Chiffonesque

I bought a pair of ballet flats They glitter with silver sequins I would have preferred the nude peep-toes But they look better on those mannequins These ballet flats look metallic In the bright white light of the mall These ballet flats look like elfin treats Used to pirouette down waterfalls I watched with daze and wonder As they got wrapped in some sheath, These flats with merry twinkles And those desires that lie beneath These ballet flats, in some strange way, Remind me of those days When glory was public speaking And matching a teacher’s gaze These ballet flats are childish In their sweet, silver glean, They tempt with their gullible pull Of dances in realms of dreams I didn’t buy these flats as a fashionista They aren’t shoedom’s Holy Grail, They are just the way, I would, as a child, Trap the moon in water in a pail.

The other day I was chatting with a friend who had recently watched the film, ‘ Dhol ’. She liked the movie. I’d found it dismal. There were some glaring factors such as the staid storyline and boring Priyadarshan sequences that involving hordes of running people and Rajpal Yadav getting slapped unnecessarily. There were those cherries on the stale cake - Tanushree Datta ’s absolutely insipid performance (and one cannot blame her as she has to choose her suitor from amongst Kunal Khemu , Tushar Kapoor , Sharmaan Joshi , and Rajpal Yadav . Collectively, these gentlemen form the platter of blah.) But the reason I dismiss off the film as I would dump used tissue paper in the can is this: the plots that were used to get laughs are deplorable. The movie begins with the four actors having tea at a stall. Rajpal Yadav notices a van full of men whiz past. He can hear a woman screaming from inside. He goads his friends to follow the van and rescue the girl, who seems to be getting g

I was in bed, having strange dreams that involved a psychedelic mouse. Woke to a lazy drizzle and the comfort of knowing that I have completed all my pending assignments and have nowhere to go. Brushed my teeth and had some tea. Went back to bed and extricated the book I was reading from under the covers. Spent three hours of glorious, sharp, uninterrupted reading. Walked to the kitchen where mom had made me something I had casually asked for yesterday and forgotten. So, settled down to have a slice of crisp, flaky quiche with tangy onion and mushroom filling. And a large cup of nice, hot coffee. Both made by Ma. It’s time to go back under the covers. I bid adieu to time well-spent In a home raging with love I bid adieu to mornings that went Unbidden to skies above I say hello to a peeping moon That shouldn’t be out just yet It replies with a cheeky grin Perched on a lacy cloud that’s wet It’s the nature of farewells to haunt With memories of the first greeting It’s in the mechanics of

I wonder if other households eat pumpkin flowers, but we do. And because they are available only during the monsoons, we eat them every day we get them. The most popular way to eat them is to coat them with a batter of besan , curd, turmeric, chilli, and salt and fry them. They are absolutely delectable with their slight, flat spongness and the traditional, seasoned batter. But there’s another way to have them as well, without batter. Simply coat them with a little oil, chilli, salt, and turmeric and shallow fry them. I absolutely love the taste of pumpkin flowers, so I don’t quite care for the besan coating too much. This afternoon, I had these fried pumpkin flowers with steaming hot rice and kashundi . (Bengali-style mustard paste.) Gorgeous!

It’s 3:41 a.m. and I am working on an office assignment. I really, really wish right now that I wouldn’t have spent 12,000 bucks on a pair of stupid jeans and a stupid kerchief top; it’s too sequinny to be a kerchief and too small to be a top. What was I thinking? I don’t have that kind of lifestyle anymore. Of what use is it? Maybe if there’s a runny glittery nose somewhere, I can pass it on. Or wait, it’ll be my nephew’s first birthday next year. I’ll just be the most inappropriately dressed aunt then. Sheesh! If I had saved that cash, I wouldn’t have had to work at 3:41 a.m., or even 3:42 or 3:43 a.m. Instead, I’d be in bed and have all my delectable reads spread all around me and I’d dip into them as and when I felt like it. (I read more than one book at a time.) Here’s a list of what I’d like to be reading in the next few weeks: · A million little pieces by James Frey · Tender is the Night by Fitzgerald · The moon and sixpen

I recently finished reading a very interesting book, ‘ Aghora – At the Left Hand of God’ by Robert E.Svoboda. It was a very compelling read and so many aspects of it fascinated me. While I would like to write about what this book is about, the prospect overwhelms me. I don’t know how to put it all together. Now, this is interesting because while I was reading it, I was so centered on what the author had to say. However, now it just seems to have disintegrated – like candy floss on the tongue. Anyway, here goes: The author has written about his guru, Vimlananda, who was an Aghori. Aghoris are people who follow the Aghora discipline – the most distilled and concentrated form of Tantra. Now, this is where I slip up because there are so many isolated components and theories and so many interrelations that I can’t seem to get on top of things. I’ll try. In Hinduism, the main ideal, the purpose of life so to speak, is the realization of God. In essence, this means that you shatter the noti

For 5 months in the capital, I was fed with statements like, “Our house is like your house”, “I am your friend, you can always count on me”, “I am always there for you”, “You are like my younger sister/ daughter/ grand-daughter”, “You have nothing to worry about, we’ll take care of things”, “I will not be partial to my family; I will not judge you”, “You are part of us now”, “I am there to help”, .…and then have everyone disappear and flit away neatly when the time came to actually do something. And now, in Bombay after people hear my tight voice explaining why I am looking for a job in a different city so soon, etc. etc., all I get is, “This is the job, this is the money…you want or not?” Thank you, heartless witch.

In the vanity of darkness, when light plays but an attendant role, the mind wanders. To seek evidence of what once was, to look for predictions of what will be, and to sigh and reconcile that this is all there is. In such times, I google for words such as Wednesday or diamante or stuffed figs. Searches take me to strange places. I listened to 'Bad' by U2 this evening for the very first time. Also through some strange coincidence (and I don't believe in those), I came across this poem on Shekhar Kapur's blog: http://www.shekharkapur.com/blog/archives/2005/12/my_wealth.htm#more It's only appropriate that the guy who writes stuff like this would've directed 'Masoom'.

I really should get more disciplined. I have this age-old habit of taking on more than I can chew and it’s awful…I just can’t do it all, and whatever I finish, I feel that I could’ve done better. I suppose it stems from some kind of insecurity that time is running out, and unless I grab each and every writing opportunity that comes my way, I’ll miss that important pulse. Of course, the pit of my tummy and the core of my heart tell me that I have enough to just sit back and relax and absorb it all. But I can’t get over this feeling that my days are shaped like an hour-glass and every minute, every second, every tiny slant of temporal vapidness, grains of sand are shifting down and my time will be up. I can’t bear to sleep. I have come to regard it as such a waste of time. I just want to get over my share of experiences in the next hour – sunset, wounded knee, twisted heart, crappy travel stories - and then get on with my life. My life with my chosen, scripted experiences. Like I want to

I must appreciate the mornings more. They are bouquets of such fuzzy delights. I wake up after a night of fitful sleep and try to stretch the first lazy moment of the day. Before long, I’ll have to switch on the computer and begin peddling my resume or getting on to my office tasks. The fresh fragrance will be gone before I even start noticing the wilt. So, here’s to days with deep, deep whiffs. Today. The dreamy, grey drizzle and mottled sparrow wings from behind frog-colored leaves. A slow and slick earthworm curling up on a white pebble. And a bizarre sight of a rambunctious puppy splashing about in a puddle with a khakra in his mouth. Then, there was my steaming chai with a plate of spicy poha. I don’t really like poha but the way one of my cooks makes them is wonderful. He cuts up potatoes in really little pieces and fries them along with the poha. These chunks are like delightful, unexpected presents and their crispy, crusts of chilli powder, turmeric and salt is tasty. Sometimes

It’s a long way back to innocence From this pavilion of fear It’s a long time since pretense Of happiness was so dear. It’s a long time since a summer nap Was snatched inside a class It’s a long time since a season’s snaps Were believed to linger and to last. Two layers of pebbles in a bell jar Make a reed a poetic symbol Two drops of blood on a thumb Make a Judas of a thimble. Forlorn words and tragic smiles Thread together in a verse - Lyrics of a twilight song Rotten pennies in a purse. There’s beauty in a canvas of splotches Or a bowl of wild grass grown Or a life of dripping hopes And mistakes that were one’s own.