There are so many different kinds of peace. I discovered a different peace during a short trip to Ajmer and Pushkar. At the dargah, we were blessed and had excellent prayers without jostling crowds. The place was serene and somber, minus the crowds on account of their religious month. Pushkar was peaceful too, minus the priest at the lake who wanted to assist, and whom I had to politely tell I didn’t need help. Pushkar—the first temple to Brahmaji that I’ve prayed to…That underground cave where Lord Shiva is prayed to… looked ancient, why is it underground, how old was it, who built the temple there and why? So many questions. Also insisted on visiting the Gorakhnath temple as a mark of respect to the evolved soul.

Rain! Sheets of water hitting the ground. Enveloping the vehicle, drawing a furious water curtain close...like someone marooned on a mist-covered island...that was yesterday...

We desperately need the rain...June was v bad. More, please!

I had a very interesting experience the other day. Someone asked me for advice, and perhaps that person didn’t care for what I said, possibly that person’s mind was already made up and they were just looking for a reaffirmation. Which was the problem--I had quite the opposite view. In the end the person did as they pleased. Quite interesting, this whole episode—taught me that people have already made up their minds about what they want to do when they ask for advice. One shouldn’t view this advice as a thing to give serious time and thought to, not more than superficial thought at any rate.

Somedays back I cancelled one of the newspapers I used to read. Added google alerts for specific journalists I liked to read and companies Added email subscriptions for several newspapers. Added email subscriptions for several GOOD blogs like dividendmantra, dividendgrowthinvestor, mrmoneymoustache. Have been A Simple Dollar loyalist for very long. And Subramoney, freefincal, 5 minute wrapup, Jagoinvestor, Moneylife, Morningstar and Onemint… among others for India.

Why didn’t I do this any earlier? No clue.

May not make a difference but sure FEELS good.

If this unwinding is the epilogue, the prologue was written in 2005. How prophetic that realization of what was to happen, would happen,  certainly come to pass in the next few years strike me right then-- that the sand under my feet was shifting and would leave me adrift—that occur right then in that historical trading room, the rotunda at the nation’s major s. exchange.

I will never doubt my gut feel ever again.

The indices inch higher. Only to fall someday I’m sure. But I am at peace.

I choose  the light… as the prayer goes, asamo ma sat gamaya… from untruth to truth, from death to light everlasting.

I want to get back to being what I was.

A peaceful  Sunday after long. A productive day, I get over a month/ fortnight? long translation block and feel elated at a page!

My sis-in-law visited, the first family guest  in this not-so-new house even if it was only for half an hour.  I feel blessed.

How does one wipe out the negativity that has been built over the years of making do, adjusting?  Gratitude for what one has…openness to the world around…and?  I’m working on it slowly, what a weight off my shoulders.

VODAFONE, in its infinite wisdom, has blocked all Loop users.

WHY?
Because Loop didn't pay up. But I did. Loop's problem is not my problem.

This means I cannot call my doctor, or my lawyer. Or the Police, if I have to.

What if there is an EMERGENCY?

What &*(((%%#$-- must be the latest business practice in the UK. 

Nasty PIRATES!

Try doing this in the UK, VODAFONE!

PS: To their credit, they replied to my mail to the UK CEO. Even if that was the fifth assistant to the big man.

PSS: Now I know why phones have dual sims.

So what do you say to someone close.  Just as one had foreseen the illness has spread, and every medical intervention merely a short term band aid. Plus the weight of having to put on a happy face. Life is so short, so beautiful…Life just IS …and yet.

Everything else pales in comparison. Life takes you by the collar, demanding to be taken seriously.

This first stage of monsoons, when one is grateful for the skies opening up…may the Gods be kind, we need the water… later of course one shall crib about the incessant rain and dark skies

What brilliance and kindness… looking at you, I can only imagine what Lord Rama must have looked like. May your life treat you well.

Clear skies… humidity 66%... waiting for the clouds to roll in and thunder.

This morning I got an armful of flowers from the garden…hibiscus and kailashpati … a fitting offering for the Gods.

So you put all your guts together and walk up and say what has to be said. What a relief. 

Goodbye Amby. At peace,GJK 6280. Hindustan Motors is ceasing production of the good faithful. Finally.

Yes, a solid car… but with hidden ambitions of being a truck. How else can you explain a 1967 model functioning and taking on long road trips in the 1980’s? Taking unheard-of loads—at one count we were so many I and a cousin sat first in the luggage compartment and then on the roof… what fun, we still laugh about those days… and when she began to get really old and worn the battery was the first to go, and all of us would be busy pushing her to make her start… and inevitably she would, a few paces down the road. GJK… first a rich jade and then silver-grey…but solid metal none of your flimsy ABS or tinplate... I had tried to drive her too, after my first lessons on a tiny fiat… had driven into the gate, knocking down a pillar-- which so mortified me that I gave up driving all together until the second license in 2010 and driving in my suburb which is a life lesson in patience , fortitude, compassion for the other so keen for getting his way....The Wagon R is light on her feet, responds to a feather touch.. but no way she will last a decade, alas, and it is unlikely that one speeds down a highway singing songs with her.

So humpty dumpty had a fall… didn’t notice the ripe fruit of the umber/guler that had plonked neatly near the office gate, and I slipped, and fell…I think the sunlight I soak in every morning on my walks is the reason I stood up, dusted myself and limped away… And yesterday I walked for an hour in the evening…Much gratitude to the Gods…

One advantage of old places such as the one I live in, are shortcut walking-only lanes that twist and turn, remnants of times when these were tracks that crept uphill through tangled forests… now that the said forests have been replaced by concrete, the tracks survive and cut short a 1.5 hr walk by 45 min. 

Ma would have said eyes and no eyes....what a ruckus I create sometimes, from oversight or sheer stupidity.. the new Sony WX80 wasn't charging, a charger wasn't available online... ordered a new battery instead... that's when I notice I have been inserting the battery incorrectly....so so silly...offers food for thought, how many challenges in our lives arise from such instantaneous reactions??

Yesterday something good happened after a really really long time…a project got returned with corrections… relief—I had forgotten what that emotion felt like, what being on the right track again felt like. I know there's tons of work ahead, this is only the starter.. yet.

The young girl starts singing crystal clear, falters a bit.. stops almost in tears... asks the judges if she can begin again...The song is Begum Parveeen Sultana's Hamey tumsey pyaar kitna...

She is admonished go ahead, sing the next line but no restarting and what a voice... enough to pull scabs from long healed wounds-- WONDERFUL!

 Last night I chanced upon a ghazal reality show on DD National-- Main khayal hoon kisi aur ka, mujhe chahta koi aur hai-- very good, excellent singing and strong judges in Kavita Krishnamurthy, Devika Pandit and Prof. Brelvi.

http://www.dailypioneer.com/state-editions/bhopal/reality-show-on-classical-music-ghazal.html

Only DD National can offer such content for the soul.

Very difficult to put the experience of the last few days into words. One cannot.  I do not have the vocabulary, and the essence is so rich. But yes, I did feel blessed and I did feel connected to the greats from the ages past. Much gratitude, a life time debt. 

So much still to learn. Also how deceptive appearances can be, when someone looking so simple holds a doctorate in Sanskrit…

Also heard this OUTSTANDING traditional band- dhol tasha band-- that accompanied the procession:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VWzmAlI15Po

EK Cup Chya. One more solidly good Marathi film watched, thanks to DD Sahyadri.  

A bus conductor  who lives in a village gets a light bill for 73,000… and fights back. (I got up and immediately switched off the fan.)The three fourths I saw was very good, the rest of it must be as well—but it was getting late. How is it that Marathi movies get made on sensible budget with a solid storyline?

http://in.reuters.com/article/2009/11/26/idINIndia-44262920091126

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ek_Cup_Chya 

So tomorrow it is; the big day or the bad day or whatever, though the poll verdict seems to be clear. Sadly.

With massive chunks of people not being able to vote, how can this be the mandate of the people?

Now we have 5 years to get our names on the lists.

If its any consolation the markets have been hyper, stocks long asleep, the sleep of decades of a drugged Cinderella, have suddenly jolted awake.

I shall remember what they say about "Raja, vaja, vandra"-- Kings, harmoniums, monkeys, they work as long as they do, and then they don't.

Oh well.

What intense energy, how many dreams in that room… On Sat. I attended a Q&A with Lunchbox Director Ritesh Batra, organized by Dear Cinema. To say it was amazing does not do justice to either Mr. Batra’s generous, freewheeling responses or the range of questions. Few things have stayed with me—begin with the character… and writers block is sheer nonsense…the sheer fussiness involvement with the script...What also came across was the importance of being networked… somewhere I also noticed I was almost the oldest person in that room.. somehow a liberating feeling, nothing to prove… I can mess up as much as I like and it simply doesn’t matter

Some neat links

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Lunchbox

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5o4woxWWk_4

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H61lZokeB7o

The new Nokia was on silent. Which means I missed or messed up the calls from the writer of the book I transl. He doesn't care for the tx, the treatment. AFTER I filled in one notebook in neat handwriting.... We shall see what happens… but over the weekend I read a book after ages, relishing the written word and the heft of the book, the luxury of looking outside at sunshine on green and doing nothing...

Three hours of the young girl’s first-ever dance recital. Four, the audience restless. What  adrenalin must be pushing her on, each step perfect? The performance includes a piece dedicated to her God, who is different than the Gods prayed to at this event, a  specially composed and choreographed number. Later I see her God too propitiated at the altar on stage.... Only in India…

At a meeting, people step up and share their lifechange stories. No Gods here, only chanting, some as much as ten TEN hours a day. Not my way, but to each his own... Only in India…

At the temple I go to every week, preparations are afoot for a 4 day-religious ceremony to commemorate 5 cr renditions of the 1000 names of Lord Vishnu… momentous… all mistakes we make will accrue to him, and all the punya ours to keep, Guruji says... I'm  speechless. Only in India…

Sunday with a religious OD.

“Kaifi and I… “ watched this play at Prithvi on May 1. Packed audience, encore audience etc etc. Commemorating May day. Also 22 years at work here. Twenty two.  Something nudged me in the polished, flawless performance. Something itched, and throttled me by the collar. Once, there was personal honesty and personal integrity and personal values.Now there is bottomline. so where did "I" go?

Serendipity… how lucky can one get!  Stepping out early for a tree walk on Sunday morning, I’m one of the privileged few to chance upon TONS of books someone is just giving away… mostly spiritual, but some not. What a collection! Wonder who this person is, so well read, so evolved. But giving books away! Now I have enough material to keep me engrossed for the next decade… :)

Dharavi Nature Park, or DNP….Even though it was HOT, what lovely trees, shrubs, herbs… old friends Brahmi Ashwagandha Rauwolfia  nudged me on about long-forgotten pharmacognosy texts…but encroachment by the slums that line the park continues, unchecked.

Oh yes, we have a pigeon birdling on the window sill! What magic, to see the change from perfect oval egg to chirping trembling mass. Yesterday it/she was all quiet, having moved from the aloe vera pot that it had earlier claimed as home.. checked a few times, from a distance of course, to see it was still alive. I guess this will take time...

It takes someone's loss, impending loss to show you how minimal, how insignificant your own trouble is, even if it aint going away someplace. Impending loss that, but of course one will battle, one will use up all the tools, with all that modern science etc etc offers, knowing, knowing the science, knowing the odds yet…Life…and life is so beautiful…sunlight,  a radiant halo around a sprig of buds and blooms, and you stop and stare and wonder why you never saw this before. And you wonder about loss, and the cost one pays incrementally over the years with cumulative loss, this one and that one, and that one, quite different but quite the same, and after a time one can react, feel no longer but just shrink, bow in  stunned silence.

PQ asked for photos of the park, so here we go...

orange copper pod sandwiched by bakuls

magnificent raintree... blooms too fine to be seen

fresh leaves on the kailashpati

kailashpati... what a heavenly scent

apta... bauhinia leaves

stylo! HK orchid , Bauhinia

tivar... a carpet of fine blooms underfoot

glorious gold

sita ashoka

the first amaltas or laburnum

persian lilac... delictate and poisonous as hell

amla!

the first gulmohur

our own problems shrink to insignificant.
in the park where i walk, angelika  walks too. sort of.
she's five.
she walks few hesitant steps.
and plops down, all tears.
her father and grandfather are coaxing her to walk. 
everyone tries to help. make her stand waist deep in sand at the beach.massage her legs. do this, do that.
now it is everyone's problem. a grandmother holds her hand and runs with her.
today she walked a great deal, fifteen steps, all alone.
everyone's happy.
yes, I can put foot in front of foot and walk. I can do that.

the Tivar are in bloom now, a fine carpet of red blooms beneath your feet.

Yet.
the copper pod trees have flared into bloom. All at once. As if someone put on a giant switch.
Despite all.
My grief claws about for a language.

I've just called off plans to go trekking  the next week.
Sorry GHNP, some other time -- if the fates will it. Else my backpack was packed and raring to go.
Given current exigencies, this decision was called for. Why handover someone a stick to beat you with?
Each day brings in new surprises. I could use a few good ones.
The more things change, the more they remain the same.

My warm, lively friend Guilie—who I first “met” on Practice group at IWW where all good things happen-- well, Guilie tagged me on her blog. 

These are questions re my writing process, and I’m being as honest as I can.  To begin with, the word “process” makes me squirm…I don’t think I have a process per se. Writing for me is like whittling away at the words, revision after revision, a chip there, a  bit of sandpapering there…

What are you working on?

Two things, actually.  Or maybe three. I put writing in two boxes—translation and “own”

Box One currently has the longer term stuff, the translation of an important memoir, a tome in two parts, where I’ve finished the rough, handwritten word by word draft of HALF the book. I need to finish this as quickly as I can, but typing it out, making changes as I go along, is going to take what it takes. Meticulous, laborious WORK—but it chronicles an important decade in my country’s history AND I quite enjoy the challenge of a personal narrative as versus the fiction I’ve translated before. Plus this is a paid assignment, and cash appeals to the Gujarati in me. I also need to revisit Bharat Trivedi’s verse and translate the ones left out from the book—Since that’s the only way we can reach poetry journals.

Box Two, labeled OWN, has three things primarily. One is the PRACTICE group stubs.  This is something I MUST do, maybe two times a year I allow myself a pass. Most of these are “inspired” from the newspaper. The second is working and reworking (after rejections) longer stories built from these practice stubs. The third, which I should do more of, is writing poems and CNF.

As you can guess, I’m  perpetually trying to balance out Box ONE and Box TWO.  That I write Indian English, that I write sentence fragments and have the attention span of a frisky sparrow, doesn’t really help.

How does your work differ from others of its genre?

Box One: Not too many people work on translations from Gujarati. For translations I prefer to work on one author, one poet … instead of flitting about from one masterpiece to another. This gives me a certain comfort with style and nuances, a sixth sense of sorts that lets me go beyond the printed word.

Box Two is mostly newspaper-inspired and Mumbai-inspired. Not sure how it is too different, other than the form—mine are short stories, even the murders are crisp and elegant.

Why do I write what I do?

Box One: Because I can. Also because the next generation cannot or will not read Gujarati, perhaps this is the only way to preserve our heritage.  Most of this work has been gratis—only now bits of it are paying off.

Box Two: I don’t know. Sometimes stories nag you, itch till they’re out in B&W. Also, because as I invest time in BOX ONE, this tiny voice prods me—so what did you do for YOU?

How does my writing process work?

Box One: Translate by hand, word by word.  Type out, changing, whittling as you go. Print and revise. Incorporate Author comments and revise. For a book, send final version to ALICE, get her comments, revise.

Box Two: Read newspapers, keep a radar scan watch for anything that seems unusual. Cut pages that seem interesting. Save news from online city papers. WRITE a PRACTICE stub with suitable story. Extend stub. Polish, sub, rework, sub… endless cycle.

Her mail said she was a sr. citizen, it didn’t say she was a swimmer, techie, a trekker (Everest base camp, Kailas Mansarovar). Age just got trashed. Inspiring.

“must notice the small miracles in my day….”  What a thought, first thing in the morning…. 4.30 AM. A cuckoo trills in the distance.

Iyer aunty’s insistence that I watch this TV discourse first thing in the morning… means I now get up at a decent hour. No more 7.30 AM sluggish wakeup.

Bauhinia. Nagkesar. Kailashpati. Blooms not as profuse, but I take delight in showing them off. Sunlight showers on green. On my skin.  I think of the wonder of energy, of nourishing food and GI villi...and the magic of ATP= ADP +P.

HERE IT IS!

DRUMROLLLLLLLL …

FIRST, THE SHORT VERSION …

Harper Collins (ahem!) has just published a condensed ebook of my forthcoming translated NOVEL,

* Hon’ble Minister Jagubhai*

http://www.amazon.in/Honble-Minister-Jagubhai-Harper-21-ebook/dp/B00J3T46G8/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1395660491&sr=1-3

http://tinyurl.com/pdxgrud

http://www.whereiwrite.org/index.php (via shoeboxdwelling)

Suddenly my couch perch with large window does not look too bad.

Also:

http://www.salon.com/2013/05/12/jaron_lanier_the_internet_destroyed_the_middle_class/

The heat is building up terribly this year, the park is drying up much quicker than in previous years. This morning I noticed fruit on the Midas tree – a tree that I walk under every morning, but eyes and no eyes! The Kailashpati are a beauty too. Very sad re the snow and hailstorm in interior Maharashtra... horrible losses.

RIP, Mr. Khushwant Singh. The end of an era.

I remember reading *Train to Pakistan* in secret, class 9, was it?

Yesterday was Holi, the festival of colors, but my celebration started a month ago with fresh colors on the trees; something different about the light.

Walking around the holika the previous evening, the ritual bonfire that marks the festival was somber and scorching, as it usually is.

Our park association held a Holi Milan function, a random get together of assorted souls who walk in the park and were ok with the @150/ fee… major learning for me when I escorted a bent, shaky, aged gent home. He transformed from an old man with no family to a man too fond of the bottle, with a caring family—four sons—his wife who worked a vada pao stall, the real bulwark of the family. Reminder to self not to go by what is apparent!

Delighted to announce  publication of an essay I’ve been working on for quite some time:

Remembering Awe is up on Pure Slush; an essay about walking with my father to an early 1^st century Buddhist monastery and why I must not let this memory go : http://pureslush.webs.com/rememberingawe.htm

Today is a landmark day. For someone who is conditioned to adjust till the cows come home, speaking up can be taxing and tearful. But I'm glad I stood firm. Nothing left to salvage.

Yesterday was so grilling a day that…that I booked tickets to go work in the mountains in Sept. Made arrangements, bought tickets etc etc. Today I packed my backpack—the first time ever-- for the April GHNP trip, much longer walking than I’m used to but not going as high, so breathing should be far easier than Leh. Plus when nature is overwhelming, anything else just does not matter….

To worsen my mood in the evening I received a story back with feedback/comments. I had ASKED for comments so I can’t fault them. No way I’m going to write complex unending sentences, though. This once I have no option but to accept changes and live with it. Did you tell Pamuk that his lines were brittle?

Good news this morning--the book with my essay on  journaling is available!

Images from Sunday's tree walk. Renee and Dr Usha do an amazing job...sharing their knowledge, insight so generously, taking the time, energy and effort to document this living heritage; scientific name and all...all gratis. Only in Bombay can this happen.


The third image-- deadly Datura, so pretty and fragile, every damn part of it a killer
The second image- Cordia, a happy tree..mildly hallugenic
The first image? The gate at Heritage Park, just because I liked it

Images that are dying to prompt a nasty tale or two.

Charcoal and glitter is a tribute to a loved aunt.  

She made our chequered childhoods somewhat normal. 

She rushed in to help in a crisis, sometimes assisting in an emergency in the middle of the night.

Charcoal and glitter is also too little, too late… yet.

Am delighted that the essay will soon be published in an anthology, Aspiring to Inspire.

Her gets the best screenplay Oscar… Dallas Buyers Club gets “Mr. Woodroof” the best actor award… what brilliant movies both. Dallas Buyers that I saw on Saturday midnight show was the censor-edited version, I was glad I’d read the script, else continuity would be difficult. But what brave movies, both…

Samvidhaan on Rajya Sabha TV is v good... Govind Nihalani at his usual best.

Today I got an acceptance on an essay that I feel v good about… allows me to repay my karmic debt to my aunt in a small way…

Some time back my uncle, now 88, mentioned some spiritual books that had inspired my village grandfather ages ago.. thanks to the big www I was able to trace the place and check, will place an order now…they had offered me a discounted version but I don’t want that debt please…

The palash are in bloom—delicate, fragile. Selective! Just one or two flowers reluctantly scattered under a massive tree.

Watching a child’s glee at her  first soap bubbles….

A friend pointed me to an online reseller of used books. Hardly used books, very used books, books so fragile they tear when you turn the page… but what a steal. Appeals to my frugal heart, though I went overboard with the buying… a book on 1950’s Indian film industry, a book on the trek to Shri Badrinath (1958 edition)…who’d have owned these? Why would someone sell them away? 

Shivratri is next week, at the temple Guruji is reciting the rudra.. .so lucky, blessed to even hear these words…. I close my eyes and I see those jagged mountain peaks, un-climbable, snow capped, pristine…how fortunate that I opted for a circuitous, cheaper ticket and was blessed with this once-in-a-lifetime sight. Raga Shankara/Dhan Dhan Dhan dhavalashikhar…the abode of Lord Shiva… these words hold much more meaning now

An explosion of beauty… suddenly, fresh leaves have sprung up, tender green, hesitant, against the darker green-black of older leaves. This morning I counted: bauhinia, cordia, nagkesar, asok, african tulip in extravagant bloom. New leaves, a fragile tan, on the Tivar. Celebrating spring.

Despite the cold, yes unseasonal cold for Mumbai. Good excuse not to go for walkathons that begin at 6.30 AM. Though dawn must have been breathtaking.

Watched the Oscar-nominated Her. What a brilliant movie. What a world we live in… so many in my row had come all alone, phone in hand.

One life skill I badly need to learn is the ability to STOP being a garbage bag for strangers... this morning I stopped to compliment an old lady on her saree; got ten minutes worth of complaint re her DIL...
Mercy!

Today, I celebrate the asoka blooms. Generous. Bursting forth with color. The tree alight.

On Sunday, watched 2 movies. Both landmarks.

Gurudutt’s Kagaz ke phool. What brilliant shot taking. How quickly the story moves. Almost modern in its treatment.

DD showed Shyamanand Jalan’s Eashwar Mime Company. What fantastic work. Minimalist story line. Didn’t have the guts to watch the last frame.

Incredible feeling.
Stunned.

I’ve discovered a new pastime—listening to old hindi songs on radio and singing along. Purani Jeans zindabad.

A young colleague made a life changing decision. From abused divorcee with special needs child and rote 9 to 6 existence--to bride, immigrant. What courage must it have taken. To abandon all that was familiar, secure after such a jolt. To trust life again.

A salute to your professional skills that we are talking, though a part of my mind recognizes how even handed you have been navigating this change over the last five or is it six years… so be it, and perhaps I’m grateful too for your friendship and loyalty. Life moves for us at different paces and places , and I wish you well. For me, this acceptance is growth,  a maturity milestone.

Win some, lose some.

So that thing that I was jumping about, last year, received a “try again next year.”

The Tx work moves on to the next stage. Fingers crossed.

Dusk, JP Road
a banyan tree bursts out with birdcall.

A FB friend, Dushyant, has written a book of short stories—July ki ek raat

Very slice of life. Modern tales. Abrupt endings that leave you stunned.

The story stays with you.

Easy to handle for non-Hindi natives like me.

Baba’s third death anniversary y’day. The day was peaceful. Watching the baby gurgle and turn on Thurs. has helped bring me to a place of acceptance, this cycle of life.  Yet, that memory of the airport bus, that pinging so much like a ventilator’s. Somewhere these memories reside in  your nerve endings, surge to alert life at a hint.

I am Kalam… what a brilliant movie. Must watch. And Gabricha Paus in the award winner slot at 11 PM of which I watched half an hour. DD is outdoing itself these days—for movies like these, I can sit though ten reruns of the Dove/ Sunsilk ads.

What is it with youngsters/ not so youngsters and money? You have to cut the coat according to the cloth, Baba used to say. I keep thinking of the shift from chauffeur-driven by Shankar to moped, and how cheerfully and matter of factly he made the shift. Once when the moped broke down he’d hitched a ride on a bullock cart.

Look up, see

The nagkesar are in bloom

A vine, purple decked, has made the beal its own

Reaching for sunshine

Took the urban village shortcut to reach the auditorium in time, just as curtains went up. Eleven Gujarati women poets honored for their work; eleven volumes of poetry released. Each of the poets read out a selection. All of them paid respects to SD, the late poet-publisher. Morari Bapu briefly graced the occasion.  My highlight was a book set gifted by the poetess lady. And an opportunity to escort an aging diva (known for her traditional stories at a time when women didn’t write),  now well into her eighties, stick in hand and all, to her car. I stood up for my craft—how good are you? Very. Says who? IL, MR etc etc. The first time ever I’ve been as presumptuous. The silence from H* is getting to me.

His mother is a friend I’ve made completely by chance, introduced by a trip acquaintance. Being phone friends for two years means this was my first trip to her home, easy to locate and not too far, despite a longish address. After months and months of obsessing over possible names, finally a name was given to her infant son, one for the horoscope, one for daily use. Beautiful names both. Sober and happy ceremony, with sunshine flooding in, incense and diyas, the chant of mantras. Quite  like the practice of invoking the Gods and calling upon the forefathers to witness and bless. Wonderful start.

Not a crease on her face. Her voice that of a young girl, the lilt, the enthusiasm, that joy for life…and with a shock you remind yourself of her age-- eighty summers done and some. Her poems are finely etched, like calligraphy or Japanese line art, but so optimistic ever so optimistic; and you think of the darkness this must have balanced out; and the chaos-turmoil she has conquered, every smile earned. Without a stray comment on her blog you’d never have met, such is chance and such is fate.

Mooralala Marwada at the Kabir Festival, at a morning recital … just brilliant. No photos—you can’t capture the madness of his music in pixels. Or words.

Too austere a diet isn’t working… well, another SL.

Watched Sonar Kella. Three fourths w/o subtitles, thanks to the loaned CD, and the rest with; thanks to YT. Amazing how simple the movie is. How select the trademark Ray shots (as in the shadows and beams at the guesthouse, the train roof). The real hero is the Killa, and I oohed over my Jaisalmer shots circa 2012 over and over again. The Patwa haveli specially--is haunting by moonlight—I had been drawn back there, had sat for hours mesmerized, uncaring of the dark and unafraid, perhaps there is a story there.

Last night and too late at 11 PM, DD National showed Gajendra Ahire’s Sumbaran (Marathi). What a gripping theme, about the return to one’s roots, loss and the life choices one makes…what excellent characterization. Could not keep awake to see the end, my loss.

After y’days death we will lose our last connection to the village, the house of the forefathers will be lost, that front room with kitchen and Dadaji’s swing, the back room where grains were stored in large earthern pots, the steep front staircase to the first floor *medi*, the large cot where I’d laid when I was so ill at 9 years old, Dadaji’s table, the staircase to the third floor and the room with the stored books and the terrace where Baba and all my uncles flew kites, fought, studied… the end of an era. I shall keep with me the memory of the iron grill on the windows and staircase. In my mind’s eye, Dadji sitting on the swing massaging his hand, speechless, a smile on his wrinkled face even as sunlight filters past the metal rods of the front door and casts patterns on worn stone…

Note to self, 1: NEVER, EVER take a ticket on the domestic leg of an international flight, specially not if its Air India. It IS possible for a 1 hour flight to be delayed by 2 hours, and to be offered a slim packet of peanuts at 10 PM. On the plus side you never know whom you’ll meet and the 75 yr young couple, doctors both, were a lesson in self care and attitude, greens and an hour of gym per day.

Note to self 2: After t'day's sorrow of a close relative’s peaceful death after a lifetime giving in to schizo not complying with medication—a good life wasted-- the lessons—self care, mental health is vital to one’s well being. Anything that increments one’s mental, physical, spiritual health is on. RIP, and be well whereever you are.

2014. This once I didn’t call up the relatives at midnight, didn’t change the calendars with much show… I watched National Treasure on HBO and went to sleep, stirring awake when they set off crackers… this year I resolve to be a nicer person-- nicer to myself too. Move from a largely reactive mode to a selectively proactive one, which is a tough one for me, need to undo decades of conditioning. This year professionally I pray I move from neutral/ reverse gear to a forward gear, any forward gear, so help me God….

The compulsion not to infringe on his time had kept me away, but every time I have had the privilege—and what an honor, given the incessant crush of his fans and work—I’ve been impressed at his impeccable manners and gentlemanly behavior. The background was perfectly eerie, unfinished staircase leading abruptly into the air, long iron rods clanging in  the corner, no walls and rough ceilings in the building under construction—and yes, the generator van and cobra jib and vanity vans. Thank you, Sirji, for meeting M and me—though the next time I will leave the book at your door, not disturb you.

During the last week I’ve reveled in such goodness, both my friend M and K, whom we visited in Pune. Simple goodness, honest to earth goodness that comes from the heart.

A life with hope, the happiness of sunshine…that Coke print ad is simply beautiful.

For the first time in years and in this house, I have a house guest, a friend who is more than family.

Hectic days. Beautiful days, such lights it almost seems like fairyland. A trip to see a friend, such goodness, such generosity of spirit one is stopped short; almost like a mirror held up to one’s face, what did I do?

Traipsing up and down Mount Mary, the hill decked with lights, the church beautifully lit up. It is late and the doors are closed, but someone tells us the door right at the front is open, so we have a few minutes of serenity before we’re asked to leave.  Sobs, and one turn around, instinctively consoles a stranger weeping over her killed ? son. How strange is this play of light and dark.

A discovery—steps that lead down from the mount, and beautiful cottage homes that line the dim path ,all decked up and lit up. A walk through Varoda Rd, so quaint you forget you are in Mumbai; sounds of music and merriment in the distance draw us there and we watch and clap at a pre-wedding party dance, the East Indian Umbarta pani…

Such wonder, such revelry in not planning, going where your feet take you, in keeping off the beaten track!

A time for summing up. Some nice, some not.

This year translations took up much of my time, so much of rewriting;  the  volumes somewhere still work-in-progress. Own writing output was much lesser, I situation I must correct next year.  It was a scarce year with only ten acceptances and about thirty-three practice stubs for the writing group. I did many rewrites, some of which got accepted. That excel sheet is patient and uncomplaining!

Among new forms—poetry in translation and scripts, though I’m all thumbs just about bumbling along; but I like how visual this treatment is, almost like poetry, only it’s moving.

Also a time for another summing up. I opened up a portfolio on moneycontrol to track stocks that I’d sold.  Three stocks that I shouldn’t have sold when I rationalized my list in Feb last year. After cussing myself for being too hasty, I finally have a number and I can live with that without wincing.

Yesterday I cut out stars from crinkly salvaged gift wrap paper and silver foil from old Quaker Oats packages, and hung them from twigs from an old basket that I placed in a gold ribbon decked green bottle. Enjoyed the process even if the outcome is kindergarten-ish. Am going to do craft this year, methinks.

Our complex is looking v pretty with lights and stars put up, and the decked up buildings for occasional parties.

RIP, Janet Dailey
http://www.nytimes.com/2013/12/18/books/janet-dailey-romance-author-dies-at-69.html?nl=todaysheadlines&emc=edit_th_20131218&_r=0
Thank you for helping me keep my sanity.
Thank you for keeping me ambitious and grounded, so that I didn't run away with some arbit driver or dhobi.

It is V’s birthday today. The older I get, the more I wonder at how unruffled and dignified she remained as she navigated life’s storms, a widow just a year after her wedding, and in those days society far more unkind. Yet the PhD. Yet the Professorship. Equipoise.

A—much loved-strict aunt; generous giver of cookery, knitting and perpetual nutrition lessons, finally breathed her last, marking the end of an era, the last of her generation to depart. God, watch out,  delightful scolds coming your way. Homemade cakes for all our birthdays,  those fabulous sit-down lunches on raksha bandhan, new shiny clothes made for me a surprise-- right in time for family weddings, my first ever b**… so many things I never particularly said thank you for.

At the train station, that old man, partially paralysed, unable to speak, dressed in “good” clothes, begging…maybe the sons turned him out. Maybe he has no one. Maybe.