it's been some time, it seems like a short time

I was extremely excited to see little Gaurav.
The place seemed like home. Familiar faces (this time) and everyone remembered my name.
When you have a name difficult to spell, sometimes it also becomes difficult to remember. But i realised how nice it feels when people remember your name. Especially people you have met not more than once. Probably I smiled onl once at many of those faces that called out to me while passing through the field. It was almost like i had ben a part of their extended family - the village.
Well the hills were cloudy and mornings were misty. I ate a lot of kafal: they are red berries that grow in abundance, once in two years. This was a lucky year! Every home i visited offered me kafal, not handfulls but bowl fulls. I often thought i was taking away all that they had, but when i stepped into their storage, i realised they had basketfulls - some to give, some to store and some to eat now. Eating these berries is a good pass time. They are sour and have a sweetish tinge to them. A tingling is left on your tongue for some time after you have eaten the first one and before you pop the next one into your mouth.
At Rashmi's place, i ate khurmani - apricots.
The trip was very satisfying. the girls were happy with their anklets.
The little kids were overjoyed about their new clothes.
Deepa and Kedar were most pleased with endless photos i took of little Gaurav.
I wish I could have stayed a little longer.

im heading out!!!

i am a happy child.
the heat is getting to me now. by the time i dress well in pretty clothes, im soaked in buckets of sweat. plus then those train rides , everybody is always travelling in this city.
anyways the much awaited break is now here. i am heading to the hills again. to Avani! i am quite excited.
there will be a little new voice to welcome me. i have so many things for him - socks, diapers, jumpers, rattles! Oh... this is surely going to be fun.
i don't know a part of my journey, though. the trip from delhi to haldwani. im wondering if i will get a train ticket. or else a bus journey is my only option. it will be hot and sticky (not sweaty, though). i will be dropped at haldwani at 3 am. the shops will be shut. not even a place for a glass of lassi! Hmm, the wait will be till 7 am. i am not exactly looking forward to that.
but well, i know im so committed to this trip, that all will be well... or i will make it well!

Happiness ...

I had gone for a friend’s wedding to Amalner.
Amalner is small town in Jalgaon district in Maharashtra. The married women still wear large pearl studs in their noses. The village is divided into four quarters, one end where families of the Maratha caste are collected and another end with people of the Sonar (goldsmiths) clan are in majority. There is also an area where the Muslim community is concentrated. Wealth is in abundance and its show too.

In the narrow alleys of the town, you can now see Maruti 800 cars squeezed inbetween scooters and rusting bicycles. And here amidst this chaos, my friend positioned a shamiana, where loud music played for the better part of the night before his wedding. This was street - it was created was public use. It was developed to enhance interaction between unknown people and create bonds. We share and joys and sorrows. This was the most joyous time of my friend’s life and so everyone was happy to be a part of it. Imagine setting up a shamiana, along the road in Mumbai. You would have half the town honking at you from their cars and very soon the police would come knocking at your door.

For my friend of course, this was a DJ night. ‘A DJ night’ in a place, where majority of the public - participants in the wedding as well as on-lookers - would not know the full form of DJ. But as for my friend, well, he is now a Bombay-iite. He is a regular at the discos. He savours Fosters and Sula. And so what if the wedding party was insisted on being held at Amalner, the life of Bombay’s highlights could be brought down here as well. Never matter the charm of the twinkling lamps in his home’s window and colourful rangoli outside his doorstep. The remixed lavanis, those little boys with chest open shirts and the hip thrusts of half drunken men overwhelmed that all.

It was the wedding of a city returned boy. And so it happened the way he chose it to. Going by her town’s norms, the bride-to-be refused to join in the fun. She decided to have her own little party a few metres down the road, but ‘separately’ outside her ‘own’ home. But, once in their own surroundings, the women let down their hair. Watching even grandmas do an enthusiastic jig, not once, but again and again - was definitely pleasing. Who would say, that in an ordinary circumstance, these ladies don’t even lose their composure. The educational values and talents are all kept aside, once they get married. Thereafter, there is only one goal: to build a family and keep in together - ‘happily’. But in this atmosphere, they had a chance - to dress-up, dance, laugh and break free from those reins and that too without an objection from anybody. Neither their husbands and in-laws, nor their neighbours and sister-in laws; for right now they were like sisters in crime. The one phrase that defined this all was: A permitted path to their (until-then) overshadowed desire for liberalism.

There was one particular lady who did catch my attention though, when I saw her moving in a finely choreographed style to the music. She knew her steps and worked her toes in precision. Around her, the young girls followed. A little kid came running upto her every now and then. But she was not deterred. She would grab him in her arms and move along, never the less. She shied away from the camera lens, though. Some times I even saw her standing aside, with a man, who had the same kid in his arms. Later I learnt that he was her husband. The kid was her child. Then, she told me, “I used to be a folk-dance teacher. But now I am very busy with my little boy.” The friend’s family and her family had shared this common street for many years.

In small towns like these, neighbours and close friends are all a part of the extended family. They must help in washing vessels at the end of a feast, but at the same time they are made a part of the fun, whe the bride is adorned with jewels or when the room for the wedding night is decorated!

The Paanwallah

He plays a lively role
In everybody’s life
With a shack that he throws open
On the road side.

Saffron-coloured powder
Marks his earlobes and forehead;
His dhoti-kurta, a striking white
But fingers are dotted red.

“Kulkatta” he says with pride,
When I ask,
About his roots, which reflect
In the expert movements of his hand at the task.

He lays the betel-nut leaf
A maroon paste spreads over it unevenly
Layers of gulkand, supari and sauf
The last of the ingredients are only sprinkled

The paanwallah smiles and chats as he prepares
This traditional betel-nut delicacy
Wrapping up the leaf, he dips it in syrup
And feeds you the first bite, as part of his proficiency.

Thoughts from memories

It felt nice to see a familiar face after many days.
Being surrounded by strangers is peaceful in a way.
They know what they see of you.
If they like you, you are popular.
If they don't like you, they leave you alone.
Both ways are comfortable.

I am learning a new language.
Conversations that don't concern me are my teachers.
I listen - I learn.
When I find words difficult, I ask for help in translation.
Sometimes I feel I ask for a translation almost unnecessarily. The people crease their eyebrows wondering why I would be concerned with a personal conversation.
They translate anyways.
I never feel like an intruder. They never make me feel like one.

I am not in touch with a civilised world.
But today I am.
I do not reply to emails, because I am beginning to feel out of place.
Left behind probably - like the people in the hills?

... are beginning to make me miss the hills even more

back to the world of cars, televsion and mobile phones.
im in delhi for a bit...
...but the muggy weather is beginning to make me miss the chill of the hills even more.
...but the crowded roads are beginning to make me miss the lonely wide winding roads of the hills even more.
...but the cows, with bones showing, on the street and the dogs, with scanty hair, that wander the alleys are beginning to make me miss the organised animal husbandry of the hills even more.

So for all this and more i am taking that bus journey in the state transport bus to haldwani and from thereon Govinda's lift to my ne home in the hills.

And it has been a long holiday

Chennai, Kerela, Bangalore, Mumbai...
I now head to Uttaranchal waiting to make the most of my education, experience and skill (which of course is not much in any case)
Wayanad was beautiful - green - with drops of dew and traces of mist settling on your fingertips each time you decided to mingle with nature.
I saw a tusker - he came out from amongst the bamboo groves to smile for my camera - the forest guide said he was a mad elephant. To me he looked fresh and young, full of energy and strength.
I ate jackfruit, drank lots of chaaya and coffee. Stayed with an Iyer family and learnt to keep my shoes outside the home and sit with my feet together.
A man on the street commented on seeing me giggle and Mridula rebuked him in his language.

Bangalore was hot. I walked the streets of this city that is soooo much like Mumbai - crowded, always in a tearing hurry, hot and with a lot of money, yet with an obvious streak of poverty. Visited the malls, a pub, the Valley School and Maitreyi's home - it reminded me of my Delhi house - the large windows, the big backyard, the open terrace with a jhoola and a double ceiling. Her dad cooked us yummy dinner - soup and rice. There was ice cream at lunch time.

Mumbai is humid. When I sit at the sea face the air makes my face sticky. The sea is dirty, but still a pleasure to watch. Sometimes the water comes up all the way to the bank and splashes up beyond the barrier.

I await the monsoons. Back in the mountains the monsoons await me.

When life sets steps to your choreography

This is what you would see if abstract art came alive on stage.
She leaps from right to left, high up in the air and lands on the ground in a twirl.
There is no connection between the series of her movements, but yet they have a graceful flow.
Danseuse Revathi Salunkhe always spoke about the freedom of movements in contemporary dance. Her performance at a cancer survivor's fashion show, explained the core of her statement.

At first I wondered why she was jumping from one part of the stage to the other. She swirled and bent forward and backward. She held a pose for a few seconds... I had absolutely no clue as to what was happening. But as she came to the end of her presentation, with expressions becoming more vivid, the story she was narrating stood out more clearly. All of her movements made sense.

Revathi's dance makes you feel that each movement of yours - whether you jump, sway while you walk, switch from one stool to another or even sleep or sit in an awkward position - is a step in dance. And this I am guessing, is what she means when she says, "I pick my steps from the everyday movements in people's lives!"

Revathi, you suddenly make me want to dance - and I think I will make a brilliant performer (if not for the stage fright).

When morality sends rationality for a toss

I was quite upset about the whole reaction to a rave party bust-up in the city. The police acted illegaly, leave aside unethically. Even the newspapers refused to take a stand. Somebody once told me, you can't bring about a change if you don't a stand.
Of course the world is happier playing diplomat... but is that for a greater good?
Here is something I wrote...

Know the facts, before you opine
Know the law, before you accuse

A sword dangles on the minds, futures and most importantly the reputations of almost 280 individuals (80 per cent of whom range in the age group of 20 to 35 years) who were arrested on Sunday March 4, following a rave party bust in a farm near Sinhagad.
While one half of them plead innocent on the grounds of being present at the venue for the mere love of trans music and without the knowledge of the circulation of drugs, the other half awaits their medical reports to prove their innocence.

Unfortunately what makes them more apprehensive are the media polls on their morality, photographs of their helplessness being flashed in the newspapers and the police authorities gaining support of the public as they expose one by one the drugs, the syringes, the condoms and the expensive gadgets found at the venue - where a few hours back lay their happiness.

The police however, seems to be taking much pride in the fact that they landed up on this party with an accurate number of police force and add to it selected media persons too. The hype was not be missed by anyone! Procedures and work ethics seem to have taken a ride as the police ruthlessly collected these persons and shoved them into the premises of the chowki, allowing cameras to click and names to be given away, with no consideration what so ever for their right to privacy. Not just that, but when people who are half not in their senses, because of the influence of drugs and music, are rounded off in a rough manner, little choice do they have but to give-in to what they are asked to do… AND ALL THIS IS PASSED OF AS 'FANTASTIC TRACKING BY THE POLICE FORCE.'

Incidentally all papers in the city carry this as page-one news positioning it right at the top. The matter too is identical - only facts are laid down at a low-down from just one side. No prizes for guessing which one? Thereafter people begin to run morality checks. Letters, telephone calls and opinions flow into the office from various ends - what is, however, placed before the world at large are the FACTS… selected facts which tend to reflect bias, a bias towards the INDIAN culture, values and upbringing. All this versus the implied: the Gen-X, which has a lot of money, also a lot of time and absolutely no clue on how to utilize either.

For heaven's sake people, trace the history of the event, consider the defences of those involved, crosscheck the facts and look at the number of rave parties that still see the daylight of the next day, even as they span over weeks and not just day.

A rational thought on the bust-up
"Someone was not tipped off," says Rohit Jha, who has done the rounds of the raves and even figured solutions with a cop at a private party where dope was circulated. "They told me to give in to their demands, or else they would charge the women with prostitution!" And so what if the women went scott-free thereafter, they would always carry with them that accusation, even though it was empty.
"How else do you think rave survives in this country," says Sahil Arora from Mumbai. "Everyone gets a share; there are bigger stakes in letting a party carry on than in busting the fun! - in this case it is all about revenge and getting back," he states plainly.

A legal rationale
Section 27, Chapter 4 of the NDPS Act, 1985, says that any person who is found in possession of drugs for personal consumption and not for commercial use, shall be penalised with imprisonment and/or fine.
Advocate Satish Mane Shinde, who represented some of those who have been held in judicial custody in the racket, says, "No one has been found in possession of the substance. Moreover, even the reports to check for presence of narcotic drugs or psychotropic substance in the blood streams of these individuals will take a month to come through, until then nobody can be said guilty."
Moreover, the modus operandi adopted by the police was absolutely improper. "You cannot land up with media persons at the spot of crime and allow them to take pictures of the faces of adult-individuals, without having conducted any formal investigations," says Shinde.

A medical take
Even if the psychotropic substance is found in the bodies of these people, they aren't necessarily into habitual consumption of drugs, because the same can enter your blood stream even through passive inhalation.

And irrespective of the above, sending drug addicts to jail is not going to help. The police are incapable of dealing with withdrawal symptoms of these individuals. "Case studies have revealed that many a times the police give these addicts the substance so as to escape the headache of the withdrawals that they undergo," says Namrata Ghosh, a student of TISS who works with drug addicts off the streets.

The unfortunate bit though is that people have not verified the facts before setting forth an opinion. The newspapers too refuse to take a stand. How else do they plan to become a tool of social change?

This entire article has been written for YOUR knowledge. To let you have the opportunity of setting forth an INFORMED choice of opinion.

As and when the court finds people guilty, we are with the court and support the prosecution of such individuals. But until then, we are no one to decide. But our opinion counts, what we say makes a difference - a difference in society at large - a difference in the environment that most of those 280 youngsters will return to.

So lets not form an opinion until the evidence is strong and the facts are proven… because the law says…
INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN GUILTY (beyond reasonable doubt)

Untying Knots

It was a wonderful evening.
We read together. I read to him my experiences of the village.

We hadn't had a pleasant evening the earlier day. But that didn't seem to affect today's experience. It was looked at with completely new perception. He criticised the story... "Where in this do you recollect YOUR experience, YOUR interaction and YOUR happiness incidental to the trip?" he questioned emphasizing each time on the importance of 'my self' as the centre of my narration. "It makes memories more memorable," he explained with a tenderness to his voice.

I then read to him from the book, the pages of which had been consistently filling up ever since the first evening. There were random occurences, a mention of a loving look, disconnected thoughts weaved to suit my reading and fond remembrances of looking at the stars. "Very poetic, yet not right enough to suit a writer's eye," he pointed out, noting the change in style.

He went on to speak about space and its relevance in a person's life. He placed one of the characters from my story in a different situation. An intense elaboration of time and space! My thoughts lingered...

Of a musical charm

As his rhythm of ‘Govinda, Govinda’ picked up pace I felt exactly like I was on weed. He then picked up the beat to convince you that probably he was losing control of himself as well. But he was in perfect control and left off suddenly… the one who had drowned was you… you were left grasping for breath… for more. At its peak I felt the supernatural (read: beyond human control) brush past me.

This was my first full time formal experience at Savai Gandharva. Pandit Jasraj had settled on the stage and the compeer announced that ‘there were to be no limits.’ I had no clue what sort of an experience this would be, but trust me as I sat on the baithak, my head buried in my knees… only Jasraj’s voice floating in the air, I found myself being consumed in the music. I tried concentrating on other things, but thoughts just seemed to float and nothing remained in my head for too long because his voice took over.

Savai Gandharva has a charm of is own – it has a respect for those who genuinely love music, for those who treasure it and appreciate it. It is an experience of four full days of music, where connoisseurs eat, sleep and live music. There might be stalwarts of music presenting the best of their talent before them, but you will see no gold jewellery, no silk saris, and no fancy hair-dos in the audience at this event. Everyone returns to the grounds with a blanket and sweater to beat the cold and they fill the auditorium with a river of claps, which keeps rising higher and higher like the waves in the sea. You stop applauding, but the shower continues and continues.

At Savai, I realised that musicians come to enjoy themselves. They come for Bhimsen, whom they so dearly love, they come to keep alive a tradition of Indian classical music and most importantly they come to pay tribute their own skill that they claim to have earned either from ‘god’ or from ‘their guru’.

Simple Maharashtrian families set up food stalls at the grounds to serve khichadi, vada pav, tea… Those who bought their seasonal ticket for Rs 350 after standing in line for 4 and 5 hours get the best of seats… right at the base of the stage. There too, if you want to be first in the seating, you have to come hours before time. And people do! There are the others, who aren’t sure of schedules and buy tickets on a day to day basis, but ensure that they can make time for at least one program.

No wonder these artists return each year with as much love and dedication. “Many ask me whether people still listen to Indian classical and I ask them to visit Savai Gandharva,” said Shivkumar Shama, before he started off with his performance this year. What surety of being appreciated!

When I was feeling low

At a point when the day seemed to become dull, lazy, disappointing...
Life just seemed to make me smile in its own sweet way.
I went for Indian Ocean - live in concert. Vow! they played bandhe...
A birthday party, with pictionary and chicken biryani and peach twirl.
I met an old friend over coffee... strong coffee and a cheese sandwich.
I bumped into another close friend... who has promised to take me out for dinner and coffee, thereafter. But this coffee would be sweet... very sweet, because that is the way he likes it.
I designed a page successfully. It took three hours... but the page looks nice.
I am eating swiss chocolate cake... the layers of cream look delightful... as though rolling in joy.

I was giving up hope and I was feeling very low. But life doesn't seem to be all that bad...
Probably life seems a big word and too philosphical.
So I will just say... THE DAY

Tip Toeing on Memories and ...dreams...

It was the most beautiful sunset.
I could not make the colours out, since my sense of colours is bad.
But thankfully i can appreciate art...the natural one that is more comprehensible than when the human mind streaks the canvas with colours that blend, stand apart or just make sense with one another.

I was with an artist. The artist just listened to me describe the sunset. I began with blue... ok I don't know the next colour, nor the next, nor the next...aha! and that is orange..isshh - red. That's it, that is the exact colour. Don't you think so? Of course it didn't strike me that the artist might know the colour and it might be at the end of the artist's lips, but the artist didn't say a word. The artist just smiled.

***

We met some people. They were very rural. I know that one can't be 'very rural' when you live one hour from the city and have an entire township developing at the base of the hill that you live on. But I would say that they were 'very rural' as compared to how we live - here in the city.

They spoke about their land. About how it was stolen off them. They were given other land. But 'their own land' had been taken away. So what if it was done legally?

I realised how proud a man can be of his land. They told us about their forests, which have no water. "You'll find the most fierce of animals and the rarest of trees in our jungle, but no water," he said. There was no regret in his voice. Just pride. The way he declared "My soil..." or referred to the land as "Our land..."

I want my children to learn the truth of loving your land. I could never learn it, but I can understand its reflection in the eyes of those who live their land. But probably these people won't live long enough for my children to even be able to notice the feeling, let alone understand it.

It is the prettiest sight when you see little feet splash in the water splattered around the well.
When tiny fingers give strength to the sapling sown into the soil by his dad.
When the little ones scramble up the trees or just decide to aim at the raw mangoes high up among the branches.

I HOPE THIS DOESN'T REMAIN A DREAM 'coz then a part of me will always remain a dream

Sightings at the Chatushringi Mela

Colourful lights flicker with in variating time modules
Merry-had-a-little-lamb plays as the giant-wheel revolves faster and faster
A boy with curly hair and spectacles wears a huge backpack; a camera slung around his neck is waiting to be raised for a shot
Colourful combs sprewn around on a plastic sheet
Ceramic kulhads piled one on top of the other - there are flowers, geometric shapes, spots and stripes on them
A teenager checking out the junk jewellery
A bunch of foreigners with pants folded up to the knee and finely embroidered pouches in their hands wade through the slush
Osho chappals, high heeled shoes with sequence work, kolhapuris.
Women bargaining
Zaree-bordered sarees - red, yellow, green coupled with silves anklets that show on the dark skin and gold that dots the several piercings in the ears
A baby wailing
A flute playing
Mogra thread into gajras with in-between strips of red flowers sprinkled with gold and silver conferetti
Drums that remind me of the monkey man in Delhi, only now the drum is made of fluoroscent tin
Odd sweets (spicy?) snacks heaped in a thela
A girl turning away in embarassment as the golguppa is too big for a single bite

The Chatushringi Mela is a an annual fair during Navratri in Pune. Until last year the stalls of food and games used to line the road, which then used to be specially shut, to be made into a walking plaza during the late evenings. This year they promised us that the road would remain operational through the festival and the number of hawkers would be reduced. Well that just gave a me a chance to pass through all the hustle bustle, that makes a common man's life exciting, each day while returning from office.
Traditions are natural to India. They bring life to the small lanes, empty courtyards and lonely lives. May they remain rooted for long.

Dear Ganapati

THE POST IS SLIGHTLY DELAYED.
But this Ganesh fesitval remains a fond memory, because Ganesha visited me everyday in different forms.. sometimes in the form of love, sometimes through success, a lot of times through my favourite modak and at all of the other times, through the music of the dhol.

Amidst the hustle-bustle of Laxmi Road, there were patches of dry roads. Not a soul there, just the dim tubelights of the paani-puri wallas flickering in the corners. In the background the dhol-taasha beat into the air, creating that hypnotising rhythm which just takes you along with it to the banks of the river where the Ganesh idol is dipped into the water, bidding him farewell.
The mandal showed the story of Bhasmasura, people watched silently and cheered as the show ended and the plastic dolls on the stage did a small jig (manoramak nritya). That was where the sound concentrated, that was where the people collected... all of the rest was was dark and silent. This was the first time I ever walked the streets of the city, well past midnight. I didn't know that even Laxmi Road, the soul of the city could be deserted, where closed shutters of the shops stared you in the face and the dirt strewn near the drains wasn't shuffled from end to end.

Every now and then, when we turned into a tiny gulli where the shadows of bright lights danced at the corner, a large crowd of young and old welcomed us. Some danced, some foot-tapped, some just stood around watching the show. The sound echoed a million times before the silence actually hit you in the patch between one Ganesh mandal and another.

A friend of mine who lives in Sadashiv Peth said sleep is never deep during the festival. The paani-puri walla mentioned that their business sees its peak right until early hours of dawn. It's amazing to see how Ganesha comes into everyone's life in his own way during this festival. Some he lures with his modaks, others he becomes a favourite with because of his lavish adorn and then there are those set of people who simply adore him because of the wonderful melody of his praises that fill the air during those eleven days.

This is to them and to our favourite Ganu...Ganapati bappa morya, pudhachya varshi lavkar ya

In the Sand

Sploch! right into seven inches of shit...or that's what it felt like, when i walked straight into a thick layer of gooey, brown mud on the Tekdi today.
Of course i decided to trod the path quite confidently and I took one step, then another, then a third and ooops, my foot refused to budge out of the mess. I pulling and stretching, but no... the mus is adamant.
M calls out - let me help you - she says. But what if she falls in, that would be a worse situation to deal, rather a worse whining session to deal with. I'd bettr figure it myself. Anyways finally M gave me a hand out and i also slipped and fell right into the splatter caking my neat blue jean with mud. My foot couldn't be told from by floaters, it was all messy.
Anyways we walked over to a nearby pond, where the sand seemed to have settled. I cleaned my hands and feet, while my sandals kept bobbing up and down in the water.
The cool water felt nice, very relaxing. I love the feeling of water ripling over my toes, it tickles, it teases and then smoothens out. Nice.
I told M about this, but all she could react as as: "Now you want to be like a stork and remain in there all day long. Please get out, now." I laughed about it then...but trust me it felt nice to see her playing mature for once.
Love.

Bad Roads, Worse Traffic and Even Worse Emotions

My feet were wading through water, the rain was pouring from above, bright lights were blinking into my eyes and with each opportunity I got, I weaved my way through the thick of a traffic jam, which was only increasing as the cars lined up one behind the other.

I was returning from work, taking the usual route back home. I had already by-passed the main signals, hoping to avoid the traffic, but here I was only to be faced by this unending line of cars and scooters. Should I take the narrow lane at the indent? - Well that will only be more claustrophobic I thought, let me see how far I can go. So here I was switching-off and once again switching-on the ignition. At times I would keep the bike on - the fuel is unnecessarily wasted with this constant on and off routine - but each I time I decided to do that, the traffic wouldn’t move for minutes together - so consequently we were wasting petrol either ways.

Waiting and waiting, slowly people pulled out their cell-phones, exchanged glances that spoke millions, honked at the person ahead, only to evoke a ‘what the hell can I do’ response and basically tried to pass their time, which seemed never to end.
- “Me ghari ushira pocheen (I’ll be back home late)” -“How many times do I heat and re-heat the food” called out his wife from the other end. (Everyone turned to look and smiled);
- “Yeah! Once again it’s the traffic, we have to do something about these roads man” (Probably it was a journalist speaking - I thought),
- “Honey I don’t think we can meet today, it will be another hour before I can get past this patch.” (A lover’s call of apology, I’m guessing)
So time passed with groans and yawns, with variant ring-tones interspersing this passive atmosphere bringing it alive for those few seconds.

Each time the vehicles before us moved catching up some speed, a surge of enthusiasm rushed through us and we moved ahead rearing the engine. But all at once it would slow down again. “You are going to Aundh right? - Take the by-lane, it’s faster,” said a kind rickshawwalla as I moved ahead in the jam. Looking at my expectant and apprehensive face, he continued, “Don’t worry, the traffic is moving smooth there. You will get home faster. We have been here for some 45 minutes now.” And whiz I went past the traffic, away from the thought of ‘just being stuck.’ An open road welcomed me and I was only to happy to take towards it. A policeman hurried me at the crossing and all of a sudden, I felt an irritation. I veered to one side and beckoned the policeman -“Do you how many people are just waiting there. What’s the deal?’ - “There is a VIP coming, ma’am,” he was trying to be nice and to pacify me. - “So what, let him see and be a part of this city’s mess,” I retorted and drove off.

Hunger growled in my tummy and water dripped from my clothes; a tired hand accelerated the scooter into the verandah. I was glad to be back home.

My dad’s moral to the story - The prices are rising and India is heading towards progress. But of what sort and use is the development, when the roads are bad and planning is even worse. All you get is a bunch of frustrated people - the productivity of this country is only at loss.

About 'being in love'

A few people questioned me about 'this' man after they read my previous post. The existence of a man was presumed when they read 'I'm in love'.

Well this post goes out to them. Isn't "being in love" a state of the mind? I mean, there are certain emotions, reactions and feelings that are typical to 'when one is in love'. Of course, you need to have been in love at least once to be able to identify these feelings, but thereafter, it's more about 'how you feel' and 'what you experience', more than the existence of particular feelings towards a person, that begins to matter.

I have been madly in love only once and that too at the tender age of 16, when life suddenly seems rosy, and rosier because of the 'sweet' attached to the sixteen. Well, there are many moments in my life when I feel like smiling, staring into the serene beauty of still waters, I even miss-out on the correct route back home...but these moments bear no relation to any person. They are just a passing phase...they come with a heavy downpour, the fragrance of wet mud, a new job, the thought of good food...I mean just about anything! But the only way I identify them is with being in love, 'coz this is exactly what happened to me then.

So all my dear friends, who are curious about 'the one'...trust me... when 'the one' comes by, you will be the 'chosen ones' to whom the news comes first!

This...That...There...Where?

Where is the ME?
Actually I'm really confused.
I think I am in love...the feeling seems familiar, but the person does not.
Has my taste changed OR have my priorities. I'd prefer to think the latter, makes your thought seem so much more significant.

The present is fine, rather quite wonderful.
But the past...it still lingers. I want to let go, I almost have...but I'm always tempted to trample upon it one last time. Rub some salt on those wounds and see if it still burns! Sounds bizarre and sadistic...but isn't that pleasurable as well.

My responsibilities have increased manyfolds.
Suddenly life seems to have a purpose. I feel I am 21.
I am compelled to ponder if this is sign...is someone trying to tell me something - then why the hell can't I figure it out.

I want to be held tight.
Fingers to meet and toes to touch,
Noses to rub and heads to bump...
I want to dream...ENDLESSLY!

Different Individuals, Different Tides

Never judge a book by its cover, but this time I did…the sea green cover caught my eye and I picked the book without too much second thought. I heard of the author, but didn’t care to verify the success of this book. The outline of the story appealed to the writer within me and this appeal kept me going through the entire length of the book. And that too, to such an extent that I finished four hundred pages in one and a half days.

Unfortunately The Hungry Tide wasn’t as charming to other who had read the book. But somehow, the book, which doesn’t have all that fascinating a storyline, kept me gripped through and through. I guess this was more to do with the way in which Ghosh has dwelled on each of the elements in the book. The characters, the river, its tides, the forests, in fact even the tigers and the dolphins. The novel takes you through the lives of different people whose existence was centred around this small island, in the Sundarbans. While some come from the comparatively wealthy lifestyles, there are others who have seen nothing beyond the dense forests that guard the island. Their beliefs source from the raw fears of tigers and floods. Their stories are spun to tell tales of men who survived cyclones of and others who had experienced the ‘Bon Bibi’ (the local deity) miracles. The story begins with the narration of the lives of two independent individuals which then Ghosh has tactfully merged through incidences that almost seem coincidental or mere quirks of fate. Of course, there isn’t a direct relation established between circumstances, as one would expect, especially after the over-exposure to mainstream Hindi Cinema; but while the story takes turns according to the writer’s imagination (and moods), he gives the reader’s mind an opportunity to find a different, yet parallel, trail as well.

Let’s take for one an instance where Kanai is reading his uncle’s diary which makes a mention of the Bon Bibi temple on a particular island. Chance happens to bring Kanai to that very island. Now ordinarily, you’d think that Kanai would set foot on the island and probably look out for the temple, or atleast reminisce a connection between the island and the temple. However, none of this happens and story takes a different stroke with a series of events that leave the reader curious with a parallel stream of thought. That is to say, what if, he had figured his way to the temple? OR Was it actually the spiritual forces mentioned in the diary that saved him?

One of my most favourite characters in the story is Fokir. A fisherman, Fokir leads a simple life, but that of solitude. Ghosh has spoken about ‘who’ Fokir is, but not about ‘why’ he is the way he has been portrayed. Silent and reclusive, Fokir displays a different - more enthusiastic and warm - shade of his personality when he is in the river. Not much conversation transpires between Fokir and Piya, or between Fokir and Kanai; but his body language, his eyes and his overall behaviour tends to say a lot. Unfortunately for the reader, it is almost impossible to find any reason to his acts. To give the story a happier shade, I reasoned with most of his behaviour with a hue of optimism. But I guess, the exact opposite holds true of somebody who is more radical.

I must admit that I have been much too happy with this read. The satisfaction still lingers. Each time I think of Lusibari, Kanai or Fokir, I wonder what happened next. Though the end seemed ‘fit’ to the book, I wonder if Ghosh intends to write a sequel. Or on second thoughts, he probably shouldn’t attempt something like that, probably my mind will wirte its own conclusion to this story…