"You see the whole country of the system is juxtapositioned by the hemoglobin in the atmosphere because you are a sophisticated rhetorician intoxicated by the exuberance of your own verbosity!"**

Unbathed, like a total jungli, and running late - gulping tea from my favourite mug, and still in my tracks and walk-morning clothes, the other day I went for a movie, a 10 a.m show, by myself. Mother chauffeured me there. I sat at the back, with two giant suitcases piled one atop the other, and in front sat a good number of bags with defunct zips, all being taken to get fixed. Enjoy the movie, she said when I said thanks. 'For dropping me'. Formal AND novel. Jesus.

I never go for movies alone. Never means never. Okay, in 2007 I saw Khoya Khoya Chand by myself. And whenever Dil Toh Pagal Hai released, I ended up watching it by myself. I'm 28. That's three movies. Sickly average. And given how much I enjoyed my company, and how pleased I was at the no traffic, no parking, no crowds, no inconvenience, I'm not sure why I don't do this more often.

I loved the movie. I loved him. I will watch it again. This time with someone. There's that wanting to share business, I suppose. The wanting someone else to enjoy it as much. Otherwise what's the fun. At least the second time. When you're past pleasing your own senses, and thinking you're so cool and independent and self reliant but unable still to get over how cool and independent you are. And self-reliant.

* * *

Amitabh Bachchan has a cameo in the movie. He's great. I have always loved him. I remember when I was little(r..), and this might have been the point when I stopped openly declaring -- or what openly, plain declaring -- that I LOVED someone. We were walking in the neighbourhood. Home to market. 10 minute walk. 1991? My father, mother and I. My brother I don't remember. But there was some movie talk. And I just blurted this:

I love Amitabh Bachchan. I don't want him to die.
(And so, Happy birthday, Anthony Gonsalves! **)

God. The amount I still cringe, less so of course but to, to -- my family's however indeliberate condescension, their reaction to that comment of mine. I was cheek-pulled and mollycoddled and teased. You don't want him to die huh, so cute! Aargh. The ghosts of 'So Cute!'

But turns out I stand by my 8-year-old open declaration of my love for the man who today turns 70. Not bad. I love Amitabh Bachchan. I don't want him to die.

In fact, when I sat at the back, in the car, with the suitcases, oddball thought struck. My mother was Amitabh (chauffeur) and i was daughter in law (at the back) and the suitcase if it wanted could be the baby strapped to my boozum, enabling cutesy hand clasp.

* * *

Last month was perhaps my best month this year. I don't know why exactly. Lots of sentiment, for one. And certainly a lightness came back to me. It started well. I had a great birthday. I got made a flowerpot cake by my friend who did a most touching ode-type post on her gluttonous blog.

There was a lot of family time, too. I turned 28. My grandfather, 8 days later, turned 91, or like he says, running 92, and 8 days after him, my cousin turned, 43. Whole bunch of Virgo parties happened. For granddaddy, there was a puja in the morning. We threw rose petals on him and garlanded him and cut his cake and choked when singing many more to you or long life to you, knowing fully well all thoughts of mortality are best left inarticulated.

Granddaddy's one nephew's wife, cow that she is, leaps at his feet. For blessings.

There's a whole post on this. Ought to be read. It's a form of megalo behaviour. Mine. Also, look at the effort. And, I say, the love!

My cousin needs ice in her beer glass. Lots of it. Always. Topped up. And apparently I am still at an impressionable age. Because I've started doing this. Watered down = fewer calories = better hydrated = not so bad, the taste.
Her daughter, my niece, made her a card. On the cover was a coffee mug with SO much coffee and with I LOVE YOU MA-MA 'writ large'. She's 9 later this month. Oct 17th. Today's the husband's birthday. His and Amitabh's! Who, I ask, is NOT growing old, dammit.

* * *

And this, this!, was my second brief, bang-on, beautiful inscription from an author and a mind I am totally in awe of. (This was the first). That I was gifted this book, Happy B'day to me, and that people, certain most wonderful people, facilitate the unfolding of such joy, and know exactly what will make you buckle, is to me the more precious gift. No, really. But also, what a kick! That's TWICE my name has been formed by his pen, in his handwriting. I had to blur the spelling, of course. You understand.

* * *

 Other pretty thing - and thanks to a friend who will photocopy (never 'xerox' as a verb, remember that) and tickmark certain chapters and passages and articles and other word strings up my alley, and give me, here's what Ruskin Bond says about Deodars. (Heh@'pygmy owlet')

From the last bit of his essay, Great Trees I have Known

"Open the window at night, and there is usually something to listen to, the mellow whistle of the pygmy owlet, or the cry of a barking-deer which has scented the proximity of a panther. Sometimes if you are lucky, you will see the moon coming up, and two distant deodars in perfect silhoutte.

Some sounds cannot be recognized. They are strange night sounds, the sounds of the trees themselves, stretching their limbs in the dark, shifting a little, flexing their fingers. Great trees of the mountains, they know me well. They know my face in the window; they see me watching them, watching them grow, listening to their secrets, bowing my head before their outstretched arms and seeking their benediction."

My harvest moon month and birthday. Party hat sameit (with)