Chiffonesque

I liked ‘No Smoking’. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to. The imagery, philosophical sub-text, iconoclastic screenplay, crowded symbolism and cocky coded allusions to theology and absurdity are not easy to digest. The entire film skates between being unfathomable to being mind altering. As to which side the film veers in the viewer’s mind, well…there’s no way you can make that out. Some people shuck their first oyster and spend their lives caged in that heavenly, briny taste. Others do the same and vomit. The lighting – mostly dark and grimacing magnifies the cratered wryness of John Abraham, the wholesomeness of Ayesha Takia, and the crippling notoriety of a lit cigarette. At times, the scenes suffocate. At times, close-ups of dismembered fingers and sounds of wracking coughs unhinge you. But the most startling effect is, probably, the way these dark nuanced visuals refract the seemingly unblemished righteousness of non-smokers. I am sure there is an appropriate cinematic lexicon that

I usually walk home from Vashi station. Nowadays, with the colors and sparkles of Diwali emulsifying through every shop, home, cart, and mall, the walk is rather pretty. Sometimes I may make a stop at Centre One and have a glass of green apple and wheatgrass juice (which is too tasty to be healthy). But most times, I try to avoid getting run down by people and cars and just get home. Until something tells me I need to take a detour. The other day I noticed an insipid looking edifice called ‘The Tunga’. Why anything in Bombay, a city where space is receding like most hairlines, has so many buildings named after vastness (Eternia, Olympia, Coliseum, Large Horizon, Wild/ Big/ Green Acres, Tunga, etc.) is beyond me. But I saw a shimmer of frosted pink fairy lights, so I decided to peep in. The hotel has a few restaurants, a small gym for the people staying at the hotel, and a Kerala Ayurvedic spa (why are all spas so immersed in ‘Kerala Ayurveda’? Is there any other kind of Ayurveda? What

I saw two babies at the food court this Friday. Each of them was being carried by an adult. From the non-grimacing way these grown-ups wiped baby drool and runny noses, I guessed they were parents. Both babies increased their enthusiastic squirming near a Gelato cart. I suppose they really liked what they saw - a guy wearing a fetching pin-striped hat, grinning and scooping up luscious blobs of coldness and placing them in cosy, biscuit-cones. Now, they wanted a part of the action. One of them was making little leaping actions to grab the hat, while the other made goo-goo sounds at gelato containers. The parents glowed and beamed at how cute their munchkins were getting. Then they started moving away and what followed was volte face extraordinaire. The babies started screaming – a robust, extended bellow. Both of them. No googoo or cuddly leaping actions. Deep guttural cries because parents moved away from a gelato cart. As I had watched the whole thing, I honestly hadn’t anticipated

Sometimes the absurdity Of a man peeling an orange perfectly and wedging a lump of pink-red salt In the groove between the fleshy quarters Brings to mind the hollow soulless drain Of traveling in a crowded train Close to a midnight that seems to have the witchery scrubbed off So the stars are pallid And the moon is an orb with dried up tears And people, listless and worn, look out their windows With mouths partially open No song in the rhythm of a pulsating train No wanting or hopin’ Just as well… Because I caught myself smiling At the deft hands peeling the orange And feeling quite nice But it wasn’t really a twinkle in the Universe It was business And it came at a price.

Last night, I reached Chembur station to find the Harbor line not working. Was stranded as I didn’t know where to get a bus from, autos didn’t want to get caught in the Navratri fiasco, etc. Finally, I called my father to pick me up from Diamond Garden, and after much ‘ Mashaal’ type walks up and down the road, I finally hopped into a rick to take me there. It was late and I couldn’t see the place where my father would be waiting for me. The rick guy, testy in traffic, snapped at me to ask whether I should go left or right. I yelled at him to please be polite. Positively yelled. Loudly, raspily, with curdled blood and dripping ire. His voice came down a few notches and he politely told me that he was merely asking me to make up my mind as the light was turning green and the cars behind me would get antsy. I calmed down and told him to take a left. Was appalled at my behavior, was amused by the situation – you can actually be a boor and make someone be polite. Reminded me of a T-shirt

‘A million little pieces’ is Frey’s memoir of the time he spent in a de-addiction centre. James is 23 when he is addicted to crack, liquor, and is wanted in three states. He started smoking and drinking since the age of 10 and had tried drugs since the age of 13. One day, after a virulent session of crack, Frey has some sort of an accident and gets injured badly. Then, he is flown in to Ohio by his parents. This is where they admit him in a rehab centre. Frey then recounts day after difficult day on his road to recovery. He explains the fury that envelops him when he is getting detoxed. The rage he feels when he is around his parents, especially, seems to be a running theme in his life. He writes about the total hopelessness and despair when he thinks about his life. There are paragraphs on the sordid tribulations that his body undergoes – constant, incessant retching where he vomits ‘blood, food, and chunks of his stomach’; an aversion, yet an obsession to fill a hole with anything –f

When I start a book, any book, it takes me to a different place. Whilst I am reading it, I literally disconnect from ‘this’ – whatever ‘this’ is – ‘this’ sum total of everything and everyone and ever after. When I am done reading a book, it stays with me always. Life goes on and so does time, and portions of the book swell its own formless limits until they become my idea. But before a page seeps into my mind, there is this little blizzard that happens in my brain. Portions of sentences and associated thoughts; fragments of words and associated sensibilities; bits of characters and associated resemblances. I think I should write about those. Because these little blizzards took me to a different place – and every time they did that, they brought me home. I’ll call this series of writings ‘First Impressions’ .

This is my 300th post. I thought that it is perhaps high time to allude, at least now, to something greater than myself and bigger than my mind. This beautiful piece is verse 80 of Lao Tze's Tao De Jing: Utopia Let your community be small, with only a few people; Keep tools in abundance, but do not depend upon them; Appreciate your life and be content with your home; Sail boats and ride horses, but don't go too far; Keep weapons and armour, but do not employ them; Let everyone read and write, Eat well and make beautiful things. Live peacefully and delight in your own society; Dwell within cock-crow of your neighbours, But maintain your independence from them. Here's the link to the complete Tao De Jing: http://www.chinapage.com/gnl.html