My Summer Dirge

The Cannonball Tree outside my window is in full bloom. Its white and pink and yellow refuse to merge with and dissipate against the dreary darkness of the cityscape. They obstinately crowd my window and hide the black, tarred roads from my vision.

It reminds me of similar windows from other times. A white window and yellow flowers with a black tarred road for the backdrop.

There's something about black tarred roads that make me love and despise them at the same time. I don't think I would see the beauty of the pinks and yellows if it weren't for the black. But then again, I don't know.

What I do know is that my city is summer struck again. It makes me feel and want to do all sorts of things. Every year.

It makes me want to hop onto a train for a hot, breezy train ride to South Mumbai - to soak in the art deco buildings, to tread cobbled stone roads, to linger in the arches, to finger through moth eaten second hand books, to walk around aimlessly.

It makes me feel cranky and whiny and impatient.

It makes me want to quit my job.

It makes me want to guzzle ice cold beer with a bunch of boisterous friends every other evening, to wash away that everlasting, lingering sense of ennui that overpowers me ever so often. Especially during summers.

It makes me want to sit by the sea and cast away that part of me which is pessimistic, resentful and confused.

It makes me feel impulsive and whimsical.

It makes me find solace in pinks and whites and yellows, in black, sun dappled alleys tucked away in my city, in ancient banyan and jamun trees.... in open windows.

Assurance - Reading between lines

                                   It's funny how I try to figure you by reading things you underline. 

Check List

PS: What we forgot.

Go to the dry cleaner's.
Hunt for a home.
Pick the right shade of red.
Call the packers and movers.
Sign an agreement.
Rent a house.
Lease a life.
Call the packers and movers.
Go to the printer's
The dry cleaner's, the tailor's
Figure routes.
Book tickets.
......................

Fall in love?
I'd like to.
Et tu?

The Exchange

Minutes slip. They slide into moments. Moments collide. Seconds spill over. Time reels out of hand.
I gasp for breath.

I don't know why I'm breathing any longer. A part of my soul I have already traded.

Some for your sake, some for yours
Some for his
Some for its
And some for ours.

Was it a good deal?

Don't tell me,
It was rhetorical.

For excuse me!
I'm the one
With no
rhetorical sense.

All in a day's work

7.30 a.m. Text Received.
"Anther dull, grey, smog filled morning. How far?"
   " 10 mins away, but half hour of traffic piled up in front of me. How 'bout a sunny side up with some hash browns?"
" Wt! Why remind me of hash browns n coffee n town when you and I are caught in traffic snarls en route to work?"
   " Letssss go!"
"Pch. Duty calls. Let's bunk a working day next week for a scrumptious morning meal."
    " Deal. I can't bunk Mon, Wed, Fri absolutely. You?"
"Not Tues, Thurs, Fri.Absolutely NOT"
     "Wt the ...!"
"See you in ten. Not the hash browns for another week."

********************************************************
5.20 p.m. Tired, fed up, craving coffee and hash browns.

Day 3. Consecutive Meeting no. 3. At the same spot.
(I Flash a smile 'coz I'm a nice person and oh-so-bored)

(Familiarity could breed friends.And of course it does.)
" Hi!"
   "Hey!"
"Late today?"
   "Yeah a bit."
"No bus?"
   " Not in the last ten minutes."
"Oh!"
(hesitant silence)
"What's your name by the way?"
    "Jennifer. And you?"
(incoherent mumble)
    "Sorry?"
(a phonic jumble)
     (Very apologetically)"How do you spell it?"
"S-h-r-u-g-a-l"
   "Ah! Very unusual. What does it mean?"
"It's MY god's name. "
   "Oh. Nice."
And the bus arrives. S-h-r-u-g-a-l offers me a seat but no more talk.
Probably 'coz I didn't have a god for my namesake.
But I  thank him and his namesake for the seat :-)

****************************************************************
8.00 p.m. En route to the local grocer. Pavement.

Day 2 after a random, brief walk under the umbrella over 2 months ago.

(Again, I smile 'coz I'm a nice person and I'd forgotten familiarity breeds friends.)

"Hiiiiii!"
  "Hey."
"Should I call you didi or aunty?"
  " Neither, Jennifer. Did you reach school in time for your basket ball practice?"
"Not Basket ball. TT!! Thanks for letting me walk with you that day.
  "No problem! Which grade are you in by the way?"
"9th. Don't you stay in Silver Arch?"
  "No I don't."
"Can I have your number? I promise I won't give it to anyone.
  (puzzled) "Hahaha...but why do you want my number?"
"Arre give na. Ok, you don't want to give? Ok you store mine. Here.And my name is Nikita."
  (I feel bad) "Do one thing, I'll give you mine. And you give me a missed call, I'll save it."
"Ok!! Great! I'll add you on FB ha."

Reason no 36286352 why i like my city - It's as easy to pick up and drop a conversation with strangers as with friends.

For no apparent reason

I have no idea how this is going to write itself out. I don't have the volition to control it. I feel loop-y, i.e. like I'm in a loop. No, it's not a real word. But then, neither is zoot.

Random. Now that is a real word.

Random. [ran-duh'm]
  adjective.
proceeding, made or occurring without aim, reason or pattern: This is a random post.

of or characterizing a process of selection in which each item of a set has an equal probability of being chosen: I follow random selection to pick a channel to watch the rubbish on TV.

unknown, unidentified or out of place: I'd like to be the random person who smiles at you in a crowd.

odd and unpredictable in an amusing way:  My mean cat is usually out to scratch or bite me, but today, as I type this out, he snuggles into my lap. My cat is so random.

The randomness of being.

I plonk him on the couch.

I'd like to be utterly, absolutely, randomly random.
Some say I am.

It makes life more bearable.
For you and for me.

And my mean cat is back on my lap. May be, for him, the couch is unbearable. It smells of its previous occupant. A very smelly dog, who is now on the mean cat's rug.

Life is very random.
Check.

:)

Note to Self.

Happiness.

• Watching rain drops slide down the huge bus windows forming a transparent veil. They veil me from the traffic clogged roads and make me smile despite everything
• The phone buzzing, unexpectedly, the night I can't fall asleep
• The smell of sugary, hot adraki chai coming to a boil as I await my ride back home. The chai cascading from one tumbler into another, the chaiwala never missing a beat
• An old movie ticket
• My cute,fat sausage roll of a dog greeting me good morning with a effusive wag as I roll out of bed
• Beatles early in the morning!
• Zipping down NH4, wind in  hair, song on  lips
• My book shelf!
• The oh-so-lovely aroma of strong filter coffee as my bus swerves past Madras Cafe at King's Circle
• The unpredictability of songs on radio, AIR!
• Match boxes
• Red on my toes
• A scrumptious meal with my family
•  Paycheck!
• A smile from a stranger
• Having a conversation about nothing as I watch the rain soak the city from my favorite table at Cafe Mondegar. And of course the Juke churns a retro every other minute.Bliss.
• Silver.Shoes.Earrings.Bangles.Rings.
• Doggy-poggy. Pudding and Pie.

Happiness. It's many things. 

What we could do too

Forgetting Something
Try this—close / your eyes. No, wait, when—if—we see each other / again the first thing we should do is close our eyes—no, / first we should tie our hands to something / solid—bedpost, doorknob—otherwise they (wild birds) / might startle us / awake. Are we forgetting something? What about that / warehouse, the one beside the airport, that room / of black boxes, a man in each box? I hear / if you bring this one into the light he will not stop / crying, if you show this one a photo of his son / his eyes go dead. Turn up / the heat, turn up the song. First thing we should do / if we see each other again is to make / a cage of our bodies—inside we can place / whatever still shines.
                              - Nick Flynn

A Mood Swing

You'd blame it on the weather.
The dust, the heat, the noise, the brown.

I'd blame it on you.

A sense of doom.
Nervous anxiety?
Lethargy?

I want a book.
A good book may wash it all away.
The grime, the boredom, the inanity of a day.

Something that makes me forget.

I want a book which would remind me of yellow summers, not brown ones.
Of black roads smeared with tiny, pretty, yellow flowers.
Of huge trees dressed up in fiery, orange Flames of the forest.
Of the sweet smell of mangoes mixed with a tinge of orange.
A dash of cologne and a whiff of nicotine.
Idle banter and insolent laughter.
Match boxes and photographs.
Bus stops and ferry rides.
Cheer. 

What's it going to be then, eh?

What songs do.

You had this on shuffle!

As we live our life of ease
Everyone of us has all we need.

If I could play you a song, it would be by -

 So Happy Together

In our yellow submarine.

Sky of blue and sea of green.

:-)

                            

Changing the Situation, again

Dee tells me the rain is my muse. She must be right. I have barely written since the last errant cloud floated out of city limits. They've left the skies a deep shade of blue. It's the shade of blue which reminds me of cold mornings a few years ago, when I'd roll out of bed and walk into a class on Modernist poetry. It remained the same shade of blue when we broke for coffee an hour and a half later. It turned a tone darker when the class finally wrapped up after musing on the "throwness" of our existence. Later we mostly ambled back to our rooms to catch up on lost sleep. Other times we tried to smoke away the throwness of our lives, ashing it in a cheap plastic container. Non-recyclable.


It's strange that the blue should bring back these memories now. Or is it the unfamiliar nip in the city air, which lately greets me with a known familiarity? I don't know. Funny that I thought I'd stubbed it all out.


Anyway, I've realized, jumping up n down doesn't shake the earth off its axis nor does it help change the situation. What changes is the city temperature and the hue of the sky and with it, my situation.Sometimes, plain dreaming helps change the situation.

Try it!

At the Bus stop

Her face crumpled into a grimace as she skirted the last of the mucky puddles and reached the bus stand.Despite her best efforts, she noticed, her foot was studded with fine brown dots of muck.A fine wind had been blowing since the morning and it had played truant with her hair. Holding on to her umbrella and her printed cotton duppatta, she stood in queue, waiting for the bus.Idly, she went over her day so far.She had skipped breakfast, missed her usual train and was late yet again for work. But seeing the people and places around, always comforted her. She amused herself with inconsequential details.

Her walk from the railway station to the bus stand was delightfully amusing.It was lined with distinct sights and smells. The earthy smell of wet mud fused into the smell of the fat man's Navy Cut smoke, which mingled with the aroma of steamy, crisp vada pav, which finally merged into the fumes of the taxis in the taxi stand. Then there was the bovine cow, just at the steps of the foot over bridge. It was always there, ruminating on cud while commuters hustled past it, making a pit stop only to touch it for a moment and seek its blessings before the lugubrious work day started.  

There were many more. But today something else amused her.She quizzically looked around as she heard a Bollywood song playing somewhere in the background. She thought she saw a pair of roving eyes staring at her, from behind a tattered curtain. She had often noticed this shop, but had never cared to look inside. The curtain always religiously veiled the doorway and she had never stood long enough at the bus stand to watch anyone emerge out of the shadows of the room. She tried to catch a glimpse of the interiors, as the curtain slowly moved in the breeze.

Intrigued, she looked skyward. The name board, was a modest work of art. A huge red rose stood between two words, also splashed in red, against a dull white backdrop - "Red Rose." Scrawled in the subscript was "Deshi Daaru Bar." Suddenly a man darted out from the shadows. He was beaming at her, as he walked past the queue at the bus stand and disappeared into the mass of moving bodies on the road.

She smiled to herself as she got on to the 8:20am bus. There was always a new reason to smile in the city.

Breakfast

He waited for the morning breeze to tease the tattered curtain. Seated on the table right next to the door, he thought "The curtain must sway". His morning rite would remain unfinished, just like the glass in his hand if the bloody curtain did not sway. He looked down at the glass in his hand. It was his third one since the morning. A black blob of something sat on the rim of the dull cut-glass tumbler. He was momentarily disgusted. Luckily, the TV, perched high on a wall somewhere behind him cut into his thoughts. It crooned a soppy Bollywood number, "Tum dil ki dhadkan mein..." His spirited glass and he softly swayed. "How apt!" he thought tapping his fingers to the tune. Of course, he forgot the unwelcome black blobby resident on the rim. He took another sip and began to meditate on the doorway again. He put down his glass as his eye caught a glimpse of the blue umbrella bobbing up and down. It came to a halt at some distance from the doorway. He gazed out, thankful that the curtain was finally swaying.

She looked a little tousled today but that seemed to add to her charm, he thought.Her eyes lingered on something overhead.She stared at it curiously. Or was it a look of amusement? He couldn't tell. He washed down his third glass for the morning, happy that his morning rite was complete. He waited a while before he darted out, past the faded curtain, into the gray morning, smiling.   

(Im)modest Proposal

Spitfire the sweet faced, from the East, thought of me after a after a long time. It was a welcome surprise. "What's happened to your blog?" she said, among other things. I wondered too, what had happened to it? I'm tempted to say "life's like that" with a nine to five job and some more. But that's bull shit.

So Spitfire, I decided to make a feeble attempt to resuscitate it back to life. Thanks for being my muse in a way, you've been good (for a change :P).  I dread looking back to see these pages splattered with monochrome. It would be cooler to see something tinged in a hue of pink and yellow, red and green.

During this longish hiatus I missed writing about the first rains that left the city smeared with some more muck and grime.
Of the early morning train ride with raindrops and raingear.
Of the black tarry road which glistens with an unusual radiance.
Of lazy strolls on cobbled sidewalks.
Of cutting chai and piping hot vada pavs
And of course, some of my favorite people.

(I'm sick of all of you leaving my city.)

So if the rains haven't reached you yet, you know where you can find some showers, made more wonderful with chai and me! 

Derivatives

I try to pin it down to mediocrity. Self doubt. Disinterest.
Options: Swirl into a blaze of  orange flames. Dissipate into vapor.Mingle with the heavy molecules of humidity.Hang ominously over you like a wretched day in Mumbai.

It might be easier to just pass out.
The heat provides an easy excuse for laziness. And procrastination.
So may be its not mediocrity after all.

Matches

There are the usual things to remember people and places by, photographs, conversations, bills, tickets, sms-es, souvenirs, letters. That's one way of preserving a memory.

But, aren't there times you wish you could just pack all  memories - of the colors, smells, flavour, taste, time, touch, all of it into a box? A tiny little box, out of which you could sieve a memory out, little by little, and savour it in pinches.Sometimes may be a bit of the blueness of the sky. Sometimes maybe the coolness of the naked rock tipped over by the icy cold stream. Sometimes maybe the softness of a nimble fingertip.Or may be the warmth of steam from a cup of coffee which bumps against a numb nose on a cold morning.

I'm living under no illusion.So I'm doing the next best thing I can. I'm collecting match boxes instead.There's one in blue and silver from Shillong, another in black and red from Hyderabad. CB gifted me one, a keep sakes from a trip to Lonavala, and another "Ship" maachis, a souvenir from a nondescript tapri somewhere on NH 4. There's also a hand me down tiny box of wax matches from Himachal.

I'm waiting for more from other people and places.

Those of you coming back to my city this Christmas, you know what to get me :)

We all live in a yellow submarine!

Today I heard the song yet again.But this time, it was different.
The citric-sweet smell of oranges and lime did not come wafting back.
Nor did the jaundiced yellow of the walls stick out as a definite memory.
Everything was more a shade of black and white.
Black and white.
It wasn't frosted with nebulous drops of nostalgia anymore,.
Nor entangled in discordant chords of a melody gone wrong.

It's a memory now...not a lingering thought.
Canned. Stored away.
 Manufactured, without an expiry date.

Another Story

It's a simple story, simply told.
There is nothing extraordinary about 'Wake Up Sid!', except may be that it makes you smile and at more than two points makes us twenty something year olds go "Hey! that's like me!" The understated rush of emotions and the honest portrayal of individual struggles, failures and desires struck a chord with me. Refreshingly, its not another 'love story' that Bollywood seems to churn out by the dozen.You're just watching two different people grow, and the love story creeps in almost unknowingly.

The rain catches you unaware, just like love.
The heavy sea breeze slaps your face.
A tiny colorless drop bursts on your eye lash
You are blinded for a moment

I liked 'Wake Up Sid'. It made me wonder what 'growing up' really means.
It's difficult. But, it's not all that difficult after all. It gives you another story.
Go watch it!

Pencil shavings and paper

The words on the tiny paper seemed to dance to the beat of silence in the room. Fidgeting with the apsara black pencil, her tiny hands burst into a cold sweat. The pencil slipped out, falling onto the mosaic tiles, disturbing the silence. A pair of reprimanding eyes stared at her squarely from the table in the center of the room. She reached for the tiny piece of paper which had been passed on to her, like a fistful of pencil shavings. He had clamped it into her hand. Now, she hastily crumpled it up and slipped it into her pocket. She did not want any roving pair of eyes to stealthily read her little secret. Worry turned into anger. Anger turned into incomprehension. She turned silent.
They behaved like six year olds.

The poor paper was torn into tiny pieces and thrown away with a fistful of pencil shavings. Rubbish-ed.

Pencils gave way to pens and time to memories.

Memories revisited as old acquaintances accidentally met. They spoke of the rooms, the pencils and the people. They talked of how different life is now. They suddenly remembered the paper. Trepid laughter on both ends drowned the awkward silence of the in between years.

They rubbish-ed it once again, as something only six year olds would have done.

After all, the first time he asked her the question they were only six.

the 8:05 fast

I plug my ears to drown the din of
the bhajjiwalimachiwaliearringwalabhelwalipasscoverwalabutterchakliwali
the blind old man singing for alms,
the grumbling fourth seat passenger trying to squeeze her butt in
the lady whose toe just got pulverized under a fashionwali's high heel sandal
the college girls' parroting
the office women gossiping
the house wife bickering
the mother-in-law nagging
the metallic clatter of the tracks
the noises inside my own head
discordant, many,chaotic.
On board the 8:05 fast