Chiffonesque

There is a nuanced vapor between sadness and the initial curve of a smile. In that vapor, resides a gossamer peach-silver lattice of silk thread. Through this fine weave, sedate meiosis sets in sometimes. Like winds that travel over powerful seas through monsoon winds, spiced with tales from faraway lands and long ago times. Salty orange evening in Mexico perhaps. Pretty ribbons in her hair perhaps. Wooden, stained table-top and a bartender with river-sand skin perhaps. A happy request for a drink perhaps. A demure show of adroitness and concoction tempered with desire perhaps. A ruddy lavish smiling thank-you perhaps. And he named the drink after her. Margarita. Based on trivia I read on Margarita. It made me strangely sad and strangely…smile.

A blue glass cup On a window sill did sit One spot of milk on the saucer And that’s all there was to it. Through the lemony lace curtains, A mossy meadow stretched A russet sky dipped in yonder And crystal-pricks of stars it fetched. The cup and droplet trembled like wisteria, In a passing truck’s milky light, With dirge like melody they sighed… Guess who’d watched ‘Brokeback Mountain’ last night?

This weekend began with me hurting my knuckles at kickboxing. I didn’t think much of it because I was too tired and it wasn’t paining much more than a scrape. But I got home, fell into a heap on the bed, and went off to sleep with my mouth wide open. (Working title of sequel to ‘Eyes Wide Shut.’ Really, it’s true. Nope. Actually, it’s not.) And when I turned, my hand felt sore and bloody. I looked and the patch where the skin had peeled off had turned into a throbbing magenta and vein-blue crater. Strangely, my head felt hot, my throat felt sore, and my tongue felt thick. I wondered if I had also got bitten by a monkey in the bargain. (I read somewhere monkey bites are dangerous.) I was still feeling sweaty from the work-out but the thought of having water touch and singe my wound put me off completely. I have been uninjured for so long that I can’t bring myself to look at a bruise. I am also squeamish, that way. Every time, I am stranded in a bus for long, I keep praying that no-one d...

The sun is done feasting On a varied,sushi sky The moon comes up for desserts But the valley pastry is too dry Lakes swill and lap Into late, goth-hued hours, Potent, dark, and strong Like nice, vintage liqueurs Elements in nature may rejoice, Sometimes they may brood, Remarkably, though, how everything, Comes close to resembling food.

Today, I have the very humble but versatile chana dal, but just the way I like it. It’s pressure-cooked until there is very little water remaining. Then salt and chilli powder (I recommend lots of it, 7-8 spoons or so) is added and it’s cooked over slow flame some more. A tadka of mustard seeds or jeera completes the dish. I love the way it sets like a savory pudding when it cools down a little and I can scoop up spoons of soft, spicy, pulses. For variation, roasted garlic goes very well with most dals, especially moong . And the tadka could be in ghee , which makes everything a few notches tastier. I strongly recommend biting into a nice, pungent green chilly rubbed with a little salt. Oof! Lunch time already!

Let’s say you are standing in a queue for a bus ticket. It’s a long line and you finally get to the counter – almost. There is one person ahead of you who, annoyingly, is just not behaving like the others; i.e. – handing out change and buying the tickets. She is asking questions - about why they are charging more than the regular fare, why the coupons don’t reflect the price she is paying, who decided the hike in the rate…basically, why things don’t add up. Meanwhile, you get impatient and tap your feet. You wish this person would sort out her issues elsewhere, some other time. But the thing is that the issues this person is sorting out are not hers alone, they are yours as well. You just don’t know it yet. Deepa Mehta’s ‘Water’ somehow evokes such impatience with its pace but only until you grasp just exactly where the story is going. The story is set in 1938. An 8 year old girl, Chuhiya, is married off to a sick man. On their journey across villages, the man dies and Chuhiya is left ...

Night. Sweet melancholy. One of those dark, salubrious times when the wind gently murmurs through open windows. Bugs look pretty against the lamplight. Yet, something sinister tiptoes about. I wait for blood to trickle down the crack on the wall and make a crimson puddle-pool on a shiny tile. I was feeling sad and angry for no apparent reason. It is a mood I get into when I don’t eat read meat for a long time. I wonder if it is genetic. Someday, perhaps, adequate self-loathing/ absorption will drive me to study minutae of my every mood. Then, I will try and determine why fifteen days without eating MUTTON (and none of that wimpy boneless stuff – I’m talking about crunching bones and sucking marrow) makes me hate everything that moves and talks. I indulged in a few moments of quiet contemplation. Slowly, the white-burning hatred mellowed to a soft dislike. Now, I did not crave red meat. But I did crave for something chewy, slightly sweet and tender, little juicy textures, flavored with ...

I visited the Crossword at Mulund. It is big, bright, noisy, and has a really chic café. There are books too. The reason I was there was to buy ‘Roots’ for J. I asked one of the assistants somewhat skeptically if she knew where I could find the book. Since I don’t really expect the Crossword staff to know about books, the blank expression didn’t come as a surprise. She looked at me wide-eyed. Similar reaction has been encountered in Pune when I tell a rick-fellow that I won’t pay half-return at 8:30 p.m. Conversation went thus: ‘I’m looking for ‘Roots’ by …’ ‘You want ‘Roots’?’ ‘Yes’ ‘Like garden…or something’, says assistant, escorting me to the ‘Non-fiction’ section. ‘No. ‘Roots’ by Alex Haley. It’s a novel.’ ‘Oh.’ Disappointed because she was about to show me a vibrant coffee-table book with a gnarled specimen on the cover. ‘Please ask there.’ ‘Where?’, I look around. ‘At the Information’. She doesn’t say ‘DUH!’ but I can sense things that get muttered in the brain. I approach t...

Yesterday was a day of fairytale sequences. A walk in the park where I saw a spectacular black and green snake. It was the kind of green that would shine in a coal mine. Made for a resplendent slither. Then, a languorous breakfast and unhurried morning reading. Hazy drift into slumberland and a quaint, funny dream. Hurried plans with friends. A mince-burger snack by the Khadakvasla dam. Watching water released in swift torrents, creating this spray curtain all around. It is something else to watch the sun through water mist. The innocence of guile. Thinking of college, of the teacher who told me, ‘Speed has nothing to do with progress, direction does.’ Listening to the sonorous gush of free water and thinking that speed does have something to do with progress. It’s more than beauty. It’s more than strength. It’s power - and that is more than so much else. A trek to the fort. Watching the fog close in at the peak. Feeling fingers go cold and seeing feathery clouds roll in with the win...

Asks a moth to the flame 'What is in a name?' The flame knows no better, It answers 'Four letters.' The roach on the floor Through a slightly open door Perambulates in daze, 'Insatiable' - Darren Hayes The lizard behind the table Unfortunately, sits Waiting for me To make a rhyme about it But as much as I try, I realize it's a rumor, That I'm a poetess of mopes. Really, my runes need some humor.

1 Grace of ‘Will and Grace’. Debra Messing. Selfish (her T.V. Character, that is), insolent, laughs too loud, tries too hard to be funny, opens her jaws too wide, and to top it off, keeps her eyes big and round to look cute. Delusional enough to think there can be more than one Julia Roberts. (Pop! There goes one in my noggin’ right about now.) 2 Elaine in ‘Seinfeld’. Julia Louis-Dreyfus. Those floaty, dark skirts, whatever on top of her head that qualifies as hair, that whole Gothic get-up (if it isn’t Gothic, it should be – its disturbing), wide, wide wide, wide grin with chin thrusting out…she should marry George Costanza – deserves it. 3 Brooke in ‘Bold and the Beautiful’. There was a time I liked her. I really did. But then…why does all her lingerie have lace? Irritating. And you think that someone as well-traveled as her would find people with different surnames – other than Forrester…or Forresters other than Ridge. And why does she never go after him when he’s single? All that r...