Blast from the Past

Every evening, as the evening crumbles into dusk and night falls, the still silence of the colony is punctured every few minutes with the sound of a blow-horn. Not the staccato sound of the car horn, but the traditional air-filled rubber ball that makes a squeaky, almost cacophonous sound when pressed? Sometime later, in rides a man on a bicycle. He cuts a striking figure on his bicycle, despite the fact that he’s not very tall. As he swings his leg off the cycle, dressed in his customary white paithani, his head wrapped in a traditional red chequered scarf, his mehendi stained beard immaculately trimmed, he blows the horn to announce his arrival. It’s the baida-walla, who cycles up from the neighbouring locality every evening and goes from building to building selling eggs, bread, pav and biscuits made at his local bakery. Initially I was amused by the idea that a baida-walla would visit every evening and everyone in the society would come out of their homes, often in pyjamas to buy their eggs and bread, thinking it was true-blue “blast from the past” concept, finding it rather quaint that the vendor goes from door to door selling his wares! But over time, I've become accustomed to this sheer luxury of having someone come right up to your door-step for your daily supply of bread and eggs. No need to go to the neighbourhood grocery store or the supermarket, just run down the stairs and you have everything you need for the next day’s breakfast! But more than that, is the pleasure of exchanging a few words with some one with such a marvellously old-world charm, who hands over the change with a smile, acknowledging your thanks with a “mention not.” I must admit that over the last nine months, I’ve slowly come to welcome the sound of that horn, and that some things haven't changed…

PS The promised book review of The Robber Bride, is up on Literay Mosaic.

From the Death Bed...

Or so I certainly thought it was till this afternoon, what with my vision having blurred and voices reaching me as if they were emerging from a fog-horn, my thoughts reaching deliriously insane levels and my actions getting even more insane. It wasn’t the Grim Reaper alias Hades alias Yama who were knocking on the door; merely a burning fever brought on by the rising temperatures of the city. So I did the unthinkable – refused to take class the next two days, after having idiotically taught for nearly 4 hours while the fever took control of my already fatigue ridden body. The last time I was this miserable with fever, one friend asked me to leave my Mythology book to him and the other sent me an email parodying my blog post about my death! This time wasn’t much different with the former planning a party for the weekend when I could barely stand on my two feet without clutching the walls for support and the latter lecturing me constantly and scolding me about being out of bed – where went the nonsensical words of comfort? The joys of counting two men amongst your best friends! ;-)

After having spent the first day in bed, slipping in and out of a delirious slumber in which I mumbled a great deal, I woke up feeling amazingly human once again. Initially irate and almost frustrated with boredom, I discovered it's actually a delight to have these two days of “rest” imposed on me. I’ve made the most of it and spent the better part of the day finally copying out the poems I’d marked as worthy of having in my 'petit cahier des poèmes' for future reference and more delightfully, buried in my sixth Margaret Atwood :-). Having just taken over two months to slowly crawl through Cat’s Eye, I have been absolutely disgusted by my appalling lack of speed and concentration while reading. Not so today – The Robber Bride is being devoured with an almost insatiable hunger. Now since I’m so glad to have escaped the jaws of death I shall go back to my book and rendezvous with you soon, hopefully with a book review this time :-)

A Summer Evening at the Cinema

Sultry summer evenings should ideally be spent sipping chilled lemonade (or beer if the company prefers it) over lazily meandering conversations with someone who can keep your senses from slipping into a heat induced apathetic slumber. But paucity of such company prevents one from making the most of such evenings. Irate, when my attempts to spend the evening in the company of the one such person were thwarted, I chose instead to spend the evening in the air-conditioned environs of NFAI watching Pinocchio.

The Consulate General of Italy in Bombay in collaboration with NFAI had screened Gant Guilio Antamarro’s Pinocchio (1911), an absolutely wonderful experience. Restored by the Fondazione Cineteca Italiana (Italian Film Archive) as a part of an ongoing project to restore films and valorise the patrimony of cinematic culture, the film was preceded by a short documentary on the subject of film restoration. Even given the fact that we have burdened the earth with an immense amount of junk, I was quite horrified, to say the least, by the brutal massacre of films. Needless to say the need to restore and conserve this medium was impressed on me by the short film.

Coming back to Pinocchio – from an era, when films were still silent, the scenario being explained by way of intertitles, the film had an enchanting appeal. The narrative, digressing a little from the original to incorporate encounters with Red Indian and the Canadians, was most delightfully and eccentrically fun. In fact I’d say that the film was one of the cutest films I’ve seen. The icing on the cake was the background music. Wait a minute, you say, background music? Didn’t I say it was a silent film? Yes indeed it was – the background score was provided a live band. The Antonio Zambrini trio, widely recognised for their jazz music not only in Italy, but elsewhere in Europe, provided a live score for the film. I was extremely impressed by their evocative composition and the attention to detail that made the film come alive in front of us. But what moved me the most was the piece they played at the end, which made an already beautiful evening, almost sublime.

I could have asked for more – dinner with the said person since my evening plans hadn’t worked out. But compromises must be made and the summer has just begun. There shall be other evenings and other opportunities. Insha Allah.

I Don't Know...

The excuses are plenty – confusion, fatigue, loneliness, melancholy, tumult. I could spin a gossamer fine tale of how the quagmire of life sucked the very life force out of me, infusing me with apathy towards everything. Would I be lying – not really. The life sure as hell has kept me (pre)occupied, but is that why I didn’t speak for so long? Not really. The real reason is that I simply didn’t feel like it. I had nothing I wanted to say to the world – to indulge in scatological imagery, I was suffering from acute constipation and it doesn’t seem like I’ve completely recovered. There’s plenty inside that has been swirling around, clamouring to get out, but I find myself unable to express it. Is it time to shut shop? I won’t lie. The idea has been considered and it has been dismissed. When will I bounce back into form? I don’t know. Perhaps this week. Perhaps not. I don’t know. I am not a clairvoyant. I wish I was. I could have answered so many questions. Mine ofcourse, not yours. I am not here to run some kind of services. Coming back to the point – why am I being so belligerent about it? I don’t have the answer to that either. Perhaps I’m tired of always doing the right thing, of living upto everyone's expectations, of being so nice and accommodating. Perhaps Plain Jane is tired of being Plain. I think I like that idea. Yes, I’m warming up to the idea. I quite like the idea of wrecking pure havoc around me. Will I really do it? I don’t know. Didn’t I tell you that I’m not a clairvoyant?

Leaving you with an image from the past – a blast from the past if you will. A portrait made by a friend who I seem to have lost in the madding crowd.

Lonely

While I largely cherish my soltitude, far from the madding as it were, there are days when the loneliness comes creeping along like a cold chill up my spine, its cold fingers slipping around my heart making it contract in pain and I feel myself sinking back into the black void. Missing my friends. Muchly.

Questioning Mode

While this month has been intellectually fulfilling, with the aftermath of PIFF that has made me read much more than usual and thus the slowed down pace of posts/reviews and the recently started literature course at AFP that has my grey cells charged and scrambling to work over-time, it has been professionally exhausting, with one of my two groups being way-too talkative and distracted, expecting to be entertained and amused every day and a free-lance project that may bring in extra money but is extremely boring and emotionally volatile with me having reached the highest highs and the lowest lows, wanting to bring a club down on one person and grab and smother the other with hugs and kisses.

A completely arbitrary stray comment made by a dear friend made me step down the questioning path once again – does my basically introvert nature and extreme selectiveness when it comes to friends, mean I’m a snob? Does my having high expectations from friends, which means that I can count my true friends on the fingers of one hand, mean that I’m a snob? Does my incapability of socialising and indulging in small-talk with random people and drawing them to me like a moth is drawn to light, mean that I’m a snob? Am I a snob, just because I am not on back-slapping terms with everybody and tend to hold myself away from the crowd, preferring not be drawn into the fore? Doesn’t it count that I am nice to everyone including those who talk to me only when they find me useful and that I don’t make snubbing, bitchy comments about people I don’t consider “in” or cool? Or that I have never looked down my nose at those who don’t patronise big brands, (considering I myself rarely do so) and don’t drop names? Or that I can eat at a roadside tapri with just as much pleasure as at a five star hotel? Or that I don’t really consider myself to be above others and can talk to people from all walks of life? But then, on second thoughts is it really so bad to be a snob?

So while I have been indulging in introspection and riding the emotional roller-coaster, juggling work and trying to widen my horizons by reading more and learning more, this place has been rather desolate and ignored – haven’t bowed out yet, worry not folks, there is a lot that’s to come in this space...

The Aftermath (I)...

Pune International Film Festival has come to represent a cinematic orgy of sorts and the aftermath always leaves me faintly overcome and dizzy. This years edition, though extremely disappointing vis-à-vis the selection of films, the schedule and the completely abysmal lack of crowd, all of which served more as discouraging factors in the aim of catching as many films as possible, still served to arouse the intellectual processes at least a little though not as much as the previous editions, particularly that of 2006 where I emerged from the week having been exposed not just to excellent cinema but also a wealth of knowledge to which I’d hitherto been blind. My choice of films, as usual, leaned towards the dark and depressing, that which forced me to step back and think and probe deeper into the ways of the world, in the vain attempt at understanding it better…the films of Spanish director, Pedro Almodovar, did precisely that and have left me questioning much about the way relationships work and far more significantly, how many of us realize that we really stand no chance in escaping the screwed up schema of the cosmos of relationships!

Live Flesh (Carne Trémula), apparently inspired by a Ruth Rendell novel, is a dark, yet hopeful tale of a series of relationships that took off one tragic night that marked the lives of all the characters. Entwined almost excruciatingly, the lives of the six characters take a steep turn onto a path that leads them to much pain and amazingly freedom. Victor, visiting a junkie, Elena, with whom he’d had his first sexual experience, is wrongly convicted for having shot an officer when the police arrive to investigate. Several years later, when Victor steps out of prison burning with the desire for revenge, he finds the Elena married to the injured officer, David, and leading an apparently fulfilling life. The steps he takes to ensure that he is firmly implanted in her life, not only pull the other characters, Clara and Sancho into the plot, but also eventually lead to redemption for all of them.

While there is no obvious similarity, Live Flesh, like Closer, forced me to think about relationships, their foundations and our reasons for entering them and staying there, often at a very high price. The film is definitely worth a watch, for sheer cinematic brilliance, powerful performances and above all for its ability to screw up your mind so completely. Sensual, dark, compelling - each frame of this film speaks volumes. The attention to detail, the symbolism, and the brutal honesty is remarkable. Almodovar won my loyalty with the very first film I saw – nothing like a mindfuck (pardon my language) to make you sit up and think…and what is cinema if it doesn’t make you think?

Traversing the Life on my Two Feet

In a country that discourages walking as a mode of transport even though it’s almost imperative with our increasing levels of traffic congestion and pollution, I obstinately walk around and it has always aggravated me that there are so few footpaths on our streets and so few provisions made for pedestrians. In the recent past, sitting next to a very dear friend who has recently acquired a vehicle and is getting increasingly confident (and consequently sometimes cocky) on the roads of Pune, I have heard the pedestrians being cursed often for their jaywalking and their refusal to consider the difficulty of the person driving the vehicle when s/he has to suddenly slow down/break/maneuver so as to avoid hitting the pedestrian. Accepting the argument I felt like a silent traitor, for oft have I waited helplessly for endless minutes waiting for the inconsiderate drivers to slow down and let me cross the road, considering that there are no pedestrian signals and zebra crossings are mere road decorations. Few drivers pay heed to traffic rules, then why do we curse the pedestrian so much when he /she tries to pave his/her own way through the mindless traffic swarming our streets? Is the pedestrian really left with much choice? Smoother, broader roads are the need of the hour, as are traffic signals that work. Flyovers would go a long way in speeding up the flow of traffic. But how about some more footpaths for pedestrians, enforcing the respect of zebra crossings and putting into effect pedestrian signals?

That said, I must admit I have been almost blissfully content with the miles I have covered (so to say) in the last few weeks, walking as I am regularly each evening. Exercise apart; it gives me the much needed opportunity to soak in the beauty around me and to sort out those insanely enmeshed thoughts that threaten to ensnare me in their dark web. The increased visits to the University, strolling towards the Y-point, meandering over to the main building and occasionally venturing beyond to where lies that absolutely charming watch-tower surrounded my marshy weeds have also been such a source of peace and joy. Amen.

PS PIFF 2008 happened - I attended ofcourse but was heartily disappointed by the pick of films, the organisation as well as the crowd. Nevertheless some good films have been watched, particularly those of Pedro Almodovar and insha allah we shall blog about those soon!

On Resolutions and More...

Of the few New Year resolutions I made this year, were getting back into shape and shaking myself out of the apathetic lethargy into which I had slipped during the last year and a half, especially in the last few months, and start doing the things that I used to enjoy so much. Ironically enough, the first one proved to be easier, despite involving physical effort, and I started my evening walks on the very first day of the New Year which I am enjoying so much that there is actually a high likelihood of them continuing! Apart from the fact that it’s great to be walking again and that particular stretch I traverse each evening is absolutely pretty and it makes my heart lighter crossing that pristine park and seeing those children play football against the backdrop of verdant hills, with a cool breeze blowing and fanning the tendrils of hair that are slowly starting to stick to my forehead with the perspiration, the regular exercise is actually making a big difference on the way I feel about myself as well. And then there are already the familiar faces and voices…there is this aaji who has her saree pallu pulled tightly around her shoulders to shield her from the cold, and the middle-aged couple of which the husband is a definite b******, the ladies who walk down to the market complete in their synthetic salwar-kurtas and sports shoes ready to take on the world with their battle-tank march down the road and of course the golden Labrador that insists on being patted and only then will she move on…but I think the best, is the three elderly gentlemen who sit on this low wall just inside my colony that I cross each evening on my way back home. The snippets of conversation I catch, about the kind of education they had back then, how their son brought home some ridiculously expensive gadget they can’t fathom, or how they fought valiantly against ignorance and corruption in their work place and all this in that slightly shaky deep baritone one associates with nice old uncles, are such a hark back to the generation of my eldest uncle and so completely reminiscent of small-town India that it brings a smile to my face immediately. Strange, how these scenes, at which I would have rolled my eyes or even looked down my nose a few years ago, today make me smile and wish we don’t lose this quintessentially Indian charm completely. If not for the other motivating factor/s I think I would continue to step out each evening just to catch those uncles gossiping about the yesteryears…

On the latter, however, I have been procrastinating and if not for the Amnesiac who has pushed and nagged me on other issues as well, I would have pushed this on the backburner once again. But nagged I have been, and books have been pushed into my hands and orders have been given to read, and so I am reading once again. Last year’s Booker winner, Kiran Desai's The Inheritance of Loss. My niece gifted the book to me last year, and I thought I should read atleast one booker and approve of it, but it doesn’t look like that is likely. Fifteen chapters down, and the story has not yet taken off and those descriptions of India are beginning to grate on my nerves. When will we stop catering to the foreign audience while describing India and its habitants? Can’t anyone come up with a mature, realistic Indian novel that presents a story with panache rather than merely presenting a stylized albeit stereotyped India? Of the Indian authors I read in my Literature days, her mother Anita Desai hadn’t particularly impressed me but I could see merits in her writing. She however missed the Booker. It fails me then completely, the reason why her daughter not only won the Booker but accolades for her work that continue to come forth in wave after wave…and I don’t think I shall change my opinion even after having finished reading the book...

Stock-taking...

Standing at the threshold of yet another new year, I decide to indulge in some traditional rituals. After all the end of a year and the start of a New Year does call for cleaning up and stock-taking, doesn’t it?

A year that started in Bangalore with Ma and I bringing in the New Year surrounded by family, is ending in a full circle with us bidding adieu to it with some of our companions in the revelry from last year’s party. It has actually been a year of coming to a full circle and finding closure on several fronts…painfully screwed up at times, I’ve faced some bitter truths, learnt that sometimes you simply have to be ruthless and cut people out of your life however painful it may be. I’ve dealt with losses that revived the smoldering pain of a loss that I still haven’t come to terms with and probably never will. I’ve dealt with inefficiency, ineptness and an absolute lack of basic intelligence coupled with some really juvenile and yet nasty politics and learnt to hold back my anger, manipulate and work things around. I’ve come into my own, learnt to put my foot down and spoken my mind at the risk of some severe professional damage.

On the upside, an absolutely marvelous opportunity was seized and I did what I’ve dreamed of doing ever since I was twelve or thirteen – traveled with one of my best friends. Discovering Europe with K shall remain one of my most treasured memories – we’ve always understood each other, but I think our understanding and acceptance of each others eccentricities and weaknesses is so much more now. Thanks, K, for being there. I’ve made some fabulous new friends in Spain, Switzerland and Serbia, come closer to others in France and here as well…on the home front I’ve discovered a pair of arms that will envelop me in their warmth offering comfort and a set of ears that will listen to me rant and rave, even if it is at the price of suffering endless hours of repeated conversation! ;-) All forgiven in love and war, isn’t it Extempore? I’ve rediscovered a friend whom I’d missed sorely. A friendship that has stood the tests of life I really wonder now how I managed without this friend by my side. From coming so close to giving up, I’ve rediscovered hope, I’ve finally understood what it is to fall asleep at night peace prevailing in my mind and happiness spreading in my heart.

The next year promises to be challenging – personally and professionally. If miles were traversed this year, many more are waiting to be treaded upon. Much struggle and much growth lie ahead – I must be insane for I am not daunted, but almost waiting to bite the bit, as it were! Here’s to a challenging, fulfilling and peaceful 2008!

Immortal Connections

In a day and age where people often lack the inclination to even lift the phone to call their friends, I still treasure the practice of writing letters, sending cards on festive occasions and sending postcards when I’m traveling. A habit that had suffered greatly with the invasion of internet and emails, my dear friend P, who travels a great deal revived the habit by sending me postcards from each of her myriad travel destinations in her motherland France, Europe, North Africa and Canada. So it is that I have a decent collection of postcards through which I, too, have traveled; postcards that I treasure as much as the postcards Papa used to send me from his trips to Europe when I was a child.

Papa would also bring back postcards that captured in timeless beauty the many places he visited on his umpteen trips to Europe on work. Somewhere along the way, as his trips got busier leaving him little time to do sight-seeing the number of postcards dwindled and I, too, stopped asking for them. P’s postcards renewed my hunger for them and so on his last couple of trips Papa brought back some really exquisite postcards from Switzerland, which I hope to frame some day. Sorting through my collection of postcards (received or bought on my own trips to Europe) I came across a thick envelope filled with the postcards Papa had bought. Much to my surprise I found there postcards of Cologne, which I hadn’t known he’d visited and then I came across a collection of postcards depicting Chagall’s stain-glass windows in the Musée Chagall in Nice, dedicated to the “Biblical Message’.

Having visited both Cologne and Nice (where I had been dragged a little reluctantly to see the Musée Chagall, an artist I knew little of and thus wasn’t very interested in seeing his work – am I grateful to K now for taking me there!) I found myself filled anew with regret that I can’t share with Papa, what I’ve seen and experienced . Having finally reached an age, maturity level and garnered enough experience and insight into various subjects I yearn to be able to discuss all of it with Papa, making me miss him so much more.

If I hadn’t already absolutely loved and been awed by what I saw at the Musée Chagall and decided to buy some day, reprints (just like one of the Degas’ series) of either his brilliant paintings in which he uses vibrant colours like the brightest of yellows, reds and blues or the absolutely stunningly beautiful stain-glass paintings, all of which lean heavily on Biblical imagery, I do now. The only difference being that I will no longer have to buy them when I do have my own house, for Papa has left behind the most perfect collection for me to frame.

Thank you Papa.

I should have known you’d always be there for me irrespective of where you are. Never again will I doubt it.

For more on Marc Chagall, visit Artchive.

Tarikhi-Hind

The friend has a new blog. He wrote stories that I loved to tear apart, refusing to acknowledge that he is a published writer and I am not.Then he wrote posts at which I rolled my eyes and posted photographs which I criticised. It vexed me to say anything vaguely complimentary to him and I waited for an opportunity to go for the jugular. I still do, but this time I am forced to admit that he writes well and he knows his stuff. Grumpf.

Go read Tales of a Land Five Thousand Years New. He's only just started, but if he proceeds as planned then this promises to be an interesting one! God how it pinches to say that ;-)

Literary Mosaic

At the prodding of Extempore and the Amnesiac, I toyed with the idea of rejuvenating Literary Mosaic, where I once posted book reviews (apart from some rather pathetic attempts at writing fiction). I’ve been gnawing over it for several weeks and couldn’t come to a decision. But today, after one of the most perfect days I’ve had, a day that has left me so much at peace with myself that after the longest time I slipped in the disc of my favourite retro music and actually grooved to it as I typed away, my creative and critical bent surging to the fore with a vengeance, I knew it was time to revive my Literary Musings…

People it’s a pleasure to announce to you that Literary Mosaic is once again welcoming visitors (and comments). I've just reviewed The Girl from the Chartreuse, a book that I read over a year ago, a book that touched me with its incredibly pure eloquency, poignancy and richness of language.

Renaissance...

Browsing through the archives, looking for something (yes I’m perpetually looking for things) I was struck by how much I used to blog earlier. Most of it isn’t worth a mention and is really better forgotten, but there is a lot in the archives that actually shines through all the mediocrity…and suddenly I realised that back then, I was a better reader, not restricting to myself to any one genre or style of writing and thus a far more prolific writer who wrote with a comfort that is very evident in the words... bringing me to my first resolution for 2008. Read. Read. Read. There’s a huge backlog of books waiting to be read and it’s about time I gave them some attention. Just waiting for this session to get over, so I can completely overhaul the lifestyle which has pretty much gone for a toss in the past four months…

On What Lies Under Our Noses!

Ever searched the whole house, turning cupboards upside down in your desperate hunt for that thing that was lying in plain view right in the middle of the table all along? Well, I am quite an expert at it; I've given people much stress when I can't find that thing I'm looking for, and then been at the receiving end of many irate looks when I found the thing in the most obviously evident place which I refused to look at, because it couldn't possibly be there. I seem to have done it again...and boy do I feel like an idiot about all that time I wasted hunting for something that was right under my nose all along...and I don't even have a big nose! Sheesh!

Muchly Jaded, Ironically Re-enchanted.

Words Walk completed a year in Pune today – his post took me back to June ’04 when I first moved to this hamlet. There was little the city could do right and I grabbed every opportunity I got to run back to Bombay, the city I still like to think of as home. Pune for all means and purposes underlined my loneliness and my lack of independence. Till I met the man who made me discover Pune in a way that I couldn’t help but start falling in love with its charms. In the past two years I’ve had to distance myself from that Pune, caught up in the rather distressing realities of life. The last two weeks have brought many opportunities to reacquaint myself with that charming Pune and though it’s been an exhausting week that has left me drained, weary and vaguely jaded there is a deep-sated content slowly warming my heart and I can’t help but smile as glimpses of last week mingle with memories from 2005.

Extempore, who was visiting last week complete with her infectious gregariousness and photography apparel provided the perfect opportunity and so I found myself back at the Y-point at the Pune University over breakfast of upma and chai and animated discussions…dominated primarily by Extempore who can easily out-talk even my most talkative student ;-). A languid hour later I led her up the tree-shaded steps to the main building which though fenced in for restoration work, still charmed the socks off Extempore. Meandering through the grounds I led her to the watch-tower amidst the marshy weeds that I had fallen in love with when I was first introduced to it. After a most sumptuous meal at Arthur’s Theme, which just had to be finished with their heavenly lemon soufflé, we allowed ourselves to get lost in the by lanes of Koregaon Park, till we reached the Nala Park. Paradise created around filthy sewer water, there is something absolutely bewitching about this park. (Needless to say Extempore with her quintessential bindaas spirit paid no heed to the rules prohibiting photography and got some beautiful shots.)

My knees may have protested and my eyes may have struggled to stay open and I may have been "muchly" drained by the end of the day, but the happiness spreading inside made every ache and pain worthwhile…as did the crazily meandering conversations that were thrust on me. Discomfited initially, no longer accustomed to being hounded to talk about my feelings and dark thoughts, I felt much better having finally voiced aloud a thought that I had been nursing like a nasty wound. The inky blackness I stare at on my way home, seeking answers desperately still has none forthcoming, but the emptiness doesn’t seem as daunting. Why? Perhaps because of the knowledge that I have not lost all, and a vague notion that something wonderful might still waiting around the corner. Or perhaps because I’ve decided that it’s time for closure. Or perhaps because I once again have one of my cherished friends back in my life.

Ask Yourself If You’re Happy and You Cease to Be…

Happiness = Pleasure = Joy = Delight = Elation = Euphoria = Rapture = Jubilation = Bliss = Ecstasy.

The sheer number of synonyms for this emotion that we seek so desperately is testament to the fact that happiness comes in many forms. That it eludes most of us is a completely different matter together. I won’t pretend otherwise – oft have I wondered in the last year and a half why pure, complete joy doesn’t feature more prominently in the grand scheme of things, particularly in the scheme that features me. The raw anger burning inside my system is fast burning away every last vestige of optimism that once pushed me. No longer do I believe in happy endings, nor do I continue to believe that good things happen to good people. It doesn’t quite work that way in this world, and so it is that the rage inside me fuels my every movement, very often leaving me worn out. Hardly a wonder that I constantly feel so listless and sleep-deprived! ;-)

Much to my surprise then, when the last week proved to be almost blissful, so peaceful it was despite that uncalled for kick below the belt that life deemed necessary. A week of calm (we’ll just ignore those two nasty temper displays) and long conversations with Ma. Toss in simple yet delicious meals, the wonderful sensation (even if occasionally irritating) of Schnapps sleeping at my feet, thus warming them through the blanket, retail therapy and this Plain Jane just feels so much nicer. The icing on the cake of course were those two lovely afternoons spent with one of my closest friends; a friend who I’ve missed much in the last one year, with whom I can wrangle over the silliest things, tease unceasingly, butt heads over the most inane and sometimes most important issues and come out laughing, my sprit so much lighter and with whom I can truly be myself, share my darkest worries and my strangest thoughts knowing that nothing but understanding will await me on the other side. Friday afternoon at the University, soaking in the sun, drinking chai and chatting sent me back to those languid summer afternoons we spent avoiding the sun under that canopy of trees, drinking chai or nimbu pani, talking, bickering, laughing…and left me quite happy.

Let There Be Sunshine...

…well not really but it sounds weird to say let there be diyalight. Compromises are inevitable and so here also. The one festival I truly celebrate and look forward to right from Ganesh Chaturthi and Raksha Bandhan, Diwali for me comes wrapped in this wonderful glow of magical warmth …and let that not be misinterpreted as the uncomfortably stifling warmth generated by the fireworks! Diwali represents new clothes (but ofcourse!), mouthwatering gujiyas, malpuas, kheer and meetha chawal, family get-togethers and the traditional Lakshmi pooja. I resented Papa’s absence last year and celebrated Diwali half-heartedly, as a mere obligation without gleaning any joy from the festivities. His absence still hurts, but it was easier this year seeing others sit where he always sat and performing the rites that were his…easier also to find joy in the small things that made this festival so dear to me...

Here’s hoping and praying that the spirit of Diwali sustains through out the new year and that it brings much joy, success and sunshine (ahem) into our lives!

Jab We Met - review

Last night when the plan to go watch this latest Bollywood flick creating waves along with two of my nieces, was enforced on me I was most disgruntled, feeling extrmemely manipulated and certain that I’d return ranting and raving as I normally do after having watched typical Bollywood fare! Imagine my surprise then, when I didn’t! I don’t remember the last big-budget, typical Bollywood romance-music-dhamaal film I enjoyed. Jab We Met, doesn’t offer anything new vis-à-vis story-line, neither were the performances earth-shattering, and yes I did wonder (yet again) why Indian film makers are so fond of show-casing our country for the foreigner’s eye. But yes, the film makers have succeeded in maintaining a reasonnably entertaining pace that doesn’t drag at any point complimented by a fun, young soundtrack, and yes for a change I didn’t feel like slapping Kareena Kapoor. As for Shahid Kapoor – I’ve watched him run like a lamb behind his college sweetheart (who at that time we all thought would be more successful than him in the tinsel-world, but boy, have we been proven wrong!) and held my stomach rolling with laughter as he struggled to convince Mrs. S the strictest of professors in our department to accept his First year B.A Literature project on Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice a novel that was part of the prescribed syllabus and thus not accepted as project work and...and I have to grudgingly admit that this boy we loved to joke about has succeeded in making his place. Sure he isn’t even half the actor his father is, but he isn’t as bad as I thought he was…and he sure can move! I was super impressed with his foot-work in the “Mauja” number! Surprise number 2: I’ve actually been humming several songs from the soundtrack ever since I got home...and wishing more than ever that I hadn't given up dance lessons when I did, 'coz my feet are sure itching to dance. Alas but they aren't trained to move nicely! Sigh.

Grumpf. Gah. Ok I admit it, I actually enjoyed the film!

Welcome Winter...

A Bombay girl, I didn’t really know what it felt like to experience major climatic changes from summer to winter till I moved to Pune in 2004. We moved to Pune just as summer was bidding goodbye to the city so I missed the heat the first year. Having spent the winter of 2003 in Germany and survived three months in temperatures that mostly stayed below 10° not to mention the visit to a country where the winter sun lasts for a bare 3-4 hours a day and temperatures went down to -21º , I didn’t really feel the brunt of my first winter in Pune, despite the fact that we stayed in an area where temperatures were generally 2-3 degrees below the rest of the city!

Now, three years later, I know I abhor summer in Pune. I’d rather endure the humidity of Bombay even if it means having sweat trickling down my forehead fifteen minutes after a refreshingly cold shower. The dry, scorching heat of Pune makes me pray each and every day for the rains to come!

Winter, is a different story! To be able to walk out of the house wearing a turtle-neck and a jacket, or wrap a woolen scarf around my neck or snuggle into my shawl is an absolute delight…not to mention the pleasure of shivering slightly in the early morning chill as the breeze slaps my face lightly on my way to work!

Walking back home a few weeks back I shivered slightly as I crossed the park, the evening breeze making my bare arms break into goose bumps. The next morning I stepped out of the house fitted out smartly in my black jacket. Yes, winter is making its presence felt in the city and it’s hugely welcome! I’m already waiting impatiently for the temperatures to drop further so the new blue sweater may be worn and the muchly favoured camel sweater and the pink cashmere sweater may be worn once again! :-)