Something reminded me of how one was at twenty-three; impetuous confident sure terrified shaky scared hopeful enthu uncertain but so damn sure, and twenty three years later I wonder what, if anything, has changed and why and how, and I wonder.

So you pull out oft-used words from a cauldron and try them on, roughly cutpasted jagged- edge bits of this and fritters of that: Oh I see. Oh well. Well, then ; and much to your surprise you form a cohesive whole, words given the context they're multiused in, and none the worse for frequent use, much to your surprise they still make perfect sense.

What if there is nothing left to lose? Do the ends justify the means? That mother is harried, her middle-aged yet pretty features distort when she talks of skipping the kirana bill this month and the light- rent bills next month.Of shifting from flat to flat chased by landlords. The daughter is not yet seventeen, innocent, naïve, for want of a better word, pure. Her portfolio is ready, distant relatives and contacts have been mined. Tinsel town has its own games and its own rules, hundreds take the train to try their luck at the studio gates. “If it were my daughter I wouldn’t let her…” I say. But if there were no choice? If you were between a rock and a hard place? Then I guess you go out and do what it takes. Mind- scary.

The Ganpati festival begins tomorrow
May Lord Ganesha fill your life to the brim and overflowing with much that is good and lasting.
May the patron of the arts, the transcriber of the Mahabharata, always be by your side as you write and dream.

Images from Mahindra Tiktey’s workshop, Mhalpa dongri. This workshop is at the foot of the track I take to work everyday.

More on arbit pics.

No, I don’t think I’m ok with Sardar Patel being bad mouthed. Let’s not forget the map of country would have gaping holes in place of AP, Saurashtra and J&K had it not been for this man’s fine mastery of sam dam dand bhed.
One piddly politician acknowledging that or not does not matter.
(The highlight of his career is handing over terrorists on a platter with thanks, no one has forgotten.)
So-let him peddle his book and be done with it.
Why give him extraordinary publicity by banning the book?
Yes, my Gujju blood boils.

In Bapu’s (Gandhiji's) words.
The text in this image from a display at Mani Bhavan reads-
“And now we will be able to think of the idea of Swaraj (or freedom) in some time.I still have to reply to that question you asked me, I haven’t forgotten. But let’s look at your last question. The British have not taken Hindustan, we have granted it to them. They have not survived in Hindustan because of their might, but because we have allowed them to. Let us see how. Let me remind you that they first came to our country to trade, to do business. Remember the Bahadurs of the Company? Who made them Bahadurs? Those poor people had no intention of ruling. Who helped the people of the company? Who was influenced by their gold? Who helped sell their goods? History proves that above all, we value getting wealthy quickly…”

62 years on. What has changed?
A young child, not more than 7 years old, holding a 2 year baby, tugged at my hand for money. To buy thumbs up, she said, happy to settle for a packet of glucose biscuits.
What has changed for her?
I was quiet this Independence day.

This has to feature as the startle of the day.
Checking on a text reference, I was led to a beautiful, ancient description of a city I know reasonably well.
http://www.inter-islam.org/Pastevents/HistoryAhmadabad.htm
Why do I feel as if someone stepped on my grave?

Had been for the wall project today.Himmat kar key. Pushing my boundaries. Thank you, Dhanya Pilo.

After so long of “to go or not to go”, didn’t know a soul there.

They were painting the wall outside Mahim station, on Tulsi Pipe road. Open house, come one come all.This, yellow and red buildings is my wall-ting...Phew!

More on arbit pics. High quality work.

It is your bday today, o’ blue skinned one. Last night the temple bells must have rung clear, last night the conch shell echoed, to the fragrance of incense and jasmine, the delight of followers you must have been welcomed into the world. All well and good, but what to do? I’ve seen you in the swishing of the palm frond, in the march of stately trees lining an avenue, a tree holding up the sky, the clouds silver outlined, in the roar of the surf and the swish of the tide, talked to you the most intimate secrets in the whistling whooosh of a gale, marveled at the power in the thrust of the rocks out of the ground. So I wondered and so I celebrated, with long remembered songs from sepia school concerts and music lessons; kamal lochan kati pitamber, adhar murali giridharam…

The dew-swept grass this morning was magnetic, and I can so understand the artist who lay spreadeagled, pinned to the ground, took the earth to heart, one with the earth as it moves, with the gritty feel of the soil, the warmth of the sun and the breeze that carried myriad birdsong, one with the grass as it inched towards the bright sky, with the rush of the sap through the tall tree that stood sentinel-still upholding a generous canopy.
Then I smiled and walked away.Ah, life.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

On Sat., the road raced past green, mist laden hills and sleepy hamlets, picture perfect serenity- a backdrop to the gravity of our condolence visit, the sudden, too-early departure and one more tale of scoundrel med professionals who leech off poor patients.

Ostrich style, I shut out swine flu news.
Scary.

Rakshabandhan 2009

Silken threads dazzle
like memory wisps
laughter, leisurely lunches,
a special event much awaited.

BBC on Saturday featured Sting and the Neurology of Music.
Watched spellbound at the maestro was decoded/ deciphered in a series of MRIs.
That tune from Sister Moon that quivers in the air like a mist swirling before its set free by the first rays of the sun; the haunting Arabic voice in Desert Rose that spins a plaintive cry before settling free and soaring—which part of the brain does that sit in, so one sort of waits for it before it is sung?

And Hema and Kaushik from Unaccustomed Earth/ Jhumpa Lahiri- which quicksilver words did she draw on, what magic dust did she sprinkle and which hidden memories so deep in the brain did she awaken, so the reader is left stunned, distraught, grieving wanting to shout “No! You can’t do that!” in despair like a personal loss even a day after shutting the book?