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To the Caterpillar I Love/d:

19 Nov

In you I sought the

steadiness of rock

and found

an ocean

instead.

~~~

So I clung to driftwood

and rode the waves,

eyes burning for the sight

of crust and spores;

My feet, like

drunken sailors

enjoying the air,

shifted lurchingly above

merry waltzing sands.

~~~

The

fish they tittered,

the

sparkles they winked,

and I held on, held on,

melted my meat,

gulped the terror,

blew back at the wind

with lopsided cheeks.

~~~

Then your wings,

gossamer like stone, earth, sky,

they closed around me

and I built

my castle

on a houseboat

that rocked my

crinkled notions

to sleep.

Laydeez and Gennelmen…

16 Sep

…may I (insanely proudly) present to you….

ADELE!

adele 1

Black Beauty doesn't have a thing on her.

adele 2

No daughter of mine is ever going to match those waifish looks.

Look the other way now!

Look the other way now!

Now, now, no stampeding, boys and girls. Go git your own.

And no, that’s not two extra pounds I’ve put on since she arrived. It’s called being chuffed.

.

Where The Heart Is

28 Aug

We’re waiting at a light that will take a while to turn green. To my left is Chowpatty junction and the silver-grey sea surging forth this early afternoon. The road turns upward and narrow, winding determinedly to meet old limestone havelis, banyan tree compounds and the scent of theplas at Teen Batti. In the foreground are battered boats, scraps of torn clothing and greedy pigeons feasting on somebody’s idea of religion. The beach needs a clean-up. Eighteen dustbins should do it. It wouldn’t hold a candle to Venice and I know it.

In the distance, phoenix-like, rises Cuffe Parade. The monolith of the World Trade Centre, the soaring steeple of Afghan Church, the identical pygmies of Navy Nagar that house brilliant, impoverished scientists. A lighthouse clings to the island of Colaba, just before the world’s steepest real estate crumbles away into the Arabian Sea. Marine Drive shimmers like a mirage, framing the good bay* in a tolerant Sunday mood. Honks are notably absent, siesta has spread its picnic mat.

I turn to him, my heart filled with pride.  “You’d like Hong Kong,” he says casually. I look back at the view and slowly shake my head. It wouldn’t hold a candle to my home and I know it.

*[Bombay gets its name from the Portuguese Bom Bahia, meaning good bay.]

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!

Gold

9 Jul

gold_cp

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.

Guess Who’s Back, Back Again

21 Jun

It’s a good thing today is the longest day of the year. Because I needed pretty much all 13 hours of daylight to hike beyond Bombay and into an adjoining district to reclaim Lapwanti from Mr. Fixit Superhero Whose Hands I Forever Worship.

So yes, she’s back, is good old Lappie. And consequently, I am too. (Okay that sentence was completely unnecessary. As is this one. And the one I’m going to type after this before I finally close the parenthesis. Allow me the thrill of caressing old familiar keys, even if they produce meaningless garbage such as this.)

Getting down to business, here’s two of the three tags/awards a response is overdue on:

June passed on a “Your Blog is Awesome” award and needs me to list 7 reasons why I am awesome. Sigh, the things I do for the blog world:

1. I am awesome because I possess perfect, kidney-shaped nostrils. I saw that, you know, that rolling of the eyes. Allow a girl her vanity, will ya?

2.I am awesome because I am one of 66,000 Parsis left in the world. That’s how small my ethnic group is, so I’m not even one in a million. (Don’t try calling me a dodo, though. It isn’t polite.)

3. I am awesome because I remember dates. All dates, any dates. But of course, this cruel world won’t appreciate my stellar talent when I remind them about the 34th birthday of their ex,ex. Sigh.

4. I am awesome because I’m cringing through this tag and will have to fabricate the remaining three points just to amuse you.

5. I am awesome because I’m a miserable failure at taking myself seriously.

6. I am awesome because I plant crumpled paper balls in hard-to-reach places just to check if my cleaning maids are doing their job.

7. I am awesome because even if you think I’m the crazy lady from hell for doing it, I’ll just go back and plant more balls.

Thanks, June!

*******

Anu and The Girl on the Bridge and D passed on this

kreative_blogger

and need me to list seven things I love. (How easy would that be, were I Snow White.)

1. Girlfriends. A woman can never have enough close, supportive pals who tell it like it is and ply her with mint chocolate chip ice cream and tissues.

2. History. Specifically, the Partition, the Raj and my own. Generally, that of a mansion, a city and a filigreed silver teapot.

3. Water. Of the rain, pool, ocean, guzzle variety.

4. Flying. Nothing quite like the thrill of a plane sluicing the air.

5. My work with children. It’s probably one of the few things I take very seriously.

6. Bombay. The one I grew up in, the one I live in now, the one I’ve heard tales about from three generations of family.

7. Indulgence. Read spas, chocolate, diamonds, shoes, candles, hair masques, king-size beds.

Thanks, ladies. I accept the bling in chandelier earrings and Manish Malhotra threads.*

*(Barrrrrrrf.)

Done?

30 Apr

p1000272

Done.

Not quite. We’ve only just begun.

It was particularly exciting for me because this was my first time voting for a Lok Sabha election. I’d always been either out of the country or underage so far. (The polling booth ladies got their laughs when I unthinkingly said, “Mera bhai chaar sau bees hai”, but really, I was just referring to his voter registration number.)

Now to await the results and a government that we may need to flog into appropriate action.

And wait, I’m still not done. Today, I doff my hat to a gentleman who stood under the noonday sun, quietly, patiently, his body drained after 4 hours of being dialysed, just so he could do the very least as a citizen of this country. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: my Daddy strongest.

Good Morning, Sunshine

3 Apr

breakfast

Credits: OJ and her then week-old Panasonic Lumix LS 80 in auto-flash, food mode. No filters.


Did I ever mention breakfast is one of the multiple reasons I adore my Boy?

A Fed OJ = One Happy Camper.

Manivannan Magic

12 Mar

witchcraft_cp

Credits: OJ and her new Panasonic Lumix LS 80. Taken in completely natural lighting.

She pressed crimson lips to an inner page, scribbled a message that held much meaning, smiled mysteriously and then it was mine.

To assert that Witchcraft weaves a spell is to state the obvious. But to denude oneself to the obvious, offer one’s vulnerability on a platter as the words tunnel through your onetime resilient spirit, to let them screech into the cubby holes of your gut and torch craters the size of coffee mugs takes a brave reader, one who is amply rewarded by Sharanya Manivannan’s book of magical verbal imagery.

Maybe it was the time, maybe it was the place, maybe it was the situation I chose to be in: a lone woman seeking anonymity and solitude in a seaside town by the blue Bengal bay. Watching waves and people and bougainvillea nuzzling whitewashed villas, happy to be the outsider in a world content without her. It was a day of soul-searching, of excruciating subtleties, of the drama of frothing, unstoppable words. Of walks and self-hugs and avoiding curious passer-by eyes. Of honesty, wildness and liberation. Of knowing it would end and that madness has its price, but trading in sanity for freedom for just one precious day is sometimes infinitely worth it.

Witchcraft is devourable. It may hollow out your heart and hold up a mirror to the real you, but if you survive its brutally enchanting onslaught, you may perhaps have really lived.

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