It is good to walk. To see the fluffy outline of a cloud, watch errant dust whirls. To be close to the ground, how the bumpy the roads are. To know which way the wind blows. As also the basics, of grain and greens. Not knowing, living in card castles can muck up the world and cost you $700 bill.

As I try pull myself out of a grumpy mood, I remind myself of the man selling that whirring helicopter toy at the traffic signal yesterday, the white cats curled asleep on the car hood this morning, and how despite all, dew glistens on about a fifty shades of green in the park.

All of yesterday was spent in meetings in the bored room, and since we reached early we avoided the traffic and the deluge. Read a few stories from Urban Voice enroute, till I reached a tale that made my brain standstill, then I could only look out and watch the vintage art deco buildings blur past.

B&W photo-portraits of Rajahs, Maharajahs, Nawabs and sundry chieftains line the teak paneled wall; dressed in finery and baubles, with shining eyes and fierce moustaches. Twenty one gun salute, fifteen gun salute, rank, privilege and protocol bound; some wouldn’t even acknowledge the other out of cussed pride, and here we are, all these decades later, decoration on a wall. Ah time.

Met a friend in the city on the way back, for no fault he’s between a rock and a hard place, the firm he works for is on the hitlist, a trillion dollars can’t be prettied up by parking it; you can’t give home loans at 3.5 % and allow debt of 30 times, someday its payback time, the whole world suffers. Who is John Galt?

The glowing Hussain in the lobby. The rain swept sea and skies all the same color, the cascade in the portico. Still as lovely.

Not much seemed to have changed at the hotel in the capital- it was quite tranquil, life as usual, wheelers-dealers and sundry poltis ambled in quite unconcerned, the buzz just as loud, security just as lax. The image of alert security men at the check in counter for El Al, the Israeli Airline comes to mind. Just two days after the blasts, and where are we?

A stretch limo for the man who let the Kosi rage. Nice.

The trees. Almost like a forest. Branches unpruned, intertwined and growing any which way. That thick undergrowth. Right in the city. Envy that. WhycantwehavetreeslikethatinMumbai.

This market’s giving me the blues.

Too much drama for one day. I’m referring to the index seesaw which was better post afternoon, read govt pressure. Real jobs and real money gone in a blink of an eye. No Lehman. No Merrill. What happens to BRIC now?

Just when one had come to terms with the horror in Delhi. One more city, same strategy-bomb and fear- escalating anger, a dirty visceral anger. Keep that paperwork ready, already.

You recall the dancing crowds yesterday, escorting the Idols to the sea. They’re dressed in orange t-shirts, swaying not to a bollywood number or a prayer, but to an anthem praising a party’s might. Scary.

And you think of the gentle rain falling, the twinkling lights, how lush the grass is no matter what- and try to get on with your day.

I don’t think it is ever possible to know oneself completely.
Forget about anyone else.

Blush. Duh. I have me an award.

Drumroll… or something.

In the spirit of graciousness that Manujee conferred this award, I bequeath-


Mago the magician, for opening up a pandora’s box of people and places

Quin’s fmd, for being what she is, just quin!

Babyisland, and the three leeetle ones on an island someplace

Supermom Crustybeef

Portia who grooves on, so she does, and the great art hidden someplace in the archives.

Amit scintillates (when he’s not copy-pasting, that is.)

Paulo the wise, for making me think.

This isn’t a nice post.
Look how quickly things get over.
Pieces of jute string and a diya at the gate.
A grieving family.
How suddenly things happen.
When she’s gone, what is left?
She had such a good heart, everybody says.
I pay my respects and go back. Sort of close family, but not quite.
We spend so much time and effort in acquiring things, striving- and its over in an instant.

Something the voice said.
Its only later that I berate myself for being so arrogant. Judgmental. That a box with a sandwich, a pack of wafers and cookies can mean a great deal to someone. So much so that they crowd, fishmarket style; and scream, niceties and five-star ambiance be damned. So often one transposes one’s value system, but the frames of reference are so darned different there is just no connect. Lazy thinking on my part.

Chants on the loudspeakers enroute to work. (later in the day, blaring movie songs as well). Marigold garlands. Strings of lights strung across the road. The roar of drumbeats- hypnotic. The cheers of the crowds taking the Ganpati idols for immersion.
Something glorious in the air.

TOI, for long a rule unto itself, has found a formidable opponent in twilight fairy.
Yes, she knows its a tough battle.

Read on:


Hey all,

Recently a picture of mine, under "all rights reserved" license was used by
TOI in one of its supplements, dated 18th July
without my permission and without giving me any form of credit or
compensation.

I contacted the editor on phone as well as mail, politely asking for
compensation and credit and what I got was a "take this or sue me" attitude
and no concern for the fact that what they did was illegal, not to forget
unethical.

Apart from other things that I'll do, as a blogger, the best I can do is
write about it and make sure that everyone knows that such a thing is being
done.

If any journalist here is interested in publishing this as a story, please
do. I know of several such copyright violation cases now and a cumulative
one
would be even more powerful an article.

If any lawyer would like to get in touch with me, please contact me at
twilightfairy at gmail dot com.

Here's her account :
http://blog. twilightfairy. in/2008/09/ 01/toi-believes- flickr-is- for-flicking/

A traffic jam on the over bridge, an hour from east to west; a gentle breeze touches the pipal canopy etched against the just-about orange sky as a truck trailer carries an oversized Ganpati home, escorted by a gleeful orange bandana and T contingent.

The Worli- Bandra bridge cuts across, a ribbon spanning the sea; just ahead in silhouette is a 34-storeyed apartment under construction, the arm of the crane juts out like a black palm holding a golden sky. “Three to five years, sorry,” I mumble, looking at the golden orb dip in the distant ocean.

Establishments right from rickety Happy Hair Cutting Salon to glass-fronted McDonalds have changed their signboards to the local script overnight. Would be amusing if the brawn show wasn’t scary.

Three days to the Ganpati festival.

A completely random happiness.
Channel surfing. Find, on UTV movies- A Hard Day’s Night.
Squeal, shout, cheer, sing along; every yeah yeah yeah, every wo ooo oo oou.
Every darn word. How the lines sound.
The parent looks on, bemused.
This is the first-ever record I’d seen as a 5 year old.
Shiny cover, the fab four, memories of jumping on the bed, monkey-style.
How does the brain remember?

A bed of lush weeds, a sprinkle of silver, a few periwinkle amidst riotous green.
I'm happy for the strangest reasons.
Sometimes.

THE Mr. AB replied to a comment I'd left on his blog.

Dazzled. Awe.

You stare at the mail eyebrows raised, nostril flared and lip half-stretched in disbelief, you’re hearing from someone you’d given up on, for something you’d given up on a long time back.
Sorry- this is cryptic.
For now.

Greed, rapacious avarice, and dishonesty.
No, have never seen this magnitude before.
I watch it like a specimen on a slide.
Learning.

It’s been a good three-day break. Glimpses remain.
-Realizing how light from incandescent bulbs can put one to sleep as early as ten in the night.

-Realizing that one will never quite fathom the sacrifices so many have made for us to live on free land, breathe free air and speak out. Looked through scribbled notes from the essay, to try and understand that mettle, wondered where it all disappeared.

-Connecting with family on raksha bandhan, now the email and phone way.

- Looking spellbound at the Silk and Spice route story on Discovery. So many have come and gone, the march of ages, et al, and one day so shall we. Lovely shots, but.

-Began reading White Oleander- beautiful words, its the kind of story that you think of when you wake up first thing in the morning.

-Tons of friends, long distance calls lasting an hour or more, a vision of the flat with the distant sea view and slums next door.

- tough sub, but I did it, 400 and done.

Med chem remember? Engineering drawing? Workshop? Swotting. Writing formulae, equations on the wall. Cology, cognosy, all the stuff we learnt, arcane measures like minims? Its been a neat twenty years since we toiled away at titrations. Since we used slips of butterpaper to steady those circa sixties balances, playing it so much by the ear, all POTA numbers. And yet when I talked to you the other day it was like you’d never left. Strange how some friendships last, some don’t.

Laughter, teasing, and when that young niece and nephew discuss vintage hindi films from the sixties and the latest music do you realize how time has sped by. A loved elder’s birthday, celebrations, family ties, everyone talking at the same time, an unspoken thought like the music in the air, next year who knows. Sunday evening, bits of Om shanti om with the remote on standby you realize even a standard, run of the mill story can be given a super treatment, that is art.

Grass tousled by spray rain. A drop falters bamboo leaf edge.
A mynah trots on wet paving stones.

What is the color of closure? I don’t know. But it sure has a sweet smell. For reaching this close to insanity a year ago, for grief and for that laughable abject gratitude- let karma take its own dues. Maybe I owed, and I paid up- that too, is possible. I don’t even want to know which version is your truth.

A greeting fetches a cuss and an angry word volley, and then it hits home- what the Buddha meant by dispassionate active calm and how many trillion lifetimes you are away from it.

Without a rolldown screen or a sheet to project on, they cannot use the film. So many different Indias, from the six-screen multiplex to projection on a village wall.

Acknowledge the mess, action measures and dammit move on. The time for decision is at the beginning-not now. Done is done. My blunders are all life-size, ever lasting.
(Work related.)

Sometimes I think I’d be quite happy in a languid silence cocoon, stirring now and then, content to let the world merrily spin by - and I gently remind myself that I’m almost there.

The wind whistles a banshee wail, scatters rain spray, and bounds off the glass walls of this six-storeyed building on a hill.

Every time there is a bombing I think of Kandahar. Tolerate for how long?

The oversized mickey mouse that watches over the wet playswings wears a lopsided grin, the puddles by the pink and rainbow slide shine back at a blurry sky, its finally raining (after a long dry spell),oh yes a certain whatchacallit in the air.

Do you remember what 2000 was like? I do not. Scary, this grainy sense of days coalescing into each other like photographs you can't quite see the images on, nameless blobs of b&w with nothing to show for it.

I coo at this chubby five-month charmer as he gurgles, shows off a toothless smile while his proud parents beam; yes, truly a miracle, a reminder for cynical-at-the-edges me.

A puree of this, that and the other thrown together; you dipstick taste it but a vital something’s missing and it nags you.

Part of the struggle in the act of changing the words over is keeping the meaning intact, part is admitting to oneself the thought-change any set of words causes.

On the horizon the sunset an orange-red slash sandwiched by dense blue black ; a dramatic backdrop to reminisce about the school in a mango orchard, long-gone teachers whose admonitions still echo, and first sighs.

Two weddings, one condolence visit; the widow’s grief a shroud, in all enough social activity-chit chat to last me a month, and I step back into a quiet place.

Crimson, which is also on the older roughpad, is accepted for a poetry anthology.
Feels good.

Yesterday this colleague from another department was someone you met in the lift, said good morning to. Today its not. Why is death so sudden?

Second anniv. of July 11 commuter train bomb blasts.

Stunning greens in the park. Shock still for a moment I reach out and clasp, drink thirstily this energy, exuberant life force, rooted yet reaching skywards; an instant. Whtchacallit.

A rustle wave through knee-high grass, a cat crouches- all white, black paw, amber eyed- but goblins and elves?

What kind of man does this?
In the dark, in the softly falling rain, a girl in a medicated daze, runs and is chased by a man with a camera while her father looks on, the OB van follows close behind, the live feed for national broadcast has supers reading “obsessed/jilted fan hounds celebrity” or similar.
What kind of man does this?
My response is unladylike and quite unprintable.

When it’s the harsh real-world grittiness and intriguing multiple-layer complexity of a Sarkar Raj that stays with you versus the few frames of a frothy chocolatey Dil to Pagal Hai that you force yourself to see “for old times sake”; that you really realize what the years do- you’ve changed.

Watching the machine instantly correct blemishes to make the images print-ready, one wonders what if this option were available in real life, an instant flowing mane, creamy skin or slender waist; but if something were too easy to access in no time it would lose value.

That water finds its own level.
That water flows downhill.
Mostly. But if the path downhill is blocked, water floods.
And so it did.
Caged a lift marking a furrow in the said flood waters (memories of Cal), made it to work to learn I was the only person in my group, turned right around and went home.
The BMC commissioner more or less says “live with it”.
Was that in English?

Those projects did move on to micromanage.Salvaged nth minute, and now are out of the ICU but still in the general ward. J Which means the end is quite some distance away.
The third project, the really really big one, has yet to re-begin.

Must document the curious case of the burnt plastic and the lost tax filing sometime.
Luckily, both were retraced, retrieved after a lot of hand wringing.
Learning- follow up, always always. Also, that he is really getting old, despite his gung-ho attitude.

What bugs you?

That was the writing prompt this week. Interesting reactions, how they vary around the world.

Of course, as a country we tolerate entirely too much.

July 26, 2005 memories of the deluge.

So what bugs you?

In the darkness of crowds trooping home, a woman in a sequined polyester saree worn too high, hands over cash from her rexin purse to a man who stands entirely too close for comfort-so many paths this story can take,what I see will be quite different from what you see, is it not?

Among a roomful of bejeweled women in rustling kanjeevarams and charming gray-haired men seated by white linen covered tables, a bullet from a silenced mauser smuggled through the service entrance of the luxury hotel ricochets off a chandelier. Another whizzes and reaches its target- the elderly statesman at the podium- just as he steps away for some water. Screams, shattering glass, running footsteps and darkness.

Disclaimer: Take one long commute. One bored woman, sitting at said table, twiddling thumbs. One rambling speech. Lots of clapping. Blend.

I have a sub up on sixsentences.
Something. :)
http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2008/06/untitled_4797.html

And humpty dumpty had a great fall.
Silly shoes. Silly me.
Interesting work pace. Crazy, but fun.
Nothing profound. Emerging perspectives are intriguing.

387 words, and done. Unlike last week. There always is time, always. Time is a construct, someone said. A patli gali, a jugaad. Now for the crit deluge. Feels awful when I don’t.

I like to micromanage. On once-a-year projects, the big ones that well, matter. To see it through, each page/frame. Signing off ceremoniously, then its not in my hands anymore, right? This once I’m not doing that- boss’s orders, too much happening at the same time. Am tense and completely in knots. Am trying visual imagery, the annual visit to Mt Mary’s and putting the finished product at her feet like always. Not working too well.

And as always when I need to stop fretting, I cooked. Ground masalas too- garam masala and dhana-jeeru (coriander-cummin), heavenly that fragrance; understood why the aunts back home concoct their own blends instead of buying from the shops.

Father’s day y’day. Baba and I laughed at the 85% discount we’d get if we shopped at Reliance Trends. (One got a discount equivalent to the parent’s age.)

Because he is the King. Because there is only one King.
Because of Abhimaan. And Alaap. Kabhie Kabhie. Silsila. And Black. And Satte pe satta. Kala patthar. And weeping through Muqaddar ka Sikandar. Twice.
Just, because.
http://blogs.bigadda.com/ab

Recycling words. Fragments of phrases, half remembered. Reuse, renew. One could get quite good at this.

Walking home eating a just-roasted, lime and salt-chilli smeared bhutta (corn on the cob), watching reflections in the puddles... Ah,Life.

I turn my face to the sky. Gentle drops brush my skin. Lightening cuts to the ground, a temper tantrum. Rain: intent, pelting, insistent, driven falls like a sheet of steel. I draw the raincoat closer, all resistance futile, drenched in no time.

Another rain: bai’s shanty, mostly mud, tin and stone, has caved in. She runs around trying to find the money, knowing that she hasn’t what it’d take to build strong, 1.5 lacs. She knows and I know what she’s putting together is flimsy, temporary, just about there, but it’ll have to do. Like a lot of things, patchwork.

The city is a mess. Already. BMC, MMRDA officials should be made to stand on the expressway in a downpour, swirling water rising waist high. A first witness check on the so-called disaster management. My first and last crib on this issue.

The more things change, the more they remain the same.

Last night I saw a red-black night sky with scattered lines of fluffy clouds, lightning cackled like an artist’s highlights, a strange electric unease filled the air. Later, a shower washed leaves clean of grime, that just-about-wet earth smell. Relief.

Abhilasha Ojha/ Business Standard/ How the Jawahar Knowledge Center initiative by the Govt of Andhra Pradesh is changing trajectories for several below-poverty-line families.

Does the soul good to read about hope.

A sprig of red- tipped neem flowers dance against a sea of green, for a day or two- but so beautiful.

sometimes.

you say whattheeff.

what a day. aint over yet.

A no-word tribute to Dadaji, my grandfather, whose 108th b’day anniv was on the 24th.
It was his stubborn will that pushed the family out of the village else I’d still be there, waiting to fill water at a well in a hot dusty hopeless place.

Its beyond clammy, this ugly sweat at 85% humidity, by afternoon a scorching sun-a strange restlessness waiting for the first monsoon. Its going to be a thundering raging one, this season, an ole woman can feel it in her bones.

Like a child with colors and an outline drawing, I’ve gleefully filled in the missing sentences. The story’s from real life, can’t get any better, and if it shocks more than it politely ought to, ach, what can I do?

Only sometimes. You see something that leaves you numb.
Hazaaron Khwaishein aisi/ A thousand dreams such as these/ Sudhir Mishra.
I’m glad I saw it only now. Four years ago I was too raw.

Cut out sunset. Still a beautiful world.

Had written this yesterday, but not posted:
Storms rage overhead. I watch horrified. Somewhat relieved. Not me/mine. Anxious too. This monsoon the skies will pour, like crazy. Chengdu. Xian. Schoolchildren. ohwhatcanyousay. Its raining in Myanmar, furious pelting rain, after the cyclone. Storms that eclipse personal catastrophes. What a tiny speck of insignificance man is, completely useless for all the posturing and shoo-shaa.


Now its me/ mine.
You can go to buy vegetables and be blown apart. Or miss a limb.
The authorities will make the usual noises. Then the case will fizzle out. Like the commuter train blasts.
When do we hit back at the terror-sponsors? When will the US stop mollycoddling Pakistan?

That there are just x plus 1 themes, that a story has a prime of 7 characters; that all editing is iteration- you clean up till the incremental effort is no longer worth your time; that is Manil Suri’s take on the connect in writing and maths. (Mumbai Mirror, May 7)

Somehow one has viewed tales as patterns, aberrations or breaks in pattern really, a delta on the normal, the expected, and the liberty to spin a yarn on the reasons thereof. Is there a connect between biology and writing?

When I’m busy tense, the sort that’s all prickly nerves but not much work, I cook. Hence the hunt last night for my grandmother’s cookbook, succor, order and who knows what in its tattered pages and just-about-there spine. Looking for spices I can ground to an obedient powder to add signature flavor and body to the routine. Just about there cardamom and a dash of clove… As I peer at the strange measures, all zero’s and ones, tola, adha and pa, measures long since discarded, I wonder what exactly I’m looking for, and what stops me from reaching for the store-bought stuff sitting pretty in its container.

The concert on Saturday morning was held at the park. As the first notes of Ahir Bhairav spun out, a cuckoo responded with a cascade of golden notes. Nat bhairav, a Kabir bhajan and a Bhairavi piece created magic for the ten- odd listeners amongst a sea of chairs. The regular walkers kept intent on their ten-minute-stride-and-done.

5 things that surprised:

-the handmade patchwork quilt in crazy colors airing on the fence of that enviable slice of real estate, a buffalo shed, squat by the express highway with the shiny cars; right next to the marble tiled apartment that costs 1.5cr

- the trees alit with purple blooms by the Santacruz flyover. The flyovers were a delight, traffic free.

-jamming with the kid on the synthesizer, he played a passably good kal ho na ho. And the beat in Khaikey paan. The child is so naïve for a baniya’s son.

That’s three. The rest didn’t.

Fabulous lines from Tashan’s signature song-Dil hara- rasta bola, garaj ke aandhi hogi, baras ki tufaan hoga yaheen ruk ja..Lovely, the energy, the syncing with drums- just this one single para, and the turn the line takes after, superb!

I begin to hum, just hearing the fluid notes the hero outlines, words of an age-old composition pulled out of a twenty-five year and rusting memory, of long afternoons spent rehearsing, out-doing yadayadayada. I trip on the name of the raga- Neer Bharan Kaisey jaaon from Khuda Key Liye is in Tilak Kamod, not Piloo. But not bad.

A year since Baba’s operation. A year since I watched, sleepless, the pale wash of colors that filtered beam-like from the AC, a vigil moist-eyed till the colors blurred to a stunning clarity. Some lessons you never forget.

A flock of green-black parrots dots an orange-peach sky, a tiny speck of a chopper whirs past, oblivious of the birds, haze, or matchbox-like cars in busy lines on the highway.

Soaps.
Sandalwood, and the scent lingers long after. Medimix, a bad brand name for a soap so delightfully herb-fresh.

“Because the mother-in-law was once the daughter-in-law” heads the list of Indian soaps that the Afghan government has banned. We should ban them serials too.

Promises to be a scorching summer.

I LIKE crime, the financial sort, nothing messy; also sci-fi, with six moons orbiting an airless earth, to WRITE about, of course, but most of all I like the way it gives you the freedom to Dali-like, stretch ho hum reality way past the escalating price of greens, grain and fruit.

In the few minutes that I scrounged after the meeting, I reached the garden back home, where the first thing I saw was the badam, broken, snapped into two, twig-like, by lightening and the windstorm or so they say; but the asopalav were all right, they could bend to the force of the gale.

The lady in the seat behind mine was traveling with her young sons, all the way to Toronto, this evidently was her first flight ever, she was moving bag and baggage, on permanent resident visa to a land she’d never seen, a language she didn’t know, new people and a new life, and I wonder what is it in our genes that makes us pack up and move, and makes some stay put, come hell or high water.

We’re eighty-five today. Everyday a new day, touchwood. So lukkha he won’t even treat me to peanuts, nah you can’t, he cackles.

Watching the golden orb rise beyond the horizon-line, past the few straggly trees on dusty scrub and the huge pipe that runs to the distant reservoir, one can just imagine onceuponatime, itwaslikethis packed lush green, bird calls to a crescendo, insects buzz, suddenly a rustle in the undergrowth and …silence.

6S, Volume One, publishes today.
Congratulations to all my friends- Crusty, Quin, Babyisland, who've written; this calls for a toast!
For book details, pls visit sixsentences.blogspot.com.

Two sticky learnings. Someone’s long due salute to a writing class teacher who sent her back-“live life, get bruised, then write”; elsewhere a child with cancer celebrates a rare day in school, then sends in her homework.

Nothing newsworthy. Life is even-keel.

Sometimes the shortest way west is to first go east and take the bridge over; you never quite know what particular brand of surprise you’ll find, like that cut-rate second hand bookshop with man-height tall stacks of books, but you buy a train ticket to cross, much to the horror of the auto driver who drops you there.

Blame it on a Mercury retrograde. Two trips into town for one pair of specs, because the opticians forgot one minor measure. Its rather hot already, even with the fast trains the commute is one hour minimum including a fifteen minute trudge through shortcut lanes, but ok, if that’s on the cards, so it is. Did find a new way to reach Crawford market though, a walk that involved some nifty turns past old shops and derelict heritage buildings. Later learnt some personal history- I’d trudged past the now dilapidated office where an uncle once started out in life with shared table space only-law practice; yes, this is the city where anything can happen, anytime.

And for once I have shoes that are not Bata relics.

From the park

After all the social chit chat over dinner, after asking about the health of second cousins whose names one can’t remember, you talked about your work with the salt-pan workers in rural Kutch, teaching them micro-finance, helping them source loans to buy bicycles with, and streamlining age-old work processes; this is REAL WORK, not sitting on a chair in an air-conditioned office, or so I think.

Ah glee! A patli gali, new shortcut, traffic-free- a road that twists and turns, goes up hill and down, mocks the flashy expressway that it briefly runs past but that one’s traffic-heavy, past buildings that perch higgledy-piggeldy on what used to be a hill, tumble-down shanties, a track that goes past areas that are not so nice, repair shops for trucks and tempos, take a left, take a right on to smooth concrete and then viola! home…

Rahman rocks! What a show- tremendous, pulsating energy that holds that thousand-strong crowd mesmerized, clapping and singing along; stupendous wizardry, that variation on the notes. Each time he renders Dil se, its flawless, soul-gripping, different. Only on the telly, alas.

Different rocks too, on the lovely ladies who do dinner; showroom-quality rocks that outshone the strings of lights at the reception last night, lights that shone and glittered with the sea breeze and the quite chatter on an impeccable lawn. I lasted there for half an hour, I’m getting better at the howd’youdo’s.

This year the corner cassia is in bloom, a showy all-gold Monet. Quite unlike the washed out pales last year.
Still, the cuckoo trills pre-dawn to a single star pinned to the sky.

Talking to you yesterday the years magically condensed, talking late into the night over mugs of stealthily brewed coffee huddled on hostel-issue beds, talking about this that and the other, and despite all, nothing has changed, not really.

Glittering purple lights on the tarmac under a pitch-black sky, a single star shines overhead. An evening spent savoring art and the art of conversation by a lush lawn in a perfect home, envy the old-styled swings on the Mangalore-tiled open porch. The big city past midnight is a million points of gold, this makes the two hour flight delay worthwhile. So many colors, so many… on such days I tell myself go get real.

The flames of the bonfire for Holi. A piecemeal bonfire with old furniture and sundry twigs and branches, the way it best is. A red veiled newly wed performs the customary pooja. The chattering crowd is hep- no, I don’t know anyone here and I’m content not to, to just stand back, be a part of the crowd-edges, hear the cackle and hiss as flames leap red orange against a black sky and watch red edged embers float gently to the ground.

Splashes and patches of purple- magenta- red on tar, wild shrieks and laughs of kids playing holi brought back memories of times when one was happy to be a red, green and yellow haired witch draped in kaleidoscopic multicolor, when did all this change?

A saturday off for once, and where does it go?

The colors around are so lovely, I’d rather keep them to myself for a while. Spring.

Colors

A hundred shades of green flutter in the breeze, forming an intricate lace canopy over impatient traffic.
Shiny cars, rattling autos, buses and cycles jostle to a metallic symphony and set off tiny dust clouds.
But by the roadside, dancing jade shimmers against the palest blue.

The season of colors.

Orange-red kesu flowers are stark and extravagant on a distant leafless tree.
The leaves have long withered, leaving the sap free to nourish the buds and blossoms.
Traditional songs, the hori, rave about the color called gulaal, that these flowers are processed to produce.
Colors that are sprinkled to play Holi, the spring festival that marks the change of seasons.
In time, these flowers will drop one by one, leaving a bare-branched tree stark by an orange carpet.

The season for change. The season of colors.

So its been a hectic week.


So the tests from last week are in, after all the prodding, pinching and wincing, and one’s genes being what they are, the results are what they are, and for once one is glad about the four plus year godawful degree one took, one knows how to handle this. Somewhat. Enough already. No comments.


There are three ways into town. Spent most of last week and this week exploring the roads and guesstimating traffic, inkypinkyponky we take THIS one, and cut past like that, and then THAT shortcut... and hopefully get where we’re supposed to. The days were spent in sinful luxury by the sea, talking work, gazing wistfully at the Gateway and envying the milling crowds eating bhelpuri past the high rise plateglass windows and taking trips on double decker tourist steamers cutting a smart arc in the glittering sea . Lunch was served on silver dishes, some of it quite all right, what’s to complain, though they could go easy on the oil and ghee. One learning: the ride does seem all right if one is listening to FM in the gridlock, red tail lights and way too many cars, particularly edge to edge on JJ bridge and one cant help but wonder if the design specs considered these loads. If you take the eastern expressway before eight in the morning, its fascinating to see the contrasts and the changes, from genteel art deco to working class grit, ancient mill-lands under development, swanky glass and steel nestling with single room chawl- type community living. And nice trees, more green than we see in my part of town. No, that’s not correct, possibly the green is more interesting because its unexpected.

Been crazily busy. Will post today.

Brick, mortar,glass cladding and steel do a hotel make. The squat structure by the domestic airport has been transformed from the public sector behemoth it once was, touched by a magic sprinkle called for-profit enterprise; though that path did witness a few eyebrow-raising quick ownership changes enroute. The atrium is beautiful, vast given the frugal norm in this space-hungry city, stunning given the contrast with its ugly cement exterior. Stunned the suits as well, and that’s quite something, since this bunch excels at seen it all-done it all. Impeccable poolside, tropical aviary, rippling stream and envy-invoking rattan for the seating clusters. The meeting rooms have cushioned walls, something even the town biggies have missed out on. One tiny nit– those strings of artificial flowers lining the railings do look plastic.

Decent enough week. The more things change, the more they remain the same.

A friend writes:

Creative non-fiction - which is autobiographical, but
is always dangerous because the images and characters
are so present, so vivid, that when I write I take a
lot for granted - forgetting that the reader cannot
see what I see.

That shower of dust particles dancing in that lazy afternoon light, sepia tinted with gold The timbre of voices, crystal, as they rose in unison, tackling mundane scales, now supportive, now showing off.

The fine wrinkle lines on the corners of my eyes and the laugh lines when I look in the mirror and see what I want to see.

The intricate needle point of a memory that recalls events from five decades ago, but not as much last week, or that important letter in today’s mail.

How could you ever see that?

Charade. A 1963 thriller. Audrey Hepburn, perfect, lovely clothes, and they all stay on. A completely impressive Cary Grant. Witty, laugh a minute. The dialogues are so crisp you couldn’t pare them if you tried. Yes, we finally watched this last night.