Today I paid respects at my aunt’s funeral, holding my uncle up by the arm, what a loss for him after sixty plus years of being married. Though for the last six odd years she was bedridden and immobile, gradually becoming unresponsive with motor neuron disease. Nothing drives home how little time we really have--smashan vairagya as it’s called. How little time really, and part of the reason I step back from acknowledging, taking credit if I do something “good”, why should the right hand know what the left has given? At some point in some lifetime I have paid with a substantial punya-loss for ego, for arrogance, pride—by design or ignorance--who knows?—and in this lifetime I’m careful to not even lead at prayers, lest that breed pride, or self praise. Weird, but let it be.

Sweet Sixteen (yeah right!) is the title of a crisply-written, fresh young adult novel by Vibha Batra. A people-like-them Delhi kid moves to Chennai in Class 11, rebels a bit and then adjusts, even makes new friends. Sixteen is upbeat and enthusiastic, after long I finished a book at one go, staying up beyond midnight to finish. The writing is smooth and smart-- young, peppy--and I quite enjoyed some of the devices she used to sort of slot the book differently (but I shan’t give that away!). One identifies with the protagonist, her voice is very clear, as is that of her mom’s. The father for some reason gets minimal treatment, just a presence in the background, the man who pays the bills. In some ways a window into another world, one of cocooned privilege, where one isn’t terrified of not making it to the right college,or about current events, and where parents are anything but marks-driven and hands on, no angst, no rebelling. Perhaps small town India is different, or perhaps it was, and isn’t anymore and what do I know. The distractions and pressures that a sixteen-year old faces are not to be shrugged at, yes, I did gape at some of the escapades and guesstimate, wide eyed,  her pocket money. A happy, happy  read.

I dreamt of her last night, not the way she was later, not at the end, no not that, but a sixth-seventh grader, her hair in that tousled cut that I’d tease that the mice had nibbled at. In an underground manmade cavern, a ramp led to a lovely pool with great light and Moorish tiles on the walls, and suddenly the kid laughed and ran free and jumped into the pool, swimming like a dolphin, darting below the surface blowing bubbles, and just so happy, so free, the happiest I’d ever seen her. I awoke to a sense of peace, her pealing laughter tiptoeing into my day.

I'd be very worried if I were she
destroying a raven's nest embedded in a canopy 
of golden green, perfectly formed
where sunlight played hide and seek
green executed roughly on flimsy excuse-- 
 a call for trouble, tempting the fates
I'd be very worried indeed.


the silent afternoon errupted with the cries 
seemed like the skies were filled with black
 distraught crows flapping about
that majestic banyan tree came alive with their pleas
as they watched the chopping, merciless
branches tossed asunder
each cut of blunt axe a slap
to be earned back many times over
such is the curse of the ravens, the messengers of our forbears
I'd be very worried indeed


I usually sleep the sleep of the dead
but last night I awoke with a jolt
3.30 the clock read
I walked to the windows, watched worried
the amputated tree without its nest, the mother sitting over her eggs
in the cosmic game of give and take
what fury would this bring on
this callous call to a raven's might, this sly tempting of the fates
then i tossed and perchance slept
in this game of unending cross and naughts
perhaps this too, was called for
the die is cast, never undone.

Snoopy died early this morning, two days after his return from the dog hospital.

He was restless and disinterested in food these last few days, and one had to follow him  pleading.

The sight of his lifeless form by the parking lot will stay with me to my last days. And the memory of our man wagging his tail, having spotted me at a distance with his food bag late in the night, so as to avoid unctuous neighbors.

Dogs will bark, they’re dogs, it’s in their nature, right? Yet Snoopy had quietened quite a bit, wouldn’t take handouts from other people, and generally kept to himself.

RIP Snoopy.

 Move on to a better life.

The nearer you get to that half-century mark, the more you realize how little time there really is.
Yesterday I watched travel plans (a few months into the future) crumble and vanish, that elusive line of mountains grow hazy, as work deadlines intervened.
I raged and i fumed and roared, and I *adjusted*
Today the world has set itself right, flowers have their bright colors back.
Deadline restored.

back in the hometown, they had a townhall meeting to build a new, vibrant, buzzing city...
how I miss home sometimes, and how Mumbai sometimes feels like home...strange and unsettling feeling, this.
some photos in the meanwhile.

Inner Courtyard: Maharani Shantadevi NH

Baroda. Yes, the city of Kings. Including one who turned his back on the Emperor of Great Britain, the ruler of all domains.

Baroda. Heritage city. And its young who’d rather migrate to US UK NZ AZ anyplace even Fiji but not live here.

I want to go back someday. Which is why I still pay my property tax and light bills.

Baroda. Where the temperature sways from 7 degrees (in Dec.) to a sweet 47 (in May).

So shut up and tan/freeze.

Baroda. Where you have one of the world’s best art schools and a fine music college. Where every place is fifteen-some minutes away.

Baroda. Where you know the shortcuts that no one else remembers. And you still rue the time you returned an early Dickens to the Central Library, cause that was the right thing to do.

Baroda. The place that is still home in your dreams, where the stars spread silver on water-cooled terraces.

Wasn't this the Reading Room? opp Dandiya Bazar, off Rajmahal Rd.

Kalabhavan, MS Univ. The Faculty of Engg. The pharmacy dept was housed in a modern building, alas.

Kothi, the District Collectorate. Just how regal this looks!

The Old Police Headquarters.

Shiyabaug Police Chowky. Amazing wood cut outs.

My late aunt's house. Now this entirely gracious way of living is being abandoned.

Some beautiful work.
Anusha Jasraj’s Commonwealth prize winning story


Fatima Rashid’s Massachusetts Review story, *It Takes Two Hands to Clap*
(Winter 2010)


That envy-mountain took me a week to get over.

So right that the heavens tipped over- drenching me to the skin
this morning, the first real day of the monsoon
celebrated with a walk though a inspired forest
amidst Asia's largest slumland.
eighty feet of soil spread across seventeen acres
a bricklined path zigzagging
and a forest of sturdy medicinals and perennials planted
 nature left to do her job
birds, butterflies, bees, moths
humming, trilling,
creating a magic neverland
after the skies poured
notebook tucked away
trying to soak in all the wisdom
only the taste remains
and awe

Venus trails her fingers

across the face of the sun,

surrenders herself to  fiery nothingness

delights in the scorching  flare

her dance languorous

every moment made to last

the next hundred seventeen years.

~

Venus transit

Suddenly the resident crows on the banyan

Turn silent

Cowls, mourning

But how did they know?

~

All day I sat

my back to the glittering sea

The waters tipping to the horizon and beyond

A little quieter today,

witness to the dance of the celestials

All day I sat

Clenched fist.

I must be the strangest person I know

Every morning

I talk to trees

Grin at new leaves nodding in the breeze

Exult at the touch of sunshine on green

Frown, coax a branch that’s given up on the fight

A strange kinship, unspoken

Binds me to the ground, this ground

Yesterday

I met them again, all of them,

As if for the first time

Reveled in their families, their origins

Snippets of their history

From the hoary passages of time

Two plus hours trooping from tree to tree

In the park where I usually rush past

This once a note-taker, hanging on to every word

So yes, I met them all again

Tivar, Cajuput, Sita arjuna, Nagakesar

But the sense of pride at the expert’s exclamation

Or a special feature

Was something I lack the words for.

Only in Bby do you venture from work at 11pm, and are not scared out of your wits driving past almost empty industrial-area roads, only in Bby do you call and tell your vegetable vendor to leave your order with the security guard at the main gate of your complex, only in Bby do you eat s'wiches at midnight listening to songs over the radio, and no one gives quite a damn. 
Salaam Bby.

Vedic hymns

Rise to the skies

Fervent prayer

~

Marigold, ashoka leaves, jasmine

Festive crowds but no jostling

the red of the shamiana reflected on eager faces

Such is the power of the presence

What must happen when avatars visit?

~

Young boys enunciate in precise sanskit

Proud heritage

of limits, bounds and standards

Reciting from memory, perfection

I watch with envy.

Back home

the loafers, the idle, time pass

Mohawk cut and long tressed,

smoke weed, play cards,

begin every second line with the F word

These guys don’t even hobble to the starting line

Karma!

Amongst beautiful things encountered:

A perfect alphonso mango, an aaphus, from my friend V’s ancestral lands somewhere along the sloping hills of Ratnagiri; I wait for this one since it is the only mango I shall relish this season,

The glittering shimmering sea from the 19^th flr at NP,

The wow factor of my first ever telepresence conference…astounding!

The brilliant look of Madame Tutli Putli : YT
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7icAFa8fdLY
those eyes!

Awe at this poem from Rasala

http://www.rasalabooks.com/krishna-as-magician/

I crave the sun. I thirst for it, like a junkie needing his fix. Or his eyes go all wonky and his hands shake…or whatever it is that happens--but a fix all right, this walking in the scorching sun, walking as my skin warms and then sizzles and tans, and my brain makes whatever connections it does to energize my day like a shot of electricity. I thirst for it, like the green that lines the track, chlorophyll coming to life as sunlight seeps in, nourishing, validating a reason for its existence. I think of Karna, paying homage, arghya, to the Sun by the lazy waters of the Ganges. And then walking back, bronze-rippled even as the Sun coasted overhead, aloof but watching. I think of the wife of the Sun god who’d created a shadow personae, Chaya, because she couldn’t withstand his brilliance. And mostly I think of the play of light and dark, and the unending cycle of seasons, and lifetimes.

the gulmohur are in bloom.
delicate and generous.
glamorous!

Today’s beautiful thing was the celebration this evening with my friend X.

She  celebrated her four walls becoming her own, her loan repaid in full. Now she and her son are secure for life.

The mandatory six-month wait for her divorce will be over next month.

Peace of mind, freedom from mental trauma is a truly beautiful thing.

That line of mountain-valley
Hovers over my day
an invisible charm


#


deft line strokes
haiku masterpieces.
in translation:
The effrontery!
enchantment vanishes


#
lines on a map
hop, skip and jump
a ribbon to the horizon
neat


today's beautiful thing: Google images for Valley of flowers + India

Today’s beautiful thing: The art of Henry Darger



Discussing with my friend A, abt whether imagination limits what one writes, specially if you’re writing essays, CNF, and what happens once you’re done, you reach the limit?


She pointed me to Henry Darger.


What a story.


What amazing art--- what ABANDON… his figures fly off the plane of the page into the ether with a whistle


BUT to think of all this while plodding on at a day job? A lower level one, cleaning floors and rolling bandages?


To think and make such AMAZING art cloistered in a room, WITHOUT the pat on the back that you and I and every single one professing to be CREATIVE craves?


HOW?

(If we must put Darger in a box labeled strange and borderline psychotic—a lot of artists belong in there, starting with Van Gogh, and I can live with that, damn and ptoee to the labeling.)


Google images for Henry Darger

Today’s beautiful thing:


Yesterday, thanks to my friend N, I watched some fantastic work: Motley’s presentation of One Act Plays by the redoubtable Mr. George Bernard Shaw. Prithvi does not tolerate the unprepared---with that perfect-acoustics amphitheater there’s no room for goof ups. GBS would have been proud of that perfect British diction, sharp accent and polished acting.
Three One Act Plays were featured: English Pronunciation, How he lied to her husband, and Village Wooin’ (see links)


English pronunciation was amusing and an eyeopener; I learned how much of the language I happily maul. But as long as I don’t have to present anemones to a Viscount in Islington, I should be all right.


Yes, the diction was so sharp it could slice a brick. Given our Indian propensity for rounding edges, bringing in a dash of local flavor from all the vernacular languages  we’re proud to know, and mumbling words-- I wonder how they did it.


Perhaps this is what professionalism is, delivering a flawless performance despite.


The cast deserved every single clap of that standing ovation.


English Pronunciation: http://seit.unsw.adfa.edu.au/staff/sites/hrp/useful/EnglishPronunciationGBShaw.html

How He Lied To Her Husband : http://www.gutenberg.org/files/3544/3544-h/3544-h.htm


Village Wooin’ : http://www.indianexpress.com/news/by-george-its-classic/823976/