Chiffonesque

I had a pretty sad but enlightening weekend. Sad because I had mistaken several things and several people for what they actually weren’t. Enlightened because I finally saw the truth. I was at Shirdi this weekend. I find it very crowded and all that, but I love sitting at the Dwarkamai when I’m there. It’s very soothing. People inside that quadrangle are much calmer than those who compete for a longer glimpse of Sai baba inside the temple; who push aside older ladies and snarl at children wriggling through queues to locate their mothers. If one could gauge or measure such things, the space inside the Dwarkamai is on some other frequency altogether. I was sitting quietly in one corner when a man came and gave me some prasaad. It was a ladoo. I remember thinking that the yellow of the ladoo would look very nice on a lotus. I like the Sai baba statue in Shirdi. The marble is a beautiful moon-shine white. In fact, it has a bluish-vein tint to it if you look at it from certain angles. But t

I feel a little sad today. No particular reason except that there’s going to be heavy traveling for the next two days, and possibly a few talks with brokers. Homes are so expensive nowadays. I can find nothing on rent for my budget – nothing to which I could return and savor a beautiful night-sky. I haven’t listened to good instrumental music for so long. I should probably invest in an Ipod or something. Or better still, learn to play a musical instrument. (Just now, as I was typing ‘musical’, I was thinking ‘magical’. Words and thoughts are such funny things – even when they go in different directions, they take you to the same place.) But that’s probably because I’m just testing waters now. I haven’t really committed to looking out for a new place. Probably next year…but if things go according to plan, I should be in Juhu next year, in a beautiful flat by the sea. It’s a lovely flat. It has a really pretty window-sill that’s full of milky-white and poison-blue flowers. Shamir, the pe

I was out for lunch this afternoon – to a little hole in the wall called ‘Spirit’. Met up with friends, one of who had got me to this place before. We had to crouch up one flight of scary, narrow stairs to enter a reddish hued alcove (and I use the term loosely here) that was begging to get raided. (On account of suspicious red-hue and nothing else.) On one wall stretched an advert-type image of cyclists and a person poised to take a dive. It proclaimed that “..your inner rage is called ‘Spirit’. If you must make changes, reach in there and harness the rage.” Or something equally somber to twitter at. Food was unremarkable and conversation was light. What struck me was how difficult it is for people who’ve known me to accept that I’m a vegetarian still. I can’t explain it either. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to stay this way – but I’m going to see. As of right now, I am not in any terrible stage of withdrawal. I remember the succulent smells and tastes of grilled crabs, praw

It has been such a tiring day today, but also really effective. You learn so much by simply being around intelligent people – people who sift the wheat from the chaff, who mentally have a list of priorities and align their time to this list; if something doesn’t help them accomplish something, they don’t worry about it. I like this attitude. When you know what the small stuff is, you don’t sweat it. This makes you composed and so much more pleasant to work with. You are not hassled, you do everything with a purpose, and you don’t come across like a pouch of scattered seeds. Efficient people are no-nonsense, but also human, I think. They will help you out because they want you up to speed in the best way and shortest time possible. My head is aching, although I just had a nice plate of very tasty sev upma with the sweet tamarind chutney that you get with samosas . I want to think of something soothing. What comes to mind is an evening in Bandra. I was nine years old, I think, and was p

Last evening, I spent a very surreal evening in Kala Ghoda. It was only 6 p.m. when I reached there, but there was a sort of European grey and blue tone in the sky, and in the tips of spires that seemed to reach it. The sky, that looked like an oxidized sheath of silk, seemed to be folded around old terraces. Portions of it were tangled in the sharp, witchy branches decorated with saffron lights and ribbons. The wind carried the breaths of a million cubes of dry ice. People huddled and walked slowly, like warmth snaking along a blanket. I was browsing through some stalls doing my favorite thing – pinching fabric with my thumb and forefinger. Cotton saris with shells woven in silver, printed silk stoles with moti sewn at the hems, tussar patches in magenta and yellow, and wide, rich brocade strips. One stall had very pretty handicrafts made of paper. There were some interesting pieces of paper jewellery. Most of them had layered flower designs in bright, lacquered colours encased in bla

Also annoying is how my pens keep disappearing from around me. I just got a really fine pen from the ‘stationery department’ – which is basically the receptionist when she’s not too busy to hand out pens and papers. Then I, so beguilingly, put it on my table and went for lunch (which was fruits and curd, by the way – trying to keep it healthy). When I came back, there’s no pen. I can’t even go and get another one now. Will have to wait until the incident of getting pen fades from receptionist’s memory. Or I could whack someone else’s pen, right? Nope. I want a new pen to call my own. (I wonder how many adorable sheep have thought the same way.) Sheep…pen…get it?(chuckles ‘sheepishly’; chuckles even louder now.)

This is plenty annoying – I finally find my copy of Rushdie’s ‘Shame’ (the book, that is, not emotion) and read through a couple of pages before I doze off; and the next morning I can’t find it. Why? Because my father suddenly decides to get curious about the book and takes it with him to office. And there it lies amidst thrilling oeuvres, such as Naval Architecture and Thermodynamics or Synthesis of Electrical Engineering and Quay Management. Over dinner, father says things like, “What’s so great about Rushdie?” Well…that’s like asking what’s wet about water. Rushdie and greatness go together. He has an expansiveness about life and literature that dwarf other writers who merely write. He creates a language that is not but also English. He can describe ‘khichri’ like it was the last gem of a relic palace. He can describe sapphire like a mouldy lump of stale khichri. He makes composition feel fluid, he makes writing feel anchored. He singes and he coalesces. He is, in a fragmented, part

I just realized that I do not understand the full import of the term 'passive aggressive.' I think blogging and traveling by autorickshaws feeds that somehow. I'll give myself two months to investigate the matter and report on it. My time starts next February, though. Or maybe not.

Last night, I reached home around midnight. There was a client call and I had supped on a bowl of dahi wada around 8:15 in the evening. The wadas were really tasty. Even the curd was nice and sweet and creamy, flavored with roasted jeera and chilly powder. But the wadas were so light that I was hungry within a half-hour. Anyway, I spent the better part of the conference call being as far away from the speaker phone as possible. Shouldn’t scare away clients with rumbling. Slim chances that they’ll think the rumble’s originating from the stomach. Maybe they’ll mistake it as a sign of impending mutiny. Never a good thing. Anyway, as soon as I reached home, I broke down on a plate of yummy besan curry, a bowl of steamed vegetables and some daal . Glutted like crazy. And I slept like a turtle on a cushion. This morning, I was just swathed with lethargy. So I decided to go easy on lunch. I took a plate of fruits, a demitasse of curd, and had a fistful of some corn rice. The rice was not