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.