Today, I told myself I’d write. At least try. Sometimes it is worse than pushing toothpaste out of a dry tube.
But how to put on paper the relief-pride of pushing a tale to 3200 words, a tale that you’d despaired at ever attempting, and the feeling at being able to type “finish”. Phew. Done. Whether it makes the cut or not, does not matter—a personal victory.
How to put on paper that mixed sense of joy, quizzical unease at “we are considering”, either reject or accept, why keep me in limbo?
And that despair at seeing the walls of the palace grounds back home demolished, what has the city brought upon itself with this rash move?
So this is where I am.

Without fail a shower greets us every morning in the park, this morning I counted five kinds of green before I stopped counting, happy just to revel in the extravagant palette; the rain as regular as the line up of strays waiting for their biscuit treat, and I wonder how little they, and we, need to keep us going.

Minutes carved out of my Sunday, precious busiest day of the week, between the palak and methi that must be cleaned and the fridge and larder stocked and sorted, and I try and stretch and steal every moment I can spend with you, and it isn’t enough; it really never is.

It is good to go ballistic sometimes.
Like I did. And rarely do.
Compassion, giving space is where I try to operate from—ordinarily.
But you set out to be thoughtless, picked a raw nerve and pulled it taut, just to be social?
So I made sure. Where the line is, not to be crossed.
You will not do this again.

Yes, this is the kind of week it has been. But not bad, otherwise.

The Visitor is solidly good.

The last shot--the sound of drumbeat and the image of the middle aged, balding man in an incongruous suit playing a drum on an empty subway platform even as trains clatter by….Unnerving.

Unfortunately, I watched this in bits, the way I usually catch movies on telly—at dinner, after my walk, so bits and pieces really. Missed the entire beginning sequence.Yet.

A story about immigration, racism, political asylum. Good humans in a bad place. Yet simple, neat, no frayed edges.Matter of fact. If you’re an illegal resident, you can get thrown out for traveling ticketless, picked off the street and poof…No matter if your plea for political asylum has been turned down, or you’d be killed the moment you reach your land.

Not at a grand level, but at a you-and-me level.The other world infringing on a straight jacketed, standard-issue life. Not much of sound and fury about this one.

Brilliant acting by Richard Jenkins.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mGjjx3WMmSE

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Visitor_(2008_film)

Rain!

I look at the kid.
Bubbly, full of life, tall and pretty with her Julia Roberts cheekbones and slow smile.
I think back. To the way I was.
Not j, not the green monster.
But by this age I had written and crossed out quite a few life chapters.
Today, I like myself more.

The anticipation of a new book, the wonder, the delight...
Of a people so similar but not quite.


Mornings that are green drenched, the water trickling in tiny rivulets down my face, '
and the familiar takes on the mystery of a place unseen, and magical.

The lives people lead.
It is dark, past eight when I hail an auto.
And am shocked to see a child's foot suddenly in front of my face.
On the shelf meant for luggage..."Hey there's a child here!"
"That's my daughter, she travels with me."
The child, Anjali, is almost two. Her mother died when the baby was seven months old.
Since then, that shelf is her creche, day care center, whatever.
No, there is no one else. No one.
The child seems fine, we clap and play a game of sorts, now I see you now I don't.
This is what is.
What was it that I was antsy about?


Waiting at the docs for a routine test.
Waiting in the queue is a girl- child, not more than 22, her head covered with a veil.
An older woman is escorting her.
"Seven months? You don't seem that..."
"The doc was worried too, says the girl frets too much."
"So lucky to be having a baby at the right time."
"That's what I keep telling her.So many women are desperate for a chance.."
"And how many children do you have?"
"Wed at fourteen, twenty years into my marriage, and none.. my younger sister-in-laws often remind me ...."
"And your husband?"
"Mandir or doctor.He refuses to accompany me. After twenty years of being married"
She looks away,trying to hide the moisture in her large eyes.
The lives people lead.

It was a routine paper requirement, but the respect the parent was accorded at the police stn was impressive.

The treadmill of my life. Notched up gradient.
Back home and here.
Cleanup operations set off fires, The fire brigade is called.TG for neighbors.
laborers use the grounds without permission.And are politely told off.
The house next door is being demolished, will an apt block come up?
The w@rk situation is a surprise@ day.

Yet, the focus on what next. Solutions. Damage control.Clarity.
Perhaps the NEED to document in this little white space was never greater.