Delighted to announce publication of a poem, Spring, on 7 beats.



http://www.7beats.com/herenow.html

So little time to the day. And there are personal commitments I will NOT cut down on. I will walk. I will cook. I will write even if its scraggly. Work is not too easy, not too tough, requires I keep up with a barrage of information, just keep moving. Personal time is limited—very. Just realised that it is personal ENERGY that is limited. Must be very careful about who and what I invest that energy in. If I spend 1.5 hours in front of the idiot box staring at a Balaji story that really is my problem. If I tell bai that locking someone’s keys inside their house and running around to hunt and find the keys was a result of her perpetual hurry—but I frown about this all day, then that energy drain is MY problem.  Why should I play any part, however reluctant, in anyone’s life dramas? Tumhara natak, tum sambhalo. If I fritter away energy, where will I find the time to invest it, direct it?

Link OD

Chanced upon a dream home in kota stone and white. Perfect for dry hot cities (like back home), where temperatures are above 40 degrees C most times and above 47 C a few months.



Loved the way they’ve used stone, light and splashes of color.


http://devyanijayakar.com/guggari.pdf






The AT small cool entries are drool-worthy…


http://community.apartmenttherapy.com/contests/smallcool/2012






“Wish-I-had-written-that” envy at the tumbhi shortlisters, specially Vibha Batra’s The Survivor. Perfectly crafted.


http://www.tumbhi.com/short-story-writing-contest/somewhere-sometime.jsp

There is a time for all seasons....



What a googly life throws at you sometimes.

You can butt your head against the wall, and to no avail.

And then be surprised out of the blue.


I wish I could've told you.


But I shouted to the skies anyway.

Today I tracked down the closest bank branch where they’d do a Western Union transfer, and collected $50 (or Rs.2482, to be precise), but how rich does every pence feel when its for your writing.

Bai’s son has flunked his 9th standard. Yet again. Bai slogs at 5 homes, an endless round of “top work” chores, stretches her limited salary and pushes her sons to an English medium school and tuitions. The vagabonds skip classes and play marbles or whatever is the equivalent thereof. Her eldest, a driver with some travel agency, took his boss’s car on a midnight spin with his coterie, crashed the car, and the lady slogged to repair and return the car to its owner to avoid a police case. For a calamity, any of the memsahibs would have helped, but who wants to throw money at a lost cause, the boy is a scoundrel? Of course it is not the son’s fault, he is good, his friends made him do it. Why does she not make the 9th class–in-limbo a wireman or an electrician or plumber instead? No, he must clear his tenth boards and he must go to college come what may.



One can take a horse to the water but one cannot make him drink, as Baba used to say.

Had I known installing plants on that tiny window ledge was going to be as inspiring, evoke a sense of ownership and yes, contentment, I’d have done that long ago.





In the shanty town these days there seems to be a season of nonstop recital of the Ramcharitmanas.




Yesterday from 4 till ten I visited two worlds. Negotiated a single person-only, winding alley in a shanty town to reach a friend’s engagement ceremony. Later, dined in understated opulence elsewhere, making polite talk, calculating the manhours it would take to keep the environs as pure and pristine white.

In a story: That breaking point, that’s what interests me. A commenter said that strong people stayed strong all the time, even pushed to the wall, they battled and found a way out. No, not always, and when people don’t act true to form, the stalwart giving in, the strong man buckling under pressure, the saint turning to crime—that last feather, that X factor--that’s captivating....

So- destiny, or none?



In the falling evening light I see a five-year old surrounded by toys in her playroom, playing with make-believe friends and believed-to-be friends, and I think of the changes a kind soul would bring to her life just by stepping into it and shaping it, the values, the backbone, the slant of her head—and think, yes.


I see this girl in her twenties returning to her home town, the brightness in her eyes dimmed, shaken and broken at the turn of events, learning anew about grief and sorrow--and a new workplace that started off as a place to go to, but changed, changed and changed again -- yes, destiny, and yes, she probably wouldn’t get that job today even if she wanted it.


I see a woman brokenhearted, cowering , picking herself up and walking away free, and I see the kindness of strangers and a reality that is unsheltered in the barrage of workshopped stories, lifestories, and the guiding hand of kind spirits never to be met—yes, destiny.

All luck by chance.

Change is the only constant. Happinessinthisworld has a great post on Change.



Yet something as simple as a supermarket closing down throws life out of sync.


Goodbye, More. You were great while you were around. Fruits were fresh, vegetables were straight from the fields, the staff was helpful and courteous. Poor kids, what happens to them now? Discount and range were decent, not earthshaking, and I reciprocated with my loyalty and solid billing.


Unlike a traditional housewife, you did not do in-season purchases, you did not tie up with the producer, and margins got hit—even my aunt stocks up on spices and grains in season, so how complicated is that?


Now I have to figure out how to deal with conniving, silver tongued sabziwallas who’ve made a religion out of short weights.


The positives? This opens up two free hours on Sunday morning.


And DD1 is showing a series based on the Upanishads.


This morning I got a rejection on a story that is almost as long as the story. And have decided to put up stuff on Tumbhi, starting with stories that are anyway online.

Kahaani. What a brilliant jolt-of-electric-adrenalin of a movie.
No spoiler alerts here-- go see it!
Fantastic storyline. So that's the first hero. Happy to see someone has as much of a bent criminal mind as I have.
And the CITY... magical, maddening, pristine, filthy, modern and dilapidated by turns, pulsating energy, but what awesome photography, almost like a painting, a living mural, it reaches out and touches you, the simple humanity of the place...
Like that fleeting time in Birla art gallery where I sat singing with complete strangers.

The more things change, the more they remain the same, and on and on and on again we use the same template, only this once it doesn’t evoke a reaction—no storm, no tears. Thoughtful passivity. If all of life is a choice, does it have to be this way? Or maybe a change from status quo, the venturing needs an extra shot of energy or special bravado… and I’m too attached to my security strings. Surely, if I keep returning time after time to the same point, perhaps I should give it some consideration. Other than sweeping it under the proverbial carpet.
Pat on back: drove to the lab and back without mishap.

What do you do when a friend gifts you the perfect, spherical eggplant?
Cook it. Poyemn it.
I’m thrilled to announce publication of a poem, Eggplant Rhapsody, on Pure Slush
http://bit.ly/xOPBcp
http://pureslush.webs.com/eggplantrhapsody.htm

So Columbus discovered America.
As the late parent would say when I learned or stated something that was obvious, even easy.
AUDACITY.
That’s the name of the software I downloaded, installed, used on Thursday even as the rough town beneath my living room exploded in color, light, sound. Disco on steroids for holi.
Feeling quite PRIM about using the software to record in the native, a translation of basics, cat mat bat, suchlike, for mylanguages.org.
And the shock at the size of audio files and etc.
Columbus khush hua.
Wah Taj, wah, collars up.

Aaj rang hai, Hey maa rang hai rey
Mere mehboob ke ghar rang hai rey

An ecstatic Nizamuddin once wrote
Drunk on the colors of life
invisible to but a chosen few
Today was Holi, the festival of colors
But my celebration has been ongoing for days
The colors dancing in the air-haze
In the delirious plurality of green
the burst of sunlight
cascading chorus of bird calls
My gulaal, my abir in the play and turn of the breeze
In the kesu and jasood brimming over
Nizamuddin may have long written his verse
there is hope
Yes, the world still celebrates

Granny Smith magazine features my story, Reflections.

Sepia colors
All that remains
Footsteps
A child’s prattle
That heady run-rush of youth
Executed with a dancer’s grace
Then the reel turns blank
Burnt sienna, no soundtrack
Just the whirr to the end.

Standing room only at the Kabir concert


For a day now I’ve been trying to unravel
The import of all I’ve seen and heard—and barely scratched the surface
Of a pure voice reaching for the heavens,
Sometimes I think I’ve caught a glimpse, a sliver of light, quizzical
A gigantic kaleidoscope of swirling colors
(Then the rest of life takes over)

Ages ago, the poet wrote
Even as his loom clicked through weft and weave
He wrote of the connection beyond
A line as fine and real and fleeting
As the line on the horizon, racing
As the sun dips into the sea
Past the gulls wheeling overhead
Unnamed colors fill up the sky, then dissappear

Ages ago, the poet wrote
Of life in every thing
Of the essence in every being
Of having found the source, free of book and worldly reign
Simple words that still ring true
Yet why so difficult for me to unravel
This simplicity of the singer
So content in his village life
Inheritor of his lineage, his spiritual wealth

As the hours quickly progressed
Glimpses of the mystic alphabet, fleeting
Humbled by the remembrance of poet-saints and princess-poets
Glimpses, like an electric jolt to the brain
Yet the power of the word…
(then the rest of life takes over)
Even as new champa dance in the sunshine
unfettered.

I must be the weirdest person that I know
A grin so huge it doesn’t fit my face
At a friend’s nervous trepidation, joy
At a super brand new stupendous time
A grin, walking taller, lighter
Sunshine
Leaves like engravings, so detailed
A lily so fine you can see the curve of the green as it holds up the bloom to light
Nonchalance, grace in the kite’s roll
Echoes of A Brand New Day
The percussion filtering out, feather-touch, into the gentle night.

Yesterday evening at the movies
I was reminded
That an hour or two
Of gut shaking, rip roaring laughter and bright colors
Is good for the soul.
Clears out the dank, the cobwebs from the mind
As much as a good shaking-do.
Quick, smart, young—
But what’s wrong with quick, smart, young?
If the locale was not part of my psyche—Vegas, uptown Mumbai
Neither is the grimy underworld, guns ablaze
I came home laughing
With a decided spring in my step
My head held higher
Smiling
paisa vasool.

RIP Whitney H.
48! Bloody hell.
HOW can one die at 48?



This song I've heard too often long ago, tears streaming mode.

The other day I heard some scurrilous gossip.
Remember those wooden dolls where the eyeballs pop out of their sockets, something like that? I consciously stepped away from taking a righteous stand, unctuous holier-than-thou. I must admit I was tempted to.
But yes, I wondered about the way people choose to INVEST the short time I, we, you, they have on earth.
What a surprising time we live in.
Me? I get heady on words.

I watch goggle eyed, the cars vroom vrooming on the TV, revving from zero to zwoop in a blink, a dust cloud trailing--the smell of engine oil, the real adrenalin, racing heartbeat. And I think of my sedate wonder on four wheels, primly cruising along on second gear, L plates prominent--and I smile.

Time marches, I steal slivers, poke in clichés and invest moments in that tiny space and rejoice in them, just as I rejoice in sunlight on my skin, or the measured grace, the sweep of a kite’s flight, sure and persistent, practicing rolls and dives in an emptying peach sky. Life is, life respects no clock or drumbeat, it just is.

It was republic day yesterday, the day we signed the constitution, ages ago, of course now several political parties swear allegiance to the writer of the document and choose to forget that probably a committee drafted it in the first place, and given our propensity for all things British, there must be chunks thusly inspired. January 26th, now another holiday, a day to salute the flag, sing patriotic songs off key, and walk about waving paper flags stapled on to softdrink straws. Later at night, there was Gandhi, on TV, but to get to it you had to surf past footage of march pasts, missiles and tanks and what not, and one wondered if those men of steel of which those on the screen only were a depiction, were from a different gene imprint, and where did that steel go, and the man singlehandedly credited for cobbling together a country from a hundred and ten fiefdoms, kingdoms, headstrong rulers, where did that steel go? Though as protests and clamor go we’ve had a pretty neat year, a new drama a fortnight and I watch wide eyed—but something’s off in this land of two Indias, the chasm deepening every damn minute.

A friend’s going to a literary festival
Hulla hulla jamboree
100,000 and counting
Dust clouds and shamianas
Speeches and milling crowds
a regal façade and a roll of drums
will they wear hats, I wonder? And gloves!
and much too much of chatter
echoing, rebounding, ricocheting from ancient walls.
Me?
My literary festival
Is 400 word quickies
And my barrage of obtuse. “cut, cut cut” heavy crits
As also poem a day (that alas I often miss)
That pulls out dark stuff from shuttered tight corners
Of my brain and mind, such that it is
And yes, heart sometimes
(but the heart is pokey holey, not much to count there)
And my literary festival is:
Trying to stretch words to not bloat, stay afloat and more
Clenching, grasping crazy deadlines
If I can I must, or so shouldn’t I?
And my jamboree is
Merrily switching words tenses weights across languages
If I can I must, or so shouldn’t I?
And this year, I admit, the first of for-fee subs
multiplying by fifty as I hit send...
So even while the flashing lightbulbs
And newspaper double spreads
Devote eulogies, quotes, reams to the craft
I shall put my head down
Squiggle out a line or two.
Sing along to my sing song
Hulla hulla jamboree

The formal year 1 date, and today I shall release you of all promises but one, and I shall let you go to the space of the four directions, to the glorious sunshine and the green and the mountains you loved so much, and to the word, spoken and unspoken, written and read in all your languages, to drama and literature and marching numbers and erudite philosophy I don’t even try to understand, but crisp and without need of that magnifying lens. And I shall release you to the wind and the rain and the million and one stars in the night, and to the brilliant sunsets over water, and images of places never seen but on TV and you’d remark “what a view” and to intricate melody and to Rashid khan and to stories I’ve only heard, of night long concerts and weekend trips to any place on a whim… and I release you of all promises but one, that in this endless cycle of soul paths and nights and days, that we shall meet again, and I shall guide your step again, and again I shall know your thoughts without your framing them into words. Adieu, and see you soon, or how else shall I live?

Flashes in the Dark has published my rather nasty flash, DARK.

http://tinyurl.com/84nkbq8

Once again, it is uttarayan, the day the sun changes direction, the golden orb lasting a mite longer in these stark winter skies. Also the day the sky is spilling over with kites of all colors and sizes. Also the day the mighty Bhishma (in the Mahabharata), long vanquished and in repose on a bed of sharp arrows, bided his death for.
Uttarayan. And I see that young girl in her usual uniform of cap-T-jeans, prancing about on the terrace, her voice hoarse with cries of victory, even as her kite soars higher in the glorious sunlight, higher than any other in its exclusive blue sky.
And I watch closely, try to unravel the victory cheers and bursts of songs from radios from the neighboring terraces, and all of a sudden the sound predominates, and the girl’s image begins to blur, shake and dissolve into a pool of golden sunlight.

Poonam of the paush month again.
This morning, the full moon
Efflulgent and radiant
Peered over the trees, and waited.
I watched in silver silence, chilled
A year ago, about now,
Time stood still.
Time, the thief—too early-- this time, every time.
A year ago, time stood still
The whoosh of the machine no more
Your hand grew cold, in mine
That line on the ventilator vanished
White covers were drawn
Time the cheat, the thief!
Time, ever victorious, on quicksilver wings
Scorching time!
For a week now I’ve been recycling Sting
A lament , a dirge, a daughter’s plea
A Newcastle ship without coals
We sail to the island of souls
The cry of
The bridge to heaven is broken
Please repair it for me
The bridge to heaven is broken
And I’m lost on the wild wild sea
These words
A nonstop loop to the backdrop of my day
I work, I laugh, I watch myself laugh
A nonstop loop to my day
Been trying to think instead
Of a burst of light, Santorini
Of drumroll and bougainvillea in the sunlight
Morning filtering on the green
A toddler wobbling on unsteady legs
trying
My road ardous, steep
I shall try to be my father’s daughter
Your hand forever in mine.

Reading Tagore in the 21st C
Reading Tagore, the poems in particular
(all means to an end, I must confess)
D’you suppose he’d still write as he did
Or bemused, watch
Would he seek grace and music
In sunlight on green
Or the way gold traces a line through a grove
Or would he read
the face of the devout praying to the rising sun
Would he be captivated
By a child on a playswing
Or sunlight gleaming off the Petronas or Al burj
Or smile at
A gaggle of schoolboys enumerating conquests?
For the paced flow of the river, unhurried, is overrun
By the energetic rush of the latest superfast metro
And demure anklet- wearing damsels no longer fill water at the river
Now that protest-fluff-bling tend to overwhelm
Would he have taken the tide, holding his own
Or stepped away from the clamor, a recluse
To a garden, walled
Or a city with no name?
Would he have gleaned lyrics from the milling crowds
Or sought the refuge of the quiet glade?
Reading Tagore in the 21st C
I read the lines
And let it be

No, I did not quite expect this.
Not on Loksabha TV. Which is in recent times, going much beyond carrying inaninities on the latest political discussion or debate. Which is anyway a drama, an expensive one!
Fantastic program on one of the land’s greatest quawwals, Meraj Ahmed Nizami saab.
One of the pieces they performed had long ago been part of our classical music learning-- Hazrat Khwaja sang kheliye dhamar
I winced when he said women cannot sing the qawwali. Some other life time then. (Or maybe as long as it is not a prayer at a shrine, it is permitted as my faith is different, and Sufism is all about one's personal connect)
And I clapped when the youngsters picked up, supported, strengthened the aging maestro’s sur, tone.
More on him here: http://www.mabelis.nl/Qawwali/merajnizami/meraj.asp

When I channel surfed last night, I got startlingly lucky.
Riveting story. Dry wit. Detailed, intricate Claymation.
Stunning work.
www.maryandmax.com
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_and_Max

On the back-home front, the MSU Fine Arts Fair is on Dec 23 and 24. if you're there, please go!
I still own art (cards) and a fired-mud container I'd picked up from there. Maybe 20 years ago.
Amazing energy to the fair, great ambience, out-of-the-world art.

Have just returned from a long and dusty ride out of town (almost), have seen what can be done to schooling for the poorest of the poor if there is intent, resources, sharp will, using available structures and govt. facilities, and tweaking what is needed. Also, in the swing of places from last week’s opulence and creamy layer in attendance to this, I’ve come full circle. Just for the record. Dizzy.

In following routine, I find much satisfaction, even contentment, ticking off a task once done. A remnant of the “should” mentality... Or just that, comfort,knowin you're doing ok--comfort like an old chair or t shirt
Today I re-started a thanks journal.

I must record this—very slight but perceptible nip in the air.
And miracles occur—a cheque I had been praying for, chasing, fretting over, was in the mail.

I watched the expressway race away in the darkness under the star-flooded sky. I watched the city, your city, reflected in the plate-glass windows of the hotel to the quiet purr of the ac. And enough solitaires and stones glitter on the velvet lawns that evening to repay the national debt. And I watched myself watch. How completely funny life is, so surreally surprising, kaisi paheli zindagani.. .

After a monsoon of rejects, I'm glad to announce publication of a story, *Ebony has many shades", in an online anthology, In her place

http://bit.ly/rTDP7k

Every morning I oversleep. Every morning I awake to the crescendo chatter of crows in the banyan tree outside. And I wonder about a cat being tormented, or a strange bird being driven away. And choice. And happenstance and nature. And I return like a faithful homing bird to thoughts that have upset me for a while, and I try to unravel reasons for errant behavior and seek instances in the past that might fit in, like a puzzle, only you’re grasping at a straw in the wind.So where do you go and what do you do, when decisions are taken for you, decisions that you only chance upon, stumble upon, so manipulative. Like someone said, leave it to the fates, to the rhythm of the earth and the wind? Or clairvoyant-like, try to foresee? I think of these questions at odd hours, and then late into the night I sit at the window and watch pinpoints of distant light fade away under a canopy of stars. What does it matter, just crow chatter and fading whispers to the one in the skies.

Come to my window, world, and tell me your tales. Come when the day is young, and the trees alight with bird chatter, and in the far distance the strain of a devotional song speak out to the day. Or at night perhaps when pinpricks of light from impossibly huddled homes are set off past the black outline of the trees. Embroider the silence with your tales when the sky is peach, and a pretty pink sheen reflects off these white walls.
to Life!

Why did you have to misrepresent? Who gave you that right? And if you could misrepresent in this instance,not expecting me to reach the truth of misrepresentation, in how many other have you moulded facts and fiction the way you wanted things, the way it suited you? The thought is worrisome. If I were not a pragmatist, I’d have headed for the woods.
kya duniya hai!
zindagi khwab hai.. khwab mein sach hai kya, aur bhala, jhooth kya...

This part of the month does look like a sledge careening downhill, barely controlled, heavy with adrenalin buzz, task rich. Split second stuff to be done on the personal front, the work calendar is heavily penciled in. Take a deep deep breath, and don’t miss any flights.

Responsibility, at a time when you’re just about learning to deal, form a nodding acquaintance with your own, an additional commitment. One only wonders why one was chosen for the honor; and what must have influenced the decision ages ago, the weight is not too easy to bear nor the choices too easy, one can only guess. Past the shock of the responsibility, an awareness of the issues, how this can break or make, and above all, an overriding need to be fair and seem fair to all. As a friend put it, take a deep, deep breath and keep a clear head.

Sometimes a fuzzy, ambiguous something puts you off a person, even if the interaction is online, specially if the interaction is online. Too edgy, volatile, intent, too intent, too persistent and decisive to the point of being rude, smart intellectual perhaps too smart for his own good. And so you back off, “thanks but no thanks”--unable to say precisely why. Just a woozy discomfort. A moodiness worse than one's own. Retreating behind that lovely cloak of politeness and genteel good manners and diplomacy you’ve worn like a second skin, to an explosion, vituperative. And then googling, a few years down the line, the news hits you like a ton of bricks, OMG! And you’re shocked and rattled and taken aback. And somewhere you thank your stars and the kind man in the skies and take a deep breath.There, but for the grace of God...

I’d stepped in for a minute out of politeness; it was late and I needed to finish my walk, but what an amazing time I had, I returned brighter and happier past the magic hour. Old world courtesy, fading sepia photos, lace and laughter. They’ve been married over 50 years-- time in which she turned from demure and dainty, really pretty, slender to gray, and he from dashing and valiant to wrinkled, unsteady now. Sepia, lingering perfume and hints of the Raj. His mother was Anglo-Indian and worked for the railways, looked so much like Jackie O. Laughter gales at the tale of recalcitrant pet hens, a special one that’d sip tea, and the grateful eggs the clutch would produce, and that had to be given away.
There is so much of life around only if we’d take the time to see.

1960's steel cupboard painted burgundy.

handmade cot in three pieces now a blatant blue and white

cane chair a light light blue. given that the walls are sky mimic- white

under the dining table formica (1950's possibly), we found teak. Polished and to be carted to storage for use as a door some day.

Colors... Step by step, but does it have to take so long?

a year and one day,
now I seek you
in the scattered sunshine
golden shower on green
gentle, illuminating
rock strewn paths.

also in
orange lanterns, chinese
bobbing on a giant tree
light bedecked sky
ushering in the new year

as also in
the graceful arc of a perfect star
as it balances on velvet black
then dips into the surf
clamoring on rocky shore
ever so gently

from light unto light
as the hymn says
pass now
ever so gently

Bhimashankar
That a place on earth could be as speechless.
Until I find the words

Amazing how you continue to reach out and bless me from beyond the pale.Stunned. Been so long since you went your way to the skies-- I was five then, am forty- six (and some) now. Once “your” dining table from 1950? was stripped of that faded formica marked with the lines and stains of the decades, magic! A gleaming sheet of burma teak-- three huge planks joined seamlessly, that left the carpenter dazed, he’d not seen something like this, he refused to re-size it. So now I have a spare door for someday. Baba had often recounted the pride with which you’d bought this table, the first time formica was introduced in the country.
Amazing, and not only the teak.

In class 4, I took myself to boarding school, inspired by Enid Blyton—the adventurous soul I was those days. (Of course reality was very different, much growing up happened, and I thrived on the days spent at my uncle’s house.) Now, the school on a hill was a place where culture and art were very important. As preparation for the Spring Festival (before Navnirman revolution intervened and cut the semester short) we were taught a poem, the lines of which have often resonated, half forgotten. These lines were to have been sung as we presented a volume of handwritten poems and stories to the King of Spring.
Was stunned to find madurashtakam online, thanks to google devta. The words felt so good—and I remembered the words right, specially the refrain.

Teak. Beautiful wood. lines, swirls, patterns I don't know the names of, deeply ingrained in the wood, weathered and aged over the years
Once the color was stripped off, the layers of grime and dust and grubby fingerprints and whatnot of the decades scraped off, the magic of the wood beneath—just wondrous , breathtaking. To watch sunlight seep into the wood-- what a treasure.

**

So grateful for the near misses, the regrets one has been handed on a silver platter with a flourish, the ugly thanks-but-no-thanks. Yes, of course I wasn’t grateful then, cried and flailed my arms about and stomped my feet and roared—figuratively speaking, but of course, and some literally speaking too, if I must be honest.
But in retrospect—what a gift. What a brilliant gift. For a hurting, ugly state I would have been in, if not for this gratis bonus—broken and despairing…or adjusting, giving up little bits of myself being nice till it hurt and till the cows came home.

Who said I was nice?

Reading this later, I saw that in the words above, gratitude was missing, overtaken by the hurt but-- the overwhelming residual is gratitude, for life events, for roles played no matter how finite, for the lessons learned, insights into self, and yes,soul connect that one had only read about. Perhaps it is like teak,this scraping and stripping,bootcamp, raw treatment before what is essentially you, your self is revealed.

Soon it will be time for you to go, and I say this with a strange throttling at my throat. Although you have been an inhabitant of another plane for months, I have oftentimes felt your presence hovering, comforting, even in my worst periods of mourning and silence. We spoke without language so often, reading each other, father and daughter--we did in the days past, and so we do now. I sense this--soon it will be time for you to go, to move on, into the light, part of a million dancing sunrays showering this earth every morning. Perhaps you sense I do not need those training wheels of your invisible presence as much. Perhaps you’ll be part of a view that you’d delight in, national geo style. Soon it will be time for you to go, and again I feel the despair of a young child in the dark, the scare of a young girl who’s forgotten her lines and stands blank, petrified, before an audience.
Or perhaps time for you to inhabit another lifetime, take baby steps again, learn to coo and lisp and in time, talk and run, and in thinking so-- see my own selfishness, in the hope that our paths should some day , but for certain,cross. And I know probably not, for you’d paid too many dues and learned too deeply in the real sense of the word, you’d taken the essence of the scriptures and instilled it in your life, to ever have to relive the ups and downs of a life cycle again.
You will go on, but what ever shall I do?

What color is it?
Quick!
Would you know?

glittering sunlight
streaming on green
that translucence that filters
beneath--

shimmery opal
holding a huge full moon in place
smoky radiance swirls
just close your eyes tight
and peer--

the horizon at dusk
several purples, mauves and dark
irregular bands race above
highway lights--

Would you know
What color it is?

At the Ramakrishna Mission
Durga Puja is celebrated
the old fashioned way
with flowers, lamps and age-old prayers
perfectly recited by the monks
Sanskrit words resounding in the hall where
A perfectly featured image of the Mother
benevolent
Bedecked in red silk and gold
Her eyes large, all-seeing and kind, stands
The weapons of destruction and deliverance, in her many hands
blesses the crowd in their traditional finery
The flower decked altar also holds the Lord Ganpati, the remover of obstacles,
And the Goddess of wealth and the Goddess of learning
And Lord Kartikeyan, patron of the arts
Between them covering the four stages of a lifespan
The four aspirations of human living
Their realms
the throb and surge of life-energy
Manifestations, also of the same spirit, Shakti,
That moves and sustains, and occasionally, shakes up, overturns
the world.
I’ve returned renewed
Certain that the many interventions
The strangers who’ve been kinder, more gracious than family
fortunate chance but more often than not
The uncertainties, the many misses
That shape one’s life story
Played out too, to a celestial rhythm
Unheard.

RIP
1972-1991
once,
suddenly the earth trembled.
now
I peel off the scab, keep this wound raw
feels right.

The mountains are not what they seem—docile, gentle and green and generous. Trails that begin like a walk in the park soon turn into inclines that gets your heart thudding hard. There—some one’s spotted a half eaten snake, and ahead, a cheetah scat. In the quest for the next step, the next boulder, you forget you’re here to view the raw beauty of the forest. Balanced precariously on a ledge, you wonder why Reeboks have such a flimsy grip. I went on an easy trail with a nature group, but the forest guide ended up taking us into the core area of SGNP on a moderate-grade trek. I’m still shaky. But adrenalin-charged. Next time, I’ll see the view.

a year older
just as besotted by
crisp word
dappled green
peach-lined skies
and you.

Exploring gold spun
This nine day festival of the Mother Goddess
Grace is in the air.
Lights,
the drum faint in the distance
A celebration
Also a time to ponder upon
Chance and happenstance
mysteries and gifts
the benedictions of our lives
such as this
and not

The Stories in the Songs

A musical, seen this Sunday
Performed with minimal props
featured performances that gleam
burnished with years of rigorous classical training
Pitch perfect, the notes quiver and turn and float in the air
In the quiet amphitheater
No room for improvisation
The audience a scarce inch away

Vignettes
That traced the evolution of Indian classical music
Through the ages
Even as the country was overrun with invaders of various vintage
From the Mughals to the British
Thumri, tappa, chaiti, hori, kajri
Derived from the classical,
giving lifebreath to the classical
Forms that survived, thrived,
A thread inching, meandering,
Insistent, full throated
Through these centuries

From the rendition of a dancing girl
Who sneaked in a freedom song in her performance
At the behest of the Mahatma
To the sincere if fumbling, warbling
Of Lady Elizabeth Hastings
Who tried to learn this difficult form of entertainment
From a polished native performer of the arts.
And so many other tales.

Even as I clapped to the beat, and hummed and cheered and laughed
Flashes of yesterday
Crept in unannounced;
Of notes filtering past the heat haze
Of voices in unison, rising skywards
A fun duet, now competing, now out-doing
In the manner of the young
I blinked.

This afternoon
The child who wandered by the roadside
Looked out of place in this maze of industrial-office blocks
Even as cars zipped by
to drop important personage to important meetings.
Was not a slum kid, not a beggar
Her face clean
Dress neat
Pretty bangles on her wrist
Blue flip flops
She willingly gives me her hand
As I take her to a nearby construction site
That I presume she’s wandered off from
“Where’s mummy?” I ask, looking around for a laborer, maybe the mason’s wife
She points to an office block next door
“Biscuit” she lisps.
And even as I peel off the glittery wrapping
I can only wonder
At the compulsions
And life story
Of a woman who’d perforce leave her child
Wandering by the roadside
Some sun-dappled afternoon

On your birthday

I stare at my face in the mirror
And wonder about you
My nose is like yours, they say.
And demeanor
(but only when I’m good)
I stare at my face in the mirror
Trace fine lines
And think
About lifetimes, crisscrossing paths, DNA imprints
And wonder about
Free choice, chance, fate
And other unknowns
Like you.

My lesson for this week
(for a life time)
Is that dreams can come true
Even impossible ones
Crazy ones
That young girl from a remote village in the Himalayas
Made it to Prague film school
Winged it!
Sponsored by unnamed strangers
Who chipped in, piecemeal
Penny by penny
Like that ad says,
keep your head down, and keep walking.

Because I must not forget.
That early morning awakening
After checking the clock every hour past midnight
Leaving home at 4, determined, devout
The journey, traffic on the road
The twenty minute walk to find the end of the line
Past vendors, children, trinket-sellers, crowds
With trumpets, balloons, toys to sell.
The rush rush rush to hold on to your place
as the line winds past the lanes of Byculla
Negotiating a tricky maze, and then again
Just holding on, nudging, jostling in that few thousand strong crowd
For a glimpse of the deity, but fleeting
Before you’re pushed out
Yet, something’s changed,
you know your year’s moved to a new plane.

*Set free*, my translation of Shri Pravinsinh Chavda's Gujarati short story *Mukti*, features in the Sept.- Oct. issue of Reading Hour.
There is a Dhara in each of us, in the choices that we make. Sometimes the only redeeming feature of life is, that life goes on.

Where does the faith come from, he asked.
From having the faith battered a few hundred times, like an old tin can
From hitting ground zero with no where to go
Once too often
from knowing edge-of-the-mind distraught
And coming full circle.
From coincidences that fall in place, Oh… like that.
And missing catastrophe by a whisker’s breadth.
So often.
For the lessons of a bitter decade, in retrospect, amazing grace.
From glittering empty roads that you try to master, literally and figuratively,
fumbling, heart a-thunder
From the clatter of shrouded gurneys that pass by your head as you do ICU vigil
From trembling courage as you gather piles of new clothes now useless, for charity
From events that seem life shattering, but a boon in retrospect
From the people you meet. Over and over again.

You are the rhythm underlying the world,
Or so the prayer’s verse goes.
This is what I see:
The cycle of seasons, of rain pelting earth
Of the pulsating beat of colors and echoes that rebound
Exploding volcanoes, and crashing trees, red hot magma surging
In a blink of an eye, a lifespan, the three ages
The rise and collapse of civilizations, and crumbling ruins of Mohenjodaro
Wind ruffles the grass as it flows past
A heart thudding, lifeblood coursing through infinite channels
Traced by a machine beep
The swell of tides under a moonlit sky
Of the howl of wind across a bare desert
Magna throbbing in the center of the earth
That surge of green as sap gushes skywards
Pulsating stars in the deepest void
That intricate dance of infinite city lights
Of traffic rushing, blending, diverging, through
The world’s freeways
Of intellect, of a man’s grasp exceeding his reach,
Verily, you are this.

Ganesh Chaturthi tomorrow, hopefully a time of contemplation, of thanksgiving. In a year of chequered squares, dark blacks and a few sunny yellows, much to be thankful for. for a guiding presence, for clarity and a soul guide, and silly me, I didn’t think I had one left. For greens, for the jumble of foliage. For hot. For cold. For nerves, yes, that too and how often and how intensely one takes that chilling next step, and how this redefined the meaning of backbone.For patience and space, for forbearance. for delight in tiny triumphs that only I can see. For intuition, of sorts, for grace in being humbled.for being guided to wisdom and serenity. “We meet the same people over and over again” says the line from the Bhagvad.Gita, I draw solace. For your presence in my darkest hour, and momentary triumphs, in a year of chequered squares and much growing up, gratitude.

There’s waiting, and then there’s hope.Waiting.for the markets to reach a new normal and take a breather. For the political situation to sort itself out. For the monsoon to end, for the skies to change so I could get on with my to-do list. The list is long and I’m primed and ready to go. In a way this is not all that different from trying to learn how to keep one’s wits and navigate AK road or JVLR, all clutch-brake-clutch, a whisker’s breadth away from hunking lorries and high agro BEST buses waiting to bear down upon a flustered you. All in good time.

Independence day
Yesterday
We saluted the flag
Sang out loud the national anthem
Remembered the valiant
The challengers of an Empire’s might
Remembered the time when the cry for freedom
Rang out from coast to coast, and adrenalin charged in the veins
Pulled out sepia memories of the greats
Gandhiji Nehru Patel
And the forgotten, the sacrifices of the untold millions
A steel backbone, the shared heritage

Today, we’re back to examining the meaning of freedom
Past potholed, traffic choked roads
Lined by a wave of regrets, lost opportunity and paved by endless corruption
Scandals and tattered reputations,
That submerge a gasping nation
Widening, ripping apart the chasm
Yet we remain stoutly democratic
A nation of so many differences, yet we remain bonded, defiant
Surely that counts for something.
Yet this morning
an 84 year Gandhian was arrested for speaking his mind
asking for the nation’s accounts
For shame!

In the mad rush for minutes one forgets the magical. Yes, the magical-- startling, breathtaking, elusive mystery spice included. Why should that be the prerogative of children and the dreamy eyed alone? For the record, I’ve for long found the manufacturing process of sublimation quite fantastic. A solution, say an injectable, goes directly from solution to a flaky powder, no heating required. So beautiful Of course, there is a great deal of science involved, lyophilisation, eutectic point, flash point and whatnot, but the clean beauty of it all! Fantastic.
And remember that equation for cellular level energy, ADP Plus P equals ATP? Magical, the way in which we systematically pick up energy from the food we eat, tuck it away into cells in pockets of energy until needed, no use before date, and so seamless the uptake and infinitely economical the usage. Brilliantly neat.
And the powers that devised these may therefore be trusted to keep the world up and running much after we’re done.

A banyan tree felled
A giant of a tree
bark gnarled, white-weathered with the years
its shoot-tree canopy destroyed too
snapped, like matchsticks
Too furious a storm, perhaps
Or age.
I stare at the location
Right outside the Dept. of Sanskrit studies
Peeling paint, turn-of-century building
But the parking lot is full
I walk away.


**

Mourners
All of us in white
I stare at the ancestors on the wall
Charcoal on white
And your portrait joins them
The last of the elders
A few teardrops
Memories,
Your voice, the angle of your head, something you’d say
A banyan tree felled
A giant of a tree

Re: The Tree of Life.
Visual colossal—overwhelming, brilliantly beautiful but too much of brilliant, that gets into your eyes..
Terse. Non-linear. Connect the dots.
Whispers… Too much hinted at.
Too much space for interpretation. One wonders what one missed in an eyeblink.
Opinion: Dunno.
Was it worth braving the traffic and rain? Yep.
Would I see it again? Dunno, maybe.
"There are only two ways, the way of nature or the way of grace..."

I wish I could grieve for you.
Fifty plus years of widowhood, borne with cheer. And duty, and devotion, patience and all the extolled virtues, but I’m not sure what it did to you as a person, to your core. That person we’d see sometimes, irrepressible bits would pop out, and the once-singer would warble a tune, the once-theater performer would deliver a line with aplomb.
Unsteady on your feet, your bones brittle with two decades of steroid and thyroid medicine, you'd restricted your interactions with the outside world. Your hand would tremble, you’d given up writing, and your signature was a scrawl.And yes, the frequent falls. Yet every time I’d drop in, you’d regale me with laughter and a tale or two, and I’d scour your kitchen the way I used to when I was a broke student.
I often left angry, seeing in your tale a reflection of my life and possibly, fate, and determined to will it otherwise.
Let this memory be your last bequest to me.

Winner indeed.
I wish they’d told me it was online.
They didn’t.
Extremely disappointed with the US Dept of State, but the yahoo for whatever it is worth.
http://span.state.gov/mar-apr2011/eng/00-span-article-winner3.html

Startled and grateful for generosity. One friend gifts me rare music.Another celebrates my buy with a special home made treat, and mithai. What did I ever do to receive such goodness? *Lump in throat*.

Truth is shining, solid, incontrovertible.
100% proof.
There’s one pro, and matching it, the one con
Fitting, like the teeth in a jigsaw puzzle piece
So one of this, to one of that;
That's what I've always thought.
Silly me.
But there can be SO many facets to a story.
Depends on the retelling. The version.
Each side fully believes it is RIGHT.
That great injustice has been done.
Even if it means summoning up the Gods.
The forefathers.
Or questioning parentage. At hyper-volume.
But not my problem.
So beyond sympathy most non committal.
And sounding equally indignant to both parties
And a shrug or two. “It happens”
while the brokers slug it out
No holds barred
I shall remain “god-fearing, naïve”
Step away,
And watch.
Perhaps good enough for a life philosophy?

Cocooned in the temple by the tree grove uphill
Even as rained clothed the skies in serenity
We’d gathered early morn
For an invocation to the Lord
devotees in orderly rows, sitting by offerings of flowers and lamps,
As chants of the 1000 names rose sky-wards
in age-old prayer and supplication
each syllable ringing clear
It dawned upon me
How ever generation has its own demons, its own *kurukshetra*
Time after time, a call to arms
Battle lines drawn in the sand
Armies at the ready
A call to battle,
to defend the righteous
As also the weak
Each of us an Arjuna, battle-ready, yet
plagued by self doubt
Trapped in a quicksand: do’s, dont’s, rights, wrongs
History, modern expectations, and demands that hold us back,
Leashed
Our battles fought in tightly packed lanes.
winding by lanes crammed with turn of last century’s buildings.
As also swanky shopping malls, multiplexes and such like
Our enemy yellow-livered
just as sly, unfathomable
why, he may even be one amongst us--
and going by the record strictly
the enemy seems to be winning, hands down.
While reams of old newsprint are stacked
Splattered with undone lives
Perhaps it is time to abandon what is not working
Stop cowering behind closed doors
For how long will prayers, pleas, supplication work?
What will it take
For this Arjuna to be challenged
What call to arms?

Guru purnima, this special full-moon day
A day of gratitude and remembrance
Reverence
Not that life-debts and knowledge dues can be ever repaid
Gratitude bridging many lifetimes
First remembering the parent, and both the mothers, the giver of life and the one who shaped life,
Then the triumvirate of Gods, and the Remover of Obstacles you annote as your personal deity,
And yes, the learned sage prehistoric that you trace your lineage to, somewhat reluctantly
Wondering if anything you’ve done this lifetime,
Anything you’ve ever done, justifies a linkage, however tenuous.
Remembering the forefathers, all the names you can remember
the geneline, strong on obdurance and integrity
Which you think you’ve somewhat inherited, toned down to this world we live in,
And steel backbone, to enable you to stand tall
And the other, diplomatic, which you wish you had.
And the many many teachers who’ve lit your way.
Miss Ganguly in Class 1, and that prize for being good,
What a gesture for a child coping with life events.
All the teachers you helped you struggle with the vagaries of language
And the mysteries of science
And build an abiding interest in current affairs.
Even if chemistry formulae had to be written on walls and trembling Hindi underlined
Thinking of how 5 years of school and 2 years of the pg
Were the only place you ever learnt anything,
Even if the later lessons were real-life, grow-up-quick
Lessons that repeated over and over again, until you’d get them right
And yes, the arts, colors and tone and rhythm
Indebted forever to the one who painted new vistas
Subluminal lessons of persistence and patience and doing-over and experimentation.
Encapsulated in
Hundred-eight repetitions of the *sargam*
And now the teachers in distant lands, how generous they’ve been
A stumbling, falling into the sea of verse and prose
Amazing, but they’ve kept you afloat
Sane. In line.
So yes, a day of gratitude and respect
So many teachers, so many lifetimes
Not enough words.

Today I’ll write about
Anything but the spirit of the city
Resilient survivor of shattered glass
Like a battered abuse survivor--resilient but also a partaker, silent
So, the rains would do
Now that its been raining nonstop
Rain drumming over the covered roof at work
The wind whistling as it races uphill
Rain drumming on the downstair neighbors’ awning
Sometimes fine English rain but mostly in your face rain that impinges
Gets into your eyes and brain
Makes a joke of raingear
Not to mention the flooded roads that were paved not too long ago
If you cant see it, its not there,
Rain that brings long forgotten streams and rivulets to life
Nonstop this week, all this week
The skies overcast and the birds silent
perhaps we have enough water to last
this filled-to-the-brim and spilling-over city
enough water to quench
its unending thirst

when will those half assed bastards learn it takes more than a few bombs to stop this city? that NOTHING can stop this city so go to your special brand of hell, you infidels.

Only in Mumbai can you walk alone at eleven in the night off the expressway trying to hail an auto past the stream of whizzing traffic, say beep-beep to the rain and admire the reflections on the road, and still get home safely and not get teased/ heckled/ hooted/ picked up. BHTB is larger than life. Like its protagonist. Quick and sharp. But I prefer the suave Reid-and-Taylor version, thank you!

After the keys were received and accounted for
Crisp paperwork and signatures done;
cheques signed with particular flourish
The deal tied up
I was shocked-- at how tiny it seemed
As it had before
And it did, again
But getting my foot in the door, that’s what mattered.
The security of my own home, that’s what mattered
So yes, tiny square footage, all mine
Along with banyan tree and view to the horizon
But I was still shocked. And worried.
About vintage, teak. And fitting it all in.
Until I came across
apartment therapy and their cool contest
for tiny spaces, some tinier than mine
all the entries jostling for delight
but oh so elegant with texture, color and light
So to the magic worked by strangers in distant lands,
Specially Beth in Sausalito, color and style compacted
a cheery cottage so nimble you wouldn’t believe it
My everlasting gratitude

I know I’m no Rodin
Not much of a thinker
But these days most mornings
I find myself idling
With nothing in particular
Not as if I’m blue, in a funk
That idle dullness is different, a gritty quicksand
Pulling you deep into murky depths
Crashing headlong into a wall.
None of that!
But I sit around, looking at the greens
And the sky
And sunlight on the wall
And if its night, that rich red that the sky can take
The patterns of light in the neighbor’s window
And nothing much in particular
So I watch.
And then I move. Until the next time.
Of course meals get cooked
Taxes get paid
The cheque book’s balanced and
I log into work and log out
But no, these days I’m not shooting for the moon
No Don Quixote at hypothetical windmills
No grand stories of theft or crime impale polite readers on the writing list
Nor have erudite editors been bombarded by third world tales they have no interest in.
No sir!
I’m taking it inch by inch
The world can wait
Or not.

Tossing and turning with a fever
(Hundred one, hundred-two, who knows?)
Is a good time to eke out a philosophy of life
Not exactly novel,
so with a salute and apology to all the philosophers--
One way is the blazing meteor
Fast and furious, pinnacle breached effortless.
These sort are ambidextrous,
learn dancing and Spanish and algorithms with the same effortless ease,
while whistling in metre
The other way is the slow-plod
For the slow coach;
That’s mine.
Plodding on step by painful step—but not as linear
So many detours and re-do’s and rejections, failed tries and retries
And wastage and warnings and chemistry formulae written on the walls,
All the better to memorize.
Yes, that’s mine
So given time, you learn to duck, deflect, shake off
Turn a deaf ear to naysayers and wellwishers
And learn to live with what is
Nothing very dramatic, this adhesive of ploddingitis
No paens, no eulogies or odes
Save for the afflicted
An odd satisfaction
On eventual attainment, closure or completion.

These times are bittersweet.
(Like the strains of a Mohd. Rafi song
His voice rich and sweet, but the sadness!
Still seeps through some sixty years after;
Sixty years after the celluloid the stories were printed on
cracked to a brittle nothing)
So, these times are bittersweet
Incongruous.
As disjointed as the paan-tinted, tile-lined government building
Housing divorces, marriages, building registrations under the same roof
Which skeptic must have evilly grinned at
This harmony of joining for seven lifetimes, and breaking asunder?
These are strange times
And I while away hours, waiting for files to move,
Watching the milling crowds
The black robed, the hopefuls, the angst-ridden, the touts
And the distant stream of cars glide beneath a green leaf canopy
I wait