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.
Friday, February 29, 2008
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.
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