Chiffonesque

An incident occurred near the mini sea-shore at Vashi. Had to contact the police immediately. 100 - busy 103 - Was put on hold for 5 minutes. Was later informed that these numbers don't work in New Bombay. Gave me another number. 27820346 - no-one answered Called up Just Dial to get the number of the nearest police station. Here, the cops answered the call: 27823210 (This is sector 10, by the way.) Putting this up. Hopefully you won't have to wait for 25 minutes before you get in touch with the police in Navi Mumbai. Also, if anyone knows who to write to, to inform them of Emergency Numbers not working, please let me know.

Mumbai. Non-stop rains. Non-pause rains. Non-'hell, I won't even slow down'-rains. Some roads flooded. Some roads free. All roads packed. One wonders those kind of smart people are extinct - the ones that stay in on this dreamy day and sip ginger tea, looking at wet gulmohar trees. Nowadays, everyone seems to be out and about. Bandra. I took a bus to Marol. Easy-peasy. Also, empty. Unfortunately, the catch was that it wasn't coming to Marol, for some reason. It would stop at Regency. That's a 25 minute walk to my office. 'Walk' is slightly erroneous. Trek, is more like it. I'd have to climb over rubble, hike over some insanely huge dividers, etc. etc. Also, I was wearing a dress. (It was sky blue with a nice, classy silhouette. Looked very pretty in the confines of my warm, clean home. On the road, as I hitched it up to skip from one pile of stones to another, I recieved a lot of attention. Mainly along the lines of 'Look at that freak!') I d

It is Sunday and I’m in Colaba. This means that I am happy. Perhaps, ‘happy’ is too glint-y a word. I am soothed. Sunday is usually a mellow, older cousin of the impatient, rowdy Saturday – this one wants to get about town and create trouble. Sunday will draw the curtains, change into soft flannel shorts, and play piano. I was supposed to meet a friend outside Regal for a movie around 4. I got delayed by a half-hour. Contrite, I jogged from Churchgate station to Colaba. On the way, I called him up. I apologized and promised him my first-born for making him miss the movie, etc. He told me ‘to chill’ and he said that ‘it’s okay’ and also that ‘things like this happen’ and wouldn’t you know that it’s ‘only a matter of 30 minutes?’ I floundered for a bit. I’m usually not at the receiving end of such gentle understanding. And today I was. Why? Not because some fount of infinite patience had descended on the said friend. But because he was still in Mulund. This meant that I had to wait

http://news.in.msn.com/international/article.aspx?cp-documentid=4302921 So, I look at it, rub my eyes, and look at it some more. What I find shocking is this...not that this traffic jam is so monstrous, etc. etc. And not even that it's 10 days old, etc. etc. Yet...YET...those cars maintain lane discipline?! This may be the most cliched response, so often used for far lesser things...but truly...WOW!

We built castles in the sand. The sand was golden, and the castles got swept away by the sea. What a way to be...what a way to go.

Sunday: A friend and I were at the mall. He got into an altercation with an auto-fellow last evening. It got pretty serious. He went home. I walked around a little bit longer. It rained with the flamboyance of a peacock dance. Some spots on the drenched roads shone with moonlight – pure, cool, and distilled. I rummaged through my purse to see if I could gather enough cash for a coffee at CCD. I couldn’t. So I got a cup of tea. Shared the ledge of the roadside stall with another auto-fellow, who was wolfing down a boiled egg and a slice of bread. I thought of how I’d spent Saturday. Saturday: Had taken two trains to reach Charni road. Smiled a lot at bohemian women in the train. Stood by the door for my little joyous glimpse of the sea and Marine Drive when the train whizzes between Grant Road and Charni Road. Shared a packet of Hippo with a friend, sipping hot tea in her wee, little office in a crumbling building. Outside, rain poured from a sky that waltzed between grey, blue an

They tiptoed across a channel of time Sagely, mistakenly they took her along She splashed about in liquid rainbows And threw them a sea-shell in a song     A nod to everyone who stood in this city - anywhere in this city - looking at the sea...wondering what to make of it.

Last evening, my friend and I went to the Sea-Side café in Bandstand. One of his friends also turned up. We didn’t know each other. So, I smiled and said hello. He grumbled something and gave me a stern once-over. I offered him my sandwich. He ate it up and then casually announced that he is well-versed in reading auras and such type of things. He mentioned that although I have a good energy field (not surprising, since I had eaten a very hearty portion of paneer chilli already), I don’t have ‘a marriage in my destiny’. Apparently I had a strong spiritual journey to undertake and I should not get distracted by the love and companionship of mortals. Perhaps I didn’t respond with as much deference as I was expected to. Or maybe I burped a little too loudly (it was the paneer chilli). To prove his point, he got serious. He asked me: ‘You must be having trouble falling asleep?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You are also very distracted? Can’t be pinned down with any one thing?’ ‘Yes… how do you know?’

I sat in the pantry, looking out at chattering tree-tops. A kite soared miles above bricks and concrete. It seemed to do a soft salsa glide in the sky. Maybe it liked looking at brown-grey strips. It was going to be a long day at work. I wanted this tepid coffee to fill me with as much satiety as it could manage. This sad satisfaction of looking at the world go by, to be dimly aware of time passing…this cusp of peace and wistfulness…I find it in Hemingway’s writing. As luck would have it, I read one of his short stories a few hours after my coffee-break. ‘A Clean, Well-Lighted Place’. This story is so ephemeral. Light, gossamer-like, sea-spray like. All true yet almost there. I love reading Hemingway’s stories. They’re so short, yet I lose myself in them completely. Not knowing how long I’ll be remembering pieces from it, or quoting from it. Reading Hemingway is like sleeping off after doing something decadent. You may not recall everything, yet you’ll always remember waking up to