Chiffonesque

It's been over a year since I started working here. As I straightened up in my chair this afternoon, I took a look around me. This place used to be new and unfamiliar earlier. And now...now, it's full of people I've whacked pens from. I'll just save the retrospection for some other time.

I’ll go to sleep on the second of April, all excited and thrilled for my birthday the next day. At night, the Universe will work at bringing me my well-deserved gift. And the next morning, I will wake up to perfect sunshine and perfect skies with this wrapped and parceled next to me! http://www.benetton.com/portal/web/guest/ss09/kids/toddler#gallery_top Such joy!

In one of the recent editions of Tehelka, I read Tarun Tejpal’s editorial. He writes about how ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ has not depicted reality at all – that many of the poor in this country can never hope to get out of poverty by getting fantastic opportunities such as Jamaal. How the hope the movie peddles is fragile, how Danny Boyle has made an entertaining film and not a great film, etc. etc. (I am only paraphrasing here. The editorial is quite comprehensive and well-written, though.) I don’t really understand what nerves Slumdog Millionaire has jangled. Earlier, I was annoyed. Now, I don’t understand . How can hope be realistic? Why must it be? Hope, by its very nature, must transcend the reality that you see. Otherwise, why or how is it hope? I am 100 kgs now. I hope to be 45 kgs in the next 3 months. I think I can get there. I am hopeful. Is it realistic? No, it’s not. But reality is what I’m sunk in. This is the reality I want to get out of. That’s why I hope. And what contract

Because summer comes to an open heart... i thank you God for this most amazing day; for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes -- e.e. cummings

9:30 A.M. Smooth traffic on the Vashi flyover. No-one’s stuck, no-one’s stressed…it’s all good. Then one hits Mankhurd. Inexplicably, there’s a snarl. But since no one else is honking, I wonder if I’m the only one who’s clueless about its origin. Turns out I am. Ahead, there is some sort of a naaka-bandhi happening, so the road has narrowed on account of police barricades. Suddenly, four lanes will need to converge into one lane. I am supremely irritated. This is just annoying. As I pass, I turn down my window and tell the cop that this kind of shindig is just inconvenient. Four lanes of unsuspecting vehicles are expected to merge into one line…that too, heavy vehicles and all. It’s dangerous! They should do something to warn vehicles about what lies ahead. “ Aapko sign lagana chahiye ”, I suggest. The cop grinds something in his palms when he says, “ Haan madam, smuggler log ko phone kar ke bhi bata dena chahiye…aage checking hone waala hai.” I mean…what the…sputter! sputter! :-D

Yes, yes...the IPL should happen in India. It's India, after all. We'll just shift the elections to Sharjah or something.

There’s a poem, ‘Still I rise’ by Maya Angelou. I first read it in college, around the same time I read ‘Roots’ by Alex Haley. I read it the second time, when I was in my second job. Thereafter, I saw an interview of hers on Oprah, where she recited it. Every time, I come across this poem, I feel a sense of…I don’t know, a sense of pride and happiness, hope and conquest…a sense of self, I suppose. On the way today, I stopped for a moment to watch the Metro work. Felt proud and happy, hopeful and victorious. I think this poem suits Mumbai so well. Maybe Mumbai, at some levels, is very similar to a woman – wounded but unbowed. Still I Rise You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springin

http://news.in.msn.com/national/article.aspx?cp-documentid=2100490

An earnest film. A wanton viewer. A silver screen. An uninterested patron. A beckoning. A dismissal. An ‘I love you.’ An ‘I love youtube!’. (Wonder if youtube is a play on the words ‘you too’. Pretty cool, I thought.)

In Mocha – Powai, I once had a bowl of apple soup. It was warm, hearty, and generously spiked with cinnamon. I think I will go there after work today, even if it is late…(at the very least, by midnight) and have that soup. Then I will call for a cool cab and go home. There are ways in which a girl can feel like a princess, even without pearls and castles.

It has been a very, very rough week. I’d gone to Bhubaneshwar for a couple of days. For someone’s bereavement. It was odd. It was unreal. And the time I spent sitting inside a hut consoling the person’s widow or telling his kids that they mustn’t worry…I felt, I don’t know, arrogant. I felt that every surviving person in that room was arrogant. For assuming that life will go on, that death is inevitable, and that you couldn’t cry over what you couldn’t change. And yet, I think, that arrogance is necessary. It’s what picks you up from this gutter of despair and thrusts you into a horrible unknown. But you deal with it because, it’s inevitable, right? We all know that. We who haven’t died yet. Work has been crazy. And travel has been crazy. And the toothache keeping me up at nights and hurting me when I breathe or swallow or live has been crazy. Just feels like a little bit of me gets eroded each moment. I wonder when that erosion will stop. Not that I want it to, really. I am curious t

It was close to midnight. It had been a rather good but long day at work. And it was a day before Holi – a mid-week holiday to do a few things at my own pace: sip tea, eat breakfast, read and savour a few pages of the 3-4 books I routinely dip into. I was mentally planning all this, when I decided to unwind. Thought I’d take a longer route home to savour the solitude of a road. I decided to drive through Powai, instead of Asalpha. As I turned towards Powai lake, a beautiful piece of music started playing on the radio. An instrumental piece. Piano. I slowed the car a bit to enjoy the drive. The roads, at that hour, were reasonably empty. The lake was placid and dark. And the buildings in Hiranandani stood like quiet towers – like palaces of a fairyland that’s gone to sleep. Suddenly, there were a few drops of rain on my windshield, a strong rustle of wind, and flashes of lightning. Intermittently, the lake on one side and the buildings on the other shone blue and silver. The roads and h

Being leched at is never a good feeling; being leched at by office people is even worse; but worst of all, I think, is when you are being stared at in the office lift – and you can’t be sure if the person works in your office or not. I mean, usually, one could just shout or slap (although that is a bit extreme), but the prospect of running into the fellow in the canteen or in a project meeting does seem a bit daunting. In a lift, usually, there are people from different offices…and maybe it is weird, but one does think that your own colleagues will not misbehave with you. Of course, this notion does not always hold good, but if one could just be more certain, I think one could do something. Or else, everything else be damned – the next time, anyone stares, I think it’s a good idea to just shout at the guy. If he has any shame, he will learn his lesson. If he doesn’t, well…maybe lifts should come with trapdoors for specimens such as these.

This film is really, really good! I loved it! Sonu Sood is fabulous! His resemblance to Amitabh Bachchan made the theme of ‘Twilight Zone’ go off in my head. My God, who would’ve thought! The guy is really pleasing to watch. (I do think he’s going to be my soft, fuzzy crush for a bit now). Kunal Khemu is so easy… you have such a good time laughing at his antics that you need to stop to realize the guy is doing a great job. I like him, from 'Kalyug' days. I think he’s a good actor. Paresh Rawal is…well, he just is…and that’s enough. Johny Lever – him I found funny after, I think, 10 years or so. And Soha Ali Khan – gosh! She is just so pretty! There should be a glass doll made like her and kept in a crystal museum! I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I think the lady has this quiet grace and dignity that comes with faultless lineage. And she brings exactly that to her performances. There’s nothing loud about the way she speaks or dances. She’s just…so pretty! The end – an In

I left home late today. Thought I’d have open roads, since it’s Eid and most people would be either celebrating the festival or else, have an off. For most part, it was great. Good music in the car, an encouraging fuel gauge, smooth roads…until I reached Kailash Complex near Powai. I was stuck in traffic, wedged between a truck and a wheezing Sumo, with an obese tourist-type bus breathing down my car, trying to prevent sneaky overtakings by an auto, and also trying not to run down an imbecile pedestrian trying to cross the road. When one is in such an unenviable position, one tends to think. I thought about why it's better, easier, and safer driving in Delhi. And why driving in Bombay is so arduous. Here’s my theory. It’s not because of the roads. Contrary to what people believe, I do not think that Mumbai roads are inadequate. In fact, the Kailash Complex route that winds up the hill is actually a pretty wide 4 lane road. The Asalpha road has widened considerably. The Marol-Saki N

One day, you find a treasure – say it’s a pretty piece of violet, satin thread. You put it away in your thread box. There it lies with all your other threads and ribbons and stuff like that. Every time you look at it, you stop for a minute to think just how precious it is. But you probably never take it out of there. You know that it’s rare and coveted, and more importantly, it’s yours. You just keep it in the box, day after day, week after week, months, years, decades. Practically a lifetime later, you look into the box and see that the thread has snapped. When you pull it out, along with it comes a huge tangle of your other yarn and ribbons and lace trimmings. Over time, the velvet thread just got weaved in, meshed with and got blended into so many, many other things. And although the thread itself had snapped, you couldn’t really disentangle it from the other stuff. Its color had rubbed off on other swabs of cotton and pieces of cloth. The stuff that, over time, had lost all their c

Q. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? No. But interestingly, my name was thought of by both my parents at different times and they hadn’t shared this with each other. My mom wanted to keep my name ‘Mukta’ because it meant pearl. My father wanted to keep my name ‘Mukta’ because it meant freedom. Q. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED? Yesterday, when I was listening to this instrumental piece called ‘Latika’s Theme’ from Slumdog millionaire. It’s just something else. Q. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? Nope Q. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT? Used to be pepper or honey seasoned salami. Now, there’s no meat. There’s only ‘me’. He he! I don’t even know what that line meant. Q. DO YOU HAVE KIDS? Yes. Two daughters. One is studying sewing in Belgium and the other one washes planes in the Congo. Q. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON, WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? Yes. Q. DO YOU USE SARCASM? A little too much for my own good. Q. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? Yes. Q. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP? I have…oh no, that

I watched Juno last night and I was somehow troubled by it. A 16 year old girl (Juno) gets pregnant and she is almost blasé about it. In fact, she looks as disturbed or confused about the experience as if she had misplaced an important math project. Her parents, although resourceful and supportive, seem to reconcile to the notion pretty easily. Juno decides to have the baby and give it up for adoption – there are two kinds of adoption, we learn: open and closed. Open adoption is a system where the adopting family sends photos and updates of the baby to the birth mother. A closed adoption is where the mother hands over the baby to the adopting family that is the child and that’s the end of the matter. “Quick and dirty”, as Juno puts it. And much of Juno’s journey into pregnancy is nuanced with similar “let’s get it over with” sentiment. For a teenager who seemingly got pregnant the first time she did it, she is so composed. But perhaps there is some reassurance there – that giving birth

this is what I am thinking about... A thick, juicy mutton burger. One of those really fat slabs of tender mutton patty, deep-fried to a perfect, golden crisp – coated with a crumbly, tasty, slightly spicy batter. Filets of fish fried in a batter of besan, chilli powder, and just a little bit of curd. Juicy, barbecued prawns – glistening with liberal clumps of masala. The slightly charred, smoky soft, delicately flavoured whole pomfrets. A large baked dish of creamed rice with strips of bacon and pepperoni and cubes of beef and mutton. Fried sausages slathered with sour cream and poached eggs. A long, herbed and perfectly marinated raan – with meat that is so tender that you can scoop it up with a spoon. A platter of soft, white reshmi kababs. Spicy, pungent mutton curry with potatoes that have soaked in every trace of flavour of the gravy. Mutton biryani, with lots and lots of nalli pieces. An open Spanish omelette with layers of potatoes, mince, bacon, shrimp, smoked salami. Kheeme, s

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/04/dining/04vege.html?_r=1&ref=dining and also this: http://thisiswhyyourefat.com/

Nowadays, I am feeling exhausted all the time. I can’t sleep at night – I keep getting all these horrible dreams, keep waking up in a sweat, and now my tooth has started hurting really badly. Some unwanted change is afoot, I think. In the mornings, I feel feverish and my lips are dry and eyes feel scratchy. I haven’t been able to muster up the energy to go jogging or even drive to work. I just order a cool cab (I love the Meru cab service, by the way) and get to office. It’s good but it’s so expensive. I wonder how long I will be able to sustain this. One thing that can actually throw life completely asunder is lack of sleep. I wish I could calm down. I wonder what I’m so tensed about. In fact, sometimes, all I am doing in the middle of the night is switching on and turning off my laptop. Then I yawn and my eyes shut and all these dreams begin. I see horrible tortured faces distorted in silent screams. And they have bony, outstretched arms, and I can sense someone throwing me on a rail

I had a really beautiful Monday. The latter half, especially, just opened up like a box of treats. It started off with an interesting twist, though. A client call got scheduled two hours earlier. This meant that I could leave office on time. I’ve been feeling a little under the weather lately, so this was a window I was looking for. Just wanted to get home and curl into bed and sleep, after chatting with a friend. But the forty minute bus ride to the station seemed to fortify me considerably. Once I reached Vashi, I thought I’d pop into Inorbit mall to check out what’s new. There’s a flat 50% sale happening at Esprit – a sale that will gladden the most cynical heart. One can actually pick up a flat-front pair of denims for under 2,500 bucks. Which is, well, strong enough indication that someone up there is listening. And lest that not be proof enough, one can step into this shop, ‘Lush’. They have such superb smelling clumps of handmade soap, all selling for a 30% discount until the th

This was a random group of people I had known at some point in life. I happened to run into them at a mall. Three of them sat with me on one of those benches that dot long marble aisles in Inorbit. One of them went into a shop to ask about the price of a shirt. Now, this girl who went into the shop used to be quite heavy a few months ago. She had, since, joined some Kaya weight-loss program and had become all trim and svelte. In fact, even more commendable was that she had kept the weight off all these months. Now, one person in the remaining group (all girls, all plump) remarked how ditzy she had become. How she was so into her looks, and how she couldn’t carry on an intelligent conversation, etc. etc. Another one piped up to state how much she wanted to land a man, and how she just kept starving herself. This made me quite angry. I looked pointedly at their love-handles and remarked that if all the smartness in the world couldn't stop one from stuffing her face, then really what

Last week, due to certain reasons I had to call the emergency number '100'. First time round, no-one picked up the phone. Second time, there was some kind of an automated message that rattled off something in Marathi. I couldn't understand it. After that, I tried the '103' number that is supposed to be a helpline dedicated to women. It didn't work. After this call, my phone went dead and I handled the situation satisfactorily on own. This Friday, I mentioned this to some of my colleagues. A couple of them laughed it off and joked around as to why I was calling up emergency numbers. For a brief moment, I remembered the dark alley in which I had tried making the calls. It was a very different world from this bright pantry where these colleagues were laughing. I told them I had a problem. They didn't ask me what it was. They, confidently, rattled off suggestions about whose numbers I should take, etc. But I found the whole thing pathetically callous.