Chiffonesque

Pilgrims is a collection of short stories about people who are living quiet lives that seem to be on the cusp of something. Sometimes, they glide over that cusp and move into the shimmering yonder and sometimes, they don’t. None of the stories in Pilgrims have a fantastic point to make. Each one comes like driftwood, mossy and beautiful, a gift from a large ocean of possible lives being lived out in this world. Some pieces of driftwood have just a few simple grooves. Some others have more intricate etchings. The first short in Pilgrims tells the story of a young girl who is hired as a stable-hand in Wyoming. She is a sturdy girl with a sturdy dream. Just the sort of girl who will do all the robust work expected of a farmhand and then one day, just take off on her horse into the world.   Another one, ‘Elk Talk’ is a delicate tale of a woman living with her husband and nephew high up in the mountains. They don’t have a neighbour for miles around. One day, though, a family of th

"We must have the stubborness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world." - Jack Gilbert

Ma bought me a beautiful dress from Zara - it's in a brownish, copperish silk fabric with fine pleats from top to bottom. It has a lovely, deep back and it's knee-length. I love the demure, stylish feel of it. It is indicative of desserts to be had by a fireplace or a walk on the beach after a fancy meal on the yacht or a cozy coffee at some lovely cafe on a cobbled street. The dress fits. Now to get a lifestyle that goes with it.

Yesterday, saw a beautiful blood-red flower blooming in the midst of a wall of leaves. It had a white centre with some yellow antennae-like filaments. My friend took a picture and today when we tried looking for it, it was gone. It must have been plucked. But we also saw tiny buds in pale pink blooming along a vine. They'll grow up to shock and tingle passersby on early morning walks in a week. 

Sometimes , if I have been irregular, the hill I climb looms like a spectre - something that scares me a little before I trod on its uneven pathways with halting steps. Then, as I climb, as I face the breathlessness with deep gulps of cool air, I relax. The smells of the fresh pudina growing alongside and bright yellow buds dotting the shrubs seem welcoming. Then climbing the hill is like moving my hands over a face - one that I am so familiar with, one that I love.

The weather in Pune is supremely beautiful. It's grey, cold, rainy, and the perfect backdrop for tiny yellow flowers that are sprouting up everywhere. The kandeels and Diwali lights are still out and there's a movie-feel to a day when you go about doing something as basic as buying milk. This morning, I met up with a school friend at Dario's again. We were 'partners' in school, which meant that we shared the same bench and also the same tiffin, I think. Anyway, in school I think she was not deemed to be very bright which of course means that she has gone ahead to make a success of herself in the world. (My school was odd, like that - people who seemed to be going nowhere have had some serious accomplishments.) It's funny - meeting up someone from school. I don't know why there isn't any awkwardness. Why there is an easy flow of conversation. Why there is absolutely no sense of the huge gap in time. Anyway, we chatted over coffee and then promised to c

Death in Rhyme We sat in a circle, My family and I, Looking and asking those questions unsaid, If each of us had a solid alibi, How was it that the patriarch had ended up dead? “He was old,” said my brother “That counts for something, doesn’t it?” “It might have,” piped the policeman, “But we found traces of arsenic.” “Arsenic! You mean poison”, I asked. I fumbled and sweated and looked aghast. “But how did it get in his whiskey, When he himself had poured the drink and handled his glass?” “It could have been suicide”, said mother, “He could very well have killed himself.” “True, except that he’d made a will the day before Where he’d mentioned that if he died suddenly, search the shelf.” “The shelf?”, I asked looking up at the stone slabs “What’s there on the stone shelf that we didn’t see?” “We found a scroll - his horoscope, And a letter that said, I believe in the stars...so believe me. ” “He wasn’t very well liked”, I said “

Finished reading 'Myth = Mithya'. So, naturally I felt a little bereft today. Went to Crossword and picked up a few books. The coffee and the baked Philadelphia cheesecake at Moshe's is pretty neat! I feel a little bad that I'm not living up to my resolve of not buying new books. But I swept and mopped the house today (the cleaning lady is on a holiday) so I think I deserved a little treat. Here's what I got: The Devotion of Suspect by Keigo Higashimo (Why? Because it's a Japanese writer and they seem to write with a sensibility I love.) Nocturnes by Kazuo Ishiguro (Why? Because of 'Remains of the Day' and 'When we were orphans'. Because he can write in a way that can make your heart ache. Because he can make your heart ache in a way that will make you feel glad for the pain because it at least means that you can  feel .) Then there was a quick dinner at One lounge at Koregaon Park. All this and its just Friday. Although I will have t

It was a superb Diwali! Started off with a walk up a little hill with a friend. On the way, we usually cross a house that has a part of the hill in it's garden. So, it's a natural 'rock' garden, so to speak. This house had a kandeel in flaming orange fluttering in the morning breeze. There were lots of orchid blooms tied to the grills of the gates and white and red rangolis dotted the porch. Then Mum, Dad and I had breakfast at Dario's. I love Dario's when you're the only person in their outdoor space, watching sunlight filter though trees and hear the peacocks in the backdrop. They also play some really good 90s music that seems to come from far away. I love that sense of being a little lost in time as soon as you sit down at one of their purple and white tables. Then I met up a friend for coffee. He gave me a bunch of movies which I hope to watch over the next few days and we went to Shaniwarpeth. It was lovely. Reminded me a little bit of Zaveri baza

There was a walk home one late evening. And a sudden purchase of two kandeels  - one large one with mustard, fushcia and indigo cut-outs of flowers and the Indian mango motifs. I wasn't going to buy those until I saw another customer asking for a demo. The salesperson put a bulb under this kandeel and suddenly, so suddenly, it sparkled like a jewel. You could imagine it in a large palace with marbles or in a large garden with fountains and jasmine shrubs and peacocks. I got that for my mother. I also got three small kandeels - simpler ones in an ivory glossy paper with a thin rim of gold shimmer around the rings. For my own home, I put up a slim string of blue fairy lights. They go up around the grill, around the legs of a chair and a little bit around the bookshelf. The rest lay clumped and untidy on the floor. But when they were lit, my home, my floor looked like the resting place for baby stars who would grow up and join the large constellation when they woke up. May you all

Yesterday was Sunday and I came in to work for a couple of ways. My mind is now so twisted in angst in connection with office that it feels like quite an upheaval to simply relax and even think of a possibility when workdays felt normal and good and when I used to cross the road and enter the office premises without having a knot in the stomach. But I often think back to this line by Virginia Woolf, "Arrange whatever pieces that may come your way." I am trying to do that. So yesterday, I wrapped up work in a couple of hours and took my mum out on a drive. We bought some diyas. Mum got some sparkly ones painted in red, green and gold. She also got a set of translucent heart candles that you can float. Mom does that in our Vashi home. I got some basic clay ones in small and really large sizes. What we really tripped out on were the lights. I got lots of fairy lights - a string in snowy white, another in sky blue, and a third in a rich, vibrant yellow that softly fuses into a

On tough days, maybe one gets nothing more than a patch of purple sky that sweetly turns pink just as you look out the window. Maybe on those days, that's all you get. No prayer gets answered. No wishes come true. But the Heaven seemed to have put up a show just for you.  It's been a good day.  

Today in office there is colour. A lot of it. Diyas in thermocol have bright pink, yellow, and orange with glitter strewn on them. There are tiny tealights where flames flicker in a pool of translucent red gel. There is a floral rangoli made with orange and white flowers. Somewhere else, which I found the loveliest section in the office, patterns have been made with shredded leaves. I love leaves. I wish when it came to decorations, we gave flowers a break and leaves a chance.

Son's birthday and notification of my pissed off status Shernaz M [shernaz65@sundry.com] Sent: Thu 22/04/2014 To: Tanyag@bullshit.com Hello. I'm sure you are very busy or at the very least, believing that you are. I haven't heard from you in ages. Must admit I'd have hoped for a mail when Sunny had colic but I didn't get one because you must have been busy. You know, Tanya, I don't get why you must be so spoilt. I know you are upset with me because I didn't gush over your ad but Nitin is a very demanding husband. He'd had a bad day and you remember he was not even all that sociable over dinner. I just couldn't...Tanya, you don't know how it is. Anyway, Sunny's birthday is on 24 th July. Please come. I was thinking of having a theme party. Can you suggest something? Don't worry. I only want an idea. Not any further assistance. I know 'you're busy'. -           Shernaz P.S. – Why do you work for a compan

There is warmth, comfort, and tender homage to a beaten soul - the way fiction draws one in. 

Robert Galbraith is J.K. Rowling's pseudonym for a series of murder mysteries. I haven't read any J.K. Rowling earlier. I tried reading Harry Potter multiple times but gave it up on reaching page 5. So, I am not a fan. Now that I have these two things out of the way, I 'll get to the book. It's a decent read for a whodunit. The book is approximately 450 pages long and I could figure out the murderer by page 200 so the 'big reveal' at the end wasn't exactly a surprise. I had hoped for a bit more psychological profiling of the killer or even of the private detective, Cormoran Strike. There is some but not enough to warrant gushing praise or earnest recommendation. The Cuckoo's Calling begins with the death of Lula Landry, a supermodel. Lula is flying flat and splattered in the snow. There is speculation that she has jumped to her death. Her brother, however, does not think so and hires Strike to find out the truth. Strike

A quick round-up of the last two days: An interesting discussion with a group of pals on the epistolary form of writing. We even did an exercise and it was fun. On the way back home suddenly decided to go to Bombay. And one reason I love a flush, full wallet is that it allows me to change my mind and indulge in a trip home. So I went to Bombay and it was nice. Went for Haider. It was nice enough but it left me underwhelmed. I think if you must adapt, then the characters that die in the original must die in the adaptation . Why did Haider live? I think if there isn't that kind of fidelity to characters, then it's just another story of a son seeking to avenge his father's death...and that is any of Amitabh Bachchan's 500 movies. But maybe the real Haider or Hamlet is Kashmir and it's demand for 'Azaadi'? The way the film is shot, the place really comes alive like a spectre, like a soul, like a song. Back home to Pune with high fever and a solid back

Tw really good days. I managed to make it to yoga class and make it through the yoga class. I was a little stiff but overall, the stamina was goo. The flexibility will be back in a while. A friend of mine is a stylist and I usually ask her to pick me some stuff when she goes shopping in Bombay. So far, she's bought me a beautiful blue long dress and another cotton one in dusty pink and faded grey. I love them - especially the grey and pink cotton dresses. This time I asked her to get me a bunch of white shirts. Turns out she was purging her wardrobe and gave me some clothes. They are so awesome that I blinked back tears when I saw them. There's a gorgeous mul shirt that I'm wearing now. It is soft and floaty with bat-sleeves. There's another sharp and structured one. There is one superb one that's like a cropped shirt made of fine, gaamchha material. It is dark wooden buttons in the front and back with a dori you can use to fit the shirt as loosely or tightly

Today is a Wednesday. I like Wednesdays because the day seems to have the most rounded-off edges of all the days. There's a homely softness to the sound of it, to its being, to how it comes like a soft interlude. Anyway, at work nowadays, every single second seems to be offered at the altar of some deadline or the other, so there hasn't been any downtime as such. Anyway, as a show of some kind of defiance to a crazy schedule, I just sat back during lunch. Really sat back. Leaned back, breathed in deeply, and just stared at the minty blue horizon in the distance. Then I finished some work and wrapped up, making it known very clearly that I was leaving for the day. A pal and I went to Crossword and I was really in a mood to blow up some cash. There's a beautiful release when I swipe a credit card or hand over money in exchange for stuff. This time, I bought these books: Myth = Mithya by Devdutt Pattnaik Love in the time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez Diary of Ann

Polluted is the city with paradoxicity With a reddish moon impaled on the sky Like a withered hibiscus in a garland Smog is the answer to a why that's dead But gets resurrected in October Because that's when festivals begin And we light up to lighten a darkness That hitherto illuminated the way That's the paradoxicity polluting this faded city That lies tessellated in the void And misshapen in the wind And stretched in the hours And goosebumped on the skin And furiously paces In a mind that dies For an unforgettable amnesia that memory denies.  

One of  those times when one day I decide to moderate comments and the next day I don't. Today i decided not to. I think it will perhaps serve me better to believe that people will be decent, kind and honest. Oh well. 

Of the things I dislike - being lied to is perhaps the most important. Maybe that is one reason I did not pursue law. Anyway, moderating comments from now on. Dissent is easier to tolerate if things are at least, half-way decent, even if they are unfair.

Of late, I have been complaining a lot about the hours I work. Also, after working those many hours, I just tick off something from a long list of to-dos and don't really feel a fullness from what I have done. The work itself, I think, has shaped out well enough but I still feel that what it took out of me was far too much. I am so grateful to have the kind of mum I have. She is such a partner...gamely putting up with my absences without making me feel bad about not making the time for her. Overall, I think some amount of resentment has also started calcifying the heart. I don't feel like being in touch with my older friends anymore. Those days when I used to feel warm and cocooned in their goodwill - that feels very fake somehow. I think a year or so ago, there was a robbery in my house and my parents were harmed. None of my friends visited my folks. None of them even called to speak with them. Sure they called to find out how they were doing - the y I suppose one may ask a

Read this somewhere...a piece by Pema Chhodron: In life, we think that the point is to pass the test or overcome the problem. The real truth is that things don't really get solved. They come together for a time, then they fall back apart. They they come together again and fall apart again. It's just like that. Personal discovery and growth come from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for the grief, for relief, for misery, for joy. Suffering comes from wishing things were different. Misery is self-inflicted, when we are expecting the "ideal" to overcome the 'actual', or needing things (or people or places) to be different for us so we can then be happy. Let the hard things in life break you. Let them affect you. Let them change you. Let these hard moments inform you. Let this pain be your teacher. The experiences of your life are trying to tell you something about yourself. Don't cop out on that. Don't run away and hide under your

( This was published in Golden Sparrow a while ago.)   You’re new in Pune.  You’re probably stuck on the side of the road, trying to cross the street. Or looked down at the plate of Mughlai food and wondered if the dish’s description in the menu was fiction. Or were blindsided by the brutishness of the autorickshaw drivers. You are away from home, fed up, and want out.   Understandable. Bu hang on because with a few things explored, that lens will soften and getting by will be easier. Arrange for that rickshaw ride: First things first. It’s tough going about town when you don’t have your own vehicle. Negotiating with rickshaw folks (the term ‘negotiating’ is used very loosely here) is very draining. The situation in recent times seems to be improving in some parts of the city where they do ply by meter. However, instead of taking a chance, you could book your rickshaws here: www.autowale.in . They have a service charge. However, the rickshaws go by meter and you get d

Saw a play, Educating Rita, at Bal Gandharva. I was quite nice although the British accent that the actors were using was not really required, considering they couldn't manage to keep it up and were lapsing into an Indian accent mid-way. But the car has a flat so it was rickshaw ride to JM Road, etc. which was super fun! It felt really nice to weave through city traffic late in the evening with the cool air on the face and the hair getting all knotted up with intra-city travel. That part I miss after having a car and always driving with the windows up. Had taken a couple of friends to the Durga pandal near Congress Bhavan and they loved it! It is quite nice, really and the food stalls looked awesome. One of my friends had steamed fish with mustard paste and they both had the prasaad - khichdi, chutney, kheer jalebis, and papads. We got rangolis and very pretty frames to make the rangolis in. All in all, a very good day!  

Lots to do. Lots to think about. Just some time, dear Universe....just a little bit to stop and think...

Last night, I had driven my mum, neighbours and another girl who works with us to a Durga pandal near Congress Bhavan. It is supposed to be the biggest Durga Pandal in Pune and the busiest. So I wore a saree, convinced my mum and got my neighbors excited about the pandal as well. It was the first day though so the stalls and stuff were not set up yet. The devi's murti was there though and I love the first glimpse of Durga in a pandal - dazzling white and red. The durga murtis that I love though are the ones I have seen in the Ram Krishna Mission and ISKCON. Even the Patwardhan Park in Bandra. Also, the one at Koregaon Park and the one I had seen near Someshwar Wadi. Those durgas are what I am used to imagining Durga as. She was only sixteen and very beautiful and fierce. The durgas in Maharashtra usually are older and look matronly. That's not the durga I search for during this season. I look for eyes that blaze and mesmerize. She has the youth and innocence of one who knows t