Chiffonesque

My trip to Delhi in December was a long and beautiful one. Got a chance to go to Agra with the folks. Somehow, all my memories of the Taj are very tactile. Yes, Taj is of course a visual opus of sorts. But Taj, for me, is lodged in my fingertips, on my palm, on the soles of my feet. I remember the feeling of deep inlay work, smooth expanses of marble, cool grooves of the jharokas , and pricks of sharp grass in the gardens. I also remember the shy warmth of light. When you see the Taj, pay attention to how light behaves around it. The light, both sunlight and moonlight, wafts around the monument the way a poem wafts around a poet's head before he puts pen to paper. I was thinking of something ethereal to wish all of you for New Year's. But somehow, something else keeps coming to mind. It's a memory that has managed to dislodge the magnificent impact of even the Taj. The memory, surprisingly, involves Delhi. The memory, alarmingly, involves an auto-rickshaw fellow. It was

I don't know if it's the weather (Mumbai has been nippy, especially around Mira Road) or some insecurity or nervousness - but I am eating non-stop. And I do mean non-stop. Like today. I ate some rice and vegetables stewed in coconut milk for lunch. Then I had a large cup of coffee with milk and sugar. (Bru Lite - the one that Priyanka Chopra endorses - is lovely. It's smooth, rich, fragrant and less acidic.) A few hours after that, I ate some chivda and chakli that Eva's aunt had made at home for Christmas. (I love those dark, fried raisins that come with the chivda .) A while later, Eva made tea and we had a couple of slices of fruit bread. I got hungry a while later, so I roasted some makhanas in salt and a pat of butter   (I don't know what they're called in English. Not sure if they are lotus seeds. They are white, puffy, and look like solidified tufts of cloud. In fact, when you roast a whole lot of them in a cauldron, it looks like some kind of catacysm

December's haze weaves remembrances In strands of annual candy floss With sweet aftertaste of success And sugary emptiness of loss 

The sun sulked And turned its face away And that was, in Delhi, Another winter's day

It was a rather good day today. I woke up late with my head stuffed with unfinished business. I also felt that I should just chuck the idea of working for the rest of the year and streamline my thoughts. It's feeling too crowded up there. In Mumbai, regular life sort of takes up all the time and energy so it distracts me from the very important business of 'getting down to it' and thinking things through. In Delhi, even busy moments seem quiet. Even hours that should whiz by when I'm with friends or roaming about here and there - even those hours feel slow. Delhi really has started feeling like heaven. Like I died and came up here. And maybe my soul is not evolved enough to take this, so I've started pining for my sweet, bizarre hell, Mumbai. Maybe my soul needs to grow some more and Mumbai will stretch it out nice and long. Due to some recent developments, I need to look for a place to stay. My friend in Mira Road has very kindly offered to share her flat with me

I write this in my hotel room, swathed in a thick, rust-colored blanket. It's 3 a.m. and my finger tips are cold. The coffee I'd ordered a while ago is now tepid and a thick layer of cream has formed on top. I look back at the day I spent, at the sun I chased, and the misty, foggy night I sliced through in an auto-rickshaw. Delhi is breathtaking. To live in Delhi must be like being the mind that takes in wafts of art and shapes its muse. It must be to fall like the soft ash of an incense stick, happy in the knowledge that one burnt for beauty. It must be to live nestled in calligraphic verses, in the delicate cursiveness of leisure and longing. It must be like being an absurdly yellow stray petal that flounces about on a window ledge. It must to be the nuance of a poem, the delicate timbre of a song. It must be about being under a spell that compels one to write odes and rhapsodies by the hour. To live in Delhi must be difficult. Because Delhi is breathtaking.

Saw the lunar eclipse the other day. I was at the T3 Terminal in Delhi, waiting for my parents to arrive. The moon was slowly and seductively slurped in by the sky. And just as slowly and seductively, it oozed out from the mouth of darkness. A bizarre sharp-white moon shone down on this crazy, simple truth - If you can love one, you can love many. If you can love once, you can love again. If you can love today, you can love forever.

Over 32 years, I think I have seen several lows. Yesterday was the worst. It was worse than the worst that had happened in the worst part of my life. There was shame, betrayal, and such erosion of trust that I got physically ill. I balled up with pain in my stomach, my head started hurting, my legs were shivering, and I actually started foaming a little at the mouth. This was anger, a familiar emotion in a completely new avatar. I don't know how long I lay curled up like that on my bed. There comes a point in emotional exhaustion when you just give up. You capitulate to whatever nonsense wants to besiege you and kill you. I was probably there. Suddenly I woke up to some soft humming. My mum was singing to me. So softly...it sounded like the song was traveling through all those years from childhood. She was stroking my hair, gently. It felt like sea-breeze. But she wasn't getting me to sleep. She was actually waking me up. I woke. She then took me to the kitchen and made me

Sometimes, one goes through life thinking whether one needs companionship or not. Whether marriage is good or dating is better or a steady relationship will give comfort or a deep embracing friendship will provide safety. Sometimes, one might even get close to one or more or all of these. But a think a time comes to face the truth. It's not hard or bitter. Just one that has you thump your fist angrily at the skies a little bit. That none of these companionship or friendships or steady relationships, etc. is for you. That maybe your lot is to muffle the screams from your open wounds. Best done alone.

Happy stillness and smiling peace May come, if a tad too late, On realizing that in a mediocre life At least the expectations were great.

It's the last month of the year and it promises to be crazy and frenetic. It almost seems like this month doesn't have any patience with remembrance. Memories, this month seems to think, are easily dispensed with. I don't quite like it when I don't get enough time to unwind and reflect on the year gone by. However, this crazy hurtling of minutes and seconds into the next day is most encouraging. Maybe December of 2011 knows something about 2012. Maybe that's why it's rushing towards 2012 so quickly. Everything else can wait. I wish I could say something momentous and clever now. Considering I am writing this post at 3:45 a.m. after having worked like a dog throughout the day, I need some release. After coming to Mira Road, I have mainly stayed at home or gone here or there for a bit of work. So, this is actually my space, right now, to vent. Or rant. Or say something . I can't think of anything other than the night two days ago. We were out of groceries

Sometimes love be the anchor Sometimes love be the sea Sometimes love be the escape That binds. Sometimes love be the epic Sometimes love be the small talk Sometimes love be the author Stories find. Sometimes love be a June bloom Sometimes love be the spring Sometimes love be a trembling sea Before rain. Sometimes love be a world with music Sometimes love be a hush Sometimes love be the end that Happens again.