An odd, disjointed post

Silence. Some feel oppressed by it, some live with it. I love it, just as I love darkness. I love it just as I love sound, just as I adore light. Everyone sees the world in different ways; I see it in these terms – silence, noise, darkness and light. We have already assigned value to everything. Dark is bad, light is good; as for silence and noise, both have their virtues and vices – silence may be peace or death, noise may be chaos or life.

I can wish and hope that I will live in a quaint village far away from ‘the maddening crowd’, but the reality is, I have always lived in cities, plonked right into the centre of humanity. Life hurries past, its impatience and breathlessness is stunning. Why does no one wait? Why does no one look a person in the eye? Why the shuffling, pushing and hurrying? Where are they all going? No, I am not trying to ask some profound existential question - seriously, where the hell are they all going? I imagine them running through their days, mechanical, schedule bound, day in and day out – and suddenly, stunned, surprised – they are 70 and life as they know it, youth, has passed them.

Life, as I know it, is baffling at times. What is our purpose? At 20, we battle confusion and anxiety to answer this very question, some lucky ones come up with answers that satisfy their minds, while the rest just muddle their way through life, or so I suppose. For me, life is one huge learning process - but for all that learning, we get only one shot at it. So next time I am confronted with a big decision, I suppose I should remind myself of this: one life, one chance. No regrets. In the end, I will be worm food. Might as well make my journey toward the inevitable more eventful. So, I will continue to wear my childish socks, and love my colourful laces, and I will continue talking to myself. I will write here even if no one read this, though I sure as hell will try to make people read it. I will continue to watch sitcoms and dramas till I lose interest in them, and not care that I haven’t listened to, or don’t like, classic rock bands.

Wait. Watch. Breathe. Now go.

Will I grow up?

Some days, I want to be someone else. Not that I don’t want to be me. I like being me, being goofy, serious, neurotic me. But some days, it might be fun to be someone else. (don’t use pop psychology, just go with it ok?)

The person I want to be most is a reclusive writer, with a cottage in the middle of nowhere, with a dog called Jack (more on this imaginary dog some other time). With no large water bodies or a phone anywhere nearby. Just Jackie boy warming my feet, a laptop, lots of coffee, a cozy table, lamp and me. Books covering every surface. A writer, poet. Changing the world with that brilliant novel. This me knows how to play the guitar and the violin and is quite well read, what with being a writer and all. This me even understands Shakespeare without the Lambs helping out, and can argue whether or not Shakespeare was a chauvinist.

A winemaker. Mmm. Vineyards in Italy. A nice crumbling stone cottage with a fireplace, logs crackling in the fireplace during winter, lovely employees who sing as they crush the grapes (hey, it’s MY imagination). Besides the winemaking, I am also a shepherd in my free time. “The hills will be alive with the sound of bleating.” Let us establish at this point that imaginary Jack will always be by my side. (Daddy, Ma? See? This is what happens when you deny your ONLY offspring a pet. Too late now. I am evidently damaged.)

A chef. Surrounded by fresh fruits and vegetables, and so much possibility. Flour
in my hair and a smile of satisfaction at my glorious Christmas pudding. Chopping, crushing, steaming, baking. Spices: star anise, bright oranges, fragrant cumin, glossy red chillies, cinnamon sticks, bay leaves (take out the chillies and the cumin, and I could make mulled wine at this point.)

Edith was right. I am a hopeless romantic.

Silence and Noise

How do you put a feeling into words? A sense of what should be? Imagine a silent valley. A house, a veranda. You recline on a comfortable chair. Dusk. Silence. The suspension of reality and that in between world where memories, ones you never even knew you had, stroll in to accompany you for the evening.

Memories, are we not made up of them? Do we not make more memories every day? They are more than pictures or videos. They capture that part of life that was ordinary, mundane. They transport you back to those sights, sounds, smells of long ago, or yesterday, or an hour ago, to everything you felt and did not feel.

Your father reading the newspaper, his glasses at the tip of his nose; your mother waking you up. A dear friend’s laughter. The face of a stranger who held your gaze for a second longer than necessary. The sound of trains. That BEST bus bell. Conversations. Your reflection in the mirror. Laughter. Thunder and rain. The hypnotising wave of the wiper on the windshield of the car, tiny rivulets running down windows.

Silent summer afternoons. So silent that the birds huddle in trees that are still, no wind to bring relief. Evenings. The television plays, and the strains of an old hindi song tiptoes out from the kitchen, bringing memories of its own.

Diwali. The crack of fireworks, the twinkle of fairy lights on every window you see. Silent lamps standing guard at every doorstep. The day after Holi, slightly pink people on the streets. Ganesh Utsav, ten days of bells, drums, incense and chanting.

Silence and noise. They seem to mark out moments more than anything else sometimes.

Randomness Again and a very ‘I, me, myself’ post

Why do they call it 2 minute noodles? It NEVER cooks in two minutes.

I love the smell of Jeera tadka, haldi, the sound dried red chillies make when you run your hand through them, and the taste of ginger.

I also love the smell of Brut, apples, paint, old books.

Remember as kids when we scraped our knees/elbows in school, we would be fine till we saw Dettol coming out of the first aid kit, and start crying before the dettol soaked cotton touched the scrape?

Does anyone else remember the sheer terror a visit to the dentist evoked? (After paying away half of my father’s savings to my dentist, I am totally over the fear – Earlier, my questions started with “Will it hurt?” Now, knowing that the answer will ALWAYS be YES, my first statement to my dentist is “inject the local anaesthesia and THEN excavate/drill.”

I don’t have any fond memories of Doordarshan programmes. I don’t remember any. I remember Zee TV and Sony. Zee horror show, Aahat, Woh (Lilliput was the clown under the bed, scaring the hell out of people), Hip Hip Hurray, Family No. 1, Dekh Bhai Dekh. I dream of Jeannie, Bewitched, Different strokes were fun, till they got dubbed and became annoying.

Does anyone else love the way their parents smell when they come back from work? And when you tell them, they shoo you away, tell you they are sweaty, and need to shower?

As a child, I liked Chunky Pandey. (WHY?)

I think crows are annoying. Pigeons are a waste of space. Sparrows are the only cute birds you find in Bombay.

I can procrastinate like hell. My best (?) work is the done at the last minute. I am procrastinating this very minute, by the way.

I have officially fallen in love. With Paris. The city, not Hilton. I also love you Bombay, but Paris..... sigh. Can I retire and move there? NOW?

I am the nerd who quotes ‘Friends’ every two days.

The only class I looked forward to in school was English. I would finish reading the textbook before school started. Maths has given me psychological problems that refuse to go away.

I have newfound interest and respect for Mohammed Ali Jinnah. I think he was a fascinating leader.

I love my flatmates in London. They are a very diverse, interesting, intelligent group of girls and we have together taken the term ‘love for food/gluttony’ to new
heights.

I get high on coffee. Then I become a fun (and slightly scary) person.

I store utterly useless trivia in my head. Wikipedia will be the cause of my downfall.

I love bright socks with cartoon characters on them. Bright pinks, orange, stripes, stars, giraffes, sparkles. Bring it on! Funky pyjamas > even better. Think Winnie the Pooh, funky bunny, mickey mouse.

I once applied Tiger Balm on my nose. I also once washed my hair out with Rin. I applied kohl all over my babysitter’s face while she slept soundly. I squirted perfume into my eyes. I was also very young when I did all of this.

I can sleep like I have no care in the world. Once, the watchman had to climb down the terrace, in through the window to our 3rd floor flat and open the door for my frantic father who then yelled me out of my slumber while the entire building looked on. I woke up, walked to the other room and went back to sleep.

I had no favourite colours as a child. I have not seen the Lion King movie, never flown a kite, eaten ‘golas’ or climbed trees. They are on my to do list. And yes, I did grow up in Bombay. :P

I think summer is the most glorious thing in the world.

I think it is time to end this self obsessed post. Any suggestions for the next one, considering the serious lack of updates on here?

* Picture: Ashwati/Mej.

A Short Story?

Mist descends on the valley, and settles itself for the night. The valley takes on an inkish hue at twilight, the air of a day at its end - ploughs resting, machines silent, the cattle fed and watered. Her cottage submerges into the fog swirling around it. Silence. She sits on her cane rocking chair, rocking gently. She had dozed off in the afternoon, and had woken up to find the sunlight bleeding away from the folds of her clothes, journeying back across the veranda, receding into the yard, and then slowly fading away. She could now see the darkness before her lit by little pinpricks. Fireflies. She had always loved them.

She remembers other such evenings, when she was a little girl, back from school, sitting on this same veranda, reciting multiplication tables by rote, the chirping of crickets keeping beat with her recital. Her ear would be straining for the sound of her father bicycle coming down the lane, for the bell that he would ring, knowing she was waiting for it. She can still remember her mother, humming as she cooked in the kitchen. The sizzle of vegetables cooking, the sharp fragrance of spices enveloping her. If she peeks back, she might still see the sparkle of her mother's silver toe-rings, her sari swishing around her feet as she moves across the kitchen. Might hear the clinking of her bright green bangles.

The boatman sings a lonely song, his voice carried by the loving wind across the river to echo around in the valley.

Another night passed me by

Inspired by Nick Drake's 'One of these things first', among others.

I could have been a writer, inky fingers, high on coffee, surrounded by books and papers, unaware of time passing by.
I could have been an archeologist, brushing earth off another world.
I could have been an adventurer, riding horses in the Kazakhi steppes, climbing Mount Everest; or diving into the depths of the Pacific.
Could have been a travelling musician, strumming my guitar; a fiddler or a flautist.
Could have been a dancer, a graceful figure across a wooden floor.
Could have been a potter, sticky muddy fingers, wet earth.
Could have been a sailor, under open skies, tasting salty air.
Could have been a painter, my world a canvas of many hues.
Could have been an actor, reveling in dramatics.
Could have been a singer, music reverberating through my soul.
Could have been a farmer, coaxing new life through the ever giving earth.
Could have been an architect, raising a city from scratch.
Could have been a trader, of dreams, of stories, of words.
Could have been a kite, floating off into the sky.
Could have been a steam engine, chugging my way through mountain passes.
Could have been a bell, chiming my delight.
Could have been the breeze, gently blowing through cracks and corners of windows and doors, through narrow alleyways and over open fields.
Could have been the rain, pattering down on roofs and leaves.
Could have been a tree, waving my branches just because I felt like it.
Could have been a star, twinkling down at night.
Could have been the Sun, smiling cheerfully at the world below me.


Here I am, just a student, blinking away the night.

If wishes were horses...

If ever in your life you get the chance to relocate, where would you go? A city that 'never sleeps' or some place near the ocean or mountains?

I would, if i could, run to a place far from the maddening crowd, to live in a wooden cabin with a porch that has a swing, a rocking chair and a lantern.

A warm cabin that would be lost among rolling hills, where sheep and cows would graze peacefully on nearby slopes. Where I could lift my face up to the bright sun and feel the cool air caress me. Every season would march in with fanfare : Summer - glorious, and bright, butterflies and flowers, new life. Monsoons - water dripping from the trees at twilight, thunder, mist descending every evening, rendering everything around obscure. Autumn - Fiery red-orange-yellow leaves twirl down around me, leaving bare trees reaching up to the sky. Winter - Silent, a warm fire and a dog near my chair. Peaceful walks in the woods.

A place where the only sounds I hear are the calls of the birds, crickets' chirps, the hooting of owls, the wind and whispers of trees, the crackle of wood burning at the fireplace. Where an evening means - Plenty of books, dvds, coffee, a blanket and me.

Ah, life :)