tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-268299262024-03-07T15:23:41.171+05:30The Woodchuck Chucksbut why cage it in description?Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger260125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-29805176887520686522012-12-24T18:31:00.001+05:302012-12-24T18:31:48.018+05:30Developments<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'>Pedicure means hands are free. Hands free means I have time to make declarations. Declaration means this: in not many more days, in one more day, Dec 26, I will move to Dubai. (Dude, who moves to Dubai??!!, said one living-in-NY friend of mine many months ago when this was first floated. It's been in the pipeline. I've had a post called developments in my head for some weeks now. (Development-declaration taato-tayto). But I don't/ didn't know what came after developments. Literally, what's the next line, what's next IN line. It's all a big vague cloud of 'ho jayega' and 'we'll see' and other hiccupy babysteps. That's how up to date I am with my own intentions. <br/>
<br/>
It's a job with a newspaper there, which means I'll still be writing. Anyone's guess how seriously, but that's the 'gig'. I'm moving to Dubai. 'Laaj rakhna', said friend B who was in Bombay when I moved to Bombay in 2007 and when I told her now in 2012 about the sweet farewells I'm getting here from people I didn't all know in 2007, and very many close ones, too. Stick it out for AT LEAST 6 months, said she. (Bombay I made it to 4). She's worried I will hate it and be back in a finger snap, saying, "I had it, I just couldn't ok!". Me, I'm okay. I think I'll be okay. Will stick it out, even if I hate it. Will HAVE to stick it out. I'll eat all the yoghurt I've been advised to eat to get my body used to all new desert bacteria. My parents are happy-sad. My mother is excited, rattling off shopping lists, being only very sightly euphemistic about her desire that I not hook up with sheikhs. My father? He sends me emails from office. Wrote today:<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
"You have a great deal of natural good sense my love, but just a wee reminder before you undertake your new adventure-“it is not the greatness of a person’s means that makes for independence-it is the smallness of the person’s wants”.<br/>
<br/>
Please live as frugally as possible in terms of material acquisitions for the first six months while the probation period is on and while you find your feet. Everything will look absolutely essential initially so it is best to pack with an open mind. I am looking forward with great interest at how you adapt to your new environment.<br/>
<br/>
All my love<br/>
<br/>
p<br/>
<br/>
-<br/>
Sweet, huh? Anyway. That's the plan. Those are the developments. Just thought I'd apprise you of new situs. That and Merry Christmas. Happy New Year, too. I'm moving to Dubai. Next post in arabic. End of pedicure. He no get tip.<br/><p style='font-size: xx-small' align='right'>posted from <a href='https://market.android.com/details?id=pl.przemelek.android.blogger'>Bloggeroid</a></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-5379284412892590912012-10-15T15:38:00.000+05:302012-10-15T15:38:34.230+05:30Gullible. To a degree.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Last week - 10 October - sometime in the morning, say 11.10 a.m, I
was on the platform, waiting for the train to take me from
'wish-vidyalay', because they won't say VISHWA-vidyalay, to Connaught
Place, when the envelope I was holding in my hand, thanks to a gust of wind from the oncoming train, flew from
my hand, tossed about in mid-air, and landed on the metro tracks, between
two carriages of the arrived train. The envelope was a big brown square thing and it had my university
degree. My <i>duplicate </i>university degree. I had already, some years back, but only recently discovered, lost the first one.</div>
<br />It wasn't a
good moment but in all the wrong ways, still a pretty memorable one. In
utter, movie-style disbelief where the rest of the world slows down (or
is it moves on?) I froze. I had these two heavy bags on each shoulder, which I
carefully removed (funny I should be careful about THIS!) and very slowly,
deliberately dropped my bags close to my feet. 'Very slowly and deliverately' because I was contemplating lowering myself onto the tracks, just... sort of reaching down and pulling out the damn thing,
telling myself it'll be so quick no one will know, get hurt, no, my arm won't get cut,
I won't make tomorrow's headlines: <i>Journo dies trying to salvage univ degree from metro tracks</i>.
(Except salvage would probably be too long a word for a headline. This I
know. Trying to 'fish' degree out from tracks might still work). But, well, I didn't do that. Nor of course, did I get ON to the train thinking ah, well. Nope. Had it been any other thing, I might've just let it be.<br />
<br />
And to think, just twenty minutes ago, at, say, 10.55 a.m, I was so
pleased at finally having taken delivery of this thing, this
much-chased, much-coveted thing that had driven me nuts for a fortnight
that I was humming to myself and had even bought for my friend,
(who I was due to meet for coffee shortly), and myself some noiseless
colourful thread-wrapped plastic bangles from the fat lady in a sari
outside the station to whom I had handed my degree-containing-envelope while I negotiated two bags and searched for my wallet that may or
may not have had any cash in it. I let her pick the colours. Told her to
give me sixty bucks worth, which is what the non-plastic in my wallet
would permit. Fat sari lady smiled, picked, and even gave me a couple
free. Sweet woman. I didn't know that in moments from that completed
transaction, I would begin to wish I had forgotten the degree with her
instead of carrying it inside with me.<br />
<br />My crisis was compounded a few times by facts and realisations such as<br /><ul>
<li>I
urgently needed that degree for a job that wouldn't materialise if they
didn't have proof of my thoroughly useless college education</li>
<li>Like
I said, I had already lost the original (in December 2009, as per my signature and date in the college register, so definitely <a href="http://issuedinpublicinterest.blogspot.in/2009/12/this-is-way-we-laze-all-day-laze-all.html">this week</a>). And procuring the duplicate,
now-lying-on-the-tracks, had caused me much (sure, self-inflicted)
headache, and had required rounds of a police station, rounds to to a
notary, to the police station again, to a court, to a 'first rate
magistrate', to the college principal, and finally submitted to the univ
head office. Sure I now knew the drill, but to do it over? My god. </li>
<li>What would I tell my mother</li>
<li>What the hell would I write in the damn FIR that surely would would need to be re-filed?!</li>
<li>So much for coffee<br />
</li>
</ul>
Not the best hour, being faced so undeniably with such a shining
example of my total lack of responsibility. When in a couple of seconds I 'regained consciousness' and ran to the help desk (I was wearing sneakers, thankfully) to ask them to
please stop the next train till I just very quickly jump down, on to the tracks, and climb back up, it was too late. They smiled at me, one of those
pitiful indulgent smiles. And I saw the steel underbelly of the train
zip zip zip, repeatedly over my poor brown envelope with that poor
brand-new hand made paper degree that my poor throughly careless self had taken quite some trouble to acquire. Re-acquire.<br />
<br />The next 45 minutes were
straining for my neck and my eyes and my peace of mind. There was a boy,
though - 'Leo'. One good samaritan who belied his appearance. Tall,
broad, black v-neck tee, black casual trousers, reddish-orange streaks
in spiky hair, gold chain, stud in one year, mole under left eye -- yea,
yea I take in a lot -- holding only his shades, a bottle of water and a
tablet in his hand. <br /><br />Smallish eyes. Soft pitch. This Leo was my
saviour. Walked up to hassled me, asked what the matter was, what had I
lost, by which time, in typical Indian style, a crowd was gathering,
looking down at the tracks, one chap saying, '<i>phone kho gaya kya</i>?'
(has she lost her phone?), and I thought to myself but can't be sure if I
muttered as much, "PHONE I can replace.. b@#$@ch**!. PHONE be damned!"<br /><br />By
then I had sent a text informing friend whom I was supposed to be having
coffee with in the next twenty minutes: "Running late. degree fallen on
metro tracks. wailing". Then I put the phone away. I didn't see her
replies. I didn't see the "what?? where are you? which station?" or the
following, "oye?? you okay??". I miss the next couple of calls. I'm
trying to focus on the tracks, on salvaging my goddamn degree. (I have
joked with my friends about how physically getting the duplicate
degree has been harder than bloody sailing through college. An unfair
remark because I faced almost no trouble bureaucracy wise. It's another matter that procedures
themselves are troublesome for me. But apart from the steps I had to go through, they were super
quick. And in fact, the guy at the head office, one tubby fellow, Amit, called today to check if I had collected the degree from my college.)<br /><br />
Back to that morning. Leo had summoned the sweeper who was, I'm
impressed, addressed as 'metro staff'. But he quickly lost my respect
by being an unhelpful prick, giving out a lost cause vibe, and moving
about at his own sweet pace, evidently and completely uninterested in
assuaging my fears. Every step of his was loaded with a
you're-stypid-and-it'll-never-be-found-so-don't-waste-my-time
negativity. Then again, why would he care. I was trying to hustle him to
look more efficiently before another train came, because I knew the
envelope had been blown further into the tunnel and no way could/ would/
did I want to wait till 1 a.m, for the service to stop so please,
please, move it, fellow, try harder. But no. He was content giving me
dirts and stroll about the platform, this aged metro staffer. <br /><br />This Leo lionheart
meanwhile was repeatedly stretching his arm out like a traffic cop, as if
to prevent me from jumping to my death, as if I was some ditzy thing who was THAT affected by a lost degree that she will want to end it, end it
now! Death being better than the repeat pillar-to-post
trouble of getting sundry paper work stamped and in order before
standing in a queue for a THIRD degree.<br /><br />Staffer asks if I have a torch. I want to hit him. <i>Isn't
it your job to have a torch?! Surely this isn't the first object/ item/
single most precious sheaf of paper a univ student can possess that's
fallen into the tracks?! </i>No, I do not have a torch and my piddly
cellphone light sure as hell isn't going to magically illuminate the
tunnel to facilitate your unenthused poking about. Leo says he'll go up
and buy a torch. I'm stumped. NO! It's okay. Forget it. We'll figure. He
no listen. He tell me to not leave till I find the degree, otherwise
they'll give up, it'll never be recovered and the manic rounds will once
again have to be run, so to here, drink some water, have faith, stick around till it gets found. And in saying as much, he gets yelled at
because he, to help me, 'followed his
instinct', broke a mini law<i> </i>and <i>crossed the yellow line</i>. But was let off with a warning. He earlier told me simply: people should help other people.<br />
<br />I have to admit that when my crisis had just about begun to unfold, after those few seconds of frozen disbelief as I watched my
degree flutter past, waft into the air, and not that I thought it then,
but like the Forrest Gump feather, there were a few distinct baby-moments of comic
realisation. Of man, wtf, what a story. But every thought with
a comic/ ludicrous slant was quickly overcome with clearer focus. That I
need to find this damn paper. If nothing else, can't let down this Leo
the motivated, who frankly, at one point, was looking like finding my proof of B.A mattered
to him more than to groaning-moaning me.<br /><br />Another train came. Leo shouted. He saw something. I said chill, it's probably a chip packet. He said <i>nahin nahin, shayad wohi hai - </i>no, no, it's probably that only<i>. </i>I begged. Please don't get my hopes up. It's excruciating. <br /><br />What
can I say. Leo has an eye. Without a torch, at an even dingier part of
the platform, right before the tunnel begins, he spotted an envelope that
was not a chip packet. The degree! In remarkably okay shape,
given that a few dozen carriages had run over it before blowing it to
the side. I shrieked, I thanked the sour puss metro staff,
and I leaped to give Leo a hug. I called him my saviour. The boy
might've blushed. But who cares. Degree was got. War was over. There was
a God.<br /><br />We got onto the next train. Leo, genius Leo, wouldn't let me hold my tattered degree. As if it were too
much of a risk to run again. By the time the station where I had to
get off was nearing, I had got to know his story -- or, what he said was
his story. Something about topping IIT, something mechanical
engineering, something research in Univ, studying at Oxford, being an
only child, how isolating and lonely London can be, how he spent a few
years in Mauritius, what his parents do... and, within minutes, from
being so overjoyed and impressed and so filled with gratitude at his
show of humanity and his 'beyond the call of duty' assistance of
distressed dame me -- because really, if it weren't for him, my
'priceless document' would still be fluttering somewhere in the
undiscoverable depths of the metro underground and I'd be running rounds
trying to get a third one -- I started to think, what a pity he's such a
bore.<br /><br />He gave me a lecture, too. I can't remember most of it,
but something about how you should set your heart to do something, and
do something different, and blah blah, to walk away from the herd and
follow your heart and all very sweet etc, but all that stuck with me
properly was him telling me that when he saw me walking up and down the
platform being flustered, peering at the tracks, he thought, maybe she's
new to Delhi and curious about railway lines. I thought that was
hilarious. Yep. Must have looked like quite the villager.<br /><br />Anyway.
By then I had called my friend back and apprised her of the situation
and put in my request for change of plan, from coffee to beer because my
god! I had had a long morning and wanted a drink and since she had the
better part of a day off -- the journo life, she was already yea yea,
sure, but are you okay?, and I said, yea yea, tell you when I see you.
And when I did see her we did a cheers to Leo, who by the way, missed
his station and accompanied me to mine, only to take the train back. I
thanked him profusely, earnestly, with all my heart, employing my best
most positive smile. And I meant it. HE SAVED MY LIFE! In a way.<br /><br />
Couple of sips of lunch time sun light khan market beers, my friend, after listening to my highly animated tale of the day, tells me, quite the story, write it okay and I'm sure it could make a metro
column. That it has some dramatic elements: 'sheer irresponsibility, brazenness,
bizarreness, this shining armour possibility of romance...' and here she
breaks her thought by passing me a pink folder and saying, I'm
not sure I trust you to take the metro after this, call a cab, OK? Please?<br />
<br />When I later retold this story to two of my terribly cynical former
colleagues, both married men, they looked at each other and burst out
laughing. I got my trip taken: <i>You WHAT the degree?? How??? Why
couldn't you have put in your bag?? You didn't want it to get BENT??!
What saintly Grasims model? Who, who helped you again? So sweet huh? Leo
huh? Research in what? IIT topper huh? You hugged some strange guy? He
took your number?! He accompanied you to the next station?! </i>Oh
man, they said. Nobody's saying he wasn't a good soul, they said. Great
of him to help you, they said. But then they also high-fived each other,
cackling away and said, Oh N, you're so gullible. Let's wait till he
calls you. <br />
<br />
And HE DID. The other morning. I was in a rush and I picked up and
perhaps said a curt impatient hello, and then there was this soft voice
saying hi this is Leo and I became totally effusive and went, oh HAAIII
Leo! And then, with the idiot image of my high-fiving former colleagues
crackling in my head, plus the fact that I really was running late -- to
attend a funeral, of all things, which is the properly heart-stopping tragic story, not
this magnified shit about losing a degree -- I said to Leo, I really,
really have to go, Leo, but I'll call you back, alright? Now, of course I
haven't. And I won't. Didn't save his number either. But I do feel a bit
bad - that the guy, a stranger, really came through for me in a crisis,
and I have to brush him off like any other guy. <br /><br />By now I've told this story at least a handful of times, about how my heart stopped like in a movie
coma, how Leo the knight came trotting up, shades and tablet and
highlights in his hair, and how funny it all is in hindsight. And the
last friend to whom I narrated this class-A anecdote, if you ask me,
especially the feeling bad bit, said, a bit impatiently: <i>look, if you
were a guy he wouldn't have bothered</i>. And also that I'm a twit for
not putting the degree in my bag in the first place.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgvcbDDGCvN-y2kcnSypw_Y60VwADQi8o671zScvKytYleEuyILCmABEmNkQRGc1Rxi-kajUxObgA19eTLYJcPDuXcK430YRDGo1LxqJFf85h4pmOnP9LHZjzHlIUwSHmvfTym/s1600/2012-10-13+degree+bangle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgvcbDDGCvN-y2kcnSypw_Y60VwADQi8o671zScvKytYleEuyILCmABEmNkQRGc1Rxi-kajUxObgA19eTLYJcPDuXcK430YRDGo1LxqJFf85h4pmOnP9LHZjzHlIUwSHmvfTym/s640/2012-10-13+degree+bangle.jpg" width="640" /></a> <br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To Leo.</td></tr>
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</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-7532915245291834522012-10-11T13:52:00.000+05:302012-10-11T13:52:18.557+05:30"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!"** <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Unbathed, like a total <i>jungli</i>, 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.<br />
<br />I never go for movies alone. Never means never. Okay, in 2007 I saw <i>Khoya Khoya Chand </i>by myself. And whenever <i>Dil Toh Pagal Hai </i>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.<br />
<br />I loved <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2181931/" target="_blank">the movie</a>. I loved <a href="https://www.google.co.in/search?q=mehdi+nebbou&ie=utf-8&oe=utf-8&aq=t&rls=org.mozilla:en-GB:official&client=firefox-a" target="_blank">him</a>.
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 <i>second </i>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.
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>* * *</b><br />
</div>
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 <i>declaring</i>
-- 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: <br />
<br />
<b>I love Amitabh Bachchan. I don't want him to die.</b><i> <br />(And so, Happy birthday, <a href="http://www.ribrau.com/anthonygonsalves/">Anthony Gonsalves</a>!</i><b><i> </i>**)<br />
</b>
<br />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. <i>You don't want him to die huh, so cute! </i>Aargh. <i>The ghosts of 'So Cute!'</i><br />
<br />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.<br /><br />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 <i>boozum</i>, enabling cutesy <a href="http://www.hindustantimes.com/photos-news/Photos-Entertainment/amitabh-aishwarya-aaradhya/Article4-940754.aspx" target="_blank">hand clasp</a>. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>* * *</b><br />
</div>
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 <a href="http://thegreatcookaroo.blogspot.in/2012/10/flowerpot-cake-first-attempt-at-fondant.html" target="_blank">most touching ode-type post </a>on
her gluttonous blog.<br />
<br />
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 <i>puja </i>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.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KjhvwWuPe68/UHZ5Az1F_FI/AAAAAAAABqE/88KwhxutptQ/s1600/DSC03961.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="432" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KjhvwWuPe68/UHZ5Az1F_FI/AAAAAAAABqE/88KwhxutptQ/s640/DSC03961.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Granddaddy's one nephew's wife, cow that she is, leaps at his feet. For blessings.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Xw_KJVBITJY/UHZ3r2zi3eI/AAAAAAAABpg/OfPRYXydGMA/s1600/2012+ruch+my+bday+pot.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="372" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Xw_KJVBITJY/UHZ3r2zi3eI/AAAAAAAABpg/OfPRYXydGMA/s640/2012+ruch+my+bday+pot.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaFgJF2lIblrhRVQme5mLIorzaETT_lh3GwlyXIxq_2NTieE_dOvX7cSU46lmR53zZ4vh6FgpRq2kwLbRhq7ejjKNqEuRM86FSHtwai6JUuvp0fc3o2B-tNLcP9jsVoyocDyGy/s1600/DSC04229.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IhrkAyLI3WE/UHZ44przGuI/AAAAAAAABp0/_aAEj9EgOA0/s1600/DSC04230.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IhrkAyLI3WE/UHZ44przGuI/AAAAAAAABp0/_aAEj9EgOA0/s1600/DSC04230.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IhrkAyLI3WE/UHZ44przGuI/AAAAAAAABp0/_aAEj9EgOA0/s640/DSC04230.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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. <br />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.</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b> </b></div>
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<b>* * *</b><br />
</div>
And this, this!, was my second brief, bang-on, beautiful inscription from an author and a mind I am totally in awe of. (<a href="http://issuedinpublicinterest.blogspot.in/2011/01/cheap-kick-at-lit-fest.html">This </a>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.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NGRuVzRvgUE/UHZ3tcCzpRI/AAAAAAAABpo/I2CnhV4_0UU/s1600/PicsArt_1349938306089amis.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NGRuVzRvgUE/UHZ3tcCzpRI/AAAAAAAABpo/I2CnhV4_0UU/s400/PicsArt_1349938306089amis.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>* * *</b><br />
</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aTC9O6ly2DA/UHZ_u2fXJcI/AAAAAAAABqc/cfrSCJbTi2c/s1600/DSC03564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
Other pretty thing - and thanks to a friend who will <i>photocopy</i> (never 'xerox' as a verb, remember that) and <i>tickmark</i> certain chapters and passages and articles and other word strings up my alley, and give me, here's what Ruskin Bond says about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cedrus_deodara">Deodars</a>. (Heh@'pygmy owlet')<br />
<br />
From the last bit of his essay, <i>Great Trees I have Known</i><br />
<i><br />
"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.<br />
<br />
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."</i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aTC9O6ly2DA/UHZ_u2fXJcI/AAAAAAAABqc/cfrSCJbTi2c/s1600/DSC03564.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aTC9O6ly2DA/UHZ_u2fXJcI/AAAAAAAABqc/cfrSCJbTi2c/s640/DSC03564.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My harvest moon month and birthday. Party hat <i>sameit</i> (with)</td></tr>
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</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-54404143475703804342012-09-19T19:47:00.001+05:302012-09-19T19:47:48.124+05:3051 photographs... <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iAXUgHhIOTY/UFmrj0_lHTI/AAAAAAAABng/-l7XxEDJsDk/s1600/PicsArt_1347983909910.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>... is better than 'caption' in the title</i></div>
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<i></i></div>
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<i></i></div>
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<b>~</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I don't have games on my - wait - 'Samsung S5830', and consciously so. Instead I use up phone memory for
storing photos. Same thing with music and movies on comp. Unnecessary, and there are ways around it, yes, I know. I'd rather just remain primitive and allow my photo archives more leg room.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Yesterday, I discovered that the updated
version of Picsart, the photo-editing software I use and the one you can download on that droid market place, has a collage mode. And so, in the time I might have spent
bettering my games-playing self, (or doing anything less eye-straining and perhaps, more productive, for that matter), I have been squinting, head down, at a screen, trial-ing and error-ing and cocking
my head at grids and columns and frames and borders and thinking, na,
maybe this one, maybe with just a slight cross process treatment. I'm certain the odd picture could well have been a post by itself, considering I thought them baby stories more than 'aritistic' anythings. But now... you know, too late. Stories, lots of stories, are tucked into the captions. More so in the pictures, I feel, however mediocre.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It's interesting to me that I don't have many mug shots. Plenty shots of people, just not their faces too much. You'll see. It's not such a conscious effort even to protect anyone's privacy. By now, even for that, too late. But here's my fooling around of the last twenty four hours. Most of the pictures though, of course, have lived a little longer, not much.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U7VStZQ7M9g/UFm_eLyOAWI/AAAAAAAABpI/zf5XBuN1DOo/s1600/last.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U7VStZQ7M9g/UFm_eLyOAWI/AAAAAAAABpI/zf5XBuN1DOo/s640/last.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My <a href="http://www.flipkart.com/trees-delhi-0144000709/p/itmczyrrehkcwzfq">bible</a>,
the past few months. I've learnt so much. It's given me SO much joy; <br />
The impossibility of taking a decent shot in a diesel car on the Noida
expressway of the river below; <br />Gifted: my friend got these lovely Surgical Steel Earwires, as writ on the box. Who
says earrings these days anyway; <br />Dabur changed their Chyawanprash
packaging. I forgot how much I love Chywanprash but seeing my grandad
cream a spoonful clean every morning got my cravings going (I was
stumped when my father asked me, 'is that sugar free?'); <br />Rings, pearl <i>
jooda </i>pin bought the beaten gold leaf earring time that will pop up in a later caption, and doodle on
newspaper - are key words of another granddad story that I have been
meaning to post; <br />Lenses, Bodyshop, eye pencil tail, <i>ainvi</i><br />
</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: left;"></td><td style="text-align: left;"></td><td style="text-align: left;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iAXUgHhIOTY/UFmrj0_lHTI/AAAAAAAABng/-l7XxEDJsDk/s1600/PicsArt_1347983909910.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iAXUgHhIOTY/UFmrj0_lHTI/AAAAAAAABng/-l7XxEDJsDk/s640/PicsArt_1347983909910.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Yamuna by night with a building in it, the 'twin tower' hotels;
<br />Lakme, vanilla - coincidence of my cousin and I wearing the shade our
grandmother used to favour;<br />Indoor frangipani besides indoor beer,
headshot of wheatgrass by the window sill;<br />The movie <i>HT city </i>said
was directed by Vikram Bhat (you can't see it but Woody Allen would be
tickled?); <br />investing too much time drinking coffee and stuffing face with
macarons that look the bakery version of a good man but are just. too. sweet. Think about that, L'Opera.<br />
</td></tr>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D7l_YI8-0gg/UFmrl9zVK8I/AAAAAAAABno/k2HsZQXadmg/s1600/PicsArt_1347984195024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D7l_YI8-0gg/UFmrl9zVK8I/AAAAAAAABno/k2HsZQXadmg/s640/PicsArt_1347984195024.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Naga Kitchen, Green Park. Easy to photograph cane lampshades
against easy to keep touching fabric; <br />Friend's friend's grunting Chou Chou is acclamatised to his constantly airconditioned environs but still goes about believing he's a tiger. Hullo Leo! That IS his name. Poor Muttley.; <br />The denture soap my friend R and I picked out for
my grandfather's birthday because his dentures broke AND he doesn't like
to have a bath but maybe it was too DUAL a message and so all that the
birthday present stood for was aww <i>soo cute! </i>which is still pretty okay<i>;</i>There is an Oscar Wilde quote, she says, (she is the author/ character in<i>/ </i>of <a href="http://www.google.co.in/imgres?imgurl=https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOGByOmSVN8dNUsaayKyRZljhokp-BoCbNOWqWjbrDxEXB0-gz-YIJGgD9pOKsaFRRImPmTcd1LpIZJWdLBElcB4BQxi7bTVowdgeRK5wuqihPq0s0RgPqRaG4YzFwVXyAunYqZA/s1600/frenchmilk.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.pocketfulofbooks.com/2012/05/graphic-novel-review-french-milk-by.html&h=504&w=335&sz=51&tbnid=3AsoFPFwMuY2iM:&tbnh=96&tbnw=64&zoom=1&usg=__TKO-Xd3eeFhEhFtQ4cFcFG5Hdts=&docid=ITZtwRUWX-EHAM&sa=X&ei=p5tZUNuOBIjsrAfGwYDgBA&ved=0CEEQ9QEwBg&dur=4657" target="_blank"><i>French Milk</i></a> , about looking with a heart of
stone upon the one you loved in your youth, at the hair you madly
worshipped and wildly kissed; <br />Archery less, zen more; <br />Purnaa Qila as
viewed from the zoo;<br />Mass of black- my niece's hair in a bun pierced with
an invisible <i>jooda </i>pin. She's going through a worship-me phase. Copies everything I do and deem cool. It's the best. May it last.
</td></tr>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SeLxfBdWySE/UFmrnhHoYeI/AAAAAAAABnw/OthdS-RGlY0/s1600/PicsArt_1347984819934.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SeLxfBdWySE/UFmrnhHoYeI/AAAAAAAABnw/OthdS-RGlY0/s640/PicsArt_1347984819934.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />MG road rain windscreen. Pigeon balcony when it's about to splatter. And him, and this and him saying <a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/all-you-who-sleep-tonight/" target="_blank">this</a></td></tr>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgans_O8cMjtL0dKxF-HmyUDf0nqkRBeJEfMEbhtZIAAyI60SZulepnMjPmbl0mRDGCP0fbdESY-dIV_fYM1h_QqN-Lh3-q9z8ZD8yheWpUWz-54On3JBgRT-6iGLhoP2ai_Kuc/s1600/PicsArt_1347985674821.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgans_O8cMjtL0dKxF-HmyUDf0nqkRBeJEfMEbhtZIAAyI60SZulepnMjPmbl0mRDGCP0fbdESY-dIV_fYM1h_QqN-Lh3-q9z8ZD8yheWpUWz-54On3JBgRT-6iGLhoP2ai_Kuc/s640/PicsArt_1347985674821.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have that picture of my brother and I in (on?) my phone. Nostalgia is very big on my diet chart. Always, always;<br />Blanco, R and I , Khan Market and the advancing winter sun;<br />Recent obsession: ornamental grass,
singular blade, outside the house <br />Coffee. Not black. Not the first cup. Still L'Opera. Good business they got from us lately.</td></tr>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QNNeAAJki_8/UFmrv3w3rUI/AAAAAAAABoA/fCaJCPRoExQ/s1600/PicsArt_1347988527124.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QNNeAAJki_8/UFmrv3w3rUI/AAAAAAAABoA/fCaJCPRoExQ/s640/PicsArt_1347988527124.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
Light. We like to play with light. And I love my hands. And so it is,
the self portraits of our limbs continue; <br />Chameli, cousin's domesticated stray
when she does that, my pet niece drops things, my leg stays still;
<br />Jacaranda@Wellington@Nilgiris@sigh; <br />Rangoon creeper on bathroom ledge in broken milk jug. Think
the milk jug motif and shape of rangoon creeper are cousins, if not total twins?; <br />Ganga on June 23. As it passes Rishikesh. Garland in it, the last of my grandmum's ashes; <br />And THAT is
a print of my eye with all my eye make up transferred on to a wad
of cotton. <br /><i>Puhrrty + cool. And I think overall, my favourite collage attempt.</i></td></tr>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j3qLCzFx5ho/UFmr1LY6IBI/AAAAAAAABoQ/dM31mGDNITE/s1600/PicsArt_1348029725895.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j3qLCzFx5ho/UFmr1LY6IBI/AAAAAAAABoQ/dM31mGDNITE/s640/PicsArt_1348029725895.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
All three taken this morning. Could've instagrammed squirrel going at it, but then I might've had to, for the sake of thematic unity, tinker with the colours of the flowers of the Karanj; <br />And, well... just some good sense text. Minus good sense apostrophe.</td></tr>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSjChqNKX8B6kvJcpcSxI11nuifWszmakChVTxEYu3iVO0bK-fJk2If-IVcJ2M93L8F_u9IK738em4ss5dtzI-WdvPNhtJUbTi7VKpcTvH0-LyO5lvDIVj3CStrGejAvaoQZ1o/s1600/PicsArt_1348039613630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSjChqNKX8B6kvJcpcSxI11nuifWszmakChVTxEYu3iVO0bK-fJk2If-IVcJ2M93L8F_u9IK738em4ss5dtzI-WdvPNhtJUbTi7VKpcTvH0-LyO5lvDIVj3CStrGejAvaoQZ1o/s640/PicsArt_1348039613630.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm making hand skeletons, shadows that look like the spiral flower
called Chandni. I think I did okay.; <br />Zoom ant - in fact ON a
bush of Chandni; <br />I like to put bananas in my
cornflakes.I had half a banana this morning. That's the ratty part on a
plate on a table cloth with lovely rose pattern cross-stitch. Certain
convent school traits run in this family; <br />The switchboard outside the front door has nice light at a morning hour. (Also all taken today. For the sake of Project collage. But also for project archive whatever the hell is a memory trigger because it's important to remember and so, to photograph stuff that evokes something in your gut -- preferably an emotion).</td></tr>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgff4hi4Wa4dXu3W13gM7ap3e8ToD4yF8gODFSV-BjHrV5vUW-S6wLnk09kgCumSfN5rSSBUaPEstqhQLYTFmzubqLVQ4DpBuCRIUg5h2RLV8-iHR8Yc4yJQywTZUeM7ciwlvdO/s1600/PicsArt_1348040358096.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgff4hi4Wa4dXu3W13gM7ap3e8ToD4yF8gODFSV-BjHrV5vUW-S6wLnk09kgCumSfN5rSSBUaPEstqhQLYTFmzubqLVQ4DpBuCRIUg5h2RLV8-iHR8Yc4yJQywTZUeM7ciwlvdO/s640/PicsArt_1348040358096.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harshingar. Aka tree of sorrow/sadness. Aka night-blooming jasmine. Aka
coral jasmine; <br />Woman I see on my morning walk sorting vegetables (both those, this morning); <br />Balcony, other home, 15th floor, where there were once only ferns, there is now a pair of
random mulberry saplings. (I like the idea that the mulberry seeds have been dispersion into the fern pots via the pigeons, same ones who shit on my A/C); <br />Slice
of the birthday books loot via self pamper; <br />Beaten gold, my first 'earwires' of the kind -- arm twisted to
buy by a most affable tall Bengali woman whom I got chatting with at Silverline, again, Khan Market, also comes under 'birthday loot via self' (and then
the leaf motif agrees with one); Yea, that. Terrible, terrible! photo, I know. But remember some days ago, the
newspapers were vibrating because Volkswagen had this campaign called
feel the excitement in your hands or watch it tremble or <a href="http://www.adweek.com/adfreak/vws-vibrating-ad-doesnt-leave-anyone-feeling-too-excited-143664">some shit like that</a>, and so they glued on this little biscuit sized black
device in the pages of the paper? Well, I tore off the cleverness and
tried to drown it in a mug of water but the vibrations didn't stop even
with water flooding it's little wiry innards. Volkswagen really is so
clever.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG3WJN0iLDfguYDA5uvKKzstKS_Gmadtv5GpMqAE0U9kcdLNGlZ_ZYiSSyUzefI31-M4xRmjB8RIai013puu0TmLM9LgcNClaCnLHr5N2cWeqI92aoLM64bnWzu54dOvUkMD_9/s1600/PicsArt_1348041573812.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG3WJN0iLDfguYDA5uvKKzstKS_Gmadtv5GpMqAE0U9kcdLNGlZ_ZYiSSyUzefI31-M4xRmjB8RIai013puu0TmLM9LgcNClaCnLHr5N2cWeqI92aoLM64bnWzu54dOvUkMD_9/s640/PicsArt_1348041573812.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />And, more earnestly, since today IS Ganesh Chaturthi, I went around the house
counting the Ganesh jis we have. Six. I
might've missed one or two in the rooms I didn't bother with, when I thought I had enough for a six-grid. I was tempted to put in a series of onyx elephants, but if
I'm being unlike me, I best leave the irreverence at the door. For at least
this one.
</td></tr>
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How you like?</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-64375860117490422112012-08-14T11:27:00.002+05:302012-08-14T13:03:49.815+05:30Delhi men. Sometimes they deserve better than flak<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Every monsoon my car goes for a toss. Not the car so much as the central lock mechanism, the alarm system. <br />
<br />
9.30 p.m last night. My car is parked in Safdarjung Enclave, right
opposite the slummy abattoir that is Rajinder ka Dhaba, one of the many
shady women-shouldn't-go-alone-there joints that separates a/c seating
from non a/c seating with a transparent shower curtain. The surrounding
market is a filth haven. Muck rules. Onion peels, plastic cups,
cigarette stubs everywhere, mangy emaciated dogs spend the day sniffing
out remains of the tandoor that flares up at dusk. Traffic is beyond
control. The smell of burnt chicken wings poulltues the air. That and
the honks of these Delhi boys in their big punju white cars lining up,
eating in their cars, risking chutney stains on car upholstry, tossing
silver foil out the wondow. It's not an environment that makes you
linger.<br />
<br />
But office is nearby and choices are few. My car is parked there. So
after a perfectly pleasant evening at Hauz Khas village - mushroom
crepe, small vodka, and coffee and almond gelato -- my friend drops me
to the parking. (I can't even say my parking. It's not the sort of
ownership one wants). We say ok tata bye bye. I get off. I approach the
parking lot attendant standing in a crowd. He's the guy i know is a
sleazeball by <br />
<br />
a. the time he takes to locate my keys in his bunch. <br />
b. the small talk he insists on making despite my snubbing him every single time and <br />
c. when he hands me the keys, bastard will always try to touch my hand. <br />
<br />
Oh and once, some weeks ago, when I was puling in to park, he said
something... something about my untied hair, and how I should watch it,
it's getting caught in the seat belt. I glared. I ignored. I hate his
attitude, his manner, but I don't perceive him as a threat. I don't know why I'm carrying on about him. This isn't even about the asshole.<br />
<br />
So, yesterday, as usual, I minimise interaction with this guy, snatch my
keys, ask where my car is because I had pressed the central lock button
and it DIDN'T go TEE-TEE, so he launched into exact geographical co
ordinates of where across the road my car is. I cut him short. I didn't
say thank you. To him, I never say thank you. I crossed the road to
where my car was. <br />
<br />
Central lock wasn't working. The rains, the rains. Always in the rains
the damn thing goes dead. So I turn the key and of course, alarm sirens
go mad. It's like a rocket flare. You know the one: teeyun teeyun teeyun
with that crazy urgency. I try to shut it off, press buttons, lock,
unlock, all sorts of combinations. Nothing works. My alto sounds like an
ambulance zipping through traffic with some poor sod heart attacking
inside.<br />
<br />
Parked to the left of my heartattacking alarm afflicted car, is a red
hatchback with four boys inside destroying a plate of, I go ahead and
assume, chicken tikka masala. Uh oh, I think. Not pretty. I'm
momentarily amused by the madness. But midget red flags in my head are
begingning to shuffle feet. I think of calling my friend who's just
dropped me to make her hear the madness and have a chuckle, but better
sense prevails and I think I better take care of this shit.<br />
<br />
Nothing I do works. One subordinate asshole of the original parking lot
asshole, a barely adolescent punk, in his best, most cheeky delivery,
says to me with do i imagine this - a sense of vindication? -- "ee ka
bol raha hai?". What's the car saying. This would be funny to me if
anyone else had said it. This idiot, grinning away, was asking for teeth
to break. In the past he's another who's asked me what my beef with him
is and why I'm always so brusque. And him I gave an earful to because
even when he doesn't need my keys he asks for them and I alwayss suspect
the little shot fo taking my car for a spin.<br />
<br />
Anyway. The alarm persisits. Of course it's a real nuisnace. By now a
small crowd had by now gathered. I was beginning to make my peace with
having to drive to bloody Gurgaon with the cacophony. But it struck me I
should somehow shut this thing up because even if I reach home hardly
noiselessly, and park in the basement, and this thing doesn't quieten
down, poor night guard will reach asylum levels of nerve fucked.<br />
<br />
And so it was with abundant gratitude that when one boy/man from next
door hatchback destroying chicken fame, came around my side up and
politness be his body language, gestured for me to hand him the keys I
was relieved, and happy to oblige. He tinkered for a couple of minutes.
Nothing happened. Shrillness persisted. Alarms were still a flarin'. All
teeeyun teeyun teeyun. The immediate neigbourhood, traffic sounds
notwithstanding, must have collectively been heading towards tinnitus.
Kind gent remained largely unsuccessful. But then he took the keys over
to the car of boys and one of them hit some combination and the thing
shut up. No more sirens! Hurray! Of the crowd of people gathered, one
auto driver told me <i>iske cell leak ho gaye honge </i>-- battery must
have leaked. And I hmmed and nodded but was thinking of something
entirely different from leaked cells; that thank god I was dressed in
'jhall' mode. The skirt numbers may not have been a terribly prudent
choice of outfit -- although in the morning how would I have known that
I'd be this damned lady in a spot of alarm. Still. Okay. Vague mental note. Get cell replaced.<br />
<br />
Very long story short: the sirens stopped. But the moment I turned
ignition key, they started again, and this time the pleasant bunch of
boys, all that helpful lot couldn't do anything. Now an auto guy in a
blue uniform, different from cell advisor, came forward and said the
only way to get this sorted is to open the hood. So kind gent did that,
pulled the lever. I just stepped aside and let it happen. Auto guy asked
if I had a torch. I didn't. Told him cell phone light would be useless.
And so he, with only scattered street ligting, removed the noise maker
chip from the engine, and the madness properly, permanently stopped.
Aah. Gratitude. And glorius relative silence. <br />
<br />
My central lock now doesn't work. But that's okay. Sometime or the
other, I'll get it fixed. It's so secondary to me, indebted as I was
first to the kindness and courtesy of strangers, these Delhi men, the
car full of chicken eating boys and the auto drivers, who get so much
flak for not knowing how to treat women, for knowing only how to harrass
them/us/me, when the truth must also include that every now and then
decency steps up and exceptions reveal themselves.</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-70214336715492394722012-07-10T19:14:00.000+05:302012-07-10T19:14:18.719+05:30Dear fellow aspiring writer,<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OXwv8dabpQM/T_wuOhfXq5I/AAAAAAAABnE/Lnm_URukIVY/s1600/paris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OXwv8dabpQM/T_wuOhfXq5I/AAAAAAAABnE/Lnm_URukIVY/s640/paris.jpg" width="464" /></a></div>
<a href="https://www.parisliteraryprize.org/" target="_blank">In case you haven't heard...</a><br />
<br />
Love,<br />
me </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-80325506044530834842012-07-07T11:03:00.003+05:302012-07-10T14:58:45.986+05:30Loot, glorious loot!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Gradually, I can see myself give up ordering books off Flipkart. I will blame this not entirely on their hideous bookmarks.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
There was no way yesterday the rains wouldn't break. I was up early,
jutting camera into the sky, taking photos with a 400 ISO (...keep
feeling i'm doing something wrong here), responding to tireless
double-beep phone notifications. I was up as can be. And that 05:00 sky
was going to burst, whether then or by the time I went back to bed and
checked three hours later. It was going to burst. Later in the morning, splatters were arrived but erratic.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYvFVVPMmxM3AzXsjFBYyqx_arY7_4uh0wSPcIa-gXOoo3P9joqbTKKGJuDey1p8hUZJgPbcNEUz1zqURj01nG2ITjQrygSjRyy_eSe1q_5XtXa9FjBQ5LFJY6m_3eNu8UAudp/s1600/skygreen.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYvFVVPMmxM3AzXsjFBYyqx_arY7_4uh0wSPcIa-gXOoo3P9joqbTKKGJuDey1p8hUZJgPbcNEUz1zqURj01nG2ITjQrygSjRyy_eSe1q_5XtXa9FjBQ5LFJY6m_3eNu8UAudp/s400/skygreen.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This, although, is Lodhi road, later in the evening, five minutes before the sky exploded. That's another story.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I was driving on Mehrauli-Gurgaon road, speeding along to work. I
needed feedback on one article that needed to be despatched asap. And
I'd already texted <i>be there in twenty</i>. But, well, the sky was overcast, and I figured, if I don't stop today, I might never. Despatch can um, wait.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
There is a bookshop near
the Ghitorni metro station. It's a bookshed, really. Teensy place, with a
cardboard sign that says all books Rs 25. But those are all the one
kind of paperbacks, all Maeve Binchy and Nora Roberts. Inside is more
eclectic. Old, dusty plastic-cover wrapped copies of LIFE, the solar
system, how to improve your golf, chinese-hindi translations, Famous
Five, lots of Ian Rankin, books on gardening, books on woordwork, books
on cooking, a book on that first woman to be a pilot, books on baseball
stadiums, south africa, conditions in the arctic... that <i>be there in twenty</i><i> </i>wasn't going to happen.<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Immediately endearing to me was the bookshed guy. He was sitting, of
course in the heat, cooler turned to him, but poring over a large floppy
looking magazine style book that when I asked him the name of, and <i>kya padh rahe ho</i>, he said <i>kuch nahin</i>.
I persisted. He showed me. He was learning English! How super, I
thought. Sitting there, all by himself, his forefinger corresponding
words from Hindi Column to English column. What initiative!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When he saw me sweating it out inside, sitting on my haunches, wiping
my sweat with my scarf wthat would go on to have a more eventful day,
he turned the cooler towards me. Totally ineffective, but how sweet.
Then he's asking me if I want a book on Michael Jackson. Colour.
Hardcover. Aooo, I say. Thanks but no thanks.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And so. In the days following that <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/jun/29/my-life-as-bibliophile-julian-barnes">lovely Julian Barnes' piece</a>, wealth amassed from a roadside book shed, all for Rs 1,000: </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1JpGDKI60qI/T_fHkp-68RI/AAAAAAAABmo/uCSqJhD4WwU/s1600/notre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1JpGDKI60qI/T_fHkp-68RI/AAAAAAAABmo/uCSqJhD4WwU/s320/notre.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The price printed on the third page of that dictionary, is Rs 15. What a steal! <br />
Manga, Anita Brookner, two books on flora (In search of flowers, and that book third from the top is lovely, has everything you need to know about thuja occidentalis and rhodendrons and the kinds of cypress), kitchen <i>kitabs </i>(for my cook friend, cobblers and deserts and greek cuisine) and it was just a great edition of Hugo Hunchback. Oh, and how are you expected to pass up some BBC edition of something called Grumpy Old Men. Oh, and yaay, cryptic crossword how-tos.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Not
in the photo because they're lying on someone's desk in office, but
there were three Superman comics as well. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Qr9L2u6qXnY/T_fHn2cXz6I/AAAAAAAABmw/ImswqV7SS_c/s1600/dekst.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Qr9L2u6qXnY/T_fHn2cXz6I/AAAAAAAABmw/ImswqV7SS_c/s320/dekst.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I've left the whole pile in
office, in the cubicle next to my cubicle. (I asked my boss if anyone
else is being hired anytime soon, and if so, is the person going to sit
next to me. And he said, no one is going to sit there, that place is the
water cooler). And so, there is a sense of releif in my bones. It's
like going to watch a movie and getting the seat in front to prop your
feet up on. I get to always have the seat on my left free. Everyday. How
cool is that. On the right is a dead end pillar, anway. It's a good
feeling. This fortress of random works. Books and moneyplants in
winebottles, with big white rocks whacked from former office compounds.
Really, my desk is prime property. And those pages? You have to smell
the dust and the mildew and the ancient type. You know what I'm talking
about. It's an area in which online anythings can never compete.</div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-87912139604796487892012-07-02T13:16:00.000+05:302012-07-02T13:18:28.423+05:30Badi garmi hai!*<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
*issohot!<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Poor three vedic chanters, sitting up on stage yesterday, at the last
ceremony -- my grandmother's prayer meeting -- wiping their sweat with
their brahmin wash cloths, their turkish towels ('<i>gaamchas</i>'), but still, chanting away. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Poor fabulous sitar lady and her hymns that made me cry, she also - no respite from the damn heat. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Not so much the damn heat as the damn fuse and the no power back up at
the, dare I?, the damn Arya Samaj mandir! God, it was torture! How can
you have no power back up? Or rather, how can WE, the moronic family of
the bereaved, not ensure stupid fuses won't blow and if they blow they
better be fixed in time to not cause sweat puddles and restless .</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My father, poor him also, in his crisp white cottons, looking every bit
the grey haired-eucalyptus, dutiful son-in-law, brisk walking, opening
windows, doors, throwing back curtains. I opened one door, too, but I
was waddling. Nothing brisk for me. It wasn't so much the sari's fault.
I'm most comfortable sprinting about in a sari. But like a total idiot,
yesterday of all days, I had to invite a crisis. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So, I was to wear this pale yellow sari with white <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chikan_%28embroidery%29"><i>chikan </i></a>work
on it, very pretty etc, pearls on me ears to go with, but I, efficient
I, didn't have a pale enough petticoat to go with it, soo.. instead of
NOT wearing the sari, and settling for a perfectly acceptable
alternative, say a <i>salwar kameez</i>, I wore the sari over a <i>churidar</i>. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
This idea was put in my head by my friend who knows who he is. And it
was brilliantly contested by another friend; her one argument was: <i>bathroom kaise jaayenge, yaaar?</i> Yea, no, you can't go pee if you're wearing a sari over a churidar. I
knew this. I invited this crisis. I didn't pee. I drank less water. I
lived to tell the tale. But maybe once bitten...</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Oh, and I said a few words. My Bombay best friend, who I had spoken to
had given me the following advice: don't giggle, don't stay stuck to
your phone. I did neither. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My few words must have been under a minute. I hadn't planned what to
say. While sitting cross legged in front, near her enlarged and framed
picture surrounded by <i>motia</i>, tube roses and white lilies ( and, i didn't mind at all, not a single '<a href="https://www.google.co.in/search?q=gladioli&hl=en&client=firefox-a&hs=g0w&rls=org.mozilla:en-GB:official&prmd=imvns&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=xU7xT_3OMMTtrQfxxvW-DQ&ved=0CFoQsAQ&biw=1024&bih=461">glad</a>'),
and three fat incense sticks jammed into a green baby banana, and
wiping away the inconvenient tear, I'd thought I'd get up there and say,
<i>good thing she's not here, she would have died in the heat. </i>But callous word choice alarm went off. I thought I'd say <i>she would've lost her cool</i>.
But that's so meh. Finally, of course, I said none of that. I can't
remember exactly what I said. Something about missing her. Something
about how kicked she would have been about so many people turning up.
That I feel bad I can't go back home and dissect with her how it went.
Yea, that got to me, that I couldn't tell her who was wearing what. I
think she might have approved of my saris. I told sitar lady -- yes, I
remember now! -- I told sitar lady, she would've loved your singing AND
your sari. Pretty lavender-grey thing it was.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Throughout all this, I don't think anyone at the back could hear me.
This my father said: well done but you could've been louder. I got
irritated at this. For god's sake. I wasn't going to bother with a sound
check, hardly an open mic night! But a couple of people said variations
of well, that I spoke okay, and that's how it should be, all the
smiling-laughing, so I will choose to believe that. And I'm happy to
have been the grandkid who spoke. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>
But really, in that indoor heat, Nanu<b>.</b>would<b>.</b>have<b>.died</b>.</i></div>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4cZv8MoqguI/T_FQt0AVQjI/AAAAAAAABmc/mdm9qKnTcEI/s1600/DSC09147-002.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4cZv8MoqguI/T_FQt0AVQjI/AAAAAAAABmc/mdm9qKnTcEI/s640/DSC09147-002.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>cooler times</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-83700289436733599172012-06-26T01:37:00.002+05:302012-06-26T01:43:38.074+05:30Long day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>No pictures. Lots of scrolling. Warning over. </i><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When the call came, I was sitting across a colleague
drinking my second cup of black coffee. My brother rung. I picked up and
barked, "what do you want". The tone of my second utterance -- "...
when" -- was different. Less barky. Colleague got it immediately,
"Grandmum?" I nodded. We exited Costa Coffee. Had a smoke outside. To conceal vulnerability and a first of its kind jolt,
I diverted my mind. I asked him about the Tibetan journalists walking in
our direction. They were on the table nest to us inside, also drinking
coffee. One was American, but Tibetan features. Both in pretty, long sun
dresses ('maxis'?). I asked which one was the American. The one on the
right. Pause. Then the first of a few consolations: hey, it's okay...</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<blockquote class="gmail_quote" style="border-left: 1px solid rgb(204,204,204); margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 0.8ex; padding-left: 1ex;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
</blockquote>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I can't say I've been terribly distraught, really. It was expected. I had made my peace
with it. I wanted her to go. She had been suffering. We were living a
story played out everywhere, all the time. The hospital, the ICU, the
family gathered, the exhaustion on faces, the matter-of-fact tones, the
oxygen cylinder in her room, all merging into normalcy. It
wasn't tragic. Death at 91 is no tragedy. We should have had a band at
her funeral, as the old custom for those who live over, what, 90? I think
it is. No band. But I like the date she chose. 21st June. Like I was
telling my friends, got to give it to her for some black humour, for
making it a truly long day. Happy summer solstice, Nanu. Your heart grew
tired. You exercised a birth right. You called it a day.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *<i> <br />
</i></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Om Triyamabakam Yajamahe<br />
<i>
</i>sugandham pushtivardhanam<br />
<i>
uruvaruku miva bandhanam</i><br />
<i>
mrityo mukhsheeya maamritaat..</i></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="gmail_quote" style="border-left: 1px solid rgb(204,204,204); margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 0.8ex; padding-left: 1ex;">
</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div>
That and a mish mash of two Fleetwood songs ('paper doll' and
'somebody') that got mixed up in my head so came out like, to the chorus
of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DZSM55wSa58" target="_blank">paper doll</a>, "yesterday's gone yesterday's gone... mmmm hmmmh mmm by somebody yesterday ..." </div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
These were the bits of prayer and song that kept humming in my head
and on my tongue throughout the rituals, through getting you dressed,
through prettying you up, through stroking your hair and kissing you
bye. Your cheeks were cold but soft. I learnt <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mahamrityunjaya_Mantra" target="_blank">Om Triyamabakam </a>for you. You better be pleased.
And proud!
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Driving back that
day, when the news came, Thursday, office to home, I cried only very
briefly. The finality was undeniable. I couldn't
wish it away. I was exhausted at the thought that ahead are <i>all these years </i>I
have to live with only fading memories of you, because frankly, even
now, I'm having trouble remembering verbatim the stuff you said to me at the
end. (Other than bit two weeks ago, the last time I saw you, about go
put cream on your hands! So dry!)</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I will miss the the
animatedness and the 'raunak' around you. Your cutting, shrieky, angry,
yelling-out, loud voice. The obsession with food, flowers, lotions,
people, the telephone, the godawful cricket matches, my wedding; sorry, no, I don't
think I'm going to miss you banging on about that. What I WILL miss is
your ability to catch a pulse, to read me right, to back me up when I
tell you I didn't feel it for 'him' anymore, and you saying, <i>bas phir theek hai, </i>better now than later; 'if you don't get on, get out'. I will miss you asking me to look up, look at the ad on tv, <i>dekh! dekh!</i>, look at Saif Ali Khan and his chips or his paints or whatever he's endorsing. And my grandmum's remark: "<i>iski bilkul kutte jaisi shakal hai</i>".
He looks just like a dog. Not dog as in rogue, but dog as in woof,
canine. I will miss the acerbic, the tartness, the cut-down-to-size, the
only yardstick of how to be generous and transparent and lovely. I will
miss the camaraderie. I will miss how you said certain words, your
phrases. I will miss your smell. Your cloves and your <i>elaichis </i>and your <i>badams </i>and
your assuming that anything you had made for lunch was my favourite -
accurate enough. I will miss your assessment of my wardrobe,
your praise of it, your need to feel the fabric of any new thing I
bought and comment accordingly. Food. The planning ahead for the next
meal before the last one is even digested. Plum Jam, Strawberry Jam. <i>Suji halwa</i>.
You're everywhere. Chocolate ice cream was you. <i>Ghee </i>was
you. Anything sweet was you. How you kept the figure, lord knows.</div>
<blockquote class="gmail_quote" style="border-left: 1px solid rgb(204,204,204); margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 0.8ex; padding-left: 1ex;">
</blockquote>
<div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div>
It rained a lot
that day. Dehradoon. Really muggy weather. Not your scene. And I wish
you were there at your funeral so we could bitch about the pandit who
was really not a very nice man. But getting into that might offend you,
so nevermind. Bottom line: we got our way, ok. I think you would
have not minded this one time that we dismembered the flowers from your
garden and sent you off with the hydrangeas and the bougainvilleas and
the hibiscus and I can't remember if we threw in geraniums too in the <i>mala, </i>in
the the garland Mamata wove for you... but Kohli said this wasn't the
season for camellias. I asked him, but sweet chap, was so teary ("<i>sab chale gaye...</i>")
he came with the marigolds. Sweet old Kohli. (Kohli's the gardener next
door with a glass eye, and as a child I used to be terrified of him).</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
Anyway,
you had the flowers. The pick of them. The lot of them. You may think I never sat with you towards the
end, but you jolly well better have been watching me up close to see how
I 'made amends'. And for gods' sake, once you were brought home and
bathed, I creamed your hands. Body shop. Almond. I reapplied your Lakme
Vanilla on your toe nails. C and I made you wear bangles. Red on the
left. Green on the right. And your favourite sari. And I powdered you.
And I slightly smeared your cheeks with the same lipstick I put on your
always-way-too thin-upper lip. And I combed your hair. You
know the rest. Soft tears. So if you're going to give me grief that I didn't spend
time with you, you're wrong. I don't buy it. I will not let it get to
me. I will take on my barking tone with you like I have when you
wouldn't eat another spoonful of <i>dal </i>and you'd say nasty things and then rebuke me for bearing
grudges. I will go sit in the other room. I will sulk. I will be a fool.
But I will still care. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
</div>
<blockquote class="gmail_quote" style="border-left: 1px solid rgb(204,204,204); margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 0.8ex; padding-left: 1ex;">
</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The last couple of
days have been, yes unusual, but not unnatural for me. I didn't sleep
walk through anything. It's there, documented, up in my head, even if
not ALL of it, distinct outlined fragments. The sounds of the frogs at
night, the smell of ripened almost putifying
litches in the cane basket under the study table, the sounds of the
screen doors, all the ring tones of all the
outdated cordless landlines, it's there. A lot of inconsequential shit
packed away beside the cut glass stuff I'd like to hoard and reflect on
later.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote class="gmail_quote" style="border-left: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 0.8ex; padding-left: 1ex;">
</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My
grandfather's ok. He was drinking his morning tea in the veranda when
we fetched up and it was pouring like crazy and she was still in the hospital. I
think <i>shanti sthal</i> is an incredibly sensitive name for a
mortuary. Shanti = peace. Sthal = spot/place. I think if I were to to
say she was chilling, which she was, it might be in incredibly poor
taste. But it might not be me if I thought it and didn't say it. I'd say
it to provoke, to get a reaction, to get her to raise her eyebrows at
me and say <i>hai! hai! </i>So there. Provocation. But also: you looked peaceful. Your hair
looked good. Strikes me now to tell your hairdresser. Will. Later. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote class="gmail_quote" style="border-left: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 0.8ex; padding-left: 1ex;">
</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
You would have approved of the ceremony at
Rishikesh. We were all there to scatter the ashes of your body. The swami jis there said a prayer
for you, for amma ji. And the view of the Ganga was right up your alley. You've
seen it, of course. Many many times, all thet times before we set you float in it. <i>Jal samadhi</i>. All of us were basking in
your approval. See, now you're with your gurus. Say cheese.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<blockquote class="gmail_quote" style="border-left: 1px solid rgb(204,204,204); margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 0.8ex; padding-left: 1ex;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>Aapka shauhar</i>.
Your husband. He's okay, nanu. We're on his case. Poor guy. Last time
in Doon, two weeks ago, when you were having a fitful sleep and we were
sitting outside in the veranda, he and I, we had a long conversation
about having the litchees plucked before the monkeys get to them, and
then, to shave or not to shave, that is the question. Don't worry. Your
daughters aren't going to let him be. There's no way in hell a beard
will be allowed. Of that you can be certain. And he's taking it very
philosophically - everyone's time has to come. Life is an illusion.
There's no birth. There's no death. All that. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Life may be an illusion but he will still shave.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The
number of people who called -- there, that would have thrilled you to
bits. The phone didn't stop ringing. That morning I had field-the-phone/
make-the-calls duty, and I don't know know how many times I must have
said the same thing.. yes aunty/ uncle... <i>haanji</i>... no, I'm the
grandaughter, the younger one... <i>haanji</i>, he's here, of course you can speak to him... she
went peacefully... no aunty nothing sad, <i>haanji </i>all ok, yes aunty... ok,
god bless you, too.<br />
<br />
And on it went. The consoling of people meant to offer their condolences.
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
You
went in the evening. 5.15. 5.17. That night, all the neighbourhood dogs
barked and barked and barked. Much like I do at my brother. Were you
still there then? 'Around'? Could they sense you? Hanging by the pond?
Witnessing your progeny take final decisions with the rider Amma, would
have liked that/ Amma would have been so pleased.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I haven't been mourning for you. And I'm not sure <i>I haven't had the time </i>is accurate. TIme? What the hell for. You're
lucky! And good riddance. All that lying in bed! That nebulizer was the pits! I didn't like
your face with a mask. You became alien. I didn't recognise your
expressions. I was so, so grateful for that wink you gave me that last
time, in the garden when you were propped up in that chair and crying
yourself hoarse to be taken inside because your inherent mountain girl temperament
couldn't bear it. It was too hot for you, even with that table fan, and
we were bullshitting you that NO, you will sit in the garden, make the
effort, you have to make the effort! Fresh air is good for you! Amma,
stop being difficult! <i>You winked at me. </i>How am I to mourn with
all these conflicting mental pictures! One day you're accusing me of
wanting you to die, one day you're yelling for me to come be by your
side, one day you won't do more than whisper and then one day, the other
day, that day, I guess you just had had it.<br />
<br />
And
anyway, what's the hurry. To grieve. I'm back in Delhi. And in fits
and starts, in
waves of differing intensity, high tide and low tide, I have the rest of
my life to pity me for the loss is mine. Not yours. You're
good. Forget good. As my grandmother to whom, as the phrase goes, "I was
close to", closer than I was and am and might ever be to my own mother,
you were the best. And
that's not going anywhere. Why would ever I let it. As the phrase also
goes, and since we're such living clichés and living such clichés, thank
you for the memories, Nanu darling. I will always love you. It's like,
remember when you were alive and I told you one day, out of the blue, at
dinner time, that I will miss you when you die more than I will miss
your husband when he dies? And you said you know? I meant that. And I
know you know that. But I probably had no idea then, as I don't even
now, of exactly how much missing I'm really in for. </div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-90581313925981866942012-06-17T16:25:00.000+05:302012-06-18T12:38:24.566+05:30Never just the food<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8VItoFBFXyM/T92wCKsU6MI/AAAAAAAABlE/J-2DhhxookE/s1600/PicsArt_1339924910025.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8VItoFBFXyM/T92wCKsU6MI/AAAAAAAABlE/J-2DhhxookE/s320/PicsArt_1339924910025.jpg" width="240" /></a>Three places last week treated me like a princess. <br />
<br />
Sunday night. Diva Piccola in Hauz Khas village. The manager seemed to
me like a boarding school product. Someone I might have been in cahoots
with to steal, say, bread pudding, from the larder in the refectory
after it's been shut. He had a vibe about him - homely? Pride in being
homely? in taking care? In dishing out concern. Far more than any
'manager' would. Even though this guy was very much the manager. "This
Diva is my baby", I think he said. He also said, to me, and not at all
cockily, (when I said I wasn't hungry), 'Look into my eyes and I'm sure
we can make you change your mind' (!). Gosh. Or some thing close to
that. Say that to any woman who's just driven down from Dehradun, AND sat
through a terrible film, you've done your charity for the month.<br />
<br />
Then he gave me a complimentary desert, wedge of carrot cake with a zig
zag white sweet sauce on it. Looked good. I didn't eat it. Three points
for will power. Five for stubborn. My stand was: uh uh not eating,
already told you. Leave me to my coffee be. Seriously. Last weekend
again, I was in Doon, and had had my fill of spoil-me food. So I
insisted 'my companion' eat the desert. I'd have felt sheepish
otherwise. And bad for the sweet manager, he with a non-manager air
about him, his free-cake giving habits, his general charm. He backed up
his recommendation of a good salad with a great salad, pine nuts and
all. And b. he had a manner than made me blush. Neither cloying, nor too
confident. Not any of the things people don't know to do in just the
right degree. Charmed, I was. And smiling like a total moron.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OVEUNGht0LE/T92wDXTzlNI/AAAAAAAABlM/RplbQVEuxP8/s1600/PicsArt_1339925107912.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OVEUNGht0LE/T92wDXTzlNI/AAAAAAAABlM/RplbQVEuxP8/s320/PicsArt_1339925107912.jpg" width="320" /></a>It felt good. The next day I thought of sending him a thank you note,
complimenting him for his excellent unobtrusive but warm service, but
decided against because stupid rationale always wins. He was only doing
his job, I said to myself, though doing it really, really, really well.
Maybe a token of gratitude would be excessive. Let's face it, I had to
tell myself, if he wasn't sweet and homely (and only sort-of cute; as
much as sort-of feminine), and spoke well, and was very subtle in the
winning me over, making me change my mind about the not eating thing,
and then very gently taking my trip about it, I wouldn't entertain this
thought. But let the records state he would have been so pleased! And
surprised. And touched. All nice thins to be. Now, of course, too late.
Phrbht. I should really try to reason less with myself.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>* * * </b></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Thursday, Tc. where TC = Turquoise Cottage in Priya, Vasant Vihar -- I
smashed a beer bottle. Inadvertently, of course. It was an accident.
Early evening. There was just me. I was waiting for my friend. It was
the first beer. No blaming of the brew. I smashed the bottle. Harbinger
of things to come? I mustn't think like this! It slipped. I was stunned.
Open footwear. So my feet were washed with beer and that was a first.
No great damage. No green specks cutting into the flesh of my sole, but I
must have just been startled at the peculiarity of having beer froth
around the island my footwear caused. My toes weren't drunk but they
could easily have been smashed.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
No damage. Just a ringing in my ears and a sudden stiffening. The waiter then became my philosopher. Told me, <i>Madam aap, lagta hai, tension mein hain</i>.
That I look like I have a bother, I am tense. 'Tanhaav'. He said. I
sighed. He spoke of the importance of living one moment to another and
not being bogged down by, well not exactly theses words, but by stray
bits of glass that attempt to draw blood. <br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oUXZ3_V_wwY/T92v9i77cKI/AAAAAAAABks/Q-ut6ffahJM/s1600/PicsArt_1339774661946.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oUXZ3_V_wwY/T92v9i77cKI/AAAAAAAABks/Q-ut6ffahJM/s400/PicsArt_1339774661946.jpg" width="300" /></a>Deep. <br />
<br />
He got me another beer, immediately, didn't charge for the broken one,
said it was an accident, to chill, that I should thank my stars it was
just this. Said that back home in his village in Uttar Pradesh they
believe tiny mishaps such as mine at that moment are great because they
avert much larger calamities. <br />
<br />
I've heard this before. He counselled me. Or, he tried. Well meaning.
Despite knowing shit about the whirlpool my head felt like -- and he
said as much -- that he knows nothing about my life, but it'll be fine;
because it's not important, whatever it is, that life changes moment to
moment in the subtlest of ways, so drink your beer.<br />
<br />
Sujit Kumar, thank you.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Saturday afternoon. 50 degrees heat. My friend M and I have to have
lunch. Connaught Place. How I miss it. We head there. Car is a
microwave. We park, usual, on Jai Singh Road. get off, start acting
foolish. We're tickled at me being the caped crusader, using my
'dupatta' to cover up every open skin pore. Blistering, blistering. And
even so, despite the heat, we don't let possibly ineffective ac environs
deter us from our lunch venue: Andhra Bhavan</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
The moment it was tossed up, it was fixed. We hadn't been to the place
in FOREVER. Since college. M.A days, Back when a vegetarian thali at
their canteen was Rs 60, (it's still cheap, but exactly double), and
chicken/ mutton must've been nominally more, and the woman selling
pickles at the gate used to, we'd tease him, have a thing for then
boyfriend. Jesus. Really been a while. M and I, for all our
can't-eat-so-much-in-the-summer, ate like pigs. Me more than her. Don't go by the picture.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QUQQ44a0UVI/T92wA3U9czI/AAAAAAAABk8/ux7k96IYJlU/s1600/PicsArt_1339914903722.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QUQQ44a0UVI/T92wA3U9czI/AAAAAAAABk8/ux7k96IYJlU/s400/PicsArt_1339914903722.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
We laughed at our instincts; at the counter paying, because it's so
rushed, so many people, and I'm taller and quicker, I ask her, veg or
non veg?, and she looks mock-flustered at the only split second reaction
time I've allowed her. So she says, immediately, ok, non veg! I stick
to veg. Later she says she didn't even really want non veg. We agreed it
was at least a good thing it was only the one plate of chicken, so that
I, the dust bin, could consume everything left out thanks to the
limited teeny seating capacity of her small stomach. The instinct thing?
We attributed the 'ok, non veg!' cry to her 'culture', her specific
geographical context, to her tribal ancestors, this off-the-cuff eternal
need for meat. <i>Ok, non veg! </i>I, we decided, have a much less clear genealogy, so it gets blurred. And everyone knows, blurred means veg. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZgzGTFjEQS-Fq3eY5qlR_4l4zrz2JJ1sygO64_k7kvak3loQsSmzn7JeNzYL2oR1yhavruNCE8mUL-uHC1JhQbDoDQxHBVsIujwDCJUxSHLGNk2wsN7Yd8HOg5PZ2hYxhuCsY/s1600/PicsArt_1339913605286.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZgzGTFjEQS-Fq3eY5qlR_4l4zrz2JJ1sygO64_k7kvak3loQsSmzn7JeNzYL2oR1yhavruNCE8mUL-uHC1JhQbDoDQxHBVsIujwDCJUxSHLGNk2wsN7Yd8HOg5PZ2hYxhuCsY/s400/PicsArt_1339913605286.jpg" width="300" /></a>Veg or non veg, I love the <i>thali. </i>I love the <i>dal. </i>I love
the fat man there who I tell everyone I go there with, is hugely partial
to me. I say this because "it's true!". Come with me. I will show you. I
will be given a table faster. I will be asked at least 5 times if I
want more rice; more <i>puri, </i>more <i>dal, </i>more <i>rasam</i>,
more hope, something to drink; oh, I love it! I'm not saying he's not
fantastic with also his other customers. I just like declaring myself
special. It's a silly joke between me and the regulars with whom I (used
to) be a glutton on ghee at Andhra B. I loved being reminded yesterday
of how well they feed you. It's like you've entered their home and since
you have, you jolly will better stuff your gut. We were stuffed. Guts
were creaking. I skipped dinner. All that rice! All that ghee! Fat man
told me to try out all the pickles on the table, and I obeyed him.
Loaded with flavour. And spice. Nose runs. Fat man asked me if I wanted
more gravy ( of the chicken), and M and I exchanged old knowing looks,
floored, touched. I smiled and shook my head and he thought I was being
shy so he asked me after two minutes again, and I smiled again, and
again shook my head, and finally he believed me and left me to eat with
my hands, not watching me make mounds of rice and ghee and wolfing the <i>da</i>l.
Boys have been alarmed with how much I can eat. Dal over gravy. Andhra
Bhavan over any other. In under Rs 300, we were done, drowsy, and ready
to pass out.</div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-1917847774096947302012-05-29T12:03:00.002+05:302012-06-05T10:53:43.953+05:30Writings on the wall<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Driving down to Dehradoon from Delhi, the best mid-way pee-break halt was always Cheetal, now apparently Cheetal <i>Grand. </i>(Or
maybe <i>always </i>Cheetal Grand, noticed only now). As a kid, stopping at Cheetal, Grand or not, en route to my grandparents' place much further ahead into the Shivalik hills, used to be the height of excitement for me; crackling 'magic
pops' on a tot's tongue. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
The place had clean loos and a resort-like feel. Rows of flower pots,
rabbits, birds -- caged, of course, but perhaps back then, as a child, I
wasn't quite rabid about animal rights -- watered lawns, a general air
of hygiene, a big open aquarium with monster goldfish, and evident effort gone into keeping the area trim and
functional; lovely. And most unlike what certain coffee shops in Delhi have
transmogrified into (anyone been to Barista recently?). Point is, pee
stops at Cheetal made me happy.<br />
<br />
I hadn't been on the Delhi-Doon road for some years, four at least.
The last time I went to visit my grandparents' in Doon was, and I looked up blog archives, <a href="http://issuedinpublicinterest.blogspot.in/2010/10/green-green-grass-of-home.html">in October 2010</a>,
in the train. Long live the Shatabdi. Except now, train bookings are
apparently open 4 months in advance, which makes it impossible to manage
tickets last minute in tourist season. Drove there, but returned in the
volvo bus, hence stopped last week on our way <i>back </i>to Delhi, for a half
hour, my mother and I. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When we get disembark at Cheetal and she starts raving about the lovely little tomatoes and oh look-- :<br />
<br />
<i>She: Take a shot of the ornamental chilies! Nanu used to always pluck some... </i><br />
<i>
Me: Nothing doing.</i><br />
<br />
For one, I have way too many shots of silly ornamentals consuming my phone
memory. For another, I'm always more amused with signs. I saw some cute
ones on my walk one morning in Doon.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iAu8eCu0nwg/T8ReuyHe6mI/AAAAAAAABjE/_0yKTE7ukzw/s1600/2012-05-23+07.36.21.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="432" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iAu8eCu0nwg/T8ReuyHe6mI/AAAAAAAABjE/_0yKTE7ukzw/s640/2012-05-23+07.36.21.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>See hills in the background? The other side of the board says Don't Be Harsh on Curves.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<br />
But Cheetal. Walking about to stretch my legs after 4-5 hours in the
bus, and after drinking cold coffee from the self service counter (<i>40
bucks for one and SO much better than the overpriced frappé crap, again, at
Barista; also the man behind the counter was immediately smiley and
said, of course he could make me cold coffee, strong, without sugar, and
thankfully didn't call me ma'am</i>) and, pre clambering back on board, I
felt my tickles at inadvertent comic signs turn a shade darker and into
alarm. The +40 degree heat didn't help. But all these self-instructions,
( you'll see as you scroll down), like a new boss boss on a power trip, could have hardly been a mirage. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A9FitqK7AfI/T8RewCEG4xI/AAAAAAAABjM/OgKwGhk1wh8/s1600/2012-05-26+16.45.35.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A9FitqK7AfI/T8RewCEG4xI/AAAAAAAABjM/OgKwGhk1wh8/s640/2012-05-26+16.45.35.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Okay, not this. This is sweet, even if a tad discriminatory. Poor regular flies!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But this...<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFFuCkK9JpIlR6MToQ1YY7U9C23h9ABL9VxFIjagOj6ajhZWn5tuUtvt7KASDlvceFAfdmlbrLLHnfCMqOAftZcUDxi5aGVAQw6yt1we6OvCJSaJRhjYnms2lr1_AFMzrl8kOZ/s1600/2012-05-26+16.45.43.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFFuCkK9JpIlR6MToQ1YY7U9C23h9ABL9VxFIjagOj6ajhZWn5tuUtvt7KASDlvceFAfdmlbrLLHnfCMqOAftZcUDxi5aGVAQw6yt1we6OvCJSaJRhjYnms2lr1_AFMzrl8kOZ/s640/2012-05-26+16.45.43.jpg" width="499" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Great example, I thought, of 'knowing your audience'.<br />One measly plastic spoon kinda DOTH a klepto make.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And this...<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgnKvj5WkimBwmE05sOEbYTXHxDIo_zi7JgIK_qMv8hF9jTOtu7gTssR4JyezPBYchwHAi41MW9bzqaO4pFpXLU4zvZcbk6HW38wsk6GxADcilekyaZrq9JQVcIX7XORm6SJAE/s1600/2012-05-26+17.02.03.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgnKvj5WkimBwmE05sOEbYTXHxDIo_zi7JgIK_qMv8hF9jTOtu7gTssR4JyezPBYchwHAi41MW9bzqaO4pFpXLU4zvZcbk6HW38wsk6GxADcilekyaZrq9JQVcIX7XORm6SJAE/s640/2012-05-26+17.02.03.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I don't know, you know... if people bent on decamping with pigeons are the obedient sort</i>...</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And...<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zS_o6lbq2ek/T8Re0fhDqbI/AAAAAAAABjk/ERBCal1nVnU/s1600/2012-05-26+17.04.39.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zS_o6lbq2ek/T8Re0fhDqbI/AAAAAAAABjk/ERBCal1nVnU/s640/2012-05-26+17.04.39.jpg" width="409" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Like a truck jammed into a no parking space. Same principle. Only nicer. <br />Them generous bird thieves!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And...<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-35__ZtX4K18/T8Re1uq_aBI/AAAAAAAABjs/I4k2U3sQrEk/s1600/2012-05-26+17.06.43.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="502" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-35__ZtX4K18/T8Re1uq_aBI/AAAAAAAABjs/I4k2U3sQrEk/s640/2012-05-26+17.06.43.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>How else to take in these signs erected all over your disciplined property?</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--B7jB9gyZRE/T8Re3fBlEUI/AAAAAAAABj0/vp_ITGO4Pvc/s1600/2012-05-26+17.07.24.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--B7jB9gyZRE/T8Re3fBlEUI/AAAAAAAABj0/vp_ITGO4Pvc/s640/2012-05-26+17.07.24.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Rusty sign, y u no fun?</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Eh4J5u9NEqA/T8Re47WPSQI/AAAAAAAABj8/ZODDjqkVDuA/s1600/2012-05-26+17.07.50.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Eh4J5u9NEqA/T8Re47WPSQI/AAAAAAAABj8/ZODDjqkVDuA/s640/2012-05-26+17.07.50.jpg" width="544" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Winner of the ornamental chillies vs purple lotus round. <br />Pity you can't see tadpoles.
</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qoH21LVSf08/T8Re6o28I_I/AAAAAAAABkE/oJ0_c6y7fzY/s1600/2012-05-26+17.10.58.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qoH21LVSf08/T8Re6o28I_I/AAAAAAAABkE/oJ0_c6y7fzY/s640/2012-05-26+17.10.58.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Poor guys, out in the bloody heat, watering the entrance of Cheetal to bring down the tempertature of cement</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wSwehuQseb4/T8RonM3ojvI/AAAAAAAABkg/5TyKAqMlZIE/s1600/2012-05-26+17.14.30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wSwehuQseb4/T8RonM3ojvI/AAAAAAAABkg/5TyKAqMlZIE/s640/2012-05-26+17.14.30.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Glorious 2-ambi laden mango tree. ie room freshner for the entire compound</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Good thing Cheetal still has enough 'visual relief' going to make up for its don't-do-this-don't-do-that paranoid Hitler attitude.<br />
<br />
And clean loos.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-60406085427163034092012-05-13T13:24:00.000+05:302012-05-13T19:24:22.217+05:30Digging my grave then wondering at mud that flies<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="ajy" style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gJgxVqDAXYQ/T69llWYi_WI/AAAAAAAABiw/4ZRrYoGovG0/s1600/salmon.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gJgxVqDAXYQ/T69llWYi_WI/AAAAAAAABiw/4ZRrYoGovG0/s640/salmon.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'BUT THE INFINITE GRADATIONS OF COLOR IN A FINE SUNSET<br />
-- FROM SALMON TO CANARY TO MIDNIGHT BLUE-- <br />
LEFT HIM WORDLESS.' <br />
A favourite panel. From Alison Bechdel's graphic memoir, Fun Home. Page 50</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
I
do nothing these days. It's a self-inflicted, utterly unsustainable
embargo on work, reasons for which we shan't get into for the potential
they have to bore. But also, I don't want to talk about it. These days.
These days it's all very bite nose, spite face, lather, rinse, repeat. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
A couple of days ago, my father, from across the dining table,
told as he often does, 'I'm just waiting for someone to sack me'. Yea,
me too, I say, me too, tickled by, I don't know - our respective common
reading too much into a hardly definite outcome? Some
fools will some day realise what dead weights we are. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I have a feeling -- well actually, he corroborates this, so never mind 'feeling' -- I <i>know </i>all
my father does in office is drink green tea, with a drop of fresh lemon
for it's apparent enhanced benefits, carry out his random research
(okay, last year sitting in office acting like a 'consultant', he wrote a
book and got one thing off his bucket list, so I'll give him that) and
send me emails from his office with subjects like the ultimate calcium
guide ('<i>Something you said about milk makes me send this to you to scan thru.lv.p'</i>). Bottom line: eat bananas. Potassium helps absorb calcium. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Meanwhile, his vitamin D3-deficient daughter (not so much
calcium-deficient, she suspects) - all she does is troop in to work at whatever
noon hour suits her highness, drinks hot water from a mug that says
her-high-ness, write emails, update online wishlists, read sweet <a href="http://boniverotica.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Bon Iver erotic stories</a>,
sigh, get all wistful, sometimes blog, make small talk with neighbours,
all the time, do no work. What's the point, she says. Clever lady, ace
justifier, grave digger.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Work is terrible. I made it so. We're having a vicious little spat.
And one of these days charge will have to be taken, someone will have to
crack a whip, or papers will have to be filed. There's bound to be an
enough is enough moment. We play who blinks first with astounding
aplomb. We. We. These days. I. I. I'm the horse who won't drink from a
filthy pond even if what I long for is algae. One well-meaning colleague
advised me, using perhaps a close home metaphor -- how much will you
fight? how many will you divorce?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The only custody battle I foresee is who gets to keep my money
plants, my beautiful, well-maintained, gorgeous life-embracing,
sunlight-loving baby greens. And yet, I don't see myself walking out
armed with with thirty wine bottles and a couple, champagne.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>I hope you're at least enjoying this stubborn no-writing phase of yours</i>,
a friend emails. No, I reply sorrowfully. I miss writing. I'm not
enjoying anything. My back hurts and I've become an exquisite
look-at-her-she-does-no-work disdainful museum sloth. I'm <i>that </i>stationary. And on an ego trip as predictable as traffic.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When two rightfully pleased-with-themselves interns offered around a box of <i>motichoor ladoo</i>
to office people to celebrate their first byline, I felt like a wasted
relic. Bravo to them, most definitely. But yiikes, how long ago was that
for me. So long ago one doesn't count. But '<i>one</i>' does remember.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My father again. We're at the table; my mother isn't in town for a
while. Good daughter behaviour has impelled her to rush to Dehradoon to
be with Nanu - my grandmother, my mostly all-deaf now grandmother, the
leggy hottie in my blogger thumbnail, who fell in the bathroom and broke
two ribs. She's 91 next month. Joining dots is not cheery. It breaks
me. My back and my heart are in sync these days. And these days, there's
more inevitable here, with Nanu, than any half-wishful father-daughter
sacking. I'll go to her next week, maybe, when my mother returns so we
can nurse by turn. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Happy mother's day, I texted my mother, wish nanu also.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>Thank u, N.so lucky 2get yr message, i was/am at MOTHER PONDICHERRY ashram. love u</i>.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
She
didn't say N. She said my name. But I could imagine what a nuisance it
would've been for her to type that message, slowly slowly, like old
people who don't use any T9 dictionary or QWERTY nothings, to get the
spelling right of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anandamayi_Ma" target="_blank">Ma Anandamayi</a> . Smart, she went with Mother Pondicherry. No blasphemy, no error.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It's another meal. I'm
whining again, to my father. Groaning, 'making a mountain out of a
molehill,' as he likes to say. He's worried, then amused; Worried it's
my back again, my infidel lower spine that's acting up. Amused that I'm
lying so he doesn't worry. I'm suffering, I mutter. Why, darling? Why
are you 'suffering'? <i><br />
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>Because!! I don't want to dooo this any longer! </i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Do what? <i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>This. THIS! This 'pretending' to be a journalist...</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And off I launch into another crowded, inchoate monologue about the futility of my 'professional' life.Of how I think I should <i>do something else</i>,
something that maybe doesn't involve a word count as part of a work
drill. And how is it that a reasonably smart person can have zero
vocation?? HOW. Obviously I was -- am! am! -- in the mood to slather on
the self pity, to bring on the feelings of nagging inadequacy and
bugle-shaped doubts and blow those damn things so hard that even my out
of tune inner ears sob more continuously with more flowing rhythm than I
ever sleep. These days.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I don't SAY this to him. Not all of it. Sigh, he says. Darling-, he
starts. I can sense more indulgence. I can sense also my own ducts singe
and begin to well. Hello, bugle! He says it's all his fault. I feel a
snap inside. I yeowl. <i>HOW! How the hell is this your fault?! </i>And also <i>what is WRONG with you?! </i>Can't
you listen to me kvetch without packing me off on a guilt trip about
your alleged failings as a father ESPECIALLY where as far as I'm
concerned, you have your biggest freak fan in an unmotivated daughter!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Darling -</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
aaargh!!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So then he says things such as... you know, I've never had any focus.
But then 30 years ago, that was perfectly alright. The army was a
hobby. He was an aberration in it. Aberration. These days.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
All of it makes me laugh. Momentarily I feel blest that we can, we
CAN laugh at ourselves and acknowledge that constitutionally we're
unable to take ourselves at all seriously. It's a good thing, the
inability. To be serious a lot is bad form. And there's no need to
perpetrate the malaise. God knows enough others without knowing it are
properly suffering. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Still, in something of a non-half hearted vein, he's holding
himself responsible for not having any real ambition to pass down. Yea. I
chew my food. I think there was <i>chana</i>. And <i>palak</i>. And I like how <i>palak </i>makes
teeth squeak.. I ask him how my brother, S, is such a motivated, doing
well, competitive sort and where the hell does he get that from. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
'Your mother'</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
WHAT?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
She's competitive.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Don't talk nonsense, Papa.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I'm telling you...</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Whatever. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I ask him, do you see much of yourself in S? No,
he doesn't actually. And says, thank god for that. Isn't that a twinge
somewhere for you, to not see much of yourself in your son, who
basically is in the army because his father was in the army? </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
No. Apparently, he's thankful. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Unasked, he announces, I see a lot of myself in you.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>ME? HOW. I thought I was just like mama. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Darling - that too, but you've got this... Jekyll-Hyde thing going...
I see myself in you. That aberration in the army thing again. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>I'm a total aberration, too! I mean, I am a thoroughly useless journalist. Ask anyone! </i>Ask
my bosses! I'm sure some like me. Some think she can write. But
journalist? See, NOW we bring out the smirks and rev them up to laughs.
He knows this. I know this. He's worried because his battles, as he
says, are mostly over. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
For the amount this man sometimes irritates me with his placid,
almost resigned, unflappable, deadpan accepted reasoning and survival
formulae, I respect him the same amount. There is always a wryness, an
undercutting comic tilt to his view of his environment. It's the
flipside of that unpolished no-focus coin. I recognise that. But there's
such a thing as being arrogant of your genes. I'm the apple looking at
the tree who told me to watch it, kid, you're going to fall. Just not
too far from me. Should I be happy about this? That I feel I'm falling
off a branch?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I change the topic. I ask him. Do you think Nanu's going to die? When
I spoke to her she sounded so frail. I miss you, too. The sobs have
been attacking me from the depths of my stomach about this, too. And he
gives me a realistic view, an honest answer. The age. The pain. The
effort. The living. The dying. And I have to shut myself in the bathroom
for a bit to watch the mirror watch me watch it pay an advance to
debilitating grief around the corner, not my first instalment of tears.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
He's worried for me. <i>I
see in you the lack of focus I never had. It's my fault. You get that
from me. I'd go along with the flow, but over the last 30 years, so
little ever truly </i><i>excited me...</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
By this time, I'm about to collapse. There's nothing you can do, I tell him, full of impatience. He says he knows. So s<i>top blaming yourself!</i>, I yell at him again. He smiles. Daddy's little girl, hapless little darling...</div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<i>Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter<br />
Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here</i></div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-12601140324102083012012-04-30T00:55:00.000+05:302012-04-30T00:55:33.335+05:30Good week. Better weather.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-c-QJxcJFYDU/T52STab9o3I/AAAAAAAABic/f57BmUoxTOU/s1600/DSC02215.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-c-QJxcJFYDU/T52STab9o3I/AAAAAAAABic/f57BmUoxTOU/s640/DSC02215.JPG" width="640" /></a>Waiting at a <a href="http://rajdhaninursery.com/index.php/pages/5">plant nursery</a>
for a friend to finish socialising so we can start our own desperate
catching up, I step into a moment where you can smell the moisture in the breeze and a peacock has it's wings fanned out. It's the animal kingdom version of movie or street scene where a girl is losing out to an umbrella hell bent on sucking up to the sky and turning upwards to show it's intent. The peaccock is the girl and the plume is the umbrella. Sky is the constant. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I
see it go round and round, twirl and twirl, front and ass, and I
photograph both. I mail ass pic from phone to another friend who used to be grated by his phone's ridiculous 2-bit appendage, <i>Sent on my Blackberry. </i>He nonethelss replies from his BB, asking if I thought <i>the peacock mistook my laughter for rain</i>. And I, tee hee, vain peacock
myself, forgive the birds for being such vile snake-like things. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
You'll
agree it was a good line. I wanted to have come up with it.
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
~</div>
<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Tuesday. Gorgeous weather. So much rain. Salmon sky. All that. We have a
plan. We're going out. To celebrate the weather, if you please. We're
four people - two of whom are up there in the first para, third I'm
talking to on the phone. Fourth is a perpetrator of the walk and talk
malaise. <br /><br />
In two minutes of having gotten out of office -- 6.45 p.m? -- my nice
blue seersucker trousers, my season substitute for jeans, get caught
between two adjacent parked cars, one of which is what I drive and rip
hard. They get caught in a teeny inexplicable protrusion from the
parallel car just as I am slithering sideways to sit inside, and they
rip unmistakeably, at the butt, right side, below the 'back pocket'. No
point hoping I didn't hear and feel what happened. I am a mess of red
laughs and huge relief. I thank my stars that I am not, for one, getting
OUT of the car and/or late for a meeting. None of that, at least. This
sucks. This rips. But I am spared the necessity to take asylum in the
infra red besotted furnace on wheels. Second bright side: the weather,
the weather! I am still talking to my friend. It's drizzling. I think we
laugh for 12 minutes straight. She stops at South Extension, picks me
up my change, my spanking new lowers. I reach our rendezvous and
(mostly) stay in the car till she arrives - you can still drive a car
with a bare butt. I change in the dark. She and the car door act like
the shield. I flash her. The laughs don't die.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
~</div>
<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
We're at a shoot. Photographer friend-colleague from office and I. It's
maybe one of those off track things about the journo life that I don't
mind -- hanging with photographer colleagues, doing some work for some
story. (Nobody in the profession calls it an article. That's only to
outsiders, to people who you ring for the story - hi, I'm so and so from
such and such place, is this a bad time?, I'm doing a... hell, even
here, I say 'story' -- I'm doing a story on blah blah and I was
wondering if you were free to talk. meet). We write articles but we do
stories. And when you hit it off with say, photographer colleagues, it's
amazing how much peripheral stuff you can fit in and learn about each
other on these 'assignments'. Or stories.<br /><br />We're done with the
shoot. We're walking in an alley and his eye catches sight of an oil
painting of the golden temple from outside a hole in the wall art
gallery. We go in to examine the strokes, the green-grey colours of the
sky, share a little working knowledge of flat brushes, learn a little
about the <a href="http://unboxedwriters.com/2011/10/art-beat-simple-joys/">painter</a>,
see his other work, be interested, not just act it, like the bright,
bright colours in he uses for Varanasi ghats, say thank you to the woman
trying to discern if we're interested or just playing the fool, then go
out and debate if we want to waste more time before going back to
office or what. And what a silly doubt that is.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
~</div>
<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I asked one of my favourite people, an editor who's seen me since I was
20 and had milk teeth, if he'd read any Jonathan Franzen. I was still
carrying Freedom buried with me in my bag then. And I wanted to know if
any half-sharp person I respected thought it as addictive. Talk about
desperately seeking validation.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>"Well, if you did have [a daughter], you might let yourself recognize
the actually-not-terribly-hard-to-recognize fact that very young women
can get their desire and their admiration and their love for a person
all mixed up, and not understand –"</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<i>"Not understand what?"</i><i> </i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<i>"That to the guy they're just an object. That the guy might only be wanting to get his, you know, his, you know –" </i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
And he slightly furrowed his brow and said, yea.. you know, I've read
Corrections and I enjoyed it very much... but the thing with these
contemporary American authors is... they don't stay with you...<br /><br />
And I thought about this. And I remember thinking, he sounds so unlike
what so, so many others would sound like when they say the same thing,
speak the same phrase, and believe similarly that <i>the thing with these contemporary american authors is... </i><br /><i>
</i><br /><i>
</i>I have a habit of jotting down phrases/passages/
words/lines/triggers in a book that I like. And in a book as thick as
Gone With the Wind, I found I did it just once. I loved the book,
enough, sure. I read it very fast. I told everyone I'd usually tell
about it. I even took the metro so I would not waste precious reading
time driving. (If I'd done that last Tuesday, it may not have happened
and you might not know about my ripped thread bare ass car episode. So
good I drove). I wanted all the time to be making progress and finding
out which Berglund family member did what next. And now it's with my
friend who I was raving about it to. It'll be nice to see if we agree on
the same good, addictive, gossipy parts.<br /><br />
My one line, on page 169, my edition, was "She returned to the beer
shelves like a bird repeating its song." I must like it enough and
evidently, for in my annotations in my diary, I have that line followed
by a smiley face, three exclamations and another smiley face.<br /><br />
They may not stay with you, these contemporary American authors. But sometimes they, too, quite hit the spot.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N-ctlRfnWpI/T52SW1sBQ3I/AAAAAAAABik/pAkw1QsFVgY/s1600/DSC02220.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N-ctlRfnWpI/T52SW1sBQ3I/AAAAAAAABik/pAkw1QsFVgY/s640/DSC02220.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-5553849812627272092012-04-17T19:14:00.000+05:302012-04-17T19:25:20.941+05:30Following pugmarks?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9yJ30SmPhWT6OGXwFuzNbw5lb6tsr7qXIuEAQZ5n2bTuhig0tWmw7PiAA3lNYdpcx-_EU4UzDrOwfcTraRsQ5YMualGHoI7CcsztfvPYs07jS3PU4tN9sqF_iuOwLBQ9Qp90D/s1600/PicsArt_1334666980694.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9yJ30SmPhWT6OGXwFuzNbw5lb6tsr7qXIuEAQZ5n2bTuhig0tWmw7PiAA3lNYdpcx-_EU4UzDrOwfcTraRsQ5YMualGHoI7CcsztfvPYs07jS3PU4tN9sqF_iuOwLBQ9Qp90D/s320/PicsArt_1334666980694.png" width="241" /></a><i>Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up.<br />
It knows it must outrun the fastest lion or it will be killed.<br />
Every morning in Africa, a lion wakes up.<br />
It knows that it must run faster than the slowest gazelle, or it will starve.<br />
It doesn't matter whether you're a lion or a gazelle<br />
when the sun comes up you'd better be running.<br />
</i> <br />
<br />
<strong>― Christopher McDougall, Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen</strong><br />
<br />
~<strong> </strong><strong></strong><strong></strong><strong><br />
</strong>Dhab... dhab... dhab... dhab...<br />
<br />
It's 8.15 in the morning. I'm out on a walk, having slowed down from my version of a run, and I can hear these totally non-gazelle-like footsteps closing in on me. My one arm swings more than the other, for in the other, I am carrying my phone. I don't always. But today I need the time. I need to be on time. Last night there was a storm and I feel moisture in the air. It's bright but not sunny. <br />
<br />
Dhab... dhab... dhab. It's almost next to my ear.<br />
<br />
You can't place running footsteps as accurately or as often as you can walking ones. Maybe it's the rubber soles. And even walking footsteps are not as easy to place as, say, a voice - placed so much more instantly.<br />
<br />
I'm not expecting my father on my route at this time. He usually sets out earlier. But I'm not surprised to see him, tall, lanky, running, catching up, not stopping, still - asking, "Hiiii! Want to jog for a bit?" <br />
<br />
Oh! hi, I say, letting him run on ahead, and saying after him loudly enough to catch: naaaaaah.<br />
<br />
The dhab dhab dhab continues ahead. Soon I can no longer hear it. I can hear only the sounds of construction&nbsp; where a building is coming up, the activity of a cement mixer. And I can see only the figure, tall, lanky, running, running slowly, in those awful long shorts.<br />
<br />
In the moments after his footsteps dissolve, I feel a pang. <i>Why is my first reflex always no?</i> <i>I don't spend enough time with him anyway!</i> <i>What is wrong with you?!</i> <br />
<br />
After a 30-second self-berating eternity in which I can see his figure diminish in my eye, the mind is made up. With an ugh and a groan, I quicken my pace and start my own dhab dhab dhab, slicing distance, hopping over a stream of mud water - evidence of the early morning bath had by a car in someone's driveway. I negotiate my way around a sleeping mongrel. The impact of sneakers-on-road alerts some some idle heads and some turn. I pass those, closing in. And in catching up with my father, merging with his pace and converting us into sprinting side-by-side&nbsp; beanpoles, the berating is gone. I feel better.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-36219231995594137992012-04-16T00:20:00.000+05:302012-04-16T00:24:49.866+05:30The VERY LONG untold story of my never-ending memories plus a few dozen things about the way you laugh<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
One of my more macabre memories from my childhood (that I never hesitate to narrate) is this.<br />
<br />
I
was in the 10th standard. I must have been 15. I was walking my two
dogs on their leashes made of steel -- we used to have alsatians/ german
shepherds -- in this place called Wellington in the Nilgiris (which,
much to my utter gratitude, I got to visit last week) when I came across
my mother and a friend of hers, with whom she used to play tennis at
least a couple of times a week. This friend of my mother used to wear
those really broad visors (sun shade thingies), had a very shrill pitch
and a thin, high laugh. She was a certain south east asian national. Her
husband was, too. A certain percentage of the population were
foreigners. This was and is an army station, a military college. My
father was an 'instructor'. Shrill's husband was a 'student' of my
father. Father taught there for many years, effectively a <a href="http://www.google.co.in/imgres?imgurl=http://www.betterlivingthroughbeowulf.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/chips.jpg&imgrefurl=http://maliknotes.blog.com/goodbye-mr-chips/&usg=__C0qW7F4tkoEVmgZtIuqOQHVIrqE=&h=369&w=286&sz=14&hl=en&start=15&zoom=1&tbnid=5UitGqSLJnvLoM:&tbnh=122&tbnw=95&ei=PxmLT_28M83yrQftpKnQCw&um=1&itbs=1">Mr-Chips-style</a> class teacher. Shrill's husband, as was the norm, attended, a 10 maybe
12- month course.<br />
<br />
Anyway, Shrill and my mother would play tennis.
Not too many women then, in that teensy army station would play tennis.
Not that there was anything stopping my mother or Shrill from playing
with men, they did, too. But something about, I don't know -- mixed
doubles? playing a partner at your level? Whatever.<br />
<br />
The macabre
bit is this. My mother and Shrill, walking uphill, returning from
tennis, waved to me as I was walking the dogs, taking a break, it's
possible, from studying for my board exams. We all kind of stopped
mid-hill to chat and Shrill said something about how "back home" dogs
are considered very healthy. To eat. And she said, pointing to my poor
furries on the steel leash, how loaded dogs were with VITAMINS. For
however else, in whichever manner, I embellish this memory, I know she
said VITAMINS. My dogs, had VITAMINS. Crazy shrill wanted my poor
pooches on a plate.<br />
<br />
Everyone in my family knows this story. When we talk of dogs, this comes up, and we all laugh - shrilly.<br />
<br />
Anyway.
Cut to fifteen years later. My mother is in Delhi. She still plays
tennis. My father no longer teaches at a military college. The shrills
have long fallen out of touch. Mr Shrill, presumably, isn't a student
anymore.<br />
<br />
At a mela last year - a fete, a slender thing still
favouring visors, apparently spotted my mother 300 miles across a field,
walked up to her and there was much shrieking out of recognition.
Hurrah! Tennis buds reunite. My mother, I vaguely remember, had rung me,
most excited, asking if I remember the crazies who wanted to roast our
beloveds, Dog 1 and Dog 2. My ears perked up. I had to let go of my
usual humdrum response when she calls. But OF COURSE I remember the
canine-ables! WHY, I ask. Oh, I just met her, she said. Ohh! Really?
Wow. And so it goes.<br />
<br />
And so it also is, that 15 years down,
everyone's in Delhi. The student -- Mr Shrill has been posted by his
government to Delhi. He's with the embassy. And he's had to pick up
Hindi. My father, I can see, is endlessly tickled by this.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
~</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
This
morning, as I was heading out of the house to go hang with Princess, my
best girl friend here from Bombay - plan was to have lunch, buy shoes
and 'be loose' -- my mother was picking up her car keys. I asked which
direction she was headed in. I wanted a ride to the metro station. I
wanted to not drive at all for reasons of fractured finances. She was
going to buy kathal - jackfruit, for the crazy vitamins who,
surprise! surprise!, besides a friend of my father (<a href="http://issuedinpublicinterest.blogspot.in/2010/12/whos-your-daddy-coz-like-hello-mine-is.html">who I love and have mentioned before</a>), were coming to
dinner. And since we wouldn't serve dog, jackfruit would be a good
substitute, a nice poor man's meat. I hope you're home for dinner, mommy
says to me. Yea yea, I say. When we get off the lift, an old couple is
resting near the stairs with their family. I don't understand why my
mother is saying, what's the occasion? And then I see the orange
garlands of marigold around their neck. They've just had a small puja
for the coupe's 70th wedding anniversary. My mother gushes, offers
multiple congratulations and says, may we all get there. This sticks
with me.<br />
<br />
I get dropped off. I see Bhawna plant nursery. I cross
the road. I walk to the Sikanderpur metro station. I get on the train. I
get off at a station midway. I read my book at the platform. I wait for
Princess. Princess apologises for being late even though she is only
slightly late and ever apologetic for keeping me waiting. She looks so
pretty in her hibiscus-red top. We go on to the malls, hang. She buys
shoes and treats me to lunch - thin crust chicken pizza and rosemary
potatoes at that Spaghetti Kitchen place. We do our thing. We talk about
the world and it's aunt. She gives me a phrase that I love and so I
adopt -- for hapless Delhi girls with jarring diction in straight fits
and long hair and identical over the top clothes: "the untolds". They're
overdressed because they weren't told where they were going. The joke
of the untolds. We stretch it to us, tinker with context, double over
and, it's possible, become one of them. The story of the untolds.
Bwahaha. <br />
<br />
I get back home in good time. My mother's yelling for
me to take out the nice ice cream glasses, asking if I want to do the
desert, which is essentially a poorly-disguised order. Doing the desert
means swirling hersheys chocolate on the inside of the nice glasses,
balling vanilla icecream, 2 scoops each, into them and bunging them into
the freezer. She yells for me from the kitchen, SHALL I PUT A BISCUIT
THING INTO THEM? I yell back, NO, SPRINKLE SOME COFFEE OR BOURNVITA OR
SOMETHING OVER. Ooh, she says. <br />
<br />
Ooh it is.<br />
<br />
The doorbell
rings. The chinks are here. I had asked my father when he was assembling
the liquor bottles and asking me if i'll have wine later if his former
student is an ass. And my father said na na, he's a sweet chap, speaks
fluent Hindi. And so I'm not surprised when he, Mr Shrill says 'namaste'
to me and asks how I am and says that I am a sundar mahila -- a pretty
woman, and I say shukriya. I thank him. But I am, by then, I think, in
total low tolerance fashion, a little irritated at being reduced to a
local who can speak the tongue. <i>Stop practising your Hindi on me. Enough people can speak it. I will NOT smile or act impressed.</i>
But I play along. He's a guest. A 'sweet chap'. I play along to him
asking me aapka bhai kaisa hai, and I reply in Hindi, my brother is
fine. He asks me woh kahaan hai, and I tell him where he is. I know he's
never heard of the place and now I've reached my that's-it moment and I
refuse to give him geographical co ordinates of mera bhai kahan hai.
Fuck that. But then I hear him laugh and it tickles me. It's a slow
motion laugh. A little like that of a diminutive friend, a once-boss who
would go: hA-hA-hA. Three times. This one goes huuh--huuh--huuh. It's a
lazy laugh. But the tempos overlap. I cave.
I smile. I go so far as to very, very mildly take his trip. And now HE
plays along. <br />
<br />
Ni-ice. I can do this. Huuh-huuh-huuh. I am the
coyote. You're the mutley. Huuh-huuh-huuh. I'm cracking up now. My
mother's got a cloud over her head with three dots in it and a wtf. <br />
<br />
Meanwhile
my father's friend, his visiting-for-only-a-short-while friend rings
the door bell. I love this friend of my fathers. He's super entertaining, too. And smart. And nice. And just so affectioante! I love him so much that
I repeat that fact and treat him almost with the same irreverence I gift my father. I open
the door and mock-snarl a why are you ringing the bell, can't you walk
straight in? And he kisses my cheek and gives me a hug and says he
didn't expect me home. I love that a couple of weeks ago, when he came
over -- he came over the day he landed, in fact -- he said something
about how he doesn't care what whisky he drinks for he hasn't forgotten
his roots and what they started with. And I want to hug him. I see so
much alcohol snobbery that this attitude warms my insides like no malt
could.<br />
<br />
I take in the evening. The smatterings of Hindi, the heavy
smoked voices, the huuh-huuh-huuhs, the tennis tittering, the anecdotes
of suspicious governments, our culture and your culture -- not a word
about healthy dogs. I see Shrill loving the chanas - the chickpeas.
Shrill and my mother discuss how the treadmills fucks up your knees.
They don't say fucks up - 'bad for'. Shrill can speak some amount of
Hindi too. I'm amused at many levels. At the criss cross dialogues. At
the chanas-the chikpeas being loved, at the embassy offcial airing his
opinion of certain Paki generals. At my father correcting a
misconception that culturally Pakistan and India are the same. And the
example he states is that he met a guy from across the border who told
my father, why my daughter got married so late, she was 21! And my
father grins. He collects in his own way samples of people's minds. I
asked him, my father ie, whether he dropped the bomb of his own, gasp,
unmarried daughter, and he smiled a smile that implied a, <i>darling child, have i ever made you a guinea pig? </i>and I smiled a smile, an all encompassing, <i>yea yea, you're the best</i>.<br />
<br />
It
was a funny evening. The global in the local. The chanas, the chinks
and the huuh huuh huuhs. And the feeling I had was, that the only person
who would have enjoyed this more than me was my brother. And as I was
thinking that, all esp elves kick into action and my phone rings. It's
on vibrate. But it's still he, the sibling, who four drinks down -- myI
guessed, he laughed -- has called to "remininise" about this one time
and that other time and how he's begun to see himself as a philosopher. I
laugh and he feels hurt that I laugh. But I tell him no no, please
don't be and HEY! I just saw a shooting star! He says, right now??
Andhell, yes, right now, outside the window! And we both feel pleased.
And I I tell him, as if to make up for my cruel laugh, how I am --
mostly. And I try to be not a smart ass about it. And he tells me to not
go about chucking jobs for the heck of it. And to send him my last
week's Wellington pictures. And how some regimental old timer came to
visit him in his room and saw a picture he's framed big on his wall, of
him and I, my brother and me, as kids; and old timer apparently said
sweet things about it. And me. That makes me smile.<br />
<br />
I remember the picture. It's taken, again, in Wellington. My hair is in a
fountain. I'm wearing a white frock and smiling the widest smile a kid
in a white frock with a fountain could smile. My brother looks like an
idiot. He's dopey with two missing front teeth and I have my arm around
him. As in chunks of our shared narrative, our childhood, in that photo,
too, I am in control. And he knows it. The younger one as the older
one. My sister, the bullshitter. It's good to revisit the details of a
photograph I know so well in my mind and go over them across a phone
call. Yea, yea, I know the one you're talking about. At my description
of it, at my exact show-offish see-see! I remember! boast, he laughs.
Aware though as I am of how ridiculous an achievement it is, I feel
proud as I always have, that I can make my brother laugh.
Heeyaa-Heeeyaa-Hyeeeah. Idiot. Heh.<br />
<br />
The chinks leave. I say bye
like a good child. Polite. Not at all sarcastic. I left that side of me
behind and I think I employ it now only on the rare occasion.<br />
<br />
When
my parents go out to see off the chinks, I tell Pushy uncle, you know
they wanted to eat our dogs. And he laughs. And tells me, don't be
silly. I say, I'm serious. I use the vitamin line. We both laugh,
hhehhaha--hhehhaha--hhehhaha. <br />
<br />
And an hour later, when Pushy
Uncle gets up to leave, I feel a twinge. I keep thinking I won't see him
again. Are you going to visit me in Seattle, he asks me in his loud
booming whisky smoke voice. And I begin to say.. mm. My mother to the
seeming rescue. "Inshallah", she says. And Pushy uncle winces and tells
my mother, ugh, I hate it when people say that. Screw the arabs, he
says. He doesn't understand what allah has to do with..a. a meeting at
10.30 a.m on a Monday morning. <br />
<br />
Ok, I say. No inshallah. So then, maybe? <br />
<br />
And
so it is they all pack up and I 'repair' to my room, swatting
mosquitos, hopping from one youtube melody to the next, sipping water,
cleaning my face, correcting my sighs and hoping this week is better.
Not that you could tell from a ramble that weighed a kilo, could you?
Huuuh-huuuh-huuuh.</div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-67535392602672714022012-04-10T18:20:00.001+05:302012-04-10T18:23:23.277+05:30The picture of tender greys<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c1kkHyFqyDY/T4QpdM6KWEI/AAAAAAAABhM/XMpMI9_Thr0/s1600/DSC01599.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c1kkHyFqyDY/T4QpdM6KWEI/AAAAAAAABhM/XMpMI9_Thr0/s400/DSC01599.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Eighteen photos.<br />
<br />
<br />
I counted. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VYJb4O9gr00/T4Qpjy1pALI/AAAAAAAABhU/H7yP0EhO4zI/s1600/DSC01605.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VYJb4O9gr00/T4Qpjy1pALI/AAAAAAAABhU/H7yP0EhO4zI/s400/DSC01605.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I took eighteen photos of this couple that to me was the textbook
definition of tender. I felt a little slimy invading on their privacy,
pretending to be clicking other people, but really watching their every
twitch as they went about being literal and laid back in the lawns,
soaking in<a href="http://www.themadfestival.com/papon-and-the-east-india-company.html"> the music</a>,
eliciting from me multiple layers of awe, respect and envy. But I
pardoned myself for being slimy; I know how badly I wanted to click
them. Her. Especially her, as she absently but normally<i> </i>stoked
her husband(?)'s hair. It seemed like so not a big deal. And of course
it wasn't a BIG deal.. except... wasn't it? I don't even think the blood
thinners in my stream dictated my feeling warm at the sight. Or the nip
in the air. Or the utter gorgeousness of the venue. All of that was
making me drift, yes, but that wasn't all it was.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Maybe I was being something of a.. a -- you know, like how when city
people go to hill stations and obsessively take touristy shots of just
about every beautiful anomaly that is mostly an anomaly because you're
so starved for it in the plains? (Which, by the way, is a description of
me and my having taken 1300 photos taken on my last week's trip down
south, to the Nilgiris with the girls.) </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Maybe I was being sort of like that about this lovely looking tender
couple. A .. 'relationship tourist' starved in the plains. Aspiring
watcher from the side lines, filled not so much with envy as with hope.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
They really were something. I wanted to talk to her. Again, her. Him, I
didn't have an opinion of. But I liked how in my eyes he seemed so
normal and accustomed to this amount of absent affection. I was keenly
aware how if they were younger, I wouldn't have been half interested.
They're plenty of those, even in the plains. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It's the oldies. I'm always extremely indignant when I see a middle-aged
couple walking side by side and there's so much distance between their
bodies, fingers trained to avoid rather than brush against. I'm
especially hurt when the man walks ahead. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It must be a comment on how I view relationships; that it's one thing to
go aww and sneak a picture (or eighteen) of what to me is a
still-in-love couple and admire how tastefully evident it is, derive
from two people hope, and allow my thoughts a free reign - <i>I wish someday I am her</i>.
And yet, I'm sad that I view a tender relationship as an anomaly. If
only the mountains visited the plains more often, I wouldn't be such a
tourist. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qZ1uzwK46fQ/T4QppUaZG2I/AAAAAAAABhc/ufVmpnTbMZ8/s1600/DSC01606.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="470" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qZ1uzwK46fQ/T4QppUaZG2I/AAAAAAAABhc/ufVmpnTbMZ8/s640/DSC01606.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f5y2evvrFKc/T4Qp6vriTwI/AAAAAAAABhk/tV8RsGolIe4/s1600/DSC01572.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f5y2evvrFKc/T4Qp6vriTwI/AAAAAAAABhk/tV8RsGolIe4/s400/DSC01572.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There was this super elegant dancing woman who did some fantastic Bharratnatiyam moves to at least 4 bands. Pity some sleaze ball men won't let her be. (Actually, not men. He was a check-shirt wearing brat with braces. Boys get younger and more immature everyday, I tell you)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3o1GG6_g9tg/T4Qp_Hx6i5I/AAAAAAAABhs/F6MJ-GFOpGU/s1600/DSC01580.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3o1GG6_g9tg/T4Qp_Hx6i5I/AAAAAAAABhs/F6MJ-GFOpGU/s400/DSC01580.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J1pXVeUQgko/T4QqD5Jd35I/AAAAAAAABh0/661LiWkr54I/s1600/DSC01611.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="293" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J1pXVeUQgko/T4QqD5Jd35I/AAAAAAAABh0/661LiWkr54I/s400/DSC01611.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sigh, and then there were these loud jumping jack types... ; fortunately or not -- and I wouldn't go so far as to call them friends -- but they're known entities, all these bouncing balls. We 'hung'.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7zBEQSfXU04/T4QqHK44l1I/AAAAAAAABh8/CyPylmHqL88/s1600/DSC01612.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7zBEQSfXU04/T4QqHK44l1I/AAAAAAAABh8/CyPylmHqL88/s400/DSC01612.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7k8mLyJXado/T4QqNCcT74I/AAAAAAAABiE/vWhs_zDzHNY/s1600/DSC01614.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="468" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7k8mLyJXado/T4QqNCcT74I/AAAAAAAABiE/vWhs_zDzHNY/s640/DSC01614.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(So you get an idea of the venue): My friend and I chug a bit of grape juice with some strange Rum. And salt? And lime? Few times over and then some. We did good.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-37703832221376623662012-03-30T19:56:00.000+05:302012-03-30T19:56:06.047+05:30Those were the days my friend/ We thought they'd never end/ We'd sing and dance/ Forever and a day/ La La La La La La La La La La La La...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aUyjz3L92k4/T3XAJ548stI/AAAAAAAABhE/iZWh5LDm4m8/s1600/PicsArt_1333112161553.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="481" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aUyjz3L92k4/T3XAJ548stI/AAAAAAAABhE/iZWh5LDm4m8/s640/PicsArt_1333112161553.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>@verbatim illegible bumper sticker: LIFE IS TOO SHORT WHY YOU MAKE IT SHORTER</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Finally.<br />
<br />
I had made a big deal out of it in my head, of going back to a place -- my old workplace, my <i>hotspot of sentiment</i>, to extract from there my pound of flesh, my long overdue provident fund. I don't know why. Or maybe I do.<br />
<br />
But finally!<br /><br />I hadn't been back in a while. And god knows I miss
it. I miss it so much I am guilty of exaggerating to myself how
debilitating nostalgia can be, how helpless I am in the face of a
collage of many years of joy, of comic angst, of bylines, of marble
stair cases, of vomit that is canteen food, of wine in parking lots, of
texting in conference rooms, of snickering in Monday meetings, of
deadlines that are shot past, of lazy page-making, of typos in captions,
of kick ass headlines, of shit copies, of editors who can't spell, of
editors who can (and so much more), of printers called Beta Beta that
run out of ink JUST when you have to sign the damn page off, and of
working with people, fellow slaves, who long ago shook off the
inadequate tag of colleague and took on in my life much fuller roles. In
a task as quotidian as paperwork for PF, in that execution of that
dull as hell transaction, I have to walk through those images, pass
familiar corridors and
revisit work stations and water dispensers hung around routinely,
familiarly, easily, like it was home.<br /><br />Really. Retrospect should
be banned for the scab it can tug at. Never mind statutory warnings of
smoke and injuries. The more damaging -- if that's the word I want -- is
misplaced nostalgia. Too much reminscing ought to be against the law.
And yet, when I read <a href="http://thegreatcookaroo.blogspot.in/2012/03/giggling-girls-and-bits-of-basil.html">stuff so close to the bone</a>,
I find myself smiling at and hanging on to all references and memories
my friend evokes. Sometimes we're such a bunch of weepies hanging on so
desperately to a cocoon that in the past would fit so snug.<br />
</div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-62930767701705927182012-03-29T17:20:00.003+05:302012-03-29T17:23:28.596+05:30The breeze in the trees/ yeh hariyali aur yeh rasta<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rFUjuMXKK0k/T3RA4bKqqqI/AAAAAAAABgE/BRX-fN2hLrc/s1600/tmp_1333011356394_28_2012-03-29_14-26-18_167.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DekBS0w_TZk/T3RFMCkCimI/AAAAAAAABg8/yOEXaqMKooI/s1600/tmp_1333012274215_28_2012-03-29_14-41-40_662.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DekBS0w_TZk/T3RFMCkCimI/AAAAAAAABg8/yOEXaqMKooI/s400/tmp_1333012274215_28_2012-03-29_14-41-40_662.png" width="301" /></a></i></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Call it what you want: Palash, Dhak, Palah, <br />
Flame of the Forest, Bastard Teak..</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I take photos of trees more than I take photos of faces. <br />
<br />
I'd take photos of birds, too, but I'm not quick enough and they're not
used to standing still. And while I guess this would be true for birds
WERE<i> </i>they to ever get in the habit of standing still, you don't
have to, for one, ask a tree if it's ok to take his/her picture. By that
logic, I ought to have plenty photos of food, too. And I do. But not
more than of trees, glorious trees, a phone SD card full of trees -- of
red tesus that have retired for the year, of papery bougainvilleas, of <i>sexy</i>
pines, of not so sexy eucalyptus, even though the smell of eucalyptus
catapults me instantly to a better place than were I'd be smelling it,
of wild roses, of -- hell, you name it! This morning, I hovered over one
yellow nettle and took a close up shot of, now I don't know the name,
but those thick milky wild plants with purple flowers that would grow in
cantonments, which if you were me at age 12, you would have on some
evening "after playing", on your way home, have beheaded them with your
badminton racket, and got purple milk on your gut.
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xZl3guhDJ6E/T3RA8WSYJdI/AAAAAAAABgM/ANNld4wi4_A/s1600/tmp_1333011912446_28_2012-03-29_14-35-29_375.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRETxzpAnJW10I5r8ut-IldvO6WtslqxHtm1UcZWzTXdINhQYITFfCqvJZ009iqlFRPUK11iAnnU30V5AT9aauUcrBbwyRECAQ9k0N24ploIduVS-a3M8LXxP3GoSkYxwFcQ7S/s1600/purple.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRETxzpAnJW10I5r8ut-IldvO6WtslqxHtm1UcZWzTXdINhQYITFfCqvJZ009iqlFRPUK11iAnnU30V5AT9aauUcrBbwyRECAQ9k0N24ploIduVS-a3M8LXxP3GoSkYxwFcQ7S/s400/purple.png" width="302" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Purple wild flower asking-to-be-beheaded</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have <i>conversations </i>with plants. I ascribe adjectives to them. I
make them a person. And get the last word. Take orchids. An orchid
could never be my friend, you know? An orchid could be a woman I admire
from a distance for her body language and grace? I might even learn
something from her about disguised clothing. But friend? Naah. <br />
<br />
Calendulas could be my friends - they smile and are uncomplicated and
hardy. Bougainvilleas could be my friends -- they're not clingy, they
adjust to any environment and really, they look their best. Also,
they're always kind of <i>there for you. </i>Oh, come on. You can't<i> not</i> risk being cheesy when what you're doing is blogging about making a plant a person.<br />
<br />
Dahlias. <br />
<br />
I don't like them. I've always found them unnatural. Ostentatious. When
my friend B and I would walk in to college from the front gate and we'd
see these carefully tended dahlias staring at us from the lawns, I'd be
put off. Never mind appreciating how well balanced that plant is: thin
stem, no shoulders, buxom head. I just don't like them. She, from being
amused early on, grew to ignore my lame ass laments. Till one day I
announced: I have made my peace with dahlias. She looked a bit
concerned. But in college sometimes sarcasm takes on all these deceptive
colours. But really, I had. Made my peace, that is. I still don't love
them. But they don't bother me. Don't you know people like that?<br />
<br />
A friend once made me a painting of flowers in a vase. He asked me what my favourite flower was. I said hydrangea. He said <i>hain</i>??<br />
<br />
And then, now that I think back, it was a hideous painting, but he did do a decent job of getting the, what're they called -- <i>florets</i>? -- yea, he got the florets right. The memory warms me. The painting may still need to be found.<br />
<br />
This meandered. I just wanted to show you trees. And perhaps, not too
subconsciously even, put a virtual icecube down the back of a friend
who's had it with my obsession with -- <i>what, more birds?? more trees??</i> No wait, this was her text: "hahhahahaha. can u stop looking at the kahuas? crows r all u talk about (in ur blogs too)."<br />
<br />
As concession to you, my darling anti-nature laugh riot, NOT ONE <i>kahua</i> in my SD card, ok! But willyapleaselookathetreees! :))</div>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-70ibgqxebpg/T3RBOGfRLgI/AAAAAAAABgs/G7fmTnClbkU/s1600/PicsArt_1333011704122.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="484" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-70ibgqxebpg/T3RBOGfRLgI/AAAAAAAABgs/G7fmTnClbkU/s640/PicsArt_1333011704122.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sometimes my phone camera impresses me. Sometimes these lovely withered banyans I look up to every morning impress me so much more.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rFUjuMXKK0k/T3RA4bKqqqI/AAAAAAAABgE/BRX-fN2hLrc/s1600/tmp_1333011356394_28_2012-03-29_14-26-18_167.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rFUjuMXKK0k/T3RA4bKqqqI/AAAAAAAABgE/BRX-fN2hLrc/s640/tmp_1333011356394_28_2012-03-29_14-26-18_167.png" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>So pretty! More Banyan, different day.<br />(Lights in a line, notice?</i>)</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And while we're raising hats to people at large, I have a message for
Picasso: I get your thing about art, Sir. and that it washes
away from the soul the dust of everyday life. I quite love you for
feeling that way, even. But if you'll excuse my silly audacity, what
about the <i>breeze in the trees</i>? From, like the rain in Spain? Does that not work, too? If you
have yourself a very merry imagination, it is my contention that trees
could trump art. And sometimes, wouldn't you too, rather look at
sunflowers not as oil on canvas, but for real in fields? </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I imagine you might look at me with a certain.. indulgence?
benevolence?, but in case I pissed you off in your grave, I'm going to
seal my hypothesis with a gentleman called Calvino. He said this pretty
thing about how...</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<i>“You walk for days among trees and among stones. Rarely does the eye
light on a thing, and then only when it has recognized that thing as the
sign of another thing: a print in the sand indicates the tiger's
passage; a marsh announces a vein of water; the hibiscus flower, the end
of winter. All the rest is silent and interchangeable; trees and stones
are only what they are.”
</i><br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rFUjuMXKK0k/T3RA4bKqqqI/AAAAAAAABgE/BRX-fN2hLrc/s1600/tmp_1333011356394_28_2012-03-29_14-26-18_167.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCR9-MIAbfhcM-J0fFVLWMWqgwQCt9y1HyLtLpCyfAtphTD54K2H4mxet-E6Z2_q_cciM9IKndJ5HvdvzeKCL0XbfW_Lmm4YYc7eqVx9Ur8ctK7JV0mttetl2ZcfnJFO3uEkWU/s1600/DSC04610.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCR9-MIAbfhcM-J0fFVLWMWqgwQCt9y1HyLtLpCyfAtphTD54K2H4mxet-E6Z2_q_cciM9IKndJ5HvdvzeKCL0XbfW_Lmm4YYc7eqVx9Ur8ctK7JV0mttetl2ZcfnJFO3uEkWU/s640/DSC04610.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-45707273759320151692012-03-28T18:33:00.002+05:302012-03-28T18:33:49.593+05:30One missed call... And another. AND anotherrr!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dtU3NHY7HcY/T3MLZzilwBI/AAAAAAAABf8/knSpq3T-Qw8/s1600/anne-taintor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://crooksandliars.com/2008/03/03/why-the-washington-post-cant-satisfy-their-women-or-tweety-eat-yer-heart-out" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dtU3NHY7HcY/T3MLZzilwBI/AAAAAAAABf8/knSpq3T-Qw8/s320/anne-taintor.jpg" width="320" /></a> I feel I'm ducking bullets whizzing by my ear. <br />
<br />
These damn delusional boys and their calls that I don't answer! And even
then the thickness of their skulls prevents them from believing that a
girl might not so much be busy as much too uninterested, so don't call,
take a hint, <i>please?!</i> but no. They won't see. They won't admit.
They won't give up. They will persist in their very bad phraseology and
alarming, questionably references to "proverbial beers". There's no
catching drifts. I'm resorting to a belief best reflected in a very
clear gtalk line that was a friend's status some months ago: Boys are
stupid. <br />
<br />
And now that we officially don't care whether said boys read/ don't
read, we can all go home. Or put the phone off. As the case may be.</div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-1435152087955429272012-03-22T14:35:00.000+05:302012-03-22T14:35:09.936+05:30Entertaining the douchebags. (Although I so much prefer the word namoonas).<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Got home later than anticipated -- blame the weather -- but still in time to spend the entire evening with pleb relatives of <a href="http://issuedinpublicinterest.blogspot.in/2012/03/arrival-of-wed.html">blogged about yesterday </a>fame.
They were all there, the extended junglis, taking up every inch of
visible sofa -- except one cousin (younger brother of the cousin who got
married), 4 days younger than me, eternally unruffled, immensely
likable. <br />
<br />
I walked in and everyone was looking at me, mistakenly sympathetic as if
to say, poor thing, long day. Some even said it, as I one by one, made
my way to them all. No feet touching. Some side hugs. Some clumsy
handshakes, all unfelt gestures performed in split seconds before
continuing to navigate tables and knees, zigzagging from the <i>mami </i>to the <i>mama </i>to the cousin to the next to the other mama then the OTHER mama, their wives, the kids, oof, and finally the daughter in law.<br />
<br />Yea, her.<br /><br />My mother asked when they left, what do you think? And as much as I want(ed) to reserve judgement and not blurt out what <i>could </i>be a mistaken half-baked impression, I said truthfully: <i>as expected, total cow.</i><br /><i>
</i><br />Maybe my mother said <i>poor thing </i>to that. Maybe she threw
it more at me, for my being incapable of making margin for certain gaps
in plenty people. I don't know what exactly the gaps-in-people trait is
called. But I've seen it before. <br />
<br />
I used to have this classmate in the 11th standard, one insecure thing
who I was quite fond of, and whose only goal in life was to be thin and
loved by boys. She used to be pretty harmless or as the phrase still
deployed, "sweet only", till I suppose I couldn't deal with -- again, I
fail here -- I don't know what exact gap I couldn't deal with, I don't
know what the specific off putting quality is, but how much can you
discuss the shape of your eyebrows and your cool aunt who's bringing you
ten pairs of jeans from London?? Anyway, for all my issues with her,
her brother took the cake when he told me once, I'm not kidding, he
BOASTED: "I don't read, I tear pages from books and wipe my ass with
them". <br />
<br />Sure. This was a joke. Apparently. I hope. Or not hope, I don;t
know. But what made it worse was his ha ha after he dropped this
astoundingly uncultured bomb. Like he was proud to think this, like this
was a COOL thing. <br />
<br />This distant sister in law of mine, for her body language, her
cultivated-in-the-wrong-direction manner and some unsmart wannabe-glib
remarks, reminded me of the book ass wiper. I sensed an overlap. And it
was more tragic than funny. It wasn't funny at all, actually. How can
the collapse of traits that make us human and endearing and lovable ever
be funny? Maybe it was for their -- book ass and bridey -- their
seemingly shared conviction that this behaviour, what they say, how they
say it, in their shrugs and curt smiles, their absence of humility made
them... cool? Incompetence, ignorance, vacuousness, vapidness -- all of
it buttoned up and cloaked in confidence; it's like being in a car with
someone new to Delhi, so with no idea of roads, and you're driving and
he or she or whatever is telling you to come from Vasant Kunj and take a
sure shot left at Andheria More to get to Gurgaon, you know? The
audacity. Where do you get off being so cocky of you can't back the shit
up?? And isn't the point of humanity to remain all the more uncocky
ESPECIALLY if you can back the shit up? Why don't the fuckers understand
the appeal in humility? Arrogance should be made into a chemical,
bottled and poured over stubborn baby peepals that take root in cement
and eat up concrete structures.<br />
<br />So anyway, I was very troubled by all this nonsense. But more than
the daughter in law -- and we'll get back to her to illustrate what
exactly about her put me off so -- I was troubled by one little boy. My
cousin. NOT the groom, another cousin who is now a teenager who thinks
he's a guitar-weilding samurai. So, not really a little boy. He's as
tall as I am, with skin as bad as mine was, his voice breaking, his face
crumpled in a frown. I guess he's dealing with normal body image
issues. All that is fine. And I started with being nice. I asked him how
school was, how his exams were, are the results out.. blah blah, I was
playing good elder sister, and on a tip I got from quiet standing
smiling unruffled cousin of first para, I asked Image Issue Boy if he
was looking forward to his exchange programme and his month in Germany.
And you know what he says, this impertinent leech? He says, "y<i>ea, obviously".</i><br /><i>
</i><br /><i>Yea, obviously.</i><br /><br />I felt a snap in my head. And a very distinct evaporation of this good elder sister role.<br /><br />I
didn't react. He's sitting back in the comfiest sofa in the living room
and playing with his some fancy phone that I would never make the
mistake of commenting on because 'these kids' get a bit floaty in the
head. But I felt angry at how he could say it. Stupid question, I guess,
but you're not a dream conversationalist bringing out my inherent skill
at badenage, you're just a twerp. And I know it can't always be the
case that I look back at my childhood and say, I was never like this. Or
my brother was never like this. I mean, we had our share of fucked up
bad behaviour, and often we were incorrigble but it wasn't ever THIS. <br />
<br />And then something broke my heart. Image issue cousin boy didn't
lean forward when a tray was brought to him by an elder, our cook,
Bahadur. What made me angrier is that I didn't tick him off, wrongfully
imagining it's not my place. All I did was, leap up, take the plate from
Bahadur and swipe the kebabs away from right under kid's pimply face.<br />
<br />And there, my impression of him was formed. Bit harsh? Perhaps. You
could argue that he's just a child. But it put a serious few black marks
on the chart next to his name. On his way out, he rolled his 'r's. And I
exposed his weakness. I thought this time it was my place to teach him a
lesson and -- really, how pathetic is that -- but I was so sure nobody
else would, that everyone else, his immediate family, his friends,
hadn't corrected his oversights in this long, so why would they now
start so why should I NOT take it upon myself blah blah -- and SO, I put on an accent. I mimicked him. Of course, I was the smiling
devil, and ha ha, I could have just been joking, couldn't I have?
Except I wasn't. I was being a bitch. I told him the 'yups' and the
'nopes' and the 'rrr's are so, like, <i>passe</i> -- do you know what that means? And nowhere is this thing (he earlier said) that i-don't-read-the-newspapers-<wbr></wbr>because-its-such-an-effort going to fly, <i>unless of course you're working toward making the whole ignorant ass thing your trademark. Obviously. </i>I said that. Sick in the head as I sometimes think I am, this I felt good about. The boy needed to learn.<br /><br />As for the the bride. Her. It's less easy to be righteous. But I
refuse to call myself a prude for thinking the touch feely ness in front
of a bunch of relatives is NOT okay. They sat all curled up, into each
other, arms on thighs, other arm across shoulders. And I felt
embarrassed for the four-five older relatives sitting there, somewhat
sidelined. Be lovey-dovey with your pals, in front of a closer family
weave, whatver, but to be so blatantly cooing for an unwilling,
uncomfortable distant audience? Fine, call me a prude. I stand by my
revulsion. It's hardly proper.
<br /><br />Finally, the nail-coffin thing though you should hear. On her way
out, bridey tells me I must come over and look at the wedding
photographs. I smile back tightly. I assure her I will. And then, out of
nowehere, some book-talk happens. One of those uncomfortable
relativescongratulates my father on his book, on finishing writing the
thing, and my father gives him a copy and princess bridey says, oh you
know, even my father's written a book and I told him to not put my name
there even though I edited it because I will write my own book. Um,
sure, I say, that's nice; what's the book about? And she says:
"Euthanasia... if you know what that is" -- and without waiting to
interpret my arched brow shaped to the letters F.U Bitch, she adds --
"it's mercy killing".
<br /><br />Mercy killing, mercy killing. I don't know. I'm having a really
tough time deciding who deserves it more; "if you know what that is"
bride woman or "yea obviously" pimple boy.
<br /><br />
Leave it to family to spoil you for choice.
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-16340680429637869352012-03-21T18:45:00.001+05:302012-03-21T18:45:45.911+05:30Language of boy and make believe martinis<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Some weeks ago, a boy I'm now kind of proud to have studied with, announced on Facebook that he was off to <a href="http://web.mit.edu/linguistics/">MIT</a> to study linguistics. There were lots of ooh and aahs and all round pats on the back. He was
the achiever among the pigeons, and no one was really surprised at this
most becoming development. Like a good former classmate, I duly liked
his status, and commented jokingly to get me Noam Chomsky's autograph.
(What I would do with it, god lone knows. I didn't even really want it.
It's just one of those rubbishy things I find myself saying all too
often). <br /><div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
Anyway. So this MIT boy, this humble whiz and I exchanged a thread on
FB. He was very kind. Said nice things about one okay-ish article I'd
written and then this other thing that stayed with me. I'm not going to
be megalo enough to go see <i>exactly</i> what he said, but if memory
won't abandon my side, it was a casual, almost hidden tip/ suggestion -
about how I should write from the heart more, and how he'd <i>want</i> to and would read about the things I wrote from the heart. <br />
<br />
Of course, this is obvious and you're saying duh. But I thought it very
sweet. It reminded me of what my -- how should I put this delicately --
my 'favourite ex', would tell me about the flaw in my writing, of its
being <i>invulnerable</i>. Back then it was a revelation. I suddenly
respected him for the truth in his observation. As if to say enough
already with the swagger in the word play, get to the bone. And so this
has stayed. Lots have people say this to me. They use different words.
Have more 'courage'. Be open to 'experience'. Live more 'fully'. And if
it's from a source I respect and find credible and who's writing and
read and find readable, I absorb this. <br />
<br />
But there was a gentleness in the suggestion - the heart thing -- that
made me absorb it with no resistance. Today when I saw again, on FB that
he had himself photographed with Chomsky, like a true yuppie affected
by these photgraph ripples and his proximity to greatness, I was made
more keen to bare the bone. This should be flattering for him, my former
classmate, in case he ever reads. Nothing like bringing a little red on
to the cheeks of an academic.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~<br />
</div>
<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">
Last evening, we, us two drinkers and thinkers, we pretended vodka and
whiskey were the martinis we craved on a Tuesday night. Not for the sake
of the martini, or anything bright pink in conical glassware, but more
to ape the life we read in passages of books that creep in to the
favourites.<br />
<br />
I want to remember what we spoke about. I don't know why. Maybe its pointless to take inventory. I don't <i>need</i>
to bookmark an evening that ended with a blizzard of yellow neem
leaves storming off their motherships; an errant one, like the Forrest
Gump feather, even flitting into my car and sitting on the dashboard as I
maniacally drove down the roundabout of central Delhi at night, do I? <br />
<br />
It's okay to change form then, I guess. To, I don't know -</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br />
Honey locust peanuts <br />
with lime and salt<br />
brought by He<br />
who knows our order<br />
-- not much more<br />
for a Tuesday to work<br />
<br />
what helps are <br />
shells of </i><i>moomphalli<br />
scattered across<br />
a ceramic of chatter<br />
moulded by watching<br />
they who unknowingly offer<br />
what in them <br />
even they don't see<br />
<br />
In the language of hands<br />
and incomplete frowns<br />
we dig past memories<br />
of keen easy people,<br />
to get to irksome truths<br />
and collages of those <br />
so inconveniently craved<br />
<br />
in a manner of talk,<br />
in the banter we sustain<br />
is an awareness<br />
we catch<br />
<br />
remarks we add <br />
sharp mines of details<br />
and pits of thought <br />
to explode and rise<br />
like whiffs of clove<br />
that belong to yesterday</i><br />
</div>
<br />
-- amateur vomit. :)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jP7kwuoclmo/T2nTkDcCjmI/AAAAAAAABf0/ka7dr62XtEk/s1600/moomphalli.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jP7kwuoclmo/T2nTkDcCjmI/AAAAAAAABf0/ka7dr62XtEk/s320/moomphalli.jpg" width="241" /></a></div>
<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-89836312303024997022012-03-21T16:14:00.001+05:302012-03-21T16:15:30.139+05:30Arrival of the wed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
If there is a skill my mother has -- even though she will resent the
implied, hypothetical singularity of that one credit -- it is her
ability to mix with the plebs. To win them over and to enjoy herself in
the process. She can do this. She's an un self conscious winner of
plebs. My father, me, my brother -- not so much. Of us remaining three,
and by mere fluke of gender genetics, I come next -- in this winning
over of plebs. If I want to I could. I can. But I'm sure as hell not un
self conscious about it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My one "jungli cousin" and his bride are coming over to dinner this
evening. He's a second cousin with whom -- without meaning to come off
as a repellent snob -- I believe, I have nothing in common. When we
were little, my brother and I named them <i>jungli cousins </i>(the
freshly married one, his brother and his first cousins -- all of whom
were our second cousins) because that's what they were. "Heathens", we
also called them. God knows where we picked that up from. Heathens,
junglis, anything else that was more than marginally pejorative, was
automatically them. Why? Oh because they broke my watch once.. and
mumble mumble.. But anyway. Let's not hold 16-year old grudges against
the newly wed JC. So, with age doing its bit to up the maturity etc,
when we now
meet, two maybe three
times a year, I like to believe, there's some good-natured small talk
that is neither strenuous nor totally <i>jungli</i>.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
He got married last month, JC1. I attended. When I hug-congratulated him
and asked how he was surviving, he made a crack about being the victim.
His wife, I met too. I thought she didn't look young. I didn't care for
her sari. But then I don't care for maroon. She, Mrs JC1, I felt,
looked unenthralled by the fuss, the proceedings, the being a bride-ness
of it all. As if marigold- no marigold made no difference. I could, of
course, be entirely wrong, pissed off as I was then that the vodka was
not behaving like vodka in my skull usually behaves.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Anyway, so today my mother has reminded to be home on time. It doesn't
look nice (if I'm not). She told me this a week ago -- be home on time
on the 21st. Plus it doesn't look nice. They're coming to dinner; my
mother's cousin brother, his wife, their son and his wife. And newly
wifed as she is, a present is to be given and she is to be fussed over.
Poor thing, having to do all these rounds of bore family show-facing;
automatically she extracts some empathy from my marrow, the depths of my
smirky being.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I can't imagine ME doing all this. I'm not saying I dread it, or that
I'd be bad at it. It might be fun. But I just can't imagine me bowing my
head, touching feet, saying <i>haan ji</i>, <i>nahin ji</i>, three bags full <i>ji.</i> I never touch feet. It's just not something I've been brought up to do. <i>Humare yahan nahin ladkiya nahin kartin</i>
-- girls don't touch feet in this hood. New sis in law bridey, I guess,
might. It always amuses me when someone assumes my mother 'senior'
enough, L'oreal hair dye or not, whose feet are to be lunged for. She
fumbles with these blessings she's supposed to dole out. It's expected
of her. Place hand on bridey's head and emit a genuine-ish murmur of the
god bless kind. It's hugely entertaining for me. I guess in time, I
might have to grow into the role of blessed fumbling murmurer, too. But
till that happens, all I'm required to do is be home on time. It doesn't
look nice.</div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-21713134821015672822012-03-13T17:30:00.002+05:302012-03-14T12:14:14.757+05:30Between a rock and a heart place<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Instead of working on my many, many.. fuck...<b><i>many</i></b> pending stories, I'm googling lithopytes and talking break-up songs. The connection is tenuous, and I'll get to the break-up songs for always trivia first.<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<i>Lithophytes are a type of plant that grows in or on rocks. Lithophytes feed off moss, nutrients in rain water, litter, and even their own dead tissue.<br />
<br />
Examples of lithophytes include several Paphiopedilum orchids, the pitcher plant Nepenthes campanulata, and several Utricularia species.<br />
</i><br />
I don't understand why updaters of wiki stubs don't speak english. What is a paphio-whatever orchid? Why call it that when, as google further tells you, it is also known as 'lady slipper orchid'. That much prettier a Cinderella evocation, don't you think? Than bloody Paphiopedilum/ Phragmipedium/ Cypripedium/ Selenipedium/ and Mexipedium hands down, even though I quite like 'mexipedium'. Reminds me vaguely of <a href="http://issuedinpublicinterest.blogspot.in/2010/07/in-meryl-out-julia-that-in-which-we.html">a post</a> I remember vaguely posting.</div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.google.co.in/imgres?start=149&um=1&hl=en&client=firefox-a&sa=N&rls=com.ubuntu:en-US:unofficial&biw=1024&bih=578&addh=36&tbm=isch&tbnid=Sy3obeTFXqUYIM:&imgrefurl=http://myussop-alltheplants.blogspot.com/2010/03/paphiopedilum-lowii-lows-slipper-orchid.html&docid=PzFgHDwKwQWjIM&imgurl=https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiglBFyvLjc6J6owNxszOneiVmDtkpONzzg46phSYM4EbxD5dbuSHneki3aEyYfcTlOU8JIKO16qin9AJLtTQ5A_73q0AZtLkksEmCRMOePGgJISDmk1Qs7fj3612bbsg3kkQDd-A/s1600/27mac%252710,lowii..ms.jpg&w=1600&h=1200&ei=cBRfT_bhOMW8rAfs-LyUBg&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=433&vpy=206&dur=171&hovh=194&hovw=259&tx=144&ty=126&sig=114858201871430374754&page=8&tbnh=119&tbnw=174&ndsp=23&ved=1t:429,r:14,s:149" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_-lCIT7jEHk/T180Ko4bYHI/AAAAAAAABfc/m8Mzre9qGTs/s640/27mac%2710,lowii..ms.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Paphiopedilum orchid/ lady slipper orchid</i></td></tr>
</tbody> </table></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Anyway. Narrative.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">I was driving to work, with a folded magazine in my lunch basket at the feet of my co driver's seat. I had the magazine with me yesterday, too, but pfft, yesterday was troubled, so I didn't read it. Today, traffic let me. And so it is, that at the Ber Sarai stretch, I learn about lithophytes while reading <a href="http://www.tehelka.com/story_main52.asp?filename=hub170312Desert.asp">this</a> article about greening the impenetrable, unwieldy, arid, rocky area around Mehrangarh fort. Fascinating. I must have been honked at some three hundred times to get going, you stupid woman, for I wouldn't engage gears till I completed a sentence. Truly painful, these lady drivers who think the world owes them a second more to read some environmentalist type articles on the commute!<br />
<br />
Reading when stationary safer than texting when not, I suppose. Lost as I was in something like this:<br />
<br />
<i>"In Marwari they call Prosopis juliflora ‘baavlia’ — the mad one. Probably because it’s crazy enough to seek out such inhospitable places, where it hunkers down and digs itself in. Baavlia seems to require no water or nutrients in the soil. It discourages everything else from growing by secreting toxic alkaloids in its root-zone. It is successful in an unlikely, maverick sort of way and fully deserves its Marwari epithet.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i> If you cut baavlia at ground level, it sprouts with redoubled vigour. Digging and pulling it out mechanically by its roots is difficult and expensive because of the nature of volcanic rock. Using chemicals to kill it is not feasible in a place where water runoff is collected and stored. What to do?</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i> We received busloads of cockeyed advice. “Cut it less than an inch above ground and cover the stumps with green gobar.” Tried. Didn’t work. “Let goats nibble it — the stems will never resprout.” Goats don’t eat baavlia leaves. Too toxic. “Set fire to the plant on a full-moon night.” Didn’t even bother with that one. (Would you?)"</i><br />
<i> </i></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.google.co.in/imgres?um=1&hl=en&client=firefox-a&sa=N&rls=com.ubuntu:en-US:unofficial&biw=1024&bih=543&tbm=isch&tbnid=dcQZaKmqFzDTNM:&imgrefurl=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Vilaiti_Keekar_%28Prosopis_juliflora%29_W_IMG_6935.jpg&docid=DQjjfj8uQiCSeM&imgurl=http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/96/Vilaiti_Keekar_%28Prosopis_juliflora%29_W_IMG_6935.jpg&w=751&h=600&ei=7C9fT_KKN4WJrAeR_82BBg&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=127&vpy=175&dur=249&hovh=201&hovw=251&tx=183&ty=91&sig=114858201871430374754&page=1&tbnh=164&tbnw=209&start=0&ndsp=8&ved=1t:429,r:4,s:0" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="508" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Hrh1-86n3iAOb_BR8HlaLelsxUq6oe6_Tvenb_oZqDCzQxaH16NQfsVFxTRb7c-70Mdtj86SjS0qnDEN5dOiMBasRHwjihSOY5E3cbaxhVDk5tsBI9KXk6qU2jSW6WMK9TNB/s640/Vilaiti_Keekar_(Prosopis_juliflora)_W_IMG_6935.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>'Vilayti keekar'/ Prosopis juliflora/ ‘baavlia’</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">I told myself I won't buy a book this month. Flipkart is draining my non-existent savings.<i> 'In a good way', she says softly. </i>And I guess I'll stick to my word. But has to be said, this 'Journeys Through Rajasthan' sounds fascinating. Next month. I promise me. For the love of the tree. <br />
<i> </i><br />
<i> "Reaching moisture deep in the soil by means of enormous, penetrative roots works well too, but you have to be a tree to be able to do this — and it’s not so easy being a tree in a rocky desert</i>"</div><div style="text-align: center;">~<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">I get to office, magazine still folded, me still reading. I'm the first person in office. I tuck the folded mag under my arm. I put on the tea, the jasmine tea (into the coffee machine -- tea brews just as well in a coffee machine), and take out my phone to see if all well with the world. Gtalk remains open, whether or not I am invisible, and I see a friend's status -- <i>somebody I used to know</i>. I ping her. What, you're listening to Gotye?? How come, I love that song! It's a great break up song! She's only saying 'han' to everything I say. Turns out she's on from the phone, too.<br />
<br />
'Dadduu', she calls me- this friend. For how frog-like I look when I wear my glasses. I call her dadduu, too. I don't know why. It's just funny to us. Dadduu and I went to college together. Same, English. She was a batch senior, wore army pants and had the biggest boobs. I went to her wedding. Happy bride. She remembers my sari -- how ridiculous, ankle-grazingly high I had draped it. Despite the mutual affection, we haven't been 'close-close'. Not even when we worked together. She was pissed when I resigned from my job last and didn't even tell her. We've gotten friendlier in the last couple of months. Call it buffoon bonding. In a different context and to my total amusement, once mildly hammered and outside a Shiv temple that she dragged three of us women to, she told me, "I couldn't decide whether you're the biggest bitch or a total sweetheart and I still don't know!" <br />
<br />
Yesterday, she emailed me a <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/03/04/fashion/a-world-away-a-wish-answered-modern-love.html?_r=1&ref=modernlove">link</a>. Modern Love. I get it in my feed anyway, but isn't there a certain happiness in knowing someone thought of you and sent you something PERSONALLY? Subject? "Dadduuu". Hopeless smiles this fellow frog brings on. In turn I sent her the link to a song I know she hadn't heard and when i found out, I did this mock horror thing, this how could you have NOT have, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=38JoxhDDZ0A" target="_blank">o meri jaan o meri jaan? </a>Not that it's a break up song or anything..<br />
<br />
We've been meeting weekly for many months now, with our very good common friend. Invariably, we three, sometimes four, behave badly so well. We meet, get drunk, laugh a lot, discuss our sex lives, repeat cycle, latch on to one phrase for the evening, milk it dry, bring it up till we coin a new one. It's a great custom. On Thurday we're on again. Some new place.<br />
<br />
And while all this is super fun, and makes great memories, it breaks my heart to see her be brave about the divorce. There are glimpses into her naturally battling heart, sure, and she is drained, yes. But there is a lovely fragility in her that she isn't ashamed of, that she doesn't blink away, that is a joy to see. I look up to this. I respect the show of levity, her earthiness and the willingness to exhibit her vulnerability. I love her for not taking the route so many can't help but take - of being morose and wistful and imagining her world is up the creek. Fuck that. Dadduu's being brave. And mad. And jovial. And often, just so bloody crass. It's a deadly, endearing, dumbfounding combination.<br />
<br />
I like her husband very much. We have in the past, hung, and had our rounds of uncontrolled hysteria. I think he's a fun chap. But her reasons are her reasons and, well, all I was saying, mock sombre and everything: was to please not listen to bloody MLTR and the rest of the puppy gang, and instead give some respect to her ongoing godfather of break ups. I need her to listen to not-rubbish songs about heartbreak. I've already told her to go for Guru Dutt. Mohammad Rafi is anyway my favourite. Who else? Can you please tell me the saddest, most weep till you sleep songs you can think of? I promised a frog I'd compile a list. And I intend to present my charter of boo-hoo music on Thursday. </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.google.co.in/imgres?um=1&hl=en&client=firefox-a&sa=N&rls=com.ubuntu:en-US:unofficial&biw=1024&bih=543&tbm=isch&tbnid=n8lq4oPndJ4DUM:&imgrefurl=http://www.sharenator.com/50_more_Cyanide_Happiness_Comics/&docid=lUmx99Ue1-snSM&imgurl=http://files.sharenator.com/divorce2_50_more_Cyanide_amp_Happiness_Comics-s701x598-169861-580.png&w=580&h=494&ei=eC5fT-rhDojprAfo-vn7BQ&zoom=1&iact=rc&dur=432&sig=114858201871430374754&page=3&tbnh=158&tbnw=186&start=24&ndsp=14&ved=1t:429,r:5,s:24&tx=84&ty=43"><img border="0" height="544" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BV_Zbl4SmyU/T180Rm1y3CI/AAAAAAAABfs/68sYn_0pnv0/s640/divorce2_50_more_Cyanide_amp_Happiness_Comics-s701x598-169861-580.png" width="640" /></a> </div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-17525485042324322072012-03-06T21:50:00.001+05:302012-03-07T10:18:26.120+05:30I want out.. (Part 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;">So, one said I needed a hodka and two slaps. And maybe that one was right. Another said: comfort zone! comfort zone! get out of comfort zone! Followed, of course, by questions of the <i>what is it that you REALLY like </i>nature, where the answer can't be writing. Because even I know that's silly. Writing what? Okay, writing about people. Which people? Who people? People-like-me people? I don't know. Suggested solution: get out more, travel more, write about people UNLIKE you people. Yes.<br />
<br />
Appreciated. Maybe I needed that, too. All this great advice from my level-headed everyday homies. Maybe I need to listen to them. Or just turn in early today. That'll stop me from acting all hormonal and whiny. Maybe I'll put everything out of my mind, heat a glass of horlicks milk and take refuge in <a href="http://www.google.co.in/imgres?um=1&hl=en&client=firefox-a&hs=ofx&sa=N&rls=org.mozilla:en-GB:official&biw=998&bih=428&tbm=isch&tbnid=m03GfKCE4s0eeM:&imgrefurl=http://www.oxonianreview.org/wp/you-are-what-you-read/&docid=DKwGmxvDjKmcXM&imgurl=http://www.oxonianreview.org/wp/wp-content/uploads/Marriage-Plot-Cover.jpg&w=324&h=500&ei=uzBWT7jODMiqrAeez5mLBw&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=671&vpy=17&dur=3316&hovh=279&hovw=181&tx=91&ty=223&sig=117510197279030479544&page=1&tbnh=108&tbnw=70&start=0&ndsp=14&ved=1t:429,r:5,s:0">the book I'm savouring</a>, the one that has to be discussed with frothy friend over coffee this week, the one that I, of course had to -- in the interest of narcissism, curiosity and a vague literary pursuit -- lay my hands on, since two of my friends, read it and said I HAVE to read it since one of the main characters was not only JUST like me, but in fact, like, so TOTALLY me that, really, like, O.M.G.<br />
<br />
<b><i>“<span class="quote">It was impossible to be friends with guys. Every guy she’d ever been friends with had ended up wanting something else, or had wanted something else from the beginning, and had been friends only under false pretenses.</span>” <br />
</i><i><br />
“<span class="quote">She was petrified of becoming the half-alive person she’d been before.</span>” </i><br />
</b><br />
Yea. So. That's coming along nicely.<br />
<br />
But back to my fleeting career choice woes, I appreciated even more, a gently-worded email. From a friend who points me towards <a href="http://www.hindustantimes.com/news/specials/twolives/sleep.htm">certain gems of Vikram Seth </a>and leads me to what Hemingway says (to Owen Wilson:)) <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TpLEKjPud_k">about writing and passion and making love to a truly great woman</a>. Really, what would I do without him, them, the nudgers and slappers, the counsellors, the listeners, the book-recommendors, the ego downsizers -- all of whom are pillars who don't buy my bullshit. Gratitude!<br />
<br />
The email:<br />
<br />
"<i>Reporting is, like what my sister said, a blue collared job. Despite all the glamour, that's the hard truth. I get tired of it sometimes. I am in it because, I think, it gives me some creative satisfaction. (also it's an ego trip too) I don't know how long I will last. Journalism gives us a chance to boost or massage our egos, which is very important considering we are all egoists if we enjoy writing so much. Would you like to be making shitloads of money and be an obscure PR chick writing press releases? If you have an alternative in mind that will keep you happy, you should quit. You do want to be writing, isn't it? So to be practical, it's always good to be in journalism. It gives you an opportunity to practice your craft and also enhances the range of experiences, not always necessarily firsthand but nonetheless experiences. I think you have to find ways to break monotony, it's that simple. With your mental energy, it's easy to get fed up with doing one thing. I might be wrong but I would go with that right now. That's your strength. Just find ways not get into a rut. It should be easy for you." </i><br />
<br />
Lovely, isn't it? I read this at least thrice. (-Thank you:) <br />
<br />
And I feel assuaged. (Also, on my way home, I had a slab of apricot-raisin by myself that I don't feel guilty about because I'm back to yoga and it'll get sorted). Maybe I am overreacting. It's true though that sometimes the reporting can get tiresome. And at times I'd rather eat a <i>vada </i>or even entertain someone that says LOL, than report. And I HATE <i>vadas</i> maybe less than people who say LOL. And at times, it is possible, I undervalue the insight you get from talking to random people about random things - insight that sticks, creates trivia, memories, anecdotes, stories. Still, at times I hate it. I'm still keenly aware of how strange it sounds in my head when I tell people I'm a journalist. Less now, but it's there. And loving writing but treating reporting like a stepchild can create an imbalance that makes you doubt the choices you're living with. It is possible there's no turning back. Also that maybe I don't want to. There's a promise that this too shall pass. But I guess in the meantime I'm going to have to just work on it, and avoid having my tail caught in a rut trap.<i><br />
<br />
P.S: Hodka = the fantasy drink that is horlicks + vodka</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>*** </i></div><b>Edited to add what one of my favourites, <a href="http://theunbearablebanishment.blogspot.in/">The Unbearable Banishment</a>, sent across:</b><br />
<br />
<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0"><tbody>
<tr><td valign="top" width="80%"><a href="http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16549"><b><span class="TITLE">so you want to be a writer?</span></b></a> </td> <td align="right" colspan="2" nowrap="nowrap" valign="top"><b> </b></td> </tr>
<tr><td colspan="3"><b> by <a href="http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/394">Charles Bukowski</a></b> </td> </tr>
<tr><td colspan="3"><br />
</td> </tr>
<tr><td colspan="2" valign="top"> <pre>if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.
don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.</pre></td> </tr>
<tr><td colspan="3"> --</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26829926.post-17488968163539404462012-03-06T16:41:00.000+05:302012-03-06T16:41:13.738+05:30I want out..<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">... of journalism. <br />
<br />
It's one of those days. I have no idea what else I'd do though. If my job didn't involve writing, what would it involve? I think I might be a rag picker. But then I'd have to hang with other rag pickers. That's no fun. Or it could be. Must keep an open mind. I like hanging with the journos I hang with. But some of the ones I work with -- man, they're so driven, but so mediocre, it's scary. Me, I'm so 27 and so purposeless, it's scarier.<br />
<br />
I can feel a crisis come on, hit as I am by a sense of 'frothy existentialism'. Heh. That's what a just-landed friend of mine and I have decided to dedicate our coffee conversations to, this week. Frothy existentialism. <br />
<br />
Damn.<br />
<br />
Don't you ever feel like what you're doing is the most pitiful thing in the world? Unrewarding, unsatisfying and boring. When it comes to reporting, I feel like that. I feel I'm made to be brilliant at something but who the hell knows what that something is. Essentially, I feel right now that what I'm doing, besides making a hash out of my life, is not really.. eeks, i hate saying this, but ..'making a difference'. To mine. Or anybody elses. It's kind of a selfish life, if you think about it. And the more you think about it the more competent you realise you are. But if you were <i>that</i> competent wouldn't a calling be making goo goo eyes at you and being all the way effortlessly beckoning?<br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7