Many a thoughts topple over one another

I don't know which one to follow

Make space for 'nothing' to exist

More for something that is hollow.

Nothing, is what I want to do;

Nothing is what I want to be;

Nothing is something, that makes me feel complete;

And so be something, nothing can meet.

I met a friend

A few days ago, I met a friend. An old friend. A friend who was once my teacher. Not a very liberal teacher, but a fun teacher never the less. Komilla Aunty, as we all addressed her, taught me to appreciate the humour in Edward Lear's poetry, the flow of events in Prophet Mohammed's life and the task of researching your subject through encyclopaedias. I probably would have never known of these joyful secrets, were it not for her and Shiv Niketan, my school, then.
Komilla Aunty made us write a journal every morning. It later became a habit for many years thereafter, until someone pryed into my diary one fine (for them of course) day. One of my last memories with Komilla Aunty, before I passed out of the school and she moved to newpaper office, is a picture of her sitting with mom along the log table in my class room. The stools used to be low and they would often talk after school hours, like this, when I would pass time wandering around the empty courtyard, as I was restricted from entereing the same room as them.
When Komilla Aunty had gone on a break, one time, it was Namita Aunty who made up for the absence of a class teacher. While Komilla Aunty gave us stars for doing well, Namita Aunty drew 'smileys'. Komilla Aunty would make a birthday boy/ girl stand before the classroom and have everyone share one nice memory they has of the boy/girl to make his day even more special. Namita Aunty used to bring chocolates for the birthday boys and girls along witha little sharpner in the form of teddy bears or hippos.
There was one time when Komilla Aunty went on her annual break, but this time she didnt come back. There was no offcial good-bye. Mummy said she had begun to work with a newspaper. I once say her thereafter at a birthday party. It felt nice.
I recently searched "Komilla Raute" on facebook. And the search didnt heed any results. I was slightly disppointed. But then I search just "Komilla" and there she was... a picture of hers. She still looks like what she did many years ago.
Then she was teacher, she always will be; but now she is my friend ( as Face Book puts it), she always was.

Its wet and muggy

It is wet. The rain hasn't stopped since yesterday.
Everytime I would step on the road, brown paint would splatter on my calf.
My nose has been running all day. I have a terrible cold. Lemon and honey in warm water is the cure, says somebody. The recipe sounds quite tempting. I mean, with a small shot of vodka tipped into that glass, a tempting cocktail it would make, don't you think?
Yesterday, we took a long drive at Worli. We saw a barn owl hovering in mid-air and we ate bread pudding. Yes, it wasn't as good as the one we get at Good-Luck Cafe, but it made for a good treat. Atleast I could taste its subtle sweetness, unlike today when I can't even taste something as sour as a raw lemon.
That is why I think I should gulp down a shot of vodka. It doen't have a taste that you can define. But its effect lingers and you can see the positive effects so obviously. Now a days, of course I prefer it the beer-way. But beer is cold and it is not good for my throat. It is not as if there has been a draught of alcohol in my life, lately... it is just that I am on a random wander!
There were seven bomb-blasts in Bangalore some days ago. There were 16 in Ahmedabad, just yesterday. Wonder if anything will shake Mumbai. I would get an extended holiday. Or maybe, with the rain gods playing football with thunder and lightening, the bomb might get wet and never explode. That would be a funny headline: "Bomb defuses due to dampening by rain!"
Haha, but for the misfortune of those who intended the chaos.

Dear Tanvee...

LITTLE SOMETHINGS
A slow whine
will break through the quiet of the night,
you will wake to see
Little eyes, wide open in fright.

A thump, you'll hear
It's soft, but rough'
You'll peek to see
Little feet that are having it a little tough

A little hand,
Will clutch you finger;
When you turn, you'll meet
A tender someone, scared to linger.

Those unsure footsteps shall become confident strides,
That toothless grin will make way for a beautiful smile,
The delicate hands will mould creative shapes,
All, but in a little while.

And then your baby
Will become a beautiful girl,
She will make you proud,
And within her, you'll see the world unfurl.

P.S. Little Tanvee, I have not seen you yet, but I imagine you to be a bright little girl with round cheeks and long hair. By the time I meet you, you'll be recognising people and will have a set of likes and dislikes. It will be challenging, but I will definitely befriend you!

Old habits die hard, old memories die slowly

The frangrance of eau-de-cologne always takes me down the nostalgic lane.

While i was still curled up in bed, Ajee would wake early at the break of dawn. The only birds you can hear in Mumbai at that hour are the crows. A steaming cup of tea would await her at the dining table. Ajoba and she would sip in silence. For whenever i saw this composition, i remember it to be very brief. Ajee would never linger over her first cup of tea, even as of today.

Picking up her thin white towel, blouse and petticoat she would begin her day with her bath. Luke warm water - only a bucketfull was sufficient. Another bucketfull of soapy water, she used to wash her saree.

By the time I awoke to her morning call and the sunlight seeping through the transperant curtains, often made from her old sarees, the first fragrance that my nose would catch was that of her eau-de-cologne. Probably that was the first smell my nose, when it was more tender, learnt to identify. So fresh the whiff was eventhough she didn't use much.

Ajee never really appreciates 'other' perfumes. "Such strong fragrances, you people use. It is almost suffocating." - she always comments, every time i walk out fresh from my bath. The Eau-de-cologne, however, has never seemed to entice me. Probably because I was introdued to the variety of the fragrance industry, at the beginning of my teenage or maybe because even today the eau-de-cologne comes packed in an open headed bottle to be unscrewed and poured onto... 'a hankey' probably? I mean what were the manufaturers thinking, when other companies were instroducing spray bottles or roll-ons.

****

This is probably only one of the many memories that Ajee has etched for me. Her banana milkshake (where she squished the banana in a bowl with her hand , sprinkled sugar and poured milk over it) became a part of my breakfast in the later years when i went to college very early in the morning. Her morning walks, story telling sessions, singing poetry on cold evenings as we sat around the fire in Lonavela... these moments have all, in some way, become a part of my life. Their impact will probably reflect when I grow older and have more time for people around, than alone for myself.

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