It takes someone's loss, impending loss to show you how minimal, how insignificant your own trouble is, even if it aint going away someplace. Impending loss that, but of course one will battle, one will use up all the tools, with all that modern science etc etc offers, knowing, knowing the science, knowing the odds yet…Life…and life is so beautiful…sunlight,  a radiant halo around a sprig of buds and blooms, and you stop and stare and wonder why you never saw this before. And you wonder about loss, and the cost one pays incrementally over the years with cumulative loss, this one and that one, and that one, quite different but quite the same, and after a time one can react, feel no longer but just shrink, bow in  stunned silence.

PQ asked for photos of the park, so here we go...

orange copper pod sandwiched by bakuls

magnificent raintree... blooms too fine to be seen

fresh leaves on the kailashpati

kailashpati... what a heavenly scent

apta... bauhinia leaves

stylo! HK orchid , Bauhinia

tivar... a carpet of fine blooms underfoot

glorious gold

sita ashoka

the first amaltas or laburnum

persian lilac... delictate and poisonous as hell

amla!

the first gulmohur

our own problems shrink to insignificant.
in the park where i walk, angelika  walks too. sort of.
she's five.
she walks few hesitant steps.
and plops down, all tears.
her father and grandfather are coaxing her to walk. 
everyone tries to help. make her stand waist deep in sand at the beach.massage her legs. do this, do that.
now it is everyone's problem. a grandmother holds her hand and runs with her.
today she walked a great deal, fifteen steps, all alone.
everyone's happy.
yes, I can put foot in front of foot and walk. I can do that.

the Tivar are in bloom now, a fine carpet of red blooms beneath your feet.

Yet.
the copper pod trees have flared into bloom. All at once. As if someone put on a giant switch.
Despite all.
My grief claws about for a language.

I've just called off plans to go trekking  the next week.
Sorry GHNP, some other time -- if the fates will it. Else my backpack was packed and raring to go.
Given current exigencies, this decision was called for. Why handover someone a stick to beat you with?
Each day brings in new surprises. I could use a few good ones.
The more things change, the more they remain the same.

My warm, lively friend Guilie—who I first “met” on Practice group at IWW where all good things happen-- well, Guilie tagged me on her blog. 

These are questions re my writing process, and I’m being as honest as I can.  To begin with, the word “process” makes me squirm…I don’t think I have a process per se. Writing for me is like whittling away at the words, revision after revision, a chip there, a  bit of sandpapering there…

What are you working on?

Two things, actually.  Or maybe three. I put writing in two boxes—translation and “own”

Box One currently has the longer term stuff, the translation of an important memoir, a tome in two parts, where I’ve finished the rough, handwritten word by word draft of HALF the book. I need to finish this as quickly as I can, but typing it out, making changes as I go along, is going to take what it takes. Meticulous, laborious WORK—but it chronicles an important decade in my country’s history AND I quite enjoy the challenge of a personal narrative as versus the fiction I’ve translated before. Plus this is a paid assignment, and cash appeals to the Gujarati in me. I also need to revisit Bharat Trivedi’s verse and translate the ones left out from the book—Since that’s the only way we can reach poetry journals.

Box Two, labeled OWN, has three things primarily. One is the PRACTICE group stubs.  This is something I MUST do, maybe two times a year I allow myself a pass. Most of these are “inspired” from the newspaper. The second is working and reworking (after rejections) longer stories built from these practice stubs. The third, which I should do more of, is writing poems and CNF.

As you can guess, I’m  perpetually trying to balance out Box ONE and Box TWO.  That I write Indian English, that I write sentence fragments and have the attention span of a frisky sparrow, doesn’t really help.

How does your work differ from others of its genre?

Box One: Not too many people work on translations from Gujarati. For translations I prefer to work on one author, one poet … instead of flitting about from one masterpiece to another. This gives me a certain comfort with style and nuances, a sixth sense of sorts that lets me go beyond the printed word.

Box Two is mostly newspaper-inspired and Mumbai-inspired. Not sure how it is too different, other than the form—mine are short stories, even the murders are crisp and elegant.

Why do I write what I do?

Box One: Because I can. Also because the next generation cannot or will not read Gujarati, perhaps this is the only way to preserve our heritage.  Most of this work has been gratis—only now bits of it are paying off.

Box Two: I don’t know. Sometimes stories nag you, itch till they’re out in B&W. Also, because as I invest time in BOX ONE, this tiny voice prods me—so what did you do for YOU?

How does my writing process work?

Box One: Translate by hand, word by word.  Type out, changing, whittling as you go. Print and revise. Incorporate Author comments and revise. For a book, send final version to ALICE, get her comments, revise.

Box Two: Read newspapers, keep a radar scan watch for anything that seems unusual. Cut pages that seem interesting. Save news from online city papers. WRITE a PRACTICE stub with suitable story. Extend stub. Polish, sub, rework, sub… endless cycle.

Her mail said she was a sr. citizen, it didn’t say she was a swimmer, techie, a trekker (Everest base camp, Kailas Mansarovar). Age just got trashed. Inspiring.

“must notice the small miracles in my day….”  What a thought, first thing in the morning…. 4.30 AM. A cuckoo trills in the distance.

Iyer aunty’s insistence that I watch this TV discourse first thing in the morning… means I now get up at a decent hour. No more 7.30 AM sluggish wakeup.

Bauhinia. Nagkesar. Kailashpati. Blooms not as profuse, but I take delight in showing them off. Sunlight showers on green. On my skin.  I think of the wonder of energy, of nourishing food and GI villi...and the magic of ATP= ADP +P.

HERE IT IS!

DRUMROLLLLLLLL …

FIRST, THE SHORT VERSION …

Harper Collins (ahem!) has just published a condensed ebook of my forthcoming translated NOVEL,

* Hon’ble Minister Jagubhai*

http://www.amazon.in/Honble-Minister-Jagubhai-Harper-21-ebook/dp/B00J3T46G8/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1395660491&sr=1-3

http://tinyurl.com/pdxgrud

http://www.whereiwrite.org/index.php (via shoeboxdwelling)

Suddenly my couch perch with large window does not look too bad.

Also:

http://www.salon.com/2013/05/12/jaron_lanier_the_internet_destroyed_the_middle_class/

The heat is building up terribly this year, the park is drying up much quicker than in previous years. This morning I noticed fruit on the Midas tree – a tree that I walk under every morning, but eyes and no eyes! The Kailashpati are a beauty too. Very sad re the snow and hailstorm in interior Maharashtra... horrible losses.

RIP, Mr. Khushwant Singh. The end of an era.

I remember reading *Train to Pakistan* in secret, class 9, was it?

Yesterday was Holi, the festival of colors, but my celebration started a month ago with fresh colors on the trees; something different about the light.

Walking around the holika the previous evening, the ritual bonfire that marks the festival was somber and scorching, as it usually is.

Our park association held a Holi Milan function, a random get together of assorted souls who walk in the park and were ok with the @150/ fee… major learning for me when I escorted a bent, shaky, aged gent home. He transformed from an old man with no family to a man too fond of the bottle, with a caring family—four sons—his wife who worked a vada pao stall, the real bulwark of the family. Reminder to self not to go by what is apparent!

Delighted to announce  publication of an essay I’ve been working on for quite some time:

Remembering Awe is up on Pure Slush; an essay about walking with my father to an early 1^st century Buddhist monastery and why I must not let this memory go : http://pureslush.webs.com/rememberingawe.htm

Today is a landmark day. For someone who is conditioned to adjust till the cows come home, speaking up can be taxing and tearful. But I'm glad I stood firm. Nothing left to salvage.

Yesterday was so grilling a day that…that I booked tickets to go work in the mountains in Sept. Made arrangements, bought tickets etc etc. Today I packed my backpack—the first time ever-- for the April GHNP trip, much longer walking than I’m used to but not going as high, so breathing should be far easier than Leh. Plus when nature is overwhelming, anything else just does not matter….

To worsen my mood in the evening I received a story back with feedback/comments. I had ASKED for comments so I can’t fault them. No way I’m going to write complex unending sentences, though. This once I have no option but to accept changes and live with it. Did you tell Pamuk that his lines were brittle?

Good news this morning--the book with my essay on  journaling is available!

Images from Sunday's tree walk. Renee and Dr Usha do an amazing job...sharing their knowledge, insight so generously, taking the time, energy and effort to document this living heritage; scientific name and all...all gratis. Only in Bombay can this happen.


The third image-- deadly Datura, so pretty and fragile, every damn part of it a killer
The second image- Cordia, a happy tree..mildly hallugenic
The first image? The gate at Heritage Park, just because I liked it

Images that are dying to prompt a nasty tale or two.

Charcoal and glitter is a tribute to a loved aunt.  

She made our chequered childhoods somewhat normal. 

She rushed in to help in a crisis, sometimes assisting in an emergency in the middle of the night.

Charcoal and glitter is also too little, too late… yet.

Am delighted that the essay will soon be published in an anthology, Aspiring to Inspire.

Her gets the best screenplay Oscar… Dallas Buyers Club gets “Mr. Woodroof” the best actor award… what brilliant movies both. Dallas Buyers that I saw on Saturday midnight show was the censor-edited version, I was glad I’d read the script, else continuity would be difficult. But what brave movies, both…

Samvidhaan on Rajya Sabha TV is v good... Govind Nihalani at his usual best.

Today I got an acceptance on an essay that I feel v good about… allows me to repay my karmic debt to my aunt in a small way…

Some time back my uncle, now 88, mentioned some spiritual books that had inspired my village grandfather ages ago.. thanks to the big www I was able to trace the place and check, will place an order now…they had offered me a discounted version but I don’t want that debt please…

The palash are in bloom—delicate, fragile. Selective! Just one or two flowers reluctantly scattered under a massive tree.

Watching a child’s glee at her  first soap bubbles….

A friend pointed me to an online reseller of used books. Hardly used books, very used books, books so fragile they tear when you turn the page… but what a steal. Appeals to my frugal heart, though I went overboard with the buying… a book on 1950’s Indian film industry, a book on the trek to Shri Badrinath (1958 edition)…who’d have owned these? Why would someone sell them away? 

Shivratri is next week, at the temple Guruji is reciting the rudra.. .so lucky, blessed to even hear these words…. I close my eyes and I see those jagged mountain peaks, un-climbable, snow capped, pristine…how fortunate that I opted for a circuitous, cheaper ticket and was blessed with this once-in-a-lifetime sight. Raga Shankara/Dhan Dhan Dhan dhavalashikhar…the abode of Lord Shiva… these words hold much more meaning now

An explosion of beauty… suddenly, fresh leaves have sprung up, tender green, hesitant, against the darker green-black of older leaves. This morning I counted: bauhinia, cordia, nagkesar, asok, african tulip in extravagant bloom. New leaves, a fragile tan, on the Tivar. Celebrating spring.

Despite the cold, yes unseasonal cold for Mumbai. Good excuse not to go for walkathons that begin at 6.30 AM. Though dawn must have been breathtaking.

Watched the Oscar-nominated Her. What a brilliant movie. What a world we live in… so many in my row had come all alone, phone in hand.

One life skill I badly need to learn is the ability to STOP being a garbage bag for strangers... this morning I stopped to compliment an old lady on her saree; got ten minutes worth of complaint re her DIL...
Mercy!

Today, I celebrate the asoka blooms. Generous. Bursting forth with color. The tree alight.

On Sunday, watched 2 movies. Both landmarks.

Gurudutt’s Kagaz ke phool. What brilliant shot taking. How quickly the story moves. Almost modern in its treatment.

DD showed Shyamanand Jalan’s Eashwar Mime Company. What fantastic work. Minimalist story line. Didn’t have the guts to watch the last frame.

Incredible feeling.
Stunned.

I’ve discovered a new pastime—listening to old hindi songs on radio and singing along. Purani Jeans zindabad.

A young colleague made a life changing decision. From abused divorcee with special needs child and rote 9 to 6 existence--to bride, immigrant. What courage must it have taken. To abandon all that was familiar, secure after such a jolt. To trust life again.

A salute to your professional skills that we are talking, though a part of my mind recognizes how even handed you have been navigating this change over the last five or is it six years… so be it, and perhaps I’m grateful too for your friendship and loyalty. Life moves for us at different paces and places , and I wish you well. For me, this acceptance is growth,  a maturity milestone.

Win some, lose some.

So that thing that I was jumping about, last year, received a “try again next year.”

The Tx work moves on to the next stage. Fingers crossed.

Dusk, JP Road
a banyan tree bursts out with birdcall.

A FB friend, Dushyant, has written a book of short stories—July ki ek raat

Very slice of life. Modern tales. Abrupt endings that leave you stunned.

The story stays with you.

Easy to handle for non-Hindi natives like me.

Baba’s third death anniversary y’day. The day was peaceful. Watching the baby gurgle and turn on Thurs. has helped bring me to a place of acceptance, this cycle of life.  Yet, that memory of the airport bus, that pinging so much like a ventilator’s. Somewhere these memories reside in  your nerve endings, surge to alert life at a hint.

I am Kalam… what a brilliant movie. Must watch. And Gabricha Paus in the award winner slot at 11 PM of which I watched half an hour. DD is outdoing itself these days—for movies like these, I can sit though ten reruns of the Dove/ Sunsilk ads.

What is it with youngsters/ not so youngsters and money? You have to cut the coat according to the cloth, Baba used to say. I keep thinking of the shift from chauffeur-driven by Shankar to moped, and how cheerfully and matter of factly he made the shift. Once when the moped broke down he’d hitched a ride on a bullock cart.

Look up, see

The nagkesar are in bloom

A vine, purple decked, has made the beal its own

Reaching for sunshine

Took the urban village shortcut to reach the auditorium in time, just as curtains went up. Eleven Gujarati women poets honored for their work; eleven volumes of poetry released. Each of the poets read out a selection. All of them paid respects to SD, the late poet-publisher. Morari Bapu briefly graced the occasion.  My highlight was a book set gifted by the poetess lady. And an opportunity to escort an aging diva (known for her traditional stories at a time when women didn’t write),  now well into her eighties, stick in hand and all, to her car. I stood up for my craft—how good are you? Very. Says who? IL, MR etc etc. The first time ever I’ve been as presumptuous. The silence from H* is getting to me.

His mother is a friend I’ve made completely by chance, introduced by a trip acquaintance. Being phone friends for two years means this was my first trip to her home, easy to locate and not too far, despite a longish address. After months and months of obsessing over possible names, finally a name was given to her infant son, one for the horoscope, one for daily use. Beautiful names both. Sober and happy ceremony, with sunshine flooding in, incense and diyas, the chant of mantras. Quite  like the practice of invoking the Gods and calling upon the forefathers to witness and bless. Wonderful start.

Not a crease on her face. Her voice that of a young girl, the lilt, the enthusiasm, that joy for life…and with a shock you remind yourself of her age-- eighty summers done and some. Her poems are finely etched, like calligraphy or Japanese line art, but so optimistic ever so optimistic; and you think of the darkness this must have balanced out; and the chaos-turmoil she has conquered, every smile earned. Without a stray comment on her blog you’d never have met, such is chance and such is fate.

Mooralala Marwada at the Kabir Festival, at a morning recital … just brilliant. No photos—you can’t capture the madness of his music in pixels. Or words.

Too austere a diet isn’t working… well, another SL.

Watched Sonar Kella. Three fourths w/o subtitles, thanks to the loaned CD, and the rest with; thanks to YT. Amazing how simple the movie is. How select the trademark Ray shots (as in the shadows and beams at the guesthouse, the train roof). The real hero is the Killa, and I oohed over my Jaisalmer shots circa 2012 over and over again. The Patwa haveli specially--is haunting by moonlight—I had been drawn back there, had sat for hours mesmerized, uncaring of the dark and unafraid, perhaps there is a story there.

Last night and too late at 11 PM, DD National showed Gajendra Ahire’s Sumbaran (Marathi). What a gripping theme, about the return to one’s roots, loss and the life choices one makes…what excellent characterization. Could not keep awake to see the end, my loss.

After y’days death we will lose our last connection to the village, the house of the forefathers will be lost, that front room with kitchen and Dadaji’s swing, the back room where grains were stored in large earthern pots, the steep front staircase to the first floor *medi*, the large cot where I’d laid when I was so ill at 9 years old, Dadaji’s table, the staircase to the third floor and the room with the stored books and the terrace where Baba and all my uncles flew kites, fought, studied… the end of an era. I shall keep with me the memory of the iron grill on the windows and staircase. In my mind’s eye, Dadji sitting on the swing massaging his hand, speechless, a smile on his wrinkled face even as sunlight filters past the metal rods of the front door and casts patterns on worn stone…

Note to self, 1: NEVER, EVER take a ticket on the domestic leg of an international flight, specially not if its Air India. It IS possible for a 1 hour flight to be delayed by 2 hours, and to be offered a slim packet of peanuts at 10 PM. On the plus side you never know whom you’ll meet and the 75 yr young couple, doctors both, were a lesson in self care and attitude, greens and an hour of gym per day.

Note to self 2: After t'day's sorrow of a close relative’s peaceful death after a lifetime giving in to schizo not complying with medication—a good life wasted-- the lessons—self care, mental health is vital to one’s well being. Anything that increments one’s mental, physical, spiritual health is on. RIP, and be well whereever you are.

2014. This once I didn’t call up the relatives at midnight, didn’t change the calendars with much show… I watched National Treasure on HBO and went to sleep, stirring awake when they set off crackers… this year I resolve to be a nicer person-- nicer to myself too. Move from a largely reactive mode to a selectively proactive one, which is a tough one for me, need to undo decades of conditioning. This year professionally I pray I move from neutral/ reverse gear to a forward gear, any forward gear, so help me God….

The compulsion not to infringe on his time had kept me away, but every time I have had the privilege—and what an honor, given the incessant crush of his fans and work—I’ve been impressed at his impeccable manners and gentlemanly behavior. The background was perfectly eerie, unfinished staircase leading abruptly into the air, long iron rods clanging in  the corner, no walls and rough ceilings in the building under construction—and yes, the generator van and cobra jib and vanity vans. Thank you, Sirji, for meeting M and me—though the next time I will leave the book at your door, not disturb you.

During the last week I’ve reveled in such goodness, both my friend M and K, whom we visited in Pune. Simple goodness, honest to earth goodness that comes from the heart.

A life with hope, the happiness of sunshine…that Coke print ad is simply beautiful.

For the first time in years and in this house, I have a house guest, a friend who is more than family.

Hectic days. Beautiful days, such lights it almost seems like fairyland. A trip to see a friend, such goodness, such generosity of spirit one is stopped short; almost like a mirror held up to one’s face, what did I do?

Traipsing up and down Mount Mary, the hill decked with lights, the church beautifully lit up. It is late and the doors are closed, but someone tells us the door right at the front is open, so we have a few minutes of serenity before we’re asked to leave.  Sobs, and one turn around, instinctively consoles a stranger weeping over her killed ? son. How strange is this play of light and dark.

A discovery—steps that lead down from the mount, and beautiful cottage homes that line the dim path ,all decked up and lit up. A walk through Varoda Rd, so quaint you forget you are in Mumbai; sounds of music and merriment in the distance draw us there and we watch and clap at a pre-wedding party dance, the East Indian Umbarta pani…

Such wonder, such revelry in not planning, going where your feet take you, in keeping off the beaten track!

A time for summing up. Some nice, some not.

This year translations took up much of my time, so much of rewriting;  the  volumes somewhere still work-in-progress. Own writing output was much lesser, I situation I must correct next year.  It was a scarce year with only ten acceptances and about thirty-three practice stubs for the writing group. I did many rewrites, some of which got accepted. That excel sheet is patient and uncomplaining!

Among new forms—poetry in translation and scripts, though I’m all thumbs just about bumbling along; but I like how visual this treatment is, almost like poetry, only it’s moving.

Also a time for another summing up. I opened up a portfolio on moneycontrol to track stocks that I’d sold.  Three stocks that I shouldn’t have sold when I rationalized my list in Feb last year. After cussing myself for being too hasty, I finally have a number and I can live with that without wincing.

Yesterday I cut out stars from crinkly salvaged gift wrap paper and silver foil from old Quaker Oats packages, and hung them from twigs from an old basket that I placed in a gold ribbon decked green bottle. Enjoyed the process even if the outcome is kindergarten-ish. Am going to do craft this year, methinks.

Our complex is looking v pretty with lights and stars put up, and the decked up buildings for occasional parties.

RIP, Janet Dailey
http://www.nytimes.com/2013/12/18/books/janet-dailey-romance-author-dies-at-69.html?nl=todaysheadlines&emc=edit_th_20131218&_r=0
Thank you for helping me keep my sanity.
Thank you for keeping me ambitious and grounded, so that I didn't run away with some arbit driver or dhobi.

It is V’s birthday today. The older I get, the more I wonder at how unruffled and dignified she remained as she navigated life’s storms, a widow just a year after her wedding, and in those days society far more unkind. Yet the PhD. Yet the Professorship. Equipoise.

A—much loved-strict aunt; generous giver of cookery, knitting and perpetual nutrition lessons, finally breathed her last, marking the end of an era, the last of her generation to depart. God, watch out,  delightful scolds coming your way. Homemade cakes for all our birthdays,  those fabulous sit-down lunches on raksha bandhan, new shiny clothes made for me a surprise-- right in time for family weddings, my first ever b**… so many things I never particularly said thank you for.

At the train station, that old man, partially paralysed, unable to speak, dressed in “good” clothes, begging…maybe the sons turned him out. Maybe he has no one. Maybe.

Time now for the sarees to be press-rolled and put away, packed in muslin and layered with shreds of dried tobacco, the acrid scent for keeping bugs away.
So that's 4 events in a fortnight, three of which were multi-event, close family functions--enough socializing to last me for the next six months.
 If I had children, I'd have prompted them to run away-- what a jhamela weddings have become.
But yes, took lots of photos, the Baroda wedding was at the Golf Club on the palace grounds-- beautiful.
This predawn, made my second visit to Siddhi Vinayak in a week-- felt blessed.
More later.

Philomena. What a story.
Reading the pages makes it come visually alive.
Reminded me of A, the same spunk-grit and at her age too.
(Also learned format for flashbacks.)
One more wedding, and the min temp back home is 16 deg.

That young girl is confident, full of hope, an optimist. Not one detour. Not one compromise. Not one second choice.

And I look back.

At her age, I wasn’t.  

But had notched up serial heartbreaks, abundant grief, a parent’s decaying physical-mental health, a painful hunt for work, a career “if not this then this….”

Didn’t know these would translate into abiding strengths decades later.  Or, maybe this thinking is delusional. :)

V, a more than a friend, almost-family, will move to another office next week. Maybe I’m getting better at goodbyes, maybe I’m getting more independent, and freer of the need to stroll across and chat. But V sat by my side explaining the rites at Baba’s funeral, and V let me to tag along with her family for Ganpati darshan at Asthavinayak, the eight principle deity temple sites… some debts cannot be repaid ever. A wistful acceptance, that is what this is. In the meanwhile I continue to glance across the aisle at her empty desk, the granite tabletop shines back.

Back in September, I did crib a little about multiple deadlines. Today I sent in a draft foreword for Bharat Trivedi’s book of translated poems—A Festival of Verse. Still some time away. Must-not-forget moment at the Guj. book launch, fulsome praise that made me blush and be thankful for that last-row seat.

Need to get back to the rhythm of writing and subbing. So many weddings, one niece, one nephew, one daughter of a close friend… infants one has oohed and aahed over,grown up and all formal… All the weddings in the family have me to-ing and fro-ing, limit the time for time pass rumination quality time… yet. Was so tough doing this week’s 400 words…luckily a news piece about a writer with Parkinson’s helped.

On Saturday I attended a book launch; a book of free verse, Bharat Trivedi’s Acchandotsav (written in Gujarati) was released in august company without any of the hoopla that accompanies English book launches. The poet read his verse, the book was released amongst a gathering of the finest poets in the state; and then select poets were invited to read from their best work. In those wrinkles and fine lines you could see the work of a life time, of fealty to craft and line and form. In their claps and appreciation, there was understanding, there was acknowledgement of belonging to the same brotherhood. Now I need to shake off that ennui and finish up the tx.

Amazing how our elders help us and bless our way even long after they’re gone.

A mini-essay that I wrote for a book on how journaling/ writing can help you cope—HOW WRITING CAN HELP YOU THROUGH TOUGH TIMES by MJ GOFF,  is ACCEPTED!

https://twitter.com/Joyful_Writing-- in case you want to contribute too!

Watching sunlight filter and dance through a curtain of green ; waiting for the  locality citizens’ meeting to begin.. citizens’ aware of their rights, demanding, cognizant of the power of an election year. Vigilant citizens, unlike back home, so many questions as the poltis continue to pilfer and plunder. Strange balance of the mystical and worldly, strangely peaceful.

Last week I pulled out, polished some 400 word stubs from a few years ago. Only the basic story premise remained. All else was chop-edit-change, hint of impatience. Sobering. Interesting, this evolution.

Digant , a national award winner and India's entry to the competition section of Cannes, was shown on DD last night… beautiful story, spellbinding photography but the 11 PM slot means one can watch just a little.

http://ibnlive.in.com/news/iffi-maximum-people-should-watch-konkani-film-digant-says-director/306471-8-66.html

My story, Parched, is up at Pure Slush for  their water theme.
http://pureslush.webs.com/parched.htm
Delighted!

The four days of Diwali break went by in a blur. Did put up a toran, light diyas, light taramandal (sparklers), eat mithai (delicious kaju katri--shouldn’t have), made tons of phone calls to wish relatives, visited friends homes, visited the janitor ladies’  tiny but squeaky clean and hopeful homes…also the work pooja that I was late for (Miss Blue stalled in the middle of the road in horrendous traffic and needed prof help. Luckily, India-style, the curious bystander who walked up to help and happened to be a driver, wouldn’t even take thank-you-money)…after another elaborate puja on Diwali day a friend forgot her age, her saree, and a step—and fell badly. By God’s grace only a bad contussion and bruises, the docs at casualty said, but for a moment I’d thought she’d collapsed….Visited the 19^th C Mumbai photographs exhibit at the grand museum… guess I missed out the right century to be born in, what a grand, graceful place this was…trying to return to work even as the projects pile up…at the tree walk in MNP Dharavi I waited mesmerized by a red pierrot flitting about, and understood why people fall in love with their this ephemeral creatures.

A few yahoos, condensed:

1.One of the things that translating has taught me is sheer, cussed persistence. I’ve tried to capture this in an essay just published on Talking Writing, Balancing Words in Two Languages.

http://talkingwriting.com/balancing-words-two-languages

2.Thanks to the weekly exercises on Practice group, a story’s up on Pure Slush as part of their Hobbies theme. I'm particularly proud of this one, have treaded that path often.

http://pureslush.webs.com/storms.htm

3. Earlier this month, Footprints in the sand, a story about cultures, and a cultural potpourri was published on Looseleaf tea

http://issuu.com/looseleaftea/docs/looseleaf_tea_issue_1.3

Read a brilliant, incisive story by Paul Theroux y’day. Was reading as I prepared to doze off for my precious Sunday siesta, but by the tale’s end I was sitting up straight, all neurons afire. An interview with the author is here: http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2013/09/this-week-in-fiction-paul-theroux-im-the-meat-youre-the-knife.html

Funny thing at the temple yesterday, in our chanting group—a minor tiff over seating escalated to nasty abuses (quite disregarding the diety); both the gentlemen are well in their seventies. O boy. An eye opener.

Caught the beginning of Rajnigandha (1974) on one of the DD channels. After I gaped at the empty roads, zero traffic and larger than usual apartments, got tired of the pacing. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rajnigandha

Haven’t been this unwell in years.

Yet last week I unearthed my ayurvedic medicine for fever in a strange city. And managed the flight back without getting sick. Held myself together with twine.

Yesterday I began an antibiotic for a stomach bug.

 When will it stop raining??

Miss Blue did me proud by effortlessly zooming the kilometers, the first I've driven these speeds.
Which is why losing my purse this morning is a shocker-- not much money in it, but my licence...
I think of the ancient images in the rock caves that I visited yesterday after a walk in the forest, and wonder how many ups and downs they've encountered.

The taxman visiteth.
Like many , I have received a notice asking for details, details, details...
from two years ago, when I bought the tiny house.
given that every transaction was thru the banks, and every damn transaction out of salary income, what do they want?
they'd find it worthwhile to chase a) their service kin b) politicoz of iridescent hues c) assorted businessmen 
Why the eff pick on the small woman going about her own day?

funny thing, getting older. One tends to look kindly upon missteps and meanderings, one’s own and other’s, learn to keep the past in the past, realize that karmic debts repaid could well be a result of one’s misdemeanors, acts of one’s omissions and commissions. And that done is done. Next year I start a new decade, no more of hiding in the late forties…for once I begin with something like hope.

This was my world, last year...

A part of my brain looks at story arc, plot, characters. 
Regardless of what I'm reading.
Sometimes, it forgets to do any of this.
Yesterday I had to force myself to put the book aside and cook. To eat. To sleep. To function and not stare out of the window.
Been ages since I've read something as solid.What a tale.
What writer can bring forth this sort of interest for her 41st novel*!
And I'm only half way through.
(*Lakshagrah/ Varsha Adalja)

Infibeam delivered my copy of Varsha Adalja’s Lakshagruh yesterday.

A quick narrative, free of  convoluted passages and double meanings to trip one up…

Engrossed. After so long!

Am I glad I pushed myself to the movies, to watch Madras Café.

What an immense movie. Brave.

Tough as hell. Panoramic. Colossal.

Solid story line, if too close to the truth.

Splendid casting. Acting.

The scale of it all!

The constant drone of the helicopters that hover over the “usual everyday hello this is Sri Lanka” scenes—that drone still resounds.

No wonder I was glued to my seat, staring at the screen like one possessed.

No wonder there were not more than 5 people in all the theater.

But what a movie.

http://www.firstpost.com/bollywood/a-journalists-review-despite-factual-problems-madras-cafe-is-worth-a-watch-1060193.html

http://www.hindustantimes.com/Entertainment/Reviews/Anupama-Chopra-s-review-Madras-Cafe/Article1-1112074.aspx

Delighted to announce publication of two stories on Star 82 Review. 

http://star82review.com/1.3/contents.html

Free time. On a Sunday. What a luxury…I stacked unread n’papers and discovered a few steals like Shekhar Gupta’s Second Draft about IPKF’s foray on foreign shores, not to be missed. Not for the faint of heart.

http://www.indianexpress.com/news/such-a-long-lankan-journey/1167330/

http://www.indianexpress.com/news/dead-men-talking/1167902/

http://www.indianexpress.com/news/uncovering-the-war/1168571/

Also watched Bhag Milkha Bhag, so sharply scripted and made.

yesterday was ganesh chaturthi.

the hymns at the Ramakrishna Math still resound.

tsomoriri, hemis, the dunes in jaisalmer, that strange sense of déjà vu at patwa haveli that drew me back there just to gaze at the façade when the moon was high in the skies; the tree walks, birding trips, the stillness of lakes and a bird flying high…. among the million and one things that I said thanks for. Unimaginable, wonderous things.

I need periodic doses. Of lush green. Of the wind in the trees. Of  the wind etching waves on  water. Of birds, mostly unknown; and making their acquaintance the first time via the camera.

I’m back from three days spent at a farm somewhere in the middle of Maharashtra. So remote that you cant find it on googlemaps. The insistent call of the babbler resounds. Is there anything more plaintive than the peacock’s plea?

A dose of still peace.  The bonus this once was hearing the life story of some one who lives his life on his terms, making the transition from corporate to animal breeder to farming and niche tourism. Very inspiring.

Stepped on the porch of author Gauri Deshpande’s  house… what a vista…do homes carry the imprints of people who lived there long after they’re gone? My despair at not knowing Marathi, the language she (mostly) wrote in... but what a lineage, THE Iravati Karve's daughter... Yuganta!