Archive | July, 2009

The Meeting

31 Jul

She flung herself into my arms

I succumbed to her innumerable charms

Who could this be

But Aunty G

Whom I finally met after several false alarms.

***

July 27th was a blessed day

One for which I fervently did pray

After 4 months and 3 years

She allayed certain fears

And hugged all my cares away.

***

A kinder soul I haven’t seen

A happier meeting there couldn’t have been

Come what may

Forever and a day

I’ll remember my time with the Limerick Queen.

***

My only wee grief

Was that it was too brief

But then I’ll always want more

And I’ll meet again I’m sure,

My precious heart-snatcher thief!

Scribbles to Self

29 Jul

The sky may be flecked with the silver of stars but the endless backdrop, it remains inky.

And Then There Were 31

27 Jul

Words seldom fail me.

This is one such time.

Or maybe it’s best to shut up and soak in memories of what was unequivocally the Best Birthday Ever. A startling midnight surprise followed by TLC and pampering followed by a sun-dappled lunch with my visiting uncle and aunt, then yet another super-indulgent surprise followed by dinner with close friends and my favorite little man and coming home to more gifts, yes that’s just the gist and I’m still floating.

Real life can wait a little longer.

As can the words.

I’m not done counting my blessings for having that much happy in a birthday.

Dyslexics Welcome

21 Jul

search terms

Yup, we’re pretty inclusive around here.

~~~~~~~

Now excuse me while I crawl back under the covers and wallow in unspecific stomach bug misery.

P.S. 😦

OJ Say

16 Jul

A person of character is one whose convictions are stronger than her coffee.

Kambakkht Shit

14 Jul

a.k.a. The One in Which Isabgol is a Silent Sponsor

***

Yes, yes, it’s all my fault. A violent downpour and rush hour traffic delayed our cello concert plans and we ended up at Inox with an evening ahead of us. Our choices were New York and Kambakkht (that’s all it deserves to be called, nothing remotely lovable about it) and voicing my concerns at already having lived through 9/11 America, I whined my way into getting tickets for the latter. (It also helped that the Boy had forgotten his wallet at home, so I maturely used the opportunity to wave my meagre money in his face.)

Now there’s garish, no-excuses, Jeetendra-Sridevi-and-pots-on-the-beach ‘80s Hindi cinema and then there’s Kambakkht Ishq. A script, as the Boy mentioned, scribbled on a shred of toilet paper, gyrating numbers that blasted out of seemingly nowhere, an absence of Govinda to justify the mindlessness, squirm-inducing attempts at slapstick, ugly as sin non-actors, wince-worthy sidekicks and the whoring of two wrinkly, past-their-prime Hollywood stars made this flick that passed off Cannes as Los Angeles the Convention of Extreme Designer Exhibitionism and nothing more.

Not even the usually watchable Kirron Kher, completely wasted in this celluloid tsunami, could save it from stinking like rotten eggs. Akshay Kumar hammed through the torturous two hours and thirty seven minutes like a beast on a leash, something I’d throw a couple doggy biscuits at before getting safely out of the way. That the Kapoor girl left a watch inside his belly and not one of her fake lashes or acrylic nails is a minor miracle in itself. (The major one, of course, being that she lives to make another movie.) Kahkashan Whatsherface Patel’s saving grace was that she sports a nose more bulbous than mine, and somebody rescue Javed Jaffrey from himself, please. Repeated exposure to his schizophrenic behavior makes us gloss over the fact that this man needs help. Really and truly. I don’t have degrees in Psychology for nothing.  [An aside: I have a theory that someone made off with the original script, where all the characters were to be herded into a hospital room and gassed into lifelong coma. Now that would be off-the-charts reality filmmaking with a happy ending.]

Watching through fingers fanned across a mortified face, pinned against my seat by roaring sound waves, bleating apologies every third minute to the grim, angry man to my left, and almost making history as the first woman to be divorced before she was married did not make for fun viewing. I want my money and Thursday evening back. And told-you-sayers can just take a long hike. In those 8-foot heels ripped off the matchstick draped in Dior. Now cross your fingers that the Boy doesn’t read this post. The tiniest of reminders may just hurtle me toward history.

Some Words You Must Towel Dry

12 Jul

Tonight is a night for poetry.

For Neruda, Manivannan, Szymborska to convene,

Singe the dampness and my inner stone,

Purging loss, blood, memory as return gifts.

Tonight is a night for poetry.

For haze, aching and city lights,

Churn the heaves into bite-sized portions,

Packed in steel boxes for tea time.

Tonight is a night for poetry.

For the future that will happen without me,

I will watch that life with binoculars,

Offer improper condolences when it is time.

Wash away

the wetness.

Wash away

the night.

Scrape spirits within an inch of breath;

Petrify.

Cleave resignation with familiar spade

Line up in dated rows

He’ll come back like he said he would

And find orange peels and your scent

on the wind.