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 ]
Friday, October 30, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
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 ]
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 ]
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
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 ]
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 ]
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 ]
Monday, October 26, 2009
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 ]
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 ]
Thursday, October 22, 2009
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 ]
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 ]
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
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 ]
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 ]
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 ]
Monday, October 19, 2009
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 ]
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 ]
Saturday, October 17, 2009
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 ]
[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 ]
Friday, October 16, 2009
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 ]
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 ]
Thursday, October 15, 2009
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 ]
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 ]
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
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 ]
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, October 12, 2009
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 ]
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, October 05, 2009
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 ]
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 ]
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)