nothing a rain shower can't solve

what can i say?

that i feel guilty when i take a shower? specially one that lasts longer than it strictly should?

why? because i hate how irresponsible it is. i know bathing with a bucket is better, because you save so much water. i also know that mumbai is going to face a water shortage this summer. and that my folks have already started having water problems in delhi.

but then, when i stand under the shower. and the water hits me. and it slowly starts to drench me. and then it starts to roll down my shoulders. and i can feel it stinging, slapping, drenching. my brown skin, with millions of bubbles rolling over it. 

and slowly my head empties. there's nothing but me, and my physical self, and the water. and like the olay line, i love the skin i'm in. 

which is what makes the shower so hard to give up. i feel guilty. but its hard to give up five minutes of being deliriously happy to be me.

when i need some sunshine

i had a bad day. no, not the fought with boss. or washed my best white shirt with my pink fab india kurta day. but a full blown greek tragedy day.

but because i'm still trying to calm my frayed nerves, i shall write about it tomorrow. when it will all start to seem pretty funny.

till then here are two photos. i saw this beauty parlour at palolem, in goa. 

look closely ... have you ever heard of a biking line? neither has lance armstrong.

heard of a mani quaver? nope, not even the slightest quaver of joy or recognition?

then how about an apple lip? right after rosy cheeks.

enjoy. and here's hoping everyone has a great day tomorrow. don't know about you, but i could sure do with one.

i'm so sorted (sung to the tune of Akon's i'm so lonely)

I wish I was fucked up.

Then I would be more interesting. And would definitely have more to write about.

But the one time I was really really fucked up, I hated it.

So then what?

Being fucked up, and hating it is no good, because then you’re just miserable. Being fucked up and not knowing it is equally bad. Because then everyone else hates it, and you are just a pain in the ass.

Conclusion: I don’t really want to be fucked up. But just fucked up enough to seem more interesting.

Yesh. I’m a sick person. And totally fucked up.

Yeah. Finally happiness.

my yellow submarine

when you think of a city, specially one inhabitated by a million people, you think of it in colours of smog, pollution, dust.

sweat, hurry, vertical towers, they all have a shade card in my head, that's restricted to dull brown and murky grey.

yet, i find so much colour when i look away from the picture that crowds, local trains, no time to look up at the sky present.

the vegetable stalls that line the roads at khar. i can never pass them without wanting to stop and stare. or breathe deeply. or reach out and sink my hand into the wet sack cloth under which the vegetables gleam.

i've never been inclined towards the taste of red radish. but i can never resist them because i love the way they look. shy, and pink, and young. like a bunch of friends giggling together. then there are the brinjals. shaped like my happy punjabi relatives and clothed in soothing purple kaftans. like they're just back from a satsang with a trippy maharishi. and the springhtly ladies fingers or good old bhindis. fresh green and like PT Usha. Bhindis always look like they are fit and fresh enough to win a 100 meter race.

of course i just love the saag section. all jumbled and entanged. different shades of green, different textures. and once in a while the lal saag that's actually a combination of pink and red, peeks through the jumble.

the spring onions, with juicy stalks, white merging into lushious green. a cut pumpkin, revealing it's orange insides. the fat tomatoes resting on each other, red and confused. the yellow-white cauliflower like giant alice in wonderland flowers.

my,

i get high

just staring at vegetables.

moral of the story: people are weird!

can't say it any better

"A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects."

- Robert A. Heinlein

13th april, 1919

It looked like any other bustling street in north India. Hand rickshaws strewn across the sides. A music shop selling tablas and sitars. Three shops that sold pictures of gods mounted in bright golden frames. Sack cloth and scaffolding covering an old building. Lost tourists fighting a one sided battle as they haggled and fought with guides and rickshaw pullers.

And then I saw the sign. A weather-beaten arch, the type face beginning to fade. It said Jallianwala Bagh.

Under the sign was a courtyard. Three doors, two cycles leaning against them. Some men on make shift chairs supervising the scaffolding, listening to their radios. And a narrow wooden door behind them.

The doors were open. I felt nothing.

I slowly walked past the door, into a narrow lane. Surrounded by high walls. I looked up to see the sky, a narrow blue strip. A green creeper had pushed its way through the cracks in the wall.

I kept walking down that narrow hemmed in path. Till i reached a sign. It said:
General Dyer conducted soldiers for firing on an innocent crowd of Indians through this passage.

Loud boots. The incessant march. Clattering over the stone surface. Left right. Left right. Filing in. One after the other. The passage is filled. The clattering is louder. The entrance is blocked.

Silent. Goose bumps. Suddenly.

I remember the lines Sarfaroshi ki tamana aaj humare dil mein hain. Bhagat singh. Udham singh. Simon go back. The rowlatt act. Everything jumbled as it all tumbles out.

The thing with history is you can bury it. In textbooks. Under scaffolding. Behind an innocuous facade.

But once it’s in the mud, the ground, the sky; it’ll always be in your blood.

heavy stuff

Can you juice exhaustion?

Serious. I feel totally run down today. I think it’s been a combination of two weeks of partying, loafing, eating out, travelling, scrubbing, train journeys. And now finally flat out dead weight. My body refuses to cooperate. It just feels heavy and lead like. My legs are wobbly. My head aches. My eyes refuse to stay open. And I have so much work. Groan. Moan. Bitch.

So I’m wondering if I can enjoy this feeling. Be conscious of it. Don’t ignore it, don’t stress over it, just keep it...in the moment.

Think my yoga classes are going to my head.

I’m turning guru.

with the lights out its less dangerous

There are days like these

Restless

Itchy

Like a coiled spring

Not unhappy

Not sad

Just physical

Could

Run a mile

Dance till my heart stops

Looking for

Exhaustion

A heartbeat that stops me from breathing

Sweat

Running down my back

Just physical

Like ecstasy

Like tripping

Like dancing under strobe lights

Like hair flying

Like forgetting i’m alive

Like not seeing

Not sensing

Just knowing

This moment will explode.

I do

The next best thing.

Nirvana.

On full volume.

The drums kick start

The guitar is hard

The sound courses through my body.

Thank you Kurt Cobain.

May you rest

In the disco of my brain.

.... .- ...- . | .- | .--. .-.. .- - . | --- ..-. | ..-. .-. --- --. ... | .-.. . --. ... | --- -. | -- .

the other day someone called me a dilettante.

and boom, it was like a moment of clarity. because that's exactly what i am. a lover of all things, art, culture, sports. The only catch is it's always like an intense but fleeting love affair. One month at the most, and then, okay what's next.

you see, in my head i'm sort of like a character from a book. in fact the closest i've come to saying aah that could be me has been Olivia Joules in Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination.

It's not a great book, if you don't like that sort of thing (far out plot, poison, secret service characters, shady Osama like guys, international playboys, drugs, beheadings and a loony female who's out to save the world from things she hasn't figured out as yet)

But back to me. So in my head I'm sort of like Olivia Joules. Which is why I believe that it is of utmost importance to know a little bit of everything.

For example:

I learnt to tie nine different types of knots from a book called the Dangerous book for Boys or something like that. On the premise that someday I might be holed up in a medieval castle, and might have to tie a knot around the bedpost to slither down the tower. It would certainly help if the knot stayed, hence the nine different types of knots. Oh ya, also tried to learn morse code, but got kind of bored after dit dit dah.

I learnt to jive, watlz, salsa and do a mean cha cha cha this summer. again, maybe when i'm on an international mission through morocco and need to attend a ball, nobody can fault my manners or my dancing skills.

Then there's a bit of yoga. Some painting. decoupage. I've been learning to strum a few chords on the guitar. I'm trying my hand at gardening.

Then in November I move on to bharatnatyam. And horse riding.

After which my list includes learning some magic tricks (already know two super card tricks), vedic maths (you can not be a secret agent and count on your fingers). being able to identify poisonous snakes and name them. I also really want to learn carpentary, welding and operating a sewing machine. And riffle shooting.

hair cutting. 5 gourmet meals. 6 mean desserts. Crochet. Photoshop (yeah, I know, shame on me). Reading and writing two languages.

The list continues. People collect bone china, stamps, gadgets. I collect things to learn.

The life of a secret agent is tougher than you think.

(ps: the title of this post is in morse code. go to http://www.scoutnet.nl/~inter/morse/morseform.html to break it)

the sound of silence

experiment: no talking today.

i started at 9 am. then realised i should have started at 9.30. because how on earth was i going to tell the maid what to cook for lunch and dinner.

so after ten minutes of hand wringing and pointing to all the food in the fridge, i decided to write in hindi. voila... she understands hindi. managed to convey what to cook. then realised i hadn't cross checked with other members of the family, one of whom is down with a bad cold. the other one is 85 and loves eating junk food. getting her to agree to eat what i had suggested for lunch, that too by way of furious scribbling and gesticulating...whew. it took me about 15 minutes.

finally out of the house. no byes for a change. just a hug for everyone. in the car. no yakking on the phone. felt strange, but nice.

then i got to work. carrying a notebook. the first page of which said - I'm experimenting with silence. Can't talk. Can write.

Needless to say, it caused much amusement in office. I, strangely was enjoying not talking. I listened to everyone talk stuff, crib, discuss - without interrupting.

But here's the funny part. Most people when they'd talk to me in my silent state, would use broken sentences. It's like they could not use complete sentences when talking to someone who would not talk back.

At least three people spoke loudly to me. It's as if I was suddenly dumb...and deaf!

Then people tried rushing up to me and saying, " what happened to your car. Oh my god!" Maybe they were hoping I'd screech and go hysterical. Maybe they were hoping to win the beer that was being promised if you could get me to talk.

Finally at 1 pm, I broke my silence. Because it was making everyone focus too much on it. The thing is I enjoyed it. My head felt lighter. Things just skimmed over me. I still don't think I'm cut out for a ten day vipasanna retreat as yet.

But a little silence once in a while, it's nice. Like rearranging the furniture in your head.