Saturday, September 13, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Trying to outstare the dinner things
While sitting up for the UNICEF project -nothing would come-
except for the crockery, after dinner debris and very accusatory looking
forks and knives making some very pointed statements!:)
ET asleep on M's bed
ET passed away peacefully last year.we've been seeing her since our college days
in JU...Mauri found this dirty cat bundle somewhere along the way ( the fish market?)and then let her follow her home mewing and puzzled...god bless ET...
I grew to like cats post-ET and then Octo(puss)happened. Aneesh's black and white acquisition was found shivering one rainy evening, forlorn and very wet, trying to draw solace from the steaming engine of his bike.
He looks quite the prosperous, shy bachelor (Octo not Aneesh)- oversensitive and now effete thanks to being neutered!
Happy No More
Drew this on my floor rug with some ink and pencil colours-
later found out that Bobby's friend Happy had died earlier
that day and was found after a day...
Monday, August 18, 2008
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Something Like A Flying Kiss
Life is a person sitting up there on high
scrunching up these silver paper balls
from mint new cigarette packs and
half-finished chocolate wraps
then throws it down on me when
I least expect-
it's anyone's guess
And I then pelt right back
like this and this and this
something like a flying kiss!
Or else Life scatters crushed confetti
itsy bits of mindless paper or sudden showers
of honey coated ice flakes or simply just
a wake of this and that and other stuff
and then I pick up these arms full of
half-baked fluff and carefully take some
on my open palm and blow it back again
from where it came and in the harmless charming
game-in the bliss of hit and miss- it seems so
like a flying kiss!
scrunching up these silver paper balls
from mint new cigarette packs and
half-finished chocolate wraps
then throws it down on me when
I least expect-
it's anyone's guess
And I then pelt right back
like this and this and this
something like a flying kiss!
Or else Life scatters crushed confetti
itsy bits of mindless paper or sudden showers
of honey coated ice flakes or simply just
a wake of this and that and other stuff
and then I pick up these arms full of
half-baked fluff and carefully take some
on my open palm and blow it back again
from where it came and in the harmless charming
game-in the bliss of hit and miss- it seems so
like a flying kiss!
Here's to all of us....
If James is pure and James is true
He will be fine and so will you
For James is not just James alone
No more is he a lonely Stone
For far and wide the Net has spread
To all who've heard and seen and read
And The One behind the sprouting seeds?
Of health and hope and happy deeds
Must Sing and clap and dance and breed!
No longer swamped and cramped by greed
Of petty minds and pettier deeds
She shyly seeks her Tribe and Creed-
The Voiceless Weed has now been freed!
( For Lawrence, Jasmeen, Vinod R, Vinod S, Chandni, Juhi, Reshma , Maureen, Ian, Amit, Sumit,Tanya, Vasudha, Vandana, Chetna,Biswadip, Pradumn, Nandini, Deepti C, Deepti S, Aneesh, Habu, Baba, Ma, Max,Nino, Mimi, Avi, Aparajita, Aditi, Shruti and Prasad,Rahul and Shaila, Shailja, Junu, Chaitanya, Bobby, Barnalee, Shyama mama, Apu, Iti, Khushu, Ron Dads, Abhijit, Bodhmayanandaji, Aspi, Yasmin,( their son and daughter!) Mahua, Priyatosh, Toon, Peter the Griff, Samta,Mananjit, Bharath M.,Prasad (early champion of James),Oinky,Shirish, ...may the tribe increase!)
He will be fine and so will you
For James is not just James alone
No more is he a lonely Stone
For far and wide the Net has spread
To all who've heard and seen and read
And The One behind the sprouting seeds?
Of health and hope and happy deeds
Must Sing and clap and dance and breed!
No longer swamped and cramped by greed
Of petty minds and pettier deeds
She shyly seeks her Tribe and Creed-
The Voiceless Weed has now been freed!
( For Lawrence, Jasmeen, Vinod R, Vinod S, Chandni, Juhi, Reshma , Maureen, Ian, Amit, Sumit,Tanya, Vasudha, Vandana, Chetna,Biswadip, Pradumn, Nandini, Deepti C, Deepti S, Aneesh, Habu, Baba, Ma, Max,Nino, Mimi, Avi, Aparajita, Aditi, Shruti and Prasad,Rahul and Shaila, Shailja, Junu, Chaitanya, Bobby, Barnalee, Shyama mama, Apu, Iti, Khushu, Ron Dads, Abhijit, Bodhmayanandaji, Aspi, Yasmin,( their son and daughter!) Mahua, Priyatosh, Toon, Peter the Griff, Samta,Mananjit, Bharath M.,Prasad (early champion of James),Oinky,Shirish, ...may the tribe increase!)
Tis strange/How somethings NEVER change/ Here I am sitting/ Waiting for this THING to move/ And yet/I have nothing AT ALL to prove/ Except this growing feeling/ That tis ALL VERY STRANGE...
(Waiting in those 6 seater thingies which refuse to budge when you want them to..)
Written behind a business card...inspiration Hugh McCleod!)
(Waiting in those 6 seater thingies which refuse to budge when you want them to..)
Written behind a business card...inspiration Hugh McCleod!)
Sunday, June 15, 2008
To...responding to Junu and La Vie Boheme!!!
To nights of uncertainty
Of instant gain and no pain
To crushed coffee in my mind
And Nescafe in my usual cup
To reach out and unfurl
plucked picked cut torn curled
To riding in the wind
and treading rain
not touching it
not touching me
not touching grounds
To no grounds
no end in mind
To filtered tips
small tiny sips
nips pecks and buds
To a rough bare browned foot
placed perfectly on a
Too perfect cold Buddha feet
To badly made first films
To poems made unmade love
with the last man mannequin
who knows who cares to care
to dare to devour to simply stare
To this and that
To made up make ups fights
To the longest lasting pimple
To the dimple on your chin
To the simple sin of Chantille
To the grass under my nose
and the nose under my eyes
and all thats unpretty
and unfettered uncombed
ungroomed and undone
To wisdom, utter utter stupidity
To hard wins and softer than
a babies bottom- losses
To flossing nicotine and cheese
To triple tums and morning runs
which end and begin in bed
To you to me
To everybody we ever knew will know or never know
to everyone out there and in here
To back there where we left them
and how they never left us in turn
To turn take turns out of turn
Ever turning never still
To those still standing
To those who have been brought to their knees
through age through life's expectations ever running dry
through holding too still for too long
to the same slow disease called time
To time and when time's up and it's time to go
To simply go back home
To going home
To Ma and some Ba to Chotomama and Didabhai
and Habu up their and Bhai who's not too far
But never ever really sure how far away
To the family I was born in but will die without
someday
To phoney old laughing gangster grannies
To picking noses to bleeding roses
To Fanny and Alexander's Fanny
To every passing geese and all that dander
To nannies in the park with nowhere to park their wards
or their dreams or to even pick a covert flower without
their watchman lover looking on in lust
To lust,to a 34 bust straining to be 36...
To letting it rising to the crust but not letting it spill
Or flood or overflow to swim swim swim to the brim
To turqoise pools chlorine drenched in the rain
To faking interest to not listening
but taking it all in through my eyes nose mouth open
To the last shout to the Big Shout
To the small gains ,
To smaller losses the ones which stopped counting
to tree-walking and stopping to breathe underneath
To mulch carpets and rain tree shadows
To canopies which never cover and never hold still
Like life, to life, this last next all the lives
To listening to Marwa and Gaur geet
To second besting, never resting ever resting
To pause
To breathe
To smile
To end
To you
To me
To us
My friend...
Of instant gain and no pain
To crushed coffee in my mind
And Nescafe in my usual cup
To reach out and unfurl
plucked picked cut torn curled
To riding in the wind
and treading rain
not touching it
not touching me
not touching grounds
To no grounds
no end in mind
To filtered tips
small tiny sips
nips pecks and buds
To a rough bare browned foot
placed perfectly on a
Too perfect cold Buddha feet
To badly made first films
To poems made unmade love
with the last man mannequin
who knows who cares to care
to dare to devour to simply stare
To this and that
To made up make ups fights
To the longest lasting pimple
To the dimple on your chin
To the simple sin of Chantille
To the grass under my nose
and the nose under my eyes
and all thats unpretty
and unfettered uncombed
ungroomed and undone
To wisdom, utter utter stupidity
To hard wins and softer than
a babies bottom- losses
To flossing nicotine and cheese
To triple tums and morning runs
which end and begin in bed
To you to me
To everybody we ever knew will know or never know
to everyone out there and in here
To back there where we left them
and how they never left us in turn
To turn take turns out of turn
Ever turning never still
To those still standing
To those who have been brought to their knees
through age through life's expectations ever running dry
through holding too still for too long
to the same slow disease called time
To time and when time's up and it's time to go
To simply go back home
To going home
To Ma and some Ba to Chotomama and Didabhai
and Habu up their and Bhai who's not too far
But never ever really sure how far away
To the family I was born in but will die without
someday
To phoney old laughing gangster grannies
To picking noses to bleeding roses
To Fanny and Alexander's Fanny
To every passing geese and all that dander
To nannies in the park with nowhere to park their wards
or their dreams or to even pick a covert flower without
their watchman lover looking on in lust
To lust,to a 34 bust straining to be 36...
To letting it rising to the crust but not letting it spill
Or flood or overflow to swim swim swim to the brim
To turqoise pools chlorine drenched in the rain
To faking interest to not listening
but taking it all in through my eyes nose mouth open
To the last shout to the Big Shout
To the small gains ,
To smaller losses the ones which stopped counting
to tree-walking and stopping to breathe underneath
To mulch carpets and rain tree shadows
To canopies which never cover and never hold still
Like life, to life, this last next all the lives
To listening to Marwa and Gaur geet
To second besting, never resting ever resting
To pause
To breathe
To smile
To end
To you
To me
To us
My friend...
Use
We use each others bodies thoughts minds ideas -just as so much of fodder for our art and our lives. Each and every one of us- the mother the wife the farmer cleaner businessman beggar dog stone on the road and weed- am not beginning where Whitman left off -thank you!
If we look from afar or very closely we'll see the links and how we are connected.
It's only to nod in acknowledgment as we pass each by -if that's enough- well and good. It's we who decide what a nod defines encloses and comes to mean. Truly. Or should it be just a smile or a casual calculated brush aside or a handshake or a hug a fifteen minute lasting forever kiss or a lifetime spent together doing special and ordinary things sometimes together and sometimes apart in the comfort of knowing that there is an invisible cord that binds and which finds you even if you forget or lose your way.
When do we stop? And say- ok yes. This guy will do.
Often we don't. We move on.But move as we do it comes to dawn more and more that the more we move in there is more space more time more meaning. Ah yes somethings simply fall away-they lose charm and value without ceasing to bother.
Because the Spirit is endless and it's there we truly draw from -it's that deep tube-well of dreams drawings uncertainty and the perfectly phrased poem as complete as a crown jewel.
So even if one commits to someone for this life it is in utter certainty that it's only for now- be it a man a job or a child.To commit with an open palm- to commit without clutching - to understand and understand some more. Ear on the earth- ear on the heart - ear on the soul- listening deeply. All else is utterly useless.
If we look from afar or very closely we'll see the links and how we are connected.
It's only to nod in acknowledgment as we pass each by -if that's enough- well and good. It's we who decide what a nod defines encloses and comes to mean. Truly. Or should it be just a smile or a casual calculated brush aside or a handshake or a hug a fifteen minute lasting forever kiss or a lifetime spent together doing special and ordinary things sometimes together and sometimes apart in the comfort of knowing that there is an invisible cord that binds and which finds you even if you forget or lose your way.
When do we stop? And say- ok yes. This guy will do.
Often we don't. We move on.But move as we do it comes to dawn more and more that the more we move in there is more space more time more meaning. Ah yes somethings simply fall away-they lose charm and value without ceasing to bother.
Because the Spirit is endless and it's there we truly draw from -it's that deep tube-well of dreams drawings uncertainty and the perfectly phrased poem as complete as a crown jewel.
So even if one commits to someone for this life it is in utter certainty that it's only for now- be it a man a job or a child.To commit with an open palm- to commit without clutching - to understand and understand some more. Ear on the earth- ear on the heart - ear on the soul- listening deeply. All else is utterly useless.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Easy poems for difficult men
WALL
What if, right now,
All the tall talks
You have built
Between us
Like a great big
Mighty wall
Crumbles and fall,
And every bragging brick
From your bag of tricks
Is taken away from you?
Whatever would you do?
Before you start to walk away
I'd go knee down, anyway
In the muddy water drag
And plunge my hand deep
Into that sticky swirling mortar,
Twine your fingers with mine,
And in all that fine mess
let our bones conjoin.
Slowly set to stone
I guess!
What if, right now,
All the tall talks
You have built
Between us
Like a great big
Mighty wall
Crumbles and fall,
And every bragging brick
From your bag of tricks
Is taken away from you?
Whatever would you do?
Before you start to walk away
I'd go knee down, anyway
In the muddy water drag
And plunge my hand deep
Into that sticky swirling mortar,
Twine your fingers with mine,
And in all that fine mess
let our bones conjoin.
Slowly set to stone
I guess!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
It seems so far away...
My Day
I stitch your torn buttons and my frayed sling bag.
I boil the water for morning tea
I wash your soiled socks and
Soak the dishcloths and rags for later,
I hang them out to dry and pick the ones
From yesterday.
I wipe the kitchen platform dry after filling
Mine and your bottle at the sink.
I catch the cobwebs from the window sill
Amma missed in the daytime cleaning drill.
I put the electric heater on for bath
Propped up on a precarious hanger.
I clip my nails too close and use your foot scrubber
And help myself to a clean kurta and some of your kajal.
I shop for fresh vegetables and spices
I don't recognize.
I dice I chop I grate.
I cook , clean , clear away and wait.
I check what needs replenishing
And make a long mental wish list.
I wish I could buy ten hands at the bazaar.
I sigh, light a cigarette which dies
sit down on the bare floor and
Write some poetry.
-At Rakhi's
Gachibowli
Hyderabad.
I stitch your torn buttons and my frayed sling bag.
I boil the water for morning tea
I wash your soiled socks and
Soak the dishcloths and rags for later,
I hang them out to dry and pick the ones
From yesterday.
I wipe the kitchen platform dry after filling
Mine and your bottle at the sink.
I catch the cobwebs from the window sill
Amma missed in the daytime cleaning drill.
I put the electric heater on for bath
Propped up on a precarious hanger.
I clip my nails too close and use your foot scrubber
And help myself to a clean kurta and some of your kajal.
I shop for fresh vegetables and spices
I don't recognize.
I dice I chop I grate.
I cook , clean , clear away and wait.
I check what needs replenishing
And make a long mental wish list.
I wish I could buy ten hands at the bazaar.
I sigh, light a cigarette which dies
sit down on the bare floor and
Write some poetry.
-At Rakhi's
Gachibowli
Hyderabad.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Lessons from a guru on a perpetual creative high!
1.Draw one spontaneous drawing every day.
2.Make everyday objects look unreal
3.Draw 1 remembered image from a dream
4. Leave out more than you put in.
(This was Lesson 1 via sms...followed by an offer for more!
With a visual reference thrown in! Wow!Thanks Randhir!)
Lots more. I'd be happy to do a few sessions sometimes.
Have you seen the work of Ralph Steadman?
2.Make everyday objects look unreal
3.Draw 1 remembered image from a dream
4. Leave out more than you put in.
(This was Lesson 1 via sms...followed by an offer for more!
With a visual reference thrown in! Wow!Thanks Randhir!)
Lots more. I'd be happy to do a few sessions sometimes.
Have you seen the work of Ralph Steadman?
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Lines
You can't cry and draw at the same time. I have tried.
Maybe that's why we created lines in the first place.
And that's why we need to keep creating them- over and over
again.
Maybe that's why we created lines in the first place.
And that's why we need to keep creating them- over and over
again.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Princess Diaries Part 2
I found myself watching this sequel , bleary eyed, till one at night.
The typical chicklit , teenage fantasy stuff in pink powder puffs - is just not my scene!
But glad I persisted. I think it was Julie Andrews. Still untouched, decades after her unforgettable performance as the loveable singing nun Maria- she got to me.
She played the quintessential queen-mom to the hilt complete with that gilded voice!
Here are some gems I found in the most unlikely places- which is
where gems are usually found!I quote:
Sir! The word 'fear' is not in my vocabulary!"
"But it is in your eyes!"
Other people lose it, but we are supposed to find it!
Being married is about being yourself...but with someone else.
The heart does things for reasons that/which reason doesn't understand.
Courage is not the absence of fear...it is the ability to choose that
which is other than fear.
"Power, my boy, means ,never having to say you're sorry!"
Not sure whether the last was a good thing..but definitely made me sit up...
and think of the commonality between all the uptight push-oversI've ever
met in all my life...they are usually quite unappologetic!)
The typical chicklit , teenage fantasy stuff in pink powder puffs - is just not my scene!
But glad I persisted. I think it was Julie Andrews. Still untouched, decades after her unforgettable performance as the loveable singing nun Maria- she got to me.
She played the quintessential queen-mom to the hilt complete with that gilded voice!
Here are some gems I found in the most unlikely places- which is
where gems are usually found!I quote:
Sir! The word 'fear' is not in my vocabulary!"
"But it is in your eyes!"
Other people lose it, but we are supposed to find it!
Being married is about being yourself...but with someone else.
The heart does things for reasons that/which reason doesn't understand.
Courage is not the absence of fear...it is the ability to choose that
which is other than fear.
"Power, my boy, means ,never having to say you're sorry!"
Not sure whether the last was a good thing..but definitely made me sit up...
and think of the commonality between all the uptight push-oversI've ever
met in all my life...they are usually quite unappologetic!)
To the Giver Of Rhymes
I will not ask
I will not ask of you for,
Say,
Straight dark sheets of endless hair
Or white even teeth true to the core
If I must
So let it be
White endless sheets of even verse
No hearse or dead scores to drag
Behind me but
Just straight ahead
Long lustrous lines
Smooth unblemished
Flawless rhymes.
I could do worse.
No more
Of whip lashed eyes which
Drown a million daring men
And pull them naked fighting
Back ashore
Make them
Blindly climb compel
Stride down endless mounds
Of kneaded hips
And lose their pride to
Flushed exhausted mindless sleep
Crushed down on open ocean shores
Which neither take to task nor teach
Nor ask nor risk, give in or reach
Or try to bind
Just lines.
Well pounded
Ground by hand
Smoothed blended perfect
Rhymes.
No husk to bind.
No more
Will I solicit for
Snow crushed breasts
Pink flocks of rising flamingoes
Flaming nipple moons
Which grow and wane
I will not strain for crested peaks
Stripped bare brown naked sunset lips
Lest lost words drown
In mighty struggle
To be formed
Still not born.
Just herds and droves
Mile after mile of heady lines.
A curse of verse unending.
A ready milk-heavy flow
Which gush and grow
In leaps of rhymes
Unbound by style
Unreaped by reason
Bending, wending in and out
Spare swinging careless bold and sure
Ful,l lush and ripe and strong they grow
Right down the seasons
A steady flow
That’s all I ask.
I will not ask of you for,
Say,
Straight dark sheets of endless hair
Or white even teeth true to the core
If I must
So let it be
White endless sheets of even verse
No hearse or dead scores to drag
Behind me but
Just straight ahead
Long lustrous lines
Smooth unblemished
Flawless rhymes.
I could do worse.
No more
Of whip lashed eyes which
Drown a million daring men
And pull them naked fighting
Back ashore
Make them
Blindly climb compel
Stride down endless mounds
Of kneaded hips
And lose their pride to
Flushed exhausted mindless sleep
Crushed down on open ocean shores
Which neither take to task nor teach
Nor ask nor risk, give in or reach
Or try to bind
Just lines.
Well pounded
Ground by hand
Smoothed blended perfect
Rhymes.
No husk to bind.
No more
Will I solicit for
Snow crushed breasts
Pink flocks of rising flamingoes
Flaming nipple moons
Which grow and wane
I will not strain for crested peaks
Stripped bare brown naked sunset lips
Lest lost words drown
In mighty struggle
To be formed
Still not born.
Just herds and droves
Mile after mile of heady lines.
A curse of verse unending.
A ready milk-heavy flow
Which gush and grow
In leaps of rhymes
Unbound by style
Unreaped by reason
Bending, wending in and out
Spare swinging careless bold and sure
Ful,l lush and ripe and strong they grow
Right down the seasons
A steady flow
That’s all I ask.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Ride..
One never grows old on a Bullet.
The same high, differant man ; same thrill, differant knotty shoulders; differant roads,
same warmth; same reasons( none given nor asked except speed!) and differant smelling hair.
How can people trade in their two-wheel steed for a smooth shiny four wheels? Always wondered.
Maybe when you are older , and you want to protect your children- from pollution,
highways, rush and the knife-edged walk called life- the one that keeps slipping away like the road beneath us. Maybe then...and still want to believe that we have more of a grip on it now, enough to forewarn , advice and be followed by our kids. So what if we didn't follow it ourselves? Fortunately, our kids never learn. But still we try. Generation after generation after....
It's as native as the homing instincts of sparrows and pigeons- the need to protect,
to nurture. To save what we think we have created and therefore quite automatically own. Never realising it is not ours to give or hold back-this thing called 'life'. It was given to us, just so that we could pass it on. Not hold it too long or too tight.
But we forget. Till it wrenches free out of our balled-up fist to fly where ever it's called.
I hope I'll remember to let my children pass through me as simply as the quiet midnight dust on the wake of this thunder rising all the way from my calves to my belly.
The same high, differant man ; same thrill, differant knotty shoulders; differant roads,
same warmth; same reasons( none given nor asked except speed!) and differant smelling hair.
How can people trade in their two-wheel steed for a smooth shiny four wheels? Always wondered.
Maybe when you are older , and you want to protect your children- from pollution,
highways, rush and the knife-edged walk called life- the one that keeps slipping away like the road beneath us. Maybe then...and still want to believe that we have more of a grip on it now, enough to forewarn , advice and be followed by our kids. So what if we didn't follow it ourselves? Fortunately, our kids never learn. But still we try. Generation after generation after....
It's as native as the homing instincts of sparrows and pigeons- the need to protect,
to nurture. To save what we think we have created and therefore quite automatically own. Never realising it is not ours to give or hold back-this thing called 'life'. It was given to us, just so that we could pass it on. Not hold it too long or too tight.
But we forget. Till it wrenches free out of our balled-up fist to fly where ever it's called.
I hope I'll remember to let my children pass through me as simply as the quiet midnight dust on the wake of this thunder rising all the way from my calves to my belly.
Quit
You can give yourself a thousand reasons to quit anything -
but it's usually not the real reason and the most obvious one.
It's the one you don't want to see or listen or imagine.
It's usually the truth.
Also kind of brutal.
And what about not quitting ? When does one decide to stay?
When do you give yourself one hundred thousand reasons to stay
with a job , a man, an idea or stay put in a particular city?
Does it mean you are missing the point again?
As to why we are staying in the first place?
I guess so.
That's the saddest part.
Then too the reason is not the one admitted to or accepted.
It's usually not love.
They say love is its own reason.
but it's usually not the real reason and the most obvious one.
It's the one you don't want to see or listen or imagine.
It's usually the truth.
Also kind of brutal.
And what about not quitting ? When does one decide to stay?
When do you give yourself one hundred thousand reasons to stay
with a job , a man, an idea or stay put in a particular city?
Does it mean you are missing the point again?
As to why we are staying in the first place?
I guess so.
That's the saddest part.
Then too the reason is not the one admitted to or accepted.
It's usually not love.
They say love is its own reason.
Monday, March 3, 2008
yesterday...
So yesterday I had a choice .
A lemon honey grapes cucumber salad
or a lemon pepper spring onion cucumber salad.
I made the former.
realised something...mid salad...food should be a simple,
happy affair- not fussy or intense or too perfect!
Guilt is a dangerous thing to swallow daily. Makes you put on weight...:)
Sat down to tune the tanpura J giving me instructions over the
phone . She was doing the utensils and advicing me at the same time.
It was 11 - I needed a bath!
Wish I had called her before busting the 3 rd string!:(
Would prefer to explore the peth area for a string! Much more fun.
I want an electronic tanpura! And a camera...so many pictures in the head!
Glad I spontaneously went over to J's place.
A lemon honey grapes cucumber salad
or a lemon pepper spring onion cucumber salad.
I made the former.
realised something...mid salad...food should be a simple,
happy affair- not fussy or intense or too perfect!
Guilt is a dangerous thing to swallow daily. Makes you put on weight...:)
Sat down to tune the tanpura J giving me instructions over the
phone . She was doing the utensils and advicing me at the same time.
It was 11 - I needed a bath!
Wish I had called her before busting the 3 rd string!:(
Would prefer to explore the peth area for a string! Much more fun.
I want an electronic tanpura! And a camera...so many pictures in the head!
Glad I spontaneously went over to J's place.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Late night surprises!
Mrinal in this flowery shirt, looking sharp, and Junuka, as usual, high on life and song (and just a teeny weeny bit of wine!:) turned up 11 at night! Just passing by, those two. We sat up till 12 past on the parapet, defying our somewhat sleepy Nepali watchman, the mosquitoes, Ma's frequent calls and a nosey neighbour or two peering down through parted curtains.
Defiance in the name of a good song is no defiance at all.
Thanks JuneBug for the beautiful rendition of Bawra Man...
and yes, if not for the Kerala (dripping!) Massage today...our date still holds ...maybe in the University ...trees and tea and talk and then some more talk and tea ...
Defiance in the name of a good song is no defiance at all.
Thanks JuneBug for the beautiful rendition of Bawra Man...
and yes, if not for the Kerala (dripping!) Massage today...our date still holds ...maybe in the University ...trees and tea and talk and then some more talk and tea ...
Friday, February 29, 2008
Hi Pandey,
Yesterday kept replaying the song from Rang De Basanti- the one called Lukka Chuppi...bet you can sing it really well , plucking your guitar! Saw the film again
and realised how much more there is to it - 2 years is a long time! So much more innocent, holding hands with Mauri and Ian -walking back in the dark- their lives still uncertain-
on hold! Of course things changed that night- it was 5 th February , Mauri's birthday.
Ian did the unthinkable , disarmingly barged into Mashi and Mesho's flat and has ever
since been a part of their lives.
Your love story didn' t quite fall in place like theirs. There is always some who doesn't make it for all the others who do! It's the luck of the draw, Pandey.
You and Rakhi never quite made it .You would have known my friends as I would have yours in case you are wondering who the hell are these people?! Impatient as ever.
But we always had excuses for not accepting you exactly as you were- the speed, alcohol, craziness and talk. Much too much of talk which ended just there. More talk.
We all knew years back it would never work. And we all played along.
But I must tell you this Pandey, I shot you down - 10 years back.
I wrote you off. I was privy to all your letters.
Guess, fears coloured my reactions!
Well before your time- self righteous and know-it-all.
That you wouldn't do for Rakhi was finalized years back.
I was protecting my best friend you see. Women are supposed to stand up for women,.
We learned to be people much later. Individuals even later. too late for you. sorry for that,
old chap. But you never asked for appologies or explanations. They were way too alien.
'Course I told her ever so often -decide- one way or the other.
You wanted simple things. Family, sentimental dreams.
While she had plans- bigger , better, beautiful? Who knows now-whose was bigger, better or more beautiful?
But she was ever unbiased - by anything we said or you did.
I don't need to tell you that she was rock solid, ever there -and still is.
Through each stitch, cloth, weave , paper, brush, letter you live on.
I know for a fact-and she knows that I know
The thing is - she never ever thought of blaming the world, the system or anyone
Acceptance seems to be as natural to her as breathing. Makes it harder somehow the
simplicity. Of not wanting to give her pain a name.
You never really fitted in.
We never let you- that's the truth of it.You proved all of us wrong though. All of us .
The mail you wrote me - the one I did not preserve? Dark and raw like an open wound. With a copy to Rakhi. Forgive me, Pandey , for all my weaknesses -you were so open about yours -you were desperately hoping against hope-some one had the answer. And you thought that I did. How wrong. If only I did .
But you were too proud to quit. You left with a flourish and style - trailing clouds of glory , as they say! Like the hero you never quite believed you were. But you are -don't you know? Laugh away!You surprised yourself too, no Pandey? Fooled ya- is what you'd probably say.
Yes, I have been feeling sort of foolish of late.
Even now you are creating -through me, all those you left behind!. I believe you also left a young wife who gave you the peace you always wanted- the simple unquestioned adoration.
Fodder is what we provide for each others lives long after. Nothing is wasted.
So many times we'd exchange looks Rakhi and me-so much like my kid bro, really Pandey. You envied him. We teased you. Rakhi specially- he was , still is, so fair and you? Dark...
There is nothing to fear there anyone. You've won this round, dude! Overshot yourself maybe?.
Nothing new!.
They say , you were a true sahid saved the lives of an entire village and chose to burn alone in a forest near Bagdogra. They also say there was not a scratch on your body. They say your papers were in perfect order. They say...they say so many things so many times and every time it sounds the same , Pandey. For every MIG that goes down and every boy who comes back home - eulogised in a film or song or an abandoned blog. And of course all the things they didn't say.
One day we'll met again. I want us to be friends . I swear I won't take sides this time.
The photograph of your girl...your bird...the one who betrayed you finally...I found it in an old trunk from my Baroda days.Uncannily around February last year- on my trip o Calcutta. And a keyring- did it read Sharks or Scorpions ? Can't remember now.
Betrayal of time and memories are the most convenient. Steel birds are mere excuses.
and realised how much more there is to it - 2 years is a long time! So much more innocent, holding hands with Mauri and Ian -walking back in the dark- their lives still uncertain-
on hold! Of course things changed that night- it was 5 th February , Mauri's birthday.
Ian did the unthinkable , disarmingly barged into Mashi and Mesho's flat and has ever
since been a part of their lives.
Your love story didn' t quite fall in place like theirs. There is always some who doesn't make it for all the others who do! It's the luck of the draw, Pandey.
You and Rakhi never quite made it .You would have known my friends as I would have yours in case you are wondering who the hell are these people?! Impatient as ever.
But we always had excuses for not accepting you exactly as you were- the speed, alcohol, craziness and talk. Much too much of talk which ended just there. More talk.
We all knew years back it would never work. And we all played along.
But I must tell you this Pandey, I shot you down - 10 years back.
I wrote you off. I was privy to all your letters.
Guess, fears coloured my reactions!
Well before your time- self righteous and know-it-all.
That you wouldn't do for Rakhi was finalized years back.
I was protecting my best friend you see. Women are supposed to stand up for women,.
We learned to be people much later. Individuals even later. too late for you. sorry for that,
old chap. But you never asked for appologies or explanations. They were way too alien.
'Course I told her ever so often -decide- one way or the other.
You wanted simple things. Family, sentimental dreams.
While she had plans- bigger , better, beautiful? Who knows now-whose was bigger, better or more beautiful?
But she was ever unbiased - by anything we said or you did.
I don't need to tell you that she was rock solid, ever there -and still is.
Through each stitch, cloth, weave , paper, brush, letter you live on.
I know for a fact-and she knows that I know
The thing is - she never ever thought of blaming the world, the system or anyone
Acceptance seems to be as natural to her as breathing. Makes it harder somehow the
simplicity. Of not wanting to give her pain a name.
You never really fitted in.
We never let you- that's the truth of it.You proved all of us wrong though. All of us .
The mail you wrote me - the one I did not preserve? Dark and raw like an open wound. With a copy to Rakhi. Forgive me, Pandey , for all my weaknesses -you were so open about yours -you were desperately hoping against hope-some one had the answer. And you thought that I did. How wrong. If only I did .
But you were too proud to quit. You left with a flourish and style - trailing clouds of glory , as they say! Like the hero you never quite believed you were. But you are -don't you know? Laugh away!You surprised yourself too, no Pandey? Fooled ya- is what you'd probably say.
Yes, I have been feeling sort of foolish of late.
Even now you are creating -through me, all those you left behind!. I believe you also left a young wife who gave you the peace you always wanted- the simple unquestioned adoration.
Fodder is what we provide for each others lives long after. Nothing is wasted.
So many times we'd exchange looks Rakhi and me-so much like my kid bro, really Pandey. You envied him. We teased you. Rakhi specially- he was , still is, so fair and you? Dark...
There is nothing to fear there anyone. You've won this round, dude! Overshot yourself maybe?.
Nothing new!.
They say , you were a true sahid saved the lives of an entire village and chose to burn alone in a forest near Bagdogra. They also say there was not a scratch on your body. They say your papers were in perfect order. They say...they say so many things so many times and every time it sounds the same , Pandey. For every MIG that goes down and every boy who comes back home - eulogised in a film or song or an abandoned blog. And of course all the things they didn't say.
One day we'll met again. I want us to be friends . I swear I won't take sides this time.
The photograph of your girl...your bird...the one who betrayed you finally...I found it in an old trunk from my Baroda days.Uncannily around February last year- on my trip o Calcutta. And a keyring- did it read Sharks or Scorpions ? Can't remember now.
Betrayal of time and memories are the most convenient. Steel birds are mere excuses.
Trying to understand...
I've been a reluctant blogger for years now, but I hope to do a turabout right here and now! Ofcourse, words and pictures interest me.
I enjoy a good laugh -the piquant, quaint, whimsical really gets to me.
Tales from the heart, allegories, stories freshly told from the lives of people thrill me!
I love storyboards too and fresh -off-the-work-table drawings brimming with life ,
unfinished to some eyes-where the touch-of-life still holds its own!
And certain afternoons which stretch and unfortunately must end or simply run the risk of interruption with deep reading and making notes in my journals(one of many which possess me!).
Or watching a powerful movie late at night- alone with sudden revelations
( I still cry over lost love, reconciliations and betrayals!),
or when I suddenly find my voice, mid-song, the one I thought I'd lost!
Ofcourse,I love trees ( I am called 'Atree' by quite a few), the quiet and these neverending ambling walks-
especially the one taken right before work. I hit a spot which is dead quiet-surrounded by canopies, the wind, dappled sunlight and I simply pause to breath, recollect and be grateful! Surprisingly cities can offer all three-one ambles into these magic moments. They say when three worlds meet, magic occurs!
Magic happens on a traffic island in Parkstreet maidan or in a whirl pool of rust and golden leaves Agriculture College ground.There's no specific time or place, I do believe.
Also I hope to find my poetry which is hibernating at the moment and will flower at the right moment and touch. I do mourn it going undercover sometimes but I feel the time is near -when a lot of artifice will simply drop off from my life- borders between painting, poetry or posters; impossible but achievable dreams just around the corner waiting to be realised, the differance between a 9 to 5 life and the bits left over before and after - what's work and what is play; between family and friends; living close to the earth and open skies, travel wide and deeply: to make a pilgrimage out of journeys small and big; to make connections and watch the electricity of a smile light up eyes and turn a banal moment into something sacred...let's see.
To discover my purpose and redefine - between what you can/or should/should not atreyee do, be , feel and share. Who decides? The heart does.When ever the head and heart is in conflict- follow your heart! Old and true saying.
To find love- and to find myself waiting , patient , untouched-,even if all else fails.
To find my heart in big and small things- sudden dilemmas, split second decisions, demanding situations. To come back to my heart every time!
And to never know how big is a heart? It begins here at home, but where does it end!
Where , indeed?
I enjoy a good laugh -the piquant, quaint, whimsical really gets to me.
Tales from the heart, allegories, stories freshly told from the lives of people thrill me!
I love storyboards too and fresh -off-the-work-table drawings brimming with life ,
unfinished to some eyes-where the touch-of-life still holds its own!
And certain afternoons which stretch and unfortunately must end or simply run the risk of interruption with deep reading and making notes in my journals(one of many which possess me!).
Or watching a powerful movie late at night- alone with sudden revelations
( I still cry over lost love, reconciliations and betrayals!),
or when I suddenly find my voice, mid-song, the one I thought I'd lost!
Ofcourse,I love trees ( I am called 'Atree' by quite a few), the quiet and these neverending ambling walks-
especially the one taken right before work. I hit a spot which is dead quiet-surrounded by canopies, the wind, dappled sunlight and I simply pause to breath, recollect and be grateful! Surprisingly cities can offer all three-one ambles into these magic moments. They say when three worlds meet, magic occurs!
Magic happens on a traffic island in Parkstreet maidan or in a whirl pool of rust and golden leaves Agriculture College ground.There's no specific time or place, I do believe.
Also I hope to find my poetry which is hibernating at the moment and will flower at the right moment and touch. I do mourn it going undercover sometimes but I feel the time is near -when a lot of artifice will simply drop off from my life- borders between painting, poetry or posters; impossible but achievable dreams just around the corner waiting to be realised, the differance between a 9 to 5 life and the bits left over before and after - what's work and what is play; between family and friends; living close to the earth and open skies, travel wide and deeply: to make a pilgrimage out of journeys small and big; to make connections and watch the electricity of a smile light up eyes and turn a banal moment into something sacred...let's see.
To discover my purpose and redefine - between what you can/or should/should not atreyee do, be , feel and share. Who decides? The heart does.When ever the head and heart is in conflict- follow your heart! Old and true saying.
To find love- and to find myself waiting , patient , untouched-,even if all else fails.
To find my heart in big and small things- sudden dilemmas, split second decisions, demanding situations. To come back to my heart every time!
And to never know how big is a heart? It begins here at home, but where does it end!
Where , indeed?
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Sita's Song
I watched the raindrops gather
at the centre of the mottled ash-pink and purple hibiscus
bought from the local nursery.
Words wove themselves into a verse of bounteous grace.
Strange, how a tiny six by six feet box terrace of an apartment flat
in a remote corner of a small city is unforgotten !
Nothing goes unnoticed or untouched.
I was listening to the unfolding poem in my head.
Last nights rain, thunderstorm and lightening,
now transformed into three beads of water
winking in the early morning light.
I took a sip of tea-and picked up the grocer’s bill and a scratchy pencil.
After all poems are whimsical creatures
-unless caught and committed to paper -
they vanish, as suddenly as they appear!
Just as I was finishing, the doorbell rang
- I looked up.
It was Sita -our cheerful Nepali maid.
Her sari end dripped but her spirit was not dampened.
Sita, as patient as the earth itself ,
had three energetic boys, endless chores in 11 households.
From 6 in the morning she stood in the corporation water line
and then walked 3 miles to our housing cooperative to save on auto-fare.
“Late again, Sita?” I asked with a smile and teasing banter.
“What to do, Didi? The boys had to went to school without tiffin.
Our roof was leaking. The papaya tree has fallen -it was a good tree. Bore fruits.
And the last two houses in our line -nearest to the big nullah?
The one the children have to cross to go to school?
Those houses got swept away! Baap re, what a deluge last night!
Didn’t you read in the newspaper?” she asked innocently, our Sita did.
Sita couldn’t read. She was lucky.
How could I tell her that the two shacks near her nullah
were not important enough to feature in the English dailies we subscribed to?
Neither were the drops of rain which had evaporated from the crinkly petals of the hibiscus! These were smalls things!
To be documented on the backs of old bills and used bus tickets.
There was a sudden gust of breeze. It lifted the poem off my lap! Too late.
“Didi! Shall I run and get it? Oh watchman!” Sita shouted.
The watchman -Ramesh -Sita's husband, big, bluff and simple
looked up quizzically and tipped his cap.
We teased her sometimes- calling her SitaRam!
I stopped her.“Never mind, Sita! Let it go!”
Sita waved off Ramesh, smiled widely at me and picked up her broom.
I saw our song, Sita's and mine, twirling like a dervish in the parking lot
where the the bougainvillea grew
whirling with the dusty pink petals.
at the centre of the mottled ash-pink and purple hibiscus
bought from the local nursery.
Words wove themselves into a verse of bounteous grace.
Strange, how a tiny six by six feet box terrace of an apartment flat
in a remote corner of a small city is unforgotten !
Nothing goes unnoticed or untouched.
I was listening to the unfolding poem in my head.
Last nights rain, thunderstorm and lightening,
now transformed into three beads of water
winking in the early morning light.
I took a sip of tea-and picked up the grocer’s bill and a scratchy pencil.
After all poems are whimsical creatures
-unless caught and committed to paper -
they vanish, as suddenly as they appear!
Just as I was finishing, the doorbell rang
- I looked up.
It was Sita -our cheerful Nepali maid.
Her sari end dripped but her spirit was not dampened.
Sita, as patient as the earth itself ,
had three energetic boys, endless chores in 11 households.
From 6 in the morning she stood in the corporation water line
and then walked 3 miles to our housing cooperative to save on auto-fare.
“Late again, Sita?” I asked with a smile and teasing banter.
“What to do, Didi? The boys had to went to school without tiffin.
Our roof was leaking. The papaya tree has fallen -it was a good tree. Bore fruits.
And the last two houses in our line -nearest to the big nullah?
The one the children have to cross to go to school?
Those houses got swept away! Baap re, what a deluge last night!
Didn’t you read in the newspaper?” she asked innocently, our Sita did.
Sita couldn’t read. She was lucky.
How could I tell her that the two shacks near her nullah
were not important enough to feature in the English dailies we subscribed to?
Neither were the drops of rain which had evaporated from the crinkly petals of the hibiscus! These were smalls things!
To be documented on the backs of old bills and used bus tickets.
There was a sudden gust of breeze. It lifted the poem off my lap! Too late.
“Didi! Shall I run and get it? Oh watchman!” Sita shouted.
The watchman -Ramesh -Sita's husband, big, bluff and simple
looked up quizzically and tipped his cap.
We teased her sometimes- calling her SitaRam!
I stopped her.“Never mind, Sita! Let it go!”
Sita waved off Ramesh, smiled widely at me and picked up her broom.
I saw our song, Sita's and mine, twirling like a dervish in the parking lot
where the the bougainvillea grew
whirling with the dusty pink petals.
Requiem for a Lost Hat
I’ve lost my hat- just that!
Some might say I still haven’t lost my hair
or teeth yet!
And I still have a head on my shoulders .
Sure, I lose it once in a while on family and friends
but the truth is, my head is still firmly fixed
- not rolling on a gory battlefield
– anonymous , unclaimed, with no one to mourn it.
I have much to be thankful for- yet,
I mourn the loss of my hat! Is it silly or strange?
I am so used to absentmindedly reaching within the folds of my bag
and feeling its familiar jute weave that it was a shock today,
when I realised there was no hat!
I turned my workday bag upside down, then inside out!
It had acquired an ink stain in this one year of use and
a tanned sheen from soaking in the afternoon sun,
the occasional drizzle and the ever growing pollution.
It kept my hair from going crazy after a bike ride
- no yards of duppatta orfussy scarves for me.
It also gave me an edge over the world!
I could look through it’s woven mesh, but no one could see me.
I was at once invisible and invincible in my hat!
I remember the warm smiling Tibetan girl who sold it to me.
The one who added a sweet smelling box of incense for free.
Since then it had travelled with me through forests, farms, parks
and busy streets of several cities, small towns and villages
in buses and trains- both commuter and intercity, cars,
bikes, scooters, and auto rickshaw journeys
both shared and singly undertaken.
Is it gathering dirt from the feet of careless commuters
crushed on a bus floor? Oh no!
Has it fallen under a rain-tree tree gradually turning into fertiliser-
and becoming part of it’s sap and leaves? That’s a happier thought.
And though I still mourn my hat no longer mine, I’d be happiest
if I knew that the boy selling bamboo flutes in the rai,
at the four road crossing has found it on his way home
and now wears it as he plays a merry tune!
(A Song)
Some might say I still haven’t lost my hair
or teeth yet!
And I still have a head on my shoulders .
Sure, I lose it once in a while on family and friends
but the truth is, my head is still firmly fixed
- not rolling on a gory battlefield
– anonymous , unclaimed, with no one to mourn it.
I have much to be thankful for- yet,
I mourn the loss of my hat! Is it silly or strange?
I am so used to absentmindedly reaching within the folds of my bag
and feeling its familiar jute weave that it was a shock today,
when I realised there was no hat!
I turned my workday bag upside down, then inside out!
It had acquired an ink stain in this one year of use and
a tanned sheen from soaking in the afternoon sun,
the occasional drizzle and the ever growing pollution.
It kept my hair from going crazy after a bike ride
- no yards of duppatta orfussy scarves for me.
It also gave me an edge over the world!
I could look through it’s woven mesh, but no one could see me.
I was at once invisible and invincible in my hat!
I remember the warm smiling Tibetan girl who sold it to me.
The one who added a sweet smelling box of incense for free.
Since then it had travelled with me through forests, farms, parks
and busy streets of several cities, small towns and villages
in buses and trains- both commuter and intercity, cars,
bikes, scooters, and auto rickshaw journeys
both shared and singly undertaken.
Is it gathering dirt from the feet of careless commuters
crushed on a bus floor? Oh no!
Has it fallen under a rain-tree tree gradually turning into fertiliser-
and becoming part of it’s sap and leaves? That’s a happier thought.
And though I still mourn my hat no longer mine, I’d be happiest
if I knew that the boy selling bamboo flutes in the rai,
at the four road crossing has found it on his way home
and now wears it as he plays a merry tune!
(A Song)
Thursday, February 14, 2008
I am in an owl mood...
Lousy pun apart...I will breath sleep eat and (oh yes! ) and ofcourse draw, quarter, cut-paste, fill, colour owls and more owls ..owlets to be precise! Did I tell you I was working in a newspaper for babies? Not too tiny nor too big the right bratty size! The babies- not the paper. The paper ofcorse is a regular tabloid size - and I currently belong with the supplementary for kids.Between 6 and 16 years- I'm stuck between this age group for 5 years now. Starting with my LeBlond kids, then ever onwards to Shikshamitra!
Have I found myself a vocation atlast?
Funny , what began as a free footloose lambast-the-school-systems kind of exercise for Brendan's book Where The Child Is Without Fear http://serve4students.net.in/ has started me off in a whole new way! IT finally found me, actually!
So here I am illustrating some- the writing has yet to be comfortably wedged into the routine. Truly! Getting back to the point , just incase no one notice how I wandered ...(hey! does any one read this at all!!!!!! Except me the solicituous writer/editor/ critic who noses out errors on ever second , third , fourth read!:)...
Have I found myself a vocation atlast?
Funny , what began as a free footloose lambast-the-school-systems kind of exercise for Brendan's book Where The Child Is Without Fear http://serve4students.net.in/ has started me off in a whole new way! IT finally found me, actually!
So here I am illustrating some- the writing has yet to be comfortably wedged into the routine. Truly! Getting back to the point , just incase no one notice how I wandered ...(hey! does any one read this at all!!!!!! Except me the solicituous writer/editor/ critic who noses out errors on ever second , third , fourth read!:)...
Sunday, February 3, 2008
I bought myself a tiny round box of kajal ...
nice and old fashioned...in a shiny green container...wish it was made of metal like Rakhi has...this one is just like Junuka's ...right after my daily idli jaunt I decided to go in search of kajal...Jai kajal it reads...was missing the usual finger-in-the eye routine ...kajal pencils are too dry and technical for me!
Was delaying my trip to the local farmer's market..instead there it was in the medicos counter...hmmm...will draw it and put it up ...a list of everyday ordinary things...
Was delaying my trip to the local farmer's market..instead there it was in the medicos counter...hmmm...will draw it and put it up ...a list of everyday ordinary things...
Saturday, February 2, 2008
It's a new year and A BRAND NEW Sunday morning
Well, it's February already...after many aborted attempts at early morning walks ( I have all of January to vouch for !)... I am waiting for my swimming pool to be restored to its pristine blue purity. I keep dropping in to check it's progress after a quick meal at Murrugan Eats every other day- both a hop skip jump from work. Murrugan belongs to a friends dad- spic and span with a tree growing out of its front yard- I love it.By 15 th of this month the pool will be functional.
The few mornings I have managed to be up - been pure pleasure, letting the crisp winter air taking these little nips at my cheeks and my rather raw nose!
One such Sunday ( I missed my date with Samta and her kids from the institute to climb Simhwa Garh- Ma and I needed to spend some quiet time without the music shows on TV to distract us!) But since I was up I maximized my morning hours walking all the way to the water purification tank . Passed two feisty kakus in fussy scarves and the odd ajoba out-walking me by the minute, and then just as I turned to find the road end in an impassive wall- I saw a peacock! In all its male male glory it carelessly cut across my path and made my day. I heard a faraway pea hen- plaintive and unpretty!
Soon after I caught my breath under this intriguing twisty leaved tree- two herons bumming a ride on the back of two water buffalos who had, no doubt wandered far from their trail. On my way down past the Necklace area I heard two horn-bills in the misty rising sun - they all came in pairs, before I caught their silhouettes and then a lone kingfisher-comical and curious- on the wire running across the trim landscape of the park-still misty with dew. Reminds me every time of Hopkins...Gerard Manley...As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/as-kingfishers-catch-fire/
7 by then. But still heavenly...
Busy babblers ,the odd raven -passe by then. At the foot of Nyati Heritage I contemplated the water tank besides 'Sameera' Rao's mysterious bungalow to stop and rest a while. It overlooked his overgrown yard. Have thought so many times to simply go in and ring the bell! Hello, Mr. Rao! I'm a curious neighbour- one among many such! Maybe 'Sameera' was a beloved daughter or a wife- who no longer looked after the derelict property now over-run by the servants and their kith and kin . I saw the smoke rising from their stove every other day on my way back from work. Very Wuthering Height-ish.
Made me wonder - will number 8 be like this someday? Run by servants?
" A picture of a sorrow/ A face without a heart"? Will the smell of pungent garlic and spices- a no-no during Didabhai's days -rise from Munshi's makeshift clay ovens to welcome me next time? The staircases darkening in the corners? The French windows jammed and cloudy? And the plants all yellow -the water stagnant ? The brass dull -though the redwood polish on Habu's bed would still glow! I know , somehow. The bathroom mirrors might rust and the basins grow these fine veined cracklines. But the champa tree would still be unwaveringly loyal and throw up its flowers in spring and house the n th generation of crows in the crook of its leafy arms!
Hmmm..some hope. Won't let me be melancholic today...
Sujit clarified that Sameera was the name of the bungalow and a hermit-like Rao it's owner. I had always imagined walking in looking for a white haired woman recluse- tending to her plants- and then she'd ask me to call her 'Sameera' in a soft, genteel voice over herbal tea! How wrong I was! The mystery remains- intact!
I walked myself up five floors- home- Ma was still sleeping, Baba only just stirring. Made myself a cuppa and had my fill of my fav non-diet khakdas!Took my maroon sketch book still untouched nevermind the hazaar promises and a black leather bound journal and found myself right back on the water tank. Gurgling rhythmically beneath me- reminded me so much of Kailash Singh at Number 8 ,telling me and Aneesh stories from Ramayana, distracting us from looking at the gnarled gate every now and then- drawing out a battlefield or a glorious description of Garuda to barricade our wandering little minds which kept going..ma, ma , ma , ma ma... ma kokhon ashbey Koilash?
I wrote an hour and a half straight. A long silent car stopped besides. A dark middle aged lady clad in a careless expensive way got down . What was I sketching? Smiling at strangers are easy. No, I'm writing really. Haven't started with my drawings yet.It seemed she is an artist too. Come home! It is that easy. And so I a neighbour.
Geetha, in her early fifties , she simply sherself a housewife- she sa twelve year old son who is an almost pro drummer and a very serious Bharatnatyam student on the brink of his arengetam! A special mom with a special child- we about so many things from schooling, early childhood care , home-learning- the works. She seriously pursues Carnatic music, a Japanese graduate from the School of Languages, JNU and a consistent oil painter for 15 years. She has no need nor wish to venture out to earn money- she feels very satisfied at bringing up a son well and seriously nurturing her innumerable talents.Of course, her husband seems quite supportive- a mysterious presence - who is significantly absent from our chat over the tea. She offers me lunch. I need to take a bath. Go home. Catch up on my quiet time.We promise to catch up later.
That Geetha subscribed to our newspaper is a pleasant pleasant surprise.To see the familiar masthead , the sketches and scribbles- the familiar names from work is such a surprise.However small, we made a difference- our fledgling, soon-to-take -off baby paper !
HaveI grown some roots again? Possibly.
The few mornings I have managed to be up - been pure pleasure, letting the crisp winter air taking these little nips at my cheeks and my rather raw nose!
One such Sunday ( I missed my date with Samta and her kids from the institute to climb Simhwa Garh- Ma and I needed to spend some quiet time without the music shows on TV to distract us!) But since I was up I maximized my morning hours walking all the way to the water purification tank . Passed two feisty kakus in fussy scarves and the odd ajoba out-walking me by the minute, and then just as I turned to find the road end in an impassive wall- I saw a peacock! In all its male male glory it carelessly cut across my path and made my day. I heard a faraway pea hen- plaintive and unpretty!
Soon after I caught my breath under this intriguing twisty leaved tree- two herons bumming a ride on the back of two water buffalos who had, no doubt wandered far from their trail. On my way down past the Necklace area I heard two horn-bills in the misty rising sun - they all came in pairs, before I caught their silhouettes and then a lone kingfisher-comical and curious- on the wire running across the trim landscape of the park-still misty with dew. Reminds me every time of Hopkins...Gerard Manley...As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/as-kingfishers-catch-fire/
7 by then. But still heavenly...
Busy babblers ,the odd raven -passe by then. At the foot of Nyati Heritage I contemplated the water tank besides 'Sameera' Rao's mysterious bungalow to stop and rest a while. It overlooked his overgrown yard. Have thought so many times to simply go in and ring the bell! Hello, Mr. Rao! I'm a curious neighbour- one among many such! Maybe 'Sameera' was a beloved daughter or a wife- who no longer looked after the derelict property now over-run by the servants and their kith and kin . I saw the smoke rising from their stove every other day on my way back from work. Very Wuthering Height-ish.
Made me wonder - will number 8 be like this someday? Run by servants?
" A picture of a sorrow/ A face without a heart"? Will the smell of pungent garlic and spices- a no-no during Didabhai's days -rise from Munshi's makeshift clay ovens to welcome me next time? The staircases darkening in the corners? The French windows jammed and cloudy? And the plants all yellow -the water stagnant ? The brass dull -though the redwood polish on Habu's bed would still glow! I know , somehow. The bathroom mirrors might rust and the basins grow these fine veined cracklines. But the champa tree would still be unwaveringly loyal and throw up its flowers in spring and house the n th generation of crows in the crook of its leafy arms!
Hmmm..some hope. Won't let me be melancholic today...
Sujit clarified that Sameera was the name of the bungalow and a hermit-like Rao it's owner. I had always imagined walking in looking for a white haired woman recluse- tending to her plants- and then she'd ask me to call her 'Sameera' in a soft, genteel voice over herbal tea! How wrong I was! The mystery remains- intact!
I walked myself up five floors- home- Ma was still sleeping, Baba only just stirring. Made myself a cuppa and had my fill of my fav non-diet khakdas!Took my maroon sketch book still untouched nevermind the hazaar promises and a black leather bound journal and found myself right back on the water tank. Gurgling rhythmically beneath me- reminded me so much of Kailash Singh at Number 8 ,telling me and Aneesh stories from Ramayana, distracting us from looking at the gnarled gate every now and then- drawing out a battlefield or a glorious description of Garuda to barricade our wandering little minds which kept going..ma, ma , ma , ma ma... ma kokhon ashbey Koilash?
I wrote an hour and a half straight. A long silent car stopped besides. A dark middle aged lady clad in a careless expensive way got down . What was I sketching? Smiling at strangers are easy. No, I'm writing really. Haven't started with my drawings yet.It seemed she is an artist too. Come home! It is that easy. And so I a neighbour.
Geetha, in her early fifties , she simply sherself a housewife- she sa twelve year old son who is an almost pro drummer and a very serious Bharatnatyam student on the brink of his arengetam! A special mom with a special child- we about so many things from schooling, early childhood care , home-learning- the works. She seriously pursues Carnatic music, a Japanese graduate from the School of Languages, JNU and a consistent oil painter for 15 years. She has no need nor wish to venture out to earn money- she feels very satisfied at bringing up a son well and seriously nurturing her innumerable talents.Of course, her husband seems quite supportive- a mysterious presence - who is significantly absent from our chat over the tea. She offers me lunch. I need to take a bath. Go home. Catch up on my quiet time.We promise to catch up later.
That Geetha subscribed to our newspaper is a pleasant pleasant surprise.To see the familiar masthead , the sketches and scribbles- the familiar names from work is such a surprise.However small, we made a difference- our fledgling, soon-to-take -off baby paper !
HaveI grown some roots again? Possibly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
