John Updike, RIP

Time to dust off that second-hand copy of “In the Beauty of the Lilies”.
Bought because one ought to have read an Updike. Ought to.
Bought also because the cover looked pretty.
About time.

Dasvidanya is very good.
(No, I’m not saying goodbye. In Russian or any other language.)
The movie, yes?
Vinay Pathak is brilliant. As the man with maybe two months to live.
To finish up all the loose odds. To tie up the ends.
I cried tons. Laughed uproarious. Heckled. Sobbed tears I didn’t know I had. Laughed.
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. Gibran.
(I don’t care if it is a copy of some Angreji film. I don’t watch Angreji)
The humor, the subtleties, the nuances, the digs and verbal nonverbal hints were very much Indian.
It stuns you. Leaves you blank.
Reminds you of your own “use by” date.
Leaves you at the crossroads.
“ and they have their exits and entrances...”.

You want me to translate.
Words of joy, words of sorrow, words dewdrop fragile, words of hope that dance on the breeze.
I refuse. No, I wont.
Shrug.
Shan’t. Tweedle-dee. No. Nada.
But you’re good. Very good.
Sam, dam, dand, bhed- you try it all, so lightly, that gracious touch.
(No- I can’t translate that. Somewhat means- by all means fair or foul.)
I’m stubborn. Not an inch.
Why?
No, its not particularly tough.
No, not a scab issue; this little birdie long became a filthy hawk.
I dunno- but won’t.
Then you use that golden allure. Your contacts.
What a lovely tantalizing thread.
A shortcut to “apply apply, no reply”.
Quid pro quo. No free lunch.
You know I’m hungry for that one chance.
But I won’t budge.
I’m stubborn that way.
No bargains.

And in the five minutes waiting to check in, I meet you, so far away from distant Oregon; you ask if the air is as hazy, a brown fog, all over India, but see-I don’t even notice the haze. You tell me you’ve come to find your calling, your life purpose, to meet your spiritual leader. God speed and good times be with you, I say; as I wonder if I’d ever have the courage to go halfway around the world to seek, drawn purely on whimsy chance. You tell me your new name, I’ve never heard it before- it’s a name you created for your new life, a name you’ve legally taken. I stare and wonder- at stories past, at profiles in courage.

From the plane window the river twists and turns, a lazy serpent with a shiny glitzy skin as the sunshine shimmers in tiny waves, the canal cuts straight and narrow past the tiny brown and green patches in shapes not rectangular that I don’t know what they’d be called.

Now I'm back. For now.

Word images

Utraan today. I scour the sky for kites, but its an empty pale blue. I turn the corner and see a notice board with kites in ten different colors, kites that kids from the colony have decorated. Suddenly sunshine.


The platform was unending, stretched way into the suburb, but the train halted there for all of two min., way better than going all the way to the other suburb with its platform chock a block with people and all that running about. This one was quiet, eerie, or serene- depending on your point of view. Not a single soul on the platform when I reached, not too many when the train left. But yes, it did give you a balcony view of the homes lining the station, complete with banana trees, tulsi chowk and the constant sound of running water.

The home town was chill, but one was prepared. After glaring at the autofella for not going by the meter it was but natural to walk home, yes to that brief moment of fear, the steps echoing too loudly at the underbridge, yes to that trickle of water dripping somewhere and that weird sound of the grate and that moment of relief when one stepped out. Striding on RC Dutt Rd when even the strays were asleep, past the two bungalows that stand stately proud the way good and propah regal homes should. Got home all charged, and was asleep in a few.

The kites! Spilling over footpaths. Decked across impromptu shops. Every nook and corner and inch of the city. Too bad I can’t stay. But the colors- I take them back, all the hues.


Reading Paulo Coelho on the flight back. Thinking abt the way the right words reach you at the right time. Thinking abt how grief recovery is a process, a language with its own syntax and grammar and no matter what I’ll tell her, she has to resolve this. Live through this. Alone. About how the terrain from a plane window is so much like the big picture we see when we pull back from a situation. The terrain all browns, curving and folding upon itself, that line sweeping to the far distance -so much like a human brain.

Race course is a velvet carpet interrupted by a whirly bird. The surprise of it all, finding it plonked behind the auto garages, and then that stupendous shortcut up the bridge, ah life!

“Later on, things will be ok” is a philosophy that doesn’t work- not in real life as I’ve learnt and paid in full for, and certainly not in “adjusting” gaps in quarter on quarter revenue numbers to show a fictitious cash balance of Rs, 5040 cr.
Unscrupulous goons.

In that mess of misfiring neurons and stratospheric neurotransmitters, who knows when the decay set in, and when exactly irreparable damage began to corrode frayed nerve endings to a state of excited volatility. Rest in peace.

Whenever there has been total chaos I have been drawn there. As if led on a string that’s been pulled in. The last time was right after 9/11, I remember. Something leading one to the worn stone, the serenity, the “removed from this world” pace at the Prince of Wales (POWales) Museum.

I take the local train, second class. The girl sitting by has a letter from the Economic Offences Wing, someone has taken away their power of attorney and taken a loan on their flat. The girl sitting opposite commutes for an hour and half all 365 days, or something close to it- she’s a cook at four homes. Nothing like a train trip to shake me out of my ivory tower existence in a hurry.

Yes, you can take photos at the POWales but that’s 200 bucks. Steep. No, you can’t step on the lawn or take a closer look at the handsome man chiseled in black granite, Prince George V- not after the 1993 bombings.

Security’s been tightened, there are CCTVs, but later I see that the “backside” as we so comfortably call it, is open.

I loiter. I am drawn, as I knew I’d be, to the Indian sculpture gallery, the displays from Taxila and Mirpur-khas in particular, mostly 2-5 C AD. I spend an hour there, easily. I find what I’m looking for.

The rest of the time there passes in a blur, I do look at some fine art, paintings on India through the centuries, durbars and common man alike, work that’s been loaned from the Victoria and Albert Museum, London; as also a display of maps on India starting from the 1490’s. I’m amused to see I look for the home town in all the maps, see that tiny dot on that map from 1740? Yes, we’re there, thank you.

And I gape at the coin collection, chunky in gold and silver with perfectly proportioned motifs, apparently Emperor Akbar had appointed his chief calligrapher the head of his mint…

After all this, the mad melee at Westend where I dutifully stop by to pick up a purse, that passes like a breeze. No streetside bargaining this once.

Peace. Abiding joy.

After hoping like hell that things would turn the corner, but knowing that they likely wont, one takes the next steps. Or lists the next steps .For whenever that is. There is relief, a lightness. I haven’t laughed so much in ages.

December has been tumultuous, a month of endings. Of turning points. Of cleaning up clutter. Also of learning to trust gut feel. Of honesty, of the most painful kind, with oneself.

And of learning that reality and imagination are two completely different lands.

Perhaps it was paradoxical to run into two ex-colleagues from work now doing other things in the land of greenbacks. Their excitement was startling. Stunning. Where did it all go, one wonders.

Dont feel like explaining any of this.

That outpouring of Silent Night ringing out which I heard from my balcony; and silently sang along not knowing the words, amazed at the crystal clear quality of the baritone on the different scale. I was suddenly happier.

That civics and sociology session with that wizened autofella, a Brahmin from the hinterlands who was vehement about not even considering a “ gujeratein” from a different caste for his college educated, bank-employed son, for whatever would the extended family and the tauji and babuji and the village back home say… I think I managed to convince him to at least interview the girl- “tanik chaal chalan dekhein aap”, though I did draw heavily on the scriptures and invoke Maharshi Valmiki and Lord Krishna's migration to Dwarka in the process. All’s fair.


Chocolate cake. Steamed. Thank you, Quaker Oats.

And the slight, if steady progress with both the Aunts. If its not bad, its good.

Slight hint of a chill in the air most mornings. Spectacular sunrises, etched palm leaves on gold.

Sunshine on the terrace, a 360 degrees view I’ve never seen in the year we’ve been here, the smile on your face when you listen to the first strands of a Kumar Gandharva recital, ah life.

The raw energy of the street play presented at the park, the roaring national anthem, and rapt attention with which a completely mixed audience watched the new binding factor, terror; the green gold of Kanheri and the determined buzz at Leopold’s,this and the all so important rest-all these have retreated to the backdrop, very much there, very much on the alert but not wide-eyed breaking news.

Been witness to some lovely pink edged clouds most dawn, and a hint of a nip in the air.

It is just as well one puts on a veneer with the years. It is just as well one learns resilience. Of sorts, of course. What I shall never understand is the disconnect between word and meaning, like a foreign language with familiar words that mean quite something else.
Hopefully.

There is a need for routine. For structure.
For discipline. No, the word does not sound ugly anymore.
More so, a need to ensure this does not become mindless, mind-numbing.
In the stories, in the twitter feeds, in the forwards and breaking news, one can get trapped.
For a day, one pondered over a withdrawal, recluse-style. For white, for space.
Prompted by the disgust of a gentle giant.
But corralling in is not the answer.
Retreat, repose, recoup. Return.
The rolling mists predawn and the delicate sunrise, will enthrall in due course.
No- I wont let them take that away.

What a thing to remember
The curve of the staircase, the statuette on the landing
The way the sunlight gleams off the water past plate glass
The sepia royals that stood their ground, now vanquished
Their final resting spot, the charred cream walls.
But I remember the strangest things.
The lights of the tonga are an impatient camera blur.
Never again.

They are not the them people.
Takes two reads of the victim list to realize. The victim list. Oh.
Who’s the victim? Who’s that lady, burkha clad, knocking doors?

I forgive. I don’t forget. My bad.
Read Ashwini Bapat, the parent says. Concerned.
In the eight minutes that I squeeze in
Chopping the raw tomatoes, rolling out the dough.
Eight minutes.
But that’s another world. A story. Don’t worry.
That’s not me.
Singed once by fire.
of pretence. false feet.
I forgive. I don’t forget. My bad.
Immune.
But there’s just so much you tell an 85 year old.
Don’t worry. Never again.

I've spent most of the last two days following the twitter feed on #mumbai.
My head is spinning.
Its over, but such loss. A blogpal tells me of this young girl, the sole survivor from her 5-person family- they were celebrating a birthday. She is critical, in coma.
Read, too, about the disaster averted at the TOI.
Anger and then anguish and then...indifference? Until next time?

View from the 16th floor, Oberoi.
(pics from Nov 3)

Every ten min today I’ve refreshed the Rediff page.
They’ve just reported grenade blasts outside the Taj.

I weep inside, thinking of the lovely lobby.. the mural by MF Hussain behind the reception counter, the waterfall, the intricate carved wall on one end, the marble inlay floor... all wrecked.
You go off the lobby, into the old taj, the lovely boutiques on one side, the displays on the other- the b&w photos of celebrities, Pt Nehru, Jackie Kennedy, Shobha De in her heydays...such a sense of history- all gone.

You go up the impressive curving iron staircase with the iron head of Dadabhai Naoroji at the landing.
The Sea lounge on the first floor. The Crystal Room, with its glorious chandeliers and ornate glass...The Princes Chamber, with the framed sepia portraits of the erstwhile rulers... all gone
And the layout of the old Taj? Almost like an old style Indian house, around a central courtyard…
I weep inside- remembering the lunch they’d serve on silver plates just a week ago, and how I’d asked for an empty dish so as to not waste food, no, it will never be the same again. That celebratory midnight dinner at the Chambers, and how the food didn’t seem so great, it will never be the same again.

And the Oberoi. Or the Trident or the Hilton. Whichever name its being called by. So often one has trooped from the old to the new, not sure where the meeting was. Memories of walking into the lobby a novice so unsure, overawed by the large glass windows, the piano in the atrium, the sight of so many people. Slowly how one got used to it. Freezing at the conf room in the business center because the AC was too efficient, gawking at the baubles on display at the boutiques. Looking all day at the sea from the 16th floor, watching her change moods, envy at the distant apartments the views they’d have…

How dare they.

Horrible.
How dare they.
Am ok.
Anyone talks of secularism, I'll break your teeth.

The heady scent of ground cinnamon, cardamom, cloves. Tej patta, coriander, pepper, and then some spices I don’t quite know the names of, but the notes fit in some place in the memory lingers, though I cut it fine this morning.

Sunday evening, at the wedding function. The father died a few months back, a heart attack, a shock for all. The mother shook off her grief, insisted life go on, and then his best friends took over, taking the function to a state of flawless execution. A crisp salute.

Why do I seek complexities? In the bookstore in the hometown (where I do my book shopping, far better than making funny faces at the suburb traffic), I head past the prettily arranged bestsellers, for the books in a language that continues to surprise; memories of Mrs. Arora in Class 7 patiently deciphering, unscrambling my stab-attempts at the language. Yes, another AP it is, ये कागज़, ये कलम, ये स्याही and I shall look at the words I don’t quite know, turn them over, seek connects with what it sort of sounds like; the strangest of interests for sure.

Returning from the bank the other day, we compete for a rick, yours truly and four pairs of tiny hands, shepherded by their mothers. Maybe I can give you a lift? Bhuma- Bhumika, Vrusha, Lakshmi, all pretty red checked pinafore and red ribbons kindergarteners, thank you for those lovely smiles; the pleasure was entirely mine.

One is so used to projections, to outcomes, to cause and effect, mega scale 5 year plans. The busy-ness of it all.
Why does one resist- simply sitting back and enjoying the ride?

So you put your head down and get on with the day.

There is charm in a blatant peach sunset, in Calylilly green, in movies from Hyderbhai’s library.

There is a lightness. An incredible lightness of being.

There is laughter, in old friends teasing. In connecting.

In health tales from oldies-goldies, in the retelling of family yarns.

In lanes that turn and new shortcuts discovered-a pleasure not to be sniffed at.

At some level, one watches on, the spectator, the joker in the pack.

In all of this, what is there to write?

But I have no excuse.
After the meetings and conferences, after all the Nokia contacts were backed up, and after all the digital images were resized.
Zilch.
Nothing.

Will return to posting as usual now.

Thank you for coming back.

Sometimes you get a week where you say, "That's enough already.."
Sometimes you get a week when you say that, and its only Tuesday.
Anyway.
Storm handled, for now.
Later is another day.

Sometimes even sunlight gleaming off perfect aquamarine can pall.

Delicate fronds of white-topped green nod with the dawn breeze. Paper lanterns at the street corner shimmer at the whisper of a draft. So strange the memories we retain.

Its Diwali. The festival of lights.
A gentle reminder of happier times ahead.
Even if it took the Lord twelve years in exile.

Too little, too late.

http://www.breakingviews.com/2008/10/23/Greenspan.aspx?email

You go home singing O’my darlin Clementine (in your mind, but of course) , after you’ve seen stuff like this all day.

The usual walk in the park, looking at the sky, the eucalyptus leaves outlined against a peach dawn, dew on the grass, the corner I call the bamboo grove…all routine till I overhear a conversation… “…santoor and the rendition was excellent..” Shock the parent by turning around and asking a complete stranger, “So which raga did he present?” keywords for the next few minutes- bilaskhani todi, bilawal, asavari ...Ah, life!. Then the discordant notes of the day don't hurt as much. Surprising, the things one does sometimes.

After the last strains of the jhinjhoti faded, and your fingers were still, that’s when the voices must have taken over, insidious and clamoring. Now only the good pieces remain, like rich embroidery on a kutchi shawl; a million lustrous, bright threads, a pattern that seems different every time you look at it- and there were so many- then the patchy, worn backdrop does not matter. It really is all about naav- nadi- sanjog. Peace, that’s all that remains.

How the mind loves a tidy story, all ends tied up, no grief, anguish or loose threads; so amusing to see all the tough tales prettied up, closure- it must be in our DNA. For the IWW practice stub this week, even Red Riding Hood and Madame Bovary were tonied up.

I’d forgotten how hot October can be, dry heat scorching three layers of skin, the wind burning your eyes and grit that sticks to the skin; it didn’t seem to affect a pair of pigeons playing about in a puddle, though.

Don’t want to forget this from the inauguration on Thurs.; past the glare reflected off the pristine white-gray factory amidst scrubland, thinking that the creation of wealth, jobs from practically nothing, is GOOD, even sacred.

Please pray for Mr AB.
Please.

If only I had a copy, if only the Gods that rule the Post Office had been kind.
Apparently I have a translated story in print. Finally finally.
A translation of Pravinsinh Chavda’s Sudamacharitra.
From Gujarati into English.
In Indian Literature, which is published by Sahitya Academi, N Delhi.
Sahitya Academy is India’s National Academy of Letters.
This is the first acceptance of a translation in five years.
Feels good. But also distanced.
Which I can’t explain.

Market headlines: Panic returns. Carnage.
I guess that’s it. For the next five years. Or so.
When the index touched 18 k -One didn’t dance on the table or spew cash like confetti.
So one shuts the eff up.
And gets on with it.

Relativity,with a different spin.
“Go to a proper doctor. Go now!” I say, staring at the funny prescription from a doc with a string of funny degrees.
The girl sitting quietly in the corner nods, changes into her uniform, spends the next two hours tidying up the salon, wiping spotlessly clean surfaces.
Money trouble. Such a relative term. No cribbing.
Worst case, the sky wont fall down.


NANO COMES TO GUJARAT.
YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY.
Garvi Gujarat.

added Oct 9: That girl is doing quite ok. Checked t'day.

Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away
Age 3. That frock with smocking and “I love you Mommy” embroidered. Wiping your grubby tears. I know you want Ma and Dadaji, but you’ll have to stay here. This is your home. And this is your tricycle, see how shiny bright the bell is.

Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away
Anand Balwadi. Balwadi ni bus, chaley dhas mas. Ek biladi jadi. Bari maan Babli baithi ti and the monkey on the roof.
All the rhymes I remember but will never sing.

Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away
School. School’s boring. Miss has a shrill voice. She makes you cry.
You prefer my class, specy, pigtailed, drawing in your notebook while I struggle with seventh standard math.

Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away
You hit back at anyone being nasty to me. Later you shout back. The things we learn. A special language only we know. Let it be. Doesn’t matter.
Your bus is late. Again. Where do these children go! Nupur’s mom and I, so many times.
Scour, find. The afternoon sun burns up the road.

Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away
Kathak. The starter class. The cyclone outside. Dancing, two left feet and me, so you wouldn’t cry, Papa’s not back as yet.
Kathak, your visharad.
Kathak, the green dress with lots of pleats from my first ever salary.

Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away
Your swirling skirts. Nine nights, Navratri. Three steps, six steps, nine steps, fifteen.
I watch aghast. So many steps! I’d rather sit and sing, thank you.

Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away
Doing your punishment homework, with the swirl in the S and the loopy g’s.
Uniforms. Brown paper covers for your notebook. Nine nines are…

Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away.
The queen of taans. Outdoing, showoff.
You signal the sam even when its hidden in a flurry of beats.All the taals like a pulse-beat, because of your dance riyaz.
Fights over who’s bringing the tanpura. Who’s taking it back. Why I only must do it everytime, what will you do…
Scowling, making funny faces.
Covering up, singing. One voice blends into another, reaches for the skies.
Barsey meha boond boond

Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away.
Flying kites for Utran, dark glasses and cap inscribed with “Friend” perched. Kite fights. Mogambo khush hua…You win.

Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away.
The punch-in-the-gut end. The skintight jeans. The off shoulder T. Charity.

Whirr a sparrow swooped, picked up a rice grain, and then she flew away.
Another Oct 4.

Bapu.
We let you down.
Maybe you always knew.
I return to the words- samdrashti ney kapat rahit chey.
One lifetime to live one word.

A day of uncomfortable surprises.
Arm twisting over a mugshot.
A classmate from 1989 chances upon the blog. And identifies.
Here was I, writing about sunsets and blue skies.
Wonder what next, trouble comes in threes.
The bailout?

Another 29th Sept.
A year older. Now forty-four.
A nice, round number. No hard edges, unlike 43.
43 is brash-angular, with sharp edges. Wannabe. Defiant.
Drama. Screeching violins. Thunder storms.
Sums up the last year. The last decade.
Now the housekeepin’s done.


44? I’ll figure out. By and by.
Stillness. Peace.
An equipoise kind of peace, know that one?
That’s the mantra. Next ten years.

The fine wrinkles, the silver, the laugh lines- a toast.
Peach-orange tint to a morning.
A solitary star pinned to the night sky.
Shushing greens.
A dog that rushes to greet.
A handmade gift from someone precious.
That 5 am tea from the parent.
More.
Gift me the eyes to see.

It is good to walk. To see the fluffy outline of a cloud, watch errant dust whirls. To be close to the ground, how the bumpy the roads are. To know which way the wind blows. As also the basics, of grain and greens. Not knowing, living in card castles can muck up the world and cost you $700 bill.

As I try pull myself out of a grumpy mood, I remind myself of the man selling that whirring helicopter toy at the traffic signal yesterday, the white cats curled asleep on the car hood this morning, and how despite all, dew glistens on about a fifty shades of green in the park.

All of yesterday was spent in meetings in the bored room, and since we reached early we avoided the traffic and the deluge. Read a few stories from Urban Voice enroute, till I reached a tale that made my brain standstill, then I could only look out and watch the vintage art deco buildings blur past.

B&W photo-portraits of Rajahs, Maharajahs, Nawabs and sundry chieftains line the teak paneled wall; dressed in finery and baubles, with shining eyes and fierce moustaches. Twenty one gun salute, fifteen gun salute, rank, privilege and protocol bound; some wouldn’t even acknowledge the other out of cussed pride, and here we are, all these decades later, decoration on a wall. Ah time.

Met a friend in the city on the way back, for no fault he’s between a rock and a hard place, the firm he works for is on the hitlist, a trillion dollars can’t be prettied up by parking it; you can’t give home loans at 3.5 % and allow debt of 30 times, someday its payback time, the whole world suffers. Who is John Galt?

The glowing Hussain in the lobby. The rain swept sea and skies all the same color, the cascade in the portico. Still as lovely.

Not much seemed to have changed at the hotel in the capital- it was quite tranquil, life as usual, wheelers-dealers and sundry poltis ambled in quite unconcerned, the buzz just as loud, security just as lax. The image of alert security men at the check in counter for El Al, the Israeli Airline comes to mind. Just two days after the blasts, and where are we?

A stretch limo for the man who let the Kosi rage. Nice.

The trees. Almost like a forest. Branches unpruned, intertwined and growing any which way. That thick undergrowth. Right in the city. Envy that. WhycantwehavetreeslikethatinMumbai.

This market’s giving me the blues.

Too much drama for one day. I’m referring to the index seesaw which was better post afternoon, read govt pressure. Real jobs and real money gone in a blink of an eye. No Lehman. No Merrill. What happens to BRIC now?

Just when one had come to terms with the horror in Delhi. One more city, same strategy-bomb and fear- escalating anger, a dirty visceral anger. Keep that paperwork ready, already.

You recall the dancing crowds yesterday, escorting the Idols to the sea. They’re dressed in orange t-shirts, swaying not to a bollywood number or a prayer, but to an anthem praising a party’s might. Scary.

And you think of the gentle rain falling, the twinkling lights, how lush the grass is no matter what- and try to get on with your day.

I don’t think it is ever possible to know oneself completely.
Forget about anyone else.

Blush. Duh. I have me an award.

Drumroll… or something.

In the spirit of graciousness that Manujee conferred this award, I bequeath-


Mago the magician, for opening up a pandora’s box of people and places

Quin’s fmd, for being what she is, just quin!

Babyisland, and the three leeetle ones on an island someplace

Supermom Crustybeef

Portia who grooves on, so she does, and the great art hidden someplace in the archives.

Amit scintillates (when he’s not copy-pasting, that is.)

Paulo the wise, for making me think.

This isn’t a nice post.
Look how quickly things get over.
Pieces of jute string and a diya at the gate.
A grieving family.
How suddenly things happen.
When she’s gone, what is left?
She had such a good heart, everybody says.
I pay my respects and go back. Sort of close family, but not quite.
We spend so much time and effort in acquiring things, striving- and its over in an instant.

Something the voice said.
Its only later that I berate myself for being so arrogant. Judgmental. That a box with a sandwich, a pack of wafers and cookies can mean a great deal to someone. So much so that they crowd, fishmarket style; and scream, niceties and five-star ambiance be damned. So often one transposes one’s value system, but the frames of reference are so darned different there is just no connect. Lazy thinking on my part.

Chants on the loudspeakers enroute to work. (later in the day, blaring movie songs as well). Marigold garlands. Strings of lights strung across the road. The roar of drumbeats- hypnotic. The cheers of the crowds taking the Ganpati idols for immersion.
Something glorious in the air.

TOI, for long a rule unto itself, has found a formidable opponent in twilight fairy.
Yes, she knows its a tough battle.

Read on:


Hey all,

Recently a picture of mine, under "all rights reserved" license was used by
TOI in one of its supplements, dated 18th July
without my permission and without giving me any form of credit or
compensation.

I contacted the editor on phone as well as mail, politely asking for
compensation and credit and what I got was a "take this or sue me" attitude
and no concern for the fact that what they did was illegal, not to forget
unethical.

Apart from other things that I'll do, as a blogger, the best I can do is
write about it and make sure that everyone knows that such a thing is being
done.

If any journalist here is interested in publishing this as a story, please
do. I know of several such copyright violation cases now and a cumulative
one
would be even more powerful an article.

If any lawyer would like to get in touch with me, please contact me at
twilightfairy at gmail dot com.

Here's her account :
http://blog. twilightfairy. in/2008/09/ 01/toi-believes- flickr-is- for-flicking/

A traffic jam on the over bridge, an hour from east to west; a gentle breeze touches the pipal canopy etched against the just-about orange sky as a truck trailer carries an oversized Ganpati home, escorted by a gleeful orange bandana and T contingent.

The Worli- Bandra bridge cuts across, a ribbon spanning the sea; just ahead in silhouette is a 34-storeyed apartment under construction, the arm of the crane juts out like a black palm holding a golden sky. “Three to five years, sorry,” I mumble, looking at the golden orb dip in the distant ocean.

Establishments right from rickety Happy Hair Cutting Salon to glass-fronted McDonalds have changed their signboards to the local script overnight. Would be amusing if the brawn show wasn’t scary.

Three days to the Ganpati festival.

A completely random happiness.
Channel surfing. Find, on UTV movies- A Hard Day’s Night.
Squeal, shout, cheer, sing along; every yeah yeah yeah, every wo ooo oo oou.
Every darn word. How the lines sound.
The parent looks on, bemused.
This is the first-ever record I’d seen as a 5 year old.
Shiny cover, the fab four, memories of jumping on the bed, monkey-style.
How does the brain remember?

A bed of lush weeds, a sprinkle of silver, a few periwinkle amidst riotous green.
I'm happy for the strangest reasons.
Sometimes.

THE Mr. AB replied to a comment I'd left on his blog.

Dazzled. Awe.

You stare at the mail eyebrows raised, nostril flared and lip half-stretched in disbelief, you’re hearing from someone you’d given up on, for something you’d given up on a long time back.
Sorry- this is cryptic.
For now.

Greed, rapacious avarice, and dishonesty.
No, have never seen this magnitude before.
I watch it like a specimen on a slide.
Learning.

It’s been a good three-day break. Glimpses remain.
-Realizing how light from incandescent bulbs can put one to sleep as early as ten in the night.

-Realizing that one will never quite fathom the sacrifices so many have made for us to live on free land, breathe free air and speak out. Looked through scribbled notes from the essay, to try and understand that mettle, wondered where it all disappeared.

-Connecting with family on raksha bandhan, now the email and phone way.

- Looking spellbound at the Silk and Spice route story on Discovery. So many have come and gone, the march of ages, et al, and one day so shall we. Lovely shots, but.

-Began reading White Oleander- beautiful words, its the kind of story that you think of when you wake up first thing in the morning.

-Tons of friends, long distance calls lasting an hour or more, a vision of the flat with the distant sea view and slums next door.

- tough sub, but I did it, 400 and done.

Med chem remember? Engineering drawing? Workshop? Swotting. Writing formulae, equations on the wall. Cology, cognosy, all the stuff we learnt, arcane measures like minims? Its been a neat twenty years since we toiled away at titrations. Since we used slips of butterpaper to steady those circa sixties balances, playing it so much by the ear, all POTA numbers. And yet when I talked to you the other day it was like you’d never left. Strange how some friendships last, some don’t.

Laughter, teasing, and when that young niece and nephew discuss vintage hindi films from the sixties and the latest music do you realize how time has sped by. A loved elder’s birthday, celebrations, family ties, everyone talking at the same time, an unspoken thought like the music in the air, next year who knows. Sunday evening, bits of Om shanti om with the remote on standby you realize even a standard, run of the mill story can be given a super treatment, that is art.

Grass tousled by spray rain. A drop falters bamboo leaf edge.
A mynah trots on wet paving stones.

What is the color of closure? I don’t know. But it sure has a sweet smell. For reaching this close to insanity a year ago, for grief and for that laughable abject gratitude- let karma take its own dues. Maybe I owed, and I paid up- that too, is possible. I don’t even want to know which version is your truth.

A greeting fetches a cuss and an angry word volley, and then it hits home- what the Buddha meant by dispassionate active calm and how many trillion lifetimes you are away from it.

Without a rolldown screen or a sheet to project on, they cannot use the film. So many different Indias, from the six-screen multiplex to projection on a village wall.

Acknowledge the mess, action measures and dammit move on. The time for decision is at the beginning-not now. Done is done. My blunders are all life-size, ever lasting.
(Work related.)

Sometimes I think I’d be quite happy in a languid silence cocoon, stirring now and then, content to let the world merrily spin by - and I gently remind myself that I’m almost there.

The wind whistles a banshee wail, scatters rain spray, and bounds off the glass walls of this six-storeyed building on a hill.

Every time there is a bombing I think of Kandahar. Tolerate for how long?

The oversized mickey mouse that watches over the wet playswings wears a lopsided grin, the puddles by the pink and rainbow slide shine back at a blurry sky, its finally raining (after a long dry spell),oh yes a certain whatchacallit in the air.

Do you remember what 2000 was like? I do not. Scary, this grainy sense of days coalescing into each other like photographs you can't quite see the images on, nameless blobs of b&w with nothing to show for it.

I coo at this chubby five-month charmer as he gurgles, shows off a toothless smile while his proud parents beam; yes, truly a miracle, a reminder for cynical-at-the-edges me.

A puree of this, that and the other thrown together; you dipstick taste it but a vital something’s missing and it nags you.

Part of the struggle in the act of changing the words over is keeping the meaning intact, part is admitting to oneself the thought-change any set of words causes.

On the horizon the sunset an orange-red slash sandwiched by dense blue black ; a dramatic backdrop to reminisce about the school in a mango orchard, long-gone teachers whose admonitions still echo, and first sighs.

Two weddings, one condolence visit; the widow’s grief a shroud, in all enough social activity-chit chat to last me a month, and I step back into a quiet place.

Crimson, which is also on the older roughpad, is accepted for a poetry anthology.
Feels good.

Yesterday this colleague from another department was someone you met in the lift, said good morning to. Today its not. Why is death so sudden?

Second anniv. of July 11 commuter train bomb blasts.

Stunning greens in the park. Shock still for a moment I reach out and clasp, drink thirstily this energy, exuberant life force, rooted yet reaching skywards; an instant. Whtchacallit.

A rustle wave through knee-high grass, a cat crouches- all white, black paw, amber eyed- but goblins and elves?

What kind of man does this?
In the dark, in the softly falling rain, a girl in a medicated daze, runs and is chased by a man with a camera while her father looks on, the OB van follows close behind, the live feed for national broadcast has supers reading “obsessed/jilted fan hounds celebrity” or similar.
What kind of man does this?
My response is unladylike and quite unprintable.

When it’s the harsh real-world grittiness and intriguing multiple-layer complexity of a Sarkar Raj that stays with you versus the few frames of a frothy chocolatey Dil to Pagal Hai that you force yourself to see “for old times sake”; that you really realize what the years do- you’ve changed.

Watching the machine instantly correct blemishes to make the images print-ready, one wonders what if this option were available in real life, an instant flowing mane, creamy skin or slender waist; but if something were too easy to access in no time it would lose value.

That water finds its own level.
That water flows downhill.
Mostly. But if the path downhill is blocked, water floods.
And so it did.
Caged a lift marking a furrow in the said flood waters (memories of Cal), made it to work to learn I was the only person in my group, turned right around and went home.
The BMC commissioner more or less says “live with it”.
Was that in English?

Those projects did move on to micromanage.Salvaged nth minute, and now are out of the ICU but still in the general ward. J Which means the end is quite some distance away.
The third project, the really really big one, has yet to re-begin.

Must document the curious case of the burnt plastic and the lost tax filing sometime.
Luckily, both were retraced, retrieved after a lot of hand wringing.
Learning- follow up, always always. Also, that he is really getting old, despite his gung-ho attitude.

What bugs you?

That was the writing prompt this week. Interesting reactions, how they vary around the world.

Of course, as a country we tolerate entirely too much.

July 26, 2005 memories of the deluge.

So what bugs you?

In the darkness of crowds trooping home, a woman in a sequined polyester saree worn too high, hands over cash from her rexin purse to a man who stands entirely too close for comfort-so many paths this story can take,what I see will be quite different from what you see, is it not?

Among a roomful of bejeweled women in rustling kanjeevarams and charming gray-haired men seated by white linen covered tables, a bullet from a silenced mauser smuggled through the service entrance of the luxury hotel ricochets off a chandelier. Another whizzes and reaches its target- the elderly statesman at the podium- just as he steps away for some water. Screams, shattering glass, running footsteps and darkness.

Disclaimer: Take one long commute. One bored woman, sitting at said table, twiddling thumbs. One rambling speech. Lots of clapping. Blend.

I have a sub up on sixsentences.
Something. :)
http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2008/06/untitled_4797.html

And humpty dumpty had a great fall.
Silly shoes. Silly me.
Interesting work pace. Crazy, but fun.
Nothing profound. Emerging perspectives are intriguing.

387 words, and done. Unlike last week. There always is time, always. Time is a construct, someone said. A patli gali, a jugaad. Now for the crit deluge. Feels awful when I don’t.

I like to micromanage. On once-a-year projects, the big ones that well, matter. To see it through, each page/frame. Signing off ceremoniously, then its not in my hands anymore, right? This once I’m not doing that- boss’s orders, too much happening at the same time. Am tense and completely in knots. Am trying visual imagery, the annual visit to Mt Mary’s and putting the finished product at her feet like always. Not working too well.

And as always when I need to stop fretting, I cooked. Ground masalas too- garam masala and dhana-jeeru (coriander-cummin), heavenly that fragrance; understood why the aunts back home concoct their own blends instead of buying from the shops.

Father’s day y’day. Baba and I laughed at the 85% discount we’d get if we shopped at Reliance Trends. (One got a discount equivalent to the parent’s age.)

Because he is the King. Because there is only one King.
Because of Abhimaan. And Alaap. Kabhie Kabhie. Silsila. And Black. And Satte pe satta. Kala patthar. And weeping through Muqaddar ka Sikandar. Twice.
Just, because.
http://blogs.bigadda.com/ab

Recycling words. Fragments of phrases, half remembered. Reuse, renew. One could get quite good at this.

Walking home eating a just-roasted, lime and salt-chilli smeared bhutta (corn on the cob), watching reflections in the puddles... Ah,Life.

I turn my face to the sky. Gentle drops brush my skin. Lightening cuts to the ground, a temper tantrum. Rain: intent, pelting, insistent, driven falls like a sheet of steel. I draw the raincoat closer, all resistance futile, drenched in no time.

Another rain: bai’s shanty, mostly mud, tin and stone, has caved in. She runs around trying to find the money, knowing that she hasn’t what it’d take to build strong, 1.5 lacs. She knows and I know what she’s putting together is flimsy, temporary, just about there, but it’ll have to do. Like a lot of things, patchwork.

The city is a mess. Already. BMC, MMRDA officials should be made to stand on the expressway in a downpour, swirling water rising waist high. A first witness check on the so-called disaster management. My first and last crib on this issue.

The more things change, the more they remain the same.

Last night I saw a red-black night sky with scattered lines of fluffy clouds, lightning cackled like an artist’s highlights, a strange electric unease filled the air. Later, a shower washed leaves clean of grime, that just-about-wet earth smell. Relief.

Abhilasha Ojha/ Business Standard/ How the Jawahar Knowledge Center initiative by the Govt of Andhra Pradesh is changing trajectories for several below-poverty-line families.

Does the soul good to read about hope.