For all the people googling for "Gulmohar" and reaching my page.

Another 23rd.
So I watched the day carefully today to see if it would be any different, if it showed any sign of being your special day; but the sunrise was just as powerful, golden dust dancing in the air, and the day had the same sort of busy-ness as it usually does, demanding an account of each moment; and in the evening the hill in the distance seemed as serene, covered with a peach mist; and I often think of timezones, your being here and being in another sphere another lifetime, and realized despite the lack and lacking a limb and comfortable in the hard shell, it is still a celebration.

An anthology allows you to taste fleetingly, sample and move on if you will, nice knowing-you, no commitment and no hard feelings. Sometimes the words strike a chord and resonate, sometimes the words cleanse your neurons of the gunk accumulated and force you to sit up straight.

Like Salinger, and well, Bananafish.

Like Ruth Praver Jhabvala and that incredibly intricate abstract in Mirrorwork.

Links to a Jhabvala story from the New Yorker archives here:http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2008/07/28/080728fi_fiction_jhabvala?currentPage=all#ixzz0fyou6x2M

Sunrises on clear morning continue to enthrall. Pink and white and a tinge of orange, a dash of clouds overhead; and the eucalyptus tall and proud, each individual leaf outlined like a mughal miniature. Dew trembling at the edge of bamboo leaves and the bougainvillea rushing mad in its generosity.

Amit, thanks for the Beautiful blog award, and I shall do this tag in bite sized pieces, for to write an entire post would be completely too much.
Baroda? The warmth of home and the sadness of old places past their prime. Kalyan shabby and faded, resigned to its fate; empty and without a chaat counter, no bhel, what a sacrilege for a spot once famous for this comfort food. The ASE premises now rubble on a vacant corner lot, once upon a time the country’s best, most modern, shining steel and technology-proud pharma plant occupied these vast lands. The malls that line the corner seem a mockery. Once upon a time I’d interned here.

More on that 1960’s vintage movie, The Singing Sisters (a rather sweet tale about a nun who produces an international hit with her rendition of a hymn):

The contrast with backstory (via wikipedia) is shocking; a tale peppered with grief and failure, rich in texture and layers, something Faulkner would have written. I read about this particular nun’s decision to leave the order, try and establish a career with music and fail, try and build a poorhouse, and then be hounded by the government for back taxes so much so that she and her partner take their lives. The story hasn’t left me, though its been a few days since.

And in miracles, suddenly at five past six this morning the CD drive on my comp, for long given up as dead and a traitor, certified as such by technician—well, it began to hum and function again. Of its own will and fancy, and wonders will never cease.

And the 9 kids who died in Pune's terrorist blast. RIP.
I wont let myself think of the parents. Not yet.

In the last few days I’ve OD’ed on movies, the result of a cable upgrade; The White balloon, The Singing Nuns and on Showtime, Love aaj kal. Vastly different story strengths and production values to each. Yet, for its simplicity, the White balloon touched my heart even though I know not a word of Persian.

A sufi singer listens to a flute recital and touches something in the air, gesticulating as if he is meeting an old friend or spots a thing of much wonder, amazed, as if he is picking up something only he can see. Such is the delight of special sunrises, and bougainvillea in overflowing pinks.
To life!

The last week has been hectic. To sum it up, meeting after meeting across cities, hour after hour till one’s head was spinning, on the positive side it only strengthened one’s resolve. And then the matter of setting the home ready before, meals and all; and in some modicum of working order after. The first time in three years that I’ve missed my weekly writing, and how it rankles. All mailboxes running overfull. A modicum of order restored now, almost in control.

Watched y’day a fragment of The White Balloon. So simple and so stunning.
Also began Mirrorwork with a story by Manto titled Toba Tek Singh. Beautiful, to make the reader laugh and cry at will.

Thinking about the wild turns- crazy loops- that destiny takes.

Things I want to remember from the last few days:

That lucid lucent enormous moon, with that halo around. And how HUGE and red it looked past the dark of neem branch + leaves the next dawn.

That ice water/scathing shock of one’s first-ever Salinger.
A perfect day for bananafish. Read.

Could I reassemble a watch by myself? A simple, rustic old fashioned watch? Stunned. Yet I, my mind will question. Why will it not accept?

The curve of the beach from that vantage point, the peach and blue like crayon color on the horizon. Leaving footsteps in the wet sand. A runaway for ten minutes pre-meetings. The hiss of the wash and the sand-designs of crabs. The advancing high tide. The barking strays that turned happy once I inched closer.

Listening to CB even if for ten min. He speaks from the heart. Even if he mumbles a little. Still reading. A would have majorly run her red pencil across most pages.How impressive what M has done, dividing time so he can do what he wants to do, repaying a debt to life.

The random leaf patterns in that concrete path- smart idea.