Chiffonesque

I love walking through bazaars. They are so exuberant and pretty. So many haphazard symmetries and smudges of color. I like looking at blizzard of hoardings that pierce through the sky like architecural erectile dysfunctions - each one with its own idiosyncratic signature; one will have a florid pink background with Tang-colored lettering. Another will have a quirky spelling error - 'Plane dosas' and 'mineral woter'. Yet another will have so much to say that you want to gag it: 'Best, export-import quality, good surplus, no damaged piece, filmstar style, well-fitting, tailored, wonderful price for best export-import quality...' There is something being peddled practically on every inch of available space. Ceramic pots, nuts and bolts, printer paper, snacks, food, and drinks. Each shop or cart is adjusted in this crazy, calculated method that there is just enough space for people to stop by, browse, buy, and move on. This arrangement of space, designed purely for

I pray for strength to get past fury when people judge my actions out of context and criticize me. Or worse, when they advise me. I pray for strength to believe in the truth I have lived by. I pray that I do not let other people's estimation of my character or my capacity to love hurt me. I pray that I do not get judgmental of people, especially when they too speak out of ignorance, pain, or despair. As I have. I pray that I am strong enough to get through a difficult marriage and still cherish the good moments I had. I pray that I take care of my parents as unflinchingly as they have taken care of me. I wish that I can get past the guilt that I have put them through so much trouble, and yet they are always, always there for me. And they are always, always smiling. I pray that I never forget to appreciate this force of life that has given me so much. A family that will stand by me, no matter what. Friends who won't ask questions before they offer their shoulders to weep on. Col

Today, I waited for Jaygee at Barista, Bandstand. From my table, I could see a precise, sharp cut-out of grey-blue cloud against which the skyline seemed etched, as if with a fountain pen. A frolicking mass of waves jumped around. Several couples held hands and scampered towards the rocks. There was wispy drizzle and a cool wind. A stranger, next to my table, sipped his latte while scribbling in a bright orange notebook. For no reason, other than probably to share sudden wee good fortune in a large, large city, he looked my way and said, ‘ It’s beautiful today .’ ‘ Yes ’, I replied. He went back to writing. I went back to waiting.

For now, it seems that my marriage of five months is over. I head back to Mumbai tonight. I do and do not know whether it was my fault. I also do and do not know what went wrong. This knowing-unknowing is the very worst part of heartbreak. It is unfortunate that I did not get to celebrate my first anniversary in poetic, tingly Delhi winter. And that my marriage ended just when the clouds got lyrical and gauzy. But there are many things I learnt in and from Delhi. And most times, when I say, Delhi, I mean my soon-to-be-ex-husband. I learnt to drive. Maybe a couple more failed marriages and I will learn to park and reverse and then I’ll be set for life. I learnt to marvel at the intrepid guts of workers who trudge along in heat. The perspicacity is humbling. I learnt to steel my fragile ego from the withering looks of auto-people. I learnt the shayraana of clouds against ruins. I learnt to love simple generosities of simple folk in a Noida bus. I learnt that I embody the bard’s pithy tr

I have a Hutch pre-paid connection. Pre-paid is to mobile connection what the color of the pumpkin was to Cinderella. (Side issue, I mean.) My days are now filled with a certain anxiety, where I sort of jump out of my skin at every little sound. So, I, many times, wonder when my dreadful office days will end. Hutch decides to be the pointer of the Universe Jonathan Cainer keeps talking about. Hutch sends me an advert: ‘ Dial *123*21* to activate the Astro alerts and know what your starts have in store for you today. Rs. 15/ month.’ Yes..that’s what I want to know..about my ‘starts’.

I feel dizzy, nauseous, and have a sharp, throbbing pain that shoots up and down my back. Muscles at my neck are tight. I can’t seem to breathe properly. My brain totally shuts down when I have to do some really important task. I make so many mistakes, and when those are pointed out, I get more nervous and make some more mistakes. I don’t know what to do. A couple of weeks ago, I thought I was being really disorganized. But this week, I worked weekends, worked 15 hour days, got everything today, and still , the client isn’t happy. No-one at work is happy. Where am I going wrong? What must I do to make things better? When will this feeling go away?

I watched Matrubhoomi last night. Half-way I decided not to. Five seconds later, I decided to plod on. Every fifteen minutes I had an overwhelming urge to vomit. Or scrub my skin raw in scalding water. Or wash my eyes to remove traces of all that I had seen. I was enveloped with a sort of revulsion that I will be trying to shake off for a long time to come. The movie begins with a man drowning a new born baby girl in a cauldron of milk. It then takes us down a few years when there are no women left in India because of the tradition of female foeticide. One woman, however, is discovered by a village priest. Her name is Kalki (it is quite telling that we hear her name only once in the film - from her father). She is married off to five brothers for five lakh rupees and five cows. On the first night, the eldest son takes a calendar to mark out the dates each of the husbands will spend with her. Now, because there are 5 brothers and 7 days in a week, two days remain to be accounted for. Th

I like Barkha Dutt. I think she is intelligent, articulate, and very clued in. Someone forwarded me a piece she had written on the St. Stephen's quota issue. I forwarded this mail to a gentleman who I hold in very high regard. He replied. These two emails represent to me why dissent is important, why we learn so much from differing opinions. Because every story has a teller. ********** For God’s sake - Barkha Dutt Nostalgia can be an awful bore, especially for those whose memories are painted in hues different from ours. What we take away from our school and college years is especially personal and rarely transferable to someone standing outside that circle of experience. Perhaps that’s why the outcry over the new quota policy in St Stephen’s College has been dismissed by so many of you as the self-indulgent rant of an elitist alumni club. Some of you have even questioned why the admission procedure of an individual institution should become a matter of national debate. You sneer a

We had some people over for brunch this weekend. The night before A and I had spent several hedonistic hours at Aura and the Park, so we woke up groggy and unfit to do anything coherently. But I made this salad that not only required minimal co-ordination of brain and body, but was also quite summery and tasty. Here’s what you need: Steamed Corn - couple of cups, 1 packet mushroom, sliced finely. In fact, if you have long nails, it’s great fun shredding it with fingers. Curd - 4-5 tablespoons (there’s more finesse if you use hung curd, but curd with minimum whey will also do) Splashes of balsamic vinegar I tablespoon - tomato sauce 1 tablespoon - mustard 1 tablespoon - pepper and thyme flavored cheese spread (that’s the flavor I used, one can take any variety. It's for the texture, really) Salt and pepper Sauté the corn and mushroom in butter until cooked. In the meantime, mix the rest of the ingredients in a big, bright colored bowl (it reminds me of Snow White baking a cake, but