Chiffonesque

April has almost strided across the year. However, I hadn't yet eaten the season's offerings of mangoes yet. I was saving my appetite for some special occasion - like when I'd go to Haji Ali and have mangoes and cream there. It is sublime. So sublime in fact, that it is fitting that this dessert should be served outside a shrine. Anyhow, one evening as I walked back home, I saw a pile of golden yellow mangoes. They looked all luscious and enticing - like the ones that get illustrated in Amar Chitra Katha. So I took a few. On tasting them, though, it was a whole different story. They were unevenly tart and insipid. Maybe if you quickly gulped water after a piece and squeezed your eyes shut, you'd find them sweet. I was thinking of chucking the whole lot but mum had other ideas. When I came back from office, I got offered a bowl of chilled diced mangoes in condensed milk. The tartness of the fruit actually helped the cause of the dessert here. It can get really cloyi

Last night, my mother, her maid, and I went off for a late night coffee. (Since this is Pune, and in Pune –BANER – late night was ten-thirty.) We’d earlier made a trip to DMart which is never a pleasant experience. I don’t understand those plastic tabs they tie around the zipper of a purse. Some purses, like mum’s, is put inside a dark carry bag and then a plastic tab is tied around the zipper. (Because they know how we are – so ready to steal everything that’s decrepit and nauseous...or, as they call it at DMart – inventory.) Once inside, you go on a rather inconvenient treasure hunt to find sugar, flour, rice, and salt. These items, which are routinely bought, are tucked away in some corner of the store that even rats have written off as remote. At easy access, though, are sauces and ketchup bottles that were manufactured during the ketchup boom – that golden period when they were used in Mithun’s movies as fake blood. Also to be found as soon as you enter are various kinds o

There is someone with who there has been some misunderstanding. (I hesitate to use the word 'friend' here and 'acquaintance' seems trite.) I thought it was all under control, we had cleared the air, but then I got an email from him stating that I had made a demeaning comment about him. It was the most outrageous statement - that I had criticized him because of the way he looked. This issue is particularly horrible because looks is something I myself have come to terms with, over the years. I would never call someone ugly and or judge people based on their complexion. Initially, I was extremely upset about this. Mainly because I thought the person was a friend and it's horrifying how little someone can know you. Then, I got furious and concluded that people are usually very possessive about their hang-ups. One cannot compete with their rationalizations about them. And if they have low self-esteem, well, they have worked very hard to earn it. So, good luck to them.

I'm dashing off a quick post this morning, listening to my mother change her plans every minute. It was her birthday day before and we had a big family dinner last night. My niece and nephew were here and we played some word games. Or rather, I played. The kids were really kicked with my typing speed so they just wanted to watch me type. I wanted to write about some other stuff but I woke up this morning and I realized that I really like him: So, I woke up this morning with this thought: I really like him.

I wonder what I will write today. I think my existence is getting really bloated. I need to trim it down. I feel really bloated too. Two days ago, my pair of white jeans didn’t fit me. I felt really sad about that. The fact that they were an expensive pair of Calvin Klein’s had something to do with it, of course. But more than that, it was a reminder of haphazard, undisciplined living. (By the way, wasn’t ‘indisciplined’ a word? I tried to type it out but it’s getting auto-corrected to ‘undisciplined’.) So, I’ve been eating carefully since the last two days. No rice, only chapattis, and a fairly early-ish dinner. Two days later, the jeans fit. Still snug and not really worthy of tucking in shirts. But I believe I will get there if I keep at this. Someone needs to whip crack and get me into shape. My life into shape. For the longest time, I’ve believed that life, time, all of that good stuff, is like water. It will swell and find its own level. Now I think there has been enough of t

It’s strange…how even changing the font style can make you want to write something different. Actually, it’s not all that strange. I remember how, as a child, the color of the ink would determine what I wrote. If the ink was black, I’d write something formal and erudite – a report, maybe. If it was green, then something nasty, like gossip. Red was for stern stuff like warning school friends against their respective boyfriends. (I had dubious motives. More time with those guys meant less time with me.)Pink was for poetry or song lyrics or valentine musings. Blue, though,blue was for everything. I wonder if it’s a coincidence. If it is, it’s quite a marvelous one. Blue is the color of the sky, the tint of the ocean, the hue of blood that’s refined over years and years. As with nature, so with ink. Blue is for everything. Websites that don’t want to stand out remarkably are blue. When you want to be formal but not pick black, you pick blue. Blue is soothing. Blue is safe. When you’v

Usually, I write about the first rains. Then, I write about the next significant rains. The other ones in between are met with my deepest gratitude but that's it. Today, it rained a second time here. Plump, cold drops. Thick, mousse-moist winds. Tree-tops that jangled and cavorted in bunches of yellow flowers, orange buds, pink blooms, and scarlet hibiscus. There were trembling, green, lush leaves too. There was a blanket of hopeful grey in the sky. There was the promise of deep, drenched mud on the ground. And from the terrace I saw it all and wondered, " How do you get so stunning? " The world stayed quiet. And the rain came down.

Walking past kings Saluting these knaves Trying to pull out the sea From these mighty waves To capture poetry that crushes and symphony that stains And other impossibilities of mad April rains ( There was a storm today and it was delicious. We feasted on the skies, got drunk on rain, and burped at the moon.)

I am back in Pune after a trip to the United States. It feels very good to be back home. However, New York is the quickest any city felt home to me. A place where I knew nobody but where I felt I knew every space. The people I met were strangers. But the subways I traveled in seemed familiar. I must thank a lifetime in Bombay for that. Comparisons are odious. But inevitable. Ever since I was little, I’d heard that there was a place in U.S. that was similar to Bombay. And since I loved Bombay, naturally I’d love any city that resembled it. My first impressions of New York City are, therefore, not objective. They come tainted with overspilled love. It’s a beautiful city, no doubt. But similar to Bombay? I’m not so sure. New York seems far too posh for that. It seems like a city you work to belong to. From my travels to the States, I somehow feel that, vibe-wise, Los Angeles is more like Bombay than New York. New York is too ‘fine’, I think. Too sharp and precise. Neatly turned out,

The April wind was wet with tears The stars had shed the night before The April sun was pruned of verse And shone down, instead, with celestial lore Shivering gods and  petals bright Danced the April tune that night And when dawn got peeled back onto the sky The dances stopped, the gods did sigh. April being the month of storm For mortal ones, for those beyond, Second-guessing immortal times With brass bells and copper chimes The month of so much that was wrought Sometimes we learnt, at times we taught Yet, strangely, the April month went by Gods remembered us, yet we forgot.