Tonight,
all I know is
the moon is out,
and, the stars, they carry an answer.
Tonight,
all I see is
vast endless sky
grey for miles, like forever
Tonight,
all I hope is
dreams like light
blaze grey skies
Tonight,
all I need is
your hand like love
to hold me,
carry me,
help me...
into tomorrow.
[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]
Sunday, November 01, 2009
30X30: Of Cities and Hope
And, it would seem then that of all the cities you fall in love with; the cities you love the most are the ones in which you find hope.
[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]
[30X30 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
30X30: Fragments
Does it bother you that some of the most significant moments of your life are blurs of memories? Like clouds from a time long ago. White, puffy and ethereal. I can catch, remember and savour only fragments of the time. The time that shaped my love for writing. In a dingy, hole-in-the-wall in 4 Bungalows. I was thirteen-years-old. And, my mother had enrolled my sister and me in a Raell Padamsee summer workshop.
I cannot remember the name of the workshop, but I know I have the certificates saved for posterity. I cannot remember the name of the teacher, but I can remember distinctly his black grizzly beard, his youthful exuberance. I can remember looking forward to each class.
And, I can remember my bit-sized, ten-rupee notebook wrapped with silver paper and plastered with stickers. I can remember sheets of printer paper I misused to write stories, because sometimes writing is about the paper you use. And, the size of the font. And, the colour of the pen.
We used to have writing exercises. We had to create stories and use words beginning with a letter of the alphabet. So, one day a story was about Gareth the grizzly gardener, and another day there was a story on the bear who wouldn't bare. The more words you used whilst twisting the plot, the higher your ranking.
I remember secretly hoping for that A plus. Or, that little star. Or, a very good sealed in pink ink upon ruled paper. And, in that little room lost in the dark, with a window for good measure, I remember falling in love with the power of words. The excitement of turning them into stories, and using them, and challenging them.
I cannot remember his name, but I know whom to thank. The man with the grizzly beard, and the encouraging smile. Who led me to write. Of course then on, like anyone who loves what they do will agree, it has been a journey of constant learning and unlearning. But a journey of growth.
Somewhere in the middle, I can remember creating a alternate email address. I held a fascination for life lessons, and I remember sending out Emails to friends with little snippets. This was in tenth grade, and I think I wanted to change the world. With emails. I think of it and smile. I do not have those Emails, but now I wonder if somebody, somewhere does. Ah, time sometimes leaves its trail in fragments.
[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]
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 ]
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 ]
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