Seems to be a week for meetings and conferences.
Will post on saturday now.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
(from Oct 17)
If you want to gleefully cuss, make faces at the traffic, then you walk. Each time I go to Juhu Crossword it’s almost like a pilgrimage, hiking double pace to cut past the traffic snarl-ups. The last trip was 45 min brisk and done till you reach JVPD. Then you navigate that labyrinth for the quickest way out as you put film stars’ names to dimly lit homes sitting pretty in obscenely huge compounds. But yes, attending a book launch that features the dialogues, in translation, of Mughal E Azam is worth it. Specially if one has spent most of the preceding evening trying to piece the dialogue together, while watching the classic on telly, “ uh huh, what exactly did she say?” And the redoubtable Mr Akhtar is worth it, silver haired or not. For once I’m not late.
Mr Akhtar, quite at comfort with the use and tone of words, spoke about the dignity of human relationships that is the fabric of the film. That is an interesting concept, I trhink, as concepts go. He then spoke on a number of issues and the point he made about translators/translations is interesting, about immersing onseself totally in the original language across genres to be able to any sort of justice. He drew a parallel from music, stating that S D Burman could compose as brilliantly in Hindi, because of his mastery over the forms of Bengali music, from folk to classical shruti. As an ideal this is great, but if one was to read/ study/peruse the classics of gujarati literature, Meghani and Tripathi and Munshi to begin with, it is too much. Just imagine battling past the 4 volumes of Saraswatichandra, probably it would take a lifetime given one’s speed and no actual translating would get done. He also recited a critical dialogue, where Emperor Akbar asks his heir to choose between the kingdom or his love, he has a tremendous presence and made the words roar.
The strangest part was helping out a distraught man with photos, only to be told later that he was the director’s son, and realizing that one’s clumsy point and click endeavors would reach the man responsible for this creative extravaganza. Of course, one bought a copy, duly autographed by Mr Akhtar and the translators, to gift- but I think I shall keep it afterall.
Funny world.
The Immortal Dialogue of K. Asif’s Mughal E Azam
Nasreeen Kabir, Suhail Akhtar
Oxford University Press
If you want to gleefully cuss, make faces at the traffic, then you walk. Each time I go to Juhu Crossword it’s almost like a pilgrimage, hiking double pace to cut past the traffic snarl-ups. The last trip was 45 min brisk and done till you reach JVPD. Then you navigate that labyrinth for the quickest way out as you put film stars’ names to dimly lit homes sitting pretty in obscenely huge compounds. But yes, attending a book launch that features the dialogues, in translation, of Mughal E Azam is worth it. Specially if one has spent most of the preceding evening trying to piece the dialogue together, while watching the classic on telly, “ uh huh, what exactly did she say?” And the redoubtable Mr Akhtar is worth it, silver haired or not. For once I’m not late.
Mr Akhtar, quite at comfort with the use and tone of words, spoke about the dignity of human relationships that is the fabric of the film. That is an interesting concept, I trhink, as concepts go. He then spoke on a number of issues and the point he made about translators/translations is interesting, about immersing onseself totally in the original language across genres to be able to any sort of justice. He drew a parallel from music, stating that S D Burman could compose as brilliantly in Hindi, because of his mastery over the forms of Bengali music, from folk to classical shruti. As an ideal this is great, but if one was to read/ study/peruse the classics of gujarati literature, Meghani and Tripathi and Munshi to begin with, it is too much. Just imagine battling past the 4 volumes of Saraswatichandra, probably it would take a lifetime given one’s speed and no actual translating would get done. He also recited a critical dialogue, where Emperor Akbar asks his heir to choose between the kingdom or his love, he has a tremendous presence and made the words roar.
The strangest part was helping out a distraught man with photos, only to be told later that he was the director’s son, and realizing that one’s clumsy point and click endeavors would reach the man responsible for this creative extravaganza. Of course, one bought a copy, duly autographed by Mr Akhtar and the translators, to gift- but I think I shall keep it afterall.
Funny world.
The Immortal Dialogue of K. Asif’s Mughal E Azam
Nasreeen Kabir, Suhail Akhtar
Oxford University Press
Monday, October 30, 2006
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
IN BITS AND PIECES
The security guys were shocked to hear me ask, isn’t there a shortcut that ways down the hill? Turn a corner and it seems quieter, away from the hum of the industrial area. No road exists, just a frequently trodden path of sorts on empty scrubland, past a gate set in a rock-hewn wall, probably from the time that the rest of that (no doubt) heavily forested hill existed, past a well where a kid was valiantly trying to fly a kite. Jump over an open water line, looking askance at the bleached rickety boards placed across. Briskly march at the double through a village where the walls are painted blue and homes, shops tailoring establishments, sheds with lathes and vegetable vendors all exist cheek by jowl, where there is just enough space for one not too broad vehicle to pass else there’d be a traffic jam. Edge past the shed with the placid buffaloes, and you wonder at the price of this patch of real estate abutting the highway, and then voila! , the stream of unending traffic and glee at avoiding traffic jams at four signals.
~
the kindness of strangers
A one line request to someone whom you’ve long admired, oohing and aahing over comfort with words and turn of phrase, the dancing lines inducing you to read, merrily leading you on to an end that closes just right, with a punch. So much done for a stranger, just on request. I’m left speechless and I must admit- a little teary.
(more..)
The security guys were shocked to hear me ask, isn’t there a shortcut that ways down the hill? Turn a corner and it seems quieter, away from the hum of the industrial area. No road exists, just a frequently trodden path of sorts on empty scrubland, past a gate set in a rock-hewn wall, probably from the time that the rest of that (no doubt) heavily forested hill existed, past a well where a kid was valiantly trying to fly a kite. Jump over an open water line, looking askance at the bleached rickety boards placed across. Briskly march at the double through a village where the walls are painted blue and homes, shops tailoring establishments, sheds with lathes and vegetable vendors all exist cheek by jowl, where there is just enough space for one not too broad vehicle to pass else there’d be a traffic jam. Edge past the shed with the placid buffaloes, and you wonder at the price of this patch of real estate abutting the highway, and then voila! , the stream of unending traffic and glee at avoiding traffic jams at four signals.
~
the kindness of strangers
A one line request to someone whom you’ve long admired, oohing and aahing over comfort with words and turn of phrase, the dancing lines inducing you to read, merrily leading you on to an end that closes just right, with a punch. So much done for a stranger, just on request. I’m left speechless and I must admit- a little teary.
(more..)
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
BEEN THERE, DONE THAT
Yesterday you had a day of psychopharmacology lectures, 9 to 6, and done.
Uh huh. Have fun. That didn’t quite convey the disbelieving laugh.
How on earth can you fit in everything that’s under DSM- I forget which edition it would be about now- in a 9 to 6 day…
-the rage of mania, distanced, you watch that pyrotechnic outburst of stupendous energy
-flickering wisps of alternate reality, an avalanche of babbling strange tongues,. quick images seen on a screen in a lantern play
-the unending spiral of the big D, sinking lower with each repeat phase
-the unpredictable swings of bipolar, ricocheting from high voltage mania to dull ennui
- the tsunami of panic
So much more, the millions of ways in which these cross cross and overlap
The medication to handle it all
The awesome switch-like action of rauwolfia serpentina when it was first discovered.
Haloperidol decanoate, the gold standard for oh so many years, bringing in a measure of sanity into gone cases. The beauty of the right modicum of dopamine precisely where its needed
The newer ones- aripiprazole, quetiapine.. so beautifully engineered these atypicals, inch by inch setting right drawbacks with previous therapy
And the whole gamut of antidepressants, restoring equilibrium at the micro synapses
Instant action tricyclics, with instant SE.
SSRTIs, inching back to hullo sunshine, inch by inch over a fortnight. The amazing grace at seeing a loved one move away from a catatonic state and check latest skirt length trends…Then the dual action ones, so smart-so very smart.
How can you fill all this in a single day?
Yesterday you had a day of psychopharmacology lectures, 9 to 6, and done.
Uh huh. Have fun. That didn’t quite convey the disbelieving laugh.
How on earth can you fit in everything that’s under DSM- I forget which edition it would be about now- in a 9 to 6 day…
-the rage of mania, distanced, you watch that pyrotechnic outburst of stupendous energy
-flickering wisps of alternate reality, an avalanche of babbling strange tongues,. quick images seen on a screen in a lantern play
-the unending spiral of the big D, sinking lower with each repeat phase
-the unpredictable swings of bipolar, ricocheting from high voltage mania to dull ennui
- the tsunami of panic
So much more, the millions of ways in which these cross cross and overlap
The medication to handle it all
The awesome switch-like action of rauwolfia serpentina when it was first discovered.
Haloperidol decanoate, the gold standard for oh so many years, bringing in a measure of sanity into gone cases. The beauty of the right modicum of dopamine precisely where its needed
The newer ones- aripiprazole, quetiapine.. so beautifully engineered these atypicals, inch by inch setting right drawbacks with previous therapy
And the whole gamut of antidepressants, restoring equilibrium at the micro synapses
Instant action tricyclics, with instant SE.
SSRTIs, inching back to hullo sunshine, inch by inch over a fortnight. The amazing grace at seeing a loved one move away from a catatonic state and check latest skirt length trends…Then the dual action ones, so smart-so very smart.
How can you fill all this in a single day?
Monday, October 09, 2006
THREADS
Dor is beautiful, best watched in a wide screen multiplex, but then ours is a beautiful land. To say that the photography is striking is not true- it is tremendous, but then the whole product comes together quite flawlessly, trademark Nagesh Kukunoor style. A million and one dancing greens and sparkling streams in Himachal, the stark splendor of Rajasthan, each life with its own story and boundaries, yet intertwined in the manner life sometimes is. A wispy gossamer thread that links, a fine line that runs through an intricate embroidery. From what was till now a page 3-quality glamour cast- Gul Panag, Ayesha Takia, Mr Kukunoor has extracted a fine performance, most of it make up free and easy on the glycerine. A storyline that is pro- hope and entirely believable, stuff happens, you get up and walk, life goes on. Shreyas Talpade excels as the bahurupi, exceptionally good as a gag- a-minute mimic. Mr Kukunoor in a cameo as the lecherous Mr Chopra is miscast, he looks too decent to suggest a pass, let alone a live- in arrangement. The end could have been slicker, but that is about it. Watch, sigh your heart out as the desert winds whip up a mindstorm, put on them walking shoes.
~
On Saturday night I’d gone to Prabhadevi, reveling in the feeling of speed on the expressway; that ferris-wheel sensation as you confidently zoom taking in soaring flyovers with ease, the glee at acing traffic with clear green signals, noticing how the darkness is a coverup, and how those distant lights seem quite pretty if you’d half close your eyes. I returned by local train, happy to jump in before the train braked to a halt, senses alive at the hustle- bustle at key stations, glad but reassured to recognize Bandra with the arches and art -deco girders, amazed at the variety of goods sold with finesse in the compartment that hour of the night- candy, purses, trinkets, vegetables, T shirts and keychains from China. Both trips were fun in their own way, making me speechlessly happy with the world for no reason. Was this because it was a change from routine? I don’t know, but I felt more alive than I have in a long time.
Dor is beautiful, best watched in a wide screen multiplex, but then ours is a beautiful land. To say that the photography is striking is not true- it is tremendous, but then the whole product comes together quite flawlessly, trademark Nagesh Kukunoor style. A million and one dancing greens and sparkling streams in Himachal, the stark splendor of Rajasthan, each life with its own story and boundaries, yet intertwined in the manner life sometimes is. A wispy gossamer thread that links, a fine line that runs through an intricate embroidery. From what was till now a page 3-quality glamour cast- Gul Panag, Ayesha Takia, Mr Kukunoor has extracted a fine performance, most of it make up free and easy on the glycerine. A storyline that is pro- hope and entirely believable, stuff happens, you get up and walk, life goes on. Shreyas Talpade excels as the bahurupi, exceptionally good as a gag- a-minute mimic. Mr Kukunoor in a cameo as the lecherous Mr Chopra is miscast, he looks too decent to suggest a pass, let alone a live- in arrangement. The end could have been slicker, but that is about it. Watch, sigh your heart out as the desert winds whip up a mindstorm, put on them walking shoes.
~
On Saturday night I’d gone to Prabhadevi, reveling in the feeling of speed on the expressway; that ferris-wheel sensation as you confidently zoom taking in soaring flyovers with ease, the glee at acing traffic with clear green signals, noticing how the darkness is a coverup, and how those distant lights seem quite pretty if you’d half close your eyes. I returned by local train, happy to jump in before the train braked to a halt, senses alive at the hustle- bustle at key stations, glad but reassured to recognize Bandra with the arches and art -deco girders, amazed at the variety of goods sold with finesse in the compartment that hour of the night- candy, purses, trinkets, vegetables, T shirts and keychains from China. Both trips were fun in their own way, making me speechlessly happy with the world for no reason. Was this because it was a change from routine? I don’t know, but I felt more alive than I have in a long time.
Friday, October 06, 2006
THOUGHTFUL
The hedge is bright with a million and one yellow-greens, and you realize it seems prettier than it has for a long time. But it is the same hedge, unevenly cut, lining the same slightly pebbly walking track that is soft in places where you have to watch your step. It’s the rare sunshine, perhaps; filtering in past the clouds. Or trying to see what this swarovsksi shrub or that rough-hewn rock with the chiseled surfaces would look like on a tiny lcd screen. Yes, the same hedge, but it dazzles.
The workshopped story has been shredded with a sharp knife. We shall persist. I wrote and pestered -as in asked politely-someone for a review- am shocked at this rather brazen behavior. Or perhaps not.
The markets continue to thrill and shock, by turns. BRKA crossed 100,000 y’day. Did I get those zeros right?
Thursday, October 05, 2006
RAMBLE
The other day someone gifted me a book with an autograph scrawled on the flyleaf, the first two initials capitalized with immense vigor and the t slashed with a flourish. Rather than an unending text in serif, this is an intelligent conversation that stops you short because it forces you to think. No, I haven’t read beyond the first page as yet.
People, episodes and ideas are elements of a good conversation, so the very first line reads, and rates ideas as the most intense. Conversations that center around inanities have a short half life, you say something and you’re done; or you say something and seek something else between the words, till one day you say nothing and you’re done. Ideas may or may not begin life all capitalized with inverted commas and neon lights. Nuances don’t exactly come to life with an announcement, but if the thread is to continue there is a dissection, a casual stroll around the bylanes, perchance intricacies- viewpoints examined, perhaps the conversation progresses to the next logical link.
But this is where I differ- for the exchange to move to ideas, first the groundwork has to be prepared, with events, people, and “what did you eat for dinner?” kind of small talk. This scaffolding needs to be put into place, a frame of reference built for words to mean what they indeed do.
The other day someone gifted me a book with an autograph scrawled on the flyleaf, the first two initials capitalized with immense vigor and the t slashed with a flourish. Rather than an unending text in serif, this is an intelligent conversation that stops you short because it forces you to think. No, I haven’t read beyond the first page as yet.
People, episodes and ideas are elements of a good conversation, so the very first line reads, and rates ideas as the most intense. Conversations that center around inanities have a short half life, you say something and you’re done; or you say something and seek something else between the words, till one day you say nothing and you’re done. Ideas may or may not begin life all capitalized with inverted commas and neon lights. Nuances don’t exactly come to life with an announcement, but if the thread is to continue there is a dissection, a casual stroll around the bylanes, perchance intricacies- viewpoints examined, perhaps the conversation progresses to the next logical link.
But this is where I differ- for the exchange to move to ideas, first the groundwork has to be prepared, with events, people, and “what did you eat for dinner?” kind of small talk. This scaffolding needs to be put into place, a frame of reference built for words to mean what they indeed do.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
SOUL CAGES
Seven blackbirds buzz overhead. Angry waves scream at a jagged shore. A secret never told. No you can’t go there. No one can. There is no there.
A harsh spot on the sun. The last sigh of a tree butchered, sinking to the ground. A raging desert wind sweeps empty miles to the bitter horizon, where dry heat bleaches skin to bone. A young child, bent, broken boned, silent with an empty extended belly. Crumbles of brain sprinkled on tar. An angry duststorm, tweaking mighty sand dunes in play. A furious flood rages through desert lands, submerging hopes and dreams. Faith is a joke. A supercilious smile. A dog cries hideously at the moon, a non-stop loop. Sink to the cold floor, flail at the heavens, tear your hair out, weep empty sobs from your gut, curse the skies with no-meaning words. Cry, cry at the wailing wall. A flood of mumbled laments. Gasps. Oaths.A flood of incoherent sobs, the words running into each other, a shorthand saga. Of treachery, of loss, of betrayal, a wail. The overwhelming sorrow of generations past. A cursed legacy. Deadening. Dead hope, acid pain seeping seething in drop by drop in the DNA. A fractured genetic code plays out. Wailing, flailing at the immobile. Unheard. In a black void with cold stars aglitter, the planets play at planchette Deafening, this howl of the banshee wind at the artic. Icebergs gloss, groan like a dying animal. An overcast sigh, driving ice rain. Searing sorrow. Piercing. How normal, how trite, passé . A startle reaction. Cursed to tremble and shiver at sound. A chair moved. A phone bell. The hum of airconditioning walks upon your nerves. Block out sound. Nothing lasts. Your mind shrieks. Cry. Cry for the dead. For the unborn. For virii that mutate, that wreck the embryo unborn, for the sins of their fathers. For the blast shattered, the limbless, the amputees, the widowed, the orphaned and suddenly deaf. For new clothes with shiny price tags thrown out. Cry for the curse ,the wealth of the land, for black gold, for metal veins ferreted underground. For lines thrust upon a map. For overflowing granaries and hunger deaths. For color, for race, a dice throw. For shame of it all, for the weight of living. Soul cages.
(title courtesy-Sting)
Seven blackbirds buzz overhead. Angry waves scream at a jagged shore. A secret never told. No you can’t go there. No one can. There is no there.
A harsh spot on the sun. The last sigh of a tree butchered, sinking to the ground. A raging desert wind sweeps empty miles to the bitter horizon, where dry heat bleaches skin to bone. A young child, bent, broken boned, silent with an empty extended belly. Crumbles of brain sprinkled on tar. An angry duststorm, tweaking mighty sand dunes in play. A furious flood rages through desert lands, submerging hopes and dreams. Faith is a joke. A supercilious smile. A dog cries hideously at the moon, a non-stop loop. Sink to the cold floor, flail at the heavens, tear your hair out, weep empty sobs from your gut, curse the skies with no-meaning words. Cry, cry at the wailing wall. A flood of mumbled laments. Gasps. Oaths.A flood of incoherent sobs, the words running into each other, a shorthand saga. Of treachery, of loss, of betrayal, a wail. The overwhelming sorrow of generations past. A cursed legacy. Deadening. Dead hope, acid pain seeping seething in drop by drop in the DNA. A fractured genetic code plays out. Wailing, flailing at the immobile. Unheard. In a black void with cold stars aglitter, the planets play at planchette Deafening, this howl of the banshee wind at the artic. Icebergs gloss, groan like a dying animal. An overcast sigh, driving ice rain. Searing sorrow. Piercing. How normal, how trite, passé . A startle reaction. Cursed to tremble and shiver at sound. A chair moved. A phone bell. The hum of airconditioning walks upon your nerves. Block out sound. Nothing lasts. Your mind shrieks. Cry. Cry for the dead. For the unborn. For virii that mutate, that wreck the embryo unborn, for the sins of their fathers. For the blast shattered, the limbless, the amputees, the widowed, the orphaned and suddenly deaf. For new clothes with shiny price tags thrown out. Cry for the curse ,the wealth of the land, for black gold, for metal veins ferreted underground. For lines thrust upon a map. For overflowing granaries and hunger deaths. For color, for race, a dice throw. For shame of it all, for the weight of living. Soul cages.
(title courtesy-Sting)
Sunday, October 01, 2006
YESTERDAY
So! It was a jamboree. That Google Wordmasters challenge in Bandra yesterday morning..
Good fun, just getting there, and good fun too, to laugh and shout in a chorus and feel decidedly collegial for a while. A max. 200-word essay to be written using 20 given words, in 45 min or less. Not very objective, especially when you have an all-seats-occupied- standing-space-only auditorium full of people of all ages- teenyboppers to silver-framed grandfathers biting at their pencils, tense and raring to go. I would have expected a TOEFLish word-usage screen to set the bar for the first level, perhaps an essay to follow for quality. But perhaps they know better. It was good fun to do, although I clocked in at about 160, without much sparkling expression. I realize I have become dependent on using a keyboard, and need the space to change words around or press shift f7 at whim, make word messes on whim.Dim lights and cramped seats where one sits sort of slanting to get the arm space right, no thanks. The auditorium was impressive, with several large monochrome prints of stars from the silver screen by Gautam Rajadhyaksha lining the foyer; and posters from the Shakespeare Globe Theatre setting aspirations at the spotlights. Yet beyond all this, 6 person strong queues haggling for forms for the usual science and commerce courses. and I wonder about the roads we take and the ones we don't.
So! It was a jamboree. That Google Wordmasters challenge in Bandra yesterday morning..
Good fun, just getting there, and good fun too, to laugh and shout in a chorus and feel decidedly collegial for a while. A max. 200-word essay to be written using 20 given words, in 45 min or less. Not very objective, especially when you have an all-seats-occupied- standing-space-only auditorium full of people of all ages- teenyboppers to silver-framed grandfathers biting at their pencils, tense and raring to go. I would have expected a TOEFLish word-usage screen to set the bar for the first level, perhaps an essay to follow for quality. But perhaps they know better. It was good fun to do, although I clocked in at about 160, without much sparkling expression. I realize I have become dependent on using a keyboard, and need the space to change words around or press shift f7 at whim, make word messes on whim.Dim lights and cramped seats where one sits sort of slanting to get the arm space right, no thanks. The auditorium was impressive, with several large monochrome prints of stars from the silver screen by Gautam Rajadhyaksha lining the foyer; and posters from the Shakespeare Globe Theatre setting aspirations at the spotlights. Yet beyond all this, 6 person strong queues haggling for forms for the usual science and commerce courses. and I wonder about the roads we take and the ones we don't.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
SEPIA
In all these years, you’ve never told me this before, and I haven’t asked, it worries me a little you are sharing this now. I haven’t asked, skirting memories, like old sepia-tint photos with scuffed edges and patterned butterpaper covers, that rest snug in old tin trunks never opened. “Dr Roger insisted she stay in hospital from the 7th month itself, so they could control insulin before every meal. We were willing to try anything” Yes, I recall silently, remembering that this pregnancy, her seventh, was the only one to last full term, after fourteen years of being married, and after several rounds of doctors, saints and temples. “Wasn’t it a general hospital?” I ask, trying to visualize the dirt, chaos and bustling so very unlike her cosseted routine “Yes, a general hospital, but it had the best doctors in town. There was no space in the general ward so she slept on a mattress in the common corridor”. “oh…tough.” “But no complaints! They were strict about visiting hours so we were made to wait outside. She cheerily waved from the wheelchair when she was taken to the OT at about ten”
Under a tree in the dusty compound? With a cycle stand in a corner? A tea stall? Was it very hot? Was the hospital regulation-yellow painted, with rusted windows? Did S kaka sweat a lot, since he had just returned from London? So many questions, but I keep quiet. “We didn’t tell Dadaji. He was furious when he found out later that day. But he would have raised the roof, fretting, pushing his doctor privileges and interfering with everyone” “then?” “ By afternoon, he cooled down. Suddenly declared at tea, that you would be named ***, and that was that. Of course, he was adamant about holding you and they wouldn’t let you out of the incubator”.
Suddenly I’m proud of my snub nose.
In all these years, you’ve never told me this before, and I haven’t asked, it worries me a little you are sharing this now. I haven’t asked, skirting memories, like old sepia-tint photos with scuffed edges and patterned butterpaper covers, that rest snug in old tin trunks never opened. “Dr Roger insisted she stay in hospital from the 7th month itself, so they could control insulin before every meal. We were willing to try anything” Yes, I recall silently, remembering that this pregnancy, her seventh, was the only one to last full term, after fourteen years of being married, and after several rounds of doctors, saints and temples. “Wasn’t it a general hospital?” I ask, trying to visualize the dirt, chaos and bustling so very unlike her cosseted routine “Yes, a general hospital, but it had the best doctors in town. There was no space in the general ward so she slept on a mattress in the common corridor”. “oh…tough.” “But no complaints! They were strict about visiting hours so we were made to wait outside. She cheerily waved from the wheelchair when she was taken to the OT at about ten”
Under a tree in the dusty compound? With a cycle stand in a corner? A tea stall? Was it very hot? Was the hospital regulation-yellow painted, with rusted windows? Did S kaka sweat a lot, since he had just returned from London? So many questions, but I keep quiet. “We didn’t tell Dadaji. He was furious when he found out later that day. But he would have raised the roof, fretting, pushing his doctor privileges and interfering with everyone” “then?” “ By afternoon, he cooled down. Suddenly declared at tea, that you would be named ***, and that was that. Of course, he was adamant about holding you and they wouldn’t let you out of the incubator”.
Suddenly I’m proud of my snub nose.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
THRESHOLD
Remember when you make marble paper? You take a sheet of plain white paper, not too thick that it’d never fold, nor too thin that it would crumple crease. Not coarse- the colors would run or get washed out like misshapen blobs, but paper that’s just right.
Then you pick the colors, rich colors, maybe pastels- one or two, not too many. And you put the colors together in a waterfilled tub or something, with just a hint of oil, and wait for the colors to mix magically and separate, fine lines and whorls and swoops and swirls and lines you don’t have the names for, and layer the sheet just so, so that it floats.
And a fraction of a minute before you remove the sheet, you wait with excitement and nervousness and just a hint of unease, you don’t really know what you’ll find, it could be a masterpiece or runny colors, smudged, voila!
Which is how I feel today, Rich colors. Some black, maybe a hint , maybe more.
Swirls, swoops, a dash and a splash. Impressions with a personal flourish on a plain sheet of paper, who knows what is around the corner.A whole year of fresh new days.
Remember when you make marble paper? You take a sheet of plain white paper, not too thick that it’d never fold, nor too thin that it would crumple crease. Not coarse- the colors would run or get washed out like misshapen blobs, but paper that’s just right.
Then you pick the colors, rich colors, maybe pastels- one or two, not too many. And you put the colors together in a waterfilled tub or something, with just a hint of oil, and wait for the colors to mix magically and separate, fine lines and whorls and swoops and swirls and lines you don’t have the names for, and layer the sheet just so, so that it floats.
And a fraction of a minute before you remove the sheet, you wait with excitement and nervousness and just a hint of unease, you don’t really know what you’ll find, it could be a masterpiece or runny colors, smudged, voila!
Which is how I feel today, Rich colors. Some black, maybe a hint , maybe more.
Swirls, swoops, a dash and a splash. Impressions with a personal flourish on a plain sheet of paper, who knows what is around the corner.A whole year of fresh new days.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
WHAT HO
As I stood there at the reception, wishing you, you know what I saw? That air conditioned room, bejeweled women in gracious silks, the hum of conversation and plush carpet underfoot – all of this fell away to an image of a lush field, past it the chimneys and sheds of that other factory beyond the concrete wall, but yes, lush green dotted with a placid cow or two and generous with sunshine to hurt the eyes. You were seated in that cubbyhole of an office on the mezzanine with the low roof and bay window overlooking the green, a somnolent drone of a wall-mounted fan that barely made a difference in that nasty heat. Fitting in somehow and scraping together the time for your studies along with your work as steno. The workload was horrible, but you managed, taking paper after paper as an external student. First graduation, and then that MBA. Of course I did cajole and wheedle, boss and tease, heckle you several zillion times. And despite the rather long hours that each promotion brought you, your smile remained as calm. Today, your bride wears a radiant smile, you are beaming, all dazzling sunshine. I hold back from breaking into a Cliff Richards number and hold in that catch in my throat as I realize I want you both to be as happy as happy, always.
But of course I didn’t say this, hitting you hard on the shoulder instead.
As I stood there at the reception, wishing you, you know what I saw? That air conditioned room, bejeweled women in gracious silks, the hum of conversation and plush carpet underfoot – all of this fell away to an image of a lush field, past it the chimneys and sheds of that other factory beyond the concrete wall, but yes, lush green dotted with a placid cow or two and generous with sunshine to hurt the eyes. You were seated in that cubbyhole of an office on the mezzanine with the low roof and bay window overlooking the green, a somnolent drone of a wall-mounted fan that barely made a difference in that nasty heat. Fitting in somehow and scraping together the time for your studies along with your work as steno. The workload was horrible, but you managed, taking paper after paper as an external student. First graduation, and then that MBA. Of course I did cajole and wheedle, boss and tease, heckle you several zillion times. And despite the rather long hours that each promotion brought you, your smile remained as calm. Today, your bride wears a radiant smile, you are beaming, all dazzling sunshine. I hold back from breaking into a Cliff Richards number and hold in that catch in my throat as I realize I want you both to be as happy as happy, always.
But of course I didn’t say this, hitting you hard on the shoulder instead.
Monday, September 25, 2006
JOURNEYS
Midnight sounds. A train, dusty and weather-beaten, disgorges its passengers to the metallic clang of a tea vendor on a sleepy platform. Shouts of recognition, running feet, metal on metal doors slammed shut. The whoosh of airbrakes before the wheels take up their song. The scrolling neon on black signage with tempting names, hints of long distance journeys that stir the blood- Gauhati-Bhuj. Chandigarh- Kochi. Red and blue lines crisscrossing the country. Dust . sweat. Boredome. A promise. Blurred voices over the announcement system, at an everyday job. You shake someone awake and claim your berth as the train ambles out. It’s twelve minutes past midnight.
Red eye. Suddenly it’s not something that happens when fist connects with said eye. DSCW 30, basic basic but oh so beautiful. One flounders, an edgy all thumbs, marvels at the ingenuity and frets about being able to do some sort of justice.
Virii mutate. That’s basic science. Overflowing private hospitals, temperatures readings that start at a hundred three, symptomatic treatment for the want of anything better to do, patients four to a room, crowded beds in corridors and too early discharges to accommodate the rush of new patients. Is C’gunia an epidemic yet? Not so, according to the powers that rule. Let them eat cake.
austere
Midnight sounds. A train, dusty and weather-beaten, disgorges its passengers to the metallic clang of a tea vendor on a sleepy platform. Shouts of recognition, running feet, metal on metal doors slammed shut. The whoosh of airbrakes before the wheels take up their song. The scrolling neon on black signage with tempting names, hints of long distance journeys that stir the blood- Gauhati-Bhuj. Chandigarh- Kochi. Red and blue lines crisscrossing the country. Dust . sweat. Boredome. A promise. Blurred voices over the announcement system, at an everyday job. You shake someone awake and claim your berth as the train ambles out. It’s twelve minutes past midnight.
Red eye. Suddenly it’s not something that happens when fist connects with said eye. DSCW 30, basic basic but oh so beautiful. One flounders, an edgy all thumbs, marvels at the ingenuity and frets about being able to do some sort of justice.
Virii mutate. That’s basic science. Overflowing private hospitals, temperatures readings that start at a hundred three, symptomatic treatment for the want of anything better to do, patients four to a room, crowded beds in corridors and too early discharges to accommodate the rush of new patients. Is C’gunia an epidemic yet? Not so, according to the powers that rule. Let them eat cake.
austere
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Frames
An orange streak ~fluorescent extravagant breaks free past the heavy gray of dawn, a wavy sharp line past the white hum of the plane window
The swoosh of takeoff, the ferris wheel-like thrill of disconnect, gravity defiant
A many-striped (but mainly carrot) cat- non-disdainful, non-feline; mews joyfully, rubs and stretches in delight when you coddle her with precocious cat-talk. Proudly leads you to a tiny pink white bundle of fur cowering in a corner
Hibiscus and clemantis border a lush green lawn, a classical masterpiece sets the background score to a morning of small talk and tea by the porch swing
A street side stall – skirts and odhnis, colors sequins mirrors aglitter in the bright afternoon sunshine past a white colonial bungalow
Nudging open a gate on its last hinges, a cow ambles to a moss lined corner under the badaam tree to birth, a good luck sign, so I’m told
Roughpad updated- grist to the mill.
An orange streak ~fluorescent extravagant breaks free past the heavy gray of dawn, a wavy sharp line past the white hum of the plane window
The swoosh of takeoff, the ferris wheel-like thrill of disconnect, gravity defiant
A many-striped (but mainly carrot) cat- non-disdainful, non-feline; mews joyfully, rubs and stretches in delight when you coddle her with precocious cat-talk. Proudly leads you to a tiny pink white bundle of fur cowering in a corner
Hibiscus and clemantis border a lush green lawn, a classical masterpiece sets the background score to a morning of small talk and tea by the porch swing
A street side stall – skirts and odhnis, colors sequins mirrors aglitter in the bright afternoon sunshine past a white colonial bungalow
Nudging open a gate on its last hinges, a cow ambles to a moss lined corner under the badaam tree to birth, a good luck sign, so I’m told
Roughpad updated- grist to the mill.
Monday, September 18, 2006
CRYSTAL
She looked into the mirror speculatively, past the reflection of the peeling green wall. Standard Indian features, nothing spectacular, “Nothing that a tint wont improve !” she mocked. Thank God she’d been spared her mother’s snub nose. From the shop a glossy pout, for sure, and long curving eyelashes. The forehead was a tad too broad, but now she’d stop hiding it behind a jaunty cut, instead let her tresses ripple down her back, medusa-like. A determined chin that firmed when she was defiant or angry- she must stop being so transparent. “This will have to go” she said, pulling the demure neckline of the cheap cotton print a good inch below the v of cleavage, tugging the dress so tight she could hardly breathe. “Not bad”, she admitted, clinically examining first one angle, then another. Arms next. Tinkling bangles. Or chunky silver, like in those tattered Vogue backissues she’d hoarded off wayside secondhand bookstalls. No more full or three quarter sleeves. Slender limbs she had, slender limbs she’d show. Minis, or micro micro minis, just the minimum.She had replaced her rather pedestrian name with something that sounded musical and soft. Her laugh now pealed prettily just with a hint of promise. Blahniks, or till she got there pointy tender toed heels from the street that went tick tack toe, turned heads.For that was the entire point. “Play it again, Sam, she said softly with a smile.
She looked into the mirror speculatively, past the reflection of the peeling green wall. Standard Indian features, nothing spectacular, “Nothing that a tint wont improve !” she mocked. Thank God she’d been spared her mother’s snub nose. From the shop a glossy pout, for sure, and long curving eyelashes. The forehead was a tad too broad, but now she’d stop hiding it behind a jaunty cut, instead let her tresses ripple down her back, medusa-like. A determined chin that firmed when she was defiant or angry- she must stop being so transparent. “This will have to go” she said, pulling the demure neckline of the cheap cotton print a good inch below the v of cleavage, tugging the dress so tight she could hardly breathe. “Not bad”, she admitted, clinically examining first one angle, then another. Arms next. Tinkling bangles. Or chunky silver, like in those tattered Vogue backissues she’d hoarded off wayside secondhand bookstalls. No more full or three quarter sleeves. Slender limbs she had, slender limbs she’d show. Minis, or micro micro minis, just the minimum.She had replaced her rather pedestrian name with something that sounded musical and soft. Her laugh now pealed prettily just with a hint of promise. Blahniks, or till she got there pointy tender toed heels from the street that went tick tack toe, turned heads.For that was the entire point. “Play it again, Sam, she said softly with a smile.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
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