About four years ago, during the end of my epic battle with several demons (and the war's not over), I wrote a story and in an incoherent moment submitted it to an online magazine called Sulekha, who after murdering it a little, put it up. Now Sulekha's become a blogsite of sorts where all and sundry can put up whatever they want and they have posted this there as my post. Which is a little embarrassing because now I find the piece a little juvenile and see the possibility of doing several things to it. I tried to erase the damn thing from Sulekha but the thing just wouldn't go. Moreover when I google my name this is the first thing that pops up. So I thought, since this forms part of self-history, maybe it's a good idea to let it be as is. And also, as my fourth standard teacher says, when you are ashamed of something, exhibit it flaunt it and that is how the shame demons die. So here goes to hell another demon of mine...
SECOND COMINGS
I woke up in the afternoon with a shiver in my mind; the tremors, I knew, would follow. I was not surprised. I headed for the bar. It was not a long walk and as I walked I saw the flowers, the trees, the tresses of a woman, and as I passed the pond, the man joined me.
Who are you, I asked him.
He replied, I am the translator and destroyer of histories, I build second heavens for you, I make the dreams shout at you, I make myths and I am a myth, I create you and let the dreams that I weave in you make you be. I am madness but I am also redemption and I always give you a chance to reject me, destroy me.
Destroy me, I told him.
I am also a storyteller, he said, and therefore I shall tell you another story. About the temple and the temple's door which no one could pass without knocking the head at the awning unless you want to pass not the door but enter what is inside. And this was the story that he told me:
The man and wife climbed the hill, stopped to look at the waterway winding through the fields, saw the pumpkins growing at their feet and then moved ahead to reach the temple, tried to enter the temple and got knocked on the head good and proper. They entered nevertheless, prayed to the god with a flute stuck on its mouth and then rang the bell. A single chime resulted and they remembered the time when they had come, not as man and wife then.
They remembered the bell as it had rung then, when the chimes echoed to more chimes and then more chimes and the cadence ascending to a harmony. They remembered looking at the god then and then realising that if there was only something added, everything would be complete and proper. But they were satisfied then and had returned satiated.
Now, as man and wife, complete, they had returned and not only did they find themselves incomplete but also unwanted. They returned home looking at nothing, not even the future, promising to never return. They grew up slowly together, prospered, begat children, who begat children. They grew old. They grew tired of each other but continued in the habit of their presence.
And then one day the woman fell from the bathroom and was bedridden. She was afflicted by bedsores, by memory which passed her by, by odd stenches, by unusual dreams, by terrible nightmares until she stopped to think and waited to die. Her leg healed when she was told about a terrible disease which would make her a vegetable soon. The man too waited for the woman to die, scared at the loneliness that would ensue but reconciled. He was reconciled.
One day, as he sat beside her bed and watched the television rerun a movie which they had once seen together and laughed at together and had then gone for a walk together and had laughed together as they walked, the woman told him, take me to the temple. Let us try once more, to enter the temple and see the god. Let me walk for the one last time in my life.
Yes, said the man. We shall enter it together.
And therefore they again made good the arduous climb and saw from afar the awning and the temple door and as they entered, got knocked on the head good and proper.
They did not enter then. The woman leaned against the wall of the nearby well and slumped down onto the floor, beaten and bruised, and the man sat down near her as he thought it was the proper place for him in their moment of defeat.
And he saw his wife, founder of lost battles, in wait at last for uneasy rest. Most excellent once in beauty, withered, wizened, done in by the juices of life. He saw himself, victor in everything we call life, a good life. It was a good life, led by good people. And he felt anger.
He saw the blue skies and looked at the god inside who had spurned them. No god shall spurn us, no god can spurn us: he started chanting the mantra and then he remembered, once, when he had seen and had fallen deeply, deeply in love with her in the computer laboratory where they both were students. And he remembered, in the evening, when she was away and everyone was away, he had opened her computer and had kept on typing:
Doe eyed
filter toed
Minerva in disguise
Doe eyed
filter toed
Minerva in disguise
Doe eyed
filter toed
Minerva in disguise
Creature of right
Little love
In easy flight
And the man as he sat watching his wife near the temple changed his mantra and started chanting: Doe eyed, filter toed, Minerva in disguise and he got up chanting and picked up his wife, she had never felt lighter before, never more beautiful, he was never as comfortable in her proximity and he carried her in his two arms towards the awning, beyond the doors which seemed to grow and grow till they touched the very heavens. The man carried his wife inside the temple and together they took the bell and swung the gong and the chimes began, and once beginning never seemed to stop. Not even, smiled the wife, for the flute which the god vainly tried to play.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Friday, December 23, 2005
The best chicken curry in the whole world
Since circumstances have conspired to remind me of my chicken curry and this being the season of merriment, I will do you all a favour and post the recipe for the best chicken curry in the whole damned word. After about one and half years of trial and error, I finally settled on this. It's the best there is and dont bother to thank me, for I already hear it...
STUFF YOU WILL NEED:
1. aniseed or saunf or jeera, about a teaspoon or two
2. curry leaves or kadipatta, about ten or twelves leaves
3. onions, i usually put in about five of them but that's because i like its sweet tang
4. ginger-garlic paste, about three teaspoon
5. the chicken of course, a kilo, preferably cut into small pieces
6. chicken masala powder. now this is the tough part because you need Eastern Chicken Masala or Melam Chicken Masala for it to be the best chicken curry in the world. now both brands are big names in Kerala and is available in Mumbai in quaint little shops called Malayalee shops. any Malayalee aunty will direct you there. If you dont get it tough luck. use any chicken masala powder but dont blame me if the divinity is missing.
7. tomato, i usually go overboard, and put in about four of them
8. coconut oil, maybe half a cup
9. green chillies, about eight of them
10. salt, red chilli powder, turmeric powder
HOW DO YOU DO IT:
Here's how. Put about one tablespoon of salt and a teaspoon of turmeric powder on the chicken and mix it. Now remember, you are not marinating the fellow because, this might be news for you, chicken cannot be marinated. What you are doing is removing the chicken stench and this goes away after you wash the salty dead chicken after about five minutes. Now wash it again and again, as if the chicken is being readied for its own funeral. And now keep it aside.
Now, take a vessel, a large one, pour in the oil, let it heat and then put in the aniseed and curry leaves. Dont burn them, just enough for all that nice flavour to sink in.
Now add the onions, and turn the heat on as you make these onions very transparent like Mallika Sherawat. Once that's done, it's the turn of the ginger-garlic paste. And now this heavenly smell will come floating right onto you. Enjoy it because it wont last.
Now the chicken goes in and just fry it around for sometime and it is now time to put in the chicken masala powder but before that you have to do something to it. Listen carefully because this is very important.
Mix the chicken masala with water to make it into a paste before you add it onto the waiting dead chicken. I cant tell you how important this is. I also cant tell you why it works because it works.
Now you have got a dry sort of mixture on the fire, but dont add water. Leave the heat on medium. Maybe you can add the green chillies now after slitting them. if you like it hot add a teaspoon or two of red chilli powder
The hard work is more or less done, except for the tomatoes. Now there's a theory that the tomatoes should be added right at the end, about five minutes before you conclude and that keeps the meat tender. I personally have found that it makes no difference. So you can add the tomatoes whenever you feel like.
Now cover the vessel, go watch a TV serial or read a book and come back every five minutes to stir the chicken.
After about 30 minutes or so add some salt. And then taste it to see its fine. The thing with salt is always start low and then go on increasing because if you put excess of it, then it cant be reversed unless you have a chemistry professor near you.
Add water, if you wish for more gravy and i do wish for more gravy, so i usually add it.
After about 15 more minutes more switch off flame. Eat. Remember me as you eat.
STUFF YOU WILL NEED:
1. aniseed or saunf or jeera, about a teaspoon or two
2. curry leaves or kadipatta, about ten or twelves leaves
3. onions, i usually put in about five of them but that's because i like its sweet tang
4. ginger-garlic paste, about three teaspoon
5. the chicken of course, a kilo, preferably cut into small pieces
6. chicken masala powder. now this is the tough part because you need Eastern Chicken Masala or Melam Chicken Masala for it to be the best chicken curry in the world. now both brands are big names in Kerala and is available in Mumbai in quaint little shops called Malayalee shops. any Malayalee aunty will direct you there. If you dont get it tough luck. use any chicken masala powder but dont blame me if the divinity is missing.
7. tomato, i usually go overboard, and put in about four of them
8. coconut oil, maybe half a cup
9. green chillies, about eight of them
10. salt, red chilli powder, turmeric powder
HOW DO YOU DO IT:
Here's how. Put about one tablespoon of salt and a teaspoon of turmeric powder on the chicken and mix it. Now remember, you are not marinating the fellow because, this might be news for you, chicken cannot be marinated. What you are doing is removing the chicken stench and this goes away after you wash the salty dead chicken after about five minutes. Now wash it again and again, as if the chicken is being readied for its own funeral. And now keep it aside.
Now, take a vessel, a large one, pour in the oil, let it heat and then put in the aniseed and curry leaves. Dont burn them, just enough for all that nice flavour to sink in.
Now add the onions, and turn the heat on as you make these onions very transparent like Mallika Sherawat. Once that's done, it's the turn of the ginger-garlic paste. And now this heavenly smell will come floating right onto you. Enjoy it because it wont last.
Now the chicken goes in and just fry it around for sometime and it is now time to put in the chicken masala powder but before that you have to do something to it. Listen carefully because this is very important.
Mix the chicken masala with water to make it into a paste before you add it onto the waiting dead chicken. I cant tell you how important this is. I also cant tell you why it works because it works.
Now you have got a dry sort of mixture on the fire, but dont add water. Leave the heat on medium. Maybe you can add the green chillies now after slitting them. if you like it hot add a teaspoon or two of red chilli powder
The hard work is more or less done, except for the tomatoes. Now there's a theory that the tomatoes should be added right at the end, about five minutes before you conclude and that keeps the meat tender. I personally have found that it makes no difference. So you can add the tomatoes whenever you feel like.
Now cover the vessel, go watch a TV serial or read a book and come back every five minutes to stir the chicken.
After about 30 minutes or so add some salt. And then taste it to see its fine. The thing with salt is always start low and then go on increasing because if you put excess of it, then it cant be reversed unless you have a chemistry professor near you.
Add water, if you wish for more gravy and i do wish for more gravy, so i usually add it.
After about 15 more minutes more switch off flame. Eat. Remember me as you eat.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Monday, December 19, 2005
we who early morning drink in thimbles
— we one leg in the gutter by the bar
we poets all, we who do not war —
We who early morning drink in thimbles which slake like little lakes
Water our wounds and savour the ebbing of incessant shakes.
We relish the moment of this agony, the reliving of many pains
And celebrate the separation, the distance between you and I.
We who wait for shards of light seeping through the eyes of night
See — remains of one heart pulsating through the year’s stubble
And lame lovers dance to broken strings, whirl, turn and stumble.
Look — bottlemen with nothings battle through absent mornings.
We who do not war, poets all, night bereft in full blood dawn
Feast drink on little loves which matter little now
Envisioning other days, of white-washed second skies
Remembering furtive meetings and the promise of it
(her walk when she walked was somewhat hurried
her eyes her eyes had those touches of worry
she was my shadow, I was her shadow
together together like eye-black on eye)
Then the desolation of evenings, broken halfs of it
Mute with bleak yellow lights from failing lamps
Yellow lights which like futile brakes on this city’s nights
Ease into the early morning and we heart-afflicted watch it die.
we poets all, we who do not war —
We who early morning drink in thimbles which slake like little lakes
Water our wounds and savour the ebbing of incessant shakes.
We relish the moment of this agony, the reliving of many pains
And celebrate the separation, the distance between you and I.
We who wait for shards of light seeping through the eyes of night
See — remains of one heart pulsating through the year’s stubble
And lame lovers dance to broken strings, whirl, turn and stumble.
Look — bottlemen with nothings battle through absent mornings.
We who do not war, poets all, night bereft in full blood dawn
Feast drink on little loves which matter little now
Envisioning other days, of white-washed second skies
Remembering furtive meetings and the promise of it
(her walk when she walked was somewhat hurried
her eyes her eyes had those touches of worry
she was my shadow, I was her shadow
together together like eye-black on eye)
Then the desolation of evenings, broken halfs of it
Mute with bleak yellow lights from failing lamps
Yellow lights which like futile brakes on this city’s nights
Ease into the early morning and we heart-afflicted watch it die.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
the evillest rickshaw driver of mumbai
He was silent when I flagged him. He nodded and shook his head pointing inwards as I gave him my location. This was evening outside Borivali station, which is as north as north Mumbai proper gets. He gunned his black and yellow chariot and we ambled along and soon reached a point where a left had to be taken in the busy thoroughfare. In front of us was another rickshaw driver, blocking our road, waiting all expectantly for a man who had just jumped over the divider and looked like he was going to get in. And while the driver waited thus, the man neared him to half an arms length and just walked past eating peanuts. My rickshawdriver saw all this with keen eyes and then all hell broke loose.
He began to laugh and then went on to laugh and laugh until he was doubling over on his steering jack. In between he turned, and his eyes full of laughter tears, he looked at me and pointing at the rickshaw upfront, he asked in unchaste Hindi, "Did you see that," and then went back to return to splits. I was getting a little worried now. I thought I had a nut on my hands. I found nothing remotely funny in it. "Ho ho he he he, you saw that. Ho ho ho he he he," he continued to gasp out through his guffaws.
The way cleared meanwhile and we started ahead but something had happened to him, my rickshaw driver. Some vent of evil had snapped. Laughing like a maniac, and driving like one too, he suddenly veered onto a bus stop where there were a bunch of people politely standing and he drove straight into them. All of them there went pell mell in all directions. At the last minute, my maniac veered again and we were back into the road's middle. "You saw that. Ho ho ho he he ho ho ho," he went. This was getting infectious and the ghost got into me too and so we both went , "Ha ha ha hah hah ahh ho ho he he ho."
He then pushed on the accelerator and deftly cut another motorcycle driver almost driving him into another scooter. "Ho Ho Hoo Hah hah hah," we went, I slapping his back now.
Now, we were at an intersection and waiting behind a Sumo for the traffic to clear. An old woman came from the left and was about to squeeze her way through from between the auto and the jeep, when my friend, noticing this, waited till the last moment, and then inched his rickshaw ahead blocking off her route. She waited, bewildered, and then slowly, all her age showing, turned back defeated to try to make a way from behind us. "You saw that," said the maniac and went, "Ho ho hoo hoo."
We went ahead and there was a cycle coming from the opposite direction and my driver went straight on to him at full speed and the cyclist flailed his arms and fell to his right. Another cyclist a little ahead, was crowded off the road and fell in a heap on the footpath. And all the while, we both went "ho ho hoo hoo ho ho ha ha. Dont ever give them room. Ho ho hoo hoo hoo"
And this continued on and on, the autorickshaw rocking left and right as we laughed all the way to my place.
We both had one final "Ho ho ha ha Hoo Hoo" before I paid him off and he disappeared from my life. I hope he had an accident on his way back.
He began to laugh and then went on to laugh and laugh until he was doubling over on his steering jack. In between he turned, and his eyes full of laughter tears, he looked at me and pointing at the rickshaw upfront, he asked in unchaste Hindi, "Did you see that," and then went back to return to splits. I was getting a little worried now. I thought I had a nut on my hands. I found nothing remotely funny in it. "Ho ho he he he, you saw that. Ho ho ho he he he," he continued to gasp out through his guffaws.
The way cleared meanwhile and we started ahead but something had happened to him, my rickshaw driver. Some vent of evil had snapped. Laughing like a maniac, and driving like one too, he suddenly veered onto a bus stop where there were a bunch of people politely standing and he drove straight into them. All of them there went pell mell in all directions. At the last minute, my maniac veered again and we were back into the road's middle. "You saw that. Ho ho ho he he ho ho ho," he went. This was getting infectious and the ghost got into me too and so we both went , "Ha ha ha hah hah ahh ho ho he he ho."
He then pushed on the accelerator and deftly cut another motorcycle driver almost driving him into another scooter. "Ho Ho Hoo Hah hah hah," we went, I slapping his back now.
Now, we were at an intersection and waiting behind a Sumo for the traffic to clear. An old woman came from the left and was about to squeeze her way through from between the auto and the jeep, when my friend, noticing this, waited till the last moment, and then inched his rickshaw ahead blocking off her route. She waited, bewildered, and then slowly, all her age showing, turned back defeated to try to make a way from behind us. "You saw that," said the maniac and went, "Ho ho hoo hoo."
We went ahead and there was a cycle coming from the opposite direction and my driver went straight on to him at full speed and the cyclist flailed his arms and fell to his right. Another cyclist a little ahead, was crowded off the road and fell in a heap on the footpath. And all the while, we both went "ho ho hoo hoo ho ho ha ha. Dont ever give them room. Ho ho hoo hoo hoo"
And this continued on and on, the autorickshaw rocking left and right as we laughed all the way to my place.
We both had one final "Ho ho ha ha Hoo Hoo" before I paid him off and he disappeared from my life. I hope he had an accident on his way back.
Monday, December 12, 2005
hear us O you who hears all
hear us O you who hears all
for we are people of faith and hope
burdened by much but unrelenting
silenced by grief but unbowing
hear our faith. we believe
see us O you who sees all
see that we be kind and caring
see that we be good and sharing
we live in your shadow, by your will
by your grace see that we live well
feel us O you who touches all
we are asea in tempests, you the harbour
feel our prayers, for we hymn your glory
we ask no riches nor golden grains
just faith and keep our faith growing
be with us O you who is in all and all
for we know - when there is nothing
when the path is uneven and the darkness
engulfing encompassing entwining -
you exist and that to us is enough
that, hear us O you who hears all, is everything
for we are people of faith and hope
burdened by much but unrelenting
silenced by grief but unbowing
hear our faith. we believe
see us O you who sees all
see that we be kind and caring
see that we be good and sharing
we live in your shadow, by your will
by your grace see that we live well
feel us O you who touches all
we are asea in tempests, you the harbour
feel our prayers, for we hymn your glory
we ask no riches nor golden grains
just faith and keep our faith growing
be with us O you who is in all and all
for we know - when there is nothing
when the path is uneven and the darkness
engulfing encompassing entwining -
you exist and that to us is enough
that, hear us O you who hears all, is everything
Saturday, December 10, 2005
You pursue me
you pursue me
through persuasions
of life
of love
where love is a writ
a plea an ask
a summon
where a summon
is enough
you pursue me
through rescissions
and regrets
where i rescind all
and you breathe all
back into me.
you pursue me
through evasions
you pursue
till i evade no more
we meet
amid
sullied rivers
tainted woods
bald mountains
dead valleys
desert
we meet
we levee the rivers
and shore up dreams
we blink at the night
which blinks back
and so there’s light
we colour the valleys
we colour the mountains
we colour the woods
we colour it all
we irrigate the dry desert
finally we walk
and our feet follow us
without persuasions
without evasions
the sun unbolts the way
at last, it is day
through persuasions
of life
of love
where love is a writ
a plea an ask
a summon
where a summon
is enough
you pursue me
through rescissions
and regrets
where i rescind all
and you breathe all
back into me.
you pursue me
through evasions
you pursue
till i evade no more
we meet
amid
sullied rivers
tainted woods
bald mountains
dead valleys
desert
we meet
we levee the rivers
and shore up dreams
we blink at the night
which blinks back
and so there’s light
we colour the valleys
we colour the mountains
we colour the woods
we colour it all
we irrigate the dry desert
finally we walk
and our feet follow us
without persuasions
without evasions
the sun unbolts the way
at last, it is day
Friday, December 09, 2005
I pursue you
i pursue you
through evasions
of time
where time is a word
a paragraph, a chapter
a novel
where a novel
is a line
i pursue you
through evasions
where you evade
and i evade
and glances float wrinkle
curl
where you walk i walk
and opposite sunsets
rise
i pursue you
through rivers of night
and we draw dreams
with a water wheel
these dreams run
rise and spray
and we separate each
with uneasy fingers
which mildly tremble
(because they break too soon
fragile dreams break too soon)
as we make our way
through rivers of blinding night
through evasions
of time
where time is a word
a paragraph, a chapter
a novel
where a novel
is a line
i pursue you
through evasions
where you evade
and i evade
and glances float wrinkle
curl
where you walk i walk
and opposite sunsets
rise
i pursue you
through rivers of night
and we draw dreams
with a water wheel
these dreams run
rise and spray
and we separate each
with uneasy fingers
which mildly tremble
(because they break too soon
fragile dreams break too soon)
as we make our way
through rivers of blinding night
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Things not to do and to do
I am a magnet for embarrassing moments and what happened today ranks somewhere in the middle. But, still it's got news value. But before that, the background: Well, about five months ago, I am like new to this job and all eager and ready to run if anyone tells me to stand up. Alert, attentive, razor fast and aiming to please, that was what I was aiming to be. So, I get a call on my extension. "Can you come here please." It sounds to me like our head of administration and so I get up, take a left and cross a stair to head into that section of things. Turns out head of administration is with head of accounts in the latter's cabin. So maybe they both have something terribly important to do with me.
My spine straight, I barge into the cabin. And they are having a sort of round table conference except that all of them are standing. Head of accounts looks at me and lifts one eyebrow. Quick Gun Madhavan (that's me) lifts one of his own.
"Yes," he says.
"Yes," I say.
"Can I help you," he asks. I am a little fuddled now. So okay, head of administration is there. He called me after all and I lower my eyebrows and say, pointing at him, "He."
Head of administration immediately dusts his shirt. "Me. Oh, you want to talk to me. Let's go outside."
He doesn't get it. "But you called me," I tell him.
"Did I," he says. "I didn't," he adds.
I mutter sorries and then run back to my cubicle where editor, il capo, is waiting.
"Hey, I called you. Why did you go running in the other direction." I mutter more embarrassed sorries. End of recap.
NOW TODAY:
Head of administration comes and says new publishing director, a CEO of sorts, wants to meet everyone singly and do I have the time. Of course I have the time and jump and almost start running to do small talk with the il capo di capo. Hold it, says head of administration. "He's with someone else. Later. I will call you."
Five minutes later there's a call. "Madhavan, can you come here" And I get up and run to head of administration. Yes, you guessed it. That was the editor again.
So I reach my completely wrong and mistimed destination and flash a smile at him. Head of administration smiles back and I should have suspected something because he didn't say anything. So I hemmed and hawed and he offered me a seat and we just sort of sat there. He, I am sure, wondering what's wrong with me and I all agog in anticipation but puzzled that I am being made to wait. I mean I didnt have to wait a minute during my job interview. I get invited in after a long long time, in the meanwhile of which I ask head of administration about his train schedule, kids, estate prices and so forth. Small talk done with publishing director, I return to find my other boss, the editor, waiting.
"You still dont recognise my voice," he says and laughs loudly. What else could I do. I try to laugh even louder than him and act like I am revelling in all this glory.
But I decide then and there to smuggle in a spoon from tomorrow onwards and start digging a tunnel under my chair and so maybe the next time I can jump right in and get out through the other side in the night, straight onto Goa betwixt the white dunes of Benaulim beach which sparkle in the night like pearls and where I will lie and look at the full moon while mermaids, as pretty as Blue Athena, come out of the sea flipping their flippers and sing many little lyrics to me. I wouldn't look at them though. I would look at the moon and imagine the fat fellow dancing to the sea music. Later I would go on a float of these sea nymphs deep into the sea where the sea king would offer his daughter in marriage and then, sea king, sea queen, sea princess and me would lead a good sea life with sharks and sting rays, dolphins and blue whales, octopus and salmons who take a break as they migrate through vast oceans to nest and egg. Yes, one happy sea family we will all be.
My spine straight, I barge into the cabin. And they are having a sort of round table conference except that all of them are standing. Head of accounts looks at me and lifts one eyebrow. Quick Gun Madhavan (that's me) lifts one of his own.
"Yes," he says.
"Yes," I say.
"Can I help you," he asks. I am a little fuddled now. So okay, head of administration is there. He called me after all and I lower my eyebrows and say, pointing at him, "He."
Head of administration immediately dusts his shirt. "Me. Oh, you want to talk to me. Let's go outside."
He doesn't get it. "But you called me," I tell him.
"Did I," he says. "I didn't," he adds.
I mutter sorries and then run back to my cubicle where editor, il capo, is waiting.
"Hey, I called you. Why did you go running in the other direction." I mutter more embarrassed sorries. End of recap.
NOW TODAY:
Head of administration comes and says new publishing director, a CEO of sorts, wants to meet everyone singly and do I have the time. Of course I have the time and jump and almost start running to do small talk with the il capo di capo. Hold it, says head of administration. "He's with someone else. Later. I will call you."
Five minutes later there's a call. "Madhavan, can you come here" And I get up and run to head of administration. Yes, you guessed it. That was the editor again.
So I reach my completely wrong and mistimed destination and flash a smile at him. Head of administration smiles back and I should have suspected something because he didn't say anything. So I hemmed and hawed and he offered me a seat and we just sort of sat there. He, I am sure, wondering what's wrong with me and I all agog in anticipation but puzzled that I am being made to wait. I mean I didnt have to wait a minute during my job interview. I get invited in after a long long time, in the meanwhile of which I ask head of administration about his train schedule, kids, estate prices and so forth. Small talk done with publishing director, I return to find my other boss, the editor, waiting.
"You still dont recognise my voice," he says and laughs loudly. What else could I do. I try to laugh even louder than him and act like I am revelling in all this glory.
But I decide then and there to smuggle in a spoon from tomorrow onwards and start digging a tunnel under my chair and so maybe the next time I can jump right in and get out through the other side in the night, straight onto Goa betwixt the white dunes of Benaulim beach which sparkle in the night like pearls and where I will lie and look at the full moon while mermaids, as pretty as Blue Athena, come out of the sea flipping their flippers and sing many little lyrics to me. I wouldn't look at them though. I would look at the moon and imagine the fat fellow dancing to the sea music. Later I would go on a float of these sea nymphs deep into the sea where the sea king would offer his daughter in marriage and then, sea king, sea queen, sea princess and me would lead a good sea life with sharks and sting rays, dolphins and blue whales, octopus and salmons who take a break as they migrate through vast oceans to nest and egg. Yes, one happy sea family we will all be.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
My left toe
Resolution made to self notwithstanding, I am yet to write even one vowel today of the 1000-word daily target. So, in the meanwhile, let me quickly tell you about my left toe while the writer's block gets bored and scrams...
MY LEFT TOE
My left toe is situated on my left leg. It is like any other left toe.
MY LEFT TOE
My left toe is situated on my left leg. It is like any other left toe.
Monday, December 05, 2005
When I remember I remember
When I remember I remember
Suns of no rising
No moons straddling no moons
Throwing no glare nor light
On twilghts which ran on end
Into the reaches of the year
Remaining like unwelcome guests
Who make other homes homes
Till they own it.
I remember the shutting of the door
When I remember I remember
Nights of no tomorrows
And evenings which wept
And days of no mornings
Which crept
Like age does on beauty
Until the ravishing is done
And the remains are left to wither.
I remember beginning to run
Suns of no rising
No moons straddling no moons
Throwing no glare nor light
On twilghts which ran on end
Into the reaches of the year
Remaining like unwelcome guests
Who make other homes homes
Till they own it.
I remember the shutting of the door
When I remember I remember
Nights of no tomorrows
And evenings which wept
And days of no mornings
Which crept
Like age does on beauty
Until the ravishing is done
And the remains are left to wither.
I remember beginning to run
Friday, December 02, 2005
Whatever the hell this means
Feng shui chimes remind me of lost and disappearing times
Half a clock tells me time is petty like petty crimes
the minute mocks and mimes, she said
the minute mocks and mimes, she said
Mosquitoes like jailbirds wave to me from the window glass
Now I remember, I wanted to be but was never topooftheclass
be strong glint like brass, she said
be strong glint like brass, she said
Calendars beat the air, their pages fluttering and shouting
The tubelight holds the night, but then months are turning
light the lamp and pray, she said
light the lamp and pray, she said
In the instant of a blink years have been evading and passing
Where was I where was I where was I when all this was ensuing
you rave and rant, pray she said
you rave and rant, pray she said
I cant I cant
I recant I recant
Half a clock tells me time is petty like petty crimes
the minute mocks and mimes, she said
the minute mocks and mimes, she said
Mosquitoes like jailbirds wave to me from the window glass
Now I remember, I wanted to be but was never topooftheclass
be strong glint like brass, she said
be strong glint like brass, she said
Calendars beat the air, their pages fluttering and shouting
The tubelight holds the night, but then months are turning
light the lamp and pray, she said
light the lamp and pray, she said
In the instant of a blink years have been evading and passing
Where was I where was I where was I when all this was ensuing
you rave and rant, pray she said
you rave and rant, pray she said
I cant I cant
I recant I recant
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Sometimes death comes calling in early morning
Sometimes death comes calling in early morning
When light breaks out in shards
Just before the new day begins
And the sun is about to smile
Death waiting then makes her move
She comes calling then
That is how tea cups roll over
And arteries go on strike
Blood and tea
Matching mixing
As death comes calling in early morning
Life is spent, the breath is over
Nostrils are clouded with cotton
Down below, toes are tied
All over, rose water is applied
Death is calling, dress him up
Be ready now, it is time to go
It is time to go
Let fire consume his body
Let the gods assume his soul
Let his dust swirl the wind
Let his bones in rivers flow
Death is calling
Let him go let him go
The flames rise and ashes are born
It is over: tears are futile, why try
And that is how fathers die
When light breaks out in shards
Just before the new day begins
And the sun is about to smile
Death waiting then makes her move
She comes calling then
That is how tea cups roll over
And arteries go on strike
Blood and tea
Matching mixing
As death comes calling in early morning
Life is spent, the breath is over
Nostrils are clouded with cotton
Down below, toes are tied
All over, rose water is applied
Death is calling, dress him up
Be ready now, it is time to go
It is time to go
Let fire consume his body
Let the gods assume his soul
Let his dust swirl the wind
Let his bones in rivers flow
Death is calling
Let him go let him go
The flames rise and ashes are born
It is over: tears are futile, why try
And that is how fathers die
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Leper Colony
With broken bent fingers and holes of hands
We gathered the colours of the rainbow
In open palms
Scattered it over fruits, vegetables, flowers
Watched them sprout and bloom
There was this hunger we had to break
There was this thirst we had to slake
We harnessed the wind
Broke the yoke of rivers in spate
Subdued torrents, dammed their fury
We were creators of many lakes
On clear nights we kissed the stars
And they twinkled bright for us
We let the moon free from the earth
We could even douse the sun but we did not
We tilled this land, once barren once bereft
And from towering rocks on dead plateaus
We curdled water and quenched our thirst
From our threads, we saw kingdoms rise
Gods who forsook us, came beseeching now
We weaved baskets which held life
We raised our young and we gave them love
We did all this and more
The road was long and it took a while
Often we slipped but then we stood
And then we walked on a thousand legs
We knew
We knew that with every step we took
We knew that with the first step we took
We lepers of the leper colony became whole again
This mutilated journey done, we each became all again
We gathered the colours of the rainbow
In open palms
Scattered it over fruits, vegetables, flowers
Watched them sprout and bloom
There was this hunger we had to break
There was this thirst we had to slake
We harnessed the wind
Broke the yoke of rivers in spate
Subdued torrents, dammed their fury
We were creators of many lakes
On clear nights we kissed the stars
And they twinkled bright for us
We let the moon free from the earth
We could even douse the sun but we did not
We tilled this land, once barren once bereft
And from towering rocks on dead plateaus
We curdled water and quenched our thirst
From our threads, we saw kingdoms rise
Gods who forsook us, came beseeching now
We weaved baskets which held life
We raised our young and we gave them love
We did all this and more
The road was long and it took a while
Often we slipped but then we stood
And then we walked on a thousand legs
We knew
We knew that with every step we took
We knew that with the first step we took
We lepers of the leper colony became whole again
This mutilated journey done, we each became all again
Dreams of botox
At 3:40 in the morning when I woke up with a shiver, I knew that this would not be a good day. For I had dreamt that I had had botox injections in my eyes and while the rest of my face was wrinkled and sagged like witches in fury, my eyes were smooth and straight as the sort of marble they used once to build the Taj Mahal. I could have done many things then - analysed the meaning of this nightmare, pondered on the vagaries of time, read a sad book to make me sadder or perhaps, autosuggest my way to happiness, which I am sure exists somewhere in this good earth. But I was sleepy and so I went back to sleep and overslept and missed my 7:51am Borivali local to Churchgate and with fright in my mind, fear clutching my heart, waited for the 7:57 slow sure as sure that I wouldn't get a place to sit. I jumped in, wrestled my way afore and pushing aside a stock broker, captured the third seat, the last on offer, in the first class compartment and erected my flag there.
There I sat, leafing through a copy of the Mumbai Mirror, till I came across an article on mental health. Being interested in this department, I quickly dog-leafed it, flipped through the rest of the ramble and returned to mull over the piece. It spoke of anxiety disorder and I quickly put a tick against, it spoke of depression and I quickly put a tick against it, it spoke of schizophrenia and I put a question mark against it and then it spoke of bipolar depression and I put two exclamation marks there. There the list ended and thus satisfied, with many unexplained mysteries solved, I spent the rest of my time desperately trying to get a glimpse of the sunlight through the elbows of fellow strugglers in that inferno.
There I sat, leafing through a copy of the Mumbai Mirror, till I came across an article on mental health. Being interested in this department, I quickly dog-leafed it, flipped through the rest of the ramble and returned to mull over the piece. It spoke of anxiety disorder and I quickly put a tick against, it spoke of depression and I quickly put a tick against it, it spoke of schizophrenia and I put a question mark against it and then it spoke of bipolar depression and I put two exclamation marks there. There the list ended and thus satisfied, with many unexplained mysteries solved, I spent the rest of my time desperately trying to get a glimpse of the sunlight through the elbows of fellow strugglers in that inferno.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
The problem with dhai
I am giving the muse a break and since I am pretty damn sure that no one is reading all this drivel, I am going to keep myself amused by recounting something funny. And then I will laugh all by myself and feel sorry for the whole world that they are not privy to this. So here goes...
Once upon a time, in a building of six wings reclining below a hill in a place called Borvali in the northern end of a city called Mumbai, my brother got off the autorickshaw. Us Malayalees dont pride ourselves on our know of Hindi and therefore you (or rather I, since only I am reading this) are warned to look at the following exchange with kind commiseration.
The minimum fare in those days used to be Rs 7.50 which my brother was unaware of. Having got down, he fished out a Rs five note and threw it at the rickshaw driver.
The rickshaw driver now: Saahab, dhai rupiya aur ('Rs dhai please more, sir', if you want my sorry translation)
My brother fishes out another Rs 2 note and gives to rickshaw driver. Now here comes the nub: He thinks, 'dhai' means Rs 1.50.
So, we have this situation: Both rickshaw driver and brother looking at each other, each expecting the other to donate a 50 paise coin to the other. Time passes thus.
Finally, the rickshaw driver breaks the ice: Saahab, pachas paise
And my brother, paragon of generosity, says: "KEEP THE CHANGE!!!
Because all witnesses were rolling on the ground at this point, no one knows what transpired later.
Once upon a time, in a building of six wings reclining below a hill in a place called Borvali in the northern end of a city called Mumbai, my brother got off the autorickshaw. Us Malayalees dont pride ourselves on our know of Hindi and therefore you (or rather I, since only I am reading this) are warned to look at the following exchange with kind commiseration.
The minimum fare in those days used to be Rs 7.50 which my brother was unaware of. Having got down, he fished out a Rs five note and threw it at the rickshaw driver.
The rickshaw driver now: Saahab, dhai rupiya aur ('Rs dhai please more, sir', if you want my sorry translation)
My brother fishes out another Rs 2 note and gives to rickshaw driver. Now here comes the nub: He thinks, 'dhai' means Rs 1.50.
So, we have this situation: Both rickshaw driver and brother looking at each other, each expecting the other to donate a 50 paise coin to the other. Time passes thus.
Finally, the rickshaw driver breaks the ice: Saahab, pachas paise
And my brother, paragon of generosity, says: "KEEP THE CHANGE!!!
Because all witnesses were rolling on the ground at this point, no one knows what transpired later.
Monday, November 28, 2005
In the beginning
In the beginning,
Even before the word
Were silences.
Silent gods
In Silent heavens
Whispering Silences.
And came beginnings
Order from order torn
Explosions
Creations
Divisions
Revisions
Then happened the word
All was suddenly still
And worlds were born
Even before the word
Were silences.
Silent gods
In Silent heavens
Whispering Silences.
And came beginnings
Order from order torn
Explosions
Creations
Divisions
Revisions
Then happened the word
All was suddenly still
And worlds were born
And I read you and think
And I read you and think
When our histories are written
If our untold lives are noted
In this age of evenings:
How much of that ink will spill
And go
Or will they write on water
And watch the words flow
Will they then apologise
For all that was lonely today
Will they perhaps reason
Why so many were sad
Why did all the poets lie
Why did the divisions die
Between what was wrong
And
What was right
Why didn't the writers write
Is that how our conclusions begin:
Here lived people in healthy times
Women and men of steel
And here began the end
Of all that we remember
It's official: history stillborn is dead
All in this excellent land is henceforth myth
When our histories are written
If our untold lives are noted
In this age of evenings:
How much of that ink will spill
And go
Or will they write on water
And watch the words flow
Will they then apologise
For all that was lonely today
Will they perhaps reason
Why so many were sad
Why did all the poets lie
Why did the divisions die
Between what was wrong
And
What was right
Why didn't the writers write
Is that how our conclusions begin:
Here lived people in healthy times
Women and men of steel
And here began the end
Of all that we remember
It's official: history stillborn is dead
All in this excellent land is henceforth myth
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