It has been a very busy week. It promises to be followed by more harrowing stretches of time. I don’t have time for a lot of things but here’s what I miss the most: cleaning up my kitchen cupboard. Now, this is odd because I don't mind the other cupboards being in disarray. But kitchen cupboards are special to me. They are important. A ready stock of nice smelling cinnamon sticks bundled neatly, set next to a jar of cloves is comforting. It keeps a certain sense of well-being around. I like my kitchen cupboards to convey a loving preparedness. To make up for a slow, steady erosion of peace that happens on busy days.
Like maybe I didn’t get time to eat a leisurely breakfast or write a song about a blackbird. But should I decide to wake up in the middle of the night to listen to traffic, I could open my kitchen cupboard and make something to drink. A cup of something warm and soothing. Usually, it’s highly cooked tea. But sometimes, on beautiful nights when skies and earth are at peace, I make something mellow. I have hot water with honey, lemon and crushed black pepper, stirred with a cinnamon stick. The drink is a beautiful color. If it got transposed onto a lipstick, it would probably be called ‘Ambrosia’ and be used by ladies who lunch in expansive gardens.
It’ll be a while till I have a nice, long, peaceful weekend. And when that happens, I will enjoy it, savour it, remember it, and treasure it. I suppose, I’ll just take it and lock it up in my cupboard.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Hey yippee! Hey yippee!
Sitting at work, typing away…looking on the screen, looking away; something tugs at you, on an ordinary noon; something pushes you to get out, and not a moment too soon; it’s gotten grey now, and all misty and fresh; tingly rain now, and windy to impress; it’s a November day, it’s a November game; to catch you off-guard, with god-bless-you type rain; it’s the quickening of heartbeat, like when boy meets girl; or when you step into a beautiful day... and a wonderful world.
*- when it rained in Mumbai and it was cool...in November!
*- when it rained in Mumbai and it was cool...in November!
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Yoga damage
I am bright and early for my yoga class. The earlier instructor is taking another batch, so she won’t be teaching us any more. This month, we’d have a new instructor. I missed the first class of November (on account of running around Juhu beach at midnight, for which I am not sorry at all). I have no clue who she is. So, I’m sitting in my yoga room, watching the faint, winter morning paint the spit-and-polish granite floor. A man walks in. Fit, speedy, somewhat short. He looks at me and says, “Good morning.” He’s the instructor.
There are no mats in the room. Usually, the instructors are supposed to have the mats in the room, open the windows, draw the curtains, etc. etc. Generally, set up the class so to speak. But if any of the students reached early, we do the same.
Since I’m there, I ask him if he’d like some help getting the mats from the store room. He blinks and says, “Maaf kijiye. Aap krupya Hindi main baat karengi?”
So I repeated it in Hindi. He looked a little perplexed. He came up to me and said, “Aap Hindi main bolengi, please?”
I nodded earnestly and told him, “Maine aapko Hindi mein bola.”
He looked, if possible, even more confused and replied, “Woh Hindi thi?”
I mean…if that’s not insulting…
Then the class began. And man, is this guy tough! Sure, I’m better at yoga now than when I started out, but this teacher definitely pushes the limits. My personal best is doing 20-25 suryanamaskars easily. I’ll sweat a bit if there are variations where you hold a pose for 15 counts longer or you do the Bhujangasan with your knees off the ground or you do the knee-chest-chin dip with your body two inches off the floor. But overall, I thought I was good. Until today.
I think he must’ve made us do 50. Then 20 more with variations. And since we had time to complete all the other pranayams, etc., I am guessing this gut-splitting routine must not have taken up more than 15-20 minutes. By the end of it, everyone in the class is probably re-thinking the sanity of performing exercises that were developed by people living in mountains eating berries.
Then we do the other stretches. The instructor just didn’t let up. I mean, sometimes, if I have eaten sensibly over a few days, I can bend and touch toes and forehead to knees, etc. etc. But last week, there have been…ahem…indulgences. So, no…I couldn’t make the two ends of my body meet. Of course, the instructor thought otherwise. He snapped something about ‘aalas’ (laziness) and insisted that my head and feet get re-acquainted, whilst my back played spoilt-sport. I did think I was damaged for life.
But I have to say that I actually feel so light and limber today. It feels as if the ligaments and muscles have just opened up. It’s a beautiful feeling.
But the remark about my Hindi – that still hurts.
There are no mats in the room. Usually, the instructors are supposed to have the mats in the room, open the windows, draw the curtains, etc. etc. Generally, set up the class so to speak. But if any of the students reached early, we do the same.
Since I’m there, I ask him if he’d like some help getting the mats from the store room. He blinks and says, “Maaf kijiye. Aap krupya Hindi main baat karengi?”
So I repeated it in Hindi. He looked a little perplexed. He came up to me and said, “Aap Hindi main bolengi, please?”
I nodded earnestly and told him, “Maine aapko Hindi mein bola.”
He looked, if possible, even more confused and replied, “Woh Hindi thi?”
I mean…if that’s not insulting…
Then the class began. And man, is this guy tough! Sure, I’m better at yoga now than when I started out, but this teacher definitely pushes the limits. My personal best is doing 20-25 suryanamaskars easily. I’ll sweat a bit if there are variations where you hold a pose for 15 counts longer or you do the Bhujangasan with your knees off the ground or you do the knee-chest-chin dip with your body two inches off the floor. But overall, I thought I was good. Until today.
I think he must’ve made us do 50. Then 20 more with variations. And since we had time to complete all the other pranayams, etc., I am guessing this gut-splitting routine must not have taken up more than 15-20 minutes. By the end of it, everyone in the class is probably re-thinking the sanity of performing exercises that were developed by people living in mountains eating berries.
Then we do the other stretches. The instructor just didn’t let up. I mean, sometimes, if I have eaten sensibly over a few days, I can bend and touch toes and forehead to knees, etc. etc. But last week, there have been…ahem…indulgences. So, no…I couldn’t make the two ends of my body meet. Of course, the instructor thought otherwise. He snapped something about ‘aalas’ (laziness) and insisted that my head and feet get re-acquainted, whilst my back played spoilt-sport. I did think I was damaged for life.
But I have to say that I actually feel so light and limber today. It feels as if the ligaments and muscles have just opened up. It’s a beautiful feeling.
But the remark about my Hindi – that still hurts.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
To look around and to see
Stones that got stepped on by wandering stars
Wind that was shoved aside by speeding cars
Nights that came abruptly, said hello, and left too soon
Joy that got confused somewhere and morphed into A-grade gloom
Chess players, thinking hard, thinking of a move to make
Flowers listlessly standing still, looking for hostages to take,
Children growing up in slow motion, bubbling over like cappuccino froth,
Alternating between excitement and molass-laden sloth
Colors almost there, and almost bare, but all in all they fit
One sees the mess a rainbow makes when a world is wiped with it.
Wind that was shoved aside by speeding cars
Nights that came abruptly, said hello, and left too soon
Joy that got confused somewhere and morphed into A-grade gloom
Chess players, thinking hard, thinking of a move to make
Flowers listlessly standing still, looking for hostages to take,
Children growing up in slow motion, bubbling over like cappuccino froth,
Alternating between excitement and molass-laden sloth
Colors almost there, and almost bare, but all in all they fit
One sees the mess a rainbow makes when a world is wiped with it.
Monday, November 02, 2009
My guess is…
The weekend was yellow...bleached with white-hot streaks of the November sun. We took a walk in the afternoon, up Zig-zag road sidestepping splinters of light in the dappled shade. At the bend of Carter Road, one could spot the ocean. It looked homey. It looked like it was on vacation. It looked like it was taking a break from being expansive and had just folded itself up into comfort. It looked like a pool.
We went to Juhu at night. Entered the quiet, nice part of the beach. The part that doesn't have rows and rows of stalls, and waves and waves of people. It doesn't have chana garam hawkers, or people shoving sticks of kulfi under your nose, or giantwheels throbbing in acid-purple and hooker-red lights. It’s a smallish stretch with a nice, little dosa stall on a wide bulwark. Had dosa. Liked it.
Walked ahead. While friends got busy with entertaining themselves, I tiptoed farher into the sea. Sea that was ready for concert. There lay, in front of me, a thick layer of dense, lighted, smudged up air. I couldn’t see anything in front of me. The only way I knew I was by the sea is because I could feel it lap at my feet. And I could hear the wet, throaty roar. And suddenly, as if from a closet of darkness, waves came…one by one, building up strength, to break at the shore.
The sea seemed to be carrying messages from a dark, unseen beyond. It seemed happy. It seemed yellow.
Cousin moved out to a Byculla hostel the next day. Treated me to a nice lunch at Yellow Tree Café right by my house. I had a light, herb tea with some apple and rosemary pie. From where I was seated, I could see a little tree from the window slats. The tree wasn’t yellow, though. It had white flowers, thick ribbons of green leaves, and a sudden burst of magenta blooms.
We cabbed it to Byculla. Empty roads. Shiny, large bus stands near Worli, a skyline that, if possible, looked even more stunning in the daytime than at night. The sun shone on. Bright and full. Yellow.
Some friends came over. Made perfect cups of tea…thrice. They liked it so much. Listened as a friend gabbed on and on about the difference between Khar and Bandra. Listened as he asked me what the heck I was doing with my life. As he asked me how, when I die, I’ll have nothing notable to show the world. And then asked me to make him another nice cup of hot chai.
Later went back for dinner to Yellow Tree Café. Was dining with a friend this time. Slightly more formal. Several notches more grown-up than my cousin saying “Thanks for everything”. The place was now pretty and lit up. Beautiful people smiled and chatted. They sipped wine. I met, what had once stolen my heart many years ago, the Long Island Iced Tea. Paid homage by having a Coke in exactly the same kind of frosty glass with twists of lime. The place has a lovely collection of cookbooks. Was inspired.
Crossed the road and came back home.
Got a friend’s message – the same, tea drinker – “Really, muks…what are you doing with your life? Time you thought about it.”
So I thought. My life, perhaps, will not be markedly different from this weekend. Segmented into meals and outings with friends, and chats with families, and stolen perfect moments by the sea alone. It might not be the robust, full-throated song that carries over valleys and echoes forever. It will, who knows, be nothing more than a simple smile that reached the eyes.
I’m not doing anything with my life. That much I concede. But sometimes, I can guess what my life’s doing with me.
It’s painting me yellow.
We went to Juhu at night. Entered the quiet, nice part of the beach. The part that doesn't have rows and rows of stalls, and waves and waves of people. It doesn't have chana garam hawkers, or people shoving sticks of kulfi under your nose, or giantwheels throbbing in acid-purple and hooker-red lights. It’s a smallish stretch with a nice, little dosa stall on a wide bulwark. Had dosa. Liked it.
Walked ahead. While friends got busy with entertaining themselves, I tiptoed farher into the sea. Sea that was ready for concert. There lay, in front of me, a thick layer of dense, lighted, smudged up air. I couldn’t see anything in front of me. The only way I knew I was by the sea is because I could feel it lap at my feet. And I could hear the wet, throaty roar. And suddenly, as if from a closet of darkness, waves came…one by one, building up strength, to break at the shore.
The sea seemed to be carrying messages from a dark, unseen beyond. It seemed happy. It seemed yellow.
Cousin moved out to a Byculla hostel the next day. Treated me to a nice lunch at Yellow Tree Café right by my house. I had a light, herb tea with some apple and rosemary pie. From where I was seated, I could see a little tree from the window slats. The tree wasn’t yellow, though. It had white flowers, thick ribbons of green leaves, and a sudden burst of magenta blooms.
We cabbed it to Byculla. Empty roads. Shiny, large bus stands near Worli, a skyline that, if possible, looked even more stunning in the daytime than at night. The sun shone on. Bright and full. Yellow.
Some friends came over. Made perfect cups of tea…thrice. They liked it so much. Listened as a friend gabbed on and on about the difference between Khar and Bandra. Listened as he asked me what the heck I was doing with my life. As he asked me how, when I die, I’ll have nothing notable to show the world. And then asked me to make him another nice cup of hot chai.
Later went back for dinner to Yellow Tree Café. Was dining with a friend this time. Slightly more formal. Several notches more grown-up than my cousin saying “Thanks for everything”. The place was now pretty and lit up. Beautiful people smiled and chatted. They sipped wine. I met, what had once stolen my heart many years ago, the Long Island Iced Tea. Paid homage by having a Coke in exactly the same kind of frosty glass with twists of lime. The place has a lovely collection of cookbooks. Was inspired.
Crossed the road and came back home.
Got a friend’s message – the same, tea drinker – “Really, muks…what are you doing with your life? Time you thought about it.”
So I thought. My life, perhaps, will not be markedly different from this weekend. Segmented into meals and outings with friends, and chats with families, and stolen perfect moments by the sea alone. It might not be the robust, full-throated song that carries over valleys and echoes forever. It will, who knows, be nothing more than a simple smile that reached the eyes.
I’m not doing anything with my life. That much I concede. But sometimes, I can guess what my life’s doing with me.
It’s painting me yellow.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Mind wanders
I was at work, typing away through a headache. Thought it would be nice if the day ended with me playing with something cute. Something cute, at first, but unknownst to me it would get bloodthirsty when the moon peeps out. I'd have my arms round it and it would stiffen as the hour approached. I would feel its blood turning cold, and its eyes getting clouded for a minute. They'd be grey and rheumy. It would give off a faint, but noticable stench...of evil. And then, just as I am about to nurse it, it'd get a bluish-purple-scarlet glint in its eyes. It would breathe out sharply, and my skin would get lacerated.
A single, thick, yellow tear would run down its wrinkled rubbery face.
And then the next minute, it would be small and pink and cute. Fitting nicely in the crook of my arm and the nape of my neck. My own sweet, double-faced wizard of a shark. My shark called Oz.
A single, thick, yellow tear would run down its wrinkled rubbery face.
And then the next minute, it would be small and pink and cute. Fitting nicely in the crook of my arm and the nape of my neck. My own sweet, double-faced wizard of a shark. My shark called Oz.
Monday, October 26, 2009
A good day
One spectacular evening…one that began when the sky yawned and the first shower of stars got sprayed out. Stars that looked like icy confetti. The evening stretched out like the sky above and the sea before. The sea where ships and horizons and shorelines melted and fused and morphed into a platter of fantasies.
One morning…that began with the howl of wind and crack of thunder. With a friend sweetly massaging my feet and then getting up to make hot, ginger tea. A morning that was to be a regular April Sunday and got tipsy with fun. A morning so special that it doomed one to expectantly look up at summer skies forever after to catch a bit of mystery magic.
One dusk. Driving back home on Palm Beach road – open, slick, and dark. A heavy-lidded winter evening. And in one second…in a split-second… all the lamps along the road get lit at the same time.
One afternoon. It’s Kashmir and I’m eight. Sitting by the fire in a houseboat. Am with my grandparents. Grandmom is unwrapping a pista-colored Paschmina embroidered in fine silver and pink. My grandfather has dozed off, after reading some new petition or the other. It is warm, and oddly melodious. Like when such beauty and such stillness meet, there will be music. The fire crackles and a little bit leaps out onto the wooden floor. I quickly waddle out of the way, but remember how beautiful that hot, little spit of flame was. A tiny butterfly made of fire that flit away into nostalgia right away.
It takes a lifetime to collect exquisitely carved morning, noons, and nights; to have enough for a perfect day.
One morning…that began with the howl of wind and crack of thunder. With a friend sweetly massaging my feet and then getting up to make hot, ginger tea. A morning that was to be a regular April Sunday and got tipsy with fun. A morning so special that it doomed one to expectantly look up at summer skies forever after to catch a bit of mystery magic.
One dusk. Driving back home on Palm Beach road – open, slick, and dark. A heavy-lidded winter evening. And in one second…in a split-second… all the lamps along the road get lit at the same time.
One afternoon. It’s Kashmir and I’m eight. Sitting by the fire in a houseboat. Am with my grandparents. Grandmom is unwrapping a pista-colored Paschmina embroidered in fine silver and pink. My grandfather has dozed off, after reading some new petition or the other. It is warm, and oddly melodious. Like when such beauty and such stillness meet, there will be music. The fire crackles and a little bit leaps out onto the wooden floor. I quickly waddle out of the way, but remember how beautiful that hot, little spit of flame was. A tiny butterfly made of fire that flit away into nostalgia right away.
It takes a lifetime to collect exquisitely carved morning, noons, and nights; to have enough for a perfect day.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Getting milk
This city is definitely a creature of the night. After sun-down, the energy changes to a light throb, instead of the rabid gush of day time. The roads are slightly empty. The weather's mussed with an almost-winter coolness. It's difficult to articulate it...whatever 'it' is...but you feel it. A little electric blue crackle blitzing somewhere around you. You thought you saw a flash, you thought you heard a snap, you turn around and it's not there...oh, wait...there it goes again.
Nights are when Mumbai breathes. Lets out a deep, restful sigh. It's still busy and still noisy, but people now would stop and notice a shaft of light if it filtered down from somewhere. This is when the city dreams...eyes flickering in semi-consciousness...as much asleep as awake.
Last night, I was at Ivy Lounge with my cousin. Saw Nandita Sen (I think that's her name), the actress. Very, very pretty. Lumniscent, actually. Her skin positively shone, like it had been massaged with gold dust. Cousin and I had our wonderful chats, where I was once again berated for having no focus in life, how I should be writing a book, etc. etc. It was his birthday, so I didn't harass him too much.
He didn't want to be out (which is exactly where I wanted to be), so we picked up some pastries from this darling, little cafe on Yari Road. It's got books, nice coffee, an assortment of cakes, cane furnitures, sky-blue walls with beach scenes painted on them, and most importantly, a good vibe. I really wanted some coffee, but they were shut. On seeing us, they opened up the cafe, though. We took some Dutch trufles, chocolate fudge brownies, and slices of my favorite - a date and walnut cake. Cousin asked them if they'd sell us some milk as the grocery shops would be shut at that time. They actually gave us a packet of milk - for no extra charge! Of course, we insisted on paying up, but it was so darn sweet of them!
The last few days, my nerves have been so frazzled. Work, sprained neck, no sleep, incessant snapping...but this incident just washed it all away. These people didn't even know us. They could so easily have overcharged us for the milk they didn't need to give us in the first place...but they were willing to give it for free.
There are days when one is so fed up of people. So fed up of their greed and vile grabbing. Their thoughtlessness. And then, someone does this. You know you'll be remembering this incident for a long, long time to come.
After all, one takes one's victories where one finds them. Especially when they happen in the shadow of ennui and the coolness of the night.
Nights are when Mumbai breathes. Lets out a deep, restful sigh. It's still busy and still noisy, but people now would stop and notice a shaft of light if it filtered down from somewhere. This is when the city dreams...eyes flickering in semi-consciousness...as much asleep as awake.
Last night, I was at Ivy Lounge with my cousin. Saw Nandita Sen (I think that's her name), the actress. Very, very pretty. Lumniscent, actually. Her skin positively shone, like it had been massaged with gold dust. Cousin and I had our wonderful chats, where I was once again berated for having no focus in life, how I should be writing a book, etc. etc. It was his birthday, so I didn't harass him too much.
He didn't want to be out (which is exactly where I wanted to be), so we picked up some pastries from this darling, little cafe on Yari Road. It's got books, nice coffee, an assortment of cakes, cane furnitures, sky-blue walls with beach scenes painted on them, and most importantly, a good vibe. I really wanted some coffee, but they were shut. On seeing us, they opened up the cafe, though. We took some Dutch trufles, chocolate fudge brownies, and slices of my favorite - a date and walnut cake. Cousin asked them if they'd sell us some milk as the grocery shops would be shut at that time. They actually gave us a packet of milk - for no extra charge! Of course, we insisted on paying up, but it was so darn sweet of them!
The last few days, my nerves have been so frazzled. Work, sprained neck, no sleep, incessant snapping...but this incident just washed it all away. These people didn't even know us. They could so easily have overcharged us for the milk they didn't need to give us in the first place...but they were willing to give it for free.
There are days when one is so fed up of people. So fed up of their greed and vile grabbing. Their thoughtlessness. And then, someone does this. You know you'll be remembering this incident for a long, long time to come.
After all, one takes one's victories where one finds them. Especially when they happen in the shadow of ennui and the coolness of the night.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Middle finger type of mood
I am really upset today. Lost my cool after very long. Yelled so loudly at a cabbie that he started crying. Of course, saying sorry after that was of no use. Scraped my car against a tree. I don't understand why people create such a hue and cry over cutting trees. All those things should be uprooted and burnt, so that people can back up in peace.
I hate this...this having to meet human beings every single day. Why can't I just get a job where I could sit somewhere by myself and work?
Also, I wish the year ended. I wish the world ended. I wish I ended. I wish everyone ended and all those damn trees got razed to the ground. Maybe that's how I'll end. I'll be under a damn tree when it gets razed to the ground.
Life is so funny. And Death is a stand-up comic.
I hate this...this having to meet human beings every single day. Why can't I just get a job where I could sit somewhere by myself and work?
Also, I wish the year ended. I wish the world ended. I wish I ended. I wish everyone ended and all those damn trees got razed to the ground. Maybe that's how I'll end. I'll be under a damn tree when it gets razed to the ground.
Life is so funny. And Death is a stand-up comic.
Monday, October 19, 2009
When a crystal tear comes trickling down, from eyes shining with love that's true;Hearts will yearn & long & break;and effervesce into Tiffany blue
Life is sometimes filled with such Gatsby moments...moments that are beckoned by things such as this:
http://www.tiffany.com/Catalogues/BrowseItem.aspx?pc_id=582683&pc_item=04G&page_no=0&search_params=s+5-p+2-c+-r+-x+-n+6-ri+-ni+0-t+#p+24-n+6-cg+viewPaged-c+-s+5-r+-t+-ri+-ni+0-x+-pu+-f+
http://www.tiffany.com/Catalogues/BrowseItem.aspx?pc_id=582683&pc_item=04G&page_no=0&search_params=s+5-p+2-c+-r+-x+-n+6-ri+-ni+0-t+#p+24-n+6-cg+viewPaged-c+-s+5-r+-t+-ri+-ni+0-x+-pu+-f+
Saturday, October 17, 2009
What's Diwali?
I wake up on Diwali morning and realize that I don't have kandeels, lanterns, flowers, or diyas to decorate the home. There wasn't any time to get any because I was living the joyous life of working the graveyard shift.
But I'm up at six a.m. anyway, since I spent the previous night talking to a cousin. The morning is cool with the faint stirrings of Mumbai winter...winter that is not really a color so much as a hue. Slightly foggy, slightly misty, slightly grey...but a perfect background to bright orange lanterns and sparkly white and blue lights lit up all along Pali Hill. I run up the zig zag road, wanting to fill the lungs with sharp, fresh air. I walk down Carter Road, watching groups of happy construction workers have tea and biscuits next to a pile of bright Diwali decorations. They'll probably take them to deocarate their homes. I feel a little sad, a little left out.
But a stall, bright and magical in appearance calls out. Marigold garlands beckon. Fuschia, turquoise, red, gold, and silver lanterns beckon. I hoard up on them quickly. The lady selling them gives me the sweetest smile. On the walk back home, I stop at a grocer's. Get a little carried away at seeing brown basmati rice and palm oil and diyas with Roohafza pink wax. Buy them by the kilos and dozens and end up with packages weighing a hundred kilos.
It's still early and it's Diwali. Wonder if I'll get an auto to take me home. I do. Rickshaw fellow, very sweetly, turns the auto aound and helps me with the baggages.
I reach home and immediately start decorating my home. My sweet, charming, Bandra home. It feels like dressing up a baby...I do it lovingly, joyously, carefully. Then I put out the diyas, try to work out a pattern in the small little patch that the door opens out to. And kneeling down, I first light up one diya. One tiny tip of wick. And thereafer the glow...it's amazing how such a small little flicker seems to eat up so much of the darkness...how this little flame can pour out so much warmth, that it feels like it can drive away dankness from the largest voids.
It's beautiful. It's strong. And it's so much like that intense calibre of 'survivorship' every single soul has. Like the realization that a sun only gets eclipsed...not wiped out.
Rise and shine, people.
Happy, HAPPY diwali!
But I'm up at six a.m. anyway, since I spent the previous night talking to a cousin. The morning is cool with the faint stirrings of Mumbai winter...winter that is not really a color so much as a hue. Slightly foggy, slightly misty, slightly grey...but a perfect background to bright orange lanterns and sparkly white and blue lights lit up all along Pali Hill. I run up the zig zag road, wanting to fill the lungs with sharp, fresh air. I walk down Carter Road, watching groups of happy construction workers have tea and biscuits next to a pile of bright Diwali decorations. They'll probably take them to deocarate their homes. I feel a little sad, a little left out.
But a stall, bright and magical in appearance calls out. Marigold garlands beckon. Fuschia, turquoise, red, gold, and silver lanterns beckon. I hoard up on them quickly. The lady selling them gives me the sweetest smile. On the walk back home, I stop at a grocer's. Get a little carried away at seeing brown basmati rice and palm oil and diyas with Roohafza pink wax. Buy them by the kilos and dozens and end up with packages weighing a hundred kilos.
It's still early and it's Diwali. Wonder if I'll get an auto to take me home. I do. Rickshaw fellow, very sweetly, turns the auto aound and helps me with the baggages.
I reach home and immediately start decorating my home. My sweet, charming, Bandra home. It feels like dressing up a baby...I do it lovingly, joyously, carefully. Then I put out the diyas, try to work out a pattern in the small little patch that the door opens out to. And kneeling down, I first light up one diya. One tiny tip of wick. And thereafer the glow...it's amazing how such a small little flicker seems to eat up so much of the darkness...how this little flame can pour out so much warmth, that it feels like it can drive away dankness from the largest voids.
It's beautiful. It's strong. And it's so much like that intense calibre of 'survivorship' every single soul has. Like the realization that a sun only gets eclipsed...not wiped out.
Rise and shine, people.
Happy, HAPPY diwali!
Monday, October 12, 2009
Hail him
In a country called childhood
where he knew he'd be king
He built a palace of sunbeams
And trained nightingales to sing...
...of stories of waterfalls
That fell into the night
And fortresses of dust-storms
of formidable heights
He guarded the valleys
With skies crotcheted like lace
But by the time his country was a republic
Children had left the place
where he knew he'd be king
He built a palace of sunbeams
And trained nightingales to sing...
...of stories of waterfalls
That fell into the night
And fortresses of dust-storms
of formidable heights
He guarded the valleys
With skies crotcheted like lace
But by the time his country was a republic
Children had left the place
A no man's land to call one's own
It lays spread before me
Merlot blanket of time and tide
This glossy breadth of upheavals
That, in due course, would subside
Some day this will be paradise
The home about which I’d lied
But this eternity, it’s a wasteland
Where hopes and tears collide
Merlot blanket of time and tide
This glossy breadth of upheavals
That, in due course, would subside
Some day this will be paradise
The home about which I’d lied
But this eternity, it’s a wasteland
Where hopes and tears collide
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Looking forward to Saturday
I swear my work is self-mutating. It’s impossible that I’m working close to 12-14 hours every day on something, and it doesn’t seem to end. I get really impatient when I’m on a project for very long. It’s like having something stuck in your teeth for months.
Last night, I reached home at midnight. I ate a bowl of daal and vegetables. I sat and chatted with my cousin who was telling me of a flat in Bandra available for six thousand rupees rent per month. It’s got a terrace. And sea-view. ‘ Is that possible?’, I asked myself. Anything’s possible, I told myself.
I really want to take a quiet four hours off. Four hours of not having a gnawing sense of urgency in the pit of my stomach. I’d gone to town this Sunday, and it was so glorious! Those areas – Kalbadevi, the book-sellers at V.T., walking to Gateway, getting drenched in silver, cold rain, and watching ships docked in mist…these scenes, those smells – they just fill me up. But Monday happened, and that sheath of peace just got lifted, crumpled, and thrown under the bed.
Even if I work this Saturday, I’ll definitely get some kind of a spa treatment. I think this is how I’ll begin my Saturday…take a long, slow walk along Carter Road. Preferably, watch the sunrise. Then go to Joggers and sit there for a bit. From there, I’ll walk to ‘Just Around the Corner’ and have a large, steaming cup of hot coffee and some warm waffles with syrup and honey. I’ll rest it up good and proper, leisurely reading ‘Burnt Toast’ by Teri Hatcher. (It’s a very nice read, by the way.)
I’ll return home and have someone come by and give me a pedicure – that warm, soapy water relaxing my feet, the massage with scented creams – all making my feet nice and supple.
Then I’ll shampoo my hair with some frightfully expensive shampoo my mum’s bought me (it comes in an ivory bottle, for god’s sakes), wear a chic white, strappy dress I’d bought from Peddar Road, my vertiginous Mango shoes, and go out to lunch. I think I’ll go to Olive. Sip some iced-tea, have a warm salad with a creamy, herb-flavored dressing, finish off with a slice of pie.
Then I’ll come home, change into my favourite pair of soft, stretchy denims, a peacock-blue and gold cotton kurti, flats, and head off to work.
Looks like Saturday, I have a date…with a touch a class.
Last night, I reached home at midnight. I ate a bowl of daal and vegetables. I sat and chatted with my cousin who was telling me of a flat in Bandra available for six thousand rupees rent per month. It’s got a terrace. And sea-view. ‘ Is that possible?’, I asked myself. Anything’s possible, I told myself.
I really want to take a quiet four hours off. Four hours of not having a gnawing sense of urgency in the pit of my stomach. I’d gone to town this Sunday, and it was so glorious! Those areas – Kalbadevi, the book-sellers at V.T., walking to Gateway, getting drenched in silver, cold rain, and watching ships docked in mist…these scenes, those smells – they just fill me up. But Monday happened, and that sheath of peace just got lifted, crumpled, and thrown under the bed.
Even if I work this Saturday, I’ll definitely get some kind of a spa treatment. I think this is how I’ll begin my Saturday…take a long, slow walk along Carter Road. Preferably, watch the sunrise. Then go to Joggers and sit there for a bit. From there, I’ll walk to ‘Just Around the Corner’ and have a large, steaming cup of hot coffee and some warm waffles with syrup and honey. I’ll rest it up good and proper, leisurely reading ‘Burnt Toast’ by Teri Hatcher. (It’s a very nice read, by the way.)
I’ll return home and have someone come by and give me a pedicure – that warm, soapy water relaxing my feet, the massage with scented creams – all making my feet nice and supple.
Then I’ll shampoo my hair with some frightfully expensive shampoo my mum’s bought me (it comes in an ivory bottle, for god’s sakes), wear a chic white, strappy dress I’d bought from Peddar Road, my vertiginous Mango shoes, and go out to lunch. I think I’ll go to Olive. Sip some iced-tea, have a warm salad with a creamy, herb-flavored dressing, finish off with a slice of pie.
Then I’ll come home, change into my favourite pair of soft, stretchy denims, a peacock-blue and gold cotton kurti, flats, and head off to work.
Looks like Saturday, I have a date…with a touch a class.
Friday, October 02, 2009
Hello October, I've been waiting...
Larks flying in the topaz sky
Melodies engraved on a Saturnine ring
Buds, timid, yet waiting for applause
Moon looking like a spot on a butterfly wing.
Melodies engraved on a Saturnine ring
Buds, timid, yet waiting for applause
Moon looking like a spot on a butterfly wing.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Hmm
I am slightly high on nervous energy at the moment. There is lots to finish at work. L-O-T-S. It's not because I don't know where to start and where to finish. I do know. I have started, and after working steadily for a few hours, I've come to realize that 'finishing' today's allotted work is like having hope that's drunk on hemlock. What a way to die.
I missed my yoga class today and I definitely don't feel good about that. Thankfully, I have controlled my diet thus far. I am likely to not overeat today. It's good to feel that I have this kind of self-control. Right now, from where I sit, I can see some tree-tops. They look pretty. A nice, sunny yellowish-green and shaggy type of a gypsy head - a gypsy who travelled all over various lands and decided to set up tent here. Sometimes, when I am really busy or bogged down, I like looking at the swaying boughs - they resemble a happy person swaying to music in her head.
It makes me happy
Whenever I see
My cool and snappy
Gypsy tree.
I missed my yoga class today and I definitely don't feel good about that. Thankfully, I have controlled my diet thus far. I am likely to not overeat today. It's good to feel that I have this kind of self-control. Right now, from where I sit, I can see some tree-tops. They look pretty. A nice, sunny yellowish-green and shaggy type of a gypsy head - a gypsy who travelled all over various lands and decided to set up tent here. Sometimes, when I am really busy or bogged down, I like looking at the swaying boughs - they resemble a happy person swaying to music in her head.
It makes me happy
Whenever I see
My cool and snappy
Gypsy tree.
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