Chiffonesque

Finished re-reading Salman Rushdie's 'Midnight's Children'. The book is shockingly both - a chronicle and a prophecy of India and Pakistan. That this book was published, read, and celebrated as 'fiction' points to simpler times that is hard to even imagine now. As for Rushdie as a writer, with this book he makes every major work of Indian fiction after this one seem like a college essay. Here's why: The story involves a man born at midnight of Independence day who later becomes the adoptive father of a child who is born at midnight of the Emergency. A man with a large nose whose arch enemy is a man with large knees. The story has references to blue Kashmiri eyes, pickling and migrant memories, tetrapods and reclamation in Bombay, circus troops and city beautification projects outside Jama Masjid in Delhi, vasectomy in Benares, the making of Bangladesh, the unmaking of other nations, the profiling of the Gandhi dynasty - and all this peppered with the Ind

Today I had a colossal backache and a really dull headache as well. My throat was sore, eyes were scratchy, and the food seemed to have settled in my stomach and turned into lead. The lower abdomen was bloated unhealthily and I dragged myself to office feeling swarthy and unattractive. Also ill. But impersonable and inadequate for any sharp thinking or coherent conversation - these two thoughts dominated my mind. I attended the meeting I was to attend and then promptly called up my folks who (who are visitng) to pick me up from office. They were out shopping, though, and had made dinner plans with my cousin. I had to accompany them for dinner and although I am really fond of my cousin, niece and nephew, I felt so thoroughly weary at the time. My mind was already shutting down. My body was aching so badly that I just wanted to be under covers with the lights off, fan in full swing, dreaming away until morning. But that was not to be. There was a dinner to attend and one that I was ac

Today, I wore a white tee-shirt, faded blue jeans and scarlet flats. At work, I reviewed a few things and skimmed through a 143 page document. Not much registered but I know what exactly to review tomorrow. I surfed the Internet a little bit and thought of a few friends. One of them is taking up tarot-card reading soon. Another one seems to have gotten her life on track after her divorce. Another one is moving out of his house and is bravely putting together a mental system to combat a loneliness that will surely befall him in the early days. I saw an interview by Robert Schwartz on pre-birth planning (the premise that the soul chooses exactly the kind of experiences it will go through in its incarnate form). He spoke of a woman who had once been wounded by a bomb so badly that her eyeballs were seared and sharpnels had entered them. At the hospital, doctors had to use magnets to hold her eyeballs together to work on her. I was eating my tiffin of fruits: watermelons, grapes, and

The 'rents came to visit. Although father has returned to Bombay, Mom is here. We had a fun outing today at Phoenix Mills. 1. We headed into the Irish pub at Phoenix for a snack. Now, I have been out of the pubbing scene for a while now. In fact, the last time I'd gone to High Spirits at Koregaon Park, I was so uncomfortable with the noise and the drinking and the hollering and the bonhomie! I don't understand why the music must blare that way! Anyway, on entering this pub I spotted high bar stools, yellow tinted bottles and pretty stacked bars, etc. And I'd slowly started having those swervy palpitations that I get in loud clubs. We got a table in the dining area (I was relieved although my mother looked like she'd have liked a swivel on one of those stools.) Then her phone rang and I wondered how uncomfortable she'd be taking the call in that setting. She, though, chatted comfortably and made jokes, gave advice, and bid someone a hearty welcome into the cit

Today was a sweet, lazy Saturday. I ate well, slept really nicely throughout the day, had a massage, and listened to a few ghost stories. Also, from somewhere a great urge to do yoga arose so I did. All this made me hungry for something warm and comforting. Like rice. Last month, my father had bought this large sack of really fragrant rice. It has a sweet smell even when it is uncooked and lies in a jar stacked with pods of dried, red chillies (to ward off insects). It doesnt have that dusty, grainy smell that other variations of rice have, including grains of Basmati. Tonight, I cooked this rice along with some fresh mint leaves and a little bit of salt. I like my rice soft and squidgy so I boiled it for a long time. Then I heaped the cooked rice on a plate, added a large stick of butter and took a moment to stare at the liquid potery of buttery goodness coating grains of that lovely rice. Finally, for some flavour, I added a pinch of oregano and Italian seasoning from Pizza Hut

I was walking home today. It was not too late. My skirt was not too short. The neck of my shirt was not too deep. I walked inside the little strip off the road that leads up to my building. The road has street lights that were thankfully functioning today. A man in a red checked shirt on a bike turns around from somewhere and stops at the entrance of the lane. He hollers: "Your legs are too sexy, baby." From the easy way this rolled off his tongue, I can make out it's not the first time. I tell him to fuck off home. He says, "I swear! Too sexy." Because there are street lights, I loudly rattle off the license number of his bike. He turns around, yells, "That's a fake number, baby!" and drives away. I take no chances. Call up 100. They ask me where I am, what model the bike was, and finally what number. They tell me a patrol car will be in the area soon. 10 minutes later, a cop calls me up, gives me his name, and even though they ma

Between shut eyes I see you, Hinged like a waking dream, Between shut eyes I lose you Like a fairy tale that could have been With an open mind I know you Finally, and not too soon, Your caprice that soothes me Your whim that sometimes wounds If you float somewhere down memory If you ever come my way If my shut eyes stay shackled, Bombay, will you stay?

Somedays it feels nice...like drops of rain on parched earth...when you call up friends from long ago and you say hello and words tumble out. They are far more infrequent now than before - these calls. They are busy and I am hesitant. But lately, in the pit of my stomach there has been this nagging pain. My heart seems to have been closed up. Sometimes I laugh over my dinner over some memory from years ago. And laugh almost soundlessly. Today, I called up four friends. One who I had met at the premier of 'You've got mail' and who'd downloaded 'Dreams' by Cranberries for me. (It is my most favorite soundtrack ever.) One who I've visited Thailand with and whose balcony holds my most cherished memories of house parties. One who I've watched the crappiest films with but at whose home I am always sure to get a delicious meal, great chai and a sort of banter that makes me forget there's a lot going on. One with who I've spent the most precious rai

The other day, we got an email from a colleague that he'd be performing at Shisha Cafe in ABC farms. This colleague, let’s call him Xerxes, works from home and is also part of a band. The band would be playing Bob Dylan. He'd sent such invites earlier but these events usually happen on Thursdays. (At Shisha, Thursday is assigned for live music). Earlier, I'd never been able to get out early on a week day. Also, there was the logistics of it. Getting around should be easy since I drive and Koregaon Park is one of the few places I actually know directions to. But after losing my license, spotting no less than 3 accidents every time I’ve gone out to KP, and squinting through dark roads whilst at the wheel, I avoid driving at nights. Pune has a pretty good service called Indian Drivers. They loan out drivers for 8 hours for 450 bucks, with extra charges for the night. But you need to book them in advance and then sometimes, they send across a really rude buffoon who r

To go on a drive some cool, pre-monsoon evening. The wind is drenched with luscious goodness of unfallen rain. Roads are empty. I'm in my freshly washed, soft and crumpled shorts and tee-shirt. The music on the radio is wistful and speaks of love, longing, regret. Maybe the song's about life on some open road. The windows are rolled down. The briny humidity of sea-spray coats my skin like cling-wrap. I see waves rise and fall, churn and recede. I drive to the shoulder and park. I get out and move to a edge of the bridge. From the back of the car, I've pulled out a bag. It has my phone and laptop. I also have their chargers. I first fling my phone down. It falls somewhere in the far distance. Then I hurl my laptop. I hear a little splash...the sort a thimble would make if it fell into a bath tub. Then I dump both chargers. They fall straight and hit some rocks. Everything hard, tough, black, wiry, heavy is gone. Everything that has parched my eyes, lodged knots in my