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.