For all the people googling for "Gulmohar" and reaching my page.

Another 23rd.
So I watched the day carefully today to see if it would be any different, if it showed any sign of being your special day; but the sunrise was just as powerful, golden dust dancing in the air, and the day had the same sort of busy-ness as it usually does, demanding an account of each moment; and in the evening the hill in the distance seemed as serene, covered with a peach mist; and I often think of timezones, your being here and being in another sphere another lifetime, and realized despite the lack and lacking a limb and comfortable in the hard shell, it is still a celebration.

An anthology allows you to taste fleetingly, sample and move on if you will, nice knowing-you, no commitment and no hard feelings. Sometimes the words strike a chord and resonate, sometimes the words cleanse your neurons of the gunk accumulated and force you to sit up straight.

Like Salinger, and well, Bananafish.

Like Ruth Praver Jhabvala and that incredibly intricate abstract in Mirrorwork.

Links to a Jhabvala story from the New Yorker archives here:http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2008/07/28/080728fi_fiction_jhabvala?currentPage=all#ixzz0fyou6x2M

Sunrises on clear morning continue to enthrall. Pink and white and a tinge of orange, a dash of clouds overhead; and the eucalyptus tall and proud, each individual leaf outlined like a mughal miniature. Dew trembling at the edge of bamboo leaves and the bougainvillea rushing mad in its generosity.

Amit, thanks for the Beautiful blog award, and I shall do this tag in bite sized pieces, for to write an entire post would be completely too much.
Baroda? The warmth of home and the sadness of old places past their prime. Kalyan shabby and faded, resigned to its fate; empty and without a chaat counter, no bhel, what a sacrilege for a spot once famous for this comfort food. The ASE premises now rubble on a vacant corner lot, once upon a time the country’s best, most modern, shining steel and technology-proud pharma plant occupied these vast lands. The malls that line the corner seem a mockery. Once upon a time I’d interned here.

More on that 1960’s vintage movie, The Singing Sisters (a rather sweet tale about a nun who produces an international hit with her rendition of a hymn):

The contrast with backstory (via wikipedia) is shocking; a tale peppered with grief and failure, rich in texture and layers, something Faulkner would have written. I read about this particular nun’s decision to leave the order, try and establish a career with music and fail, try and build a poorhouse, and then be hounded by the government for back taxes so much so that she and her partner take their lives. The story hasn’t left me, though its been a few days since.

And in miracles, suddenly at five past six this morning the CD drive on my comp, for long given up as dead and a traitor, certified as such by technician—well, it began to hum and function again. Of its own will and fancy, and wonders will never cease.

And the 9 kids who died in Pune's terrorist blast. RIP.
I wont let myself think of the parents. Not yet.

In the last few days I’ve OD’ed on movies, the result of a cable upgrade; The White balloon, The Singing Nuns and on Showtime, Love aaj kal. Vastly different story strengths and production values to each. Yet, for its simplicity, the White balloon touched my heart even though I know not a word of Persian.

A sufi singer listens to a flute recital and touches something in the air, gesticulating as if he is meeting an old friend or spots a thing of much wonder, amazed, as if he is picking up something only he can see. Such is the delight of special sunrises, and bougainvillea in overflowing pinks.
To life!

The last week has been hectic. To sum it up, meeting after meeting across cities, hour after hour till one’s head was spinning, on the positive side it only strengthened one’s resolve. And then the matter of setting the home ready before, meals and all; and in some modicum of working order after. The first time in three years that I’ve missed my weekly writing, and how it rankles. All mailboxes running overfull. A modicum of order restored now, almost in control.

Watched y’day a fragment of The White Balloon. So simple and so stunning.
Also began Mirrorwork with a story by Manto titled Toba Tek Singh. Beautiful, to make the reader laugh and cry at will.

Thinking about the wild turns- crazy loops- that destiny takes.

Things I want to remember from the last few days:

That lucid lucent enormous moon, with that halo around. And how HUGE and red it looked past the dark of neem branch + leaves the next dawn.

That ice water/scathing shock of one’s first-ever Salinger.
A perfect day for bananafish. Read.

Could I reassemble a watch by myself? A simple, rustic old fashioned watch? Stunned. Yet I, my mind will question. Why will it not accept?

The curve of the beach from that vantage point, the peach and blue like crayon color on the horizon. Leaving footsteps in the wet sand. A runaway for ten minutes pre-meetings. The hiss of the wash and the sand-designs of crabs. The advancing high tide. The barking strays that turned happy once I inched closer.

Listening to CB even if for ten min. He speaks from the heart. Even if he mumbles a little. Still reading. A would have majorly run her red pencil across most pages.How impressive what M has done, dividing time so he can do what he wants to do, repaying a debt to life.

The random leaf patterns in that concrete path- smart idea.

Shubha Mudgal, a salaam.
Its the way her voice surges, conquers all three scales.
Fluid magic...
Nothing delicate or tinny about this.Robust, rich and soaring to the skies.
Ooncha balamji ka des...
These words have been echoing all day.
The manner in which the beat sounds.
Perhaps its the blend of passion and mysticism in the verse. That's what the reviews say.
Anyway, I don't understand any of that.
Something good came from that RIP Worldspace.
I took the dust covers off the music system.

songs:
http://www.dishant.com/album/shubha_mudgal_-_chaahat.html

reviews:

http://www.tribuneindia.com/2004/20040110/windows/audioscan.htm
http://www.hinduonnet.com/thehindu/mp/2003/12/18/stories/2003121800810300.htm

Yesterday we watched Aah. Raj Kapoor- Nargis. Vintage 1953.
Perhaps it was the b & w photography, that play of shadow and light with an ethereal Nargis.
Perhaps it was the music, melodious, lilting Shankar Jaikishan. And some of that background score, specially the shivranjani which made the leap to a full number in Mera Naam Joker two decades later.
The locations, with luxurious homes that look like homes. The beauty of the outdoors in b&w, light streaming past trees.
Perhaps it was the simplicity of the storyline.Linear and unlayered.
Perhaps because it reminds me of simpler values and times.

Added: I must not forget the vintage furniture, lovely retro cupboards and that settee with an inbuilt bookshelf- smart.

How completely vulnerable does friendship (or what goes for friendship) make one, jagged edges and fluffy side up, open to conjecture and examination.
Which is why when someone goes completely silent without any reason, I tremble and go for a toss.
To me, where I'm coming from, based on my history, it is a slight, a personal rejection.
I don't do rejections too well. I thrive on acceptance, assurance. Gimme my security blanket.
Crazy? You bet it is.
So it was marvelous to sit by your side, hear your story, the dribbles, fragments and pieces you chose to share.
While knowing all the time, very likely you'll clam up, pack and move once again, home as you know it.
It was worth the hour long walk looking for an auto, and worth that plea to the cabbie, and the late hour.
Life lesson for me-- take people as they are.
As is, where is.
I'll try. Irrespective of the jagged edges.

My biggest problem is that I write panoramic. MGM style, big scale.
I don’t do the close-up.
By the time I get to zoom in, the word count is done, khatam and its time to close shop.
And I write Indian. Which means I expect a reader to know backstories, cultural stuff like honor killings and the caste system.
I have a thick skin for “no’s” and getting thicker.
That, or write about the familiar, write for the firang reader-- which seems such a sell out.

On trees bereft and bare, new leaves unfurl.
Let them demolish one road-- I'll find another.
(Quite literally--my regular shortcut is lost to a construction project.)

All I wanted to say was thank you. For not considering the state of Gujarat to be the abode of witless lumpens with rubber spines and vacant sawdust brains.
For this basic courtesy and decency, as a proud Gujarati- thank you.

I am quite fed up of the spate of vicious attacks on the state. One nasty but obvious reason is the preponderance of people from other states in the media, paired with the less than perfect economic plight of their home states.

While 2002 was a tragedy and chaos of the worst order, which state in the country has been free of a law and order machinery breakdown? What happened cannot and should not be excused. And this stands true for several cringe-worthy events in the country.

High time the country as a whole get its act in order- stop picking on Gujarat, stop sneering every time the name of the state is taken.

Yesterday I read my first-ever Alice Munro short story.
I was dazed at the close.
She brings her reader to a place that is unsettling, strange and yet known, and leaves them there, letting them draw their own conclusions, so much said unsaid. Perhaps that is the best way, a quicksilver shorthand that the clued-in reader grasps, and for the rest it does not matter.
Amazing mastery of the craft.

Link added:

http://www.newyorker.com/archive/1999/12/27/1999_12_27_110_TNY_LIBRY_000019900

Early, much much too early most morning I watch you breathe in, breathe out, my ears tense for any change in pitch, any unusual rasping. Much too soon the day begins and with it your labored coughing. The kid syrup antibiotic has been measured and now the bottle is empty, we take recourse to traditional remedies and I pray turmeric and ginger rev up your immune system and give you the strength to challenge, to fight back and vanquish, and it is afterall, only a cold. As ailments go, this is but a cold, but one that has lasted too long, or so I think. I fuss too much.

On the to-read list: Mirrorwork. An anthology of Indian writing.

Haiti.
What havoc.
Brings back memories of Kutch-Amdavad, Latur.
Also that catastrophe with our western neighbor. Also China, when entire buildings collapsed, that school building, remember?
Why does the earth get so angry, so often.
Why this indifference and disgust?
Or does periodic anguish serve to tie the world together.
A reminder of our common fate?

One picture.
So many interpretations.
So many tales of fractured perception.
Been busy, scrolling through the subs on the site, and occasionally, commenting.

Tomorrow's Uttarayan, the kite flying festival.
Color squares soaring heavenwards.
Great post here:

http://amitsmusings.blogspot.com/2010/01/uttarayan-time.html

Dust storms


http://clarityofnight.blogspot.com/2010/01/entry-61.html


Way down the list-- the 61st entry.

In the deluge, not a chance.

But would be delighted if you'd read.


I *think* this one of my "not-bad" efforts.

Why now?
A day ago, I came across Susan Boyle’s demo track.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OSLdWg96L1Y
She’s singing her version of Roberta Flack’s Killing me softly.
The “rip it straight from the gut and soar to the skies” premise of her Britain’s got talent debut—that’s missing.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY
Why?
If anything, she’s way older now.
So what prompted that insouciance. That cheek. That “I don’t quite give a damn.” That causes her voice to open up and let go?
What caused it now?
The person is the same, the voice the same, If anything, older.
And would this earth-stopping performance have been possible without the simply-ok demo track?
Destiny, nasseeb, fate—why did they wait to kick in now?

Some lines of deep thought, solitude and contemplation I’d read recently, took me back to this poem.

Taught to us by the ever-patient Mrs. Arora in Class 10. Thirty years ago.
Almost every word difficult, every word underlined for meaning.

The line that stayed with me was--
“Jivan ka antim dhyey svayam jeevan hai”

Thanks to googledevta, I found the entire poem here:

http://www.prayogshala.com/poems/dinkar-Vijayi-ke-sadrish-jiyo-re

(The title in our text book was Parshuram ke Updesh.Yes, I remember.)

The verse has the mighty roar of battle in the way the words build up.
It took me all these years to understand the meaning.Somewhat understand.

This is just that critical stanza, my version with due apologies:

The purpose of life is not fame or wealth
Not peace, not a search for truth, not even an insight divine
Not science, not knowledge, not mighty strength nor philosophy
In the final summing up, the purpose of life is life itself.