AAfrica… the five year old, a neighbor’s daughter, squealed pointing at the continent. Noorth America, South Americaaa, Asiaaah…

Where does all this excitement about the world go?

Where does the thrill of learning go?

Does getting older mean we stop learning?

I got a autographed many-hued world as a gift.

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obit. Pure Slush Vol. 6 is now available Pure Slush is proud to announce the publication of the long-awaited obit. Pure Slush Vol. 6 one year in the writing! 87 years in the living! 22 writers in 32 stories give their own personal recollections of Webster Murphy Allen 1925 - 2012 the man and his mysteries, the wine and the whining, the wheeling and dealing, the laughter and the tears, the ecstacy and the espionage! Who was he really? For a taste of obit. click here  US$13.00 plus shipping   Click on the cover image above to order or click here  Featuring the work of William Henderson, Michael Webb, Jaylee Alde, Meghan K. Barnes, Mira Desai, Jennifer K. Dick, Teresa Burns Gunther, Kyle Hemmings, Gill Hoffs, Joanne Jagoda, Joyce Juzwik, Jen Knox, Maude Larke, Matt McGee Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz, Matt Potter, Martha Rand Sally Reno, Dusty-Anne Rhodes Andrew Stancek, Susan Tepper and Erin Zulkoski.

random shed, Ranibaug

ceiling, Bhau Daji Lad Museum/ Victoria and Albert Museum

Mahua tree ( i think)

HRH The Queen

Reena Kallat's winning installation-- stamps made of changed road names

A cannonball tree/ Kailashpati

Obit, an anthology from Pure Slush is at the press-- I have a story in it.
Pure Slush has  created a book around the detailed obit of a fictitious New Yorker, Webster Murphy Allen (http://pureslush.webs.com/webstermurphyallen.htm). Submissions were invited around this theme, drawing from his life.
http://pureslush.webs.com/atasteofobit.htm

Other writers contributed stories about the same person, about different parts of this character's life, etc. They took incidents or ideas or traits or other characters mentioned in the obituary ... and sometimes their stories refuted them. Stories could be wholly about the obit's subject or maybe only in passing.
My story has my somewhat-big-city-India imprint, and I’m sure the tales of the other authors reflect their lives as well.
Can’t wait to see my copy.

One more beautiful morning exclaiming over trees, touching sundry trunks and branches. This time, the tree group,TAW,  walked through Rani Baug, or the Victoria and Albert gardens and zoo or the Jijamata Udyan—I don’t care what they call it as long as they preserve it and not turn it into one  silly amusement park.

http://www.saveranibagh.org/aboutus.php

Amazing amazing trees. Felt so good to recognize a few- the tivar, the brownia,  the sita-ashok, the ficus, cajuput-- they felt like old friends. Saw so many new trees, including rare ones that have grown over a century.

This has been an incredibly tough post to write.

I was reading one of the better personal advice blogs, Trent’s simple dollar or Raptitude, I forget which, and the post was about looking back at mistakes (life mistakes, blunders, not minor misses) And picking three lessons that one has learned from them. So I thought and thought and winced and thought and well, here we go:

1. I should have trusted my gut feel. The writing on the wall IS as one reads it, and no, that’s not delusional. No one can know your interests better than you. I should have, but I didn’t., and that undermined my confidence. And it would have given me more time with the parent, time that’s irreplaceable now.

2. I should not have been passive, or what’s that term, passive aggressive. But talking back is not so part of my nature. Or defending turf. I tend to give up, compromise to keep the peace.

3. I could have strengthened my own resources. There is one part of me which says I’ve done ok. There’s another part that says I could have done much much better, sharper, been more PROACTIVE rather than merely riding the wave. 

Neat thing, this.

Yes! To new leaves on the rain tree, the tivar, the laburnum, and to the first-ever palash blooms I’ve ever seen, fragile and prone to wilting. The kailaspati are blooming, just in time for Shivratri--the festival dedicated to the God that dwells on Mount Kailash-- there is a certain hardiness about these blooms despite how showy they are, and some may not find them “pretty.” The Bauhinia, on the other hand, are making a marked exit, I notice the leaves yellow and drop first and then the blooms give in. But yes, it is a fresh new time for my little patch of green, the neighborhood park.

Is it possible to out-wait something, so by the time that thing reaches you, the impact has faded away, the excitement non existent, and the only bewildering thought is how much work remains to be done?

I was at a puja yday to celebrate Shivratri, with a consecration to the fire and chanting, the entire ceremony being performed by family members, the event meaningful and somber—much better than any prayer ceremony that a Panditji could perform.

Sadness-- not mine--and two requests for help, two instances on the same day. Been there, done that and yes I can tell you worked for me, your mileage may vary. I tell one to keep a stoic silence, any replies are petrol to the anger, until of course it gets too much and then one must shout back, the way one would admonish a dog. I tell the other to work for closure and move on, life is too short and too important. Thankfully my bleeding heart phase is over and done with, and my circle of concern limited--I wonder what if anything the Universe is trying to say, usually I let people be.

On my walk this morning I was startled by a flurry, a swish of water droplets and OMG a shimmering blue-green Kingfisher… I stood dazzled, and then it flew off...The palash and sita-ashoka are in bloom, have never seen a palash bower before—beautiful.

TAW’s tree walk y'day took me to the BPT Gardens, Colaba at the crack of dawn, well 7.30 AM, which is early enough. What a glorious exorbitant treasure this place is. Money plant leaves as long as my arm climbing trees that reach skywards. Excellent cacti, and diverse Euphorbiacea, which I learnt is quasi- cacti, only the spines and flowers are arranged differently. The nicest was the Nux Vomica and the Desert Rose, both too pretty for the dangers they present, and I shall do good justice to them, in a story, I mean. Only in this city can it happen, strangers bonding over cacti and trees, learning about their histories and families, and all this knowledge given away for free. On the way back I learned what a mega block on the WR means.

And today you’ve have been forty-one, and like every year I’d have said old hag, and you’d have poked and said you old hag, and you first--you first we’d have shrilled till we laughed our guts out…HB, any which space you’re in, and what else is there to say about life except it goes on, and I toasted the day with pizza.

BAJ

Delighted to announce publication of a story, Waiting for July, in the latest issue of Birmingham Arts Journal.
I'd subbed this over a year ago, and had no idea of the acceptance, so this was a super duper surprise!

http://www.birminghamartsjournal.com/pdf/baj9-4.pdf

Not so bad, I must confess.

I vacillated, cried, fretted over shifting cities in 1997.

Did the two city commute till my brain fried over and I gave in, for a “trial period”.

It has been 15 years since.

I still do the two city commute. Sometimes.

Yesterday I made a list of things I began to do after moving to the big city.

Yes, it’s a long list. Yes, I was surprised. Oh my, I never!

This city taught me to live any place on earth. And call it home.

just in:An abstract sunset in crayons, many hued and horizon to horizon

Scrambled images and lines from the last week, lines that it seems imperative to hold on to, to wear on my skin; a train proudly rushing past an empty platform, battle weary at midnight; live orchestra at a wedding and the once propah Mrs Patels settling the floor alight, bollywood style; listening to the elder’s somber halting words about being brown in 1959’s UK, racism, desperation and a curmudgeonly knight.

Yesterday I made a list. A recycling list. Of words to spruce up, add a bit of weight and color and atmosphere and perhaps an insouciant toss of curls, and send out. And in the translation I’m working on, I may have bit off more than I can chew. Maybe. But it gets me out of bed every 6 AM, wonders be.

The newspaper forecast has been unusually perceptive this once; Peter Vidal at his acerbic best, nudging, prodding, sandpaper to my skin lest I grow comfortable, lest I readjust as I’m prone to, shaping the contours of my belief to whatever boulder/ impediment/ attitude it must now put up with, snipping away at my soul, adjusting, always giving up, fragmenting. So-- bleary-eyed I read the snippet every morning and get my daily dose of  a scold, and every morning I replace frayed and pale pieces of the self from the day before. And so life goes on.

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.