Sigh...

This time I've really done it, haven't I? *deep sigh*

One month. One whole month without a single syllable, or an unbroken word, or any whisper of a post. The misery of the situation is that, after my last silence, I worked on four posts. All of which are in varying degrees of completion and every one something I feel strongly about. And yet, there they remain. Unfinished. *deeper sigh*

The past month's been wretched. In 30 working days, I've claimed "late-sitting" commuting expenses for 20 of them. For the ten days I managed to get away early (read 20:00), I've either had a visiting friend to entertain, important visits to make, or other work to catch up with.

Not a hope of weekends either. If prolonged sleep deprivation happens, I turn into an ill-tempered, snarling banshee. Or alternatively, in the other extreme, a zombie. And somehow, all my work never gets over in merely a few hours. Proved amply by my tailor actually taking a full five minutes to recognise me this Saturday past.

Yet Saturday also convinced me that life is, indeed, trundling back to normal. I bought a pair of gorgeous sandals and loads of film for a trip to Coorg and Bangalore next week. I watched The Da Vinci Code - and rued not leching like a woman crazed at Hugh Jackman in X3: The Final Stand.

I stuffed myself at Crystal, near Wilson College on Marine Drive. There is no place in Punjab that makes better rajma and kheer than this rundown, chaotic little place where everyone is equal and no one knows what "standing in line" means! I am willing to bet on it. I also held a camera after what is certainly too long, the fruit of which you see here.

This is Marine Drive, outside the NCPA Towers. It wasn't quite sunset but a good frame nonetheless, I believe.

My favourite part of Saturday has to be the friend who insisted on mollycoddling me all day - only because he wanted me to stop being quiet. Apparently, my being less than voluble is a problem and "weird." :-)

I finished up the day reading a book that began:

It can hardly be a coincidence that no language on earth has ever produced the expression "As pretty as an airport."

An extraordinary day by the past month and a half. I can only live in the hope of it remaining so.

Dusk, in the shadows

The scene is set in the mid-late evening, in a shadowed room. As one enters, a large teak wardrobe dominates the left corner and ancient, faded posters of movies and holidays spray the white-washed walls with a nostalgia that doesn't quite fit. That's all, though. No other signs of residence - except on the far right.

An almost childish bed stakes its claim under the large, bay windows. On the white sheets is a lap desk - the kind that the family accountant used while calculating the clan's checks and balances for fifty years. Undulating movements on the bed produce feet from under the desk while a book is laid above, accompanied by the gentle rasp of a fountain pen.

I don't write as much - or as well - as I'd like to and I don't know why. Nor do I have one defensible reason. I find myself willing words to come, and continue staring at the page. Like now. Staring... blank... empty...

The commute from experience to expression is like a jet plane on some days and a toy train on others. But the thrill of pushing and pulling a sentence into shape never changes. The thrill of writing something something I think is terribly witty. And does it really matter if anyone else thinks so... or not?

There is a special pleasure in articulating something out loud. And on paper, it has such a tangible, physical shape. But the words are disquieted... wandering... hesitant. I long to speak the words closest to me... until the swell overwhelms all things... until they cease to be and a new time-space unfolds.

It won't happen. Failing to speak of that which is raw is my greatest shortcoming. To expose and examine the sores behind wet bandages. How long will I apologize? Be someone I'm not? I run... to hide behind different words that fall just short of meaning. Sometimes, they escape in a fugitive flash, only to remain unsaid.

Someday, I'll know the words. That's when I'll write. To speak. To listen. To share. To seek. To meet new-ness. To understand yesterday. To savour today. To anticipate tomorrow. To meet myself. To be the one I wa....

"Are you coming then?"

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know yet... the coffee shop or the pub. Depends. Are you coming?"

The pen sighs, sliding back into darkness, its journey now ended. The book is tucked under a wayward pillow as feet are withdrawn from under the lap desk and put into sandals on the floor. A click sounds in the isolation of the room. In five minutes, you wouldn't have known anyone had been there.

Clouded!

I have half a mind to sit quietly in one corner. It's been well over a week, the wonderful weather in Bombay has vanished faster than beer on a hot afternoon and this post is now entirely irrelevant. I mean, there's really no point now in going on about how the weather was so perfect or that this time, the rain, light as it was, didn't bring slushy roads and maddening traffic jams in its wake.

No point either in waxing on about the rain also bringing overcast weather - the sort where you want to curl up under a blanket. With either a pizza, or a cup of tinned tomato soup, or a bowl of moong ka dal and rice. (I have funny rainy day comfort foods - what can I say?) One of those days when you put on some Miles and leaf your way through a book all day. In the evening, you catch up with friends, clean and roll their weed, while drinking gently into that good night.

I always mean to post every three or four days and if it isn't a tyrannical reviewer or my own sloth that prevents it, there's something else that requires my attention exactly then. And once it's done, my point and the post are usually immaterial. And that, my dears, is the fate of most posts in the Drafts folder.

But perhaps this once, both me and the post shall make an exception because of the overcast weather which brought such wonderful lighting for photography, even in the middle of the day when light is usually harsh. At the risk of stupendous immodesty, I don't believe I've ever shot as well as these and only on a few other occasions, enjoyed myself that much!

I was on my way to town to collect my transcripts, return books to the library, and watch a film perhaps. I do not wish to make the beauty of the day trite, ergo, I am going to let these images speak in their own voice. A couple of things though. These images are in chronological order and none of them has been touched up for the colours or improved in composition - among the reasons I am so proud of them. :-)











I can only be grateful that A was kind enough to let me monopolise his camera (since I had been stupid enough to forget mine) and patiently pull over wherever I asked - even if we were in the middle of the Western Express Highway, doing 70 kmph! The mercies, I tell you, of being driven by a fellow photographer. :-)

There are, of course, some more here.

To be Counted

I wasn't sure if I'd make this post.

When Ash first posted about it, I thought I'd participate in the Blank Noise Project blogathon. Six days later, there was a test to get familiar with, bugs to fix and close in the module I am working on, an SOP to finish. "There'll be other voices giving this better articulation than I can ever dream of. I can read if not write, right?" I reasoned with the twinge of regret early this morning.

My rickshaw ride to work this morning changed that. Posting this is quite bloody important to me now.

Eleven a.m and I asked a rickshaw driver if he'd go to Powai. He agreed and I started into the rickshaw. Casually he leaned back, with his elbow extending out abnormally, to put the meter down, ensuring that he would brush my breasts while doing so. Having had this happen before, I didn't get into the rickshaw but instead completely lost it. I asked him what he was trying to do.

"Nothing, Madam. I was only putting the meter down." Right. The pitch of my voice began to rise as I called him a liar and launched into a rant, and the security guards of my building came closer to see what the noise was. The rickshaw driver looked distinctly cornered and started muttering that I was misunderstanding him. I turned around, disgusted. And violated.

This is only one of many times. How many times has some man I've not had the courage to look in the eye pressed an erection against me in a crowd or a bus? How many times has some old pervert tried to stroke the side of my breast in the two or three inches between the window and the seat of a bus? Or "bumped" into me at a train station or crowded lifestyle store?

Or shall I recount the time I was eight years old, in grade three and getting out of my classroom? Some guy, whose face I can't even remember, stepped in my path and grabbed my vagina through my uniform. I stumbled, fell, and started crying. He was gone before anyone else could see him. A teacher passing by heard me, came to help and made sure I got home. I did not know then why I felt so terrified. But I do now.

Perhaps I could tell you about the time a female friend and I were going to her house for tuitions. We could not have been more than ten or eleven years old. This young man, not more than eighteen, came up to us and asked for directions, holding a piece of paper and his erect penis in his hand. Or perhaps the middle-aged men, sitting in cars with the windows rolled down outside school and masturbating?

Do you know - this is the first time I've ever spoken about these things publicly. My family, not even my brother, still does not know they've happened to me.

When do I stop letting people do this to me? When do I stop being a victim? Every claim I've made to independence, dignity, and other "noble ideals" is worth nothing if I don't live it. I've just realised that I am not as empancipated as I've told myself I am. Time to change that, I think. Time to turn around and slap the guy in the next rick who, at a red light, thinks he can make all the comments he wants, watching me smoke. This post is the first step forward.

I have, for a long time, thought that what this country needs more than anything else is a large-scale sense of social awareness. It is not enough for, or the sole responsibilty of, too few people to say and do something about the abuse and injustice against too many, especially women - of all castes, creeds, and social strata - in India.

All too easy to complain about the state of this country. When do you start making a difference? It doesn't have to be something very big. Something as simple as a post on your blog will do. You live here. Stand up and be counted.

I intend to be.

The Blank Noise Project Blogathon 2006

Indian Railways v/s Extempore

Indian Railways does not wish me to take photographs of my journey or, for that matter, even have a decent one. Five years and too many trips have worn this statement into the sleepers and a heartbreaking, empirical truth. I am going to, however, leave aside the whining about my co-passengers and perorate on the "photographys" instead.

Photography is difficult usually, but at an average speed of 60 kmph, I think it's a kiss from impossible - especially if you are a rookie. By the time you've composed your frame and adjusted the light settings, the subject is so long gone that you wonder if you dreamed it.

Should you have, by some act of God and foresight, managed to get your shot in focus, framed and adjusted, it's a certainty that you are going to be fighting off the compartment door, which has nothing - I repeat, NOTHING - to hold it in place. So while you may have a perfect shot, you'll also be dead. Like while I was taking this shot, the door came swinging shut, blithe as you please.

There I was - holding onto the railing with one hand and my camera with the other, praying for dear life. A kindly old gent, on his way back from the bathroom, grabbed hold of me and held the door open. He had disturbing, ickily wet hands but I don't think I'm in a postition to complain, yes? :-)

Few things match the unmitigated championship of the tap on my shoulder mid-frame from the extra-loud and hearty man who asks if I am taking photographys. No, but I'll let you into the secret - am scuba diving; please don't tell the fish.

He well could have ruined this shot. Two farmers/labourers sitting down to what could be either a late lunch or just a moment's reprieve from the unforgiving sun, relentless humidity and back-breaking field work.

As with every train journey I take, it never fails to astonish me what a beautiful country we live in. And this has been my reaction for as long as I can remember. Sheer joy physically bubbles inwardly and makes me want to break into an altogether off-key and solely un-listenable-to rendition of "The Sound Of Music."

Landscape-wise, passing through Andhra Pradesh is so different from my ride through Kerala a few years ago. Kerala is like a watery, green explosion. Everywhere you look, there's a verdance so lush and plentiful. And yes, numberless bridges over lakes, ponds and the backwaters to cross. It also has what I think of as a darksome energy - something roiling, hiding in that luxuriance. I am not sure if it is negative or not, but exist it does.

Andhra Pradesh is all rock, plain, and undulating field. It is all predominant yellows and browns with afterthought green and does make for difficult photography. Andhra Pradesh has a hardier landscape - one that is unforgiving and severe. There seems to me a transparency I do not associate with Kerala. This is not a comment on the people, you understand, as much as the "physical environs" of these states. I am not sure if this even makes sense.

I've not been to very many places in India, but in my meagre travels, the unmitigated beauty of terrain like the image below always, quite simply and tritely, takes my breath away. No matter what state it is.

It also makes me want to kick myself for not being a travel writer or doing something that pays me to travel. Because at this point, I can't think of anything else I'd rather do with my life. Wouldn't you too?

Since I was at the train door afternoon onward, the chances of my getting a sunset shot were decent, I'd say. And indubitably, as the wind turned and the sun began to sink, the crazy compartment door or the annoying co-passengers didn't matter. There was just me and my frame in a moment that can only be described as delicious. I hope you like this. :-)

Postscript: Should you want to see some more of the train ride, here you go.

I am back - again!

And right ashamed I am too, seeing how I have whimpered into silence. I've been meaning to give this post a wee bit of time but a wicked, wicked reviewer (yes my dear, this means you!) and my own prodigious sloth have contrived to delay this post. But no more, yes?

Before all else about Hyderabad, I should like it to be noted that on neither of my train rides were there encounters of the bizarre kind with my tribe. Nope, non, de nada! No Gujarati people - men, women, or children - giving me any grief about being a disgrace to the name Gujarati.

However, both experiences leave me with the lurking suspicion that the source of my trauma may just have shifted from my community to the Telugu. But I am going to hold the jury out on that one - just until my next trip.

Hyderabad was... as I remembered it in the winter. Dry and swinging desperately from hazy, searing days to crisp, frozen nights. The main roads stretching out into curves, trees and the distinct realization that Hyderabad was, for the first time in five years, a distant home. I don't know if it was something taken away, or something I've had to leave behind or mayhap... a bit of both.

But this trip was about more - so much more.

It was about...
... copious quantities of beef biryani, bangles, and girlie conversations.
... stupefying encounters in the University Admin block and the Department of English.
... indulgent smiles at the Charminar and the unmitigated beauty of the University campus.
... as the elder sibling liked to tell me, "becoming an adult" and my unbearable lightness of being.
... and lastly but most importantly, an astonishing four rolls of film!

As always, many stories to tell and even more post-promises to keep. See you at my next, yes? :-)

Sub: Leave of Absence

Dear Reader,

I would like to request leave of absence for a week - from the 4th of February till the 12th of February 2006. I know I promised you there would be no more dereliction of duty (and interest) but circumstances conspire to make me journey to Hyderabad.

My Masters' application package needs documents which can only be provided by the Department of English, University of Hyderabad. These, of course, could be procured in absentia but being the government institution that the university is, I must personally ensure that my application does not need to fear the Ides of March.

I also have some other matters that require my urgent attention. I must admit that I am apprehensive about this trip. And yet hopeful of resolving everything and returning with a lighter sense of being than the past few months. Please hope things work out.

In conclusion, I promise to come back in one piece, without falling into the lake on campus at sunset, trying to get a good angle. Or get myself killed in the Old City, photographing the Charminar or Laad Bazaar. With your permission, I will not, at this moment, explain what these places are. I should like those images to speak for themselves and request your patience. I also promise to miss you with every mouthful of biryani.

Thank you for approving my leave,

Extempore

Of Drying Fish

Among the million things I did last month was to "show" the friend of a very dear friend, Bombay. Her name is Holly: a chirpy-warm person and great fun to hang out with - willing to be dragged up and down, checking stuff out! She's also a Fulbright scholar, in India for the first time and was working at the Met. I'd give an eye-teeth to do that - sigh!

We met up in Bandra and after a very leisurely and enjoyable lunch at Lemon Grass, the Carter Road promenade it was, to get drenched in the indolent, late afternoon sun. Mea culpa, I must admit. We didn't go there simply because the promenade is gorgeous. Ever since the last time I had seen the bombil, or Bombay Duck, drying at the koliwada at the northern end of Carter Road, my shutter-button-happy finger had been dying to go back.

You see, in Bombay, I've lived all my life by the sea. Well, most of all my life. Our new home is the only one I've not looked out onto endless expanse of ocean from at least one of the windows. I've grown up with the smell of bombil drying, rising up from the koliwada, offending the nostrils. Only this stench, beside the smell of burning rubber at Kalyan station at four in the morning, will get me smiling like one crazed because my city, my home, approaches.

Wondering what a koliwada is? Allow me. The original inhabitants of Bombay are the kolis, a community of deep-sea fishermen and a koliwada is their settlement along the shore. Mumbai, the official name of Bombay, originates from Mumbadevi, the patron goddess of the kolis, enshrined to this day in Dongri. A number of well-known areas also owe their names to the original koli versions. For example, Kolbhat is what we know and love as Colaba. :-)

A koliwada is usually a bustling and colourful place, replete with the sounds, smells and business of the sea. Bombay used to have six "great koliwadas" of which, none survive in their erstwhile glory. The growth and spread of urbania has pushed the kolis into increasingly smaller spaces, now seen only at places like Backbay Reclamation, Mahim, Bandra, Khar, Bassien and Madh Island. If it wasn't for a number of landmark Supreme Court rulings protecting the fishermen's rights in the 1960s, they'd have nowhere to call home.

When you first approach the Bandra koliwada, rack upon rack of drying bombil assault the nose. But once you've gotten past that, you begin to see how beautiful the red-white fish look against the flush of the retreating sun. You have to appreciate the effort going into cleaning and putting the fish out to dry because that's one fish that smells up a storm. You also had to admire the efficient, disciplined way in which the racks are set up and the various dried fish sorted for sale and export.



Note: I am firmly of the opinion that where there are fish to be had, there you will find a feast of crows. These, I believe, were waiting to swoop in for the kill once the fisherwomen had moved away. I fully accept that this may be the hypothesis of a suspicious mind.



A little further down were the aforementioned fisherwomen, cleaning out shrimp. I moved closer to capture them going about their business with a stunning economy of movement. When they noticed me, the usual questions about which newspaper/magazine I worked for and the self-conscious smiles came but their hands didn't stop - not for a second.

So there I was, composing my shot when I caught a couple of sentences in Gujarati - and nearly dropped my camera. To my utter shock, these women were not kolis but my brethren from Gujarat. Now, it's not that Gujarat doesn't have its indigenous community of fishermen but drying fish in Bandra, these ladies are a long way from "home." I switched to my broken Gujarati and we were off!

A few families from their village had apparently moved to Bombay a couple of generations ago - between 35-40 years ago - from Kuchchh. They had come to the city of dreams to realise their own. Being outsiders in a community so far removed from their own cannot have been easy and indeed, it didn't seem to be because they were quite unwilling to talk about it. And they still spoke of Gujarat as their gaam. The word is translated as village but I do believe home would be far more accurate. And yet, Bombay is still home. Strange as it is, I understand that.

After a long conversation, they told me I could take more photos if I wished. One them even posed for me! She had the loveliest smile - tired but warm as the noonday sun. Unfortunately, the light on that one didn't do her justice thus I will not post it. However, in the photo below she's the lady in the brown saree, half-obscured by the tray of cascading shrimp.



This last photo? Well, Holly and I walked down from the dying yard to the rocks on the beach - I use the word loosely, I should like you to know. I turned around to see, in the center of all the drying rack, this crow perched on a pole, the king of all he surveyed. I quite liked it. I hope you do too.

And about the New Year

I have not been lazy. Nor have I given up blogging. I swear. Solemnly. I have been sitting here, in front of my computer, contemplating my nails. Torn between posting on the end of the year, simply carrying on with one of the few posts I've been mulling over, or finally, catching my breath a bit.

For all my quiet - oh alright, not-so-quiet, then - murmurs of disgruntlement about a lack of friends and things to do, the past five weeks (or so) have been replete with exactly these. And my cup ran over and spilled down the front of my life, I think. All of a sudden, I've had too much to do and Christ, after that first fitting, I think my tailor's given up hope of seeing me again!

Everyone, and I mean everyone, was down from wherever in world (and India) they are. As a result, I have taken more long lunches at work, skipped work by 19:00 sharp, and gone to Bandra more times in the past month than in the past two years! I must admit to being a little bewildered because despite the complaining, I have gotten used to being on my own - with fewer than a few people around.

I have gotten used to a drink, dinner or a movie being events occuring when the moon is aligned with something that I can't quite identify. My multi-tasking skills aren't what they used to be, I fear, because I am now, officially, exhausted. Not to say that I minded the rushing about but I seem unable to keep pace. Grown soft in the teeth, I was told by an insolent young pup!

These five weeks have to be the best for what seems a very, very long time. I met some very old and dear friends - put up with tantrums, threw some of my own and knew that everything was definitely okay. I finally put a face and physical personality to a friend, and one of the greatest poets I'll ever read, in an afternoon of chocolate sepia conversations. I gloried in peculiar, unexpected conversations at Crossword and leisurely lunches over photography, sunsets and nostalgia.

My camera and I saw one of my closest friends get married and are now secure in the fact that we have ammunition forever! My one profound observation: there are few things as joyous and heartwarming as watching two people, who so evidently want to be together, getting married. And oh? Get off, all those thinking "Ah yes, prime example of a sentimental fool!" :-)

I also made some friends I hope to see a lot more of. I know this is long overdue but I am not going to talk about it now because I do believe these encounters deserve their own post. And I do promise not to forget about this post, the way I have other post-promises I've made.

There is one that deserves special mention. One for whom I waited two years to come back from the US. My best friend; a man who, despite his impatience, is the most wonderful man. The past couple of years have been life-altering for the both of us and before he arrived, I wondered what being around each other again would be like.

All my speculation could not have done this justice. These threads were the same but different... steadying, mature and stronger than ever. I feel rested, certainly recharged enough to take on the next few months. It's going to be a very long two years if I do not do what I must in October.

On a completely different note, the only thing that has not taken a backseat is photography. The photograph below is of a dear friend, patient ear, and indulgent partner in photographic adventures, A, against a sunset at Marine Drive. He had just taken his shot and was coming back when I took this one. It is, indubitably, one of my absolute favourites! Ever.