What if there is nothing left to lose? Do the ends justify the means? That mother is harried, her middle-aged yet pretty features distort when she talks of skipping the kirana bill this month and the light- rent bills next month.Of shifting from flat to flat chased by landlords. The daughter is not yet seventeen, innocent, naïve, for want of a better word, pure. Her portfolio is ready, distant relatives and contacts have been mined. Tinsel town has its own games and its own rules, hundreds take the train to try their luck at the studio gates. “If it were my daughter I wouldn’t let her…” I say. But if there were no choice? If you were between a rock and a hard place? Then I guess you go out and do what it takes. Mind- scary.

The Ganpati festival begins tomorrow
May Lord Ganesha fill your life to the brim and overflowing with much that is good and lasting.
May the patron of the arts, the transcriber of the Mahabharata, always be by your side as you write and dream.

Images from Mahindra Tiktey’s workshop, Mhalpa dongri. This workshop is at the foot of the track I take to work everyday.

More on arbit pics.

No, I don’t think I’m ok with Sardar Patel being bad mouthed. Let’s not forget the map of country would have gaping holes in place of AP, Saurashtra and J&K had it not been for this man’s fine mastery of sam dam dand bhed.
One piddly politician acknowledging that or not does not matter.
(The highlight of his career is handing over terrorists on a platter with thanks, no one has forgotten.)
So-let him peddle his book and be done with it.
Why give him extraordinary publicity by banning the book?
Yes, my Gujju blood boils.

In Bapu’s (Gandhiji's) words.
The text in this image from a display at Mani Bhavan reads-
“And now we will be able to think of the idea of Swaraj (or freedom) in some time.I still have to reply to that question you asked me, I haven’t forgotten. But let’s look at your last question. The British have not taken Hindustan, we have granted it to them. They have not survived in Hindustan because of their might, but because we have allowed them to. Let us see how. Let me remind you that they first came to our country to trade, to do business. Remember the Bahadurs of the Company? Who made them Bahadurs? Those poor people had no intention of ruling. Who helped the people of the company? Who was influenced by their gold? Who helped sell their goods? History proves that above all, we value getting wealthy quickly…”

62 years on. What has changed?
A young child, not more than 7 years old, holding a 2 year baby, tugged at my hand for money. To buy thumbs up, she said, happy to settle for a packet of glucose biscuits.
What has changed for her?
I was quiet this Independence day.

This has to feature as the startle of the day.
Checking on a text reference, I was led to a beautiful, ancient description of a city I know reasonably well.
http://www.inter-islam.org/Pastevents/HistoryAhmadabad.htm
Why do I feel as if someone stepped on my grave?

Had been for the wall project today.Himmat kar key. Pushing my boundaries. Thank you, Dhanya Pilo.

After so long of “to go or not to go”, didn’t know a soul there.

They were painting the wall outside Mahim station, on Tulsi Pipe road. Open house, come one come all.This, yellow and red buildings is my wall-ting...Phew!

More on arbit pics. High quality work.

It is your bday today, o’ blue skinned one. Last night the temple bells must have rung clear, last night the conch shell echoed, to the fragrance of incense and jasmine, the delight of followers you must have been welcomed into the world. All well and good, but what to do? I’ve seen you in the swishing of the palm frond, in the march of stately trees lining an avenue, a tree holding up the sky, the clouds silver outlined, in the roar of the surf and the swish of the tide, talked to you the most intimate secrets in the whistling whooosh of a gale, marveled at the power in the thrust of the rocks out of the ground. So I wondered and so I celebrated, with long remembered songs from sepia school concerts and music lessons; kamal lochan kati pitamber, adhar murali giridharam…

The dew-swept grass this morning was magnetic, and I can so understand the artist who lay spreadeagled, pinned to the ground, took the earth to heart, one with the earth as it moves, with the gritty feel of the soil, the warmth of the sun and the breeze that carried myriad birdsong, one with the grass as it inched towards the bright sky, with the rush of the sap through the tall tree that stood sentinel-still upholding a generous canopy.
Then I smiled and walked away.Ah, life.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

On Sat., the road raced past green, mist laden hills and sleepy hamlets, picture perfect serenity- a backdrop to the gravity of our condolence visit, the sudden, too-early departure and one more tale of scoundrel med professionals who leech off poor patients.

Ostrich style, I shut out swine flu news.
Scary.

Rakshabandhan 2009

Silken threads dazzle
like memory wisps
laughter, leisurely lunches,
a special event much awaited.

BBC on Saturday featured Sting and the Neurology of Music.
Watched spellbound at the maestro was decoded/ deciphered in a series of MRIs.
That tune from Sister Moon that quivers in the air like a mist swirling before its set free by the first rays of the sun; the haunting Arabic voice in Desert Rose that spins a plaintive cry before settling free and soaring—which part of the brain does that sit in, so one sort of waits for it before it is sung?

And Hema and Kaushik from Unaccustomed Earth/ Jhumpa Lahiri- which quicksilver words did she draw on, what magic dust did she sprinkle and which hidden memories so deep in the brain did she awaken, so the reader is left stunned, distraught, grieving wanting to shout “No! You can’t do that!” in despair like a personal loss even a day after shutting the book?

The road is uphill.
The way ahead unclear.
But the mind knows that the time has come.
The mind knows the next steps.
Yet I will stop
to read the signs,
to check which way the wind blows
Why?

There was a post here about trust that I took off later.
The intention behind an impulsive action- it is important to look at that.
The heart was clean? The heart was clean.
This is learning for me.

The song of the sparrows is beautiful. Even if I saw only the last ten min.

This must have been a forest once.
Past the turning where a container truck is parked.
Past the mud and rubble on this filthy track
Must have been green, generous, bursting with life, busy bird calls.
Far overhead birds wheel in a V
as they must have, long ago.
About here- sunlight didn’t filter to the ground
Just the touch of the breeze on hushed green.
Perhaps there would have been a path here, deer doe-eyed, or a leopard or a cheetah sunning,
Where the factory now stands.
Next to the BPO. International calls, speaking as Miss Jones.
A well worn path, to the distant cave monastery, the only intrusion, mostly uphill, meandering.
Past the Aviation training academy, where the girls in short red make their way gingerly in the muck
But I’m sure this must have been a forest once.
Tall proud trees reaching for the sky, the whisper of the breeze like secrets.
And this place where a tea stall huddles with cheap meals for factory shift workers
Must’ve been a clearing for the world weary to rest. Or ponder journeys.
The years leave their mark, they say.
I wonder.

So many realities--the slum kid playing with a make believe horse made out of a rusted iron rod; the South Bombay 11th grader struggling with Hindi and class parties.

Today I awoke to a rejection.
Which all in all is a good thing.
One- the publisher got back.So many just don't.
two- the story has now moved from 400 words to 1700 words.
Which is a LOT of words. For me.
AND I have not sulked. For a change.
Ah, life!


Today's high winds are a manic delight, an almost eerie glee as they blow past buildings, whoosh through trees and twist and turn making a mockery of things like scaffolding, branches, and roofs.
The rain Gods were kind and stayed away, the century's higest tide didn't flood the city.

Tagged by Norrbu.
Tagging Amit L, PQ, Quin, mago, manuji.

They've finally taken away that truck that had rammed into the stone wall.
The beam of a heavy duty hoist has turned with the impact.
You can now see it past the huge gap in the stone wall.
The crushed auto was removed a day earlier.
The bus with the bad brakes stands at the turning.
Seven people, my autodriver tells me. Including a passer-by.
Sobering.
The plight of Yudhishthir at the gates.
Reminder to self: leave the desk and kitchen counter clean.


That glimpse of sunlight off the swishing palms, then dark clouds raced by.

Forwarding Address, a translation of Pravinsinh Chavda’s Agalnu Sarnamu, is online at Pratilipi.
http://tinyurl.com/lxgkvh

Hand in hand, we amble.
You’re saying your prayers, you set the pace.
How else would I have seen the Monet-like leaves, almost white green, or the bed of flamboyant red tiger lilies.
In colors, my prayer.

Tied myself up in knots over some words for most of last week, amazing how calm one feels once one decides upon the course of attack.

Looks like monsoon-time now.
Mumbai floods, and is as stoic.

I've watched with quiet peace the sky talk to the earth, envelop it in a misty rain cocoon, as leaves take on a million shades of green and the world looks fey.

A cocoon that I happily slip into when there is too much- too much at work, to much to think about, too difficult to find a way to say “No”. And it is still work.

Why is egoh a four letter word?
Isn’t it a thread that ties together diverse pieces of what we call the self, each with a will of its own?

My story Trital finds place in the July issue of the Birmingham Arts Journal.

http://tinyurl.com/nnpjos

Why do people self destruct?
Why do people with everything going for them, self destruct?
Saw three instances last week. One at close quarters.
Scary as hell.
Perhaps one ought to see why so many don’t breakdown despite.
Despite all.
Do we as humans have quotas of what we can take? What determines this?
And some don’t- despite all. Amazing.

That tape with the discolored, scratchy cover.
Treasured because it was “from foreign”.
Later, memories of sitting on the swing on the dark porch.
Listening to the same songs over and over again. Even if the words were a jumble.
Strange how the mind remembers.
Where exactly a line reaches higher. How exactly a drumbeat sounds.
As Radio One played a tribute this morning, so much came flooding back.
The day the music died.
What a life.

The Neighbors, my translation of the Gujarati story Padoshi by Pravinsinh Chavda, is up on Calque.

http://calquezine.blogspot.com

This story details two very different life trajectories, mindsets and expectations on the two sides of a fence in a lower-middle class locality. Sometimes life decisions are made much before one’s birth.

The first rains.
Light as a feather.
Drops flurry about in the breeze, not the real monsoon furor as yet.
For so long now I’ve scoured the skies. Scowled at the sun.
Thank the heavens.
Beneath the leaves too, a fluorescent green.
A strange bird warbles out a tune, three clear notes in three octaves.
To all things, a season.

He is a genius-Nobel laureate, fine.
But verse usually stops me short.
What startles is the simplicity, the permission to write what he will, even an Ode to a lemon.
So right.

I am, as most know, fairly taken with the stars and reading the signs.
Daft that way- but let it be.
But this is different.
Perhaps it is the art- so beautiful. There is an old age, lyrical museum-quality feel about it.
Perhaps it is the openness to interpretation that's intriguing.
You can read into it what you will. A portend is a portend, after all.
A feature may be positive, or not.
Or it can be both at the same time, depends on what you bring to it

One of the singular pleasures these days has been "sandwiching", squeezing in slivers of whatever movie catches my fancy from the bouquet on the satellite channels, of course my current faithful Ladies Special must be watched as well. I could get addicted to this movie-a-day habit.

Pico Iyer on simplicity.
My thoughts exactly.
Less is more.

Last night, enthralled, I watched Matilda, a child’s tale, a fantasy with clear line dividing good and bad, based on a Roald Dahl tale about a six year-old super smart kid with telekinetic skills. Why do we need to believe? Is it a desperate scramble to hold on to anything, something? Why do we make up improbable tales, knowing fully well they are beyond what is real? Perhaps the need to feel hope despite and notwithstanding, is genetic.

Another June 9. With the years, I see the good that was there- and there was so much solidly good, so much that changed my life. The bad I acknowledge, but its like reading lines in a history book.

Somenath Maity/ Structures/Jehangir Art Gallery.

Its the colors that draw you in. Light fireworks in your brain.
Amazing strokes of oranges and reds.
Once you've regained your breath and found your feet after the shock suddeness of it all, you begin to look at the details.
The shanty resting by a tall glass and chrome tower. The hut is on earth, the tower seems to lead to the sky.
The lane that leads beyond the building, and beyond you're sure it twists and turns and curves impossibly before leading on to who knows where.
That line of lamps on the water, and a bright-lit niche in the dark, past all the blues and blacks, so dark, why is it brightly lit?
There are hints of a nameless mystical, in the domed structure with a flag swishing atop,in the block of a building by a fort.
Why are there no titles? I ask. Because a title limits, draws a boundary- this way you think.
He stands in front of a blank canvas and then the colors explode and overtake, and he sees what he sees. There is a child-like simplicity, a honesty that's clean.
Go there if you're prepared to think.
Go there if you can see beyond.
Go and see the thesis encapsulated in a hint of a line.

Ashok Mody/ Images of the Mahatma/ Jehangir Art Gallery
"Minimalist realism" is how Mr Mody, an architect and a self taught painter, describes his canvases.
In a few strokes he has captured the directness and simplicity of Bapu.
You wait a few feet away from the canvas and wait for the lines to come together and speak.
This is graphic art in the way the bold lines speak, this is also modern art, in knowing which lines to pick and strengthen.
The canvas of a young, turbaned Gandhiji, the version one saw if only on the screen- the pics after his return from South Africa - has a clarity of purpose the old man would have approved of.


After these brainstorms, fuel for the soul, I walked through Chor Bazaar, the thieves' market.
Which is rather like a flea market.
Amazing antiques. Some made-as- antiques.
Film posters. Glassware. Clocks. Furniture. Crockery.
All arranged as and when is.
A writing desk took away my heart.
Tons of photos were taken.

So that's how I spent saturday, traveling cattle class to town.
I hope that lady who was going to a holy place to present her mannat to the soul of the holy person who once resided there, the pir, finds her wishes blessed.

A momentary quiet period.
What have I been up to?
Manic times at work. Plus the usual reading-writing.Plus running somewhat, a home.
Cutting 400 words from something one thought of as "finished work" a year ago, is painful.Humbling.
Been thinking. brooding.
Heard an expert talk about how we're not done yet, the brown shoots theory.
I agree. The markets dont. So I go back to thinking.
Anyone remember John Galt?
We're getting closer to Atlas Shrugged.
Amity Shlaes says it much better.
Link from Mint.
The red splash of the gulmohar can wait for a day.

http://www.livemint.com/2009/06/02210725/Rand8217s-Atlas-is-shruggin.html

Oh yes the genre is new for me. I learned to reach beyond the obvious.
To look at the shifting, surging, shimmery layers beneath.
That reality can be what you want it to be.
That writing about sneering men and women on pencil heels is not the only choice.


(story courtesy: Swapna)

I cough my lungs out. I wheeze. I concoct and sip strange admixtures. I sigh like a heroine in a Victorian novel, my voice a throaty rasp. I sniff and inhale, alas its only steam.
As you may see, I’m doing better now. Somewhat.

Parallel veins on the palm leaf stand out, etched in mad hues of green crayon by THE master artist; what does it take to see, for long I had eyes but did not.

So filigree like; hinting at the shadows and shapes beneath the surface:

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
-Wordsworth, from Lines written in early spring.


With shock I watch the reigning king of the marquee walk by, dark, wiry and unimpressive. Its all the director’s doing, all glam sham I realize- the emperor has no clothes! Under the harsh lights they’re practicing a mass drill type of dance step in a purported state room- no envy, not for anything in the world. Not this.

Basking in reflected glory.
One more.

calquezine.blogspot.com

At a quarter to three in the morning the clouds are low and bear a trademark red tinge, as if streetlights flood the heavens; but that's not reason enough to awake at that blessed time every night, like a third bit actor in a ghost movie. Neelkamal anyone?

Copyright infringement can be infuriating. But I got back, I stood up to authority- a big change.
And then I let go.
Like several I let go in the recent past.
You have to choose your battles.

yahooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
A Fistful of Flowers.
On Muse India
A translation of the original by Shri Pravinsinh Chavda.
http://tinyurl.com/q7ramk

Just coasting along. In a state of contemplation. In the quiet.
Marking the shadow of the palm fronds on the tar.
Marking the curtain of sunlight past the green on the awning.
Revelling in the gulmohars that bloom, no reason or reasoning required or proffered- they just are.
Thrilling in the cuckoos and parrots and sundry strange birds.
An orchestra or a cacophony? You decide. I can't be bothered.

If only I’d known cleaning out my mailbox would be as therapeutic.

From a visit to Mani Bhavan on Saturday.
Gandhiji stayed here from 1917-1934.
This is where the civil disobedience movement began.

Youtube. And you.
You're like a child. Elated.
You insist on K L Saigal.
1944. 1952.
Every evening.The IPL be damned.
Babul mora. Ek bangla baney nyara.
A question barrage.
I scramble. I steal time.
Who with. when. why. which show.how much was the ticket?
Oh really! And then?
So many questions.
Anything. For a slice of your life.
And you know. And I know.
Time's a thief.

Last night, we ended with Geeta Dutt.
Chain sey hum ho kabhi...
As also the Sanjeevani and Asha Bhonsale versions.
In my brain loop, her voice echoes.
To sing this one, you have to live life a little.

As the mostly young audience cheers and hangs on to every wizened word
Past the halo of honors and laurels that rest lightly on your frail shoulders;
I see
deep furrows and fine lines that crisscross your face
the sharp-as-paper-edge temper
your lack of patience with fools
that blunt directness of your cryptic, barked replies
the arms you’ve earned, from a life honestly lived
I learn
That 9 to 5 is not mandatory
That putting up, adjusting, making do is not mandatory
That it is completely possible to hold a point of view, which is entirely your own
To fight an unfair fight without bitterness corroding
To wait for the end with composure
Nothing is mandatory.

Thoughts on listening to Mahasweta Devi (84), the feisty fiery brilliant author- activist, at Prithvi y’day.

Today we are 86.
:)

Sometimes it is good to cry tears I didn’t know I had left.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY

Thank you, Quin.

The gulmohars have come into bloom; that unnamed tree at the corner is bursting with green- yellow. If only I could stop cribbing about dug up roads and the dust haze.

Thank you, sir.
Yes, the courage to know it can be done.

(*Scroll to comment #29, day 351.)

So stunning.
Something about Helen Levitt's photos.
The light and texture, the simplicity of B&W that pulls you in.
And to think I was just scanning through an obituary.
She was as bad with talking as I am.

Kaki, my aunt, talked of stocks stored for the year-tall red-stoppered glass jars filled with cummin, ajwain, mustard, bought at the right price, in the right season, fragrant from the harvest. She talked of dals and wheat and she’s all set, the best wheat, all fifteen kilos cleaned, sieved, coated with castor oil and packed in large bins. This once I’m tempted, perhaps its in your genes, this peculiar mix of satisfaction-joy at doing things right, that sense of continuity, the way its always been done generation after generation. And money-sound too. Maybe later.

She wafts in and out of “here time”, that gleam in her eyes short lived, head upright-now lolling, as the disease continues to extract all that was good, instant and alert, corrodes, inches towards the inevitable. Sobering.

A glimmer at the end of a long, winding tunnel.
Sometimes one can feel happy for no reason at all
And then, there is a reason:

http://pratilipi.in/2009/03/the-battle-of-manekgadh-pravinsinh-chavda/

note: updated link, it had changed in the evening

There are songs to the fine first rain, to the mad burst of monsoon.
There are songs to the winter.
But to the scorn of the sun I can’t remember any.
Scorching seven layers of skin.
Memories of burning soles at Fatehpur Sikri, when I was twelve.
And the relentless fury of the sun every afternoon.
So hot that I can feel the blood pounding in my head.
Drumming a war song, maybe.

I must write this down so I do not forget; waking up at dawn trembling, dreading the day, the shock of disjointed dream scenes with a green overcast, the people so real, life like- overheard conversations, slights and all, the news so believable in this age of a-shock-a-day. The call of the koyal jarred. Sunlight, and sanity returned. A warning?

Productivity road is super jammed. There’s a mob there. A police posse seems ineffective.
Later I learn about the man who heals, just by touch. Its in the papers.
Attracting clamoring crowds, far and wide.
I smirk, all knowing and worldly wise. Cynical, even.
Later, I wonder why.
Is it always necessary to jump to a conclusion?
Faith, so fragile. Sometimes its all that one has.
Can’t I respect that?

In the lobby, I bristle. I search for a lingering something, a wisp, maybe a glimpse of a ghost, a sense that something’s off; but past the vibrant MF Hussain the reception looks just as busy, the engraved wall with the tree of life as serene, the buzz as intense- people watching people. All the rooms have new paint, fittings and furniture, loud carpets have replaced that fine tint, framed photos of the royals that once decked corridor walls have vanished, as if by magic. By the locked balcony one wonders, which of these roofs is Nariman House?

No, it never goes away.

Fine, sharp as an edge writing, it draws blood:
http://pratilipi.in/2008/12/ice-wine-priya-sarukkai-chabria/

If only I didn’t mumble, perhaps crafting dialogue would be easy.
Or perhaps if I spoke up, dulcet voiced or stentorian, instead of thinking and thinking most times, rambling on, d'you know?
Or perhaps if I could speak in hyperbole and voices, specially voices, crisp lines wouldn’t be excruciating. Like pulling teeth. Only that you get to do it over and over again.

Craftsmanship? THIS is craftsmanship.
Enviable, clean, hardhitting- but mostly, clean-lean. Honest.
The rest is just a random, feeble try.
I rest my case.

http://www.jayneannephillips.com/eswhy.htm

Starburst. A firework shower on black.
A cavalcade; trucks with blaring music.
A tableau of the Conqueror- King.
Dancing crowds dressed in a uniform, orange T shirts.
I elbow past.
The might of Pratapgadh, a fort perched on a mountain.
The stillness at Jaigadh, a fort guarding a bay, all alert.
Power, perfectly preserved in rough-cut stone
Not this wild, flinging-arm dance.

AND it’s a six.
http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2009/03/chorus.html

The holi flames reach skywards, red flecks on black-blue.
Scorching feet, as one circles.
Thinking.
What is there to ask for.
What is, is perfect. What isn’t, also is perfect.
Color splashes on tar merge.
Like children’s war hoops and glee.
Just the tone, no distinctives.

“Abir and gulaal cloud the air,” words from the the hori- kajri learned a lifetime ago; from a time when women were doe eyed mriganayani; I guess with the chemicals they use these days my windows will be shut tight.
Yet the jasood is in bloom, a style statement in orange, and just-tender neem leaves wave to the first dawn.
Happy Holi.


(abir/ gulaal- natural colors. hori-kajri- classical music forms)

In the orange of the evening, the gargoyles and angels atop the neocolonial BMC building seem as if any minute they’d take flight, lift over the heads of the surging crowds and then you realize the beauty is apparent only past two tinted glasses; the car’s and one’s sunglasses, outside and the scorching heat would overwhelm.

Still trying to get my head around Dev D. Yes, I muchly like it that he chooses life. The disconnect between the Saigal version, the Bhansali version and this one was too much for the parent, who can speak out some of the vintage dialogues perfectly.

In Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell says ten thousand hours of practice at anything is necessary to break through to acceptable level. Ten thousand hours.
http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1858880,00.html
Shock state.

That there are miracles.
The girl who was critical after she took terrorist’s bullets on 26/11 at a birthday celebration at the Taj.
The girl who fought for her life.
A friend of a friend. So often one prayed, whatever may be best for her must happen.
Stunned. Yes, a miracle.

http://www.mid-day.com/news/2009/mar/040309-Mumbai-Terror-attack-Jharna-Narang-Taj-Mahal-Hotel-Last-victim-discharge.htm

Some things are still free.
On my way home last night-Osama and Diana, the glorious mongrels I met outside the chemists, and silly talked with.
The flute seller who seemed so happy just playing on that crowded road so late at night.
The just-subtle scent of jasmine- marigold strands at the garland sellers.
That cheque that I’d given up on a long time ago.
Its scorching at 37 degrees and some.
But some things are still free.

Luck by Chance, a movie about the movie making business, is very good.
Raw. Gritty edged. Quick. Honest.
Some say you need to be an insider to “get it”.
Which is pshaw, stuff and nonsense.
(Film mags weren’t allowed at home. We saw maybe two movies/year. But I still “got it”.)
The movie picks up the thread from Zubeidaa in a way. That real life, manic magic.
Excellent story. Perfect casting.
Great dialogue- particularly when an incredulous scriptwriter pencils in unbelievable scenes on demand, also the screen test ones.
Farhan Akhtar is an unbelievable actor- perfect.
Sleek. Sharp. Maybe it cuts too close.
Just the perfect movie to ponder past a sleepless one am. And you wonder how the same week can have both a great surprise and a what the *%*surprise.
Zoya Akhtar’s got it made.

Its fagun vad 2, the second day of spring. You look beyond tender, just fresh leaves but the sun is scorching. As is the mind- one forgets how many zeros there are to a billion. Watched on Fox y’day, the training sessions for BPO hopefuls, mauling/mastering American and Australian accents, but with the new bill, these jobs will go, as have many at the other end of the spectrum.
One goes on, head high, grateful for routine and rote, a cup of tea still refreshes.
One goes on.
This too, will pass.

I have six sentences up!
RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW
Yipeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

As we walked past zombie eyed, a tree burst into song, a million bird calls setting free the dawn. Humbling.

Another 23rd.
Visions of the girl dancing the six-step garba, her skirts atwirl.
The girl as a six year old, specs and all, sneaking into her sister’s class.
The girl, cap askew, jumping from one part of the terrace to another, as her kite soars up the blue.
I’m blinded, I shield my eyes.
Another 23rd.
Another quiet taste of Black Forest cake.

Why should I always be there?
Always reachable. Always responsive. A generous dollop of a smile.
You’re welcome, thank you kindly.
A year, six months of silence, zero response to mails and its ok, matters not.
You can always pop across when you please. Of course I’ll be there, wont I?
Why?
Why should I always be there?
You got issues? I got ‘em too. Bigger, brighter, shinier. See?
I learnt up the polite one liner. Nice. Fine, thank you.

Snapshot memories.

You, pointing out the orange band of a sunset from the plane window.

You, engrossed in a tremendous rendition of Darbari on the plane’s music system. All the to-ing and fro-ing, and why did I not notice this before?

Snapshot memories. To steal and hold.

That there are miracles.
This morning : that shocking thud, and that sight- you're lying on the floor, unconscious.
Now: you're sitting across, talking economics.

No broken bones, cognition seems fine, you wriggle toes on demand.
Thank you, Mister God.
I'm humbled.

Smoke and mirrors, and charades. But we’ve tired this once, Mr. Minister. Do you seriously believe the grenades; AK 47’s and war-quantity ammunition for close to 4 days of battle were checked in as baggage? Or they reached the hotels marked as boxes of soaps and lightbulbs? Or they were carried in those flimsy backpacks we’ve seen so often in those dirty, unforgettable pictures?

Yes, it may well be election year, and you may well want brownie points, but like it or nor, 26/11 had local support.

Ammunition is one, access to the bylanes and shortcuts only a local knows is the other.

Yesterday I discovered one more shortcut- rather unorthodox, I must admit, and walking only-to get to the main expressway from my little spot in this big city- the fifth such meandering path I’ve found. No, you will not find this on Google Earth for all your money.

Perhaps its time to get real.

Am shell shocked, zapped, delighted, zoned out, speechless.
I shall feature in Six Sentences Vol 2.
Made the cut. Got through. whoa.
YAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO....

And. Thank you kindly.


Haven't figured out a way to thank Harry. But will.

(At the Trident last week). Rottweiler. A menacing dog please. And a couple of Mossad type security guards. Surly, all-business.And I wanted bags and packages to be checked thoroughly. Any nonsense to be vaporized and sent to outer space. What I didn’t bargain for was business as usual; polished flooring you can see your face on, and gentle soothing music over the chitchat.
Echoes of the shouts, screams and the acrid smell of burning wood, charred flesh from 26/11 haunt one to high alert, dammit whatever did we learn?


How expectations tint the way we look at things. Ramchand Pakistani is a nice movie. Too nice perhaps. Maybe I’m a skeptical Bollywood movie watcher, with a high tolerance for gore. But I seriously wonder if a sulking child wandered across the border, would the return be as easy or the living as nice? We’re conditioned to watching grimier, grittier, unpleasant stuff.
Net- net - it was nice.

Surprises. Good for the soul.
Some wide eyed wonder, some awe, some “Oh really!”
Like the stupendous magic of Shivamani , thundering percussion amidst the flickering strobe lights and all.
Like the majestic beauty of Chowmahala Palace. Lit up like it were day.
So perfect as a backdrop.
Past the lush quiet lawns, the quiet fountain, the stately halls.
The quarter-slice moon overhead.
Viewed past the champa-grove.
Wandering about, wide eyed through the Darbar Hall in its glorious beauty. Imagining the palace in all its splendor and tehzeeb, once upon a time.

Also- the Razas spotted this morning in a spiffy office, quite unexpected…

How dependent one gets on technology….black beyoooty was sulking.Unless I wanted to spend the next few days texting, and saying hello hello into a booming void a repair was must- found the closest Nokia Care Center, sat twiddling thumbs for an hour, luckily the repair man was quick; I'm just not sure if he did anything at all since he didn't give me a bill for 200/-, also the interiors needed a coat of paint if THIS is a part of the Nokia Service Experience. The next time I will go to the repairman down the lane. Quicker and cheaper. And no bill.

Isn't it wonderful?(insert image) The latest issue of Indian Literature. The look is leaner and the layout clean. Hep. The pages have a special fragrance, mitti ki khushboo, the scent of the earth.

This Saturday, at the park IDEAS staged a performance of one-act plays based on Premchandji's work. Perhaps it was me, perhaps it is these cynical times, for me the reality disconnect from 1920 was too much, we left after the second intermission.

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.