Chiffonesque

It was a quick trip to the ATM in the blistering afternoon. It was the kind of afternoon that makes you feel really glad that you have in your possession and on your being thin, crisp, cotton clothes. Despite the heat, though, I was making a coffee-run. Had a quick stop at the ATM which is not too far from the coffee place. Withdrew a couple of hundred bucks and then went over to the cafe where I stood in line to order my brew. Made strong mental notes to tell them to add the hazelnut syrup in the coffee, which they kept forgetting the last couple of times. Since the coffee is takeaway, there isn't much one can do about it. Then, someone tapped my shoulder. A man had followed me in and in his ruddy, calloused hands was my debit card. I had left it in the ATM slot. I almost doubled over saying thank you and all, but he gave me the card, smiled, and left. I wish I'd have the presence of mind to ask him if he'd have liked an iced tea or something. If you are in Pune right

That time of summer where winter has not yet faded but remains no more. When, by not being, it's around. Like the scent of a stalker you sniff out in the empty playground. And then, don't look back. Twists of orange and yellow plastic wrappers in a plastic bowl. Near it, a plastic cup with synthetic-tasting coffee. Inferior notepaper and thick, ball-point pen. And in all that, an idea that still-born until now, trembles awake. Cookies wilting away in the humid coastal summer. Rounds of sugared dough and butter. The napkin lies underneath – tempted, grateful, listless. Hot, steaming coffee. Cool, creamy coffee. The chip of the ice cube fogged with milky sweetness. Curls of steam getting milder by the second. Four other cups line up the table with dregs of bitter coffee that was left unconsumed. Brown, tepid consequences of distraction. There's the 'To-Do' list – plumped with importance, dusted with urgency, and spiced with garlicky chips of slippe

If I had to choose a word to describe me today, or rather for many days, it would be 'longhand'. A little old-fashioned,  involves too much trouble,  not always neat, but very intimate to the self...so much so that even its replicability out of appreciation is still forgery.

I drove to work today on a road bleached with sunlight. It felt as if the sun felt hot in its hotsuit, got out of it, and threw it over Pune. That's how hot it was. I stood a few seconds ago by the window on some refuge floor. Grey clouds clumped like little girls flocking to a tea party. Sweet, innocent, rambunctious. Then it rained. And some flowers that until now were so bright and pretty are now wet and dancing. Gorgeous cheeriness and cocking a snook at the sun. April is a moody, mad month.

...today wouldn't be Monday. It would be extended Sunday.

Is it so wrong to not want the Akshardham massacre to be forgotten?

Some days I go to work only to say hello to the flowers. There is such prettiness, flowers and leaves honour-bound to please me, in the lane just behind my workplace. Today, I saw a tree. In the afternoon , one side of the tree was bathed in sunlight. The other side was covered with bright yellow blooms. It was so heart-eruptingly beautiful. Yellow is so, so good. Yellow is a happy white.

I ran to the bank this afternoon to deposit overdue rent. Trip to Gurgaon worked out a little more expensive than I had bargained for - mainly for the absolutely luscious trip to Nehru Place where my friend A and I bought tons of fabric. I got yards of linen in light peach, soft jute silk in melon yellow, thin wispy cotton in a pink and white print, a slightly stiff cotton variation in white stars on black background, a deep maroon square of something that feels like mousse - so light and delectable, and 180 centimeters of dull gold silk that was apparently used to make some Gucci gown. The last sheath of cloth made me sigh so deep that I just had to have it. Anyway, all that shopping cost me more than I had budgeted for but it was a beautiful, beautiful experience. Unstitched cloth has the happy freedom and the magic possibilities of what may become. Nehru place is definitely on my favourite go-to places in Delhi now. Anyway, in Pune, bills await as do expenses. This time, I dipped

Stupor. Mails. Heat that peels the skin. Cold coffee with heavy cream. Lunch at desk. Catching up. With work. With colleagues. With their stories of cats who get stranded on roofs. Thought: Meaning is momentary.

dear universe,  it is getting painful. please help.

In Gurgaon, A longer post about this might follow at some point.  But as of right now, this here is what I spotted in the city.