Between the idea and the reality, falls the shadow

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

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

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

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

Yet another blog. By me. Again.

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

My prodigal sons

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

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.