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!)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 ...

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.

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?

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.