Youtube. And you.
You're like a child. Elated.
You insist on K L Saigal.
1944. 1952.
Every evening.The IPL be damned.
Babul mora. Ek bangla baney nyara.
A question barrage.
I scramble. I steal time.
Who with. when. why. which show.how much was the ticket?
Oh really! And then?
So many questions.
Anything. For a slice of your life.
And you know. And I know.
Time's a thief.

Last night, we ended with Geeta Dutt.
Chain sey hum ho kabhi...
As also the Sanjeevani and Asha Bhonsale versions.
In my brain loop, her voice echoes.
To sing this one, you have to live life a little.

As the mostly young audience cheers and hangs on to every wizened word
Past the halo of honors and laurels that rest lightly on your frail shoulders;
I see
deep furrows and fine lines that crisscross your face
the sharp-as-paper-edge temper
your lack of patience with fools
that blunt directness of your cryptic, barked replies
the arms you’ve earned, from a life honestly lived
I learn
That 9 to 5 is not mandatory
That putting up, adjusting, making do is not mandatory
That it is completely possible to hold a point of view, which is entirely your own
To fight an unfair fight without bitterness corroding
To wait for the end with composure
Nothing is mandatory.

Thoughts on listening to Mahasweta Devi (84), the feisty fiery brilliant author- activist, at Prithvi y’day.

Today we are 86.
:)

Sometimes it is good to cry tears I didn’t know I had left.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY

Thank you, Quin.

The gulmohars have come into bloom; that unnamed tree at the corner is bursting with green- yellow. If only I could stop cribbing about dug up roads and the dust haze.

Thank you, sir.
Yes, the courage to know it can be done.

(*Scroll to comment #29, day 351.)

So stunning.
Something about Helen Levitt's photos.
The light and texture, the simplicity of B&W that pulls you in.
And to think I was just scanning through an obituary.
She was as bad with talking as I am.

Kaki, my aunt, talked of stocks stored for the year-tall red-stoppered glass jars filled with cummin, ajwain, mustard, bought at the right price, in the right season, fragrant from the harvest. She talked of dals and wheat and she’s all set, the best wheat, all fifteen kilos cleaned, sieved, coated with castor oil and packed in large bins. This once I’m tempted, perhaps its in your genes, this peculiar mix of satisfaction-joy at doing things right, that sense of continuity, the way its always been done generation after generation. And money-sound too. Maybe later.

She wafts in and out of “here time”, that gleam in her eyes short lived, head upright-now lolling, as the disease continues to extract all that was good, instant and alert, corrodes, inches towards the inevitable. Sobering.

A glimmer at the end of a long, winding tunnel.
Sometimes one can feel happy for no reason at all
And then, there is a reason:

http://pratilipi.in/2009/03/the-battle-of-manekgadh-pravinsinh-chavda/

note: updated link, it had changed in the evening