Shiny old stuff

I pulled out old leather folders and bags unused for a long time. They had been gathering dust and nearly growing mould. I sat them down, despite the late and odd hour and carefully cleaned them. The leather cleanser read “clean with a cloth using light circular movements”. The apt cleansers and the right mind-set. The closets- the metaphysical and the mental ones, need an order sometimes- to be able to refer to the right contents, to rid the clutter and the dust. We need to weed out the unnecessary things, sometimes when they don’t need us and sometimes when we don’t need them. Everything in life needs nurturing, occasional cleaning and lots of sunlight.

Drifting

The pain and the discomfort became visible and apparent. She can never mask her emotions. Something always gives it away- the expression on her face or the tremble in the voice. What was once a pleasurable torment had now become the Achilles heel. Only a fragment of her smiling self remained and she disappeared slowly into an abyss that her heart had formed inside her. She felt as if she were hung up by her toes, unable to eat, breathe, sleep... talk... She wanted to wear a farce and pretend nothing happened, but something had. Something irreversible. They say you reap what you sow...

Yippeeeee!

Most of you will read about this tomorrow in papers or see it on the news tonight. We have scored a second big victory against the tobacco industry today after the ban on public smoking last October. From May 31st this year, all cigarette and other tobacco products would have to display mandatory pictorial warnings on their packets. The Supreme Court finally let us have our way (in a limited manner albeit) and has directed the Government of India to enforce the law mandating the display of pictorial warnings which will see all tobacco products displaying images reflecting adverse health effects of tobacco on 40% of the front panel. This victory has been six years in coming and I can’t stop grinning from ear to ear... My first ever writ petition, my first ever draft!

Also

I drove through the hailstorm, the city lights coming on at this time. I saw some shuddering in a corner and some playing gleefully, mindless of the little rocks hitting their bony heads. The accompanying rain flushed the scorched and dusty surfaces clean. The city looked like a newly born life, pretty and spotless. Sometimes we need these storms to invade our private spaces to flush out the inner toxins.
____________
“I wish there was a cookbook for life, you know? With recipes telling us exactly what to do.”...
“You know better than anyone: it’s the recipes you create yourself that are the best.”

You cross my path, but I don't cross yours

I sat outside in the balcony in the dead of the night. Alone but not lonely. The trains brought me human company every now and then. The little wheel in my heel was satiated by the thought of journeys that others take. I watched people pass on their journey to other cities, other worlds... Carried by noisy, yet strangely soothing trains. At that time, most compartments were dark and the occupiers in a slumber, yet I caught glimpses of lit up bogeys, people playing cards, children wandering about. So many lives cross my backyard every day and every night. Rich, poor, famous, oblivious of my existence, I of theirs. A mutual oblivion that can never be resolved...

mUjhik association

We were talking about song association last night. I associate most songs with events/places... I associate the song “Mitwa” with Warwick... Sitting in my room, listening to Hindi songs with increasing intensity everyday, as a way of connecting to the mother-ship (home). I lived in a student block called “Lakeside”, the most posh of them all. Yet all we had was a bed, a table-chair, a book shelf, open racks, and a closet- oh and a loo to ourselves. I used to play “Suspicious minds” on a loop too. It was summer, summer in England is brilliant. I had a view of the farm in the back, green land stretching beyond naked eye view. Beautiful... I used to play it in the office, in the International Office where I worked (my first real job) full-time. Listening to it right now in my present office, transports me back to that country. I so miss it. You must think I miss everything! I love today, but yesterdays were a lot of fun too. A wee fragment of what has passed should always be carried forward as a good memory.

Of karma and more....

A single common human desire is to levitate above reality... and mostly, in the pursuit of the profound, we encounter the banal. I had been reading about flower power, hippies, the Nam war, napalm and it all got muddy inside my head. In the manner propounded by numerous new-age self-help books which discuss spirituality that conveniently exists only in the Oriental East, I should want to climb Himalayas, alone, in the search of the “youth fountain”. Or better still, look for a personal guru- an enlightened yogi who would lead me to nirvana. So does the much promised microcosm exist? Perhaps I intend never to find out. Over the last four decades, we have been obsessed with rock and roll and they (read the West) with karma and neo-sanyasism. Maybe a day will come when we consult the West the learn about our culture. I, for my bit, am getting a copy of a Puran that Titli recommended... English version, of course...

Disillusioned

Jagdish Tytler goes free again. Tytler feels “vindicated” because “the case destroyed” his career. After the Nanavati Commission and all the various admin commissions set up before Nanavati, took little or no cognizance of implication of Congress leaders in the Sikh riots of 1984 in Delhi, the last bolt from the Congress before the elections this year was to “vindicate” its tarnished leader- Tytler by giving him a clean chit. Strange coincidence it is then that Manmohan Singh had announced during one of the first parliamentary sessions of his government, that “the issue of 1984 riots will be revisited as there is an existing sentiment that justice did not prevail”. In 5 years, they replicated their previous achievements in this regard. The others, despite clear and pressing evidence, also went scot-free- HKL Bhagat died in 2005. This is the distressing political state of our country- one young and previously unknown leader from the opposition makes communal and disturbing remarks about another religious community while the ruling party vindicates the likes of Tytler who is purportedly responsible, along with Bhagat, for deaths of over 4000 Sikhs in Delhi in 1984. Jai Hind! Long live democracy... and oh yeah.... please vote!
Refer for details to-
Movie: Amu
Book: When a tree shook Delhi- Manoj Mitta and H.S Phoolka

Cut, open and dry

I cut myself up yesterday while opening a can of sweet corn. It was small cut but it bled for a while. I tried sealing the wound with a kitchen towel and when all else failed, I had to run it under tap water. The rush of water caused more pain than before. Funny how it hurt more the further my finger was from the tap, and the closer it was to the mouth of the tap, the less it hurt. The deeper we go, the more it hurts. The analogy of the two processes- an open cut and love is uncanny. Morbid? Yes... But well then...

The Reluctant Loner

She sat alone reading “The Reluctant Fundamentalist” and enjoying her solitude. The life had come to a standstill in the quaint cafe and the world seemed to soak positive energy all around. The setting was perfect, the absence of human company, the cinnamon-maple toasts, the smell of fresh cakes, the nice cuppa earl grey tea and the intriguing book. She explored the pages with increasing interest till three men ascended upon the landing and started conversing in the cafe mistaking it to be a noisy pub. She recognised one of them as someone she had one debated against and lost to at a national debate. Strange how we remember defeats far more easily than our victories. The exit of the men left her to herself again and she could once again be numb in her reading, but she chose to step out for a smoke instead. She felt a hand on her shoulder which startled her. The man just stared at her for no apparent reason and when she asked as to what she had invited his pat; he smiled in amusement and said “to the loss of your recently bought book”. He handed her the book she had been reading, flashed the whites again and waited, probably for an apology or a word of thanks. What he got instead was an offer to smoke with her... She noticed his light brown eyes and the peaky nose more closely than she had before. He seemed to always replace what she had lost. The losses were the crevices in the heart which were being slowly filled back in.

Re-visiting the by-gones

We got off the flight and I nearly kissed everything in sight, including the dilapidated Bombay cabs. The beautifully sordid city has been the last love for the longest time in passing. The sea mist hits you the moment you step into the city, the city which exists in conflict with modernity, while at war with the history, yet sublime in its being. It finds that converging line between the past and the new and stays wonderfully on it. The 7 days spent there were a much needed break from the increasingly boring Dilli. The sights, smells and the tastes of Bombay always make me nostalgic about the one year spent there- the fish stink in Colaba, Karan’s clammy flat, Hard Rock, old friends, old office, they all make me miss the place as if I had left it ages ago. It hasn’t even been a year yet and I cry for the city. One night after I was done with my social calls, I just took the cab around the south on my own- the “town” as its called- went to Muchhad’s for paan, walked around Marine Drive, gaped at my old office from below (it stands 17 floors high), took a tonga ride in Colaba and had strawberries and cream at “Batchelors”. Even made a trip to Churchgate in the morning to look at people queuing up for shared-cabs. Aaaaaah. The city that takes everyone in and makes them its own.

Walking on broken glass

I woke up early today. Unable to sleep and unable to dream, I found myself taking a walk in the park downstairs. I would have imagined it to be full of morning walkers and old couples but it lay solemn, almost deserted. The lack of humanity comforted me no end. The sophomoric behaviour on display by certain people in the fairly recent past had piqued me immensely. From that were borne my own follies and guilt. The putrid thoughts needed instant cleansing; they needed to be scrubbed and rubbed out of the mind and leave it as it were before the invasion. "Snow" is playing in my head and on my i-pod. It has more meaning to me now than ever before.

__

"Deep beneath the cover of another perfect wonder
Where it's so white as snow
Privately divided by a world so undecided
And there's no where to go
In between the cover of another perfect wonder
Where it's so white as snow
Running through a field where all my tracks will
Be concealed and there's no where to go"

Chaotic Fulfillment

Her palace of illusions had been witnessing bouts of reality. She washed her head of all the mess and set off towards her chaotic fulfilment. All the others had come away unbidden, but Shoe had found a way in. A “sue” in the beginning and a “shoe” in the end. Oh and a “darn” in the middle. The messy long name, which sounded perfect. Perfectly stupid, perfectly sweet, perfectly perfect and perfectly adorable man... She had been talking about an ambulance a while ago and it seemed to have arrived, at least the time stood still and the wounds were being sealed, whether they would heal forever or not. Help came from the most unexpected quarter and it lingers in the air above. The heart actually jumped with joy than nag with worry and confusion. She felt like she was falling and this time the feeling of falling was eerily more assuring than scary.

The blue maqbara

So here we are contemplating new twists, turns and hopefully pleasant ends. Negotiating happiness with life has become the order of the manor. What else would you rather negotiate? I was driving by the blue maqbara again and wondering who lay there, or if anyone lay there at all. The spirit must be anything but lonely with thousands of cars crossing it by every day and night. A strange roundabout it had come to be. A strange afterlife to have... It led to - Humayun’s tomb, Hazrat Nizamuddin’s Dargah, the Lodhi Road with its gardens and India Gate. All places where either others were buried or commemorated. The blue tomb is one of the prettiest, it looks stark in the orange dusk light. The nomad in me yearned not to love the city yet, not to grow roots, to move on. But the transition had started already. I loved the old monuments and the lovely food, I had made peace with the errant drivers, the annoying fellow north Indians, the pesky rickshaw-wallahs and the lack of sea. I am not a convert yet, from being the Bombay-loving-self but Delhi exuded a romance which Bombay may never be able to exude in its money-making rat race.

Yeh Dilli hai mere yaar, bus ishq mohabbat pyaar....

Thank you Arpit!

So in the middle of my whining tirade, a friend cheered me up... This is what he wrote:

U know they built the great wall of China to stop RB from entering..
They failed miserably.
RB can set ants on fire. With a magnifying glass. At night.
RB did in fact built Rome in a day..
RB can judge a book by its cover.
RB once kicked a horse in the chin. Its descendants today are known as giraffes.
RB Doesn't wear a watch. She decides what time is it.
RB's Pulse is measured on the Richter scale..
RB had to stop washing clothes in the ocean.. The tsunami's were killing people.. She just said oops.
RB cannot be found through google. U simply cannot find her. She finds you.
RB can watch an episode of 60 mins in just 22 seconds..
RB can sneeze with her eyes open..
RB doesn't own a house. She walks into random houses.. And people just move..
RB can smell, what the rock is cooking.. Coz the rock is her personal chef.
RB can divide anything by zero..
RB had counted to infinity. Twice.
RB doesn't go on the Internet. She has every Internet site stored in her memory. She refreshes web pages by blinking.
RB uses pepper spray to spice up her steaks.
RB is the sweetest friend of the fuRBall. Period.

He tells me these are popular over the net, but anyways.... A BIG AWWWWWW.... Thanks ARPIT, you are the sweetest :-)

Bangla Sahib and the urge to leave

The little girl was dressed in red overalls and a white tee. She couldn’t have been over 3 years of age. Her mother tried to keep her steady, but she bowed down three times in succession, to allow her forehead to gently touch the marble step which lay before the holy book. The golden bandana on her head, rode up, revealing several brown curly strands of hair. I watched her, perplexed and fixed, admiring the sweet soul of a child and her simplicity. Zing’s eyes were still closed in prayer and concentration, prayers which were being recited in a language that she didn’t understand, but brought to both of us, the calm and the peace that we needed. Before going to pray, I had just rushed out of my office, all my books, my snaps, my files tucked under my arm, my laptop packed, determined not to return. I don’t remember when was the last time I did something this impulsive. This time the impulse was strong and honest. The wish never to return was more resolute than ever. One can work for human rights all they want, but there is no compromising one’s honour, integrity and self-respect. I want to be like that little girl, keep my faith and bow, but carefully, and avoid hitting the marble too hard. How possible is that?

Heartless Dilli

Zing and I were out midnight cruising and came across this huge road block, cars lined up bumper to bumper at Lajpat before the Defence Colony flyover. Two massive Metro construction trucks had slowed down the traffic. Suddenly the sound of an emergency siren boomeranged through the stretch and an AIIMS ambulance came buzzing by. We pulled over to the left to allow the metro truck to park on the left, so that traffic stuck behind it could be eased out. Others just kept at their positions without budging for the man in need of emergency medical care. The Camry in front of the ambulance did not give space for 10 whole exhilarating minutes. Those 10 minutes could have been a life saver, someone may have lost one of his family last night, those 10 minutes could have eased someone’s physical agony. It is at times like this, that one feels helpless, disheartened and still amazed at the lack of humanity in those who walk among us. Delhi doesn’t fail to surprise one; where indolence and apathy are concerned, Delhi-ites win hands down.

Big Fish

Its one of my favourite movies- it has everything... magic, love, mystery, loss and happiness... I had found my “Big Fish” and it did not even need a wedding ring as bait (reference to the movie “big fish”). It just took my heart as bait and clung on to it for a long time, without caring for it.

She mended the broken fences with fresh white paint and nails, but there is only so much that cosmetic corrections can do. The fences are important; they decide for us who to keep out and who to let in. They act like a moat around our castle, the ditsy fall into the water, unable to climb up to the land and the strong come through, riding the water. The broken fences and the dry moats symbolise a guard down, a wish for death and the inability to recover. The big fish left an impact like none others, the guard down had begin inflicting slow mind numbing poison into her soul. The impact, that would last forever.

Empty pipe

Standing on the edge of the cliff, she smoked the ginger pipe and blew clouds at the dark sky. The wind blew her hair back and the moon stared at her tear ridden face. She stood awhile, counting stars, blowing more smoke at the vacuum, at the vacuum in her heart and the vacuum in the dark. She wondered what the next step would feel like, a cold sharp fall or a warm trickling relief from the pains of the world. Tough call? She stepped away from the edge, the pipe burning its last. Either she can refill it or throw it away forever.

Too little love and too much pain

She walked down the stone laid path
Battered and shattered from the wrath
Leaving and forgetting the painful wall
Where once stood the heartland mall
Insane and inane and loved and hated
She walked on understated and unabated
She went up and down the grimy way
Too much to hear and little to say
Same old story over and over again
Too little love and too much pain...

Chemistree

For her, physics and chemistry were as different as chalk and cheese. Physics was always less intriguing and easier to comprehend that the stupid chemistry. But when she grew up, chemistry mattered more than the physics of it, always. The feelings and emotions and the reactions that we can’t categorise, understand and control. So when she was faced with dilemma, she always opted for something complicated and irrepressible; Chemistry. The ultimate ZJNGGG, the bells in the head, the violins in the background, the string quartet, the red roses, and the flowing gondolas lit with lanterns, all the things wonderful, which are so tough to find, tougher to maintain and the toughest to keep forever. The heart only gets what it wants, when it stops desiring it... And that is the biggest paradox of life.

If wishes were wings...

There I was, out of Delhi again, lifting the colossal writing block from my mind. The lights passed me by at an alarming pace and I held on to my dear little electronic diary, typing out gibberish yet again. It took 24 hours and a series of pathetic jokes to mend the broken glass, the glass that could be patched up and hand blown into consistency once again. The train was taking me back to the rajdhani, the city I had accepted as home, the way a nomad looks lovingly at his current settlement, aware that the bliss is short lived. The fog and the dark faded the beautiful greens outside and I got goosebumps, I remembered the long winding bus journeys to grandma’s farms. The paddy soaked till knee, the peacocks performing their monsoon mating dance, the rains splashing the arid land, the farmers in frenzy, toiling away, the beautiful red verandah of her house and the place I took my first steps in, spoke my first words in. The steps and words witnessed only by the two people who aren’t alive to tale my childhood tales anymore. The memories only cherished by those who are better off in another world. The stories of ghosts told in the light of an ancient lantern, the stories of how I could stand on my grandfather’s hand in a perfect balance. I miss them, both, terribly. I have also been wishing for something for myself for a while. The universe is supposed to conspire to bring to you what your heart truly desires, so where is the thing I want the most? That Coelho is a liar for sure.

Road Block...

There is a very thin line between passion and stupidity. She blocked the world out, people spoke all around her, in loud voices, but all she heard was the blare of guitar and drums in her ears. To block the world out, sometimes, is the easiest and the most convenient thing to do. There were gaps in her conversation; her mind was where her body wasn’t. The chinks in the armour show only when you go to war. The wounds were easy to make, the chinks were clear and obvious, she was at the enemy’s mercy. The enemy had been closing on her for a while and all her strength could not save her from the impending eventuality. She lifted her slight head to look at what lay ahead. A couple of vintage postcards which defined who she was, and photographs of those she loved deeply. They smiled silently back and gave her a quiet strength. She will mend the chinks, bandage the wounds and smile... Smile through your misery as the only thing which is constant, is pain...

Ah another one

So the new year has come and I am still wallowing in the last one. Wondering what was right, what was wrong, made some pretty good decisions, some rather nasty ones, like the rest of you... So maybe we are all industrial clones with problems, happiness and trouble, maybe we are a part of a manic inter-galactic game where we are mere pawns in the hands of others. Or a reality show for those whom belongs extreme boredom- where our daily lives become a-la- "The Truman Show". Well, chin up and smile at the new year and lets all keep our fingers crossed!

"I'm looking for love," gushes Carrie, "real love, ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can't-live-without-each-other love. And I don't think that love is here in this expensive suite in this lovely hotel in Paris."

Carrie (Bradshaw- Sex and the City) found this love at 38! Wow, that’s a long long bloody wait. I love the line though.

Faith

I have been contemplating for some time now about posting about my religious views. I recall a friend saying that it’s nice that I am "religious' when she saw me visiting a Gurudwara on Lohri. So i started to wonder out of the blue, in the shower, today. Am I? What constitutes religious? Praying, thinking of god, doing namaskar or bowing your head at every passing temple (happens an awful lot in India you know), cleanliness, or just doing your deeds and hence your karma? The holy man at whatever place of worship is, he does it for a living, like I advocate and doctors medicate. So what makes him give up his life in devotion? Is it his passion or is it his faith? Clergymen/pandits/maulvis have rape cases against them too...is that religious?

On most mornings I wake up with a small little prayer. I just look up when I want to say something to "God". It’s been months since I have entered the mandir at my house. So what am I? I even try bribing him in my talks, like if you do this I will feed so many of “your” people, or help them or do "your" deeds. Get it? I like to think of myself as religious but not in the conventional sense of it. I would not waste money over lavish extensive ceremonies in the month of shravans (got something to do with our agrarian roots?). I would rather build a school in my native land when I amass enough. And if I still have more to spare...give it away at charities...food schemes… destitute homes, lunch at prisons. I think that is religion. Serving people, hence god.

My faith however does make me question Him every once in a while. When I hear of a 5 year old girl raped, see hungry children on the road, read of the mentally challenged chained to beds.... I wonder, does He do this too? Then why do I go back to Him asking Him to redeem all these people of their pain and suffering.

And I do not even want to start on extremists, because they are just warped people with the most warped version of politicised religion. Blind being led by the nose...forcing simple unsuspecting people like you and me into either victims or reactionaries, driving educated members of our society into the fascists' street. Some react by denouncing their faith or the outwardly expression of it at least to escape being attacked at the cost of religion while some wear it with pride and defiance.

But go ahead and pray for I know he listens to some of us. Thankfully, I am one of the lucky few. No complains Big Man. I may crib once in a while but I am essentially happy.

SC

He looked like a sunflower he told me. He bought me 61 roses one day, my favourite- assorted red, white and yellow. The one that was extra was red, for what it signified. He left them on my door step with two chilly peppers- one red and one yellow, with a scribbling on them- “I have the hots for you”. It made me smile and blush. I knew who they were from. They were from the eternal romantic, the man who is a fabulous artist, a brilliant singer, a poet and probably the best player with/of words. He had taught me about my microcosm. He used to make me feel giddy and stupid, pretty and ugly, smart and dumb all at once. He made me feel like a woman and a girl. He saw me twirl in a hippy skirt once and told me, “I want to own you when you do that”. He bought me a watermelon the first time he met me (a la “Satte pe Satta”) and looked like a jehadi straight out of a terror video (my roommate totally freaked out!). He sang “Last kiss”, with Ravi on the guitar and would have made E. Vedder go green. I still have the recording. He gave me a beautiful sketch once, fought with me and took the sketch back :-) That man is sitting in some obscure corner of Shillong/Poona. Lost in time... Lost due to my disinterest... Lost in translation... Lost due to misunderstandings... Lost due to 7 years spent in the vacuum between us... Lost because sometimes we make good choices, mostly we make silly ones and later sit and wonder why. So when they say in the movies and the countless annoying forwards that “when you care for someone let them know”, heed to them and heed well, lest you are the kind of person who likes carrying guilt and regret all over the world. SC, you owe me a painting still...

Like water for Chocolate

Love came and went... Or did it? We talk about falling in and out of love as if it were a joke. Like it’s vapour, condensed one minute and evaporated the next. Like it’s time-less yet time-bound. Like it will lapse into pages of history and remain only there, not to live forever in our hearts. My music player tells me how stupid love is. I think not. I think it’s beautiful but is that all that I have- a random thought? I don’t remember the feeling. At all. The teenage rush, the pink blush, the high and the low, the wrenching, the tears of joy. A part of me feels dead to the word “love”. I thought love was in the streets of Paris, the gondolas of Venice, in the London-Eye, on a train to Rome... But that is a blur now. Like a bad print of a silent black and white movie with moving images that are barely discernible.

My shampoo bottle says, Ques. “Which food induces the feeling of falling in love”, Ans. “Chocolate”. I am sitting with a big bar of chocolate, hoping to be hit soon...

Tattered and lost

It’s generally our own we have a tough time impressing. They think we never do enough, or worse that we don’t even try. It’s the world outside of our protected/protective microcosm, which appreciates our sense of being or intellect in general. The microcosm survives on their collective efforts but the single cells never truly integrate. As critical as we all are of our families or closest friends, we love them, mostly to bits and never understand why they can’t just accept us for who we are, and accept our follies, shortcomings and our failure to live up to their expectations.

One drowns in thoughts everyday and yet comes out alive, sometimes bouncing sunshine off to others, sometimes deeply grey and different. I lose myself in my books, in my random scribbling, in my social life, in my thoughts. I lost my beloved 7 year old hand-made paper jute wrapped tattered notebook that I have written so frequently about. It’s like losing a limb, for the ardent scribbler in me who mostly doesn’t transform those hand-written notes into the fluidity of MS Word. I will have to find a new world of thoughts to drown in....

The inspiration and the consideration

I decided to become a lawyer when I was 16 and this decision was influenced by a hoard of factors- my favourite aunt is a lawyer, I saw “A few good men” and of course the infallible Ally McBeal. Today, I sit here wondering, 10 years later, why? Why a freaking lawyer? I waste and waste my skills way, the ones I hope I possess.

My father has always told me that I’m a “jack of all trades and master of none”. Probably right.

So I sat, amused, slightly chuckling, in the middle of those enlightened and those living in self-inflicted darkness. There was rumble, the sound of mindless gibberish. I sat, apart from the others, like a minion amongst the higher-ups in a magnificent court, watching the queen give her sermons. Like chickens running amok and the court jester juggling balls, the proceeding was a little fun, a little annoyance and a lot of work. The minion only dreams of a life far away, on a distant land, with a beach and a mojito in hand. So... Lawyer huh?

Falling

The subtle amusement played on her face as she watched him trying to cook. He leaned over from behind her and held out two pepper crushers, one with brown pepper and one with red pepper in it and waited. She smiled and pointed at the red pepper. He zoomed out back to the kitchen counter and washed the cilantro, chopped the chillies and took out the roast. The aroma waved its way like incense smoke all the over the room and she caught a whiff of it. He had been waiting for her all day and was almost done with the kitchen when she reached his door. Something about her made him nervous, also got him excited and then made him fall for her. He wondered when he could let her know just how he felt. She was the most mysterious woman he had ever met. She talked in riddles, played with words way too much, read books he didn’t, painted what he couldn’t decipher... But yet, he seemed to know her. Yet, he knew he wanted her.

Unwrap

The lights began to dim and fade away. The only thing that stood between her and the champagne was the long drive to the man’s place. She got onto the highway and there was a steady stream of traffic on the other side but her side, her side was bare and barren. Fog made her blink a couple of times, but there it was, in all its glory, a black sedan which had joined her side somewhere. To her, the sedan appeared magically, for there had been no exits on the way so far. She came close enough to read the number plate, it had in a small inscription above the number plate, a strange symbol, like an om, but not really an om. She felt the need to follow the car... about twenty minutes later her phone rang and the urgent ringing brought her back to her senses. She snapped out of her daze and the sedan disappeared... It disappointed her, the sudden disappearance of the strange car. She drove to her destination, wondering what would have happened had she followed the sedan... The mysteries in life are the most intriguing and at the same time, invigorating for you don’t know what you may unwrap...

Spilled the tea and made my day

She was in the middle of an extremely busy day. Someone came around and left a beautiful bunch of assorted roses on her desk and she didn’t even notice. She kept working and drafting and making calls and writing furious notes and typing. Post-its and flags of various colours are the only things she could see the whole time. Her eyes flipped from the flickering screen to her notes and back. Someone left her another bunch of flowers in the evening, this time her favourite- orchids and she still didn’t notice. Her deadline had taken over her life for a while. She spilled her hot tea gone ice cold and messed up her work clothes. The brouhaha got her to mindlessly gaze at the flowers. She smiled wryly and opened the two notes. Two notes, same person, two invites to the same dinner, a date with pepper roast and champagne. She called the concerned person back and confirmed her availability for the dinner. Suddenly, the air cleared, she felt relaxed and continued working this time without any of the previous mental clamour. Sometimes, we need a small catastrophe to remind us of the lovely things in life.

Indolence unlimited

People must be waking up at this hour in my country, funny how I call it mine, like I own it. But this “waking up” is literal and not metaphoric. Unfortunately, we all sleep all day, all week, all year long. We sit and abuse our country like indolent, ignorant idiots... we complain about the dirt, the smell the shit on the roads, the poverty but who causes it? The Government or the “outside forces” don’t have a secret vendetta to keep most of us below poverty line, so who is to blame? Tough question and a very simple answer- we are to blame. Enough of us don’t work in development sector, most of don’t care about corporate social responsibility and while it is nice to know that the Tata’s do a lot, it just isn’t enough. How much time does a friend of mine sitting in a plush corporate office with air-con keeping him/her cool and comfortable, spend thinking about the under privileged. I am not suggesting that people in the developed nations do a lot of development work, but we as a young growing nation, need to. We need to participate in politics and we need to make more responsible administrative and police officers. We need to use our education for the betterment and development of our country, but well, we chose to use it to make dollars instead, nothing wrong with that if you contribute or create awareness or do your little bit. We need to do so much but all we do it talk and discuss and contemplate. It annoys me no end. Please stop talking and start doing. Please don’t say India sucks if you aren’t doing anything to make it better.

Boomerang

Before my flight, I got complemented on my smile and eyes by two different people, they were obviously doing their holiday good-deed! On the flight, I met a fellow crusader and we had a long discussion on trafficking of minor girls and how their rehabilitation was a huge issue in Minneapolis. She told me how they were trying to help the victims to change their lives from living on welfare to becoming a tax payer. Pleasing indeed. I stepped out of the airport and saw criss-crossing cemented snakes, whisking away gigantic land-ships and the smaller steel boats. The zig zag made me feel nauseatic but just about then a gush of bay-air hit me in my face and lifted the tired old spirit and egged it on to discover the new land. I loved the city, the quaintness of it, the beauty of it, the fact that it had a water body all around it, the big red bridge, the quiet streets, the bustling black Friday shopping crowd, the fact that it was American and yet reminded me of Paris and the fairy tale Florence. Through the crooked streets and old piers, I discovered a familiar emotion, fondness... Through the vineyards, I saw my version of the French Riviera. When I left the city two days later, I found myself dragging my sleepy bones through a boring conversation about doctors, their kin, real estate prices in California and about common Punjabi contacts. Ah, my lucky lil brother, he sneaked away while he could, pest that he is.

The boomerang has come a full circle. The sadness associated with disappointment had hit her, yet again. God had given her a super-power! The power being the ability to attract the wrong kind of people, and if they were alright, she had the power to turn them away. Perfect, wasn’t it?! The world is so full of perfect surprises and she would just wait for hers to come her way. The boomerang pierced the mind and the heart and made its way to the soul. The battered soul held out a last ray of hope and happiness to ward off the impending doom. Help always comes from unexpected quarters and the ambulance of hope was speeding to the troubled soul. Will it reach in time?

Yet?

Do you have the feeling that the understanding of world hasn’t come to you yet? Do you, maybe, also feel that you haven’t learnt enough? Are you satisfied with your life, your job, your friends, your love? Are you essentially a happy person or do you yearn for that something or someone special missing from your life?

In Coventry, on a bus, a while ago, I met this old woman from India who kept beaming at me and finally I smiled back and asked her did something special happen? She said she’s going back to India after 20 years. Then my 80 year old neighbour in Bombay, Daulat asked me what kind of law I practiced, and if I could initiate proceedings against her husband. She saw the concern on my face and burst into peels of laughter and said that she only wanted to sue him for leaving her alone 10 years ago (he had a terminal illness). Today at the airport, in transit, I met a woman who lost her child in a miscarriage two days ago and kept smiling at me and asking me about my job. Lost and found. Lost sadness, found happiness. Have you, yet?

Smoke from the book

She had not made up her mind. It dilly dallied between and weighed the pros and cons. The sound of shahnai zoomed through the speakers and she tilted her tired head when she remembered old times, the lost school of grey and blue, the forgotten college of black and white, and the faraway university of snow and green. The insanities of life had been hovering around her head and finally came crashing on her petite mind in one swish blow. She is taking time off from the world to find her lost self again. She opened the book and like a waft of wind, the words rose from the pages and collected into a smoke cloud of thoughts over the paper. Like enchanted dust, it swayed and formed a mind of its own. It was going to teleport her, yet again :-)

Swisssie-land

7:25am (Swiss time) November 22, 2008

Today I have no news to read, no connection to the internet and for some strange reason, my Wi-Fi seems to be acting up. Armed with a book, a laptop, a cuppa green tea (the best I have ever had) and a Danish pastry, I start my day at the Zurich airport. Off one long flight and shortly to be on another long one. So here I am, embarking a new journey, visiting new countries, exploring more airports and still no one to have a conversation with except a brief exchange with the Punjabi woman travelling to Florence, out of Punjab for the first time, let alone India. I took her up to her terminal and bid adieu, lost as she was otherwise. Humans humans everywhere and not a word spoken. Conversations I do not understand, gestures that I can’t interpret, lonely empty shops, a lot of lights and yellow/red chairs. Thank god for my little red PC, or I wouldn’t know what to do for six whole hours. And then I met a wonderful lady from Bombay at the internet spot, who had just suffered a grave medical mishap. She was all smiles and help despite her condition. There is something we find, in the places least expected, in the corners of the world where we seldom go, and that something is compassion and uncomplicated, unconditional love. I sat and set my vacation responder for my professional email ID. Adios work- for a whole three weeks!

Coffee and news- the world becomes a “disturbia”

We get up in the morning, go to work, make coffee, read newspapers and wonder what has our world come to. Honestly, I am getting sick of how we as a race are progressing, because we aren’t progressing at all. Malaysia announced yesterday that it is considering issuing a fatwa against practising yoga. The draft of the edict has already been submitted for review and consideration. We talk at length about freedom of speech, expression, movement, to practice religion, to live to get justice. But then which nation really allows us this democratic freedom, and worse, what about the nations which are not a democratic state? Yoga is an ancient medical, holistic, meditation system and for all its wonders, it does not purport to change or challenge any religious views or violate written texts of any religion.

On the bright side though, the lawmakers in U.K gave their final approval to a bill committing Britain to cut greenhouse gas emissions by 80 per cent by 2050 and became the first country to have such a legally binding framework on climate change. Ah, at least someone’s trying. May I suggest to all who may read this to at least get a green friendly email signature and also not to print excessively.

Stars

We are all made of stars. Well some of us are. The last week flew by, like so many others and held in its fold, some beautiful surprises. Kush bought a brand new Yamaha piano in Singapore (with his own money!!) and called me up the other day and played “comptine d'une autre été” from Amelie for me. It was lovely. Then a friend and I jiggled on “desi girl” in the parking lot of a convention centre. Then I cooked up some complicated dishes for some friends and generally had a good time. And of course, the Charlie’s Angels continued their tirade all over south Delhi, generally spreading Zingoo virus and infectious smiles. Life has been on a good roll, where one doesn’t mind the work, loves the friends and lives in the moment. (*Knock on the wood*). We are all made of stars.

Deep-end

She stared at the photograph for a while, wondering about what the future may hold for her, was this to be a part of the life to be? The smoke made spiralling curves and rotated away in the thick air. There were the insane number of pending things, a bane for the ardent procrastinating soul. There were the calls to make, the proposals to write, the drafts to finalise, the letters to be written, the research to be done, the painting to complete, the bank that needed a visit, the friend with a cold who needed chicken soup, another one who needed her anyway. So she still stared blankly at the photograph. A man standing in someone else’s kitchen. A man who lived in another reality, or maybe existed only in her vivid imagination. She enjoyed her work and her evenings and didn’t want to break that routine. The vines in the garden grew deeper and darker and made evil gestures at the budding roses. The roses stood quietly, with complaints to make, but making none. The vines stood in combat mode, but not yet attacking. One day the twain shall meet and who knows, when they both mature, they may make the loveliest little garden.

Thank You

A lot of people have asked me why I have renamed by blog as “Woman with Parasol”. Well, I love a painting with the same title by Claude Monet and also generally tend to think of myself as a woman holding a parasol over others. Where our parasols are held high and the mind is without fear... That would get Tagore turning in his urn/grave/Ganges.

I have made some new friends and found some old ones in the closet of the dreamy past. I have a stand-in miia of course, in the form Mr. Gill, despite the amount of time we spend insulting each other.

There is a general prevailing feeling of gratuity and I would like to thank a long list of people here (I generally do not go into a tirade of my personal life, but well, there is a first for everything). I have met so many people in the last 26 years that I feel a need to tell them, that I care and thank them for being there:

Mum/dad- for being you and letting me be me and for the blood in my veins, for your honesty, help, TLC, and for being super

Karan Bansal- The balanced, mature younger one, for being born

Karanvir Gill: For being my pillar, my support, my friend and so much more, and for always being the ubiquitous sounding board, miss u Gilly boy

Sayak Sahu: For teaching me about love and life, for being the one but not nearly, for teaching me the meaning of "unconditional"

Shikha Khera: The silent love of my life, the one who endures and endures my oblivion and frequent disappearances and is still found standing by me

Nitin Aggarwal: Tintin, the misadventurer :-) the most honest friend one can ask for, the one you can count no matter what, the one I will always care for no matter what.

Bani Dhillon: The teddy bear, softie inside, softie outside, the ever forgiving and loving friend

Navneet Gill: for knowing and loving and caring and being there

Anna Puthuran: The soul sister, the fellow vagabond, the mutual admiration society, the witch and the lover, the child and the mother, all rolled into one, I live my life through her, things I can’t do, she does them for me

Shreya Datta: The older sister I never had, hell the sister that I never had. The hardcore bong, the one who I just can’t do without, and have never needed a reason to be friends with her. We connect ... period... right Gina?

Priyanka Chirimar: The senior I care for the most, the confidante and the mentor, the lone weed in the willow, the strongest thread in the weave

Rohit Syal: My friend from the last century, perhaps the last birth, my friend who is me in so many ways, we are the same people in different circumstances and situations, same wine in different bottles

Gurman Singh: For the being fellow prankster, the joker, the friend and now the doctor

Kanwar Brara: The boy who became a man, someone I admire deeply for his perseverance, there is nothing we haven’t shared and talked about, he kept me going through the toughest phase in my life.. Thank u Kanwar

Titli Datta: Means so much more to me than the butterfly will ever know. I value her opinion, love her sense of humour, admire her outlook on work and life, the friend from my last job I hold very dear

Supriya Mahajan: For being the kali maa, the lovely feisty lady, the lovely friend and the super confidante

Xerxes Ranina, Kamni Ahuja, Thomas James, Vani Panicker, Ajit Anekar, Liberata Fernandes, Manav Raheja, Shabana Raikar, Vishaka Vaswani: For making my first job easy, for making me feel like I was going to school every day- sans exams, for being such a big emotional support in Bombay

Shubhra Chatterji: for all the colours in my life, for all the random jokes, the past revelations and jubilations, for midnight snacks, for rides in rain and for being herself. Shu.. love u

Abhay Jhina and Kaustubh George: For being the closest friends in college, the two people I believe in truly, the two who I love for hoards of reasons, but mostly their honesty, affection, mad sense of humour, crazy ideas and intellect

Manvi Priya, Vibhor Juyal, Ronojoy Basu and Jaskirat Bawa: for being the loveliest juniors ever

Shikhar Kacker: For being an unconditional, giving and caring friend

Neha Varma: For being non-judgmental, for being the drinking buddy and the fellow man-hater

Vishal Yaduvanshi: For the reality check he often provides me with, and for being such an ardent admirer of my writing, thanks Yadu

Supriya Yadav: For redefining the word “sweet” and the one Bihari dame who simply rocks

Tenzing Choesang: For having smaller eyes than me, thank God! Just joking. For being a sounding board, a fellow old woman, a fellow single woman, and a friend in need who is really the friend indeed :D

Aman Sidhu and Aparna Jain: For being great friends and comrades, for being there for me at Warwick, for being the family that we didn’t have there

Dwijen Rangnekar: For his unflinching support and concern, for his help when those responsible did not help, for being a wonderful human being, a friend and a professor and for the much needed guidance at all steps

Class of 2005-2006, LLM, University of Warwick: For electing me chair of SSLC and for all the support always

Moneesha Lanba and Vani Panicker: For being the best roommates ever and for the mindless jokes, endless cups of coffee, Reiki and Bruno healing sessions, for knocking some sense into me when I needed it the most

Ajit Anekar and Alok Tewari: For teaching me how not to let success get to you, how to remain humble, young and polite, how much fun Corporate Law Firm Partners can be, and what great friends too!

Jyoti: For finding me and for letting me know you

Indira Jaising: For replying to a year old mail (which changed my life)

For all those who I may have missed, sorry but do let me know ;-)

U-turn

So here we go into our mid-twenties crisis. In our age and day, the only thing that comes for free and in abundance is depression. Perfectly nice kids like us, feel hollow inside. Everyone I know yearns for a special someone, and has been contemplative off late, and their contemplations circle around the same question- why are we doing this? Why are we pushing ourselves so hard? Is it worth it? Will we reap something in the end?

We will. Really… We have just started our life, just started making money (okay, so I don’t figure on this money making list, but what the hell!) and we will find what we are looking. We just need to stop looking too hard. The crossroads and blind turns may have their dead ends, but mostly, one finds a danger sign there. We know not to take these plunging turns, and we know that its best to take a u-turn and look for the pleasant endings.

Keep on moving

She had a heart which wanted to belong to everyone, but pursued little, or nothing… She didn’t want the permanency yet, she wanted no attachments, no strings, no love, no hate, nothing to like or dislike, no shadows, only endless dawns and dusks to keep her company... Only the static sky to remind her that she’s its own. In this pursuit of indifference, she had moved time and again only to find that one place would always be home for her, no matter where she went. It was unsettling, the thought of having something constant. It stifled her freedom and choked her love for the ones who made what she called home.

The gypsy’s soul thumped blood into her veins, she seemed to belong to the moving canvases and the roll of the horses, from an era bygone. Love and pain, come together, not without each other, ever. Love has gone and so has pain. All that remains is apathy for the unknown. Another journey, another day, soon…

Karan turns 25

Though one avoids posting too much about personal life, I think this deserves commemoration. My brother turns 25 today, one big milestone. My ‘lil one’ as I call him, is all grown up. Don’t worry about age Karan, age is the affectation of the youth. In my mind, I unsettle the complacent sheaves of memories and remember all the childhood pranks we played, all the little words we mispronounced, all the things we discovered together, all the little toys we shared, all the times we wanted to break each other’s nose, and sit recalling the splendour of an innocent age. I miss our tennis lessons, our rants about all and sundry, you teaching me guitar, you being my sounding board, I miss you... So I celebrated your birthday in office with my colleagues. Happy Birthday kinsey-vinsey. XXX

Why?

If people like Raj Thackeray are allowed to exist, flourish and command in our society, then we have a lot to reflect on. Where do people like him and his uncle come from? Do they only feed off the insecurities of natives, who should ideally have nothing to be scared off, considering the only natives that were there in the island city in the beginning were the koli fishermen. The corporates don’t award jobs based on vernacular roots, the entrance exams don’t differentiate between students from different regions. Yet, there are the reservations for domicile. As if religion wasn’t enough to tear us apart, we have a growing sense of regionalism. We find anything, anything at all that sets us apart from the others, yet sets us apart into clusters that we wish to belong to, mini clans, now growing into an epidemic. Progressiveness is also bringing with it, a wave of sectarianism, and more so in our country where parochial ideas are the easiest to sell. Sigh...

The pee and the smell

Today was a day full of “pee”, a friend was “pissed off” another one had “go peeee” as her gtalk status and well a colleague- he just got pissed on… by a dog… :D That was such fun, at least for us. The little pretty apso emptied her rather large bladder on my friend whose name incidentally is Mehak which means smell. Apt that because he smelt all the way home!

the alternate world

Surrealism had a great effect on me because then I realised that the imagery in my mind wasn't insanity. Surrealism to me is reality.

John Lennon

I live in two worlds, one that we all live in, day after day, without a real choice really. The other is in my head, and is mine alone, to destroy, create, love, loathe, admire, despise and to create stories. I grew a mango tree in my mind, then I saw a lawyer I know riding a bullock cart dressed in court uniform, then I saw a monster which looked eerily like a real person I know as well... Imagination is what keeps me going... What about you?

Normalcy

Normal is getting dressed in clothes that you buy for work and driving through traffic in a car that you are still paying for - in order to get to the job you need to pay for the clothes and the car, and the house you leave vacant all day so you can afford to live in it.

- Ellen Goodman

So that is what we silly humans do, make money for the things we can only enjoy once we are too old to enjoy them. That is equally sad and true. However, I can't claim to make money, being paid as much as I am... So we are the intellectuals and the givers of the society, using our expensive education for the under privileged- bridging the gap between the "have's" and "have nots"- while we solemnly stand on the side of "have nots" ourselves. Sigh.

Lennonism

John Lennon said “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans”.

Missed holidays, forgotten friends, pending chores, unfinished paintings, ignored pets, books gathering dust... Life is about uncertainty, no matter how detailed our plans, it’s uncertain because other people make plans too, and their plans interfere with ours. Like jumbled cross connections on cellphone networks, like radio signals when we park in the basements. These cross connections can be annoying and rarely, stimulating. We may meet amazing strangers in places least expected and carry their print on our minds forever.

Sometimes we lose a track of who we were and omissions become a pattern. Sometimes we get on the wheel to look for a new beautiful avenue to admire but the brakes bring you back to where you started, because sometimes it’s meant to be.

On perfect mornings, sometimes I wish I was cycling through a sun kissed green field, sprinkled with pink and red paisleys. Perfect. I hope the wheel in my hands brings me back to this... Over and over again.

Randomness at its best

Sometimes, I’m really random. So this post isn’t the usual fiction/fact bordering on madness type. This post is dedicated to crappy madhumakhi (bee in Hindi) jokes. The first one I heard from a friend and the rest I made up:

1. What is the ghutna of a madhumakhi called?
2. When a madhumakhi loses a war what is it called?
3. When a madhumakhi is in pyaar what is it called?
4. When a madhumakhi is a boy in pyaar, what is it called?
5. When a madhumakhi is sick what is it called?
6. When a madhumakhi loses her job what is it called?
   
   Answers are:
   
   1. Bee-ki-knee
   2. Bee-har
   3. Bee-loved
   4. Bee-chara
   5. Bee-mar
   6. Bee-kar
   
   
   More later :-)
   

The burnt writing

So here I’m, finally warming up to the good old Dilli. Bombay lives on in the corpuscles, but the NCT takes over life. The warmth is diminishing and the days are getting shorter. The charming Dilli winter is around the corner, waiting to be welcomed by all and sun-dry.

My phase jumping decision holds good and looks good so far. I shall stick to this phase till all reserves of patience are exhausted.

The nomadic wheel is craving for the unknown and soon it shall receive its due. I wish to explore in galore.

She picked up the last piece of the burnt manuscript from the hearth and tried to read the 3 or 4 lines which were visible. Sometimes, she does that, burns her own writing, sometimes out of dissatisfaction and sometimes due to sheer anger at someone else. This time, it was anger. But then she read her own words, beautiful as they seemed to her… “Hope is a flower living in oblivion, surviving in a field of shattered dreams…”. The anger dissipated and a smile floated on her tired lips. She sat down to finish her story, the story of a lonely soul wilting away in hills, the story of hope, the story of a man who is a savior and a lover…

Our hearts constantly challenge our resolve and more often than not, they beat our heads at it.

Of Tobacco and nothing else...

So while all my colleagues (I work for an NGO) have really depressing looking desk calendars, my workstation has one from Taj, a vestige from my corporate past. And this month it has given my desk a nice looking young man. It is out of place with this delirious and dust ridden place. Like red in the desert and white in a coal mine. The frustration, this time around is deep rooted. I want to climb the rooftop and scream “NO MORE TOBACCO”. But Alas, the Boss has different plans for me.

Moving again, soon

My nomadic heart has been thumping, rather hard off late. The little wheel in my heel has been yearning to roll again. So soon, I may find myself gone again, to discover new rivers, seas, plains, mountains and of course, the bane of our world- people. I don’t keep a close watch on what I think, I think and it’s done. Rarely without surprising, albeit happy repercussions. Hence, the lack of close watch. Someone told me once “you do whatever gets you off Bansal”. Kinda true.

So, am listening to a song which reminds me of Lakeside whenever it plays. Those long nights of lone contemplation, the best of its kind; and the nights of solitude, the loner’s love.

Then I flicker back to the current day, typing away on a bright red computer. Where is my beloved tattered old handmade paper book? It symbolises my life- been there done that, still around, still learning and still teaching. It stands in the rumble on my workstation, the one place where it would really never be used, waiting to be rescued for another story. Ah, the bright red comp, for all its wondrous charms can never beat that old book.

The week ahead is going to be exciting, exhilarating and definitely draining. I’ve been waiting for it, but not quite ready for it yet. My first case being filed, my first draft.

Phase 1, Phase 2, Phase 3 and well, Phase 4

The sound of the trains whizzing by has become an indispensable part of my life. This city which gave me a writer’s block, refuses to let me have my flow back. I have my steaming chai, the loved companion in my hands, while the singer from the long gone yore singing his famous walking the line song. And this time, am travelling. The moment I step out of Delhi, I am able to write again...

I ask for random things all the time. The other day I wished from the bottom of my heart to go to Bombay, and the same evening saw me packing my bags to the city on work associated trip. Then again I wished “Cocaine” to play on the radio, and viola- it started playing 5 minutes later. Yesterday, to a visiting friend I mentioned a must-watch movie, the “Match Point” and castigated him for not watching it. We switched on the t.v and there it was playing on the Star Movies. So here is a story of futile wishes being fulfilled left right and centre. Nothing happens when I wish for the millions, etc.

Life, from the earlier black and white, has all the colours I wanted in it now. But at the cost of my personal happiness, all for the professional satisfaction, which I may or may not have yet achieved. Even when I had no time to myself, I used to love my days. One year went past me at the speed of lightening. I sit, counting days now. There are the greens outside again, on my way to the lovely city which I would always call home no matter where I go, not just because my parents live there. They say everything in the right measures can bring happiness and contentment.

Another friend, a dear one at that, sitting all the way in Sierra Leone, called yesterday and told me to get out of rut I have made my life. She literally held me by my ears and forced me to see the grim reality. She pointed out that there are four phases in professional life, apparently. With drastic moderations and the liberty to amend her philosophy, I say that the 4 phases should read as:

Phase 1: When we are considering all the options that lay in front of us and contemplate, open one door while keeping the others slightly ajar

Phase 2: We think about our decision, finding happiness, sadness, misery, failure, success all at one go. We stop thinking about the other doors

Phase 3: We stand where we are, wondering if the decision we took in Phase 1 was reasonable and correct. This is probably the toughest because we doubt our career decision

Phase 4: The trickiest, because in the end either we stay at Phase 3 for a long time and decide that what we chose was the best, or scarily, go back to Phase 1 and take a long hard look at the other doors, find courage within ourselves to experiment and open the another door.

Now, yours truly is truly a class apart for she had barely gone through Phase 1 that she jumped to Phase 4. Anyhow, the milk has been spilt and well, it made a pretty pattern on the carpet. Someone says they think I’m happy, some say I’m miserable. Confusion, utter and utmost, is the only answer here. I hope to wake up to the ubiquitous dawn after dusk anytime now. Snooze please?

Cherry Tree

I wondered for a long lingering moment. My simple mind was searching the answer to one of the toughest questions of the mortal world. What is the most perfect thing in the world? My mind wandered through the alleys I had walked, the museums I had seen, the books I had read and the wonders of the new century that I had experienced. I stumbled upon the evasive answer in the myriad thoughts and memories, for me the most perfect thing is a cherry tree in blossom.

The sharp bend jerked me back to the reality. I was on the way to the airport, to the Bombay airport, about to leave my favourite city yet again. I didn’t like the idea of returning from the old muggy city, then as if a note from the past, the cabbie started playing an old cassette- the song was- unbelievably so- “eh dil hai mushkil jeena yahan, zara bachke zara hatke yeh hai Bombay meri jaan”.

Independence, just another day

While I don't like Nehru, his speech "Tryst with destiny" is the permanent remnant of our historic event. The world was not sleeping, New York was striking noon, China was wide awake... We have turned out to be brave in parts and the biggest cowards in others. We sit waiting for the 61st Independence Day to arrive, but what have we done for our country? Our nationalist spirit is apathetic. Lets juxtapose this speech with the horrors of partition that followed. Lets read the underlined optimism of this speech in the light of the monsters that we have become- bombings, communal riots in Bombay, Delhi and Gujarat. Lets read in the light of the sheer inertia with which we lead our lives. Lets hope we don't end up like China, where the growth of the cities has clouded the poverty of the villages and the economic disparity between the two is so much more than in India. Lets not leave the "economic shining" to the cities and take our respective successes to the interiors.

TRYST WITH DESTINY

Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny, and now the time comes when we shall redeem our pledge, not wholly or in full measure, but very substantially. At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom. A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when we step out from the old to the new, when an age ends, and when the soul of a nation, long suppressed, finds utterance. It is fitting that at this solemn moment we take the pledge of dedication to the service of India and her people and to the still larger cause of humanity.

At the dawn of history India started on her unending quest, and trackless centuries are filled with her striving and the grandeur of her success and her failures. Through good and ill fortune alike she has never lost sight of that quest or forgotten the ideals which gave her strength. We end today a period of ill fortune and India discovers herself again. The achievement we celebrate today is but a step, an opening of opportunity, to the greater triumphs and achievements that await us. Are we brave enough and wise enough to grasp this opportunity and accept the challenge of the future?

That future is not one of ease or resting but of incessant striving so that we may fulfil the pledges we have so often taken and the one we shall take today. The service of India means the service of the millions who suffer. It means the ending of poverty and ignorance and disease and inequality of opportunity. The ambition of the greatest man of our generation has been to wipe every tear from every eye. That may be beyond us, but as long as there are tears and suffering, so long our work will not be over.

And so we have to labour and to work, and work hard, to give reality to our dreams. Those dreams are for India, but they are also for the world, for all the nations and peoples are too closely knit together today for any one of them to imagine that it can live apart Peace has been said to be indivisible; so is freedom, so is prosperity now, and so also is disaster in this One World that can no longer be split into isolated fragments.

We have to build the noble mansion of free India where all her children may dwell. The appointed day has come-the day appointed by destiny-and India stands forth again, after long slumber and struggle, awake, vital, free and independent. The past clings on to us still in some measure and we have to do much before we redeem the pledges we have so often taken. Yet the turning-point is past, and history begins anew for us, the history which we shall live and act and others will write about.

It is a fateful moment for us in India, A new star rises, the star of freedom in the East, a new hope comes into being, a vision long cherished materializes. May the star never set and that hope never be betrayed! We rejoice in that freedom.

The future beckons to us. Whither do we go and what shall be our endeavour? To bring freedom and opportunity to the common man, to the peasants and workers of India; to fight and end poverty and ignorance and disease; to build up a prosperous, democratic and progressive nation, and to create social, economic and political institutions which will ensure justice and fullness of life to every man and woman.

We have hard work ahead. There is no resting for any one of us till we redeem our pledge in full, till we make all the people of India what destiny intended them to be. We are citizens of a great country on the verge of bold advance, and we have to live up to that high standard. All of us, to whatever religion we may belong, are equally the children of India with equal rights, privileges and obligations. We cannot encourage communalism or narrow-mindedness, for no nation can be great whose people are narrow in thought or in action.

To the nations and peoples of the world send greetings and pledge ourselves to cooperate with them in furthering peace, freedom and democracy. And to India, our much-loved motherland, the ancient, the eternal and the ever-new, we pay our reverent homage and we bind ourselves afresh to her service. Jai Hind.

Wishing you a so called HAPPY Independence Day. JAI HIND!

Blood and tranquility

The hustling bustling city was once a desert where oasis’ were bloody potholes and in the trees resided, the banshees of the dead. She grew up there while her mother toiled for her second masters degree, the toughest of its kind. The city where she saw and smelt blood for the first time. The stench of death hung over the entire city and still lingers in those which are painful memories. The winters were harsh and the summers melted the city.

In the winters, every evening, after she and her brother played near the fireplace, after they had worn out, they sat discussing their day. It was amazing how much conversation the two little children indulged in, given that that was two decades ago, with little exposure to tv and none to cable tv. Sometimes, when her brother felt too cold, she wrapped him up in her mittens and blanket and then made her first pet fall asleep on her knees. There was always the teetering background noise of blasts and bullets, but were safely ensconced in their little haven which was well protected and guarded. That was the city of mouth watering food, the Golden Temple, the hatti ka kulfi’s and the Wagah Border.

Renewed passion

She had moved seas away, and her amiable biba had moved worlds away. As much as she tried to bury her memories and let the past live in the winding hands of the chiming clock, she couldn’t cut the umbilical cord. She yearned to meet people she knew from childhood, the people who had the cords of their lives intertwined with hers, people with fragments with the same blood.

The old teak desk had travelled long and far with her. The steaming kahwa in her hands and the splashing rain on the windows activated a long lost passion- to write. The old scrappy notebook was dug out and she sat pouring her imagination on the paper and writing each word like an artist, weaving and curving the soul of the letters as she went…

The squirrel, the hole and the cake

It couldn’t have been denied to her.. the sweet innocent girl that she had been, for the longest time, undemanding and yielding. It was after all, only a simple slice of chocolate cake. She ran out in the garden, her soft curls flying back, and her pink frilly frock doing its own little ballet. She tripped on a rock and fell into the dug up hole. The hole was never visible to her before, but now she could see for what it really was- an escape. A beautiful strawberry bush grew in the corner and the little one went over and plucked a few. Suddenly, magically, of course, a squirrel appeared in the corner. There was nothing unusual about the squirrel, except that it was wearing an apron! A tiny squirrel apron. The little one waved a hello to the strangely civilized squirrel. It was returned by a shock and a yelp for help and the animal scampered out of the hole.

To this day she wonders if it was a figment of her overactive and over-magical imagination or was it, eerily, real?

____________________

Delhi Musings

My older and learned friend told me a couple of days ago that am now a ripe mango (on the account of my age) and would burst/ rot soon. He said that in reference to the birthday and the grand entrance to the later part of the good age- the twenties. Now that generally is not a very nice feeling is it? Being told that you are akin to a highly fattening fruit which would rot soon anyways!

I have been driving around in the good old capital for a while and the people here don’t cease to shock me everyday. If I had to count the number of people who randomly dart in front of your car, and not with the intention of giving up their precious lives, I would have a full time job doing just that.

Has anyone heard/seen the legendary "payal" (chime-sound making-anklet/ trinket) wearing ghost? I had been visited off late by one and rather frequently at that. The scared mind refused to check the hell called balcony and I stayed put for nights on end. Then yours truly gathered all the guts that I had and ventured out in the dark, only to find the watchman chaining and then later unchaining a gate in the backyard. Ugh, he killed all the magic and supernatural for me in one gusty move. Sad, very…

And all this pointless writing only because this city killed my creativity and my friend accused me of being too busy to blog :)

The union

She winked and her eyebrows narrowed to a twin-arc. It wasn’t a frown, she was hit by the greens outside. The fast train flew by the scenic beauty outside. The Dan Brown in her hands called her back to the print, but it lacked the strength. The pitter patter outside turned into a storm and she loved storms. The unrest gave her peace, unusual but not unique. There were others of her kind, only far and few. The swaying greens of the plains and the grey atop all other life made her brood. Soon, very soon she would meet a part of her, separated a long time ago.

The soul fry

This is not in reference to the yummy restaurant in Fort, this is also not in reference to "soul curry", the mouth-watering Goan stuff, but this is in reference to the real real thing. How one person could control her whole life, was beyond her imaginable beliefs. How one person wanted to control her time, was unthinkable. But that's what it had come to be, her soul was finally fried. And they tell her this is only the beginning.

Telectroscope!

And now this! I wish I was in London today. I would have been found peering through the “Telectroscope”. An artist called Paul St. George with a very intriguing ancestry developed the idea and now Londoners can see New Yorkers live! Paul tells a story of his great-grandfather, an eccentric Victorian engineer, Alexander Stanhope St George who supposedly constructed a gigantic tunnel under the Atlantic oceanbed, stretching from one corner of the world to another- between London and New York. He claims that though this orginal venture failed at the turn of the 20th century, he has now installed parabolic optic mirrors at the two ends of the tunnel to enable people from the 2 continents to see each other in real time through the tunnel. Of course this is all faff. The actual broadband transmission gives people the impression that they are peering down a huge tunnel across the ocean. It purports to be magical and something different.

WANTED this very instant: A very efficient TELEPORTER!

http://www.tiscali.co.uk/telectroscope/home.php

The new crossroads...

The woman loved everything about rains, the smell, the wind, the squeaky-clean greenery, washed roads and getting soaked. She sat cross-legged on the floor of the balcony. Elvis sang “suspicious minds” in the background while the fresh lavender flowers pleased the senses. The rain poured down the skies and drenched the solemn soul to the bone. The trains came and went, their gong boomeranging through the plain. The sound stayed for a while in the heavy air before dying out. That enveloping sound had begun to become a part of her routine. She used to talk about cross roads and now she lives at one. One of the busiest in the country.

She sat musing at where the twists and turns of her life had brought her. A new beginning or a new end? A new shore or a new edge?

At peace in the hills

She wandered in the hills by herself… despite the crowd, the solitude burnt intensely inside. The thematic pauses and lingering memories of yore made her smile. She was always a loner, a loner surrounded by the love of the world. Blessed with the things desired, friends needed and the family that was forever yielding. No one would believe her if she told them that she liked being alone…

Her writing always had props, just as they existed in real life. Today she saw the most beautiful wind chime she had ever laid eyes on, made of pink colored glass. The reflection of the light from the bulb in the shop fell on her cheeks and formed a halo around her. She smiled again and took the longest route to trek back home.

The old telescope had been lying neglected for a while. For the star gazer she used to be, this was sacrilege. She cleaned and toiled and polished the darn thing and then set about fixing it up. It was duly mounted on the stand on the rooftop and she sat there for what seemed like hours, gazing at the virgin, clean, dark, star studded sky. Have you ever done that? If not, I strongly recommend you do. It makes you one with the rest of the world, the space called the sky and the space within you…

Recycling memories

The haunting tune from OSO emanated from the dark. As Abdul took the curb to get back on to the Marine Drive, I thought to myself- is there any other place I would rather be in? The magical moments of life come to us when least expected.

Teary goodbyes and “see you soon’s” are the best things in life, they tell you that you are loved, that you will meet again and that nothing is permanent, even separation. We meet, we talk, we make friends and we move to other worlds. What remains are memories and the ringing sound of laughter from the world left behind… We grow wings and fly away, only to disappear into the sands once more to be reborn and this cycle of life and death is the only thing which is forever.

And as I read somewhere, it's good to have friends who live at a distance, it makes the earth seem larger where friends make the longitudes and the latitudes.

Wings

Ah, there it is, on the charming window sill again. Sitting beautifully, softly moving its gorgeous wings. She hadn’t seen it in a while. While she moves from one understanding of the world to another, she will carry these images in her mind, forever, and those on paper will always be b & w. A little like her profession, devoid of colour but exciting and aggressive nonetheless. A long time ago, she had fought with her childhood best friend. To make up for it, she gave her friend a tiny caterpillar in a small box with air holes in it, with a note which read “one day we shall grow up like this caterpillar which will soon become a butterfly, and fly away… let’s make the most of what we have”.

Another farewell

Every time she moves to a new place, she starts writing a new chapter in her book. The romantic fool that the woman is, she weaves her life into a beautiful fairy tale. But she has closed so many chapters in that book of hers that she carries a choked feeling around for a while. Her heavy heart bids adieu to the city that gave her her first bread and butter. The wind scatters her hair and the sea beckons her to stay. Bye bye Bombay, love you to bits.

BOMBAY, The life that was

For the better or the worse, this city has grown on me and it only took a year to do so. To leave it feels like amputating a part of me. I will carry figments of it in my heart forever. The exhilarating, the smelly, the crowded and dirty yet beautiful, formidable, spirited and the extremely fair city... The long drive to work, the crazy traffic, Hard Rock Café, Gokul’s, Tea Centre, friends, loved ones, midnight excursions, exchanging notes on books with the Butterfly, friendly banter with colleagues, office and even the cabs, trains and the rains!! Bombay never lets the lonely down. The solitude is always momentary and the crowd exists forever. The only city that kills you one moment and breathes life into you the next moment. The only city which made me fall in love with it, unconditionally. The only city which took away as much from as it gave. Here, now, our paths that were or are meant to be, separate for the moment, to come together later.

Colours :-)

She loves colours, in everything… Not flashy, gaudy or bright, just colour… Every morning she lights an incense stick in a yellow printed holder, it’s like her food for the senses- smell, vision and touch and her ode to the fire God. Then she lets the sun in and makes her morning flush tea. The pink tea mug with the brown fluid is another reason behind the perfect morning. The blue bedspread and the light peach curtains absorb the yellow energy of the sun. She messes up her hair while reading the news and plays with the red sequined anklet. The green tea box is like a treasure chest, one will find various types of tea bags in there and all one needs to do to de-stress is to open it and inhale deeply. If you ever have a dull day, surround yourself with colours and enticing smells and be ready to take on anything and everything!

Senseless

The silver haze on a platter, the meandering truth in a splinter,
The darkness of the light and the beauty seen by the blind,

The flowers on a grave, the love of a slave
The deity of the priest, the life of a sinner…

Lesson

The spices had faded away a long time ago, leaving only a hint of vanilla behind. Vanilla is a rather strong and seemingly nondescript spice. Its notes remind you of a warm sunny day with all well in the world. It smells lovelier on women. She wanted to go back to the shop to get the dry spice. On her way she stopped by the stationery shop which sold vintage photographs of the city. She climbed the ladder to look for an old Trafalgar pic and she was trying to find her way in the dark attic when she tripped over something. There lay, the most beautifully preserved vines of vanilla. Sometimes we look helter skelter for our heart’s desires but they lie in front of our eyes, for our taking. These spices never cease from haunting and yet teaching you life’s lessons. If we look hard and we look far, all the joy in the world can be ours.

sands...

She was sitting on the beachside, sipping mojitos and musing. She had stopped ravaging the canvas a while ago. Her friends were away, dipping into the ocean and her momentary solitude seemed blessed. People people everywhere and a not soul to love. The hues of blue merging into yellow seemed strangely green to her. All the contemplation took her attention away and she spilt her drink. The mint and the alcohol made strange prints on the damp sand. It looked like a banyan tree with roots touching the ground. The tree of knowledge and enlightenment, the print was speaking to her. It said that the surface isn’t always what we fathom it to be, maybe the sky is the end and earth is the beginning. Maybe sadness is better than happiness. And maybe comfort is discomfort.

The X Files

I had been trying to get rid of the clutter surrounding me, human and non-human. I was sorting out my cupboard back home, it looked like the netherworld on a bad day and it was a tough job. I found this old green file, another ghost from the past, which was full of print outs of what looked like vague black and white images. As I turned the pages I saw Fox Mulder and Dana Scully staring from the pages. I was an avid X Files fan. A thorough search of the forgotten drawers revealed jazzy platforms, scarily high heels (I honestly didn’t ever need them) and mushy cards from various quarters. My mother hates clutter and keeps pestering me to get rid of old stuff. I save everything and find it tough to discard old notes exchanged in class, letters from people I might hate now, and generally exceedingly irrelevant stuff.

I sat on the hillside by myself at 4:30am; the noise outside the room had begun to spook the hell out of me and I decided to be brave for once. The untouched serene valley is the epitome of purity and brings a sense of well being to even the worst stricken. I have never seen the sky so clear, the stars so bright... the mountains stood grey, old, monstrous and unyielding. Matt sat next to me yawning and licking itself as I patted its soft black coat.

There has to be more to life than the generic weeks that have passed by at an alarmingly fast pace. The soft cold breeze bit my face. Moving on and moving out are both tough calls but one cannot get stuck in a warp because of complacency. So many things were tugging at the heart simultaneously but I have found in myself the strength to follow love and passion.

The yellow butterfly

She was scribbling away as usual, on the tattered handmade paper book she so adores. Some people are just so old fashioned and yet blend into the nouveaux so well. She loves to write letters and send postcards and touches lives of many.

The old mud baked cup sat on her desk for hours before she thought of re-heating the tea. The wild rose creeper had begun to conquer the window and the foliage looked radiant in sunlight. The glow of the green and the beauty of the red, in her eyes it was the perfect combination, at once soothing and at once exciting. There are very few things in the world that have that effect on you.

There has been a change in her little microcosm off late. The nomadic heart has been feeling the urge to let go of the known and the have’s. The dreams have been conspicuous by their absence. Then out of the blue, a yellow butterfly flew in and fluttered and settled on her mug. She watched in awe and then stealthily started clicking photographs on the new black and white roll. All that colour captured in the monotonous tones. That’s how life becomes sometimes. That’s how life has been for a while now.

Splinters of the fragmented mind

“It is not easy to truly have the measure of those who live aslant to the rest of us”.

I told a friend yesterday about my wish to go to Pakistan and see a part of our heritage and a part of the sub-continent with unbiased eyes. She literally went into convulsions! How I would love to have the famous kebabs of Lahore, see the old Punjab, walk down the beach in Karachi, and see a life well removed from ours in NWFP!

She had been simmering with something for a while, her anger was not centered, and it had started to turn into rage off late. She had to find something new to do, a new place to go to, a new life… The restless soul can be unforgiving and in constant search of the unknown. She was walking down a street in the evening by herself and she saw a child sitting on the sea side. The effervescent woman can make conversation with anyone, literally. Anyone! She started talking to the urchin and there was an instant connection. They joked, laughed and chatted till late. She bought the child some food and water. Her anger started dispersing. You know what an aura is? Hers was huge, she had too much energy and despite working hard, she had lots left to spare. The restlessness began to fade away that night and she was able to write again.

The Bong Connection

There are remnants of the bygones in each and every dust particle in Calcutta. The city I love unconditionally, without belonging to it, without having ever stayed in it, without having any connections to it. I still remember my first visit to Cal vividly, as if it were yesterday- the monsoon drenched roads, the lively Park Street, the crowded Forum, the beautiful Millennium Park and the place I guess I’m not destined to see (on the inside)- Victoria Memorial. I remember getting bewitched by the angel on the top of the structure and the tanga ride that followed. People wonder why I would want to go to Cal for a holiday; it is an unusual place to go when there are the hills and the beaches selling tranquility. Why would one go from one maddening metro to another? Because, I feel the Cal-Calling, a little akin to the call of the wild. And of course, there is the case of my inimitable Bong connection.

There was this lingering silence, promise and peace on the banks of the famous river. The setting sun, the lamp on the boat and the lights on the bridge; they were all yearning for attention. The coffee at the Coffee House asked to be appreciated for being in circulation since aeons ago and the crumbling College Street sold hopes, ghosts, jokes and love. The lifeless yet ageless old monuments stood in grandeur as the vestiges of the empire that it was once a part of. Modernity mixed with culture; that is Calcutta for the uninitiated…