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;


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.


9 Jul


Credits: OJ and her Panasonic Lumix 80. And a botanical haven in the Nilgiris.

In honor of my favorite photographer, first teacher and the most phenomenal man I know: Happy Birthday, Daddy.

The Five Best Things The Boy Has Done For Me

7 Jul

I wrangled this tag from MiM’s page after protesting that it shouldn’t be limited to women with husbands. ‘Tisn’t fair! I said, stamping a virtual foot, and so poor MiM was obliged to open it up to me too. Without further ado, therefore, let me get down to boasting:

  • He cooks me breakfast while I labor to haul my bulk out of bed. Not any slap-dash goop, mind you. Sunny side up with bacon or sausages, sauteed mushrooms, a slice of tomato for colour, toast done just right, butter, cheese, mustard, marmalade, juice, the works. Arranged perfectly and presented with a smile. He’d serve it in bed too, if I didn’t think that was gross. And then I whine about being a blimp.
  • When Zubin Mehta was in town this past March, concert tickets were being sold at an auditorium near my home. Except, we were both pretty sure they’d be sold out before the sun rose. I told him to forget going and slept well into my Saturday morning, and was woken up gently by his voice on the phone asking me if I’d care to join him in the queue. The man had driven more than an hour from his then suburban home to stand in line before 7 a.m. and patiently waited for the four hours it took to get to the ticket counter. I joined him only for the last two.
  • Ruskin Bond is to me what Shahrukh Khan is to millions of swooning idiots women around the world. And I will never quite get over the fact that my Boy whisked me away on an elaborately planned surprise holiday to Mussoorie so I could meet the man of my literary dreams. There’s still a tiny rent in my heart from all the happiness it held on that unforgettable day.
  • Once, for a reason I can only vaguely recall now (yes, we’re quite goldfishy that way), I jetted off to the other side of the country to put some mental and physical distance between what I was going through at the time. Our man promptly got on a flight and landed up where I was and proceeded to ensure I’d never be too far away again. (Not in a psychopath way, I assure you. Very romantic and quite, quite crazy, but I can’t talk about it here just yet.)
  • You probably have this coming out of your ears, but for the sake of possible newbies on this blog, I’m a South Bombay girl through and through. My Bombay spans from Colaba to Worli and suburban shock rapidly escalates as we go past Bandra. That said, I travelled to his remote (albeit beautiful) suburb every weekend for 16 months to spend time with him but Meru cabs are now on the brink of bankruptcy because my Boy has moved to South Bombay. For me. His 10-minute drive to work is now at least an hour and he won’t get to see his folks as frequently, but he’s made the move without any expectations and his ability to give makes me wonder what I did to deserve him. *end of mush*
  • Oh wait, I lied. I’m going to sneak in one more: When it comes to maintaining a tidy and clean home, I’m a bit of a drill seargent. I admit it. So I’m especially proud of him because he realizes it’s important to me and has actually cleaned up his act, pun totally intended, and *trumpet blast* wears slippers in his apartment because I’ve finally convinced him it’s the clean thing to do!!! Do you know how happy that makes me??? I’m so beside myself with joy, I almost forget to scrub the decorative grill on the post box with its own dedicated toothbrush.

Sheesh. I’m done. Someone scoop up the sap and pour me into a jug, please.

Of Sleeping Pills & Sanity

6 Jul

Lately, I am constantly aware of a feeling of spiraling doom. The city is converging on us, the times are fragmenting randomly, even coldly; it’s mayhem within and mayhem without and I’m up at nights, seeking that elusive ingredient that makes me believe it, the one abrasive incident, the cautionary tale, the warning of an impending apocalypse under a veneer of smooth normalcy, as people celebrate new bridges and governments and triumphs over parallel democracies.

I can’t shake it off, this sense of alarm, it bubbles in the pit of my core, and I am uneasy, jumpy and watching like a cornered hawk as the sensation rises to my throat and threatens to bring up howls of dark, viscous green at a pitch I cannot recognize as my own.

And in the midst of the mire, messages to tell me its rates are slashed and I should fly away. One-way tickets, my friends, couldn’t be better timed.