Another 29th Sept.
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.

It is good to walk. To see the fluffy outline of a cloud, watch errant dust whirls. To be close to the ground, how the bumpy the roads are. To know which way the wind blows. As also the basics, of grain and greens. Not knowing, living in card castles can muck up the world and cost you $700 bill.

As I try pull myself out of a grumpy mood, I remind myself of the man selling that whirring helicopter toy at the traffic signal yesterday, the white cats curled asleep on the car hood this morning, and how despite all, dew glistens on about a fifty shades of green in the park.

All of yesterday was spent in meetings in the bored room, and since we reached early we avoided the traffic and the deluge. Read a few stories from Urban Voice enroute, till I reached a tale that made my brain standstill, then I could only look out and watch the vintage art deco buildings blur past.

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.

Not much seemed to have changed at the hotel in the capital- it was quite tranquil, life as usual, wheelers-dealers and sundry poltis ambled in quite unconcerned, the buzz just as loud, security just as lax. The image of alert security men at the check in counter for El Al, the Israeli Airline comes to mind. Just two days after the blasts, and where are we?

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.

Too much drama for one day. I’m referring to the index seesaw which was better post afternoon, read govt pressure. Real jobs and real money gone in a blink of an eye. No Lehman. No Merrill. What happens to BRIC now?

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.

I don’t think it is ever possible to know oneself completely.
Forget about anyone else.

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.

This isn’t a nice post.
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.

Something the voice said.
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.

Chants on the loudspeakers enroute to work. (later in the day, blaring movie songs as well). Marigold garlands. Strings of lights strung across the road. The roar of drumbeats- hypnotic. The cheers of the crowds taking the Ganpati idols for immersion.
Something glorious in the air.

TOI, for long a rule unto itself, has found a formidable opponent in twilight fairy.
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/

A traffic jam on the over bridge, an hour from east to west; a gentle breeze touches the pipal canopy etched against the just-about orange sky as a truck trailer carries an oversized Ganpati home, escorted by a gleeful orange bandana and T contingent.

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.