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 ]
Monday, February 22, 2010
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 ]
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Pause: Of last thoughts..
I want to tell you how I began the year 2009, because someday you may begin a year like that too. Alone, aloof, afraid...almost broken. Hoping for one thing, one dream.
And, I want to tell you, how I feel today, because perhaps, it will fill you with hope? It fills me, too. And, despite the fact that I lost the one dream I started out with...
Here I am..smiling, content, excited, pensive on the very last day of the year. There are just a few more hours to go...
And, I am thankful for the new friends I made this year. The old friends I found. The new-old friends I made. Such a year of people, 2009. And, such a year of writing too. There was Love Letters, and Monday Musings, and 30X30 and Pause. And, after reading other Pauses, I wonder if it was a time in our life to learn, and let go, and find ourselves...
Difficult, but beautiful. And, satisfying, for me at least. I always pen my last thoughts before a new year. And, then on, I am always in a fleeting hurry to embrace the many little strings left to tie-up before the year ends...
But, today I have time..time for that one last run...the wind against my skin...just before the celebrations begin..the celebrations of a year well lived, well learned, well found...
...and the countless blessings I am grateful for. Everything isn't always the way we want it to be...but we have a choice, to be happy. And, to run...and still savour the wind.
Thank you for staying with me through the year. For those of you who did, thank you for pausing. I hope you have a safe evening. And, an absolutely miraculous twenty-ten. With love!
[ Pause is an ongoing series of reflections by writers (enlisted alongside) come together to capture people, places and moments from the year 2009. Pause ends on 31st December, 2009]
And, I want to tell you, how I feel today, because perhaps, it will fill you with hope? It fills me, too. And, despite the fact that I lost the one dream I started out with...
Here I am..smiling, content, excited, pensive on the very last day of the year. There are just a few more hours to go...
And, I am thankful for the new friends I made this year. The old friends I found. The new-old friends I made. Such a year of people, 2009. And, such a year of writing too. There was Love Letters, and Monday Musings, and 30X30 and Pause. And, after reading other Pauses, I wonder if it was a time in our life to learn, and let go, and find ourselves...
Difficult, but beautiful. And, satisfying, for me at least. I always pen my last thoughts before a new year. And, then on, I am always in a fleeting hurry to embrace the many little strings left to tie-up before the year ends...
But, today I have time..time for that one last run...the wind against my skin...just before the celebrations begin..the celebrations of a year well lived, well learned, well found...
...and the countless blessings I am grateful for. Everything isn't always the way we want it to be...but we have a choice, to be happy. And, to run...and still savour the wind.
Thank you for staying with me through the year. For those of you who did, thank you for pausing. I hope you have a safe evening. And, an absolutely miraculous twenty-ten. With love!
[ Pause is an ongoing series of reflections by writers (enlisted alongside) come together to capture people, places and moments from the year 2009. Pause ends on 31st December, 2009]
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