I pick fallen flowers on my morning walk, and a collection of red-white-orange sits in a glass bowl on the dining table. The next morning I take them back, and get new blooms. Something inherently satisfying, something that connects you, binds you to the earth in this search for blooms.

A few days  ago I went all the way to Tao gallery, Worli (in pouring rain, which is a great deal since I tend to remain glued to my seat in this weather) for Somenath Maity’s exhibition at Tao art gallery. Impressive work – all structures. Lovely space, perfect setting for the canvases.  His style has evolved, more bold strokes, larger canvas, simpler forms. A sufi shrine by a lake, lapping waters and a psychedelic yet perfectly calm night sky. A fort in darkness except for lights by the parapet, and above a deep night sky with the stars twinkling messages in morse, or huts  in the foliage on a hill; take your pick. Huddled buildings holding in their secrets, even the windows barred. Modest homes take on a glow from the festive lights around, lights that seem to light up the sky…These were my favorites, and returning home I watched the dark waters lapping Samudra mahal and the mosque; as well as the sheer intent energy of the waves hurtling on the sealink… and I wondered what Somenath sir would have made of these…

Re Twitter and writing:
"When I think about Salinger in his later years—literally half of his life—I feel exasperated by this withholding and the elevation of silence into the highest virtue. And I also feel that there really is a wisdom in this attitude. We live in a transparent age, and yet there is much of value that happens in the opaque quarters of our own ambivalent minds, seen by no one else, and seen by us only after a long period of concentration and looking."

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2013/06/the-ongoing-story-twitter-and-writing.html