Good news: I am in Goa.

Bad news : I am at a 2x2 office with a stone wall for a view.

Worse news: I have a belly full of fried fish and now barely able to stay awake.

Worst news: I have a meeting in 15 mins by which time I will fall on my desk and snore.

Hells bells news: I am gearing up to write a story for someone special which will be his ticket to Raindance.

in one day

Today has been a very strange day. The morning rush of getting to work was usual. What was unusual was that I decided to wear my pista green ‘dakai’ saree complete with pearls, instead of the Saturday-denim and floaters. All this effort towards the wedding of a colleague in the late afternoon. The church where he was to say his vows, is a stone’s throw from office and therefore it made no sense to trek all the way home to change. Unlike many people I know, I consider it an insult to the host to attend a formal occasion, specially a wedding, in inappropriate clothes. Of course the attention my saree got at work can turn any one vain. After a leisurely lunch we walked to the venue just as the service began. I like church weddings. They are solemn, short and the music is pleasing to the ear. The groom sang soulfully. The bride beamed prettily. They exchanged rings and he kissed her on the cheeks (boring!). It was over. I was tired and my feet ached from cavorting in the high heels. I pictured an easy evening at home with my tea and my mother’s familiar gripe. Ah, the bliss of domesticity.

Half way home, an old colleague calls. I heard that my ex-boss's wife passed away after a tragic accident at home. I agreed to meet up with them and visit his house. Although our professional association had ended unpleasantly, this was not the time to remember that. He had come home to meet my parents when I had lost my brother a few years earlier and later he enquired regularly after my parents' wellbeing. His house was already filled with family and near ones. We heard how on the fateful Diwali night, her saree caught fire from the diyas at home and before she realized the extend, the fire had swallowed her in. He had been outside with the children who were busy with the firecrackers. The noise muffled her cries and when they finally got home, they found her burnt and unconscious in the bathroom. Since then she had been battling for life but just when the doctors gave a little hope of progress, it was brutally extinguished. The two young boys were still in shock. He looked stricken and there was nothing I could say except to hold his hand and nod briefly.

I had hardly imagined at the beginning of the day that in the next few hours, I would share someone’s most joyous moment and another’s most tragic. I cannot claim to be a close associate of either but it is only human to be touched in some way by the joy and sorrow of our fellow travelers with whom we share this journey called life.

Reactions during the news broadcast on Chandrayaan launch.

Ma: (with pride) Oh! Good! Now finally we are on the moon…

Ro: (confused) But….we have been on the moon looong back! Why do we need to go again? We can’t live on moon you know…no oxygen…so why send these space thingie?

Baba: Right! 42% of Indians don’t get enough to eat and our roads are as good as on moon! Why spend 280 crores on this? Silly ego!!

Ma: (looks at me for help)

I: I think they both have a point don’t you think?

Inspiration eludes

Muse disappears

Spark dies

Charade crumbles

Faith waivers

Confidence shrivels

Hope dwindles

Commitment falters

Vision clouds

Goals shift.

So we learn to cope

Each day.

With a vacant smile

And blueberry cheesecake.

god parade!

One other highlight of my recent trip to Himachal was the Dusheera mela in Kullu. Rustic and steeped in tradition, it was fantastically intriguing. Way back in mid 1600, the then Raja of Kullu brought back an idol of Ram from Ayodhya and established the Raghunathji temple in Kullu. From then on, every year on the dusheera day, the hundred odd villages in and around Kullu participate in the mela where they bring their village deity and assemble in the central ‘maidan’ to pay their respect to Raghunathji. What follows is a procession of all the deities led by Lord Raghunathji. All the village deities ‘sign’ attendance at Raghunathji temple before ‘they’ are allowed to take part in the parade. For the next one week all the deities are kept under ‘house arrest’ in a designated part of the ‘maidan’ before they are allowed to travel back to their native villages. Of course in the course of the week there are brawls among the villages as to whose deity is more ‘powerful’. Then the deities fight it out to establish supremacy. The police 'bandobast' was tight. Incidentally, HP has the highest percentage of hindus according to the last Census and ofcourse the current BJP govenment encourages participation.

We met travellers from near and far who had come to view the parade. A family from Tel Aviv with a tiny tot in tow, an old couple from Scotland, several families who had driven down from Delhi and a bunch of youngsters who were filming the festivities for Discovery.

call of the hills

I have been traveling in Himachal for the last couple of days. The trip was packed with the usual and sundry like Shimla and Manali and the exciting like Rotang and Keylong.

Shimla was a drab. Too many people, too many houses, too many vehicles and too few locals. It is just like any other congested town in north India. You might as well be sitting in Bhatinda or Hoshiarpur except for the comfortable chill at nights. In fact the traffic is as bad as Bangalore, if not worse.

Manali, is a true blue budget tourist destination. Hotels are mushrooming at an alarming speed as are tourist taxis. And there is cuisine for every palate from macher jhol to sushi. I tried the former but didn’t risk the latter, though the local trout (which are farmed extensively in the fast flowing brooks) were good. And no didn’t get my hands on manali cream. Having a small boy and an old man for company is a sure fire way to deter any dope dealer from approaching.

Rotang at 15500ft is a beauty. Icy and cold. Lofty and majestic. Sharp and threatening. But yeah as usual too many people. Yelling families, bawling babies, teenagers munching away and littering the mountains with empty packets of Lays and Kurkure. Goes to show our value system and education are totally awry.

Keylong, the capital of Spiti and Lahaul (between Manali and Leh) is still pristine. It remains cut off from the rest of the world from Nov to June since the Rotang pass closes in winter. An absolute beauty in its severity and starkness. One has to be there to experience the freezing nights and the silence that cleanses the soul. We had planned to get to Leh (2 days of bumpy bus ride from Keylong) but bad weather thwarted the plan and we landed up spending more time in Manali. If I did not have to worry about a livelihood, I would have settled somewhere in the hills inhaling the thin air and enjoying the quiet.

Well now I am back in Bangalore and back at work. Groan!

last evening

A conversation between two men I live with, who are at opposite ends of the generation gap. The prompt was my arrival home last evening, with two tickets for today’s show of The Last Lear which I picked up to surprise my parents. (Ma is a Bachchan fan)

Ro: (runs to Baba) Dadu, Mommy got movie tickets and you and Didun are going on a date.

Baba: So we all will go..

Ro: No, it’s for you and Didun. You are going on a date. (smiles mischievously)

Baba: (looking surprised) Date? What is date?

Ro: (laughing hysterically) Mommy, Dadu doesn’t know what date means!!

Baba: Ok. So you tell me…

Ro: When a boy and a girl goes out alone.

Baba: (messing with his head) But if two of them are together, how can they be alone?

Ro: Uuff! Tumi kichhu bojho na! (you don’t understand anything!)

the vain and the vile

Pheww! It has been a while. Crazy travel schedule that got screwed up, viral attack that came from no where, family that chided unnecessarily, friends who distracted with attention, all plotted to keep me away from here. So feel free to castigate each and one of them for their misdeeds and ill judged enterprise. But well you can’t keep a loony too long in the bin, can you? So here it is.

Imagine. You in a strange wet city. Work piled up till over your head. And suddenly, The Viral lunges at you and despite your bravado you fall flat like the clumsy Humpty Dumpty. Now there is little you can do except for surrendering to a kindly friend’s hospitality. Like the legendary ‘kabab mein haddi’ you lodge between the husband and wife trying to blend in to the woodwork. In about 2 days The Viral gets bored and decides to surprise other unsuspecting victims. And you limp back to your life. Halleluiah!

Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man's life is cheap as beast's.

The only good thing that came off my recent trip to Pune was that I got to watched The Last Lear on the Friday it released here in India. I had gone with my workmates and most of them were shifting in their seats in discomfort and boredom and the only thing that kept them there was the fact that they couldn't desert me. But I ignored all their silent pleas and stayed on till the credits rolled. I liked what I saw. infact I liked it immensely. I confess, I am not an Amitabh Bachchan fan. But I came back impressed. Also, I watched Arjun Rampal on screen for the first time. He held his character well specially in scenes with 'Harry'. I have always liked Shefali Shah. I was surprised with Preity Zinta blending so well with the rest of the cast. Though I thought Divya Dutt stood out in the trio of women. Some of the dialogues were in bangla and there were no subtitles so the rest of the viewers in the near empty theatre missed some of the subtle flavours. But passion was the running theme of the movie. Each character had their own story of passion and the emotions that drive us beyond ourselves.

It’s raining in Pune. Just a drab down pour. Not dancing and joyous streaks like Mumbai. Nor exciting and adamant rush like in Bangalore. Nor comfortable and reassuring like in Kolkata. Here it has no character at all. Nothing that would tell it apart.

I would head for my rented room soon and seek company in Unconsoled which I have finally started reading. I miss you. Your lighthearted banter. Your unhurried restlessness. Your sudden concern. Your quirky humour. Your spirited arguments. Your unabashed simplicity. Your childlike smile.

Yeah, heartbreak ain’t easy. Neither is letting go of desires and dreams. But after the juvenility of the sad song routine, the constant craving, the endless post mortem and mostly, the depressive self blame, the hurt settles into a dull ache. The sharpness of it smoothened by wisdom and reality. It still hurts when we pass our memories. But it doesn’t make us dysfunctional. Life, at the end of the day, is bigger and better. M shared her learnt wisdom with us over coffee.

Today while driving to work I saw a trio of a father and two young sons parking their two-wheeler at the side of the busy Hosur Road and relieving themselves on the compound wall of the Roman Catholic Cemetery. If you live around here, this sight is more common than cattle dung on the road. While we do lack adequate public toilets, as a nation we also have limited or negligible bladder control. And of course once you are dead you don’t mind who pees on the wall like you would when alive if someone unzipped in front of your house to give Niagara a competition. Reminds me of this raunchy horror story where a lewd spirit trapped in a WC would yank off private parts of men who went in the public lavatory to unload.

You said I have stopped being interesting. That I have stopped to inspire. That time with me was predictable and dreary. It hit me hard at that time like a sudden slap. But once the haze of the initial shock cleared I realized you are right. So I decided to do something about it. First, to surround myself with people who were happy and would be happy to see me. Known company works best.

Friday I met up with D and R at Mojos. D was his quiet self till his pals the other D and his brother turned up. R was his usual funny self and we got talking about Goa, food, fish (yeah!), books, music et al till the conversation got stuck predictably (thanks to D’s pals) on women, at which point his interest dropped sharply and he became the quiet one. Anyway R was gracious enough to drop me home without any cribs.

Saturday, Al invited a few of us to celebrate her recent engagement. She was beaming and gorgeous and finally at peace with her boisterous curls. We all met up in a café and then headed for TGIF. I was happy to meet M after such a long time. She is the calm one in the group and we bitched about work and the lack of it. But AP was the absolute riot. He is one person I would always respect despite him being a decade junior. A chilled out guy with wisdom beyond his years. His enthusiasm is infectious. A tough life hasn’t robbed his zest for life. I met him after many months and it felt like we have been talking everyday. He makes me laugh even on my shittiest day. He fills in for the brother I have lost.

The Sunday brunch with S had to be postponed since S is down with viral. So I had time to watch Music and Lyrics on HBO. I have always been a lyrics person. I laughed when ‘Sophie’ said melody is like sex, the instant attraction, but it is the lyrics that make the story of a song. Yes. Which is why I am never completely convinced till I understand the words of a song. In the evening, I watched Bhoothnath with Ro whose company made the movie enjoyable.

round the mulberry bush...

It has been a while now that I haven’t felt motivated to write. Truth be told I haven’t felt like doing anything at all. Days became numbers on the MS Outlook calendar and the activities stretched to fill the day. I haven’t read anything in the last 2 weeks except for the special edition China NG. I haven’t watched anything except Singh is Kinng in 3 installments. I have been speaking less at work And even lesser at home. My brother used to say ‘this is where she travels INSIDE her head!’ Yes, I have been speeding and spiraling inside for no good reason. Not that all reasons are necessarily good. However, I am back.

I had planned to share some moments with someone faraway over the weekend. Then it didn’t work out, But other things did. Like the standing-ovation show the kids put up for us on Ganesh Chaturthi. Like the forthcoming weekend plan with A celebrating her recent engagement. Then the Sunday brunch with S since her HK travel got postponed.

Life is a basket of goodies. We just have to know where to look for them.

A song in my heart...
anondo loke, mongola loke birajo sotto sundåro. mohima tåbo udbhasito måha gågon majhe bisso jågåto moni bhushån besTito Chåråne.

I woke up with one of my favourite songs buzzing in my head. I was singing while packing Ro’s lunch, humming through my bath and during my drive to work. And suddenly I feel happy. Not exhilaratingly happy but peaceful. A friend of mine often says, happiness and sadness are transient. What is most important is your peace of mind. True true true. I feel happy that I am alive. Happy that I still have so much to look forward to. And, finally, make something out of my ambition. My problems wouldn’t evaporate for sure. My finances need working on. My health needs to be taken care of. My career needs focus and drive. But today I shall park all of it and celebrate for a while. First, I have to train a bunch of kids for a dance recital next week. It would be a whole lot of fun arranging costume, making the props and mostly just letting them enjoy the rhythm. I have chosen a bangla folk song that celebrates the freedom from oppression. The only reason we live is to be happy. Yes, life is beautiful, for now.

and a smile in my soul!

“Don’t you ever shave, Mommy?" said the boy who-just-turned-eight. It startled his mother before she gave in to a bout of mirth. “Women don’t shave silly!” she said light-heartedly. “But look!” he said touching her eyebrows. And yes. Sure enough, her beauty salon appointment was long over due. But she never thought anyone was watching. From any other man, this would have been his death wish. But she has grown aware of her son’s discerning eye as he nonchalantly told her when she looked good and when she didn’t. And he did it with an ease that only children possess.

All her life, she has rarely given appearance any importance. At school she was a hockey-playing pimply tom boy with a hell with the world attitude. At college she changed into a dowdy bespectacled young woman who knew a Moog better than a mascara. First year at university went by listening to head-banging music, smoking pot and sniggering at women who spent money on lipsticks. At the university, she kept a measured distance from her glamorous hostel neighbour GG, the 5’7” slim, husky babe who was also blessed with a terrific brain (she is a top scholar and currently teaches at Harvard). At times she amazed at her ability to ‘live’ in a face pack while discussing the next assignment. GG used to practice strutting in her five inch stiletto up and down the first floor hostel corridor while the rest of the girls watched with admiration mixed with envy. The same GG, one day came into her room and asked her to loan her the black tartan top that she thought matched her black Ravi Bajaj miniskirt. GG’s admirers recoiled with horror. According to them it was a fashion faux pas. But GG went for the photo shoot with the borrowed tartan and apparently was admired and noticed by many happening Delhi couturier of that time. From then on GG would often come over to her room with armful of glam garb and ask for her opinion. “You have a sense of style” she used to say. “Why don’t you try some of it?” she had offered. But she refused politely, cocky in her feminism fired snobbery. The first dent came from an affair of hearts. “Behind all this cultivated retro snobbery you are actually quite pretty” K had quipped, risking a tirade. What ensued was a long sermon on MCP stereotyping and commoditization of women. But somewhere his comment had warmed her and slowly she changed. May be it was love. Maybe it was the fact that he noticed her beyond her wisecracks. First to go were her glasses. While she never transformed into the proverbial swan she caught unknown men staring at her and her male friends suddenly seeking her company and not just for a good conversation. But that was a long time ago. Today, her boy’s remark surprised her. Yes, life has come a full circle. She chuckled at her thought as she made a mental note to drop by the salon after work.

As her hope plummets from the crest, she slides slowly but surely into a self-loathing despair. Once again.
She remembers the excitement and the amazement in the child’s voice, when they had gone to see his unfinished home, in which she had hoped to built her new life. She passed by the concrete structure today. Something sharp hit her gut compelling her to look at the still unfinished high-rise,  whose insides she will never see again.
”Are you crazy? Who would ever love you?” S had said with a cocky confidence in his ability to pull the strings of her life long after they had separated. The divorce left her financially crippled and emotionally stunted. She forgot how to respond to normalcy and became a parodied version of herself, clothing her desperation in excessive exuberance and her hurt in smooth stoicism. It was then that he offered himself. He gave her love and hope and dreams and she grabbed them like a starving child. She had never known happiness the way she had known with him. She gave herself to him, and the future, in their spirited stubbornness of making a life together.
But somewhere in that journey, in her dogged focus on clearing the brambles that clouded her path, she lost her love. She lost that one thing that held her whole. Today, in his cursory calls, in her rising despair, in her injured spirit, in the nothingness of the future, she tries to find a reason to live.

Do you remember the first time we spoke? A hesitant hello. Some static. Then rush of words. My hands shook a little but I hid it with exaggerated swagger in my voice. You were nervous too I am certain. For you faltered over my name once. I blushed till my ears felt hot. Somewhere we fell into native tongue. 30 minutes non stop. Then you said maybe I should get on with my day. It was a Saturday. Same day two years ago.

My house burnt down.

Now I can better see

The rising moon.

- a haiku by Basho -

Seed

Life

Hope

Love

what I am reading right now...

I have just started reading Adechie's book having read Purple Hibiscus before. Hauntingly raw. No, I haven't got to the gore yet. So far it is a tapestry of bare human emotions.