Chiffonesque

 I love courtroom dramas.  I love non-linear storytelling. I love thrillers. I love tender love stories that embellish such series of grit, grime, and blood. This series delivers on all counts, dips somewhat after a couple of seasons, gets uneven and predictable (when it is less courtroom and more drama) and then finishes strong. The series centers around Annalise Keating who is a fierce, black criminal lawyer who also teaches a class in criminal law (which she calls 'How to Get Away with Murder'). As a teaching methodology, she gets her class to weigh in on her live cases. Part of her strategy also involves picking a handful of promising students and have them work in her 'lab' where they get to help her in strenuous arguments and civil suits, etc. The plot thickens, a murder happens, people get involved, incriminated, incarcerated, and dead. I found a couple of characters in this cast to be really unlikeable - Michaela, Laurel, and Bonnie. After the first couple of se

I am feeling pretty defeated today.  I think I hadn't counted on how ill-prepared I was to see my father helpless. I guess I never thought it would ever be my dad. He still is stubborn - not wanting anyone to help him up, not wanting anyone to hold his trembling hand, not reminding him that he said the same thing a few seconds ago. It's also strange that my brother seems to be handling this better than I am. I don't think I had ever thought I would witness a circumstance involving my father where my brother showed more composure than me...but there it is.  And there's possibly going to be a lockdown again and in Vashi, the only fruits that were available were semi-soft melons. No bananas, no mangoes, no grapes...strange. R, my cook, told me that she had got really nice fruits from Pali Market - so could I go and get some. She's quite ditzy like that - ask me to get stuff from Bandra so she can make the fruit custard that Papa would like. I mean - that specificity is

 I just started reading 'Radical Acceptance' by Tara Brach. Am only a few pages in. It's a book about how to tune into a deep, wise and peaceful space in you to cope with a life that is being a little, shall we say, unexpected.  She is also a psychologist who has studied Buddhist meditation practices and I think that the solution she presents is in the title of the book. My father is not well and he is going to great lengths to not show that he is not well, especially around me.  I think after you lose one parent, there's a lot of pressure on the other parent to stay alive and well. Am sure that can be exhausting. Anyway, one gets through whatever one has to get through, I suppose, one way or another. Maybe this time I will try to cut out my kicking and screaming earlier.

 I will dive right into the portion that gutted me: "I think that our childhood fate can indeed enable us to practice psychotherapy, but only if we have been given the chance, through our own therapy, to live with the reality of our past and to give up the most flagrant of our illusions.. This means tolerating the knowledge that, to avoid losing the "love" of our parents, we were compelled to gratify their unconscious needs at the cost of our own emotional development. It also means being able to experience the resentment and mourning aroused by our parents' failure to fulfill our primary needs." Alice Miller is a psychoanalyst whose main work (or at least what she is known for) is parental child abuse. In this book, she covers various aspects of this abuse and, interestingly, how it relates to psychotherapists or healers or anyone who wants to 'help other people'.  The book covers several broad themes. Parents themselves are prisoners of their own unhea

 One more week is done. Since a couple of months now, I have been having bad dreams. They aren't even dreams. Just flashes of my hair pulled out of my scalp and a bloody scalp. I get tingly sensations on the top of my head. I usually ignore them. But since the last few days, my left arm has been paining and my palms feel like it's on pins and needles. I think it's connected to my dream. I called my doctor friend. She told me quite pointedly that there is no reason to reach for the esoteric when the issue could be quite easily related to my diet, nutrition, and blood pressure. I sullenly agreed to get my BP tested. But there's something about the dream and my bloody scalp. The only time I didn't feel it was when I was in Vashi... especially around my father. Then I was okay. The other day V fixed my ACs (not really fixed...just turned them on...yes, I am that inept) and I have been noticing some strange things in the house. I feel that every time the AC is on, there&

 I returned from Vashi early in the morning. The cab ride from Vashi to Bandra at around 7 am is soft with beauty, grace and mercy. It's a quieter world. A nicer life.  Turned the key and saw my living room from the front door. It's beautiful. It had three perfect shards of golden light on the floor. There was a blush and shine of a fresh morning softening the shadows. It's a stunning little space. Remembered the lines by Emily Dickinson, " The soul selects her own society...and then shuts the door."

This cupboard here is an indication of just how much my life has changed over the years. And in this cupboard, the bottom shelf is now seeming to be a cause for concern. That's my laptop bag. For much of my work life and certainly for my freelance years (up until I moved to Bandra), my laptop bag was an extension of me. I would have this bag and a small carry-on always on the ready. If I had to shuttle between Mumbai and Pune, I would stuff this with books or files, some cash, a Red Bull (always a Red Bull), and move. Then I moved to Noida. Trips became inter-state. A smaller carry-on so I could move quicker. I was traveling to Mumbai at least once a month.  Then I moved to Bangalore. Trips to Bombay became more frequent and more expensive. So there was only my handbag and my laptop bag, so I could take the bus from Electronic City to the airport instead of a cab. And move to the hospital directly from the airport once Ma was in the hospital. Then I moved to Bandra. That's when

 In the extended season of fatigue that is my life, something nice happened. And I wanted to write this down before I crashed or devolved into the state I've been in. I returned home from Vashi close to midnight. My key got stuck in the lock. And I got locked out of the door. There was fervent banging, pounding, abusing, and cajoling the said door, key, and lock. I even rang the bell in the weird hope that maybe my house was haunted and the ghost would open the door from inside to let me in. Either my house is not haunted or it is a very lazy, unhelpful ghost.  Anyhoo, I found this number of Rafik the locksmith. I am sharing his number because he is available 24*7 and services Bandra and a few areas around it. Apparently, I have some kind of a digital lock or a digital key or whatever the shit this is - it is supposed to be safer than other types of locks and keys and therefore more inconvenient if you get stuck outside.  Rafik is responsive and if you are in Bandra and are likely

 I have been avoiding all client interaction for a while now and today I just couldn't avoid it. I told people that I wasn't ready to talk to clients anymore. I wasn't ready to talk to anyone anymore. But they insisted. I complied. And sure enough, I snapped. Didn't make for a good conference call.  Today I did the other joyous thing of looking up suicide rates in India. These are the 2019 numbers, in thousands: Below 18 years 9.61 18 to 30 years 48.77 30 to 45 years 44.29 45 to 60 years 25.44 60 years and above 11.01 These numbers seem to be slightly different from the trends in the West where older people, above 65, kill themselves. Somewhere I had read that the loneliness in old age gets too hard to bear. It seems to be the reverse in India. Could it be because we are a crowded place? When you are younger, you don't get the time and space you need to figure yourself out so you feel suffocated. So you go and you kill yourself. Or you feel scared at the prospect of

Today is Thursday. It was nice, warm, and bright.  I woke up. As usual, I had a knot in my stomach. As usual, I hadn't slept well. But unusually, I thought about Reggy. A college friend. A college acquaintance. Had shared some notes in school. We weren't close. We weren't even friends. But we were both shy in a college that celebrated the exuberance of the extroverts. But Reggy was confident in his shyness (and if you have been a shy person, you will know this when you see it.) But I wasn't.  I graduated. He did too. Never met him. Until one day outside Bandra court and another time outside High Court. He was with a lady. Might have been a client. Regy was a practising lawyer by then. I had completed law but had dusted my books and kept them aside. Regy, the lady, and I had chai and samosa in the High Court canteen. Regy told me that a very celebrated criminal lawyer was due to make an appearance later that afternoon. He told me to wait back and see the hearing if I cou

 It doesn't get easier. It doesn't get better. It doesn't pass. It doesn't move on. It doesn't let up. It doesn't give in. The RIP is not for the one that leaves. The RIP is for who get left behind. And the RIP is an impossible, cruel dream.

 A day, a night, a life is gone As dewy buds unfurled And just like they all dissolved A home, a city, a world. 

 There comes a time when you get a chance to become a mother to your mother. And then you see it all - their petulance at being denied something, the sulking, the joy when you stop work early to spend time with them, the sneaking past bedtime, the eye-rolls when you suggest something proper and wise, high tempers over some non-issue with a friend, endless chats with siblings, excessive TV viewing, naughty smirks when they take your phone to scroll through Instagram or order something random on Amazon...or wake you in the middle of the night on the pretext of telling you a bad dream when they really just want to stay up late and chat, or throw medicines down the sink, pass their bowls of sugar-free vegan icecreams to father (who shows uncharacteristic self-restraint regarding desserts only then), tell you that you look like a turnip when you wear a rather nice sweatshirt, eat berries on the sly, bribe the help to buy gulab jamuns, take over your laptop when you're away, share opinio

Little bald babies with hair accessories are a few of my favourite things. An ode...  Rise and shine, my flowery friend! I don't think my camera captured the way this magenta bloom climbed up...but it would make a lovely print on a saree. If you're NOT looking for a watchdog, here's a selection on Carter Road. Mornings are reminders why Carter Road is where it's at... So, the other day I had gone to buy broccoli. And a floret of brocolli was nearly 185 bucks. I realised that I might have to work a few hours more every day if I want to be able to afford Thai curry rice. (One either needs both kidneys or sell one to buy galangal, rocket spinach, lemon grass, kafir limes, etc.) Maybe living in Bandra will require me to eat once every alternate day, I think. Speaking of luscious luxuries, here's a lovely silk yellow polka dot kaftan at a boutique. Yesterday, there was no electricity in my area for a few minutes. Since I only have induction stuff, my neighbour sent acros

 So, so, SO happy! 

 It seems like a lifetime ago that I was married today. It seems like a lifetime ago that it ended. Both happened...well, if not "OUT of the blue", both happened with the happy bizarreness of a snowstorm in a tropical city.  I read this that reminded me of A...not because he was boring. In fact, he was anything but. He was in every way, my sparkling traveling hero. But this poet is reminiscent of my sweet, dulcet time in Delhi when the coziness of a regular life was beautiful. The 'ho-hum'ness was quite spectacular.  Dear A, for whatever happened for whatever reasons...thank you for the memories.  Bored by Margaret Atwood All those times I was bored out of my mind. Holding the log while he sawed it. Holding the string while he measured, boards, distances between things, or pounded stakes into the ground for rows and rows of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored) weeded. Or sat in the back of the car, or sat still in boats, sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel h

  I felt like writing a poem In the middle of the night The ideas came scrambling But soon after, took flight. A molting nomad came along In time and delayed It flit about and went away Yet gave me words that stayed. 

Sketched these. Most of these are from Pinterest, except for the third one. I have a very heavy heart since the last few days...when I meditate, I feel as if a very old wound is trying to emerge. Or like a thorn or a shard of glass or a pebble that has wedged itself in my flesh can't be pulled out now because the wound has become crusty. The only way the pebble can come out is if the surrounding muscles soften. And the only way to soften them is by weeping out the truth. I hadn't intended it this way but maybe there is a story in all these pictures. Maybe it's the story of a person's transformation...a person's reluctant transformation. Maybe becoming the butterfly is all very well...but the caterpillar had more fun. 

R was telling me about this jungle in Orissa, somewhere close to where she is from where people see large snakes that look like brass and copper tubes, depending on how the light falls on them. People get attracted to these and try to steal them because brass and copper are expensive metals. But as they approach these snakes, they retract, get thin and small like earthworms. Then they fly out in full force and size and attach. She was also telling me of this beautiful and tasty fruit called 'Kendu'. Apparently it is bright orange on the inside (yellow when raw) and has a seed like an avocado. Its covering is as thin as an egg-shell. One breaks it open and scoops out the soft flesh and eats. She says that the trees from which these fruits hang are beautiful. 

 I am getting a little exhausted from all the pain I am waking up to every day. So today, thought, I would get a little stubborn about joy. Sketched myself a little rabbit with a little carrot. Image courtesy: Pinterest Last couple of days have realised that I am still very emotionally fragile (and therefore potentially harmful) regarding an issue I thought I had left behind. So I decided to start a regular meditation practice again. Today, did it for 30 minutes morning and evening. I am just an ordinary person trying to catch a break. So I decided to have myself a Diwali in March.  I love candles. Tealights. Diyas. I don't see flames as objects. They are friends. If I ever feel scared or unsupported or low, I light a candle. Or however many I can. Everytime a flame is lit, I feel a conversation has begun. With a strong and steady flame, it's one kind of talk. With a flickering, jumpy flame, it's another sort of chit-chat. I don't quite but that philosophy that a flame

 Well, I managed to cope today. It's still hard but I had a few good moments. Cook had made aaloo parathas and she had grated some potatoes along with the mash (which is the traditional stuffing). It was a really good twist. Added some body to the parathas.  I have a long, long way to go...to even understand what I am going through, why, and how do I put it behind me once and for all. But I don't know. Feeling really lost. But I did manage to sit through a few calls, read a couple of pages of the Gita (when I didn't feel like), and completed something on time.  Not too much done. But not too shabby either.  Let's see what the rest of the night brings.