This morning, the sky looked like this...A drawer was being cleaned after a really long time. A grey haze of dust clouded over everything, and lots of little odds and ends lay strewn. They'd be put away neatly later. In that dusty little rectangular space, a misfit treaure lay stuffed. It was orange, spongy and oddly garanguatan to fit in a neat little arrangement. It had been distorted and squeezed to fit into that space. But as soon as the drawer was opened, the big, orange sponge just couldn't be contained any more. It leapt out and bounded away freely across a dusty but expansive floor.
And this is how the sun came out.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
It's a simple life
Peak winter in Mumbai and it's lovely. Rains come roaring here and the sun elbows about any shade or wind. But the winter is elegaic.
Days dawn with a coarse cloudiness like a piece of dry toast. Rye bread, maybe. Slowly, the muffled sun spreads in the sky. Feels like a thick, perfact pat of golden butter has melted and spread softly and evenly across the bread. Tiles on the terrace have jigsawed shapes of sun and shadow. Together, they make a surreal picture of unexpected times.
Winter is a stranger to our home. It's come unanticipated, of course, but it's welcome. It moves silently from one room to another, afraid of disturbing anything. But it leaves behind a sweet, spicy scent - of nutmeg, hay and sweet tea. A matter of weeks...and it will tiptoe away. Possibly, it will leave behind a thank you note on a chit of cabbage-paper.
These days are like deep, full breaths on a meadow. Winter isn't obvious in Mumbai. It's one of the few things the city is dscreet about. Yesterday, it was like the footnote to a story that no-one read.
Today, it's the hidden smile in a sad poem.
You don't really look for it. But when you find it...you know.
Days dawn with a coarse cloudiness like a piece of dry toast. Rye bread, maybe. Slowly, the muffled sun spreads in the sky. Feels like a thick, perfact pat of golden butter has melted and spread softly and evenly across the bread. Tiles on the terrace have jigsawed shapes of sun and shadow. Together, they make a surreal picture of unexpected times.
Winter is a stranger to our home. It's come unanticipated, of course, but it's welcome. It moves silently from one room to another, afraid of disturbing anything. But it leaves behind a sweet, spicy scent - of nutmeg, hay and sweet tea. A matter of weeks...and it will tiptoe away. Possibly, it will leave behind a thank you note on a chit of cabbage-paper.
These days are like deep, full breaths on a meadow. Winter isn't obvious in Mumbai. It's one of the few things the city is dscreet about. Yesterday, it was like the footnote to a story that no-one read.
Today, it's the hidden smile in a sad poem.
You don't really look for it. But when you find it...you know.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Back to where?
Grit. Sun. Nip. Sudden. Nudges. Stranger to oneself. True to oneself. Grudges. Thump. Pat. Pull. Push. Traffic. Whizzing. Speed. Sloth. Cloud. Rain. Water. People. Footfalls. Silence. Squared shoulders. Bare hands. Goofy grins. Sweat in December. Wizardy all year round. Trick. Treat. Pee. Crowd. Nameless. Faceless. Celebrity. Rainbow-colored carnations. Night. NIGHT. Time melting away like unattended ice-cream. Memories solidifying like molecular gastronomy project. Flag. Whip. Too small to be big. Too big to be anything. Finishing line. Velvet rope. Iron curtain. I-land. Island. Hello. Goodybye. Why. How. Whatever. Rage. Grace. Ruin. Glory. Pride. Grit. Magic. City. Life. Living. Homeostasis. Home. Bombay.
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