790 - The Kindle story of love, loss, longing, life

There was a glitch with my Tab. There was some kind of a short circuit and the people at the service centre said that it had to be reformatted. I didn't have back-up because I am the sort that never does. All my books were gone. All. my. books. I had bought some from Kindle and downloaded some from the Internet and some my friends had passed on. And I lost everything. I wasn't so worried about the pictures. I don't like taking too many pictures in any case. But books. Books on my Kindle App. I'd bought Anais Nin and had downloaded Oleander Girl and ripped through Gone Girl on my Kindle. No.

Then I got my tab back and there was no data. So I had to get data. My debit card is not working so I had to withdraw money. There was only one cheque in the cheque book and so I had to go to the bank to apply for one. I don't do Net banking. Anyway, I finally got my prepaid Vodafone to work. Whose 3G services, I must say, are spectacularly unpredictable here. But it worked. I downloaded the Kindle app. In the time that I have not been online, apparently Samsung has its own Kindle App that gives you a free book every month. I checked. I got my books back. They were there. The world feels soft and smooth now. Bliss. Gorgeous bliss.

When I thought I'd lost all my books on the Kindle, I thought that even though so much was gone, I got the clean slate that I had wished for towards the end of last year. It just came true with regard to something else. But then I wanted them back. Even though I was thinking that it was finally a chance for me to get a proper curated collection. Still, somewhere every time, I touched my tab, I prayed. For the books to come back. And today, I turned on the Kindle and there they were.

I know it is not a magical thing to have happened. I know that it is probably routine. But when I found my books on the Kindle again, it felt like everything I had loved and waited for so much - all of it just crossed the road and came back to me.

860, 859, Diwali

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

May you all have light of all kinds cuddled up in different corners of your worlds. May the light wake up happy.

A great, joyous Diwali everyone!

940 - About the sky and the clouds

Last few days, I have stopped yoga and going up a hill for a walk. My friend and I trudge slowly up, notice sometimes the origin of a waterfall that is still a thin stream. Sometimes we stop awhile to spot a snail snack on a mushroom. Then we reach the top of the hill and sit on  rock. The sky is open. I is always open, yes, but when you are sitting under an open sky, it looks open in a way that makes you quiet. It feels childish to say this but when I first climbed that hill and sat there, I thought to myself that the sky is so up. It's higher, much higher than the tallest tree, the tallest building, the tallest peak of the tallest mountain. Yes. The sky is high. I wonder if this is why a state of inebriation is referred to as being 'high', even though it might bring you to the depths of sorrow. If you are drunk, then you are high even if you feel 'low'.

Anyway, my friend and I chitchat a little but mostly look around. The clouds move slowly, inch in one direction, so unfettered but so steady and so, so soft. You can't hear a cloud. You don't listen to it scrape or shuffle across the sky. It just passes on.

What kind of a world is it that looks down on 'drifter'?  

The becoming of bliss

The sky stretches the way a muse would. She poses on a lush carpet of infinity for some great but infamous artist. The carpet itself is woven with time and sequined with seasons. One part of the tapestry had started turning grey. A little rip in the infinite carpet and a moistness spreads – like power up a spine, like sleep through the mind. In the distance, birds fly towards the spot of the sky that has started turning darker. Grey deepens to black. Treetops sway. Little spurts of silver rain sweep across the world. The muse has started to tremble. The artist has begun to paint. The monsoon is a masterpiece yet.

It would be nice to come home to...

·         endless panels of plain white, silky drapes – nothing embossed, nothing self-printed…just moonlight on a weave.

·         rooms filled with pretty, fresh, new stationery. lots of handmade notebooks and thick spiraled diaries and leather-bound jot-pads and post-its in pop-colors and beautiful parchments in jewel-tones of raw silk. they must be everywhere; piled up on study-tables and by the magazine holder and post-its stuck aplenty on the fridge and whiteboards and sheaves of spotless-white bond paper wedged right inside, to the back of drawers.

·         chilled bowls of cherry-flavored jelly, fruits and thick, creamy, sweet custard.

·         music. soft, lilting, music. maybe flute or piano.

·         lots of plants in full bloom – some with wild, purple leaves.

·         candles, especially candles that are the colour of butter so that when wicks are lit, the yellow and orange conjugate into some kind of molten dance.

·         satin bedsheets.

·         cool tiled floors where one can spread large papers and snip and cut little pictures from magazines and newspapers and do scrapbooking. scrapbooks are fun things.

·         soft, thin blankets with chintz print in minty blue and lavender.

·         books

·         large, yet light, cane and wicker and glass closet for books

·         walk-in closets. a separate one for lounge-wear. mostly consisting of harem pants or slouchy pants made of thin, soft cotton, tiny silk slip-ons, printed skirts, cotton dresses, kaftans.

·         warm, hot food ready to be eaten.

·         colorful garbage bags, maybe in fuchsia

·         soft waffles

·         kitchen shelves lined with the finest, purest honey.

·         large jugs made of cut-glass and filled with chilled, iced lemonade.

·         cookie cans filled with sea-shells.

·         bushes with rose-buds. pink, red, yellow, and white.

·         little poetic verses stuck inside the wardrobe – Shelley near the stack of scarves, Byron with the flowing skirts, Neruda by the trousers, Tagore by the peasant tops.

·         a handwritten letter from a friend from long ago or from far away, every day, slipped under the door.

·         postcards from bombay printed onto pillow covers and cushion covers and cocktail napkins.

·         sky-high heels in kajal-black and blood-red.

·         Perfumes in tiny vials shaped like gypsies and flamenco dancers

Does he even know what he pulled off?

Finished re-reading Salman Rushdie's 'Midnight's Children'. The book is shockingly both - a chronicle and a prophecy of India and Pakistan. That this book was published, read, and celebrated as 'fiction' points to simpler times that is hard to even imagine now. As for Rushdie as a writer, with this book he makes every major work of Indian fiction after this one seem like a college essay.

Here's why: The story involves a man born at midnight of Independence day who later becomes the adoptive father of a child who is born at midnight of the Emergency. A man with a large nose whose arch enemy is a man with large knees. The story has references to blue Kashmiri eyes, pickling and migrant memories, tetrapods and reclamation in Bombay, circus troops and city beautification projects outside Jama Masjid in Delhi, vasectomy in Benares, the making of Bangladesh, the unmaking of other nations, the profiling of the Gandhi dynasty - and all this peppered with the Indian phrase of 'you believe don't believe '(tum maano ya na maano). With a storyline and sub-plots like this, with language like that - Rushdie has walked a tight-rope over every single sentence in those 500 pages. And he made you believe the story - believe it enough to be uncomfortable and apprehensive. That you may not be Saleem Sinai. You may not be born on August 15, 1947. But if you live in such times, you could still be a midnight's child....with no escape.

How did he...how could he...know?

Shisha Days

The other day, we got an email from a colleague that he'd be performing at Shisha Cafe in ABC farms. This colleague, let’s call him Xerxes, works from home and is also part of a band. The band would be playing Bob Dylan. He'd sent such invites earlier but these events usually happen on Thursdays. (At Shisha, Thursday is assigned for live music).

Earlier, I'd never been able to get out early on a week day. Also, there was the logistics of it.

Getting around should be easy since I drive and Koregaon Park is one of the few places I actually know directions to. But after losing my license, spotting no less than 3 accidents every time I’ve gone out to KP, and squinting through dark roads whilst at the wheel, I avoid driving at nights. Pune has a pretty good service called Indian Drivers. They loan out drivers for 8 hours for 450 bucks, with extra charges for the night. But you need to book them in advance and then sometimes, they send across a really rude buffoon who ruins a good evening. (Rudeness ruining experience is something I really must develop a thick skin to, if I must live here. I haven’t yet. In time, maybe.) So, all in all, much planning and plotting must be done for an evening get away.

But last week, things sort of came together. Work had been quite gruelling and by mid-week, I sensed a raw, itchy irritation in the air...the kind you have when people have been interacting with each other for too long over the same things. You know, the kind of quotidian dramas that get fixated on when day in, day out, you are solving the same problems, talking about the same challenges, wading through the same 9 to 5 experiences...All you want is for someone to just change the subject!

On Thursday, Xerxes did.

Some of us at office decided to go and I was to leave with a colleague. I think I like it when I have company when I’m driving. At least the kind of company I had that night. My colleague wasn’t too loud, she kept chattering quietly about something – maybe jam or snails or something, and I drove in peace. After a long time, I had a chance to wear a light, floaty dress whose neckline is a blush too low for office, but is fine for an evening out with colleagues. I think the dress, more than anything, made the evening a special kind of get-away...to get out of jeans that look and feel as if I’m headed to a coal mine somewhere.

Shisha at ABC farms has two levels. The upper level is for live music. There’s a small stage and a scratchy sound system. There are huge divans covered with faded, colourful rugs with some Persian prints of birds of paradise, huge flowers, and vines. A few tables are scattered in the centre. Some tables have votives. When Shisha had, well, shisha, that is when hookahs were allowed, the place had the sweet soporific intimacy of an opium den.

Now, it tries.

My colleague and I reached a half-hour late. By that time, others from office were curled up like cats on those divans in the corner. Large platters of miniscule finger foods were already ordered as was a large pitcher of delectable orange punch. We squeezed in. Since we were all women and women go nowhere without luggage, much time was spent placing handbag upon handbag gingerly. (There ought to be a video-game for that. You score extra points for balancing a square purse over a soft Hobo.)

I ordered my Red Bull, wedged into my spot, and let the evening take over. There’s a reason I still like Shisha, even though it’s ambience or food is nowhere close to what it used to be. I like it for evenings like this. Conversations flitted around like stories scribbled on butterfly wings. Since I don’t drink and was fasting that night, I couldn’t bond over food. Much talk seemed tangential. The music was nice but I’m not a Dylan fan.

I leaned back and looked around. Someone was texting with a goofy smile, someone else was squinting to catch the shade of red of a woman’s shoes. A fleck of golden candle-light did a sort of ballet around the rim of a glass of white wine. Shisha has rolls of carpets hung like sails on its wooden beams. Somewhere outside paper lanterns hang on a single, solid branch. The mood, the time - they swirl with all these arabesque motifs that lull you. Softly into silence.

Many years ago, that was my very first experience at Shisha as well. I was with people I barely knew in a city I had just moved to. But sitting in a corner, sipping my brew (a tea-infusion with dates), I felt ensconced.

At Shisha, I can be as far removed from the goings-on as possible. I can be with strangers or people I barely know. But the feeling – the feeling is that I’m always in the midst of friends.

Wishing...

To go on a drive some cool, pre-monsoon evening. The wind is drenched with luscious goodness of unfallen rain. Roads are empty. I'm in my freshly washed, soft and crumpled shorts and tee-shirt. The music on the radio is wistful and speaks of love, longing, regret. Maybe the song's about life on some open road. The windows are rolled down. The briny humidity of sea-spray coats my skin like cling-wrap. I see waves rise and fall, churn and recede. I drive to the shoulder and park.

I get out and move to a edge of the bridge.

From the back of the car, I've pulled out a bag. It has my phone and laptop. I also have their chargers. I first fling my phone down. It falls somewhere in the far distance. Then I hurl my laptop. I hear a little splash...the sort a thimble would make if it fell into a bath tub. Then I dump both chargers. They fall straight and hit some rocks.

Everything hard, tough, black, wiry, heavy is gone. Everything that has parched my eyes, lodged knots in my muscles, strained my tendons is no more.

The wind whips my hair about, my tee-shirt flutters in the breeze, and I feel weightless almost. I breathe, I smile, I get into the car.

Windows are still rolled down, waves still lash about, songs still float in like dandelion fluff from the open road.

And it starts to rain.

These days...

August onwards, life is behaving rather strangely. You know that feeling how...sometimes ‘life’ (as in your life) seems to have ‘a’ life of its own? It’s not always a bad thing, I suppose, but the mood swings that accompany this whistling, winging adolescent trapezing of the ‘vie’ is rather inconvenient.

Here’s what I was thinking – how is it that you may not know what you want; you could be rather clueless about everything. But...BUT...something happens and you become acutely aware of how you don’t want that. It’s funny – the subconscious.

Anyway, I want a quiet life now. It is actually a quiet life now but I want it quieter still. No people. Not even one. Maybe a bunch of plants, a large room where I can sit and watch light and shade shift with the passing of clouds and season. It would be nice to have a pond close by. Or a lake. Winding and rippling and cold. Little leaves would float away on it. Maybe a large-ish leaf would have a ladybug riding it like a raft. Also, it would be nice to see a different kind of forest from the window of every room. Maybe even different seasons.

The French window of the living room would look out to a misty meadow – one that is carpeted with green grass and soft, violet flowers. The sky is this foggy, milky white and grey. The weather here is stilled at that magic moment when everything is ripe and ready for the rain to fall but it doesn’t.

The kitchen has a series of small windows. From here, I can see a storm churning on the beach always. As I brew tea or melt butter for coating roasted vegetables, I hear the howl of the wind and the ghoulish songs of the ocean. Trees crack and large driftwood line up the shore. Shingles and gravel ride up the sides of the house, scaring my black horse, Thunder.

The bedroom overlooks a large wintry expanse. There are supernaturally tall trees and dark, thin trunks. The trunks are in a shade of deep cocoa and have a little bit of sweet, smoky flavour too. Sometimes I climb out the bedroom window, rip off a bark, and chew on it. This world is very stark. Everywhere I look, there is snow and tall trees. Some trees have purple buds and purple berries. They are clustered right on top. I wish I could climb there or wait for them to fall. It never happens. But I have noticed a huge red bird with black wing-tips squawk peck on these flowers and berries. One night, I got my wish though. I slept (that night, I’d put up crisp, cotton lilac sheets that had a pint of lavender sprays on it) and saw that huge bird fly really close to the window and drop a sprig of buds and berries on the bed. I haven’t been able to wash off the stain of the berry juice since.

The library overlooks a garden throbbing with light and fragrances of the Indian summer. I see rows and rows of yellow and pink melons and pumpkins. The skins of the watermelon gleam brightly. Sometimes even the petals of the jasmines that hover over it looks tinted with green. There are lots of dragonflies, bluebottles, and honeybees too. They waltz around the rosebushes, scaring away sparrows.

I have a sprawling bath. It’s tiled in white and lemon tiny mosaic cubes and there are always fresh flowers – buttercups by the window sill. From the bath, though, I can’t see anything outside. But I can sense that there’s a large island that may be getting formed. When I lay seeped in warmed water, focusing intently on the slightest upturned tip of the third petalof the fifth buttercup, I sense that things are happening. I sense the shift of the earth, the slow, deep, sonorous heaving of water, and the grudging almost gluing of land. The island, I know, will be blue.

And Thunder will be happy there.

Eating mangoes and thinking hard

April has almost strided across the year. However, I hadn't yet eaten the season's offerings of mangoes yet. I was saving my appetite for some special occasion - like when I'd go to Haji Ali and have mangoes and cream there. It is sublime. So sublime in fact, that it is fitting that this dessert should be served outside a shrine.

Anyhow, one evening as I walked back home, I saw a pile of golden yellow mangoes. They looked all luscious and enticing - like the ones that get illustrated in Amar Chitra Katha. So I took a few. On tasting them, though, it was a whole different story. They were unevenly tart and insipid. Maybe if you quickly gulped water after a piece and squeezed your eyes shut, you'd find them sweet.

I was thinking of chucking the whole lot but mum had other ideas. When I came back from office, I got offered a bowl of chilled diced mangoes in condensed milk. The tartness of the fruit actually helped the cause of the dessert here. It can get really cloying otherwise.

In any case, I had an idea for a cookbook. It will be a sort of a twitter cookbook. From  the listing of ingredients to the preparation to the garnish - everything should fit into a tweet. So, it will basically ensure that dishes are simple and hopefully quick and painless.

I was really pleased with the thought. Not sure if the idea appealed to me so much or it was that lovely dessert. Both brought me joy and that's enough for now.

Monday

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!"

Good, good day!

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!

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

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.

Rainy mornings

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.

A few things

I feel sad tonight. At yoga today, when we did the Chaitanya asana (or the Shavasana, as it is more popularly known), the instructor asked us to visualize ourselves as a little drop that falls into the ocean and becomes one with it. This instructor, usually, flounders for correct words to explain postures and breathing techniques. But this segment she conducted with remarkable fluency. Her voice reverberated with relief, almost. I could sense that this imagery means something to her. Her comfort, with not just going there but taking the entire class to that place, indicated that she must have made that trip several times.

I feel sad because last three days were so sharp, full and happy. I met so many friends who made time for me at short notice.  In fact, it felt as if time was stretching itself to inlcude a soiree or a party for me. I would leave from Hiranandani around 8 p.m. to go to Bandra and get dinner with a pal and then dash to catch the last bus home. Or I would leave from Vashi to go to Peddar Road, while away a few beautiful hours looking at sunsets, then go to Haji Ali, then cab it to Bandra for a meal, then rick it to Juhu beach for some falooda, then catch the last bus home.

It's luscious. This life. My life. Last few days have been so grand - in terms of great watershed conversational moments. I have had breakthroughs over a wedge of apple-pie with ice-cream, or a dish of creamy, vegetarian lasagna. My friends have proferred insights over cheese sandwiches and coffee at Jaslok and then exquisite cream and mangoes at Haji Ali. They have held my hand and told me to 'get on with it' as I chomped on popcorn in cabs whizzing through the Worli Sea-Link. They have urged me to be patient and just 'hang in there' as I ate up my caramel custard in Hotel Sahil in tiny licks. I have tried to figure out the next few months while gulping down sugarcane juice. I have tried to make peace with unpleasant memories eating a Lay potato chip, one groove at a time.

Yesterday, I finally lay down sated with every single morsel of time. Crumpled bedspreads, cool bedclothes, and eyes heavy with sleep. My heart was soaring. It was so ideal - this peace of living in a city where, no matter where I am, I have someone to have coffee with. Some food that is tasty enough to make me forget about waste-land type uncertainties. Lanes and roads that are a little new to be exciting and a lot familiar to be comfortable.

I feel sad today because all this - all THIS - will intermingle tomorrow. It has already started melding into reminiscences that have the profiles of watercolors. So 'much' is fast becoming the drop that will fall into the ocean and end.

Never mind. So far I am just glad that my lane finally has street lamps. I sometimes walk from Vashi depot to my home around 12:30 p.m. and there's my lane - all bright and cheery, mimicking wide daylight. It's happy.

Irrespective of tonight's sadness, the drop is happy. Maybe the ocean will be glad too.

Some things

A dream pickled and cured in silky time. Rolled in a wrap of stories and served cold. A tasty bite of sushi.

All the seas and oceans evaporated. They condensed into a tiny, latticed crystal of salt. The salt then lay as a speck of beauty and madness on the fold of a thick, purple napkin.

A teacup in white china with a spring pattern. Scattered cheery motifs of daffodils, sunflowers, berries, poodles, kittens, parrots, oranges, balls of yarn. Each motif with a vein of eye-popping colour. Each motif small, the size of a nail. Itricate and complete. The teacup has smooth, creamy milk, later sweetened with sunshine from a country garden.

Burgandy lace sheath for a postcard made of bamboo. On it, a shoemaker's address.

Hot chocolate with cinnamon spinkled on the foam. Like freckles on air.


Stepped into the Lladro showroom yesterday. Like a few pieces. Cannot afford them yet. So, wrote about them to remember them by.

Movie star morning

It's seven in the morning and I am on the terrace, getting ready to do yoga. The sky has a shy pink orange blush and there's a cool breeze. Beyond some juttings of building terraces, a slow sun rises. It doesn't so much rise as it gets pulled into public view. A round, hesitant ball of glow. It may not be shining in its full potential just yet, but you could definitely sense its power. Something about its demeanor suggested certain, reluctant valour.

On the ledge of my terrace, a pigeon looked at the sun. It was dull, grey, and fat. In a million years, through intense evolution, at its peak of vitality... this bird would never be that which the sun could relate to. Not even when the sun lost its strength and had to clear away from the sky.

Yet the pigeon, like me, looked on. Hoping for maybe a passing association with something spectaular.

I thought of a movie poster showing exactly this morning scene - a globe of yellow rising from behind buildings. And a soft, pudgy silhouette of the pigeon against it.

Haven't decided the plot yet. But the poster would have this tag line: 'An ordinary life. An impossible love.'

Now, if only someone paid me to write that story.

Custard well-being

My friend, J, is very wise. Also weird. But this post acknowledges her wisdom. (Her quirkiness will be paid homage to in times to come.)

Sometimes, she overflows with sage advice. Then, the cool fount of her sensibility spills on to you and you are better for it. Sometimes, she sprays insight. Usually, this is unforeseen, so one might duck or get out of the way. That is a mistake. If you let the drizzle settle on to you, you may just get one of those rare things, i.e. – a perspective.

The other day I had called J to talk. I was feeling dark or depressed or disillusioned or one of those brethren emotions. (I forget the specifics because I am in the seat of such calm joy at this moment.) J said many things and also compared me to a wild flower in the Amazon jungle that spits out poisonous darts. Given that I had always thought of myself as a regular bougainvillea, the comparison to such a radical botanical specimen puzzled me. However, confusion with J is sort of de rigeur. They go together. Like an asterisk with the ‘conditions apply’ footnote. You see one, you know what’s coming.

Anyway, our conversation ended with her telling me that ‘the Universe loves you’. (Here ‘you’ means ‘me’. Although J’s magnanimity on this account encompasses all humanity.) Now, this is a remarkable aspect of J. She talks about Universe the way one would fondly talk of one’s grandmother. There is much love, affection, and gentle acceptance of all its little foibles. J shares such a strong, serene connection to this phantasmagorical notion that one…believes. It's like this - I may never have seen my grandparents. But listening to J, I can imagine that a grandmum will love like hers does. Or all grandmums get to the point only after a good period of rambling. Or any grandmum will hug you tight if you stand meekly in front of her.

Anyway, conversation over, I went back to do some thinking. Maybe the Universe does love me. But perhaps it is keeping its distance. I mean, who wants to get hurt by poisonous darts, right? And the Universe is all-pervading. So, it’ll pretty much get hit in any direction I look.

Having ironed out the knots in my alienation theory, I slept.

Today, I finished some work an hour past midnight. There was a weird, surreal emptiness. It was time for a trip to the fridge. Usually, a glass of juice is what I make do with. The intense tart, sweet, packaged taste helps me make sense of the world. At least the one I inhabit now.

Then I saw something. Custard being set for tomorrow’s lunch. I took a bowl and helped myself to some. Turns out, it wasn’t just custard. It was a nice, thick layer of custard coating raspberry jelly that was set with a medley of fruits. It looked pretty when I scooped out a nice share on to my bowl. It tasted a little tart, though. On rummaging further, I found some whipped cream and a fistful of Fruity Loops. So, I drowned my jelly-fruit-custard scoop with the cream and arranged each sugar-frosted loop onto it.

It looked so pretty, colorful and elegant – like summertime in Paris. It looked like something Audrey Hepburn would help herself to with a tiny spoon, maybe at Tiffany’s.

I tasted it again and J’s words came singing through my palate.

Grandma loves me.

Sold...totally

The other day, my friend and I decided to catch up at the Kala Ghoda festival. It had been a while since we'd met. Lots had been going on in our lives - rather, a lot had been happening in his life. My life, well, there's always so much all the time. Or maybe, there isn't a lot happening. But whatever happens keeps repeating itself in a crazy, accelerated, demented fashion. Well, whatever the case, lengthy talks were in the offing. And a good sprinkle of colour and culture always goes well with conversation.

It was lovely and sunny when we reached. Art exhibits in Jehangir were quite stunning. My friend sketches. So he'd come up with these insights that had me peering at the canvases more closely and for longer. It makes such a difference - to look at paintings with someone who 'knownotices' (as in, someone who knows  and someone who notices.)

But that was that. Bereft of an agenda, we decided to go for a boat ride. I wonder why that's not part of the Kala Ghoda festival. It's such a lovely, gentle experience - a boat ride in the evening, watching citylights glitter as if the skyline is fluttering its eyelashes, quiet waves lulling and mesmerizing whoever looks at it...the sea is such a huge part of our culture. It's our art, our muse, our audience, our applause. It's everything.

A boat ride from Gateway is not just poetry. It's also action. There's daredevilry in hopping over boats, jumping into the launch and having young boys (most of them half your weight and size) lend their hands to help you out. All good fun.

Once inside the launch, you can pay ten bucks more and go up to the upper deck. (You pay sixty bucks for the 30 minute boat ride.) There, grab a chair, look out and wave to the people lining up the shore or turn your back to a receding world and stare into the waters. That day, the sea looked like large, soft creases on a magician's cape. My friend and I gave in to the hypnotism.

The spell was later broken by a friendly cameraman who insisted on us getting a picture. My friend vehemently opposed the idea, dismissing it off as something only lame and needy people do. As for me, I was not in the mood then. I must admit, though, that I am exactly that kind of lame and needy person often. The photographer started approaching other people on the deck and painted a compelling picture of his services.

First, he pointed to the 3 wings of Taj Mahal hotel and said, "Mumbai mein teen Taj hai." Then he did and said something that seemed to touch a chord - not just mine, but I think anyone who was there. For someone who has lived in the city forever now, who is visiting it only for a day, for whoever has been battered by its roughness or bruised by its kindness...for anyone to who Bombay beckoned or Mumbai cast aside - this photographer spoke  to them. He pointed to the sea, the horizon, and a big, crowded city becoming smaller. And he said, "Poori Mumbai tees rupay mein."

Who'd say no to a fantasy that's placed in the palm of your hands?

Of course, we got clicked. 

Deep lessons of childhood

At times, I think about nursery rhymes one learnt as a child. A couple of them I am partial to, because of the sense of weightlessness they evoked in my stomach. I'd recite those lines and try to wrap my mind around what's being said. It would feel so ethereal and whimsical - like trying to shape vapour into a horse and ride it to the sun.

The first one is 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'.

I'd always imagined a little boy reciting this. He'd be wearing a red woollen coat, black shorts and a white shirt made of stiff, white cotton. I see him in a hostel, with a glass of hot milk in his hands. He's in a huge, empty music hall that has a grand piano on one side. All his friends are down in a common room playing scrabble or watching TV or reading books. He stands by a huge window overlooking silvery ghostly silhouettes of mountains.

The sky is full of stars. However, there's a specific one that seems to have mutated into several tiny crumples of light. The little boy looks at that and imagines what it feels like - to be so distant from friends and blankets and warm milk. How can one be so small in a field so open and vast? Is the star not frightened? What kinds of games could it play? Hence "Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder how you are, up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky."

I fancy this rhyme going through his head when, twenty years later, he comes to this hall on the night of Christmas eve. The school has long been abandoned by then and there is no piano. He proposes to his sweetheart and as they look out the window, maybe they talk. Maybe he tells her about the star he used to watch alone, while she played Scrabble with her friends in the common room.

The other one still gives me goosebumps and I don't know why. I wonder if it's because of its simplicity, or because it is quite a grave, consciousness-shifting nugget of a thought. Or maybe, at a gut level, as a child I knew what it meant. Yet at a cerebral level, I knew that I was too young to realize what it really means. It was like one of those incredibly beautiful things you are afraid of looking at directly. There's the fear that something momentous will happen and are you prepared to handle it when it does?

The rhyme is: "Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream; merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream."

For this rhyme, my mind selected a scene from the story 'Wind in the willows'. The badger and two others are in a boat on a full moon night. They are out searching for one of their friends who has disappeared. Initially, they are fraught and tensed. But as they look around, they are taken in with the beauty of that moment. The description in the book is so wonderful and elegiac - it could be set to tune.

Many years later, in a different context, this poem is recited in the movie 'How Stella got her groove back'. It's at Whoopi Goldberg's funeral and her best friend quotes this as part of the eulogy.

I think this rhyme is an amazing little piece of advice to give to a child.

In innocence one finds the courage to accept this wistful shred of wisdom. And having accepted, summon the grace to move on...merrily.