Had me at hello

On the first page of a book: To Lori - my search was over the day I met you.

The book: ‘The Google Story’ by David Vise.

Emphasis supplied, by the way.

The search for...meaning?

It's played with much anguish
This twisted, seething game
Where you search and find and hold in your hands
To lose it all again

The 'it',usually, in poetic minds,
could be love, life, or time;
But in truth, it's just the house key
And nothing too sublime

Some call it fever

Since last week, I seem to be coming down with something. Like, maybe I had stepped into this bath tub of slow fever and was getting submerged bit by bit. I think if I had just heeded the steady pounding in my head, I would have slept it off and been fine.

But that would have been a smart thing to do. And one has generally displayed proclivities to do stupid things, so one didn’t sleep it off. What one did, in fact, is exerted oneself some more.

I believe there was a dinner with Anumita, SS, and J in Malad. We went to the Lemon Grass there which is okay, I guess. I don’t remember what I had; and I, strangely, don’t remember much of the dinner conversation. I remember giggling over something trite with SS, and wondering why bedsheets aren’t made of flannel…but most of the time, I was just drifting in and out of some grand swishy feeling. I think there was some talk of Bandra colliding with an auto… (I’ve apologized to her numerous times thereafter and also shed copious tears and promised to not have ice-cream until she forgives me, etc. etc. A tad easy to do since I don’t like ice-creams. And then last night I scraped her on the side. I keep promising that I’ll sort it all out soon. But man, it hurt! More importantly…she hurt! Somewhere, Bandra has become an extension of myself, and I think I’m obsessing over her a little too much. But I feel bad. I feel bad that it suffers because of my inexperience. I’m sure on it’s own it would do fine, but in my hands, it gets bruised. And yet, it’s always ready the next time I sit in it. It’s sweet and willing and raring to go. It’s such a kind car, my Bandra. It’s such a gentle blue. And I’m sure it’s strong too. And like all sweet, gentle, strong people, Bandra too will have to bear the brunt of the inept. Sometimes, I feel as if I’m seeing my traits in my daughter and know that these traits will probably cause her heartache some day – the way they did for me. But I guess it’s a matter of time before we find our perfect rhythm and get past all this. The idea is to never look back, right? Or stay stuck. Okay, then.)

On with my fever story.

So after dinner, Anumita and I went to High Lounge in Sahara Star. It’s such a funny place! I’m sure there must’ve been a panel of architects doing up that place and all…but it seemed like a doll-house to me. An eco-tel for Barbie, if you please. (That would be a paradox, considering she’s plastic.) The lounge itself was quite nice and Anumita and I chatted for a long time and munched on some soggy salted nuts. I remember feeling good then; feeling a warm sweet sleep come over me. I could have stayed there for hours.

The next morning is when the interesting stuff started to happen.

I had to drive back to Vashi from Goregaon. It was a Sunday morning and the road, for the most part, was deliciously empty. It was breezy and pleasant, and there was good music on the radio, and my cousin was waiting for me at home, and my mum had made soya pulao and lauki kofta. Life was definitely a trail of treats.

But steadily, I started feeling dizzier. My mouth turned dry and I started tearing up and I felt my body get hot. And suddenly, I was awashed with this exquisite, dizzy sleepiness and body ache. It was getting a little difficult to drive then. The road seemed to do a slow waltz and the flyovers just seemed to lead to a nice warm comfortable cloud in the sky.

So I pulled over, shut off the engine, put my head on the wheel and slept.

There, in the quiet Sunday hum of the city, I had a fabulous, surreal dream.

I saw huge, maybe 10 or 12 feet high, pink birds. They weren’t the cartoon variety. I actually got a sense of the texture of their feathers and big wings and soft tummies. They lived in a colony of some sort, and I think one of them had taken me with them. We were walking on a narrow road and we reached a row of tenements – not unlike Hugh Grant’s place in Notting Hill. The bird that was walking with me went up to one house and unlocked the door. I was waiting behind, a little unsure of whether I needed to enter or not. The bird then turned back and beckoned me.

After that, I think I woke up or I forgot what else happened with the birds. But I remember feeling very cozy. As if I had been incubated for the half hour that I was asleep.

I felt really refreshed and then I zipped across yet another flyover to reach home quickly. You might even say…I’d got wings.

Very droll

A colleague's male friend sent her this text: This week is Breast Awareness week....Spread the slogan: "We stare because we care!"

********

I wonder what Hallmark has to say to that.

wOOZY WOw!

There’s something wrong with my head. Something’s always been wrong. As a kid, I used to have blackouts and stuff and my father had taken me to Hinduja Hospital for a brain scan. After the scan, the doctor peered into some ghoulish looking images of my brain. He then told my father, “Don’t worry Mr. Raut, there’s absolutely nothing there.”

Today, I feel so woozy and light. I feel as if I’m walking on air. And if I disregard the fever and the headache, I’m quite happy. I am zipping through Aarey and I sort of see orange tips on the large stalks of glass and some sort of purple congealed puddles in the middle of fields. Sometimes, when my head spins a little bit more, the world around acquires an iridescent sheen. So beautiful.

I want to go home, have soup, and sleep.

I want to go home and have soup.

I want to go home.

And sleep.

Tag

I am: dreaming a messy, beautiful heap of dreams.

I think: about how relative life is. Some days go by so quickly; some days they stay so long; most times, they crumble and fit into, the last verses of a song.

I know: that everything changes; that nothing is stronger than the pull of unfinished business

I want: a world with beautiful beaches, forests, and walkways; a place that is safe enough for a mother to take her children out late at night and sit on a pavement watching stars.

I have: had a very solid, beautiful life thus far, and a strong possibility that the story's going to continue this way

I wish: that everyone lives and dies happy. Also, that smoking is banned from the world. AND..I travel more

I hate: I’m trying not to hate anything anymore. But I seriously dislike cynicism, pessimism, dishonesty, pettiness, and a judgmental attitude. And smoking.

I miss: my days of pure innocence and the Bombay of my childhood.

I fear: Fear. Or that I’ll get cancer because of second hand smoke.

I feel: slothful and weak, and very proud of myself.

I hear: the phone ring.

I smell: sexy, I think. I’d get drawn to me.

I crave: a nice warm bed and a soothing massage, especially on my back.

I search: for my story; and for a sound way to get people to stop smoking.

I wonder: how incredible this world is! For every thought, there’s a sponsor. Also the limitless ways in which people can be self-destructive. (Ring a bell? SMOKERS?)

I regret: nothing

I love: poetry, babies, Bombay, mom, dad, books, sea, rain, water, fire, drizzle on a mountain top, view of the mountains, having a fizzy drink on the deck of a ship, rustling of silk, great clothes, a flat stomach, toned body, beautiful faces, the capacity of any living being to unlearn, forgive and move on, sharp stationery, Saturday Nights, Friday afternoons, the feeling of a job well done, bright prospects, festivals, movies, drives on an open road, giving rides to strangers, yellow flowers, ginger tea, good coffee, determination, discipline

I ache: hence, the craving for the back rub

I care: therefore I am

I am not: as weak or stupid as I’m made out to be; also not as inept a cook as I think I am

I believe: there’s more good than bad in the world; there are no coincidences; in karma; that everything’s born from something positive

I dance: fabulously when I don’t have an audience or a partner

I sing: lullabies pretty well

I cry: usually at sunset or at night, when I remember……

I don’t always: like the people I hang around with; forget a slight

I fight: only when I’m pushed to the corner; not always fair

I write: when an idea takes over and compels me

I win: in ways that are beyond my comprehension

I lose: hasn’t happened yet …yeah…that’s true. :-)

I never: walk out of a movie; divulge secrets;

I always: try to get people to be more optimistic. I’m pretty unbearable that way. Read the prologue of a book, try to create a picture of what I’m reading; watch every movie until the very end – until the credits roll

I confuse: the good stuff with the important stuff

I listen: to the hum of self-absorption mostly

I can usually be found: with a cup of chai, in a supine position, thinking about the sea and the rain, or walking, or reading or writing

I am scared: of the notion that someday fear will immobilize me regarding something

I need: nothing. Everything that’s right for me, comes my way.

I am happy about: pretty much everything, but mostly about the future

I imagine: that I must have been a mermaid some time; that in the future I’m really rich and powerful with a fantastic apartment on the 150th floor of a building; and a yacht where my daughter learns sailing; that I have written a story that changes people; that I have my own personal rain god

Momentous Things

Momentous things will happen
Those grey clouds seemed to say
Between chunks of imbued lightning
And timbres of sombre grey

Momentous things will happen
Across the wet, green land
Momentous things will happen
With a book in my two hands

p.s. – Started reading this book at Anumita’s place: love and longing in Bombay. Just started…but oh! what a book! If there’s a book to be read in this wet, wet season, it is definitely this. Interestingly, the author’s (Vikram Chandra) earlier work was titled ‘Red Earth and Pouring Rain’. He seems to be some sort of a eulogist for the gifts of the clouds.

Here, now, mine

Today, I finally understand why some people refer to it as 'my baby'.

It looks so young and shiny and bright. It looks eager to move around and sometimes, when it thinks no-ones looking, I can see it blink with anticipation to seek the beyond. It purrs and zips about here and there, so keen to explore every inch of this place, this city, this world.

It's enthusiastic and rambunctious and can't contain itself, even on a bustling road or an area choc-o-bloc with cars and cows. It can't help itself. It's young.

In time there will be love. Right now, there is satisfaction and an incredible, incredible fondness. Since the time I got it, my heart changed into this trembling, fluttering vortex. There is this overwhelming sense of being capable of handling it...or even worthy of handling it. I got it a week ago, all gleaming in this shade of blue that that you see over pastures in spring. It's with me at work now.

My Ozone blue Swift zxi, who I shall call Bandra - because one must continue the legacy of young happiness....of having seen pastures with blue spring skies.

Bandra - my baby.