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Rouge

23 Nov

 

Credits: OJ and her Panasonic Lumix LS 80. And the spectacularly garish Zerza restaurant.

Through the Looking Glass

4 Sep

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.

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Chapora

11 Aug

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Yes, there’s Goa on my mind.

No, I’m not going anytime soon. 😦

Doesn’t stop me from mooning over this, though.

~~~

Credits: OJ and her Canon Powershot. And Goa, September 2007.

Gold

9 Jul

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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.

In Honor of the Coming

23 Jun

Storm over the Mandovi

Credits: OJ and her Canon Powershot. And the Boy, for being my watermarking teacher.

This is not a black and white picture. The ambient lighting makes it appear so. It was taken in regular scenery mode, less than 5 seconds before the storm broke over our heads. I have put it up in celebration of our first day of rain today, the latest arrival in a decade.

When God Closes A Door…

12 May

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…somewhere he opens a window. (~Julie Andrews as Maria in The Sound of Music, 1965)

…shut the window too and save yourself from heatstroke.

Credits: OJ and her Panasonic Lumix LS 80.

After the Splash

4 May

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Credits: OJ and her Panasonic Lumix LS 80. Auto mode, no flash, no filters.

Taken after the last reluctant child was hauled out of the paddle pool, leaving his water balloons behind.

Done?

30 Apr

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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

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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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