Chiffonesque

In the night, Beyond the light, Something formless peeks In the sound, All around, The voice of sing-song shrieks. A poem falls with a shooting star Into a purple pond It melts and fades and sinks and stays And forgets where it’s from The sun comes up with forgetfulness That the night is so denied The poem rose to remember much Yet it came to me and lied.

...that beauty magazines make one feel ugly. Something else makes one feel ugly and it's not photoshopped, glossed-over liar-ly images of already goodlooking people. And I understand how a mythical, manipulative approach to prettiness (making someone's pecs look bigger or waist look smaller or eyebrows more arched) can probably make a reader feel 'cheated' a little bit. (Like when one finds that WWF wrestlers are really faking it.) But to make one feel unattractive? I do think the problem is elsewhere and it is not going to be sorted by beauty images not being distorted. If beauty magazines get the rap for making me feel unattractive, then travel magazines should be responsible for make me feel bored with my life too. After all, they feature all these places I haven't been to. (They do make me feel a little bad. However, I suppose I'd stop feeling that way if I actually traveled more instead of hoping Lonely Planet doesn't touch up the flamengo-hued sunse

There's a scary moment when you get a call in the wee hours of the night. There's an even scarier moment when you make the call. Not because you have anything to say. But because you were drifting off on the couch and suddenly felt abnormally cold. You sense something is wrong. So you call up home and mum says, "I was just about to call you. Uncle X passed away in sleep this morning." I'd just finished reading a sad, disturbing book then. Portions of the story floated in my head like half-chewed food in a clogged sink. Then this news. I hadn't met Uncle X in over 5 years but he was a very sweet and affectionate person. He was generous with stories and anecdotes about his garden plants. He was a very, very good man and I hadn't imagined we were close. Yet news of his death - it's been hard to take. I couldn't sleep last night and today I am very fatigued. I won't be going to work and ideally, should be on my way to Bombay. But I am very sad

This Monday was beautiful. The day before, my parents and A had left after staying over a couple of days. I woke up with the house all to myself. Although I absolutely love having my folks and A over, I marvel at this house when I’m by myself. It’s rented with square rooms – but it has such a sweet, rounded ‘tale’ aura about it. I love it when it’s just those walls and me. I love my curtains. A had bought me a couple of panels in pale yellow satin-y type of material. Monday morning, I sat with my cup of tea and traced all the leaf-motifs on the buttery smooth fabric. For some reason, I have become besotted with leaves. I usually find them more beautiful than flowers. If I ever host a formal dinner, I’d have centrepieces made of leaves. I’d like clusters of thick, large glossy leaves with a few wispy, delicate frays – all bundled and tied together with a bright pink rope or cyan twine. Outside, the clouds were gathering. It was cool with spots of sunlight here and there. The sun

The other day I woke up to some disappointing news. I saw the text message, closed my eyes, felt a tear run down and wondered how the rest of the Durga Puja season would pass. A is here and we had planned to go somewhere for lunch. But I was in no mood to even get out of bed by that time. The doorbell rang shrilly. Loud, clear, insistent - but above al,l shrill. I thought I'd just wait for the caller to go away. But callers on the other side of doors are usually not that perceptive. Thankfully. Because the caller was my neighbour who had come calling. She wanted to show me some treats in her home. I was just about to decline but her face was positively shining with joy. So I put on my best 'What the heck' expression and shuffled across the floor to her house. One of the prized rose bushes had bloomed. It was a deep, luscious maroon rose with, what looked like, a hundred large petals. They were unfurled as if the bud had been prised open by a master artisan's finger

In the early days of my job, I had a lot of time. That's when I'd surf with something of a gluttonous streak and keep making folders to store my finds. Then work started and I forgot. Today, in one of Osho's essays, I came across a simple, stark, beautiful poem. Here it is: The Bridge I didn't believe, Standing on the bank of a river Which was wide and swift, That I would cross that bridge Plaited from thin, fragile reeds Fastened with bast. I walked delicately as a butterfly And heavily as an elephant, I walked surely as a dancer And wavered as a blind man. I didn't believe that i would cross that bridge, And now that i am standing on the other side, I don't believe i crossed it. - Leopold Staff

Parents came over this weekend and it was the most soaked-up, squishy happy time ever! Last couple of months have been very hectic at work. A major portion of that ended on Friday. So I came back home, free. Mentally and emotionally free. I wasn't tallying up work done versus work pending in my head, I wasn't jotting down to-do lists for officeand for home hurriedly as I scraped together time to complete the assignment. The project was done for the most part and Friday evening, when I left office, I left office. Folks had started preparing dinner and I had a tasty dish of spring onions and thinly sliced potatoes stir-fried in mustard oil, mustard seeds, and a robust handful of spicy green chillies. I love onion and potato fry, especially with soft, white fragrant rice and yellow daal. And a smidgeon of pickle Ma had got from some niche store in Vashi. Over the weekend, parents and I went to Inorbit. Mum and I had our nails done (mine look pretty now in cherry-red nailpain