Chiffonesque

Today, I heard an ad on the radio about some fantastic products with dubious utility value. And they exclaimed, in an enthusiastic, gasp-y voice, that they had branches in: “Dubai, Nepal, India, and Mumbai.” Now, see, that’s why I can’t travel to Chennai next week. My passport’s expired. On the other hand, I could make a quick getaway to Andheri. I love radio.

A friend of mine (who is not very articulate in times of shock) was travelling by auto the other day. The place she caught the auto from is quite notorious for rigged meters. So, she got in and kept a keen eye on the meter. The rick started and for a few moments there was nothing. Then, in a matter of few seconds, the meter started ticking rapidly. 0, then 1, then 2. Surprised, she shouted at the rickshaw guy, “Bhaiyya, dekho…Ek ke baad do aaya!” Unfazed, the guy replied, “Woh to hamesha hi hota hai, madam.” Sigh! The world weariness of the poor suffering soul.

At lunch, a colleague mentioned that she was scared of visiting places like Masjid or Mahim after the riots. She doesn’t get good vibes from these places anymore. My friend can avoid these places because she lives and works in other ‘safer’ zones. But I wonder about the people living in Masjid or Mahim. They don’t have a choice. If they have to continue to study, live and work in the city, they must integrate into the other areas – the ones with seemingly ‘better’ vibes. The reserve in their hearts notwithstanding. Yes, some people here don’t have the luxury to feel uncomfortable about things.

I met up a couple of friends at Bandstand the other day. We planned to go for a walk and have road side coffee and bhelpuri later on. One of them is from Delhi, another one had flown in from the U.S. (I forget which city – but it snows a lot over there and they make papaya quiches), and the third one was from Bandra. As we walked by the sea, all of us in our cotton tees and skirts, one of them smiled and remarked, “Hey! Check out our winter-wear !” This started a discussion that could probably feature in a joke book some time. My pal from the U.S. remarked that it was snowing so heavily back home that they had to call a tow-truck to get their car out of the garage on to the road. The one from Delhi said that sometimes it gets so cold and foggy that you can’t even read time on your wrist-watch. My friend from Bandra, not to be outdone, said that Bombay gets so cold in winters that you can actually walk for three whole minutes without sweating. We ditched the coffee and had kulfi inste

When time passes by, smearing day after day with sameness, one does not expect surprises. One does not anticipate excitement or sudden surges of adrenaline. But, unbeknownst to an untrained eye, swirling morasses of forces work. They consecrate, they disintegrate, they move, they shove, they change things. Then one sundry Morning, you brace yourself to breathe in fumes, clogged and choked in traffic, at the beginning of an unfinished flyover. Instead, you are lifted right up a smooth, smooth road and you look around in awe, shock, and good-grief!-is-it-true?! kind of thrall. The flyover near the airport is complete – both ways! Some things beg for a salute and a standing ovation. And, of course, a really earnest, soul-felt ‘ Thank you! ’

The other day, I was at Oberoi mall with a friend. We had an hour to while away before our movie, so I thought we could window shop a little. My friend is a man. He is one of those guys that form the basis for all male stereotypes. He wouldn’t stop to ask for directions (even to the loo in the mall), he wouldn’t pay attention to anyone if he was preening in front of a reflective surface (even if they were telling him the way to the loo in the mall), and he did have a one-track mind (he was a hearty raconteur of some dubious stories of what had happened between him and some Scandinavian lady in Pune – in a loo in a mall, I might add. I wonder how they got there in the first place – it’s not like he’d ever know the way.) Anyway, considering I was with the embodiment of masculine cliché, window shopping was a little difficult to explain. “You want to buy something?” “No” “So?” “So what?” “If you don’t want to buy something, why do you want to get inside a shop?” “Just to see…” “See what?”

My horoscope for the day reads"...however, today should be a good day as you will not inflict pain on anyone." Well, I suppose if they put it that way... :-D

Strange - I didn’t catch myself noticing yellow in a mess of grey Strange - I didn’t find myself humming all the things I was going to say But, after such an eon, I did find myself smiling for no reason today

I am the aunt of a little niece and nephew now. The niece is littler as she’s only two days old. The nephew, on the other hand, is a little old horse, considering he’s been around for 7 months now, traveled all over India, and has currently become very adept at changing TV channels using the remote. He takes that after his mother - my cousin. This couch potato behavior is hereditary I think. (Kaera and Suveer are offsprings of two of my cousins.) My little niece’s name is Kaera. She’s named after an Irish goddess or fairy or something like that. It means ‘the dark one’ and she has been thus named because she has jet-black, poker straight hair and dark eyes. My nephew is named ‘Suveer’, which is quite far removed from Irish nomenclature. I haven’t yet seen my niece’s photograph, but I have met Suveer once and he is quite a heartbreaker. He is so, so , SO cute! No wonder my cousin decided to stay at home after the baby. Why would you not want to revel in such cuteness every single second

Last night, my cook had made an incredibly simple, yet tasty stew. It was light and buttery, and the vegetables had been done to perfection. I just loved the onions – which were so tender that they were actually melting in the mouth. The carrots and cauliflower flowerets were still crisp but the stew had seeped into them good and proper, so they were actually juicy. But the biggest surprise were the string beans. They were farm-fresh and had been snapped by hand for the stew. This, my cook tells me, is what makes all the difference – to not use metal while slicing up certain kinds of vegetables. The beans had a hint of sweetness. Through the light, lemon-grass and clove flavoured gravy, I could actually taste the light crunchiness of the beans. I ate the stew with steaming, hot rice. Then I died and stayed up on cloud nine until this morning.

I was waiting at a signal when a BEST bus swerved sharply and hit my car. Badly. Due to some unpleasant and frustrating circumstances, I couldn't note down the number of the bus. One frustrating circumstance is that I cannot press '0' on my mobile. What are the odds? I can't press the one digit that will allow me to make an emergency call to the police when I need it. Anyway, after I'd gotten my nerves to stop jangling, I reached office and called some mechanic who took a look and told me that I absolutely needed to send the car to the workshop. Which, of course, would cost. The next harrowing situation was going to the service centre and figuring out the insurance procedure. Alone. Now, I know this is irrational, but I was actually perturbed about tackling all this insurance business by myself. I regretfully thought of all the other women who do some type of token driving and have their husbands/ fathers/ brothers go along with them to do the tough talking. I was a

I close my eyes and I can see Mountain skies calling out to me Clouds that dance Like angel wings Brooks that warble and flowers that sing I see mountain slopes with gigantic trees And sparkling sun and chattering breeze This perfect day with perfect air One does not know – it comes from where And beyond the highest peak and exalted sky a bird sweeps and dives and soars so high Ripples in a blue-green pond Farms here, there, and then beyond the heart sees it all and starts hoping for this world with eyes unopened

I never had a sweet tooth. In fact, the only desserts I liked until a few years ago were Tiramisu, rum-soaked plum cakes, caramel custard and chilled lychees marinated in vodka. But since I quit drinking, I quit these desserts too. Of late, however, I realize I’m developing a bit of a sweet tooth for Indian sweets. Now, I’m not sure about this, but I think Indian sweets are more fatty and unhealthy than other kinds of desserts – what with all the deep frying and syrups and stuff. In fact, even against my better judgment, I have started liking chocolate. (I don’t like chocolate too much. Or cheese for that matter. I find them both too obnoxious – like bullies in the food group. They just get in and take over every other flavour in the assortment. Which is why, I can never understand why people claim they want to go for ‘fruit-based desserts’ and order chocolate and fruit fondues instead.) But my lineage involves several dessert-inhaling diabetics, and I think it’s catching up with me no

McLeod’s Ganj, Main Chowk Cy and H are in the hotel room, snuggling under a rug in front of the telly. J and I are walking around the market place, taking in sights and smells of a fading day. The sky fogs up with the varnish of winter and slowly, the stars come out. At first, there’s a smattering of them, then a few thousand more, and finally, constellations lay crushed and strewn across this deep, dark canvas. If you took the heel of a stiletto, dipped it in molten silver and beat it all over a lush, black pashmina shawl – that would be the sky we walked under that night. A friendly man with ruddy cheeks walks towards me and hands me a pamphlet. He smiles, tells me, “ Aap apne friends ko bhi layiyega ”, and walks on. My friend is admiring some fur-trimmed booties somewhere. I walk up to J and show her the pamphlet. I: There’s a party here, at Mc.LLo. We’ll go? J: Of course not! We’ll have a nice cosy time amongst ourselves. I: But I want to go! There will lots of people, and lots