Chiffonesque

For some strange reason, I have an incessant need to write now. Oddly, there’s not much to say except for quick updates on some films I’ve seen recently. I went to see ‘Daddy Cool’. It was so, so funny! I had definitely not expected this movie to turn out this way. First of all, Inder Kumar or Indra Kumar, or whatever his name is, is associated with the movie. And although I have watched and grudgingly enjoyed ‘Beta’ and ‘Dil’, I always found his films to be a tad crass. (‘Ishq’ and ‘Mann’ being cases in point.) 'Daddy Cool', though, remains on the correct side of decent. Aftab, I have to say, is very, very good! But the guy to watch out for is Prem Chopra as a grouchy uncle. He is hilarious! That was a really good watch. I saw Kaminey again – more because my mum insisted that I accompany her. I thought it was a good movie, but well…one misses Pankaj Kapur. I don’t think Amol Gupte quite pulled off the role too well. I liked Shahid (who could resist Charlie after his ‘Ftaying a

You sit by the window, watching a regular day turn awesome by the minute. Skies get cloudy - like the grey, wise head of a demi-God. It pours steadily, and bright yellow and purple flowers shiver in their new adventure - one they didn't anticipate when they were buds. You nurse a cup of perfectly brewed tea... smouldering, angry with the world, trying to wrestle that poem from inside of you that won't come out. It's angry too, like a child who's not yet ready to leave the playground. Then a friend stops by. With pink roses, strewn with delicate silver threads. In a sweet, little mud-pot. There is chatter, there is more tea. There is an attempt to leave. There is an attempt to get her to stay. Then there's a nice long walk by the pond. There's a much nicer, longer chat over coffee. There's a sleepover. There's channel surfing and more catching up. Thanks Sue - for being a nice Saturday serendepity. May all your weekends be painted pink and tinted silver.

I want to be free. Last week, I was in hospital - for something as stupid and innocuous as a viral and malaria. Apparently, I'd had the infection for so long that my liver had gotten infected. Apparently, I'd had it for so long that I had to be given IV...which, I have to say, is the most painful thing I've undergone in life. It's ironical that something this horrible and painful comes in the category of 'treatment', not 'torture'...but medicine is full of such ironies. And if it all weren't so annoying and crappy, it would be amusing. But try being amused with something icky dripping into your veins! It's horrible. Scares one out of happiness. In any case, the first night that I was admitted, was surreal. I'd insisted that my parents go home. I didn't see the point in them losing sleep over my illness. After much resistance, they left. So, there I was, in some stupid 'deluxe' room - spending the money I was saving to spend in som

The last time I saw you, there was rain There was a stylish crowd, there was music by the bay; The sea was playful, the waves were flirty But to me it was just another day; I left you in shades of green And muted blue of thundershowers I left you like I'd leave anything ordinary; In the midst of mundane working hours Your shine, your glean, your drive, your steam I emptied the soul's caverns you'd sought to fill I left you, not knowing I loved you so I stay away, knowing I love you still.

It was sudden. Plans to go for an outing after a long Monday usually are. I reached home, chatted with a friend, and finally got around to talking to my cousin. Then, suddenly, I felt like being out. Dressed up out – even though I was really tired. There’s a Firangi Paani just down the road from where I live, so I asked my cousin if he wanted to come along. We went. Neither of us changed. I just slipped into a pair of heels that warranted a rick-ride. There’s no way I can walk on Bandra slopes in heels. My cousin was very reluctant to rick such a short distance though. We could practically see the restaurant lit up in its ruby-red glory from where we were standing. “It’s close by”, he said. “I can’t walk in these heels.” And although he didn’t say it, I could guess what he was thinking: ‘Then don’t wear them.’ Since it was Monday, it was relatively empty. Nice. There was a smattering of people on different tables – mostly with pitchers of cocktails. The watermelon cocktail looked parti

So, it’s a regular Monday. But instead of feeling all squirrelly at the prospect of a new, sparkly week (which happened I think, two decades ago), I’m feeling unusually lethargic. It’s a light day in office, so I think of leaving work early. I dream of reaching home, making some nice, green tea with lemon-grass and honey and watch the world go by. (Which, in Mumbai usually means – watch the world whiz by and suddenly screech to a halt, honk like crazy, and get moving again. Ah! City life!) But of course, as I enter Bandra, my sleep has vanished. By the time the autorickshaw is at Khar and I spot the MANGO sale, all my dreams of a provincial arrangement have vaporized. I’m practically lunging out of the rick. The MANGO sale, well…it’s awesome! MANGO is awesome! The clothes, the shoes, the tees, the scarves, the bags, the bikinis, the lacy stockings, the woollen coats, the leather skirts, the jewelled velvet pants, the satin caps – they’re just distilled finesse. Each one of them. Now, s

If I were on a silver island far away, I'd be soaking my feet and thinking aloud In a jaded world, people sing about moonlight In a fresh, new one, they'd eulogize the cloud

It was Rakhi. Though I don’t celebrate the festival, I thought it would be a good opportunity to have my brothers buy me something. My own brother is sailing. He never gets me anything I want. I wanted a skirt from Italy, and he said, ‘It won’t fit.’ I wanted a dress from Paris, and he said ‘It won’t fit’. I wanted a fleece and leather jacket from Dusseldorf, and he said ‘It won’t fit’. I wanted a cocktail dress from Neiman Marcus in New York, and he said ‘It won’t fit’. Capris from China won’t fit, glares from Norway won’t fit, blouses from Japan won’t fit, towels from Thailand won’t fit, bedsheets from Spain won’t fit. Apparently, there is no-one my size inhabiting any other continent. My other cousin, who I was going to drag to ‘Love Aaj Kal’, sprinted off to Goa with his friends. That only left my other cousin in Lokhandwala. Call went thus: “Hi!”, I said. “Hi!”, he actually sounded a little happy to hear my voice. It was short-lived. I asked me if we could meet. “Why?”, he asked c

July ended on a beautiful note. It has been the most wholesome, and peacefully well-rounded month. Every time I looked out my window or stepped into the world, the skies were cool and moist, the breeze was playful, and the rains were perfect. I could take each day of the month, polish up its consummate elegance, and have a string of thirty-one pearls to cherish as keepsake. July 2009 was worthy of being an heirloom. Last Friday, I had to wait back after office for a conference call. That, thankfully, ended early enough. To celebrate, a friend of mine and I traipsed over to the Costa at Juhu. It was my friend’s first time there, and I was quite keen that she like the place. For a Costa, it was quite empty on a Friday night, but charming all the same. I had a hazelnut cappuchino, and my friend had a ginger-chicken panini. For someone who has given up non-veg a long time ago, my radar is pretty sharp when it comes to recommending meat dishes for other people. In fact, I’d be good at it –