Delicate fronds of white-topped green nod with the dawn breeze. Paper lanterns at the street corner shimmer at the whisper of a draft. So strange the memories we retain.

Its Diwali. The festival of lights.
A gentle reminder of happier times ahead.
Even if it took the Lord twelve years in exile.

Too little, too late.

http://www.breakingviews.com/2008/10/23/Greenspan.aspx?email

You go home singing O’my darlin Clementine (in your mind, but of course) , after you’ve seen stuff like this all day.

The usual walk in the park, looking at the sky, the eucalyptus leaves outlined against a peach dawn, dew on the grass, the corner I call the bamboo grove…all routine till I overhear a conversation… “…santoor and the rendition was excellent..” Shock the parent by turning around and asking a complete stranger, “So which raga did he present?” keywords for the next few minutes- bilaskhani todi, bilawal, asavari ...Ah, life!. Then the discordant notes of the day don't hurt as much. Surprising, the things one does sometimes.

After the last strains of the jhinjhoti faded, and your fingers were still, that’s when the voices must have taken over, insidious and clamoring. Now only the good pieces remain, like rich embroidery on a kutchi shawl; a million lustrous, bright threads, a pattern that seems different every time you look at it- and there were so many- then the patchy, worn backdrop does not matter. It really is all about naav- nadi- sanjog. Peace, that’s all that remains.

How the mind loves a tidy story, all ends tied up, no grief, anguish or loose threads; so amusing to see all the tough tales prettied up, closure- it must be in our DNA. For the IWW practice stub this week, even Red Riding Hood and Madame Bovary were tonied up.

I’d forgotten how hot October can be, dry heat scorching three layers of skin, the wind burning your eyes and grit that sticks to the skin; it didn’t seem to affect a pair of pigeons playing about in a puddle, though.

Don’t want to forget this from the inauguration on Thurs.; past the glare reflected off the pristine white-gray factory amidst scrubland, thinking that the creation of wealth, jobs from practically nothing, is GOOD, even sacred.

Please pray for Mr AB.
Please.

If only I had a copy, if only the Gods that rule the Post Office had been kind.
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.

Market headlines: Panic returns. Carnage.
I guess that’s it. For the next five years. Or so.
When the index touched 18 k -One didn’t dance on the table or spew cash like confetti.
So one shuts the eff up.
And gets on with it.

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.

Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away
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.

Bapu.
We let you down.
Maybe you always knew.
I return to the words- samdrashti ney kapat rahit chey.
One lifetime to live one word.

A day of uncomfortable surprises.
Arm twisting over a mugshot.
A classmate from 1989 chances upon the blog. And identifies.
Here was I, writing about sunsets and blue skies.
Wonder what next, trouble comes in threes.
The bailout?