Chiffonesque

A few days ago, when I was in Pune, I got an e-mail asking me if I would like to get interviewed about my blog. Since no-one has ever asked me about blogging, writing, etc., I was mighty pleased and I agreed. I had to submit the interview online and the interview has been published here: http://bloginterviewer.com/randomness/chiffonesque-mukta-raut I have been wanting to write about writing for a while now, but haven't got around to doing it because of abysmal discipline. But someday, when the idea calls and the words evolve.... My responses in the interview are as I had typed them without proofreading, and they have been published - warts and all. Sweet justice for a careless writer. On another note, here is something I overheard in the bus while traveling from Andheri to Bandra: Woman to co-passenger: Mujhe Bandra Talaab ke pass utar na hain. (I need to get down near the Bandra pond.) Co-passenger: Aapko talaab khidki se dikh jayega. (You will be able to see the pond from the win

There is one thing about working from home that reminds me of college days –afternoon television. There is something very scrumptious about watching T.V. on a weekday afternoon. It’s just not the same on weekends. (The program schedule for Saturdays and Sundays seems to be odd. They keep showing reruns of programs that are aired on primetime – shows that you are most likely to catch; but won’t show the programs that air in the afternoons, when you are away at work.) Anyway, Ma nowadays is deeply engrossed in several music shows – those that involve gharaanas , some phenomenal singer who does Kailash Kher fabulously, contestants from India and Pakistan (therefore the set has very gaudy flags of both countries), and Anu Malik scowls enormously at a cute Alisha Chinai. So, she doesn’t like being interrupted when she is watching this. But considering I am supposed to be going through a tough personal crisis now and all, she is okay if I change the channel. The first time I did that, we bot

My cousin delivered a baby boy after 14 years of marriage. The child’s name is Karan and he is…well, round and pink. As far as round, pink, and little people go, it is difficult to say who they resemble. But speculation has already begun. My brother-in-law is fair and cupid-looking, while my cousin is dusky with excellent thick hair. But neither of them is half as adorable as the baby. The baby, I am proud to say, has taken after our family tradition of eating, sleeping, and making parents feel guilty for not feeding them while they were sleeping. And all this in ten days. So, now I want a baby of my own, but a girl…because I don’t know what to do with boys. (And as recent experience goes, my ineptitude extends to boys of ALL ages, apparently.) So I would like a little baby girl. Sometimes, around 3 a.m. or so, I actually feel as if there is a baby next to me, sound asleep. If I lay still long enough, I feel soft breath on my shoulder and the cute wangle of plump, little arms. And then

My mother has been unwell of late. But today, she took me to watch ‘ Chak De India’ . Because Ma will always go to watch a Shah Rukh Khan film. Somewhere around the time DDLJ released, my mother implicitly adopted him. She goes for his films the same way she’d attend any of our prize distribution functions. With joy and anticipation. Of course, some movies are credited with more enthusiasm… as if her kid was actually participating or had won a prize (‘ Swades’, ‘Dil To Paagal Hai’, ‘Main Hoon Na’ ); some others…well, she went along because, after all, it is the kids school day function and you had to turn up for the event – even if all he was doing was being inane (‘ Don’, ‘Ashoka’, ‘Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna’ ), etc. Most times, I don’t like Shah Rukh Khan. Or, I mean, he’s okay. I have liked him in films people haven’t seen or probably been indifferent to. Like, I really liked him in ‘ Chalte Chalte’ . More so, because he reminded me of myself – impetuous, tough to take, but really ad

Froth in a pot of fresh milk. Pop of a bubble. Spritz from a water spray. Tickle of a feather. A baby’s nose nuzzling at the neck. A puppy squirming on the lap to find its spot. Snuggle under a fat, cushiony blanket through a bluish, winter night. Patter of babies’ feet. The first whiff of a gentle monsoon through a huge balcony. Jingle of new coins in a well-worn pocket. Jangle of trinklets and madly wound lockets. Whistle of the pressure cooker triggering an evening appetite. Gurgle of a mountain stream. Trickle of a traveler’s dream. Crunching of a hundred stars. Blooming of a thousand flowers. Dancing shadows in a secret cellar. Carefree swirls of the Blue Umbrella. Vishal Bharadwaj is terrific.

After being lumped up the whole day in front of my computer, I thought I’d go out and get some swallow of fresh air. So I went for a book fair in Vashi, opposite Centre One. I wasn’t really expecting anything spectacular, because, truly the best deals I have seen so far are at the Strand book sales and Daryaganj. Very rarely has anything come close to being as remarkable as these – both in choice of literature available and the prices they are available at. But surprisingly, I got a couple of books I wanted to dive in to as soon as I reached home. (But unfinished business beckons, and that’s the very worst kind of beckoning.) The first one is ‘ We’ll Laugh Again’ by Art Buchwald, who is astonishingly chuckleworthy. He is such a charming political humorist (or satirist, depending how you read him.) I’ll never forget the way he portrayed the Potomac in some of his columns – fulcrum of poetry, politics, and poofy presidential peccadilloes. (I think I am recollecting my impressions of &

The other day, I met Jaygee at ‘Just Around the Corner’ and I was horribly late. Tardiness was due to my speed of driving (seldom shifting to fourth gear – and this being Mumbai, who notices that, right?) and the traffic at Sion (the new Andheri for heavy vehicles). I reached 70 minutes past the appointed time. She was waiting patiently, buried in a book. Later, after I’d munched on an interesting egg, mushroom and olive sandwich, we had had enough of the intense, chatty, bright and colorful postered environment. So, I asked Jaygee where we could go. As usual, she suggested a new place. And as usual, it was an excellent little spot. Bagel Point is a little off the Zigzag road, where you roll down towards Carter Road. It is so shack-y, bit-sized, and cute. The scooped wicker sofas, interestingly tiled walls, and a large rocking chair reminded me of those cubbyholes Enid Blyton wrote about. The best part was that this place was in Bandra, and yet, not teeming with people. That was reall

Around 10 minutes back, a guy dressed in police uniform came up to my door and knocked. When I opened the door, he thrust a register in my face and asked me to sign. The register had two columns – one for the name, and one for the amount. So, obviously, there was some ruse to garner donation for 15th August . I asked him for ID. In response, he showed me a cheesy Polaroid photograph of him hoisting a flag and some kids in the background, ‘ Bacchon ke liye (for the children)’, he said. So, here was a guy impersonating the police and asking for money. Clearly an offence. I politely told him that I won’t give the money. He said, ‘ Okay’ and went away. But considering how critically such an incident jeopardizes safety, I called up ‘ 100’ . The phone rang for 10 minutes and no one picked up. I called up a second time. This time, someone picked up the phone and I told him what had happened. He then had the cheek to tell me that I should call up Vashi police station instead and tell them. Wh

Mum has been down with a virulent viral attack since a week now. Her room is dark most of the time. Sometimes, when she fancies a bit of sun, we draw the heavy, ivory drapes so that a little peach-tinted sunshine can float in and nestle around the rims of mirrors or in the deep folds of the quilt. Everything on the bed seems to have soaked up her fever. The pillows and sheets feel toasty; the bedspread could probably comfort someone coming in from a cold and clammy place. While the room itself is usually cheery, now it feels strained. My breaths are sharp and shallow because I am waddling through my own stuff and trying to meet deadlines at work. Mum’s breathing is labored but gentle. One day, for no rhyme or reason, a really beautiful morning visited us at home. It came skipping across a few rolling hills, gathering sweet, strange wetness of grass in the dawn. There was a perfect guzzle of moisture in the air and a huge porridge bowl of light that was centered in the sky. I usually sp