There are many Goas, and I wonder if I can remember them all. The Goa at the swarming Colva Beach, where a little shack looks over Indian populace in bundled up salwar kameez. Fluorescent orange stands brighter than the sun. There is a Goa in the rain. Seawater lashing narrow roads, and sarongs dripping off salt. A Goa where the song and dance never end. Bodies clung together at Titos, and Cape Cod, and Kamakazi and other such queer names.
There is the ordinary picture of a Goa with the sun. Languishing on beach beds, watching the sea roar, and nibbling on French Fries. And there is a Goa where I almost didn’t see the sea, desperately following the smell, one last rainy morning onto a sandy beach. A Goa in a resort, where I spent an entire week holed up in a hotel room, with a swimming pool. Collecting shells on the beach. Reading by the sand, under a night sky. And, when I was young, use free hotel-room matchsticks to burn ants by the sill.
There is a Goa where the swimming pool meets the sea. A Goa with secrets, a Goa without stories. Where you breakfast at Infantaria, tell me you’ve been there. The prawns cooked in recheado masala, and the crunchy and well-balanced date and chocolate tart are worth an arm and a leg for. There is Curlies, where my head always throbs to the tune of mindless teenage trance. The glimpse of the sea is unimaginable though. Which reminds me of a Goa at the village. The exotic, otherworldly five-star Goa nestled among other places at the Taj Holiday Village. I remember chasing Saching Tendulkar for an autograph; I remember the cricket-hero romancing his then fiancé.
Suddenly, I cannot remember another Goa. Oh yes, Panjim City and the church, Brittos and cashew nuts and Feni. Drinking in the sea-air, and drinking; I can remember the giggle-fest one January early morning. How many places that you have not grown up in, have watched you grow up?
Goa, I had forgotten how you stir my soul.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Friday, October 08, 2010
-2
There's a little quiet, and a little la-di-da when you enter Hauz Khas Village. A book store, up the stairs, too tiny for poor literature. A lake down the stairs, and the littered path, too quiet for us restless sea creatures. (Bombay, how I miss the smell of your sea.) There's a little hole in the wall that sells curious cushion covers. And, many stores, lined one by another, with designer make-believe to take home. I step into none. Too expensive we assume, and too pretentious, and much too intellectual. There is furniture we want to take home. Posters we want to peel of their hooks, the yellowed ends notwithstanding, and leave on lavish white walls. Old, antique knick-knacks we have no use for. But admire nonetheless. (Delhi, how I marvel your history.) Then there is Naivedyam, much too grotesque, much too magnificient for tiny Hauz Khas lanes. We lap up unsightly fried idlis, still. And down the lane, we follow the trickle of people into Gunpowder- up a flight of stairs, with a view of the lake to behold. We do this time and again. We hardly take our eyes off the well-greased prawns, and curried fish with little white appams and crispy brown malabar parathas though. We do not linger at the lake at all.
Food can bring such tragedy.
Food can bring such tragedy.
Friday, October 01, 2010
-1
The trouble with writing now, is that everyone thinks they are a writer. The trouble with writing a book more so, is that everyone is an author. If you spend a little time with the books on today’s shelves, I hope you are disheartened. I know I am. Do you, and I, aspire to be a little known name on that shelf? You write your first book, and then what? You are lost in a sea of bad writing. Then, you know longer know what good writing is. Good writing isn’t good grammar, gah! Not to say that bad grammar is good writing, at all.
All winding up to the fact that in the past few months, I have been facing what you could call a writer’s crisis. I lost my font. Trebuchet MS 10 no longer works. And, everything I want to write is too trite, or too trivial, or too mawkish. The weather has been fussy too.
Now, however, the smell of winter is here. They say winter is a good time to write. Cambria Size 12 seems to do its job, for now. Let us see where this one goes...
All winding up to the fact that in the past few months, I have been facing what you could call a writer’s crisis. I lost my font. Trebuchet MS 10 no longer works. And, everything I want to write is too trite, or too trivial, or too mawkish. The weather has been fussy too.
Now, however, the smell of winter is here. They say winter is a good time to write. Cambria Size 12 seems to do its job, for now. Let us see where this one goes...
Monday, July 05, 2010
Monday Musings -42
I must have been morose in June, I now know why. I must have missed the smell of rain, hot and hurried upon dusty earth. I must have missed the nag, the buzz, little black flies. And, I must have yearned the familiar joy come plummeting down, the first Bombay rain. Twenty-two years, not a whiff missed. Now, a whole season gone.
Chai hurriedly gulped down, outside offices and under trees. Jalebis gobbled up, and pakodas, and butta and walking into office drenched. Tell me you got caught in a storm? And, it ruined for you, an interview, and a meeting, and pretty clothes, and yellow-and-blue school uniforms. And, still you embraced it?
Then, you left behind umbrellas in trains, borrowed rain coats never to return them, splashed hapless by-standers, knowingly and unknowingly. Then, got drenched in mud and rain too.
Did you ever hang by the train door, the rain lashing your face? Did you stick your nose up at a flood, wade through one too, and smile as you watched others from your window?
You must have called in sick too, curled up with a book or to a movie, or by the window and dreamed a day away.
A day like yesterday, when the rain finally set off in Gurgaon. This rain is unfamiliar to me, the smell sweeter still. I do not know how many days it will turn, and hearts it will soar…the North seems to look upon the rain with such snobbery.
But me, it takes me back home. So I sit in my balcony, and think, what a life this is. Familiar turns far-away, what once was…no longer is. To think you could know something so well, for so long, and then not have it at all.
Have you ever wondered, and while you now do, the rain still sings to me this Monday.
Chai hurriedly gulped down, outside offices and under trees. Jalebis gobbled up, and pakodas, and butta and walking into office drenched. Tell me you got caught in a storm? And, it ruined for you, an interview, and a meeting, and pretty clothes, and yellow-and-blue school uniforms. And, still you embraced it?
Then, you left behind umbrellas in trains, borrowed rain coats never to return them, splashed hapless by-standers, knowingly and unknowingly. Then, got drenched in mud and rain too.
Did you ever hang by the train door, the rain lashing your face? Did you stick your nose up at a flood, wade through one too, and smile as you watched others from your window?
You must have called in sick too, curled up with a book or to a movie, or by the window and dreamed a day away.
A day like yesterday, when the rain finally set off in Gurgaon. This rain is unfamiliar to me, the smell sweeter still. I do not know how many days it will turn, and hearts it will soar…the North seems to look upon the rain with such snobbery.
But me, it takes me back home. So I sit in my balcony, and think, what a life this is. Familiar turns far-away, what once was…no longer is. To think you could know something so well, for so long, and then not have it at all.
Have you ever wondered, and while you now do, the rain still sings to me this Monday.
Monday, June 07, 2010
Monday Musings- 41
The journey to Lansdowne sucked the charm out of travelling on a holiday. The driver (who was to journey us) turned up three hours late, carrying Gurgaon on his tongue. And, his demeanor. We snarled past Gurgaon, breezed through Delhi and took the gently swaying road to Lansdowne. Not a hurdle on the highway. Just shadows of trees, and whispers in the car. And, the occasional mutter from the disgruntled driver. Sleep was turning him in, he would much rather have stayed the night by the side of a greasy, expensive roadside dhaba under a banner that welcomed Sehwag to the city of Meerut. Our impatience won him over.
But, Lansdowne arrived only at the crack of dawn. Stones were pelted at a sleepy Government Rest House, where none but a soft-eyed guest came to our rescue. He directed us back to the chowk, where morning had come. The gurgles from a bathroom, the day’s first strollers…
After a battle with the driver, we took our bags up the winding staircase to Room 101. Mayur Hotel, crafted out of thin sheets of plywood, cheap wallpaper, gaudy colour and whining beds. Our rooms were as if cast out of inexpensive, hand-me-down comic strips with families in cottages. And, a fairy-tale perfect window that overlooked the hills for miles…
The sun glimmered in the distance. We awoke to the smell of chicken curry and soft warm chapattis at a run-me-down restaurant, Tip See. Then, we walked to the sunset. A house in a tree, a boat in a lake, a swirl on a swing…
And, the quiet walk back to the chowk. Tip See had turned into our favoured place for a meal. After dinner, we strolled around and round the chowk. A nip in the air, a hand in a hand. A handful of women by the garden. A young girl and another playing badminton. And two old women on a bench, in a park engaged in lazy conversation.
The wind lulled us into slumber. We awoke to brunch, chicken masala and fresh salad tossed to perfection. And, washed it down with a huff and a puff, a climb on a hill in the afternoon sun. How our bodies have withered like our souls, in the city.
The journey from Lansdowne to home, was just as ghastly. A maze of cars, and gawking town men in a bus. We slumped like a pack of cards when we stepped through the door. The stillness of Lansdowne left behind. The joy of nothing to do, quickly gone. The bitterness of dissatisfaction by mediocrity slowly creeping in…
And, lifting, at last,and only this Monday...
[More Monday Musings here ]
But, Lansdowne arrived only at the crack of dawn. Stones were pelted at a sleepy Government Rest House, where none but a soft-eyed guest came to our rescue. He directed us back to the chowk, where morning had come. The gurgles from a bathroom, the day’s first strollers…
After a battle with the driver, we took our bags up the winding staircase to Room 101. Mayur Hotel, crafted out of thin sheets of plywood, cheap wallpaper, gaudy colour and whining beds. Our rooms were as if cast out of inexpensive, hand-me-down comic strips with families in cottages. And, a fairy-tale perfect window that overlooked the hills for miles…
The sun glimmered in the distance. We awoke to the smell of chicken curry and soft warm chapattis at a run-me-down restaurant, Tip See. Then, we walked to the sunset. A house in a tree, a boat in a lake, a swirl on a swing…
And, the quiet walk back to the chowk. Tip See had turned into our favoured place for a meal. After dinner, we strolled around and round the chowk. A nip in the air, a hand in a hand. A handful of women by the garden. A young girl and another playing badminton. And two old women on a bench, in a park engaged in lazy conversation.
The wind lulled us into slumber. We awoke to brunch, chicken masala and fresh salad tossed to perfection. And, washed it down with a huff and a puff, a climb on a hill in the afternoon sun. How our bodies have withered like our souls, in the city.
The journey from Lansdowne to home, was just as ghastly. A maze of cars, and gawking town men in a bus. We slumped like a pack of cards when we stepped through the door. The stillness of Lansdowne left behind. The joy of nothing to do, quickly gone. The bitterness of dissatisfaction by mediocrity slowly creeping in…
And, lifting, at last,and only this Monday...
[More Monday Musings here ]
Monday, May 03, 2010
Monday Musings - 40
What remains of people are fragments. Mothers who teach long before you will ever need to learn - how to clean the dishes to a sparkling clean. Fathers who tell you long before you will ever care- how not to borrow money. Lovers who teach you long before they leave- how to wash your feet before you let them lie carelessly on white bedspreads. Sisters whose voices echo long after you leave home- how to always laugh indoors. And, friends who teach you long before they know that they won't always be there to carry you through- how to giggle nonchalantly with life. And, at life.
What remains are their memories that unfold in the littlest things - when you make your first chicken curry and know instinctively how to cut the onions right. How to mend your heart when you are alone. How to always love the rain. How to paint your door one day. Teachers, they teach you that in school. And, you remember, even though you think you have long forgotten.
And, slowly the memories come back to you. The little home in London where you learned to dust rooms and wipe tabletops clean. That little town in Indonesia where you learned to buy bread. That lavish home from long ago, where you learned to study art. You share stories now, those stories, with so much meaning. But then, as they happened, they were insignificances. They were moments in passing.
Now, they are so much more. They are the voices in your head. The whispers in the silence. The little truths that unknowingly taught you how to someday live alone. And so, you can still smile when you cook perfect, fluffy white rice. You can still whistle when dust flows in, with the wind. You can still giggle when one Monday, white clothes turn blue. You can still dance when the walls are closing in. And, still laugh when again and again you lose.
[More Monday Musings here ]
What remains are their memories that unfold in the littlest things - when you make your first chicken curry and know instinctively how to cut the onions right. How to mend your heart when you are alone. How to always love the rain. How to paint your door one day. Teachers, they teach you that in school. And, you remember, even though you think you have long forgotten.
And, slowly the memories come back to you. The little home in London where you learned to dust rooms and wipe tabletops clean. That little town in Indonesia where you learned to buy bread. That lavish home from long ago, where you learned to study art. You share stories now, those stories, with so much meaning. But then, as they happened, they were insignificances. They were moments in passing.
Now, they are so much more. They are the voices in your head. The whispers in the silence. The little truths that unknowingly taught you how to someday live alone. And so, you can still smile when you cook perfect, fluffy white rice. You can still whistle when dust flows in, with the wind. You can still giggle when one Monday, white clothes turn blue. You can still dance when the walls are closing in. And, still laugh when again and again you lose.
[More Monday Musings here ]
Monday, April 19, 2010
Monday Musings - 39
Summer is here. You would think the season of wretchedness would pause ever-so-slightly before it pervades our lives. But, there it is! A gust of hot wind blowing through our barely breathing trousers, up our yellow summer shirts and through our balcony doors. Covering us all in a layer of thick dust. You clean, and clean again - the dust remains. Even in the street, the dust dances upon our feet bringing its way plastic, and wrappers and other mementos people have decided to let blow with the wind.
Come gently, summer, I say. But, no one listens. The sun beats down, sweat trickles under and throats dry up as do wells of once water. What can soothe our parched throats? Lemon and water or an iced mango milkshake or just a glass of iced-cold water? Make that half a litre. What can cool our scalded bodies? Cold showers, or a swim or ice in the shower. Make that all of three.
What can clear our hot heads? Reruns of How I Met Your Mother and books that are light like the wind? Summer isn't for heavy bursts of philosophy, is it? Like its clothes, and like the food, and like the cold water carousing our soul - summer is for little thoughts that flit about and stay. Summer is for reckless love. And, Summer is for holiday hope. When can we kick up the sun for a cool blanket of stars? And, a dip in the sea? Time is for planning that Summer Holiday.
And so, I do so much of what I have said. I stay indoors. I potter about the house, and slip in and out of a summer slumber. Waking up to read, and watch and re-read a chain of mails from everyone back home planning their Summer Holiday. It leaves me breathless and waiting and ready to take on Monday.
That said, I must think of somewhere to go. Anywhere North, anybody?
[More Monday Musings here ]
Come gently, summer, I say. But, no one listens. The sun beats down, sweat trickles under and throats dry up as do wells of once water. What can soothe our parched throats? Lemon and water or an iced mango milkshake or just a glass of iced-cold water? Make that half a litre. What can cool our scalded bodies? Cold showers, or a swim or ice in the shower. Make that all of three.
What can clear our hot heads? Reruns of How I Met Your Mother and books that are light like the wind? Summer isn't for heavy bursts of philosophy, is it? Like its clothes, and like the food, and like the cold water carousing our soul - summer is for little thoughts that flit about and stay. Summer is for reckless love. And, Summer is for holiday hope. When can we kick up the sun for a cool blanket of stars? And, a dip in the sea? Time is for planning that Summer Holiday.
And so, I do so much of what I have said. I stay indoors. I potter about the house, and slip in and out of a summer slumber. Waking up to read, and watch and re-read a chain of mails from everyone back home planning their Summer Holiday. It leaves me breathless and waiting and ready to take on Monday.
That said, I must think of somewhere to go. Anywhere North, anybody?
[More Monday Musings here ]
Monday, April 12, 2010
Monday Musings - 38
It is instinctive now for me to find a chai-stall everywhere I go. It is as if the brown, burning hot, distinctly flavoured beverage, reminds me of home. Two summers ago, I found a little convenience store by our hotel in Penang, Malaysia. I developed a penchant for Nescafe's Roasted Black Bean canned cold coffee. My morning fix, every day of week. Two weekends ago, I was in Amritsar. A quaint, rickety tea stall greeted us right outside our place of stay. Billa Tea Stall. A shriveled old man made us our tea, less milk and less sugar, the way we like it. He added a dash of spices. Mornings we sat under the summer sun, soaking up the heady city of Amritsar with a cuppa chai.
What a city of eccentricities, Amritsar. Narrow lanes spilling into even more narrow lanes and sometimes a bustling, crowded main street. Cluttered with box-sized stores selling phulkari dupattas, salwar kameezes washed white, mojris and jootis, and bangles, and lassi, and kulfi splattered with a generous dose of falooda. Would you like some chole kulche, or chana chawala, or gulab jamun to wash down the moong dal vadas - Amritsar is a foodies delight. If you ever make it there, check into the Punjab Dhaba- we savoured the most delightful Tandoori Chicken and Amritsari Fish with a buttery black dal.
Such a city of indulgences, Amritsar. We eat, and shop and admire people in throngs - all colours, and classes, and cultures. Boarding up fragile-framed cycle rickshaws, three in a row, and hustling from the Golden Temple, to the Jallianwala Bagh and the market place. On one of our trysts, we discover the acchar wali gali. It's Sunday so we hunch our way into half-open shops and gape into buckets of divine-smelling achaar and take a little bit back home.
Home for me, is now Gurgaon. I have found my chai-stall having by now almost entirely developed an aversion to coffee. This little nook on the Golf Course road- park your car , and settle into cups of chai as long as you like. And, the chai place behind Ernst and Young - open air, and an ecelectic crowd. Best of all, I have found my chai partner too - like noise and silence- and I am ever so elated this Monday!
[More Monday Musings here ]
What a city of eccentricities, Amritsar. Narrow lanes spilling into even more narrow lanes and sometimes a bustling, crowded main street. Cluttered with box-sized stores selling phulkari dupattas, salwar kameezes washed white, mojris and jootis, and bangles, and lassi, and kulfi splattered with a generous dose of falooda. Would you like some chole kulche, or chana chawala, or gulab jamun to wash down the moong dal vadas - Amritsar is a foodies delight. If you ever make it there, check into the Punjab Dhaba- we savoured the most delightful Tandoori Chicken and Amritsari Fish with a buttery black dal.
Such a city of indulgences, Amritsar. We eat, and shop and admire people in throngs - all colours, and classes, and cultures. Boarding up fragile-framed cycle rickshaws, three in a row, and hustling from the Golden Temple, to the Jallianwala Bagh and the market place. On one of our trysts, we discover the acchar wali gali. It's Sunday so we hunch our way into half-open shops and gape into buckets of divine-smelling achaar and take a little bit back home.
Home for me, is now Gurgaon. I have found my chai-stall having by now almost entirely developed an aversion to coffee. This little nook on the Golf Course road- park your car , and settle into cups of chai as long as you like. And, the chai place behind Ernst and Young - open air, and an ecelectic crowd. Best of all, I have found my chai partner too - like noise and silence- and I am ever so elated this Monday!
[More Monday Musings here ]
Monday, March 15, 2010
Monday Musings- 37
There isn't a school that teaches you how to dress your house. Where to put the flowers, would pink go with red, and should a bookshelf be dark wood or light? There isn't a school that teaches you how the sunlight should fall. The curtains should fluff. The beads should jangle in the wind. Where to leave the stool? Where to buy the stool? And, how long does it take to find the stool? There are days without chairs-and days without tables- and days of tea cups on white floors. No school tells you how you must make do.
How you must feel when your special friend ties the knot. Must you be tied up in a knot, too? Should you watch her, or should you cry? Should you begin to hope, or give up hope? Should you feel nothing else- but be happy for her? Or, should you mingle her happiness with your own, her security with your insecurity. There isn't a school that teaches you how to feel.
And, how to not fear. How to watch the moon and hear the sounds of the night and know that yours will be quiet. There will be no strangers in the night. Do you sleep better in the mornings? And, do you fear sitting on a bench, in the night wind - a garden overlooking a terrace. Do you climb to the terrace, despite the fear? No school braves you this.
How to know when it is love? How to know if his hand will now linger over yours- how to know today is your day. How to know when it isn't love. How to cook eggs- perfect, fluffy white with cheese- when the moment demands it. How to talk enough- not little, not too much. How to listen. And, then how to say thank-you.
How to make conversation with your house-help. How not to fear strangers. How to show love when you are far away. How to send flowers. No school teaches you this. And, still you- restless souls- want to still go to school. I hear, again and again- how you must, and want to, and someday will go to school again.
Go home. Leave home. Embrace life. You will be in school again. My thoughts, this Monday.
[More Monday Musings here
How you must feel when your special friend ties the knot. Must you be tied up in a knot, too? Should you watch her, or should you cry? Should you begin to hope, or give up hope? Should you feel nothing else- but be happy for her? Or, should you mingle her happiness with your own, her security with your insecurity. There isn't a school that teaches you how to feel.
And, how to not fear. How to watch the moon and hear the sounds of the night and know that yours will be quiet. There will be no strangers in the night. Do you sleep better in the mornings? And, do you fear sitting on a bench, in the night wind - a garden overlooking a terrace. Do you climb to the terrace, despite the fear? No school braves you this.
How to know when it is love? How to know if his hand will now linger over yours- how to know today is your day. How to know when it isn't love. How to cook eggs- perfect, fluffy white with cheese- when the moment demands it. How to talk enough- not little, not too much. How to listen. And, then how to say thank-you.
How to make conversation with your house-help. How not to fear strangers. How to show love when you are far away. How to send flowers. No school teaches you this. And, still you- restless souls- want to still go to school. I hear, again and again- how you must, and want to, and someday will go to school again.
Go home. Leave home. Embrace life. You will be in school again. My thoughts, this Monday.
[More Monday Musings here
Monday, March 08, 2010
Monday Musings - 36
I like walking in the grass. It makes me think of my white sneakers, soiled with time. Their pink laces with black spots gleaming like lights in the distance. It makes me wonder why you wash your sneakers at all? I like mine worn out. Marked with a little bit of everywhere they've been. And, then I wonder why you like your books untouched, unscathed, clean? I much rather like them soiled, and crumpled, with tears, or trickles of laughter and thoughts sliding from one page to another- who I was when I read them. I like knowing cities by walking in them.
I like watching its people. The cycle rickshaw wallah - back arched, eyes decieving, sweat trickling down his foreheard when you pay him. The boy at the store - young, and out-of-school who helps you carry your bags. He watches you at the bank. Is he impatient? Does he wonder what you do, and who you are, and where you're from? Or is he thinking about when ever will he step in to the bank?
I like dreaming when I'm walking. I used to be the girl snuggled up behind Malory Towers and St. Clares and live imaginary worlds alone. I used to dream of packing my bags, and setting foot in a strange land. Of secrets on bunk beds, and trips to nowhere, and friends from everywhere. Then, I'd savor the make-believe gingerbread cookies mother sent me. I'd look forward to when they visit, family. Oh, how I dreamed of that day. Waited for the time...
And, here I am walking through the streets and gardens...and here I am alone. The little girl's dream. I can remember the sound of my house in the morning. The clankering of vessels, the doorbells, the in-and-out of vendors, and house-help. I can hear you whisper from long ago. I can hear the wind playing truant outside my window. I can remember the sound of the car engine. The words lost in time. The laughter in closed rooms, and open spaces. If I try hard, I can smell Mumbai, sometimes. I can feel the sunlight cast morning shadows. And, the train chug in the distance.
I am, as if, lost in two dreams, this Monday. And, two worlds. It leaves me wanting endless hours to walk, and sit, and wait and savour. It leaves many cups of chai undone. Will this be over, before I know it? Will I still be left wanting, then? Or, will I then be ready to leave? ~Lately it seems we've been chasing, what times resolved, maybe something means nothing here, after all ~
[More Monday Musings here ]
I like watching its people. The cycle rickshaw wallah - back arched, eyes decieving, sweat trickling down his foreheard when you pay him. The boy at the store - young, and out-of-school who helps you carry your bags. He watches you at the bank. Is he impatient? Does he wonder what you do, and who you are, and where you're from? Or is he thinking about when ever will he step in to the bank?
I like dreaming when I'm walking. I used to be the girl snuggled up behind Malory Towers and St. Clares and live imaginary worlds alone. I used to dream of packing my bags, and setting foot in a strange land. Of secrets on bunk beds, and trips to nowhere, and friends from everywhere. Then, I'd savor the make-believe gingerbread cookies mother sent me. I'd look forward to when they visit, family. Oh, how I dreamed of that day. Waited for the time...
And, here I am walking through the streets and gardens...and here I am alone. The little girl's dream. I can remember the sound of my house in the morning. The clankering of vessels, the doorbells, the in-and-out of vendors, and house-help. I can hear you whisper from long ago. I can hear the wind playing truant outside my window. I can remember the sound of the car engine. The words lost in time. The laughter in closed rooms, and open spaces. If I try hard, I can smell Mumbai, sometimes. I can feel the sunlight cast morning shadows. And, the train chug in the distance.
I am, as if, lost in two dreams, this Monday. And, two worlds. It leaves me wanting endless hours to walk, and sit, and wait and savour. It leaves many cups of chai undone. Will this be over, before I know it? Will I still be left wanting, then? Or, will I then be ready to leave? ~Lately it seems we've been chasing, what times resolved, maybe something means nothing here, after all ~
[More Monday Musings here ]
Monday, February 22, 2010
Monday Musings - 35
From where I sit, I can watch the sun fall upon a patch of green, in a jungle of concrete. Cars swirl too and fro, on the NH8. The wind carries brown dust, and occasionally a woman walks by. It is not a town for women, Gurgaon. At 4 pm, if you decide to walk, while the sun is out, a car will stop beside you. A man will roll down his window, and have something to say. If you look away, he drives away.
And, sometimes, he won't as much as stop to get your attention. Just a whistle, or a word, or a glare will do. This is by day. Come night, a deathly fear creeps into your heart. Sunset brings with it all kinds of stories, you want to keep away from.
Some days, even sunrise won't bring respite. You clamber up a bus, only to have comments passed around by men seated around the bus. It doesn't matter that there are other women in the bus. It doesn't matter that the bus conductor hears, and won't say a word. And, it doesn't matter that there are tears in your eyes.
You just lace your heart with ice, and take on the day. For more often than not, it's a beautiful day. There are exhibitions where pretty things in Jaipur Blue, and long earrings come together. There are food stalls where kebabs are burnt brown. There are theaters, where you watch well, theatre. A play is entitled, "Nothing will Happen Between Us." In it, a young man says, "I think love is overrated. I have decided to become a conscientious objector."
Then, there is music, and there is a hint of rain in an otherwise clear sky. And, there is a throng of women at Central Market, Lajpat Nagar. Cycle rickshaws gather, and wonder which newcomer to con. Chai is now Rs. 8/-. Gardens are now galore, left by default, left by History.
And, there is, you learn, hope. Hope you anchor by faith well-vested, not misinformed. Ah, I am a mind in many places this Monday.
[More Monday Musings here ]
And, sometimes, he won't as much as stop to get your attention. Just a whistle, or a word, or a glare will do. This is by day. Come night, a deathly fear creeps into your heart. Sunset brings with it all kinds of stories, you want to keep away from.
Some days, even sunrise won't bring respite. You clamber up a bus, only to have comments passed around by men seated around the bus. It doesn't matter that there are other women in the bus. It doesn't matter that the bus conductor hears, and won't say a word. And, it doesn't matter that there are tears in your eyes.
You just lace your heart with ice, and take on the day. For more often than not, it's a beautiful day. There are exhibitions where pretty things in Jaipur Blue, and long earrings come together. There are food stalls where kebabs are burnt brown. There are theaters, where you watch well, theatre. A play is entitled, "Nothing will Happen Between Us." In it, a young man says, "I think love is overrated. I have decided to become a conscientious objector."
Then, there is music, and there is a hint of rain in an otherwise clear sky. And, there is a throng of women at Central Market, Lajpat Nagar. Cycle rickshaws gather, and wonder which newcomer to con. Chai is now Rs. 8/-. Gardens are now galore, left by default, left by History.
And, there is, you learn, hope. Hope you anchor by faith well-vested, not misinformed. Ah, I am a mind in many places this Monday.
[More Monday Musings here ]
Monday, February 15, 2010
Monday Musings -34
I thought I found a house. That is until I went there again, and discovered 'bachelor boys' in the extension next door. The next time I visited the house, a ghostly girl appeared on an extra bed. She was just visiting, the almost eerie landlady claimed. I began to succumb to nightmares involving its grotesque all-wall cupboard that opens into a bathroom. Still, I went there again. On the rickety stairway (that I was willing to make do with) there were cooked aloo and onion peels scattered. Food, if you please?
I ran. I ran across ten lanes of houses clung together and found nothing. They were too small, or too filthy, or surrounded by construction workers, or at the end of a dingy road. The house hunting had now moved a whole block away. Pretty, serene, but desolate. Patches of dark to welcome me home, every night. Not a market to dekko. And, a landlady (with a live-in lover) and a hickey on her double chin.
Welcome to DLF City Phase 2. We've run out of patience, and they've run out of truth. We find a lovely first-floor house with an open terrace and five doors. 'No boys,' the old, sleazy owner states. Before he decides to ogle us over, and hand in a little fact: the owner has the keys to what would be my house. We scoot.
And, arrive at an 'independent' all girls accommodation. An old uncle and his wife, live downstairs. You can live here alone, he claims. And, exercise on the terrace. And, boil milk on the gas. But no men, and no guests allowed. Not your father. And, not an uncle who's come to help you hunt for the place. "Beta bas doodh khareed lo, garam kar lo, aur pee lo. Yehi shaant.'
An educated doctor seems to join the moral police too. A lovely room that overlooks a garden, cannot be taken. Because the owner has a time restriction. You cannot arrive after 9:15 pm. Please note these are on rent, not paying guest accommodations.
By now, it is time to give the next un' a little rude-talk. "This isn't Mumbai, this is Gurgaon. It is different from your Bombay. Be discreet," he asserts. My mother stomps his hypocrisy out of action. "Rather be loud and honest, than discreet," she says. Then there are owners who promise to be parents, "We will ensure she doesn't do anything wrong," they say. And, owners who will insist on their privacy even if it means you walking through a tunnel without lights. They won't let you have yours though.
We find a place without the moral police. A little compromise of a room with a bathroom the size and shape of a bit-sized train compartment. In our procrastination, we lose the offer. It is a good thing, I reckon. We are left with one option- a tiny house-extension with a room, and a kitchen, and a terrace. There are no owners living below, and there is no moral police. Heck, the bathroom isn't a dingy compromise either. Perhaps, that could be a home, I think?
Although, I've lost faith, and I've lost hope this Monday. Perhaps houses are like life itself, you learn to fall in love with them. And, perhaps the British, make-my-morning kinda cab companion was right: "House hunting is the most soul shattering experience in your life. Even in London."
[More Monday Musings here ]
I ran. I ran across ten lanes of houses clung together and found nothing. They were too small, or too filthy, or surrounded by construction workers, or at the end of a dingy road. The house hunting had now moved a whole block away. Pretty, serene, but desolate. Patches of dark to welcome me home, every night. Not a market to dekko. And, a landlady (with a live-in lover) and a hickey on her double chin.
Welcome to DLF City Phase 2. We've run out of patience, and they've run out of truth. We find a lovely first-floor house with an open terrace and five doors. 'No boys,' the old, sleazy owner states. Before he decides to ogle us over, and hand in a little fact: the owner has the keys to what would be my house. We scoot.
And, arrive at an 'independent' all girls accommodation. An old uncle and his wife, live downstairs. You can live here alone, he claims. And, exercise on the terrace. And, boil milk on the gas. But no men, and no guests allowed. Not your father. And, not an uncle who's come to help you hunt for the place. "Beta bas doodh khareed lo, garam kar lo, aur pee lo. Yehi shaant.'
An educated doctor seems to join the moral police too. A lovely room that overlooks a garden, cannot be taken. Because the owner has a time restriction. You cannot arrive after 9:15 pm. Please note these are on rent, not paying guest accommodations.
By now, it is time to give the next un' a little rude-talk. "This isn't Mumbai, this is Gurgaon. It is different from your Bombay. Be discreet," he asserts. My mother stomps his hypocrisy out of action. "Rather be loud and honest, than discreet," she says. Then there are owners who promise to be parents, "We will ensure she doesn't do anything wrong," they say. And, owners who will insist on their privacy even if it means you walking through a tunnel without lights. They won't let you have yours though.
We find a place without the moral police. A little compromise of a room with a bathroom the size and shape of a bit-sized train compartment. In our procrastination, we lose the offer. It is a good thing, I reckon. We are left with one option- a tiny house-extension with a room, and a kitchen, and a terrace. There are no owners living below, and there is no moral police. Heck, the bathroom isn't a dingy compromise either. Perhaps, that could be a home, I think?
Although, I've lost faith, and I've lost hope this Monday. Perhaps houses are like life itself, you learn to fall in love with them. And, perhaps the British, make-my-morning kinda cab companion was right: "House hunting is the most soul shattering experience in your life. Even in London."
[More Monday Musings here ]
Monday, February 08, 2010
Monday Musings -33
Yesterday, I was at the 19th Delhi World Book Fair, held at Pragati Maidan. I spent the afternoon browsing books spread over acres of land, and stalls and shelves. There were books bursting out of make-shift stalls at a twenty-five percent discount. There were books from around the world. Israel and India and France and Pakistan. There were books in all languages. And, there were books on all subjects- Fiction, and Science, and Technology and Education, and Spirituality and Management. I confess: I was salivating.
And, reveling in the endless space this city has. What a glorious city to walk in – Delhi. You can go as far as your feet take you, and still be far away. There are wide roads, and big houses, and huge open spaces set against lines and lines of bit-sized food stalls.
Or, in some instances, the neighborhood hole-in-the-wall, a big-sized Tibetan restaurant. We tuck into a generous helping of fried rice and chicken with broccoli. Then, we set off to discovery this city again.
And, what a delight it is, I think, this Monday. What a delight to discover Delhi, just as I am reading William Dalrymple's City of Djinns. I stumbled upon this book, by chance - in my rusty old garage- the book documents the life and lanes of the city of Delhi.
Interesting to note, isn't it. That if you allow it, books will come by at the right place, and right time in your life. And, if you allow them, friends will come by at the right time, and the right place in your life...
No amount of chai, downed whole, over sunsets and moonshine, can allow that to sink in. Allow the incredible journey that is life to sink in. Occurrences and places and people strung together. Almost surreal. Almost strange. Life, it could only be orchestrated.
[More Monday Musings here ]
And, reveling in the endless space this city has. What a glorious city to walk in – Delhi. You can go as far as your feet take you, and still be far away. There are wide roads, and big houses, and huge open spaces set against lines and lines of bit-sized food stalls.
Or, in some instances, the neighborhood hole-in-the-wall, a big-sized Tibetan restaurant. We tuck into a generous helping of fried rice and chicken with broccoli. Then, we set off to discovery this city again.
And, what a delight it is, I think, this Monday. What a delight to discover Delhi, just as I am reading William Dalrymple's City of Djinns. I stumbled upon this book, by chance - in my rusty old garage- the book documents the life and lanes of the city of Delhi.
Interesting to note, isn't it. That if you allow it, books will come by at the right place, and right time in your life. And, if you allow them, friends will come by at the right time, and the right place in your life...
No amount of chai, downed whole, over sunsets and moonshine, can allow that to sink in. Allow the incredible journey that is life to sink in. Occurrences and places and people strung together. Almost surreal. Almost strange. Life, it could only be orchestrated.
[More Monday Musings here ]
Monday, January 25, 2010
Monday Musings - 32
As I write, this Monday, I am sipping on some tea liqueur (red tea, without milk and sugar) watching red flowers sway at an arms' distance. Flowers are in bloom in orange, and white, and yellow too. There are a countless stars up in the sky. By sunlight too, the moon is out. The sky is often flawlessly clear, except for today, when it was swirled with strokes of white. I am in Silchar, Assam. About a ten hour ride, from Shillong, which you may have heard of.
We are staying at beautiful, colonial era white-washed bungalow at the Aenakhal Tea Estate. Acres and acres of tea bushes surround us. In Assam there are bamboo, and paper plantations in abundance, too. Along drives, we find paddy fields, and vegetable patches, and cows, and buffaloes, and mud houses, and ducks, and rivers dried up from time. There are few churches in Assam, there are many temples- the Tea Estates are often named after Hindu Gods. We learn, little by little of the thousand tea estates in the area.
Each function like a self-sustained town. With a huge tea garden, its land amassing small cities, and a factory. Managers, and Assistant Managers, and laborers all have houses according to their salary structure. Much of Assam's infrastructure remains unaffected through time...
Managers stay in bungalows the size of club houses, with tennis courts, and swimming pools, and lush lawns, and fifteen servants. The crowd meets at the Longwai Valley Club, where they play Lotto off the same circular dispenser used many years ago. There is a cot, with a net that is as many years old...and the washroom too bears the exact resemblance to the luxury it held many years ago...the card tables come with glass holders.
And, there are fireplaces, and snooker tables, and towel racks, and slouch chairs, and swings...characteristic of the British era in India. There are even books riddled with termites, and dust, and signatures from the time...
We take many cups of chai, as we savour this beautiful, new place. So many legacies, and so many stories lie behind a humble cup of chai...And, so many picturesque sunsets too, I think. As we sit upon a hillock and watch the sun go down the horizon..disappear into the surrounding hills...
...I realize, this Monday, what a beautiful, unfathomable world we live in...
[More Monday Musings here ]
We are staying at beautiful, colonial era white-washed bungalow at the Aenakhal Tea Estate. Acres and acres of tea bushes surround us. In Assam there are bamboo, and paper plantations in abundance, too. Along drives, we find paddy fields, and vegetable patches, and cows, and buffaloes, and mud houses, and ducks, and rivers dried up from time. There are few churches in Assam, there are many temples- the Tea Estates are often named after Hindu Gods. We learn, little by little of the thousand tea estates in the area.
Each function like a self-sustained town. With a huge tea garden, its land amassing small cities, and a factory. Managers, and Assistant Managers, and laborers all have houses according to their salary structure. Much of Assam's infrastructure remains unaffected through time...
Managers stay in bungalows the size of club houses, with tennis courts, and swimming pools, and lush lawns, and fifteen servants. The crowd meets at the Longwai Valley Club, where they play Lotto off the same circular dispenser used many years ago. There is a cot, with a net that is as many years old...and the washroom too bears the exact resemblance to the luxury it held many years ago...the card tables come with glass holders.
And, there are fireplaces, and snooker tables, and towel racks, and slouch chairs, and swings...characteristic of the British era in India. There are even books riddled with termites, and dust, and signatures from the time...
We take many cups of chai, as we savour this beautiful, new place. So many legacies, and so many stories lie behind a humble cup of chai...And, so many picturesque sunsets too, I think. As we sit upon a hillock and watch the sun go down the horizon..disappear into the surrounding hills...
...I realize, this Monday, what a beautiful, unfathomable world we live in...
[More Monday Musings here ]
Monday, January 18, 2010
Monday Musings - 31
Some Mondays aren't beginnings, but ends. Ends to another beautiful week in the city of Mumbai. Ends to a road long travelled. Ends to the familiar. As I say goodbye to yet another friend vacationing in Mumbai, I leave a little part of me in this city. A little part of us in the city. Down a jagged, over familiar street in Bandra. By a narrow, dark street in Oshiwara littered with stray dogs. And, a little garden...our favourite night haunt. Friends, they make life so joyous.
And, then I think about how friendships evolve over time. Even as sometimes we are afraid as distances and circumstances change, I think it will be alright. I see my Father, and his closest friends from long ago. He has such special, unique equations with each of them. One friend who lives many miles away, and him keep in touch on Email. An Email a day, for the last 15 years. And, another he finds just where he left off, at the Derby- young boys watching horses gallop to the finishing line...
But, life comes without a finishing line, doesn't it? There is no one goal we are chasing. I wonder if we realize that. With money too...
On Friday night though, as I am sitting...the chatter of an oncoming weekend fills the air at a local restaurant. Kebabs on skewers, and dying fires flurry themselves about tables...and here is a meal that costs money. A quiet, comfortable evening with family that comes at a price. And, I think, what a humbling moment. And, what a moment to learn that even money does help us share happiness, sometimes...
I find an unexplainable joy in being able to share money, just sometimes...especially with the very people who've allowed so much of our lives. Will I be able to ever give. No just give back...but give at all.
I do not know. I do not know many answers this Monday night. I am perhaps in a whirlwind of emotions...a flurry of goodbyes...and off to a promising holiday to the hills of Assam.
Chai, anybody?
[More Monday Musings here ]
And, then I think about how friendships evolve over time. Even as sometimes we are afraid as distances and circumstances change, I think it will be alright. I see my Father, and his closest friends from long ago. He has such special, unique equations with each of them. One friend who lives many miles away, and him keep in touch on Email. An Email a day, for the last 15 years. And, another he finds just where he left off, at the Derby- young boys watching horses gallop to the finishing line...
But, life comes without a finishing line, doesn't it? There is no one goal we are chasing. I wonder if we realize that. With money too...
On Friday night though, as I am sitting...the chatter of an oncoming weekend fills the air at a local restaurant. Kebabs on skewers, and dying fires flurry themselves about tables...and here is a meal that costs money. A quiet, comfortable evening with family that comes at a price. And, I think, what a humbling moment. And, what a moment to learn that even money does help us share happiness, sometimes...
I find an unexplainable joy in being able to share money, just sometimes...especially with the very people who've allowed so much of our lives. Will I be able to ever give. No just give back...but give at all.
I do not know. I do not know many answers this Monday night. I am perhaps in a whirlwind of emotions...a flurry of goodbyes...and off to a promising holiday to the hills of Assam.
Chai, anybody?
[More Monday Musings here ]
Monday, January 04, 2010
Monday Musings - 30
And, so it is, a beautiful Monday, in a brand new year! I am all kinds of delirious today. Delirious from the wind that blows through rickshaws, and celebrations for friends that are leaving, and ones that are still here, and from weddings of childhood sweethearts.
There is something all too beautiful about watching true love come alive. Watching it culminate, and begin again in the promise of marriage. Our friends from Australia, R and C found each other in 1998. Their love blossomed, survived the trials and temptations of time, and ten years later, they came to India to marry.
At the ceremony, the groom's father among other things said: "There is no greater force in this world than the force of true love." It is true, true love can conquer all. Fears, and boundaries, and cultures, and everyday life, and troubles, and sadness, and what not. I am often tempted to believe otherwise, but there is something about watching the father of the bride, a couple in love, and their smiles and tears...and knowing that there is a such a thing as true love.
But, what I really want to tell you about is the brother of the bride, 24-year-old Ro. He is autistic. He and I became friends in the summer of the same year R met C, 1998. We did a lot of whatever he liked to at home in Brisbane, Australia. But, he doesn't remember.
As I watch him, across the green grass...the sprawling lawns just before the winter sea, I wonder if maybe, just maybe he remembers? And, I wonder more so, if he knows. Knows that his beloved, beautiful, affectionate sister is leaving her house, for another. Does he know his sister is getting married?
The next day, it is as if I have found my answer. A ceremony of sorts concludes...and the couple are congratulated and blessed. And, just as the announcement is made, Ro claps. Restless, pacing ..he now claps. The crowd roars.
It is as if he now knows. As the evening goes on...and my thoughts meander from the beauty of true love between the couple, and the selfless love for a handicapped child... I find Ro again. He is no longer pacing...but is now seated alone in a corner...affectionately holding on to passerby's hands. Perhaps, he does know, I realize...
And, I smile.
[Last year in Monday Musings here ]
There is something all too beautiful about watching true love come alive. Watching it culminate, and begin again in the promise of marriage. Our friends from Australia, R and C found each other in 1998. Their love blossomed, survived the trials and temptations of time, and ten years later, they came to India to marry.
At the ceremony, the groom's father among other things said: "There is no greater force in this world than the force of true love." It is true, true love can conquer all. Fears, and boundaries, and cultures, and everyday life, and troubles, and sadness, and what not. I am often tempted to believe otherwise, but there is something about watching the father of the bride, a couple in love, and their smiles and tears...and knowing that there is a such a thing as true love.
But, what I really want to tell you about is the brother of the bride, 24-year-old Ro. He is autistic. He and I became friends in the summer of the same year R met C, 1998. We did a lot of whatever he liked to at home in Brisbane, Australia. But, he doesn't remember.
As I watch him, across the green grass...the sprawling lawns just before the winter sea, I wonder if maybe, just maybe he remembers? And, I wonder more so, if he knows. Knows that his beloved, beautiful, affectionate sister is leaving her house, for another. Does he know his sister is getting married?
The next day, it is as if I have found my answer. A ceremony of sorts concludes...and the couple are congratulated and blessed. And, just as the announcement is made, Ro claps. Restless, pacing ..he now claps. The crowd roars.
It is as if he now knows. As the evening goes on...and my thoughts meander from the beauty of true love between the couple, and the selfless love for a handicapped child... I find Ro again. He is no longer pacing...but is now seated alone in a corner...affectionately holding on to passerby's hands. Perhaps, he does know, I realize...
And, I smile.
[Last year in Monday Musings here ]
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