Bragging rights:

"The Final Chapter", a translation of the original story in Gujarati by Pravinsinh Chavda titled "Antim Adhyay", is online at 91st Meridian.
Also: An essay, "looking for a patli gali, an urban footpath"

91st Meridian is the journal of the international writing program at the University of Iowa.

http://iwp.uiowa.edu/91st/vol7_n1/index.html

Feels good.

Yesterday I met this young kid swathed in a scarf and with huge glares, a kid who’s allergic-- to the sun. To lovely, bright and essential sunlight that I delight soaking in.
Brown, tough and no-nonsense skin—NEVER thought that’s one more thing to be thankful for.

Watched bits and pieces of two movies over the last two evenings:
“Miss Pettigrew lives for a day” which has a feel good and nice storyline, all happiness and “anything can happen”; until you watch “ I’ll Cry tomorrow”, a true story which is probably a close look at showbiz the way it is, despair, alcoholism, eight husbands and bankruptcy.
I guess I liked the gritty, realistic movie from 1955 much more.


http://www.filminfocus.com/article/production_notes___miss_pettigrew_lives_for_a_day

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I%27ll_Cry_Tomorrow

So the earth sighed. And let off a fiery breath, bringing life to a standstill.
Yet again the earth shrugged elsewhere, unconcerned.
Have been watching the ongoing drama about cricket and grease and sleaze.
Reaffirms my intent to remain reclusive. Apart.
Somewhere in the last week and odd of watching twitter, shameless pretties and slander, I’ve regressed well into the 16th C-my home has high walls.
What priorities do we care about as a nation? Is it even one nation?
So one more ambush is ok, one more blast or two – we are too many people anyway-- Malthus was a good man.
Forget Eyja-what’s its name, we have a million upheavals waiting to happen.
Anyway.

Today is special, a bara din.
Yet there is a part of me that is cautious, wary.
Like on edge, right?
A part that watches you breathe when you’re asleep, and frets in the deep of the night.
The same part that relishes your wit and sharp mind…
So we shall let it, the day and all it signifies, pass.
And I shall watch your words for any imminent signs of a slip, a slur or a misplaced word or tone change.
Because there is a part of me that is cautious, wary.
Because I’d be kinder to myself, I think, if I were not me.

I tend to merrily write about knives and business intrigue, and smooth talking conmen who whistle while they transfer millions at the click of a mouse to untraceable accounts on distant shores, and talon-nailed wives who "settle" errant husbands.

Hence was terribly surprised to make the Karadi tales contest shortlist.

Shortlist only, mind it.

Maybe I should, like, think kidstuff, yes? Just maybe, yes?
Extremely surprised, yep.

Sometimes something good happens, the end result of a ton of hard work and persistence-determination and then you just want to wallow in it.

Nothing else matters. For now.

Yeah, cryptic.

I’m quite the strangest person on earth.
How else to explain the fascination with saving 100 bucks.
By shopping at Sahakari Bhandar versus More.
(After netting the transport cost, that’s just about 60.)
But I know I will return next weekend. To pick the choicest tomatoes, touch the smooth velver of slender bottlegourd, and indulge in the freshest greens.
Is there any logic to this?
Is it genetic, a salute to frugal Gujju genes?
A validation of a frugal philosophy that one believes in? Or a subtle brownie point, “I’m holier”?
Because the repeat delight at this idea, the serotonin surge from revisiting it every few hours, far surpasses any notional saving.

Most nights I sit with paperwork, trying to unscramble numbers.
To the company of the ARR number from Zubeida, “mehki mehki hain raahen”
And that adrenalin charge from Monsoon W. “ rabba rabba mee barsa”.

A close friend rushes to Cal to be with her aged father who is in the ICU.
The suddenness of it all.

A profusion of bougainvillea on the wall, and overhead a branch with yellow blooms tumbling over, looking like what I think grape on a wine would look like.

Every season has its charms. or so I told myself, when it was inordinately hot this morning.


Excellent essay on practice, sharpening one's craft:

http://blog.stevenpressfield.com/category/writing-wednesdays/

And I go back to the blank page.

I was thinking about how we read people. How we learn to read them.
And how more or less, people tend to be predictable.
Follow a trend line, like a stock.
Over time, you learn how a friend will likely use any information she comes by—so then you tend to watch what you share
But if your work was to write, would you or would you not use this knowledge?
What if your work area was non fiction? What if it were a shared experience?
Where would you draw the line, what would be ethical and what would not be ok?

Two solid articles, from NYT: Be sure to read the comments.

On self defeating behavior--
http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/03/22/playing-the-victim/

Losing it--
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/28/magazine/28fasttrack-t.html?scp=1&sq=Dominique&st=cse

April has begun busy. Happy-busy, touchwood.

An amazing friend’s birthday. Knowing her has been a blessing—that a human could be as good, as pure and strong, despite her fragile and beyond-help health. Sometimes it is good to get one’s cynicism good and shaken.

Roads explored as a shortcut take a surprising turn, lead to complete East Indian villages, crumbling mansions, village square, cross and church, bargaining aunties, in the middle of bustling upmarket suburbs. Leaves you wondering, so often we pass by on the main thoroughfare, unaware and uncaring of the meandering lanes that lie beyond.

Karthik calling Karthik was brilliant. So bright it feels like a knife cut through your brain. Forces you to dispassionately look at your behavior. Yes, I must confess I ditched a tall stack of newspapers post the movie. Obsessive hoarding behavior, that.

http://www.desipundit.com/baradwajrangan/2010/02/27/review-karthik-calling-karthik/

This just about matches my mood:
Zindagi khwab hai… khwab mein sach hai kya aur bhala jhooth hai kya..
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p6S3tpGsW-E

Another fiscal over. Another fiscal begins.
The pattern of my mornings, unchanging.
Offering stability to the day, anchoring it
That easy-paced walk, that chulha- chauka rush, the perfect round rotli, the rai- marchu seasoning.
This I will do, no matter what.
So that I can contemplate - Greece, GDP, Portugal, non existent global cues.
That hour and some of contemplation and deft moves is my fee, so as to be able to say “The emperor has no clothes.”

Yesterday, my morning was peppy and serotonin rich. Didn’t know a metformin dose increase could make your day go 3D and all smiles.

And every time I see the dawn sun I am reminded of a honed and copper hued Karna, striding home from the Ganges, beset by questions of identity and ethics. Questions that remain as yet unsolved.

Earlier this week I received my copy of Indian Literature (Nov- Dec issue).
With a tribute to the giant, Dilip Chitre. RIP.

Now, poetry and I keep each other at a safe, respectful distance, occasionally nodding.

But this is mind blowing; you know the sort that gives the nerve endings in some dull part of the brain a good shaking and hot water scrubbing, yes, add the bleach.

For once nothing matters. I can only sit up straight and agree wholeheartedly, salute and sigh, wring hands at the hundreds of sins of missed meaning and made-up line, after reading “The Translator”

also: http://varnamala.org/dilip_chitre.html.
(if you’re reading this, language warnings apply.)


The Translator

Dreaming in four different languages
And of the continents of silence
A man is f*cked up by the nagging problem of meaning
And cannot rest.
Translations are possible only when one is fully awake.
But at night, when one is a cave man who has lost his tribe,
Who can be a Renaissance Man?
The nameless painters of Altamira
Have been able to dream up
The Museum of Modern Art.
But who were the poets and translators of the cave?
Who crafted the first words out of wild corn
And the bones of animals?
Who told the first lies
Upon which our profession is based?
On waking, he soothes himself by asking difficult questions.
But once he goes to sleep,
His own ambivalence disturbs him,
Producing nightmares
Out of the savage silence of four different languages.

© Dilip Chitre

That awe-inspiring dose of marble and granite seemed out of place for a building in an industrial area. As did the art deco security block and the now-empty jharokha-like niches near the gate. So once upon a time this was a home, a manor. Complete with sit-out and terrace garden.
And then time moved on.

Last night the moon was a silver quarter pinned on black, silver spun spilling over. As I walked in the dark, wisps of conversations swirled around in the quiet, from all those times we’d sleep on the terrace when kids long long ago, sheets cool to the touch, blanket quickly pulled over head every time one heard a strange rustle in the night.

So I was a finalist for an international translation anthology but didn’t make the final cut. Whatever. It cuts.

Abhinav Bindra, the shooter and Olympic gold medalist, in today’s Mint offers an interesting read, specially that part about being positive as versus realistic.
http://www.livemint.com/2010/03/24222259/Bindra-begins-another-journey.html

Yesterday the US passed a bill for health care reform.
The intent, the scale- you have to admire them for their guts.
No one who needs medical attention should be turned away, no matter what,
Perhaps this is what access to health care means, not some meaningless slogan made for a conference and forgotten.
Health insurance for the poorest of the poor. Penalty if you don't buy insurance.
How will they pay for this?
Taxes on investment income at the individual level.
Arm twisting big pharma.
Negotiating with big insurance companies.
Robin Hood? Perhaps.
But if they get it to work...
Nothing short of amazing.

Yesterday I crossed 2000 words on a story.
2150 and done, to be precise.
Like me, my characters tend to summarize a para in a single "yes/no"
So this is big for me.
drumroll.

At the eyedoc's this morning, I came close to hyperventilating.
The parent couldn't get the washroom door to open after he'd locked himself in.
Anyway.

I like to walk.
To feel the stretch of muscle and sinew.
And the answering press of the earth, as it moulds the contours of your foot.
In time, you set a pace, heel-toe-heel.
A rhythm as real as the periodic bursts of chattering birdsong.
Or the cuckoo’s single, clean note.
Such is the lure of the earth, black and dew-fragrant.
About the orange orb beyond the march of trees;
Or the many many hues of generous green, I have yet to begin.

If you miss this connect with the earth, if you sit aloof and ac’ed, I think you miss big-time.
You lose sight of what is real.
What matters.
It is much more than aatey-daal ka bhav.
For a reason I cannot completely explain, it seems critical to be able to navigate crowds, to tiptoe past traffic snarls.
To keep time with the throb of the earth.
Heel-toe-heel.

For all the philosophy, pit-in-the-gut worry about a close friend’s illness woke me up in the middle of the night with a sudden jolt. Diverticulitis is not your common stomach bug, and thoughts of the very worst case persist, given her poor immunity and gazillion complications.
I wait. So far ok.

A 1950’s era Dodge in mint perfect condition, spotted last night.


Realizing more than ever the need for focus, for compartmentalization.
And for a calm start to the day.
No more morning mail check with tea. Lesser twitter.

At our own version of the 25 years service awards y'day, the show stealers were these pair of three year-old twins, quite happy picking up a gift box, one at a time, from one room and taking it to the other where the father was seated.
And in due course taking a gift box from him, one at a time, and back to the table.
So content.
So blissfully unaware. So happy.
Ho ha for form and protocol and seniors.

And B, with his 27 years in the mailroom, but two accomplished daughters he's put through professional courses. Life changing.

Open your eyes and see.
Such stunning colors.
Every morning the generous greens- fluorescent,dark, so many shades, an extravaganza.
Dew trembles on the tip of a bamboo leaf.
A completely bare tree, devoid of even a single leaf.
Oblivious.
Dewdrops shimmer, outline stretched silver branches.
Open your eyes and see.
And last night on my usual walk, from the basti behind the colony, the tremendous, riotous beat of a dholak - kartal and voices rising skywards.
I stood, mesmerized.


Here is a brilliant article on the craft of translation.
http://tinyurl.com/yapxnr7
Just for this single line “translation is not done with tracing paper” I could cook her a week’s worth of Gujju meals.
Lump-in-my-throat indebted.


Last night, Anwesha sang a classical piece in Amul Music ka maha muqaabala
Standing ovation. Goosebumps. Yes, tears.
From another lifetime, the words echo.