In all the families I know, of all the parents I know, all are joined by a single loose thread. That link is a desire to watch their children touch success. Families expect to surge forward by the thrust of their young, who are fuelled by the blood and ambitions of generations. Your ancestors take every step with you, like a thousand feet stepping at once on the same patch of sand. All seemingly move forward together towards a lighter future where name, happiness and wealth abound. But I wonder about our hidden histories. Were we always a line of bankers or traders? Is there a thief's blood within us and also that of a journeyman? And more importantly, how did they know which way was forward?
During rare moments of absolute clarity the road forward appears as muddled as during times of confusion. Do I take the path taken before by my ancestors? It guarantees a degree of fortune, if not fame. Or do I choose the road that appears more desolate? Because trading, not writing, is in my blood? But what of its rewards, those intangibles that leave the sweetest of tastes?
A reward of this nature is difficult to explain to anyone but those who have sought it and tasted it. It is like the first drop of the monsoon or a warm conversation or a meal prepared well. The rewards are beyond value. You feel as if you have been touched by life itself. It is a tempting path to take.
I wonder whether years from now a sindhi child with a wide nose will imagine his predecessors. "Do I take the path taken before by my ancestors?" the child will ponder. "There is fame, but no fortune. Or do I choose the road that appears more desolate? Because writing, not trading, is in my blood?"
Monday, May 09, 2005
Bad language
"Do you know why I am here?" Sibylla asked Balian sultrily in the dead of night in Kingdom of Heaven after entering his room in her nightie mere scenes after they shared special smiles. Balian, played by Orlando Bloom, said nothing. Perhaps it was the query. Preoccupied with heavy questions about god - He loves me, He loves me not - redemption and protecting the peace, our young crusader, who would take on the might of Arabia after the interval, was thrown off by this. In any case, Sibylla spelt it out to him and they then rolled about a bit before the Indian censors cut to the next morning.
Couldn't that cut have come a minute earlier? When she opened her mouth, for instance? The movie was littered with similar sledgehammer instances. Whatever happened to silence and a look that said everything? Tony Leung and Maggie Cheung in In the Mood for Love, for example, spoke with their eyes and bodies. They spoke gently, aware that their own marriages were in peril, as if words would break what held them together. It was subtle, it was beautiful. But then again, Kingdom of Heaven is one of this year's first summer blockbusters.
And subtlety, romantic as it is, isn't a prerequisite in money-spinners.
Couldn't that cut have come a minute earlier? When she opened her mouth, for instance? The movie was littered with similar sledgehammer instances. Whatever happened to silence and a look that said everything? Tony Leung and Maggie Cheung in In the Mood for Love, for example, spoke with their eyes and bodies. They spoke gently, aware that their own marriages were in peril, as if words would break what held them together. It was subtle, it was beautiful. But then again, Kingdom of Heaven is one of this year's first summer blockbusters.
And subtlety, romantic as it is, isn't a prerequisite in money-spinners.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
A trip, a cousin, and lots of stories
This is exciting. I'm making a short trip to Indore at the end of this month and, like last month's journey, there will be plenty of stories to tell. Especially since the family of relatives I'll be with tend to have a funny take on most things. The youngest member of that family, now 15, is especially delightful. He spends lunchtimes with friends inventing quirky urdu poetry.
His story is by far the most interesting - like magic realism - in what is an overwhelmingly large clan. The youngest son of the youngest son in a brood of eight, he emerged crying, and that's all the sound he could make for years. For three years he strained but remained largely silent. What does one do? Treatment, surely, but doctors said not much could be done. So everyone took turns conversing with him and, in some time, the sounds he had begun forcing out became coherent. Then, suddenly, within months, he spoke with more clarity - both in sound and thought - as if it was nothing new. He spoke as quickly as words could come out. Barely would one end before the next began. There were no fullstops, no commas, no silence, and all day long he was a fountain of speech. The more stunning thing was that he thought as quickly as he spoke, which led us teenage cousins to believe that we had a genius on our hands.
So Indore, with its kaanch mandir (glass temple) and markets and havelis (palaces) and a cousin who can't keep quiet, beckons. This is all rather exciting.
His story is by far the most interesting - like magic realism - in what is an overwhelmingly large clan. The youngest son of the youngest son in a brood of eight, he emerged crying, and that's all the sound he could make for years. For three years he strained but remained largely silent. What does one do? Treatment, surely, but doctors said not much could be done. So everyone took turns conversing with him and, in some time, the sounds he had begun forcing out became coherent. Then, suddenly, within months, he spoke with more clarity - both in sound and thought - as if it was nothing new. He spoke as quickly as words could come out. Barely would one end before the next began. There were no fullstops, no commas, no silence, and all day long he was a fountain of speech. The more stunning thing was that he thought as quickly as he spoke, which led us teenage cousins to believe that we had a genius on our hands.
So Indore, with its kaanch mandir (glass temple) and markets and havelis (palaces) and a cousin who can't keep quiet, beckons. This is all rather exciting.
Saying hello to India
It's only been three weeks since the game in Delhi. Why does it feel longer? The calm after the trip has been a restless one, fraught with anxiety over the next stint. I stare at the calender, calculating dates, planning budgets, looking at maps, and then recalling a sister's wedding or a relocation and starting from zero again. My nights and days are spent dreaming of shawls and steam engines and a hot drink on a verandah on a December morning in Kashmir. There are stories out there, not where you are, my imagination tells me. This is a lie, of course, but I'm happy to listen.
My smiles to no one attract attention from everyone as I mentally plot an unsteady line across India, imagining the train's path, the fleeting villages and people of every colour and accent. There is some detachment from reality here, because the trains run on time, these people of varying colours and accents are always amicable, and the village huts are almost always made of straw. In other words, I need to see more.
"You need to see more," a friend said quite some time ago, nodding her head sagely. Well-travelled, lucid, and often too worldly for her own good, she suggested travel as a method of learning more about India. I was fresh off the boat then and bathed in the particular clueless self-assurance that afflicts many college grads from America. Travel? Pshaw. "Sure," or something like it, I said. It's been a while since then and India has been calling. I'm not sure how I'll answer, but it's calling, and the calls have been ringing loud for some time.
Something has been shifting steadily: an understanding of my own life and place in the world. There's nothing extraordinary about it, for I guess everyone has their silent but monumental moments. India has a lot to do with mine. It has few laws and yet it survives and grows. It throws up and swallows crises everyday. It does this, it does that; nothing surprises you, everything could horrify you. This utter chaos is appealing because it is, in a sense, like each of us. Understand me and you will understand yourself, it says.
So I'm wondering how I got here. Sometimes it feels, rather romantically, like predestination. At other times, it's like waking up groggy one morning in Vegas and finding yourself married to Britney Spears. I love it, but it leaves me and a few others I know utterly helpless. What to do then? Fight it out? Or throw yourself into it and see what it makes of you, like it has done to countless others before?
My smiles to no one attract attention from everyone as I mentally plot an unsteady line across India, imagining the train's path, the fleeting villages and people of every colour and accent. There is some detachment from reality here, because the trains run on time, these people of varying colours and accents are always amicable, and the village huts are almost always made of straw. In other words, I need to see more.
"You need to see more," a friend said quite some time ago, nodding her head sagely. Well-travelled, lucid, and often too worldly for her own good, she suggested travel as a method of learning more about India. I was fresh off the boat then and bathed in the particular clueless self-assurance that afflicts many college grads from America. Travel? Pshaw. "Sure," or something like it, I said. It's been a while since then and India has been calling. I'm not sure how I'll answer, but it's calling, and the calls have been ringing loud for some time.
Something has been shifting steadily: an understanding of my own life and place in the world. There's nothing extraordinary about it, for I guess everyone has their silent but monumental moments. India has a lot to do with mine. It has few laws and yet it survives and grows. It throws up and swallows crises everyday. It does this, it does that; nothing surprises you, everything could horrify you. This utter chaos is appealing because it is, in a sense, like each of us. Understand me and you will understand yourself, it says.
So I'm wondering how I got here. Sometimes it feels, rather romantically, like predestination. At other times, it's like waking up groggy one morning in Vegas and finding yourself married to Britney Spears. I love it, but it leaves me and a few others I know utterly helpless. What to do then? Fight it out? Or throw yourself into it and see what it makes of you, like it has done to countless others before?
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Like a bat out of Meerut
Many years ago, behind my building in Deira in Dubai, lay a large patch of sand. We played cricket there, and were horrified when, some years later, bulldozers and sandlifters parked themselves there for construction work. Yet we found a sandy bank to play in, or if there weren't any, we'd flatten a long patch and begin playing. Then, when the parking lot was made, we adapted to this new pitch and its bounce. As bowlers, with a deadly taped ball in our grasp, we were Akram, Younis and Donald. As batsmen however, we were unbeatable. We were Sunil Gavaskar, because all we had were SG bats. We thought that's what SG stood for. Still, a new SG bat created a wave of excitement. Boys from the adjoining playgrounds would come by to see it and knock on it with knuckles, nodding appreciatively. Then some guy would visit India for his vacations and come back with a better one. Such is life.
Some time last month I visited Sanspareils Greenlands (SG) in Meerut to write a story on balls. There I met Paras Anand, who runs the place. We spent the afternoon walking about, him talking, me questioning. There was one utterly enchanting spot in the factory, where unlabelled bats leaned by walls along a long corridor. They weren't shiny yet but, man oh man, they looked gorgeous. One had a heavy butt (curve?) and a label around its neck naming an Australian player. I stopped to stare while Paras went on talking and walking. "Do these cost less in Meerut, since they're made here?" I asked.
Sure, I expected him to say, it costs about 200 to make it. I would have snapped up two, or maybe five. "If you want one, you can have it from the factory," Paras said. "Free."
Free scares me. Free is light on the wallet but heavier on something else. I grinned, nodded no, and we got back to talking about balls.
Some time last month I visited Sanspareils Greenlands (SG) in Meerut to write a story on balls. There I met Paras Anand, who runs the place. We spent the afternoon walking about, him talking, me questioning. There was one utterly enchanting spot in the factory, where unlabelled bats leaned by walls along a long corridor. They weren't shiny yet but, man oh man, they looked gorgeous. One had a heavy butt (curve?) and a label around its neck naming an Australian player. I stopped to stare while Paras went on talking and walking. "Do these cost less in Meerut, since they're made here?" I asked.
Sure, I expected him to say, it costs about 200 to make it. I would have snapped up two, or maybe five. "If you want one, you can have it from the factory," Paras said. "Free."
Free scares me. Free is light on the wallet but heavier on something else. I grinned, nodded no, and we got back to talking about balls.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Time
Five years ago
I'm at Pratt Coffee Shop on the corner of DeKalb and St James. A pink milkshake and a half-eaten burger are on the table. It snowed last night and there's a line outside, huddled shivering figures trying to get in but too polite to evict us slow eaters. The Russian owner smiles and digs for change while I find the Rupee and Dirham notes cluttered among others on the wall behind him. I step outside and the cold goes through my nostrils to my head. There is homework to do, but all this weather does is make you sleepy.
In time
I'm thinking of Kashmir, a mountain in north India. I find myself there in a cottage, writing happily and without a cell phone. We're having chats outside the bread shop, and at six in the evening, the storekeeper joins us for drinks and we tell stories in the dark. No woman, no cry plays somewhere and I hum with it, singing my favourite parts: Everything's gonna be alright.
But there is a woman. The song is a parody now, sung in bachelor days of the past. My clouds don't have silver linings now, they don't need silver linings. They're whiffs of cloud, feelings of eternal lightness. It's night and I'm on this mountain, thinking of all the times I sat and watched the stars and I remember that each time was significant. Once, on a bus to Goa, and then in a tsunami-swept village in Tamil Nadu; at either end of a relationship.
I'm at Pratt Coffee Shop on the corner of DeKalb and St James. A pink milkshake and a half-eaten burger are on the table. It snowed last night and there's a line outside, huddled shivering figures trying to get in but too polite to evict us slow eaters. The Russian owner smiles and digs for change while I find the Rupee and Dirham notes cluttered among others on the wall behind him. I step outside and the cold goes through my nostrils to my head. There is homework to do, but all this weather does is make you sleepy.
In time
I'm thinking of Kashmir, a mountain in north India. I find myself there in a cottage, writing happily and without a cell phone. We're having chats outside the bread shop, and at six in the evening, the storekeeper joins us for drinks and we tell stories in the dark. No woman, no cry plays somewhere and I hum with it, singing my favourite parts: Everything's gonna be alright.
But there is a woman. The song is a parody now, sung in bachelor days of the past. My clouds don't have silver linings now, they don't need silver linings. They're whiffs of cloud, feelings of eternal lightness. It's night and I'm on this mountain, thinking of all the times I sat and watched the stars and I remember that each time was significant. Once, on a bus to Goa, and then in a tsunami-swept village in Tamil Nadu; at either end of a relationship.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Losing a day
From a lucid Pico Iyer essay on the disorientation that is part of travel:
I get off a plane, 17 hours out of joint, and tell naked secrets to a person I know I don't trust. A friend starts talking about her days - her plans, her friends, the things she wants to do - and tears start welling in my eyes, in a restaurant. I can't sleep at night (because I've been sleeping in the day), and so I try to go through my routine, as I might in the daylight world. But I write the wrong name on the uncharacteristically emotional letter. I shower the stranger with endearments. When the lady at the bank offers me a $3,000 credit for the $30,000 cheque I've given her (a large part of my yearly income), I smile and say, 'Have a nice day'.Catch the rest of it at the Guardian.
The Russi local
At midnight the immigration officials came banging on the doors. The train was still so you could hear them coming. For an hour and a half the carriages were infested with uniforms, Polish, Belarus and Russian passport officers in green and Belarus customs inspectors in blue and without hats. Three countries' border formalities completed in darkness in a single, surly bureaufest of inkpads and suspicion.
At 3am, with a series of resounding jolts, we were shunted into a dimly lit shed for one of the most eccentric frontier procedures in the world. Because the gauge of Russian railways is 89 millimetres wider than the standard gauge used in the rest of Europe, the wheels of the entire train have to be changed. Each carriage, passengers and all, is jacked up and adapted for the rails of Mother Russia. Nobody has ever invaded her by train.
Peter Hughes takes the Trans-Siberian Express, a fine journey.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Househunting observations
In one apartment block, the floor sequence in the elevator was "8, 9, 10, 11, 12, T, 14, 15..."
In Andheri, living on a higher floor is not a good idea. On the 18th floor, one side had a view of slums, while the other was of the rooftops of residential Andheri, in itself a rather glum sight.
If the builder says it'll be ready in six months, add another six to his estimate.
Builders will throw in words like 'Diwali' and 'New Year' to influence you. Eg. "It'll be ready for possession by Diwali." Why Diwali, you ask? It's an auspicious time to buy a house or make major changes, according to Hindu tradition as I know it.
Building societies are a monstrous pain in the butt. Any changes you would like to make in your flat, a place you have spent your own money on, have to be approved by a fat, balding, wheezing building secretary who isn't getting any.
Going by the intensity of the schpeil a builder gave me about the Otis elevators, home buyers are influenced by the smoothness of their elevator rides. "And it has 24-hour music too," he added.
Builders begin by assuming you're an ass. One took me to a tenth-floor window and pointed at the barren ground that lay below. "Look there," he said, "you have a view of a garden."
"What? Where?" I asked.
"There, where you are looking. It is a garden."
"But it doesn't have any grass and there is nothing there. There's no one there. What makes it a garden?"
"It is government-owned and there is a sign outside the plot that says it is a garden."
I didn't know what to say.
In Andheri, living on a higher floor is not a good idea. On the 18th floor, one side had a view of slums, while the other was of the rooftops of residential Andheri, in itself a rather glum sight.
If the builder says it'll be ready in six months, add another six to his estimate.
Builders will throw in words like 'Diwali' and 'New Year' to influence you. Eg. "It'll be ready for possession by Diwali." Why Diwali, you ask? It's an auspicious time to buy a house or make major changes, according to Hindu tradition as I know it.
Building societies are a monstrous pain in the butt. Any changes you would like to make in your flat, a place you have spent your own money on, have to be approved by a fat, balding, wheezing building secretary who isn't getting any.
Going by the intensity of the schpeil a builder gave me about the Otis elevators, home buyers are influenced by the smoothness of their elevator rides. "And it has 24-hour music too," he added.
Builders begin by assuming you're an ass. One took me to a tenth-floor window and pointed at the barren ground that lay below. "Look there," he said, "you have a view of a garden."
"What? Where?" I asked.
"There, where you are looking. It is a garden."
"But it doesn't have any grass and there is nothing there. There's no one there. What makes it a garden?"
"It is government-owned and there is a sign outside the plot that says it is a garden."
I didn't know what to say.
Yawn
It is 3:12am. The birds have already begun chirping. The stray dogs haven't stopped barking since 1am. This is a city that never sleeps because the animals keep it awake.
Love
Today, a broker took me to seven apartments around Andheri and Versova so I could choose a place to move to. The first had no view. I mentioned this to the landlord, who said rather merrily, "Oh, but there is a view. You can see the next building's garden from the bathroom."
The second was quite good, and everything seemed right, but something important I could not think of was missing. The next was boring. But the fourth, now that was love.
The dealer unlocked the door to a smallish two-bedroom apartment on the first floor and I stepped in. What happened next was, well, just like love. It struck hard. I felt that if I moved here, nothing would ever make me sad again. It was cozy, it was warm, it was near the ground and the rooms were clustered together, like a little commune. At that moment thought would have been useless; amounting to nothing. I wanted to bring the world here and say 'this is happiness, this first floor 2bhk' with a view of children playing and a little flowerbed outside each room and a kitchen with a full length window where I imagined cooking pancakes and Thai green curry without gobi.
Friends could cook themselves something and crash out. They could come and go as they wanted - while I was around, of course - and we could watch movies and have tea and make plans to do devious things. My front door would be a revolving door.
I used to think love was an intense feeling that no one understood, so it could not be shared with others. But I was wrong, for I want to jump about and share this place and tell everyone I've fallen in love.
The kindly broker took me about to three more places but it was of no use. My mind was elsewhere; I'd found love.
The second was quite good, and everything seemed right, but something important I could not think of was missing. The next was boring. But the fourth, now that was love.
The dealer unlocked the door to a smallish two-bedroom apartment on the first floor and I stepped in. What happened next was, well, just like love. It struck hard. I felt that if I moved here, nothing would ever make me sad again. It was cozy, it was warm, it was near the ground and the rooms were clustered together, like a little commune. At that moment thought would have been useless; amounting to nothing. I wanted to bring the world here and say 'this is happiness, this first floor 2bhk' with a view of children playing and a little flowerbed outside each room and a kitchen with a full length window where I imagined cooking pancakes and Thai green curry without gobi.
Friends could cook themselves something and crash out. They could come and go as they wanted - while I was around, of course - and we could watch movies and have tea and make plans to do devious things. My front door would be a revolving door.
I used to think love was an intense feeling that no one understood, so it could not be shared with others. But I was wrong, for I want to jump about and share this place and tell everyone I've fallen in love.
The kindly broker took me about to three more places but it was of no use. My mind was elsewhere; I'd found love.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Food claustrophobia
Is there a thing such as food claustrophobia? I would think so, for I feel it strongly in Andheri while flipping through menus. It feels as if cuisines are closing in, with dosas and idlis from the south and paneer makhanwala and vegetable kolapuri from the north advancing towards each other. From the east come Chinese and Thai food, with local flavours and masalas added to their ranks until they reach Bombay under the guise of paneer manchurian and green curry with gobi. Felafels and kebabs arrive from the Arabia with sauces that I swear weren't part of the menu in Dubai. The Big Mac travels from further away, with more intent and organisation, and India gulps and regugitates it in the form of the Maharaja Mac and fries without the beef lining.
I guess this has much to do with the availability and expense of authentic ingredients. But still. Authentic food would be nice in this place, Andheri, which takes pride in the number of restaurants situated here.
I guess this has much to do with the availability and expense of authentic ingredients. But still. Authentic food would be nice in this place, Andheri, which takes pride in the number of restaurants situated here.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Finding a book
My book had arrived at Strand, and I had rushed there to claim it before anybody else bought it. "The Granta Book of India" was handed over with a smile, for I had called twice to check if the copy was still unsold, and I was quite relieved to have finally acquired it. Then, at eight, the keepers downed the shutter, signaling it was time to go. My mood lifted so much, not even the stifling humidity could affect it.
There is great satisfaction in finding a book.
There is great satisfaction in finding a book.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Singin' the blues in Ayodhya
Came across Nina Paley at Sepia Mutiny. She's created a beautiful series of short animations titled 'Sitayana' or 'Sita sings the blues', which explains itself. Check out the films here.
Simply beautiful.
Simply beautiful.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Guess why you have asthma?
The subject of past lives was best left to 70s Rishi Kapoor movies, I had always thought. Then today, a psychologist friend mentioned something interesting: regressive therapy. This therapy is used in extreme cases (as I understood it). It involves hypnosis, under which the patient reaches back to a previous life. "This way," the friend said, "we have uncovered that people who suffer from asthma in this life were suffocated in a previous one."
She raised her eyebrows higher than I had mine, emphasising that even if I didn't believe her, it was true. "It's been tried and tested. It's not an Indian device. A westerner devised this method and now many of us use it. But Indians are wary of being hypnotised, so it's more common abroad."
She raised her eyebrows higher than I had mine, emphasising that even if I didn't believe her, it was true. "It's been tried and tested. It's not an Indian device. A westerner devised this method and now many of us use it. But Indians are wary of being hypnotised, so it's more common abroad."
7:51pm on television
"Kaun ho tum, eh? Kaun ho tum? Jabse tum aaye ho, tabse meri zindagi mein khushiyon ki barsaat hui hai."
Yuck.
Yuck.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Watching the sky turn blue
It's late, I'm thinking. It is late. It's 1:15 in the morning and I'm waiting in a car to pick up a friend who works late. This is late. I'm at Juhu, that famous stretch in Bombay that means beaches, money, movie superstars. Opposite the office is a freaking traffic jam at this late time, with four-wheel drives lining up to enter the Marriott, the snazziest place to be after 9pm on a weekend. There are traffic cops present but they cannot ease the slow crush of cars on this two-lane road. I park the car on the side, waiting. Three women, dressed in saris and bright lipstick, lean against the car behind mine. They are not out of place, but what they do is clear. Occasionally we make eye-contact. There's this kid, Raju, all of nine or ten, hanging by my window, selling me his flashy 'I Love You' glass keychains by just looking at me. With keychain attached to car key, we get talking. And then friend arrives. Old friend, new friend, previous life friend, sometimes I think future friend, close friend, afar friend; whatever, I'm happy.
And we drive like we drove before. Without purpose, without a destination, without an eye on the fuel gauge. This is life, I'm thinking a little sentimentally. But who cares. Bombay at night is a city that throbs only indoors, leaving me free with serene streets, open roads. Just the way I like it. We drive in the suburbs, where the last traces of life trickle into clubs. And then we drive to town, where the architecture is what you expect of a decent architect. But really, who cares. A drive's a drive. With friend, it becomes a Drive.
And so we see early morning walkers at 4am. Four am at Worli Seaface, where workers from a nearby wedding site have just crashed on benches! Amazing. A type I had only heard of in parental legend! And we drive on, driving past places that meant something. Old roads are traversed; the new ones are not worth going down this late. Buses begin operating again, and I am back to the regular morning duty of playing prod-prod with them, this time on surreally empty streets. Road's too narrow for my driving ego, really. Anyway, so we drive. And then it sneaks up, as changing colours do. The sky turns purple, and shades of blue sneak in. Soon I would have to go home. I grow nervous, we will have to say bye. Never before had a countdown been so rich in colour.
We say bye. The sky is blue now and the birds wake up others while they put me to sleep. The phone rings. It is care calling, keeping me on the phone till I get home safe.
And we drive like we drove before. Without purpose, without a destination, without an eye on the fuel gauge. This is life, I'm thinking a little sentimentally. But who cares. Bombay at night is a city that throbs only indoors, leaving me free with serene streets, open roads. Just the way I like it. We drive in the suburbs, where the last traces of life trickle into clubs. And then we drive to town, where the architecture is what you expect of a decent architect. But really, who cares. A drive's a drive. With friend, it becomes a Drive.
And so we see early morning walkers at 4am. Four am at Worli Seaface, where workers from a nearby wedding site have just crashed on benches! Amazing. A type I had only heard of in parental legend! And we drive on, driving past places that meant something. Old roads are traversed; the new ones are not worth going down this late. Buses begin operating again, and I am back to the regular morning duty of playing prod-prod with them, this time on surreally empty streets. Road's too narrow for my driving ego, really. Anyway, so we drive. And then it sneaks up, as changing colours do. The sky turns purple, and shades of blue sneak in. Soon I would have to go home. I grow nervous, we will have to say bye. Never before had a countdown been so rich in colour.
We say bye. The sky is blue now and the birds wake up others while they put me to sleep. The phone rings. It is care calling, keeping me on the phone till I get home safe.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Friday, April 22, 2005
Myths and truths
I was at St. John's Church in Meerut, wondering where to go next. My train was due to leave for Kanpur seven hours from now, at 7pm. The three church minders had let me loose within, allowing me to touch a ragged but proud-looking Bible held together by tape, letting me press keys on the century-old pipe organ, watching patiently as I ran my fingers over the engravings in bronze plaques embedded in walls to cement the town's history of revolution and christian valiance. I wanted to sit there and fool myself, imagining times seen through biased eyes. Nevertheless, the images were always exciting, always packed with action. These bronze plates told of deaths through sickness, by mutiny, and even the ones that said nothing seemed violent by dint of just being here.
The three keepers, brothers whose family had lived here since 1921, suggested a nearby graveyard. We were in the Cantonment area, the stage for the big one in 1857, but now a serene area where anger and violence seemed relics, etched in epitaphs, carved in bronze. No, this was a place where the steeples of churches rose above clusters of trimmed trees, where the cyclists of empty cycle-rickshaws wheeled by wordlessly, and where batsmen waiting their turn slept in the shade of trees.
There were few signs here, and none that indicated where the graves were. After what seemed like a mile, I found it, and found the gates locked. Dialogue followed, where I had to convince guards within that I wasn't here to break anything. My guide, the caretaker of the graveyard, took me about, proudly pointing out gravestones he thought were pretty and historic, only pausing to tut-tut when he saw a white stone lying about. These were parts of graves, broken down by vandals to throw at trees for fruits. This is what he had imagined me doing as we spoke with the gate between us.
I walked on a swathe of green under a warm sky, unable to speak. I moved from one stone to another, reading 1857, 1821, 1901, 1876. The crypts were enormous, the homage was monumental. The eptaphs accused, cursed and wept. These dotted the landscape of graves and tall grass, where few visitors came. I tried to think but found it difficult because of superstition; I was afraid to tread on someone, and concentrated hard on following my guide's footsteps. My thoughts and actions in the cemetery were unusual. I kept thinking we were outsiders here, and I was trying to not step on a resident's toes. It felt like I was in someone else's home: someone quiet and meditative, urging visitors to behave similarly.
After the meditation came the party. Old Meerut was alive as one giant marketplace, with rickshaws pressing into impossibly narrow lanes, the aroma of piss from open gutters and jalebis and mithai rising, and well-oiled children in shorts out with their fathers. Fruit sellers blocked paths to cloth shops whose storekeepers sat lazily, unmoved by the obstruction. It seemed somewhat philospohical: if anybody needs cloth, or anything, they will squeeze past the fruitstall and come for it; until then I will nap.
These keepers were the hosts, the customers their guests and I was the new guy at the party, asking naive questions. "Where's Ravana's father-in-law's home?" I asked one host, who smiled chidingly and said I wouldn't find it here. I had heard this marketplace was where Ravana's wife came from. I did not expect to see the it, but was still disappointed. But the storekeeper did point me up the hill where the market winded. Walking upwards, I found a certain quiet and happy laughter. There were carefully painted homes on either side of the narrow lane. Large families of different religions lived in each home, inherited from parents who had inherited it from theirs and so on. Their homes were coated in red, yellow, green, blue and pink. This suited me better than holi, which got in your ears and toenails.
As I wound through the labyrinth, peering through open doors and stopping to listen to conversations, I was nostalgic. The colony of my childhood had unlocked doors, long hours of doing nothing and uncles who did not mind broken windows. Everyone had aged, but the buildings of my memory were fresh white, my neighbour's hair was still black, the price of a paratha was still 25 Fils. So it was entirely apt that, in this mist of nostalgia, I stumbled upon the Jama Masjid, for a mosque was the center of my colony: the place outside which meetings and cricket matches were arranged, where we talked away time, where we met uncles and aunties who told our parents what we had been doing.
A side entrance at the masjid opened to a large courtyard where pigeons clustered, pecking at seeds spread beside a large basin of water. Its minarets were blue, its doorways green, as was the water, and inside were two hands preparing for the next prayer. One of the two noticed me and my shoes on the ground. He placed them sole to sole so that the dirt outside did not come in contact with the santity inside.
Sit where you like, he said. You can even come in if you want to. I thanked him for the offer, choosing to sit outside. Watching the birds, the bearded constable who enforced discipline in errant children, the nervous young man waiting for his first ever prayer, the opening of the main mosque gates, I thought that, though these were everyday occurences, I was new to this. For the first time, I was looking. I wondered what else I had missed all along.
The three keepers, brothers whose family had lived here since 1921, suggested a nearby graveyard. We were in the Cantonment area, the stage for the big one in 1857, but now a serene area where anger and violence seemed relics, etched in epitaphs, carved in bronze. No, this was a place where the steeples of churches rose above clusters of trimmed trees, where the cyclists of empty cycle-rickshaws wheeled by wordlessly, and where batsmen waiting their turn slept in the shade of trees.
There were few signs here, and none that indicated where the graves were. After what seemed like a mile, I found it, and found the gates locked. Dialogue followed, where I had to convince guards within that I wasn't here to break anything. My guide, the caretaker of the graveyard, took me about, proudly pointing out gravestones he thought were pretty and historic, only pausing to tut-tut when he saw a white stone lying about. These were parts of graves, broken down by vandals to throw at trees for fruits. This is what he had imagined me doing as we spoke with the gate between us.
I walked on a swathe of green under a warm sky, unable to speak. I moved from one stone to another, reading 1857, 1821, 1901, 1876. The crypts were enormous, the homage was monumental. The eptaphs accused, cursed and wept. These dotted the landscape of graves and tall grass, where few visitors came. I tried to think but found it difficult because of superstition; I was afraid to tread on someone, and concentrated hard on following my guide's footsteps. My thoughts and actions in the cemetery were unusual. I kept thinking we were outsiders here, and I was trying to not step on a resident's toes. It felt like I was in someone else's home: someone quiet and meditative, urging visitors to behave similarly.
After the meditation came the party. Old Meerut was alive as one giant marketplace, with rickshaws pressing into impossibly narrow lanes, the aroma of piss from open gutters and jalebis and mithai rising, and well-oiled children in shorts out with their fathers. Fruit sellers blocked paths to cloth shops whose storekeepers sat lazily, unmoved by the obstruction. It seemed somewhat philospohical: if anybody needs cloth, or anything, they will squeeze past the fruitstall and come for it; until then I will nap.
These keepers were the hosts, the customers their guests and I was the new guy at the party, asking naive questions. "Where's Ravana's father-in-law's home?" I asked one host, who smiled chidingly and said I wouldn't find it here. I had heard this marketplace was where Ravana's wife came from. I did not expect to see the it, but was still disappointed. But the storekeeper did point me up the hill where the market winded. Walking upwards, I found a certain quiet and happy laughter. There were carefully painted homes on either side of the narrow lane. Large families of different religions lived in each home, inherited from parents who had inherited it from theirs and so on. Their homes were coated in red, yellow, green, blue and pink. This suited me better than holi, which got in your ears and toenails.
As I wound through the labyrinth, peering through open doors and stopping to listen to conversations, I was nostalgic. The colony of my childhood had unlocked doors, long hours of doing nothing and uncles who did not mind broken windows. Everyone had aged, but the buildings of my memory were fresh white, my neighbour's hair was still black, the price of a paratha was still 25 Fils. So it was entirely apt that, in this mist of nostalgia, I stumbled upon the Jama Masjid, for a mosque was the center of my colony: the place outside which meetings and cricket matches were arranged, where we talked away time, where we met uncles and aunties who told our parents what we had been doing.
A side entrance at the masjid opened to a large courtyard where pigeons clustered, pecking at seeds spread beside a large basin of water. Its minarets were blue, its doorways green, as was the water, and inside were two hands preparing for the next prayer. One of the two noticed me and my shoes on the ground. He placed them sole to sole so that the dirt outside did not come in contact with the santity inside.
Sit where you like, he said. You can even come in if you want to. I thanked him for the offer, choosing to sit outside. Watching the birds, the bearded constable who enforced discipline in errant children, the nervous young man waiting for his first ever prayer, the opening of the main mosque gates, I thought that, though these were everyday occurences, I was new to this. For the first time, I was looking. I wondered what else I had missed all along.
Clouds
From Shelley's The Cloud:
It's an excerpt; there's plenty more.
It's marvelously cloudy today in Bombay, and yet they hang above me lightly. They aren't too dark, nor too wispy, and just the right colour to evoke fond thoughts of monsoons without the inconveniences. It won't rain today, it's too soon. But this is a hint, a tease: I'm coming, it won't be long now.
Incidentally, 'clouds and rain' is an euphemism for sex in China, because the act is as natural as clouds and rain.
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
It's an excerpt; there's plenty more.
It's marvelously cloudy today in Bombay, and yet they hang above me lightly. They aren't too dark, nor too wispy, and just the right colour to evoke fond thoughts of monsoons without the inconveniences. It won't rain today, it's too soon. But this is a hint, a tease: I'm coming, it won't be long now.
Incidentally, 'clouds and rain' is an euphemism for sex in China, because the act is as natural as clouds and rain.
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