Random Ribbits

Nothing makes a weekend simply sublime better or faster than some retail therapy. Make it books and food and I'm halfway to heaven—if, indeed, there is such a place.

I started it with one of my closest friends, spending hours at the Bombay branch of the best bookstore in India, browsing through prohibitively expensive editions of old favourites and overpriced but much desired new books.

Strangely, nothing works as well as book shopping, or even spending time in a book store, endlessly browsing. Not shoes, not clothes, not jewellery, not anything. I'm a strange, silly woman, I think.

Many, many thanks to a birthday many months past, an indulgent friend, and my own overwrought wallet, I walked out loaded with these:

• Albion
• The Delta of Venus
• Numbers in the Dark
• The Wind Singer
• The Dalemark Quartet, Vol I
  
• "Through the Looking Glass" - The Grade I Heritage of Mumbai

The next day, I went into town with the said friend, another one, and the elder sibling for a trip to what a beautiful death must be like. After cutting across a snarl after snarl of hideous traffic, living in the abject terror of missing lunch, we finally made it to Apoorva at Fort.

I am not going to sing paeans to the food, describe the place, or my experience there. That's just repetitive and trite. But I will say this. Two large vodkas, prawns koliwada, fried surmai, butter-garlic clams, prawn ghassi, pomfret curry, clams sukkha, and endless neer dosa later, I was blissed out. All I was fit for was a toffee ice-cream sandwich from K. Rustom's.

Now if only every weekend was like this, I'd be more than somewhat happy. :-)

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On Orkut

Five years ago, when a dear friend first asked me to get on Orkut, I made the mistake of asking just what you did with a site like that. A blistering sermon later, I had been sent an invite, had my profile dictated to me, and had also lapsed into sweet inactivity.

Last year, I was finally harangued into creating another profile by another dear friend and this time, I have 400-odd scraps, a 100-odd friends, and 14 fans to show for it. And yet, I somehow get the distinct feeling that the dedication to "social networking" isn't really paying off.

You see, all sorts of people have come bloody crawling out and I'm just fit to howl. For all my magniloquent loquaciousness (see!), I'm truly dreadful at small talk. Truly. Also, I quite bloody hate making it and like most intelligent folk, I prefer proper conversations, don't you know.

Now, suddenly, I'm faced with people I haven't heard from in centuries but who want to know where I am, if I am married, and what I am doing with my life. Inexorably, like a deer caught in the headlights of courtesy, I eventually become polite conversation road kill.

A number of these "friends" are from school. For me, this is excruciating mainly because I absolutely loathed school AND I was a prat. Allow me to assure you of the incontrovertibility of these facts. If I'd met me in school, I'd have whacked me on the upside of my head!

Strangely, it seems that I am the only one that remembers me like that. These people seem content to initially be friendly and warm. Later, they surface only when their homepages remind them about a birthday or when some occasion's doing the scrapbook circuit.

As for me, I just don't understand why they'd want to keep such superficial contact seeing that we haven't been in touch for aeons and despite it, lived happy, fulfilled lives. Yeah sure, you never know—we could be best friends now. But I doubt that because I know it's not merely chance that I'm not in touch with anyone from school.

But let me not tell you only about these hilarious ones. Orkut is most egalitarian and also brings some other wonderfully avoidable experiences along. Sample this.

An ex-classmate from university recently scrapped me. Now him and I, we have a chequered history for a number of reasons, but mainly because of our egos. We've attempted to get and stay in touch a few times to no great or real avowals of a friendship.

He's recently had something really great work out for him and I sent him a note off-the-scrapbook that he didn't respond to. Not that I'd really expected a response, or for that matter, even expected him to believe that I was being more than polite. Indeed, the history's that chequered.

And yet, happy as I am that he'd gotten "back in touch", I think it would have been nice if he hadn't deleted scraps expressing gladness for him. With that one click, there I was—wishing for the impossible, that we still had a little understanding between us. Sigh...

Yup, yup, it's confirmed. I am most certainly less than enchanted with the bloody thing. How can I be? It's full of all that won't or can't leave me behind—no matter how hard we try.

Three Week Snapshot

Three weddings, three weeks. Ahmedabad, Bangalore, Dehradun, Delhi, and Pushkar in the winter sun. Haring across the country at all hours of night and day. Meeting old friends and new conversations.

In a week, waiting for rage and uncertainty to explode. Knowing that now only apprehension of the unknown remains. Understanding that some things and some relationships have changed—irrevocably. Accepting that I have changed—in ways I cannot always describe.

Still later, capturing B's myriad faces and moods at his wedding. Watching him and his bride laugh their way into "stability". Chatting with him afterward like it was any other day. The ease of the day explained by knowing that I was fully a part of my "soul sister's" wedding.

Heart warming text messages finally consolidating the "younger sibling/brat" stigma into an adult equation. Talking and taking in the sunset, in perfect accord, at the Gau Ghat, Pushkar. Concluding a bizarre trip by illegally buying alcohol at the Bombay International Airport.

813 media items on a 2 GB storage card. The Lonely Planet theme music a constant thrum in my head.

All of it liberating, intriguing, and insightful.




A few important lessons - and no great revelations:

• Never travel with someone you're upset with. You'll never want the same things from the trip. Nor will you really want to be there. (Yup, Einstein - that's me.)
  
• Never use buses you've haven't checked out first. The wet feeling at your feet could be anything—anything!
• Don't believe all the hype about a place. A second person account could be less dissatisfactory than the real thing.
• Never travel with a friend's camera. That way, when you break it, you don't feel worse than pond scum.
• Don't try too many things in a photograph. One or two is usually good enough.
• Always carry your tripod—the winter sun is a gentle but treacherous bastard.
  
• Always travel with the elder sibling. The ride is very comfortable and free! :-D
• Always talk to a young rickshaw driver. He's much more likely to show you the non-touristy path.
  
• Travel on your own for at least a while. It's exhilarating to be shorn of expectation when you're exploring.
• Every last cliché written by a famous author about journeying is true. So children, let the journey to come to you. Too much planning is the devil's, a.k.a an MBA, tool.
  

It's that time...

... of year again. That time when I mumble my way through the brooding I have surrounded myself with and find no effective or efficient way to say goodbye.

I loathe and look forward to the period from Diwali to the 5th of January the most. I get contemplative around New Year anyway - stock taking and all nonsense - but two New Years just bloody tears it, don't you know!

It's been a strange year. I cannot, with any honesty, say that it's been a bad year. But neither has it been even acceptable. It's been educational. It's been difficult and wearing. And most importantly it's been, in some ways, empowering.

I've learned, grown, and I've experienced. I've faltered, been weak, and I've known self-doubt. I've felt mad in my head, laughed from my toes, and I've been a penguin. And through everything, I've been sustained primarily by the strength of two wonderful, wonderful men and the tolerance and affection of those I've neglected.

And it's been a year of two very important achievements.

One, that I've truly grown into an individual. I'm finally not part of a group, a herd. No more group cackling over men, jobs, and hair days. A process of evolution rather than eviction, now there is naught but individual relationships and no pressure.

Two, that I've finally learned patience. Or at least, I've learned how to let things come to me... to be instead of becoming. There are a number of people, I'm told, happy that I finally know the difference between silence and quietness.

I'm going to leave you with this wonderful little piece by Thomas Hood and hope like hell that you and I have a good one. :-)


And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast,
And been bow'd to the earth by its fury;
To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd
Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury -
Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime,
The regrets of remembrance to cozen,
And having obtained a New Trial of Time,
Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen.

Thought for the day

Resentment, I've discovered lately, tastes like a sewer that someone else is regurgitating up my throat, and swirling around my mouth like fine, single malt whiskey.

Bombay Evenings

Right then. I was tagged by Geetanjali aeons ago to list five favourite things in my city. Now, it hasn't taken this long merely because I am a gifted procrastinator. It's not that difficult either to choose one city/home or narrow favourites down, don't you know.

But somehow, somewhere, I'd ruled out too much. Sigh... back to the drafting board then, dearie. And somehow, somewhere, in the writing and thinking, eliminating and appending, something intriguing emerged.

I seem to enjoy Bombay most by late evening/night. This is, I think, strange because being in the city has never had any defined, cognizable purpose for me. Save being home.

For example, I savour Hyderabad most from the late afternoon to the late evening. Perhaps... because I've never been anything but a student in Hyderabad? The daylight was for class, chores, and assorted adventure. The night was when I'd return to the sanity of campus, tea, and a long, long walk.

Anyhow, to meander back to the tag at hand, hmm? This is, I think, the most accurate list of the things I miss the most in Bombay. It doesn't matter whether I am within the city or without.

• The Carter Road promenade. The scene of much believing, bonding, booze... being. A rare place where the city, the sea, and the mangroves come together in glorious anomaly. I've forged some lovely bonds, renewed old ones, and been in the peace of myself here—smack in the middle of noisy Bandra.
• Lemon Grass, Bandra. For dinner, conversation, and photography. I love the multifarious feel and tastes of this, my favourite restaurant. I’ve had insights into different cultures, cities, and people here. I’ve bullied the management (into serving other patrons faster) for a clear frame. Shockingly, I also have an unconditional invitation to annoy them again!
  
• Café Mondegar. The rites of passage into adulthood—my first unchaperoned drink. A place adorned with mosaics of memories—Bombay, the jukebox, camaradrie, football matches, and space amidst all the jostling and noise. I'm not as much of a fan of Colaba as everyone else but I'd go across town to Mondy's to voluntarily drink beer and choose my own music.
  
• Regal Cinema. From a time when an English movie was necessarily 30 kms away. I’ve always loved the ambience and architecture of this, my favourite theatre – much before I knew it was Art Deco. The dark wood, the ornate panelling, the bad seats, caramel popcorn, and my first movie date… Sigh! :-)
  
• Watching/walking the ocean. It really doesn't matter where—the Queen's Necklace, Banganga crematorium, Juhu Beach, Rock Beach (Versova), Silver Beach (Juhu Scheme), or Madh Island. All my life, like him below, I’ve been all and nothing at so many sunsets. Today, with subdued regret, I miss every one… every day.
  

Monstrous fate, most unkind!

That's just it. I've been cheated. I was supposed to have a five-day holiday and a holiday is the furthest thing from what happened. Not one day of being, reading, sleeping, working on photos, or catching up with blogging, mailing. Instead, five days passed in a blur of KP duty.

I've also just found out that every (or almost every!) idiot on Earth's getting to do everything I want to do. While I must sit here, biding my time. Smiling sweetly. Pretending not to be seriously annoyed.

Life's often unfair, I told a dear friend the other night. But really, what's so unreasonable about these things happening to a person? Among many, many, many others, of course.

• Road tripping from Panjim to Kanyakumari with endless rolls of Fuji Superia 100.
• Experiencing the Rann of Kutch at sunset.
• Spending a month in the North East of India.
• An art historian taking me on a tour of Le Louvre.
• An architect walking me around New York, Morocco, Damascus, and Florence.
  

• Lunch with Umberto Eco.
• Dinner with Gordon Ramsey - at his own restaurant.
• Breakfast with Jonathan Stroud.
• Days spent with Steve McCurry.
  

• The first violinist of a string quartet explaining chamber music to me - in Vienna.
• The only real musician I know teaching me how to sing.
• Front row seats at U2, Marc Cohn, and Tori Amos concerts.
• Chris Cornell singing Ave Maria for me - live.
• Learning the nuances of the Gregorian chant.
  

• Backpacking across Europe participating in every festival on the way.
• The Master Blender at Glenfiddich teaching me how to be one.
• Talking with a socialist/marxist Catholic priest about the Holy See.
• Eating the perfect paella in Barcelona.
• A pint of Guiness built by a handsome Irishman quoting Yeats - in Dublin.
• Being taught how to Samba on the streets of Rio de Janeiro - during Carnival.
• Desperately wanting to be in New York City. This second.
• A conversation in flawless Latin about the Song of Solomon.
  

And now that I've made a list of it, it seems even more unfair that I haven't got to do any of this. That's just it - I want out and I want my money back. Sigh...

And oh? Any smart ones about why any of the famous people on this list would do these things for me? Well, the answers are simple. One, I don't want anything from them - no personal gain except the pleasure of picking their minds. Two, I'm worth their time. :-)

Season's Greetings!

*Clears throat importantly; Muzak starts*

E Vestigio wishes all its readers a very happy Diwolly and New Year!



*Muzak ends!*

Now that I have that out my campy, cheesy way, allow me to wish you and yours a very, very happy Diwali! I hope you have a wonderful holiday surrounded by those you love.

It's been a lovely start to the festive season. I've giggled madly through Diwali pooja and been chided for being a chocoglutton - as if there were such a thing! I've shared chocolates with colleagues and realised that they really are a good bunch.

I've also incited rebellion - bunking work on Monday - with a number of them! *evil laugh*

I've begun making preparations for 25 of my relations descending upon us for dinner. In a very peverse way, I am enjoying the thought of cooking - but just not for them. Pray for me and my sanity on Monday, won't you?

Pièce de résistance? I'm going to watch Don and the firecrackers at Marine Drive as well. How else does one enjoy Diwali with a five day weekend? Seems, I think, a good way to start the New Year, eh? :-)

Well then, Saal Mubarak, my dears. May the year ahead be full of every benediction that you deserve and, more importantly, desire.


***
Image courtesy my colleague, Shreyas.

...

It's been a year now and I'm still wondering if they did it deliberately.

It is easier to exonerate him. Neither he nor I knew or understood - neither us nor you and I. We were merely two years of assuaging my desperation to be loved. And my hunger to be the Saviour... I was unable to make my own faith true.

But her? Wasn't she my soul sister? Didn't she understand me best? Value me most? I wonder now if she was laughing at me... all those times I confided in her. When I gave her things that didn't belong to her?

In the remnants of cigarette smoke and relationships, was there mocking talk of my naiveté? Or perhaps, my stupidity? Were the two of them, lying in each other's arms, laughing? I know that all the others were. Even the ones I didn't know. For all that time, that's what they did.

How can this be trust?

So much I didn’t say. Not a word about the humiliating incisiveness from outsiders who had no right. Or even a breath about the silent, insidious calling cards of deceit and guilt? Instead, I sewed all my questions into a diaphanous dress that made me ugly.

For tears unnumbered, I created new apologies everyday for feeling... thinking... believing... begging to be wrong. I should have asked the questions... if only to be the the bigger person. Then perhaps, I would not have been left in the dark. Regret is a wick I secreted into a paper latern to light the way out.

These were pictures I'd composed. One of a lover, a husband, a father. The other a friend, a sister, an aunt. The first was a truth made illusion by insensate confirmation. The second was a lie given shape by the weakness of my own hands. I can now only be grateful that I did not release the shutter then.

Once, I left you on a mountain, under a fathoming grief. I tied you in a handkerchief to be opened today. Today, the grief and the handkerchief have both crumbled to ash. And yet, I stand here naked, negotiating with a fractured present to bury a bit of a broken past.

Instead, in the killing fields of my own dreams, I bury myself.