Chiffonesque

Bandra Fort, last evening. For the reading of Nine Lives by William Darlymple. The session was interspersed with performances by characters in the books – Theyam dancers, Baul singers, Sufi singers from Sindh, and a performance by Susheela Raman. Raman’s performance can best be described with the goosebumps I got when she took that lion of a voice and throw it over the moon! The fort was decorated with lamps, and there were chattais for seating. Elderly people were having a problem climbing up all those steps, and the inadequate lighting made a lot of people trip…but the place was packed. It was p.a.c.k.e.d. Now, I’m not one for book readings. {I find it very infantilizing to have a writer read out his book, for God’s sakes. And then go on to talk about it. In my mind, a writer’s primary mode of articulation is the pen. If that hasn’t been wielded well, all the gabbing about ‘ what I thought’ and ‘how I felt’ is not going to be worth it. When I write a book, I’m definitely not goin

After a long time, I am reading a book, slowly - line by line, word by word, almost afraid to finish it up. It's Siddhartha by Herman Hesse. Every night, I go to sleep thinking about this book. Every morning, I wake up with this book in my mind. It's like being in love. It's fantastic. This morning, I was reading a couple of pages, when I started daydreaming. I don't know what it was about - except that I was seeing myself as this impeccable person. All strong, sinewy, and exuding 'character' of intimidating proportions. I was thinking of designing some kind of a 'fasting' regimen to control my senses. Maybe then I'll become like this Siddhartha - if I tell my brain to shut up, it will. If I tell my stomach to stop feeling hungry, it will. It must be awesome to have that kind of self - control. Anyway, I was lost in all this, when my cook taps me on the shoulder. She's brought me breakfast (hot porride with bananas and jaggery - it's yummy!)

Sometimes it happens. Sometimes, you remember the things that got brushed off to the fray. Eric Segal’s most popular book is ‘Love Story’ and maybe ‘Doctors’. But I’ll remember Segal for two of his other less celebrated books. One is ‘Oliver’s Story’, the sequel to ‘Love Story’. The book ends with Oliver taking a run atop some hill. He’s met some interesting women after his wife’s death, he thinks he has moved on, etc. etc. But after the run, he’s standing on top of the hill, surveying the city. The sun comes down, the lights come up, and he realizes that he’s still in love with his wife. That portion of the story…it’s not spectacularly wriiten. Nothing too quote-worthy there. No dazzling nuggets like, “Love means not ever having to say you’re sorry.” Or “What can you say about a 25-year old girl who died?” But it’s so tender and beautiful, that my toes actually curl when I remember that part. Oliver standing there, alone, looking lost, and knowing that he can’t be with anyone else jus

After a long, hard walk, it was time for breakfast. Usually, I don’t like cooking. But some days I can sense why cooking can be soothing. Finally, there’s an opportunity for so many senses to take part in creating something. There’s a whole catalog of sensations in each category, touch, smell, sight, sounds, that comes into play even if the meal you’re preparing is simple. Like that morning, for example. I just wanted a bowl of cereal. So, first went in the golden-brown, crackling cornflakes. Then I chopped up strawberries. I meant to chop up only a few, but they looked so luscious, that I cut up a whole bunch of them. Strawberries are such pretty fruits! All dainty and elegant on the outside, and cheery with almost adolescent crimson cheekiness on the inside. When you take a sliver of a strawberry, the slice looks like a plump, juicy, pink and red visceral silhouette of the Grand Canyon. After the strawberries, came the figs – all fleshy with their suave brown and green skins. Cuttin

Sometimes through sameness and bizarre blietzkrieg, through days of feeling small to nights of having it all, through times both waft-y and intense, through figuring it out and it not making sense...I cannot fathom how Gulzar nailed it with such alarming accuracy - "Tujhse naaraz nahin zindagi...hairaan hoon main..." ( I'm not angry with you life, I'm amazed.) How does that man think!

I had the most amazing Saturday night. It involved waiting up for a new cook to arrive from Kolkata (to cook Ma’s meals until the second operation is through – her dietary requirements have been overhauled quite a bit). It involved going to Hyper City and getting lost in the joys of jars and jars of Waitrose ‘roast sauces’ – plum for Peking Duck, Orange-thyme for fish, Barbecue-honey for meats, pesto and oregano for vegetables. It involved just lying on my bed, surrounded by piles of newspapers and magazines and books, and dipping into these as my flights fancied. Read a sentence from here, a para from there, skim over pictures from something else. I love that. And it was topped with an experience I’d last had when I was a child. Stayed up all night talking to my mother. I’d forgotten how much I’d missed that. She is, I think, my most favorite person in the world – not because she’s my mom, but because she’s interesting. So interesting that I, periodically pull hair and slam doors. Bu

Thursday was a really difficult day. It was tough, chewy, and unpleasant – like a strip of uncooked meat. If my mom’s ill-health and travel woes were not enough, I received a horrid e-mail. It was full of such immaculate, glorious obnoxiousness that I should’ve taken a moment to marvel at that epistolary architecture of shit. The sender of the e-mail was righteous, unfair, judgmental and thought he could get away with telling me what to do. And this martini of sanctimonious, unthinking release was topped up with an ultimatum…that I ‘…better listen good…’ Of course, I got angry. I responded to such worthless pitiful criticism with my own type of criticism (that is both lofty and purposeful, by the way.) Also, I do not like being told what to do. I detest it. My blood actually starts steaming when I hear the words, “You should…” I respond to people like this by telling them what to do – helpfully suggesting areas where they can shove their advice. As far as ultimatums go, well, there

I was tagged by the bald guy. I’m not being rude. That’s what he calls himself. ( http://desigheeandcoffee.blogspot.com/ ) 1. What is your current obsession? I wouldn’t call it obsession…but keep wondering where do feelings, thoughts, and dreams come from? 2. What are you wearing today? Olive green cargos, an ivory, floral smock (gifted by J), and a teal shrug. 3. What’s for dinner? Brown rice, spicy daal, and capsicum-potato sabzi. 4. What’s the last thing you bought? Magazines for mum. She was in hospital and I thought some Bollywood gossip would perk her up. (Didn’t quite work, though. My father flipped through it, while Ma slept and kept asking questions like: Who’s Neil Nitin Mukesh? Who’s Kangana Ranaut? Who’s Sherlyn Chopra? Where’s Juhi Chawla? ) 5. What are you listening to right now? Rehna Tu – Delhi 66. 6. What do you think about the person who tagged you? There’s a reason why cliché’s about men aren’t cliché’s. They’re true. The sender of this tag is proof enough of that. I

I am so pissed off right now. So VERY pissed off. It’s just irritating when one can’t even manage to get a good night’s rest. And then to wake up and go mingle with imbeciles in this world. Surely people are getting more stupid by the second. And unfit and ugly. Like this stupid woman in tight jeans in front of me who was trotting as if it was the lobby of Four Seasons and not the Vashi station. What’ sthe use of dumb legs if you can’t even move fast! And she was SO dumb, she was actually wearing heels. HEELS! 5 sodden, stacked inches! Those jeans must be cutting off circulation to her dizzy brain, am sure. I’m already snappy because Veronica Dumb-ass Lodge is walking so slowly in front of me, I almost miss my train. Then just as I try to rush past and get ito a compartment, she stops in the MIDDLE of the platform…and combs her hair! She combs her hair! I pull her to one side when I notice a very angry-looking woman (built like a rhino, no less) practically lunge towards her. I’ve mis

He was seven And I was five We were there, young and alive Our bruised little elbows scrapes on our shins Our badges of honor when we'd chase the wind The skies we'd bottle to barter and sell The sea we'd steal the lies we'd tell Our crayoned world Our stretched out time Our invincible storms Our destinies' rhyme Each fear had a face Each joy, a tear Being close had no opposite because he was here Life was big And we were small Had morselled moments And that was all Naive summers broken At season's brutal shore Alive still, but not seven Or five anymore

I could hear you leaving For some other exotic shore I could hear your padded feet Though I could hear no more I could read the letter In which you’d said goodbye Though it was just sky-blue paper You’d left blank, with a sigh I could also see the cups You upturned near the sink Like that would be the symbol Of breaking the final link The door shut softly in the night Like all doors that shut afar And when you whistled as you left There was music from the stars

An ex-flatmate and a current friend is looking out for a flatmate. She stays in Saket, New Delhi. Lovely house from what I hear of it. And well, it’s Saket, right? So, why should you be living in the house, when you can be grooving at Hard Rock or watching movies at the multiplex closeby? (Yes, the location’s that good.) Anyway, about my friend – she’s a very good cook. Very Good. (Notice the capitalization, people.) That doesn’t mean she’ll cook for you, though. I used to get lucky because I was her guinea pig for her tarot reading sessions. (Spectacularly inaccurate, but you don’t notice all that when she’s feeding you awesome pasta or poha or pulao.) Oh, and I’m a vegetarian. But I have seen her making and feeding chicken…and some cordon blue chef somewhere is unaware of great competition. I am not sure, but I think she’d prefer a female flatmate. If you need more details, do write to me: mukta.raut@gmail.com . Will pass your queries, etc. on to her. And it can’t be said enough…sh

This morning, as I crossed the road to catch an auto, I saw an exquisite woman. She stood in the shade of a mango tree. I think I found her remarkable because she was so comfortable in her own skin. Didn’t seem rushed. Didn’t seem uncomfortable without any of the modern-day accoutrements we use to avoid eye contact with strangers – mobiles, magazines, i-pods. She just stood there, simple and beautiful. She was fairly tall, and her straw-colored linen dress fell a few inches above her knees. Her calves were sinewy and her arms were shapely. Her arms were toned, sure, but they didn’t look like the overexercised walnut-crackers that some women have. She had shoulder-length hair that seemed to glint of honey-hues when the sunlight shifted through the leaves. Everything about her seemed to have the delicate fading of timelessness – like the edges of a beautiful, heirloom sari, maybe. Her dress was almost white, her hair was almost brown, her eyes were cappuchino but again, almost so. Fro