In the interim:  I listened deeply at the Kabir festival, recorded fragments of a concert by Mukhtiyar Ali at Shri Suresh Wadkar’s music academy, took a bus to a concert in distant Borivali and listened to the greats – Shri Prahlad Tippaniya, Shri Mooralala Marwada and Shri Mukhtiyar Ali sing from the heart ,the simple words the poet saint Kabir wrote all those centuries ago.

One weekend I trailed along with the Tree Appreciation Walk, gaping at the palms in Hiranandani Heritage Garden, touching the textured bark from time to tine and listening to stories about them.

This weekend I was back home, watching a young one get engaged in much opulence, wondering how a simple ceremony that traditionally was marked with the sharing of jaggery and coriander, become as formal, big ticket.

And I’m becoming much better at jumping on and off buses and trains.

I still haven’t sorted through all the photos from Jaisalmer- Jodhpur, I’m still shocked at how many there are—but I will.

Thank you for your patience. Am reading and writing, head above water and just as determined.

I’ve been thinking of the fossil park. 180 mill years ago an entire forest stood tall. Now the place is barren, thankfully distant from Jaisalmer so that only the most intent make it there. We were the only people in the park when we went there—it was eerie and beautiful…One is a mere speck in the continuity of time.

And I’ve been thinking of the Patwa haveli. This madly beautiful series of 18^th C carved stone mansions that took 60 years to create, a proud signal of having arrived, from a man whose thriving business in gems, opium, spices and silks spanned 250 countries. A man who’d financed the king-- thrice. The mansions are exquisite, sheer poetry in stone. I’d gone there all alone one late evening, just to look at the façade in the partly floodlit moonlight. Shut your eyes and it is easy to imagine neighing horses and placid camels tied up at the entrance, and a great deal of hustle-bustle as gold sovereigns are exchanged for the fine things in life… each mansion has five floors and two levels underground.

I stared at the pigeons fluttering at the carved galleries... and my anger evaporated, as understanding settled in.

Delighted to announce publication of my essay, Light, in Annalemma.
This is about classical music lessons I and the kid sister took ages ago.
And how I stopped singing once she'd gone.
Funny thing, this--making 1500 word essays out of personal histories.

Ok…now that the sheets have been changed, the furniture dusted and floor cleaned, the plants brought back from my friend who was babysitting them… it almost feels like home. In good news, my Aadhar card is in—the postman called me to let me know he’s putting it in the mailbox (surprising how much a diwali baksheesh can matter… ), the first issue of New Yorker courtesy the US State Dept is in, though it seems read, but all that reminding for my prize for SPAN’s competition seems to have helped, or maybe this is a, token gesture… my tax papers are in, so last year is finished and done.

I began looking at the 1350 photos from the trip, and realized there is no way I can upload all of them, so will begin to share snippets with photos asap, and in no particular order. Shortly.

Thank you for writing in. Didn’t quite expect this, and it warmed the cockles of my heart. 

(Eh, I has ‘em you know, cockles and cowbells and sunshine and suchlike.)

Some of you have an issue with anonymity—you can remain as anonymous as you like, your mail id could well be abcxyz@yahoo/ gmail/ whatever—as long as I have a mail id to plug in.

I will be leaving in a couple of days to watch endless oceans of sand, shiver in the chill that thunders down from the north, track the flight of the falcon above weathered sandstone,and suchlike.

This blog is going private in the new year.

For now, for ever, who knows?

If you've been reading and wish to continue reading, drop me a line.

austereseeker2909@yahoo.com

Else, Godspeed and good journey, and may you days be suffused with goldspun.

The last few days have been an eye opener. Yes, I’m shading the words and yes, I’m cautious, wary still waiting for the wrecking ball to swing back, it has to, you know, oscillatory motion. Cainer in his impeccably accurate forecast had written about being shoved off a high cliff and just about managing to grasp a shrub, branch, whatever, to break the fall. And so it was. And so it was. After being shaken, punched, hammered at, I crumbled like the boxer in the corner but stumbled up again. How many times must one sit with one’s head held high regardless, reinvent the wheel --and why? Is this the only alternative? Why is this  the only alternative? If one knows oneself, and as one inches closer to the half-century mark surely one ought to know oneself, one begins to wonder at the predictability of events and the fault of one’s passive participation in their coming to a close, such a close. As the parent used to say, you cannot teach an old horse new tricks.

After a long long time I woke up this morning wanting to get up.What an incredible time I’ve had over the last two days. Linked to some cosmic source of energy…I’d say, if I believed in all that hoopla. 

Amazing crowds gathered to listen to Gulzarsir at the concluding session on the verdant lawns at Mehboob Studio, at a reading where Nasreen Munni Kabir’s book Conversations with a Poet, was launched. Yes, I stood in queue for an autograph and mentally touched his feet.  

Watched with a raised eyebrow the crowds that had gathered to listen to Chetan Bhagat earlier in the day, personally I like my t’s crossed and I’s inked, thank you, but feel free to do otherwise. 

Earlier, listened to Gulzarsir and Javed Akhtar discuss Manto with Prasoon Joshi, where Atish Taseer just about managed to make this pov heard—but what an audience! Lovely, enriching to hear about that era of words. 

Then listening to Rana Dasgupta, Daniyal Mueenuddin, Jeet Thayil, Anjali Joseph and Nilanjana Roy talk about the craft of shaping words… Rana Dasgupta called being in the flow almost a mystical process… maybe if I’d be that way sometime anytime I’d buy that…I raced after Daniyal Mueenuddin to get his sign on my slightly dogeared copy of  “In other rooms..”, but there was no way I could tell him though I dearly wanted to-- that I consider his work as fine as Munro’s, or Maugham’s. 

Watched Mira Nair in conversation with Shyam Benegal, watched the trailer of her yet to be released latest, “The Reluctant Fundamentalist”, wondered at her drive even as an eleven year old when she wrote pages of gibberish for all of six months, gibberish  that still earned her top grade at the convent she was being sent to, to show that she needed to be sent to a better school…what spunk, and what clarity.

Always thought litfests were melas, but this one was rich and well worth my limited time.

http://www.timesliterarycarnival.com/schedule.htm

I needed to be shaken awake. Every rupee of the $2 submission fee paisa vasool. The best part about life events, long after they’ve matured and the pain/ angst/ misery/ tears/ anger, anything that evoked a “from the gut” reaction, the best part after the emotion has mellowed a bit so now you only scowl at it—the best possible use is CNF. Yesterday I very quickly rewrote large chunks of an CNF after the Editor pointed out that I didn’t seem terribly proud of my work, my cussed persistence in pushing on with a genre regardless of rejects and silences. Where did this come from, shrinking violet, this “Yes, but…”? Part nature. Part credit to the notable “ex-perts” who had set the standard at stratospheric Glimmer Train heights and deem any lesser effort worthy of cruel disdain. Somewhere, it stays with you and it slips into the words.

Chillar Party is very good. Hilarious.
Delighted to  read that it cost 5 cr and grossed 33 cr.
Smarter than the nonsense Balaji is delivering in one hour doses now, a national dumbing down.

Perhaps it was always as tough.  I know I took the first job I got post my degrees and then moved on, made it work

But 22 lacs  “donation” for an entry-level college  job?

I was aghast and then G told me—6 lacs for a primary school teacher’s in a district in Maharashtra.

If I were young, I’d be worried. Very.

(Not that its easier post the 40’s cliff.)

And have a backup plan, a second trade or source of income. A plan b as it were.

http://www.mid-day.com/news/2012/dec/031212-Pune-Colleges-ask-For-Rs-20-lakh-donation-for-teaching-job.htm

http://www.mid-day.com/news/2012/dec/041212-Leopard-comes-knocking-at-7am.htm

A leopard. Spots and all. In my backyard. Almost, that is. In the next to next to next apartment block. Not its fault—once a dense forest stood here, trees reaching skywards, sunshine filtering to the ground..One more reason to justify a really late morning walk.

Very interesting to see how CONFIDENT some people are-- even when they’re wrong.

“This doesn’t magnify,” she said.

“You’re looking at the wrong end, turn the binocs around”

“THIS is the right end.”

“Hmm are you sure? The manual said otherwise.”

“The covers are on the part that points away. Magnification is not good.”

Other than the fact that these binocs are different, and that thing there is an eyepiece, the part closest to the eye, what you’re supposed to peer through.

But I like the confidence.

The harbor line moves slowly, even languidly, its tracks tread overhead as it leaves its brash and competitive W. Rly cousin on the ground behind, these crowds  not as pushy nor is the clatter of the tracks as insistent . The stations have quaint names- Sandhurst, Cotton green, King’s Circle. Past Dockyard you marvel at the breeze and the miles of yet-green. And on the ride back it takes 45 minutes to traverse Peddar Rd and you thank the stars for small mercies.

All for two sweaters. One heavy duty, street-bought, a bargain, and yes, I’ve sent it to the dry cleaners. The other store-bought, all wool reversible and so expensive that my eyebrows are still raised. And binocs, am still figuring out which is the eyepiece.

dome

resident gargoyle, pillar base

greater peninsular railway insignia

offices, circa 1887, still in use

at the gate

above the hawkers

bmc

VT station. I got pictures if nothing else.

My story's up on Pure Slush this fine morning:

http://pureslush.webs.com/arrival.htm

A salute to the Practice group on iWW, this one began there.

Mira

Ok. So DD Urdu shows movies without any ad breaks. So DD Urdu shows stunning movies you won’t find anywhere else amidst the gazillion channels. Last night I watched Umrao Jaan, that first version, that one with the stunning music. And I couldn’t sleep. Without any ad breaks the story hits harder and scrambles your brain.

I awoke grateful for all the mercies I generally scowl at.

I scrounged for time slices on Sunday, scraped out time bits  to read.

--From my newspaper stacks where I got some very interesting stories including the Beatles demo tape, and about ahem difficulties with kindergarten entry in China (though I have no idea what I’ll do with this trivia)

--The Undefeated Mind which I’m perusing page by page, to return with a pen next read.

--Tat tvam Asi.. Satya’s  exposition, which I’m reading respectfully.

--Jagubhai no Punarjanam ( Jagubhai’s rebirth)… a hilarious, mocking tale of a politician on the make. I still don’t know how to translate a single word that means “long-limbed –fortunate-someday possibly-a- ruler”

A day ago, my (very) tiny (very) little apartment turned one.
A year. Already. 
That's a year of fawning over *such nice places* on design sponge and apartment therapy.
A year.
Celebrations~ red fruit on the banyan tree outside.And louder that usual cawing of the neighborly crows
(Newspaper stacks and my unending plastic bag collection are sore points. Aye.)
And right now I got my copy of Real.
Beautiful.

https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/102111611440248729056/albums

Nov 18

Ranjangaon

Morgaon

Ashtavinayak-- this has the awesome mountains and Lenyadri

So ages ago, two some years ago. I had won some prize in some writing contest, ok?

From a government agency in the west. Which of course is the west.

If you’d have told me I could be as persistent in insisting on, following up on my prize—if you’d told me this, I wouldn’t have believed it. Yet.

I am learning new things about money every day. Sobering, eye-opening things. And about the world, and behavior. And I thought the Saturn transit, the one supposed to teach you life lessons, was over. Oh la.