Barsaat ki woh shaam

Ek thandi purwai
Tumhein mere aur kareeb le aayi
Gale se sirakte hue
Tumne meri kamar tak apni banh lehrayi

Ghabra gayi main
Phir sharmaate hue thoda muskurayi
Mausam ne samjha ishara
Aur bijli ki gargarahat sunai

Lipat gayi main tumse
Raat bhar tumhein chhod na paayi
Subah hui to tumne neend se jagaya
Kaha dekho....dhoop nikal aayi

Foreign Flashback

The nineties were a time when products from a ‘phoren’ country were seen as your ticket to fame. You would eagerly wait for a distant relative to arrive from an even more distant land and gift you something – chocolates with fancy wrappers, pencils with cartoons that weren’t familiar to you, an unusual toothbrush with a transparent handle. Soaps, keychains, talcum powder, socks, handkerchief, hairband - anything would work as long as it came from a foreign land.

As a kid, I couldn’t wait to show-off my prized possessions to cousins and class-mates.  The latter was trickier. Ma would insist I keep these things for special occasions only, not take them to school; there was always a fear of misplacing them. So they sat, beautifully arranged in a little drawer, one that I kept locked all the time. Every once in a while, I would open the drawer to absorb the sights and smells of a country I had never visited, but wished to someday. It would brighten up any dreary day, romancing the mind with the promise of an unknown adventure.

Two decades later, I see every international label in my city. Every fancy store round the corner has something ‘imported’ to offer. Still, it’s that little drawer that holds a very special place for me. It is the number of ‘likes’ I collected over years. It is the innocence of a time I ache to go back to. It is the romance of firsts, the alchemy of which can never be recreated.  

It's time

As a kid, she loved to play house. Wearing a dupatta, she would take on the role of the housewife. Never the husband, never the kid; she would always want to be the wife. The term ‘home maker’ was still alien. The wife could say goodbye to the husband and kids, finish the household chores and cook for the family all day. It was, indeed, the most important role.

After the fake dusting with a handkerchief, and the cleaning of the same handkerchief to suggest washing of clothes, she would begin cooking. The gleaming kitchen set was all hers to create magic with. She would take the little kadhai, put is on the wobbly stove and begin to make paneer. It was always paneer – it sounded fancy enough, she thought. Like in a cookery show, she would say it loud, “…in goes the paneer, the tomato and salt”. After a minute of stirring with the barely-able-to-hold spatula, she would taste and say how delicious the sabji was.

Then it would be time for the husband to come home. Ting-tong. She would open the door and welcome him with a glass of water. He would be tired, too many meetings at work. She would listen to his office talk, and talk about her day too. Dinner would be served lovingly. She would wait for him to take the first bite and appreciate the food. He would, and also be impressed by how clean she has kept the house. A few laughs and it would be all nice and happy always.

Always.

Baby, let’s play house.   

On Winters

Might be a li'l late for this post, but nonetheless...

Winter is beginning to catch up. You can feel the slight sting of chill. The skies are throwing new patterns and the sunlight is getting more balmy than prickly. There’s a certain ‘thehraav’ about winter mornings that makes me fall in love with it. Everything is the same, yet not. The pace of things begins to slow down as we carry the weight of more layers.  
It’s the season of slowing down. Of taking more time in sipping the morning tea. Of putting the paper aside and watching the silence of the city from the balcony instead. Of tracking the sunlight as it moves slowly from one building to another, until it kisses you.

I like this calmness of the season. There’s no restlessness to turn up the fan speed, no rush to reach the bus stop before the downpour. Winters let you take it easy. They make you feel like the first day of vacation, after the final exams are over. So you can hit the snooze button and cuddle under the blanket for five more minutes.

Make that ten.

The irony

As I go about my day, travelling in the bus and walking long distances, I see people glued to their mobiles. I hear daughter-in-laws cribbing about their in-laws, employees cursing their bosses, people complaining about their maids, boyfriends maddened at their girlfriends – I rarely come across anything that is faintly positive. And whether I like it or not, I enter the murky territory of their personal truths. Unhappy, unappreciative and unapologetic – that’s the picture I get in my head.

My visit to the grocery store reveals another facet. As I walk past several rows to look for the humble Parle G biscuits, I see racks full of readymade food. These aren’t your good ol’ 2-minuters; they are proper meals packed with preservatives. Snip, simmer and serve – it doesn’t get more convenient than this. The packet mocks at the current state of life when it says ‘packed with love’. Is how we serve love these days – fast and fuss-free? No careful picking of the ingredients, no painful hours spent in the kitchen, no watchful eyes over the simmering gravy. No time to waste, just a tad compromise on taste – that’s how we do it?

And as I walk back home, listening to more venting of unhappy people and walking past many more packaged foods, I wonder – is this the life we wanted? We are wriggled away by time, controlled by economics and tied to our burdensome responsibilities. This is not how it was meant to be. This is not what we wanted from our job – more blood pressure and less time. This is not what we wanted from our social life – strained relationships and unhealthy opinions. This is not what we have been working towards as a species.

And if this is what we get in the name of progress, I’d rather be left behind.   

over. and over again.

“So how does the story end?” he asked

“I don’t know”

“What do you mean ‘I don’t know’, you read the book, didn't you?

“I ripped off the last page”

“Why did you do that?”

“It was all so beautiful; I didn't want it to end.” 

Bangalore Flower Market

Wholesale markets have always fascinated me. The huge stocking, the clutter around, the availability of the unimaginable, the rock bottom prices – it’s an ecosystem that has an uncommon beauty to it. And no matter which part of India you are in, it doesn’t change much.

As if I had not seen enough flowers, I was itching to visit the Bangalore flower market, which would be my first wholesale market visit in this city. We chose Ugadi, the Karnataka New Year, as the day. This would either mean that we were in for a treat OR that we would be swarmed by the crowd. Add to it the warnings we got from friends - don’t argue if don’t know the local language, don’t wear any jewellery, beware of pick pocketers and the likes. Nonetheless, we decided to go.

We reached around 8 am and the market was already bustling with activity. As soon as we entered, we could smell fresh veggies. There were veggies everywhere – incredibly fresh and oh-so-interestingly arranged.

Visiting local bazaars opens up a whole new world for you. Not to forget, it’s a great study in buying patterns too. Interestingly, India is known for micro-sales. So when I saw the mini packets of garam masala, I wasn’t surprised. Fit for daily use, these packets are especially for buyers who don’t like to stock too much. Just enough is just right.

A little ahead we got to the heart of the flower market. I felt like a kid in a candy store.  Multi coloured vermillion, spices and clothes– I loved every bit of it.

And then came the main attraction – the flowers. Garlands, loose flowers, gajras – they were in numbers I had never seen before. The sellers were attracting buyers with the best prices, rolling out streams and streams of fragrant garlands and briskly weaving some new without batting an eyelid.

But that wasn't all. Every corner was full of surprises.

Like the man who said the cow ‘talked’ to him.

Or the one, who oblivious to the chaos, was reading the morning news.

We saw gems of indigenous organizational skills 

And a world of exotic colour and fragrances

I was, once again, amazed to see how these bazaars effortless bind together modernity and yesteryears’ charm. There’s a constant push to keep up with the times on one hand, and a seemingly untouched and unchanged way of living on the other.

Suddenly all clutter looked beautiful

and even what I couldn’t decipher, began to enchant.

:)

Flower power

When I first landed in Bangalore (almost a year ago), one of the many things that struck me (apart from the beautiful weather and the bad traffic) was the sheer number of flowers around. From embracing vehicles to adorning women’s tresses to creating a neat colourful border on either side of the road – there were flowers everywhere.

                                          

   

Every season, a new variety of flowers would bloom. On one of the Bangalore walks (another post that’s pending), I learnt that the Britishers had thoughtfully planted these trees so that no season would be without flowers, thus lending the city great cosmetic value. And they were so right. Walking around the neighbourhood and travelling to places proved to be sheer eye candy. Bright yellows, pretty lilacs and cotton candy pinks took turns in welcoming me on my way to office. 

Frequenting temples became a joyful experience. And the flower show clearly stole the show.

My indulgence with flowers grew. I began to buy the mogra malas for the small temple at home. After the trip to the temple in the neighbourhood, I’d even pin the flower the panditji gave, in my hair (like others did). And the house would never be without some pretty stems on the table.

                                   

 It’s been over a year in Bangalore. 3 flower shows, 2 spring seasons and several visits to the temple – the beauty of the ‘garden city’ has grown over me.

                                   

A trip to the Bangalore flower market is pending since long and I know that I’m going to be smitten by the sheer number of flowers there.

PS: I finally made it to the flower market. More about it in another post :)

DIY weekend

A lazy Saturday afternoon, great ideas doing the rounds in my head and some lovely music to accompany - a perfect setting for a craft project that has been pending since long.

So I get the object I’ve planned to work on. It’s a grater. Yes, a grater! The paints and brushes finally get to step out of the cupboard and all arrangements made, I get down to business.




Getting my hands dirty in paints always leaves me feeling happy. The neck strains, the back aches as I try to paint the little corners of the grater, but nothing seems to bother me while I’m absorbed in that moment.

Finally, the humble grater gets metamorphosed into an objet d’art.




But the purpose of painting it all pretty was something else. Those who know me well know about my huge collection of earrings and how I’m always on the lookout for a nice jewellery box for all those lovely pieces. So to make my morning looking-for-the-earring-pair ritual easier and add a kitsch angle to the boring jewellery box, this was my solution.



:)

P.S. Use an old paint brush as the sharpness of the grater can easily spoil the brush bristles.

P.P.S. Try going for an aluminum base as it’s much easier to paint.

P.P.P.S: Acrylic colours can easily stain the clothes so be careful. Else feel sorry about spoiling your favourite pyjama, like I did.

What's cooking?

Food holds a special place in everyone’s life - not only in the methods in which it is prepared but also the ways in which it is consumed. A table shared with friends energises and anchors relationships. A humble meal with folks revives memories. When we share tables, we effortlessly share a part of ourselves that chooses to stay latent otherwise.

Lately, I have begun to believe, there is no better way to connect than through the medium of food. Gatherings, no matter how small, infuse a spirit of warmth in you. Food ceases to be food and becomes a catalyst to connect, share stories and soak in laughter.



Food is all about sharing time with family and friends – at home, in restaurants, at work. We really spend quality time and linger over meals. The value of these gatherings is not in the quality of food, the flowers or any decorations as much as it is about the time spent together in eating and enjoying these things.

“Talk becomes more honest and more personal; the words mirror the spirit of the food served. Hearty, warm dishes lead to talk of things that affect the soul: love, loss, sickness, and success” - Forging Family by Saer Richards




Gastronomy, then, is as much of a pleasure as an art. It can be shared, offered, discussed –in flavours, colours, images and words. The culinary canvas is as much a means of self-expression as a way of entertainment. To say the least, food is the common denominator that pulls us together and stimulates conversation.

There’s something about sitting together and sharing a meal. It’s the most natural approach to entertaining. It’s a healthy reminder to appreciate the friends we have and the times we gather. But more importantly, it’s a reminder to share our tables more often, to open our doors and our hearts.

Death of a hero

Another hero dies and takes away with him a part of me.

As I read the news of Mario Miranda, one of my favourite cartoonists pass away, I cannot help but wonder what conspiracy is afoot. The last couple of months have witnessed the loss of people who are an indispensable part of my growing years, an inspiration to my creative spirit and to say the least, a companion to an entire generation. Jagjit Singh, Bhupen Hazarika, Dev Anand, Uncle Pai and now Mario Miranda.

Each demise was like a pebble thrown in a placid lake, disturbing the comfort zone I was living in. I realized, death has a knack of stirring memories that often sit quietly in a corner of the subconscious mind.

I recollect picking a cassette of Jagjit Singh’s album from didi’s huge music library and listening to the heavy vocabulary just to feel her presence around. I never thought the same songs that once so bore me would become a point of connection and comfort me after didi got married. Surely, when she left, I lost a companion, but in listening to her favourite singer, I found another.

I remember how every outstation trip meant picking a Tinkle from Wheelers on the railway station. The tales of Suppandi, Shikari Shambhu, Tantri the mantri along with the riddles and puzzles made for such a joyous journey. All thanks to Uncle Pai. And then, sometime in school I discovered Mario Miranda. I actually gave cartooning a shot after I saw Mr. Miranda’s distinctive style put to best use in a full page ad. The cutting of that page is neatly tucked away in one of my diaries.

And for a nation obsessed with cinema, how could you miss a legend like Dev Anand. Though remembered jokingly for his slouch and bobbing head, Dev Anand impressed me as a person whose spirit was undaunted by age. Add to it some of the most unforgettable songs from his films that continue to cheer me up on a bad day.

Not having these people, who shaped my sensibility in one way or another, is like losing a part of me that was so intricately attached to their body of work. It creates a vacuum that is difficult to fill.

In the words of Santosh Desai, “When people who make us who we are die, we grieve as much for ourselves as we do for them.”

A tear is shed and life goes on. Though deep within you know, it’s not like before.

Malled

It was huge. Well lit. The entrance itself was grand enough to intimidate. Flashy banners screamed names of brands she’d only read in overpriced magazines. It looked pretty. On second thoughts, pretty snobbish.

While driving down the parking space, which looked like a never-ending twirling ride, she read something that reaffirmed her sense of the place.

“Most people may not have heard of these brands. But then, this place is not for most people.”

Clever line, she said to herself. As a writer, that’s the first thing that came to her mind. But wait, there was much more to those words. There was a categorization of a brutal sense that she did not appreciate.

Euphemism – that’s the word she was looking for.

Euphemism (n) - Substitution of an inoffensive term for one considered offensively explicit.

She’d read it a hundred times in school; appreciated many examples of the same from countless poems. But unlike those several times, today it didn’t leave her with a very happy feeling.

She felt uneasy, probably unable to decipher which side of the bracket she belonged to. She entered the large atrium nonetheless. Manicured women, spendthrift men and difficult kids – it had the usual elements that make for the drama called retail therapy.

But remember, this mall was not for the usual shopaholics. People walked in and out of the obnoxiously expensive stores - checking price tags, expressing surprise in hushed voices and longingly looking at the stuff they wish she could afford. Suddenly, the uber- cool mall culture seemed like a conspiracy to stop people from being who they are. Why would you want an overcoat that’s meant for the London weather? Why would you need a soap that costs more than your pair of jeans?

Surely, she didn’t belong to this bracket, even if she could. After an hour of aimless walking that left her with tired eyes and feet, she headed back to the car. There again, in front of her, she saw that line; like a swear word written in beautiful calligraphy.

“… But then, this place is not for most people.”

November Rain

The drama in the clouds





Blurred escapes





The sweet surrender



No words can match up to the magic of monsoon.

Notes to myself

How little does it take to be happy?

A perfectly made cup of tea
A new coat of nail paint
A random post written as perfectly as it could be
A picture that transports you to another world
An unexpected kiss
The sweet smell of flowers in the house
The play of shadow and light on his face
An unusual buy

We always remember things that make us feel miserable. How seldom do we soak in the thousands of moments that bring us joy.

Notes to self: Devour every beautiful moment. Stop cribbing.

Sipping tea while it rains

Funny how a little drizzle
is enough to start
a flood of thoughts

Myopia

This city is of extremes. There’s so much to see, to hear, to feel. It keeps her senses on high alert. She doesn’t want to miss anything. Everyday, she keeps dealing with the overload.

Then, one day, the city’s sharpness gets blurred.

She forgets her glasses at home. On purpose.


(An attempt to write 50-word stories. This one is exactly 50 words.)

Colour me happy

My fondest memory of a birthday gift remains to be a box of camel oil pastels. With a typical scenery of a beautiful sunset showcased in enigmatic shades and expert strokes, the box promised to be something I had never seen before. With eyes that shone as if I’d won a million dollars, I slid the case open. My heart skipped a beat as I saw a spread of 24 breathtaking colours. For an 8 year old who always wished to have more than those 12 basic colours for her drawing classes, this was like a double promotion. For minutes, I kept staring at those wax jewels. Then held them closer to my nose to inhale that characteristic whiff that felt oh-so-comforting. This was it, I said to myself. ‘I’ll become an artist someday,’ I proudly announced to my folks, thinking that with this gift the power was purposefully bestowed upon me.


The new box opened up a whole new world for me. 24 colours. TWENTY FOUR colours!! I meticulously rearranged the box and divided it in 2 sets, exclusively putting aside the 12 new shades I’d never used before. As much as I was fascinated by the colours, I was curious to read their names. So there was a sunset orange, a blue-grey, a mint green and some others. With every name I read, I actually imagined the colour in its rightful place. How could they’ve come up with such exact descriptors, I was amazed to see. Then, as a challenge, I went about observing everyday things and coming up with my own set of shades.


For beginners, there was the Sindhi Kadhi colour – a mix between yellow and burnt orange. Then there was the very fresh Chutney green, which was unlike any other green the new box offered. Winters brought with it the Jaipuri Razai blue, while summers were spent slurping the kala-khatta colour off ice golas. A trip to nani’s house meant revisiting a Lifebuoy red and a Bajaj Chetak blue. And school was all about the chalkboard grey (or was it a dirty green?) and ofcourse, the Sisters with their faded muddy brown sarees.


With years, my love for the name-game has only grown stronger. Not to say, now I have a new colour vocabulary altogether. From the Deep Kiss Pink to the Lonely Lavender, from the Old Book Yellow to the Dried Rose Red – there are colours that have chosen to stay with me, while there are some that have just thrown a hint and left never to return.


There are so many more colours to explore, so much more to ‘tag’. And someday, I’d love to capture it all and stack it neatly in a box to be able to pick one everyday and live the colour I wish. But for now, I continue to occasionally stop by stationery shops and take a closer look at the colour boxes to read the names on the wax sticks.


I’ve realized, you need to think out of the box for things that go into it.

Rituals

She remembers how she would always try and avoid the rituals around festivals. The socializing, the pujas, the fasting…Ma would constantly pester her to take an active part in these things as she would be expected to continue the tradition after marriage. ‘Oh please!’ she would scoff and walk away. All of it looked very artificial, very insignificant to her.

Then, she got married and moved to another city.

Now, in this strange new place, she doesn’t have any family around. Nobody to see whether or not she is practicing the family rituals.

Like every day, she sits to have her morning cup of tea with her husband. He opens a new pack of Parle-G and offers her. She refuses...

‘It’s Shivratri. I’m fasting today.’

i like it hazy

Everybody craves for perfection. Symmetry rules the world. Clean lines are the order of the day. But what is not perfect can be beautiful too. Like a hazy picture.



When I was young, I remember hiding such pictures behind the last good picture in the photo album. It was perhaps a reminder of the money gone waste in developing these good-for-nothing images and that such a mistake should never be repeated. At other times, it brought great joy to watch a hazy picture and try to make sense of the details it was intended to capture.



Today, when everything has gone digital, we no more brood over such pictures. There is no sense of loss really…for there are plenty that have made it to the finish. Now it’s just a matter of a ‘delete’ button that paves the way for the survival of the fittest.




But something inexplicable still draws me to these hazy pictures.




The shaken picture, often seen as a waste, appeals to me as an action in process. Its presence is liquid – oozing out of its definitive boundaries and seeping into everything that was not ordained. For me, it stands out like a rebel.



And in doing so, never mind by fluke, it lends a character to the frame that can seldom be replicated. Everytime you look at it, you discover something new – a little detail or effect that was left unnoticed all this while. In that respect, it becomes an art piece you never intended to create.



Tucked away in a quiet folder on my laptop, lie many such unwanted pictures which I know I can never part ways with. My mother calls me a maverick to be still holding on to these. But for me, these pictures are special too. They remind me of the days we were starved of good pictures from a manual camera. Of days when we celebrated every picture in our photo album – good, bad or ugly. Of days we coped with the scarcity of resources. Of days we were comfortable with imperfections.



For me, they serve as the thin line between the curious and the compelling. They are those captured moments that are unique in their own fashion. Or rather, those moments that could never really be ‘caught’ on camera; they just dodged and fled.

Finally!

DISCLAIMER:

She wishes to make it crystal clear
Before beginning this unapologetic slaughter
This has absolute resemblance to real incidents
And not based on any fictitious character


So it happened on a Tuesday morning
Without any prior intimation
Leaving her in great shock & anger
And a day filled with sheer frustration

They called her into the cabin
And greeted with a near-extinct smile
She knew there was something fishy
It was, she decoded, the devil’s wicked style

“We are really happy with your work”, they said
As if it were such a revelation
Then handed a shameful cheque
Calling it the apt compensation

Not an increment, an ex-gratia it was
Which clearly spoke of their evil plan.
They justified “We’ve suffered through recession,
BUT STILL we’re giving you whatever we can.”

She smirked and walked out
Not knowing what to say
Enough, she said to herself
Let today be the judgment day

She had sacrificed uncountable weekends
Had dismissed all her family time
Worked with a strained back, at unearthly hours
Even lost her sleep for writing a mere line

But she wouldn’t give into this anymore
THIS blatant exploitation
She walked into the cabin once again
This time to hand over her resignation