…may I (insanely proudly) present to you….
Black Beauty doesn't have a thing on her.
No daughter of mine is ever going to match those waifish looks.
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.
.
Yes, again.
And this time she’s gone for good.
I love scribbling update-type posts about as much as the majority of you seems to love reading them (which is nada, for the unplugged among us), but I could do with some sympathy here. C’mon, people, gush forth now. I’ll even leave you with some neon wisdom while I dither between the possibility of an electronic successor and lifelong penury. These ears, they strain for applause.
***
Real strength lies in not hurting someone when you know just how easily you can.
a.k.a. Goodbye Ganpu
***
I’m not religious. That’s an understatement. If I had my intolerant way as Empress of the World, religion as a construct and a practice would be officially banned and I’d happily skewer secret societies out of existence. My weekly foaming at the mouth necessarily includes how stoned the masses are on ritualism, symbolism and the debilitating need to worship. Add to it the human penchant to vilify nature as part of the revelry and I’m ready to burst a blood vessel. Ergo, my reaction to socio-religious occasions like Ganpati is a resigned trip to buy ear muffs and periodic shuddering about sound pollution and the state of the sea.
So it took me more than a little by surprise when I found myself peering curiously at the crowds at Chowpatty a few days ago and patting the little idol I took to school today for show-and-tell when it toppled over. For the first time in the 26 Ganpati festivals I have been witness to, I didn’t shut my windows to the sounds of the streets. I let the reverberations stream in, pretending not to listen to the roar of the crowds and the insistent throbbing of drums, louder than the rain that poured on their upturned faces, watched the lights and the flowers from the darkness of my balcony, pushed back the faint stirrings of a vague something as I saw truck-sized statues trundle their way toward a watery grave and I wondered. About what it is that so many people seem to find in faith and belief that I cannot be a part of. About why I can only find higher power(s) in leaves and waves and certain people. About how the socio-religious propriety gene went missing in me.
But this once, I wasn’t the critical outsider. This once, I was part of that little bobbing universe. This once, I walked willingly into the inevitable, not away from it. And I write this to the rhythm of an insanity I have long disowned. Now, I’m unsure. And I guess I’ll have to wait a whole year to find out whether this was momentary madness or old age has arrived some decades early.
Bleddy popular culture. It’s finally had its way with me.
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.
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:
Sheesh. I’m done. Someone scoop up the sap and pour me into a jug, please.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
With the exception of my uber-careful mother and BFF, I’m the most particular person I know when it comes to taking care of personal belongings. Not an item gets misplaced and I could direct you to a book/CD/tee shirt with my eyes closed. Among other things, I’m called Madame Paranoid. So it’s a particularly sadistic joke life plays on you when the same phone gets stolen twice. From a relatively safe space, from among invitees at a party. I’m not angry, just disheartened. Methinks I’ll crawl into bed and sleep away the events of the day.
And Jeremy the Crow, he’ll caw tomorrow. Right now, he’ll just have to deal with being ignored. As will the rest of the world. Good night.
Ultra Violet
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi