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.
Friday, October 08, 2010
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 ]
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