new binding factor, terror; the green gold of Kanheri and the determined buzz at Leopold’s,this and the all so important rest-all these have retreated to the backdrop, very much there, very much on the alert but not wide-eyed breaking news.
Been witness to some lovely pink edged clouds most dawn, and a hint of a nip in the air.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Thursday, December 04, 2008
For discipline. No, the word does not sound ugly anymore.
More so, a need to ensure this does not become mindless, mind-numbing.
In the stories, in the twitter feeds, in the forwards and breaking news, one can get trapped.
For a day, one pondered over a withdrawal, recluse-style. For white, for space.
Prompted by the disgust of a gentle giant.
But corralling in is not the answer.
Retreat, repose, recoup. Return.
The rolling mists predawn and the delicate sunrise, will enthrall in due course.
No- I wont let them take that away.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
The curve of the staircase, the statuette on the landing
The way the sunlight gleams off the water past plate glass
The sepia royals that stood their ground, now vanquished
Their final resting spot, the charred cream walls.
But I remember the strangest things.
The lights of the tonga are an impatient camera blur.
Never again.
They are not the them people.
Takes two reads of the victim list to realize. The victim list. Oh.
Who’s the victim? Who’s that lady, burkha clad, knocking doors?
I forgive. I don’t forget. My bad.
Read Ashwini Bapat, the parent says. Concerned.
In the eight minutes that I squeeze in
Chopping the raw tomatoes, rolling out the dough.
Eight minutes.
But that’s another world. A story. Don’t worry.
That’s not me.
Singed once by fire.
of pretence. false feet.
I forgive. I don’t forget. My bad.
Immune.
But there’s just so much you tell an 85 year old.
Don’t worry. Never again.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
My head is spinning.
Its over, but such loss. A blogpal tells me of this young girl, the sole survivor from her 5-person family- they were celebrating a birthday. She is critical, in coma.
Read, too, about the disaster averted at the TOI.
Anger and then anguish and then...indifference? Until next time?
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Every ten min today I’ve refreshed the Rediff page.
They’ve just reported grenade blasts outside the Taj.
I weep inside, thinking of the lovely lobby.. the mural by MF Hussain behind the reception counter, the waterfall, the intricate carved wall on one end, the marble inlay floor... all wrecked.
You go off the lobby, into the old taj, the lovely boutiques on one side, the displays on the other- the b&w photos of celebrities, Pt Nehru, Jackie Kennedy, Shobha De in her heydays...such a sense of history- all gone.
You go up the impressive curving iron staircase with the iron head of Dadabhai Naoroji at the landing.
The Sea lounge on the first floor. The Crystal Room, with its glorious chandeliers and ornate glass...The Princes Chamber, with the framed sepia portraits of the erstwhile rulers... all gone
And the layout of the old Taj? Almost like an old style Indian house, around a central courtyard…
I weep inside- remembering the lunch they’d serve on silver plates just a week ago, and how I’d asked for an empty dish so as to not waste food, no, it will never be the same again. That celebratory midnight dinner at the Chambers, and how the food didn’t seem so great, it will never be the same again.
And the Oberoi. Or the Trident or the Hilton. Whichever name its being called by. So often one has trooped from the old to the new, not sure where the meeting was. Memories of walking into the lobby a novice so unsure, overawed by the large glass windows, the piano in the atrium, the sight of so many people. Slowly how one got used to it. Freezing at the conf room in the business center because the AC was too efficient, gawking at the baubles on display at the boutiques. Looking all day at the sea from the 16th floor, watching her change moods, envy at the distant apartments the views they’d have…
How dare they.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Sunday evening, at the wedding function. The father died a few months back, a heart attack, a shock for all. The mother shook off her grief, insisted life go on, and then his best friends took over, taking the function to a state of flawless execution. A crisp salute.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Returning from the bank the other day, we compete for a rick, yours truly and four pairs of tiny hands, shepherded by their mothers. Maybe I can give you a lift? Bhuma- Bhumika, Vrusha, Lakshmi, all pretty red checked pinafore and red ribbons kindergarteners, thank you for those lovely smiles; the pleasure was entirely mine.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
There is charm in a blatant peach sunset, in Calylilly green, in movies from Hyderbhai’s library.
There is a lightness. An incredible lightness of being.
There is laughter, in old friends teasing. In connecting.
In health tales from oldies-goldies, in the retelling of family yarns.
In lanes that turn and new shortcuts discovered-a pleasure not to be sniffed at.
At some level, one watches on, the spectator, the joker in the pack.
In all of this, what is there to write?
Friday, November 14, 2008
Saturday, November 08, 2008
Friday, October 31, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Apparently I have a translated story in print. Finally finally.
A translation of Pravinsinh Chavda’s Sudamacharitra.
From Gujarati into English.
In Indian Literature, which is published by Sahitya Academi, N Delhi.
Sahitya Academy is India’s National Academy of Letters.
This is the first acceptance of a translation in five years.
Feels good. But also distanced.
Which I can’t explain.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Relativity,with a different spin.
“Go to a proper doctor. Go now!” I say, staring at the funny prescription from a doc with a string of funny degrees.
The girl sitting quietly in the corner nods, changes into her uniform, spends the next two hours tidying up the salon, wiping spotlessly clean surfaces.
Money trouble. Such a relative term. No cribbing.
Worst case, the sky wont fall down.
NANO COMES TO GUJARAT.
YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY.
Garvi Gujarat.
added Oct 9: That girl is doing quite ok. Checked t'day.
Friday, October 03, 2008
Age 3. That frock with smocking and “I love you Mommy” embroidered. Wiping your grubby tears. I know you want Ma and Dadaji, but you’ll have to stay here. This is your home. And this is your tricycle, see how shiny bright the bell is.
Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away
Anand Balwadi. Balwadi ni bus, chaley dhas mas. Ek biladi jadi. Bari maan Babli baithi ti and the monkey on the roof.
All the rhymes I remember but will never sing.
Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away
School. School’s boring. Miss has a shrill voice. She makes you cry.
You prefer my class, specy, pigtailed, drawing in your notebook while I struggle with seventh standard math.
Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away
You hit back at anyone being nasty to me. Later you shout back. The things we learn. A special language only we know. Let it be. Doesn’t matter.
Your bus is late. Again. Where do these children go! Nupur’s mom and I, so many times.
Scour, find. The afternoon sun burns up the road.
Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away
Kathak. The starter class. The cyclone outside. Dancing, two left feet and me, so you wouldn’t cry, Papa’s not back as yet.
Kathak, your visharad.
Kathak, the green dress with lots of pleats from my first ever salary.
Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away
Your swirling skirts. Nine nights, Navratri. Three steps, six steps, nine steps, fifteen.
I watch aghast. So many steps! I’d rather sit and sing, thank you.
Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away
Doing your punishment homework, with the swirl in the S and the loopy g’s.
Uniforms. Brown paper covers for your notebook. Nine nines are…
Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away.
The queen of taans. Outdoing, showoff.
You signal the sam even when its hidden in a flurry of beats.All the taals like a pulse-beat, because of your dance riyaz.
Fights over who’s bringing the tanpura. Who’s taking it back. Why I only must do it everytime, what will you do…
Scowling, making funny faces.
Covering up, singing. One voice blends into another, reaches for the skies.
Barsey meha boond boond
Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away.
Flying kites for Utran, dark glasses and cap inscribed with “Friend” perched. Kite fights. Mogambo khush hua…You win.
Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away.
The punch-in-the-gut end. The skintight jeans. The off shoulder T. Charity.
Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away.
Another Oct 4.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
A year older. Now forty-four.
A nice, round number. No hard edges, unlike 43.
43 is brash-angular, with sharp edges. Wannabe. Defiant.
Drama. Screeching violins. Thunder storms.
Sums up the last year. The last decade.
Now the housekeepin’s done.
44? I’ll figure out. By and by.
Stillness. Peace.
An equipoise kind of peace, know that one?
That’s the mantra. Next ten years.
The fine wrinkles, the silver, the laugh lines- a toast.
Peach-orange tint to a morning.
A solitary star pinned to the night sky.
Shushing greens.
A dog that rushes to greet.
A handmade gift from someone precious.
That 5 am tea from the parent.
More.
Gift me the eyes to see.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
B&W photo-portraits of Rajahs, Maharajahs, Nawabs and sundry chieftains line the teak paneled wall; dressed in finery and baubles, with shining eyes and fierce moustaches. Twenty one gun salute, fifteen gun salute, rank, privilege and protocol bound; some wouldn’t even acknowledge the other out of cussed pride, and here we are, all these decades later, decoration on a wall. Ah time.
Met a friend in the city on the way back, for no fault he’s between a rock and a hard place, the firm he works for is on the hitlist, a trillion dollars can’t be prettied up by parking it; you can’t give home loans at 3.5 % and allow debt of 30 times, someday its payback time, the whole world suffers. Who is John Galt?
The glowing Hussain in the lobby. The rain swept sea and skies all the same color, the cascade in the portico. Still as lovely.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
A stretch limo for the man who let the Kosi rage. Nice.
The trees. Almost like a forest. Branches unpruned, intertwined and growing any which way. That thick undergrowth. Right in the city. Envy that. WhycantwehavetreeslikethatinMumbai.
This market’s giving me the blues.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Just when one had come to terms with the horror in Delhi. One more city, same strategy-bomb and fear- escalating anger, a dirty visceral anger. Keep that paperwork ready, already.
You recall the dancing crowds yesterday, escorting the Idols to the sea. They’re dressed in orange t-shirts, swaying not to a bollywood number or a prayer, but to an anthem praising a party’s might. Scary.
And you think of the gentle rain falling, the twinkling lights, how lush the grass is no matter what- and try to get on with your day.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Blush. Duh. I have me an award.
Drumroll… or something.
In the spirit of graciousness that Manujee conferred this award, I bequeath-
Mago the magician, for opening up a pandora’s box of people and places
Quin’s fmd, for being what she is, just quin!
Babyisland, and the three leeetle ones on an island someplace
Supermom Crustybeef
Portia who grooves on, so she does, and the great art hidden someplace in the archives.
Amit scintillates (when he’s not copy-pasting, that is.)
Paulo the wise, for making me think.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Look how quickly things get over.
Pieces of jute string and a diya at the gate.
A grieving family.
How suddenly things happen.
When she’s gone, what is left?
She had such a good heart, everybody says.
I pay my respects and go back. Sort of close family, but not quite.
We spend so much time and effort in acquiring things, striving- and its over in an instant.
Monday, September 08, 2008
Its only later that I berate myself for being so arrogant. Judgmental. That a box with a sandwich, a pack of wafers and cookies can mean a great deal to someone. So much so that they crowd, fishmarket style; and scream, niceties and five-star ambiance be damned. So often one transposes one’s value system, but the frames of reference are so darned different there is just no connect. Lazy thinking on my part.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Yes, she knows its a tough battle.
Read on:
Hey all,
Recently a picture of mine, under "all rights reserved" license was used by
TOI in one of its supplements, dated 18th July
without my permission and without giving me any form of credit or
compensation.
I contacted the editor on phone as well as mail, politely asking for
compensation and credit and what I got was a "take this or sue me" attitude
and no concern for the fact that what they did was illegal, not to forget
unethical.
Apart from other things that I'll do, as a blogger, the best I can do is
write about it and make sure that everyone knows that such a thing is being
done.
If any journalist here is interested in publishing this as a story, please
do. I know of several such copyright violation cases now and a cumulative
one
would be even more powerful an article.
If any lawyer would like to get in touch with me, please contact me at
twilightfairy at gmail dot com.
Here's her account :
http://blog. twilightfairy. in/2008/09/ 01/toi-believes- flickr-is- for-flicking/
Monday, September 01, 2008
The Worli- Bandra bridge cuts across, a ribbon spanning the sea; just ahead in silhouette is a 34-storeyed apartment under construction, the arm of the crane juts out like a black palm holding a golden sky. “Three to five years, sorry,” I mumble, looking at the golden orb dip in the distant ocean.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Channel surfing. Find, on UTV movies- A Hard Day’s Night.
Squeal, shout, cheer, sing along; every yeah yeah yeah, every wo ooo oo oou.
Every darn word. How the lines sound.
The parent looks on, bemused.
This is the first-ever record I’d seen as a 5 year old.
Shiny cover, the fab four, memories of jumping on the bed, monkey-style.
How does the brain remember?
Monday, August 25, 2008
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Friday, August 22, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
-Realizing how light from incandescent bulbs can put one to sleep as early as ten in the night.
-Realizing that one will never quite fathom the sacrifices so many have made for us to live on free land, breathe free air and speak out. Looked through scribbled notes from the essay, to try and understand that mettle, wondered where it all disappeared.
-Connecting with family on raksha bandhan, now the email and phone way.
- Looking spellbound at the Silk and Spice route story on Discovery. So many have come and gone, the march of ages, et al, and one day so shall we. Lovely shots, but.
-Began reading White Oleander- beautiful words, its the kind of story that you think of when you wake up first thing in the morning.
-Tons of friends, long distance calls lasting an hour or more, a vision of the flat with the distant sea view and slums next door.
- tough sub, but I did it, 400 and done.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Monday, August 04, 2008
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Friday, August 01, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
Friday, July 11, 2008
Second anniv. of July 11 commuter train bomb blasts.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
In the dark, in the softly falling rain, a girl in a medicated daze, runs and is chased by a man with a camera while her father looks on, the OB van follows close behind, the live feed for national broadcast has supers reading “obsessed/jilted fan hounds celebrity” or similar.
What kind of man does this?
My response is unladylike and quite unprintable.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Friday, July 04, 2008
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
That water flows downhill.
Mostly. But if the path downhill is blocked, water floods.
And so it did.
Caged a lift marking a furrow in the said flood waters (memories of Cal), made it to work to learn I was the only person in my group, turned right around and went home.
The BMC commissioner more or less says “live with it”.
Was that in English?
Monday, June 30, 2008
The third project, the really really big one, has yet to re-begin.
Must document the curious case of the burnt plastic and the lost tax filing sometime.
Luckily, both were retraced, retrieved after a lot of hand wringing.
Learning- follow up, always always. Also, that he is really getting old, despite his gung-ho attitude.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Disclaimer: Take one long commute. One bored woman, sitting at said table, twiddling thumbs. One rambling speech. Lots of clapping. Blend.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Something. :)
http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2008/06/untitled_4797.html
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
And as always when I need to stop fretting, I cooked. Ground masalas too- garam masala and dhana-jeeru (coriander-cummin), heavenly that fragrance; understood why the aunts back home concoct their own blends instead of buying from the shops.
Father’s day y’day. Baba and I laughed at the 85% discount we’d get if we shopped at Reliance Trends. (One got a discount equivalent to the parent’s age.)
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Monday, June 09, 2008
Another rain: bai’s shanty, mostly mud, tin and stone, has caved in. She runs around trying to find the money, knowing that she hasn’t what it’d take to build strong, 1.5 lacs. She knows and I know what she’s putting together is flimsy, temporary, just about there, but it’ll have to do. Like a lot of things, patchwork.
The city is a mess. Already. BMC, MMRDA officials should be made to stand on the expressway in a downpour, swirling water rising waist high. A first witness check on the so-called disaster management. My first and last crib on this issue.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Last night I saw a red-black night sky with scattered lines of fluffy clouds, lightning cackled like an artist’s highlights, a strange electric unease filled the air. Later, a shower washed leaves clean of grime, that just-about-wet earth smell. Relief.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Does the soul good to read about hope.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
It was his stubborn will that pushed the family out of the village else I’d still be there, waiting to fill water at a well in a hot dusty hopeless place.
Its beyond clammy, this ugly sweat at 85% humidity, by afternoon a scorching sun-a strange restlessness waiting for the first monsoon. Its going to be a thundering raging one, this season, an ole woman can feel it in her bones.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Hazaaron Khwaishein aisi/ A thousand dreams such as these/ Sudhir Mishra.
I’m glad I saw it only now. Four years ago I was too raw.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Storms rage overhead. I watch horrified. Somewhat relieved. Not me/mine. Anxious too. This monsoon the skies will pour, like crazy. Chengdu. Xian. Schoolchildren. ohwhatcanyousay. Its raining in Myanmar, furious pelting rain, after the cyclone. Storms that eclipse personal catastrophes. What a tiny speck of insignificance man is, completely useless for all the posturing and shoo-shaa.
Now its me/ mine.
You can go to buy vegetables and be blown apart. Or miss a limb.
The authorities will make the usual noises. Then the case will fizzle out. Like the commuter train blasts.
When do we hit back at the terror-sponsors? When will the US stop mollycoddling Pakistan?
Friday, May 09, 2008
Somehow one has viewed tales as patterns, aberrations or breaks in pattern really, a delta on the normal, the expected, and the liberty to spin a yarn on the reasons thereof. Is there a connect between biology and writing?
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
The concert on Saturday morning was held at the park. As the first notes of Ahir Bhairav spun out, a cuckoo responded with a cascade of golden notes. Nat bhairav, a Kabir bhajan and a Bhairavi piece created magic for the ten- odd listeners amongst a sea of chairs. The regular walkers kept intent on their ten-minute-stride-and-done.
Friday, May 02, 2008
-the handmade patchwork quilt in crazy colors airing on the fence of that enviable slice of real estate, a buffalo shed, squat by the express highway with the shiny cars; right next to the marble tiled apartment that costs 1.5cr
- the trees alit with purple blooms by the Santacruz flyover. The flyovers were a delight, traffic free.
-jamming with the kid on the synthesizer, he played a passably good kal ho na ho. And the beat in Khaikey paan. The child is so naïve for a baniya’s son.
That’s three. The rest didn’t.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Sandalwood, and the scent lingers long after. Medimix, a bad brand name for a soap so delightfully herb-fresh.
“Because the mother-in-law was once the daughter-in-law” heads the list of Indian soaps that the Afghan government has banned. We should ban them serials too.
Promises to be a scorching summer.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
The lady in the seat behind mine was traveling with her young sons, all the way to Toronto, this evidently was her first flight ever, she was moving bag and baggage, on permanent resident visa to a land she’d never seen, a language she didn’t know, new people and a new life, and I wonder what is it in our genes that makes us pack up and move, and makes some stay put, come hell or high water.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
We’re eighty-five today. Everyday a new day, touchwood. So lukkha he won’t even treat me to peanuts, nah you can’t, he cackles.
Watching the golden orb rise beyond the horizon-line, past the few straggly trees on dusty scrub and the huge pipe that runs to the distant reservoir, one can just imagine onceuponatime, itwaslikethis packed lush green, bird calls to a crescendo, insects buzz, suddenly a rustle in the undergrowth and …silence.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Friday, April 11, 2008
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Monday, April 07, 2008
And for once I have shoes that are not Bata relics.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
Different rocks too, on the lovely ladies who do dinner; showroom-quality rocks that outshone the strings of lights at the reception last night, lights that shone and glittered with the sea breeze and the quite chatter on an impeccable lawn. I lasted there for half an hour, I’m getting better at the howd’youdo’s.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
Splashes and patches of purple- magenta- red on tar, wild shrieks and laughs of kids playing holi brought back memories of times when one was happy to be a red, green and yellow haired witch draped in kaleidoscopic multicolor, when did all this change?
A saturday off for once, and where does it go?
The colors around are so lovely, I’d rather keep them to myself for a while. Spring.
Monday, March 17, 2008
A hundred shades of green flutter in the breeze, forming an intricate lace canopy over impatient traffic.
Shiny cars, rattling autos, buses and cycles jostle to a metallic symphony and set off tiny dust clouds.
But by the roadside, dancing jade shimmers against the palest blue.
The season of colors.
Orange-red kesu flowers are stark and extravagant on a distant leafless tree.
The leaves have long withered, leaving the sap free to nourish the buds and blossoms.
Traditional songs, the hori, rave about the color called gulaal, that these flowers are processed to produce.
Colors that are sprinkled to play Holi, the spring festival that marks the change of seasons.
In time, these flowers will drop one by one, leaving a bare-branched tree stark by an orange carpet.
The season for change. The season of colors.
Friday, March 14, 2008
So the tests from last week are in, after all the prodding, pinching and wincing, and one’s genes being what they are, the results are what they are, and for once one is glad about the four plus year godawful degree one took, one knows how to handle this. Somewhat. Enough already. No comments.
There are three ways into town. Spent most of last week and this week exploring the roads and guesstimating traffic, inkypinkyponky we take THIS one, and cut past like that, and then THAT shortcut... and hopefully get where we’re supposed to. The days were spent in sinful luxury by the sea, talking work, gazing wistfully at the Gateway and envying the milling crowds eating bhelpuri past the high rise plateglass windows and taking trips on double decker tourist steamers cutting a smart arc in the glittering sea . Lunch was served on silver dishes, some of it quite all right, what’s to complain, though they could go easy on the oil and ghee. One learning: the ride does seem all right if one is listening to FM in the gridlock, red tail lights and way too many cars, particularly edge to edge on JJ bridge and one cant help but wonder if the design specs considered these loads. If you take the eastern expressway before eight in the morning, its fascinating to see the contrasts and the changes, from genteel art deco to working class grit, ancient mill-lands under development, swanky glass and steel nestling with single room chawl- type community living. And nice trees, more green than we see in my part of town. No, that’s not correct, possibly the green is more interesting because its unexpected.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Brick, mortar,glass cladding and steel do a hotel make. The squat structure by the domestic airport has been transformed from the public sector behemoth it once was, touched by a magic sprinkle called for-profit enterprise; though that path did witness a few eyebrow-raising quick ownership changes enroute. The atrium is beautiful, vast given the frugal norm in this space-hungry city, stunning given the contrast with its ugly cement exterior. Stunned the suits as well, and that’s quite something, since this bunch excels at seen it all-done it all. Impeccable poolside, tropical aviary, rippling stream and envy-invoking rattan for the seating clusters. The meeting rooms have cushioned walls, something even the town biggies have missed out on. One tiny nit– those strings of artificial flowers lining the railings do look plastic.
Decent enough week. The more things change, the more they remain the same.
Monday, March 03, 2008
A friend writes:
Creative non-fiction - which is autobiographical, but
is always dangerous because the images and characters
are so present, so vivid, that when I write I take a
lot for granted - forgetting that the reader cannot
see what I see.
That shower of dust particles dancing in that lazy afternoon light, sepia tinted with gold The timbre of voices, crystal, as they rose in unison, tackling mundane scales, now supportive, now showing off.
Charade. A 1963 thriller. Audrey Hepburn, perfect, lovely clothes, and they all stay on. A completely impressive Cary Grant. Witty, laugh a minute. The dialogues are so crisp you couldn’t pare them if you tried. Yes, we finally watched this last night.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Eight things, more or less.
Because Quin said so.
8 things I’m passionate about
Baba, my eightyfour year ole sweetheart.
Colors
The stockmarkets, whattaride...
Words, 3 languages, thankyouverymuch
Street food
My India.
8 Things I Want to do Before I Die
Have one book of translations published (not PDO or self publish)
write
Take a train that runs cross country, Jamnagar to Gauhati or Cochin to Jammu , where I can hop on and off the train at will, stopping wherever it I feel like
Take a year off to return to “real life”, maybe work in a store, too ivory towerish this life is sometimes
Own my home: glass finish kota tiles, at least one decoupage wall, bookshelves lining the corridor, nice long windows with flowing curtains, yes?
8 Things I Say Often
damn
donkey (gadhedo chey) and its completely colorful variants
oh hell
Really?
On the other hand…
Hmm..
8 Books I've Recently Read
I have very little free time at home. I just about manage snippets:
The Shambhala Way
Van Gogh Blues
Navneet Samarpan, a literary magazine in Gujarati, where I’m trying to read a piece about the autobio of a child prodigy-author
Last Sunday’s Hindu Businessline and a pile of financial n’papers, and this never ever ends
8 Songs I Could Listen to Over and Over
Dil se/ ARR
Kholo kholo/ TZP/ Shankar Ehsaan Loy
Vaishnav Jan toh / Various
Udi udi udi/ ARR
Send your love remix / Sting
Michelle/ Beatles
8 Things That Attract Me to My Best Friends
they’re funny and bright
they’re honest and upfront
they don’t give a damn about appearances
they’re real. I cant explain this one. I cant stand fakes.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
Bollywood shining..
The black lady shone bright, our very own Filmfare awards that I’m talking about.
Someday I want to sit in the junta seats at Andheri Sports Complex, cheer myself hoarse and clap red palm-loudly.
Tare Zameen Par is the best movie of the year, Aamir Khan the best director, that cute kid the critic’s award. No doubt about that. Will take a while before we see anything close. On a subject that is as difficult to handle as dyslexia. Such a bright and oh its-great –to-be-alive treatment, superlative!
Tabu, the critics award for Cheeni Kum, I don’t think anyone else amongst the bevy of lovelies that tinsel town features, could carry this April- December romance with such panache.
Kareena for a vivacious true to life sardarni in Jab we met, the best actress award, the movie was a riot.
ARR for the stupendous score for Guru, will take a while before we hear anything close to Barso rey.
This once I’ve seen all the movies, except for Life in a Metro. No way I can sit next to the sweetheart and watch this one, with its tale of parallel and sequential affairs of the heart and whatchacallit, supposedly set in this city.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
First babyisland, and then abbagirl, I’ve been tagged once too often on this one, so, here we go:
Page 123, skip 5 lines, write the next 3:
The Secrets of the Shambhala/ James Redfield:
..Even if we wanted to give Tibet its freedom, it would not be fair to the Chinese.”
He waited for me to say something, and I thought about confronting him with the government policy of importing Chinese nationals into Tibet in order to dilute the Tibetan culture. Instead, I said,” I think they just want to be free to pursue their religion without interference."
I’ve learnt quite a bit about intuition, energy fields and outcomes from this book, it has helped declutter my mind quite a bit. Now I just step away from things or people that my mind tells me to avoid.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
Ok. I admit it. I’m the only person I know who’d walk a kilometer for Okra.
Okra, as in the vegetable? Now paying ten bucks for a quarter of Okra from the vendors lining the road; nice green, slender and dainty ladies fingers, is wrong, is way too much. Not in the winter, when prices are supposed to hold better. How on earth is someone with a decent income or someone with a single salary supposed to manage, I debate as I walk home having spent much more. Strange enough, it costs the same at the shiny supermarket as it does at the vendors where you’re supposed to haggle, cajole and bully your way.
Amazing direction. Awesome colors. Beautiful. Great pace. No, its not a documentary-ish treatment for a difficult subject. There is no preaching. No dumbing-down.
How the director has managed to enter a nine-year old’s brain is something I’ll never know.
I was/am an dyslexic at math, I tell Papa, reminding him of the times I couldn’t leave the breakfast table without reaching twelve nines are. But numbers now are trends, lines that move up and down when they’re supposed to, and its when they don’t quite, that’s when you zoom in and push them some and turn them over.
But what a movie. Defining. Even if this man doesn’t make anything else, it would be fine. Amazing ease with the medium. I can’t think of any Indian film director who’d have the guts to show an opening so realistic and funny, a kid mesmerized by tadpoles and fishes in an open gutter, watching this strange world upside down.