A sprig of red- tipped neem flowers dance against a sea of green, for a day or two- but so beautiful.

sometimes.

you say whattheeff.

what a day. aint over yet.

A no-word tribute to Dadaji, my grandfather, whose 108th b’day anniv was on the 24th.
It was his stubborn will that pushed the family out of the village else I’d still be there, waiting to fill water at a well in a hot dusty hopeless place.

Its beyond clammy, this ugly sweat at 85% humidity, by afternoon a scorching sun-a strange restlessness waiting for the first monsoon. Its going to be a thundering raging one, this season, an ole woman can feel it in her bones.

Like a child with colors and an outline drawing, I’ve gleefully filled in the missing sentences. The story’s from real life, can’t get any better, and if it shocks more than it politely ought to, ach, what can I do?

Only sometimes. You see something that leaves you numb.
Hazaaron Khwaishein aisi/ A thousand dreams such as these/ Sudhir Mishra.
I’m glad I saw it only now. Four years ago I was too raw.

Cut out sunset. Still a beautiful world.

Had written this yesterday, but not posted:
Storms rage overhead. I watch horrified. Somewhat relieved. Not me/mine. Anxious too. This monsoon the skies will pour, like crazy. Chengdu. Xian. Schoolchildren. ohwhatcanyousay. Its raining in Myanmar, furious pelting rain, after the cyclone. Storms that eclipse personal catastrophes. What a tiny speck of insignificance man is, completely useless for all the posturing and shoo-shaa.


Now its me/ mine.
You can go to buy vegetables and be blown apart. Or miss a limb.
The authorities will make the usual noises. Then the case will fizzle out. Like the commuter train blasts.
When do we hit back at the terror-sponsors? When will the US stop mollycoddling Pakistan?

That there are just x plus 1 themes, that a story has a prime of 7 characters; that all editing is iteration- you clean up till the incremental effort is no longer worth your time; that is Manil Suri’s take on the connect in writing and maths. (Mumbai Mirror, May 7)

Somehow one has viewed tales as patterns, aberrations or breaks in pattern really, a delta on the normal, the expected, and the liberty to spin a yarn on the reasons thereof. Is there a connect between biology and writing?

When I’m busy tense, the sort that’s all prickly nerves but not much work, I cook. Hence the hunt last night for my grandmother’s cookbook, succor, order and who knows what in its tattered pages and just-about-there spine. Looking for spices I can ground to an obedient powder to add signature flavor and body to the routine. Just about there cardamom and a dash of clove… As I peer at the strange measures, all zero’s and ones, tola, adha and pa, measures long since discarded, I wonder what exactly I’m looking for, and what stops me from reaching for the store-bought stuff sitting pretty in its container.

The concert on Saturday morning was held at the park. As the first notes of Ahir Bhairav spun out, a cuckoo responded with a cascade of golden notes. Nat bhairav, a Kabir bhajan and a Bhairavi piece created magic for the ten- odd listeners amongst a sea of chairs. The regular walkers kept intent on their ten-minute-stride-and-done.

5 things that surprised:

-the handmade patchwork quilt in crazy colors airing on the fence of that enviable slice of real estate, a buffalo shed, squat by the express highway with the shiny cars; right next to the marble tiled apartment that costs 1.5cr

- the trees alit with purple blooms by the Santacruz flyover. The flyovers were a delight, traffic free.

-jamming with the kid on the synthesizer, he played a passably good kal ho na ho. And the beat in Khaikey paan. The child is so naïve for a baniya’s son.

That’s three. The rest didn’t.