Tangerine Trees and Marmalade Skies

Bonbibi - Part 4

2011-08-10T23:08:00.010+01:00

Accurate chronicling of history, I think, is a predominantly western concept. India has often relied on myth, epics and a rich body of literature as a substitute for historical accuracy. Fact and fiction are unashamedly in bed with one another and it's hard to tell one from the other. This couldn't be more true for the Sunderbans. To trace it's history is a futile task. What will it lead to - an account of how the British set up Canning as a commercial establishment, and possibly the words of an intrepid British explorer witnessing a native of Gosaba in his quaint habitation through his 'civilized' colonial glasses.

No I'd rather revel in the myth, to learn about that alternate history which recounts both the real and the fantasy (of the native), in his distinct voice / language soaked in cultural context and symbolism. Bonbibi's emergence as a forest deity has a literal narrative, as we have seen so far and a sibilant undertone that can be easily overlooked. Her family, the circumstances of her birth and her accomplishments serve two purposes to the native. Firstly to establish Bonbibi as figure of great power to be respected and revered. Secondly to reassure the local, that she is one of their own, with the same culture and values. It is this second aspect, that affords the outsider a glimpse into the culture of Sunderbans.

Consider the rise to power of Bonbibi and her initial confrontation with Dakkhin Rai. The battle supposedly takes place between Dakkhin Rai's mother, Narayani, and Bonbibi. Similarly, other stories of Bonbibi, describe her brother Shah Jangali taking on Dakkhin Rai. One might interpret this, as a clear segregation of sexes as far as power struggle is concerned. For though she is a feminine deity and her dominion is unquestioned, the native chooses to ignore what could happen in a battle between the sexes, perhaps out of fear for the consequence it might have on the social order and accepted roles that both sexes play.

Bonbibi - Part 3

2011-08-10T11:00:00.000+01:00

That loving helplessness of the mudbanks brushing, scathed
by the rippling waves. The sound of your footsteps,
twisting your way, every inch of space, every drop of rain,
every bit of day is yours to take.
That drowning breath, my conversations encircled
by bubbles of air clamouring their way
to be lost on your face while you gaze. And as you walk away, I stay
watching the purple night and extend my arms to grasp as
much of this world as I can save.

Bonbibi - Part 2

2011-08-09T22:41:00.002+01:00

Dakkhin Rai ruled the land of the eighteen tides before Bonbibi and her brother arrived on the scene. It is interesting to note that Dakkhin Rai (and his mother Narayani) are ostensibly Hindu, while Bonbibi and her brother Shah Jangali are Muslims. The myth talks of a fierce battle between the forces of Dakkhin Rai (led by his mother) and Bonbibi in which he is displaced as the ruler. A truce is worked out and thereafter Bonbibi rules the inhabited part of the Sunderbans and Dakkhin Rai retreats to the inhospitable nether reaches of the forest.

The truce is however a tense one, fraught with constant skirmishes. Different stories show how Dakkhin Rai tries to gain the upper hand, only to be shot down by Bonbibi. It echoes the realities of the land. The constant tussle between the mangrove swamps (with its wilderness and tigers) and human habitation. The struggle between the tides and frequent storms and the ever-changing landmass. The daily fight for existence that the native has to endure, against the elements of nature to bring back his catch of fish or just cultivate his land without falling prey to the tiger. The lure of the wild as opposed to the steadfastness of domesticity. Faith in her benevolence versus fear of his guile and ferocity.

Bonbibi - Part 1

2011-08-03T22:40:00.002+01:00

As myths go, Bonbibi is a recent myth, born out of the culture, beliefs, topography, flora and fauna of the Sunderbans. Bonbibi is literally the wife of the forest, and she rules that part of the forest which is inhabited or accessible to humans. The rest of the forest, deep and inaccessible, remains the preserve of her arch-enemy Dakkhin Rai. What they represent is easy to guess - the familiar narrative of good versus evil, recounted through the ages in Greek mythology, Norse mythology or even in popular Hollywood movies such as George Lucas' Star Wars or the Harry Potter series.

But while some of these accounts of fairy tales seem intangible and inaccessible, the narrative of Bonbibi feels as palpable as a girl born only yesterday in the forests of Sunderbans. Bonbibi is the daughter of Berahim (vernacular for Ibrahim) a faqir from Mecca and his second wife Golalbibi. But for her to become a deity, this is not nearly enough. The myth therefore asserts that Allah sent Bonbibi and her brother Shah Jangali (literally king of the jungle) to earth to fulfill a divine purpose - and thus they were born to Golalbibi. They were born deep in the forests of Sunderbans, where Golalbibi lay forsaken by her husband. There is a certain drama to this story of her birth, a familiarity with the story of Jesus Christ, except that Berahim had left his second wife to be with his first wife Phoolbibi unlike Joseph who remained by Mary's side. The plight and helplessness of Golalbibi must make her seem so real to local forest dwellers. And so to reinforce her divinity the myth reassures the native listener that Allah sent forth four maids to help Golalbibi deliver her twin babies.

The names, customs are common to any Muslim household of that area. But the apotheosis of the female child is perhaps inspired by Hindu goddesses such as Durga or Kali. Some sources also indicate that Gibril (Archangel Gabriel) helped bring Bonbibi and Shah Jangali to the land of the eighteen tides, but then again Gibril is as much a part of Islam as he is of Christianity.

That I might open an umbrella

2011-08-02T13:00:00.004+01:00

That I might open an umbrella to a sky dripping like a leaky tap
And be blown away by the wind
whirling me by degrees and whispering into my ears
alarmist stories from the daily news about
political unrest or an outbreak of a deadly pandemic,
anything really, to keep me engrossed
while I am transported - no planned engineering works
or unscheduled stops - to an unknown destination,
with a book in my hand, the notion of time melting
into the warm bread of lassitude.

That I might look out of my window,
to the dome, glowing in half light,
reflecting the vicissitudes of regular clerks,
and programme managers irritated by
the constant flashing of cameras of
easily surprised tourists and find a path
of gravel or shingle,
gradually disappearing into a thicket,
emerging into the open overlooking
the sea of the insolent smile of a wastrel,
waves frothy with disrespect,
disorderly, disengaged and self-willed.

The Clown

2011-07-24T23:11:00.004+01:00

The clown as a motif can be found in abundance in books, plays, movies and other forms of art. The chief difference between a clown and a stand up comedian is that the stand up comedian will often ridicule events, famous personalities or even the audience, while the clown will usually draw laughter by subjecting himself to ridicule. Often during performances, such as during double acts, clowns will assume different personality types. One of them may become the authority figure and the other might be submissive. Sometimes a clown may even act out a specific role as any serious actor would.

By wearing make-up, a clown can make you look at everyday life and situations differently. The audience can become dispassionate and objective about a topic that can otherwise be quite sensitive. This is an interesting way to engage with the audience, and can be quite powerful in terms of the impact it can have.

Clowns in literature, plays or movies often deal with not just the on stage performance, but also the person who wears the mask. In such cases, the clown can be the central character or sidekick. As the main protagonist, the on-stage clown is usually relegated to the sidelines, and replaced by a gloomy person, often as morose as his stage personality is funny. The on stage persona will appear only at intervals, either as a reminder that the person can actually draw laughter from crowds as a performer or sometimes just to demonstrate the person is no longer capable of drawing laughter like he used to in the past. As a side kick, the clown (or the fool), connects to audience, engages them and helps them interpret the story and identify with it. Any attempt at fleshing out the character of a clown, presents interesting opportunities to the writer or director. For example a clown may enact a serious situation on stage with reckless frivolity, and then unmask himself to reveal a character as real as the viewer - a character often emotionally scarred by the impressions that he does on stage. Such a performance can draw from the audience a complex range of reactions, taking him on a roller-coaster ride of emotions.

We congregate

2011-05-25T14:50:00.002+01:00

There are times we congregate,
like clouds,
to make thunder and rain.
A few hours or days
is all it takes.
After that things are parched again.

To make the city disappear

2011-02-26T21:32:00.021Z

Kandinsky - Ludwigskirche in Munich 1908

There are things we like to lean upon - like the city for example. Surrounded by the gray curtains, the city is recognizable and palpable. Occasionally the curtains are drawn and we are bathed in golden sunlight. But even in the gray, we can find our way. Along the snaking river, we have laid sign posts, so we know what we are looking at. Take away the sign posts, or smudge them with your thumb, and the city will begin to blur. Wear your reading glasses, and the details will reveal themselves, through maps, books, photographs and Internet. Without them will the city lose its identity? No, the city may still remain - in my mind and in yours.

Often when you have left your glasses, somewhere in your house, by the sofa or beside the bed, they are hard to find. Especially if you cannot see well without them. My grandmother does it all the time - and it can be quite unsettling, a bit like losing your mind. For if you became insane, how would you comprehend the world around you? How would you recognize the city, despite its signposts and myriad references in literature and documented history? You would read the signposts and yet not know what it meant. Or you wouldn't care to read them at all - the mind, like the ageing autocrat, will do what it pleases. The city will therefore cease to exist for you, if you lost your mind.

If you were to go mad, how would you know that you had? The people who share your apartment might seem unfamiliar, and you would scarce believe the one who shook you and told you he was your son. To you it would be normal, to eat when you are hungry and walk out in public view in your state of undress. Indeed, you might even wonder what was wrong with the world, for in your frame of reference you would be completely sane. But if the city didn't exist in your mind, would the city still exist at all? For there are others in the city, who might recognize it. Yes the city would exist, for their minds would make it real.

But cities do disappear. The lost city of the Incas, would have been resplendent during the reign of an obscure Inca emperor. What happened to the city then, that it remained on a hilltop, unrecognized for centuries? Through disease, famine or human depravity, the city would have shed its people. They may have left in a hurry, or in a slow trickle, like water leaking from a broken tumbler. More significantly, the memory of the city would have faded from their collective minds.

Although it helps, it isn't necessary for the inhabitants to leave the city in order to erase it. Cities may disappear from right under our noses, especially if the citizens were to lose their minds in unison. The sign posts could become unintelligible in degrees - lose their meaning gradually, one letter at a time. As though before a senile father, the city would shake its people to rouse their dodgy memory. They would fail to recognize it. The city would then lose its identity. It wouldn't matter then, if you or me, were able to identify it. The city would have simply disappeared without a trace.

A revolving vortex

2011-02-04T10:57:00.012Z

Matisse - Dance (1910)

It is a revolving vortex of messages. Or a baggage conveyor belt, with desolate bags moving round and round in circles, as hapless passengers look forward to something else.

Two people of different colors meeting each other at Cafe Valerie. One of them completely green covered in brown spots, the other one blue with long pink stripes. They speak the same language, and nod their heads in unison, like the sheep doll on my refrigerator, which shakes it head when the wind blows. Often they break into fits of laughter, as if they inhabit a Matisse painting. They hold hands and out of nowhere, there are white people of strange shapes who hold hands too, and form a ring. They go round and round.

Word bubbles float in the air, so that babies can point at it and go gaga. So much is said, that it begins to rain. But then it stops raining, and we have a deluge of white canopies. It is so hard for them to walk amidst the crowd of talking people. In the sky there is a geometrical shape from an engineering drawing - these are sparrows or are they pigeons, I don't know. They twist and turn and the shapes change.

Not much is said between the two people after that. The messages are probably lost in a vortex.

Apathy

2010-11-14T18:24:00.044Z

Gauguin - Tahitian Landscape

That day, long-winded hands

appeared to reach in by the window

and molest the lanterns.

Even the shadows on the wall

were visibly perturbed

(oh how they shook

from side to side).

I wandered to my window

and noticed in the distance -

rows of houses swaying in silence.

Another day

the trees were struck by tropical fever

and the leaves sedulously dropped.

Hand in hand

(like quintessential commies)

they circled and drifted into the sky.

A storm had gathered among us -

a swelling congregation of whispers

carried me as I lay prostrate

ever anchored to centre.

Then one day the storm quelled.

A searchlight scanned the riverside,

Debris had rolled into a doddering sand.

Vapour

2010-11-13T17:05:00.002Z

There comes a time when elaborate sentences swirl around anti-clockwise and disappear into the drain. When that is gone don't expect to find a figure, a shape, solid, palpable. Just vapour.

Sinister

2010-09-05T22:24:00.000+01:00

Something sinister about domestic placidity.
The lady scuttling from the crackling garlic
in the frying pan to the waves of bedsheets engaged in
brutal skirmish with the pillows on the queen sized bed.
The man wrestling with the browned pages
of a tenacious constrictor, from whose tattooed body,
words and numbers burst out at the seams.
In the afternoon, there will be yarns to knit
loose ends together into an intricate mesh of memories;
an activity that requires pervasive, compound eyes
to trace and erase any semblance of unusual avidity.
In the evening there will be attempts to transgress
the bounds of moral rotundity, usually through
crinkling mugs of toothless sardonicism or a puerile
fascination for all things forbidden. At night,
bitter compunction will find comfort in clean bedsheets.

Vulnerability

2010-08-31T22:46:00.000+01:00

Joan Miró - Person Throwing a Stone at a Bird (1926)

Then there are people who know it all, and have lots to say. They build bridges of eloquence, for us to connect an island of isolation with another. They are people with benign smiles and large bulging foreheads, with tufts of hair wiping against their pendulous ears. Utterances from their mouths are not to be heard, but seen and admired, for they are as beautiful as ancient cave paintings or Miro's mysterious drawings.

Usually their sentences are interminable chains, intricate, cohesive - converging to a point in the horizon, known universally as 'the opinion'. But sometimes they pause midsentence and wonder ...

Duplicity

2010-07-25T22:56:00.000+01:00

Oh what did I say that slipped away,
Slithering down the staircase,
Silhouetted among the shadows,
Nodding to the gathered guests,
And winking on its way out.
Was it something that caught my eye
Moments before, or a voice lumbering
Through the corridors,
Of a smudged ancestor from faded times.

Was it merely accidental, a slight
Miscalculation of the weather that leaves
You drenched in the soaking sun,
Or was it the soft fumbling,
In the closet, of a persistent spirit
Waiting for its turn.
Was it a contradiction of a
Planted opinion,
Widely watered and gardened,
Or a corner table,
Cornered by the center,
Yet left vaguely looming around.
Was it a falsification of something
Immutable, so elegantly honorable,
Columned and arched,
Or an echo of the reality,
An abject reminder,
That words are loopy and return
To the fraternity,
Over and over again.

Jheeri Jheeri Chaitali Baatashe - 1957

2010-07-09T12:31:00.000+01:00

Jheeri Jheeri Chaitali Baatashe - 1957
Singer - Geeta Dutt, Composer/Lyricist - Sudhin Dasgupta
(and my silly translation)

jheeri jheeri chaitali baatashe,
neel neel aakashe, jhil-mil taara je,
chupi chupi kotha koy,
chaand haashe

In this bustling breeze of melancholia
twinkling stars in the blue blue sky,
whisper words in hushed tones
while the moon smiles

jani na keno haay,
mon je taare chaay,
taare bhalo beshe,
hridoyo bhorejaay

Sheki amare go bhalo bashe?

Oh I never know why,
my mind seeks him,
and in loving him,
the heart fills to the brim

Wonder if he even loves me?

e modhu raat aaj boye jaay
tumi kothay aar aami kothay?

The sweet night, it flows by,
Oh where are you and where am i?

tumi je kache nai,
gaanero shure tai
ami je tomar,
she kotha bole jai

jodi tumi aasho mor paashe

But you are not nigh,
So through the tune of my song,
I keep saying to you,
that I belong to you

That you may come hither to my side

Lady with the accordion

2010-03-28T00:16:00.000Z

Smiling lady with the accordion,
Broad lines extend from
The corners of your eyes,
Surround your cheeks,
And then subside.
Your lips so wide,
Like a chasm divide,
The curious song,
From the chatty wives.

The cavalcade of people dressed
In their Sunday best,
Search their pockets,
For faith and find no reason
To skip the charade.
Their faces are stretched
In elation, their hooves
Depressed in unison,
Da dum di dum,
They march ahead.

Immortality

2010-02-28T22:50:00.000Z

Gods need to be understood. It's easy to dismiss them for what they appear to be - cold, capricious, vain, insensitive. Consider Abraham and how he is led west and then east, blessed and cursed, in a rather whimsical manner. Consider Poseidon chasing Odysseus around the seas. Or Lord Shiva's inordinate wrath and vengeance. One might contend that this is a clear case of misuse of authority; a wanton and almost sadistic subjugation of the weak by the strong.

Have you considered how much time they have on their hands? It is an eternity that they have to pass. They have tried sleeping through it, and I am sure there might be some wise Gods who lie asleep, having realized inaction is just as useful or useless as action. May be we haven't heard of them as they have been sleeping all along. Or they stay awake and conscious. Now that's a struggle - to stay occupied for an eternity. A God may spend his time chatting with other Gods, or in some form of entertainment, but even that can get repetitious, considering eternity is a long time. That is probably why they created the universe in the first place. As the bible suggests God created the universe in 6 days, and on the 7th day he rested. But surely on the 8th day, he was left with a choice. Should he rest some more or do something else?

Consider the consequences of either. Sitting by and watching could mean people doing what they pleased and we all know that means people killing themselves. Lifting a finger and interfering, could also leave people in a rather helpless state. They would realize that God would act, they would grow to fear God. And then of course they would try to appease God, by offering prayer or sacrifice. That would result in notions of duty, religion and right or wrong. Which would result in law and order, and of course depending on the interpretation of God's judgment, it could mean man acting on his behalf and dealing with the non-conformists.

Having observed the consequences of action and inaction, any God could easily work out that there is no difference in either approach. Besides even if a man suffered for a while or for years or if he lived his days happily, whatever be his circumstance, he would eventually die. In the course of an eternity, what difference does it make to anything. As a God, his primary concern would be to stay occupied and interested during his waking hours. Why would you blame Him for being insensitive or uncaring? It is not His fault - it is the curse of immortality.

Blot

2010-02-21T22:25:00.000Z

The sky drenched with ochre,
Careless drops of cyan,
Blot the body with
Unfamiliarity - a sensation foreign,
As yet unknown,
Of cold fingertips on my bare back.

Each drop feeding of its centre,
Breaching the definition,
The opacity of rationale,
As worms leafing through
A parchment,
Of unspoken authority.

A mythic mouth,
With bulbous lips,
Sucking the air,
And whispering,
As a wind through
A lake of reeds.

The firmament,
Is what you see,
In human waste,
Shells, debris
Of ambiguous shape,
Imprinted on the sand.

Left

2010-02-04T11:12:00.001Z

There is a portrait of my father that I drew when I was 17. It was night time, and he was sitting in the drawing room of our old home. His feet would have been on a stool. His head inclined, looking down upon a business magazine. The TV was playing a news channel. He was absorbed in what he was reading. I had drawn him lost in his book. I had drawn him in charcoal. I was probably sitting on the floor and so the portrait is from a strange angle. He looked like he didn't want to be disturbed. Though I am sure after the drawing I would have shown it to him and he would have had an encouraging smile. When my father wasn't absorbed in work, he was a collector of beautiful things. Of sculptures, paintings, strange looking furniture, wall hangings and all sorts of things you would use to fill open spaces in a showcase, cupboard, or on the floor and the walls in our room. I had once painted some deer on his bedroom wall in Mumbai. Sometimes in the darkness, the headlights of a distant car would flash upon the deer, and they would run frightened. We left that place and he was sad we couldn't take the deer with us. He was very volatile, a strange chemical that would react differently and often unpredictably under different circumstance. Sometimes he'd be full of good humor and say something so witty that we'd be laughing uncontrollably. At other times he'd be exploding in a fit of anger and turning everything around him into vapor. He had inherited that temper from my grandfather and has duly left it behind for me.

My grandfather with his frizzled white hair might have been sitting shirtless, with his thick, foggy glasses scribbling his finances religiously on a piece of paper while listening to my grandmother who would have been pacing up and down the drawing room. My mom would have been at the kitchen. Victor would have been under the bed where he liked to rest, so that I won't bother him constantly. My grandfather was a meticulous man, who started a pauper but left my grandmother a house with betelnut trees that swayed agitatedly in monsoon, and my father his values and a strange sort of pugnacity to fight off the bureaucracy that seemed to follow him like a shadow. He left me an aspiration.

In my grandfather's bedroom is the portrait of a man I have never met, neither have my father and my grandfather. He is my great grandfather - my grandfather was a posthumous child. They say he died of cholera and that he loved music.

The tumbler

2009-11-22T01:46:00.000Z

Mr Salgado replied, 'The right philosophy. Either you choose to observe and classify, or you choose to imagine and classify. It is a real dilemma.'
- Reef, Romesh Gunesekera

A tumbler with a deep belly,
And a slender, refined neck,
Tapering to a pout.
A deep belly, so empty,
That makes a hollow sound,
That needs a recreation,
An occupation, a song.
That seeks an idea, a thought,
A theory, a possibility,
Of infinite complexity,
An issue of importance,
With certain ramifications,
To ruminate on.

A deep belly, for controversy,
An allegation of complicity,
Apathy or even hostility,
What ever the supposition,
It can't be ruled out.
Until of course another thought,
Or fasciniation, with greater animation,
Or just indigestion,
Depending on the angle of the pout,
Depth of the belly,
Deep rumbling of the earth,
Or even something in the air,
Who knows?

Scotland

2009-10-04T00:30:00.000+01:00

Characteristically, we decided on Scotland shortly after I had downed two margaritas and Krishnan two cuba libres at Cafe Pacifico. We had argued about places and settled it when we realised that Scotland had the f***ing high f***ing lands. So next morning while I was yawning in office, Krishnan booked the flights to Edinburgh and I booked a castle in Tain. Much later, after we had heard Robert Plant wail his oooos and ahhhs, around 2 in morning I realised we had a flight at 6 AM. So we booked a cab to pick us up at 4 AM.

At 5AM we sleep-walked our way into security, snoozed through an easy jet flight, flopped into Edinburgh airport and found ourselves at Costa Coffee wondering what to do next. A few altercations at Avis later, we were in a pub in Edinburgh and a beautiful waitress walked up to us and asked - "Isn't it cold outside?" That's when I realised that we were in Scotland.
I stared at the girl for a while and walked out to check if it was really cold, while Krishnan did the "He he he ..yes it's cold" to the girl. Of course when Krishnan came out I scowled at him and told him what James Bond would have said instead - "Very cold, we could use some warmth, don't you think?" Krishnan speculated "She must be from a warm place." I marvelled at his deductive logic. We found our Ford and drove off to Stirling.

That's where we found our ice-cream man. A man in a colorful box with wheels, with a round head popping out of a window. I had some vanilla ice cream, and I told him it was nice. Then I asked him the slowest way to get to Inverness. He scratched his round head and said Keylennderr end Fooorth Willyemmmm. So I passed him a tissue paper and a pen. He wrote Callandar, Fort William and implied Lochearnhead, Portnellan, Tyndrum, Bridge of Orchy, Black Mount, Upper Carnoch, Ballachulish, Keppanach and Drimarben.

Green, green whooshing green of outstretched branches swayed in our wake, as we speed and suddenly what is that shiny, glimmery, bright, shimmering, oh my god it is a lake isn't it? So we had to nudge the car into an empty space and jump into this pebbly path to a lake surrounded by Scottish mountains. Our first taste of Scottish wilderness. We thought the lake would taste of whiskey, or some monster would wiggle, wiggle its knobbly head and squint at us from the waters surface. Quick glance at the watch and more trees, trees and surely we must be climbing, the trees have all had haircuts - look they are conical and pointy headed. Green grasses, carpets cover this patch of earth, we are rising, rising higher, higher. Glimmering lake in the distance, but in the distance look the mountains are all gray, even black, clad in suits. Misty mountain hop playing in the car stereo, clouds all around us and we keep climbing, climbing. Gray, rocky bare is this place of the mountains. How austere and grim are the black mountains. A patch of moss and grass, to cover up some spots, but he is too absorbed to care, the mountain is surely no friend of man, just a cloud gazer, stoned baby boomer too high to bother about the mundane. Knoll after knoll bob up from the gray earth, and we snake through them. And then a bridge to the land of the lakes. A long lake, languid, limpid lake appears to our left and the dull hum of the engine is enough to leave you drowsy. The trees return and so do the shaky, bushy leaves, that caress the windscreen distractedly.

A few hours later, in the evening, after 6. The sun begins to recede and in our hurry we almost miss a sign that says 'Turn here for Urquhart'. The Urquhart Castle is closed, and there is a couple standing outside their parked car, sighing as they see the castle in the distance. I find the that the gate has no lock, but has a large sign on it that says 'Tresspassers will be Prosecuted'. "Surely they won't shoot us Krishnan." "You never know in Scotland, Wriju." "I'll take my chances", and I open the gate and walk in. The couple follows me and then Krishnan follows us, gingerly, like a nervous squirrel. There is a second gate and this one is properly locked. I jump over it, the couple do the same, but Krishnan won't budge. I run inside hoping to take a few snaps before the guards chase me away. But there is no guard. The castle is ours in all its majesty. Urquhart castle is like a jigsaw puzzle that someone forgot to complete. With parts sticking out and a beautiful waterscape showing through the gaps. The walls, punctured possibly by canon shots fired by the Williamite forces in 1692. It is a multilayered structure, that is carefully laid out along the incline of a hill. It perches like a bird on the edge of a precipice, a bird with a 270 degrees field of vision. The lake tapers to the left and to the right, guided by the mountains. It is a spectacular sight. Krishnan can't stay away to long, and he casts away his scruples and scrambles into the castle. Half an hour later we are sitting on the highest wall, looking at the sunset in the distance. The picture is tranquil and it makes you silent and introspective.

By the time we reach our hotel (called Mansfield castle) in Tain, its half past nine. Dinner is served and gobbled up in minutes. Then we chat up the friendly receptionist lady, who prints us a map of the area and tells us what to do in the morning. Our room is through a maze of passages. It is evident the place is old, the receptionist tells us there are ghosts. But we are brave souls, we fall asleep soon after.

Next morning, it's bright and Mansfield Castle is bathed in sunlight. As soon as we are in the dining hall, we realise what a wonderful castle it is and what a large lawn there is outside. The decor is victorian, and the sunlight falling on the carpet and the wooden furniture is a sight to behold. From outside our hotel looks quite majestic, and we sit on a bench in the lawn and ponder about the castle, about the day before and how amazing this trip was turning out to be. Once we got into the car and I realized the GPS wasn't working. We were headed for Portmahomack, so while I was fiddling the GPS, Krishnan was figuring out the road signs. I tried a few random addresses and the GPS came back to life and spurted, "Please turn left". Krishnan took a sharp left. I said, 'Why did you take the left, I haven't put the address in yet?" But we kept going anyways into the narrow village road.

We couldn't help it really. There were golden fields, and beyond them the houses, then a line of blue (an estuary, perhaps) and then the mountains on the other side. It was lovely. So much so that we had to get down from the car and marvel. We climbed a fence and broke into it a field of hay, with the field patterned by treadmarks of a tractor. The field seemed endless stretching all the way to the sky lined by the estuary and houses to the left, and the desolate village road to the right. To the right of the village road was what could have been a Salvador Dali painting. Endless cylindrical reams of hay, each 10 feet tall, spaced evenly all the way up to infinity. Not too far away lay some scattered sheep, bleating avidly at each other. I lay down on the field and stared vacantly at the blue sky. So did Krishnan after a while, who looked robbed of speech and moist-eyed.

Sometime later, back on the village road, we found it curled leftward towards the line of blue. A row of houses appeared to the right and suddenly as I turned to my left, I spotted the sea. The north sea. The gray beach was shaped like a parabola, terminating at Portmahomack. A large family was on the gray beach - a baby on a pram wheeled neatly upon the beach, a little boy and a girl, and four others of varying ages. There were boats laid out along the pier a short distance away, lolloping on the sea. The sea seemed to abut upon the gray mountains in the distance. But that was the nature of the place - the sea was punctuated by mountains, and the mountains encumbered by the sea.

As we drove on, green fields alternated with golden fields of hay to our right, and the sea would often disappear behind a row of houses or a patchy little knoll, only to emerge minutes later, radiant in the sunlight. This went on for miles, while Krishnan and me mostly communicated in exclamation marks. We couldn't string two words together. The car audio, wailed in the voice of Robert Plant -

I hear the horses' thunder down in the valley below,
I'm waiting for the angels of Avalon, waiting for the eastern glow.

We drifted southward to Nigg and reached the tip of this landmass. Then we drove our car into a ferry. I remember doing that once in Butterworth in Malaysia, but for Krishnan it was a first. The ferry plies every half hour from Nigg to Cromerty and then the same ferry heads back to Nigg with passengers and cars. It looks like a floating steamroller and can carry two cars and lots of passengers. On the upper deck of the ferry, the wind is cold and to see Nigg fade away into the distance is a bit sad. It was in the afternoon and we had to reach Edinburgh by five to catch our flight back. Krishnan, of course, like a veritable James Bond, showed no sign of worry. Minutes later at a restaurant in Cromerty, he supped his cream of tomato soup with gusto. I munched on my sandwich and drank my coffee thinking my next time in Scotland I'll surely stay back at Portmahomack for a couple of days and just gaze at the sea all day.

Plinth

2009-09-27T00:42:00.000+01:00

I must have banged the door shut on my entourage, like a raving, debauched guitar god from the 70s, and swivelled back to my bathtub full of vomitty fluid and fallen face down into it. You don't need to like your entourage do you, especially when you don't like them. How can you like them when they are weaselly and wallowy and a bit flaccid? So that felt nice, and I liked the isolation and the distinction of my pungent bathtub. I felt like a capital letter amid the lower cases. I felt like people in Moldova or Tajikistan, with their Moldovan farm lands and Tajik goats, and their thin lips smirking at the Russians in the distance. Banging doors on people or things or the past always distinguishes oneself and puts one on the plinth.

Ask Lord Nelson, if he finds standing on the plinth easy, with his back shot through in a battle some 200 years ago. It gives him distinction and plenty of altitude. Years of practice have made him a good background, a familiar canvas in front of which you stand and pose. That is what happens. As you stand on the plinth, an invisible face might suck you in from the foreground and spit you onto the background.

Seeing you after a year is a strange experience. I am down here, you are there on the plinth and the entourage is there too, giggling inanities to one another. I can't look at them anymore, that's why I stare at you. But you smile at me, knowing that I want to be with them and find comfort in inanities.

She who doesn't wish

2009-09-17T13:34:00.001+01:00

She, who doesn't wish,
For could bees and may bees,
And other mythical animals,
From my lovely picture book,
Hasn't sighed since a foggy morning,
Many cold years ago.
She carries her own dictionary in her bag,
To help her understand the meaning of
Tea bags, itinerant clouds and life.

She, who is happy,
And content with the what is,
Of the Times New Roman Bold font,
Sneaks into her paper bed,
To ignore the sibilant undertones,
Of turning pages and hasty scribbles.

Grumpy

2009-09-13T22:02:00.000+01:00

I am not whimsical, for there is a subtle difference. To pine for the sun when it rains, and long for rain when it doesn't, is not being whimsical. I won't even be amused if it rained when it was sunny. I'd probably pray for snow.
Instead call me grumpy, I think that would be fair.

Passing through

2009-09-05T23:07:00.000+01:00

Far away a light wades its arms amid,
Dark umbrella leaves, hanging from the trees,
A committee of heads consequently
Spread, walking ahead of his majesty,
Followed by a selfless shadow, an unchaste
Lady, a devoted monkey, a bunch
Of ashen loud mouthed banalities.

Keeping apace, aloof yet amingling,
Performing a part, is a part of me,
Departing me, apart from me, anxiously.

The weather

2009-06-16T22:20:00.000+01:00

Affects me. I'll be frank. This big window in my drawing room, it doesn't hide away the weather. So when its cloudy, the clouds come into my room and its no good when the clouds are in your room. They just mess everything up. They are very meddlesome, and they don't take a hint. So if my face is twisted in a grimace they pretend not to notice. When I don't answer questions, they pretend they never asked. They help themselves to tea or coffee and then they eat the ginger nut biscuits in my kitchen. The carpet becomes soggy and the walls feel damp and everything is oozing with melancholy.

Squirrels and Pigeons

2009-05-02T23:05:00.000+01:00

This afternoon I basked in the park at Russell Square and watched as squirrels and pigeons made merry in their own idiosyncratic ways. There is a low hum that surrounds the park, that of automobiles grunting at idlers like me while encircling the park, but usually its quiet enough to hear the fountain, the dogs and the lady on the phone. I was lying on the grass, slightly wet, when I noticed the grey squirrel. It moves in such a staccato manner. You couldn't say if the squirrel was in such a hurry, as the white rabbit who was running late. The squirrel would always stop and ponder for a few seconds, before absolutely dashing off in the next few seconds. Like this nervous, frenetic worrywart who would dash off with the intention of doing something, and then stop and wonder why he was doing it. Like this capricious shopper, who just can't decide which top she wants, and who seems to like another as soon as she picks one. Like an obsessive professor who can't seem to get his mind off a math problem or puzzle, stops in the middle of whatever he is doing to quickly scribble something into his shabby pocket notebook.

Then I spotted the rather lackadaisical pigeon with its languid motion of the neck cocking to and fro to counter balance the movement of the body. It would careful tread on the grass like an arthritic lady, carrying a bag full of groceries to her monochromic and indistinguishable house abutting the park. Like the laconic man with bushy moustache, who hands you a gasping pen with his fat fingers at the entrance of a grey building, for you to sign his register, before slowly reaching out to hand you the visitor's pass. Time, this time, is an onlooker standing still. The pigeon has a poise and stateliness that is especially reassuring when it stands next to the squirrel. They are about the same height, two strangers waiting for bus numbers 68 and 188 respectively, ready to carry on with their respective lives in their own peculiar ways.

My body and me

2009-04-26T22:30:00.000+01:00

As you grow older, your body turns into a strident lady, ever grumbling and fault-finding. One of those ladies with long aquiline noses (like the beak of a bird) who's voices rebound in empty corridors and staircases. They like the china on the table, placed exactly like it ought to be, even if the food is as bland, vitaminated, spinached and carrotted.

My stomach spoke up today, growled and grunted. Of course my stomach has been speaking for days now, but I never quite understood what it said. The language is familiar but the dialect is so unfathomable and the words are like that of two Cockneys discussing football. Every now and then you hear words like Liverpool or Arsenal and goal but the rest of it makes you feel inane. My stomach speaks Cockney, so I choose to ignore it.

Its the stomach today, but I have a feeling some day my body will feel like a committee. Or a union, that will strike work on me and ask for a pay increase, perhaps blame me for the recession or inflation. My liver, my intestine, may be even my knees, they have this sinister look about them, like the sooty proletariat are wont to have. They trust nothing, not even my empty promises and supplicatory remarks. The way its going, I'll have to call it a sick unit, and seek a bailout.

How my body detaches itself from me as I grow older. It just becomes a different human being. A very difficult old lady (I repeat myself), so different from me. Sometimes when I scold it I feel sad and guilty. I might have hurt its feelings. At other times, I just lose it.

About a painting

2009-04-19T00:24:00.000+01:00

Pierre Bonnard. I was just tired and I sat down next to the Japanese couple at Tate Modern. And you were in front of me. I was behind you. Pen, paper, Marie, window, and the profile of Maria looking contemplatively at something we will never know what. Standing on your balcony towering above a mushrooming town, nestling between bushy trees and patchy skies. You were sitting on that desk with your books to the left, sipping coffee, feeling too lazy to get up and open the windows. You didn't even start that letter you were going to write to Madame Leblanc about the incident on Wednesday morning in the wine shop. You didn't do anything today, I mean anything useful. Woke up in the morning, made love to Maria (even called her Julia while you were at it) and now she is trying to look like she is really hurt. What is she looking at - the neighbor's violet curtain? It would be nice to paint her nude, drying her self after her bath, standing before the neighbor's violet curtain. Hang on, that might look like Degas but you can always put a window and bring in the french scenery. That's your thing. Ok I digress. Then you had your breakfast of croissant, and now your coffee is getting cold while you are doodling into your notebook with a blunt pencil and scratching your silvery stubble with it. The dog is barking incessantly, but Maria can't hear him. I think she is looking at the neighbor's violet curtain. She looks beautiful in profile, or with her back to you - svelte with skin the color of cafe au lait. You have to go feed the dog now and I have to go home as the gallery has become so empty.

Thats a beginning

2009-04-19T00:13:00.000+01:00

But there are a whole of lot of places I have to write about, and each time I think of writing I shudder to think it. Of all the places, that I would love to write about, but can't begin to write about. So I will not write about them. Have I become this obsessive, compulsive person, that I believe my blog should look like a beautiful calendar with travelogues and poems. Its boring and I am bored of it. My blog will now be a mumbling, inarticulate, mess of thoughts. No more quality control. I shall write bullshit. Yes, bullshit.

There. I have exorcised the ghosts.

Ahem

2009-04-19T00:08:00.000+01:00

I am holding up the needle, but the thread I hold between my fingers is shaking from lack of practice. I wonder if I can string words together anymore.

Rome Part 1

2008-08-15T09:11:00.000+01:00

Just outside Milano, we encountered this elevated super highway to Rome. It was literally up in the clouds. Visibility was only up to a few feet in front of us. It might have been a grand view to the left of us or the right of us, but we could never tell thanks to the heavy cloud cover that had descended all the way to the highway. And the Italian car drivers were racing past despite the poor visibility in their Ferraris and Maseratis. It was a surreal experience and Krishnan, who was driving, managed to stay out of trouble by trailing the car in front of us. We reached Rome really late, ate out and check in to our hotel.

Early next morning (and if you have been paying attention, early = 10 AM) we caught the train directly to the heart of the city, and took a bus from near Vatican all the way up to the Colosseum. En route the walls of the Vatican came on our left and we went across the Tiber river. On the other side of the Tiber river the streets were cobbled and the buildings appeared antiquated and beautiful. When we arrived at the Colosseum, it was hard to believe we were actually standing before it. It's one of those things you have seen so many times on TV, in magazines and papers, that standing in front of that imposing structure felt like reliving old memories. We stood in a long queue and did the regular touristy trip of the Colosseum. Then we promenaded through the majestic Roman Forum (Forum Magnum), that looms behind the Colosseum with ruins from two thousand years ago. The arch of Constantine greets us at the entrance to the Roman Forum. We were perfectly silent throughout - I wanted to absorb it all so I would be able to talk about it to my grandchildren in full graphic detail.

The Walls

Scratch their backs with fingernails,
And the walls will shake gently from
Side to side. Breathe unevenly,
Giggle, curve their back to your touch,
Wiggle and even turn around
To face you with a lopsided smile.

They have long midriffs,
And protracted wing spans,
Like flamingo birds gliding,
In the sky. They flock together
And hold hands, till their palms
Become sticky and fingers grow
Numb. They like the warmth
Of proximity.

They have long flexible ears,
That twitch at your words,
And twist around your fingers,
At night their faces turn towards you,
And they curl in bed,
To notice everything you do or say.

Milano

2008-08-14T14:15:00.000+01:00

Milano

Last december, close to new years, we drove down to Milan from Paris. Reached at 2 AM and spent the next two hours GPS-less, mapless and quite hapless, searching for a nondescript hotel in a place that speaks only Italian. We woke up groggy eyed early in the morning (10AM), and decided to test out the public transport of Milano and navigate our way to whatever it is that one has to see in Milan. (Obviously we had planned out trip immaculately.)

The bus hurled us towards this old fortified fort of a place called Castello Sforzesco. It looks so grand and humongous and they claim Da Vinci had something do with its design and architecture. Later we walked down Via Dante (oooh Dante!), admired some wonderful photographs that were being exhibited and walked up to Duomo di Milano (the cathedral of Milan). There we posed like roman statues to each other's cameras.

Then we ran out of time, had a quick bite of delectable pizza and scrambled into our car and drove to Rome.

(Pictures - Krishnan beeming in front of Via Dante as Debanu readies his camera, Duomo di Milano, Inside the Duomo, Castello Sforzesco)

Old Furniture

There is old furniture in my room,
Sitting around like memories,
But you are welcome to
Bend your body in acute angles.
That way you can stand straight
In my room. I once threw my
Old Piano out the window,
It hit a high note in the main street,
And its keys flew like birds
Released in the sky. That created
Some space in my room.

The window would suck up
The air in my living room,
And blow it outside. The clouds
Would scatter like flaky paint,
Scatter and sometimes fall with
A thud, with the force of gravity.
There would be space in the sky,
But what good is such space?
Errant clouds come back
All the time. Clouds must be like
Traveling gypsies.

The space in the living room heaves
And pants, gapes in the shape of
A yearning for missing pianos.
It needs to be suppressed like
One would a yawn, with a palm
Or fingers. Suppressed by a new piano,
Brand new furniture. It would look
Out the window like a lady waiting
And worrying, cluttering my living
Room like memories are won’t to do.

La Froid en Bruxelles

2008-04-06T16:51:00.000+01:00

A trip I did in early November 2007. It was sub zero and we kept missing the exits and getting lost in Brussels. We didn't have a GPS and the roads are bloody confusing in Brussels. Plus we had 3 navigators for the designated driver. And when we finally came back to Paris at 2AM we lost our way again! I think we reached home at 4 AM.

So what did we do in Brussels? We had hot chocolate and tried some of those famous Belgian beers - Leffe, Hoegaarden, Stella Artois. We saw Mannequin Pis and its unbelievably small. But really there wasn't much else to do but walk around the old city. That wasn't bad. There were so many places to stop and eat, all lined up along the narrow streets, and the restaurateurs inviting us persuasively, warmly (sometimes quite annoyingly!) into their shops. Dinner was nice.

April 18th

If there was the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
- The Waste Land

I am the blooming desert,
The rich aridity of the Kalahari
Approaching, encroaching your fecundity,
I am here to soil you, to take
Of you, and leave you replete with a vacancy
And a “Too Late” sign on your balcony.
My deserting you, is like an acceptance of
A smelly embrace. My binding is not a rape,
It’s a birthday party, a naked race,
An emancipation perhaps even an
Atonement. A justification of something
You feared would happen and wished
For all the same.
18th April, on this porch, Twenty
Timid years ago, years aplenty,
I pushed my foot into your gate,
And surveyed the scene and waved,
My hands like a tree with gnarled
Branches, waving at a forest of gnarled
Trees, I wore your husband’s suit,
And the light reflected from
My gold rimmed, glasses,
Square framed. You wore a flowery
Summer dress that flapped like a nervous,
Infant before a tetanus shot. Your eyes,
Were large holes of punctured mountains,
Your face cloudless, the beaten sky
Finite, into a painting framed.
And your arms extended up,
To the wall, that I built around you,
I am the land that surrounds the sky.
I was beneath you, I am above you,
And I shall weave around you now,
Like your flowery summer dress.

I am the father of a thousand, biting
Posters and paper cutouts of me.
They are my voice,
I am their beating, pumping
Organ that suffuses them with
Streams of convincing clarifications.
These twenty years are
Wide hipped women. They have borne
My waiting children and fed them
On evening porridge, that grew
Upon this land. It’s true,
This land has grown in them.
Now I have come again,
To your garden gate. Your husband
Wears my suit and you wear,
That summer dress, flapping like
The blighted page of a sordid book.
That longing look,
Of an empty well.
Your pieces are scattered upon my soil,
And the land grabs with eager hands,
All that lies upon it.
My paper cutouts now line your walls,
They agree, it’s time,
The earth shook in a mad fit,
Did a war dance on its fetid feet,
And drove the sky away.

Ma Mère

2008-03-23T00:40:00.000Z

The Wheelbarrow Man

Ears flapping from side to side,
Long ears from long years,
Flapping to the veering head wind,
Dust cocooned,
Wheel barrow man,
Grunts and gushes like sewerage,
Chases the road end,
The end road from the
Bylane by the blind lane,
At the cross road to main street,
Tried tires and tired feet,
Dogged dog barking,
Popping poles and free parking,
With a baby in his,
Metal-bound, velvet-lined,
Hardcased, nursery-rhymed,
Wheelbarrow.

Old Madame Sosostris,
Eyes beset in layers,
And layers of wrinkled cheese,
Drugged dugs,
Drags her dripping arms,
Unwinds her window,
To sniff the breeze,
And voila, a dust storm,
She gives a sneeze,
Touches up her antique,
Silver hair passed on to
Her by the giggling ape,
Adjusts her nape,
And sees the wagging tail,
Of the wheelbarrow man,
And in his wake the,
Waving hands, lotioned legs,
Gargling voice of a gaggled face,
Wrapped in paper and duct tape.

Impressionism

2008-01-26T00:10:00.000Z

It's so silly putting framed paintings on a blog. You can download them from any of the thousand copies on the Internet. But I feel a bit of pride - I saw these Monet Paintings (and many more) with my own eyes at Musee D'Orsay. Yes, the originals. Almost a year back, 'How do we know' sent me a book. It was big and heavy and had a green cover. It had the complete collection of Monet Paintings. When I asked her about the heavy book, she lightly replied that it was her duty to hand the book to its rightful owner. I will never forget that favor.

Back in my childhood days, my father had a collection of art books. There were one's on Renaissance, on Toulouse Lautrec and many others. I remember fondly flipping through the pages. Mom had decided to go back to University and on Saturdays I would visit the Jehangir Art Gallery in Mumbai and sit with the artists on the roadside, until Mom would be done with her lectures. I had painted deer on my bedroom walls and when headlights from cars would flash from outside (I don't know how they reached so high, all the way up to the 20th floor!), the deer would come alive. In the day time after school I would run to my friends apartment and talk about kung fu, girls and sometimes about paintings.

I don't know when I first saw his paintings, but I had learnt to recognize them almost instinctively. Once in San Francisco, at the Museum of Modern Art, I saw a photograph. It had a girl in a garden and they were having breakfast. And I saw in it a Monet. It was not his painting of course, but the photograph was inspired by a Monet painting. I asked the guide, "Monet?" She nodded. That was the first time I saw Monet.

Granny would say, an artist holds a mirror to the world. Does Monet hold a mirror to the world? That lady in the field with red flowers, her face isn't even complete. The boats sailing in the lake, isn't the lake up in the sky and sky down in place of the lake? Then there is the cart that trundles on the snow, the sky is brown and the trees appear blue with snow. The plates on the table take centre stage and the people are the background. The house of parliament a hazy shadow, the sun and its reflection hazier still. The little boy in utter darkness beyond the illuminated curtains and flower pots.

In Monet I see the world.

Elephant Girl

After a long day,
Of paper cups, keyboards and saucepans,
She notices some lines,
Pencil marks under her eyes.
She rubs the mirror.
"Sheets of paper cannot hide,
From an elephant memory."
She decides to think of the bus schedule,
The laundry list,
And other important matters,
While the elephant quickly hides,
Under the writing desk.

Versailles

2008-01-21T11:10:00.001Z

These are pictures from late October when Mom and Dad had come down to visit me. They found it very cold so we visited places near and around Paris. Versailles is a colossus. Its gardens are the biggest I have seen and the palace is incredibly lavish. Louis IV came here in 1682 and the french kings stayed here all they way until the revolution forced Louis VI out of the palace in 1789. But the place is much older and the first chateau was built here sometime in the 11th century.

The best part about this place is the expansive set of interconnected gardens that are spread across an area of 8000 hectares. In between is a waterbody that is a cross between a lake and a canal. Part of it flows right to the foot of the main Palace. Ships would sail into it at some point in history. There is more than one chateau here. Including a mini chateau gifted to Marie Antoinette with its own chapel and garden. It is all so spread out that it would tire one to walk around the whole place. So mom and dad bought tickets for a tram that shuttles around the palace.

A tree

Old walls connect a distant past,
To a courtyard and a house,
Large spaces inside,
And a restless tree.
Bare branches crawl up,
A side of the wall,
Stick a hand out,
And wave at the passerby.
Hey did you see the winter,
Coming this way?

The passerby stops,
Pops his head out of the hood,
And gives his neck a good shake.
His features blur,
A blank page behind a long nose,
Protected by the shaggy beard.
He says, Pardon,
Je suis sur mon chemin,
And walks away.

The tree squints at the horizon,
Spots a dab of red,
And imagines a sunset,
Behind the gray evening.

Champs Elysees

2008-01-04T21:17:00.000Z

The street that needs no introduction. Charles De Gaule (pronounced Shah de Goul) stares longingly at one end hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous Arc de Triomphe that adorns the other end. The pictures are from early October and the air is so wonderful sans the winter chill. The sky was so clear that day, that when I reached the top of Arc de Triomphe through a long, winding staircase, the city of Paris opened her arms to greet me. The sense of history weighed down upon me - everything around me was hundreds of years old that it made even the Eiffel Tower seem young and sprightly. Originally commissioned by Napolean in his heydays (but alas he never saw it completed), the Arc de Triomphe is now symbolic of all the wars that France has seen. Beneath is the tomb of "The Unknown Soldier" (just like in the Jim Morrison song).

In October the bars and cafes sprawled into the road to bask in the sun. It's hard to find people who speak French on this road as there are hordes of tourists clicking away with their cameras at whatever they can see. The last time I went there was in late October, when Mom and Dad came visiting. Dad was feeling awfully cold so we went into the Grand Palais and saw an exhibition.

The Order

The left right left of peeled faces,
Marching to the fore,
Towards the sweaty shore,
A silent menagerie,
Beneath the livid sea,
Heads and feet emerge for a while,
And subside into a mangled broth.

The circle, circle around the digit,
The cheerful clamor, the fist rigid,
Round and round they go,
A mass of bodies,
Exulting in their nudity,
Stepping upon each wayward mononity,
Shunning the absurdity,
Engulfing a vast multiplicity,
Evening the oddity.

The up down up of unattired limbs,
Untiring, unabashed, indiscriminate revelry,
Gyrating in rhythm to a raucous rhapsody,
Erupting in a communal paroxysm,
Echoing each others emotion,
Churning, churning the ever-life,
To its last sap of youth.

Chateau

2008-01-02T22:48:00.001Z

This is my home now. And that is my cycle. That sleepy alley leads me to my new home. See how the signs scream 'Gymnase Henri Chapu'. The gym is actually right opposite my house and you can see kids outside the gym on regular evenings. That is my chateau with a beautiful garden. The pictures are from September and that is why the garden is so overwhelmingly green. So many people come to my town just to see the Chateau. Napolean lived here once. But the Chateau is many centuries older than him. It dates back to the times of Louis VII in the 12th century. Close to my town the Barbizon painters painted scores of paintings. In September, I would spend hours at the chateau. Staring at the garden. Admiring the swans, the shapely pond, the clear blue skies.

Those swans have flown away now that it is December. The sky isn't as blue as it was in September. It is predominantly gray, and the sun rises late in the day. It is so cold that my words shiver and refuse to leave the warmth of my home on Rue Henri Chapu.

Hello Goodbye

2007-10-12T23:48:00.000+01:00

Said my goodbyes to Malaysia. Jalan Ampang and Bangsar will be soon forgotten, along with Penang, Taman Malawati, the Kelana Jaya line, KL central, Bukit Bintang and many other euphonic names that had been a part of my life for so many months. The country that opened its arms to me is now thousands of miles away. The sun that beat down on me will now be sorely missed. It doesn't rain like it used to, the drops of rain have shrivelled in size and I haven't heard the thunder in months. The termites won't knaw at my cupboard, the fungus won't grow on my damp clothes, and the taxi drivers won't nod and say "ok la!"

My office was on the 39th floor but it was dwarfed by the KLCC that stood next to it. Everytime I looked out my windows the towers stared down at me like a big bully. The annoying presence of the KLCC (Petronas towers) will also be missed. The smelly food courts will be missed, and the thousand shopping malls will be missed. The beautiful Penang beaches will be missed. My lovely Malaysian friends, who adopted me as their own will be missed.

Last night I dreamt that the city had left me behind and moved away. I opened my door and found that the city was gone. Whoosh! Not a soul in sight. That's what happens when you leave your cities behind. They begin to leave you too.

In between the lines

I scribbled roughly into my notebook,
Dark days daubed with charcoal,
The sun can be an underclerk,
In a worn out gray over coat.
On such days my alphabets,
Have a language of their own.

The realm of horizontal lines,
Here is a place for the reasonable mind,
To twist and turn every time,
To the whistle of a toy train,
Meandering to a certainty,
Through tunnels of circumstance,
And hills and vales of happenstance,
To the finality of a shape,
Precluding the possibility of millions,
And millions of other shapes.

Consummation is a warm handshake,
And a cloying smile,
That can be brushed aside,
In all its levity,
Nudged outside just as,
The million others that clamored,
For a chance at the limelight.

Unconquered

2007-07-29T16:07:00.000+01:00

Unconquered

Thailand has never been conquered in history. Its palaces and temples glow with undiminished glory. The beholder is left speechless. There is so much to see in Bangkok alone. Buddhist temples can be found in every part of the city, each one more splendid than the other. The Chao Phraya River navigates the city like a serpent. It is an earthy brown in color and carries hundreds of boats across itself everyday.

There is more than one palace in Bangkok. The most famous one is the Grand Palace. It has been around for more than 200 years and kings have continually added to it. The Thai are proud of their kings. On the birthday of the present king Bhumibol (and in fact on every Monday) people wear yellow T-shirts. I was surprised to find a sea of yellow T-shirts at lunchtime on a Monday. You will find portraits of the present king on every street of Bangkok. They really love their king.

I spent most of my time at the Grand Palace. It is incredibly beautiful, and it takes a long time to see all of it. Every bit of the palace is just exquisite (as you can see from the photos). I haven’t seen anything like this before. It also houses the temple of the emerald Buddha. One isn’t allowed to take photos of the emerald Buddha. It is placed at a height on a pedestal that seems to cascade down towards the viewer. It is not a big statue, yet one is attracted to it because it is made of emerald.

I visited many temples while I was in Bangkok. I remember the temple called Wat Pho. It houses a reclining Buddha that is 46m long and 15m high. Besides the statue of the Buddha, I loved the stone statues of warriors placed outside the temple. They look proud and unconquered.

Where he had left

A boat came back to the quay,
The sun calls it a day,
The rain clouds drift away,
Gently. Sagged down like udders,
By the weight of,
Their own self-consciousness.

The old tree that clutches,
At the red earth, sucks in,
Every leaf that goes astray.
The red earth blows,
From her pouting lips,
To smudge all footprints away.
Flotsam that drifts into,
The unforgiving waters,
Is returned with the lowering tide.
No one can get away.

A contoured, cartographic face,
Navigable features and eroded gaze,
He came back to where he had left.
As he spoke, words that left,
His mouth went back in again.
The same way they came.
Memories won’t matter to anyone else.
Thoughts came hurling back at him,
Like a stone thrown skyward with vengeance.
His hands felt empty, yet laden with weight.
His practiced feet walked unswerving,
Tired yet continuing,
As he emerged unscathed,
From a journey around the periphery.

The King is dead. Long Live the King!

2007-07-28T17:49:00.000+01:00

Malacca

The King is dead. Long Live the King!

And so it was that kings died and sprung back to life to die again. At the Straits of Malacca. The natives ceded power to the Portuguese. Who ruled for a century only to be driven away by the Dutch. Who signed a treaty in Europe, and transferred Malacca to the British as they withdrew to Indonesia. Then the British, who ruled for a long time until they scuttled away from the Japanese only to be reinstated again after World War II. Later when the British left, Malaysia decided on an innovative form of Monarchy. The rulers of the 9 states choose a King by rotation for a period of 5 years only. But that’s unconnected with the history of Malacca, and I won't digress.

Malacca is one of history's favorite ports. The straits of Malacca were ideal for trading ships to dock for a few days and trade their wares on the river that trickles into the straits. Malacca was famous for spice trade. Militarily too the port was of strategic importance. That is why Malacca has seen a lot of bloodshed.

The city of Malacca is built around a hill. On top of the hill is a chapel. Then around this decayed chapel are placed palaces, gardens and old houses. In recent times the city has crawled down the hill and spread farther and farther landwards. The sea of course has never capitulated to the city.

Those Hands

When you return to humanity,
With your wizened reasoning,
You can explain most everything.
The necessity of shriveled legs,
Of hunger, of crime, of social inequality,
Of unborn babies and your moral probity.

Yet those lips, those kisses,
And those hands that go astray.

You are the son of your father,
With his roving eyes and sensuality,
And your hands must seek and go astray.
Oh, the sweet baseness of your lofty thoughts,
They say your reasoning is just for protection,
A sort of explanation,
And despite all those words and lofty thoughts,
Those hands, they must seek, and go astray.

Communication

2007-06-17T09:20:00.000+01:00

These are pictures from back in April from AT&T Park in San Francisco. We went for the opening night Pedros v/s Giants. The Giants lost the match, but the people stayed back and braved the chilly breeze from the bay. We wanted to see the fireworks, for it was opening night! Then after the match we went back to Tres Agaves (a place where I am drawn to almost every night) and had our Tres Margaritas with the nachos and chicken wings.

San Francisco is one of my favorite cities. It has roads that go up and down, wonderful parks, besides of course the beautiful bay. I love getting lost in San Francisco and wandering about like a nomad. I love the weather, the people, the day life, the night life and I have such great friends in San Francisco that I keep coming back.

Communication

Antonio: Noble Sebastian,
Thou letst thy fortune sleep, die rather; wink’st.
Sebastian: Thou doth snore distinctly;
There’s meaning in thy snores.
-The Tempest, Shakespeare

The sounds have been rinsed in water,
And the voices can be heard no more,
Now that we are on different sides,
Of the same surface,
Does my face look funny when I scream?
Do my words appear in little bubbles of air,
And kiss the surface like curious fishes?
Does my hair sway in the water,
Like the algae and waterweed?

I love you, and I think of you,
As our blood trickles through the surface.
Today I am the underside,
Tomorrow …

Little Paper Boat

2007-05-02T07:53:00.000+01:00

Kodaikanal

This is a trip I did back in February, before I left Bangalore for good. Like most trips I make, this one happened unplanned and unforeseen. I just bought tickets online, packed my backpack and left.

The strange thing about Kodaikanal is that a jacket of fog covers the place every afternoon at 2 PM. This happens everyday, without fail, as if Kodaikanal had a perennial date at 2PM everyday with some maiden who prefers a foggy jacket. There are the usual touristy places – most of the much-touted ones (like Coaker’s walk) will let you down. You might try cycling around the lake in the center of Kodaikanal. But every now and then you will find solitude in beautiful wilderness. You might stand at the edge of a cliff and lean yourself on the shoulders of a wizened tree with gnarled roots. Like Munnar, this place is full of flowers.

I met this local in Kodaikanal. He speaks a little English, and I understand a wee bit of Tamil. He took me fishing to a lake in a remote area, 2 hours from Kodaikanal. We passed by his home and he showed me where he grew up (the little village in the photograph). He spoke about his life, his girl friends, his future and what he does on weekends. When I returned he called me several times on the phone. We could barely speak, as we hardly know each other’s language. I was supposed to send him the photos but I have lost his address. He doesn’t use email.

Little Paper Boat

She sat in a little paper boat,
And paddled into the Atlantic.
She said she had to live her dream,
As she applied her night cream.
I told her she would get wet,
So she wrapped herself in a towel,
She said she didn’t mind a shower.

Since she’s gone,
In her little paper boat,
(That can barely float),
The waves swim away,
From this desolate shore.
I turn towards the west,
My mind won’t rest,
My eyes look yonder,
For that little boat of paper.

O little paper boat,
Trying to stay afloat,
Bobbing up and down,
Amidst the mid-atlantic waves.
When she looks in her bag,
For her blue plastic cap,
Turn around in quick motion.
In the middle of the ocean,
She won’t notice your rotation.
Then skim across the ocean waves,
And bring her back to me.

Persistence

2007-04-22T12:11:00.000+01:00

Munnar and Thekkady

These pictures are from a trip I did back in February. I traveled across the entire district of Idukki in Kerala. I did the beautiful hill station of Munnar, the Eravikulum National Park, the remote villages of Nedumkandam and Ramakalamettu, the Periyar Wildlife Reserve, parts of Thekkady.

It's been a while since I did the trip but surprisingly my memory of the people and places hasn't blurred with time. I still remember the friendly local with the bushy moustache who sat next to me in bus. He didn't speak a word of English but explained everything through sign langauge. I remember the boatride on Periyar river at the crack of dawn. I remember the spicy fish curry I had for lunch and the look on the face of the hapless french lady whom I mistook for the watchman and asked for a matchbox. I remember the mountain goat that stood in front of me and refused to acknowledge my presence and the tea gardens that from a distance look like comfortable green carpets.

I might go back again someday. I have heard the Kurunji, which blooms every 13 years, is a sight to behold.

Persistence

As I chased my shadow in the darkness,
I slipped and fell through the elevator door,
And I have lived here ever since.
Everything stays the same in here,
As we go up and down the tower.
At an arbitrary floor we stop for a while,
To let summer flies inside.
They are welcome to stay,
Hum to the tune of the disenchanted fan,
That breathes out a wind of monotony,
In a black and white persistence.

Beside me is a board of buttons,
Like happy faces that smile at each other.
Each one speaks a different dialect,
Of a foreign language,
But I am sure they say the same thing.
Above the board the speaker coughs and sputters,
The same song over and over again.
Even when I question the speaker I get,
The same words, the same sounds,
Through dayish night or nightish day.

The light shines with a bored brightness,
And if you stare at it for hours,
Shapes lose their shape,
And sizes lose their size.
The floor plunges to an abysmal depth,
And the ceiling jumps to an unimaginable height.
It is then that I hear the knock on the door,
Of the stranger waiting outside.
Within the elevator, I exist,
Locked and trapped in measured space.
He always waits outside.

Fallen

2007-02-25T15:36:00.000Z

Pondicherry

Pondicherry is a quaint little place with a lot of empty spaces. The roads are like regularly spaced alphabets in a french magazine, with names like Rue Romain Rolland, Rue Labourdonnais. The buildings are like starched white clothes, neatly pressed. The branches of trees are perennially green and laden with flowers. They adorn the houses but are oddly reminiscent of the matted hair of hippies and ascetics alike.

Pondicherry was the home of Late Sri Aurobindo, extremist turned spiritual guru, erudite scholar and an extraordinary gentleman in his own right. Pondicherry was also a french colony and is still home to a lot of French people. It is vibrant with culture, replete with jazz music, good food, wine and a lot of joie de vivre.

The best bit about Pondicherry is that the sea lurks in the background. They haven't got her yet. In the evenings she complains of indigestion but during the mornings she is fine. They think it is the tides. Large stones and boulders keep her tied. At night she is a mad lady who laughs hysterically and her laughter rings through the city. When I was there, I heard her sob silently.

Fallen

Let my life now merge in the all-pervading life.
Ashes are my bodies end. Om.
- Isha Upanishad

Hush, it’s the tentative tiptoe,
On a burning terrace. A sultry surface,
That singes every step into a muffled sigh.
Hop, skip, scuttle but before she leapt.
She stood at the edge and surveyed,
The cloudless sky for a hint of remorse,
A tinge of doubt, ever so slight,
Was there nothing in his eyes?
His head had sagged back like a punching bag,
Wagged like a tail from side to side.
She had watched it, trailed it,
Searched it for a sign.

“I give you these wings, you may fly.”
She spread her wings,
And noticed the world down below.
Those ants that race up and down the anthill,
Nameplates hang from their necks,
Faces are pinned to them and on their shoulders,
They bear a lonely burden.
She squished them too, with her thumb.

The gushing winds said that she had clutched,
At the sky. Her open palms revealed loose strands,
Of hair and a fistful of secrets,
That still clung to her hands and danced midair,
Like marionettes, to a melancholy tune.
She rolled, rolled, rolled in the air,
Like a cigarette rolled around her powdery,
Puffy soul. Roll some more.

Time would flow as blood from a wound,
That wouldn’t heal, but the blood had clot,
One day, when the curtains refused to be swayed,
By the plucky breeze at the windowpane.
Since then it hadn’t bled.
The kitchen tap still runs,
The saucepan is on a constant flame,
And the familiar smell still finds its way out,
To the inviting skies. As she fell, she smelt it too,
And rolled in her timeless feathery bed.
The wind was a conch shell to her ears.
He spoke of the patient sea and rows of,
Golden sunflowers and green paddy fields.
She closed her eyes and smiled,
When her fingers brushed the leaves.

She rolled, rolled, rolled in the air,
Like a cigarette rolled around her powdery,
Puffy soul. Roll some more.

Mystic Himalayas

2007-01-25T07:26:00.000Z

The Intractable Yak

At Changu(Tsomgo) Lake, I rode the intractable yak. He was big and bulky. My friends would agree, he was as stubborn as me. When he was pulled to the right, he moved to the left. When he was pulled to the left, he dragged himself and everybody else to the right. At one point of time he almost dropped me into the frozen lake. The other yaks had all reached their destination. But the intractable yak chose to stand his ground, as if he had a point to make. What global cause did he champion, I couldn't quite guess. He merely looked at the Changu lake and shook his horned head. He was rather stylish in his obstinacy. There was something regal about his adornments, his gait, even his hairstyle all gelled up and styled like Elvis perhaps.

But the intractable yak had met his match. If he wouldn't move, neither would I budge from his back. After careful consideration, he came to a decision. He reasoned that he could champion his noble cause after he had dropped me to my destination. So he walked slowly by the lovely Changu Lake and even nodded his head in agreement with whatever I said.

A Prayer

Aditi,
Make the leaves shiver with your breath,
Of cold numbness and frigid solemnity,
Catch the moon undulating in a pool,
Of gentle nuances and half gestures.
Hear the river bubble upon rocks,
And roar in agony at every bend.

I still see you standing there,
Knee deep in water,
Cotton clothes that smell of cotton clothes,
Duly soaked, washed, rinsed, crinkled,
And baked in the sullen, smoky sun.
Still see the fishes around you,
That kiss the watery surface of moss-coated rocks,
And the drowsy, dewy-eyed breeze,
Laden with frangipani, bunches of frangipani,
Carefully woven into necklaces, wreathes and bands,
And recklessly stamped.
Those whorls of hair,
Pleated, permed, frizzed, curled, crumpled, lumped,
Flowing in the wind, for miles and miles,
I felt them last night, while asleep,
Twisted the idle strands of hair,
Around my fingers, and smelt them.
Look they led me here to you.

Aditi, grant me this wish Aditi,
They say your fat fingers,
Can weave a spell around the crescent moon,
Send the clouds into a tizzy,
Bring them crashing into the mountains.
They say your big eyes,
Can see through the night,
And seek out the somnolent sun.
They say you charmed the bees one day,
And turned them into butterflies,
Or was it fireflies?
Aditi, Will you do this for me?
Please listen to me.
The long winding forest path upon the gravelly red soil,
That churns the day into the night.
Lost amidst the similar trees,
May her eyes seek me,
At every corner, at every tree.
Where the silence echoes and the sound is still,
May she hear my voice in the rattling leaves.
The wind gushes in through the windows,
Scrapes the flaky walls of the lonely house,
May she wait for me at the creaky door.

Tide Country

2007-01-12T13:28:00.000Z

In December, I went on a cruise to the Sunderbans. These are 56 islands of dense mangrove forest. They say it is the largest mangrove forest in the world. Hugli, Sattarmukhi, Bulcherry, Matla and Gusaba are some of the rivers that cradle these islands. Like the eternal mother these rivers give birth to new islands each year and submerge someothers like they had never been.

The river sustains the inhabitants of the islands. Mangroves suck up the salt water, and cover up like a monk's cloak, every available patch of uncovered land. Their roots bind the land together. Under their nurture and care, and the supervision of Bon Bibi(the tribal deity), prosper many species of flora, small animals, even the majestic royal Bengal tiger.

Our boat floated like a debris - we stood out in relief to this place so alive. If our spirits had been mottled by the city's tired breath, here we breathed fresh air, stared up in wonder at the blue sky and looked down every now and then at the glistening river. At night we looked at the sky and wondered if we had ever seen stars before.

Some of these islands are inhabited by humans. One of them is Bhagabatpur. Here we made a brief stop, during high tide. We took in some of their island life to survive in us as memories. They would remind us of life when we are back in the city, encumbered in our quiet, comfortable existence. When the tide began to recede, we went back to out boat and made our way back home.

Tide Country

Mangrove swamps on either side,
Eyelids of your sparkling eyes.
What childish dreams you dream all day.
Earthen houses, earthen pots and pans,
Even your hands are made of clay,
Every day is work and play.

Longish boats on brackish waters,
Are dark silhouettes before the orange sun.
Low tide and high tide,
Moonlight and sunlight,
Are two sides of an uneasy sleeper,
Tossing and turning in bed.

Mud children of the mangrove swamp,
Hide their melting smiles from the sun,
And flap their wings at dusk.
Evenings roar like a beast,
But the night is silent,
Like the ripples of the Ganga.

Hark the sound of the lonely boatman,
Paddle on, paddle on,
Turn every turn of the twisting river.
The mangrove swamp shall follow them,
And open wide her hungry mouth,
To taste the seawater.

To Passion

2006-12-11T19:49:00.000Z

The knife’s edge looks to belong,
Longs to be a part of you.
Did you know that every glimpse of you,
Draws me closer to my destiny?
Every moment of the way,
From the staircase to the dusty bylane,
Is a splinter.
As you walk up to me,
The knife twirls in my grip,
Why don’t you notice me, even look at me?

Every sunset is a splash of red.
See, this in my hand,
Is a sunset brilliant red.
I have it in my fist,
Turning like the plastic globe,
Hold on to it like a drowning man to his last breath,
This is it, this is it.
This is the color of your lips, the wind against your hair,
This is every throbbing of your heart,
Every gasp of air you breathe,
And this is the clear cloudless sky,
Of your distant, intangible eyes.
See how the knife's blade sways with the wind.
This is it, this is it.

Do you feel it now?
Look at me, does the knife edge,
Seek every drop of your attention?
The faceless people stare blankly at you,
They drift with the wind like sail boats.
This is I. Rooted to this pit.
Recognize me, this is my face,
And this is my poignant gaze.
These are my cruel eyes,
Dark clouds in disguise.
These are my scars screaming, aching,
Every sinew boiling, brimming,
Clutching, Scratching.
Sinking.
I swear by the edge of this knife,
The earth will open up and all its fire,
Will burn you, like it has burnt me,
Hold on to me, this is it,
For you and me.

The Doorbell

2006-11-19T20:23:00.000Z

Per me si va ne la città dolente,
per me si va ne l'etterno dolore,
per me si va tra la perduta gente.

-Inferno Canto III

The doorbell rang softly.
Amidst the din of the night,
Half asleep in bed,
I decided it was a dream,
And began to pretend to sleep.
It rang again like an afterthought,
With the dying smoke of a cigarette butt,
And clung to me like a supplicant,
In dire need of help.

At my door was a traveling salesman,
Dressed in a winter fog.
An eager smile buttered his bready face,
And he promptly said “Hello,
The sun won’t rise today.”
I looked beyond him with doubt.
Yes, the sky was blacked out.
“Will it rise tomorrow then?”
He shook his head like a tree,
And with a grave voice he said,
“You haven’t paid your dues.”
This was bad news.
He left me with a leaflet,
And drifted away like a bobbling bottle,
In the middle of a wavy night.

The fluttering leaflet wailed,
An infant unattended in distress,
An inscrutable voice in every page,
That cried, I haven’t paid my dues.
The dues, the dues, the dues.
The futile sound of my views, your views.
The emptiness of a creaky swing,
That moves to and fro.
Swings higher, swings low.
The sun won’t rise today,
Nor tomorrow, nor the day after.
An eternity stares after a traveling salesman.

Stories

2006-11-05T19:01:00.000Z

The night was silent,
Except for us, who drawn by the light,
Had hissed sotto voce,
Into each other’s ears.

Even the stones have stories,
And the dark alley with stony walls,
Had a silent story to tell,
One that rings a bell.
A story made of awkward pauses,
One pause beside another,
With their arms around each other,
And then a train of thought,
Interjected by a pause,
Then another pause, then another.

A long pause, suitably long,
A lifetime when you close the eyes,
Sepia memories in soft sighs,
A worn out cloth tinged with emptiness,
Loose threads like fingernails,
Held together by human stains.
A long pause, in the corridor.
Hollow voices look around,
One room after another.
Wake up, they are here.
Sprawled sleeper in a somber bed,
Woken up, his eyes red,
Gropes around the forgotten walls.
Don’t touch the wall,
There are pictures on them all.

Time turns around a winding staircase,
As you race upstairs,
Every step disintegrates.

Every step disintegrates.

Plaintive Cries from the Underground

2006-10-24T11:11:00.000+01:00

Through a crevice,
In the soil,
Rose a plaintive cry.
Beat it down gently,
And cover it with mud.

Can you hear it still?
Of course you can’t,
It’s that cotton in your ear.
Where’s it coming from,
Haven’t we plugged all the holes?

From the crevices,
For there were more,
Gnarled hands arose.
Take that, take that you,
Clumsy boor.

What seeds have you planted,
Bungling bumpkin,
Look the plants are out,
To get us today,
Not a moment’s delay.

Run as fast,
As your legs can take you,
But the gnarled hands,
Are waving at us,
Clamoring for more.

Trapped underground,
With loose soil,
Our plaintive cries,
Fall on blind ears,
Our gnarled hands behold.

8 Random Things about me... (From How do we know’s blog)

Once in a hotel room in Lonavala, a cloud came in through a window and disappeared through another.
Where I grew up as a child, we were on the 20th floor and the wall facing the Arabian Sea was made of glass.
Sometimes I have dessert before food. Sometimes all I eat is dessert, especially if it’s chocolate icecream.
My favorite cartoon strip is Calvin and Hobbes. I also like reading Dilbert, Tintin and Asterix.
I check out the art galleries in every city I visit. I love shopping for others. I love trying out different kinds of food.
In my ancestral home we had a creeper plant (bottle gourd) that started in our front yard and went all the way up to the rooftop. I fancied climbing down from our first floor balcony using the creeper.
Elvis Presley posters are all over my cubicle. I also have a lovely Beatles poster and a Jimi Hendrix Calendar.
I can’t wake up in the mornings. I can ignore the loudest alarm clocks. I can sleep through a barking Bruno. Sometimes when I have to see the sunrise, I don’t go to sleep.

I tag anyone who wants to do it!

To Freedom

2006-10-15T22:27:00.000+01:00

Sand dunes will forget,
Every transgression of your footstep.
The wind can live without,
The shrill speech of your silent doubt.
The buzzards will look aside,
And leave your corpse to die.

Shards of hope still hang from trees,
These days they smell of futility.
Perhaps your dismal dance of death,
Is better than eternal complicity.
The parched land will darkness await,
As you plunge into the golden sunset.

(Pic from national geographic)

The Blue Blob

2006-10-06T05:20:00.000+01:00

When did you become,
A blue little blob in the sky?
Amorphous and rather shapeless,
Like a memory from the distant past.

Unforeseen like a ketchup stain,
So naked and unmitigated,
A mysterious blue blob,
In a blind lane.

That dripping paintbrush,
Drips blue little drops,
Splosh, splosh on my face,
Wash away every trace.

The blue ocean in a bathtub,
With his pretentious waves,
His hands stretched towards,
The blue blob in vain.

Two Poems for an Old Friend

2006-09-10T06:05:00.000+01:00

Old Friend

“I didn’t notice you for so long. But I see that you are chasing me like a shadow.”
“Yes, yes.”
“What yes? Why are you following me like that? Go chase somebody else.”
He stopped for a while and looked confused. But then, as though from habit, he started following me again. So I turned around to look him in the eye. He stood still with his head bowed down.
“Who are you?” I asked him.
“Why, I am your friend. I am an old friend” he replied.
Why had I never noticed him all this while? But if he says he is an old friend, he must be. Who knows?
“How long do you know me?” I asked him.
“I know you for a long time. I am an old friend”, said he.
“Ok. Then you can follow me, I guess.”

He smiled an eager smile and followed me with a spring in his stride. Indeed he followed me so well that sometimes I didn’t know who was following whom. I wanted to speak to him, but I didn’t know him so well. If he is my old friend, shouldn’t I know him too?
“Do I know you?” I asked him.
“Of course! I am your old friend”
“But I can’t remember you.”
He stopped and scratched his head.
“What an idiot!” I said.

This charade went on for a while. Days dropped like water from a leaky tap. Months gloomily collected days like buckets collect water. By now I have completely forgotten him. Sometimes I turn around and don’t even see him there. But he must be somewhere.
“Where are you?”
Where did he go? I remember him sometimes. I hope he hasn’t forgotten me.
“Are you there, old friend?”

By the Stars

In my balcony, they hung the stars,
It hurt the sky and left some scars,
Then they set me to a side,
By the door, and bid me to abide.
Laws and rules – pay attention,
Yes, you – they should suffice,
And the music of the night,
That is nothing but pretension.

The moment they looked away,
The little rabbit ran astray,
Oh things are what they are,
And when did questions take us far.
So I hung me by the stars,
Twinkled brightly in the night,
When it hurt I smiled,
And with the sky I hid the scars.

Pop Goes the World

So we walked, hand in hand,
You led the way and dragged me on,
In the darkness of the night,
The slippery road is a tough climb.

I don’t know when I lost my strength,
My legs wouldn’t move anymore,
What did you drag me for?
See the trail you left before.

Ofcourse I had to let you go,
You told me I would freeze in snow,
But the sky looks nice and clear,
Did you ever try lying here?

When you stick your tongue out,
The snow goes pop like the world.
A million faces in the sky,
Are all amused, see how they smile.

(Picture - Seated Faune, Picasso)

Wine

2006-09-05T09:38:00.000+01:00

“What’s wrong with you, why are you laughing so much?” she said.
“I have noooo idea!” he laughed some more.
“It’s the wine I am sure.”
“It’s not the wine, it’s the vine!”
“Vine?”
“Yeah! Where do you think the wine came from?” he laughed uncontrollably.
“Please stop your stupid jokes!”
“Now listen to this one. This is my favorite song. Elvis Presley. May I have the pleasure of a dance?” he said with mock entreaty in his voice.
She gave him her hand, and he did an exaggerated bow!
“Is it too loud? The neighbors …”, she said.
But he held her hand and they started dancing.
“Don’t be cruel, to a heart that’s trueeee”, he copied Elvis.
“Ha Ha! What’s wrong with you?” she laughed.
“Nothing!” he said.
“What are you doing? Leave me!” she wrenched herself loose. Then she smiled awkwardly.
“Why should we be apart? Really love you baby, cross my heart!” he sang to her.
“Somebody is singing tonight!” she said. She moved away and checked her cell phone.
“Oh! So how’s he?”
“Fine!” she looked away.
“Like vine?” he asked.
She laughed.
“Such a lovely night. Man, I really love Elvis Presley!” he said to her. He went to the washroom and washed his face. He looked at the mirror and saw his face, denuded, like desert land. He practiced his smile but the mirror ignored that. So he washed it some more. Yet the smile seemed out of place. This time he couldn’t stop his tears as he stared at the face.
“Like wine”, he said wistfully as he stared at his red eyes.
“What did you say? By the way what are we doing for dinner? You know, I have to leave early”, she said from the drawing room.

He buried his face in a towel and wiped hard till his face peeled off and floated down like a leaf, slowly to the floor. This time he didn't look at the mirror.
“You know what, lets go dancing tonight!” he said cheerfully and began to laugh.

All the perfumes of Arabia

2006-08-29T08:24:00.000+01:00

"Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?"
-Macbeth

As a kid, I may have starred as a flower or a tree on stage, and captivated the audience by the originality of my expression. I vaguely remember such appearances. I must have been ten when I got my first starring role. It was that of Georgie Porgie (you can imagine what I was supposed to do on stage!) My performance got some critical acclaim. They said I was a natural in that role. I was so good that one of the girls on stage actually cried even before I had kissed her. I kissed her all the same - I was a true professional even in my early days. Offers poured in after that and I had a hard time refusing people. After much dithering, I accepted the role of a coughing boy and starred in a one-act play. The critics panned the play but appreciated my sterling performance. No one has ever coughed better on stage, they wrote. The expression on my face was enough to bring the audience to tears. One of the ladies even came up on stage. She had to be reassured, "Madam, he is only acting!"

There ensued a string of stellar performances. Most notably that of a mad jailer. I executed one prisoner after another with startling conviction. The performance was terrifying. The audience was so terrified that most of them left in the first half hour. Later, I even got a letter from the prison authorities. I think they were offering me a job, but I am not so sure of that.

Currently I am rehearsing for a play that could be termed as 'the turning point' of my career. The role is that of a mad doctor. When the director described it to me she said it was the role of a doctor. These days she refers to it as the role of the mad doctor, I am not sure why. Need less to say, it is a pivotal role. The role requires great emotional variety, though all I do is laugh throughout my performance. It is not easy to express sadness, anger and the entire range of emotions through laughter, but I think I can pull it off.

The director is very impressed with me so far. I have even assured her that the critics have always liked my performances even if the audience couldn't understand it. Funny, how nobody ever asked me who my critics are. Besides why should they, since they know I am my greatest critic. The director is so happy with me that she has promised me a one-way ticket to somewhere. By the way she winks at me, I am sure she is talking of Broadway.

My Mother

2006-08-21T21:25:00.000+01:00

I'd like to write about the solitary lamppost and the melancholy night. Or muddy puddles and the orphan child. But I didn’t ever tell you about my mother. For it's so hard to talk about her. It’s not that her hair is on fire. Nor is she the definition of motherhood. There are even times that I hate her. She has her flaws, and sometimes that is all I see in her. Othertimes I see them not. My mother would have her qualities, and I would freely write about her, if only I could see her qualities for what they are. I am just glad she is always there.

(My Mom's on the right)

A Pebble in the Beach

Waves of emotion undulate,
Hold hands and together,
Splash,
On the stony face of an ancient land.

A little pebble on the rocky beach,
Like an old missive, a torn page,
Has some scribbled words, hardly legible.

The sun bleeds on the liquid sea,
Dissolves itself in a cup of tea.
The rising tide will set aside,
Little pebbles, and petty memories.

Travelogue - Tsomo Riri

2006-08-15T09:35:00.000+01:00

The soldiers stared at us with their sunburnt faces. They were surprised to see us there - Karzok 15075 ft. A little village by the Tsomo Riri lake. It was twilight and the Lama was in a hurry. This little village has no electricity. No roads and no phone lines too. One of the soldiers said, "The Gompa is closing, go in." I thanked him and went in.

In the darkness inside, we made out the shapes of idols. The door shone brightly with the light outside. The Lama moved deftly between the shapes. To my questions, he smiled his practiced smile. Ofcourse we had no idea what was inside until the flash of my camera revealed all in a trice. Rows of idols all gloriously decorated. And the interiors so old and grand.

Outside, the sun set upon an enchanting lake. Hills looked upon it, mesmerized, and the gusty wind threatened to blow us away. Green pastures of grass on which grazed horses. A brown house in the middle of nowhere. We stayed the night. Next morning after the orange sunrise, we cut across the mountain and made our own roads.

Tsomo Riri

Her voice rings through,
The cinnamon hills,
Baked brown in a bright sun.
Hers, is a voice that brims over,
The rippled waves,
And gushes through,
The jagged cliffs,
Into an ancient edifice,
Where a lone bell sings,
Of an ancient man,
And his whispered words.

Happy men with burnt faces,
Build hopeful roads,
That stand for a while,
And are washed away,
By brooks of muddy water.
In the distance,
Her voice still rings,
And the bell still sings,
And the sun-baked hills,
Still stare lovingly,
At her rippled waves.

Travelogue - The Gompas of Leh

2006-08-09T09:16:00.000+01:00

Hemis -
Hemis is among the oldest gompas in the region - dates back to 1630 AD and is built on the site of a 12th century cave monastary. When I was there, they were celebrating the Hemis Festival. Like most Gompas, it's on top of a hill. Outside is a big courtyard which is where the festivities take place. Inside is a 17th century heritage frozen in time. Cramped in the small space are monks and commoners alike. Golden statues and old cloth paintings stare at them.

Thiksey -
The most beautiful of all monastaries. Little cubes stacked up, taper heavenwards. From atop the monastary behold a barren desert-land, and patches of green. In their midst hides the city of Leh.

Shey Palace -
The old palace of the kings of Ladakh. It looks good from the outside. But the insides are eaten up by a parasite called time. The Gompa here, is a simple one. If you can brave the heat, the scorching sun and the unsteady steps, climb up to the top of the structure - Shey offers you a view, you won't forget.

Stok -
The new palace. And a little a museum that adjoins this palace. Couldn't get a glimpse of the queen.

Shanti Stupa -
A gift from the Japanese. It is the highest point in the city and you can spend hours out here, staring at the cityscape.

Spituk -
A buddhist monastary like any other. Except the Hindus believe, that the deity is Goddess Kali. A rich Hindu patronage has had even the Buddhist Lamas encourage this belief. The 'Kali' temple, is on a hill above the traditional Gompa - looks great at sunset.

The Lonely Flame

The wind sneaks in,
Through the yawning door,
To tease a lonely flame.
In the eternal night of this place,
Red monks chant prayers,
In an earthy voice.

The trembling shadow of a hand,
Rings a bell,
In the mind of the transfixed listener.
All sounds will die within.

Yet, somehow, through the sleepy gate escapes,
The musty smell of hope,
Soft sighs of tranquility,
And the simple smile of a face,
Made alive by a timeless, flickering flame.

Travelogue - Pangong Tso

2006-08-02T20:46:00.000+01:00

It is a lake in Ladakh, on the Indo-China border. Surrounded by bare mountains, the lake is like the veiled face of a belly dancer, with eyes that seduce the onlooker. It changes colors by the minute. Everytime you look at it, it is a different shade of blue, green, red, yellow, silver or even black.

For those dreary people that see the world numerically, here are some figures to consider. The lake is at an altitude of 14350 ft and is 134 km long, making it the longest one in Asia. It is a rough and rugged 5 hour drive from Leh, that winds across Changla Pass (17300 ft). We left in the wee hours of the morning – it was sub zero temparature when we reached the Pass. On our way back, the temparatures were very high, and some of us where knocked out by the lack of oxygen and the scorching sun. The road is scenic, with patches of greenery, horses and herds of Pashmina goats. Army outposts abound, and one requires the District Commisioner’s prior approval to travel in these parts. All these contribute to the intrigue and charm of Pangong Tso.

Pangong Tso

The last time I looked,
You were sad forlorn,
What happened,
That you smile at me now?
Did I tell you,
About your expressive face?
That shows those dark thoughts,
And those bright, cheerful ones.
Remember last time, I knew at once,
That you were angry with me.

It’s no use hiding from me,
Come on, come clean now,
I have been watching you for a while.
Just a smile will not do,
And don’t you try imitating me –
That makes me mad.
Now what, why so sad,
Did I say something that vexed you?
I am sorry.
Oh! But I can’t leave you alone,
I have to see everything,
Know everything about you.

Travelogue - The Manali-Leh Road

2006-07-28T08:12:00.000+01:00

The bus ride the next day was an incessant climb. After a while we found ourselves so high that we even left the tall conifers behind. Stray grasses and beautiful violet, yellow and pink flowers were all we had for company. They tried their best to hide the stark naked mountains that boldly stared back at us. Even the sky had some how changed. Perhaps we were scared to look at the mountains that we perpetually stared at the blue bedsheet sky and watercolor clouds. We were completely at their mercy now. A little stream called Chandra, joined forces with another called Bhaga and formed a bigger stream called Chandrabhaga. Closeby, we camped for the night in a place called Keylong. Keylong had many narrow alleys. People huddled together now - there were so few people around.

Early next morning we left planet earth and landed on the moon. Moon rocks surrounded us and it was awfully cold. There was so little oxygen in the air and we wondered why we hadn't brought our spacesuits. We drank lots of water and hoped we would survive the ascent. First came Baralacha-La Pass (16060 ft), then the dizzy Tunglang-La Pass (17780 ft) until we finally descended to the relative security of Leh (10800 ft). Everybody had suddenly fallen silent. The Indian family that was traveling with us felt certain they would not survive this. The middle-aged British tourist muttered he hadn't seen anything as beautiful - not even in Iceland. The Frenchman frantically took pictures of everything he saw. I was not in the bus. I had left my body behind and become a cloud in the sky.

Pang is a place between Baralacha-La Pass and Tunglang-La Pass. There was a river that once flowed here. It had etched out a gorge that gave this eeriness to the scenery.

Pang

Faces writhed in pain,
Suffer in silence the agonies,
Of human inquisitiveness.

Sunburnt to a distant brown,
They are earthy memories,
Cloaked in sandy forgetfulness,
That stare heavenward,
At the flippant puffs,
Of the cold uncaring sky.

Streams of crystal tears,
Caress tough stones below,
As they drip down,
Along the etched destiny,
Of this human terrain.

On these faces,
Like a whirling dust,
Appears the phantom,
Of a naked ascetic,
That leaves his footprint,
On the ancient sand.

He turns to look,
His face a smile,
Of cruel apathy.
At once those faces,
Turn to him.
A heart-rending cry,
Beseeching sympathy.
And yet he walks on,
And sees in this pain,
Some unknown beauty.

Travelogue - Manali

2006-07-25T18:31:00.000+01:00

It sounded like bubbles. And lots of water. Opened my eyes to a bright sun but then I dozed off again and dreamt of yellow submarines and octupus’s gardens. And bubbles and lots of water. And then I heard the sound of bubbles below us. It was a bridge. From one side to the other. We went left to right if you were looking downstream. An ordinary bridge to the naked eye. But quite magical really. Really magical. The world looked different if you crossed it. Magical mountains sprang up from nowhere. Apple trees covered it. And a frothy river called Beas (Bee-aas) gushed out as if it were frightened of something.

I walked all day and remembered Sisyphus as I panted up the mountains. Little girls with baskets full of apples ran up the hills. They looked back at me and laughed. An old man overtook me effortlessly and sped away up the mountain. I yelled out to him and asked where he was going. He pointed to an apple orchard. That is where I went. I sat down under an apple tree and wondered if I was dreaming. Soon afterwards I slept off under the tree. When I woke up it was near sunset. I came down from the mountains.

I had to catch a bus the next day.

Yellow Houses and Red Houses

2006-07-16T18:19:00.000+01:00

I am back from Ladakh. It was a trip and I am still recovering from it. There is so much to say but I'd much rather smile at you and say nothing. For there is nothing that I might say that will make you feel what I felt or see what I saw. I have many, many photos and I will post them as soon as I am home to the comforts of my broadband.

I decided to make a small stop at my birthplace - a city called Calcutta. That is where I am now, learning how familiar this place is to me, even though I have been away so long.

I found some inspiration that I penned this poem down.

“Yellow houses and red houses,
Are friends of each other”,
Says the common clothesline,
To the cracked cement floor,
That lives next door.

A gentle hand that drips of kindness,
But is worn with worries,
Hangs the cotton smell,
Of a man at work,
On the common clothesline.

On the other side, wet footsteps,
Gingerly tread the burning floor,
The smiling cracks,
Then swallow the imprints,
As soon as she steps inside.

In a room inside,
Loud smells escape,
Imminent torture from,
Dutiful ladles and spoons,
And an earthen oven.

In the dismal din,
And the smoky haze,
A mother hums,
A black and white song,
With lots of color.

On the roof above,
Poltu flies a cloud,
In the Kite-filled sky.
Pomy claps her hand,
And eggs it on.

In the westward room,
Which the clothesline cannot see,
Riya stares at the mirror,
And the comb runs itself,
On her big black hair.

In the corner of the mirror,
Kabir’s face is a smile,
He points to his watch,
As the friendly window sill,
Puts his arm around him.

The wizened cement floor,
Cracks into a smile,
And says to the clothesline,
“Yellow houses and red houses,
Are made for each other”.

Touch the sky

2006-06-30T11:32:00.000+01:00

Taking a break from routine life. This time I have set my sights high. I am going to touch the sky. Wish me luck!

Won't be back for a while. Until then enjoy these amazing pictures from Hemis Gampachen and Tso Moriri.

Coffee Clouds

2006-06-25T22:07:00.001+01:00

Coffee clouds in hidden hills,
Are echoes of green and blue.
Like lover boys,
They chase careless cliffs,
To steal a kiss from you.

Mist covers the rising sun,
Day dreams are dipped in dew.
The mellow rocks,
Have lost their voice,
So I sing their song for you.

To a proud girl

2006-06-19T20:49:00.000+01:00

I spend dark hours looking at you,
Wondering what’s that wild fire,
Within you, that swiftly spreads,
Whichever way the wanton wind,
Of your willful gaze chooses to blow.

There seated among distant dreams,
And proud ideals of my captive mind,
With a raised chin and resolute lips,
So sure of their royal bloodline,
You turn with perfect ease upon,
The waiting world, cast a cursory glance,
And look at them no more.

Expressions mask with hidden haste,
What the naked face might betray,
For the enchanted world should never know,
What lurks behind those haughty eyes,
Is a little girl that cries, at the dark night,
That prevails on the restless forest,
Deep inside her untamed heart.

It catches me

2006-06-15T21:39:00.000+01:00

It catches me like summer fever,
That shakes me from within.

A splash of water on my lost expression,
Washes away the unwillingness,
And equivocation of my limbs.
Then my mind is a flying fish,
Flipping around and tossing about,
The wavy notions of watery thought.

It possesses me like the approaching,
Shadow of someone, lengthened,
By the dreamy, departing day.

Pursuit of meaning

2006-06-13T22:34:00.000+01:00

Lost myself,
In the woods one day,
With trees and bees,
That look like words.

Thoughts of mine,
Make distant sounds,
Like fluttering wings,
Of evening birds.

Little forest path that winds,
Bends and curls,
Through shrubs and vines,
Stretches on for miles and miles.

Who knows,
Which way it goes.
Whichever way,
T'will be my home.

The Escapade

2006-06-12T19:55:00.000+01:00

Stuck in the starry sky,
A glittering bulb of light,
Overlooks the game of life,
With a silent silver smile.

Little children are we,
Hiding in big bodies,
Pretending to each other,
Reveling in trickery.

From the terrace high,
Look down from the sky,
Little alley below,
Beckons you to go.

Leave behind your innocence,
For another night,
Somnolent city sleepeth,
Time to close your eyes.

(Picture - Marcelle Lender Dancing the Bolero in "Chilpéric" by Toulouse-Lautrec)

Travelogue - The bumpy ride to Ooty

2006-06-03T17:20:00.000+01:00

The bumpy ride to Ooty wasn’t short of thrills and excitement. When we were tired of laughing at my uncle’s jokes we would look outside to see all the patterns the clouds would make in the blue sky. In the distance, the blue hills of Nilgiri gradually began to dominate the landscape giving us a foretaste of what was to come. The average ordinary trees began to be replaced by tall conifers and eucalyptus trees. Lurking in the greenery a pair of shiny eyes would suddenly manifest itself in the form of deer and nilgais. The odd wild elephant might also be found brushing its tusk against the tree bark as though this action were prescribed by a dentist! The big cats chose to stay hidden. The Bangalore-Ooty highway passes through the Bandipur and Mudumalai forest reserves. Although both boast of a decent tiger population there aren’t many who can claim to have seen any. One begins to wonder if this is all a hoax especially when one reads the rather suspicious message on the forest department website that cautions “Wild cat sightings are rare as they are masters of camouflage and prefer to stay hidden”.

The road crept into the mountain and silently curled round it like a woolen muffler. As if on cue, the weather began to feel nippy. And it was peak summer! Spells of light rain lashed against the car windshield but did little to deter us from our quest for a good holiday. Miles and miles of forest are an album of beautiful images, enough to content the photographer in our minds. Every now and then at forest checkposts and state borders, human settlements mushroom awkwardly like patches of weed in a little homely garden. This is where we stopped for tea, grown amply in the slopes of the Nilgiri hills.

At Gudalur two roads leave for Ooty. One of them passes through the sleepy hill station of Coonoor, the other through the unending grasslands of Pykara that carpet the hilly slopes of Nilgiri. We chose the latter. Standing on the slopes at Pykara, one unselfconsciously looks for golf clubs and 18th holes. The view is an endless array of blue-green mountains punctuated by lakes and hilly streams. As our car trundled along the grassy slopes of Pykara, clouds and darkness finally got the better of the sun. Silence, darkness and chilly mountain air put me to sleep until the spluttering engine woke me up finally. It was 10 pm and we were finally in Ooty.

(Update: Found time and added to my short story)

The Yellow Leaf

2006-05-31T21:27:00.000+01:00

My little cousin sister came visiting. She isn't so little anymore. But I feel as protective as ever. These photos are from my trip to the Niligiri Hills. It was really beautiful and I will post more photos soon.

For now I leave you with this slightly melancholic poem ...

A sheepish wind,
Blows a yellow leaf,
From her tenuous bindings,
With an unsuitable tree.

Twirl, twirl,
Like treacherous time,
Unwinds the screw,
That fixed my hopes and wantings.

Captured by my longing gaze,
She duly waits,
For turbid time,
To take its course.

Something Missing

2006-05-24T14:56:00.000+01:00

Something is missing,
In the blueness of the sky,
It isn’t blue enough,
In the reflection of my eye.

It doesn’t seem right,
The silent tranquility,
Of my lazy afternoon slumber.
Is it the sluggish apathy,
Of my half-closed eyes?
I’d dare not look,
Nor try to know,
The truth outside.

Something missing in that,
Well-known smile,
That filled so many coffee cups.
Tell me, is it really a smile?

Some eerie feeling,
Haunts my lovely home,
Stolid curtains,
And vacant windows,
Look outside.
Even the wind,
Blows in gasps,
Of frigid apprehension.

Lines

2006-05-20T06:07:00.000+01:00

Straight lines and curved lines,
Twist and Turn,
And circumnavigate,
Some curvilinear space.
Sometimes the lines meet,
Sometimes they separate.

They live in an unliving maze,
Of random events.
A spark of chance,
Renders a smile,
A voice,
Even a face.

A turn of events,
Like an expression in a face,
Is a moment of joy,
And long lasting pain,
An undying hope,
That it’s not in vain.

The Trifling Trinidadian

2006-05-14T22:05:00.000+01:00

The man from Trinidad appeared one night, out of thin air, and knocked on my door one morning at four. I squinted my sleepy eyes as I opened the door and made out a silhouette amidst all the dogs barking in the darkness somewhere. He wore a grin and brought with himself some good humor and a memory of the good old days. The sun, orange with delight, promptly rose from slumber and spread across my city a shower of golden eagerness.

Couple of omelets later, we realized breakfast wasn’t quite complete without a sip of good old rock music. Of late, my man from Trinidad has been spoilt rotten on Soca and local rum. Bring on the Van Halen, bring on sweet Led Zeppelin. As music played and the guitar wailed, the day began to slip away. I clasped at it with my fist but it still slipped away through my fingers.

Later that night, old friends came to life straight from the pages of my photo album. Laughter rang through the walls of my home, like from a ticklish baby. Conversation flowed at the speed of sound. Before it was too late the friends disappeared into their respective photo albums.

Drowsy eyed I stared at his book of a face and read every line of what had happened since he had sailed away to Trinidad. I thought of telling him that he had left heavy luggage behind. He showed me his picture book. Little images of Trinidadian life. Ah, the decadence, the sunshine and the sultry beaches. He showed me her photo, the one he had ‘limed’ with. She was very pretty. He told me stories and incidents and wove a web of images that are still so fresh in my mind.

Another night, another morning, another lunch, a few words and moments later, the man from Trinidad showed me the last trick in his bag of tricks. He turned around and vanished into thin air.

The Clock - Part 2

2006-05-06T19:18:00.000+01:00

There goes the sun,
And here it comes again.
The tiny hand of my clock,
Will tick all day,
And I will stare at it, all day,
And watch the sun go down again.

Then, on a brand new day,
Someday,
When I look to the west,
I will see the sun rise,
And that will be the day,
That the tiny hand,
So bored of routine,
Will actually turn otherwise.

May be that day,
I will go home early,
Come back to work,
And go home,
To have breakfast and wake up.
May be that day,
I will wake up to my sleep,
And sleep off to awakedness,
On a dark drowsy last night.

Then, some other day,
I will rise up in the east,
And the sun can go to work,
Instead of me.
May be he will set,
A few things right for me.
That day,
You will all feel very hot,
And I will make sure,
You soak in sweat.

That day,
I will travel the whole world,
And say “Hi” to many friends,
Spread around the world.
Some of them feel neglected, you know.
The rest,
Mired in their busy schedules,
Have no time to spare.
But they can always,
Look up to the sky,
And find me there.
May be that day,
I will tell them,
All that I have never,
Been able to say.

Later in the evening,
I will promptly fade away,
Into the night,
And never come back.

I wonder,
Will anybody miss me the next day?

(Update: Found time and added to my short story)

The Clock - Part 1

2006-05-04T21:54:00.000+01:00

Does your clock tick faster,
Than mine?
Mine ticks very slow.
It doesn’t move at all, sometimes.

See it’s stuck right now,
Won’t budge. Lazy clock.
Yours must be faster,
I’m sure.

Whoa! Look at yours…
Racing past!
Never mind,
We'll talk someother time.

Lord Bruno

2006-05-03T08:10:00.000+01:00

Mighty Bruno,
Lets out a growl so low.
He is lord of his alley,
And wont let anybody pass by,
Without the close scrutiny,
Of his condescending eye.

His only weakness,
A momentary glimpse of meekness,
Is a bowl of milk,
Or a delicious mutton bone.
No sharing with his ilk,
His lordship will have it alone.

The neighbor’s new dog,
Would rather sleep like a log,
For each time he slyly,
Tries to step out,
Lord Bruno quite emphatically,
Barks, “You lout!”

At night is when,
In Bruno’s majestic den,
A primal calling,
Nudges his lordship from slumber,
He starts his incredible yelling,
Rending precious sleep asunder.

(Photos - His lordship, My Beautiful Granny)

Free Spirit

2006-04-30T19:50:00.000+01:00

Free spirit,
Like flowing wine,
Take the shape,
Of this glass of mine.

Roll with your fingers,
A mysterious charm,
To your gypsy eyes,
Do I disarm.

A look of wildness,
In your eyes,
A beast within,
For freedom cries.

A dance untamed,
A song so free,
Cast a magic spell,
That enchains me.

Little Red Kite

2006-04-23T19:39:00.000+01:00

Little red kite,
Bobbing up and down,
In the big blue sky.

White clouds,
Dodge birds,
That scatter about.

Red kite,
Pulls hard,
At the little boy.

Look,
There goes the little boy,
To the sky.

(Photo - With my school friend Pratik in a roadside restaurant in Singapore.
By the way, if you have a taste for short stories, try http://prawncurry.blogspot.com)

In the café

2006-04-17T21:38:00.000+01:00

There isn’t much to say. The voices in the café are distant and incoherent and the music too low. But then the silence is just as annoying to my ears as loud noise can be. Which is why I speak. They are fillers, more like bubbles in the air, which the cartoonist forgot to type words in. But that will do for now.

Her gaze isn’t very reassuring. It is an entreaty and a question. It speaks louder than the bubbles I draw in the air. It makes the sound of a ticking clock waiting to strike the hour. Everytime I look away the clock doesn’t move. It waits for me. And each time I look at it, it starts ticking again.

Even the coffee smells of something else. Somebody has put too much anxiety in it along with sugar. I try to drink it with apathy, but it grips my throat and forces me to consider this and that. I smile at her and pretend that nothing is wrong. And she smiles back at me pretending nothing is wrong.

There isn’t much to say anymore. But there is a little hope. That she will walk out of this café and find herself waiting outside for her. That she will smile back at me through the glass door and perhaps forgive me.

Photo: Vijay at a Starbucks in Palo Alto

Hypocrisy

2006-04-15T19:48:00.000+01:00

Non-conformism has been my mantra for sometime now. When it comes to tradition or convention I always ask why. Social mores and customs lie neglected under a pile of clothes in my wardrobe. What society thinks of me, doesn’t really bother me. I have always been an outsider anyways, looking at society like one looks at fishes in an aquarium. Every now and then something happens and I plunge into life with a splash and am surrounded by it, but that is so rare. Those rare instances are very memorable, but that’s not what I am talking about.

I am talking about hypocrisy. Of how I pretend to be just what I am not. How non-conformism fades away every time life comes calling. It is there somewhere inside me, in some part of my body. Its physical form is not known, and its chemical composition is ambiguous. It was passed on to me when I was born – like a birth defect. A part of it came from my father and the rest from my mother. And now it is a part of my identity. It is the way I look, I think, I act even though I seldom betray it to the world.

It is my deep love for tradition. For that old house where my grandmother lives. My love of that smell from the kitchen when my mother cooks. It is my respect for my grandfather’s principles and my father’s sense of dignity. It is the memory of that winding staircase that leads to a place called home. It is my love for my mother and all her beliefs and superstitions. It is the smell of incense sticks and earthen pots. It is the sound of dhak (drums) and conch shells. It is my love of art and poetry. It is my love of values. It is my deep-seated respect for tradition and convention.

Photos - The Udaipur Lake Palace

Blue Eyes

2006-04-07T06:08:00.000+01:00

Wish I had blue eyes. Beautiful blue eyes. Cobalt blue eyes. Blue eyes that look like the ocean. Where waves of emotion would wash against the shore, splash themselves on distant rocks and become droplets and mist. Blue eyes as blue as the sky spread over high mountain peaks that tower over clouds. Proud blue eyes so happy in their blueness.

Wish I had such blue eyes, that you would love me for them. That you would look into my eyes and lose yourself in them. That you would ask no questions. Blue eyes that would enchant you mesmerize you. Blue eyes that you would never forget. That you would dream about. That you would think about all day, so far away and miss my blue eyes. That you would long for them. Blue eyes that you would see each time you close your eyes.

Wish I had blue eyes that would say all that I have to say. That you would look into them and know just what I mean. Blue eyes that say so much more than words. Blue eyes like a thousand pictures. Blue eyes as sweet as music. Like the song of birds at dawn. Blue eyes like rain drops. Blue eyes so blue that they would shimmer from a distance. That you would see them from far away and come running into my arms.

Impermanence

2006-03-26T21:10:00.000+01:00

When I was lying there,
Where the stars shone brightly,
And the moon,
Gazed back at me,
A cloud went by.

She paddled her feet,
On rippled water,
The waves rose up,
To greet her,
Before deciding to subside.

A sweet song,
Hummed its way,
Into my ears,
Before it was hushed,
By a careless smile.

A moment passed,
Before my eyes,
I held the moment,
For a while,
And let it fly.

Octopus' Garden

2006-03-19T20:39:00.000Z

I'd like to be under the sea
In an octopus' garden in the shade
He'd let us in, knows where we've been
In his octopus' garden in the shade.
-The Beatles

It is a serene feeling, to be among the sea lions at fisherman’s wharf. They make strange noises and slither on top of each other. Noises that sound like grunts or groans. It is a language without words. And hence its meaning is so clear.

I have come to fear words. Words mean different things to different people. That shows how easy it is to misunderstand someone. Sometimes I think it is best to be silent. The language of eyes, smiles and expressions sends messages so universal that they are easily understood. The sea lions make me realize that. I can spend hours gazing at them.

Sweet Simplicity

2006-03-14T16:51:00.000Z

Will you teach me,
The sweet smile,
Of your soft sensuous lips,
And free my mind,
Of thoughts,
So futile?

Will you rid me,
Of my reason,
And that insufferable,
Miserable question mark,
That doubts,
Everything beautiful and pure?

Will you tell me,
How to live,
How to wonder,
And be amazed,
At this glory,
All around me?

Will you save me,
From my mind,
All its intelligence,
And shameful arrogance?
Will you fill me,
With sweet simplicity?

Hide and Seek

2006-03-05T18:33:00.000Z

A strange interplay,
Of light and shade.
Leaves cast their shadows,
On my face.
Wind whispers softly,
Into my ears.

Rollover on my back,
Watch the clouds,
Swim about in the air.
In the corner of my eye,
I see you standing there,
But as I turn around,
You are gone.
Who are you hiding from?

A zephyr stirs up,
A bunch of leaves.
Each fluttering,
Shimmering, glimmering,
Golden leaf,
Happy in itself,
Carefree, full of glee.
And then a glimpse of you,
A fleeting glimpse,
Gone in a blink.
Who are you hiding from?
Show yourself to me.

(Photos - A lake in Redwood Shores, Statue of Liberty )

Blinded By You

2006-02-28T06:02:00.000Z

Can’t get you,
Out of my head.
So dazzled,
By your whimsical ways.

Can’t comprehend,
Your setting me aside,
Yet your earnest longing,
When I am not beside.

Can’t see,
That self-evident truth.
These days,
I am blinded by you.

(Photos - From Empire State Building, Times Square, and Broadway)

Central Park

2006-02-25T04:02:00.000Z

It’s been a while since I read the book. But I remember that I had sketched vivid images in my mind while reading it. “The Catcher in The Rye” means different things to different people. Over the years lots of people have sworn by this book – people both famous and infamous. The book has had an impression on me too, so add another one to the list (except I am still very ‘unfamous’). I had identified with the book so deeply at one point of time that I would imagine myself as Holden Caulfield walking down the streets of Manhattan and sitting in Central Park by the night.

But then it has been a while. That the images still lay intact in some deep recess of my mind came as a surprise to me. It came back to me suddenly as I walked down 5th Avenue somewhere near the crossing of 51st Street. I was alone on the street, and it was crowded as ever. Snow was melting around me, and the slush on the street made it difficult to walk. And then it came to me, like an epiphany, that it was just around the corner. A strange eery feeling I cannot explain. I walked on delirious with excitement. It had to be there, and there it was. Shining dizzily, dressed in snow. My Central Park.

It was all slippery, sloppery and I flip flopped several times trying to keep my balance. A carriage passed me by, pulled by one of those big hairy horses. A golden statue looked on at me with a sly smile. Children slid by on sleds and parents nodded approvingly. Lovers slipped their hands around each other and stared at the tall buildings in the distance. Freaks jogged in the snow (yes freaks, just imagine jogging in the snow in that kind of weather!). Where was it, where was the lake? There it was almost frozen. Where were they, the ducks? There they were, some of them, cringing in the cold, under the bridge. Is it real? Am I dreaming? My mind was going wild – Penn Station, Edmont Hotel, Greenwich Village, Grand Central Station, Broadway, 5th Avenue, Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was all in the book wasn’t it? And where was that “Little Shirley Beans” record that he had dropped that night when he walked out of the Wicker Bar and roamed all around Central Park. Where did you drop it Holden? It broke into pieces. Did you grab them all and take them with you Holden?

Where was Phoebe?

I felt so damn happy all of a sudden, the way old Phoebe kept going around and around . . . It was just that she looked so damn nice, the way she kept going around and around, in her blue coat and all.

There I was, all alone. Like I have always been. There I was walking down the street away from it all. The golden statue looked on. It was cold.

Gem of the Ocean

2006-02-22T18:32:00.000Z

It is a play I saw last Friday. Written by two-time Pulitzer Prize winner August Wilson, the play is set in the year 1904, in Pittsburgh. The play is very engaging, almost a fairy tale. The protagonists are Afro-Americans primarily. Naturally it touches on topics of racism and the disillusionment of Afro-Americans after the abolition of slavery. The situation in which we find the characters is nothing short of extraordinary. Factory workers have gone on strike because of low wages. A black man drowns himself in the river in front of a crowd of people to show that he hasn’t stolen a bucket of nails. There is news that afro-americans in Alabama are undergoing extreme persecution and have no way out.

In the middle of all these extraordinary events is a small set of Afro-americans that have seen so much in life that nothing seems to surprise them anymore. Hardship is so much a part of their existence. Misfortune follows them at every step. And it is this that brings them together – a strong feeling that they have nothing but themselves to depend on.

A young man from Alabama finds his way to Pittsburgh and is sucked into the city’s vicious grip. At work his employers cheat him and pay him less, and at home his landlord charges him much more than market rate so he just can’t make ends meet. But all that is fine, until he does something wrong (steals a bucket of nails and unknowingly causes the death of another). His guilt consumes him and he needs his soul washed. This is the beginning of the story. Through a series of events that changes everybody’s life, the young man undergoes a metamorphosis. He finds a cause to live for. He finds himself.

The play is so natural and real. It is easy to put oneself in the shoes of anyone of the characters. It is easy to understand their helplessness, to admire their courage and their perseverance that makes them take every setback in their stride and strive on towards true emancipation and equality. More touching to me is the fact that I could not point fingers at anyone. Everyone is justified in his/her actions. Even the person that brings on suffering to this group of afro-americans is black himself. And he too is merely obeying the law. His eccentricity and his arrogance are forgivable if you take into account his background and ideals in life. He is after all a self-made man and a man who knows his job and does it well. Everybody is so caught in a web. From an angle it seems society is doing all right and yet from another it seems everything is disintegrating into something uncontrollable. The plots and sub plots merely play a side role. The essence of the play is something that hasn’t even been said explicitly. I found it brilliant.

Photos - Poster of Gem of the Ocean, Denver Center for Performing Arts, Larimer Square, 16th Street

Colorado Rocky Mountain High

2006-02-19T02:52:00.000Z

The chill seems to follow me around. I missed my flight last weekend and was stuck in the blizzard in the northeast. Manhattan was frozen stiff and central park was a pearly white. It was cold there but Denver is worse. They recorded –13 degrees Fahrenheit! So today when I got ready for my trip to the Rocky Mountains, I wore 5 layers of clothing and an optimistic grin.

As we drove westward the altitude began to increase steadily. The Red Rocks Amphitheatre at an elevation of around 6400 ft was a sight to behold. People told me Red Rocks held the hallowed distinction of being the best natural amphitheatre in North America. The Beatles had played here. U2 will play here tomorrow. Some of the biggest bands of all time have played here. Gigantic Red Rocks (sandstone in composition) were the prominent feature of the landscape. Geologists would point out that the rocks of this area predate the Rockies and are hence not foothills, but actually “Ancestral Rockies”.

Moving on, we made our way through Clear Creek Canyon, an area marked by three frozen rivers and plentiful alpine forestation, into a snowy peak known as the Loveland Pass. Its elevation was a mighty 11990 ft. This was the great continental divide. The water on one side flowed into the Pacific Ocean and on the other side flowed into the Atlantic Ocean. The wind roared straight into the face at speeds of 50 miles an hour, and the conifers was conspicuous by their absence. This was the Tundra region where the vegetation consisted primarily of stunted shrubs on the leeward side of the slope. Nevertheless, the view was nothing short of spectacular.

Our next stop was the town of Breckenridge, known mainly as a skiing destination. On our way we came across a number of skiing spots buzzing with activity. High up in the Rockies, Breckenridge had a spectacular skyline studded with beautiful mountain peaks. The streets were packed with tourists who made a beeline for souvenir shops and restaurants.

Sometime later we turned back and crossed the Continental Divide again through what was touted as the longest and highest car tunnel in the world. The conifers bunched together so closely- evidently there was a lot of water and nutrients in the soil. Besides gold. Isn’t that what Colorado is famous for? The third great gold rush led to the creation of towns such as Idaho and even Denver. There are apparently 20000 gold mines in the region. We made a stop at one and marveled at the deposition and concentration of gold in the mines. Created in the 19th century the mine was carefully planned and rich with history. In those days miners (most miners in a mine were part of a single family as it was difficult to trust everybody with gold!) would labor for days with manual implements. Then came the drills, and later more advanced drills. Despite all the technical advances mining is very exhausting and miners are known to have notoriously short lifespans. It is estimated that around 75% of the gold in the region still lies untapped. The gold mining industry is dormant, and the euphoria is long gone. But with the gold prices rising, who knows?

Back in my hotel room everything is warm and cozy. The scenery around me however is not so great as my clothes lie in utter disarray. When I close my eyes I am transported back to Loveland pass. That scene won’t be easy to forget.

Photos - Red Rock Amphitheatre, Red Rocks, Photos from Loveland Pass, Skiing

Balcony Circle

2006-02-03T04:07:00.000Z

We managed balcony circle seats. The view wasn’t all that bad. Craning my neck I could see the musicians waxed to their seats like statues from Madame Tussaud's. The curtains were drawn and people of all kinds of shapes and sizes were moving purposefully into their seats. All of ‘War Memorial Opera House’ seemed to be stooping forward precariously towards the stage. Before the balcony caved in with the weight of the audience still pouring in from different sides, the curtains decided to part. And there it was, like a painting of Vermeer, staring at us from the stage. Until it all came alive – with the familiar theme track. The dancers began to pirouette on their toes defying gravity at will.

Prince Siegfried floated in, as people made merry on his 21st birthday. They danced and entertained him. Hand in hand, so coordinated and balanced. Siegfried was obviously having a lot of fun, getting drunk on wine. Until Queen Mother paid him a visit and asked him to choose his bride by the morrow. His picture perfect life was now crinkled with uncertainty.

And so he walked away, to a lake, with a crossbow in his hand and came upon a flock of swans. Wantonly he aimed his crossbow at a swan but he couldn’t believe his eyes, as the swan transformed into a woman. A woman so beautiful and enchanting, like he had never seen before. She was Odette and Siegfried was madly in love from the moment he saw her. Thereafter Siegfried was passionate and earnest, he danced like a man possessed. Odette trode with caution at first, but she was swept off her feet and fell helplessly into his arms before she could realise what she was doing.

Swan by day and maiden by night, Odette’s life was governed by the spell of evil Von Rothbart. The story now had all the elements of a melodrama. The forces of good and evil, the element of love and ofcourse the suspense of what was to be. The balcony circle didn’t exist anymore. Nor did the thousands of people of different shapes and sizes. Prince Siegfried was being deceived and we all felt bitterly against Von Rothbart and his machination. I felt transported into the story – a character from the time of Siegfried, Odette and Von Rothbart. It all seemed so true – the swans, the villain, the story. It took some loud applause to rouse me out of my reverie. But why did they all have to die? Why couldn’t it have been otherwise? Outside the sun decided to take his leave for the day, but the ballet performance wouldn’t leave me alone. I wandered away in quest of my own lake of swans.

Everytime ...

2006-01-19T13:16:00.000Z

Everytime I feel larger than life,
You set me down,
Put me back to where I belong.

Everytime I walk on air,
You nasty thing,
pull me down, will you?

Fate, I'll get even with you, someday...

More wild animals!

2006-01-15T08:52:00.000Z

Travelogue Part 3 - Kaziranga

2006-01-08T08:02:00.000Z

It feels strange on elephant back, towering over the rest of the animal kingdom. For the last 15 minutes we have waddled through blades of elephant grass that are so tall that they come all the way up to my waist, even though I am seated atop the elephant. Daylight hasn’t broken into the sanctity of the quiet night and the forest is a blur of ghostlike images, almost magical in the moonlight. The mahout (handler) of the elephant soundlessly guides the elephant to the right, but it all looks like acres and acres of elephant grass with some trees, here and there, reaching out to the sky like outstretched hands of a man buried under the swampy land trying desperately to come out. The mahout tells me that they burn the grass in springtime so that new grass can grow. Until then it is so easy to be lost here.

A solitary owl ensconced on a tree is surveying the forest. It looks at me with sharp eyes, as though to question me, “What brings you here?” Suddenly the forest is abuzz with noise. The high pitched “caw caw” of birds that I cannot see. We hear some wings fluttering. It is like a burglar alarm that just went off, and the forest is now aware of us. After a while it is silent again. The elephant waddles on into a small pond of water, unperturbed by all this. We sight a herd of wild elephants on the other side of the pond. The mahout tells me it is rare to spot a herd of wild elephants. We spot an elephant with beautiful long white tusks, and when it makes to move towards us it is a real cause for concern. Even the mahout straightens up, his face tense with concentration. But then the herd leaves to go and we move on.

It is then that the mahout points towards something moving in the bushes. We move towards it as fast as we can. The elephant expertly circles around it. The sun peeks at us from the east and the light shines through the bush and reveals two rhinos busy having breakfast. So this is the famous one-horned rhino from Kaziranga. Muscular and majestic. If it wanted to, it could ram into the elephant and knock us all down. Fearlessly the mahout moves in closer and furiously I work with the camera and gulp in as much of what I see, as I can.

The rhinos gaze back at us. The pair is not alone – there are more rhinos hidden in the bushes. The horns move up and the heads along with it. The rhinos won’t budge from their stance. The elephants hold their ground. The silent tussle continues for an eternity. It is a strange power struggle where so little is spoken but so much is said. I look on as the sun finally decides to emerge, shedding colorful light on an incredible scene, on an unforgettable day.

Travelogue Part 2 - Omnibus

2006-01-04T06:32:00.000Z

“What time does the bus leave?”
She looks up at me and sees a face that doesn’t quite fit in with the people in the bus, the squalid interiors of the bus and the city of Shillong outside. In her lap is a book of tickets in which she mechanically scribbles the amount and tears off the receipts. Around her, three locals stand in abeyance, awaiting her next order.
She replies absentmindedly, “The bus will leave now. And that will be 60 bucks”. She hands me the receipt as I fumble for the money in my wallet.

“Now? Do you mean right now?”

“Yes!” she replies and dismisses me from her thoughts with a wave of her hand. The bus ride to Guwahati is good business and one can’t waste one’s thoughts on nosey tourists such as me. I would be getting down at Jorabat (on the border of the states of Meghalaya and Assam) and then change buses to go to Kaziranga, Assam. On the map the road looks fairly easy to navigate and if I were to calculate distance and assume an average speed of 60 km per hour it works out that the total duration of my transit would be around 6 hours and I would be able to reach kaziranga by 3pm.
But the map doesn’t show hairpin bends and treacherous mountainous roads. Nor does it show elevation, proclivity and declivity.

The seat next to me, which is now occupied by a squint eyed gentleman with a stony sphinx-like face. The humming of the engine and the cool, fresh air of the mountains make my eyelids feel very heavy. Every now and then through the corner of my eyes I check if my backpack is still with me. I notice that the bus is now very crowded and the engine is sputtering like a dying man with internal injuries.

A few hours later I change buses. Now I am in Assam. The people look different. They speak a different tongue. The seats are cramped and nobody seems to understand English. The man next to me with a royal moustache and an all-knowing expression is looking at me with suspicion. I ask him about where I should get down. And he tells me so much more, in his broken English and charming style. He tells me about how he goes every weekend to meet his wife in Nagaon. About his work in Guwahati. The politics of Assam. The economy. His childhood. He just loves to talk and I to listen. When we get down at Nagaon (where I need to change a bus), he offers me a lift in a ‘cycle rickshaw’ and invites me to his home for tea. He even talks about meeting me in Mumbai and his business plans if I am ‘interested’. I thank him, as he writes me his phone number in a piece of paper and asks me to call him ‘anytime’. And then he waves at me from the ‘cycle-rickshaw’ for the last time I will ever see him.

The next bus I change into is even more cramped. Next to me is a hefty man and we can barely sit. I crane my neck out the window and gasp for fresh air. The child in the seat behind me won’t stop yelling. I am surrounded by a plethora of human beings piled up all around me. I can feel a hand near my neck and notice a small child squeeze between the seats and sit almost on my lap while I hold on to my backpack with my life. Somebody is stooping above me and I can feel the enormous pressure of the people around me that is trying to jettison me out of the bus through the narrow window. The bus crawls along like an old mule pulling a heavy load.

The cheerful man next to me is smiling despite all this. I venture to ask him when I would reach Kaziranga. And he tells me about his life and times, and his family problems and the wonderful history of Assam. The trouble is I can barely understand his language. But he speaks slowly and often repeats the words for me to help me understand. We get along fine. The language of human beings is so universal. The lives are so similar. The problems and issues are the same. Just minor adjustments here and there.

By the time I reach Kaziranga it is dark. My watch reads 6pm. The air is foggy, my body is aching and the memory of my co-passengers still lingers on.

From top - Two sail boats in the Bay of Bengal, Dida - my beautiful granny

Travelogue Part 1 - Time Warp

2006-01-02T19:16:00.000Z

Time started to whiz past from the moment I landed in Guwahati. Every time I glanced at my watch I wondered how fast the minutes were disappearing. Even the winter sun was in a hurry to go down making it so difficult for me to stick to my plan of reaching Shillong before sunset and making good use of the remaining bit of light. The cab driver tried his best to help me. Like everything else he too was in a hurry – he wanted us to reach Shillong in time, dead or alive. But as fate would have it, when we reached the gloomy and sleepy town of Shillong, negotiating the many perilous bends and turns in a road that seemed to go straight up to heaven, it was already dark.

Determined to make amends for the lost time, I roused myself early next morning from the shady hotel room, and plunged straight into the chilly foggy morning outside. Reached the bus station before everybody else and booked a ticket to the mystical town of Cherrapunjee – the wettest place on planet earth with an average annual rainfall of 12000mm. Situated in the northeastern state of Meghalaya, India, Cherrapunjee is not half as crowded and popular as the capital city of Meghalaya, Shillong. Consequently it is a traveler’s delight especially in the month of December when it rains less and most people find it too cold to travel in Meghalaya.

Sometime later I was in a rickety bus, speeding to different nooks and corners in the mountains of Meghalaya. Every corner had a spectacular view and a very unpronounceable name in the Khasi language. I went to the dark and dank Mawsynram cave, the enchanting Nah Ko Likai falls, and numerous viewpoints, lakes and gardens. When I looked at them through binoculars, the villages in the hills of Meghalaya, appeared to be scattered randomly, with no motorable roads connecting them. They were blissful islands of human habitation, isolated and so aloof.

The beautiful people of Meghalaya like to spend their lives smiling at each other, chewing betel leaves. To them the world seems to be speeding away from one place to another, in a perpetual hurry. They merely look on and wonder why all this haste. I too had to leave the next day. So they smiled at me and said ‘Khublei’ (Khasi for ‘God Bless’).

From top - Nah Ko Likai falls, Mawsynram cave, A lake in Shillong

Unaware

2005-12-11T19:40:00.000Z

Under the floodlights, loud commotion disturbs the sleepy night. And when the objects that I see become dim and blurry, I flop my head back and look up at the dark sky and notice that the moon has a wonderful halo around it and that the stars are twinkling far away, unperturbed perhaps unaware of all the commotion in this tiny place in a tiny planet in a tiny solar system.

The steps I take as I retreat from the crowd go unnoticed. A few more steps and I am walking on the grass, grinding my teeth, battling a sharp pain in my left ankle that had twisted unabashedly earlier in the evening. In the distance I see shadows dancing round the fire, gyrating like madmen to music so loud and unearthly. As I approach them I can make out their faces, knarled and twisted and their hands wildly beckoning me to join them in their carousal.

I keep walking past them, to a gallery of people who stand and applaud me. I notice a man standing on an elevated platform speaking gibberish, waving his hand making big gestures and inviting me on stage. The lights are on me now as I walk up to him and straight through him. I emerge from the stage with a plastic smile and watch intently as the buzzing crowd dispels into a hissing nothingness. The lights are dimmed. And there I am in the middle of nowhere all alone in the cold. The moon has a halo around it and the stars are twinkling bright, unperturbed, unaware.

Sleepless

2005-12-07T19:53:00.000Z

As the night,
Grows dark and hazy,
I turn out the lights.
With practised ease,
I close my eyes.
Curtains downed,
The show is over,
I'm off to sleep.

Wretched eye,
Like a restless beast,
Looks inside of me,
There is no peace,
A torrent of thought,
Awakens me,
And then the night,
Is a ticking clock,
A dreadful wait,
For the drudgery,
Of the day ahead.

Beyond the obvious

2005-11-26T20:53:00.000Z

Tonight I watched a movie that reminded me of Oscar Wilde’s plays. Indeed as I later found out by googling here and there, the movie was inspired by one of his plays “Lady Windermere’s Fan”. The Screenwriter chose to transpose the play to the 1930s. Yet the dialogues were so familiar, the wit was vintage Oscar Wilde, and the plot bore such an unmistakable imprint of him.

The world of yore to me is like a beautiful photograph in black and white. Charming people with an impeccable sense of dressing, and a grandiose manner of speaking. Nowhere is this typified better than in Wilde’s plays. The characters are so fictional, for how can a real person ever speak that way. There is a bit of Wilde in all the characters. As if he is the only one speaking and the people are merely moving their lips in synchronicity.

But even if you have a hundred Oscar Wilde’s talking to themselves it would still be so marvelously interesting. They would all have their own opinions, even contradictory opinions, and they would articulate it with such panache. Here is a quote that seems to have stuck in my mind. “A man can be happy with any woman as long as he does not love her.” What do you think of it? Ridiculous? Profound? Untrue? Whatever you think of it I am sure you find it perplexing and striking. I try to understand it, find a meaning in it and always miss his point.

But then the point is he is not trying to make a point! The drift of the play and the meaning of it are for you to derive. The reader will have to weed out all that fluff and witty distractions and think beyond the obvious. Sort of like life. Nobody can tell you it’s meaning. It’s for you to find out.

Let me try an Oscar Wilde-ish quip to describe this great man. “A true intellectual is one who doesn’t mean a word he says.” Or may be, “A true intellectual is one who means so much more than what he says”.