Dog for a Day

The Night Comes with Noises

2012-01-20T16:04:00.000+05:30

Tap dripping hard-water complaints:
endless one-note samba,
one-night-standing with a sink and a steel plate.

Scratch of plastic tissue-box leaning against the shelf
in constant conversation with
fight-or-flight lizard's tail:
Geck-o geck-o geck-o geck-o.

Orient fan in persistent battle with pusillanimous regulator:
Whirring victoriously to the end of time - 2012 -
when the meek shall inherit the earth.
Murder of the Orient's express.

Paperback Wendy Cope rubs her back
against 19th century poets.
Every last one of them.
You can't imagine what happened to e.e. cummings.
Bookend's loud metallic dissent.

Creaking rocking chair.
No breeze.
Just rocking next to a row
of Agatha Christies.

~
There is only one quiet time,
when the evening Azaan comes to its faltering off-key end,
a single crow cocks its head
and shuts its mouth for once.
The sun sets behind the neighbour's Syntex tank
without a fight,
and clearly like crystal black and white,
daylight peters out into the night.

The Sacred Cud

2011-09-23T15:50:00.000+05:30

Some day you’ll see me
Desk-bound.

How clever I’ll seem:
Scratching, writing, sucking on the lower lip
Of freshly-awakened mind;
Biting down on the slimy grip,
Of a sentence, less than kind.

How serious I’ll look:
Chewing the sacred cud of commas best erased,
Interviewing semicolons worthy of national debate,
An accident of apostrophes and puns that must be praised,
An anecdote of little faith, a punch line far too late.

How tired I will be:
You’ll see the sweat trickling down my chin
Sweat dotting the lines of this mess I am in
Confused by words I cannot say,
Words I must write anyway:

Cinnamon, synonym, minimum, tragedy, prodigy, itinerary, abominable, ineligible!

But I am strong.
I will not be consoled by a man
Who thinks Toni Morrison
Is a man.

At night, lying next to the exhausted book,
I’m open-mouth-asleep, imitating the dead
You’re pretending to watch Nigella cook
Her Crispy Cakes are messing with your head.

The ceiling fan mutters a curse through the pages
Ruffling the feathers of writhing adages,
Not wanting to intrude, you’ll look away for ages
Then lose the resolve that man carefully cages.

Ignoring your battling guilty denial
You’ll “happen to see” my literary trial
The shocking residue of all that lip-biting,
All the ruckus over dyslexic infighting.

Today I have written a magical thing
To put your conscience forever to shame:
Seven hundred and forty nine times I’ve scrawled, the nuances of
Your name.

Satis House

2011-09-23T15:25:00.000+05:30

Every time you step over the thin line
and commit an accidental endearment,
I hand you a balancing beam
of carefully chosen plays on words:
comic plays
tragic plays.
You bite your tongue, and
fling the expletive of a pat on my back.

Every time my mouth is on the verge
of crossing that same line
of friendship into something new,
you say something old,
something trite,
something about a former lover,
something that just won't do.
I swallow my words, and
ignore my gag reflex.

No one will chastise us
for our wimpish follies, our impish jollies.
It will be many years before we realise:
Walls in empty houses eavesdrop
only on a wary weary past.

Seize the Dame

2011-08-24T12:56:00.002+05:30

Lately, I’ve spent too much time idling:
There are three dead hands on the clock
The telephone has turned into a rock
All our coffeeshops have drinker’s block.

I’m leaving now
To see if the sun will come and play.
But you–you should stay.
You’re too preoccupied with ceasing my day.

Title courtesy Kiran Mascarenhas, who says these things.

Tuesday Haiku: Of time travel and helplessness

2011-08-03T15:49:00.001+05:30

This week's Tuesday Haiku, in keeping with tried-and-tested irony, is ready on Wednesday.

Comparative Haiku
In a candy store
children do not wait for crumbs
like I do for you

Bright Light Haiku
For Kiran
Disco-lit auto
every evening going home
I seek time travel

Monarch Haiku
A big butterfly
in the pit of my stomach
dying of darkness

Tuesday Haiku

2011-05-31T14:55:00.000+05:30

This week's Haiku edition, miraculously on time. Inspired by a haiku non-believer.

BAKING TIPS

Writing haiku is
like baking a cooker cake:
quick, delicious.

DOES DRAMA

How can you complain
about meaningless haiku
when summer has died?

Tuesday Haiku

2011-05-31T14:46:00.000+05:30

These are from last week, when I wrote but didn't post. I realise these are not haiku, but senryu. But, you know. Bite me. For the one-and-a-half readers I have on this blog, if you're more active on Twitter, you can follow me and my haiku and my cricket rants @LeftarmSpinster.

CLOSED DOOR
I will spend my life
looking through a window at
your face-melting mouth.

THIEF
I steel myself; you
walk in afternoon light white.
I'd rather steal you.

Tuesday Haiku

2011-05-10T16:46:00.000+05:30

Bob Dylan Haiku

Along the watchtower,
minutes changing into hours
is a tall order.

Remembrance Haiku

Early morning hands
try to wake sleeping pillow;
dog is in the grave.

Strange Love Haiku

The blue-grey sky weeps.
He scoffs at my shirt, I stand
under his umbrage.

Tuesday Haiku

2011-05-06T12:48:00.000+05:30

Posting Tuesday Haiku on a Friday is totally allowed. Okay?

ONE

When dressed to the gills
in a fancy restaurant,
I can't eat the fish.

TWO

He was a good spy,
till his lovely little bride
stitched him a turncoat.

Batting Practise

2011-03-21T14:08:00.000+05:30

Where her shin is blue,
The ball probably kept low—
Such a calculated blow.

On her burning head,
The emphatic gash of a full toss;
An indefinite period of memory loss.

On her neck
And all along her sides,
The blackened blobs of failed cover drives.

He wakes in the morning,
A gentle headache keeping him calm,
He runs his fingers down her screaming arm.

“Sorry, honey, about the batting practise.
Never again. Now give us a peck!"
She tries to turn her neck.

He leaves. Another morning
has thrown up on the bathroom floor.
She smiles, winces, closes the door.

Limps to the kitchen,
Finds her own well-hidden Bottle of Bashes
Blood has no memory; stashes win matches.

Inherited Traits in German

2011-02-27T12:53:00.000+05:30

Reason 1: Why I love Facebook
I wrote this poem some months back, someone told someone told someone, and here's a German translation. Hopefully, Mr.Lörner and I will collaborate further.

Translation by Karlheinz Lörner

She chopped vegetables by the window
for years,
watching her son grow.
The neighbours, his uncles, her lovers-
all the jigsaw bits of a father.

She chopped vegetables by the window
each day,
he grew taller and stronger and stranger,
in the image of his father,
forever earning, forever "abroad".

On the first day of his first job,
just for a moment nervous like the child,
he trembled at his mother.

Pulling a knot below his collar,
the stale scent of lavender sachets she put between clothes,
she looked into his eyes,
the eternal wall between them falling.
"You have your father's ties."

Vererbte Eigenschaften

Sie putzte Gemüse am Fenster
Jeden Tag.
Beobachtete das Heranwachsen des Sohnes
Die Nachbarn, die Onkel, ihre Liebhaber -
Alle Mosaikstückchen eines Vaters

Sie putzte Gemüse am Fenster

jeden Tag,
Er wuchs, wurde größer und stärker und fremder

Ein Abbild des Vaters
immer Geld, immer "draußen".

Am ersten Tag seiner ersten Arbeit,
war er einen Augenblick lang ein ängstliches Kind

fürchtete sich bei seiner Mutter.

Sie richtete ihm den Knoten

dieser Geruch nach verbrauchtem Lavendel in der Kleidung
sie sah ihm in die Augen
diese Wand aus einer Ewigkeit
"Du trägst die Krawatte wie dein Vater.“

The Rock

2011-02-14T19:35:00.002+05:30

What happens when you try to write in spite of the elephantine writers' block in the room? See.

Old Professor Murthy
Led a life quite sedentary.

What others thought of as excessively pious,
He believed was merely elementary.

He chipped away on rocks all day,
His lectures in class were pedantry.

One day he found
A pebble so round
And shiny and smooth and confusing!

Rushing home, heart a-flutter
His watchful speech a stutter,
His hitched dhoti altogether amusing.

"Kamala!" he cried,
His wife by his side,
"Look what I found! It's confounding!"

Not observing his find -
Not the observant kind -
Kamala leaned on the table.

Her hand crashing down
On what the professor had found;
His whimper was low and feeble.

Now old Professor Murthy
Leads a life quite sedentary.

His wife prays all day
Deflowering the jasmine tree.

Alas, what the professor thought was igneous
Was merely sedimentary.

One Minute Book

2010-12-07T09:48:00.000+05:30

Here's a story I wrote a couple of years back. Well, it's a short short or something.

~

The jogger’s shoes pound against the cobble-stoned sidewalk as he runs past an old ground in South Mumbai. One little spin bowler successfully cracks the stumps, bowling out the bespectacled hero of the hour. One ball, one wicket, eleven shrieks of animated appeal to the fictitious umpire. One bespectacled bat drags dust on its way to the stone bench. One minute to the school bell; soon it will be time to go home. No commercial breaks, no sponsored jerseys, no brand ambassadors. Just one little spinner who broke enough windows to perfect the turn of the ball. The scrawny bowler pumps his fist in the air. The young players saunter away from the field and hear a loud burst of thunder. The sky is clear, but the fence around the playground has come bursting in.

Dodging the late afternoon shoppers on Colaba Causeway, the jogger sweats his way past an old saleswoman on the brink of a smile. A young hippie in the wrong decade hands over five hundred-rupee notes to the toothless smile. Four too many for a shawl with a secret hole in it. The hippie casts a sidelong glance at the jogger who smiles in appreciation. Curling her fingers around the notes, the old woman sighs in anticipation of all the pegs of rum that will go un-sacrificed that evening. Tucking the shawl into her bag where her freshly purchased marijuana nestles next to her copy of Lonely Planet, the hippie turns to leave, thinking about sex and joggers. A big blinding light and the sound of a hundred cannonballs prematurely ends her imaginary one-night stand.

The jogger looks into the window of an old coffee shop with a colonial hangover, a shroud that almost all of Colaba proudly shares. A reflection of himself comes back at him like a message garbled in the vision of a couple on a date. He pants by as the stubble in the coffee shop looks soulfully into the black crevices between the toes of a goddess. The deity in question looks at the clock, looks at the door, looks at the clock. The stubble twitches uncomfortably at the ground that refuses to open up below him. Light leaves his eyes as it fills those of the goddess. A clean-shaven dimple- that master of puppets- enters the coffee shop and locks the goddess in a fate-sealing embrace. The stubble holds back an expletive as a waiter condescends on underachieving breadsticks. The door of the coffee shop bursts into a million little teardrops of glass, chairs fly upwards and inwards and people are thrown off the checkered tablecloths like so many chessmen.

An undernourished rabid dog scratches the heat and grime off his ears as the jogger comes into his line of vision. Standing up in delirious euphoria, the dog chases the jogger, happy to have met a friend. As he runs to catch up, the light catches the shimmer of a metal fastener on the jogger’s torso. The jogger looks at the dog and looks up at the sky. He screams to an unseeing God before he presses a button strapped to his body. Little bits of the rabid dog splatter on the rubble of cobblestones.

In the air filled with the stench of so many unconnected deaths, hangs a single thought: That in the movie which will be made some years hence, this scene will be in slow motion, and the censor board will cut the footage of the flying flesh and the look of lust that passed between a jogger and a hippie.

Godawful Poem #4: The Incidence of Light

2010-08-24T12:51:00.002+05:30

The incidence of light
on bee-hive glass panels
not unfavourably tinted by beer within.
The incidence of light
was the high point of that evening.

Cannot read the newly-acquired book
for reasons of tiny fontage,
will not talk to the gaping guzzler
for reasons of affrontage.

On that listless evening
when even the weather did nothing new,
the incidence of light
soon became minor gossip in the pub.

Now the bartenders insist
on bee-hive glass panels on their beer mugs:
It keeps the regulars happy,
it unites the lonely,
it makes patterns on the walls.

The evenings are still mostly listless
except for so many incidents of light.

Godawful Poem #3: In which the sniffles take over

2010-08-23T11:58:00.000+05:30

Sniffles,
like punctuation marks,
pepper my conversation.

Those who love me less
for being a stickler,
now detest the grotesque
nose-pickler.

It's far worse when I sneeze:
I feel like a stage artist,
suddenly naked,
everyone staring,
holding breath,
what will she say now,
will she embarrass her loved ones,
will she impress?

It's far worse when I sneeze:
Microphone in hand,
the first awkward 'hello',
a squeal from the mic,
people waiting, judging,
"today I will be singing..."
and the song is forgotten,
averted eyes,
poor woman, poor woman,
squirming and squeezing
the tissue in her hand.

Sniffles
are like the curtains opening
before a massive audience glares at you,
demanding their money's worth.

Now when I sneeze,
I imagine the audience is naked,
I imagine the spotlight is on them,
dimpled thighs and wrinkled breast.
The fantastic bark escapes my lips,
and I feel tall,
the sniffles that follow
are a raucous curtain call.

Inherited traits

2010-08-23T11:37:00.001+05:30

She chopped vegetables by the window
for years,
watching her son grow.
The neighbours, his uncles, her lovers-
all the jigsaw bits of a father.

She chopped vegetables by the window
each day,
he grew taller and stronger and stranger,
in the image of his father,
forever earning, forever "abroad".

On the first day of his first job,
just for a moment nervous like the child,
he trembled at his mother.
Pulling a knot below his collar,
the stale scent of lavender sachets she put between clothes,
she looked into his eyes,
the eternal wall between them falling.
"You have your father's ties."

Godawful Poem #2: In which a muse appears

2010-08-22T20:50:00.001+05:30

On most evenings when the ink runs dry,
I can explain why:
Poems are rarely of use
When there is no muse.

On such evenings, one appears in my head,
Of magnificent soul and passions that are red,
Of cruelty so attractive, and kindness like a drug,
With tears for a puppy, but for mankind just a shrug.

On these evenings, I steel my heart
I steel my heart, not steal my heart.
(Imagine the state of oneself,
If oneself were to fall for oneself!)

On these evenings, I steel my heart:
I turn away before I can start.
I put away the pen again,
Close the inkpot and count to ten.

A bad poem, even if factual
Is the result of a muse that is actual.
A good poem about an apparition
Is a lie, a farce, a kick in the shin.

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

2010-08-21T20:47:00.000+05:30

Hello nears and dears!
Yes, I'm aliiiive. And it's Godawful Poetry Fortnight, which is right up my alley.
Here. Read about it. And 'attend the event' as they say on Facebook:

Here's my Godawful Poem #1

Poem #1

Some art is laboured like
learning to ride a bike,
some art is unforgivingly fun
like squeezing a bullet out of a gun.

I know how to ride a bicycle-
it's something you'll never forget;
but the gun-toting abominable
I'll never ever get.

Some art is weird, for example
a portrait of a stool sample.
But my heart in rooted in the thrill
of writing poetry made of swill.

Matrimonial

2009-11-19T10:02:00.001+05:30

Twenty- eight year old Brahmin girl,
having been stripped of most of her religion
and almost all her dignity thereafter,
seeks
super-religious youthinAsia
of any faith, as long as he has it.
You can be antiabortion, antifeminist,
antiapartheid, anticolonialist, antisemicolonialist,
anti-climax (God forbid).
But remember this as we grow old:
If you love me well enough,
then kill me when I’m ill enough.

Word Ogres

2009-08-27T01:48:00.002+05:30

I mix up words all the time.
Got thrown out of English class
for saying "accomplice" out loud.
while the girl in my head cried,
"Companion! Companion!"

Completely dyslexic
in the order of numbers while calling a lover,
the cacophony of cries while running for cover,
while quoting from poems, befuddled, I hover.
Completely dicklessic.
Like the friend who said he had penis ennui.

I limp through words,
lisp through life,
freeze over fricatives;
my diphthongs take lives.

When I bick the kucket,
having accidentally come in contact with a double-edged words,
they will berry my bones,
curry my poems,
write on my gravestone:
"Anoopa Anand. Born with a silver spoonerism in her mouth."

The number you are trying to reach is busy

2009-08-27T01:47:00.000+05:30

The new world
with its weird wireless ways
has taken the zing out of friendships, relationships, romance.

On meeting a boy,
his dimples plugged into your brain
like a shiny new i-Pod,
the memory of his five o'clock shadow colours everything,
and you realise you can't call him at all.
So you text him.

Text.
A word stripped of context,
having lost its glory in academia
over smart kids, drunken nights, bad sex.
Where is the literature,
the verbal prowess,
the confidence,
the dramatic beginning of silver screen romance
in "it wuz nic 2 meet u. c u soon. tc."
And so in the bravado of badly written words,
he will say things,
you will say things.

The second date is on e-mail.
Do you dare to spell right,
to punctuate,
to use the evasive sentence case?
Do you dare,
when you are building castles in the air
and the man next to you in the internet parlour
has discovered breasts in his vicinity?
You don't.

But the e-mails go so well,
he is so witty, so pretty,
you can't wait for what's next.
GTalk friends, Facebook friends,
common friends, friends of friends.

And somewhere in the frenzy of an electronic world,
where a power cut could announce the end of a relationship,
you glance left at a little column below his Photoshopped picture.

This
is
how
you
find
out
he's
In A Relationship.

Even a fling these days is devoid
of the delicious
eyes-meeting, hands-grazing, lips-smacking.
Even a fling
is a long-distance thing
played out in Twitter updates and status updates and no dates whatsoever.

Thank god you never got around to calling him.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
Please hold the line, or try again later.

Neevu dial maadiruva number saddhyakke kaaryaniruthavaagide.
Dayavittu swalpa samayada nantara prayatnisi.

For Christmas
I want a real boy without a cell phone.
Not Pinocchio with his long
thick
hard
nose.

Dirty Laundry

2009-05-06T12:37:00.001+05:30

The neighbour on my left
has a large slab of stone
stuck out in the sun.
Each afternoon, when the sun is past his rise,
she accosts her laundry and takes it by surprise.
Spinning a shirt high up in the air,
she brings it crashing down on the slab.
Colours bleed freely, the skirt has seen better days
and all the broken buttons sigh,
but they come out looking cleaner
if less healthy.

The neighbour on my right
has a big white washing machine
that shivers in the laundry room.
Sometimes, it shudders.
You know something’s going on there,
but you can only tell on really quiet evenings.
On really quiet evenings,
the silhouette of my neighbour slinks up to the machine
and throws in a bundle of screaming clothes.
(If her dog isn’t barking in the garden, you can hear this.)
Inside the box, the clothes perform unimaginable calisthenics:
Twists, twirls, taps and the meanest pirouettes you’ve seen.
They come out squinting and with their tongues hanging out.
Sparkling, but almost entirely strangled.

I live isolated without stone or box,
but my neighbours are- shockingly- kind.
On weekends I hand over my whimpering garments,
first to Beatrix Kiddo on the left,
then to Terminator on the right.

I may be alone,
but I want to give my clothes the best of both whirls.

It's been a while since I wrote:

2009-04-10T14:19:00.003+05:30

Cities
changed their wings, broke mine and sent me
Home
changed hands, fixed mine and sent me to the
Hills
changed people, beyond recognition, and sent me

Back
where nothing has changed, everything is warm,
Arms
wrap themselves around me, but I remember how to
Breathe
the old Karkhana air, the green air of the mountains

Where
my soul will fly back on the back of a Hornbill
When
my body is done with this devastating city
Which
pulls me back whole, my weak hand, my strong one

Dying
to leave, but still
Living
in a changed city, changed people, changed air, changed arms
Born
free, but everywhere,
Changed.

'Fear not', said she, for mighty dread had filled their troubled minds

2009-01-23T00:21:00.002+05:30

Hello, hello, hello! Clearly you are curious about the silence, and wondering about my whereabouts. Thing is:

1. I got mugged in Secunderabad.
2. I was two minutes away from my house, walking, and got my handbag snatched by two men on a motorcycle.
3. Because of what we refer to in my family as 'chest-hair attitude' which, as it turns out, I have, I did not let go of the bag that was being snatched.
4. I held on, fell on the road, got dragged along for a bit on the very unfriendly tar and...
5. ... broke my wrist.
6. Yes.

It has now been over a month, my cast is 5 weeks old, and I have but another week to go. So hang in there and don't get your chaddies in a twist. Typing with one hand is really REALLY annoying, so I will now stop.

Meanwhile, my next adventure/project takes me to Masinagudi, at the foothills of Ooty. The jungles beckon. At least a book that is waiting to be written and edited thereabouts. So watch out for this dog, in the midst of- hopefully- no muggers, but the lush green and the occasional rogue elephant.

I'm a tiger when I want love, and surely you know what I am when I disagree.

She who cannot write three decent sestets

2008-10-29T11:48:00.002+05:30

Winter is in the twin city,
although you can only tell
by the slivers of white on your skin,
the embarrassing crackling of smile lines.
The sun still sizzles in the sky,
an old dog with an old habit.

Between Karkhana and Lingampalli,
sweaters sheepishly hang on roadsides
waiting to be bought,
while even old Hyderabadis laugh to see such ambition.

In the irrepressible smog of Diwali,
you realise the shortcomings with a start:
You are not a consumptive poet waiting to die by the sea.
You are a little bit of your parents,
a large question, round parantheses
surviving behind the refuse of Karkhana.

Surviving, in spite of yourself,
with a little October shiver, sparklers, someone else’s poetry
and asthma that is entirely your own.

Not Jewel Box

2008-10-08T16:09:00.002+05:30

At Rs. 16 a cup,
the coffee seems a bit steep.
Fish and chips at Rs. 150
seems grossly over-priced.
Especially for a place that looks like
maintenance involves
washing the floors every second Saturday,
and changing the furniture
once every century.

Of course, by that argument,
this city with its half-price roads,
trade-reject infrastructure,
power-cuts and barely-there footpaths,
should have been deserted years ago.
Bearing no resemblance
to abandoned towns in B-grade Westerns,
both city and coffee shop flourish.

The old furniture is not glamourous
as any one of the elderly tubelights will tell you.
Neither is the ground you walk on.
I wouldn't call it squalour,
but squalour's distant cousin
starts on the floor
and crawls all the way up to the ceiling.

The proof, they say, is in the pudding.

Those who breakfast here, eat heartily.
The lawyers and government officials at lunch
know best why their lunch break is interminable.
Come evening,
groups of pensioners get off buses,
college kids shriek into corners,
bruised and beaten office-goers
sink into comfortable shadows
of themselves.

Most do it for a lifetime,
and not without questioning themselves.
The answer?
Perhaps a little too trite
for a shop owned by a man named
Prem.

Love, then.

A cup of coffee after work,
a wholesome family dinner,
a tankful of pop-eyed fish,
beer with friends on a rainy afternoon,
barely audible fingers of jazz
touching you from fuzzy speakers,
sharing a cruel joke
with a brass-buttoned waiter,
regulars observing regulars.

A newcomer wondering
what the fuss is all about;
an old-timer throwing up his hands,
mystified.

Come as you are

2008-10-08T16:01:00.004+05:30

For Kurush

You appear in my dreams
as characters other than yourself.
Last night, moving furniture
then lying heavily on my divan,
perhaps you were a character
from what I can only imagine
was a movie of questionable virtue.

Never, then,
the coffee-sharing friend
with a mind of fine balance
and nonchalant wit
while driving on the streets of Colaba.

Never, either,
the tousled lover
seductive of hand
and meditating in autos
on bylanes around Church Street.

Tonight in my dreams,
come as yourself.

I'd enjoy the warm fireplace
of your humour
and the prime real estate
of your shoulders,
in a third city.
Maybe we can joke about phone bills
in a smelly boat on Hussein Sagar Lake.

Pint o'clock

2008-09-24T16:07:00.000+05:30

For JVG

The minor miracles of perfect sentences.
The joy of punctuation excused of paying unwarranted rent.
The misery of the untold…
The Ghost of Errors Past.
The euphoria of a well-deserved semicolon.
The peaceful death of a story well told.
The execution of a much-hated grammatical hang-up.
The poisoning of a structural hiccup.
And, most of all,
the inexcusable ending of four-hundred words
with a cliché from the past.

Nothing makes up for the abject demise of
a time when time was well-spent
if time meant a verbally flattened pint
with you.

Paper Money

2008-08-20T17:21:00.003+05:30

For Shefali

In August, still broke from April,
each ceramic tile, each checkered bedsheet
is strewn with newspapers.

Five days in the city of my birth,
six days worth of crosswords,
one small vodka and apple juice.

I could cry.

In a conversation, she mentioned
that being alone built character.
She has a way with words; I was convinced.

In July's rain, I thought it was luxurious.
I'll tell you what it was. It was sound.
Rain, like a friend knocking on my windows.

I went to Bangalore,
met family, drank with friends,
watched overdressed Hindi cable TV with Ma.

Fell back into his arms beautifully.

Here again, in the nail-biting finish of my floors
I ignore yesterday's news,
trying to find a handful of clues.
9 Across chuckles at my inability,
it is 24 degrees Centigrade,
and I want summer again,
or rain, or anything more extreme,
that this semi-cold shoulder
of a twin city.

I sit here in the studied squalor of Secunderabad
wondering if, in any weather at all,
she feels like I do.

I wouldn't wish it on her worst enemy.

Hiding books on Karkhana Road

2008-07-30T15:49:00.003+05:30

I have hidden No Onions Nor Garlic
amongst a flock of Ruskin Bonds,
on the bottom row of the second shelf
of Indian Writers,
in a bookstore
on Karkhana Road,
for me.

I have hidden TS Eliot
on the third row of the first shelf
of Literature,
behind a consumptive poet,
and below Tolstoy's famous wench
(I wonder if they talked about Michelangelo),
for a friend.

I cannot hide Jeet Thayil anywhere;
he is everywhere.

If you find them,
please leave them there for me.
I am waiting for enough money.

When I grow up,
I want to be rich enough to buy
HBs and PBs and dog-eared second-hand Bs
as I please.
I will keep them
in my floor-to-ceiling heavy oak bookshelves,
in my elaborate study,
where I will pull each book down
and read and smell and dust
and put each one back,
every second Sunday,
reserving my section marked Poets
for rainy days,
to remind me of today.

Perhaps I will not have to stop
at a kirana shop
to buy day-old bread,
wading through the sludge
on the bylanes of the newly-wet karkhana,
its get-rich-quick puddles,
its faux rivulets with their pompous frogs,
ribbiting in conference
with all the creatures of the rain,
celebrating the much-delayed monsoon.

Then again,
will I trade my purple umbrella
with the iffy handle,
my Bata floaters
way past the prime of their tread,
this lonely water-retentive apartment
bloated like a hyper-thyroidal spinster
dripping fat complaints of July,
on a thin floor-mattress?

Will I trade
my paper-thin walls,
my typewriter,
the annoying girl next door,
and all the kirana shops
on all the bylanes
of all thye submerged localities of Secunderabad,
for a life less extraordinary?

Paradise Found

2008-06-17T14:28:00.003+05:30

Paradise Café & Stores, Persis Heights, M G Road, Secunderabad.

Of course, if you ask for Paradise Cafe and Stores, no one will know what you're talking about. The upside to this is before you can follow the word 'paradise' with any other word, half of Hyderabad will have already taken you to the only paradise that matters, which is the aforementioned. It's a problem that's it's own solution. As if this biryani-crazy city's Achilles Heel has just fallen into Getafix's cauldron and become Obelix-like.

It is perhaps for this reason that John Milton is just a name in Hyderabad. Have you read John Milton's Paradise...(rush of shuffling feet, screeches, horns, crash-boom-bang...GOOORRRGE). You get the picture. I suppose in that sense, Paradise Restaurant is as much about the Fall of Man.

Paradise Restaurant has a rags-to-riches story which we of the middle class find so endearing and infuriating. It started off as a tiny one-room eatery. Today, many decades later, it boasts of many floors of biryani-eaters. There is a take-away counter, a ground floor area watched over by bouncers, security guards and beeping sensors, a large first floor full of sweaty biryani-eaters, two air-conditioned rooms on the second floor where people dress up to dine, and god knows what kind of stately splendid opulence in the executive room. We don’t know and we don’t care. Ek biryani, double spice. It doesn’t matter where you eat it, although, as an incentive, the second floor rooms have big ugly furniture, glass and crystal baubles, other hanging things and garish upholstery.

I must also admit that Paradise is merely the second-best biryani place in the city, the first being Bawarchi. But Paradise wins because of its proximity to my house. My sister, brother-in-law (Potato and Pink, respectively) and I have made it a weekly affair. And I write this today in the hope that tomorrow will be another day in Paradise.*

*Oh no. Phil Collins.

The Elizabethans

2008-05-31T14:17:00.008+05:30

About a week back, I had a house guest. Not one I particularly invited, so, perhaps, a house crasher. At first we openly hated each other, and since he was not paying my rent and I was not cooking his meals, it was okay for us to have this dysfunctional hate-hate relationship. But then I soon realised that since my sister and brother-in-law were out of town, the only other person I knew in the city who could speak English and Kannada was staying in my house, being actively hated by me.

So we changed tactics. I started treating him like a necessary evil and he limited himself to shuffling around my living room, particularly checking out the insects in the Tubelight Area. I even started calling him by his given name. Elizabeth and I shared a somewhat peaceful coexistence, although he did not take kindly to my mocking his love handles, seeing how, in his own words, i was a "Minute Maid swilling fat basket" myself. Not that I was particularly hurt. Nobody but nobody takes shit from a transvestite house lizard called Elizabeth.

I got back earlier this week from a lizard-free weekend in Bangalore, to find an absconding house guest. It's been six days, and there is still no sign of Elizabeth. Not that I miss him. Or anything. And he did leave behind the fruit of his fantasy pregnancy: I now have a small annoying giggly boy lizard with big black beady eyes, haunting the same Tubelight Area, mocking me in an an alarmingly Elizabethan manner, althought minus the love handles. His name is Shane. As in, you know, Warne. And he is definitely straight.

There is even less love lost between Shane and me. I am hoping he goes back to his father's soon enough. I prefer living alone, although I won't punctuate it in the manner of obviously single middle-aged fiction-literature icons by wearing a tattered wedding gown and stopping all the clocks.*

* Reference to Auden poem unintended.

The holy trinity at Lakdikapul

2008-05-11T13:24:00.007+05:30

Last evening, my sister and I finally made that long-awaited trip to Best Books, the second-hand bookstore in Hyderabad. Having been an ardent devotee of Blossoms's in Bangalore for the longest time, I am acutely aware of how the concept of Time can take a backseat in certain bookstores. But this was something else! I have never seen a larger collection of poetry anthologies anywhere. Wait wait! Let me tell you what I found!

1. The New Poets- Selected and Introduced by A. Alvarez (Larkin, Hughes, Plath, Anne Sexton, and many more. Split into The Americans and The British for irony; there are 4 American poets and 24 British poets.)

2. The Complete Poetry of Henry Vaughn
3. Neruda, Walcott and Atwood: Poets of the Americas (eat that, Mr. Alvarez)
4. Fifteen Poets: An Oxford Anthology (In shocking pink)
5. All Across The Telegraph: A Bob Dylan Handbook (I did say poets. Bob Dylan will always always be a poet and not a singer. No matter how much drugs he took.)

And that's just the tip of the money-well-spent iceberg. It is only the realisation that the ceiling fans in Best Books are victims of disguised unemployment, that will urge you to reluctantly leave the establishment.

As we walked out with heavy bags and light hearts, I suddenly wanted to start paying attention to my second love, food. I decided to be hungry. My all-knowing sister led me in the general direction of a long window-wall, where people were looking out at us as they stood facing the road and eating. Yes! Food and inside-out-window-shopping! I sighed at this novel and heart-warming idea. This, boys, is the good life. Not only do they offer two things for the price of one, I realised as we ordered that this was also a Kannadiga joint. Sri Venkateshwara Coffee House is definitely where it's at. Although all of Hyderabad refers to Mangalore bajji as Mysore bajji, you don't let it alarm you in Sri Venkateshwara Coffee House. The chutney finally tastes like chutney, the coffee is heavenly South Indian Filter, there are books in bags and good in everything.

But that little bit of intangible adhesive that firmly latches on to your heart is definitely the train station at Lakdikapul. For a tiny station with two platforms, it is the most well-thought-out, well-planned and picturesque station I've seen here. Perhaps also the best spot for viewing a little bit of the wooden bridge that gave this place its name. (Lakdi-ka-pul having, over time, been bastardised and proper-nounised into one solid word. Never mind. All water under the bridge now.) I'm not entirely sure if any part of this bridge is wooden anymore, but even if the material is more durable now, this is definitely the geographic location best suited to an uninterrupted viewing of the bridge. You can even buy popcorn at this station, an unlikely item on the otherwise standard menu of railway station eatables.

I do remember deciding to go to Lakdikapul at least once a month, for the book-buying feast at Best Books. But the other temptations that this place has will definitely make it hard to make this a monthly affair only. Between the bookstore, the coffee shop and the holy bridge, I see the beginnings of a convert. I might actually like this city.

And in the trains, the women come and go

2008-05-03T16:07:00.004+05:30

There are ten stations between Secunderabad and Lingampally, the former being where I live, and the latter being the stop that leads to my sister and it's husbandicoot, the only people I really know in this city.

The local trains in Hyd-Sec are a blessing, although they are not very well organised. On most occasions, you will only know the platform number a few seconds before the train arrives. At the Secunderabad station for instance, it's not an easy scamper from Platforms 7 to Platform 10, the only options for the MMTS trains to stop. So you pray and run.

MMTS. Multi-Modal Transport Service, for some reason. Don't be fooled; our trains don't turn into helicoptors when we hit the magical Nature Cure Hospital Stop, which, ironically, is the part of the city that smells most like a cesspool.

Sitting in the ladies compartment is an eye opener. For all the chest hair than Andhra men believe they own, they have no qualms about getting into the ladies compartment on trains. On an average, the ladies compartment has a 40-60 split of men and women. Andhra men in general are the lowest form of masculine life, next only to those living North of...the South. No offence to my father and (some aspects of) his family, but in Andhra, we are into the serious business of bust-lining.

Afternoons are the best time for train travel, if you're brave enough to leave home in the scorching heat. The newspapers advise us to stay indoors between 2pm and 4pm, but if you manage to miss the peak-heat-hours, take a train. Some of the stations, especially those closer to Secunderabad like James Street and Sanjeevaiah Park, are quite pretty. The train ride itself is pleasant: the men are conspicuous in their gawking absence and not much can be heard over the metallic din of the train's chugging, stopping and starting. Vendors selling peanuts, bits of coconut and colourful coconut mithai hang around the trains, not really in a hurry to do much business, since the peak hours are on their way.

There are ten stations between Secunderabad and Lingampally. Enough time to do the Guardian Quick and the Sudoku. Altogether too much time to think, to yearn and to be a stranger in a strange land.

The Secund Innings: An Introduction

2008-04-26T17:57:00.002+05:30

It's unfortunate that I don't have a Rahul Dravid to write a foreword for me; he would've done such an excellent job.*

Thing is, I've moved. To Secunderabad. It's where it's at, these days. It's the fun side. No, really. Come and see! If you survive the journey from the airport to Secunderabad,you will notice that the reason you've been unable to breathe, is because it's about 39 degrees in the shade. Celsius, man.

I made the relatively minuscule step for mankind in order to concentrate more on my writing. I'll be working with a publishing house, and I'm here hoping that this will be the change of scene that will help me write more and write better. When I learn to breathe again, of course. Or stop sounding like Toni Braxton, whichever happens first.

So there is good news for the 4.5 people who read this blog- I'll be writing regularly! Yay! I'm so happy for you.

I have a pretty little house a little away from West Marredpally, a job to look forward to, two people I know in the city and lots of Minute Maid. Hopefully, I am adequately armed to take on life without all my friends, maternal and paternal influences, the three dogs I miss like a madness, a coffee shop, a tavern, music, radio of a certain colour, a small bespectacled man and another who isn't. Bespectacled.

Yay.
Minute Maid.

* If you haven't already read Steve Waugh's autobiography 'Out Of My Comfort Zone', you should. Look out for a brilliant foreword by Rahul Dravid.

Lost

2008-02-11T11:51:00.000+05:30

Last evening
a poem came to me,
riding on the dark waves of my fourth drink
like a bright white ship.

Spotting you through the distortion of our cocktail glasses
I paused and thoughtfully rubbed my gin,
steering the ship in the approximate direction of where you were.

The rest of the evening was the same sea story:

You were a pirate, come to rob my ship.
And as I gazed at your convex dimple,
part eclipsed by an olive,
you stole all my metaphors
and a beautiful closing couplet,
leaving an empty bright white vessel.

This morning, there is a throbbing head in the glass
where an olive once was,
and I am left craving
a dead pirate's society.

A Message for Mr. Hughes

2008-02-09T13:56:00.000+05:30

Ted Hughes has just sent a crow
to ask after me.
I send a message:
"I'm alright Ted,
but I'd be better
if every second line didn't rhyme obssessively,
and if I could stop cutting my fingers
on the sharp edges of hyphens.

I'm also thinking of starting
evening counselling sessions
for users of the ellipsis.
I've already cured a friend;
it's been over fifteen weeks
since he last used."

Crow sniggers.

An evening with no policemen

2008-02-08T14:18:00.000+05:30

It has been almost
many years
since an evening without policemen
or, for that matter,
a weekday beginning without
the Guardian Crossword.

Daybreak steps out of its rest,
shaking itself dry like a Labrador
and climbs, yawning, on his trek to the West.

Mid-morning, the bees hang out at the swamps
and are in the constant hum
of jazz musicians doing their scat exams.

The Labrador has lunched with the snails
with flies waiting by
to clear the remains.

Meanwhile, the frog who has worked all day
has built his villa in a trash can
since the soggy moss is here to stay.

The yellow dog hangs his yellow head
sending the birds to call in the moon,
he is about ready to go to bed.

In the balcony, I hear a cheer:
it’s the crickets sending out two men to the field
as a stadium of fireflies draws near.

It has been almost
many years
since an evening without policemen,
I don’t miss it now,
I didn’t request it then,
but I could do with the Guardian Crossword.

The legend in our living room

2008-02-05T15:02:00.000+05:30

His voice was like the sound of shoes dragged on cobblestones. It doesn’t sound pretty, but it is. I can’t remember if I like the sound of cobblestones because of him or vice versa. He used that warm raspy voice to call my name. Anoopa Rani. That was his special name for me. It is the clarity of detail with which I recall this name and that voice that surprises me.

Of course, there are hundreds of other things that I remember. But I can tell that with each passing year these memories are a little more faded. Perhaps a little more romanticized and hero-worshipped, but blurred; as if I’ve taken off my glasses and I have to squint just a little more.

The circumstances under which my sister and I got so close to my maternal grandfather, are a little off the beaten track. When a woman in my mother’s time got married, it was fairly common, unquestioned and a conclusion of the foregone variety, for the bride to move into the home of her husband’s family. My father, having been orphaned at a very young age and thenceforth having been raised by various older siblings, presented a new situation. And the two of them together were nudged by this history, to explore fairly uncharted territory in this tried-and-tested Indian topography of family life.

Amma and Appa lived alone in an ‘independent house’, and had two children zipping about on the well-worn red oxide floor, before circumstances forced another change. Amma’s parents were advancing in years, and my grandmother’s health was failing. It was a suggestion by my grandfather that led to our family moving in with my mother’s parents. I sometimes think it was a large-hearted gesture and sacrifice Appa made, to relinquish his place at the head of the table, however nominal it might have been. Nevertheless, ‘Anand Babu’ came to live with his wife’s family. And Thatha became the biggest part of all our lives.

My earliest memories of Thatha are the gravelly voice of shoes and cobblestones, and the softness of his khadi clothes: the proud heritage of his freedom fighter days. Of the strong whiff of Brylcreem when we sat in the living room, my father and he in solemn conversation about cricket. They always called each other ‘Sir’, except occasionally, when Thatha switched to ‘Anand Babu’. The only overt sign of affection between two gruff men in a household draped, tucked and perfumed with women. There was my grandmother, my mother, my aunt, my sister and me. The council in the living room with their coffee and cricket, knew they were fighting a losing battle, and clung to their well-formed habits, idiosyncrasies and most of all, each other.

I don’t think I ever thought of Thatha as proud- he was too down-to-earth for that- but I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone else with such a distinct air of sophistication and self-assurance. Thatha had fought for his country, been imprisoned with the Mahatma, married the woman he loved, raised three children, survived the loss of a son too young, started an educational institution, learnt and mastered many languages, traveled widely, built a house on land that was his...
He’d basically managed to pack in an astonishing number of achievements in his lifetime, and bore the everyday awe of people around him with grace and humour.

In the twilight of his life, he surrounded himself with the things and people he loved. His house with his wife, children, grandchildren, dogs, cats and oft-visiting friends, held together with his personal holy trinity of coffee, cricket and khadi.

I can’t clearly remember when exactly he changed, because I was too young when my grandmother passed away. But I know that he was weakened by her passing. I know that he often cried, and had lost some of his will to live. An atheist all his life, Thatha turned to religion with the kind of fervour I had only seen in his late wife. Within a year of her passing, we moved into the beautiful house that he built and named for her. Lalitha.

In spite of the changes that I was then almost oblivious to, Thatha managed to pick up the pieces of his life. He turned all his attention to his granddaughters, who were growing fast and proving to have alarmingly poor grasp of Hindi. The language he helped bring to the South, the now-failing metaphor of unity, when India was beginning to show the British what was what.

I remember the patience with which he took me through the same rules of Hindi grammar that sidestepped me time and again. A battle that I gave up fighting altogether when he died. He wrote all my essays for me. I especially remember how, in moments of deep concentration, he seemed to go through some mental tunnel, and suddenly start writing in Urdu. One line in Hindi, left to right, and the next line in his small clear Urdu script, right to left. I was fascinated even then, notwithstanding my run-of-the-mill teenage air-headedness.

It is important to mention that at an extremely rebellious time in our lives, my sister and I never sensed a generation gap in our separate relationships with Thatha. He bought us all our stationery. Rather, he bought her all the stationery that I ‘stole’ and ‘lost’. He bought us our first saris, and also all the pairs of jeans we owned, although he disliked the garment. His special name for denim was ‘Katthey Battey’: cloth of the donkey, for some reason. He admonished us the most for poor marks, but still drove us out of the house in the evenings, on cycles he bought us. I also get the sneaky feeling he gleefully encouraged our childhood crush on Boris Becker. (I had to like everything my sister liked.)

I remember the exact moment I realized Thatha was dying. He had recently been diagnosed with cancer and owing to his age and various other health issues, things didn’t look too good. While the rest of the family was trying to deal with it, I was busy avoiding it. I was sitting at the dining table watching television, as any good hard working 18-year-old should, and he walked from the living room to his room. As I watched him, I realized I’d never seen him walk so deliberately and with so much pain. It took him a couple of minutes. I think I cried. As Thatha got worse, he started drifting further and further away from us and, apparently, closer to his dead wife. He would talk to her often and tell her he was on his way. I was terrified.

I don’t want to talk about his death very much. I think the God he had implicitly put all his faith in, screwed up. And I’ve never seen so many people so lost. Gradually, we put away the everyday things that reminded us of him, in an attempt to regain a semblance of life as we knew it.

It didn’t work; we never forgot. I can still smell the Brylcreem. I remember the sandpaper-coloured ‘medicine tray’ peppered with Glyciphage and Sorbitrate. On his mirror, right by the hair cream, was a neatly written list of his daily medication. Every night, at 11.30 pm, his clothes for the next day, on a hanger, everyday, the same as the last one: khadi pajamas, khadi vest, khadi kurta and detachable brass buttons. The beautifully carved walking stick. The rocking chair- his chair- in the living room, in front of the television. Rows and rows of VHS tapes, of Ramayana and the Mahabharatha, which we had watched Sunday after Sunday for years. In the corner, a neat wooden roll-top desk. Pens. Paper. Books. Below the glass surface of the table, a neat hand-written document of the most recent cricket match schedule. Each day marked off with the team that won.

Thatha should be so proud. What a legacy he left behind! A school full of thousands of children. A family capable of unconditional love and unremitting sacrifice. A house filled with such magnificent echoes of cricket-match-screaming.

I moved out of my grandfather’s house a year and a half back. But not without taking a part of him with me. His rocking chair is in my living room, facing the television. On my bookshelf is a picture of him, sitting on this chair, a dog on each lap. This is my favourite picture because right there in the left bottom corner, is a bit of my leg and the shadow of my arm. It reminds me of where I come from. And that there was once a legend in our living room.

Ordinary Morning

2008-02-04T13:18:00.000+05:30

The sun rises, yawning,
from the same white-curtained window,
stretching through the tear
that the cat’s claw made
so many years ago.

Ordinary morning:
orange screaming birds in flight;
thank God mornings are not
depressingly clinical white light.

Daybreak tests its groggy voice.
Suprabhatam inspiring a King’s breakfast,
Ian Anderson drags me out of bed.
Elsewhere Ms. Fitzgerald and the Azaan
and the Grateful Dead.

Ordinary morning:
everywhere rushing up and down scales.
There is no intolerance
in the melodies of morning-time tales.

Over the weekend, I met someone who actually reads my blog. It made me realise how infrequently I write, and how much about cricket. Mayura, hope this is more agreeable!

Proudest Monkey

2008-02-01T12:19:00.000+05:30

Why do we still call it a sport? This is the biggest most obnoxious soap-opera-meets-reality-show. All the field is a stage, and all the men in white, mere players. A series that bubbled over with some brilliant cricketing moments, fabulous showmanship and records galore, turned into a schoolboy playground rife with he-said-he-said and astoundingly immature levels of name calling and blame-gaming.

Sachin’s centuries, Kumble’s moments of proud reckoning, Brett Lee’s fast bowling brilliance all faded into some anti-climactic busking side show. Let’s not forget, this series was also the swan song of Australia’s only claim to fame in the Gentlemen Department, Adam Gillie. More like the imploring chirps of the last sparrows that ever nested in Bangalore. Not a single man was allowed to leave that field with his head daring even a half-mast.

I suppose we must at least try to see the good in all the evil. Because no one will remember the poise and elegance with which Kumble dealt with the mêlée. Or Gillie’s valiant, if lone, fight for sportsmanly sobriety, and the fact that we won’t be seeing any of that from anyone on the Australian team, in the matches to come. We sure as hell won’t remember that it was in this series that Yuvraj failed to prove himself as a reliable test player, perhaps because of, you know, his experiments with the many splendoured thing.

But look what we've got! A glossary full of new metaphors. We’ll never get ‘majorly screwed’ anymore. Just ‘Bucknored bigtime’. ‘Monkey’ is unfortunately a word that will now be synonymous with ‘Symonds’. Forever. ‘Get the Symonds off my back!’ (Never mind that Bhajji actually said something far worse, directing his wrath at Symonds’s mother who wasn’t even there to defend herself.) The final word on truth, as it turns out, is Ricky Ponting. So we’ve got ourselves a Fourth Umpire. If Ponting be told, I think it’s a great idea. In fact, I think we should blind-fold Ponting and make him stand in cricket’s High Court of Justice, wherever that is. We’ll get one soon enough, anyway.

Stump mic par haath rakhke kaho. Mein jo kuch kahoonga, Ponting kahoonga.

Australia sure as Bucknor turned the tables on the whole issue of racism and racist abuse in cricket. I'm just wondering if they're damn sure they picked the right team. Hopefully someday, in retrospect, everyone will realise how entirely foolish it was to accuse the pot of calling the kettle an indeterminate brown.

-----

Oh, and here's a brilliant piece. Thanks for sharing, Appu.

Between the idea and the reality, falls the shadow

2008-01-16T16:55:00.000+05:30

With sincere apologies to TS Eliot

You can be a writer,
but of what good is your ink to me,
if I am nothing more
than a voluptuous body of work,
a passionate figure of speech?

Neither can I be
a code you crack,
a server you hack,
so that when you come to bed,
I turn into another zesty programme,
an agile hyper text.

I'm not your crash test dummy,
or a designer clothes horse,
or the heel you reinvent,
or your latest Big Bang Theory.
And I cannot play the Dinner Bell
to your Pavlov's Dog.

Take your interpretations and notions
and misgivings and texts and theories.
Burn a nice big effigy
of your picture of me.
Then maybe we can discuss
what this is going to be.

Bombay Stories

2008-01-03T17:48:00.000+05:30

I spent last week in my favourite city, mostly on account of Meera's wedding. The Potato and I made it for the mehendi, which involved mehendi, wine, custom-made bangles, Meera, Sufiya and, of course, plenty of food.

The reception was lovely, what with the immensely entertaining salad bar, where various vegetables and fruits went into the making of ducks, faces, rural scenery and, more mysteriously, a dinosaur created entirely out of karela. I am certain Mr. Pink took fabulous pictures of these creations, but I was too busy figuring out how to remove the lens on my camera. So till I bribe Mr. Pink to allow me to use his pictures, here are the few that I miraculously managed to take. Other noteworthy features include The Bride's Hair, The Constant Photographer and Mr. Pink's Range of Expressions.

A thousand splendid Kanjeevarams. At a North Indian wedding.

Beautiful bride

Suf and Potato checking someone out

This was the official photographer at the wedding, who clearly had a personal agenda against me. The Mirchi Wedding Album will have simply thousands of photos of me shovelling food into my mouth, thanks to this man.

Potato and Pink- my sister and its husbandicoot

Pink's intense look

Pink's mean look. Spot the difference.

The Mirchies

Every hairdresser has her day. Meera poses to show the intricate work of art that is her hair.

I think this is the exact moment when I discovered there was more food on the other side.

A monument of charm and sophistication.

The blogger who won't

2008-01-02T18:09:00.000+05:30

I know, I know.
Two months.
Wretched.

Will write in greater detail, maybe tomorrow, with photographs for proof wherever possible. Meanwhile, here are some key words to keep you in the loop with what's been going on in my head.

Dhoni x Ms. Padukone x Yuvraj= the triangle that never was (OR, PythagorARSE); aaanyhooo, where's the cricket boys?; ducks, ducks, ducks; Rahul!; Sehwag??; pitch bitch

Bombay; Biladi wedding; the reception with the karela dinosaur; is 'biladi' masculine or feminine?; The Saab and how much I love her; Bombay people, places, trains, old friends, why am I here???; A dog called Fucker in Andheri; hot buttered apple tea; Vinay Aravind and the Lost Scripts for Encyclopaedia Titanica; and also, Richard Clayderboy

Steve, out of his comfort zone; remarkable words by The Wall; grabbed greedily at Strand for Mr. Pink; the Strand book sale

Bhutto; schoolboys and guns; cyber dares-real deaths; who started the fire?

New Year's Eve; Farida Khanum; twenty-six candles; how to heal a man's broken heart; mental turmoil- where do we go from here (Mumbai, meri jaan); Kiran, who I love

That's all.
How're you? Tell me.

Two suns in the sunset

2007-11-09T12:10:00.000+05:30

Can I tell you how it feels to have two very deserving heroes at the helm of Indian cricket? It feels wonderful. Not that the Indian selectors have won any of my sympathies after the recent Dravid Debacle, but here it is. By hook, crook and other monsters, two smoking barrels is what we finally have to offer.

Nevermind the argument that Kumble is perhaps past his prime. (Have you met Mr. Ganguly? Senile, bare-chested and proud of it.)Nevermind, even, that it was the Pakistan team that he sent packing at Ferozeshah Kotla in 1999, with that ten-wicket haul that launched a thousand traffic jams at Anil Kumble Circle. Let's just admit that, for a cricketer who did wonders for a team not known at the time for its bowling prowess, and for a man with undeniable leadership skills, the time has come to prove a point.

Which brings me directly to the other man. You know, the one I love.

A classic controlled sensible middle-order batsman, saving the asses and faces of an increasingly Prozac-induced (thanks for that term, Gangs) opening line-up. He does it in the middle, he does it behind the stumps, and in a very 16-year-old-crush way, he does it for me. And all this from a man who made his debut in the Indian side not more than 2.5-3 years back.

Mr. Vengasarkar still has plenty to kick himself about (although I suppose Sharad Pawar will do that for him with a CC to Niranjan Shah), Ganguly should still- more than ever- get over himself and retire gracefully-ish, and the team still has a lot to prove. But with Mr. Kumble heading the Test side, and Mahendra in the sky with diamonds, we've got a good thing going.

Memorise My Number

2007-10-31T15:59:00.000+05:30

Yet another blog. By me. Again.

This blog, here, comprises of my first collection of poems. Go read.

My prodigal sons

2007-10-27T13:56:00.001+05:30

You never came back. And now I hate coming home. Everything went wrong after you went away. I'm thinking about you guys all the time. Remember how you ripped apart the plants? Moronboys! Much love.

Bonzo, our nonchalant goose cat

Joey, the biggest scaredy cat ever

The loves of my life- Saab and Bonzo in my favourite family moment

Magical Mister

2007-10-20T01:42:00.000+05:30

I can't even begin to imagine what sort of eulogy to write. Barely three days after his brother died, Bonzo did too. Suddenly, in the middle of heated Johnson Market activity, I feel rootless. And I have nothing to say now, that will explain what this loss means to me. In Cooke Town, where I hated my house and my life and everything that I had allowed myself to become, Bonzo was, towards the end, the only thing that I went home to.

When The Saab had moved out, and my deep distaste for my neighbours was becoming evident, this was the Goose that kept me going. For a couple of months, he was all I had, and vice versa. And after three days of looking for him, posters around the neighbourhood, and everyone in the vicinity being unbelieveably helpful, we heard from someone that they had found his body.

I will hate coming back to this house devoid of little chiming bells and loud presumptuous meaows. And I truly hope that The Saab and I learn to remember both cats at their bizarre best, rather than as mental pictures of death.

I promise to write a better eulogy to a cat who no doubt deserves it, when I am better equipped to do so. Till then, I will endeavour to help The Saab, Sushma and myself on whatever road to a semblance of recovery, that we can afford.

Bonzo, you were my main man. And thank God you have the wit and sophistication to understand that fully. God knows, I don't.

Here's a grumpy Bonzo, till I can access all my other pictures.

Love, and more.

The end of an era

2007-10-17T12:50:00.000+05:30

The Saab's farewell post to Inzy made me realise I can't ignore it for much longer. Inzamam ul-Haq, premier Pakistani batsman, captain and reluctant-runner-between-wickets bade his final farewell to Test cricket, at South Africa last Friday. I am sure far more worthy critics than I have many things to say, and I will allow them the honour.

I will, instead, recount my favourite Inzy moment. One that embodies his humility and wristy throwing of caution to the winds, as regards his manner of speech. Screw you, you English pundits, and listen to what I have to say.

After a particularly dogging spell of bad form during the 2003 World Cup, Inzy came gambolling back into form, captaining his side rather successfully, notwithstanding stray controversies. I think the speech I'm referring to was one he made during this time, after Pakistan beat New Zealand at a Test series. But I could be wrong. Inzamam was named Man of the Series, and Ravi Shastri at his debonair best, asked Inzy how it felt to be back in form. Inzy's enormous reply: "Yes, yes.So par I'm not got the pores and sixes. But this time I hawe been succexful." As the Queen's English took a shiner in it's left eye, and Ravi Shastri looked away wistfully into the grammatical distance, Inzy won all my love.

To end, a lovely picture of my hero and body-type style guru. And a tear marking the end of an era. I feel so all alone.

Where have all the flowers gone?

2007-10-17T11:35:00.000+05:30

To the Guardian Quick Crossword. That's where.

The Guardian Quick courtesy The Hindu Metro Plus has been my time-filler between home and work for many months now. I used to spend many validating minutes figuring out really easy clues and feeling unbelieveably intelligent. And now? They've gone potty. Over the past fortnight, every second clue has to do with flowers and plants. And I am not (ellipsis) horticultural.

Today for example:
ACROSS
1 Indoor flowering plant (7,6)
8,18 Flower closing in the afternoon (7,5)
9 Large daisy (5)
13,23 Autumnal flower (9)
22 Moorland flower

DOWN
18 See 8
23 See 13

I am assuming '8,18' is 'morning glory'. But that was a single inspired flash of agronomical genius. I was elated. I am aware of 'rose', 'lily', 'lotus' and 'carnation'. That, I'm afraid, is where my knowledge of petal-rearing ends. And don't even get me started on plumage.

I'm waiting another week for this heavy-petal madness to end. If it doesn't, I will go back to Travel-Pastime No. 1: Serenading the Auto Driver.

Joey

2007-10-15T12:04:00.000+05:30

Our little Joey died yesterday, again, in the jaws of hungry canines. I love dogs passionately, but I love them a little less now. Joey was only six months old- as old as Foucault, the last cat who also died under similar circumstances. I feel very responsible for Joey's death. In retrospect, I could have done a bunch of things that I didn't do. And I feel awful. But Joey is gone. And I am grateful, now, for at least having known him. Here are some pictures of our lovely baby, who loved food and loved women. And a good long snooze on Sushma's stomach. And fish. And his older brother Bonzo. I miss you, Joey.

Images courtesy Preetam Koilpillai.

I've been around

2007-10-12T15:43:00.000+05:30

Just not around here. I've been watching too many bad cricket matches, been away on a photoshoot and been in Tavern, getting a beer. But mostly, I've been here. Dear.

It's part of a project of some consequence, in the lives of me and a couple of people I'm working with. More later. For now, feel free to read and comment.

Beer, anyone?
Wink.

Notice

2007-09-25T14:30:00.000+05:30

you:
in a place where I can’t see your face
and I never let it get in the way

i:
reassure, reiterate, flailing arms
that if you ask, I am here to stay

Sabbah??? Ready???

2007-09-24T11:47:00.000+05:30

I can't believe I have to be at work today. I just want to spend the entire day, counting down to the match. This one. It's going to be hilarious, of course, considering an India-Pakistan match is hardly ever about cricket. But I'm going to make it about cricket as much as I can. Okay, maybe I will allow for some melodramatic conversations with The Saab, who is no doubt going to be flapping all over the television screen, just like me.

Sigh.
Life is beautiful.

Update

2007-09-12T12:07:00.000+05:30

Hello.

This is almost a life update thing. In that, I am alive. Also, I don't know what I'm typing. See that's the thing with blogs, you can't use pen and paper. Not that I'd be any the wiser, given a pen and paper situation.

Anyway, this is almost a life update thing, in that I am alive. Entirely made up of antibiotics and nebulisers, but alive. Turns out I have bronchitis and asthma- something that was discovered after hours of not breathing and being taken to a hospital where an amused doctor shoved an oxygen mask in my face and told me so. Like, nyaaaah.

Life changing?
Yes.

My smoking days are over. As are my days of being a mommy to Bonzo and Joey. I have been told that staying alive henceforth will involve getting rid of the cats. I am trying to sound cheerful about it. Fact remains, I am fairly devastated. JP, if you're reading this, please consider taking my babies and giving them a home. Saab, any ideas?

Anyway. More later. Gotta go. Also, if you think nebulisers and oxygen pumps are cool, like I once did, they are not. Hurrah for (erstwhile) lungs.

Bye.

An Ostrich flew over the Boomsa's nest

2007-09-07T12:51:00.000+05:30

Mad lovely entertaining delirious evening with Sam and others. Too sleepy to write. Check out pictures, y'all.

The house where Boo lives

"Look, Boomsa! A goose's toeses and a Gautam's noses!"

In conversation, but not quite. Sam and Sharmon.

Happy happy joy joy

Mr. Thomas

The legend in my living room. Again. Sharmon.

Euphoric Tina Moo

Samira

Gautam pulls a KD Lang

May you be the father of a thousand ad campaigns

2007-09-06T14:04:00.000+05:30

Don't blame me. It's a country-wide thing. As a country, we would be completely socially inept if we didn't have cricket. It brings us together, it keeps us together, it makes us cool. Well, to us.

So last night, India had a 'social-gathering' moment. Cooped up in our respective mid-week living rooms, we discovered love for friends, acquaintances, loved ones, hated ones, family, relatives (/hated ones)...everyone. Here's the man that brought us together:

Robin decided to debut his new learnings in the fine-leg area at this, a crucial match for a side already suffering from sporadic bouts of memory loss as to what they're supposed to be doing on the field in the first place. And boy, are we glad.

Here's another picture of Robin being, err, congratulated by teammate Yuvraj Singh. I'm willing to bet anything that he's grabbing his boob, though.

Nevermind.

Robin Uthappa, thank you for giving us something to talk about last night. And in true Indian style, may you be the father of a thousand ad campaigns. You know it's going to happen to you.

Typical

2007-08-23T16:18:00.000+05:30

I am not typical.
I wax eloquent and shave fortnightly,
I weep alone and debate forthrightly.
And when I fall in love,
I do it with the kind of fervour
fit only for alcoholics and religious fanatics.
And that is not typical, because I am neither.

I am not typical.
I shave fortnightly and wax eloquent.
But I would, one day, like to try
to touch lightly upon the topic of your lips
and briefly trace the history of a kiss,
and touch and trace as typically
as anyone who has ever kissed
the unspeakable kiss.

House, warmed

2007-08-23T16:02:00.000+05:30

Okay, I swear this is the last time I'm moving. Really. Not again,for a very long time, no. It's not fun. Moving. Not fun. It does things to your muscles, stamina and grammar that are not altogether encouraging.

But here are some pictures of the housewarming party, where, if you look carefully, you can also see glimpses of the house that was warmed.

All images courtesy Sabbah Haji, my ex. Flatmate. I'm straight as hell.

Aashi, DJ, Sharmon the Legend and me

Makhoos, Chits and the Bizarre Mr. Mallapur, with Jimi

Shro, DJ and Sharmon

Jaideep, Venky and their beeyatch, Gautam

Some guys have all the luck

Lovely Shreyashi

Wall, fridge

The Prodigal Goose-cat

2007-08-10T14:34:00.000+05:30

I have reason to believe that Bonzo is having a relationship. A platonic one, of course, seeing that he has no balls (literally, for all those who are immediately experiencing the throes of kinship), but a relationship nonetheless. He now treats home like a bed and breakfast. Sometimes, it's only breakfast. The night before last, I was up till 6.30 am almost in tears because I thought he'd been run over somewhere, and he showed up for breakafast and a nuzzle.

At least I waited till I was an adult before I allowed my mother the pleasure of having sleepless nights on account of me. Bonzo is pre-pubescent. Children these days.

Here's a recent picture, featuring Bonzo and a new 'friend'. His father Sabbah keeps showering him with gifts. Visitation rights, you know.

The Silken Web

2007-08-08T11:18:00.000+05:30

On 4th August, Saturday, I had myself a little piece of personal history. You know, just in case, for a hitherto inexplicable reason, I become iconic, and people write about me for decades to follow, this day will feature. Take notes, y'all.

The Silken Web, a collection featuring 25 contemporary Indian poets, was launched by Unisun Publications in association with the British Council.

A selection of my poems was published, which is why I was there in the first place. Besides having to be in the intellectually intimidating company of Shashi Deshpande, Teresa Bhattacharya and Girish Karnad among many many others, I had, in a weak moment, agreed to read my poetry. On stage. There was a podium and shit. I hate stages with a passion mitigated only marginally when I'm singing, so it was immensely daunting.

But I ended up having a memorable experience, sharing my first book launch with friends and family. The highlight of my evening was getting to shake Shashi Deshpande's hand and being told that she thoroughly enjoyed my reading.

Piece of history. In my pocket. Here's a picture. I'm pretending to be animated. Podium and shit.

For more information on Unisun Publications and the work they do, go here.

Bit by bit

2007-07-31T22:32:00.000+05:30

I was reminded today, of that feeling associated with young/new romance; that thing we somewhat inaccurately refer to as butterflies in the stomach. I remember that feeling. It's nothing like butterflies in the stomach. It's more like a large chrysanthemum has planted itself on your liver, and now intends to breed a little colony there, till there is a fair-sized bouquet on the aforementioned gland. Probably explains why some people are so bilious when in love.

---

Sharmaji was found dead this morning, in the office. It was horribly unpleasant. Between the cops and the press and the actual task of identifying "the body", I think all of us were drained of mental and physical strength of any sort. Somewhere in all this, I couldn't help but think about how there was no one there to sit by him in his last hours. No one, yet, many hours later, when he was being probed and looked at and identified and photographed. Family was informed, and they showed up by noon.

Meanwhile, people milled around cleaning up, calling other people, cancelling meetings, answering the sneering cops, trying not to admit to themselves who it was that they were actually looking at. The man who, a little over 12 hours ago, stood at the door and waved to them as they left the office for home. No one could or would cry.

---

The point of all this seemingly unconnected rambling, is that it got me thinking about death and loved ones. Just one very simple thought, actually: When I die, I'd like to be in the company of loved ones. And ideally, among these loved ones will be someone who served as a catalyst to that super-multiplying chrysanthemum.

---

Sharmaji, I hope you will ignore the ostensibly heartless boss who wanted us to take meetings and who cracked really really weird jokes about death, ten minutes after. He means well. It's probably one of those bizarre defence mechanism things.

But I hope you know that a lot of people really care. Not so surprising and a little bit sad that we only discovered this while we were slowly piecing together our knowledge of you and yours.

Rest in peace.

---

I grow old, I grow old, I wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled

2007-07-17T14:47:00.000+05:30

Birthday beer and biriyani at Boomsa's. Seventy bottles and fifteen people. Here's the evidence.

On the occasion of its birthday. New, improved and older than ever.

Twisting by the beer

Sharmon shows off his...creation

The legend and the bathroom singer. Sharmon and me.

Bonzo Anand Haji wakes up and decides to join the party

Bonzo and Sandesh exchange top secret information.

Bonzo entertains Devika

DJ makes big eyes at unsuspecting unidentified male. Sigh.

Chitra Raghavan trying to come in the way of an already rocky relationship.

Is there someone else in Sabbah's life? Who is the other woman? Is it Chitra? Is it...

Oh my God! Before my VERY eyes. Sabbah and the other woman, Shro.

Left to right: Saher taking drinks, Rolf talking to Zu, Zu talking to Rolf's beer, me talking to my beer

Left to right: Sandesh, Benny, Tina Moo, Ahmed and his phone

Alien Café

2007-07-08T13:46:00.000+05:30

'Tribute' is such a pretentious word. But I suppose its intentions are honest enough. Here's ours. Thousands of diners and drinkers of average coffee and guzzlers of beer, for all the conversations and experiences that we'll probably never remember.

A self-taught lawyer, a lifetime lost in land dispute,
claims the real estate of his corner table,
land locking his captive audience
as he hitches his pants up, punctuating another grand declaration.

A young Alfred Tennyson balances his teacup,
pinky at right angles to his thumb,
waist-coated and suited to the tea,
he stands and bows when introduced to (sneering) women.

Over by the curry-speckled mirror,
in endless conversation about watching birds,
watching women, he emphasizes his passion
for birds, watching a sari slip through the center of his eye.

An afternoon full of lawyers and government officials
leave the café as unchanged,
as the city that stagnated
in their interminable lunch break.

In the center of the hall, like a raucous shopping mall,
ten thousand theatre persons talk and laugh too loudly,
after a night of having had restricted whiskey
and sexual intercourse with everyone else at the table.

Middle aged and by the door, Salvador dreams
about his first famous (unfinished) painting.
Meanwhile, his life is forever in the moment when the clock melts,
when sunflowers bloom, where a smile is made mysterious.

By the kitchen door, he gazes past the murky surface
of his black coffee. When the clock strikes 8.30 this Friday evening,
Cinderella’s coffee will turn into a rum and c,
his solitude, into a checkered tablecloth full of old friends.

A closet singer tries desperately to capture the verbal context
of the twelve-bar blues stretching its fingers from a hidden radio,
amidst cacophonous talk of Dylan (Who Bob? Oui, Bob!)
and how he changed the lives of artists everywhere. We remain the same.

Nearby, the proprietor with a 24x7 smile
(and 45 second turn around time) backs into a waiter,
momentarily misdirecting his mirth
at an ashtray full of college students.

When I die, this table will be mine in love,
that one in a moment of truth, a third lost in deep thought.
A fourth filled with worry, I must leave this city,
I must leave this country, I must
come back here tomorrow and sit at that table,
where I read, where I stared, where I broke up,
that one marking the most I’ve ever laughed,
where I wished you eternal life, where I observed the aquarium,
swearing never to eat a fish.
Where Beethoven roamed in and out of a conversation
initially about Eliot,
Where the painting of the horse looks most
like a shimmer-clad socialite I know.
That table where, if this were school,
we would have all etched our names in the wood,
waiting for some eternal desultory lunch bell that never rings.

Words: Anoopa Anand
Images: Ryan Lobo
Thanks to Ryan Lobo for planting the idea of this poem in my head, last afternoon.

Picture postcards

2007-07-03T15:38:00.000+05:30

I've been gone so long. I feel like I owe you an explanation. But I'm also (mostly) the only person who reads this blog, so I suppose I could take myself out for coffee and do some explaining. Anyway, here's a bunch of unconnected things. I hope your little hearts fill with large dollops of joy.

I permed my hair

Ever since, I've been called Tiger Prabhakaran, Macy Gray, Diana Ross and Jimi Hendrix. I can't say that I mind.

I will eventually have Buns Of Steel

I've started taking lessons in Kalarippayattu. Maybe someday I will truly be walking on air.

I've been revisiting Mr Dahl!

Esio Trot. A mildly creepy story of a man and his mid-life crisis. Actually, no. It's supposed to be a love story. But I really wish Mr. Hoppy hadn't cheated Mrs. Silver into falling in love.

James and the Giant Peach. Yay!

The Twits. Good overcomes evil! At least in the case of the Muggle-Wumps and the Roly Poly Bird. I wish real life could imitate art.

I'm about to read

Maximum City- Suketu Mehta
Long overdue, but it always helps to have a colleague who will buy a book you've been skeptical about, and lend it to you. Thanks, Apoo.

Rant- Chuck Palahniuk
I've read almost everything else this man has written. Except for Fight Club. I'm saving it for after he stops writing. Meanwhile, Rant seems every bit as eerie, bizarre, exciting and altogether nauseating. Whee.

I have grown accustomed to

Amul Masti. Spiced buttermilk. When you are in advertising, unabashed promotion- among many many other things- stops bothering you.

I miss

My friend. Come back, ra.

RIP

2007-06-18T12:12:00.000+05:30

Dear Foucault, I am so sorry you couldn't be with us longer. Hope your remaining eight lives are more fruitful. I love you very much.

Hello, Rohan!

2007-06-14T10:37:00.000+05:30

Rohan arrived on the 10th of this month. Congratulations, my lovely Dinosaur! What a beauteous!

Did you know too?! Because I didn't.

2007-06-13T10:58:00.000+05:30

Everybody knew!
All along!
All these months and months and months. Everybody!
It just turns my stomach inside out and all about, to imagine that this was it all along.
Oh my God.

My poor Meera. I wish I hadn't told you. I'm sorry.

"Are redheaded women red all over?"*

2007-06-09T19:34:00.000+05:30

The title, you will soon realise, has nothing to do with this post. It has to do with this post written by this woman, who I've been reading on the recommendation of a friend.

When I chopped off my hair a few months ago, I got sympathetic glaces from everyone I know. And now I know why. Assholes. Turns out, cutting off your hair to spite your face is in the self-help book for dumped women. Ugh. I will always always grow my hair now. Always. And if I do cut my hair (a probability that my hairdresser is acutely aware of), I will make sure there isn't a recent ex skulking around, grinning at his achievement in the scalp follicle area. (Even if such a situation presents itself, I won't have much to worry about, will I? Considering things will come full circle soon enough, seeing how many men are leaning into rearview mirrors of parked bikes, combing all of their hair from one side to cover all of the baldness on the other, even as we speak.)

I made a cliché out of myself. (Besides 'an ass' and 'a bumbling fool' , which also are things I have made out of myself. I am truly artistic and experimental, when it comes to projecting aspects of my own personality.)

I feel so prescriptionized.
Repunzel! Repunzel! Let down your hair!

*The Inscrutable Americans- Anurag Mathur

The cynic and the happy fool (Revisited)

2007-06-09T11:42:00.000+05:30

Remind me never to take up these freelance projects when I have no idea of the professional capabilities of people. I feel like such a fool. I don't need the money, I don't need to work extra hours, and I sure as hell don't need to shell out large sums of money because of somebody else's incapabilities. I swear to God, financial hassles is the last thing I need right now.

I was really hoping to do a good job with this, you know. Really. But I need to stop thinking about it. It's one small failure, and I need to realise that it's not entirely my fault. Or- if I have to be brutally honest- not at all my fault. Remind me also, never to work with friends again.

I'm going to stop thinking about this. I've been worrying myself sick. Literally.

Happily, I have very promising exciting projects in the offing. If I can get rid of the throat infection without further delay, I have a show that will be worth it. And then, there is the potentially life-changing, perspective-shifting thing that, at this point, can only mean greener pastures and newer cud.

Greener pastures. Research. Writing. Travelling. And training in the oldest martial art form in the world.
And in about four days, my favourite Dinosaur will have her second baby.

Under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed.
- William Ernest Henley

Home sick

2007-06-07T17:37:00.000+05:30

A friend reminded me that I hadn't written in a while.

I guess I've bitten off way more than I can chew. I'm enjoying almost all of it though. Except for the bout of 'flu. And the dull heavy thud of the realisation that this house is too big for one person to live in. Don't get me wrong. I love living alone. I'd rather live alone in a place big enough for one person, is all. Sometimes, after more than twelve hours of meeting after meeting with different kinds of people, for different kinds of reasons, you don't want to come home to a house wrecked by kittens, ALL of which you have to clean yourself. And it certainly doesn't help to come home one night to a disoriented injured cat, and realise that you have to do this yourself. All. Night. Long.
Night. After. Night.

For someone who has so far had no issues with being alone, this is my first experience with loneliness. It turns out, a writer's life is not so enviable. I am reminded of that movie about William Forrester, only, I'm far younger, far less cynical and not half the writer that he was. There are times when I want to run back to the luxury of a big family house, where clothes seem to miraculously wash themselves, and all I have to do for breakfast, is walk down the stairs. This is probably the only time I am going to put down in writing that I miss my mother all the time. And the warm company of my dogs. And the cheeky humour of a lungi-wearing, cricket-watching, filter-coffee-drinking father.

Nevertheless, I doubt I ever will go back for good.

2007-05-29T14:58:00.000+05:30

I miss you every single day.
No one else I know comes close.
Just thought I should say it again.

Treat me as a sequel

2007-05-29T13:24:00.000+05:30

I wrote a poem once that was fairly well accepted. I have, on popular demand, written it's sequel. Just yenjai. Shyju, thank you for your encouragement. ;)

TOOTH
We'll never remember
how we kissed
in our thousand follies of youth.

Now forever
on the nape of your neck,
the triangle of my tooth.

BLUE TOOTH
We'll never forget our thousand follies of youth.
I have a reminder; activate your blue tooth.
I am my biggest cavity.
I will spend my life now
in minor contracts and in dentures.

Happy places

2007-05-15T15:48:00.000+05:30

Due to some new and immensely pungent variety of glue that our office has invested in, I feel like I'm working in a chemistry lab. Which is a refreshing change. The smell also reminds me of Mumbai. Which reminds me that I have never made a list of my happy places.

Here are a bunch, in random order.

Balcony of Room 102, YWCA, Colaba, Mumbai
I spent a week in this room in 2004. It had the hugest balcony in the building, facing the bustling smoky Madame Cama Road. Also one of the eeriest places, doubtless. But I was happy there. If I close my eyes,I can see the Malayalee cigarette shop right outside.

202, Dona Maria, Cooke Town
My first home. And by that I mean, the first house that I lived in, when I moved out of my parents' place. One bedroom apartment, with a tiny hall and a balcony that you had to look for. Has housed as many as 20 people, when it was in the mood.

"Time it was and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago it must be..."

Tea Centre, Churchgate, Mumbai
Green walls, Vinay Aravind, hot buttered apple tea, the struggling Richard Clayderboy on piano. I have tears in my eyes. I would sell my non-existent soul for another hot buttered apple tea.

Koshy's, Bangalore
Responsible for about 60% of my life, considering how much time I spend there. But it was my happy place in the days when Chandra and I would spend hours together. I think we've written a bunch of short stories there, none of which I seem to have.

Hotel Mamatha, off Cunningham Road, Bangalore
Back in the Mount Carmelesque heyday of Kiran, Sam and Anoopa. Chai- Rs. 3/-, Cigarette- Rs. 3/-. About two-thirds of our grand declarations, sweeping statements and not-so-teenage ideologies took shape under the eagle eye of the Malayalee hotel owner. (Notice an alarmingly large population of Malayalees in this post, as in most other places in the world. The world is their banana chip.)

Upbeat, Cox Town, Bangalore
A recently-discovered haunt. Tart and I have taken to spending at least one evening every fortnight, catching up on bad decisions, lousy personaity assessments and other hilarities, in the warm, sour company of Riviera White.

One (one thousand)

2007-05-14T09:50:00.000+05:30

Lying under a wrinkled sheet,
his mind's eyes are playing games.
All the gargoyles from his past-
the different sizes, shapes and names-
build pyramids out of lousy dreams.

Counting oddly-numbered sheep,
he christens all of them with names
of all the gargoyles from his past,
making fire out of blame,
they're turning into woolen flames.

His lullaby is red and orange,
killing monsters when he's bored.
He'll live to kill another soul,
his heart is black, his laughter whole.
Even dreams are dyslexic with rewards.

Coming up for air

2007-05-12T14:23:00.000+05:30

What is the exact opposite of serendipity? A chance meeting or occurrence that changes your life all right, but not for the better?

If life wants to be messed up enough, you’ll meet at least one really sick twisted person in your lifetime. I’ve had the immense displeasure of not only knowing one such but also being related to him. And tomorrow, he’s getting married. I just wish there was some way of telling the unsuspecting woman, what she is getting into. But I’ve realized I don’t have what it takes to face her or do anything about it. I only hope that her life henceforth will be okay. And that I will stop feeling guilty and helpless.

I don’t know if my sin is worse than his. If there really is a God, I wish It would show up right about now.

Narcissa

2007-05-10T17:10:00.000+05:30

The mirror has two phases.
The last time I saw her, she had
Christine Daae-d and Miss Havishammed herself,
drowning in operas, stopping watches,
freezing time and storing winters in boxes.

Today, she removed the wail
and dawned an iridescent Feste,
motley in her description of men and manners.

The mirror has two phrases.
In the beginning, an iambic pentameter,
stressing and un-stressing
like a spasmodic gut-wrench,
stuck in Donne’s enjambment.

Now a warm haiku
Carefully measured triplets
Of cynicism.

Faust book

2007-05-10T12:25:00.000+05:30

Who have you sold your soul to, today? And for what?
The next time things change around, can I get a memo in advance?

Brothers and sons

2007-05-07T11:43:00.000+05:30

I think it's time you met my family. Just. It may give you an idea of how little I like people, and how much wisdom I gather from my brothers and sons. For instance, none of the five below will read a human being as wrongly as I do a lot of the time. A lot. They have instincts, I don't. I get it. But still. It's worth aspiring.

When I grow up I want to be any one of them. Okay, maybe not Bruce.

Somu. 12 years old. Tough, muscular, strong and silent. Lover of understated affection and brittle slices of old bread. Has the most ominous growl ever bestowed on a Dacshund, and knows it. My oldest, wisest and most favoured brother.

Hyder. 9 years old, I think. Whatever they say about nice guys is true. Gets bullied by most other dogs. Is a firm believer in the old Canine saying, "If you hide face, rest assured that Scary Dacshund cannot see rest of body either. Whimper." Like to sit at the dining table and be fed papaya out of a bowl. There is a firm belief in the Nandyala household that Hyder doesn't know he's a dog.

Bruce. 5 years old. Or something. Loves only Food and Mother in this whole world. Has recently found out that he is obese. He now has a "trainer"- a skinny boy who the vet sent- who takes him out on two-kilometer walks each morning. Enjoys listening to the author sing Geeta Dutt hits, while falling asleep. NOT, as it turns out, Janis Joplin.

Foucault. Almost 5 months old. Mamma's boy. Lives on love and cable television. Enjoys watching The Simpsons and taking a big friendly bite out of Bonzeaux's ample tail.

Bonzeaux. Almost 5 months old. Foucault's twin brother; fraternal. Is the feline version of Uncle Bruce, food-wise. Once ate a whole fish, a leg of chicken, puppy food and a glass of milk for dinner, when he was four months old. Seen here with a bust of his father figure, Garfield. Climbs curtains, walls, and lighting fixtures for exercise.

We Are Family Fair 2007

2007-04-24T11:15:00.000+05:30

Temple's day out! Power cuts are our best friends. Having nothing to do last evening, some of us went to the Family Fair. If you haven't heard of it, it's okay; no one has. But if you want to go, it's near Ulsoor. At the Naga Road junction. Ask anyone- they won't know. And I think we should do this again. Yes? Next time, I want a picture of the cotton candy.

Enjoy!

Everything you ever wanted to know about the Gun Shooting Prize Game.

Brave Columbus People. I'd pay a small fortune to see that look on Vijay's face again.

Torra Torra!

Inside the 3D Magic Thing

Left to Right: Rithwick, Vijay, George, Divya, Divya. No, not a typo.

Left to right: Rithwick, Vijay, George, Anoopa, Divya

My spermatozoa is better than yours

2007-04-23T14:11:00.000+05:30

At this rate, the Times of India and its interest in science will render the Indian male completely obsolete. And this is not just about the S.I.P.* brouhahahahahaha. Last week, we read heartening reports about the average Indian male's umm, performance timeframe. Twelve minutes it seems. By far the shortest umm, window.

And science doesn't seem to favour men in general. A group of German scientists have created a semi-evolved version (as opposed to...) of sperm cells by isolating specific stem cells in bone marrow. Bone marrow. Come on, you guys! Centuries of chest-beating, chest-hair-growing, growling, grunting, hunting, fighting, self-superiorising, patronising, patriarchalising and all along, what made you essential for human existence was in MY BONES? Good grief! I feel stupid on behalf of myself, my contemporaries and all women before us.

No reason to panic, though, it’s going to be simply ages before anything life-changing (get it? Get it?) takes place in this area. The minute it’s actually possible to have half-decent swimmers created entirely out of a minute portion of our elbows, people will start questioning the ethical and social implications of marrow jizz. Give me a break. Male behaviour with all its many shortcomings has been accepted, embraced, ethically ramified and even encouraged by virtue of the fact that they were capable of creating those little sailors. Now that those little sailors can come out of my collarbone, maybe it’s time to start questioning the ethical ramifications of allowing a man to continue to live.

Fact is, none of this is making me feel better. Why? Because I’m stupid- it’s my USP.
The ability to produce better sperm, and maintain better milkshake doesn’t keep one warm at night.

*S.I.P.- Small Indian Penis

Appu's birthday

2007-04-17T16:54:00.000+05:30

Here are some pictures from last evening at Windsor Pub, where a bunch of us got drunk on account of Appu having attained puberty. All these pictures have Appu and Mayur only. Because they were doing the entertaining and because they were right in front of me.

Big strong Appu

As Eric Clapton once said, "Hang on, hang on, hang on"

As Mayur then said, "I look better without my glasses".

Mayur considers the length of Appu's sideburns

Look mommy! No Sideburns!

Appu pulls a Gwyneth Paltrow

Appu then pulls a Kate Winslett

And finally, he dazzles us with Pamela's Andersons

Addicted to XKCD

2007-04-03T18:48:00.000+05:30

Woo. Hoo. People like us.

XKCD

2007-04-03T17:43:00.000+05:30

I'm really enjoying this. Click on the title link.

In other news, turns out The Saab and I don't have girls. We have boys. So, please meet Foucault and Bonzeaux. Strange are the ways of mice and cats.

Haiku to you too

2007-03-28T15:22:00.000+05:30

FELINE HAIKU
Me-aow-me-aow-me-
aow in the sun. Seventeen
syllables of fun.

HAIKU-COO-CA-CHOO
Too old for a boy,
too young to be somebody's
Mrs. Robinson.

DEWEY DECIBEL HAIKU
Sometimes when I sleep,
I wake up screaming to Miles
Davis on trumpet.

Notes to my family

2007-03-27T15:36:00.000+05:30

My brother-in-law made this postcard for me. The two yellow dots are artistic representations of my cats. Dear Pink, you made my day. Your mental picture of my cats is perfect. And since we have no explanation for the red background, allow me. Red is for all the bloodshed, while they sharpen their nails and teeth on Sabbah and me.

~

My five-year-old niece has recently informed her father that she will be marrying David Gilmour when she grows up. And that she will be calling him 'honey' once they are wed. Dear Murli, it's all downhill from here. You know that, right?

~

Ma.
My cats refuse to be good Brahmins. They eat fish and chicken and all kinds of animals. Okay? Okay.

Too much water has flowed under this bridge

2007-03-23T12:44:00.001+05:30

My clichés
ring in my ears,
Mocking everything I ever
did or said or sang,
which now seem so pretentiously
off the bruised and beaten path.

My bruised and beaten path
curls up and dies
in a corner of my living room
where the cats will
poke and scratch and re-open
a thousand gangrened histories.

A thousand gangrened histories
fill their lungs with air
and look over the edge
of this bridge
as they cry,
“Too much water has flowed under this bridge”.

Too much water has flowed under this bridge
and your soul washes farther away
relieved to part
from my well-worn shoes
along with all my
clichés and their thousand histories.

Nine Lives

2007-03-23T11:44:00.000+05:30

Your big eyes
have none of the wisdom
that I wish upon them.
Not by half.

And when mine cry
your casual claws
scratch the surface
as you laugh.

When you glide
into my yellow life
you hiss and spit,
my courage dies,
I realise
that I have one,
but you,
you have nine lives.

Velma discovers fire

2007-03-21T15:17:00.000+05:30

Hunch

2007-03-17T12:20:00.000+05:30

Over the years
I developed a hunch
about you.

There's a bit of grey
in your beard
and in your eyes too.

You walk with a lisp
and in your voice
a bit of blue.

Over the years
I developed a hunch
and so did you.

KroaKing Season 2- Opus, Wednesday nights

2007-03-14T19:01:00.000+05:30

It's back!
Every Wednesday at Opus, Bangalore. The search for KroaKing 2007 is on. Who will be crowned the Kroaker of the Year? To find out more, check out the Opus blog, or the Kroaknights blog.

To take a shot at being the KroaKing, all you need to do is land up and sing. There are many many prizes to be won.

Also, for the KroaKing season, I will be updating the blog. Yettanother reason for you to show up. I might write about you. How exciting for you. Wink.

St. Ang

2007-03-12T15:33:00.000+05:30

Writing here has become something of a laboured process. Mostly due to mundane tangible things like too much work, too little distraction and next to no inspiration. I've almost completely stopped laughing unless I absolutely owe it to someone, or people are looking expectantly. Why, even my kittens think I'm a sour-puss! And a day without uncontrollable laughter is not merely a day wasted. It's greater consequence is in being unable to contribute to my writing.

I spend the better part of the day entertaining myself with puerile wordplay, but I never get around to seriously writing. Instead, I hang around wearing the face that I keep in a jar by the door. I spend all my alone-time preparing a face to meet the faces that I meet. And it's nothing more than a mildly poetic idea, this amalgam of Eleanor and Eliot.

I guess a holiday is in order. In exactly a month from now, my dear friend Swetha is getting married. I'm hoping the couple of days that I take off for her wedding will translate into a week's holiday. Maybe I should go away somewhere quiet and pretty for a couple of days. But I have daughters to think of. Let's see. When things fall apart, they often tend to know how to fall back into place. If that's as true as I think it is, in no time at all I'll be writing again.

Cats: The Imaginary Generation

2007-03-08T16:58:00.000+05:30

As a result of gentle prodding by Amit, I'm bringing back to life, a collection I started writing in 2004. Hopefully this time, I can make a complete story of it. I would appreciate your opinions on what I write. Leave your comments, okay? Okay.

Presenting Cats: The Imaginary Generation. Dedicated to Roxy and Velma. Also to Notrussel, a cat I've never really met.

We've got geese!

2007-03-06T12:34:00.000+05:30

In the solid tradition of misplaced nomenclature, I cannot call a cat a cat. (Or a spade a spade, I'm sure, but then I've never met a spade. Though I've met a dog that's been spayed. See how confusing this gets?)

Anyway. The Saab and I would like to believe that we've adopted these two. But owing to their feline nature, I'd much rather say "we're having some friends stay over". Meet Roxy and Velma. Ours is just a noisy hall where there's a nightly brawl.

Roxy is a month and a half old. She loves to chew on fingers, toes and dog food. Yes.

Velma is the same age as Roxy. She spends her time sleeping and watching the fan warily. She reminds me of me.

Roxy and Velma went to Cute School, where they were taught how to pose for pictures. It's very endearing. And alarming.

A minor diminished point of view

2007-03-01T15:32:00.000+05:30

They say it’s about perspective.
Diana Krall sits at her piano,
Playing it with the incorruptibility
Of the only schoolgirl who labours at algebra
In a classroomfull of pigtails writing margin notes.

She sings about love
Like a woman freshly in hate.
I try not to squirm, with that spine full of emotion
Challenging me to a duel.
(Wodehouse wrote that a woman should never betray her emotions; I gather, better late than never.)

Somewhere in the nonchalance of her fifth crescendo,
the penny dropps, but mutedly.
It stays at the feet of my sanity, and I pick it up
Belatedly:
It is about perspective after all.

The sun rises because Miss Krall un-learnt her vibrato
And tore out the sleeve that displayed her heart.
It sets when she plays her last notes,
You know, the ones she just made up in her head;
The ones she plays with her feline indifference.

And you go to bed so that the sun can rise again. Without misgivings.

Good bye Dona Maria Part 2

2007-02-21T14:35:00.000+05:30

Windows though which Nina Simone stares at us

More windows for staring purposes

"I don't want him, you can have him": 'Drama Queen' Nina Simone

Strange bedfellow

Fan with super-charged nailcutting ghost

Upside down world

Scary upside down world

Shoes, fridge and Salvador Dali

Goodbye Dona Maria

2007-02-15T16:07:00.000+05:30

Exactly seven months to the day of having moved into 202, I'm leaving this house. We're moving, and as usual you're invited.

These past few months, I can easily claim as the best days of my life. Not a big one for reliving my childhood (brr), and something of a quiet sort even for a bit of college, my Dona Maria days are probably among those I'll remember for a very very long time.

Things I learnt:

1. Breakfast does not make itself every morning
2. Shockingly, neither do any of the other meals
3. Firing the maid is therapeutic. She's the one causing all the depression in the first place.
4. Clothes get washed. By you.
5. Fans have nails too. And nail clippers
6. Garbage does not have feet
7. Dust
8. Rice cookers are our friends
9. So are eggs
10. Maggi is the devil's child
and
11. There is probably only one person in the world, that I know I can live with. Sabbah.

As a result of Learning #12, I am taking it with me, probably in a box. It is now unchangeably family, and it goes where I go.

My next couple of posts will be dedicated to 202, Dona Maria. All the hundreds of memories, moments, friends, visitors, after-parties and dinners that will forever echo in these parts. In three part harmony.

I'll miss you, but I have to leave you.

Look, mommy! Sour grapes!

2007-02-14T12:31:00.000+05:30

Okay, not really sour grapes. Even in the presence of a lover of some sort, I'd be mortified if I had to 'do something special' today. Not that I have, y'see? Coincidence or not, I have never actually had the awkward pleasure of such company ever on Valentines Day. So I don't know what it would feel like. Expensive gifts maybe nice. Jakes got a pair of red sneakers. (Yes, the ones my boss has owed me for THREE YEARS now! But in a very different context. Shit. I'm digressing all over the place.)

Anyway. This day is clearly not my area of expertise. But here's someone who knows. I'll let them speak.

The over promise

2007-02-09T15:39:00.000+05:30

She spent her youth being driven around
from one all-night party to its hangover.
But she eyed the big life.
Big house, big pool, big dogs and a man with a big
bank balance.

So she married one of her hangovers.
Investment banker with a five-star outlook.
Two-star personality.
The trade-off is in the diamonds
and a bun already in the oven.

Became the typical wife.
Learnt patience with a monumental ass of a husband,
cleaning up his drunken puke and rebuke,
sweeping a thousand misgivings
under various Persian carpets.

Now he sits at home-
a whisky in hand is better at two in the afternoon.
She leans over the kitchen counter,
sharpening her knives
to cut him some slack.

Fun Things and a Lovely Coincidence

2007-01-31T11:31:00.000+05:30

In 1981 (the year you were born)

Ronald Reagan becomes president of the US

Minutes after Ronald Reagan becomes president, Iran releases 52 American hostages that had been held captive for 444 days

President Reagan is shot in the chest by would be assassin John Hinkley

Space shuttle Columbia, the world's first reusable spacecraft, is sent into space

A suspended walkway in the Kansas City Hyatt Regency Hotel collapses, killing 113

A female former lover files a "palimony" suit against tennis star Billie Jean King

President Reagan appoints Sandra Day O'Connor to be the first woman on the Supreme Court

The Pac-Man video game is introduced in the US

Alicia Keys, Elijah Wood, Kelly Rowland, Anna Kournikova, and Britney Spears are born

Los Angeles Dodgers win the World Series

Oakland Raiders win Superbowl XV

New York Islanders win the Stanley Cup

Raiders of the Lost Ark is the top grossing film

"Bette Davis Eyes" by Kim Carnes spends the most time at the top of the US charts

MTV debuts on cable television, playing music videos 24 hours a day

Gimme a Break premieres

What Happened the Year You Were Born?

Orange Biriyani once told me that 'Bette Davis Eyes' reminded her of me. Tee hee.