Pause: Of last thoughts..

I want to tell you how I began the year 2009, because someday you may begin a year like that too. Alone, aloof, afraid...almost broken. Hoping for one thing, one dream.

And, I want to tell you, how I feel today, because perhaps, it will fill you with hope? It fills me, too. And, despite the fact that I lost the one dream I started out with...

Here I am..smiling, content, excited, pensive on the very last day of the year. There are just a few more hours to go...

And, I am thankful for the new friends I made this year. The old friends I found. The new-old friends I made. Such a year of people, 2009. And, such a year of writing too. There was Love Letters, and Monday Musings, and 30X30 and Pause. And, after reading other Pauses, I wonder if it was a time in our life to learn, and let go, and find ourselves...

Difficult, but beautiful. And, satisfying, for me at least. I always pen my last thoughts before a new year. And, then on, I am always in a fleeting hurry to embrace the many little strings left to tie-up before the year ends...

But, today I have time..time for that one last run...the wind against my skin...just before the celebrations begin..the celebrations of a year well lived, well learned, well found...

...and the countless blessings I am grateful for. Everything isn't always the way we want it to be...but we have a choice, to be happy. And, to run...and still savour the wind.

Thank you for staying with me through the year. For those of you who did, thank you for pausing. I hope you have a safe evening. And, an absolutely miraculous twenty-ten. With love!

[ Pause is an ongoing series of reflections by writers (enlisted alongside) come together to capture people, places and moments from the year 2009. Pause ends on 31st December, 2009]

Monday Musings - 29

And, here I am at the very last Monday of 2009. The last, little bits of the year are still to come...and there isn't even enough time to tie the loose ends, or so it seems. I wake up each morning, with a song in my heart. Some days it's a happy, yappy dance song..some days it's slightly sombre, and sometimes even a little bit sad. Because, this year has taken so much from me. But, it has also given me so much more. And, this week, it's been such a lovely week!

One of those weeks where you make friends with strangers, dance to 'Can't help falling in Love with You' just the way you'd like to, listen to Christmas carols, buy smiles, and pretty little dresses you otherwise wouldn't afford, and eat chocolate mousse with bread crumbs at 2 AM while watching everyone in glee. When you never sleep before 4 AM, because you're welcoming a friend into town, and then another one, every other day. Where dressing up is fun, because friends come over...where phone calls are quick two-minutes just to say, "Hey, I'm thinking of you," where food is divine. Soft roomali rotis, served with a spicy chicken bhuna on plastic tables. And, for some on car bonnets.

Where, the wind has gathered a swirl, and tugs at lonely hearts. Where the wind carries no answers, only a song, and joyous hearts. Where we think back at the year and how it began, and try and remember snatches of 2009. January, that started off slowly, and February that I cannot remember, and March that I need snatches of my writing to recollect. I can remember working late into many nights though. That was much of the beginning of 2009. April, beautiful for the sun, the sea, the frolic...May for the end of salsa lessons, and June for Goodbyes. Goodbyes aren't necessarily nice, unless their celebratory, and unless you know that this is just temporary. And, this too shall pass.

I can remember July, for Goodbyes again, and August, for Goodbyes too. This time around, it was farewell to a company I had breathed, lived, loathed and loved for two years. September, I said Goodbye again. To the city of Mumbai, and then, I wasn't sure when I was going to be back again. But, I was back within six weeks, and then October I said Goodbye again, to a city I had fallen so much in love with.

November, I said Goodbye to two friends. None easily done, but what must be, will be. And, here I am in December, ready to say Goodbye again. To a year of Goodbyes, and hellos...because I must tell you that in 2009, I found so many friends. Even friends left behind, their friendship never forgotten.

It has been such a year, hasn't it. Changes, and trials, and goodbyes, and new love, and mostly a feeling of I won't back down. It has been so beautiful too, full of new experiences. I learned salsa, and went camping, and traveled, and lived alone, and stayed in a hotel room where I was so terrified of being alone, and watched three sunrises in a row, and danced all night, and lost love, and wrote, and had a slight happy brush with the publishing business, and read poetry to an audience, and made so many new friends. And, I even kept with my tradition of making movie lists, and book lists, and watched theatre too. The joy. But, most all, somewhere in the middle of 2009, I began to write every Monday. And, that to me, is the most beautiful thing of 2009. Because, there's something about delving into yourself each Monday.

And, then on, something about reading your comments, and your thoughts and most of all your kind words...

[The year in Monday Musings here ]

Pause: Of time, and its turns

Roundabout every Christmas, I begin to reminisce childhood Christmas parties (fetes with Santa Claus, and yellow Moonwalkers jumping up into the sky), teenage party eves (fancy dresses and secret Santa gifts wrapped ever-so-delicately) and more recently Christmas from two years ago. It was my favourite Christmas time. And, I reckon it will always be. I will perhaps, hold onto it like a slice of time, always beautiful.

Time, of course reminds me of my teenage years. Like any other girl, I had the usual tussle with Dad over the telephone. The instrument seemed so precious then, sneaked into bedrooms for endless conversations. And, when it was invented, we had conference calls too. Cackle, cackle, and cackle like only young girls could. We would sometimes solve our homework on the phone. And, when we tired, play our own little version of Truth or Dare. This was when my parents were out to dinner, and I had the telephone all to myself. Without worry!

Until, it was the end of the month- the horrid little bill time of the month- when I always looked for a good place to hide. Daddy, seldom yelled, but always looked at me. And then on began another month of telephone chasing, and hiding, and trying ever so hard not to make that call.

Especially, not off our cheap, pre-paid telephones- like shoestring budgets for a time of life suited only to telephonic frivolity. Three hundred and forty-nine rupees, to talk and text, each month… with a little extra forty-five-rupee recharge scrounged from the week’s leftovers some months.

And, then came the time of internships, and when I started to work. And, I generously supported my monthly recharge with a little bit more, but the darned telephone deal was always a squeeze. Until at last, I received that second raise- and like a perfect, long-awaited gift, I treated myself to a billing cell phone account. Whatever the bill, I could take you on! IT was exhilarating.

I’m savouring that feeling as my father walks into the room last Sunday. “What are you doing,” he asks. “Writing a cheque,” I say. He looks over, enquiring, “How much is your cell phone bill?” I quote an approximate amount. His face scrunches up in disapproval. But, in my head, I smile.

2009, I think. The year, I could finally let go. And, afford my own telephone bill. One of the little things that makes growing up enjoyable. Even if sometimes, you’d much rather sneak the chord, than write the cheque…

[Pause is an ongoing series of reflections by writers (enlisted alongside) come together to capture people, places and moments from the year 2009. Pause ends on 31st December, 2009]

Monday Musings - 28

It's such a beautiful Monday afternoon - it's snowing where you are, and where I am the sun throws more than an occasional glance. It's also the second last Monday of the year. Wow, just taking that in, leaves me breathless. The new year is now, one Monday away. What is the new year going to hold? At this point, I can barely tell. And, I can't even imagine what picture to paint. That just leaves a white, empty canvas of a year waiting to paint itself with time. I have never before begun a year like that. Have you?

I've been spending a lot of December reading, writing and being a culture-vulture. December always does that to me. It makes me very, very upbeat about people, and places and life. Look, there I am sifting through paperbacks arranged neatly in wooden shelves at the little Prithvi bookshop. And, then letting my hair down to loud, hip-shakin' music. Then, tuning into the radio, listening to carols till it's much too late (Tune in to 107.1 FM, will you). And, even putting up with people with different summers. Oh, December makes everything beautiful. Even the niggling worries spilling over from all the other horrid months of the year.

It is almost as if I want to remember the best snatches of the year. That night dancing in Goa, that evening languishing by the rocks at Carter Road. That last dinner together. That morning at the airport, waiting for the flight to Delhi. That evening I made a friend at the airport. That night I got all my family, and friends to play Taboo. It was such a riot. That lovely evening, when my parents celebrated 25 years. The day spent talking outside office. We were a fun team. That evening staring at the sea for ever so long, it could have swallowed me up. And, some of the times I swallowed what I really wanted to say.

And, now I don't know what to say. For it's the first Monday, I'm not looking back, I'm looking ahead. I'm looking at this evening in Bandra, and tomorrow evening in Colaba and the day after in a coffee shop. I'm thinking of Christmas eve, and Christmas. It won't be white, but it certainly won't be blue. I want to go carol-ing into the night. I'm thinking of lovely evenings by the sea. There are going to be many, yes. And, I'm thinking of all things girl-y. Books hurriedly read, and movies quickly watched...to cram a little bit more joy into this marvelous year. Oh, there are more friends to welcome back into this city.

I'm thinking suddenly of Decembers gone by. There's something about December, ainnit. Something about the song in the air, the joy in the step. Irrespective of the sadness your nursing, the love your yearning. And, irrespective of that sad song in the poor boy's eyes. In December, he too is dancing... Have you noticed?

[More Monday Musings here ]

Pause: Of Love

The other night I was watching a wonderful, simple and hilariously silly play, Perch's 'Moonshine and SkyToffee.' Somewhere along the way, the cynical bride-to-be's father hung on to love, and the fool it makes of us all. Love is a silly thing, he said. And, I smiled. Me, writer of all-too-intimate love-letters, me lover of love itself, me wobbly-kneed-dreamy-eyed romantic, smiled. Endearing, I thought. And, true too. Love is a silly thing. Indeed.

Ephemerally, my mind slipped over to the fool love makes of us all. And, I began then to think of a long time ago when we drew hearts on crush cards, and dawdled names on ruled paper. Then, my greatest fear was handing over the card, without being find out. Crumpling the ruled paper, before my friends got to it. Then, love was so simple.

Now, I began to think of beginnings, and of endings. In love, and in life too, I wonder if we are more concerned with beginnings, and with endings. Than with the all important middle. For the middle is where the turmoil is, the joy is, the learning is. The beginnings, and ends are definite. And, met with acceptance.

Of course, I couldn't entirely lose my heart to love. For indeed, the year seems much too long, without love. And, so much shorter, and out of breath, and beautiful with love.

To me now, love is a series of anonymous love letters, not one of which fully fathom the truth of love. It is a verse, I share with everyone I know. The verse goes: "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." To me, love is a series of misunderstandings, and complications I hear over phone calls, and all-night-long conversations. It is a smile, I see, on a blessed few.

But, most of all, it is an unending well in all of us. That allows us to smile through our tears, to smile despite our fears. To lend a helping hand. And, to share a shoulder too. It would seem as if 2009 has deepened that well. For me.

[Pause is an ongoing series of reflections by writers come together to capture people, places and moments from the year 2009. Pause ends on 31st December, 2009]

Pause: Of Chai, of conversations

Perhaps, you can never quite understand the joy of chai, until you wolf it down with buttered toast at a railway station in Goa. You can never quite savour it, unless you pour it out of a tea-pot, with a strainer, into tea cups at the Pune Club. And, you can never quite enjoy it fully unless you allow the tea to balm your hearts, soothe your nerves, and spill your secrets. For, what is tea, without conversation. Shared atop rickety, wooden stools in an old Mahim lane, shared within crusty white walls in Sant Nagar, New Delhi. In the second case, the tea was green, glistening, with leaves. The conversation was soulful.

And, what is tea, if not had at Prithvi Cafe where young minds meet in common desire. Oh, 2009, I think, how many conversations over chai you have held in Prithvi Cafe! Over cups of Suleimani Chai, we discovered new friendships, re found old ones. In those moments, we looked for hope. In those hours, we retraced time, and memories, and once even promised to rediscover our city, Mumbai. Year end, I can safely say, I found a Mumbai, I never knew existed.

Yesterday, as I had yet another cup of chai at the Cafe, I allowed my fingers to trace memories, to put little dots on happy days, and big crosses on moments I needn't remember, feelings I mustn't harbour. I must admit, it took me a while. A while to retrace the year, to find the moments that made it up. To leave the present moment, and revel momentarily in the past. I wonder if that is a good thing. Or, not such a good thing.

I can remember sipping chai atop a lovely terrace in Delhi. The chai was hot, black and gingery. It's slight sweetness lingered like the conversation that followed- we cast our fears onto the night sky, and set them out, to welcome a beautiful morning.

I can remember soaking endless cups of tea, with tears. We ran out of tea, but not conversation. The hungry hearts still bared. The tears spilled long after. I can remember sinking feet into pillows, over cups of lemon flavoured tea. And, merry chatter over honey-bit, and apple tea.

I used to be a coffee person...but it seems, in 2009, I have acquired a taste for tea. Or, perhaps, I have just grown to endear the flavour it leaves in the air, the lessons, lives, emotions it leaves in the open. And, the friends it helps me find...again, and again, and again.

[Pause is an ongoing series of reflections by Gayatri Makhijani, Udita Upadhyaya and other writers (I'll update this soon) that captures people, places and moments from the year 2009. Pause ends on 31st December, 2009]

Monday Musings - 27

This Monday, I am thankful that I am a writer. I am thankful that as writers, we are allowed to weave traces of ourselves, our hurts, and our joys into words. Little bits left around for the world, and ourselves. To read, and then re-read again in later times. For we are all the same. You and me, we feel the same pain, attempt to erase the same hurts, and are delirious with the same joy. I would like to believe that my pain is lesser, or perhaps, on a good day, my happiness is more. But, truth is we are all the same...our loves, our wants, our suffering.

But then again, I think, that writers, we need courage. And, sometimes I wonder if I will ever find it. Will I ever find the courage to tell you my deepest secrets? To put in words my tiniest fears? And, carve on paper my gravest hurts, just as they happen. I do not know. Or, perhaps I already do.

And, so maybe I want to write today, about the young girl who lost her mother. Her eyes are forlorn. About the look in a fathers' eyes, when he is angry. About the music man I was enchanted by when I was nineteen. About the time, I left a gang of pig-tailed school girls, for a world of farcical delights. It broke my heart. About the time I resented a dear friend, for who he really is. But, we seldom choose our friends, do we? And, we seldom bare our hearts.

Even as I writer, I attempt to cloak my sincerest feelings into distant words, sometimes. Just sometimes, when I am wary of what the world will know, and what the world will think. People are kind, but not too often. People are nice, but they never can share your pain. This Monday, I am thankful for those who share the moment, however.

For as the year rolls on, and time plays out...I keep learning life is never easy. And, yet we have a chance to find our joy. Like the joy I can remember from seeing my very first piece in print, at seventeen. I recollect, I ended the article with C'est la Vie. To me then, it seemed a fitting way to embark on what would hopefully be a long, fulfilling journey. It seemed so wise then.

Today, many years later...it still feels wise. It still seems as if what goes around, comes around. And, what will be, will be. Perhaps, it's a little easier to take life in, with that line, I think. C'est la vie...I wish I could put into words how it sounds.

[More Monday Musings here ]

Monday Musings - 26

A day short of December, and I can't help thinking back at the year, as it has been. What an incredible year, 2009. I am losing count of the number of new experiences, the number of new people, the number of delightful new places that have all made 2009 so, SO incredible. And, to think there is a whole month left, a whole 31 days. Going by the pace of the rest of the year, 31 days can make for fantastic new discoveries. In multiples of three, a day.

Take this weekend, for example. After a beautifully fulfilling Friday evening, Saturday I arrived at a bubbling Asangaon station. An hour and a half away from the central Mumbai city, Asangaon is a beautiful patch of (much-needed) green. We took a rickshaw to Mokashi farms, twenty minutes away. And, we were welcomed to brown soil, green grass, blue sky and (almost) endless time.

The afternoon was spent languishing over stories, secrets and board games. How many afternoons allow us the luxury of time, I ask? I shower to rinse of the thought, and the heat. And then like campers ought to, we learn to marinate our food. To then be barbequed. Under a starry sky, although we only count 5, we attempt to grill potatoes on a camp fire. Foil we learn, does not burn. And, babycorns we learn, seldom stay on a skewer.

But, there is something about knowing we tried....the times we tried, stay like stars we count in the sky. There's something about watching the stillness of a lake in the backdrop. Of watching the sun go down on tents- of all sizes. Of learning to pitch your own tent, in the dark. Of blowing air into air pillows. And, pulling up your sleeping bag in the middle of the night, because it is SO cold. And, then there's something about waking up to the sun licking your face, the Frisbee swirling by your tent.

Welcome to a Sunday morning where your hands are burned slightly, and you seek solace in delicious home-cooked Maharashtrian food. Potatoes, roti, a deliciously watery dal and chutney made of groundnut broken into little bits, and garlic left whole.

Something about the train ride back that reminds me I am whole. I can remember snatches of Delhi, and Gurgaon, of Alibaug, and Goa, and Manori, and Pune that all made up 2009. I can remember smiling faces left behind, either in time, or space, or in some cases both. I can remember discovering Mumbai, like I never had before. People, I thought I knew before. And, the ones I never knew, too.

I am brimming with life this Monday. I am bubbling over with joy. It is as if I want to catch and savour each moment of 2009 again. Relive every single one of those experiences that came with letting go - control. It feels as if it will all come back in the end- the things I left behind. But, I know, I wouldn't trade this time for anything else. Otherwise, I would have never learned. Not just beautiful things of life and this world like my time above. But deeper lessons that I am thankful for this Monday...


[More Monday Musings here ]

Monday Musings -25

Last night, I watched the Saif Ali Khan-Kareena Kapoor starrer Kurbaan. While some of you may argue the finer points, or even detest the movie altogether, I think Kurbaan had a fine story to tell. The story of how the terrorist mastermind works, of how innocence gets sucked in, and the act of terror itself. It is as if Kurbaan recounted of us, what we wish we could forget.

I happened to watch Kurbaan the same week I have been documenting tales of some affected by the 26/11 attacks, for a short remembrance series with a news wire. An assignment that has humbled me, beyond measure.

So, as I watched Kurbaan I could hear the tears in the voice of Vaishali Omble, the daughter of Tukaram Omble who was killed whilst nabbing lone captured terrorist Ajmal Kasab. After an hour of talking back and forth, Vaishali admitted all she really wanted to do is die. "I would rather die, than live to face all of this," she said. Her mother doesn't step out of the house, her older sisters are married. She has no brothers.

As I watched Kurbaan I could go over the bullet markets at the Chabad House over and over again. It wasn't merely a case of killing those who died. Every little inch of the Nariman House wasn't spared of a bullet mark. Does your God even tell you to kill so brutally, I ask? The moment I walked in to the Nariman (Chabad House) it almost seemed like a thrilling-adventure trail.

But then, I could hear the deeply disturbing voice of a young city Jew, David. He is twenty-two; he saw and held the Rabbi's body. It is sacred to kill a Jew, according to them, he tells me. If you kill a jew, you go straight to heaven. Then, he says, "The Rabbi couldn't be dead. It seems as if he was still alive." But, he wasn't. He wasn't. Just like the names on the memorial that hangs inside the Taj.

As I walked its lobby, I wondered...could everything really be the same again? And, as I watched Kurbaan I wondered could this world we live in change at all? I could only remember being saved from a terrorist attack, the grace of being a compartment away. Each time, I recount the story with nonchalance. I was the one who got away.

But so many others are forced to go on. Forced to go on in "faith that there will be peace on Earth, as it is in heaven." Because, there is only faith to live on. Terror is all around. And, that is all I can think of this Monday.

[No quotes can be picked off this blog post without permission. More Monday Musings here ]

30X30: The End

"Everything we do is fleeting. So unlike, everything we love."

That would be a fitting way to end 30X30. Thank you for staying with us.:)


[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: The city sky

Down the corner of a building called Sea Mist in Worli Koliwada, Mumbai runs a little lane into many lanes. Shops and houses dot the land, surprisingly for Mumbai, there is enough room to breathe. Just before you enter, is a little stall that sells food. We are prancing around for any food, and we stumble upon this father-son duo. Crowds throng a little stall- that's made up of a table and a stool.

'How safe is this food,' reads the light in our eyes. The gentle man allows us to sample small dot-sized Dal Vadas. There are bigger ones too. And, there are samosas, you can tell they aren't typical. I ask him what they are made of. Poha, onions, potatoes and chillies..instead of the usual potato stuffing.

I am about to pick the samosas. When a piping hot bowl of aloo vadas arrives, and he dishes them out with a spicy green chutney. Between us, we share. A little sampling of all things unique at this little stall in Worli, Koliwada.

Go there, will you? And, when you do find your steps to the centre of the colony. It's an open space; in the evening young children are practicing their Karate moves. Their cries dance with the wind. And, right in front of you is the sea. And nearby, yet in the distance, is the Bandra Worli Sea link. At just the point when the breathtaking bridge flies into an architectural delight. Arched poles greet the city and the sky. Such a sight to be hold.

'But city people rarely look at the sky,' my companion tells me.

[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Everyday Runaways

Mumbai is a city with few gardens. Perhaps in your large city of dreams, there are many gardens- immense, obese and beautiful. But, in our city, we have so few. Or, so I think. And, then too, almost none of us make the time to go to a garden. And, a garden in daylight...almost never. Perhaps, gardens are in our memories like picnics from school, so long ago. Perhaps, they are in our mornings, like the early morning walks we made it to. And, maybe in our evenings, the healthier evenings, the evenings well spent.

But, gardens in daylight are like time stolen. Time stolen from schedules that shouldn't give, and time stolen from families that don't give. There are couples- young, full of lust. They are hungry, for each other. And, some of them are shy. There are even couples that meet surrounded by groups of giggling girlfriends. Four girls watch on one girl with her lover.

And, then there are young boys, studying. In little nooks, under trees..they are sitting with ruled sheets of paper, scrawled handwriting and cheap paperbacks. Some are lost in thought. And, some are up to no good. Loafers lurk in corners; they make me almost afraid. Groups of girls sneak out of college and gossip. They watch me curious. I am a stranger, in a garden with familiar lurkers. I am a stranger, in a garden with familiar thieves. Thieves of time. Thieves of daylight drudgery. Like, everyday runaways.


[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Saturdays in the Train

Saturdays in the train are like little devils trying to make a holiday out of nothing. Young children prancing up and down narrow corridors, and passageways. And, tugging their mothers fancier-than-usual sarees. All laced in sweat, because on Saturdays too, the heat doesn't let up. It lets lose however, purse strings. Almost as if you deserve it now, this little lull of a slow train ride to somewhere. This little sprinkling of money spent on cheap, knock-off room stickers and oranges and little clips. Rich mothers buy hairbands and earrings in all colours- blue,purple, black and yellow..especially yellow to match clothes in all colours. Poor mothers buy one sticker, and refuse two clips. Little kids are now crying, or gushing happy depending on which side they are on. And, then they are watching each other. Children of more watching children of less, with smiles in their eyes. And, children of less, looking on. Curious, wide-eyed and still tugging at their mothers' fancier-than-usual sarees.


[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Woman in Love

As I watch her, I remember the song by Barbra Streisand, 'Woman in Love.' She is draped in a beautiful black burka, her eyes standing out like moons in a night sky. Her fingers reach for her cellphone; she is checking the time. You can tell, she is waiting for time to go by. As she nears her destination, her fingers reach out for a mirror in her purse. She checks her make-up. Little hands dab sweet-smelling cream onto her flawless skin. Then, she uses kohl, and a tint of red on her lips. Once she is done, she pulls out a tiny bottle of Ponds Dream flower Talc and dabs it on her skin. The little pink bottle goes back into her purse.

She checks in the mirror, once again. Then, she repeats the ritual. Completing it with a dab of the same flower talc. And, then once again.

Three times in a row. Before she pulls out black lace gloves, torn slightly, and slips them on. My eyes lose her, and then she is gone. The lady in black, the woman in love.

[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Dedication

Our lives our a dedication to the creator, God. Our movements a salutation to the universe created. To the mountains, and the seas...to explore, discover, enchant. Our actions a salutation to the people coexisting. To love, to learn from, to guide. Our talents to give back in gratitude. Our sadness to put up with in, in acceptance. Just as we are with our flaws...the world too comes with its jagged side, an uneven beautiful side. Our lives are a dedication to a little patch on the jagged side, to clear what little of it we can.


[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Of strangers and friends

I wish I could say it is easy to lose people you love. But, as I sit here, staring at a computer screen, surrounded by people I love, I know it isn't true. People come into our lives, their shapes and sizes ( personalities really) filling our little gaps and spaces. We were not made to be alone. And, we are made a lot for the people who come into our lives.

It never ceases to amaze me how beautifully our lives and beings ebb and flow, shape and reshape to make room for the people that come, and go from time to time. It is difficult, but wonderful to make room for strangers. To appear as always available. Then, you never know who you can bring joy to.

Of course, as time goes along...with joy comes trials. And, sometimes you lose people you love. Perhaps, it is on a stance of right versus wrong. Perhaps, it is over a trivial issue like time, orwork. Nonetheless, people often part ways. And, then it you began to realize the void, the spaces they fill.

As I write this, I can think of many such people in my life. I want you to know I am thinking of you. Until we meet at the same side of the bridge, you are being missed. Maybe for the long, ending phone conversations about life in minute details, that we no longer have. Maybe for the wake-up, girl-power sms'es my phone now misses. Maybe for the giant-sized hugs that are no more. Or, maybe just for you. Just for you and all the times we've laughed, giggled, smiled our way through this beautiful, beautiful journey called life.

I want you to know that my life is waiting to make room for you, again. Because the shapes you fill, are the shapes YOU fill. Nobody else, and nothing else compares. Even as strangers, even as friends.. our lives are made for definite roles, in definite moulds.

[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: November Rain

Secretly, I always hope for rain in November. For November Rain. It always comes without warning. It's always beautiful. And, it always brings an unexpected flutter of joy. Even when it reminds me of nights spent clinging to tear-dried headphones and listening over and over again to Guns n Roses' November Rain.Then, it was about a song that could fill the void. Two years ago it was about a fleeting joy, encapsulated in a piece of poetry. Now, November Rain is about the added dash of joy to happiness. It's about the uplifting in uplift-ment.

November Rain (2007)

And, the rain came down
Slowly; Hurriedly
Lashing against
Now-spent-umbrellas,
Hastily sputtered-up pakodas,
Black taxi-cabs
And neon blue light auto-rickshaws.

Lashing against
Toes stepped upon
by a hundred, frenzied toes
Hands chanced upon
by a hundred, hungry hands
New-found love,
Glances unreturned.

And, the rain came down
Joyously; Hurriedly
Lacing bittersweet cups
of warm tea
Serenading pebbled excuses-
for city-streets

Hurling happiness
Hurtling despair
Twirling, for just an instant,
The little girls
With big black eyes
And rancid hearts
Of never-ever.

And, oh how the rain came down
Joyously; Hurriedly.


[All title credits with the creators of the song that has inspired many. 30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Lullaby

What do you think of before
you sleep, I ask?
Are you angry, discontent
Or, perhaps at peace.
Maybe your lips are
mumbling in prayer
your heart is content.
Are you worried?

Are you bringing the covers
down on a day well spent,
was it a restless day?
Did you feel well,
did you push yourself
are you falling asleep much too tired?

Are you empty then,
or weeping like young lovers
and the forlorn-
are you quiet?

are you turning in to silence
to the sound of music on your headphones
to the sound of his breathing,
or hers?

Is your hand under your head,
wrapped in his, or hers,
or is left hanging, yearning?

do you fall asleep quickly then,
does it take you time? And, when
you wake in the middle of the night,
do you wait awhile?

No, don't tell me how you wake up.
Just tell me how you fall asleep.
And, is there a lullaby?

[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Rickshaws

We are riding past the lights, the waves, the stars that surround Juhu Beach in Mumbai, when my rickshawwala decides to engage in conversation. An interesting little conversational escapade ensues. The rickshawwala politely inquires, "Do people actually win money on television lotteries, on channels like E24?" I answer, "Almost never." Perhaps, I want him to lose his child-like starry ambition. Perhaps, I want to dissuade him from squandering his hard-earned money on lottery tickets. Or perhaps, I am just as cynical as him. As we ride along, his curiosity rambles along.

Why does Sridevi (Who he spotted outside Shoppers Stop in Juhu) have a falling jawline? It must from an injection to help her look beautiful, I tell him. Why do call-centre girls smoke so many cigarettes, he asks me? I do not know, I tell him. And, can his nephew (who is studying in college) join a Call Centre? He must know English, I tell him. He is afraid his nephew's English has a Bhojpuri accent. He is perturbed he is destined to a life of a rickshawwala too. How much is the rent in Mumbai, he asks me? More than in Delhi, I tell him. But, you don't earn as much in Delhi, as you do in Mumbai, he states. I look at him, incredulous. Oh yes, you do, you do!

Not as much as Bipasha Basu, who earns 10 lacs a minute, he reasons. I smile. He goes on to explain how interest on a minutes' earnings, could earn her enough for a lifetime. He tells me about girls in his rickshaw who were going dancing on New Years' Eve. He advised them to go watch Bipasha Basu, he tells me. "But she looks quite simple," he adds. "Even my wife looks better than her. Only thing, Bipasha Basu uses make-up." I secretly hope, he returns home and tells his wife what he thinks.

As he keeps with his tales of city girls, and city stars - he stops to ask me if he can continue to talk. And, a little later, as I alight and pay him my fare, he apologizes if he has spoken too much, or asked too many questions. I walk away knowing I have met a thorough gentleman. One with a Bhojpuri accent, at that.


[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Life

And, sometimes life is so beautiful, it makes you weep. Such a circle of mending, and fulfilling itself. Such a journey of learning, and enriching your being. Such an experience to delight in. I can see joy in the littlest things, make stories out of the smallest, most mundane things. Life's purposes and plans can be entirely enjoyable. Difficult, but beautiful. Beautiful enough to make you weep. Like the sound of the soft blues number flowing into your little blue room.



[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: 2005

Back in 2005, I used to blog at Nuances. I was 19; Nuances was my first blog. It got hacked and shut down by another user in 2006, but thankfully a dear subscriber and friend helped me recover most of my work. I was sifting through it in an old mailbox today, and I found something I wanted to go back to. Something I wanted to re-read:


"And it's all so cold outside. And my mind swirls in emotion, my heart in winter rain. Sometimes, you look to the world for answers. But essentially, you know, they all lie deep within. And sometimes when you seek, they all lie so lost in your being, you find nothing. And you lie there between all that is real and unreal. Often, you find love, and then you lose it. You find hate, and it stays with you forever. And then you find the kind of love, that warms your soul. That seeks joy in simplicity. And you lose that too. To worldly sins. And you make peace, with yourself. You no longer feel the need to writhe in desire. Or scream in anger. What comes you way, so be it. So, you sit there in the windy night, and shiver. And sob. And know that, that was all yesterday. And today, its yesterday, gone away. The yesterday, that felt one with the universe. The yesterday, that loved, dreamt, caressed. That seeked nothing but itself. That yesterday, gone away."


[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30:Untitled

I can stare at the sea for hours
We are affluence
watching it from atop
white, endless waves
take me to far away?

I can stare at the sky for hours
Blazing lights all in a line
Airplanes flying furiously
from sky to ground
Don't bring me back, will you?

Let dreams, like waves
find new shores
not frolic like
wastrel children lying on
sand at 1'o clock AM
catching flying ten
rupee notes.

I can stare at their eyes for hours.
Young, forlorn
lost for love.
Spend it unwisely, I almost think,
little one
Just do something that makes
you smile
Do something that makes you
smile.

Another airplane comes roaring by,
Another wave goes galloping away.


[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Revelation

As we lingered over cheese crackers and tea yesterday, I realized it is easy to take the good out of everything. To take the acceptable from People. Places. Religion. To accept the things we like. And, to squash it out for the facts that make us uncomfortable, the aspects that aren't appealing to our sensibilities. People. Places. Religion. To weave it into a convenient little mesh of all things that aren't uncomfortable to our selves, and our lives. Bound to get us caught in sometime, somewhere...I reckon.


[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: The WatchMaker

It would seem as if a city - noisy, ugly, struggling to survive - would be devoid of an honest business-man. Or, at least not without a man unwilling to make an extra buck. But, I found him, I did. Outside a little garage in the West of Andheri, I found an honest WatchMaker. A fair-skinned man of Muslim faith ,sitting to work with a hundred little things that make up a watch.

He sits outside a rickety garage shop, that trades in used articles. His work station is a little table and chair. This minuscule space earns him his livelihood. Each day, he turns repair-man to the many expensive watches that Andheri hands bare. And, the imitation variety too. The WatchMaker, I'm certain can tell the expensive from the inexpensive...the real from the knock-offs.

I go up to him, to fix a watch strap. He is done in seconds, and asks for a sum of a mere Rupees 5/-. I have no change, and hand him a twenty. He haggles with nearby workers for change, but finds none. I tell him to return Rupees 10/-, I know I can afford an extra Rs. 5/- to a Watchmaker. But, he doesn't budge. And, refuses to take the Rs. 5/- even.

I am forced to turn with a repaired watch, and not a penny lost. From the corner of my eye I can see a crisp ten-rupee note sitting on his table. And, a man who chose to be an honest business man. And, not make an extra buck. Oh, Watchmaker, your purity, made my Sunday!


[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30:Simplicity

Tonight,
all I know is
the moon is out,
and, the stars, they carry an answer.

Tonight,
all I see is
vast endless sky
grey for miles, like forever

Tonight,
all I hope is
dreams like light
blaze grey skies

Tonight,
all I need is
your hand like love
to hold me,
carry me,
help me...

into tomorrow.

[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Of Cities and Hope

And, it would seem then that of all the cities you fall in love with; the cities you love the most are the ones in which you find hope.

[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Fragments

Does it bother you that some of the most significant moments of your life are blurs of memories? Like clouds from a time long ago. White, puffy and ethereal. I can catch, remember and savour only fragments of the time. The time that shaped my love for writing. In a dingy, hole-in-the-wall in 4 Bungalows. I was thirteen-years-old. And, my mother had enrolled my sister and me in a Raell Padamsee summer workshop.

I cannot remember the name of the workshop, but I know I have the certificates saved for posterity. I cannot remember the name of the teacher, but I can remember distinctly his black grizzly beard, his youthful exuberance. I can remember looking forward to each class.

And, I can remember my bit-sized, ten-rupee notebook wrapped with silver paper and plastered with stickers. I can remember sheets of printer paper I misused to write stories, because sometimes writing is about the paper you use. And, the size of the font. And, the colour of the pen.

We used to have writing exercises. We had to create stories and use words beginning with a letter of the alphabet. So, one day a story was about Gareth the grizzly gardener, and another day there was a story on the bear who wouldn't bare. The more words you used whilst twisting the plot, the higher your ranking.

I remember secretly hoping for that A plus. Or, that little star. Or, a very good sealed in pink ink upon ruled paper. And, in that little room lost in the dark, with a window for good measure, I remember falling in love with the power of words. The excitement of turning them into stories, and using them, and challenging them.

I cannot remember his name, but I know whom to thank. The man with the grizzly beard, and the encouraging smile. Who led me to write. Of course then on, like anyone who loves what they do will agree, it has been a journey of constant learning and unlearning. But a journey of growth.

Somewhere in the middle, I can remember creating a alternate email address. I held a fascination for life lessons, and I remember sending out Emails to friends with little snippets. This was in tenth grade, and I think I wanted to change the world. With emails. I think of it and smile. I do not have those Emails, but now I wonder if somebody, somewhere does. Ah, time sometimes leaves its trail in fragments.

[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Afternoon

Afternoon then
lulls along
Long hours of incumbent,
angry sun. Sometimes too cold,
or too gradual as wives
await husbands
in houses with curtains.
And, husbands gather
fortunes.

Fortunes often squandered on
afternoon ladies' lunches and deceitful
husband-other woman
siestas
in buildings where lonesome
wayward students flock
to smoke cigarettes
and decipher lust.

Afternoon
when beggars hang around trees
Afternoon
when midday papers reek scandals
Afternoon
when business folk struggle through work

Using paper doodles
And garam adrak chai
And an apple packed from home
to survive.

Afternoon
When sisters evade brothers
and mothers occasionally discover husbands
In yellow light,
across now cleaned hallways
and two-minute telephone lines.

[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Hope

Of late, I've been thinking a lot about hope. A four letter word that threads through our lives, adding a glimmer of light. Allowing us to traverse the everyday trials, the long hauls and the dejection with equal flourish. Helping us through heartbreaks, and aches...through longing and the niggling troubles of loving. Goading us through failures and successes, holding us through friendships that disappear and the ones we struggle to stay. And, even allowing us through simple dismays like the rickshaw that wouldn't stop, the bus that fled away, the burning sun that stays.

What do you base your hope on, I ask? Perhaps, you hope on the sweet promise of love. Or, the ever yielding journey of life. Maybe, you hope on success. Or, maybe you hope on God, all encompassing. I do believe such hope is beautiful. Tell me however, have you lost hope? Have you let it slip away to nowhere, dissolve into nothing? How does it feel? Life must be weary, without hope.

But, with hope life is joyous. Long journeys to seemingly small quests, patience through tiresome arguments, waiting on time itself are all a little easier because of hope. The hope that this too shall pass. The hope that this will teach us, and make us better and stronger. The hope that our love will then be sweeter. The hope that life will soon yield more.

How beautiful it is to hope, I think. And, even more beautiful to hope with joy. To hope through joy. Not a sullen wait on glory, but a smile for a smile. I do hope you always hope.


[ 30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Jugaad on the Street

Not so long ago, I was working on a campaign that used the Internet to seek out entrepreneurial talent. A part of the project, was a fun segment by a teammate entitled ‘Jugaad on the Street’ that showcased street entrepreneurs from across India. The other night at Connaught Place, I was reminded of this project. I was reminded of the little twist street entrepreneurs give ordinary ventures, and turn successful.

ThePaan store at Connaught Place is a shining example of this. Bustling with people late into the night, the store serves paansof all kinds. There’s Kulfi paan, Chocolate paan, Goondi paan and even Chuski paan. Dished out rapidly, one after another, to all kinds of people. Surrounding the store are workers, collegians, young couples and old families. The smiling man at the store busies himself readying paan, stopping not even to take a phone call. That's in all likelihood from another eager customer.

Of course, you must try the Chuski paan. He hurriedly puts in the basic ingredients that go into a sweet paan. Then, he brings out a slab of ice, crushing it into little crunchy pieces and stuffs it into the paan. Before you can change your mind, he pushes the paan into your mouth…the ice melting just a little after you are jumping from the sudden tinge of cold. It's fascinating to watch new faces delight from the experience, over and over again.

The Chocolate paan is chocolate-y just right, and the Goondipaan is bit-sized and distinctly flavoured. At the cash counter, an old man with a big moustache sits. I wonder who came up with the innovative paan varieties. Could it be the somber old man, or the dynamic young fellow? I am not sure, I realize much later. Even as the cold now lingers in the air, and jugaad finds a way at the tollbooth.

[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Dinner

We are sitting to dinner at Mrs. Sharma's house. Dull conversation lulls the evening along. One tiresome moment, after another. In talking about nothing, we have spoken about everything. Debauched television shows, unending maid woes and our horrid little neighbours. We are seated upon divans from Delhi, overlooking a garden through glass, and munching on salted peanuts from Abu Dhabi. Mrs. Sharma is well-to-do.

Long, winding, uninspiring conversation is bearable amidst such luxuries. Soft, patterned napkins and polished silver cutlery; luxuries my mother never permits. My eyes drift continually to the paintings upon beige walls, to the cracks upon weathered walls. Dinner is finally served.

Piping hot fulkas, sweetened yellow dal and a spicy kobhi bhaji line the table. We savour each bite, eating noisily. Chattering mindlessly. Mrs. Sharma is her usual bustling self. Tall, lanky, gaudily dressed and terribly impatient. She watches me eat, until I can eat no more. And, then she calls out to Puneeta to bring the desert.

Old, dreary, almost shriveled Puneeta walks in to the room. Mrs. Sharma tell us she has been working there for many years. Mrs. Sharma doesn't tell us what an efficient worker Puneeta is. She only goes on watching my mother, and father eat.

Puneeta, however has some dismal news. The sugary, home-cooked dal halwa isn't ready yet. Mrs. Sharma glares at her. Angrily, she asks her why. Puneeta silently walks away. Old, ugly Mrs. Sharma follows her in and begins to scream. And then, suddenly without warning, there is a thud. Mrs. Sharma pulls up her hand, and lands it deafeningly on Puneeta's scarred face. We rush to our feet. Only to remain silent spectators to ten minutes of urban insanity.

Hours later, as I watch the moon, from my white window, I am uneasy. Rage bubbles within me, and spills into nothingness. Puneeta's face wafts through my mind, guilt gnaws at my insides. I am hot, brimming tears...loud, angry sighs all at once. Then, my sobs soften in to a dreamless sleep.

Sometimes, even hope doesn't yield in wretched Shyam Niwas.

[I have a bunch of stuff penned, but haven't been able to put up posts owing to a lack of Internet connection. Will be made up by tomorrow. 30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Commando

I love stories. I love listening to tales of ruin, and tales of conquer. Taking in tales of hate, tales of love and tales of life. I think stories make life worth living. And, I hear many stories, when I am in a cattle-cab to Saket. The dilapidated white van is brimming with passengers, including Commando: Tall, burly, flowery-shirted Commando from Beneras in the Uttar Pradesh. He speaks a fluent Hindi and slips into occasional English.

He tells me of a funny accident he had a little after the NH8. He was cruising on his motorbike at a speed of 45km/hr and taking a quick call on his cell phone. Out of nowhere, he spots a white Maruti 800 right in front of him. The headlights weren’t turned on. For most, it would have been too late. But, not for Commando! He cleverly jumped off his bike and landed on the roof-top of the white Maruti 800. His bike fell to the wayside. The frightened driver didn't know what had happened, and couldn't find Commando. He feared the worst. Until, he saw a grinning Commando sitting atop his car. That's Commando for you. Narrating tales of murder, shootings and family banter with an easygoing smile.

He talks of a male friend who picked up a blue washing machine and an even blue-er refrigerator on a whim. Imagine the wife's dismay when they returned home. A ghastly, overbearing blue greeted her in two. Commando tells us the fight went on for hours. The woman raved and ranted; the husband maintained a silence. Only to eventually say: "All these years, you've showed off your purchases from in varied colours and patterns. I've never said a word; even shared a smile. The first time I bought something I liked, this is how you react." The wife immediately smiled. A lesson for all us women, I think.

Do you know, Commando tells me, on this highway over 50 employees were killed in private cabs last year? I am unnerved. And, I am also curious: Why does everyone call Commando, Commando? So I learn his magnificent story. Commando, a National athlete, who joined the Paramilitary force and then an Advertising agency. After a six-month training program, Commando joined the National Security Guards force operating in Naxal-populated and other areas fighting terrorists.

Once, he narrates, they spent a night fighting infiltrators in Nagaland. In the morning they learned, they had lost 8 of their men. The reason: the clever infiltrators had disguised themselves in the same uniform as the Commandos. They set their radio frequency to the same frequency and listened into conversation, passwords, etc. Imagine waking up to know you have killed your own men over such a blunder. Commando too has killed many men. And, then found his way out of the army, hoping to find a job as a sports coach. He landed up in an Animation-cum-Computer institute, and spent hours mastering the mouse, the keyboard and then on design software. Friends of friends were kind enough to land him a break in the advertising circuit. This was several years ago.

And, Commando was kind enough to share his stories. Time and time again. For life is as much about sharing your stories as it is about discovering them. As I sip black ginger, black tea a little later, I murmur a Thank-you to Commando. A Thank-you to the storytellers of the world.

[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Yellow

Diaries
Coldplay
The colour of your deathly eyes
The sound of thought transforming to words
The light of God speak
The light at the end of the tunnel
The swirl in Mango Ice cream
The colour of the summer sun
The smell of flowers in bloom
Butterflies flitting in happiness
Sickness
The feeling of mellow
The feeling of letting go
The feeling of it being snatched away
The sound of child-like joy
The death of an angel
The lace of oil in Indian dal
The colour of her shirt, when you looked at her
The light in her hair

The promise of a morning
The stillness at the end of a yellow day.

[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Band on the Run

I can almost feel the song as it ebbs and flows, collapses and gathers pace - Paul Mc Cartney and the Wings' 'Band on the Run.' I can remember it playing and looping off a silver compact disc, handed down from a friend to dad to me. I can remember it break many silences. And, I can remember it as I am seated at the Chatrapati Shivaji Domestic Airport, Mumbai. It's 5'o clock in the morning, and three white-skinned men have taken to their guitars. I do not know who they are. I do not ask where they are from. Sometimes when there is music, you need nothing else. Just the sound of their Spanish tango that fills the air. Just the image of their gleeful smiles, delirious with music. And, just the simplicity of two local Indians, in high-waist pants...father and son, watching them on.

A band at the airport. Almost like a band on the run. Shows me why I love Mumbai, and why I love music. "Well, the rain exploded with a mighty crash as we fell into the sun, And the first one said to the second one there I hope you're having fun. "


[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30:Stay

A dream is dying in flat number 57B. Wails are breaking out from its walls and seeping into the corridors of wretched, old Shyam Niwas. Nobody runs for help. Hands stir pans, pots slip from nimble fingers and the aroma of a spicy mango curry fills the air. Life goes on, like nothing has happened, and no one can hear. And, little Mahua from flat number 57B continues to break out into painful, agonizing sobs.

Moments earlier, Mahua was found entwined with a pair of skinny legs and chequered shirt – bright, bare and busy. Her angry father pulled her across the mosaic, dragging her into the kitchen of flat number 57B. Her mother followed, only to bang the door shut.

Silly Mahua, they say. Silly, lustful Mahua. Running after a miserly man, of no standing. Dancing about a clerk from Pushpanjali Associates. Holding on to a dream so wretched, her father would rather die. Words seep into one ear, then travel to another, and then another. Hollowing out so quickly, the walls of miserable Shyam Niwas.

I am tempted to remind them of our own standing. We are all born out of middle-class mosaic, bred within banal blue walls and destined to marry ordinary men from ordinary worlds. It is foolish to seek beyond our standing. Why then must Mahua be reduced to Shyam Niwas mockery? Perhaps, it is her tangled flesh, and his youthful cockiness.

They started out with such sweet love. Manav and Mahua. Little teenagers that found each other across swings and around mountains of dried green grass. Young lovers with upturned smiles, and gawky scrawlings in college notebooks. Forever sweethearts, with no fear, and delicate hearts.

Delicate hearts twisted and moulded by the vagaries of time, and lust, and deceit. Into a mass of naked hunger and fearful fervour. Caught unaware, upon the steps of old Shyam Niwas, fifty-three steps from flat number 57B.

Mahua’s sobs echo well past dinner and after-dinner banter. Her cries fill the musty night air. Drowning out the noise of stray dogs, blaring cars, and the squabble in 52C. Her dreariness fills my heart with grief. Reminding me briefly of his lingering touch, his hoarse, divine voice. Lost quickly to time, and other such demons.

As I cradle her sorrow, and allow it to mingle with mine...I think perhaps, it is wise not to let love through the doors of Shyam Niwas. Its old, crumbling walls are built not for love, nor happiness. But harbour only hurt, and hatred. Even as I hear Mahua quieten, even as her father’s voice disappears into the night, I do not break my resolve.

Why make love stay in venomous Shyam Niwas?

[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Filth

In the corner by the street, garbage reeks. Upon cold, cloudless skies...crackers are flung. On brown, beautiful earth they fall. Grey ash leaves a trail. And, some of us follow it, to meet a cement structure...and then another. Tall, large, looming, obese. Within walls, unhappy families breathe. Breathe air laced with carbon monoxide. Air laced with the smell of left overs from yesterday. Air devoid of the promise of tomorrow. For within walls, broken families live. Their lives entangle, and entwine with other broken lives. A mesh of anger, jealousy, hatred ensues. Within walls secret wrongs are committed, in freedom. Upon windows illicit lovers meet. Against time childhoods are lost. In pursuit, money is gained...and money is lost. In celebration too, all is not well. Minds wail and dirt still lies settled. On a good day, love stops...but for awhile. Filth it seems, prevails.

[I wish we could all pledge to cleanse. 30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Evening

Like paintings,
lone ships
hang by sunsets.
Women folk
gather their skirts
And, men break into
gossip.

Simmering,
chillies are burned
and in other houses
wine is poured into
glasses. Some
prefer warm milk.

Greased hands
break puris,
blackened feet
kick stones in glee.
The joy of turning
home. Some feet
of course, trudge
along.

In town squares
fights seek
right from wrong.

Some eyes
study school books,
others lust beauties
on streets...some
settle to await the
hope that night brings.

Some fingers find
hands, some point
angrily and others
chop, dance, type.

Noise burns out into
the streets, without
a whistle: vanishes.
Air suddenly turns
still. Hoarse voices
break into a hush.

Without warning,
without signal
and without a chance
Evening is lost.

And, with it...
A day too.

[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30X30: Idiosyncrasies

Little bits of Delhi NCR, since I've been here a month:

1. It's not Maggi, it's Wai Wai: Of Course, you know that.
2. Proof of Punjabi pride: A snippet of conversation, "Person: "Main Dilli ka nahi hoon. Main toh Punjaaabi Aadmi hoon. Bas Punjabi khaana, aur Punjaabi gaana."
3. No Sweat: For geographically challenged me, not sweating in Delhi was quite a discovery.
4. Rickshaws aren't autos: There are auto rickshaws and there are cycle rickshaws. Which means, there are autos and there are rickshaws. In that order.
5. Rent for Real: The concept of expensive rent is bizarre. Person: "Oh Saket. The rent there is very expensive. Like 9000 bucks!" Saket by the way is a relatively posh area.
6. Auto-less NH8: Well, almost. They manage to sneak their way in, until a little exit just before the toll gate.
5. Winter, not Winters: But you know that too!:)
7. Hmm, Bengalis: There's this whole Bengali vibe thing going on here, which I just can't figure:|
8. Momo Love: They're delectable. Inexpensive. Addictive.
9. Multi-cultural Indeed: Koreans, North East Indians, South Indians, English Folk, North Indians...quite an eclectic mix.
10. The Cellphone Nightmare: Airtel sets a Rs. 500/- Credit Limit. Vodafone keeps killing your network. And, often doesn't have a store for miles. Reliance randomly decides you haven't submitted your papers. Sigh.
11. Dang! It's dented: Every other car in Delhi is dented. And, cars are spilling out of houses.
12. Honestly, Dishonest: Rickshaws openly admit to charging you Rs. 20-30/- above the meter fare. They even turn on their meter for proof.
13. Disco Delhi: I was whoopie excited to watch locals doing the disco at a popular pub.
14. Jaat is a Dialect: Or, a tribe. Or, a set of people the average Delhi-ite dislikes. Maybe you could help me here?
15. Delhi has an accent: A nasal twang, that's growing on me:|

[If you add your own, this could be fun:) 30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

30x30: Sacred

I wonder sometimes,
if this could be,
Us no longer stealing time
Us unafraid in our love.

If I could wake up then,
to the echoes of your voice
before the night's sleep,
to the sound of joy
gliding broken
hearts.

I wonder if we could continue
to thaw?

And this could be us
alone and together
across highways
and dinner tables
and life, in general.

This could be, couldn't it?

Or would it be too much
to ask for, too much
yearning and too
easy. But, if you must know,
this too is uneasy.

I watch you then -
A star in a faraway sky.
A voice so distant.

If only.

(30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

Monday Musings - 24

By the side of where I am currently staying, there is a charming open air market called Galleria Mall. I have succumbed to its many delights including the sprawling Lakme Salon and Depauls cold coffee; I have also given in to its local pronunciation, a watered down Indianised version of what really is a lovely French name. Galleria market is this delightful assortment of inexpensive and expensive stores. And, there are always a few more stores, each time I go around.

Vegetables, fruits, momos and handloom Indian wear surround a circular waterfall that lies in the centre of the marketplace. I love sitting by the fountain, catching my breath…catching up with a friend. Life here has been fast-paced, and it’s lovely to sit down and watch the water fall; allowing only the sound of local artisans to interrupt the rhythm of peace. As I watch people pass by, there are always a few familiar faces, each time the tickin’ clock goes around.

Sitting there, I think of the people I have encountered. I think of the talented artist from Assam, the high-energy Bombay man, the cook from Bengal. I think of children of the Army, children from the Doon school, and the man from Chandigarh. There is such a thing as Punjabi pride, I have discovered. And, there is such a thing as succulent kebabs cooked in a handi; cooked to perfection. There are newer stories, each time the sun goes around.

Could I say then I have learned to marvel at life’s unpredictability. Have I succumbed to its charming adventurous side? Have I let go off worry? Perhaps, that really is the only way to be. It is easy to think of things as they would be, when they go wrong. It is easy to fret about what will happen, at the worst. But it’s better still to not think about it. And, occasionally dream of how it would be, if all went off as hope allows. It’s easier to get by, as life goes around.

And so, I am thinking of faces old and new this Monday. I am eager to embrace familiar faces, and I am eager to welcome unfamiliar too. For unfamiliar will someday turn familiar …an adventure could some day turn routine too. Or, it could just be that…a little slice of life laced with what never has been, and what never will be. I do not know. But, I know, I’d rather be on the bright side…

Allows you to smile at the coincidences, laugh at the idiosyncrasies, take in the grating side of novelty as experiences…does it not?

[More Monday Musings here ]

Monday Musings - 23

I wish I had something to say this Monday. But the truth is I really don't know where to begin. On this chilly, rainy day that signifies the onslaught of winter in this alien city, I am bereft of words. I can think only of the rain. I can remember yesterday's skies part, the sun let out the clouds. I can remember the feel of a slight drizzle, of the wind playing truant. I can remember the sound of the music. So beautiful, it blended with the wind.

I can remember yesterday, for the joy in its air. I can remember saying thank-you. I was so thankful for what has been done, and what will be done. Imagine when the rain falls, and it is so beautiful, you know that tomorrow can only be what you hoped for. Today, is that tomorrow. I'm wondering what to make of this. I do not know. I do not know why words tremble out of my fingers. I do not know why I chose to write a musing every Monday. I do know why some days are so lonely, and others so beautiful. I do not know why I must be so childishly hopeful.

I realize this now, and I realized this yesterday, as I was strolling about the bustling Sarojini Nagar market that there are somethings we will never know. Even in retrospect, they fall into place...we will not know why they really happened. Perhaps, that is all that I can make sense of this Monday. I will never really know why the aeroplane danced onto the runway at the Domestic Airport, Delhi. Or why the days that followed were a string of uncanny coincidences.

I will not know why I found two long lost friends in Delhi, one in the same building as I am currently staying. I will not know why the only other girl in my team, shares the same beliefs as me. I will not know why it rained on the one day I knew no hope in Delhi. Why I love terraces, and why I was allowed the pleasure of looking down from one everyday for three weeks. I will not know why I happened often to be in the right place..at the right time. And, how I managed so easily through situations that would otherwise cause me to break down...

I can think only of these things this Monday. And, perhaps this is all I can write about too. That I have learnt, to sometimes live through the moment. It's hard...but when the rain comes down a drop at a time, I do not complain. Like the joy it overwhelms me with.. life too sometimes falls into place a drop at a time. And each drop is often painstakingly far apart. But, it falls...and the joy, the joy is just the same...if not evermore.

[More Monday Musings here ]

Monday Musings - 22

As I alight from the State Transport Bus from Delhi to Gurgaon, I am greeted by a shriveled-up, middle-aged man on a cycle-rickshaw. He takes me from the bus-stop to my area of residence, ten minutes away, for twenty rupees. I hand him thirty. Riding a cycle with a passenger and luggage, is no easy task. But these men have no other means of supporting their families. And, Gurgaon has no other means of public transport.

A city of paradoxes, is Gurgaon. Tall, looming, oddly-shaped glass buildings that bow down to sprawling concrete roads. Old rickety state transport buses that collide with paper-fragile cycle rickshaws. Cows that lazily align its highways. And delicately crafted, over grown houses...with small families. I cannot tell, if I like this city.

I cannot tell if I like Delhi too. If I like it for the police-man who lends a phone, when there is no other way to make a call. For the auto rickshawala who makes an honest, dishonest deal. For the pot-pourri of cultures it so beautifully holds. For the Koreans, the Chinese, and the English it welcomes. For the North-East Indians who crowd its marketplaces.

Or, the young students who find their streak of rebellion in its open spaces. Political enthusiasts, feminists and wastrels. I have encountered them in hordes. I cannot tell if I like Delhi for its men who whisper sweethearts in its winding lanes. And, I cannot tell if I like it for the parathawala who dishes out oily paneer parathas to hungry minds through the night. Or, the debauched who crowd its air with their greed.

Young, naive, wide-eyed girls who lie gazing into nothing in its bars. Old, white-skinned men watch on. I cannot tell if I like Delhi for the lust that hangs in its air. Amidst direction-less college going boys. Amidst high-heeled women falling to floors. And, young couples who just tipped of a bar-man.

Perhaps, I do not like it for its deceit...when a scoundrel asks for parking money in a no-parking zone. Or, for its anger that smokes out of fights in cars, and fights on roads. And, perhaps, I like it for its warm, friendly smiles. For its houses that are open, at all times. For its large heart, that often drives out silence.

And, then brings it back again. For humanity too, is laced with paradoxes, I reckon. Humanity is utterly disappointing. And, completely fascinating. People are wretched, and people are beautiful. And, I am thinking of them this Monday.

I am thinking of the smiles they bring, and the voids they leave. The tears they pull out, and the fulfilling they sing...


[More Monday Musings here ]

Untitled - 5

Words are flying out
of worlds
into air;
the table lamp shines
out their existence.

They hang like speckles
of dust in mid-air
they swirl with each turn
of the shadows
in the distance.
(The room is made in wood.)

They linger like
foam before it
melts, they stay
like love after it dies

And they fall upon
the chatai
joining layers of
memories left from
new and old feet
and lovers
and cold feet.

-X-

I ask them for their company,
I ask them to stay awhile.
I ask them to hold me
in the darkness.

To keep my sorrows
Unfurl my joys
(Like God himself)

Like blotted whitepaper
that reeks of old love,
and old hope;
I ask them to remind.

-X-

Words, they never disappoint.

Monday Musings - 21

As my conversation with her ended, her big bag spilled open, and out came a broken watch and bits of old silver paper. She began then to tell me her story of love, and the watch; I began to think of the things we never leave behind, the things we take with us everywhere we go. Like the smell of hot, burning Suleimani chai at the Prithvi cafe that smells of open hearts, and willing tongues.

Like the old, frayed picture of you and your sister clasping hands, brimming smiles. Like the smell of the city of Mumbai - forlorn, filthy and almost serene. Like images of stairways that lead up to once familiar hallways. Old offices, or houses, or lovers, perhaps.

Like ticket stubs from bus routes once familiar, like train tickets to far away. Like broken bangles you picked up with a once best-friend at the flee market. Like the smell of chlorine from your everyday swimming pool. Like the sound of your house in the morning. Quiet, melancholy? Bursting, bubbling. Like the sound of your house when you return. Like the brush of saltwater as it laces your aching feet.

Like that warm hug you sometimes come home to. Like the smile on your fathers' face. Like movie tickets from our first movie together. Like soiled tissue paper from last night's dinner. Like cement stuck to the soles of your favourite shoes. Like gallis you meander through each day, like laughter you couldn't stop.

Like Smses stored for tomorrow. Like a yellow diary you scribble in, like a tube of drying nail paint you keep, only because your best friend gifted it to you. Like your computer, or your camera, or your bag, or anything it took you awhile to own. Like your first pair of denims you never want to let go. Like your scrawny legs from school.

Like the sound of the arrival of a local train, like the recorded voice that stays in your head, long after. Like bhajji wali banter, like the purring Hello, like the view from your window. Like the slight graze of his hand that forever stays. Like the little pouch, somewhere within, where all lies safely tucked in.

To savour, to go over. Like Mondays with memories, and Mondays with quiet moments. Mondays that remind you of traversing time, of the things you don't let go, never leave behind...

[More Monday Musings here ]

Monday Musings -20

The Sunday before yesterday, a group of us made our way to Kihim near Alibaug, not too far away from the city of Mumbai. Amidst a picturesque house, sprawling sand and an endless sea we learned the art of speaking, we learned to challenge our writing. And, we listened intently to poetry, to prose, to the promise of the sea, and the sun as it melted into night. To the sound of mosquitoes, the play-swing swirling in mid-air, and sand as it rustled beneath weary feet.

As we took the narrow road back home, I contemplated talking versus listening. And, I decided to listen. I listened to the wind whispering through the trees. I listened as it transformed into blaring city horns, into music pouring out of rickety speakers, into rain as it splattered to the ground, meeting its fate.

I listened as I took the winding road home from the station. I listened to the story of the rickshawwalla , who wanted to talk. I discovered his tale of family woes. I learned of his cyber cafe business that shut down. I learned of why he took to the rickshaw. Because, he wasted away his college years, gambling and drinking.

And, I listened as my house-help lamented her family affairs. Little tales of how her scoundrel husband drinks beer, not alcohol. Loves his mother, not her, his wife.

And, on Saturday, I listened to the sound of an older India, of an older world at the Khadi Graham Udyog at Fountain, Mumbai. An archaic, immense store that sold little Indian treasures at prices from ten years ago. Khadi kurtas, and gemstone earrings, and herbal beauty secrets, and sandalwood art-pieces.

All sold through a rustic cash-register with a sound, that resounds. And, all packaged in handmade bags, and billed on recycled paper that glaze against purple bags, and mirror-work bags, and whatever have you bags.

This Monday too, I can hear the sound. I can hear the sound of paper against cloth, of waves against walls, of hearts against minds, and as Dylan would say of answers in the wind. And, this Monday too, I am learning to listen...

[More Monday Musings here ]

Monday Musings - 19

Off Mahim station, there's a little lane that runs along the opposite side of the Mumbai Wall Project site. A swirl of dust,kirana stores and hutments welcome you as you step in; and if you are me, welcome you everyday. An everyday that no longer is. On a Monday as free and mellow as this, I am thinking of that lane by Mahim station, of its warm welcome, of an office that resides in it.

I am thinking of the steps on which we shared many a story, and spilled many a secret...I am thinking of planks of cement where we found many a 'creative idea.' Over cups of hot, sugary tea in plastic cups, not glass ones. Of the smell that greeted us at the chai-wala- a mix of fresh tea, Mumbai sweat and a faulty bathroom pipe in the building above.

I am thinking the bhel-wala and the spicy concoction he would toss up to soothe our burning hearts. And, the sandwich store that served the cheapest, most wholesome salad sandwiches I've ever had at a mere Rs. 7/-. I am thinking of the quaint little bakery that found its place amidst industrial shops. Heavenly deserts, lunch saviours and happiness chocolates. And the little snack corner that shut down; I am saddened by this thought. A quiet old man with many stories started the store selling chicken ham and mayonnaise sandwiches, and then it shut down.

I am thinking of him, and the man who fried vadas serving piping hot breakfast to hungry Mumbai workers every morning. I am thinking of the grand white gate, we would swing a step on...to an office without windows. That was brimming with love, with work, with happiness, with anger, with passion, with success and the occasional failure. Bursting of stories, bursting with secrets; welcoming people and bidding them Goodbye.

I am thinking of the people who make our working life a little easier, a little more comfortable. I am thinking of nights spent searching for answers, and solutions in the moonlight. I am thinking of taking-off to places not so far away, and letting ourselves go. I am thinking of the rare luncheon, evening walks and desert outings. I am thinking of the friends, that came and went. And, I am thinking of the ones that stayed. And, the ones that will.

I am thinking of mornings so fatigued, and nights so weary. I am thinking of that excitement of an encouraging E-mail. Of the thrill of going 'Live.' Of the people who teach, the people who whisper and the people who stay so quiet, so still. I am thinking of me, who I was when I stepped into its walls. And, I'm thinking of me as I transformed amidst its walls. Of the moments the memories, the people their stories, the lessons the learning. I am thinking of them all this Monday, and I am sayin' a little prayer...

A little Thank-you.

[More Monday Musings here ]

Monday Musings - 18

And just like that another Monday rolls in, putting another week in the past, earmarking another time in days gone by. I am, if you must know, feeling terribly nostalgic. A slew of occurrences in the week gone by has left me wistful, and sentimental. Last Tuesday, I met an old friend from college...and her charming little five day-old-son, every bit of his Mum, every bit of adorable. In a room with a window, we sat...talking of our college years, talking of people, places and time gone by.

This Monday, I am sifting through old mail on a rickety Outlook Express software...two years of fun, two years of memos, and downloads, and instructions gone by. It happens to be my last Monday in an organization where I have spent over two years. And last Monday, I was at Bombay Elektrik Projekt's 'Wince,' a fun reading session that dug into diaries, and journals from the past.

I must confess, I was a bit weary. What's a diary to an Indian teenager, I thought? And, how many of us really had one? I was to be surprised. A handful of us old hags turned up at Cafe Goa, our old, worn-out, little lock diaries in tow. And took to stage, and ranted, and giggled, and shared.

We had many stories of teenage crushes. They seem to be a high point in our journal lives. Little tables comparing one cute guy to another not-so-cute-guy; intimate accounts of our girlfriends' and glorious accounts of our college lives. A heart wrenching piece on a grandmother lost, and one man's very very vivid imagination and a beauty-contest turned wild.

All of which of course took me back to my journals...their frayed pages coming apart with time. So I set off onto some terrible discoveries...pages plastered with lyrics of the Backstreet Boys and pictures of Leonardo Di Caprio from the Titanic. Pages scrawled with hearts and crushes addressed with blanks, and lines filled with cheesy, rhyming poetry. Pictures of friends, slogans of cool, newspaper cut-outs of my favourite columnists (some saving grace!) And, depressing pieces picked out from the Chicken Soup from the Teenagers Soul; resonating obviously with my angst-filled, troubled teenage-self. There were few streaks of rebellion too; but truth is I didn't Wince.

I found most of my younger self (and the little bit I discovered of everybody elses') to be pretty endearing. Just like the past ought to be. Somehow this stands me in good stead for the changes to come, the time to turn.

You can look back and laugh, or look back and cringe...and then you can look back and smile, and look back and be just a little bit sentimental.

[Thanks for reading here! Everything on this blog is cross posted from this link. More Monday Musings here ]

Monday Musings - 17

Considering last week was a warm, sunny one in the middle of what really is the Mumbai monsoons, I had a lot to be thankful for. I had some respite from the sultry summer wave...languishing at home, on a terrace, by the window. Sitting atop a friend's beautiful house in Goregaon East. Watching the clouds float, the sun collapse, and the crowds thin...while munching on browned toast, and sipping on strong, gingery tea. And then on, watching some movies.

Of the movies, Roland Joffé's 'City of Joy,' made it to the top of my list. It's a charming, bitter-sweet tale set in a Kolkata slum. The movie painfully pulls out life's many adversities, its struggle for survival. Yet, it is heartening to see the hope, the joy, the light in their eyes. Imagine living in such deplorable conditions. And, learning how to be happy! 'City of Joy,' made me think, love and cry.

It also taught me how to love. 'What is not given is lost,' is the quote at the end of the movie. It made me think of the love kept back, the love saved for a rainy day, the hope to someday do something good for someone...Each day I didn't do anything, was a day lost. Was love not given, was love lost.

The thought stayed with me on Saturday, when I watched 'Marley and Me.' I'm certain you've watched this adorable tale of one man, a woman, a dog and the happy family they build. It is such a delight to watch a movie with a happy family, that loves as it learns. And, to watch a woman and her dog dancing to the music, while her husband watches from the distance. As the film fades into black, the following lines appear: "How many people can make you feel rare and pure and special? How many people can make you feel extraordinary? "

It's nice to think about that this Monday. And, it's nice to know there a few. Through distances, through adversities, through struggles for survival. It's nice to know there's still a glimmer in that eye...

[More Monday Musings here

Monday Musings - 16

I wonder if you have ever been to the CCI? I wonder if you have played with its wet, glowing grass...if you have sat upon its cane chairs, if you have hung around its marble promenade watching the rain come down? Or, have you perhaps snuck up to the bar for a drink, or to the coffee shop for a lala puri..or have you better still, watched a game of cricket...whilst having a little conversation with the cricketers? I know I have, and I know I have been lucky.

The Cricket Club of India Mumbai, is a joyous celebration of a old world charm, of cricket, and of an all new world brimming with elegance, sophistication and joy. I was there today too, and I was sitting there watching the water ripple in the swimming pool, I was thinking of legacies. I was thinking of the things we have in our lives, not because of us, but because of our parents, and our families. And, I was thinking of how lucky we are to have them.

Of little family heirlooms like a piece of classic antique jewellery. Like a lovely house by the sea, in a village so far away. Like a home in another country. Like a recipe for a divine biryani, or perhaps charming chocolate chip cookies. Better still, a fantasy tale, or a real story, or a folk tale...only for you, and the family you left behind.

I don't know, do you have one of those? Do you have an artistic chess piece, or do you have a library of books so old, and famed their pages are wearing thin...but their stories remain? And, do you have a lovely little tale of your grandparents who danced, or of your aunt who ran away with the wondeful man who stood her through time? Do you have a story that celebrates where you're from?

I'm thinking that we must celebrate, this Monday. Celebrate our little exclusivities, and privileges that come from the generation before us. We should give them more than just a moment of our time. For these are the things that have unknowingly shaped so much of us. And, these are the things we should be thankful for.

At least I am this Monday...for the things that we are born into, the joys we are lucky to have. The joys that take little, and come by easily. Legacies...

[More Monday Musings here ]

Monday Musings - 15

The Bombay Elektrik Project is a fabulous group of youngsters come together, and currently they seem to be on mission 'Poetry Slam'. A bunch of self-proclaimed poetry-lovers, we were at the Caferati Open Mic at Prithvi, last Tuesday. A hurried hour of Hindi, and English poetry, with a good measure of pretty singing thrown in, meant we were still wanting more. And, so off we went to MochaMojo, which by the way, is the revamped Cafe Mocha at Hill Road, Bandra. The place is quirky. And, the Lemonade comes in a classic, old big-sized, curious glass bottles. This part of the evening turned out to be electrifying, encouraging and funny- with a lot of talented poets and performers come alive!

Other good things happened last week. Little achievements, little acquisitions, little spiritual fulfillments. That are of course, magnanimous if you consider the stillness that often is life. The moroseness that often is life. The often troubled, difficult, draining life. Amidst all this hullah-bullah of last week, I turned twenty-three. A little older, perhaps, a little wiser. Birthdays are a good reminder of all the love that surrounds you. All that you should be thankful for. Birthdays, also make me introspect.

And, so there I was last Friday, thinking back at the year that was. The year that was a triumph of so many little joys, and yet a series of so many tribulations. I knew I was thankful for read meets, and spiritual meets, and new friends, and humbling old reunions, and marvelous discoveries. I knew then I was thankful for this blog, for my writing, for the friends who'd stood me through. But, then I also realized the price. Its cost.

I also remembered the things I'd lost, the things I couldn't get, the things I wasn't yet blessed with. The things that were still taking their time. The things that may never be. And even, the things that turned up after a whole year of seeking, wishing and waiting.

It made me realize, that life, like love often takes too much, and gives too little. Then too, it is worth it. It is valuable. I hope that stays with you this Monday. Just like it did with me.

[More Monday Musings here ]

Monday Musings - 14

Have you been to the quaint little Bagel Shop off Carter Road in Bandra, Mumbai? It’s lovely, bright with comfy low lying chairs, and people sprawled about. Some clack away on their laptop, some are embroiled in a conversation, and others are curled up with a book. The bagels are quite delightful, and I particularly like the coffee that can keep you up all night..and the banana walnut muffins that are sweetened just right.

I enjoy going there. It momentarily stalls time, allows life to take a slower place. Ephemerally, you almost believe life is about just now. Not about the time to come, and not about time gone by. Not like the bookseller by the signal chasing cars to sell books. Not like the rickshaw driver by the street, chasing a passenger who has swindled him off money. And, not like the man from the flat downstairs chasing a girl too good for him.

It makes me think of what I am chasing. What we are all chasing. So many people I know are chasing such rich lives. Spiritually, culturally and socially fulfilling...meaningful, and productive. They make me envious, in a good way. They make me anxious, in a good way. They push me to chase.

And, chase not after money, and powerful, and all other things tangible. But, passions long forgotten, dreams dearly held, and little madness-es we were once too scared to discover. Like a sixty year old aunt of mine has just joined dancing lessons. And, another has started working.

It takes a lot of courage, I imagine, to take such a step. But, if they can, I know I can. It’s about a little step, isn’t it. And, I’ve been told this Monday, that if I do, or you do..or both of us do..victory is in store.
My chase has only just begun.


[More Monday Musings here ]

Monday Musings - 13

Time and again, I'm humbled by the many wonderful people I've encountered; the many lessons they've taught me. On Friday evening, I was seated in the second-class compartment of an Andheri-bound local train, when a handicapped hawker boarded the train. He has severed both his hands, but still manages to sell bangles, earrings, trinkets and little knick-knacks. He also manages to groom himself astoundingly well - with a funky hairdo and a well-washed pair of denims. It's a marvel to watch him guiding his limbs, and executing a sale ever so efficiently.

A couple stations later, a blind man boarded the train. Guiding his way with a feeble pole, he is selling tiny combs, little toys and safety-pins. While the girls gushed over the earrings, nobody wanted to buy safety pins. The man with severed limbs however, did. He stopped the blind man, handed him some loose change and bought a useless plastic toy off him. Incredible! I was humbled. Some of us have such big hearts!

I was reminded of this privilege once again, at the launch of Suma Varughese's 'Traveling Light.' While the book launch itself was fantastic, for me it was such an honour to see a woman I revered on stage, celebrating a dream-like moment. Suma along with Nari Hira, Shobha De, Sathya Saren and Luke Kenny introduced the book, whilst discussing its many facets.

I was reminded of Suma's incredible generosity. When I was seventeen, and chasing an unsure dream, she took me in. Guided me, taught me, scolded me...and when I needed a change, even put in touch with able teachers. What little I know of writing, editing, beats, proofing, QuarkExpress I owe it to her. And, another incredible woman, who Suma put me through, Priyanka Sinha. Amidst all my childish exuberance, my lack on knowledge, and unforgivable mistakes, here were two women with little time, but giving hearts.

I am thinking of them this Monday. I am thinking of their unconditional generosity, of their invaluable teachings. And, I'm thinking of how a Thank-you will never be enough.


[More Monday Musings here ]