I wonder...

Why does 'I don't give a shit' mean that something is not important? (Whatever it is that we are not giving a shit about.)

Because, you see, anything that can be traded off with excreta, even if it is our own, can't possibly be all that great.

That's why I love cities

I'm sitting on the pier watching the Manhattan skyline. Above me, droopy branches of willow sway to a cool, windy lullaby. The water looks like a grey satin blanket under which rolls of pennies shift rhythmically. The light in the sky seems to have the sun dusted off of it. So it glitters prettily on every reflected surface without the singe. It dances off the handle of a pram, the curve of a ring, mirrored building walls. It even flecks off beads on a skirt.

Ahead of me I see buildings - stacks of concrete and steel. They are shaped long and narrow - like weapons. If the skyline had to suddenly get animated and thump forwards to take over the city, the invasion would be quick and smooth. These tools are supposed to be sharpnels that eke out any humaneness from civilization. Yet...

...yet each building reflects the one opposite it. One structure gets fused inside another.  The steel cradles each sunbeam and tosses it out. The light bends, moves, pirouettes, and seems to trace everything like a soft caress. Around all of this, people stride or amble along, as if moving along some continuum of purpose. And along this continuum are 'hellos' and smiles. There is stepping aside and letting someone else pass. There are appreciative glances and shy look-aways. And all this gets tessellated on those steel and mirror facades. Each panel becomes a canvas for this humanity that's supposed to be getting impersonal or cold or disjointed or lost. But a seagull glides by, soaring above the buildings, almost blessing this crazy crowd and those sharp tools.

And all's well with the world - even though it's steel and grey.

As it has come to pass...

Maybe the beginning of this morning has its twisted genesis many moons ago. Maybe this morning started when I first pondered over the word' skyscraper' and was awed by what it suggested. Maybe it was when I first registered the reflection of Bombay's silhouette in the shimmering sea. It was like watching the solidness of a concrete jungle ballet-dance, wearing the satin slippers of time - beautiful, ephemeral, and very poetic.

This morning, I stood in the balcony of the apartment in Jersey city where I'm putting up. There was a bite in the air and crisp, pure sunlight all around. I held my first cup of tea this morning - one that I'd brewed at 6:30 a.m. It feels like a sweet dream. Watching the curlicues of steam waft up and disappear into a blue sky. Through the barks of a few bare trees, I can see the Manhattan skyline rise tall and proud. Yet it shimmers in the waterfront like a shy ballet dancer on stage for the very first time.

It's my first time here. But this morning, at least, feels like it has happened many times before.

So I raise my cup at the skyline and greet it.

Bombay says hello.

Slow religions and casual gods

Piety comes
Seeping through weeks,
Soaking day one and drenching night seven.

But then moisture
Gets chased out in the sun
Harangued by light, yet high-fiving heaven.

Where I stand

My book to your story
My spotlight to your show
My defiance to your destiny
My yes to your no

Only for the seeker

At times, looking into your eyes
Is like star-gazing at the skies


When in the darkness, I find
The light of what the fragile left behind.

From what? to whoa! in 10 emails

I reproduce correspondence with a friend from a couple of days ago. The series of emails made me wonder if men and women can ever fully know what the other one’s talking about. I haven't edited anything - even the typos committed in agitation remain. What we said to each other and why is bizarre enough.

Here goes:

Mail 1:

From: FRIEND@some e-mail address

Sent: Friday, February 17, 2012 10:15 AM

To: ME@ some other email address

Subject: RE: wrote a poem

Good Day.

One good movie that I saw & would recommend anyone is “Pyar Ka Punchnama” or Autopsy of Love. J

It clearly shows how girls in Cities manipulate guys. They have a lot going on in their life and how they use many guys for their personal benefit. It is so true and movie is hilarious.

Most guys from cities will identify with the 3 main male leads in the movie and must have been a victim sometime in their life. 

Watch it you will love it.

Got 2 mock interviews today.

Mail 2:

From: ME@ some email address

Sent: Friday, February 17, 2012 10:18 AM

To: FRIEND@some other e-mail address

Subject: RE: wrote a poem

Yeah. Have heard about it. If guys from cities can indeed be used, it’s commendable. I’d think they are fairly useless. He he he! But more power to the women who think otherwise.

Mail 3:

From: FRIEND@some e-mail address

Sent: Friday, February 17, 2012 10:37 AM

To: ME @some other e-mail address

Subject: RE: wrote a poem

If you see this one you will change your opinion. But never mind why are we discussing, J . Its Friday and week ends yippee.

Mail 4:

From: ME @some e-mail address

Sent: Friday, February 17, 2012 10:41 AM

To: FRIEND@some other e-mail address

Subject: RE: wrote a poem

We are discussing because you started it. Seems like it is unlikely to get an email from you that is not laced with some sort of bitter sarcasm. And while I may like a film, it’s unlikely to ‘change my mind’. Different strokes for different folks.

A friend of mine is visiting from Bombay today. So, yep – party time! My cook’s gonna make some yummy mutton – that’s what she says. J

Mail 5:

From: FRIEND@some e-mail address

Sent: Friday, February 17, 2012 12:29 PM

To: ME @some other e-mail address

Subject: RE: wrote a poem

Where was sarcasm ? It’s the plot of the movie. I was recommended by a girl to watch this flick.

Good have fun.

Mail 6:

From: FRIEND@some e-mail address

Sent: Friday, February 17, 2012 12:39 PM

To: ME@some other e-mail address

Subject: RE: wrote a poem

A ‘city girl’ recommended the film? You mean, those blighted creatures who ruthlessly use and abuse unsuspecting lambs (meaning city boys)? They actually recommend movies to others? Without any ulterior motive? How is that possible? Be careful. Maybe she wants your liver in return.

 Oh, and maybe you didn’t mean it as sarcasm…but in your earlier email, you mentioned ‘It clearly shows how girls in Cities manipulate guys. They have a lot going on in their life and how they use many guys for  their personal benefit. It is so true…’ You apparently believe that city women behaving like mean heretics is ‘the truth’. THE truth. (How one can arrogate oneself to the position where one’s opinion is disseminated as the absolute truth is disturbing and hilarious.) My email was a response to that. 

 And yes, I’ll have fun. Us city girls make lots of weekend plans. (We have a lot going on in our lives, as the movie apparently indicates. And who can argue with THE truth, right?) Plan to go for breakfast to ‘By the way’ on FC Road. Comes highly recommended. I wonder if my friend will come, though. After all, I wouldn’t want him to feel used by a city girl… J I’ll be sure to pass on the many facets of the truth to him, though. Men are so sweet and gullible. They must know all these things before they can make an informed decision.

Mail 7

From: FRIEND@someemail.com 

Sent: Friday, February 17, 2012 3:49 PM

To: ME@some other email.com

Subject: RE: wrote a poem

Yeah I had met a girl last year - arranged meeting you know. She had seen it many times and had liked it. She was from khar ghar stayed with a roomie in jogeshwari because of work.

Ask guys around they will tell you how they can easily identify with the characters of the movie. It’s so real that’s why it became a surprise hit last year. Also the dialogues were good.

So you think that I am jealous of you having fun. I am tied up with a lot of responsibilities as of now. Work and family both. Financially too I am a bit stressed. Men are not gullible but many a times we are cheated very easily even as friends. You help somebody in need and when you are in need they give excuses.

It’s not directed at you. It’s just a general observation. J

Mail 8:

From: ME@some e-mail address

Sent: Friday, February 17, 2012 4:37 PM

To: FRIEND@some other e-mail address

Subject: RE: wrote a poem

No. I do not think that you are ‘jealous’ of me. And frankly – in time, people tend to realize that they get what they deserve, not what they desire. And if we help people in expectation of what they will do for us when we’re in trouble…I doubt if it can even be called help. It’s just a different kind of barter. General observation. Not directed at you or anyone in particular.

Mail 9:

---------- Forwarded message ----------

From: ME@some e-mail address

Date: Fri, Feb 17, 2012 at 5:14 PM

Subject: FW: wrote a poem

To: FRIEND @some other e-mail address

If…

…you felt badly about anything, sorry. Friends?

Mail 10 

From: FRIEND@some e-mail address

Sent: Friday, February 17, 2012 5:31 PM

To: ME@some other e-mail address

Subject: RE: if...

 A few years ago I was discussing with my project mates that I saw ‘Musafir’ in theatre and I liked it. One of the guys who was from a small town & was quite orthodox said to me “Tujhe toh aisi hi filmein achi lagen gi” . The promos of the movie were bold – I think that’s why he said so.

Later he saw it on CD he came back and said he was sorry and I was right movie is good. He had formed a wrong opinion.

Well as I had told you a few years back you need to do something really awful so that I stop considering you a pal. This isn’t anything big.

Mock went fine.

Too little, too late, and still worth it

Long hours of yearning

Some respite at last

Many hours of baying

For some moonlight in a glass

Road to hell is paved with good intentions

Shouting at those walls, what?

Hurling all those stones,

For ‘freedom’, tearing down those walls, what?

And orphaning all those homes.

Redeeming Sunday

Saturday night at Hard Rock Cafe was okay. The 'Me too' attitude of the place and the sorry service was a downer (apparently having tattoos and sporting a ponytail is a waiter's license to be rude to patrons) as was Indian Ocean. But the club has superb location. It is beyond Koregaon Park and ABC farms. So, the route involves going past pretty little places decked up like tertiary fireflies. Also setting the mood are the cold, crisp Pune nights. Walking really is invigorating and my friends and I had a lovely moon to keep us company!

Sunday, though, I thought I'd stay clear of venturing into any new territory and just stick to spots I knew well. So, in my head, the day would involve being parked at Soharb Hall. I'd spend a solid hour at a cute, quirky store 'Either-Or'. (It has some pretty dresses in batik prints and cowl necks - very hippie-sipping-champagne type of stylish!) Then I'd go to Crossword and spend a few hours there. Yes. Sohrab hall, it would be. I made up my mind.

Now, in my case, making up the mind involves changing it swiftly. So, a friend called and I gave up my allegiance to familiarity. We tried out this restaurant 'Rasoi' at Shaniwar Peth. We had the thali there and it was awesome! It's Maharashtrian cuisine .A colleague had told me that this place employs cooks from families that actually fed the Peshwas in Pune. And what can I say? The lineage spoke on the plate and how! I don't usually like rotis and I had 4. I don't fancy puris and I had 2. I'm not a dahi wada fan and I had plenty.

There's this green sabzi - it's made with white lentils, spinach, and sweetened with jaggery and roasted coconut. When you eat that, it's a cue for angels to start singing. There were lots of different kinds of pulses and legumes and a tasty dish of bhindi. The gulab jamuns were strictly okay but some people had ordered rasmalai that they thoroughly enjoyed.

And service...that is truly what wins your heart over. Efficient, simple, and polite.

Rasoi got me thinking. Maybe history could have played out differently if Shivaji had made different choices. Maybe he needn't have fought the Mughals. Maybe he could've gotten them to eat the green sabzi and asked them to leave.

Who could say no?

Advice on Pune pubbing choices

To anyone shopping around for clubbing options in Pune, here's what I recommend: Skip Hard Rock - especially when they do 'cutting-edge' stuff like get Indian Ocean (Indian Ocean?!?!$!) to play  their songs from 5th century BC. (I'm pretty sure Kandisa dates back to that time by now.) And when the crowd wants an encore (why they wanted it after the band modified a perfectly good song and made it gimmicky is beyond me!), some dolled up chick comes up on stage and says, "Please let them go now. They played for you and they are tired."

Now, that's what we love to hear about our rockers!

Instead just head over to Cafe Leo's (in the same vicinity) and try their olive risotto or their cream and pesto fusilli. Tasty food, charming ambience, and (if that kind of thing means any thing to you), an off-shoot of the Mumbai Leopold's.

And if you do really want the 'Hard Rock' experience, just head to Mumbai.

Umm...Umm...

That time slipped in, that night slipped out
That life just fell off the hook
When the sky and the world fell away like peels
And I read the coffee asI sipped the book.

(Got scribbled in my head on one of those wonderful Pune evenings.) 

Last few days

For a couple of days I've had to stay at the company guest house. This guest house is mid-way between my home and office. Rooms were neat and they had the friendliest staff. I wouldn't usually eat there because I'd get my staple of Pune viewing and course-wise eats at Linger On. However, one day I did have their vegetarian dinner- daal, rice, kofta in a spicy curry that carried the slightest hint of nutmeg, and curd. It was delicious!

Another excellent consequence of the guest-house stay was my re-acquaintance with T.V. I haven't had one in a long time now and don't plan on keeping one in Pune either. But there's something so delicious about T.V. programs. It's such a mixed bag! You have salty treats like F.R.I.E.N.D.S. or Rules of Engagement, rock candy like The Shield (has anyone seen Glenn Close in that series? She IS rock candy!), or sweet and pickled prunes like Sex and the City. I think it's a great idea to call a service that provides T.V. programs 'dish'. What else could it be?

It's my new resolve to do some meditation every day. And after the meditation, the idea is to reflect upon the meditation, or quietly wind down the brain, maybe read a few quiet pages, and sleep. But the time after meditation, at the guesthouse, was spent observing the hand gently reach for the remote and turn on Star World. I mean, if the subconscious has to get in touch with me, maybe it's trying to do that through Homer Simpson. My sub-conscious isn't snooty that way. And Homer Simpson is as valid a representative of Id as any.

So there I was, tucked under swathes of blankets, all lights off. Just the flicker of the T.V. screen dancing on the headboard of my bed. I switch, switch, switch, and come across a set of movie channels. Now, I haven't seen a film on T.V. in ages! For a minute, I had to get used to the idea that I was watching the film alone. I could go get myself a snack in the middle of a film without steeling myself against angry stares. And I could even take a phone call without hushing up.

One night, I caught a couple of really good films. One was 'Half Light' starring Demi Moore and another was an Irish production called 'Once'.

Half Light's a thriller set in Ireland. The cinematography is beyond stunning! Moore plays an author whose son has drowned. She carries the guilt about her son's death and tries to immerse herself in her work. She's actually based in London but I think she needs a break from her marriage. (I missed the first half-hour or so of the film). So, she comes to this part in an Irish village that seems to be a break-away tuft of land. She puts up in a lonely house away from the main village. There's an angry sea dividing Moore's house from the other end of a cliff where there's a lighthouse.

There are scenes where Demi has rowed over to the lighthouse, waves lashing against sharp, rust-colored rocks. Over there, her dark hair keeps getting whipped around her face. Her fingers are pink and her face is flushed from the cold. She's clicking three large, beautiful horses - black, white, and dark brown. That's where she meets the light-house keeper.

The movie has scenes of storms and darkness that have that Celtic iciness I love.  I wondered what if Pune turned out that way someday? Sure, today there are people-distractions now. I have a house, neighbors and heaps of shops I could just go into and talk to a shopkeeper. There is a very different place in this world that could some day take this city's place too. Maybe all I could have one day is a little window in a pretty isolated cottage from which I'd be looking at a light-house. And listening to epic sagas of the sea.

It's a lovely film - visually, at least. I like horror flicks and this film has a supernatural theme going on. But mostly it's predictable. What's unexpected, though, is the lasting, lingering touch of Ireland. It's like remembering, forever, what it felt like being a piece of melted ice.

The other film, co-incidentally (although I don't think there are any such things as 'co-incidences'), was by an Irish production house called 'Once'. It starts with a musician playing at a street square in Dublin. Some people stop to listen. One guy tries to steal his guitar case and run. The musician stops him and they exchange a few exasperated words. It turns out they know each other. The musician gives the thief some money and they part ways.

One day, a young woman throws in 10 cents for a song the musician is singing. This is not a popular or a known song; it's not a crowd puller. The musician stops, thanks the girl, and says sarcastically, "Thank you for the ten cents." The girl (we later find out she's Czech) is not really fluent in English but sarcasm she gets. They talk and she learns that he actually repairs vaccum cleaners. Excitedly, she brings her bright blue vacuum cleaner. He tries to dodge her off, he fails, and they end up eating together.

She is really keen on his music and he shares some songs with her. Stuff happens between them - a night where he propositions her, a morning where he tries to make it up by asking her to write lyrics to his songs, a bus ride where both their personal histories tumble out, their difficult families, their meiotic dreams. Then they record some music together - after which they go their separate ways.

This movie, to me, is memorable because of the songs. I can't imagine how those songs could be so innard-scopic insightful and yet sound like easy ditties! They're fantastic. That movie is a keepsake because of the songs. Each of them has maybe 10 to 12 lines. Yet, they cut through thickets of love, longing, loss, pain - and whatever vegetation of feelings poetry grows around a broken heart. The songs just make it simple. Cut down all that angst and silence and make it easy. There were, in the end, only two things to say, "That hurt" and "I'm okay."

I'm back at home now. Time for books. That's okay, though. A book is just a movie in my head anyway.

Domesticating goddess

All gas cylinders must have a fuel gauge. The gauge must indicate how full or empty the cylinder is. What's the point of constantly lifting up cylinders to figure out from heft how much gas you have left? It's annoying! My rant is based on my inability to figure out if I can go for a week or a month or several months on a gas cylinder. Since I'd be staying by myself and subsisting basically rice and daal every day, I estimated to have gas until March. Therefore, I go ahead and invite friends and promise them feasts and stuff and then, I run out of gas.

Today is Sunday and the gas agency is shut. Actually, they aren't much more responsive or sprightly when they're open either but...Now, I'm not sure how long it takes to get a gas cylinder here but I'm guessing it would be at least 2 weeks. That's what the last tenant told me. I am not sure if I can trust him enough now.

When I first met him, he very helpfully pointed out the closest route to my office, amenities of the flat, latest electricity bills, etc. He said that he was leaving to get married and all. Now, he really looked like a smitten bachelor. His dishevelled look and the crumpled shirt led me to believe something about him. I pegged him as  one who, until then would cook up some Maggi, log in to the net and skype love songs to his fiance. Such a man, I supposed, wouldn't have been using up too much gas for cooking, thereby leaving me with a cylinder full enough to last me until March. But clearly that wasn't the case. Maybe he was using up all that gas to practice cooking and feed his future bride. This is exactly what microwaves are for.

The same gentleman had also waxed eloquently about the washing machine. And today I tried to use it and got stumped beyond measure. I must say that I've never used a washing machine before. I have never washed clothes for anybody other than myself. So, I either washed it myself or had them cleaned by someone else. It's all been very manual thus far. And frankly, after today's experience, I prefer it that way.

The broad, white contraption that currently occupies three-fourth of the kitchen balcony looked harmless enough. So I fit in the valve for water to the tap, and as instructed, turned on the tap for the water to fill the machine. But, the water did not fill the machine. Instead it started draining out from a stubby, short valve at the other end. No biggie, I thought. I'll just plug in the other valve where it's supposed to go. And...well...I couldn't figure out where it was supposed to go.

It was around 11 at night and I was unfortunately wearing a cotton nighty and standing in the cold. So I looked hard and urgently at every orifice of that machine and unfortunately, only came up with stupid labels and wire diagrams in German and Japanese. I tried doing it again but no...the water kept draining out. It was cold and all that draining just makes one want to...you know, pee. By this time, I was mighty annoyed and I treated the washing machine like a computer. I thumped it hard. Then I treated it like a car. Kicked it hard. And then I treated it like a project manager. Derided it in my head. (I came close to that short valve and called it a hobbit. Hee hee!)

Clothes had to be washed anyway. So I did it the old fashioned way, happily soaping up the clothes and then washing them in blissfully hot water. Yes, it did take really long and by the time I was done, it was almost midnight.

I took the pail of clean, washed clothes to the other balcony - the prettier one - and started hanging them to dry. Somewhere between hanging dark blue harem pants and a grey tee, I saw a star. A single, lone star. It shone like a Greek myth civilization vaguely remembers but prefers to forget. I thought that maybe that constellation just consisted of one little star called Domestizeus. She rolled down Zeus' eye one day when he figured out just how important housework was and how no-one ever gave it enough credit. It was Zeus' one and only thought on home and hearth.

As I fabricated all of that in my head, I saw other stars. Lots of them. Suddenly, the majesticity of the Greek myth was lost. Now, the sky looked pretty run-of-the-mill, with stars appearing like cosmic tweets.

All good days must end with self-aggrandisement. Hence, I've taken upon the mantle of being Domestizeus. Now I shall proceed to try and make coffee in a rice cooker.

The first of Pune recommendations

It was really cold yesterday. I woke up very early, shivered around for some time, and kept looking out to spot the sun. Many hours later, I went out to the balcony and tried sitting in wide shafts of sunshine that had made their appearance. As pretty as the light was (very chic in a European movie sort of way), it didn't help. The sunlight wasn't warm enough.

I cleaned up some more, arranged some stuff, and then shivering and cold, fell asleep. I woke up around six in the evening. It was grey with no semblance of any sunshine having visited earlier in the day. I felt like taking a short walk so I got dressed and headed out. The little lane that leads on to the main road has some construction work happening. It reminded me of walks I used to take from my place to J's house in Koregaon Park.

There's a lot happening along my road. A small temple opposite the lane was decorated with marigolds and orchids - a very unusual combination. The flowers didn't really 'go' together but the saffron and purple colours definitely piqued the old temple ambience. Diyas were lit but even their flames seemed to be bright, yet mellow. Warmth didn't visit Pune at all yesterday.

A couple of new mattress stores opened yesterday. Several eateries were offering discounts and specials. I walked on straight towards Aundh. It was such a pleasure to walk! It wasn't as cold outside as it was in the house. It was a...how do I explain...it was a soft night. Saturday night, sure, but a soft one. Lots of stars, no moon, a few clouds, and an endless river of careless whispers around the city.

I came to this cafe I had spotted a few days earlier. It's called 'Linger On', opposite the LG showroom on Baner Road. It looked small and toasty from the road. They have a narrow porch where 3 young men sat and discussed some matter very seriously. One furiously stubbed his cigarette while trying to get his very good-looking laptop (aqua blue) to run a program. The other recited something that could have been Gibran but was really a list of sandwiches he wanted to share with his pals.

Inside, the cafe has a mezzanine floor and is stocked with books and board games. I ordered a tofu burger and masala chai and sat outside.

Now, I don't know if it's the cafe or Pune but the experience of al fresco dining is so cheery. This place is on a busy road, yet it feels like you are just watching the world like a movie. So much goes on, so much chatter around, yet you are by yourself doing nothing more than observing someone peel away a bubble gum wrapper and then fold it neatly into a square. It's really wee...and nice.

My burger was really well-done! That was the closest I had seen tofu resemble a non-vegetarian patty. It needed a little salt but everything else was spot on. The top of the burger bun was greased, so it had this nice salty smoothness. And the masala chai was masala chai indeed. You could sniff it from across the road! And there wasn't the 'dip dip' ridiculousness that CCD has. (They just give you a cup of hot water and a single tea bag! That's just cheap, I think.) This was brewed strong and tasty.

I took my time. Watched a few regulars come in - the kinds who look through the menu as a formality, yet order what they have always ordered. I really liked the place.

Hope to go there for a long, lazy brunch soon.

Moving day

Today, I stirred my coffee with a pair of scissors.

Here's how it began:

Many moons ago, I was born under a star that decreed that I would be...well...weird. Someone capable of doing much but someone also likely to do nothing. And whatever little I'd do, I wouldn't really do them right.

So, anyway. For several reasons I decided to shift to Pune. My stuff - which is my bed, kitchen utensils, etc. - all of those would be reaching the new flat a couple of days later. However, I had to shift immediately because of some interesting arrangement with the broker and the landlord. When I started from Mumbai, I decided to take the bare minimum that would carry me through the next couple of days. I'd also need to shift out to another place for another 2 or 3 days while I started my new job. In the mean time, the rented place would get sorted out, etc. etc. and then I would move in for good by next weekend. (All of that had made sense to me a few days ago.)

Therefore, I thought and made a list. What would I need for the next few days? Clothes - formals and something to lounge around and sleep in. Comfortable shoes for walking. Towels, napkins, facewash. If the toothpaste doesn't squeeze out from that doggone tube, then a pair of scissors to rip it open. And of course, for the morning cuppa, the materials - a vessel to boil milk and some water in, some container to keep the sugar, the lighter to light the stove with, a cup, wipe cloths to wipe the cup after rinsing it, and also the book I'd peruse as I sipped my sweet, strong coffee.

No flaw in the plan thus far. I reach my flat and impatiently wait for the broker to just hand over the keys and go. But he is sweet enough to take me through the house once again, just to make sure I'd be comfortable staying there alone. It's a semi-furnished place so it looked huge. At least for me.

There's a sofa and two arm chairs. They seem cushy enough. However, they are a difficult brown to co-ordinate anything with. But I'm a big one for curtains. I love buying curtains. Especially those huge, floor-length ones in wispy material and soft prints. They look like they've been speckled with Raphael's paintbrush. Gauzy, dreamy motifs in pastels against transparent whites or creams.

Anyway I got a few curtains - really pretty ones. One set is a light, minty blue and the other one is a thin, soft white one with candy stripes. As soon as I reached the flat, I put them up, admired them for 5 minutes, and then got started on the coffee. So, the water got heated and so did the milk. I shook the right amount of coffee from the coffee jar and did the same with the sugar. I hadn't yet realized what was missing. Then I poured the coffee, closed my eyes in bliss at the rich, earthy fragrance, and then looked around for a spoon.

To any other human being, to anyone else, the necessity of a spoon would be more obvious than the requirement for scissors to tear open tightly wound toothpaste tubes. I wondered, aloud and softly, to myself and God, in wonder and amusement, why I was not like any other human being.

And that's how a perfectly good looking Vega pair of scissors found itself swirling deep, dark brew.

The coffee was good, though. I had it watching the curtains flutter in the wind.

Move to Pune

I'm moving to Pune tomorrow. It's already been a month into the new year and I'm not really feeling so fresh and new about anything. Pune, though, holds the promise of a shiny, fresh kind of ching! Over the last few weeks, I've been to Pune a few times. Mostly, I've stayed over at a cousin's place in Khadakvasla and just had the most restful time there.

My niece, nephew, and I had once taken our cups of hot tea and chocolate milk and gone to an open field. It was early evening, yet the world had this sweet winter vapour around it. The light was soft and it was chilly. We sat on dried grass, spotted plants with bright orange hibiscuses, and made up stories about the neighbor's labrador, Tipsy.

In Pune again, I'd gone for a birthday party at one of my cousin's friends home. There was dinner around bonfires under a starlit sky. My finger tips remember the smudge of warmth I coaxed out from every dying ember.

I had a few chilly auto-rickshaw rides from Chandni Chowk to Baner. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine traveling in a far simpler world. I was in a bullock-cart - one that carried springtime by the sackfuls.

My interview at the job there required me to wait for a couple of hours while the company made their decision. I spent the quietest, happiest time at a nearby CCD watching the world go by. Every curl of chocolate shaving on my coffee corresponded with a smile from a happy stranger.

Pune is my second innings. I have no friends here for now. But Pune being Pune will give me a few things to start with - skies delicately embroidered with clouds, the best shafts of sunlight anywhere in the world, moments wholesome like fruits - like pretty garnet pomegranate beads. I'll have nights where the moon looks like an impostor trying to gatecrash a party of elfin stars. I'll have daybreaks that lightly tiptoe over tree-tops. There will be summers - hot, parched summers. There will also be summer evenings where my frosty eyes will look up at whisky skies and the season will get intoxicated.

Pune being Pune will give me the world where hopefully, someday, friends will come.

Faith? Really?

Through shoddy shards of fate,
Across fractured bets and odds,
With blind faith we prod along,
Being so forgiving of our gods.