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

Words

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

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

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

Let me remember the good parts

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

new Roughpad updated.

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


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


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

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



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


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

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

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

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

GREENS

This is from the walking track.

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

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

Today I deleted that post.

Sathya- sorry, I deleted your comments too.

The pics are on flickr anyways.

YESTERDAY ONCE MORE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

new roughpad updated.

FRESH!

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

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

~

6 weird things about me (tagged by abbagirl)

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

2. I hate- just hate- to dust.

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

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

5. I *like*remixes.

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

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

Tinsel

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

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

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


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

Pics on flickr in some.