Chiffonesque

Umm...Umm...

2012-01-31T13:49:00.000-05:00

That time slipped in, that night slipped out
That life just fell off the hook
When the sky and the world fell away like peels
And I read the coffee asI sipped the book.

(Got scribbled in my head on one of those wonderful Pune evenings.)

Last few days

2012-01-26T14:15:00.002-05:00

For a couple of days I've had to stay at the company guest house. This guest house is mid-way between my home and office. Rooms were neat and they had the friendliest staff. I wouldn't usually eat there because I'd get my staple of Pune viewing and course-wise eats at Linger On. However, one day I did have their vegetarian dinner- daal, rice, kofta in a spicy curry that carried the slightest hint of nutmeg, and curd. It was delicious!

Another excellent consequence of the guest-house stay was my re-acquaintance with T.V. I haven't had one in a long time now and don't plan on keeping one in Pune either. But there's something so delicious about T.V. programs. It's such a mixed bag! You have salty treats like F.R.I.E.N.D.S. or Rules of Engagement, rock candy like The Shield (has anyone seen Glenn Close in that series? She IS rock candy!), or sweet and pickled prunes like Sex and the City. I think it's a great idea to call a service that provides T.V. programs 'dish'. What else could it be?

It's my new resolve to do some meditation every day. And after the meditation, the idea is to reflect upon the meditation, or quietly wind down the brain, maybe read a few quiet pages, and sleep. But the time after meditation, at the guesthouse, was spent observing the hand gently reach for the remote and turn on Star World. I mean, if the subconscious has to get in touch with me, maybe it's trying to do that through Homer Simpson. My sub-conscious isn't snooty that way. And Homer Simpson is as valid a representative of Id as any.

So there I was, tucked under swathes of blankets, all lights off. Just the flicker of the T.V. screen dancing on the headboard of my bed. I switch, switch, switch, and come across a set of movie channels. Now, I haven't seen a film on T.V. in ages! For a minute, I had to get used to the idea that I was watching the film alone. I could go get myself a snack in the middle of a film without steeling myself against angry stares. And I could even take a phone call without hushing up.

One night, I caught a couple of really good films. One was 'Half Light' starring Demi Moore and another was an Irish production called 'Once'.

Half Light's a thriller set in Ireland. The cinematography is beyond stunning! Moore plays an author whose son has drowned. She carries the guilt about her son's death and tries to immerse herself in her work. She's actually based in London but I think she needs a break from her marriage. (I missed the first half-hour or so of the film). So, she comes to this part in an Irish village that seems to be a break-away tuft of land. She puts up in a lonely house away from the main village. There's an angry sea dividing Moore's house from the other end of a cliff where there's a lighthouse.

There are scenes where Demi has rowed over to the lighthouse, waves lashing against sharp, rust-colored rocks. Over there, her dark hair keeps getting whipped around her face. Her fingers are pink and her face is flushed from the cold. She's clicking three large, beautiful horses - black, white, and dark brown. That's where she meets the light-house keeper.

The movie has scenes of storms and darkness that have that Celtic iciness I love. I wondered what if Pune turned out that way someday? Sure, today there are people-distractions now. I have a house, neighbors and heaps of shops I could just go into and talk to a shopkeeper. There is a very different place in this world that could some day take this city's place too. Maybe all I could have one day is a little window in a pretty isolated cottage from which I'd be looking at a light-house. And listening to epic sagas of the sea.

It's a lovely film - visually, at least. I like horror flicks and this film has a supernatural theme going on. But mostly it's predictable. What's unexpected, though, is the lasting, lingering touch of Ireland. It's like remembering, forever, what it felt like being a piece of melted ice.

The other film, co-incidentally (although I don't think there are any such things as 'co-incidences'), was by an Irish production house called 'Once'. It starts with a musician playing at a street square in Dublin. Some people stop to listen. One guy tries to steal his guitar case and run. The musician stops him and they exchange a few exasperated words. It turns out they know each other. The musician gives the thief some money and they part ways.

One day, a young woman throws in 10 cents for a song the musician is singing. This is not a popular or a known song; it's not a crowd puller. The musician stops, thanks the girl, and says sarcastically, "Thank you for the ten cents." The girl (we later find out she's Czech) is not really fluent in English but sarcasm she gets. They talk and she learns that he actually repairs vaccum cleaners. Excitedly, she brings her bright blue vacuum cleaner. He tries to dodge her off, he fails, and they end up eating together.

She is really keen on his music and he shares some songs with her. Stuff happens between them - a night where he propositions her, a morning where he tries to make it up by asking her to write lyrics to his songs, a bus ride where both their personal histories tumble out, their difficult families, their meiotic dreams. Then they record some music together - after which they go their separate ways.

This movie, to me, is memorable because of the songs. I can't imagine how those songs could be so innard-scopic insightful and yet sound like easy ditties! They're fantastic. That movie is a keepsake because of the songs. Each of them has maybe 10 to 12 lines. Yet, they cut through thickets of love, longing, loss, pain - and whatever vegetation of feelings poetry grows around a broken heart. The songs just make it simple. Cut down all that angst and silence and make it easy. There were, in the end, only two things to say, "That hurt" and "I'm okay."

I'm back at home now. Time for books. That's okay, though. A book is just a movie in my head anyway.

Domesticating goddess

2012-01-22T14:14:00.001-05:00

All gas cylinders must have a fuel gauge. The gauge must indicate how full or empty the cylinder is. What's the point of constantly lifting up cylinders to figure out from heft how much gas you have left? It's annoying! My rant is based on my inability to figure out if I can go for a week or a month or several months on a gas cylinder. Since I'd be staying by myself and subsisting basically rice and daal every day, I estimated to have gas until March. Therefore, I go ahead and invite friends and promise them feasts and stuff and then, I run out of gas.

Today is Sunday and the gas agency is shut. Actually, they aren't much more responsive or sprightly when they're open either but...Now, I'm not sure how long it takes to get a gas cylinder here but I'm guessing it would be at least 2 weeks. That's what the last tenant told me. I am not sure if I can trust him enough now.

When I first met him, he very helpfully pointed out the closest route to my office, amenities of the flat, latest electricity bills, etc. He said that he was leaving to get married and all. Now, he really looked like a smitten bachelor. His dishevelled look and the crumpled shirt led me to believe something about him. I pegged him as one who, until then would cook up some Maggi, log in to the net and skype love songs to his fiance. Such a man, I supposed, wouldn't have been using up too much gas for cooking, thereby leaving me with a cylinder full enough to last me until March. But clearly that wasn't the case. Maybe he was using up all that gas to practice cooking and feed his future bride. This is exactly what microwaves are for.

The same gentleman had also waxed eloquently about the washing machine. And today I tried to use it and got stumped beyond measure. I must say that I've never used a washing machine before. I have never washed clothes for anybody other than myself. So, I either washed it myself or had them cleaned by someone else. It's all been very manual thus far. And frankly, after today's experience, I prefer it that way.

The broad, white contraption that currently occupies three-fourth of the kitchen balcony looked harmless enough. So I fit in the valve for water to the tap, and as instructed, turned on the tap for the water to fill the machine. But, the water did not fill the machine. Instead it started draining out from a stubby, short valve at the other end. No biggie, I thought. I'll just plug in the other valve where it's supposed to go. And...well...I couldn't figure out where it was supposed to go.

It was around 11 at night and I was unfortunately wearing a cotton nighty and standing in the cold. So I looked hard and urgently at every orifice of that machine and unfortunately, only came up with stupid labels and wire diagrams in German and Japanese. I tried doing it again but no...the water kept draining out. It was cold and all that draining just makes one want to...you know, pee. By this time, I was mighty annoyed and I treated the washing machine like a computer. I thumped it hard. Then I treated it like a car. Kicked it hard. And then I treated it like a project manager. Derided it in my head. (I came close to that short valve and called it a hobbit. Hee hee!)

Clothes had to be washed anyway. So I did it the old fashioned way, happily soaping up the clothes and then washing them in blissfully hot water. Yes, it did take really long and by the time I was done, it was almost midnight.

I took the pail of clean, washed clothes to the other balcony - the prettier one - and started hanging them to dry. Somewhere between hanging dark blue harem pants and a grey tee, I saw a star. A single, lone star. It shone like a Greek myth civilization vaguely remembers but prefers to forget. I thought that maybe that constellation just consisted of one little star called Domestizeus. She rolled down Zeus' eye one day when he figured out just how important housework was and how no-one ever gave it enough credit. It was Zeus' one and only thought on home and hearth.

As I fabricated all of that in my head, I saw other stars. Lots of them. Suddenly, the majesticity of the Greek myth was lost. Now, the sky looked pretty run-of-the-mill, with stars appearing like cosmic tweets.

All good days must end with self-aggrandisement. Hence, I've taken upon the mantle of being Domestizeus. Now I shall proceed to try and make coffee in a rice cooker.

The first of Pune recommendations

2012-01-22T02:52:00.000-05:00

It was really cold yesterday. I woke up very early, shivered around for some time, and kept looking out to spot the sun. Many hours later, I went out to the balcony and tried sitting in wide shafts of sunshine that had made their appearance. As pretty as the light was (very chic in a European movie sort of way), it didn't help. The sunlight wasn't warm enough.

I cleaned up some more, arranged some stuff, and then shivering and cold, fell asleep. I woke up around six in the evening. It was grey with no semblance of any sunshine having visited earlier in the day. I felt like taking a short walk so I got dressed and headed out. The little lane that leads on to the main road has some construction work happening. It reminded me of walks I used to take from my place to J's house in Koregaon Park.

There's a lot happening along my road. A small temple opposite the lane was decorated with marigolds and orchids - a very unusual combination. The flowers didn't really 'go' together but the saffron and purple colours definitely piqued the old temple ambience. Diyas were lit but even their flames seemed to be bright, yet mellow. Warmth didn't visit Pune at all yesterday.

A couple of new mattress stores opened yesterday. Several eateries were offering discounts and specials. I walked on straight towards Aundh. It was such a pleasure to walk! It wasn't as cold outside as it was in the house. It was a...how do I explain...it was a soft night. Saturday night, sure, but a soft one. Lots of stars, no moon, a few clouds, and an endless river of careless whispers around the city.

I came to this cafe I had spotted a few days earlier. It's called 'Linger On', opposite the LG showroom on Baner Road. It looked small and toasty from the road. They have a narrow porch where 3 young men sat and discussed some matter very seriously. One furiously stubbed his cigarette while trying to get his very good-looking laptop (aqua blue) to run a program. The other recited something that could have been Gibran but was really a list of sandwiches he wanted to share with his pals.

Inside, the cafe has a mezzanine floor and is stocked with books and board games. I ordered a tofu burger and masala chai and sat outside.

Now, I don't know if it's the cafe or Pune but the experience of al fresco dining is so cheery. This place is on a busy road, yet it feels like you are just watching the world like a movie. So much goes on, so much chatter around, yet you are by yourself doing nothing more than observing someone peel away a bubble gum wrapper and then fold it neatly into a square. It's really wee...and nice.

My burger was really well-done! That was the closest I had seen tofu resemble a non-vegetarian patty. It needed a little salt but everything else was spot on. The top of the burger bun was greased, so it had this nice salty smoothness. And the masala chai was masala chai indeed. You could sniff it from across the road! And there wasn't the 'dip dip' ridiculousness that CCD has. (They just give you a cup of hot water and a single tea bag! That's just cheap, I think.) This was brewed strong and tasty.

I took my time. Watched a few regulars come in - the kinds who look through the menu as a formality, yet order what they have always ordered. I really liked the place.

Hope to go there for a long, lazy brunch soon.

Moving day

2012-01-20T15:25:00.000-05:00

Today, I stirred my coffee with a pair of scissors.

Here's how it began:

Many moons ago, I was born under a star that decreed that I would be...well...weird. Someone capable of doing much but someone also likely to do nothing. And whatever little I'd do, I wouldn't really do them right.

So, anyway. For several reasons I decided to shift to Pune. My stuff - which is my bed, kitchen utensils, etc. - all of those would be reaching the new flat a couple of days later. However, I had to shift immediately because of some interesting arrangement with the broker and the landlord. When I started from Mumbai, I decided to take the bare minimum that would carry me through the next couple of days. I'd also need to shift out to another place for another 2 or 3 days while I started my new job. In the mean time, the rented place would get sorted out, etc. etc. and then I would move in for good by next weekend. (All of that had made sense to me a few days ago.)

Therefore, I thought and made a list. What would I need for the next few days? Clothes - formals and something to lounge around and sleep in. Comfortable shoes for walking. Towels, napkins, facewash. If the toothpaste doesn't squeeze out from that doggone tube, then a pair of scissors to rip it open. And of course, for the morning cuppa, the materials - a vessel to boil milk and some water in, some container to keep the sugar, the lighter to light the stove with, a cup, wipe cloths to wipe the cup after rinsing it, and also the book I'd peruse as I sipped my sweet, strong coffee.

No flaw in the plan thus far. I reach my flat and impatiently wait for the broker to just hand over the keys and go. But he is sweet enough to take me through the house once again, just to make sure I'd be comfortable staying there alone. It's a semi-furnished place so it looked huge. At least for me.

There's a sofa and two arm chairs. They seem cushy enough. However, they are a difficult brown to co-ordinate anything with. But I'm a big one for curtains. I love buying curtains. Especially those huge, floor-length ones in wispy material and soft prints. They look like they've been speckled with Raphael's paintbrush. Gauzy, dreamy motifs in pastels against transparent whites or creams.

Anyway I got a few curtains - really pretty ones. One set is a light, minty blue and the other one is a thin, soft white one with candy stripes. As soon as I reached the flat, I put them up, admired them for 5 minutes, and then got started on the coffee. So, the water got heated and so did the milk. I shook the right amount of coffee from the coffee jar and did the same with the sugar. I hadn't yet realized what was missing. Then I poured the coffee, closed my eyes in bliss at the rich, earthy fragrance, and then looked around for a spoon.

To any other human being, to anyone else, the necessity of a spoon would be more obvious than the requirement for scissors to tear open tightly wound toothpaste tubes. I wondered, aloud and softly, to myself and God, in wonder and amusement, why I was not like any other human being.

And that's how a perfectly good looking Vega pair of scissors found itself swirling deep, dark brew.

The coffee was good, though. I had it watching the curtains flutter in the wind.

Move to Pune

2012-01-19T15:15:00.000-05:00

I'm moving to Pune tomorrow. It's already been a month into the new year and I'm not really feeling so fresh and new about anything. Pune, though, holds the promise of a shiny, fresh kind of ching! Over the last few weeks, I've been to Pune a few times. Mostly, I've stayed over at a cousin's place in Khadakvasla and just had the most restful time there.

My niece, nephew, and I had once taken our cups of hot tea and chocolate milk and gone to an open field. It was early evening, yet the world had this sweet winter vapour around it. The light was soft and it was chilly. We sat on dried grass, spotted plants with bright orange hibiscuses, and made up stories about the neighbor's labrador, Tipsy.

In Pune again, I'd gone for a birthday party at one of my cousin's friends home. There was dinner around bonfires under a starlit sky. My finger tips remember the smudge of warmth I coaxed out from every dying ember.

I had a few chilly auto-rickshaw rides from Chandni Chowk to Baner. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine traveling in a far simpler world. I was in a bullock-cart - one that carried springtime by the sackfuls.

My interview at the job there required me to wait for a couple of hours while the company made their decision. I spent the quietest, happiest time at a nearby CCD watching the world go by. Every curl of chocolate shaving on my coffee corresponded with a smile from a happy stranger.

Pune is my second innings. I have no friends here for now. But Pune being Pune will give me a few things to start with - skies delicately embroidered with clouds, the best shafts of sunlight anywhere in the world, moments wholesome like fruits - like pretty garnet pomegranate beads. I'll have nights where the moon looks like an impostor trying to gatecrash a party of elfin stars. I'll have daybreaks that lightly tiptoe over tree-tops. There will be summers - hot, parched summers. There will also be summer evenings where my frosty eyes will look up at whisky skies and the season will get intoxicated.

Pune being Pune will give me the world where hopefully, someday, friends will come.

Faith? Really?

2012-01-18T05:51:00.000-05:00

Through shoddy shards of fate,
Across fractured bets and odds,
With blind faith we prod along,
Being so forgiving of our gods.

So it ends

2012-01-10T15:45:00.000-05:00

Saffron linen of an open sky

And on that, a reddish moon platter

In the cab, the hand-holding

Yet looking away, as if it didn't matter

Thick, cottony winter breeze

And shrubs with firefly dances

In the shadows, the kissing

And the stealing of nightly chances

Unsaid, undone, thrills, words and deeds

And maybe the guilt of not knowing

Penitent, imprisoned in cold, steady gaze,

And yet...redemption in a poem.

Essential reading

2012-01-04T01:49:00.000-05:00

I will perhaps be the one millionth person to recommend the article 'Joy of Quiet' by Pico Iyer for NY Times. It bodes well for the new year that it has begun with such tender and piercing insight.

Maybe, in 2012, the world will not end.

It will simply get unplugged.

That weird feeling

2012-01-03T16:02:00.000-05:00

Last night. I wrote about the knot of anxiety in my stomach. Early this morning, I got a text from my father. My uncle had passed away due to a heart attack.

The day was very busy. I sensed some kind of discomfort in my heart. Tried to come to terms with it. Couldn't. Felt a little better when I received my offer letter from a Pune company I had interviewed for. I now need to look for a home there as I need to shift base by the 20th of this month. Have spread the word on twitter and facebook. Also, written to a couple of people whose details I got off Makaan and MagicBricks. No leads yet.

As the day progressed, this sense of fear came back. A weird sense of loss. I don't think it was my uncle. I wasn't too close to him. But of course, he was part of my childhood. And that, I guess, inextricably binds you to someone. Somehow, I feel that the year hasn't really begun for me. It still has the stale dishwater feel of last year's rinses.

I was so restless and anxious to get out tonight. Oddly, I had thought staying in Mira Road would put me in touch better and faster with the rest of the world. I get the feeling that maybe Vashi is better connected. Of course, this could be because I am not really used to Mira Road. But still, I feel people from Vashi are getting out to go to different spots all over the city. From Mira Road, they usually only travel the Western line.

A friend called me up to wish him happy birthday. I did. Very contrite I was about forgetting his birthday. Truly. He's been such a good friend over the years. He was the first one in life to have organized a surprise birthday party for me. We'd gone to a Barista in town. I think it was near Regal or Sterling. He'd brought a large, thick chocolate cake and a couple of sleepy friends. We cut the cake and clinked our cappuccino cups and sipped our coffee. I think I was 22 or 23 then.

At 11:40 p.m., I stepped out of the house to go meet him at a nearby CCD. I miss Bandra. I miss the Bombay of before. When there weren't so many dogs as now. Even if there weren't as many streetlights, the darkness was friendlier. I miss the time when my heart was more open. I miss the Bombay when my head was held high.

As I walked down the road, a couple of auto rickshaws tooted their horns, peered at me, slowed a little, and then whizzed by. A very handsome young boy drove by in a long, silver car. He gave me a long look, seemed a little unsure, but drove anyway. When I walked ahead, I saw him park the car on the side. He was even more handsome up close. Something very aquiline about his features. About his stance. Mighty but could take flight any minute.

I think I stared at him a little too long. He seemed embarrassed and looked away even though he'd been looking at me first. I walked past. The CCD was shut. Opposite the coffee place, though, is a really nice Chinese place called 'Marvins'. It was past closing time but my friend and his buddies had managed to sneak inside and get a table.

We cut a pineapple cake. My friends ate some spicy Chinese starters. They also had a pale, beige looking soup they enjoyed. I sipped a chilled Coke. One of them said I'd put on a lot of weight. He's the same guy who's told me I'll die this year. Got a little pissed off with him but that's only because he's right.

They dropped me off home and I sat in front of the computer trying to type this out, look for agents on magic brick, and find an answer. I need sleep. I need this feeling to melt away. It won't until I sleep unfettered for a while.

I think I'm just a bit high strung right now.

Good night, I wish you all.

Writing for the heck of it

2012-01-02T15:30:00.000-05:00

It's just the second day of the New Year and I'm feeling really icky today. There's a knot of fear in my stomach and I'm feeling really anxious about something. Like there's something wrong in the offing. I know this is the first post of the new year and it's supposed to be cheery and all. But tonight, I write to get my mind off things.

Yesterday, I watched Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes - 2 in the theater. I loved the final scene of the film. The film has been released in the year when the world is supposed to get over. Will it, though? In a sort of cheeky acknowledgment to this speculation, the final scene of the film has Sherlock quickly reading a document and adding a question mark to the very last phrase...which is: "The End". (So, it finally reads 'The End?') Clever. I wonder if that was intentional.

I seem to have my appetite under control now. Ate like a regular human-being yesterday and today. This means that I actually got through a meal and there was some stuff left over. Now, that could be a start to a health regimen - eat food, not inhale it.

I just went to bed for a while now. Lay in the darkness with eyes wide open, then half-closed, then tightly shut, then wide open again. So I took a cup of cool milk, sweetened it with sugar, and sipped it slowly. My head and heart just feel too crowded now. Too much stuff is combating for attention inside me. I hate that. I honestly want to bolt. If I could escape right now, and I do mean right now, to some place, I would do it. Unfortunately, I realize I'd be taking this screaming fight with me.

Maybe tomorrow I will figure this out. Or maybe I won't. While the rest of the world lives through 2012, I'll be going through 201? (Get it? The question mark is the last digit and it resembles 2. Indicating that my year is uncertain, more so than most, at least. Or so I'll believe for now.)

Not bad. The cool milk feels good and it seems to have given me the Guy Ritchie touch.

In 2012, may you have everything you need 'on your backside'

2011-12-30T00:45:00.001-05:00

My trip to Delhi in December was a long and beautiful one. Got a chance to go to Agra with the folks. Somehow, all my memories of the Taj are very tactile. Yes, Taj is of course a visual opus of sorts. But Taj, for me, is lodged in my fingertips, on my palm, on the soles of my feet. I remember the feeling of deep inlay work, smooth expanses of marble, cool grooves of the jharokas, and pricks of sharp grass in the gardens. I also remember the shy warmth of light. When you see the Taj, pay attention to how light behaves around it. The light, both sunlight and moonlight, wafts around the monument the way a poem wafts around a poet's head before he puts pen to paper.

I was thinking of something ethereal to wish all of you for New Year's. But somehow, something else keeps coming to mind. It's a memory that has managed to dislodge the magnificent impact of even the Taj. The memory, surprisingly, involves Delhi. The memory, alarmingly, involves an auto-rickshaw fellow.

It was around 10 p.m.one night and I was on my way to Hauz Khas village. I'd seen a beautiful canary yellow stole woven with light gold and baby-pink silk threads. I had a feeling that the shops would be shut by then but I decided to take a chance anyway.

I got an auto after walking a fair bit in the biting cold. The rickshaw guy was wearing a cut-off tee shirt (that should have been a clue into his manic tendencies) and was humming 'Deedar De' loudly (that should have been my second clue). I got in and he took off. Not took off the way other autos take off. Took off the way a small, cheap plane would. I'm pretty sure the auto rose two inches above the ground before we sped away into the mist and fog that only the headless horsemen of the world would like riding about in.

Now, the streets were empty. Shops were closed. Restaurants were open. Police was out. On the way, the auto almost collided with a cow. Since cows are big and important, the auto swerved and almost hit a massive divider. "Bachh gaye!", the fellow grinned like an idiot. My knuckles are smashed a little bit and I'm sure the stress has shaved off 3 months from my life. But what does that matter to the lout who starts singing "Deedar De" again? I was really pissed by then and yelled at him to go slow or else! I, of course, had no idea how to finish that sentence.

The fellow got a little impatient with me and for some reason, pegged me to an NRI or something (because, you know, Indians don't mind being casualties in rick-cow collisions). "Madam, don't worry. Kucch nahin hoga. See your backside."

I had a good mind to thwack him on his head for such impertinence. What did he mean? That my backside was so huge that it would cushion any kind of fall? He pointed somewhere and I looked.

At the back of the auto, in hot pink glitter (and I'll repeat that slowly: hot. pink. glitter), was a sticker that read: "Yadav da chhora". That, to my friend, was like a talisman that would protect us all from grave and dangerous things. I guffawed loudly and told him to take me back home. It was 10:30 already and somehow, I'd gotten my souvenir from Delhi.

So, this is what I wish for all of you. May you always have a crazy, strong, force behind you that takes you to places where you feel no fear. And may this force be with you. (Or on your backside, if you prefer it that way.)

Have a superb 2012!

What's wrong?

2011-12-27T16:39:00.000-05:00

I don't know if it's the weather (Mumbai has been nippy, especially around Mira Road) or some insecurity or nervousness - but I am eating non-stop. And I do mean non-stop. Like today. I ate some rice and vegetables stewed in coconut milk for lunch. Then I had a large cup of coffee with milk and sugar. (Bru Lite - the one that Priyanka Chopra endorses - is lovely. It's smooth, rich, fragrant and less acidic.) A few hours after that, I ate some chivda and chakli that Eva's aunt had made at home for Christmas. (I love those dark, fried raisins that come with the chivda.)

A while later, Eva made tea and we had a couple of slices of fruit bread. I got hungry a while later, so I roasted some makhanas in salt and a pat of butter (I don't know what they're called in English. Not sure if they are lotus seeds. They are white, puffy, and look like solidified tufts of cloud. In fact, when you roast a whole lot of them in a cauldron, it looks like some kind of catacysmic event, like disntegration of heaven.)

Eva then made par-boiled cauliflower for dinner which I ate with a little rice. My tummy started feeling empty an hour later, so I finished off the rest of the fruit bread.

It was around twelve then and I was still working while Eva prepared to go to bed (the routine involves playing a few games of Mah-Jong on the computer). I got peckish again. So I took the remaining rice, cut a few strips of sliced cheese on it, finely chopped a green chilli, and mashed the whole thing up nice and good. That gave me a sense of satiety finally.

Now, I just gulped down a cup of cold milk with sugar again.

I have a feeling this food inhalation is because I'm uncertain about the future. Maybe I should just be grateful that I have a full larder that helps me get through the unknown.

It's ending

2011-12-27T14:05:00.000-05:00

December's haze weaves remembrances

In strands of annual candy floss

With sweet aftertaste of success

And sugary emptiness of loss

The cold explained

2011-12-20T03:37:00.002-05:00

The sun sulked
And turned its face away
And that was, in Delhi,
Another winter's day

Strange feeling

2011-12-17T14:27:00.000-05:00

It was a rather good day today. I woke up late with my head stuffed with unfinished business. I also felt that I should just chuck the idea of working for the rest of the year and streamline my thoughts. It's feeling too crowded up there. In Mumbai, regular life sort of takes up all the time and energy so it distracts me from the very important business of 'getting down to it' and thinking things through. In Delhi, even busy moments seem quiet. Even hours that should whiz by when I'm with friends or roaming about here and there - even those hours feel slow. Delhi really has started feeling like heaven. Like I died and came up here. And maybe my soul is not evolved enough to take this, so I've started pining for my sweet, bizarre hell, Mumbai. Maybe my soul needs to grow some more and Mumbai will stretch it out nice and long.

Due to some recent developments, I need to look for a place to stay. My friend in Mira Road has very kindly offered to share her flat with me until June. (After that, I think she plans to move in with a Dracula. I do think Twilight fans can be batty that way.) Post June, though, I need options. The freelancing is going well and it can go a whole lot better. However, I need a very strong base for that. I need to not feel uprooted or hunted or in some sort of unending transition. That's why I need a place. My budget is currently 6,000 and that too is stretching it. So, searching for a spot in Mumbai will need to begin early.

June is when the rains descend and it would be nice to have a beautiful place by then. Of course, I could get a really plush assignment and then I'll stay in a spot overlooking the Mahalakshmi Race Course.

Hunting for a home, a flatmate, figuring out what to do, where to go, etc. are actually pressing thoughts. I ought to invest a lot more time and energy into that. However, today I just feel empty. I was at the Mocha in Select City Walk today and ordered for some apple and cinnamon tea. It came in a cute little black cup and kettle. That cup was wee. It looked like it belonged to a pixie or an elf. And the seating in the Mocha is such that I actually imagined sitting ensconced in some cubby hole in a magical tree that would fly away to the moon.

With the last pour of that fragrant, ruby tea, I felt drained. I felt like everything is out of me now. I felt so empty.

So I paid up, had a bizarre conversation with a young lad who wanted to know of places to eat ("You look like a foodie!", he said.), and went to meet family for dinner.

I wish I had kept December free for some really quiet time. I want to clear my head, pick one thought at a time, think things through, and set it aside forever. I want to plan for June properly; not in the haphazard, spontaneous wildness I hop from one circumstance to another.

In the mind, I really want to take it slow. Hope it happens soon.

What it must be like to live in Delhi

2011-12-15T18:00:00.000-05:00

I write this in my hotel room, swathed in a thick, rust-colored blanket. It's 3 a.m. and my finger tips are cold. The coffee I'd ordered a while ago is now tepid and a thick layer of cream has formed on top. I look back at the day I spent, at the sun I chased, and the misty, foggy night I sliced through in an auto-rickshaw.

Delhi is breathtaking.

To live in Delhi must be like being the mind that takes in wafts of art and shapes its muse. It must be to fall like the soft ash of an incense stick, happy in the knowledge that one burnt for beauty. It must be to live nestled in calligraphic verses, in the delicate cursiveness of leisure and longing. It must be like being an absurdly yellow stray petal that flounces about on a window ledge. It must to be the nuance of a poem, the delicate timbre of a song. It must be about being under a spell that compels one to write odes and rhapsodies by the hour. To live in Delhi must be difficult.

Because Delhi is breathtaking.

Lit by an eclipse

2011-12-11T09:34:00.001-05:00

Saw the lunar eclipse the other day. I was at the T3 Terminal in Delhi, waiting for my parents to arrive. The moon was slowly and seductively slurped in by the sky. And just as slowly and seductively, it oozed out from the mouth of darkness.

A bizarre sharp-white moon shone down on this crazy, simple truth - If you can love one, you can love many. If you can love once, you can love again. If you can love today, you can love forever.

Time with mom

2011-12-07T13:38:00.000-05:00

Over 32 years, I think I have seen several lows. Yesterday was the worst. It was worse than the worst that had happened in the worst part of my life. There was shame, betrayal, and such erosion of trust that I got physically ill. I balled up with pain in my stomach, my head started hurting, my legs were shivering, and I actually started foaming a little at the mouth. This was anger, a familiar emotion in a completely new avatar.

I don't know how long I lay curled up like that on my bed. There comes a point in emotional exhaustion when you just give up. You capitulate to whatever nonsense wants to besiege you and kill you. I was probably there. Suddenly I woke up to some soft humming. My mum was singing to me. So softly...it sounded like the song was traveling through all those years from childhood. She was stroking my hair, gently. It felt like sea-breeze. But she wasn't getting me to sleep. She was actually waking me up.

I woke. She then took me to the kitchen and made me coffee. We sat on the steps in the dim moonlight and sipped it. It was so peaceful that I could have been asleep or I could have been dead.

My mother is just so right for me. I could go through those sickening, rotten episodes all over again to feel this loving satiety once more. But mum being mum, after the coffee was done, told me to rinse the cups and then "go the hell back to sleep!"

And no, I didn't tell her that she had woken me up. After all, I'd just had the best coffee in the world!

Decision time

2011-12-06T14:55:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, one goes through life thinking whether one needs companionship or not. Whether marriage is good or dating is better or a steady relationship will give comfort or a deep embracing friendship will provide safety. Sometimes, one might even get close to one or more or all of these.

But a think a time comes to face the truth. It's not hard or bitter. Just one that has you thump your fist angrily at the skies a little bit.

That none of these companionship or friendships or steady relationships, etc. is for you. That maybe your lot is to muffle the screams from your open wounds.

Best done alone.

At some point...

2011-12-03T23:42:00.000-05:00

Happy stillness and smiling peace
May come, if a tad too late,
On realizing that in a mediocre life
At least the expectations were great.

December comes

2011-12-02T17:47:00.000-05:00

It's the last month of the year and it promises to be crazy and frenetic. It almost seems like this month doesn't have any patience with remembrance. Memories, this month seems to think, are easily dispensed with. I don't quite like it when I don't get enough time to unwind and reflect on the year gone by. However, this crazy hurtling of minutes and seconds into the next day is most encouraging. Maybe December of 2011 knows something about 2012. Maybe that's why it's rushing towards 2012 so quickly. Everything else can wait.

I wish I could say something momentous and clever now. Considering I am writing this post at 3:45 a.m. after having worked like a dog throughout the day, I need some release. After coming to Mira Road, I have mainly stayed at home or gone here or there for a bit of work. So, this is actually my space, right now, to vent. Or rant. Or say something. I can't think of anything other than the night two days ago.

We were out of groceries and Eva and I decided to step out to get some. But when two freelancers step out of their home without their laptops, even if it is to dash off and buy bread, an excursion begins. The whiff of winter in the air, the dull, yellow streetlights, colorful salwaar kameezes hung at the Ladies tailors - they are a party to anyone working at home for a long spell. So we buy our bread and milk and eggs. "Do we need anything else?", she asks me. I shrug. She shrugs too. We don't want to head back so we decide to buy vegetables.

This part is my favorite. We go into a lane where a hawker sells a large mound of tomatoes. Hundreds of squelch-worthy, fresh, ripe, red tomatoes. Tomatoes that ripened in the best sun and got ruddy and lush and rich. Tomatoes with pulchritude and pinchability. We were so tempted but we already had a few at home. So we just gave them our love and passed on.

A little ahead, we saw onions. We decided to get some. It was quite an ordinary task until it became the stuff dream sequences in movies are made of. We looked up. We saw a moon that though milky-white, reminded me of Salman Rushdie's 'Qara Koz' in Enchantress of Florence, meaning 'Black Eyes'. This moon looked mysterious and transparent. You could look at her and feel her smile. You could imagine her with delicate, pink fingertips. You could imagine her walking through a large, verdant Mughal garden with hibiscus and rose bushes and rolling an onion playfully towards you.

11 months have passed. Every day of these 11 months something has happened. And I remember buying onions in moonlight.

All that it is

2011-12-02T01:29:00.001-05:00

Sometimes love be the anchor
Sometimes love be the sea
Sometimes love be the escape
That binds.

Sometimes love be the epic
Sometimes love be the small talk
Sometimes love be the author
Stories find.

Sometimes love be a June bloom
Sometimes love be the spring
Sometimes love be a trembling sea
Before rain.

Sometimes love be a world with music
Sometimes love be a hush
Sometimes love be the end that
Happens again.

Reclamation

2011-11-28T15:41:00.000-05:00

Today was my first time catching a train at Mira Road station. It is quite a pretty place. The ticket counter is on the first level and there's a walkway that takes you to the various platforms. Mira Road has a view of the creeks and salt pans on one side. That entire expanse is open and free. Today, it was cloudy so the vista seemed awash with a minty-powdery-blue hue. It was a lovely November afternoon.

While waiting for the train, I was generally thinking of my current situation. By next year, I have to have some solid plans on where I will be staying, which city, whether I should take up different kinds of work from what I'm doing now, etc. I would like a little more solidness to my life now. The gypsy needs a nest. The gypsy needs to rest.

Around me, people may have been thinking about similar issues. They hid it with such panache, though. An old man sipped his tea noisily, a young girl in indigo leggings and raven-black boots scrunched a packet of Lays and threw it away. Some young children ran about and later begged their mother for some water. Their mother in a beautifully embroidered burqha produced a bottle as if by magic. A beggar came and demanded money - ten rupees to be exact.

I got into the train amidst unnecessary aggression. Pushing, shoveling, pummeling, stampeding, crying, shouting is such an intrinsic fabric of Bombay train life that it's become impossible to imagine any other kind of situation. It's a little weird. The train zipped to the next station. Even the speed couldn't mask the slow, melancholic degeneration of urban life. The 'make-do', the crowded emptiness, the jostling for space greedily coupled with the need for contact.

Just ahead of Malad, though, I saw a very beautiful sight. Two young boys, maybe 10 or 11, were playing in a sandy area that was surrounded by slums. One boy sat on a broken Syntex tank while the other seemed to be racing about from here to there. They wore shorts and shirts that had lost their original color a decade ago, maybe. In fact, their clothing seemed too small for them. They had long, cookie-brown legs warmed in the sun. The one sitting on the Syntex was trying to mend a broken kite. Suddenly, he leapt up and flung the kite in the air. The kite caught the wind and flew. The other boy ran behind and tried to jump and bring the kite down. Their faces shone with such exhilaration that it broke my heart.

Bombay creeps up and erodes so much so quickly. One day one can wake up and wonder how long has it been before one remembered a dream. Or one could look at a baby and wonder if she will ever see a sunflower field. Or be at a mall's Kidzone and wonder if that time is passed when kids would gambol up a leafy lane with nothing to do, no idea what to do next and be perfectly okay being clueless.

But like with everything else in Bombay, happy surprises happen just as rudely as the sad ones. These two boys reminded me of some thing. That the world of sunlight, innocence, and silly laughter is never lost. It's reclaimed every time a child runs across barefoot on the sand.

So what?

2011-11-26T15:23:00.002-05:00

When one is destined to take flight, what does it matter if the bridges are burnt?

Moving in

2011-11-24T17:02:00.001-05:00

Today, I moved in with a friend, Eva, at Mira Road. She has a cute little place and high dreams of beautifying it before Christmas. My role in this grand scheme of things would be to tidy up the place after the electricians and carpenters go and hopefully stay out of their way. I say 'hopefully' because in the past, I have tripped over their tools and broken them.

I love moving in to a new neighborhood. I like the initial days of exploring one does, like a tourist.

So far, I really like Mira Road. Eva's home is close to a lot of cute little kiraana shops and boutiques and 'Ladies' tailors'. It's such a big draw to go for a walk and see jars of striped candy in glass jars. Or long ropes of yellow and orange Lays packets. A couple of boutiques showcased some interesting outfits that I will check out soon. I was particularly riveted by a lavender halter top in a slinky material with a little bit of sheen and spandex. The bodice had a generous sparkle of muted silver. I can imagine wearing it with a short white denim skirt or maybe a pair of indigo harem pants in crepe-de-chine for New Years Eve. Silver ballet pumps would be nice too. Most importantly, a great midriff is necessary. So no dinner from tomorrow. (Just kidding! Just kidding! Heard my tummy growl in anger so am pacifying it.)

I reached the place around 4:30, right in time for tea. Eva took my stuff to the room, yelled out what part of the cupboard I could put my clothes in, and asked me whether I'd need a table for my laptop. I didn't answer because I was already busy in the kitchen making chai. I don't understand how people get down to business in the early evening without a cuppa!

Considering this is only my second time at Eva's place, it's remarkable how clearly I remembered where her utensils were, where she stocked the tea and sugar, and which bowl in the fridge would have the milk. I may be scattered about many things. But in terms of tea, the memory is elephantine.

Eva is quite propah. She gently took the pan away and suggested we get something to eat with the tea. Like khakra and biscuits. Suggestions like that make no sense. When I'm that close to getting some hot beverage in my system, I'm not too keen to break the rhythm and go get snacks! But my scowling didn't help any. So we went to the neighborhood grocer and got khakras. I also insisted we get honey (for the porridge I intend to make tomorrow) and some milk. What's grocery shopping without Maggi? So we got a few packets. And then of course, the setting sun reminded us of some cold cream we had to get. But come on, I was moving in, after all. Mustn't we celebrate this? Hence Red Bull was purchased to be had later at night. Armed with the necessities of 'tea-time', we got back.

We sat in the living room but the balcony looked too tempting to be ignored. We stood there, sipping our tea and watching sunlight dance about on the roofs of cars. She pointed out some of her favorite neighborhood strays, most of whom looked sleepy, lazy, and fat. For a brief moment I imagined them wearing that shiny purple top and laughed. My friend was not amused. Animal lovers ought to laugh more, I think. It's not like their loved ones get offended.

Then we chatted some more...a lot more, in fact. A couple of hours later, I felt like having another coffee but didn't want to make any. Eva had spotted a new CCD around the corner and we trooped there. Now, I must state here that I don't really like CCD. I also don't like how it spreads like a rash everywhere. Yet, I have to admit that nowadays I find it oddly comforting...to see those giant quotation marks and that large symbol of a cup and its token white picket fences in all kinds of neighborhoods. I get the feeling that there will be more like me here. Makes me happy.

We had our cappuccinos and decided to go for dinner. On the way, I had seen a cheery little joint called 'Foodito'. It served Italian, Mexican, and Chinese. I felt like having big, chunky wrap and some tangy salsa. Eva didn't believe that such a place existed. (She heads out of Mira Road whenever she gets the chance so isn't all that familiar with the area.) We walked quite a bit and then saw that joint. They were closed and we were confused. It was only 8 p.m.! The guy inside the restaurant stepped out and clarified that they were scheduled to open this Saturday! Now, I don't know much about the restaurant business but I'm guessing over-eager patrons like us can only be a good sign.

We went to a bakery nearby and I have to say, I ate the most delicious vegetable frankie there. It was like a giant spring roll coated with bread crumbs and deep-fried. It was stuffed with a very spicy cabbage and onion filling and extremely well-seasoned! (We'll go there tomorrow too.)

Eva suggested we take a different route back home and it was a lovely walk. That area reminded me a little of BKC ten years ago. All wide roads, under-construction buildings, and trees on the sidewalk with humongous trunks.

We spoke of splitting kitchen duties. Usually I avoid them altogether but Eva was being really sweet about it. Told me I wouldn't have to cook and all. So, since I don't want to take advantage of her goodness (just yet, anyway), I offered to chop the veggies and maybe do a little bit of prep and of course, make tea.

Both of us are freelancing at the moment and we both had deadlines to meet. But the first few days, I imagine, will be like a slumber party. We couldn't stop talking and joking and then remembering some other grocery item to buy. (It didn't occur to either of us to make lists.) The assignments got waylaid for the time-being. It will take a lot of mental disciplining to get there. I've given myself until next Monday.

Finally, we sipped Red Bull, discussed Sharad Pawar getting slapped, said our goodnights, and went on finish off the rest of our work.

Newness, comfort, familiarity, and prospect of all those things again tomorrow. Change is good. It's even better with a pal.

How did that happen?

2011-11-23T15:47:00.000-05:00

I think of all those things
That made me blue
And they were all those dreams
That came true.

That other thing

2011-11-21T15:10:00.000-05:00

This is really just a note. I put it down quickly, though, because I don't think a day should be lost without people sampling what I'm writing about here. It's the red hummus at Moshe's.

I was at Palladium today with my parents. I really wanted them to try the Egyptian dukka at Moshe's. Mum's agenda was to buy off the Rohit Bal store, so she just slurped through the fondue impatiently. It's the beginning of the week with a million things going on in office. So dad was talking on the phone. The bubbling cheese with pretty seasoning got pushed around absent-mindedly. I thought that my latest earnings from an assignment could have been put to better use. Like maybe getting them tickets to Elephanta or something. This Egyptian dukka was clearly not getting the importance it deserved.

Father, after finishing his ten millionth call, mentioned that the fondue was too rich. He had spotted Lebanese on the menu and wanted hummus. Mum almost split a blood vessel because we would be spending more time at Moshe's whilst the latest velvet corsets and jackets in the Bal collection were getting bought. I explained to Ma that at Rs.87,000 and above, the lehengas and jamaavar coats wouldn't be flying off the shelves. She was a little petulant but agreed to stay a little while longer.

We ordered the pita bread and hummus. It came with two dishes - one was the regular white chick-pea hummus with a generous trail of olive oil. The other one was a reddish, slightly thicker paste. It was sweeter and I think it had peanuts blended into it. It just tasted so good! Dad suddenly ignored a couple of calls and Ma mentally nudged the Rohit Bal store aside for a moment. In silent communion, we ate, pushed each other's hands out of the way to mop up the sauce, and purred with satisfaction when done.

So, my pick of the Moshe menu was the Dukka fondue but now...it competes strenuously with that other thing.

The world comes

2011-11-17T16:57:00.000-05:00

The other evening, I decided to walk for longer. I'd reached the promenade earlier than usual. There was a slightly stronger buttery sunlight and more people thronged the walking track. By the time I was done with my usual rounds, the evening had set in properly. Twilight had floated away, dusk deepened and got spread like a tightly tucked bedspread. The moon and stars got placed in the vast heavens like dainty mints on pillows. Then I decided to walk a half hour more.

Since this is winter, the sun just seemed to drop off the sky at some point. It grew thick and dark. Blue melded with purple melded with black. That was the sky. That, in fact, was also the world. Since the street lamps at the promenade function erratically, one can't really count on them to be lit when the sun sets. They weren't lit then.

But the place looked mysterious and quite spectacular. Once my eyes got used to the darkness, I could make out shapes of different trees, outlines of park benches, the soft curl of the tip of a dog's tail, the silhouette of a jogger...many things. It was like looking at a Rorschach test and slowly watch a pattern emerge.

I think every morning when we wake up, the world gets created like this.There is a spilled splotch of great possibilities and life stares at it hard. Depending on what's really going on in its head, it sees a motif for its deepest, most hazardous sort of bizareness.

Considering its genesis, of course the world is crazy. It makes more sense that way.

Monday

2011-11-14T15:02:00.000-05:00

A deep fascination for Shiva has led me to look at Mondays differently. I think it would take only an iconoclast like him to take the most dreaded day of the week and make it his own.
Today, I went for a walk twice. In the morning, I was in two minds. I'd stayed up all night working and surfing the net. All night was spent in thinking up Facebook updates but giving in to reading other people's instead. Life is so big. Life is so much. Little curlicues of it, the ones that get shaved by time, get put up on Facebook. I really like it.

In the evening, I met my friend and we went for our stroll to the usual place. Nowadays, it's getting dark really quickly. By the time we finish even one round, the sun has vanished and in its place, is a thick quilt of midnight blue. Sometimes, it comes with stars and a moon. Some other times, like today, it comes with nothing.

Towards the end of the walk, I was startled beyond my wits! I saw a huge, huge, huge snake! It was the most magnificent thing I have seen! It slithered along in great speed and gusto, zigzagging with a force I can't quite describe. My friend screamed and stepped back. Some other walker came up and asked, "Kya hua behenji?" I pointed mutely and croaked, "Snake!" He nodded and said it was a cobra.

I'm not sure it was a cobra, though. It was too magnificent to be around a Vashi park, for God's sakes. It's like, I don't know, finding an Aston Martin parked outside National College. Doesn't quite go.
In just a moment, though, a serene evening had become spectacular.

I thought of Shiva. A cobra, after all, could be this iconoclast's way of saying, "Heya!"

Choices. Simple.

2011-11-13T11:24:00.001-05:00

They call us sinners now, the lords of moral fiefdom,
For the acts we've done and the words we've spoken,
But when we'd looked for shelters from the storms,
We'd found the temples closed and the gutters open.

Smile, it's a day

2011-11-12T19:36:00.002-05:00

Had a beautiful lunch yesterday. (It's three-thirty in the morning now. I thought of writing 'today' instead of'yesterday but realized it would be temporally inaccurate. However, the number of times my mind keeps going over those dishes, I think I'll be having that lunch for a few more days. In the mind, at least.)

I'd gone over to a pal's house for lunch - a very tasty spread of Kerala food. And while I hogged on the yams cooked with grated coconut, hearty bowls of saambar and spoonfuls of al dente avial, it was the stew with coconut milk that conquered my heart. That stew was so brilliant that maybe a movie should be made on it.

I can picture a bachelor in his early forties, unlocking the door to his apartment and walking in to darkness. He follows this routine every night. Takes off his shoes, sits down on the couch for a few minutes, wonders what to do. It's been a busy day but an empty one. He steps into a shower trying to get a colleague's off-colored remark out of his mind. If you're 40 and unmarried, you're either perverted or cold or both. Somehow, he thinks, women are prepped up to deal with these harsh realities early on. But men. Not so much. They get told often enough that they own the world, they rule it, they can live on their own terms, etc. etc. It's not so. You can't really rule anything. You can only struggle and hope to belong.

The shower has done him good, though. He's much more relaxed now. Saunters into the kitchen. The cook seems to have tidied up better today. Floor feels cleaner. He helps himself to some rice and takes off the lid of a large soup bowl. There's some stew. It's fragrant and looks pretty with cubes of translucent carrots and potatoes in it. A sliver of green chilli swims prettity in the white, creamy broth. He helps himself to some. Pours a ladel full of that on the rice. Thinks a second and pulls out a bowl. Fills it with more stew. Grabs a spoon and walks into his balcony.

From the 27th floor, the view is amazing. One can't see the sea now but Mumbai's skyline shimmers like decorated sentinel along the shoreline. He starts eating. The stew and the rice. Remembers. His first holiday in the forest. His days in the art school that he abandoned midway to become a professional football player. His loss of eyesight. His project of developing illustration in braille. Comes back. The stew and rice. Truly, a perfect meal.

Now, I do think Anurag Kashyap or Abhay Deol would like this story. Especially if I met them with some of this food.

Anyway, that was a good, good lunch.

Then, we finished off with payasam. Now that's another story...the sequel to Roman Holiday no less.

On 11/ 11/ 11

2011-11-11T13:18:00.000-05:00

This is a quick record of today because I understand this day will not occur in another 100 years or so. {It'll be quite a bummer if it does, though. "What?! We weren't special?" My race will whisper from whatever astral planes we are clogging up over the next century.}

The day started off badly. Woke up in a bad mood and a toothache. My left cheek has a slight swelling which, I think, looks kind of endearing. It looks like I have bitten off a lollipop head and am savoring it. There's pain though. But things started looking up after a friend's call. She called me over tomorrow for a Kerala lunch. The prospect of food, the memory of food, the notion of food, food - they are so integral to my sense of...no, not well-being...to my sense of self. It is perhaps a slightly tragic thing to say of oneself but it cheers me up so.

Later, I had a light but very tasty lunch of really well-cooked rice, daal, and some beans coated and fried in rice flour and coconut.

The highlight, though, was my evening walk. I stepped out of the house around 5:15 to meet my friend at the promenade and the world looked like a love song! That evening sunlight was so gentle and sweet...it would make your heart ache. The heart doesn't always feel forlorn in the dead of the night. Sometimes, it starts pouting just before sunset too.

After a lazy stroll, we sat and chatted against a vivid sky. Is it my imagination or is the world becoming more colorful? Earlier, the world seemed to be, maybe regular water-colors. But now, it seems to have a thick velvety and felt-type finish. One feels like touching everything!

My way back home was really superb. I took the old route back, one that I haven't visited for weeks now. A lone firefly gave an amber wink and a large icy full moon gleamed in the sky. Then a friend called me for langar. This was my first trip to a gurudwara in Vashi. My last two trips have been for my friends' weddings and they were exquisite. I find weddings in gurudwaras to be very peaceful, very nourishing. One can imagine a promise of togetherness getting blessed and cultivated here.

After langar, this friend and I walked back home and had a cup of coffee at the neighborhood CCD. It is a quiet, slow place. It's like one of those red and white glitz and glow dhabas you could find alongside an Intergalactic highway. Somewhere else, life might be whizzing past. Here, though, the nerves yawn and say, "Why bother?"

All in all, 11/11/11 was like any other day. And like any other day, it was lovely.

Wish it were different

2011-11-09T05:12:00.000-05:00

When sunlight oozes out of the sky like some A-grade cream cheese out of a Waitrose tube; when a soft puranpoli lies rolled up, fresh and warm on a plate; when a cup of the world's best tea is served in a favorite Cerulean blue mug; when the thickly wrapped book in brown FlipKart delivery cover has just come in; when you have ripped open said cover with an injured finger and a chipped nail; when the new book lies unveiled crackling with the goodness of tasty writing, when the day stretches on deliciously and the night promises to ooze out like some more cream cheese from a Waitrose tube...then there mustn't be a deadline for finishing up a press release.

But what to do? There is.

Good, good day!

2011-10-22T03:33:00.000-05:00

Day before was plump with goodies! It started with me reaching Lower Parel in the morning, earlier than I'd estimated. I hung about for a while inside Palladium looking at those beautiful stores, but mainly the Anita Dongre and the Rohit Bal ones. There was a scarlet, gold, and green ghagra in the Anita Dongre's showroom that looked so old-world opulent that I imagined the mannequin to have been transported by an elephant. A similar palanquin-panache haze hung about outside Rohit Bal's Prive'. There were rows and rows of princess-like lehengas in heavy white silks and dull gold zardozi. I'd reached early and the stores weren't open for business. But they were all lit up and happy looking, so I could peer in through the metal barricades. These stores - they looked like affluent babies sleeping in plush, luxurious bedrooms under thick, soft quilts. In time, they would stir, yawn, and get ready for the world to descend and fawn upon them.

To pass time, I went to Indigo Deli and had some hot chocolate. I'd recently been to Delhi and in true Delhi-returned fashion, I picked up 'City of Djinns' again. I've been trying to read it for so long now but think I'll manage it now. This time in Delhi, I spent a lovely morning at Lodhi garden by myself. It's one of my favorite places in the world. Lodhi garden. The ruins, the landscaping, my childhood memories of the place, more recent memories of my adult-life - they just waft and weave music and poetry into filaments of time I spend there. I took long walks, sat on every possible stone on the ruins, followed puddles of soft sunlight on patches of thick grass, and just looked around and thought about life. Life as an invention, a discovery, a ballad. When I'm around something really beautiful, I often think that perhaps we aren't born with a soul. We create one as soon as we see something we want to hold on to for later - whenever rough, coarse times come our way. The soul, I imagine, bookmarks whatever is worthwhile.

Anyway, after spending a couple of hours at Indigo Deli, I went for a client meeting at Mahalaxmi. It went really well and I decided to meet a friend back at Palladium.

Now, this friend of mine is a fine conoisseur. She's fed me great canapes and brushcettas with goat cheese, pine nuts, and some sort of roasted seeds that's made my heart sing. Her custard laced with orange marmelade and crushed butter cookies is carefully constructed with maybe ten different levels of nuanced taste. So, when she suggested we have a bite at Moshe's and she'd be choosing the dishes, I was game.

The meal was superb. Here's what I recommend for vegetarians:

The soy and tofu burger. The patty is delectable beyond belief! I've been a meat-eater earlier and have chomped down several truck-loads of minced beef and mutton cutlets in my time. This soy and tofu burger is right up there with the best of them. In fact, even if you are non-vegetarian, I strongly recommend you have a go at this. For starters, the patty is maybe 3 inches thick. It's full of some sort of spicy, smoky flavor and the soya makes it juicy and wonderfully chewy.
The Egyptian Dukka fondue - There's a very liberal sprinkling of aniseed that makes the fondue delicious. I'm not a big one for cheese but the dry Egyptian seasoning in the fondue melt ups the taste ante here. Even the cubes of bread are baked with saunf and are perfect to mop up this creamy fondue with.
The African Rubois tea- It's a deep, red color - reminiscent of the lavish dust of the region. Interestingly, even though the drink looks robust, it has a very delicate, subtle flavor. It's decaffeinated, light and a perfect beverage to sip after a fondue and burger meal. (Again, this is not just for vegetarians.)

After an afternoon of some refinement and genteel conversation, we decided to go shopping at Crawford Market and Zaveri Bazaar. Colorful, dusty, crowded, choc-o-block with novelty - a world where couth gets nudged out by brazennes. Yet you'll find quiet taste genuflecting in some dark alley.

As we walked deep into Crawford market, we found ourselves at a crossroad. Because of Diwali festivities, there were a million colorful kandeels fluttering away in the sky. And beyond this cloud of pink, yellow, red, tangerine and green fluttering arms, rose a beautiful dome of a mosque. And beyond that still, the sky sighed out an inky dusk. I'm a big one for Mumbai skies. Yet, this one was so stellar and different - not one of those city nights that have skyrises stencilled on them. This one seemed to be ageless. It seemed as if a perfect piece of history got hiccuped out of Time itself.

My friend and I went about here and there and got some excellent staionery. She got some moss-green handmade paper sheets with gossamer thinness. I picked out a few hundred sheets of paper in shades of blue and salmon. Now I'm wondering what to do with this. Maybe I'll write out the verses of Tao Te Ching and have them bound and gifted to friends or cousins. We bought pretty envelopes and yards of twine to wrap up scrolls (if we wanted to. Frankly, we just liked how they looked.)

The day ended. I caught a train from VT and spent the long train ride ensconced in typical city bustle. Somewhere inside my brain, my evening at Crawford Market and my morning at Lodhi Road melted and fused into each other.

Today, from that little well of sudden, dulcet historicity, little bubbles of joy bubble over. They shift around on the surface and they spell out 'Happy Diwali'.

Light and love to everyone!

And yay!

2011-10-15T22:33:00.000-05:00

Last evening was comforting. It was like having warm custard pudding after an exhausting trudge in the rain. Last few months have been knotty. The past few weeks, however, have had me straining at the leash for some sanity and sleep. There has been an accident of some sort. Not too much harm done, but if the soul were a Martini, it's been shaken, stirred, spurted, and spit out.

Last evening, I met up with this friend who'd gone through the same accident, but seems to be taking it with amazing sang-froid. We went for a walk around one of those tiny market areas that Vashi has so many of. Sweet, earnest little shops displaying polyester nighties in alarming colors and prints, bright baubles and combs and all that. We took a turn and entered a side-road. Suddenly, any trace of it being Saturday night fell away. It was quiet and calm. Even the light from the street lamps fell softly. It felt like the world had suddenly been baby-proofed. No sharp edges, nothing to scrape or bump against. A mellow, placid little cocoon to wander about in for the night.

Then we came to this little pond by a temple. I remembered it hazily. Maybe I'd seen it a year ago, in the early rains. In the darkness, this place looked worn, yet peaceful. Like a fractured prayer bead. We sat and chatted for a while. There was a huge tree; I think it was neem. It looked as it had some morning breeze trapped in it that it wanted to shake off. While all the other trees were still, this one trembled and shivered daintily.

My friend then mentioned why I'd been writing so many sad things recently. Now, the question warranted some thought because it's not all been dreary and sorrowful. There have been dinners with friends and family, some delicious books read, some really good conversations, portions of good work done, money collected, money spent, excursions planned, and all that. But somehow, I guess I was waiting for the right kind of leisure time to write about this. Good, happy instances were like fine bone china. I'd bring them out for a 'special' occasion.

Today, I leave for Delhi for a couple of days. I'm so excited to be taking a break. I can almost taste the sweet nectarine of plush, computer-free hours. This morning, I woke up early to finish a couple of assignments and I got done in 2 hours, instead of 5 that I'd estimated. This, literally, has not happened in a long, long time! My feet are almost tapping to the joyful, upbeat drumming of my heart.

I thought I'd write all this down without further ado. Heck! I'll just use the bone china for breakfast.

So, SJ, thank you. The smiles are happening.

Pelted, precious stones

2011-10-15T19:47:00.000-05:00

While I am sleeping,
The past comes stampeding
With summer nights and rainy days;
The storm doesn't pass
In fact, it seems to last
Until I've heard everything that nostalgia says;
Memory mottled with half-smiles
And farewell whispers
Blow about in gusts of gold
Reminiscences narrate their pretty foibles
And precious little stories get told.
By the time dawn breaks
Gemstones lay heaped in a sharp, dazzling lot
I wake up to pick out a jewel
And be adorned with a stampeding thought.

Strange times

2011-10-07T10:14:00.000-05:00

I don't visit doctors all that much now but there used to be a time when I did. For a rough, scratchy throat maybe or some ache in the tummy or a dull headache or quiet, strong fever. The doctor would ask, "Where does it hurt?" Even physiologically, it was always a little difficult to determine. Like, was my stomach hurting three inches to the left of the navel or two inches below? Or all over? It was hard to say.

Growing up and now fully grown up, I stopped going to doctors. Although, in times of silent distress that all living beings go through, I have tried to address that question - "Where does it hurt?" It's a question I asked myself before I decided to shift out of Mumbai for the first time, decided to give up law, decided to major in Sociology instead of English, decided to be a vegetarian. It's interesting because this question, often, does not come up. It's quite possible to be hurting but not realize that one is in pain. Of course, very often, there is no pain or hurt. It's just a question you ask to shake things up a little in your head.

A couple of days ago, I had a re-union of sorts with a couple from friends from school. I was meeting one after nearly 12 years and the other one I'd met briefly in Delhi last time I was there. But this time round, she'd come with her adorable 3 year old boy! I must say, he is the sweetest, gentlest, little boy I have met in a long time. Usually, I get on famously with little girls. Boys are a different story. But this boy was a smiling, friendly fella. Maybe my jinx is broken now.

After putting the child to bed, my friends and I talked. After a while, they spoke and I listened. It dawned on me that death doesn't always happen once. It happens many times over. From the child I was to the city I grew up in to the kind of people I shared the world with - none of that exists any more. Not even a trace of it. If I didn't remember my shared history with these friends, I wouldn't even know who or what they were talking about.

I think there's a strange strength you need to relive your childhood. Especially with people who know you since then. Nostalgia feels like those huge tidal waves that wash all over you with brute strength, buckling your knees and making you fall. You may get up. But you'll always get up dizzy. Possibly with salt on your lashes and sand on your lips and little cuts on your hands.Yep. Memories, especially childhood ones, are very disorienting.

Last few months have revolved around the past. Flavours, fragrances, and people from childhood have featured in a big way. Including books, aspirations and childhood hopes that one pinned satin ribbons on.
In the spirit of nostalgia and the sweet-empty sadness it brings up, I will quote Ray Bradbury here. He is a writer who treats memories the same way a pianist finishes off a ballad - with elegance, sadness, and a little musical silence at the end. This is from one of his books I'm reading now, 'Dandelion Wine':

'Clock alarms tinkled faintly. The courthouse clock boomed. Birds leaped from trees like a net thrown by his hand, singing. Douglas, conducting an orchestra, pointed to the eastern sky.

The sun began to rise.

He folded his arms and smiled a magician's smile. Yes, sir, he thought, everyone jumps, everyone runs when I yell. It'll be a fine season.

He gave the town a last snap of his fingers.

Doors slammed open; people stepped out.

Summer 1928 began.'

I chose this paragraph because I feel it represents the innocent head rush we've all experienced at some time or another. That this day would mark the beginning of an epic summer. And we loved it then and forgot it later.

Youth. Where did it hurt?

It's a good thing, I think

2011-09-29T16:19:00.000-05:00

Meltdowns.

I have been thinking about them. Last few weeks, or maybe months, have been tense. It has now come to a point where very little tension comes from outside. Most of it germinates somewhere internal - maybe base of the spine or in the wrist or behind the left eye. Somewhere like that. Then it doesn't get an outlet and it starts hardening on the nerves. Perhaps unresolved feelings work the same way as plaque on arteries. They block flow. They tighten and constrict and then, one day, they kill.

But sometimes, something inside shifts. It could be brought on by a verse one has read or a sketch one has done. Something like that. It's like these shrapnels and pointy bits of angry, unhappy thoughts get wiped down with warm, salty water. They soften. In time, they melt and come out as tears. That's why I feel meltdowns are good. They are important. They are a more organic form of release of all the filth that collects in the brain and makes it a gutter. After one has had a good cry because of sadness that seeped through the veins, one is much more cleansed. Light. Happy. Soft.

I feel a meltdown is the mind's way of becoming flexible again.

Opposites

2011-09-27T15:51:00.002-05:00

A yellow bird
On an orange sill
Unruly sky
And a pond that's still
In the slow sweet waltz
Of night and dawn
It wet its wings
It pecked its corn
Then it flew away
In speed and grace
A single feather
Left its trace
It flew across
Long and high
Across an unruly pond
And a still blue sky
To meet the one
It loved so greatly still
An orange bird
On a yellow sill.

Just for evidence - Part 5 or something

2011-09-26T10:11:00.001-05:00

Today, as I'd finished my walk, one of the cops I'd complained against told me to stop and then started asking why I had made a complaint against him. It was already 8:30 and there were fewer people walking there. Then he started beckoning people and asking them if they thought what I'd done was right. That is when I lost it. I told him what he was doing was very wrong, stopping women late at in the evening and interrogating them unnecessarily. And where was the lady constable? He said that there were no women constable in the chowki. One gentleman was helpful enough to step in and tell the cop that he couldn't just interrogate women like that. Then the cop told me to come down to the police station and I said no. I told him that I had written an email about what I wanted and he could do what he wanted as well.

I came home livid. Then I called up the PSI who I'd spoken with earlier. He apologized on the other inspector's behalf.

If there ever was a time to know the law and use it, it is now.

Wonder what is going to happen in the future. How this thing is going to play out...

It could be possible

2011-09-23T09:15:00.000-05:00

I was thinking about this today - that if one could love like she has never been hurt, it can effectively counter one who hurts like she has never been loved.

Just for evidence - Part whatever (Don't remember. Too lazy to check.)

2011-09-21T14:12:00.000-05:00

Earlier, I had posted about having written an email to the DCP of Vashi regarding an incident in the park. (The link to the DCP's email is there in one of my earlier posts I think.) A couple of days ago, I got an email from a lady asking me to speak to a PSI (Police Sub-Inspector) and gave me his name, a landline number, and a mobile number.

I called up the sub-inspector and spoke to him. He also wanted me to come down to the police station. I was really down yesterday so I said I didn't feel like. He then suggested I come over the next day after 9:30 a.m. I said okay. That night I spoke with my parents and my father again told me that I shouldn't go unescorted. He said he would come with me but I didn't want to trouble him any more.

The next day, the sub-inspector called again and I asked him if it was absolutely necessary to come down to the station. I told him my father wanted to come with me but he keeps late hours so it's difficult. Could we just speak over the phone? He said fine. We spoke. I told him what I perceived to be harassment by the police and he explained his point of view, etc. Since I didn't have any absolute concrete evidence of bribery, I gave it a harassment spin and brought in a safety issue of the area. Last thing I need is a defamation suit against a public servant.

I also mentioned that they should have a lady officer patrolling with them. After all, if the cops are going to descend on 17-18 year olds, it is only natural that a girl get scared. The officer then told me very earnestly that there is no reason to get scared. He said that with regard to interactions with general public, the police doesn't have much 'daring' anymore. (I sensed a little regret in his voice but that could be pure speculation.)

Anyway, the sub-inspector said that there is a very strong drive against all these things and each complaint that is recorded is followed up stringently. (Later, a friend who is a lawyer told me that cops actually get chargesheeted if they fail to show that they have responded to a complaint.) So, after my talk, he said that I could email a reply to the authorities telling them what had transpired.

I did that. As for now, things stand at that.

I'll forget about the memories

2011-09-20T14:51:00.000-05:00

They'll be around
The way sand in an hourglass goes nowhere
I'll find them anyway
Strewn like wilted leaves, heaped here or littered there
This weird fantasy of having them strung
Along a piece of velvet ribbon
The fantasy of having some memories gleam
And keep some others hidden
This fantasy will shatter, I bet,
When the notion of time fades
When the heart resurrects for remembrance
And then, for remembrance, it degrades.

What can it mean?

2011-09-20T13:28:00.001-05:00

I feel very low today. It's odd because I had a lovely time today. I don't really have any friends in Vashi. So, if the urge strikes me to get a cup of coffee or if I feel this restlessness of just hanging out somewhere close by, I do it by myself. Meeting other friends usually involves making plans a day in advance and traveling all across the city. But sometimes, there are these moods that start scrunching in the mind - like empty toffee-wrappers. Maybe they hid a sweet treat at one time. Now, it's gone.

Today I met a friend who had worked with me ages ago. A couple of days earlier, we got in touch and she told me that she lives in Vashi. Not just Vashi but fairly close to my house. So, I visited. Her home is in a very charming, leafy lane. It's inside a gated community that has rows of smallish buildings. They are the kinds you find in Saket and Lajpat Nagar - two or three-storeyed buildings. From the terrace of her building, we had a clear view of the shimmering creek and stark little etchings of palm fronds around it. The sky was grey and pale, sea-blue in parts. At times, clouds would part to make way for a solid, thick beam of sunlight. It was around 5 o'clock that time, when we were there. The breeze was fresh and cool, a little moist, and carried with it the heart-stirring idea of going out for a walk.

We went to a park nearby - the same park I go to every evening for a run. This time it was earlier than my regular time and the sky had started getting darker. Slowly, like pain dripping from a heart seeped in sorrow, rain fell. In big, cold drops. It was odd, walking under this light, fleeting rain. It felt as if the clouds were getting lighter but my heart was getting heavier by the minute. We walked around the little portion of the pond, spotted a couple of lush bushes with white and yellow flowers. After an hour there, I went back to my friend's place, chatted some more and came back home.

I'm suddenly feeling very weary. Physically, mentally, and emotionally. It's like, at a cellular level, a tiredness has set in. My blood cells are tired, my gullet is tired, my eyelashes are tired. Somewhere I seem to be nursing a deep disappointment in I don't know what. It's like the good times are not all that different from the bad times. The times choc-o-bloc with interesting activities are pretty much the same as the dull moments where nothing happens. I wonder if this has been brought on by the fact that I haven't slept well in a long time now. I am up through the night and then drift off to sleep around five in the morning. Some personal and professional matters are pressing on me at this point. Nothing that can't be taken care of. But it would be nice if all of these got postponed for later. Maybe a lifetime later. Maybe after my soul has had some time shoveling beauty and quietitude for a couple of eternities. After I have spent at least 4 to 5 years sleeping for ten peaceful hours every night. After I have lived two or three lives breathing deeply every second. It would be nice to get that respite.

For now, I can't think of anything, to claim that. SI'll just get a glass of something cool to drink and try to do some work.

Story in 6 words.

2011-09-13T00:20:00.002-05:00

Fortune-telling: Was born. Will die.

Just Evidence - Part 3

2011-09-08T11:13:00.001-05:00

I went for a run this evening but didn't see the cops while I was there. I wonder if they came later.

During the day I had called up 100 and told them I wanted to report a cop taking bribe. They asked me the area where I had seen this and my name. Then they told me to talk to an official at this number: 27561099. I thought I would wait until I met those cops again this evening, see if they were up to their nonsense and then report. Since I didn't see them today, I haven't called up this number yet. In time, I will.

While I was running, I took some pictures my new camera phone. It's not a high-end phone or anything. I don't even know how to use the zoom function here. But I have never had a camera phone before. I quite like it. In fact, I prefer taking pictures with it instead of talking to people.

There are these pretty yellow and white blooms deep inside the marsh. When the sun goes down, these blooms just leap out with their soft, velvet-like luminescence. I clicked a perfect yellow flower growing in a bush. I also clicked the glassy lake that looks like it has been covered with lilac cellophane around sunset.

Maybe, tomorrow I will click those huge snails and molluscs.

Just for evidence - Part 2

2011-09-08T03:00:00.001-05:00

Regarding last night's incident, I haven't been able to the police station yet. My father advised me to go with him later as he said I shouldn't go without a witness. Mum has to go to Bandra for some work. Anyway, I got these details from the Internet: http://mahapolice.gov.in/mahapolice/jsp/temp/navimumpolice.jsp

Have e-mailed the respective authorities. Let's see now.

I think I will write to a newspaper now. Somehow I don't feel right about getting the media involved. I think they have a tendency to make everything into a circus. But if in the long run, it helps someone, so be it.

Also, Navi Mumbai does not apparently fall under the jurisdiction of Greater Mumbai. Therefore I could not find any relevant information here: http://www.mumbaipolice.org/

I do believe there should be some integrated website having information for both divisions. When one is in trouble, one is really not in a position to go running around understanding nuances of police jurisdiction.

Just in case - for evidence

2011-09-07T12:06:00.000-05:00

I go for a run at a promenade opposite Fortis hospital in Vashi, sector 10. Actually I am not sure if it is sector 10 or sector 10-A. The promenade is quite pretty and circles a little marsh. There aren't to many streetlamps there. Some nights, I have seen beautiful fireflies and all. Some other nights, I have seen a few unpleasant things. There are these little sheds constructed intermittently. People usually sit, dogs usually urinate and some people do yoga or stretches here. In the late evenings, sometimes couples go and sit there. Sometimes, they get cosy.

Last week or so that I have gone running, I have noticed that two cops on a motorcycle come and generally round up couples. This happens between 7 and 7:30 every evening. I used to think it was some annoying kind of moral policing. Then today, I am not sure, but I think I asked a cop ask the couple for money. While the girl had turned away and had curled herself up in abject shame, the boy was trying to negotiate the money with the cop. I was still some distance away so I couldn't hear anything clearly. Maybe I got a snatch of "I can't give Rs. 20,000 now!"

When I heard this, it bothered me. But I thought I'd let it pass because I wasn't sure. Also, it was dark and for a moment, I thought what if these cops turn on me. I don't have a phone with me because I dropped it in a puddle and now it has stopped working.

By the time I got to the couple, the cops had left. When I jogged further, I saw that they had rounded up another group of young boys and girls. In fact, there were 3 boys and 1 girl. There those cops were asking them some questions, etc. This time I stepped in and asked the guy if there was a problem against boys and girls being together in the park. The cop told me that there wasn't but they had to sit in the light, etc. I then asked him why. Then he got a little offensive and said that it was for my protection. Anything could happen if a gang of 4 boys came and attacked me since I come running late in the evening. (I think they must have seen me. I hadn't registered their faces earlier.)

I told the cop that since he comes for a patrol at the same time every day, hooligans know that. I told him that people come and drink every night after these guys go. So why are they harassing couples only?

Perhaps my choice of words was not proper. He got defensive and told his partner to take down my name and address, etc. I gave it. Then he acted all injured and said that if I didn't go out that late, maybe I wouldn't notice so many things. Then he told me, in all ominous pomp, that I should come to the police station. It's in sector 9, he said. He gave his name and said that he would like to talk to me.

I returned home and told this to my mum. She, of course, was a little worried and then it struck me that these guys know I go running at that time. If they have to try something, they will do it in the evening. Not too many people are there in the park and even if there are, I wonder if anyone will step in to help me against cops. In any case, all that is speculation.

A month or so ago, an elderly gentleman took up fasting to eradicate corruption. Today, I see that the police is asking for bribe and youngsters are giving it. I can't really blame them. They are young and afraid and, yes, ashamed. I think most of them are hiding their relationships from their parents. (I think, at least, from what I have seen that shame does more damage than greed. In the second case, the girl openly told the cop to check her bag and call her parents. She wasn't afraid. The cop then went on a back foot.)

My question is this - if one has seen a cop asking for bribe from someone else, what does one do? Where does one complain?

My second question is this - In case anything does happen to me, I wonder if this blog post can be admitted as evidence under the Indian Evidence Act. (This is, of course, if anyone takes up my cause or something like that.)

Information on any of the above two issues will really help.

Hanging out

2011-09-04T17:11:00.000-05:00

I wonder if it has been the insulation that freelance brings on but my hanging out periods have changed drastically. I used to spend spades of time at coffee shops, clubs or restaurants. I used to go around driving here and there and meet at least two or three friends a day at separate times. I'd love to know what they were up to, talk about what I was up to, talk about what the world was up to - and then, my day filled with glittering chatter would come to a close. On my way home late at night, there would be texts on where we would meet up next and what we'd do.

All this was not even a long time back. Barely 3-4 months ago, that was my story. I don't know what has happened since then but I just love being by myself now. Or actually, that's not strictly right. I have always loved my own company but I have enjoyed other people's company as well. Now, I find it a tad tiresome.

All my friends are my age or a couple of years older, maybe, but they all seem so different. So many of them seem to have aged considerably. It's like meeting people from some other dimension. There is a certain haggardness in the way they talk and think. A certain insistence on rigidity that, in their minds, spell maturity. And no-one wants to walk. That's my biggest grievance. I don't get why people would stand in one spot trying to flag down autos, getting more miserable by the second, but not walk thirty minutes to where they are headed. In fact, that's what I think about the city situation now - the problem is not so much that the autofellows behave like jerks and go nowhere. The real problem is that today, young people (barely over 30)are incapable of walking 4 kms. Surely, that, if anything, is worrisome.

This much I know about Bombay - walking seems a lot more intimidating until you start doing it. Once you get started, you'll be crossing milestones so quickly, it's exhilarating. And then you'll get a gleam of happiness mixed with sweat on your face. That's when you will get an auto that will ferry you to wherever you want to go.

I stumbled upon this shimmering insight during the time I worked in Andheri East. From my office, which was at Leela Business Park at Marol, I have walked to Andheri station many times. That is a good one hour stagger, at least.

Now, when you are stuck in an auto or a bus in Andheri East - Marol to be precise - you can't help but count the virtues of killing oneself. After demise, the soul may be subjected to many things. However, breathing in fumes while being sandwiched between beams for a mythical Metro system is not one of them. If death ever looked appealing, it's right there. But then, if you decide to walk it, there's a paradigm shift instantly. There's an invigorating push and jostle amidst thronging crowds. Opposite steel and glass structures, you see quaint oil-lamps lighting up bright vegetables stacked on damp sack-cloths. There are pokey, little garages with their own ghastly symmetry of tyres piled high. If you look up, the fading light of the day and yellow light from street lamps weld to to form art-nouveau distortions in the sky. Large flocks of bird return to roost. Their silhouettes are sharp finger smudges against a stunning backdrop. And when you walk across the wide Andheri bridge, you witness a shifting landscape with a steady stream of vehicles. It's like portable dinner theatre.

Marol remains bizarre but becomes beautiful.

Anyway, Marol and walking aside, I wonder why I can't relate to my friends anymore. In fact, I find it really surprising that I can relate a lot more to my mother than with these friends. I'm not just talking about a 'family-type' kind of bonding. But as person-to-person kind of bonding. Mom and I are nothing like each other. She loves luxury and has incredibly sense of style. Her notions of God and money are starkly different from mine. We rarely like the same things. But I wonder how this lady understands so much - this concept of personal space. I honestly wonder where that comes from. My friends who have traveled so much, studied so much, worked so much, earned so much, lived in the same time as me, don't.

I usually like to go to smallish, comfortable restaurants and cafes. Mom usually likes anything that has a 20 feet mirror fitted in the lobby. But she is open to meeting me half-way. My friends will automatically assume that I want to go to a smaller restaurant because I can't afford a better place. Then, they'll say stuff like, "Dont worry, it's not that expensive." or "Don't worry, we'll cover that." I wonder how my mother, who is so used to the good, fine life, understands that its not the money. But my friends who have shared much of my growing up experiences dont get that.

It's also the kind of conversation we engage in. I wonder if, after quitting a job, I have just drifted down a whole different stream. I don't understand how someone can go through life believing that living from one paycheck to another, one EMI payment to another, is the only thing that spells security. All this freelance-shmeelance is truly mumbo-jumbo to my mum. She is the product of a time when 50 years at a workplace was de rigeur. She's not even all that enthusiastic about my freelancing decision. But she understands that it works for me and that's it. She doesn't have the necessary wordly exposure that my friends have. But this latter group cannot even begin to consider an alternative way of getting secure.

The last time my mother and I were at Goa, I could go running at the beach while she had dinner by herself. I have been to Goa earlier with friends who insist that we do everything together every waking minute of the day. If there is one thing I can't swallow, it's a feeling of being held back. And unfortunately, I find myself held back with a lot of friends I earlier liked to be with. I can't walk if they're with me. I can't eat where I want to because it's "not the right place". I can't do something spontaneous because it's crazy. With my mother, everything is possible. It's not always agreeable. But she just lets me be. She doesn't hold me back.

In the last 8 or 9 months, I have realized that my mother's my most favorite person to hang out with. Most challenging, also - since we never agree on anything. And yes, she has such deep prejudices that make me wonder how unconstitutional her psyche is. But she is one of the most secure people I know now. She can manage things on her own and trusts me to do the same.

I know that to every child, her mother is the best. But my adoration for my mom is more for the kind of person she is, for who she has always been. She didn't have to be my mum for me to look up to her. She is really beautiful like her sisters and that entire side of the family shares a fiesty arrogance about it. In fact, they all at some point wanted to be in performing arts. Unfortunately, beauty aside, none of them could perform very well. I believe my mum had pushed someone off the stage in anger while my aunt had punctured the director's motorcycle (yes, they can be quite bratty that way.)

But she's incredible at investments, keeps home beautifully and loves plush, expensive things but will never make a hue and cry if she doesn't get them. (It's another matter that she always gets them.) She likes a few people instantly and dislikes the majority and no amount of cajoling will get her to change her mind. My dad and I have forced her into some kind of democratization because the two of us invariably befriend a type mom will hate. She makes it known very clearly that her standards of living have been severely compromised due to us. She can be quite an intimidating diva and she knows it. Prima facie, she's the sort of person who couldn't be on the same page as me even if she tried! But she is. Not like the way a mother and child are. But the way two reasonable people are.

There are many things my mum could have been. I'm glad she decided to be a mother to me. If I didn't have her in my life, I wouldn't have any friends to have lunch with.

I have to ask nicely, of course.

Loser

2011-09-02T08:05:00.002-05:00

Sometimes losing happens...

As buttery light melts over ponds,

Over debauched shorelines, over virginal fronds

Sometimes losing happens...

As handshakes freeze in peace

As freedom forges ahead, yet wholesome trust depletes

Sometimes losing happens...

When a finish line cuts through a grip

When the body teeters forward, when the mind does a flip

Sometimes losing happens...

In the shadows of sanctimonious sinning,

In the dimension of retreat and some really doubtful winning.

Some thoughts

2011-08-30T16:16:00.002-05:00

...or rather one thought.

I had just pounded the pavement for a brief while. Today I couldn't run as smoothly as the last few days. The rain had let up for a few hours and the entire neighborhood was out soaking in...well, not the sunshine...but less than the kohl-blackness of a rainy evening.

After my rounds, I was headed home when I saw a man leaning against a gate. He was wearing really loose jeans and a black t-shirt. His muddy, yellow windcheater was wrapped around his waist. He was smoking a cigarette and sipping a little cutting chai intermittently. Between a slow drag and a languid sip, he looked around with so much peace. His eyes seemed to trace the path of a cloud or the trail of a leaf in a puddle. He was so blissed out. Everything about him seemed unhurried. Almost like every breath he took in first waited politely until the previous breath had been let out. That entire scene was mesmerizing.

I suddenly realized something in a slightly different context. Considering its effects on its users, this particular apparatus is named so appropriately - 'chill'um.

What is it to you?

2011-08-27T11:00:00.000-05:00

I got back from an invigorating walk in the rain. I love walking out in the rain and getting wet. Usually, I don't bother with an umbrella because I find it an unnecessary encumbrance. Today, though, it was pouring away mightily. So I took one. It's almost a reflex - to twirl the umbrella and smile goofily as fat, cold drops of goodness fall on you.

The walk was lovely. I was refreshed and ready to tackle a pile of tough work. Then I saw a few emails. These were from people who apparently have been reading my blog for a while. Today, they decided to write in and let me know what they thought of it. A lot of what they said was also in keeping with what a stray friend had to say a while ago. Their main grouse was that the blog was too personal. In the past, I have written about the breakdown of my marriage which many found appalling. I have also written about phases of ennui and bitterness and my longstanding issue with temper. All this is washing the dirty linen in public and these people don't like it. So, they have asked me to stop. I, of course, will not. And here are my reasons.

When I started writing this blog, I did not want to exclude anyone from reading it. Not even those 'escort service' advertisements that inundate any open blog nowadays. But my gmail account was hacked and I was advised to put in a filter. That's why you've got to enter those funny characters if you want to post a comment. Other than that, I didn't want to keep anyone out. Not even trolls. I have received my share of flak for writing some things. Since I am extremely egoistic, I don't easily take the high road approach to criticism. It hurts. Even so, I value freedom more than my ego. Therefore, I had decided early on that this blog will not be hostage to my ego. If someone comes up here and decides to say that I'm a rotten writer, so be it. I do not discourage Anonymous writers from posting comments. Because if I have put something on a public space to read and you read it, you are free to comment. Just because you choose to not disclose your identity doesn't make you a coward. You are still equally entitled to voice your opinion as someone else who leaves a name and address. If I believe that you can't tell me what to write, then it's fair that I can't tell you what to think of what I have written.

So, my problem with whoever finds my blog impossibly personal and tacky is this - why are you reading me? It aligns with my value system of candour to write about my life. But if it is so distasteful for you, why read me? If marriage is sacrosanct and one's deepest emotions are sacrosanct and you would rather die than a stranger come to know of any problems regarding that, fine. I get it. But then why do you read of someones marital problems or emotional issues then? Is that not hypocritical? Of course, you have the right to be a hypocrite. Lord knows you'll belong to an ever-growing club. But you must realize that you are one. You are a person with many standards - some of them unfair.

It's like this. You don't like changing in front of people because you think it is cheap. So, don't do it because it's aligned to your beliefs. But if someone else is changing in front of you, why do you not look away? After all, she's doing what she thinks is right. But are you? Why do you stare and then comment on his or her cellulite?

I must say I do appreciate the letters. Some readers are sweet and kind enough to praise my writing. Some others are scathing. My problem is with those who are unfair.

To them, my final statement:Your benchmark, ladies and gentlemen, is not my prison. It's yours.

Disturbing sign

2011-08-19T05:53:00.000-05:00

A week ago I had a dream. It was a little scary so I tried to put it out of my head. But a bad dream usually leaves behind a residue that is difficult to wash off. A bad dream follows you with a slight, rancid scent wherever you go. It's slightly sickening and horrible. My dream was this:

I see myself in a large building with huge corridors. They are long, long, long ones - in fact, so long that you can't see the ends of them. I'm dressed the way I dressed in college. I'm wearing a long shirt, up to my knees (I think it has purple and white checks) and a knee-length skirt (something grey and in a coarse material). I have the same, loser-type body language I had in college - slouched shoulders, long face. My hair is tied in a pony-tail. All in all I am quite non-descript. I don't remember what I am doing there, although it is reminiscent of a rehabilitation facility I had visited in Chennai.

It's dim and dull there. There's a bluish dusk-light that floods the corridors. Maybe there is a lamp shining out in the compound. I can see the emptiness but not too clearly. There seem to lots of doors down the corridors and they are all locked.

Next thing I remember, in the dream, is that I am sitting on a bench. There is a round-faced Sardar talking to me. He is a young boy, maybe around 27 or 28 years old. He looks a little older, yet a little younger. We are sitting on a bench that is placed like a right angle. I am sitting on one leg of it and he is sitting on the other. He seems to be wearing a white and blue checked shirt but the bluish dusk-light makes the shirt look more cream, I think.

The Sardar is hunched, his hands are joined as if in prayer, fingertips touching. He is not very tall, maybe a few inches taller than me. He could be 5'9 or something like that. He is looking at the floor (same as me). He says that he has starting having feelings for me. He didn't ever think he would see me that way but he has and very quietly, he says that he loves me. I don't remember exactly what I say in the dream. In fact, I don't remember explicitly saying anything. But I remember getting the message across - like maybe I have told him that I don't have any feelings for him and could we just be friends? His face looks sad but I feel that he is a good man. He mustn't be strung along. I remember thinking, in the dream, that if he tells me that he doesn't want to be friends anymore, I will accept that too.

Then, I don't remember what happens. I see myself at a pay-phone in one of those long, endless corridors. It is still dusk and the light is that same, sorrowful blue. Nothing seems to change there. Yet I think the time is around dinner-time. Maybe around 8:30 or 9. I call up the Sardar and ask him what he is doing. I think he might have asked me to go somewhere with him earlier but I declined. I have changed my mind and now want to check if I can accompany him. I remember the conversation:

Me: Hi, where are you? If it's not too late, can I join you?

Him: I'm with a friend. We'd come to Jama Masjid, the Kareems here. (Or maybe he said Daryaganj). It's good fun.

Me: Oh great! I wish I could have joined you. Looks like you're having a good time.

Him: Yeah, we are. Lots of good stuff here and my friend got a new car.

Me: Oh great...was it the red...

Him (very slowly and very coldly cutting me off): Bitch.

That's when my dream ended and I woke up feeling a very sharp pain in my stomach. I felt very icy cold around my neck too. There was something about the way this man abused me that made me fearful. Like I felt that this abuse, this 'bitch', was very well thought out. It wasn't because I had turned him down or anything like that. His round, genial face had been a lie. If I had indeed gone out with him, he would have harmed me greatly.

The worse part about this feeling is that it is familiar. I have felt it before. 4 years ago, when a cold, sickening paralysis gripped my gut. If I am not mistaken, this can mean only one thing.

At some point, I will be moving to Delhi again. And if that happens, I won't be coming back.

When your heart gives out a long, slow whistle...

2011-08-16T14:56:00.001-05:00

A few days ago, I met a friend at Bandra. Despite traveling off-peak hours, we battled huge and heavy traffic and were late for our meeting by forty minutes. Several things made up for the delay. My friend, MG's fiesty raconteur skills, delish veg Zinger burgers at KFC (there is something sublime about any combination that is spicy and batter-fried), and a trip to town.

For some weird reason I had to get into a general compartment instead of the ladies one. It was packed and I must say that I was not prepared for the civility I encountered there. The men tried to make way for me as much as they could. A gruff uncle told me to stand tucked away near the windows so that I could get a seat quicker. I told him I'd stand anyway. It was only fair since there were so many people waiting for an empty seat before me. There was no yelling or scratching. (The ladies could definitely learn something from these guys.) And there were these small moments that make my heart surge with happiness. No-one misbehaved, no-one passed a comment, and no-one stared. It was just so decent and good.

At Parel, two eunuchs got into the train. There was a British couple seated next to me. So, one eunuch looked at them and told the other one, "Unse paise maang." (Ask them for money.) The other one collecting a few bucks from a tired Sudoku enthusiast shook his head and said, "Arrey nahin re...un log ke yahaan recession chaalu hai." (No, those guys have a recession going on.) We are nothing if not considerate. Also dubiously informed and opinionated, but doesn't matter. The heart's in the right place.

Then my friend and I went to the book exhibition at Sunderbhai hall. Book feasting over, we thought of nurturing our slightly eroded selves. So, we went to Nariman Point.

That place...that place...it has the direct, phantasmagoric mysticism of any natural wonder of the world. It is concrete, all right. But it is the concrete of a memory, of a soul, of a song.

It was raining when we reached there. We were at the rocks at NCPA and the entire skyline just diffused and melted into monsoony greyness. The sea was lush and turbulent, those tripod-like wave blasters looked like giant, wet ochre gems, and we saw so many crabs shuttling in and out of crevices. The magic, however, was in the rain drops that fell on the edge of the granite bulwarks. As soon as they would hit the granite, they'd transform into dancing drops of mercury and skip away in the wind! It was such a joy just watching that.

When we sat on our haunches studying little globules of skittish perfection, there was beauty. When we stood looking at the wide horizon swept with silver memories, there was beauty. When we lost ourselves in the ebb and flow of the friendly waves, there was beauty. When we stood soaking in the rain with our palms outstretched foolishly, catching spittles of goodness, there was beauty. And finally, what struck me as truly awesome, was surveying the skyline right up to Malabar Hill. Because of the mist and fog, the sharp silhouette of the high-rises got hazy and blurred until they blended in seamlessly with a fuzzy beyond. You couldn't see the tip of Malabar Hill at all. In fact, from where we were standing, it looked as if the city just slowly exhaled away itself.

That is Nariman Point. And I dare say, that is forever.

Good morning with Yann Martel

2011-07-31T20:14:00.000-05:00

By writing 'Life of Pi', I think Yann Martel has set a benchmark so high that it frightens me. And I'm just a reader. In fact, I am even wary of picking up Beatrice and Virgil, Martel's second book. What if it isn't as good? What if I am not astounded and rendered speechless with every paragraph? What if I don't want to commit every page to memory? What if I don't end the book with this queasy, stunned sense of beauty that I ended Life of Pi with? What if Beatrice and Virgil, unlike Life of Pi, doesn't 'happen to me' as tremendously? What then?

Reviews of Beatrice and Virgil are less enthusiastic than his first work. NY Times calls it a rushed description of 'postmodernism' (or something like that). It's described as being too clever, having narratives within narratives, lots of references to Nazi history (the plot does revolve around the Holocaust), etc.

So while Life of Pi would touch and move just about everyone, we aren't quite sure how many readers would actually finish reading Beatrice and Virgil, leave alone understand or appreciate it.

But these reviews mean nothing. They said the same thing, heck they always say the same thing, about everything that Salman Rushdie writes. But Rushdie just floats away on his magic carpet of genius anyway.

Also, a friend had recommended Yann Martel's blog where I found a lovely sentiment (http://www.whatisstephenharperreading.ca/about/). I also found a reason to straighten my back and say, "Okay, Mr. Martel. I will read you again."

The phrase: Life, it seems, favours moments of stillness to appear on the edges of our perception and whisper to us, “Here I am. What do you think?”

Well being

2011-07-28T22:05:00.002-05:00

I stayed up all night last week finishing up work. After some 10-12 hours of writing, I would lie down for a couple of hours before I woke up and sat at the laptop again. It was so physically gruelling. But every morning, around 6 or so, it would rain. I would open the windows of my room wide and listen to the rhythm. It usually sounds like a steady, light clinging of a coin-chain. The potted plants by the grate are in blue and brown clay pots. They'd shuffle to the wind like little, leafy toddlers.

There are times when writing is so rigorous that I wonder if I will ever get a weekend to relax. But those few moments in the morning were such beautiful post-its of leisure. Until a complete weekend comes, I'll take what I can get.

Around 4 a.m. today, I finished a large chunk of an assignment. After the laptop had flickered and shut down, I got p and looked out. It was so quiet and dark outside. It was quiet and dark outside my room too. I suddenly felt empty. Also a little sad. When I get up from my work with the vigor of a task well done, there's no-one around.

I tried sleeping but couldn't. So I read Diane von Furstenberg's interview in an earlier issue of Vogue. Then at sunrise I woke up, feeling peckish.

Last night, the cook had made some tasty soy cutlets. (I love, love, love soya - especially cutlets.) These were a little chewy and mixed well with tiny shreds of garlic and ginger and some kind of coarse, spicy powder. There's a great tenacity with which soya holds flavor. These cutlets were moist, tender and very juicy. They were nice and thick so I decided to make myself a burger.

Mom had got some wholewheat, rye burger buns last week. I have to say, I don't like bread too much. But these were quite rustic and home-y. I slathered these buns with mayonnaise, spread out a salad leaf (it looked really romantic on the bun too; like a lover with his arms spread wide to embrace his love), put on the soy mince patty, toasted the whole burger on a pan and slid it on a plate. (I like that part of cooking the best - when food gets transferred from pan to plate.)

To wash it off, I had some Pear and Raspberry cordial (it's a Waitrose product and it is lip-smacking - tart, cool, snappy, wonderful.)

I got my breakfast back to my room. The sky had started singing again. Rain fell. I ate.

Really. I could live like this forever.

Golden flight

2011-07-27T03:50:00.001-05:00

There she sits in a gilded cage

With the trap door a little broken

She sits in silence, all hush and quiet

But the face that's turned away has spoken

It rains blue roses all night long

Yet she does not fly free

A newborn day comes with fresh, mint scent

And she decides to be

Inside her cage, by that door

She lives through a million springs

And sometimes coos for the little freedom

That comes to those with gilded wings.

Rainy noon

2011-07-24T06:15:00.000-05:00

A really scattered Sunday. There is a lot to finish by tomorrow and I've just been chatting away with friends. Spoke on the phone for nearly three hours today. I think that's almost as much as how much time I've spent on the phone in the last six months.

Then, exhausted, I tried to take a nap, tried to figure out all the projects I have to work on. Got very tense. I sat by the window sill and saw a guave tree sway in the wind. There was a tiny, perfect little guava swinging from the branches - a little, green knot of joy. Then the grey sky acted like a sieve. It got all porous and sweet, cool rain came falling down.

It was all good again.

Pithuo

2011-07-23T15:04:00.001-05:00

One's heritage often imparts certain tools that equip one for a particular path in life. It could be business acumen or strong legs. It could be predisposition to the arts or a keen sense of adventure. For me, I think, it's taste for mustard. I love mustard, especially mustard oil. The sharp, heavy smell of mustard oil is what I can battle armies for.

If my childhood could be bottled as perfume, I'm pretty sure the scent would be mustard. (I understand it wouldn't have many takers. That's perfectly fine with me. Like I said, when it comes to mustard, I don't like competition.)

As kids, we used to be massaged with mustard oil - our bodies, hair, armpits, cuticles, etc. A thick coat of that oil, with its distinct scent, would get soaked into our pores. My brother and cousins hated it. I couldn't get enough.

After a vigorous massage, we had to rest or play on the floor for a half-hour and then, go for a cold water bath. Without being boastful, my brother, my cousins, I - whoever had this mustard oil treatment - grew up having gleaming skin and shiny hair. This was the case until we learnt to resist wisdom or just got lazy or had 'better' things to do. Then, of course, the regime stopped and urban life took over. But my cousins, two very beautiful girls, continued this treatment well into their adult years. Both of them have skin tone that has the sheen of ground pearls mixed with milk and moonlight. And their waist-length hair is strong, rich, black and smooth. I'm not one for a whole lot of beauty treatments - but I swear by mustard oil. If I ever got conscious of looking young, that is what I would go for. It guarantees unlined skin.

But beauty aside, mustard oil is fantastic in food - which is where my interests lie, in any case. A lot of people can't stand the smell. In fact, it is quite hard to digest too. But that smell will get me out of the grave; and the taste - I think the taste has nestled somewhere cosily in my DNA and should I have babies, this love will get transmitted to them.

There is an Oriya dish called 'Pithuo' that combines mustard oil and mustard paste. It takes an iron stomach to digest it but it makes any meal memorable. It is such a distinctive, beautiful tasty treat and I can have a heap of it with steaming hot rice! (Rice - now, that's another poetic fixation.)

Now, before I write about 'Pithuo', I must say that this is how it is made in my home. I don't know if it is an authentic Oriya recipe or not. Since my absolute love for mustard is known to mum, she could very well be tweaking it to suit my palate. But overall, the highlight of this dish is mustard, sweet mustard.

Pithuo is a kind of vegetable cutlet that is rolled in rice flour and fried. You grate some veggies or chop them up really fine after par boiling them. Usually, nothing leafy because it is hard to bind those - but carrots, onions, peas, and beans are the staple. You could add baby corn, zucchini, etc. but don't ruin it by getting HyperCity pretentious. It is best to stick to simple vegetables that give you a crunch. On the side, you mash up some potatoes with salt, pepper, chilli powder, mustard paste (the more pungent the better) and mustard oil. After the potatoes are mashed properly - they needn't be very smooth (a few lumps spell character) - add the vegetables and mix them up really nice.

Then you take a little bit and roll it into cutlets. Coat them in the rice four and shallow fry them in mustard oil.

I generally eat them with hot rice. Only rice, though. No dal or sabzi or anything else. These cutlets are so flavorful and rich with taste and texture that their perfect accompaniment can only be something that is bland. You cannot have any other item that masks the taste of mustard here. It's philistine. Seriously, to have it along with daal or a curry is like getting the finest oysters and dousing them in ketchup. If the taste is something you can't handle, just stay away. Because unless you are getting a scalp-searing heaty kick, the pithuo is just another vegetable cutlet with a variation.

So, here's what I do. I take some really hot rice (the vapours from the dish should be clouding up mirrors) and create a clearing in the centre of the plate. I put a couple of pithuos on that. Then I cover that up with some more rice. Finally, on top the mound, I drizzle a little mustard oil to which a pinch of salt has been added. That golden yellow mixing with the snowy whiteness looks so gentle and quiet. It totally camouflages the scandalous pungency of what is to follow.

But for me, food has got to be wicked. I can't help it. I'm bound by heritage.

It's basic

2011-07-22T02:13:00.000-05:00

As a freelance writer, I spend close to 12 hours a day working. Mostly, it is actually writing or researching. Then there is some amount of meetings and discussions on what to write, how to write, devising content related strategies, etc. There is a lot of getting into someone's head and figuring out what they want. There is speculation on what is going to drive people to someone's website or write persuasive marketing collaterals or a powerful concept note. I love all that juggling. However, sometimes I do lose the plot.

Early this morning, I finished reading 'Life of Pi' by Yann Martel. It's the story of a boy, Pi, who survives a shipwreck. His survival involves spending nearly a year on the Pacific on a lifeboat with a royal Bengal tiger.

I read that book and remembered that anything creative or inspired makes you feel a particular way - it makes you want to be a better person. It makes you want to live a better life. It makes you want to soak in the goodness of that moment and share that feeling freely and willingly.

Early this morning I was reminded of why I love writing in the first place.

If you haven't already, do read 'Life of Pi'. It will remind you of what is important.

A thought

2011-07-21T07:53:00.000-05:00

In religious hierarchy, generally paganism is seen to be inferior to, well, non-paganism. (I don't know the term for the opposite.) So, if one is monotheistic, believing in one God that somehow can't be seen, touched, or heard, then that is more evolved than a value system where you pay obeisance to a rock, stream or flower.

But why?

If you can actually perceive a god all around you - or even a different god in each and every element - if every little thing fills you with wonder, joy and piety, aren't you there? ('There' being the place that religion was supposed to take you to.)

Wasn't that the whole point?

Rainy mornings

2011-07-18T19:16:00.000-05:00

I love waking up to the sound of the rain. It feels like a different, watery form of sunrise. The air is cool, clear, fresh. Somewhere up above, I imagine the best in the universe got concentrated, condensed and nurtured in a large silk pouch. Then these formed perfect jewels of beauty and tenderness. When the time is right, all those jewells, all that goodness, comes pouring down and then falls away.

And I step out into a world that is whole, new, changed.

May you often wake up to rain.

How it began...

2011-07-18T16:45:00.000-05:00

A grain of sand in a grey sky's eye
And clouds rub it off quickly
The large grey eye then waters down
And flows into a salty sea.
This ocean in its vastness now,
Is our emblem of hope since years
And it's forgotten that this flame of will
Was really born of tears.

Guess what just happened?

2011-07-16T21:00:00.000-05:00

I woke up early, around 5 a.m. and wrote out a sample test article for a website. I had been delaying it for so long - what with the nausea, queasiness and old-fashioned procrastination. But I woke up, heard the rain falling steadily (always my song of hope and joy), sat at my computer and worked steadily.

It took a solid two hours to tackle that and I sent it off. What followed was an exquisite lightness, an airy sense of joy. What followed was also a gnawing hunger. My cook was awake by then so I asked for some tea and crisp toast with butter and mayonnaise. I munched on that watching the beautiful grey sky - luscious and juicy like the flesh of lychee - and its sweet pin-sharp drizzles of silver rain. Thick green leaves shook about and somewhere, in the rain, birds chirped noisily.

I am now sated with food and well-being. It's time to take a short nap before I get dressed and go to Andheri to meet my friends.

Good morning, world!

Movie Scene - 2

2011-07-16T14:37:00.000-05:00

This is from the movie, 'Walk the Line'. It's a story about the singer, Johny Cash.

In this particular scene, Johny is estranged from his family. He has left his wife and has become an alocoholic. He has a rocky relationship with another singer (Reese Witherspoon) but can't seem to get his life in order. Record labels that were earlier lining to sign him up start avoiding him. Johny has decided to get away from it all and has bought a house up in the mountains. It's a very beautiful place and he has invited his girlfriend to see it. When she visits him, she realizes that he is living a wasteful life he can't afford. He can't afford the house or the dogs and he definitely can't afford to be drinking that excessively. They have a fight and I think they break up.

She goes to her car and brings out a box of stuff that belong to him. She had meant to give it as a gift. But she more or less throws it at his face with a "Hell with you!" kind of goodbye.

Johny Cash watches her leave. The sun is setting and it's wintertime. That scene visually depicts hopelessness and gloom in a very dreamy way. Cash really wants to do something about his situation and wants to get his girl back but he looks like he doesn't stand a chance anymore. Then he goes through his box and this is where we come to my favorite moment.

He picks out a photograph of him performing at a concert in the past. At this point, there's a tight close-up of Cash's face. He looks lost. And then the camera moves to the photo he is holding. And we see a young, vibrant Cash singing into a mike. And there's an applause in the background. Cash is imagining his time on stage. This moment marks the moment when things actually took a turn for the better in the movie.

It's a very well composed scene. With just a few elements you get the sense that fame and the lure of applause is such a hook for an artist. He will change his life - not always maybe for love, but almost always for appreciation.

Movie scene -1

2011-07-15T14:24:00.001-05:00

I am really unwell today. The twitch in my left eye is much worse than before and some nerve is feeling stretched. There's a tremendous bodyache and my right tooth is paining badly. My throat is sore, my nose is stuffy and small knots of pain seem to lodged around my eyebrows and the base of my neck. There is a general expression of gloom. The recent blasts and then anger at Mumbai, the city and what it stands for, its steady into decline because its part of Maharashtra, the intolerance in the world at general, etc. - all that is doesn't sit easily with me either. All in all, everything is feeling heavy and sodden.

To perk myself up, I thought I would make a list of movie scenes that really meant something to me over the years. (I will post a scene as and when I get the energy. Right now, I feel like I won't stay alive long enough to finish the post.)

From Qayamat se Qayamat Tak:

The last scene. Just before Aamir dies, he softly kisses Juhi on the lips (she's already dead) and slumps down next to her. In the background, the sun sets over some sparse, sandy landscape and the song, "Papa Kehte Hai..." plays sadly. The contrast of the words, "Papa kehte hain badaa naam karega, beta hamara aisa kaam karega..." and Aamir dying for love...the irony is very touching. I remember thinking that if you find the love you can give up your life for, what can be a bigger accomplishment than that? Maybe his father never saw it that way. But life finds you in ways your parents or you never expect.

Why I go back to the film time and time again, especially that scene, is because I grew up in Bandra. Aamir and Salman were practically boys of the neighborhood. When 'Maine Pyar Kiya' released and Salman owned the public, my school (it was a girl's school) became sharply divided into two groups. There were some of us who listened to QSQT songs on repeat and there were those who wore the famed 'Friends' cap or carried notebooks with the Salman-Bhagyashree duo in a heart-shaped cutout.

At the time, I was for Aamir Khan. He had died for love. Not like this other stylish dude who enlisted services of pigeons, etc. to get the work done. Also, Aamir's home at the time was closer to my house than Salman's. Then Shah Rukh Khan came into the movies and over time, moved into the neighborhood as well. After each of their earlier films, I had seen Aamir in a smallish car driving to Khar gym for tennis. I had seen Salman Khan in an open jeep at Turner Road to get kulfis. But Shah Rukh - him I had spotted in a fiery red Pajero zooming off at Carter Road. One of my pals swooned and had said, "Wow! This guy's gonna be around for a long time!" I had snorted and said, "We'll see."

Over time, I started disliking Aamir. I thought the guy just can't get over anything. It's like you make a comment about him in 1995, then he will pass a barb at you in 2010. Too calculating for my taste. I dislike that so much that I don't even like watching any of the films he produces, let alone acts in. (And frankly I was not blown over with Taare Zameen Par. It was good but that's it.)

But whenever I see that scene in QSQT, I remember something. There's a saying in Oriya that translates to mean that if a plant is tulsi, it will start giving off the fragrance even when it has only two leaves.

Aamir's debut was with 'Qayamat se...', Salman's was with 'Maine Pyaar Kiya', and Shah Rukh's was with 'Deewana'. Qayamat is so much more subtle, soft, sad and lingering than his peers' more colorful, bombastic films. I think this preference of these 3 gentlemen carries forward until this date - to the movies they produce or act in. Shah Rukh will do a Don and Salman will produce a Dabanng but Aamir will make a Dhobhi Ghaat.

It sometimes looks as if Aamir sealed his fate with cinema with that tender kiss in his debut film's last scene. He was to be the harbinger of the quiet lingering moments. Let the others make the noise.

(For the record, though, I don't like him still.)

It's a cliche for a reason

2011-07-13T14:19:00.001-05:00

The Bombay spirit.

It's a cliche because it has become a desensitized phrase make us Mumbai people look like roaches. Oh look! They'll survive everything. Yet...

Today, there were blasts at Dadar, Opera House, Zaveri Bazaar. At the time of the blasts, I was close to Dadar with a friend. We'd spent a splendid day in town, collected our freelance moolah (always a day of joy) and then spontaneously decided to do a few things. We tried out a new restaurant near Phoenix Mills called China Land. My vegetable wonton soup was quite nice but the starters, Peppery Tofu, was brilliant. It was soft and smoky with some really interestic flavors. I think smoked garlic with coarsely crushed peppercorn.

After that, we caught 'Delhi Belly' at PVR. We then we walked through Worli village to get to Worli Seaface and saw this beautiful little garden we had noticed before. We sat by the sea, our back to the splendid sea-link and talked for hours. Then we got close to Dadar, got into a small Udipi and got our snacky fix. Medu wada doused in sambar and really good chutney and two cups of kadak chai.

Suddenly the murmur around us got thicker with names like Opera House being bandied about. "Arrey, it was here in Dadar also", someone else said. I felt some kind of alarm build up in my stomach. I had a sense of what they were talking about. That's why I craned to look out the window. I was hoping, sorely hoping, they'd be talking about incessant rain somewhere and trains running late. But it was drizzling lightly.

So I turned to the man next to me and asked him to confirm what I was saying. My friend had this expression in her eyes that suggested it has happened again. The man told me about the blasts.

Within 30 minutes, we were in a bus going to Bandra. My friend would take the train to Mira Road. I would take the bus to Vashi. In the restaurant and in the buses, people were freely offering phones to strangers to make a call. My Reliance Network was surprisingly working. (It doesn't when I have to return an important call to a client but well...) In the bus, men promptly stand up and vacate the Ladies Seat they inappropriately occupy. The conductor continues to crib about no-one giving him any change. And then the bus takes a route quite close to the kabootar khana area in Dadar. That area is cordoned off because blasts have taken place there. Poeple have spilt blood there. People have died there.

But in the lane right next to it - not in a suburb far away, not 25 days later - right next to the affected area within 30 minutes of the blast, people have gathered around showrooms with TV screens watching the news. Some people are snacking in restaurants there. A vada pav stall does brisk business while giving spicy tidbits, I imagine, of how loud the blast was, whether he had an inkling about it, etc. The traffic was under control. In the bus, calls were being received from frantic family and friends. The response was, "Yes. I was there or I wasn't there exactly and Don't worry, re. I'll reach home aaraam se."

And my friend and I did reach home. Aaraam se. Taking in the liquid streams of traffic against the pale purple nightsky. Talking to the person next to us, maybe. Sharing news of the earlier blasts maybe. Giving confusing information about ways to get home to people unfamiliar with the city. Quarelling with a co-passenger maybe. Asking the conductor a hundred times if he knew exactly who this large tote bag belonged to. Humming a song. Looking out dreamily at a beautiful night. Planning dinner over phone. And yes - more so than anything else - planning the tomorrow.

This is why I screw up my pedestal several notches higher than before and place my city there. Yet again. It's because this - this casualness, this innocence of continuity, this flair for being bizarre while also being busy and also being afraid and also being angry, this messiness - this is what Bombay was, Mumbai is, and (whatever it may be called in the future) will remain. A million news features and dejected comments and wry humour about the city's spirit will not diminish it ever.

We do all this, not because this is Mumbai. But because that is life. And you can kill people. But life? It's a pretty big thing to get down.

Lessons from Palolem

2011-07-12T13:43:00.000-05:00

This is Palolem. It is a crescent shaped beach and so pretty that it could be a pearl that got loose from an angel's embroidered wing. This time in Goa, my friends and I decided to take a day off to go to a different beach from the close to our hotel. Somewhere distant. So, we woke up early, ate a quick brekker and set off. Then we walked through little strips of road that knitted paddy fields, hailed a bus and set off for Palolem.

Palolem is deep in the south of Goa. From where we were (Benaulim), we had to change two buses to get to the beach (one to Madgaon and another to Palolem from the bus depot there). It was a long sheery ride. We went up a road that swirled around a green, green mountain. It was like tracing along the ribbon of candy color that rolls about a lollipop. On the way, the bus would be hailed by large crowds of school-children. They'd hop off somewhere between a purple house with yellow windows and a red hut with blue walls. There were all these souvenir-type things that made us chuckle. (Beauty can crack you up too. Not everything is poetry.)

We saw mountain streams dribbling over little ponds, rain come and go, the bus get full and empty, yet the world staying calm and grey.

Then we reached Palolem and the waves there were bigger and had quite a roar. The sea wastempting as sin. I, however, had decided to skip wearing a costume that day because I'd woken up feeling feverish and thought I'd done enough frollicking in the water the previous 2 days. (Or so I thought.)

But 12: 15 I spotted the sea. 12:16 I was deep in it. Walking as far as I could go in, turn my back to a huge wave and then, as it lifted me up, start swimming. Sometimes, two or three waves would come in quick succession. That's when I would quickly start floating on my back.

Now, floating on one's back is exquisite to begin with. But when you feel the heft of a wave rising under you and you are upturned looking at dark clouds gather atop a faraway island and feel the tickle of raindrops on your salty lips - it is exceptional to the point of heartburst.

Since I was swimming in my tee and shorts, I got soaked to a degree that hasn't happened since childhood. And I can't imagine how right that felt. It felt correct to be this joyous, wet, and free.

In yoga, we are taught to visualize ourselves as a drop of water that merges with the ocean. In the ocean, we learn what a cakewalk that is.

I think we are meant for this kind of surrender and this kind of freedom.

Nothing less and nothing else.

Goshiness

2011-07-11T11:51:00.002-05:00

I have finally summoned up enough strength to get through a wad of work for today. I'm done. Complete. Clean. Finished. Slate is clean.

Tomorrow I have to trudge up to my father's office for some work. It will be fun I think but only if I can have a delicious langorous morning after having a heavy, sweet sleep. Unlikely because I intend to do some luscious reading - the kind of reading where I don't even blink. I am reading 'Life of Pi' by Yann Martel and that book is so dense with soul!

I think some people are like butterflies. Or rather they communicate the way a butterfly lightly flits about you. Similarly, their words have meaning hovering around them. Like a sweet little mote on a beam of soft lavender light. Maybe the way, if you have shampooed your hair before you sleep, the next morning you get a lungful of the fresh juicy scent in your nose when you wake up. As I was saying, some people are gentle with their words and meanings. Like they spray a word with what they intend to say and let it float on to you. Unlike others. There are some who sew on meanings to their words - with those thick, big needles you sew shoes with. Why do I bring this up? I spoke to someone today who wouldn't give me her name. She said she had gotten my number from a common friend whose name she wouldn't disclose either. And then I gave up because her voice was sweet. She spoke so nicely. We talked about coffee and her preferences in tea and music. (I think it's a nice name for a soap - tea and music. I don't want it to be the name of a cafe or lounge. I want it to be something that gets on you and then in you and then, lost.) Afterwards, she said goodbye and hung up. I have a feeling I know her. I have a feeling she wants me to trace her and call her back. She didn't say anything outright. But everything she said lingers.

I would like to go swimming again. In the sea. The sea is such a massive crazy pet! My senses just get an amusement ride thrill just talking about it.

Okay. I am tired now. Maybe I'll sleep well.

Fever, yoga, reading, a little of this and a little of that...

2011-07-11T02:58:00.000-05:00

I have been really unwell the last few days. High fever, a very sore body, thumping headache and, since misery loves loves loves company, there's a toothache doing the salsa with a sore throat as well. (How do they manage, you ask? Well, illnesses have a way of getting around.)

Now, just a few days ago I had started yoga. And this time I was determined to do yoga regularly to get fit and burn off my karmic deposits. (No, that’s not what they are calling body fat nowadays.) I wanted to settle at least that part of my karmic cycle that has kept me tied to the drama of anger. I have tried to figure out why I have so much anger inside of me when, frankly, I have around 2,800 things to be grateful for every single day of my life. And this is a list I can make up right from stuff at the top of my head.

I have tried to get to the bottom of this for a while now. A friend's sister is a hypnotherapist. Nearly a year ago, I had visited her on account of some issues that I was really tired of - like getting short with people, taking so many things personally, getting defensive about Mumbai. (It sounds crazy, I know. But that was when I had started feeling sick in my stomach. I could calmly respond to someone who accused me of being an escapist from my marriage but if he/ she made a comment on how dirty Mumbai was - man! the heights to which my hackles got raised!) Then, it reached a point where I sensed a lot of people distancing themselves from me. No-one was telling me anything but there wasn't the warmth I had felt earlier. I almost didn't notice it until one day - I did. I was with a friend and I saw a tight smile, a formal shrug and a quick, "See you later." So, I asked her what the problem was - right out - and she said, "This is the problem! You are always so aggressive and you are always so moody and you are always so opinionated! I can't handle it!"

All that was news to me. So, of course, I told her that she was a coward and constantly whining about stuff and what kind of an imbecile expects a human-being to be in one constant mood? Well, that was that. She cried, I felt horrible and we didn't communicate for a while.

On closer quarters, though, I saw that same pattern with my family. I noticed that my father wouldn't say something to me because he didn't want a heated argument, a cousin wouldn't call me up because he didn't know what mood he'd find me in, a niece would be iffy about sharing her essay because she thought I'd rip it apart (she got that impression from the others). My friends from 10 years ago went their ways without even saying goodbye. Colleagues at work started agreeing with my opinions rather quickly, without even venturing to offer their own. (Can't say I complained about that.) But as soon as I took stock of the situation, I realized that there was a problem and I wasn't very sure how to tackle it.

My friend's sister, E, helped me tremendously. She's much younger than me and ordinarily, I wouldn't have consulted her at all. I had some reservations about hypnotherapy as well. But at the time I thought - why the heck not? I was at that stage when I had done a lot of introspecting. I have usually kept a diary and I kept poring over entries to figure out what was going on. I sensed that there was a pattern here. And as a sociology student - this much I know: where there's a pattern, you look beyond incidents to figure out the reasons. Actually, even law has much the same approach. (Okay, more pedagogical analogies for another post.)

My session with E was a BIG eye-opener. As I spoke to her, some instances came to mind - those I had pushed to the back of my head because I was so busy focusing on 'main' issues such as temper. For example, I knew that I always got defensive about Mumbai. But while talking to E, I recalled instances when I have defended Delhi vehemently. I used to hate it when people called Delhi 'the rape capital' or its people loud and uncouth. Then, I noticed that there were times I went hoarse praising Pune. When people would call Pune a mousehole, I would defy them to find the kind of evolved lifestyle you find there. I have almost shouted myself out saying stuff that LA is far better than Boston. Who cares about a few universities around stupid green areas when there's far more life and action to be had elsewhere. I was indifferent about Bangalore or Ahmedabad or Kolkata or New York. You like it? You don't like it? Oh well.

That's when it hit me. I only got defensive about places I had lived in. There was something so primitive and ferocious about my territorial allegiance that it was scary. I would have definitely missed this aspect if E hadn't helped me with it. This also overlapped other areas. I could have a problem with you but if someone spoke against you in front of me, that person had had it! Somewhere, I felt the need to be a protector. I had to protect what was 'under attack'.

Then we came to the part of why this was so and what to be done about it. Both areas would take a certain about of effort and honesty which I can't summon just yet (given that I have fever, etc.)

However, E got married and moved to another city and my work of getting anger in check got waylaid. For a while it was okay, I was calm, and then it acted up again. The last straw was when I threw a glass of water on someone's face because I lost my cool. No. The last straw was when she didn't react. It was when she didn't hit back or retaliate or do anything. The last straw was when she walked away, saying nothing.

I can't explain the feelings that followed. Of course, what I did was wrong and there was an apology. But these things - they break you. In a good way. I think when I saw, in one interaction, the lows to which I had sunk and the highs which the other person upheld, it was clear. Clear like when you wipe a muddy window with a wet cloth and through that gleaming swipe, you see a waterfall. I had made a choice and she had made a choice and we both will live out the consequences of our choices.

It is odd that I felt no shame, remorse or self-loathing. Usually, all outbursts are loyally followed by this trinity. None of them are useful. I just felt that the worst has happened. It will only get better from here as soon as I decided the path. I don't care with the reasons for the temper now. My soul has truly just had it with the drama.

Many moons ago, I had read a book, 'You can heal your life' by Louise L. Hay. I read it around the time I was skeptical of self-help books and all that. However, my friend, J, (www.teerathyatra.com) had told me that this book linked diseases to a thought pattern and I was intrigued.

I strongly, earnestly recommend this book to anyone out there who wants a good read. Yes, it is one of those 'Secret' type books that speak of affirmations and law of attraction, etc. But it had been written at a time when only nut-eating, weed-smoking junkies in California believed that stuff. Louise L. Hay, perhaps, has the sweetest, most tender style of penning advice. If she were a neighbor, I would visit her everyday with treats from bakery. If she were on radio, I'd listen to her every day. She just has a way about her. Even if you don't believe in 'that sorta stuff', read her. If you have ever been in a position where you've asked yourself, "What the hell is wrong with me?" and honestly wanted an answer, read her. You will be so surprised at what you find. (Or you could meet E. It's been a while since we've been in touch but if you write to me, I could send you her contact details. She may suggest this book, too, by the way.)

So, in any case, Louise writes about certain ways of releasing a thought process and getting over things. Around the time I read her, I had started learning yoga. The two just seemed to click with me.

I'll make another strong recommendation here and then move on to the rest of my post. Please learn yoga. If you have learnt it, do it. If you're not interested, just be around people who do it. You will benefit. It is my personal opinion that you can have the most chiseled, perfectly toned body with a proper yoga routine. I believe that because I have seen that. You can have it in just as much time as you spend in a gym, if not sooner, and you can have it for life. I'm not in any shape or form to actually be the poster-girl for this sort of thing but I know of men who have six-packs and do the mayurasana like poetry. I know of women who do 30 minutes of asanas with 20 minutes of meditation and they could light up a room with the glow of their skin.

But I'll tell you why I do yoga. I do it because through my body, I realize that I was much more than it. I have to admit I am not big with the pranayams and kriyas. But I try to do a few asanas as regularly as I can. Any angry person is a stiff person with a disposition to joint problems. There are a lot of blockages that occur in the body because of what one has thought and believed over a period of time. Since I find it difficult to change my thought process internally (through awareness, meditation, etc.), approaching a mental change from ‘outside-in’ is what helps me. That means being more centred in what I practice and being more simple in what I consume. Also, I had read a book on Hatha Yoga that spoke of the link between karma and yoga. (Karma, in my mind, is an axiom. I just believe that it exists. Have been ridiculed a fair bit on this but…what can I say? That is something I have full faith in.) According to this book, when you are mindful of going through the motions of Suryanamaskar, it is not just about saluting the sun. With every motion, you are actually working off a portion of your karmic debt. That I found really interesting.

This insight particularly resonated with me. Through my session with E and learnings from Louise L. Hay, I realize that my anger issue is old and deep. It’s got to be grinded out of my psyche peacefully, firmly and consistently. I was anyway doing yoga. So why not do it with this orientation in mind? It’s far more interesting than getting a toned back! (Although I would love a toned back.)
Then, after one day of yoga, I fell ill. Very ill. That night, I felt so desolate that I cried through different thickets of self-pity. I really felt bad for myself, mainly, because just the night before I had made grand resolutions of taking charge of my life, etc. Now, taking charge of one’s life means not having anyone to blame when you are ill and aching. That is not the time for the Universe to tell you to just ‘suck it up!’ but it says that anyway. It’s hard.

The next morning I woke up even more unwell than before but I decided to do yoga anyway. I hated every single minute of preparing for it. From opening the terrace to unfolding the mat to joining my hands and starting the Suryanamaskars. Then, as I quieted down and started doing my rounds, it started to rain. When rain falls on a grey and misty world, you catch your breath. Because the beauty is so fragile and fleeting. It looks as if a child is weeping and smiling quietly in her sleep because of what she sees in a dream. It was lovely. I finished yoga in more peace than I have felt in a long, long time. I almost felt like the Universe was moved by what I’d done.

This is why I feel hopeful, at times. I feel that no matter how bad or deep my problem, there is more help around than I can imagine.

Makes me weep. Makes me smile.

Story of my name and the picture that tells that story

2011-07-07T14:41:00.000-05:00

My name is Mukta.

My father was abroad, in flight, on the way to India, when my mother delivered me in Cuttack. I was conceived on ship, somewhere near Bulgaria, I think. From the time my mother had conceived me, both my parents were certain they'd have a girl. My mother attributes the certainty to her gut. My father attributes the certainty to my mother.

The sea and the beginning of my life is closely interlinked. Several times, I feel that there was an osmosis that happened between the swells of waves and my mothers womb. And when that happened, I passed through.

Niether of my parents really had any idea on what they should name their first-born. They had left it to my grandparents who toured the entire mythological planet to apparently come up with the most tongue-twisting monikers.

But then, one day, my mother went into labour. Then, one day, my father was travelling home. They hadn't spoken to each other then. But independent of consultation, they both thought of the name, "Mukta".

My father thought "Mukta" should mean 'free' and 'unfettered'.

My mother meant 'Mukta' to mean pearl, since that's how she had seen my genesis.

I grew up thinking that my name reconciled odd contradictions. A pearl, if anything, is never free. Always in an oyster. Then strung on a bead. Yet, cultivated in the massive permissiveness of the ocean.

Growing up, my name has always fascinated me. Sometimes, I wonder if I have ever taken on the attributes of 'Mukta' - my mother's 'Mukta', or my father's 'Mukta'.

In Goa, this time, a friend clicked me walking into the sea. I'm wearing white and am looking lost. I still remember the first time I stepped into the vastness of waters with my father. I was wearing white then too. It was a full moon night and I believed that if I followed the shining moonlight on the waves, I could reach the sky. Then I stepped into the water. That's when I believed, very strongly believed, that I could give up a million skies to live in the deep liquid song that serenaded a crudely formed, frivolous world. Of course, this articulation is from adulthood. But it germinates from a childhood authenticity.

I knew then, as I know now - that with the sea, by its side, in it, around it - I'll have my gentle shackles. I'll also have my perfect freedom.

I am, I think, my mother's Mukta, my father's Mukta, and the sort of 'Mukta' the sea brings up with it from time to time. And somewhere swimming amongst all of this, is the Mukta that is me.

This is the picture.

Friends are looking...

2011-07-04T14:01:00.000-05:00

1. Friend 1 is soon shifting to Pune. Got a cushy job in a company around the Hinjewadi area and is looking for a place close to office. If anyone knows of a place to rent out in that area, please let me know.

2. Friend 2 has got a job around Hiranandani, Powai and is looking for a PG Accomodation in and around Hiranandani or Chandivalli. If you need a flatmate or know of a good PG acco, do mail me.

Both are women - clean and responsible.

Do email me at: mukta.raut@gmail.com.

Thanks so much.

Monday beginnings

2011-07-04T01:48:00.000-05:00

My Monday begins when I want it to. When I have nosedived into a fresh, new book and read a few pages of it sipping tea. When I have scribbled a couple of lines sitting on the terrace, taking in muddy grey-blue-yellow skies. Monday begins when the weekend langor stops letting out the slow weepy wail, "Just a little bit longer." After I have limbered up with a few yoga stretches - the kind of stretches that ease away Sunday evening indulgences. After I have listened to every chirp of a bird, looked at every flirty copper-pod on a tree and felt, "Yes. I've got stuff to do."

My Monday begins when I want it to.

Substitutes

2011-06-29T14:58:00.001-05:00

A heavy-set night with sleep
bloated with sad thoughts
They squelch in the mind softly
Each set of them chosen in weird lots

Somewhere the heavy sleep thins away
And trickles down the cheek and chin
Tears, they call it - manifestations of tristesse,
Known to bring out the dirt and hurt within

A sponge-like darkness outside
Absorbs and holds on strongly to this diluted pain
Holds on, even, with a sort of terrifying might
And that's how tears, instead of dreams, come to us in a heavy-set night

Funny how that happens...

2011-06-22T08:20:00.000-05:00

I just sent off a final batch of articles I had to finish by today. Not too much time left - a couple of hours to wash up, withdraw cash, pack a few things and go to CST to catch the train to Goa. I was wondering if I should also maybe start work on a couple of things, but my Tata Photon has slowed down considerably.

Everything, but everything, just gets into the Goa mood.

So, yay!

Between Whew and Wow, a life passes by...

2011-06-21T05:13:00.000-05:00

A lot has been happening. Wild luscious capriciousness of life and friendships. I have just returned from a real quick trip to Goa and am going on another real quick trip to Goa tomorrow again. Work is piling up but I can only think of getting hold of a chalice to store the amazing greyness of the skies. Of course, in time I have to get down and work off each assignment solidly. Maybe later.

What comes to mind, though, is the new development on Juhu beach. Every monsoon, Mumbai rains leave behind a monumental emblem. This time, it seems to be a ship stranded near Juhu beach. The other day, I was stuck in front of the beach for nearly four hours. The entire populace of Maharashtra seems to have descended upon that spot. There was police bandobast everywhere and people looked happy and crazed. The beach looked as if a large jar of colourful pills had smashed open and the pills were rolling out all over the place.

Beyond the milling crowds, though, was the mighty sea. Heaving and rising like a dormant force in a restless consciousness. And there was the stranded ship - beautiful, solid, grey and sepulchral. It seemed as if a somber Godfather had come to take his place at the head of a table for dinner.

Being stuck at traffic was mesmerizing. Strange times indeed.

That IS the spirit

2011-06-19T15:38:00.000-05:00

Bad things happen. How one responds makes the difference.

Long time ago, a woman was accosted in a local train and thrown off while 3 other female passengers watched. The CM at that time gave a statement that this was a one-off incident and that Mumbai was still safe for women.

Another time, a woman was mauled badly near Gateway during New Years. The Police said that the girl and her friends were warned against going to that spot.

Yet another time, a girl was molested badly on New Year's eve by a bunch of rowdy drunkards. The Commissioner of Police, at the time, gave a statement that nothing more could have been done to prevent this incident. Adequate police force were deployed all over the city.

Recently, a journalist was shot dead in broad daylight by two people on a motorcycle in the city. BUT this time...this time it was different. The Police took a stand. They acknowledged that they had let down the citizens of the city. That they had been lax and careless. The Commissioner of Police went on to state that crime reporting in Maharashtra should be carried out undaunted and the police would provide whatever support necessary. Arup Patnaik went on to promise to make Mumbai the safest city for its citizens.

No callous whitewashing here. Just simple, strong resolve.

It is this spirit that makes a city's people feel, not just safe, but brave.

Even if that were true...

2011-06-18T00:34:00.000-05:00

Several years ago, I decided to fast one day a week. I had heard that when you fasted one day, ate nothing, drank nothing - your body became sharper. Your mind could clear through unnecessary clutter easily. Slowly, over time, you became a more focused, vigilant person. You knew what you wanted and you could get directly in the most focused way possible. And what I wanted then, as what I want now, is a fantastic body and supreme peace of mind.

Of course, now, I have made my peace with my body. It's a good body. I don't cringe too much when I look at it, unless I see myself in some clinging lycra or something. But overall, I am pleased. Peace of mind, on the other hand, is a tough story to tell. There are spells when I do experience a stillness, a calmness - a suspension of everything that is cracked, unfulfilled or hard. But these are brief. Many times, I lose that feeling on account of an external event. Sometimes the reasons are flimsy - an incorrectly made cappuccino; sometimes they are more substantial- road rage.

But there did come a point when I was tired of all these vicissitudes. I just wanted to have something solid inside my heart - something that wouldn't sway or get broken by whatever is going on around me. And at times, this feeling has made me feel very, very lonely.

Somewhere along the way, one does reconcile to the truth that everything will move away. People will go, things will leave, feelings will pass. At some point, I did stand to wonder at what remained when all else left. And what remained was this quivering globule of yellow insecurity. It wasn't a pleasant realization. If anything, the loneliness that I felt when I first noticed this was quite devastating. It's like I could physically feel my heart get crushed and my rib cage ache. I wonder if anyone ever, ever felt this way. Because around me, no matter what my differences with people have been, they have all seemed so sorted.

In any case, this vague, painful, sharp aloneness that had once led me to fast. At the time, a couple of friends told me that I was really just using spirituality as a crutch. In fact, they still say that about me now. For the longest time, I defended myself. Spirituality was meaningful to me. Even an innocuous ritual like fasting and waiting until sundown to eat gave my wandering sense of alienation a north star. But now, I think, maybe they are right. Maybe I do use spirituality as a crutch.

But I need to. Because as of this moment, I feel broken. It hurts to walk. By myself, taking one small step ahead, taking one deep breath, heaving onwards to the next spot - physically my body can't take the weight of my mind. So yes, spirituality seems to be a crutch now. I don't see that as wrong, though.

One day, I'm sure this will heal and I won't need it anymore the way I need it now. But today, this belief in something larger, bigger, beyond - it helps me hobble along.

At least, I haven't given up walking. And that's sure to get me somewhere.

Back home

2011-06-17T10:05:00.000-05:00

I'm back from an impromptu trip to Goa. My cousin arranged this holiday with his family and I tagged along. Goa has such a pulchritude of lazy, indolent, gut-wrenching prettiness. It's a joy to share it with just about anyone - your family, your friends, an ex-lover you just made peace with, your dark inner cynic, your impoverished romantic heart that seems to have a windfall when it sees a wild fortress sea at Candolim.

This trip was quite an adventure. You haven't really seen rains unless you have seen them on the ghats. We stayed back a night at Amboli because we couldn't proceed to Goa. And in Goa, we did a million things in a couple of days. We took a cruise in the middle of a blazing storm, got drenched at the Calangute beach, supped on parathas and xacutis and luxuriated in the opulence of churches. The best part was smelting in the joys of my niece and nephew. That feeling of walking into huge walls of waves with kids in tow - the exhilaration is unbeatable.

I'm now home, in Mumbai - warped and wefted in the songs of the sea. With my mum's cheery chatter in the background and good food in my belly. With the terrace splattered with streaks of rain. With ropes of grey clouds getting more thickly interwined by the second.

Life is good. Actually it's more than that. Life is goodness.

Scribble, scribble, scribble

2011-06-09T11:41:00.000-05:00

It has been a good day today. Cheeriness came in spasms, mainly due to the lovely, cool, grey rains. I sat reading the latest Vogue edition on the terrace. The magazine spoke of a trend called Sicilian White - which is head-to-toe white dressing with gold accents. I like that theme but looking around me, I figure it is probably better suited to Sicily. Sicilian white in Mumbai is hard to wear. In monsoons, it is nearly impossible unless one wants a delicate fringing pattern of splattered mud.

I am really at a loss. I have no clue what I need to do from this point on. It's a very strange, unsettling, dark feeling. It's like somewhere I have lost the plot. So, I have to stop everything that I am doing and take care of unfinished business:

My divorce - which has been pending for so long now.
My writing.
My book or movie script.
My yoga practice where I can do the shirshasan and halasan and thousand suryanamaskars a day.
My first long meditation retreat.
My first experience of having enough money in the bank to brunch at the Zodiac Grill every single day for the rest of my life.

There is so much work and such little time. I can't get to the zone where I can figure out what to do to get all these things in place.

Honestly, I need a manager. I was such an accomplished kid - topped my class, in the tenth topped my school and the zone and stood seventh in the state or something, won elocutions everywhere, debates aplenty, was the class captain for many grades, etc. etc. I think all this was possible because my mother was strict. She worked me to the bone and rarely took 'No' for an answer.

Then somewhere along the way, my mother got more understanding or something. There was all of that, "No matter what you do we will love you" etc. Maybe that's when the unravelling began. I wonder if all this independence has been good for me. Maybe if I were forced to work hard and write 10,000 words every 3 days, I would have accomplished something. My ex-husband and I had thought of opening a fund for public interest litigations. He had even gotten me all the required material and case laws. I had to go through them and come up with a proposal to be submitted to some government agency. I got distracted doing other things. He never ever pushed me to get to it. If I berated myself sometimes, he'd say, "Don't worry. It's okay." So that got strewn on the wayside.

These many months of freelance has taught me something. I am not indisciplined. I can set down a time schedule and a budget and stick to it. But I am spoilt. It hurts me to accept this but I think that is why I feel held back. I look around desperately for someone to blame and there's nobody. Sigh! What can I say? I suffer because I have always been accepted for who I was. The tragedy that is my life.

So, the plan is to introduce some rigor into my life - in the form of an impossible to please person. Maybe a really stringent editor who ensures that I write 25 articles a day. Maybe a fitness trainer who makes me do 400 crunches a session. Maybe a teacher who will keep returning assignments until I turn in a brilliant piece. Someone who will not get cowed down when I get stubborn and angry. Someone who will push me through my breaking point.

I accept it - I cannot do it by myself at this point.

Dear Universe, please send me someone who makes me that person Rudward Kilping wrote about. I want to be the one who can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds worth of distance run.

Amen.

What an evening!

2011-06-03T15:06:00.001-05:00

I had the most slurpacious, delicious nap this evening. A full two hours luxurious tour of snoozeland. I think a full, great dinner had something to do with that. There was some Lebanese pilaf made with broken wheat. My mother uses an amazing Lebanese spice that makes the entire house smell good. It's got a nice, spicy fragrance.

Okay, so there was that Luscious Lebanenon-spiced pilaf.

There was also rajma - just the way I like it, very soft with a slightly thick gravy. Wheat rotis - unevenly baked and hot from the tava. And the piece de resistance was the taal gud someone got us from Kolkata. Hot rotis or puris with slightly warm and runny taal gud is one the finest combinations I have ever, ever,ever come across. I don't like rotis too much. But with taal gud, I can eat a dozen.

As I systematically moved through my plate (heaped as it was), there was another kind of delectable drama happening in the sky. Grey clouds gathered. They got passionate and turned black. Heavy gusts of wind blew everything asunder. It felt like this world was a page that had become stuck and someone was furiously trying to turn it.

After I ate that and watched this beautiful crazy storm, I felt sedated. Heavy, molasses-like, thick velvet sleep overcame me and I don't know how I found myself under cool sheets. Sleeping. Maybe even peacefully dead for a couple of hours.

Over time, my definition of success has changed. It now features quality of sleep.

Today, I won.

Mumbai by someone who probably never visited it...

2011-06-02T04:33:00.000-05:00

I came acrross this passage by Mark Twain. It was part of his speech to St. Nicholas Society in New York, 1900, December 6. It's about New York but could very well have been about my super city.

"The foreigner coming to these shores is more impressed at first by our sky-scrapers. They are new to him. He has not done anything of the sort since he built the tower of Babel. The foreigner is shocked by them. In the daylight, they are ugly. They are - well, too chimneyfied and too snaggy - like a mouth that needs attention from a dentist, like a cemetery that is all monuments and no gravestones. But at night, seen from the river where they are columns towering against the sky, all sparkling with light, they are fairy-like; they are beauty more satisfactory to the soul than anything man has dreamed of since the Arabian nights."

Well, just...

2011-06-01T00:40:00.000-05:00

It is the first of June and I find myself in my father's office. I have to wrap up some work urgently and then head to a meeting at Worli Naka in the afternoon. So, of course, there is no reason why I should be blogging. However, like I said, it is the first of the month and there is always a fresh, crisp feeling when one does something on the first.

Like my little nephew. He managed to be born on the first of June five years ago. In his short, checquered life, he has learnt to make life simple for those around him. Therefore, when I asked him, "What do you want for your birthday?", he said, "Anything...make it big but." These are exactly the sort of guidelines one looks for in life.

My neighbor from Vashi has shifted to Mahalakshmi. A very sweet girl with stormy moods. She's a great cook and loves feeding people, which is why my deep affection. In Vashi, for the longest time, she was feeling restless. Today, from her new home, she texts me in the morning (a time of day I don't think she's been acquainted with for a long time). "I can see the treetops!", she says. Now, upon catching the sight of brilliant green in the morning, she is planning a luncheon for her friends. There was some talk of having 8 different kinds of cheeses and fresh, hard and crusty bread from Indigo Deli.

Last few days have seen some slipped opportunities. This month, though, I intend to remedy that. I think every month must have one over-riding priority. A goal to which every other action and decision must be subservient to. This month, I shall make mine business development. Just spend a solid week or ten days polishing up my resume and compiling a portfolio of work. Yes, that should give my work a boost.

Okay, this is it. I will get back to work now. The first of the month has been tackled. I'll leave the rest for other days.

Insight

2011-05-31T08:08:00.000-05:00

Sometimes we win because we're the only ones who are right.
Some other times we win because we're the only ones who are left.

Didn't get the answer but had a nice day...

2011-05-29T00:09:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I asked myself this: http://reve3.blogspot.com/2011/05/what-is-this-feeling.html.

The question had twisted around my heart in such a tight knot that I was just too uncomfortable. A friend called, asking to meet up in Bandra. I called another friend asking him to meet us in Bandra, and there we were.

Friend 1 and I went to Joggers Park. I think I must have died and come back since the last time I was there. It feels so long ago. I wonder why I ever stopped going to that place in my last few years in Bandra. I would go running on Carters or Bandstand. But Joggers Park is so cute! I love it! In fact, the moment we got our tickets and stepped inside the gates, I got a sweet whiff of pink and purple flowers - those large ones with velvety petals. If memory serves me right, that scent was the same one that had got me hooked to that place nearly fifteen years ago. That place is special.

Then we went to Candies - the new one, and I must say I was impressed! I love that huge, enchanting far away tree feel to all those levels and they had some of my favorite desserts - the banana pudding, lemon yoghurt cheesecake and cute, little petit-fours made of carrot cakes and some biscotti and vanilla cream preparation. Even their chocolate lava seemed to look good - a brown crusty layer waiting to be broken into, to dip into a dense, thick chocolate filling. I had two spicy vegetarian pan rolls and a huge mug of coffee. They also gave us a few complimentary jelly squares that looked really pretty. I ate a couple. They were a bit too 'tart' (get it? get it?) for my taste.

After that, a trip to my other favorite place, Mocha Mojo. I love that joint- bright, cheery, swish and a great menu! This time I tried a mango cheesecake which, frankly, is not my favorite flavor. And it was strictly okay. I would not recommend that, though. Will have the New York cheesecake next time. Now, that is a wedge of supreme niceness.

Then, for a brief while, another friend of mine and I went to all the cinema halls like headless chicken, looking for movie tickets. But just as I had expected, we didn't get any. I was irritated, so to quiet me down, my friend bought me some real, solid comfort food - a spicy vada pav. I love vada pavs. I think it is the bestest thing in the whole world. When you bite into that crisp batter coating, then get a mouthful of the pungent, salty chilli powder and the flaming-hot potato filling - it feels like first love. Better, actually. There is no nervousness here.

After that we had an argument. So I got hungry again. We went to Sahil where I ate a little rice and dal - smoked up nice and easy with Kashmiri chillies and jeera and had the perfectly sweetened fresh lime and water. I hadn't given much thought to this before. But I can possibly count the number of times I've had good fresh lime and water anywhere. In fact, every time I used to order it in Delhi, I thought they were trying to posion me with some citrus concentrate. This drink at Sahil was so good that I was actually slurping the last drops, instead of leaving behind a half-glass (which I usually do).

Then I caught the last bus home, chatted with the woman next to me and told her about a haunted flat in Pali Hill. It's my favorite travel story. She looked rivetted enough but declined to hear any more of my spectral locutions about mansions in Panchgani.

Finally, my day ended with a nice, jaunty walk home. I love walking into my gate just before midnight. It seems like putting a fullstop at the very last spot on the very last line of a page. It seems like the perfect way to complete a segment of time that came my way.

So, I don't have the answer to what was troubling me earlier. But I think, with a little resolve and a friend who will feed you to shut you up, you do get by.

What is this feeling?

2011-05-28T03:10:00.000-05:00

Of emptiness. The stomach feels like it is scooped out and filled with a solid sadness. Like if you operated me, you would actually find the sadness - in a small, smooth lump.

Of quiet despair, whistling soothing tunes to itself.

Of a cry that gets fibrous and slimy. It stays lodged in the gullet - niether going in, nor coming out.

Of sleep that makes you feel jilted.

Of fatigue that stays behind like remnants of dark nailpolish even when you have done your damndest to get rid of it.

Of a quiet certain feeling of being a failure. It's a feeling that settles in some cushy armchair your heart had that you didn't know of.

What is this feeling?

I'll think about it on my way to Bandra to meet a friend.

Difference

2011-05-27T02:18:00.000-05:00

All over, all the time, all of us are doing little things to get by, to make things a little easier, to understand our place in the world...just like everybody else. And just like everybody else, we dig out a little groove to settle in - for distinction or comfort or insulation from common-ness. But sometimes its futile to hanker for that separation. And painful.

Sometimes, I think its incredible to be ordinary. Just like everybody else.

Succour

2011-05-23T13:09:00.000-05:00

At times, I find myself wronged.

Sometimes by society - by the guy who refused to get up even though he was occupying the ladies seat, by the conductor who refused to get involved, by people around who plugged in their ipods and looked the other way.

Sometimes by friends - by those who want to know exactly how much money I'm making as a freelancer but never about how I get by, by those who know my marital situation and will want to know what's going on, but will never ask, "How are you feeling?"

Sometimes by family - by those who have loved me a little too unconditionally, so much so that I have become spoilt, by those who drive me to the point of wondering, "do I really deserve it?"

Sometimes by myself - for being so clueless for so long, for not quite making up my mind on how much drama I can handle, for being scattered and lazy, for never being focused on anything, for being indisciplined.

Not all these issues are valid. Not all of them are trivial either. Some have solid foundations. Several seem impossible to solve. All of them, unequivocally, cause a lot of anxiety and frustration. What do you do when you're at the receiving end of grave injustice? Or you are simply witnessing it?

There is so much anger that chokes the throat, that actually burns the blood. The frustration chars every prospect of hope, of change, of anything getting better.

I have a very hard time making peace with these things. At these times, I try to remember what I read in Jack Hawley's interpretation of 'Bhagavad Gita'. (It's a fantastic book. One of the very best I have read on the subject.)

There's a line in there that always causes my dust to settle, my storm to recede, and a quiet courage to take over and do what needs to be done. No questions asked, no results expected. Whether it is trekking in the night to go to a police station and talk to stonefaced constables, or hold back tears while I tell a friend I can't talk to her anymore...that line always seems to lend this sheen of honor and dignity to a situation, no matter how messy or ugly my anger has made it.

The line is, "With peace in your heart, fight your fight."

Amen to that.

Eclipse with a little streak of a tiny star

2011-05-22T16:37:00.001-05:00

It has been an odd few days. I don't know how long it's been since I have been feeling...well...odd. It's like I have so many options, but I still feel stuck. I feel like going everywhere, but I also feel like staying on the terrace, sipping a lemon and honey concoction all day. Sometimes things happen, though, that stop the drama of dichotomy for a little while.

A couple of days ago, I had a really nice tea-time session with my neighbor. We met on the terrace and brought a couple of treats along. Mine were store-bought, of course. (Kitchen and I go as well together as Dracula and Mary Poppins - and even they have a better chance getting along.) A couple of All-American muffins from CCD and a bowl of vegetable hakka noodles made at home. My neighbor got a platter of really tasty mushroom toasts topped with slivers of strong cheese.

We chewed the fat as the weather got moody. At some point in our conversation, the light fell behind her head. In an instant, she glided from being a cheerful, mommy-to-be to this evanescent figure you'd want to see in stained glass. Her other baby joined us a little later and got very curious about the muffin. (It was nice, by the way - moist with a tea-cake texture.)

By the time we finished off the last of the crumbs, this melancholic restlessness was numbed for the time-being.

It acted up again the next day. As providence would have it, A and her husband were going to NCPA for a show that evening. She invited me along and I said yes. Wrapped up my work really quickly and headed off. Now, it was a 7:30 show and I reached VT around 5:45. So, with a long time to kill, I decided to take a bus instead of cabbing it to Nariman Point.

The bus I took was headed to Colaba bus stop, but it went via Sassoon Dock. I think the last time I'd gone there was when I was nine or ten with my father. I love docks. I hate docks. They are delciciously dangerous, with sturdy, crude men and huge ships. But that buzz of industry and 'bigness' is unmistakable. It's like watching the nuts-and-bolts side of magic. As the bus weaved in and out of narrow lanes through Sassoon Dock area, I felt a shiver up my spine! These roads were just as I remembered them - labrynthine and heavily fogged with secrets.

When I reached NCPA, though, it was still way too early. I sat in their hot waiting area where a single fan droned on. The simple 'basicness' of town is what touches me the most. There is enough money in the NCPA zone to have that spot fitted in with a hundred ACs. But that hasn't happened. And it's not een as if that place is uncomfortable. It's just slow and quiet. You get sweaty, you rummage through your handbag for a scrunchy to tie up your hair. You adjust the plastic seat to be in direct line of the fan breeze. It doesn't work. So you go into the bathroom and splash yoru face with water. You come out feeling fresh and just a little peckish. You get a cute little glass of cold coffee and a plate of samosas and the world is good again. It has always been.

I sat on my chair, taking my little sips and bites and watching the people trickle in. They were mostly over 50 and carried with them this...I don't know how to put it...this fragrance that spelt class. All wore crisp cotton or linen. There were parrot green saris with little flowers embroidered in Jaipuri pink. There were mirror-work sewn discreetly on the hem of calf-length linen skirts. There were sari blouses that were cut as formal shirts (with collars and cuffs). There were oxidized bangles with aquamarine stones and pearl studs and solitaire pendants. That 'class' that I detected? It was all muted, but unmistakable.

After a good hour of people-gazing, I got a call from my friend telling me she was running little late and could I go pick up the tickets? So I had to go around NCPA to the other side - the Tata theatre area. And the world changed. It flipped to its completely opposite side. Now, there were spotlights and young people and cameras flashing (this was all for the Cyrusitis show). There was noise and brightness. Women with glossy hair, shiny lips and patent-leather heels posed. Men with spiked, gelled hair and animal-print shirts posed. After a whole lot of posing and posturing, we all trooped inside the theatre and the show started.

Now, here was my problem with Cyrusitis. The puns were a little dated and I, frankly, have had it with jokes about North Indians. I think unless someone comes up with a new angle on this front, there must be a moratariam on the cliches. Ditto with sex jokes. But what really bothered me about this show was that it was too big. It didn't have to be. Ideally, NCPA Experimental or the Little Theatre would have been better. But the Tata theatre stage was far too huge for a show of that standing or calibre. Maybe I would have liked it more if the setting was more intimate. The way Prithvi is. This auditorium setting was too jarring.

Anyway, after the show, we dined at Le Pain Quotidien. I really wanted my friends to eat at Woodside Inn, but it was crazy crowded at the time. Le Pain Quotidien was the only place we could get a seat without waiting. A and husband seemed to enjoy their dinner, while I preferred my dessert a lot more. For the main course, I had ordered some broken wheat with tofu and roasted vegetable medley. It was nice, but a little too constructed for me, I suppose. Also, too healthy. I think the entire preparation was managed with just one teaspoon oil. And that didn't exactly gel with my mindset at the time, which was: "If there's no butter, it's all bullshit." Thankfully, the warm homemade breadpudding more than made up for it. It was wholesome, rich and tasty.

So that has been my last few days. Lengthy spans of cool darkness with scratches of brittle light.

How can it be otherwise?

2011-05-18T14:17:00.000-05:00

Different observations. Same story.

On twelve separate occasions, I've heard men lament that women nowadays are getting more 'male'. They are more aggressive, more intolerant, more harsh, rigid, dominating and intolerant of differences. From what I see around me, including myself, I think they have a point.

Also, nowadays there is research establishing connection between a mother's emotional health during pregnancy and the health and personality of her baby. I endorse that thinking.

The sex ratio in this country is so skewed that, according to a BEST infomercial, the percentage of female population has dipped to its lowest point since Independence. It's not for me to 'believe' in female infanticide. You just have to see the number of little girls versus that of little boys anywhere - school buses, parks, malls - and it's clear. Some forms of life are not seeing the light of day.

I think that all this - chronic female aggression, state of the womb and female infanticide - is connected in a big, big way. If a foetus is in the womb of a person who is contemplating killing it or is deeply fearful and unhappy, imagine the trauma and distress that gets communicated to the unborn child. Surely it's going to have an impact somewhere. At a very deep primal level, the entity knows that its survival is at stake. Now, if per chance, the foetus is not killed and actually comes into this world, surely there is bound to be distrust. After all, it is now in a space where it faces real, acute threat. Forget about social conditioning. Even at an instinctive level, this is bound to manifest. A girl will be more aggressive and defensive to ward off attack, actual or perceived.

These defenses will exist even among women who were born earlier but are part of this shifting humanscape now. I think we all carry with us an ancestry of combating cruelty. Even if we don't know it, maybe our body senses this marginalization. Maybe everytime we see the suffering of our own kind, some primordial instinct gets activated. Maybe it gets tangled in some DNA or gets fused with nervous impulses. Maybe instinct makes these strains of hostility against men, against the world, stronger. We see the environment as a system set up for our extinction. And we behave accordingly.

I have left out culture, value system, conditioning, etc. out of my theory deliberately. All these are moot when survival itself is in jeopardy.

Pretty powerful

2011-05-15T07:51:00.000-05:00

Really like this paragraph from Eckhart Tolle's 'Power of Now': "Your unhappiness is polluting not only your own inner being and those around you but also the collective human psyche of which you are an inseparable part. The pollution of the planet is only an outward reflection of an inner psychic pollution: millions of unconscious individuals not taking responsibility for their inner space."

So, I suppose my whining stops now.

It could happen someday...

2011-05-15T05:26:00.001-05:00

I have often wondered about the concept of temporary death - something that is a few stages higher than sleep and several notches lower than the final goodbye. When one gets terribly restless or confused or just plain weary, you go some place, check into a facility and talk to someone about your situation. Based on this consultation, you decide how many days you want to pop-off for - a week, a month, two years, etc. Then you soak in a large ornate bathtub with relaxing oils and scents - maybe someone gives you a footrub at that time. Slowly, you slip - inch by inch into a state of deep, dense relaxation. You feel peace the way a scrap of cloth would feel when it is trapped in a thicket in a forest. Your final breath - your life essence - is captured in a tiny jade bottle while you pass out. This essence will be kept carefully and studied to detect traces of chronic imperfections, while you, well, lay dead.

Finally, when you come back to life, (maybe there is some more soaking in a tub or a delicious massage under a thick banyan tree), you get a report. While you were out, your life essence has been analyzed and some inferences have been drawn. You are given a picture of how your life has shaped up so far - like one of those photographs in a geological survey. You are also told exactly what you need to do to change whatever you want to change. Since you have been dead all this while, you are rested and curious and can't wait to get started.

I really wish this option were available. It's not like meditating or taking a holiday. I don't think you can truly ever take 'time off' when you are still inhabiting the same body in which you are unhappy. There must be complete cessation of the routine. And since we are creatures of habits, worshippers of homeostasis - death is the only way to clamp down on the mundane.

Alternatively, maybe there could be a gambling den. People go in there to pay high-stake poker. Either you win answers to your deep questions or else you lose yourself. That's it. Yourself - whatever it might be - that's gone. You never get out again. It's sucked out of you and you just go around waiting tables in the den forever after.

Both these measures seem extreme but I don't see the point or poetry in being clueless and messed up anymore.

Yummy

2011-05-14T13:49:00.000-05:00

I have been thinking of the following lately:

1. Some nice, light soupy khichdi made with yellow and green moong and sprouts, with a side of spicy, hot samosas. I'd break up the samosas - their crisp crust and pungent potatoes and peas getting mashed with the khichdi - and eating it by a waterfront.

2. There's a quick dish that my Mum makes when I'm hungry. She chops us mushrooms and onions really fine and sautees them in butter and garlic. After all these elements are properly browned and softened (in fact, the garlic is also slightly burnt), she adds leftover cooked rice and tosses it all up nicely. After that, she adds oregano and chill flakes from unused Domino sachets, salt, pepper, a mixed spoonful of tobasco, soy and chilli sauce. She then serves this lovely browned rice with a light grating of cheese on top.

3. I don't eat meat anymore. But when I was a non-vegetarian, I loved red meat and fish. I'd eat everything else, of course, but mutton, pork and sea-food made my heart sing. I was particularly fond of dishes where two or three kinds of meats are used in the same preparation. Like large lamb chops coated and fried in an egg and beer batter, served in a thick gravy of flaming-hot mince and chunks of red pepper. Or strips of salami rolled around fresh, crunchy shrimps steamed with thyme and basil. Maybe topped with a sweet chutney - mango or apple is a good bet. Or chicken breasts filleted and filled with an assortment of chopped liver and bacon. Also, what comes to mind was a really interesting dish a neighbor used to make. She called it fish stacks. These were a sort of fillet sandwich. So, there would be some kind of a pate or meat between two fillets of fish. Sometimes, there would be crabmeat with zucchini, other times, shreds of beef or curried chicken. These stacks would then be baked and served with white sauce.

4. I often think of a really, nice, warm sweet, buttery bread pudding. It's done a little different at my house from the traditional English recipe. We butter slices of bread and coat them with a jam (my favourite is anything that's red-colored, although I recently tried a blueberry variety. Quite nice.) Then we cut them up into smaller squares. Then, we pour custard over all of these squares of bread, butter and jam and bake it. If its done well. I can't tell you how gorgeous that perfectly browned, golden topping looks. It looks like the best part of the sun got melted in there. Then when you spoon through the dish, that warm oozing custard is heavenly. It is heavenly! Little angels will dance around the rim of your dessert plate in sparkly tutus.

Thoughts of food...what can ever hold a candle to that? Maybe the actual food itself.

The way it goes...

2011-05-13T17:06:00.000-05:00

Saw a flower whose ivory-grey petals looked like they were made of tempests. On closer inspection, they were simply muddied.

There isn't disappointment that some things only exists in the imagination. There is marvel that imagination exists at all.

Hitting

2011-05-11T16:33:00.000-05:00

I came across this article last night: http://tehelka.com/story_main49.asp?filename=hub140511personal.asp
The mother's attitude is disturbing. I find it even more disturbing because it made me question what I had done a few years ago.

One time, I was in charge of a little girl, Joyce, who was making sand castles on Juhu beach. A boy, not much older than her, came by and kicked down the castle. I held him back and he started laughing loudly. Joyce, I suppose, thought that it was part of some game and chortled too. The boy's parents were eating roasted peanuts close by and smiled benignly. I didn't like what had happened but since no-one was hurt and Joyce was happy, I thought it was all okay.

The children started playing together. I went back to my book and the other parents, to their conversation. A second later, I saw that boy hitting Joyce again. Hard. I ran up to him, held back his hand and asked his parents to intervene. His father laughed and said that he was just being a boisterous boy. Joyce looked at me confused.

For a while, they played separately. Then they got back together again. The boy had found a deflated balloon and he wanted to share the treasure with his new friend. By now, I had realized that going back to the book was not an option. This boy could do some serious damage. I was already so angry that I'd decided that if the boy hit Joyce again, I would go up and slap his father. Three years ago, I was capable of that kind of anger.

Sure enough, the boy had started getting restless. The parents were laughing and egging him on to dig the sand faster or something. I think the kids were competing on who'd dig a bigger hole. There was only one spade and for some reason, niether child was using it. I knew that it was a matter of time before Joyce would reach for it. Maybe the boy would hit her again then.

So I went up to her, looked at her and the boy's parents and said loudly, "If he hits you again, you hit him back." There was something in the way I'd spoken that was so menacing. I didn't even recognize my own voice then. Joyce looked at me, blank. The boy hadn't heard me. But the boy's parents had finally sensed something. They stopped chatting and laughing and kept looking at me. I could have deflected the situation right there. I could have smiled and laughed it off. I could have said, "Just joking..." But I didn't. I kept staring at them.

Just then, the boy started yelling that he wanted to take the spade. His parents, simply got up, dusted off sand from their seats and dragged their son away.

Many times I have wondered if my reaction was not excessive. I wondered if at moment, had I not taught Joyce, a three and a half year old, to get defensive.

Years ago, I had a friend who worked in a small ad agency. His office was a small, pokey room near Bandra station, but they did some great work there. One day, he took me in to watch a social ad campaign against domestic violence.

The ad is set in a classroom with lots of little boys, around six or seven years old. It's recess and everybody's tucking into their tiffins. A group of them is pelting each other with paper balls. In the corner of this class, we see a boy eating by himself. One of these crumpled paper balls hits him. He stops eating and walks up to his 'offender'. He flicks his tie back so that it doesn't get in the way. Then he drags the other boy down and punches him fully in the face - again and again. There are tight close-ups of him hitting and I remember feeling cold at the kind of rage this child had registered. We see the other child get a bloody nose and a split lip. We see the punches continuing to rain, interspersed with the aggressor's face. Then the screen goes blank with the message: 'He's just another boy...who wants to be like his father when he grows up.'

I often wonder whether I did the right thing at the beach. But I was scared then. You never know who your child will have to protect herself against. It's best if they start young.

Feel like sharing

2011-05-11T00:10:00.000-05:00

I wonder if its because my stomach looks a little flat today. Or because I saw a ginger colored cat on the way home. Or the water in the lake stretched out like a large, liquid onion peel in the light. I don't know what it is, but I feel like sharing something beautiful and unknown with the world.

So, here it is - a paragraph from the novel 'Anywhere but here' by Mona Simpson. (I'm simply savoring that story. It's been several weeks of reading and re-reading portions and not yet finishing.)

As luck would have it, I cannot locate that piece now. Oh well, I suppose it must lie somewhere in all those pages - like a little perfect diamond in a huge, dust bowl. The book is all the more luminous because of it.

I will put it up when I find it.

A story in six words

2011-05-10T15:58:00.000-05:00

Flimsy - wedding band, handcuffs, murder trial.

Wonder if that's the way to go...

2011-05-10T03:34:00.000-05:00

I am thirty-two years old now and I think I may have interacted with approximately 8,000 people in my life so far. Interacted with some amount of closeness, that is. I am not very sure how I have arrived at this number but I think that this may be quite correct. Now, what defines as close? Maybe a good conversation. Or at the very least, a memorable interaction. Yes, it's the latter. As a child and a teen, I didn't exactly talk much. But I do remember people responding to me more easily.

So, I remember that sullen girl in college who would scowl at everyone and worship Shobha De. One day we were waiting outside the college for something. She pulled me to one side and pointed at some distant spot in the sky. It was the first time I saw a large, grey cloud rushing towards our area and drenching that place in rain. She had gone back to poring over 'Socialite Evenings'.

I also remember a little girl from my childhood. I was in the fourth standard and had gone to some place in Delhi where I had my first elephant ride. This girl and I had spoken about our favorite teachers. Both taught English, by the way.

I remember the little boy whose name started with K. He was in the same nursery class as me and he kissed my hand every day I left for home.

Then I remember...

There are plenty. Now, I feel that maybe there are too many. Maybe I was born with a medium-sized slate and I wrote down every person's name on it. After I ran out of space, I continued to scribble, writing their names in tiny, ant-like handwriting, getting them to fit in the corners. I don't like how the slate looks anymore. Maybe I should completely wipe the slate clean and then write out one name after another in measured, equal-sized writings. Keep it neat.

So, what I am thinking of doing is completely retreating from the world. Delete all numbers, snap all contacts with friends, give up all existing freelance assignments and take up new ones. Then, take three months to mull over each name, each contact, each friend, each memory. Hold it in the light to see if it shines. Feel it in the dark to figure out if touch makes a difference. Following this exercise, who or what makes my world fuller - that name gets written out carefully on the blank slate again. Or else, it stays out.

Maybe it is also time to close the blog for a while. Maybe do some kind of housekeeping here as well. Maybe it's time to shut the doors and let things be quiet and rested.

Let's see.

Oh! That was good!

2011-05-09T13:29:00.000-05:00

I was feeling so hungry a half-hour back. Looked through the fridge for something that would go with my black coffee. There were a couple of chocolate donuts, which were 'meh'. A large scrap of Kabuli naan. But this naan isn't from Copper Chimney, Worli, so I am not really interested. Bread from that place was my absolute favorite as a child. I remember being fascinated with the see-through kitchen, with chefs flailing large flaps of dough, as if testing the flight of magic carpets. Then the naan would come in a huge wicker basket, sweetened with dry fruits and seasoned with black jeera. I used to fold and dip that in black daal, all the time feeling like I'm eating shreds of a magic flying carpet. I was always ready for a take-off after every meal. Unfortunately, the only place I did take-off to was the toilet. Black dal can be heavy!

Anyway, getting back to the fridge. So, the Kabuli naan didn't cut it. There were a couple of soya cutlets that looked too dry. A bar of nutribar looked desolate in its music-video-type garish wrapping paper. Finally, I spotted it. A little bowl of sevaii.

I didn't want anything too milky and thankfully, this vermicelli preparation was not a kheer. It was browned and toasted well in ghee and sugar, tossed about with some elaichi and badaam and that was it. The best part was that the sevai was not too clumped. It still had a good bite to it. And it wasn't too sweet, so I could enjoy the bitterness of my fresh, roasted coffee. And it wasn't too soggy, so it looked real pretty in the light-blue bowl.

Just finished it. It was nice. So nice. The fridge indeed hides many a spelndored thing.