Chiffonesque

One of the more fortifying aspects of writing is understanding how writers write. This man is so brilliant! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bnf_XNYrFls&feature=related If you are watching it, do, DO see it until the end. Later on in the interview, Salman Rushdie talks of how he wrote 'Haroun and the Sea of Stories' for his ten year old son. When he gave it to his son to read and asked him for feedback, his son replied, "Some people might get bored. It doesn't have enough jump in it." Rushdie regards this as one of the finest editorial comments he's received. He is just...in so many, many ways...just...you know...immense!

http://www.amazon.com/Salman-Rushdie-Essential-Midnights-Children/dp/0099437643/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1243324289&sr=1-5 Now, THAT is money well spent!

An 'ode' to everyone who spends one life getting out of a situation, spends the next one repenting it, and the third one consoling themselves that it was all for the best. I hear them talk On and on About how its all for the best How they’re better off Without the grime How they’re better off than the rest I hear them talk On and on About how much happier they are How miserable they were in proximity And how much better it is afar It would be easier to believe If I didn’t see the longing in their eyes If I didn’t notice their hopeful stares On things they so loudly despise How they say ‘I’m meant for better things’ And yet wait to be called back How they say ‘It feels complete now’ Yet live with a sense of lack I hear them trying to convince themselves That its fabulous to be away I see them break when the realization hits They’re not really being asked to stay I sense the keen longing Of a validation that doesn’t come I listen to the distraught judgment That now, it’s all muck

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qf2eWKH-F4Y&feature=related Sometimes it gladdens ones heart to know that one just shares the planet with the likes of him... :-D (Oh, and I love it that sometimes they refer to him simply as...the Bombay boy!)

One of these days, the skies will be overcast and I will have nowhere to go and nothing to do. No-one will call, no-one will visit. There will be no plans, there will be no schedules. Nothing to keep up with, no-one to keep up for. One of these days, clouds pregnant with such peace will shower down this earth. This swatch of hard, dried, caked earth that I see from my pink room. There will be the rain and there will be me, lying on my bed looking up at the ceiling. I will think nothing, I will feel little. My eyes will close and I will drift off. To an inexperienced eye, I will be asleep. To one who knows , I will be watching.

I am so angry I could explode! Today is literally the very worst day to control my temper. I mean, if there is a God, He's pretty stupid. A dumb-ass, shit-faced hole in the gaping ozone, all fatted up in his own blooming self-importance. Idiot! See, the best way to get back at a lazy, half-brained twit of supreme consciousness is not to disbelieve it, but to believe in its abundant, perfect capacity to dish out moronic platitudes to unsuspecting people. Anyway, I have been fuming so much since the last one hour that, unknowingly, I was digging my nails deep into my palm. And guess what? Now it's started bleeding (well, not bleeding exactly, but a little blood has been spotted.) Although I must say that the angry, little crescent moon wound does look pretty. Like something one would probably spot when one is sailing away on a yacht under a serene, black sky. And suddenly out of nowhere, you come to this spot in the ocean where you can see copper junipers on both sides. And ha

May. Seven-thirty in the evening. The sky is an angry indigo. Two people walking together look up, surprised. Trying to remember. They, silently, connect the dots and discuss how similar the sky now is to the one that morning. Makes one wonder if time actually mirrors itself. Or maybe the sky repeats itself. Like the history it has watched unfold. Deep, visceral digging is on for the Metro Rails. Lots of men work fervently in yellow light. Light, that if soaked into some form of handmade paper, would make it look like parchment. Tall rods poking up, straight and narrow. Like spines of upright people who eroded into memory. A breeze lightly stirs up the faint origins of impromptu poetry. Through that breeze, one hears the rustle of trees. Muted specimens that stand in silent attendance to the din and roar of traffic. City lights shine on high glass windows of office buildings. The unlikely serendipity of finding a cheery deli to get cappuccinos and blueberry muffins from. Finally, a sen

Yet another late, late night in office. Was reading a few articles on the excellent www.style.com . And suddenly, this thought popped up. 'Make over' means to transform yourself. 'Make out' means to get intimate with someone. So, if one transforms oneself with the sole aim of getting intimate with someone, it should be called 'make over-n-out'. I amuse myself so!

If you are gonna be mediocre, you may as well be polite! ****** Yes, I am getting pissed off at two individuals now. But on a happier note, I am just snowed under the realization that I'm so witty! And pithy! And can make a lot of money thinking up of slogans or ideating for presentations. (Not doing them, just conceptualizing presentations. High, lofty, brilliant ideating is what I want to do.) In any case, a couple of colleagues are from out of town. They were complaining about Mumbai stuff - food, traffic, people (big surprise!). They come from a city with gardens and similar blotches on urban development, apparently. You know, where people have balconies and empty lots where nothing is coming up, nothing is going to come up, nothing is going to be illegally taken over...what a waste, but whatever. One of them goes, "... and you know, wherever you go, you get that sickening feeling of sweat...It's not like that in my place." And I say, "A city that works is a

Last week, again, was a tough week. It didn’t seem as daunting as the previous week, though, because a gruelling schedule has practically become habit. Amongst the many things that got me through last week, was actually a trip to HyperCity. In addition to the regular groceries, I bought a very fetching jar of chopped black olives and some flavoured goat cheese. Both were pricey (Waitrose products). But they beckoned with such simple, pastroral charm that I couldn’t resist. Over the last week, whenever I returned home around midnight or after, it was good to have a hunk of warm, mealy bread smothered with goat cheese and layered with lots and lots of chopped olives. Sometimes, when I have dinner in the quiet of the night, with only my fan and laptop for company, I often wonder what it’s all about. Sinking my teeth into that slice of consummate fulfilment, I get my answer.

Somewhere in the distance, where time and infinite time…and space and void-like space meet, there is a prize. Maybe, there’s a golden bird, or a beautiful musical note that trembles like mercury on the tip of one’s finger. There is a bush that maybe blooms with children’s laughter or a lake that’s dense with the colour of hibiscus. Maybe there, poetry lives in a tree-house architected by imagination. Somewhere in the distance, in a place I don’t know, there is a prize that today’s moments covet. That’s why they are rushing there like the wind. Leaving me behind. To be blown and scattered standing. Someday, they will return. Because these fragmented pieces will be the spot…the one where time and infinite time…and space and void-like space meet.

Mid-april, duties and obligations crystallized from some inchoate, nebulous cloud to form little specks of tasks with deadlines. Each day, hour, minute in the last weeks of April was filled with neatly divided rows of such tasks. And suddenly, all these activities and all this time was gone. Poof! Just like that, the month was over. It's as if my time in the last few weeks was these neat rows of cocaine, and suddenly someone just snorted it. Time, it seems, isn't just whizzing by, it's spinning in a different kind of high! It's been extremely enjoyable, though...