Vielen Dank der Wiehnachtsmann!

And he came visiting, riding on his sleigh...
Yes, santa... der Weihnachtsmann.
so last evening was the first ever christmas eve that I spent traditionally.
In a small german town (village as they call it), I had a quiet evening meal of potato salad and ´wurst´with the Friedel family. In another one of my posts, I wrote about the comfort of melting into a surrounding where conversations happen in a foreign language. This time it happened again... I do follow some German. The dialect is different and the speed in tremendous. But you feel that you are being spoken to... and so there is happiness.
Much beer was being passed around when the door bell rang and Santa in his red suit with beard and broom in place walked in. Santa spoke a lot of German but his English was not bad either. He had me sing ´´ich bin Aunsländer´´ for him... so communication was obvisouly effective enough. ´´if you sing, i give you a present. if you don´t sing, i will use my broom´´... so Santa can be strict as well. Now you know.
The Christmas tree which was decorated with much care stood bright and well lit in the dull glow of the living room. The Germans do not enjoy a lot of colour. So the Christmas tree had red and golden decorations and some handcrafted dolls. They also have a liking for old things... the older a thing is, the more beautiful it seems to their eyes. So we put up decorations that were almost 30 years old or even more. Really.... it is some family work... eveyone has a part. The men put in the labour of hauling the Christmas tree around and putting it in place and the women decorate it meticulously.
What I really enjoyed was the fact that everyone gets to feel special. There are conversations 'about' and 'with' everyone. There is a definitely 'one' present for everyone, but it is ensured that everyone opens 'more than one' present. Everyone is expected to help in preparations and packing-up and everyone must eat well on the 'day of' and on the 'day after' christmas.
Lots of beer, lots of meat, lots of laughter and simplicity....that is how it goes the German way.

And then there was magic...

snowflakes.
They are as magical as they are spoken of.
Even if you are shivering, the sheer bliss of having snowflakes being showered on you is unbeatable.
There are big and small snowflakes.
They are cold when they settle on your fingers.
They actually remain there for a few seconds and its almost as if they melt away as you watch them more.
And then they disappear when you realise that they were 'real' ; so that they become a hint of your imagination again.
Snowflakes.... they remind me of fairytales, of Santa riding Rudolf, of happiness....
Merry 'White' Christmas!

England : here and there

from a Mac, the keys are smooth. I like

hmm... so i feel that my feet are off the ground
but i have still managed to take some decent photographs.
people say I need to be chilled out.

****
two friends
old friends
long time
a world so different
i stepped into something different
warm, sweet... sour
intoxicating.
i feel apart. i feel lonely.
loud music in the background.
i can't hear.
but i can think.
unknown names. but comfort is happening.
home... friends.... old loves....
drunkeness... an excuse to be flexible... to be free

LOVE

Thank you Greg Mortenson

I have never felt more motivated. Even as I ran those seven rounds of Russells Square Park, I didn't realise the transition from one round to the next. It all seemed like one big round. But what I have begun to realise is that I want to do something... I have realised for the first time that I have the potential to do something on my own. I have the ability to make a plan and execute it.

Since I have begun the book THREE CUPS OF TEA, I realise that there is someone out there who is living my dream. He went through all those moments of anxiety and anguish that I fear are not normal to tread upon; but today I know they are. Nature throws into your path all the obstacles she can find; you just have to go over them, because there obviously isn't a way around them.

I must go back to the hills. I must take on a responsibility. And I must make this happen... for myself. I have been a restless soul all these years, unable to find that one thing which is to make me happy. I have dabbled with many jobs and now an additional degree. This has given a chance to read, a chance to know what is happening in other places around the world. But I still feel the urge to return, to return to the people in the hills, the cool wind and the fragrance of the pine that blows with it. With every new learning experience, I am always thinking about how it would be useful if I return to the hills. I have not gone back so far because of a fear - a fear of what will follow... I will be happy, but what about the rest? I have a fear that not all my dreams will coincide with each other. There will be no harmony and I would have to give up one for the other. So I let the dream in the hills - just be... but it hasn't "just been". It has lived with each new day and it has grown in proportion and value. Today I know it can be achieved... it is not impossible. I had once wondered whether with life moving one from one avenue to another, this dream would let go off me. But it hasn't, it has stuck on... bringing me back to the hills every year to discover yet another aspect of itself.

Today I am sure I will go back to make this happen. Good luck to me!

To a year...

it has been one year ...

it has been a peaceful one year, should i say?

since the 'day'. the days...

the days for which i lit a candle.

a candle that withstood the sea breeze at nariman point, as it blew clear the leftovers of an attack.

a candle at the doors of justice, the doors that never closed on any of the days of the attack.

a candle for the city at gateway, the city that never sleeps...

Mumbai teaches you to to live, live through and live with bare realities that may hit you in the face, but then mumbai is right there to put you back on your feet and get you moving.

thank you, bombay!

midnight musings...

Things that you should do, may not be thing that you want to do;
Things that you want to do may not be tings that you should do;
But do things that you want to do,
It will make you happier.

Because things that you want to do,
You will do from your heart;
And when you do things from your heart,
You are always confident from the start.

Because things that you want to do,
Will make you smile.
And when you smile upon life itself,
Reaching goals doesn’t seem a long while.

Because things that you want to do
Always reflects yourself.
And when you live life in a familiar way,
Trust me;
It seems ‘full’ and ‘worthwhile’, irrespective of the day.

The me... PART II

i just discovered classical music.
it isn't loud and at the same time does not interfere.
i can read with it playing in the background (or may be the foreground).
i can listen to it 24-hours long (it has been 48 hours now).
it is amusing... how being by yourself allows you to know more about yourself. i am learning to discover myself and indeed it is a rather enlightening and impressive experience.
there are so many things that i did not have time for (those i thought i should have time for) or may be just overlooked in those busy days, but now this is more about what 'the me' likes. the books, the music, the clothes, the food... just the way "the me' wants it.
Tip toe on the maple leaf
It crackles beneath those toes
Bring home the sunshine from far above
'The me' within drives away 'the I's' woes.

Of an evening walk

When the ears are warm the body is warm. That is my latest theory.
I bought me a red and black hat. it is lovely. On the cold windy day, it kept my ears warm. I think, when you feel the wind in your ears, your head feels heavy and then your body stiffens.
*****
After goat cheese, I recommend cider. Last evening C and me walked around Angel. I just liked the name of the place and C said it's colourful and so we walked there. For window shoppers, this place is paradise, because nobody shuts the lights in their display panes. So we could see, all that we want and not get it. That is still a nice feeling: of seeing what you want (FULL STOP) We ate persian food. Sometimes just doing things impulsively really helps in enlarging the experience. There awas aubergine in every recipe on the menu (and that absolutely deters me from experimenting). But that left little choice and so we went with aubergine and ground walnut and sesame oil. It was rather nice. A large naan and a creamy yogurt dip. We discovered that buttermilk is called "DOUGH" in persian and as ginger ale, they only serve you a (miniature) bottle of "CANADA DRY".
I drank cider at two pubs. There was cuban music at Cuba Libre... cuban music is very very nice. C says it is the same beat over and over again. ButIi moved to it and so I enjoyed it. There were paintings on the wall and spanish cider to be served.

******
BEING A PROSPECTIVES AND PROSPECTIVES
We spoke about approaching random people in the pub to have a conversations. It is said to be the simplest way of making friends here. Odd! But I have decided that the next time, I will do so. One of our conversations led me to realise that I have become more confident about speaking to strange (those of whom I have not known before) men since the first time I have gone out with a guy. I mean, maybe once you know that you are "likeable" and "a prospective" for some-one, it really adds to your confidence of approaching other some-ones who you consider prospectives. It is much against the principle of thoughts - 'one must be self confident' and 'you live for yourself, not for your partner', etc. - but successful relationships do put that bounce into your footstep and spirit. Hmmm...

two fingers, they can do much:
cross for a wish, hold a pen, twist a ear, pick up dirty things, create a symbol for peace...

Cold winds...

When the cold wind blows,
It feels like a sting.
Hugged though I am
In woolen strings.

There is a gap in my window pane
It lets the cold wind through
I try to stuff it with newspaper and
Some rags of old cloth too.

But the cold wind is watching
This time she comes in from below the door
She looks me in the eye
As she engulfs my bare feet on the floor

Woolen socks and a comforter
I have switched off the lights
The heater is on a full blast
The cold wind, to the hot has a lost a war of might

But then I must get out for a reason
It's late and I am half asleep
Slippers on I step out, almost bare
And there - outside - the cold wind is waiting; she picks me up in a sweep.

Thoughts flow at random

I am thinking of the Mumbaiblasts. It will be nearly one year since those series of night-marous three days. But everyone has moved on, Mumbai has grown older with one more hard experience and the Mumbaikars (some new, some old) get along with their lives, the city supporting them.

*****

London is a lot like Mumbai. More organised. People stand in Q's; use their "sorry-s","excuse-me-s" and "thank-you-s"; wait for their turn. But then again, it is the same hustle-bustle. People are just as wound up getting somewhere. The hurried pace in their walk and the vacant streets on a Sunday afternoon, all remind me of Bombay; maybe a larger version of South Bombay.

Homecity, however, was nicer. Warmer. Weather-wise and emotion-wise. People exchanged a smile in the train, shared their oily goodies, cribbed about the weather. I felt re-assured, even if the lady opposite me in the local didn't talk. Here, I am more aloof. Everyone is more aloof. And in the instance anyone speaks, you just turn away assuming s/he is mad, drunk, of suspicious nature or unacquainted with the code-of-conduct(and therefore not to be mixed with). The other day, I was travelling back by "national rail" into London and it was hardly an hour past dusk. I sat by myself looking at my own shadow in the dark window pane. I eaves-dropped on an occasional line passed between so-passengers, before they hushed it down again. A group of men opposite me spoke an unknown language. I looked and them. And one of them said "you alright?" I turned away, the way Londoners do. I didn't know his intention, his ways were out-of-the-way: OF SUSPICIOUS NATURE.

*****

There are many disjointed thoughts at this moment. I must tell you about goat cheese. Try it, if you haven't. It has a putrid smell, which will fill your nostrils and a dry, flaky exterior making you wonder, how you should spread "this" on your toast. But then its creamy and pure. It is heavy and fatty and pure... And when I say pure, it is the taste that remains with you for much after you have eaten it. Just like baked cheesecake. These are flavours that you feel should remain with you. For these flavours, you end your meal with them and do not feel the urge for another one. They fill you... your mind, your body and your memories.

a new city..more writing

it is funny, how in a short span of time, many told me to start writing again. I don't know; just didn't feel like it all these days. I wouldn't call it a writer's block. There are a lot of things I can think of that I want to write; it is just that I don't feel like it.

Well, today is a new day. A new experience has begun. A different land, new faces and organised business. London!

People here are so wound up in their own lives. They are always heading somewhere and that too at an enormous speed. Eating while they walk. Talking while they walk. Even reading while they walk. Thank god, for pedestrians having a first right of way, in this country.

****

OF SQUIRRELS AND PIGEONS...

The squirrels here are BIG and FRIENDLY. Yes! this definitely might sound like an enticing sight. I see a lot of these squirrels in the park near my home. To begin with I was quite taken aback by their size. The only memories I have a squirrels - "kharutai" - are chasing them around the lawn in Delhi when I was a few years old. My mother would take me to watch birds and squirrels in this park. Allow us to be within a distance of few metres and the squirrels would scamper up the nearest tree trunk. They were small and you could tell there is squirrel on the tree when you trace its shape along the trunk in the dull glow of the setting sun.

But here, in Russels Square, the squirrels wait for you. They pose for your cameras and you must return the favour by giving them a treat. Recently a friedly narrated to me, what she termed as, "the MOST BIZARRE EXPERIENCE". She was in San Diego/Francisco, when in the midst of "being lost" in the "sudden thick fog" that settles in that city, very often (apparently) she came across some squirrels worth being photographed. But the interaction didn't end with the photo and it was taken forth for a few miles thereafter by the squirrels who decided to chase her for the distance. She actually had to run, while these 'large squirrels' leapt in the air, covering several footsteps at a time, after her. AND now, she says "Squirrels scare me". Tell an Indian kid that and they will laugh at you. Who cold imagine those cute cuddly creature turning into rascals.

But somebody else gave me a very pleasing theory about this. Like the squirrels the pigeons in London are also quite big and unmoved by human presence in close vicinity. They hardly perch and in case you decide to walk through a flock of their group, they just move aside, without the slightest flutter, giving you way. Now my friend says that this is a good example of how the feathered and four- legged ones in this country are not fearful of humans. They trust humans and this trust has obviously been established over years of humans not having caused harm to them. An interesting theory, I would say. But more like an equilibrium, before it is the turn of the four- legged to take us over.

For those nights of Trauma: Mumbai 26th November

It is as if the whole event has been imprinted on my mind. The reel plays again and again. I could not believe it in the first go. When I heard the news that gun shots were fired near the Taj, I brushed away the news as exaggeration. On the pillion seat of the Royal Enfield, as I rode back with H to Grant Road, we heard a noise. It was far away and so I refused to acknowledge it.
When I got back home, I switched on the TV. They reported a gang-war amongst some Nigerian drug peddlers. A shoot out at Leopold. A shoot out at Leopold?! That is some five minutes away from Mondy’s, the place I would have been at (in all imaginable and unimaginable possibility) that evening, if not for A being stuck at work until so late. “It will be late and we won’t get a table…” A had said. But the gang-war seemed a credible analysis. Afterall Leopolds’ was the place where foreigners flocked for all meals (and conversations).They played a drum-roll sort of music and the dim lighting always gave it the ideal fitting into Shantaram-like novels.
But the news continued to follow the trail. Leopold, Napeansea Road, Vile Parle, Santacruz, Taj, Oberoi, Cama Hospital, VT Station and Nariman House – explosions and shoot-outs continued to wreak havoc in my city. The news channeled flashed images of people lying about on blood-splattered tiles, vehicles twisted out of shape, horror-struck faces with tears running down numb cheeks and men in olive-green uniforms trying to gain control of the situation. The news strip continued to mark the rise in number of deaths – an ACP, the chief of the Anti-Terrorist Squad and another senior police officer were all killed in one shot at the first go. The names didn’t sound familiar – no memories of even having read about them in the newspaper, but I watched their funerals, their families and stories of their bravery with a sense of familiarity.
For three whole days my television was on. Even while I travelled from Mumbai to Pune on the eve of the last evacuation operation by the National Security Guards, I constantly kept in touch with people seated before their televsision sets, trying to remain with the scenes and the situation. I felt as though I was leaving my city at a time when it needed me and so even when I returned at 11pm on Sunday night, I drove into South Mumbai and walked the deserted streets near gateway, the by-lanes behind the Taj, where Bade-Miya was still serving sheek-kebabs; a lonely Leopold Café which now stood shutters-down and the Oberoi –Trident couple still stood up high, even though the window panes of the lobby were shattered. Mumbai, the city that never sleeps, was not asleep even today; but in fact she was waking up very early, still groggy. Candles blinked along the streets and small groudp of people stood silently, some with cameras, some with their little children and some others with flowers. I hadn’t brought a candle, but like many others I scrounged the small lit-up squares for a candle that had extinguished or probably fallen over. I could make it stand again; I could make it bright again. What a blissful feeling.

**************
THE BOYS
Those three nights stole Mumbai’s joy and spritely charm. A bunch of innocent killed a mass of innocent. I can’t help but feel bad for the terrorists, even as I cheer the soldiers who put up a skilful fight. For what fault of these young boys were they brought to a point to “kill unto death.” These boys were just like you and me, of an age where we are on that threshold of life where we begin to question what we have been taught and learn to distinguish between the right and the wrong. But unlike us, these boys didn’t have the time to learn, to question to verify or to rebel. They just had to prove – prove to themselves and to those who taught them that they were worthwhile students. To me the situation was as simple as this: their teachers capitalized on their age, the emotional phase it brings with it, the surge of rebellion and ambitiousness that overwhelms everything else.
It was a similar phase for the boys from the National Security Guards too, don’t you think? They too prove to themselves and to those who taught them that they were worthwhile students that they had applied efficiently each bit of what they had learnt. They were congratulated and hugged, drowned in cheer and appreciation for what they had accomplished.
Neither of the boys have any regrets.
They all came face to face for a cause. Each one had his own motivation and reason to be a part of it. For the lives that were lost as reason for these causes and for the minds that did not have chance to think, to feel to voice, I hope that the circle completes for them – through the thoughts and voices of those who survive them!

In Open Court

THIS IS ALL FOR THAT DAY IN COURT ROOM NO. 16B OF THE BOMBAY HIGH COURT:

Well, so that big guy, who sits in that important chair up there - the judge, of course smiled at the cousel who appeared after me and said "Has the uniform changed? I mean am I not aware of a change in the dress code?" The cousel checked his own attire before he noticed everyone turning to look at me. I was busy packing my files, when a lady said "The judge seems to be speaking about you!" I was in a light blue shirt and grey pants - now whats wrong with that? (vibrant? light blue?)

The first thing (I don't know why) did read was that about the dress code for lady advocates in the High Court. It says "That women are allowed grey or black pants and a full sleeves or half sleeves shirt of any sobre colour! (salwar kameez and skirts also follow in the list)"

And so when I did realise it was me the Judge was talking about I said quite promptly, "But pastel shades are allowed." Aha, if not for that associate who hushed me and the friendly counsel who covered up for me, I would have been heard IN OPEN COURT!

***********

I did try approaching the judge in his chambers later, but he refused to see me. I wanted to clarify my stand, but what the hell... he didn't want to see me , he said. And of course the associates who clamour out side his court, who thought it wiser not to let me in.

But what about the fact, that I was so right!!!! So right in what I wore and what I wanted to say.

The general custom is to wear black and white. But the rule of book foms the base. After all you are in court and the law is what is LAID DOWN. It is not a custom, nor anyone's likes or dislikes - it is just about what is written in that rule book. What if someone has not read it, shouldn't he be informed, lest he points a finger at some one else again?

I feel im going to catch hold of someone who knows him and meet him sometime to tell him my story! So what if it is in a closed chamber....

Special credits: to the bike ride from Grant Road to Goregaon.- it lasted one hour in peak traffiic hours. This made for entertainment.

In an act to be different,
I ordered beer one day,
And, oh!, my friends,
It all went this way.

We went to a place called Mondy's,
They serve only beer and wine;
They didn't have the vodka - with crand\berry juice,
Which I had particularly in mind.

So I agreed to beer.
They ordered; a pitcher, that too.
They placed a mug before me,
But drink, what else could I do?

It had to it a bitter twang,
Not so friendly for a first time, I'd say,
But half glass through, the taste lingered on,
But this time there wasn't a reason for dismay.

We had the whole and ordered another,
More pitchers were passed 'round,
The yellow liquid rose to my head,
Each time to the loo I bound.

Beer and me, weren't friends-at-first-sight,
It all went like this, you see;
It fills my tummy and makes me happy,
Each time I visit the bar and have a limited penny.

Budweiser's my favourite,
Kingfisher ranks two,
Castle Nager, though my first,
It all depends on my mood.

That's not what I pick first, off the bar menu
The choice of vodkas and shots is vast,
The beer comes then, right before the end,
We say we save the best for last.

Random sentimality - Part I

I just read a mushy-mushy post. Almost gurgling- cooing- calling it whatever you want - over times of love and lust. I am quite tempted to pretty much do the same, but then on a second thoughts, Ill just write about some people. People...

Kabbu - the name sounds like a character from a childrens books with rosy cheeks and chubby elbows, a grin spread across the face, large yellow sun shining right above his head, some tall flowers with pink and red petals around him. Well, that is a description much unlike the real-him. The most important man in my life, my soulmate, the centre of my world, work and play, I wouldn't be able to live without him... blah, blah, blah. Well the relationship is far from this. It isn't even close to my Howard Roark with his ravishing girl friend (I forget her name) fantasy. But it's good and is here to stay, or that is what I claim to believe, because of its nature. No head over heels behaviour, no rushing into each other's arms, no hour-long phone coversations, no escapades for privacy... Kabbu and me are more like living together because we like each other's company. We don't get bored of each other. We enjoy 'travelling' to the same places, eating the same sort of food, metting similar kinds of people - i guess that is about it. The list sort of ends there. he likes watching cricket (like almost every other Indian guy), I don't like watching sports; he doesn't like the taste of beer, I trip over the mere thought of it; he drinks water from every flowing tap, I ensure I carry water with me; he'd rather take pictures of the sunset and the depth of the valleys, I must have a human in my frame (or else what the fuck are you looking at?) . But still Kabbu and me are compatible. We dislike each others friends - prior to when we met, that is and mock each others habits; but Kabbu still surprises me by waiting outside my gym, brings me chocolates (those that he got at birthday parties), buys me expesive gifts (when i demand them) and forces himself to eat cheese and maccronni ('coz that is the yummiest meal ever created) Mmmmm...

Ajee. My grandmother. She is one lady who no one in the family can get along with, except ofcourse for me. She has a wild imagination, which runs way ahead of time and imaginatin itself. Once I wanted get the duplicate of my house keys made. Of course, my anxious grandmother sent me all the way to the other end of the town (or at least thats what it felt like after I had changed two buses and taken a taxi for minimum fare) to get the duplicate made. her explanation:"You never know who is copying the key, he might make an extra copy and decide to enter the house when we are not there!" That is the most bizarre explanation I have hear - A raom man, makes copy of the key (which he apparently knows to be your entrance key), knows where you live, knows when you'll leave your home and decides to make th most of the opportunity. of course this is true of all key makers living withing a radius of 6 -7 kms from your house. Jesus Christ! It not just key makers, but garbage cleaners, pest control men, a new milkman, fruit vendors and the list goes on. Even at 90, her skills of interpretation are admirable. You must not say anything to her without prior thought. "Where is that watch I gave you to repair?" she one day asked my servant. "You never gave me any watch" - Servant. Later my servant for my grandma's 'FYI' made a passing statement "Now-a-days, watches are so cheap, why would you waste time repairing one, just buy a new one." (Servant exits) Ajee (in a whisper): "No wonder, he doesn't remember having taken the watch. Must have thrown it away. Since watches come so cheap, he thought I'd be better of buying a new one. Guess he thinks I have enough money to buy another one!" So this way, we flip rom one trail of imagination to another. For the rest of the family, they have gotten sick of her mood swings and false accusations. I treat it as entertainment. I learn as to how many perceptions one person can have about one particular thing in one day, but at different times of it!
Ajee almost mothered me - well she did mother me. So I have this compassion towards her, it is love to some extent, but more unilateral. At her age, Im guessing it is difficult to love as powerfully and devotedly. There are contradictions in feelings and everything is measured in how much s/he has done for you v/s how much you have done for him/her. She can get very difficult to be around, but that's ok. At least she gives me a subject to think about, to write about?

I have been trying to make my blog more technologically friendly.
The one thing I have been trying to figure is how does one find out the staistics of people visiting ur blog. Blogger offers options, but my technologically challenged brain, doesnt seem to be getting too far. A pen and paper was far less complicated!

It is not a pleasant day today,
I don't know why I feel so sad,
Grandma said "It's the most inauspicious day in the Hindu Calendar"
As though, that would make a difference, to 'my' world, playing relay.

It is sunny
A bright day I say,
Something bad is going to happen,
Engulfed with dismay.

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.