Rohinton Mistry nominated for the Booker!

(Do not miss that exclamation mark. Yes, I am thrilled. Been smiling to self all mornin’)

*Such A Long Journey* (which is his only book that I’ve read so far, thanks to the Mumbai University ban), is intricate, brilliant, astounding, the kind of book that shakes the heebie-jeebies out of your mind, sets long dusty neuron ends buzzing again, makes you sit up straighter and sigh with hundred-proof envy.

Just the book to read ensconced in the environs of an ICCU waiting room, seated on the bench that forms perimeter of your scared domain, even as the world goes about the ebb and tide of its business. Just the kind of book that transports you in a microsecond from sticky, rexin-covered, shaky bench to the hustle and bustle and social buzz of a Parsi colony in Central Mumbai.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rohinton_Mistry

http://januarymagazine.com/profiles/mistry.html

That tax credit that you fought for, and I'd said, let it go?
Well, you got your refund, sir, with interest.
I'm bright eyed. I sit taller.
Looks like a message from beyond the pale. Stand your ground and fight.

Spring 2011 issue of The Massachusetts Review features my translated story, * Lines on the wall*.
The original Gujarati story,* Bhoosavu* is by Shri Pravinsinh Chavda.
www.massreview.org

I reach home-wards, for three days, to handle paperwork.
Must be done before March 31.
Hard road.
What is home? What defines it? And what is not?

from a trip to Tulsi Lake on saturday.
Huge thanks to BNHS. Yes, this is in the National Park in the not-so-distant suburb of Borivli.
I learned to drink in the greens. To breathe again.
Yes, despite the cousin in Tokyo and the mentor in Hawaii.

Sometimes
you keep the words
at a respectful distance
wary.
Of the tricks they can play
watchful
of their moods and whimsies,
And the slips they do on purpose, sly
sound one way and mean another
(when they know you’re not at your best)
Words.
the letters push, pell-mell
a rush hour melee,
of broken font and serifs
mismatched type-families.
yet in the blanks between the letters, you spot
traces of disquiet , forgotten memories
now announcements in bold, underlined,
under spotlight for all the world.
when
the words turn traitor,
Dragging their feet, gluey and reluctant
Sharp, serrated edges stand out like origami
‘Tis wiser to stay aloof

(note: written for the poetry group, I am ok)

A rhyme learnt in kindergarten has taken me so long to understand:

"popat bhookhyo nathi, popat tarsyo nathi
popat amba ni daal; popat sarovar ni paal,
popat majhaa karey.."

A young vagabond parrot, who’s run away from home, trills about the pleasures of the wide world, showing off he is without a care. But ouch, he’s hurting.

Head down, getting on with life
Sticking to a routine helps
Writing helps, the rote of weekly subs and crits at IWW.
But writing poetry, that too a poyemn a day? phew! I’m surprised too.
Walking helps, round and round the park we go.
So much paperwork!
.
Working longer hours.
Getting home after 9 has logic, not much of the day is left then.

Cooking is tough-- the fridge overflows with leftovers.

Anyway, head down and quick march, “popat majhaa karey”

Little one~ I looked hard for you this morning but couldn’t find you; and it’s only sometimes that I spot you now, spinning crazy kathak chakkars in the morning light, or showing off a full velocity,dexterous taan in the afternoon quiet. Peace and hope you’re pampered and happy returns and all that, where ever you are, and where ever it is that we eventually go.

Y’day I grew a difficult notch in my own esteem, a pat on the back is in order, as is sitting up straighter.

A month ago, this very day.

Frostwriting features my essay, a tribute to the Practice group on IWW , (and to my friend Alice in particular)
www.frostwriting.com/issues/article/three-dots-and-a-full-stop

Strong? No, not me.
Pokey-holey; this façade.
Like cardboard. Edgy.
Do not touch.

From the formal quiet of the 34th floor meeting room, the sea stretches to a misty distance, an uneasy sheet shimmering with serene pools and rivers of quiet, past which are lands inhabitated by souls. And the foyer at the Gateway holds an invisible cloud, like a second skin, of all the chaos that once transpired. And Dilli‘s Terminal 3 is fine, only its in the wrong country. And so on.

Somewhere, amidst this schizoid existence, the mind registers.

In the light that flooded past the golden curtains that afternoon.
In the rush of the river carried you ever onwards.
I saw you.
Today, I resumed walking, watching the sun light up your beloved green.
But even the strays were lost

I'm ok in bits and pieces.
Yesterday, I returned to work after a long time. Three months is a long time.
Opening the door to let myself in at home, that was a disconnect.
And my sleep has gone for a toss.
So many "what-if's".
A day at a time.
But ok, I think.

Baba. Papa. Bapu. Appa. Babu. (Amongst the several names I called him.)
He breathed his valiant last this morning.
After a three month long fight.
My life lost its axis.

two months and two days.
time on tenterhooks. ICCU time.
the fight continues.
tough old man, the doc said.
you bet.

like knitting that comes undone
one thing after another
medicines we take at a muscle wince or fever can mess up the innards and kidneys of the too old or too young. So I see, day by day.
words recalled from pharmacology textbooks ditched twenty years ago.
yet.

Week 3 in the hospital begins today.
Toughest thing in the world? To make a disinterested grumpy immobile recalcitrant elder eat. And return to steel will. When cajole,charm, beguile, threaten, barter-- all fail.
Light on the lawn. What a sacred troth is life. And how callous are we.

a week after our arrival at the hosp the opn was done
after 5 bottles of b+ blood
still weak
cajoling the man to eat
recovery slow but ok I think.

the parent's in icu, has a femur frature after a fall, needs to be stablisised bp wise before they can operate.
under control.

It is good to periodically find a metaphorical mountain to climb. To pit one’s will, to stretch boundaries etc.
Now, one may logically prepare to climb the said mountain, practice with trainer wheels, hear the cautionary tales of other trekkers, think of worst and best cases and etc., and put your head down and get on with it.
But then the said, metaphorical mountain can dramatically alter, morph, take on new shapes.
And so we begin anew.
So I’m learning.