Chiffonesque

Now, here is what I’d like to understand – why do children, the kinds who have moon faces and no teeth, drop everything on the ground? And then look down? And then drop things again? Why? What are they trying to figure out? Maybe it is not so much the connection between the falling object and the floor. Maybe, instead, it is the falling object and some hysterical adult (mainly female) that unfailingly appears while the object is getting dropped. It’s a theory I will work on some time in the future. In any case, here’s what I see on my way home from my jogs. (I do go jogging – that is ‘ogging’ with a ‘J’ and not ‘ogging’ with an ‘H’. The latter has been put on hold until my upset tummy gets settled.) There’s a little kid who sits in a wicker chair in the balcony of a building I pass by. Usually, a harassed lady is trying to get him to eat something. But the child has other plans. He throws orange quarts outside the balcony and looks down. This occurs some ten times. The harassed lady i

This morning, I saw a short, old gentleman. He shuffled along with another sprightly senior citizen. From the snatches that I could hear, the animated man was telling his friend that one can't really expect much from children. They are so keen to have their own life and parents always seem to be getting in the way. And what's wrong with that? In today's world, each one for himself. His friend refuted gently. Something like, 'They love their parents in their own way.' But the fiesty uncle was not convinced. 'You come for a walk in these clothes. And why hasn't your son bought you keds if you come for a walk? You wear your wife's shoes, for God's sakes. If your son loved you, he could've got you walking clothes, no?' With this parting shot, he went off to join some boisterous members of a laughter club. His mild friend, seemingly accustomed to such remarks, continued walking. Now, because of what I had just overheard, I observed the man closely

I am finally back in Mumbai. It feels yippee-dippee-doo great with three exclamation marks. (Like this – yippee dippee doo great !!! ) I left Pune with a really smart top my office guys gave me. At first glance, it looks too trendy for someone as staid as me…but I loved it all the same. It’s a sheer, black ruffled top that scrunches a little bit at the waist. And the panache dimension of the garment is in the back – it has a pink rubber print of a pop-star. Really cool! (Of course J’s taste. She’s the only one who would select my farewell gift from ‘Potion 9’. Thanks J. Thanks a heap!) In a few hours of reaching Mumbai, I left for Anumita’s party. Her house is really one of the cutest homes I have stayed at. The last time I was there, I clicked a whole lot of photos of her verandah and the rust-brown-ochre mountains it overlooks and the vibrant striped tray with the little cup and the diaphanous white and gold drapes and the illuminated bar that looks vintage and contemporary at the s

Last night, I slept uneasy. My mind seemed to be regurgitating bad dreams. Full of this dread, I woke up at six in the morning to go to the gym. The lift in my building isn’t working, so I walked down. From the last landing, I saw a pile of bricks. But I got this flash that I was looking at a heap of severed cat heads. But the heads didn’t look grotesque – they looked as if there were still alive, and the eyes were bright. It freaked me out completely so I dashed down with my eyes shut. It’s a wonder I didn’t tumble down the stairs. But I ran out of the building, trying to get that image out of my head. Slowly, after I’d walked a few blocks I calmed down. The sharp cold breeze shaking unruly flowerbeds here and there, a couple of old men wearing mufflers and walking by, bird taking a strong twig for its nest - that sort of thing. And next to an electric pole, I saw the stiff body of a cat…without a head. If this is life’s way of telling me something, I wish it would shut up already.

I just finished ‘The Inheritance of Loss’ by Kiran Desai. It’s well-written…very, well-written. If it were written in long-hand, it would be in an elegant slant, on fine bond paper, with an ink-pen. A dried daisy in a netted case would serve as a bookmark and much of the story would get written by a window overlooking a stream in spring. The ‘Inheritance of Loss’ probably is more reminiscent of a scatter of well-composed postcards instead of a strongly written letter. It’s a story, rather it’s three little, inter-woven stories, set against the backdrop of the Gorkha movement. The Kanchenjunga serves as a sort of a strong literary motif in the narrative and is prettily described but…. What’s new? I don’t quite get why stories by Indian authors have to be set against backdrops of political struggles. This is, of course, a minor fly in the ointment because a writer will jolly well write about what he or she wants to write about…but do they really want to write about stories this way? Or

Since the last two weeks, I’ve been seeing a camel in the living room at night. I get up for a drink of water or to scrounge for something in the kitchen, and when I step into the living room, I see a camel. It sits between the divan and the T.V., facing me. It’s not chewing cud, like how I would imagine it to, but it just sits there peacefully….staring ahead like a sphinx. I do know it is a hallucination, because how else will the camel come inside the flat? There are no spare keys or anything. But I thought a hallucination was rooted in subconscious desires or unfulfilled wishes. I don’t remember ever having any kind of thoughts associated with camels – subconscious or otherwise. And there have definitely been no unfulfilled wishes regarding the ships of the desert. So, it is very strange. The first night, I saw the camel, I was scared. It looked so real. I just went back to my bedroom and closed the door, burrowed under the blankets, and went off to sleep. The next night, I sort of

A little background. From experience in Pune, I stay away from places recommended by natives. Here’s why. When I was new in Pune, I put up at the company guest house. Naturally, the first people I befriended were other displaced-to-Deccan people. Once the sun went down and the last shot of ire was flared at the rickshaw fellow, we didn’t know what to do. For night-time entertainment (i.e.- clubbing, lounging, etc.), we turned to our local Pune residents. And they recommended with fervor and passion, with gleam and steam, with verve and vigor – Ten Downing Street (TDS). For that, I hope owls squat and poop on their heads every Sunday. Here’s my question: why would you direct unsuspecting people to a place that has not seen ‘crowd’ (meaning more than seven people) since the first time an Englishman bought spices in India? Why? Plus they don’t tell you that you PAY for entering a place slightly more somber than a coffin, get a wimpy inky tattoo from Frankenstein himself, and then creep up

If the author doodled while writing 'Breakfast at Tiffany's', squigglies would look like this: http://kalman.blogs.nytimes.com/ Superlative!

Close to midnight now. Z is hungry and eyes me enviously as I lick mayo from my fingers. Also, I do not hesitate intelling her that the chicken wrap I just finished was yummy. Z looks sad. 'Why don't you get something to eat?' , me being concerned, but not really. 'I won't get anything to eat now.' Z being smart. Seldom happens. 'Mc Donalds will be open.' 'Yeah'..she brightens up. 'They'll have their Happy Hours.' 'Happy Meals', I correct. She shrugs and walks off. Tsk! Tsk! and all that...but I'm lovin' it.