Chiffonesque

I have a very good feeling about the project I am working on now. It is exciting and new and the team seems to be pretty friendly and affable; at least most of them. On my way back from Mumbai today, I dozed off and was dreaming about pleasant things. While I can’t remember the dream itself, it was accompanied by very distinct tastes and tactile sensations. Like, I tasted the sugary sharp chewiness of candied ginger…or I felt like I was pasting ash between my forefinger and thumb. I have a hazy memory of wanting to remember something in my dream but not being able to. I am in a very contorted mental state because, well, having things on the tip of one’s tongue and nowhere useful is annoying. That being that, I woke up in soporific giddiness. The lady sitting next to me (who was also sitting next to window, so she was sitting between the window and me – why do I care so much?) was snoring those fairytale snores. Gentle and blissful – unheeding of all that magic going on in the heavens.

A dreamy, drizzly morning. Pearl-drops and hill-shimmer on leaves and horizon. The sky looks like mountain peaks breathed on a cold slab of glassy air. Clouds swirl as if a pine incense were lit somewhere, deep in a forest; by a muddy river that sparkled right where it tickled a rock playfully. I walk into the living room to see all this – a morning awakening like the notes in Sufi music. Simple, surreal, spiritual. Time passes. Slowly, I see the magic realism of the morning receding. Later, J and I leave for office. The moment we step outside her building onto the common compound, a dizzy, cool wind rustles us a little bit. As if we were trees. I think I tell J to use her camera more often. J responds. She tells me of this time in Delhi when she saw a woman from the media with a badge pinned strategically above her breasts. The badge said, ‘Press’. She laughed – doubling over, no less. I shook my head dismally at first, but smirked all the same. Goodbye, my morning of valley songs. Yo

Once upon a time, there was a Marx. There were many, but two of them became famous. Both said intelligent, quotable things. The one who has a bearing on this post was the Marx without ants in his pants – Groucho. He did not want to belong to a club that would have him as a member. A very droll observation. But sometimes, when one cannot contend with a vampiric corporate culture, one thinks of him. One realizes that he was wise, not funny. One is bemused. In every appraisal since my first job, I have been considered ‘creative’. I used to think I knew what that meant. But then I joined big companies with lots of people, and the definition changed a little. Now, the ‘creative’ title is what is bestowed before my scatter-brained, irresponsible mode of work is gently rebuffed. ‘Creative’ is their tactic. ‘Creative’ is their hoax. So, when I am asked to think of ‘creative’ ideas, I am asked to think of ‘feasible’ ideas. Nothing wrong with that, but one can’t commit the fallacy of mixing one

To no-one in particular: If it weren’t for blue, It would be red. It is either the toe Or the top of the head. If it weren’t the sky, It would be the salt of the earth, It is either the fire Or the flagstone hearth. If it wasn’t the crashing Of the china plates, It would be the grating Of the iron gates. Sometimes to the moon Or to the star, I point, Sometimes one or the other Or all of these disappoint. ************************************************************* No-one responds: It is blue and red Also green and yellow And all kinds of music Not necessarily mellow It is the scream of the child The dense of the wild As for spices, they range from Fiery to mild It is a voice too loud Or a manner too brusque It is the stagnant despondency Of a Sunday dusk In the scheme of one’s own, Not all of them fit, But for that very scheme, One lives with it.

Here is the catch with working creatively in an office – you don’t get to do it alone. There is a team and there are meetings and there are brainstorming sessions, which are as effective as shouting into a papier-mâché cave. Then you have to listen to other people’s ideas, which is such a bore. I am always reminded of this line in ‘Lady Windermere’s Fan’: People are not moral or immoral; they are interesting or they are tedious. Ditto with ideas – there are no good ideas or bad ideas – only those that make me sit up straight or the ones that get me further irritated with Kay Kay Menon. Someday, I will make a movie. I will offer Mr. Menon a role. The role will have substance and shades and what’s more, a spine. Someday, in some film – maybe mine, Kay Kay Menon will prove to be worthy of the woman he is in love with. (No prizes for guessing I saw Corporate. So, Kay Kay ditched Chittrangada in ‘ Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi’ to go to London. He comes from London in ‘ Corporate’ to be the ge

My family is safe. My friends are safe. My city isn't. It never was. It was lucky before, but not safe. So, one ordinary day a city, after being distracted by rain and defacing incidents, went about its business and was tattered. Simple. That is that. And now, in my mind, there is no debate of whether there should be capital punishment or not. Whoever did this - WHOEVER - should die. Simple. That is that.

I follow a routine to ward off boredom. Ever so often, I make life a little difficult for myself and then work to simplify it. So, while I have never really needed to have 18 cups of tea or coffee a day, I did. Now, I’m cutting back the number to a single digit. In fact, on good days, when I am home and can put my head on my mother’s lap at will (hers, not mine), I can go without tea and coffee completely. I just sip hot water, sometimes with lime and honey, sometimes with a couple of split raisins (they look sweet through the muggy transparency of a steamy glass), and sometimes, plain. I realized that what I needed from the cups and cups of caffeine was heat and steam. That used to wake me up and keep me going instead of the concoction itself. And of course, the ritual. The toughest part of giving up these beverages is not knowing what to do with the time that you earlier spent absorbed either preparing the brews or partaking of them. My favorite part of having tea and coffee was fe

For a while now, I have contemplated starting other blogs – one for food, one for movies and T.V. offerings (I have a lot to say about the show ‘Beauty and the Geek’), and one for books. There are a number of reasons I haven’t got around to doing it. Most of them involve sloth and a reflex to stay away from anything that I would ‘have’ to maintain in the long run. I wouldn’t want to read a book simply because I had to write about it. Or watch a movie because there was compunction to analyze. Or deliberately document stuff about yummies because there was a web page waiting to be updated. (The last bit reminds me to spread the good word about lychees chilled in frosted crystal bowls and doused with vodka. Must be had with eyes half-closed. In fact, will be had with eyes half-closed. Enough said.) However, I do like the idea of segregation. I like pieces that do not meander but follow a consistent stream of thought. The prospect of writing something for a category dedicated to specifics i

Much has happened since the last few days - fever, food, fun, fights, freedom. Have come to realize that I can just about bear to work three days in a week. That fear is the worst kind of dishonesty to the self. That cracking open a well-seasoned crab to taste its succulent, sweet, fresh, moist yet melting meat is a many splendored thing. That keeping it simple is a protracted battle. And yet, to the victor belong the spoils.