So I visit them again, the lanes and bylanes around the tech department, the lanes of my earnest youth. So I wander, drinking in and reveling in the ten degree difference in temperature and feeling lightheaded and free, oh why it must be the searing heat. That red brick building with a sloping roof and fine stone lattice, remnant of a long ago time, now no doubt a local government office or an archive for dusty old files, long forgotten. The neem tree that is strangely bereft of leaves with its crooked branches, how rich it looks against the brick and the fine work on the awning, but why didn’t I see this before? For the four and half years, so long ago, when I trudged to the other bus stop which had a better bus frequency, why didn’t I revel in the structure and the solidity, the space and freedom of proportion that these have been laid out with? The old walls around the collectorate have since been rebuilt but the pillars still stand strong, unmoving but witness to another time, why didn’t I see this before? As I try to separate the branches of the casurina and the tamarind that have intertwined over the years, I realize that sometimes you have to go away to come back.
You have to go away to be able to see.

The operation was done this morning.
He seems to be recovering fine, though it is going to take a while.
The cricket finals should hold his attention a while, and he does have a sleep deficit of sorts to catch up with.
Thanks, everyone.
~
Magnanimous, the colossal raintree stands secure at the corner, extending its huge green canopy like a benediction. It just is, no regrets and no explanations, past the time and the weather which it marches to, putting on a new garb or letting a leaf gently float by; it just is, like an elder humoring a child as the tree bears witness to the caprices of time. Around it the ebb and flow of life are enacted, day turns into night, the vendors set store, ply their wares and shut shop, children go to school and return,and in due course the streets empty. Down the road, the rubble heap by the tea vendor was once “ Nargis ka bangla”, vast and majestic no doubt, must be all white with an arched portico. The raintree stays rooted to its spot by the tar road, this living link of rich sap between earth and vast sky, nodding at the night breeze and drinking in the sunshine that showers upon it of a morning. At peace.

I am not thinking things through.
Overreacting. Jumpy.
Taking time out for a week.
Will be back.
I just need to be by myself for some time.

The karma we attract in our life is our own doing.
“Neither thy piety nor thy wit…”
So be it.

WHY
Surely it should be more difficult to buy arms than a tube of toothpaste?
(For the Arms Act 1959, and Arms Rules 1962, abhijeetsingh.com)

In peace, Minal Panchal.
In peace, those poor children.

The surgeon in my home town has a tic over his right eye, intense manner and great diagnostic skills, much better than the jokers we’ve been shuttling to and from in this big city. I will now recite the names of higher generation cephalosporins like a prayer and try to stop being petrified of post op infections in the very old. Date not set as yet.

Outside the plane window, great fluffy clouds with silver linings greet the crisp morning; wispy fluffy clouds where you can just about see through the edges, like words half spoken, said unsaid, but understood and replied to with an imperceptible nod.

The voice over the phone has an unfamiliar drawl. Then shifts into the vernac.“ Who am I?” he asks. Faint memories from another time, when one was as daft, less cynical, more hardworking. Of a much smaller company; less systems and more heart. Of events where everyone pitched in and crazy deadlines. You tell me its better to live in Ottawa’s chill than dodge stray bullets in Johannesburg. I know you’ll do all right, find, make or wheedle a way out, and of course I’ll write you a glowing reference.

Green leaves on the white peepal shimmer like a thousand Tibetan prayer flags singing in the wind, a secret it shares in shy traces with the sunshine it basks in.

As I wait for the carry out at the Udupi across the road from Shoppers Stop, I spot them, a group of elders escorting the two young ones, all seriousness, handshakes and hidden smiles. Yes, a girl sees boy session with the full approval and sanction of the elders. As I watch the brisk nod the boy gives the girl when goodbyes are being said, I turn away with a smile, ah yes, this one’s done.

Green silk and white for the bud and tendrils. So right this shrub seems for chikan work, that elaborate shadow embroidery, tiny stitches on the wrong side of the cloth so that only minimal design is seen on the right side, that stiffness like embossing, working its magic, and hinting at the fine work that lies beneath. Not on cotton cloth as its normally done, but on the lightest raw silk, a pista green raw silk, every fold spinning a different shade as it reflects light. Fitting.

For the last six months, every Sunday whenever I collected ironed clothes from the dhobi, I’d mock-chide Munna, “haan, you lost that blue salwaar kameez with the hakoba work. You don’t listen to me at all, eh!” And Munna would dutifully reply, “haan”. Then he would laugh and I would laugh, so completely useless my scolding.
Voila! The suit is back.
Shocking.
Will have to find something else to nag him about.

As shrubs go, this pretty white flower, star- shaped (if you sort of look at the petals from an angle), is scent-free, pedestrian; not for it the glory of the white rose photographed with fine glass and damask in some glossy issue of Vogue, or the ethereally fragile hothouse lily, touch-me-not, dainty. The chandni as we call it in my part of the world, is pedestrian, common, hardy, its only distinction that it grows without much attention, takes root wherever it is set, and produces, from time to time, a cover of tiny white blooms nestled between white-green leaves. A braided cover shall bedeck my bier one day, so I shall leave word, and take on this star shape scattered on the waters.

I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in vain

The way these lyrics go, there is something decidedly egyptian about the notes, the way they sort of echo-coalesce; you suddenly stop and listen; and you can see a figure cloaked in black, arms beseeching heavenwards, amidst miles of sanddunes, and you forget the apartment by the track this surprising piece of music is playing from. Sting! Desert rose. Here? Whoever would have thought.
~

Now we say her poetry is exquisite, yearning, demands, passion and obeisance all put into one, but legend has it she laughed and cried at the same time, gesticulating and holding dialogues in echoing excited gibberish with the air and pink sandstone walls. They called her a mad woman anyway, as they had for long; whoever heard of a blue-blooded princess gallivanting the streets of unknown cities, dancing to the songs of her own making? But it didn’t matter. Did it bother her? Did it matter that she was talking into a vaccum? Wasn’t she gloriously happy and lavished in a warm cocoon of her own making? I now understand.
(about a figure from Indian history)

A pair of specs, my first, the behtala, or forty-two’s, as they are called in my part of the world. The price tag is shocking; why, they define my face, I tell myself. A rite of passage; not insidious like the silver that demands that chestnut brown or henna red; but in your face and with a bang, now! Will the world look clearer? But not much will change. If by now, one is a softy with a sympathetic heart and a spigot of tears at will, so one will remain. Ok the need to be defensive goes, settled in your skin, this is what is, not much changes.

So tell me, the bird on the high wire that sways with the wind, does it thank the air around for buffeting it, holding it in an invisible caress? For giving it, quite open handed, the buoyancy to spread its wings and fly free ? The asopalav stands tall, so sensitive that it sways with the lightest touch of the wind, perhaps it needs that slight shake, a knowing glance bashfulness that is known only to them, to show off its rich glittering green when sunlight showers gold. Perhaps the asopalav knows this, and when the wind runs fingers through its leaves, it whisper-nods its thanks to the sky.

Our erudite historian, linguist and digger of long forgotten family trees, mago (63mago.blogspot.com) has a new blog open for discussion, What is culture to you? At (whatisculturetoyou.blogspot.com).
Worth a visit if you have something to say, even if you don’t.
Erudite, I said.

Nine am is late for a walk, but by then the track is thankfully empty and free of the usual good mornings, fleeting smiles, excuse me’s, just the greens wind and sky; the real reason the explosive light van gogh would have liked, which has begun to just change from mellow and playful to serious I-mean-business, coaxing the green to one more teeny inch, dazzling the still water in the fountain, highlighting the scattered cassia yellow that dot the rough uncut grass; amazing how comfortable the sparrows are with this light as they flit about their busy business, none of the creeping into the shadows for them, thank you.

The hedge at the corner where it turns, past the white of the dusty track? Mid-morning and everything is sharp-edged and brilliant, the trimmed round bush with pale green almost-white leaves features a sparrow that a miniature artist may have put there, the box cut henna hedge is pale and dark green, what other color will it be with the yellow generously showering upon it,each leaf outlined, like it was something created by a passionate lapidary for Shahjehan’s express and personal view?

Trees rich with gold, cassia or the rusty shield bearer, or whatever name they choose to call it, just generous lush with yellow that hits you in the eye. You couldn’t miss it even if you wanted to.

Ashima is Tabu. Tabu, is Ashima. Namesake is just shake up your brain and clean it up cutting clean brilliant .I always thought Panna of Hututu was Tabu, fragile edgy beautiful, but no, Ashima is Tabu. Awesome. My Cal, and why memories must be memories.The heartbreaking grandeur, the peeling-paint decay, the pratima of the deity lowered to the waters . Shots that get under your skin, the howling one, the morgue one how did she know, pulling out moisture from long dry eyes. That “that’s only for family” one. The last shot of Ashima tackling a pure alap with a confident abandon, on the open terrace, by the backdrop of the sky and howrah bridge. Somewhere it is about being forty-something and getting on with your life, the world and its first cousin, go take a hike. Now I must read the book. (The Namesake/ Mira Nair, based on the novel by Jhumpa Lahiri)


The swirling heat blankets the city first thing mornings, when you con yourself how nice sandalwood or khus or cologne or whatever soap scent smells and you need a bath about ten minutes after you’ve just had one, is a great time to begin reading Marquez. The sadness and the breadth where a lifetime is condensed in maybe five words, yes, no?, and why what must be, must be, ah lovely! “Seventy poisoned Englishmen”, and “I only came in to use the phone”; from those sleek seventy years of penguin series, not too much, not a little, which seems right in every way.


After a fortnight of polite “good morning, Manhattan, maxima minima windspeed”, N digs and how. Two minutes and he says he needs a tequila, not tea. He digs and questions and parries and pulls at scabs and peels picks. Deftly sidesteps tight punches powerful enough to leave a blue shiner. Late? Take a cab/walk, but, talk. Throws in Jung and patterns till he draws the furious gray steel of temper, the same one as sixteen years ago. “See a therapist”. And I still think he is the most terrific darling in the world.

Climbing up the steps to babulnath, ragged breath and names of long dead benefactors paved underneath. The generous green canopy against the pink sandstone and gold at siddhivinayak, touching the breeze like a benediction. The light flooding past the engraved screen at the sanctum. The reflection of the spires on glass casing on the mount opposite Mount Mary’s, where the eternal flame burns. IE is back at work post her chemo, a thanksgiving. V moves on to newer pastures, the world awaits, and her black granite desk stark and empty.

newRoughpad updated.

Sometimes life moves in quickmarch.That split second decision, go! The goof up with the ticket, brilliant. Wondering, this once too, what kind of economic sense it makes to wait endlessly in queue just to taxi, or land. Marveling yet again at the mosaic at the subway, first the old man’s feet and then his words and then that wizened visage with the staff. Singing that beatles medley with the child, she’ll do all right, anyone who can sing ahardday’snightlovemedo in a row should do all right. The instant reconnect with S.So much said unsaid. Laughter. Walking in your footsteps.Yes, I know. What a lovely home, it has that distinctive stamp on every inch, blue green and kota gray. A retreat, but bubbling flamboyant and in your face assured, none of that shrinking in the shadows. That chunk of a gnarled tree trunk in the courtyard. The fish in that tiny pond. Green. Lush. Colors. Vibrant. Unpredictable. The walls around her bed are pale blue and white. I try not to think of the price she gladly generously paid, as I cajole, bully, laugh and smother,and sneak another spoonful of bland food in. Returning, yet another long wait circling the city.
Life goes on, in circles, patterns, trendlines and shades.

new Roughpad updated

March 31.
A fiscal year end. A time to take stock, to sum the columns.
To clean up, pare, throw.
To keep, too, what has worked, even if it is old and worn at the edges.
Is it such a tough choice?

Back story. A week ago, there was an article in the ToI tracing the epic battle of Kurukshetra in the Mahabharata to 3067 BC. Clearly early harappan, a rich period with urban centers, backed by numerous cross references, so it says. The closing chapter of City of Djinns (ok, absolutely the last ref to the book) traces bits of Hastinapur and Indraprastha that exist to this day in modern Delhi, the Nigambodh ghat for instance. And it quotes a scholar as to the manner in which a work than began as a few hundred verses is added to, with successive generations, embroidered with poetry, dreams, aspirations and voila!, till it bears little resemblance to the original.
My personal favorites are Mrityunjay and Yugantar, interpretations afterall, and I return to these pages when I’m confused, opening up a page at random, and finding a way out, a narrow winding lane, but yes. And when the morning shadows lengthen on gray stone, I wonder about a bronzed scholar-warrior striding home after his daily prayers to the sun, the waters and the sky, puzzled about his lineage and the incredible tangle that is his life, walking on, alone and determined. The epitome of a larger-than-life bravery and generosity. No, this can’t be a myth.
One reads and draws inferences, inferences based on today’s conditioning and frames of reference, wondering too if there were things known but not quite acknowledged, words said unsaid, a back story so to speak.

In these words, in the space between keyed letters and wavy white between lines, micro glimpses of a life slip out from the tight grasp of polished form and gleaming grammar. All the ironing. No heating, and a snow drift outside. Suddenly, something.
So will the present find its space; unbidden, someplace.

Somewhere between anger and helplessness and tears.
My aunt has cirrhosis , they now say.
Living forty years, on a year-worth of memories. Amidst charcoal gray portraits that adorn the empty walls.
Like the protagonist in Khamosh pani, why didn’t she fight for her life?
Did the decades of pining away cause liver disease, like some character spiraling to THE END in an Updike novel.
The botch up with the gall bladder, the elevated enzymes that the &*(# doc missed the first time around. After all the health issues she’s had, the hypothyroidism that see- sawed and the steroids she must take to manage, all patchwork .
Horrified, I look through Medline, wishing I didn’t know what all this meant.
Well. So be it.

Bhukri the momma stray with seven pups is doing very well, thank you. Strange how she ambles out of darkness at dinnertime, maybe she likes rotlis. I’m surprised at her reactions sometimes. She bit the maid, but is fine with the neighbourhood kids hitting her when they want to play with her pups. Animals are seriously smart., so I think

A closure worth a warhoop with Citibank cards. After threatening dire consequences. Brimstone and fire. Politely, of course.

So it is the years and the silver streaks in my hair that make a difference?
Ten plus years ago, I had shouted at you.
Don’t talk to me. Ever. How can you do this.
What kind of a brother are you.
You were the perfect couple. Ideal. Roses and red wine, except it was a sham.
Then it ended, as publicly as can in that closed and conservative society. Nasty.
You hurt, personally. Professionally.
Then you went away and made a new life. From scratch.
I now respect your decision. Clean.
Is there something “nice” about it? No.
Atleast it was honest. And if she lasted ten years then she’s more than a trophy wife.
Maybe I was wrong.

new Roughpad updated

The glittering sea at mid-morning, like a silver sheet from that high perch and you shade your eyes even as you watch the brilliant dancing gold of the sunlight on the distant horizon line ; you shade your eyes and watch the reflection in a mirror, and still its too brilliant and hurts your eyes. The sea in the evening has a silky sheen, a quiet pink, purple and blue, calmly soothing to the eyes. Both are awe inspiring, still you think.

The beacon-flashing convoy as it rolled in, was impressive. A minute ago, a team of black cat commandos had taken position, running by the side of the SUV, the hundred strong police contigent was in place for the last two days. So this is what zed plus security meant. The man was an impressive speaker, and enthralled his audience. Investments, water, electricity, roads, and now, education. Surely the common man benefits.Then you remind yourself that he has done as much damage to the fabric of the state as Mahmud Ghazni who’d plundered the temples of Somnath in the tenth century. On the system they play a fluid Vaishnav jan toh, Gandhiji’s favourite bhajan and you wonder what the pragmatic wise old man would have said. Newton’s third law, and there is always a payback; but always.

Hussain sagar lake, morning sunlight glitters off the surface, white gold
Hussain sagar lake, a quiet pink in the evening, reflects the lights that fringe the shore.
A day sandwiched between flights in and out.
A few moments of quiet, the next few days are busy too.
I HATE missing my sunday nap.

Time, please

The clash of steel on steel. Neighs of skittish horses. Dust storms and cries. Thundering hoofs, caprisioned elephants running in mad anger. An army in disarray. The front has given way. An emperor out to battle, backed by an army of peasants and a few knave noblemen. An emperor more familiar with the delicate phrasing of a line of poetry, and fine latticework than the stratagem of war. A battle that his cunning brother has long planned to win. You weep when he is finally cornered and put in chains, dragged through the wide avenues of his capital in filthy clothes. For the last few days I’ve told myself that the battle was over a long time ago, in the 17th century. That it is silly to mourn Dara Shikoh, dead so long. But what a superb account. Does reading aloud make the grief more real? The past is, afterall, the past, folded over and put away. I am sure to remember this account over the weekend when I watch from a distance, that retinue of jesters, sycophants and sundry hangers-on. Time extracts what it is due. I should finish this book quickly and move to something solidly real-life, like the stock market.

Holi? Cleaned the kitchen, remembered riotous past celebrations when one looked like a ghost by mid-morning, Sang all the hori and holi-related garbas I could remember. Since I could recall only two, on and on it went in a loop.

new Roughpad updated.

Layered

These days for about two hours in the evening I put on my best announcer voice, accent and all, and read aloud from The City of Djinns, by William Dalrymple (WD). Its been a day or so, but I haven't been able to get this scene out of my mind.

WD writes about literally stumbling on a taykhana, an underground cool chamber from the times of the mughals, early 17 th century. He writes about persistence and cutting through red tape to get permission to visit what used to be a residence used by the British deputy resident William Fraser. This complex is now the administrative office of the chief engineer of the Northern Railways. The official mentions in passing how horrible the seepage problem in the main block is because of the underground chamber. An attendant takes an excited WD down several steep flights of stairs, some crumbling, some broken, and after a number of turns he finds himself in a huge musty chamber, with torchlight illuminating what seemed to be remnants of frescos on the walls, tangled roots and webs and the sound of water trickling somewhere. The bricks that line this chamber are smaller and seem to belong to the mughal period. He determines later that the bungalow was built over a palace that once belonged to one of Shah Jahan's senior generals. Several tunnels that lead off this chamber have not been explored, but have been summarily sealed.

I want to go and see. I want to stumble down those stairs and explore the network of tunnels that lead off. I want to check if there is a catacomb-like network. I want to feel scared and excited, curious and strangely alive.

I am reminded too, of the tunnels, bypasses and hidden recesses deep in our minds. Something on the surface and something quite different deep, past the grey matter and and the tracing crisscrossing capillaries, and you watch yourself. One thing leads on to another, reactions, events and memories triggered by seemingly random stimuli. Unsettling, and I can't say why.

Time, please
Filtered sunshine is the color of a reprieve. Elbow past crowds at the station. Watch the Bikaner- Bandra Ranakpur Express clatter by, what terrains it must have flashed past. Gaze at the clips on a hawker’s stand in the local train compartment, they shimmer and dance as the train moves, a fifty, hundred designs to go for five and ten rupees. Reach a landmark that everyone knows, ask for directions like an idiot. Wander through winding lanes with huddled shops and quaint parsi names on the boards, cycles and two wheelers parked any which way, children at gully cricket, bruns and toast on sale on a holiday morning. Look at some of the impeccably preserved facades, one townhouse-like building in particular in pink and white trim, Nariman villa, established 1924, the nameplate proudly says. Some buildings rundown, an arch and alley that looks like a British Raj–relic in burnished grey. “No parking. Tyres will be deflated”,reads a sign on a collapsible gate. Finally ask for instructions at a shop selling silver picture frames, the shopowner is relaxing, newspaper in hand, his feet on the glass counter. Reach the building, debate how exactly to put in an order for a pair of specs with a rosy view of the world, please. Climb up the grand balustrade-lined wooden staircase to find the door LOCKED. Closed Sundays, the sign reads. Turn around and go home, whistling.Then you remind yourself, its only time-out, just a reprieve.
(from Sunday, to catch up by and by, will add pic later)

newRoughpad updated

Whimsical, the thoughts I make up. You would have liked the malls, I think. And shiny cars. Glittering flyovers. BKC and the worli link, the splendid majesty of it all. Fusion food. Clothes with labels, so many more fashion street ones too, so many styles I can’t keep up with the names. And perhaps taken a few quick kathak chakkars to Tere bin. Rahman. SEL. Remixes. And you’d have liked AB. And AB’s baby. Trance? I dunno, not really maybe. Tabloid, line-your -shelves-journalism. Page three to laugh at. Some soaps, not the mother-in-law ones. Multiplexes. Phone in books, tickets, music. FM, all the seven stations. Isn’t it funny that I’m scrambling for ways to pack in the present, in shorthand, in measures of the past? Isn’t it funny how I know it isn’t working, a disconnect?

The rippling clean surface of the colon, moist and crisscrossing with fragile red threads feeding unbroken pink is the prettiest thing I’ve seen in a long time. As the scope moves quickly, sci-fi images on the monitor take you past turns and loops on a swift walk through the innards. No ugly white mass, no tubes joining up unnaturally where they shouldn’t, we are fine. Now for the next step.

The consultation fee is very Armani. For once, I’m shellshocked.

Dawn. The pipal tree outside slowly chirps to life with busy sparrows. Can’t help but notice a delicate green shoot outlined against the rough cream exterior of the next door flats. As we wait our turn, a flock of pigeons settles demurely on a terrace parapet. One is all-white, a happy rebel.

Amitabh Bacchan sings Rozana/ Nishabd/RGV

That voice is unmistakable.
Gravelly, rough at the edges, with just a hint of magic.
That deep bass that you know from innumerable dialogues, yes?
And then it soars skywards.
Past what is, and you and me, and life and what it is;
ties in the whys, wherefores;
pirouettes to what is, what simply must be.
The lyrics are simple. Haunting.
You shiver.

From a grumble at half a precious Sunday wasted in social niceties, the memory of a ten-minute walk past the main road in Matunga is redemption. You walk past rows of hawkers with heaps of color-matched fruits, greens and vegetables; drink in that fresh-bread scent from the bakery with the quaint roof and ancient wood-fired ovens; gaze wide-eyed at the inspired rose-and-jasmine garlands at the roadside vendors; peer past the clouds of incense and devotees at the South Indian temple; notice how second hand copies of books by Nick Carter and Theodore Roosevelt are lined up for sale on the cobblestone pavement at exactly the same cut rate price; watch the serpentine queue outside Café Madras and then make your way to the highway, you go home. Suddenly, the day seems much more interesting than it did earlier.

Mahashivratri today.
This morning, the temple was bedecked in green and yellow, marigold and asopalav.
Lovely rangolis, chants in the air and a queue of the hopefuls.
At the track there is a fresh coat on the trees, as tender green unfurls on the badam and palm. Sunlight gleams off spray at the fountain, and you look up and notice a few scattered clouds riding high on a pale sky, a crow or something wheeling in the distance.
At the block of flats next door, a live band is playing, a piece entirely tender, wistful and precious. A requiem.
You bow and genuflect as you pass by.
In the midst of darkness, there is light.
~
What is new is attention grabbing, attractive, interesting.
If something is known and that too, known well, then there is a base.
Anything beyond is at best, only incremental. So already factored in.
True for stocks as for people.
There is something in our genes which periodically craves this uptick of novelty, the frisson of the unexpected.
~

Yesterday was ok, but most of this week there was red on the street. Complete randomness and fools, as the book says. When she sashayed from 9000 levels to 14000 plus, didn’t we all watch, cheer, pray, wring hands and clap at each rise? Didn’t we jostle collective memories and point to the great Indian growth story? Did it evaporate overnight, like India Shining? Which one of us looked askance at volume and price toppers on the index, wondering where on earth, who what why? So now? Payback time, so hold tight, enjoy the ride.

new Roughpad updated.

Rich musical notes build a somber mood. As the rendition picks pace, notes move effortlessly from alaap to dhrut.
Close your eyes, and you can imagine a high-domed hall, with chandeliers, mirrors, and an audience of aesthetes in regal splendor.
An appreciative silence, respectful of genius.
An appreciative silence, and you notice the “next track” sign on the system.
It’s been worth it, sneaking out of a day of long meetings on Friday, to catch that classical music sale.
What it says for music and tradition if classical music is offered in a buy one-get one deal, I don’t quite know.
I got quite ok shots of the Gateway from behind the curtains, not bad at all.

Words

“Choo- sha”, the year-and-half-old says, stubbing a tiny finger at a picture of a chicken.
“And this?” his mom asks, pointing to what looks like cake.
“ Chockit” he says, insistent.
Surprisingly “dinosaur”, “butterfly” and “ bicycle” are a breeze.

Sometimes I do this too, labeling some things by names that fit right.

What has changed?
Am quite amused and curious.
Words that I once struggled to read and set right, how atrocious they sound now.
What changed? Just the years?
Time, water under the bridge, perspective, maturity?
Seems truly hilarious when I try to recall the effort, energy and distress not so long ago.
Okay, so maybe it’s a “a time for all seasons” kind of a thing.

Let me remember the good parts

Going trinket-shopping last Sunday, to buy gifts for my aunts back home. Marvel at the rows of shops niftily tucked into a commercial complex; from brick and mortar, how well they’ve fashioned that century-old bazaar look, alleys and all. Tiny shops in every nook and aisle, glittering with fashion jewellery: rings, dangling earrings, bangles, pins, ribbons and geegaws, easy on the pocket and a delight to the eye. Wonder too, at my aunt’s delight at the gifts, will I have an inch of this enthusiasm when I’m seventy?

The warmth of family, the cocoon of small talk and caring, is there a word for it.


You glance at the lovely, yes, but stately young profile by the plane window. Past her you can see the colorful flourish over wooly, gray edged clouds, that sunsets are sometimes about. You’ve asked her all the questions that you otherwise wouldn’t, social propriety requires otherwise, even if the princely states were disbanded a long time ago and the royals sent home. Is it true you can’t talk too much at home? That you can’t ever ever argue or talk back? Is it true you can’t go out unescorted? Is it true you have to wear a sari all the time, and keep your face veiled, head covered? That you can’t sit down if there is an elder in the room? You’re done with the questions, so many more, and you know the story. You wonder if it is better this way, to have upbringing and life story predecided, isn’t this far better than skirmishes, foul ups and feisty band aids?

Lovely rust color on the badaam. Revel in the crunchy sound underfoot. Somewhere, a generous bougainvillea in red spills over a whitewashed wall.

Strange how the mind waits for correction, for reversion to mean. If the markets are too much in the green, red must, for sure, follow. Also at the lack of reaction, even acceptance, to utter waste. If one is ready for a fight or argument, and if that is merely deferred, why should the feeling be one of relief?

Words overheard on the train, bits and pieces of a cell conversation as the man in the next row explains terms/phrases to someone. One realizes with a sinking feeling, how little of one’s own language one really knows. Maybe poetry and day-to-day talk, the kind that goes into stories, are two different things. In the dark night framed in the window, view four dancing headlights against pitch black nothing as the train rumbles through the night, to the backdrop of known but yet not completely known words.

So we have the next round of Parzania vs lumpens.
Cry, my beloved state.

new Roughpad updated.

Strongly recommend:
www.internetwritingworkshop.com
Superlative.
keeps one's "nose to the grindstone" and busy-happy.
Busy-happy is nice.


How indulgent can one get.. three days of holidays.
Walked. Lazed. Read.
Almost through with Sudha Murty's "Wise and Otherwise".
That too, is India.
I haven't forgotten my village roots, but this was an eyeopener.
Now I will begin with "City of Djinns".
Yes, it was a bestseller maybe three years ago.


At the track: a sparkling fountain, sunlight that glints off the far arches of water, strains of patriotic songs and one wonders- nationalism, countries, people, and lines on a map.

The man with the pepperoni beard thumped the conf table, fumed ,thundered and flung his hands about.
I watched, distanced.
The three cameras strapped around his neck swung wildly, in imminent danger of falling off.
A fantastic temper tantrum the likes of which I haven’t seen for long.
Missing; lightening, the crackle of electricity, hissing sulphurous fumes.
These were high-end cameras. I was worried.
And amused. No, I wasn’t at the receiving end.
This was better than saying “ I told you so”, no?
Not surprised either, to learn he’d recently done a bad man role in a low-cost movie.
Everything in this city connects sooner or later, directly or otherwise, to the movies, doesn’t it?



Yesterday was Vasant Panchami.
The first day of spring.
Bees buzz, tender sap percolates shoots, butterflies flit, suchlike.
Was pleasantly surprised to notice tiny clumps of black-purple buds on the hedge, hadn’t seen that before.


And when I’m done with the flood of subs and crits at the writing group, there is very little time left to post. Must find a way.

A driver is not someone who drives.
Ok, so windows has been reinstalled.
The young chaps from MIS struggled patiently to set it right.
But right it ain’t. Nah.
They now say, it could be a hardware issue.
The screen looks patchy, with red lines that Dracula could have put there on a good day.
Not done yet. Don’t know about the data yet.
~

But I don’t want to forget, that still Sunday morning.
So early that the birds hadn’t awoken.
So early that the priest at the temple was still making preparations for nityapooja, the first prayers, with the metal gate firmly padlocked.
So early that you could hear gravel crunch underfoot. And think a bit about dark shadows and corners.
Hear the slight breeze in the palms. Watch pinpoints of light in the sky.
See a few brightly lit windows in the apartments around and wonder,why on earth should someone get up so early, tis a Sunday, after all.

Yesterday was not a good day.
The OS in my home comp crashed.
I don't know if the translations and stories are there or kaput.
And I had a point of view tiff.
Give me a day or so, and will post.

GREENS

This is from the walking track.

Yesterday, I learned the WRONG way to upload several images at the same time.

No, you can't rotate images or add text, not that way.

Today I deleted that post.

Sathya- sorry, I deleted your comments too.

The pics are on flickr anyways.

YESTERDAY ONCE MORE

Mr.Mani Ratnam’s Guru was launched yesterday. The channels are abuzz with promos.
“Tere bin” is a fine number, vintage Rahman, very gripping.
But that snippet in “Barso re” is pure magic.
A R Rahman has used a bit of a snippet from a garba to bring in that local flavor.
I used to know this garba, way back.
Way back, as in the annual concert when I was in class 6?
I still know the words, how it flows.
I hear that bit, then I’m sitting happily ensconced in the music group in a corner of that stage.
And all I see is: the lamp in the corner, the rhythmic clap of the garba, the swirling mirror and embroidery bedecked skirts, the tension of a performance
I hear that bit, then I"m not listening to the rest of "Barso re" anymore.

Soon it will be Utraan, the kite flying festival.
They say the sun changes its direction starting this day.
I searched the sky this morning.
But for a sheet of pigeons wheeling in flight, the skies were empty.
Just vast pale blue and the glitter of sunshine on the asopalavs.
Back home, about now, war hoops of “katiyeeeeey”, signaling the conclusion of yet another kite fight, must be heard sharp and clear.
Back home, colorful paper squares must be riding the high wind.

So I’ve had one day of a bit of panic when I found that rediff had cleaned up my older blog completely. A phone call to a far-away friend; a hotline, no less, to the rediff powers –that-be corrected the matter somewhat. Still touching wood.
I learned I still want my comments from 2003, thank you very much.

Cairn Energy listed. And sunk. In the red, bruised.
Whoever said oil was a must-buy?

Other than a flurry of words and a fool rushing in where an angel would’ve feared, all quiet.
Lull, perhaps?

RAMBLE
I was thinking about perspectives.
And about the slight changes that different countries, different backgrounds, languages bring in.
As such the story is a simple one.
A woman, a classical dancer, running on emotional empty, dances to a beat that she has held on to all her life. Things have happened- some good, some bad, but the rhythm has always been with her.
Sometimes a wisp that only she hears. But this is the thread that connects.
Against this, she compares what is relevant, what is not, and what stays/goes.
Life goes on.
I now understand, what you read into this, depends.
Interesting.

“Kabul Express” works. Brilliant movie.
Stupendous images, panoramic shots of that ugly-beautiful land, specially the ones of the SUV against the mountain ranges- stark, beautiful, stunning.
I am fine with the story too- journalists out to cover yet another war story, meet up with THE enemy, AK 57-toting, edgy and ruthless, discover he is human too, sort of.
Not quite your routine family drama with the coy run around the trees and ten songs before interval.
Kabul links somewhere in my mind to Kandahar and what happened with that plane, this movie only reinforces images about that nasty war and bombed-out nation that everyone seems to have forgotten.
In that stark, moon-like expanse you begin to realize why the statues of the Bamiyan Buddha were built where they were.


So the visit yesterday was quite all right, all the dusting and fetching-carrying well worth it. I quite liked my to be cousin sis-in-law . Am not sure what Ba, my village-bred grandmother, would have to say if she were around, but it sure would be something pithy. To meet a Swedish- American- Irish who is an Indian at heart, was a nice surprise. The point is they want to make it work, so they will.

SHAME
Yesterday and for a few days now I’ve been too angry to write about this.
Nithari. Shame.
If you are poor, you don’t have the political clout to make the authorities take you seriously; your children could be abducted, mauled,killed and it wouldn’t matter;
the sky could fall and it wouldn’t matter.
We pay our taxes for this crap?
I don’t have any answers. I feel sick.
All I do know is-
Those little girls Priyanka and Anushka seated on a piece of tattered jute outside the gate to the walking track?
I say hello to them with a pack of Parle g biscuits every morning.
They say bye with a toothy grin each.
Their parents are road diggers.
Yes, the mother had said- “You don’t have kids? Take these”, with an innocent smile.
I want to shake her and tell her- watch out.
Everyone who lives in a big house, is not necessarily good.

new roughpad updated.

FRESH!

Yesterday I stood by a bridge.
On one side were some “Oh My God!” ’s, “duh!”’s, “Oh really?” ’s, but mostly yada – yada.
On the other, splendid fireworks made arcs in the velvet sky.
Twinkling lights beckoned.
A breeze danced; soft, lemon-scented.
And you know, and I know;
that on the other side too it will mostly be yada-yada and some sighs peppered with "Oh My God!” ’s, “duh!”’s, “Oh really?” ’s.
Yet I can’t but help get terribly excited at a *drumroll* NEW YEAR!
*yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay*
~
I spent the last day of the year writing a stoooopid essay.
At work, at my desk.
(Was called in- which only goes to show one NEVER quite knows what’s next around the corner.)
Keywords: Iran, NPT, nuclear power
Not that I give a damn.
A few minutes to midnight, voila, Cinderella!
Change the calendar now!
C’mon, call and wake everybody up- uncles, aunts, cousins.
Laughter, squeals.
That choc mousse was delightful.
~

To put new names to an old map is a strange feeling.

~

6 weird things about me (tagged by abbagirl)

1. I am moody. I could be effusive this week and look through you the next. Or cheery upbeat this week and pessimist the next.

2. I hate- just hate- to dust.

3. I like what I like, quite completely. All of an authors’/ musicians’ work. All Rehman. All Maugham. All Cronin. Once I like what I like, I do not really care what the trend is.

4. I will go the last mile to be there for a friend. Some of this is really strange- take a midnight train to reach a wedding in time, pick a fight, fly down for a day, reach the airport at 4 in the morning for about 5 minutes of being able to say hello. I know some of this is overdoing- I don’t care.

5. I *like*remixes.

6.I am a news junkie. I will read last month’s business papers too.

6 people to tag? nah...you're tagged!

Tinsel

Pretty trees, half-a-foot tall and some.
Decked with cotton wool, crinkly leaves, a bit of red.
Stars with a hundred-one corners. Silver, red and gold paper chains , a-flutter.
Something in the air; now you reach out and touch it, now you can’t.

2007, they say, is the year of fire over water.
Sweeps clean, I tell myself.

The making of Happy Feet.
Tom and Jerry.
Ah bliss.


Can you match the colors of the band over the horizon at dawn? Break it up into cmyk, key in the percentages? Can you capture the hiss of a receding wave at high tide?
Feel the wind on your face.
Laugh, a child races the waves.

Pics on flickr in some.

Notes
Radiocity 91.1 fm, music-e–azam, 8 am
(yes, I have switched station loyalties, for a while)
Featuring the masters.
Shankar Mahadevan is RJ with Manish Paul and has so far, interviewed:
Zakir Hussain saab on Monday.
Ghulam Ali saab y’day.
Sonu Nigam, this morning.
(Haven’t laughed so much in a long time. Mr Nigam is a precise mimic. Even when he’s nasal. Hilarious tangents to their conversation.)

Some anecdotes were awe-inspiring.
Zakir Hussain saab’s recounting of how his tabla practice sessions would start at 2 or 3 am in the morning when his father returned from his concerts. Percussion beats, the pin-drop silence of the night, learning about life and music at his father’s feet.
(That tritaal stayed with me all day, starting with the simple and getting ornamental with flourishes as it progressed. Brought back memories of collaborative covering up, almost missing out the sam and then fighting, practicing so many afternoons after school)

Ghulam Ali saab’s recounting of how he was initiated into precious tutelage by Bade Ghulam Khan saab- I could see the scene, a congregation of wise listeners by Lahori gate some winter morning, the maestro resting attentively on a charpoy and a young boy (who'd traveled a long distance from his village in a horse carriage and coal-fueled bus), presenting his first tentative notes.
(Khansaab’s trademark kataar thumri stayed with me all day, that and a hameer tarana).
Khush!

Clueless
This is about looking back.
One of those end-of-year things.
About one of those times when the scale changes.
So what is the point in revisiting?
Prettily masochistic. Driving in the knife and checking if it still fits. Curiosity?
The edges have long sealed, serrated shut. But you can just about see a faint line of a maw, of once upon a time.
And you have a pattern of behavior sitting in your subconscious , labeled bizarre.
So there are initials you won’t use. Terms of addressing you won’t use.
Politeness is a sweet armor. Nice.
This is like one of those physics conundrums where you are in the picture, but you are not actually in the picture because you are not you, the moment has moved on.
So that before and after are never mirror images.
No, I never did get those tests right either.
Shrug.
2003 was long ago, I remind myself.

Poinsettias are a flash of red against green by the bridge, a nifty sunshine print.

The man in the next seat traversed continents to rest his father’s ashes; after forty years away this river, sky and land are still home. Just as the corner badam, mango by the wall and the jui creeper on the porch will witness mine someday.

From the plane, the window frames a perfect abstract at dawn, a red band dips past a peach background clean cut to the horizon.

Roads
A traffic jam on j j flyover is not the best place for a bout of sudden claustrophobia. For watching the minutes tick by. Watching cars huddle four deep in space designed for just three. Watching the curtain billow on a tiny lit-square of a window next to the flyover. Glimpse, if you must, for a brief moment the spotless kitchen inside. Wonder idly if the bridge was designed to take this sort of wear and tear, bumper to bumper on idle. Not much left past a cement cloud should it crumble, or so one thinks. Next time take the train, and appearances be damned.


The saga continues re water pipes, concrete roads and pneumatic drills that thunder ratatatatat past midnight. Voila, no dusting required. Step out and walk past a makeshift huddle, curly-haired dimpled baby playing blissfully on a tar road, custodian seven-year-old brother and dark skinned labourer mother watching from a distance. “Naam?,” I ask. “Rani,” he says bashfully. “And you?” “Raja,” he says looking down. As simple as that.

Grey squares

MMRDA is widening roads in my part of town.
(MMRDA has pulled up water pipes to widen roads in my part of town.)
I knew I make a little last, a very long way.
Now know that works as well for a few buckets of water.


Go, Neha, go.
To a new city, new job, new people.
A move triggered by that nasty bout of c’gunya that hit you, your mother, and on and on. By turns.
Suddenly, it made sense to have a support system
(But you were part of my support system. Alas)
“Keep away from the politics,”I tell you.
“Keep to the work, and don’t bother,” I tell you.
You found a house to rent.
Haggled with the packers, transporter
Did the hundred and one things that have to be done.
All by yourself.
The choices we play are the choices we have.
That square patch of sunlight between the crisscross shadows on the ground?
You found your peace there.

lite
2~
Evening settles to a blackgreen.calm A flock of white birds wheel over a field. Seagulls can’t be this far inland. Perhaps a migratory flock. Tripping in from who knows where, on an annual NRI ritual. A mango tree, splendid and majestic in the space it has to grow, reaches skywards. Intertwined branches lining the road form a filigreed canopy overhead. Palms stand tall, sharp profiled- origami craft. Past the chattering picnic area, the lane ambles and dips, meanders past the temple to the gaondevi on a densely wooded hill; “next time, we’ll pray-we live under her jurisdiction by the pincode, don’t we?” Even if sprawling residential complexes and glass chrome sharp-angled office buildings have replaced village clusters that once belonged to farmers and fishermen. In a few minutes the black green hill is outlined, shining sci-fi like, all glowing orange red by the setting sun. The undergrowth springs alive with the hum of umpteen insects. In the distance, the ratatat of a pump is interspersed by a birdcall or two, and with the sudden nip in the air one recalls strange tales of leopard sightings. A few miles beyond as the crow flies, cars zip by on the expressway, past flyovers, billboards and shiny malls.

lite
1~

It’s late on the promenade. Dusk tending to blue black. A soft sea tinged breeze, and a difficult-to-describe sense of “as is”.
Crowds loll. Stroll. Some briskly intent. Laughter. Mobile chatter. Lives closed in, shuttered.
Couples huddle on the parapet. On the rocks far out to sea. On the wall, hidden by the palms.
Silvers. On their regular benches. Toddlers, unsteady on their feet.
Children at play in the tiny sequestered area, swings, slides. Mothers fuss over, cajole.
A bevy of dogs on the cordoned lawn. Alsatians Dobermans Labradors Retrievers. Strays amble outside the fencing, friendlier. A man selling splendid firkees off a bamboo, dismay at the lost photo op. (Next time) Roadside vendors selling Bhel. Corn on the cob, icecream. “I want…” says a toddler beguiled, his grandpa leads him away.
“Is that a boat?” Baba asks, surprised at a strangely styled column. “No, its Titan’s way of showing the time…” “Are you sure?” he checks, not entirely convinced. No, this once the boats are all out at sea, but you can’t spot the lights bobbing in the distance. An almost full-moon hovers overhead, by the flats with the full glass frontage and dim lights.
Sit quietly with your eyes closed. Overhear conversations. The hum of a jet overhead, readying to land. The calm is like a wash that suffuses. On the ride home, talk about places called home and the price of 10sq ft patch of real estate.

Three Things Tag
(tagged by parlancheq)

3 Things that scare me: communal mobs/ terrorist strikes, insanity (blues, the big D), market meltdowns (and having to say that scarlett o’hara speech looking skywards clutching a fistful of dust)

3 People who make me laugh: Lalu Prasad Yadav, the scriptwriters on Ba Bahu Baby (weekends primetime Star Plus), the wonderfully predictable dialogue in the weekday K serials (the mother-in-law / daughter in law and joint family set up serials that begin with K for reasons of superstition)

3 Things I love: my 83 yr old baby, lush green with branches so intertwined you can’t see the ground, my Sunday afternoon nap, the tempo of life (mkts, festivals, the hullabaloo of the city, the space of the desert, the rhythm of the countryside, thunderstorms and lightening) ..ooh more than three, was that?

3 Things I hate: I don’t hate per se. I just withdraw, thank you very much. No, you wouldn’t know, either.

3 Things I don’t understand: most of maths. Politics. Ppl who intentionally mess up their karma.

3 Things on my desk: huh? If I knew I’d tell you. Maybe.

3 Things I’m doing right now: thinking on three parallel tracks, all piecemeal: Trying to fathom if some numbers seem all right or silly. Typing this. Trying to decide whether or not to submit a writing exercise this week

3 Things I want to do before I die: go to Istanbul (strange but I have to visit this lifetime- I absolutely must), walk to Mansarovar (Chinese visa or none), deploy assets adequately (yes, whatever that means- sounds nice)
3 Things I can do: multitask (how else would I read a July n’paper in November), sit still without doing anything at all, be pleasant and even-voiced when I’m being mean

3 Things I can’t do: party for long hours (an hour is the outside limit), withstand the bumper to bumper 2 hr ride into town, present without being self conscious

3 Things you should listen to: your own mind/ intuition (yes, I know Siemens skyrocketed and I %$# missed it), action not goody intent (this is vague), open on the third choice

3 Things you should never listen to: Hot tips. Rabids. Someone who has messed up their standing once

3 Things I’d like to learn: to dream. to laugh with husky merriment in an attention -grabbing kind of way, to make traditional pickles stored in huge earthenware jars (the way my aunts make them)

3 Favorite foods: Panipuri. Ras- dhokla. A crisp, shallow-fried to perfection mysore masala dosa.

3 Beverages I drink regularly: Tea, water, aloe vera juice

3 Shows I watched as a kid: Telly came to my part of the world much later- 9th grade or something- grainy B&W and “move that antenna a bit to the left, nah right, a teeny bit to the left now.. the darn picture’s scrolling”. Buniyaad, Chitrahaar, and there was one that was based on a classic of tragic undying, unreciprocated devotion but I forget the name.

3 People I’m tagging: Abbagirl. Prerona. ManuJI

ON VULNERABILITY

I let you in close. I tell you parts of my life that others won’t ever know. I let you see the soft underbelly, the flops, the blunders and dark misery of the night. The shams. The fake glitter, the cheap triumphs. The victories. The gray areas that I peel apart, bit by bit, and gleefully jump on to claim, Columbus-like. The half-baked hypothesis that simmer and froth, raw. The truth behind a goody-two-shoes façade. I tell you what is posturing, and what is not. Sometimes you know it without my having to say it. Maybe when I said something first I waited and watched, marking your responses, but over time the need for this cross-referencing tapered off. Possibly you know me better than anyone else, and so you will know there are parts of me that you will never know, too. Soft underbelly, I said? Maybe I’m right, maybe I’m not. I don’t look back to see if you reciprocate. Sticking my neck out is a choice that I opt for, willingly and in full control of my faculties. Double, or quits.

I write. I put words on paper. I write as I think. Yes, sometimes I think in circles. Sometimes I mumble. I keep away from heavyweight words that I can’t quite pronounce, oh la! That I need to look up, quizzically. I don’t try to play pretend. I proudly italicize words that I use, words of the marketplace and soaring humidity and matchbox homes and traffic-packed streets. Full bodied, with the aroma of flavours, spices, sweat and a whiff of sea breeze. English that preens and postures, with curlicues and appurtenances, leaves me cold. Attempts at foreign accents and appearances of usage, without comfort for, or confident ownership, reminds me of cucumber sandwiches at tea, bobbing curtseys to the Lord of the Manor, and frankly confounds the hell out of me. You may be a cursory reader, or you could have been reading for long. Maybe when I first wrote something first I waited and watched, marking responses and the hit counter. But over time the need for cross-referencing and positive strokes, tapered off. There are spaces within words, words within words, a glimpse at a world that you will never know. Sometimes you get it, sometimes you don’t. Hitting the keyboard, putting black on white is a choice that I opt for, willingly and in full control of my faculties. Double, or quits.

new Roughpad updated.
flickr updated- S'pore.

MUST READ

…An act of thanking that goes beyond the merely formal starts with an act of appreciation. But appreciation isn't easy. It requires perspective. You have to get outside yourself, turn off the endless mental scribbling that covers everything with cheap verbal graffiti….
…The central myths of our culture, religious and secular, are about redemption. When Scrooge wakes up after his dark night of the soul, he rushes to the window and is overjoyed to realize that he is still alive and that it's Christmas. And Dickens tells us that he celebrated life for the rest of his days. We want to believe him, but the truth is most of us, even after getting the horrific guided tour from the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future, remain clanking Jacob Marleys, bearing the chains we forged in life…

(MORE)
http://www.salon.com/opinion/kamiya/2006/11/21/thanksgiving/

DISTANCED
In his usually incisive column (Sundays , Janmabhoomi Pravasi) Suresh Dalal writes about the traces of yaksha and yayati inherent in each of us. Yayati as in the thirst for everlasting youth, for life, for a reason for living, for change, for new, for a glimmer of hope and seeking a reason, no matter how fragile, for tomorrow to be better than today. Yaksha as in emptiness; that feeling of being a spectator, of watching from the outside looking in, clapping where appropriate and saying the right lines on cue. A feeling of transientness, playacting-".. and they have their exits and entrances..". The word he uses is “ jhoorapo”, quite useless to try and translate, but somewhere it hints at that sudden no- reason emptiness that hits you unannounced. You then hear the raging song of the bitter desert wind, and walk on, listening quietly to the dips and soars and singing along in your mind, for you too know the notes of that song too well. And you know in your skin that this is right, for this is the way it is.

what has happened is horrible.
no- i dont want to talk abt it.
no fake words.

MURPHY OVERDOSE

Sometimes it hits you with a whoosh.
Then you get up and do what you have to, correct/tally/close.
Then you walk.
A transparent grid overlay against your usual passive acceptance of “as is where is” life.
So you force-apply the grid.
Then you say- this stays, this is out.
For a forced return to reality I’m not sure if the price was too high.
That it has been paid, is a fact.

always they go together, light and dark.
when you have your schedule planned to a T, an unexpected turn of events.
dancing shadows; then you remind yourself this is the way it has always been.
will try post Monday. Else Friday.

Now I know what I want to be like when I’m 70 years old. What a brilliant mind, the $’s fine but only secondary or so I think. So alert and sharp a mind, fantastic antenna, rapidfire q’s. Seriously gawkworthy.

corollary to RAMBLE
Yes that is possibly true too, a feedback loop on automode to correct/incrementally adjust the basic premise. Fits in with the state of equilibrium theory, reversion to the mean as in chemical equations, neutrinos and the flash state/baseline, even biological systems such as autoregulated hormones, up/ down regulation of neurotransmitters at synapses. It makes sense.

RAMBLE: Thinking about reality, dreams and places in between

For sometime I have been thinking about these. This thought process has certain givens, which are predefined. While this precise uses or is based on a specific instance, it does not restrict to this, I believe. The bare bones hypothesis in this paragraph is that for any reality to sustain and move ahead beyond existing boundaries of current time, space, existing constraints (plane related boundaries, as in physics); it will require an element of dream (or fiction or wish, call it what you will). Likewise, for any dream to sustain, there will have to be a supporting from real life. You can’t have one and not have the other, its not mutually exclusive, but in a sense complementary and each half prodding the other on. To look at dreams in an isolated fashion is a fool’s paradise, if I want words I must practice and polish my p’s and q’s and live that bloody painful drudgery, hitting the keyboard and shudder at the outcome, but this has to happen in real time. If any event/ conversation in real time has to go beyond the inanities of what did you eat for dinner, and what did you do next; which is as real as it gets; then somewhere some wish or dream or whatever you term it, has to come in- I’m not even defining what this is. But without that dream or wish to reach towards, however fragile or wisplike it is, what is real today would crumble apart. Yes, balancing real/ unreal is a thin line, the kind of stuff that DSM is made up of.
So I think.

WHITE
(Before I forget.)
Guru parab was on Sunday,
Drumbeat, the lazy rhythm of lazim, intermittent crackers, a mad tempo
Festive!
A saint-messenger feted with burgers, savories, dry fruit
The crowd dressed in their best;polyester and stilettos,
Chanting in procession by the silver chariot.
So much of pomp and show
In memory of such a simple man.
That evening the gurudwara is quiet
Just the blanket of lights on white marble
Your footsteps echo on a winding staircase
The crowds are elsewhere.
To the chant of the shabad, forehead to the ground
So much white, dazzling
Nothing to ask for, is good too.

new Roughpad updated.

ARBIT
“The prognosis is bad"; I blurt out, then look away
Pin drop silence
Power suit, solitaire; but yes; you're a daughter too
Past the plate glass window
A parrot scoots off a bay of neem trees into a clear sky
~


A roundabout with yellow flowers
Wide, smooth roads, (no potholes!), clean pavements
A jumbled forest in greens right out of nowhere,
A neem tree, just so
"So much space" I say with envy
The country's showpiece
And this is the nicer part.

~
Chill arctic
Three people talk in a room meant for fifteen
Abstract art on paneled walls,
Light filters, glazed windows
That orange wavy line, past hectic blue and jade brushstrokes/ Ajay Akki
-is daybreak
-is the sun glinting over merry waves
- is energy, peace, something hoohaa metaphysics
-is dawn over the Himalayas, ascetic
8 hours of art appreciation
Draw succor from the warm tones, shiver
(A google search leads to Bollywood stars. Sad. )
~

Inside- hushed tones,
The clink of teacups, pages turned, voices cleared
Outside, far below;
Green lawn, blue pool embroidered in white
At the shallow end a child gambols, laughs
Her mother, amused
Watches through outsized sunglasses
The sun an orange orb, van gogh.

Seems to be a week for meetings and conferences.
Will post on saturday now.

(from Oct 17)


If you want to gleefully cuss, make faces at the traffic, then you walk. Each time I go to Juhu Crossword it’s almost like a pilgrimage, hiking double pace to cut past the traffic snarl-ups. The last trip was 45 min brisk and done till you reach JVPD. Then you navigate that labyrinth for the quickest way out as you put film stars’ names to dimly lit homes sitting pretty in obscenely huge compounds. But yes, attending a book launch that features the dialogues, in translation, of Mughal E Azam is worth it. Specially if one has spent most of the preceding evening trying to piece the dialogue together, while watching the classic on telly, “ uh huh, what exactly did she say?” And the redoubtable Mr Akhtar is worth it, silver haired or not. For once I’m not late.

Mr Akhtar, quite at comfort with the use and tone of words, spoke about the dignity of human relationships that is the fabric of the film. That is an interesting concept, I trhink, as concepts go. He then spoke on a number of issues and the point he made about translators/translations is interesting, about immersing onseself totally in the original language across genres to be able to any sort of justice. He drew a parallel from music, stating that S D Burman could compose as brilliantly in Hindi, because of his mastery over the forms of Bengali music, from folk to classical shruti. As an ideal this is great, but if one was to read/ study/peruse the classics of gujarati literature, Meghani and Tripathi and Munshi to begin with, it is too much. Just imagine battling past the 4 volumes of Saraswatichandra, probably it would take a lifetime given one’s speed and no actual translating would get done. He also recited a critical dialogue, where Emperor Akbar asks his heir to choose between the kingdom or his love, he has a tremendous presence and made the words roar.

The strangest part was helping out a distraught man with photos, only to be told later that he was the director’s son, and realizing that one’s clumsy point and click endeavors would reach the man responsible for this creative extravaganza. Of course, one bought a copy, duly autographed by Mr Akhtar and the translators, to gift- but I think I shall keep it afterall.

Funny world.

The Immortal Dialogue of K. Asif’s Mughal E Azam
Nasreeen Kabir, Suhail Akhtar
Oxford University Press

Old and new roughpad updated.

will post in bits and pieces

IN BITS AND PIECES

The security guys were shocked to hear me ask, isn’t there a shortcut that ways down the hill? Turn a corner and it seems quieter, away from the hum of the industrial area. No road exists, just a frequently trodden path of sorts on empty scrubland, past a gate set in a rock-hewn wall, probably from the time that the rest of that (no doubt) heavily forested hill existed, past a well where a kid was valiantly trying to fly a kite. Jump over an open water line, looking askance at the bleached rickety boards placed across. Briskly march at the double through a village where the walls are painted blue and homes, shops tailoring establishments, sheds with lathes and vegetable vendors all exist cheek by jowl, where there is just enough space for one not too broad vehicle to pass else there’d be a traffic jam. Edge past the shed with the placid buffaloes, and you wonder at the price of this patch of real estate abutting the highway, and then voila! , the stream of unending traffic and glee at avoiding traffic jams at four signals.

~

the kindness of strangers
A one line request to someone whom you’ve long admired, oohing and aahing over comfort with words and turn of phrase, the dancing lines inducing you to read, merrily leading you on to an end that closes just right, with a punch. So much done for a stranger, just on request. I’m left speechless and I must admit- a little teary.
(more..)

On a blog break for a week.
take care, all.

BEEN THERE, DONE THAT

Yesterday you had a day of psychopharmacology lectures, 9 to 6, and done.
Uh huh. Have fun. That didn’t quite convey the disbelieving laugh.
How on earth can you fit in everything that’s under DSM- I forget which edition it would be about now- in a 9 to 6 day…
-the rage of mania, distanced, you watch that pyrotechnic outburst of stupendous energy
-flickering wisps of alternate reality, an avalanche of babbling strange tongues,. quick images seen on a screen in a lantern play
-the unending spiral of the big D, sinking lower with each repeat phase
-the unpredictable swings of bipolar, ricocheting from high voltage mania to dull ennui
- the tsunami of panic
So much more, the millions of ways in which these cross cross and overlap
The medication to handle it all
The awesome switch-like action of rauwolfia serpentina when it was first discovered.
Haloperidol decanoate, the gold standard for oh so many years, bringing in a measure of sanity into gone cases. The beauty of the right modicum of dopamine precisely where its needed
The newer ones- aripiprazole, quetiapine.. so beautifully engineered these atypicals, inch by inch setting right drawbacks with previous therapy
And the whole gamut of antidepressants, restoring equilibrium at the micro synapses
Instant action tricyclics, with instant SE.
SSRTIs, inching back to hullo sunshine, inch by inch over a fortnight. The amazing grace at seeing a loved one move away from a catatonic state and check latest skirt length trends…Then the dual action ones, so smart-so very smart.
How can you fill all this in a single day?

THREADS

Dor is beautiful, best watched in a wide screen multiplex, but then ours is a beautiful land. To say that the photography is striking is not true- it is tremendous, but then the whole product comes together quite flawlessly, trademark Nagesh Kukunoor style. A million and one dancing greens and sparkling streams in Himachal, the stark splendor of Rajasthan, each life with its own story and boundaries, yet intertwined in the manner life sometimes is. A wispy gossamer thread that links, a fine line that runs through an intricate embroidery. From what was till now a page 3-quality glamour cast- Gul Panag, Ayesha Takia, Mr Kukunoor has extracted a fine performance, most of it make up free and easy on the glycerine. A storyline that is pro- hope and entirely believable, stuff happens, you get up and walk, life goes on. Shreyas Talpade excels as the bahurupi, exceptionally good as a gag- a-minute mimic. Mr Kukunoor in a cameo as the lecherous Mr Chopra is miscast, he looks too decent to suggest a pass, let alone a live- in arrangement. The end could have been slicker, but that is about it. Watch, sigh your heart out as the desert winds whip up a mindstorm, put on them walking shoes.

~
On Saturday night I’d gone to Prabhadevi, reveling in the feeling of speed on the expressway; that ferris-wheel sensation as you confidently zoom taking in soaring flyovers with ease, the glee at acing traffic with clear green signals, noticing how the darkness is a coverup, and how those distant lights seem quite pretty if you’d half close your eyes. I returned by local train, happy to jump in before the train braked to a halt, senses alive at the hustle- bustle at key stations, glad but reassured to recognize Bandra with the arches and art -deco girders, amazed at the variety of goods sold with finesse in the compartment that hour of the night- candy, purses, trinkets, vegetables, T shirts and keychains from China. Both trips were fun in their own way, making me speechlessly happy with the world for no reason. Was this because it was a change from routine? I don’t know, but I felt more alive than I have in a long time.

THOUGHTFUL

The hedge is bright with a million and one yellow-greens, and you realize it seems prettier than it has for a long time. But it is the same hedge, unevenly cut, lining the same slightly pebbly walking track that is soft in places where you have to watch your step. It’s the rare sunshine, perhaps; filtering in past the clouds. Or trying to see what this swarovsksi shrub or that rough-hewn rock with the chiseled surfaces would look like on a tiny lcd screen. Yes, the same hedge, but it dazzles.

The workshopped story has been shredded with a sharp knife. We shall persist. I wrote and pestered -as in asked politely-someone for a review- am shocked at this rather brazen behavior. Or perhaps not.

The markets continue to thrill and shock, by turns. BRKA crossed 100,000 y’day. Did I get those zeros right?

RAMBLE

The other day someone gifted me a book with an autograph scrawled on the flyleaf, the first two initials capitalized with immense vigor and the t slashed with a flourish. Rather than an unending text in serif, this is an intelligent conversation that stops you short because it forces you to think. No, I haven’t read beyond the first page as yet.

People, episodes and ideas are elements of a good conversation, so the very first line reads, and rates ideas as the most intense. Conversations that center around inanities have a short half life, you say something and you’re done; or you say something and seek something else between the words, till one day you say nothing and you’re done. Ideas may or may not begin life all capitalized with inverted commas and neon lights. Nuances don’t exactly come to life with an announcement, but if the thread is to continue there is a dissection, a casual stroll around the bylanes, perchance intricacies- viewpoints examined, perhaps the conversation progresses to the next logical link.

But this is where I differ- for the exchange to move to ideas, first the groundwork has to be prepared, with events, people, and “what did you eat for dinner?” kind of small talk. This scaffolding needs to be put into place, a frame of reference built for words to mean what they indeed do.

SOUL CAGES

Seven blackbirds buzz overhead. Angry waves scream at a jagged shore. A secret never told. No you can’t go there. No one can. There is no there.
A harsh spot on the sun. The last sigh of a tree butchered, sinking to the ground. A raging desert wind sweeps empty miles to the bitter horizon, where dry heat bleaches skin to bone. A young child, bent, broken boned, silent with an empty extended belly. Crumbles of brain sprinkled on tar. An angry duststorm, tweaking mighty sand dunes in play. A furious flood rages through desert lands, submerging hopes and dreams. Faith is a joke. A supercilious smile. A dog cries hideously at the moon, a non-stop loop. Sink to the cold floor, flail at the heavens, tear your hair out, weep empty sobs from your gut, curse the skies with no-meaning words. Cry, cry at the wailing wall. A flood of mumbled laments. Gasps. Oaths.A flood of incoherent sobs, the words running into each other, a shorthand saga. Of treachery, of loss, of betrayal, a wail. The overwhelming sorrow of generations past. A cursed legacy. Deadening. Dead hope, acid pain seeping seething in drop by drop in the DNA. A fractured genetic code plays out. Wailing, flailing at the immobile. Unheard. In a black void with cold stars aglitter, the planets play at planchette Deafening, this howl of the banshee wind at the artic. Icebergs gloss, groan like a dying animal. An overcast sigh, driving ice rain. Searing sorrow. Piercing. How normal, how trite, passé . A startle reaction. Cursed to tremble and shiver at sound. A chair moved. A phone bell. The hum of airconditioning walks upon your nerves. Block out sound. Nothing lasts. Your mind shrieks. Cry. Cry for the dead. For the unborn. For virii that mutate, that wreck the embryo unborn, for the sins of their fathers. For the blast shattered, the limbless, the amputees, the widowed, the orphaned and suddenly deaf. For new clothes with shiny price tags thrown out. Cry for the curse ,the wealth of the land, for black gold, for metal veins ferreted underground. For lines thrust upon a map. For overflowing granaries and hunger deaths. For color, for race, a dice throw. For shame of it all, for the weight of living. Soul cages.
(title courtesy-Sting)

YESTERDAY
So! It was a jamboree. That Google Wordmasters challenge in Bandra yesterday morning..
Good fun, just getting there, and good fun too, to laugh and shout in a chorus and feel decidedly collegial for a while. A max. 200-word essay to be written using 20 given words, in 45 min or less. Not very objective, especially when you have an all-seats-occupied- standing-space-only auditorium full of people of all ages- teenyboppers to silver-framed grandfathers biting at their pencils, tense and raring to go. I would have expected a TOEFLish word-usage screen to set the bar for the first level, perhaps an essay to follow for quality. But perhaps they know better. It was good fun to do, although I clocked in at about 160, without much sparkling expression. I realize I have become dependent on using a keyboard, and need the space to change words around or press shift f7 at whim, make word messes on whim.Dim lights and cramped seats where one sits sort of slanting to get the arm space right, no thanks. The auditorium was impressive, with several large monochrome prints of stars from the silver screen by Gautam Rajadhyaksha lining the foyer; and posters from the Shakespeare Globe Theatre setting aspirations at the spotlights. Yet beyond all this, 6 person strong queues haggling for forms for the usual science and commerce courses. and I wonder about the roads we take and the ones we don't.

SEPIA
In all these years, you’ve never told me this before, and I haven’t asked, it worries me a little you are sharing this now. I haven’t asked, skirting memories, like old sepia-tint photos with scuffed edges and patterned butterpaper covers, that rest snug in old tin trunks never opened. “Dr Roger insisted she stay in hospital from the 7th month itself, so they could control insulin before every meal. We were willing to try anything” Yes, I recall silently, remembering that this pregnancy, her seventh, was the only one to last full term, after fourteen years of being married, and after several rounds of doctors, saints and temples. “Wasn’t it a general hospital?” I ask, trying to visualize the dirt, chaos and bustling so very unlike her cosseted routine “Yes, a general hospital, but it had the best doctors in town. There was no space in the general ward so she slept on a mattress in the common corridor”. “oh…tough.” “But no complaints! They were strict about visiting hours so we were made to wait outside. She cheerily waved from the wheelchair when she was taken to the OT at about ten”
Under a tree in the dusty compound? With a cycle stand in a corner? A tea stall? Was it very hot? Was the hospital regulation-yellow painted, with rusted windows? Did S kaka sweat a lot, since he had just returned from London? So many questions, but I keep quiet. “We didn’t tell Dadaji. He was furious when he found out later that day. But he would have raised the roof, fretting, pushing his doctor privileges and interfering with everyone” “then?” “ By afternoon, he cooled down. Suddenly declared at tea, that you would be named ***, and that was that. Of course, he was adamant about holding you and they wouldn’t let you out of the incubator”.
Suddenly I’m proud of my snub nose.

THRESHOLD

Remember when you make marble paper? You take a sheet of plain white paper, not too thick that it’d never fold, nor too thin that it would crumple crease. Not coarse- the colors would run or get washed out like misshapen blobs, but paper that’s just right.
Then you pick the colors, rich colors, maybe pastels- one or two, not too many. And you put the colors together in a waterfilled tub or something, with just a hint of oil, and wait for the colors to mix magically and separate, fine lines and whorls and swoops and swirls and lines you don’t have the names for, and layer the sheet just so, so that it floats.
And a fraction of a minute before you remove the sheet, you wait with excitement and nervousness and just a hint of unease, you don’t really know what you’ll find, it could be a masterpiece or runny colors, smudged, voila!
Which is how I feel today, Rich colors. Some black, maybe a hint , maybe more.
Swirls, swoops, a dash and a splash. Impressions with a personal flourish on a plain sheet of paper, who knows what is around the corner.A whole year of fresh new days.

WHAT HO
As I stood there at the reception, wishing you, you know what I saw? That air conditioned room, bejeweled women in gracious silks, the hum of conversation and plush carpet underfoot – all of this fell away to an image of a lush field, past it the chimneys and sheds of that other factory beyond the concrete wall, but yes, lush green dotted with a placid cow or two and generous with sunshine to hurt the eyes. You were seated in that cubbyhole of an office on the mezzanine with the low roof and bay window overlooking the green, a somnolent drone of a wall-mounted fan that barely made a difference in that nasty heat. Fitting in somehow and scraping together the time for your studies along with your work as steno. The workload was horrible, but you managed, taking paper after paper as an external student. First graduation, and then that MBA. Of course I did cajole and wheedle, boss and tease, heckle you several zillion times. And despite the rather long hours that each promotion brought you, your smile remained as calm. Today, your bride wears a radiant smile, you are beaming, all dazzling sunshine. I hold back from breaking into a Cliff Richards number and hold in that catch in my throat as I realize I want you both to be as happy as happy, always.
But of course I didn’t say this, hitting you hard on the shoulder instead.

JOURNEYS

Midnight sounds. A train, dusty and weather-beaten, disgorges its passengers to the metallic clang of a tea vendor on a sleepy platform. Shouts of recognition, running feet, metal on metal doors slammed shut. The whoosh of airbrakes before the wheels take up their song. The scrolling neon on black signage with tempting names, hints of long distance journeys that stir the blood- Gauhati-Bhuj. Chandigarh- Kochi. Red and blue lines crisscrossing the country. Dust . sweat. Boredome. A promise. Blurred voices over the announcement system, at an everyday job. You shake someone awake and claim your berth as the train ambles out. It’s twelve minutes past midnight.

Red eye. Suddenly it’s not something that happens when fist connects with said eye. DSCW 30, basic basic but oh so beautiful. One flounders, an edgy all thumbs, marvels at the ingenuity and frets about being able to do some sort of justice.

Virii mutate. That’s basic science. Overflowing private hospitals, temperatures readings that start at a hundred three, symptomatic treatment for the want of anything better to do, patients four to a room, crowded beds in corridors and too early discharges to accommodate the rush of new patients. Is C’gunia an epidemic yet? Not so, according to the powers that rule. Let them eat cake.
austere

Frames

An orange streak ~fluorescent extravagant breaks free past the heavy gray of dawn, a wavy sharp line past the white hum of the plane window

The swoosh of takeoff, the ferris wheel-like thrill of disconnect, gravity defiant

A many-striped (but mainly carrot) cat- non-disdainful, non-feline; mews joyfully, rubs and stretches in delight when you coddle her with precocious cat-talk. Proudly leads you to a tiny pink white bundle of fur cowering in a corner

Hibiscus and clemantis border a lush green lawn, a classical masterpiece sets the background score to a morning of small talk and tea by the porch swing

A street side stall – skirts and odhnis, colors sequins mirrors aglitter in the bright afternoon sunshine past a white colonial bungalow

Nudging open a gate on its last hinges, a cow ambles to a moss lined corner under the badaam tree to birth, a good luck sign, so I’m told

Roughpad updated- grist to the mill.

CRYSTAL

She looked into the mirror speculatively, past the reflection of the peeling green wall. Standard Indian features, nothing spectacular, “Nothing that a tint wont improve !” she mocked. Thank God she’d been spared her mother’s snub nose. From the shop a glossy pout, for sure, and long curving eyelashes. The forehead was a tad too broad, but now she’d stop hiding it behind a jaunty cut, instead let her tresses ripple down her back, medusa-like. A determined chin that firmed when she was defiant or angry- she must stop being so transparent. “This will have to go” she said, pulling the demure neckline of the cheap cotton print a good inch below the v of cleavage, tugging the dress so tight she could hardly breathe. “Not bad”, she admitted, clinically examining first one angle, then another. Arms next. Tinkling bangles. Or chunky silver, like in those tattered Vogue backissues she’d hoarded off wayside secondhand bookstalls. No more full or three quarter sleeves. Slender limbs she had, slender limbs she’d show. Minis, or micro micro minis, just the minimum.She had replaced her rather pedestrian name with something that sounded musical and soft. Her laugh now pealed prettily just with a hint of promise. Blahniks, or till she got there pointy tender toed heels from the street that went tick tack toe, turned heads.For that was the entire point. “Play it again, Sam, she said softly with a smile.