Peace. Abiding joy.

After hoping like hell that things would turn the corner, but knowing that they likely wont, one takes the next steps. Or lists the next steps .For whenever that is. There is relief, a lightness. I haven’t laughed so much in ages.

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.

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.

Sunshine on the terrace, a 360 degrees view I’ve never seen in the year we’ve been here, the smile on your face when you listen to the first strands of a Kumar Gandharva recital, ah life.

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.

It is just as well one puts on a veneer with the years. It is just as well one learns resilience. Of sorts, of course. What I shall never understand is the disconnect between word and meaning, like a foreign language with familiar words that mean quite something else.
Hopefully.

There is a need for routine. For structure.
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.

What a thing to remember
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.