So HUGE...

... that I cannot fully see around it yet. Today was a HUGE day. Let me list it so that I can finally believe it.

1. Gave 2 interviews for an academic program that I want to do this coming September
2. Was informally offered a place at one of the aforementioned two
3. Had the weighing scale say something MONUMENTALLY AWESOME to me
4. Had a very productive email from the people I am currently working with

I cannot remember the last time I felt this blooming, burgeoning, blossoming hope inside. Cross your fingers for me, please. Just this once. :-)

Hello?

Is there any body still out there? :-)

... Exhale...

I wonder if you know what horrific waste is like.

I do. It's a sickening, heartbreaking, miserable feeling that makes you want to scoop your eye balls out with a melon baller designed for Lilliputians. Why the hyperbole and drama? Well, I realised on the way back to Bombay last night that the the camera I'd borrowed from A was set to take pictures that could be "used for e-mail attachments". E-mail fricking attachments, would you believe it!

This might not be a big deal you might say but as a photographer, this is the most tremendous waste of close to 3 weeks of photographs. I loaned George to the elder sibling's art partner a while ago and have been using A's wonderful Sony DSC-H7. I didn't bother to check the settings because it was a damn fine photographer's camera and was, presumably, set up properly. *Sigh* More the fool I.

I've now got over a 1000 pictures that are bloody low-res and hence are pictures that I cannot zoom into and play with. These are pictures I took of the TOI Crest William Dalrymple event at Bandra Fort, the ex-reviewer and other performances at Kala Ghoda, the World Book Fair in Delhi, and my Ahmedabad trip (making up 600 of the 1000 photos).

Sigh. Sigh. Sigh. No use crying over what's done but I cannot stop feeling bloody upset. I suppose when I get down to working with these pictures properly, I'll know the full extent of the damage. Until then, let me leave with this photo from the wedding in Ahmedabad.

I shall now go and salvage.

Notes from a Train Diary

It has been many years since a train journey to Hyderabad. Too many, I fear, because as this train snakes its way further and further south, it feels much more like going to Hyderabad than taking a flight. The anticipation and excitement have settled firmly into my stomach. Suddenly the prospect of waking S up at some obscene hour of the morning and making sure that she is alright is enough to make me grin at the rather surprised man in the opposite seat. He undoubtedly thinks I'm being friendly and will presently begin a conversation!

~~~~

You'd think that by now I'd have learned that the more you run away from something, the more persistently, the more doggedly it follows you. The IInd AC compartment was supposed to be the quiet journey of my daydreams... the "me-time" that I'm craving . The plan was to put my feet up on the opposite seat and re-read my way through 31 Songs. But with a side seat and some eight men squeezed into the compartment opposite me, all of whom belong to some kind of sports team, I don't think so. Pray I don't get arrested for murder by the time we get to Hyderabad.

~~~~

The technological change/advance in India is nowhere more apparent to me than it is in this train bogey. There are at least five laptops (I suspect there are more) within a ten foot distance of me. Mp3 players, phones and other things are blaring their own songs – from old Hindi numbers and what I suspect is music from a selection of B Grade Punjabi and Hindi films to Akon and other bullshit hip-hop and rap. Train travel was a lot less noisy six years ago. Pity is, glaring for 3 hours straight isn't getting the volumes down. The guys right opposite have been watching 3 different movies through the afternoon. The headache I have is much more because of the cacophony than being cooped up in a train all day.

~~~~

For the first time in a train journey, I have not spent most of the daylight hours at the door. I reckon that’s mainly because the landscape has changed beyond recognition. When I could once experiment and learn at the door, this time I didn't find much to keep me there. Little towns and settlements have sprung up over the wide open spaces. Ugly pink and green two-three storey buildings and empty construction shells dot the route from Maharashtra to Hyderabad instead of those interesting trees. I looked and looked after Daund but I couldn't locate the lake of my first attempts at photography.

~~~~

I have only a few hours left in this space and most of them will be spent asleep. Very, very unfortunately, this journey is nothing that I expected or even imagined. It’s been noisy, intrusive and I can’t wait for it to bloody get over. This has been a loss of innocence... of sorts. Truth be told, a part of me was looking forward to the random conversation... looking forward to the “Why aren’t you married” and “Why do you read the books you do?” conversations. Instead, I've had bad music and loud, intrusive hockey players to deal with.

Kill me now.

Extempore, Updated

What I've been doing: I did it, just so you know. The airport store, I am happy to inform you, has been operational for the last fortnight now and is doing spectacularly well. So, if you're traveling out of Bombay via anything but Kingfisher, Kingfisher Red, and Indian Airlines, do check out the store. And let me know what you think please.

I'm also just back from approximately 20 days of almost constant travelling - Madras, Bombay, Ahmedabad, Madras. As always, work was insane but a number of the evenings were full of cheatery at various games. The young son of the dear friend I stay with in Madras is an absolute delight and is probably the only person on earth who can get away with calling me all kinds of pet names. My mother's very happy that I bond with him so. It gives her great hope for grandkids, don't you know.

What I’ve been eating: Meen kozhambu (Chettinad Fish Curry) and some rather awesome prawns with utthapam at the home of the aforementioned friend. There was also some rather good grilled red snapper in Mahabalipuram and awesome French fries to go with it. It is rather surprising how few vegetables I eat in Madras. I think I eat more meat in Madras than I do in Goa! Chicken/prawn biryani, idlis and prawns, fish curry and rice, uthapam and fish curry, all kinds of kababs. No fruit either unless you're counting two sitaphals.

What I’ve been reading: Leaving India by Minal Hajratwala, the new release from Tranquebar Press. When Kulbushan met Stockli, an Indo-Swiss graphic novel collaboration from Harper Collins India. Chai, Chai, also from Tranquebar Press, a lovely travelogue of the places in India that you pass but don't get off at. Dragon Horse by Peter Ward, a young adult fantasy set in ancient China. The Patience Stone by Atiq Rahimi, forthcoming from Random House UK, that I have been commanded to give a super-quick review for by the boss.

I'm particularly interested in Leaving India though because the author's tracing and documenting the migration of her family from Gujarat to five different continents and in a larger sense, she's tracing the roots and motivations of the Indian/Gujarati diaspora. You must check out the Indian edition - Tranquebar's done a *way* cooler job on the cover than Messers Houghton Mifflin Harcourt in the US.

What I’ve been listening to: Some very awesome stuff off the ipod of the super-awesome boss. Are we not horses by Rock Plaza Central, Vampire Weekend, Okkervil River and about ten others that I don't remember now. Pearl Jam's Back Spacer. Assorted Regina Spektor. Lots of Tori Amos, Nick Cave, and Love Aaj Kal (you can put down the eyebrows now) - comfort music, really.

What I've been thinking: The returns room at the store is a lonely, lonely place and DAMN, I miss being in an office full of people. What I'd not give to be around the super-awesome bosses and my colleagues in Madras. What I'd not give for the the delicious, enveloping feeling of being part of a team that works together... well, at least for the largest part. I miss the laughter the most. They're always laughing in Madras, you know. It might be in a language that I don't understand but there is always an undulating, omnipresent laughter around the office. It's not that the store isn't a team but... they're not in the way that my merchandising colleagues are. And I fear that they never will be.

What I’ll be doing next: Trying to keep my head above the water mainly. The elder sibling's art partner, a sister of the heart, is getting married and I'm quite, quite excited because we're hosting the mehendi for her next Sunday. That I might be running to Ahmedabad for the next few days is a very real possibility and I'm really hoping that it doesn't work out. I'm exhausted in a way that I cannot even fully fathom. All I want from my life is to curl up in a cold room in Pune/Goa and read my life away. If only wishes were horses...

~~~~

Post format taken off Minal Hajratwala's blog.

Dim. Diffuse. Filtered.

This is how I feel. I don't like it.

Should be back in a few days. You see, I am going to fall very, very sick. If you get my drift. :-)

Laugh like you've never laughed before

My mother's 58th birthday just ended an hour and a half ago. We threw her a surprise party that we nearly ruined a hundred times over. Happiness is such an alien feeling with extended family. For an evening with the family, we got through a serious amount of laughter and alcohol. Strangers who are family who are strangers, for once, bring the most delicious feeling of belonging and joy. For an evening with family, we laughed like we never have before. I want to show you the pictures that George took but perhaps not now. My heart constricts with thanks for the laughter caught by someone I'm getting tolerate better. The night has broken down into an impending allergic cough and a whole lot of contentment.

May the rest of this year bring the same benediction.

My Kingdom for a Watermelon Martini

Right now, my kingdom for a watermelon martini, the beach, butter garlic calamari and those bright yellow Goa french fries. Or perhaps for the peace of contemplating silence, maad (palm feni), and a plate of baked crabs. The mere idea of sitting in the Goan sun, writing, pulling and pushing, and then may be finally smiling... Dear God, so much more than my kingdom.

I'll be back in a week.

Memories of Madras

I have, I think, reconciled myself to an ambivalent attitude towards Madras. I don't know if I will ever be able to articulate correctly or even coherently what I fully feel about the place. I swing like a monkey on crack, I tell you, in my highs and lows in Madras. And I always leave with more than just a pang of regret. I suppose that's mainly because I don't have enough time to resolve my space there... but in any case... I'm sure I'll mull this over some more until I know.

I didn't take very many photographs in Madras this time but what I did take, I am really quite happy with. This is only a sampler. The stories and proper photos should follow next week. I hope you're checking the photoblog though. There's an entire series on Mahabalipuram going on right now. I'll get to the flower market and other stories shortly.

~~~~

My sincere thanks to Plain Jane, who found time in her insane schedule, to make the collage for me.

88 Reasons to work for the Government

22 public holidays
26 Saturdays
40 days of privilege, casual, and medical leave

All totaling eighty eight great reasons to work for the Maharashtra government. I'm speechless. Honestly. I wish I had even half that luck. Just half.

Work, as usual, has been insane - more than half the insanity is my fault. I've come to realise that I need to change the way I work. I have also come to realise that there is no such thing as the dream job. I'm just going to have to be content with a job that I like very, very much.

I should be back in action in the course of this week - hopefully some of you, you know who you are, are still waiting.

Hyderabad Days

Eight years ago, for a lost 21 year old, a hesitant, lukewarm romance began in the cold distance of an unknown city. I was far removed from the roaring of a life in Bombay that was waiting to be dealt with maturely. I came of age on the Hyderabad University Campus. From the first hidden drag of a cigarette on campus, university and in a larger sense, Hyderabad, became about knowing that it was okay — or that at least in time, it would be. It is where dogs were chased by calves while I picked my way carefully through the cow dung of my life. It is where I was invited to shove off from classrooms and a pokey office in the back of the English department was refuge from the maelstrom. It is where I was steadied by bangles, biryani, and best friends.

Most people laugh when I still speak of Hyderabad as home. This is mainly because every time I'm asked if I know the new places in Hyderabad, I shake my head. You see, I never have the time for new places. There are too many old haunts to pay my respects to. For one, there's Amfah Hotel in Mehdipatnam for its fragrant kalyani biryani. Of all the holes-in-the-wall in Hyderabad, this be the favourite. When Chachaji sees me come down the steps, there's no stopping the smile on either of our faces. The instructions are always simple - whatever I order, double the quantities of meat and salan! Then there's Famous Ice-cream at Mozamjahi Market. S and I have sat here afternoons, ordering one cup after another of the most delicious, non-creamy kharbhooza and chickoo ice-cream. The cup is always a double scoop and its price — the princely sum of 7 bucks!

But a rambling, pointless nostalgia is not why I am writing this. This is a function of an ability to let go. All things must change and in the eight years since I've called Hyderabad home, much has changed in the city's geography. And the altered face of this city seems to reflect the shift in my relationship with it. For years together, Hyderabad was primarily about people and the campus. Abruptly the city shifted. Or people shifted. Or time shifted. Or something shifted and I was suddenly a stranger. Where I would make up to six visits a year, I have made only two in the last three and I wouldn't have had the courage unless I could go to Road No 10. Or if there wasn't always a window ledge to perch on in a pokey little office at the back of the English Department — or a place at a table in Mehdipatnam.

This visit I have wondered if I delude myself by calling it home. The rickshaw wallahs aren't as friendly (or honest!) as they used to be and the malls are everywhere, replacing dilapidated petrol pumps and small little buildings, clogging up Road No 1. Coffee house chains have sprouted through old rambling bungalows on winding roads in Jubilee Hills. My favourite drive through the city — from the University, through Hi-Tech City, and then finally down to KBR Park — is now lost in a never ending maze of huge and ugly apartment blocks and office buildings.

But somehow, somewhere I've discovered that I love Hyderabad differently now because I have known what it is to be a stranger here. I've known the old city with cheeky young men driving me around in their rickshaws, showing me its ashurkhanas and khilwats. I've known what it is to stand on the other side of the desk at my alma mater, awestruck at the affection of my betters. I've known what it is to finally let go, picking a rather late way back to Bombay. Today, I have an independent paramour in the romance that wafts through every hot breeze and in the crisp winter night air.

Today, thankfully, Hyderabad is still home.

Somewhat Everyday

It's been nearly four months since the fire and almost as long for a new post on this blog. But both my silence and the wait to open the store are over today. As of 10:30 a.m this morning, we gently opened the doors of the store and waited for everyone to come back. After one completely false start, I wasn't sure what to expect today. But by the time I left, I'm so glad that I put in what I did into the opening. For every messed-up rack, and I assure you every single one save the Eastern religion one was, there were some very happy customers who'd really missed being in the store. I've never seen strangers so happy to see me. A number of them treat the store like it's a library but you know what, I don't think I mind any more.

Now that the day is done, I still don't know if I hate or I love the shop-floor buzz but I do know that over the last few weeks and especially today, it has somewhat been every day. And so, to the about-to-be-published author, the graphic novel-loving owners of a DVD company, the lady whose name I cannot remember, the friend who dropped in to buy a book once I was gone, and the French gentleman who always inquires after Beckett - thank you for making my day. Thank you for making me proud of me. My special thanks to the crazy lady who clutched my arm and said "You're open today - all relax now."

Regular-ish programming continues after a brief and rather promising soujourn to back to my Hyderabad roots. See you then.

In Search of Everyday

Now that Diwali's completely done, its festivities have become even more conspicuous by their absence. For the first time in many years, I didn't anticipate or prepare for Diwali. For the first time in adult memory, I didn't go to meet my relatives on New Year's Day with the customary boredom and dread weighing me down. In fact, this year, I was quite glad to see them. Indeed, it has been *that* strange a Diwali. This is primarily, I think, because the aftermath of a major fire at the workplace tends to make everyday a somewhat unreal experience. It utterly suspends belief in the daily.

For a month now, everything has seemed alien and somehow... distant. Buried in the soot, this is someone else's store and not the beloved space I've come to see as an integral part of everyday. This is a hot and dark space, reeking of smoke, ringing with the discordance of at least twenty different phones unmindfully blaring their own tunes. These are someone else's stocks that we work so hard to clean and sort. This is someone else's soot that we diligently scrub off from under our fingernails in the camaraderie of utter exhaustion. The dusty mall is unrecognisable. A once-bright corridor, now lined with black walls, opens out into a patch of dank, alleyway light. The children's play area just ahead is a garish, grotesque fantasy wrapped in red and blue plastic.

It is a weird kind of buffering, this sense of unbelonging.

Every evening, I leave the mall, walking at least fifteen minutes in search of a rickshaw. Ordinarily, I would have tripped over several right outside. Once I was on the way home, I would have caught up with a friend or with pending sms-es. I would perhaps have made plans for dinner. These days I sit silently, trying to reconcile my day. My head is curiously empty of the shop-floor buzz that I cannot decide if I love or I hate. I browse emails and cursorily make a few read — I have surprisingly few that demand any of my attention. There is nothing to look forward to at work, only an inescapable sense of violation. I actually miss that arsehole customer who publicly swore at me because I wouldn't let him copy poems from a book. My work phone doesn't ring with the madness of everyday. And that's when I finally understand that that is what I miss the most and what has changed the most — everyday.

It is easier, by far, to articulate this in the clear space of an empty store. There is more that I would say if I could but for now this will suffice. My book section children have been sent off to other locations while some others are still here. For me, I wait for instructions of which way forward. Things will be normal again, I know. The mall maintenance people work around the clock to ensure that they are as soon as possible. Until then, we will continue making ready.

New Beginnings

I must admit, I'm pretty thrilled about today. It just might have slipped by without so much as a whimper, quite like last year, but I suppose not especially since I'm quite so pleased with myself. Thus, despite not wanting to say anything, it is with a rather surprised pleasure that E Vestigio turns three today. :-)

I could tell you about what a wonderful journey it's been and how much I've learned and grown. Which I have and made some wonderful friends too. Truth be told, I know that I'm still here because of a few of you. You know who you are so I'll suffice to say just that much only. And I must say, I *think* that my relationship with this blog isn't ambivalent anymore. But that's not what I wanted to say. No, no, not at all.

I wanted to tell you about E Vestigio — Photography from Bombay, India instead.

Starting a photo blog is when you realize just how how few really great photos you end up taking. Despite the zillions of photos that I have taken over the past few years, I see now just how many of them are a learning experience and how far I still have to go. I've been photo-blogging for close to two weeks and lamentably, unlike this one, the photo blog is one space at least that I update everyday. Some of those pictures you may have seen over the course of the last few years but some, they're brand-new!

Also, in the absence of a website of mine own and the limited posting capabilities of both Aminus3 and Flickr, I've started posting albums to Picasa Web albums. As you can see, I've finally stopped collecting! These are a chronicle of themselves, of things I thought pretty along the journey but not always of the journey. They may not all be "good photographs" but I hope you like them anyway.

*****

I posted one of these my first year and fell quite in love with them. This one's a lovely randomness of the events of the past near-year.

Of Sore Throats and Certainty

Along with the sickening realization that summer is finally bloody here, I have just discovered that I have taken over two thousand photographs in the past eighteen months. How many of those have seen the light of this blog or Flickr? I am, admittedly, more than a little disappointed in myself that I have begun to collect photographs to "do" the way I collect posts to "write". And if I go to Goa at the end of this month, I just might end up collecting photos and posts of another trip before I finish the Madras posts or, bloody hell, before I finish the Goa pictures from October last year!

Since I'm stuck awake because of a sore throat and the oppressive Madras heat (yes, yes, I'm back here!) that won't quit, I'm going to content myself with this small post and this, if I may say so myself, lovely photograph of a tree outside the guest house balcony. I took this while waiting for this kooky friend to show up. I've finally made one of those in Madras. She's taken me around a lot, stood up for me and all Gujjus in the face of ridicule, and been one of the girls. It's been much better this time indeed. I'm still not at ease but it's been okay... really.

~~~~

I wonder if the guilt trip would work but I suppose there's no harm in trying, no? If I neatly make a list of all pending photo albums, will I finally start "doing" the photos? I wonder. Here goes nothing then.

1. Kerala, August 2006
2. Hyderabad, Dehradun, and Pushkar, January 2007
3. Bombay, October 2007 - March 2008
   
4. Goa, October 2007
5. Pune, December 2007
6. Nashik, March 2008
7. Madras, April 2008
   

That's it - I was wrong. There was harm in trying — my procrastination is even worse listed down. Kill me now and be over and done with it. Really. I mean that.

Madras... musings?

I wouldn't have posted this at all if I hadn't received the most beautiful e-mail a few evenings ago. A dear friend described, in aching and evocative simplicity, how she missed the dusk in Bombay. She spoke of the dusk in London where she has lived for about six years now. Describing the alienating and bleak twilight, she wrote that I would understand only once I'd experienced it.

But I did quite understand what she meant anyway.

I spent a month in Madras where the dusk was a blur outside an unfamiliar window, shaded in brown and grey, murmuring in a language that I did not understand... the streets were a darkness that seemed to roar and confuse me. The air was indifferent, the shadows hostile almost; the birds silent in their appraisal of me... the silence in the evenings an endless continuation of white mornings.

But I am digressing… I am disguising resentment in melancholy.

Madras was, by no stretch of the imagination, easy. If you asked me if I liked the city, I do not think I could give you an answer. Of course I met a few really nice people and had some good times with them. Yes, I went to a lot of concerts and drank with some very nice colleagues. I went shopping with some others, I ate out some, bought some great books, music, and clothes. I did a lot of these things on company money and time. I even went to Pondicherry for a few hours. But through it all, I do not think I ever felt at ease in Madras.

Forgive the cryptic abruptness but since I refrained from imposing on your kindness and posting a high-pitched, frenzied whine through all the days that I was in Madras, I'm just going to continue to refrain, yes?

I've been back ten days and every time I'm asked how Madras was, I smile and say "Good fun!" but I know inside that it wasn't all good fun. I wonder if it was simply me over-reacting as I am so wont to do especially since the elder sibling seemed to find my trials and tribulations vastly amusing. Perhaps, retrospect will show me the difference. Until then, I'm just going to get on with it and post about the sea and silence, about the music and photos, about the books and customers.

Back...

... in Bombay only this evening.

One month and five days.

Exhausted. Relieved.

Thoughtful. Recovering.

Regular programming continues soon. Thought you'd like to know.

That time of Life

Right then, my dears, I'm going back to work.

After seven months, to the day actually, of living a fuller life, I'm finally re-joining the ranks of the "gainfully employed". And totally unsurprisingly, the only person who's completely excited about this is my father. The poor man's had visions of his only daughter going down the idle poor road, you see. Once every month since I've been on a break, my father's asked me gently, but very diligently, what my plans were. No words like work or employment or job, don't you know. Dad is nothing if not sensitive and supportive. And yet every month, I'd smile beatifically at him and say "I haven't the faintest clue!" At one point I think he wondered if I ever planned on getting back to work.

The elder sibling says he will appreciate not having me underfoot all day with my "whining" and being a drain on all his resources. But personally, I think he'll miss me because not only does he utterly adore my company, he also won't have a peon anymore! The mother will generally miss me a little but the one person who's most certainly not going to miss me is M, who works in my home. I won't be dragging the sofas and chairs all over the place and enlisting her help to dust all the books for at least a month now.

To say that I am excited about the new job is a whole new acme of understatement. I finally have a job that I want, one that I am not embarrassed about, bordering on being ashamed of. I won't mumble while telling people about being intimately involved with running a bookstore, one of my very favourites places. I'll finally be realizing at least a part of my long-cherished publishing dream. So what if the execution won't be from within but from without? But I must admit, as hugely thrilling as being a book merchandiser is, I am more than a little sad about losing this break, this buttery, feathery independence. You see, there are few things as deeply saddening as not being able to ride into town on a whim for a beer at Mondy's. No, no, please don't state the obvious. The wonder of it is being able to do this at 3 p.m on a Wednesday when every other person you know, except the ex-reviewer, is working AND swearing at you when you call to say hello.

And you would have thought that my last two weeks would have been even more molasses-y. Time would have passed even more deliciously. I would have posted more, seen more of Bombay, drunk more beer, watched most of the 120 GB of films I brought back from Bangalore. Life has a way, I tell you. Like this cat outside the Standard Chartered Bank Building in Fort, I should have been sunning myself in the unnatural cold Bombay's been experiencing. Instead, I was hunched over my keyboard frantically finishing a last-minute freelance project. Life just has a bloody way that just bloody tears it!

In all the hunching, the Kala Ghoda Festival came and is almost gone. It seems to have been quite an experience, being run as an arts, music, film, literature, and children's festival this year. And I've missed most of it. All's not lost yet because in some rather excellent news, the ex-reviewer is performing at the Kala Ghoda Music Festival. I was at the festival this afternoon, looking through the schedule next to the main stage for his name. And even though I knew that I'd find it, I do not think I can describe the overwhelming pride at actually seeing his name on that large, black schedule.

The ex-reviewer's solo act is called Dischordian and will be playing between 12:30 and 1:30 p.m on Sunday the 10th of February at the Kala Ghoda Amphitheater. Come and watch him. I am not just biased but he really is a wonderful, wonderful musician who's experimenting with a new kind of sound, especially in our musically retarded and time-warped country. I can pretty much guarantee that you'll enjoy yourself.

Say a little...

... wish that the best works out for me tomorrow, won't you? I'm not a believer but if you are, a prayer is very welcome too!

I'm off in less than six hours to another city for the day. For an interview, you see. I've barely been looking for a job and I'm quite astonished that this lead has gone so far, so quickly, and so seemingly neatly. It's unbelievable actually, especially since anything and everything was so difficult to get done all of last year. And honestly, I cannot describe just how enthralled I am with this opportunity and how much I am looking forward to getting the job. In fact, in all excitement and trepidation, from pattering peacefully like a penguin, I have been jumping around like a crazed cat. The poor ex-reviewer went mad trying to get me to sit still on the bike. This is certainly to say nothing of the poor man going cross-eyed simply trying to talk to me this evening!

And now, as you can see, I am completely unable to sleep. But I should get to bed... not a good idea to tire myself out, no? I need to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning, if you will forgive the god-awful cliché. I'm all packed, notes to wow the potential employers and a day's travel essentials in place. Details when I'm back, of course — with good news hopefully . *deep breath* Now to sleep.

One last thing in case you're interested. The article's still not done. No surprises there I know, but I did discover this nice one about writing for a grant though. B, you might be interested. :-)

Troubling Tedium

It's been one of those days. More accurately, it's been a few of those days.

Despite all the deadlines writhing around me, I have been completely unable to concentrate. If I've been at the computer for six hours during each of the past two days, at least four-and-three-quarter of those have been spent browsing pages that have nothing to do with notions of sociability and what they mean in a technologised world. Nothing whatsoever, I assure you. And yes, I should have been done with this essay at least four days ago.

I suspect I'm just dragging my feet because I haven't written something remotely academic in nearly five years. To make me an even greater (procrastinating) wreck, in response to a draft, the ex-professor said, and I quote: "Good work on the outline. I look forward to the essay." This in itself is not a big deal, you see. But in all the years he's known and taught me, it's most complimentary thing he's ever said to me — I'm officially ready to weep in terror now.

And that non-existent God knows, I've tried hard to concentrate. Yesterday I even clanged around the house, attempting to drum up some enthusiasm or even interest for the writing and research. Not a good idea because predictably, the clatter engendered no great spurt of intellectual brilliance. Instead, I got comfortable in bed and finished The Encantadas or Enchanted Isles and The Firework-Maker's Daughter AND I got started on The Book of Imaginary Beings. Groan...

What's that? Yes, of course I know a day spent in such absorbing company is never a waste. But I've got to get that essay done. It is essential, don't you know, to the health of one of those academic begging bowl packages. And still, I'm just being aimless, pointedly ignoring the bloody thing! These are times when I wonder if I should actually get back to academia. No matter that the course is mostly professional in nature, it will still involve paper-writing, research, and all the things that are currently wrapping me in endless ennui...

Today, I've come back to my computer and stared at blankly it for what seemed like an age and hence proceeded to get thoroughly depressed. To cheer myself up a little, I went trawling through my daily reads. In more than one place I found some incredible poetry or stories about poetry. And so, with sickening alacrity, I abandoned the one paper I'd managed to open and went about some poem sampling. I just know it — this essay is never going to get done!!

You must check out this wonderful Philip Larkin poem — which cut too close to home right now. One day, you should also remind me to tell you about the time I bought the hardcover edition of the Collected Philip Larkin from the British Library in Hyderabad for a paltry 200 rupees. It was whacked from me by another beloved ex-professor who has appropriated it so completely that she even claims to have inscribed it, to herself from me!

In those guilt-ridden hours, I also found this lovely one by Robert Frost — and being so completely taken by the brilliance of it, I spent another hour looking for his company. I'll leave you though with this one by Mary Kinzie — it's something that loosened the guilt with a wintery, imperceptible "aaah".


The Close Path

What have I trained for what
have the years of
whatever I did
during them
made me
ready to take on
if the tears are to
stream coldly
like long streaks
of rain down the light
brick of the storehouse
and I become
afraid to look
lest the pain
travel
with my breathing
its path
near enough
to disappear
down