Chiffonesque

Sometimes we win because we're the only ones who are right. Some other times we win because we're the only ones who are left.

Yesterday, I asked myself this:  http://reve3.blogspot.com/2011/05/what-is-this-feeling.html . The question had twisted around my heart in such a tight knot that I was just too uncomfortable. A friend called, asking to meet up in Bandra. I called another friend asking him to meet us in Bandra, and there we were. Friend 1 and I went to Joggers Park. I think I must have died and come back since the last time I was there. It feels so long ago. I wonder why I ever stopped going to that place in my last few years in Bandra. I would go running on Carters or Bandstand. But Joggers Park is so cute! I love it! In fact, the moment we got our tickets and stepped inside the gates, I got a sweet whiff of pink and purple flowers - those large ones with velvety petals. If memory serves me right, that scent was the same one that had got me hooked to that place nearly fifteen years ago. That place is special. Then we went to Candies - the new one, and I must say I was impressed! I love that huge,

Of emptiness. The stomach feels like it is scooped out and filled with a solid sadness. Like if you operated me, you would actually find the sadness - in a small, smooth lump. Of quiet despair, whistling soothing tunes to itself. Of a cry that gets fibrous and slimy. It stays lodged in the gullet - niether going in, nor coming out. Of sleep that makes you feel jilted. Of fatigue that stays behind like remnants of dark nailpolish even when you have done your damndest to get rid of it. Of a quiet certain feeling of being a failure. It's a feeling that settles in some cushy armchair your heart had that you didn't know of. What is this feeling? I'll think about it on my way to Bandra to meet a friend. 

All over, all the time, all of us are doing little things to get by, to make things a little easier, to understand our place in the world...just like everybody else. And just like everybody else, we dig out a little groove to settle in - for distinction or comfort or insulation from common-ness. But sometimes its futile to hanker for that separation. And painful. Sometimes, I think its incredible to be ordinary. Just like everybody else.

At times, I find myself wronged. Sometimes by society - by the guy who refused to get up even though he was occupying the ladies seat, by the conductor who refused to get involved, by people around who plugged in their ipods and looked the other way. Sometimes by friends - by those who want to know exactly how much money I'm making as a freelancer but never about how I get by, by those who know my marital situation and will want to know what's going on, but will never ask, "How are you feeling?" Sometimes by family - by those who have loved me a little too unconditionally, so much so that I have become spoilt, by those who drive me to the point of wondering, "do I really deserve it?" Sometimes by myself - for being so clueless for so long, for not quite making up my mind on how much drama I can handle, for being scattered and lazy, for never being focused on anything, for being indisciplined. Not all these issues are valid. Not all of them are triv

It has been an odd few days. I don't know how long it's been since I have been feeling...well...odd. It's like I have so many options, but I still feel stuck. I feel like going everywhere, but I also feel like staying on the terrace, sipping a lemon and honey concoction all day. Sometimes things happen, though, that stop the drama of dichotomy for a little while. A couple of days ago, I had a really nice tea-time session with my neighbor. We met on the terrace and brought a couple of treats along. Mine were store-bought, of course. (Kitchen and I go as well together as Dracula and Mary Poppins - and even they have a better chance getting along.) A couple of All-American muffins from CCD and a bowl of vegetable hakka noodles made at home. My neighbor got a platter of really tasty mushroom toasts topped with slivers of strong cheese. We chewed the fat as the weather got moody. At some point in our conversation, the light fell behind her head. In an instant, she glided fro

Different observations. Same story. On twelve separate occasions, I've heard men lament that women nowadays are getting more 'male'. They are more aggressive, more intolerant, more harsh, rigid, dominating and intolerant of differences. From what I see around me, including myself, I think they have a point. Also, nowadays there is research establishing connection between a mother's emotional health during pregnancy and the health and personality of her baby. I endorse that thinking. The sex ratio in this country is so skewed that, according to a BEST infomercial, the percentage of female population has dipped to its lowest point since Independence. It's not for me to 'believe' in female infanticide. You just have to see the number of little girls versus that of little boys anywhere - school buses, parks, malls - and it's clear. Some forms of life are not seeing the light of day. I think that all this - chronic female aggression, state of the womb

Really like this paragraph from Eckhart Tolle's 'Power of Now': "Your unhappiness is polluting not only your own inner being and those around you but also the collective human psyche of which you are an inseparable part. The pollution of the planet is only an outward reflection of an inner psychic pollution: millions of unconscious individuals not taking responsibility for their inner space." So, I suppose my whining stops now.

I have often wondered about the concept of temporary death - something that is a few stages higher than sleep and several notches lower than the final goodbye. When one gets terribly restless or confused or just plain weary, you go some place, check into a facility and talk to someone about your situation. Based on this consultation, you decide how many days you want to pop-off for - a week, a month, two years, etc. Then you soak in a large ornate bathtub with relaxing oils and scents - maybe someone gives you a footrub at that time. Slowly, you slip - inch by inch into a state of deep, dense relaxation. You feel peace the way a scrap of cloth would feel when it is trapped in a thicket in a forest. Your final breath - your life essence - is captured in a tiny jade bottle while you pass out. This essence will be kept carefully and studied to detect traces of chronic imperfections, while you, well, lay dead. Finally, when you come back to life, (maybe there is some more soaking in a tu

I have been thinking of the following lately: 1. Some nice, light soupy khichdi made with yellow and green moong and sprouts, with a side of spicy, hot samosas. I'd break up the samosas - their crisp crust and pungent potatoes and peas getting mashed with the  khichdi - and eating it by a waterfront. 2. There's a quick dish that my Mum makes when I'm hungry. She chops us mushrooms and onions really fine and sautees them in butter and garlic. After all these elements are properly browned and softened (in fact, the garlic is also slightly burnt), she adds leftover cooked rice and tosses it all up nicely. After that, she adds oregano and chill flakes from unused Domino sachets, salt, pepper, a mixed spoonful of tobasco, soy and chilli sauce. She then serves this lovely browned rice with a light grating of cheese on top. 3. I don't eat meat anymore. But when I was a non-vegetarian, I loved red meat and fish. I'd eat everything else, of course, but mutton, pork 

Saw a flower whose ivory-grey petals looked like they were made of tempests. On closer inspection, they were simply muddied. There isn't disappointment that some things only exists in the imagination. There is marvel that imagination exists at all.

I came across this article last night: http://tehelka.com/story_main49.asp?filename=hub140511personal.asp The mother's attitude is disturbing. I find it even more disturbing because it made me question what I had done a few years ago. One time, I was in charge of a little girl, Joyce, who was making sand castles on Juhu beach. A boy, not much older than her, came by and kicked down the castle. I held him back and he started laughing loudly. Joyce, I suppose, thought that it was part of some game and chortled too. The boy's parents were eating roasted peanuts close by and smiled benignly. I didn't like what had happened but since no-one was hurt and Joyce was happy, I thought it was all okay. The children started playing together. I went back to my book and the other parents, to their conversation. A second later, I saw that boy hitting Joyce again. Hard. I ran up to him, held back his hand and asked his parents to intervene. His father laughed and said that he was jus

I wonder if its because my stomach looks a little flat today. Or because I saw a ginger colored cat on the way home. Or the water in the lake stretched out like a large, liquid onion peel in the light. I don't know what it is, but I feel like sharing something beautiful and unknown with the world. So, here it is - a paragraph from the novel 'Anywhere but here' by Mona Simpson. (I'm simply savoring that story. It's been several weeks of reading and re-reading portions and not yet finishing.) As luck would have it, I cannot locate that piece now. Oh well, I suppose it must lie somewhere in all those pages - like a little perfect diamond in a huge, dust bowl. The book is all the more luminous because of it. I will put it up when I find it.

Flimsy - wedding band, handcuffs, murder trial. 

I am thirty-two years old now and I think I may have interacted with approximately 8,000 people in my life so far. Interacted with some amount of closeness, that is. I am not very sure how I have arrived at this number but I think that this may be quite correct. Now, what defines as close? Maybe a good conversation. Or at the very least, a memorable interaction. Yes, it's the latter. As a child and a teen, I didn't exactly talk much. But I do remember people responding to me more easily. So, I remember that sullen girl in college who would scowl at everyone and worship Shobha De. One day we were waiting outside the college for something. She pulled me to one side and pointed at some distant spot in the sky. It was the first time I saw a large, grey cloud rushing towards our area and drenching that place in rain. She had gone back to poring over 'Socialite Evenings'. I also remember a little girl from my childhood. I was in the fourth standard and had gone to some pl

I was feeling so hungry a half-hour back. Looked through the fridge for something that would go with my  black coffee. There were a couple of chocolate donuts, which were 'meh'. A large scrap of Kabuli naan . But this naan isn't from Copper Chimney, Worli, so I am not really interested. Bread from that place was my absolute favorite as a child. I remember being fascinated with the see-through kitchen, with chefs flailing large flaps of dough, as if testing the flight of magic carpets. Then the naan would come in a huge wicker basket, sweetened with dry fruits and seasoned with black jeera. I used to fold and dip that in black daal, all the time feeling like I'm eating shreds of a magic flying carpet. I was always ready for a take-off after every meal. Unfortunately, the only place I did take-off to was the toilet. Black dal can be heavy! Anyway, getting back to the fridge. So, the Kabuli naan didn't cut it. There were a couple of soya cutlets that looked too dry

I feel sad tonight. At yoga today, when we did the Chaitanya asana (or the Shavasana, as it is more popularly known), the instructor asked us to visualize ourselves as a little drop that falls into the ocean and becomes one with it. This instructor, usually, flounders for correct words to explain postures and breathing techniques. But this segment she conducted with remarkable fluency. Her voice reverberated with relief, almost. I could sense that this imagery means something to her. Her comfort, with not just going there but taking the entire class to that place, indicated that she must have made that trip several times. I feel sad because last three days were so sharp, full and happy. I met so many friends who made time for me at short notice.  In fact, it felt as if time was stretching itself to inlcude a soiree or a party for me. I would leave from Hiranandani around 8 p.m. to go to Bandra and get dinner with a pal and then dash to catch the last bus home. Or I would leave from V

I have joined a yoga camp this month. It is a 30 day program that takes place near my home. For six hundred rupees a month, it is quite a happy investment. This is my third time at this yoga camp. My favourite batch so far has been the first one, though. The first time I was taken through the paces of sitting properly, breathing properly, and doing the bhushirasana . I am not a big fan of inverted poses, although they are the quickest way to get my arms and calves in photoshoot shape. I have dabbled on and off in yoga for a while now. It started when I was in Pune. I had a really good teacher then. In fact, I've had some really good yoga teachers since then. The teachers in Bandra were really good. That is the one thing I have started missing most about Bandra. My yoga class. I can always get my Carter Road, Bandstand fix whenever I want. But the yoga class is a little out of reach. I leave for the yoga classes at 6 a.m. It's a little later than what I am used to, but it will

When people are special, they make you do corny things. I had once ordered a cake in the shape of a pentagram with my picture in the centre. It was supposed to be a play on my special ones’ name, Hex. It was also supposed to be a cheeky allusion to how I felt about him. Since his name was Hex, the pentagram-shaped cake with my picture in the middle meant that “he had put a hex on me”. Yes, it was sort of a labored concept. Hex had already smudged and licked the butter-lemon frosting before I was through explaining the theme. Hex had little patience or use for explanations. Although Lord knows he evoked the requirement for so many of them. He seemed to wear little badges of quirkiness that people would want to know more about. Like why he called himself ‘Hex’ when his name was ‘Harsh’. He hadn’t even known what ‘Hex’ really meant. He’d thought it was short for ‘Hexagram’, as if that explained everything. But ‘Hex’ suited him. Not his ‘Hex’ of ‘Hexagram’, but my ‘Hex’ of bewitchery