The world through my mind's eye

Flamingo Laundry

2011-12-29T19:22:00.000+06:00

Grey goats spilling from a truck and hopping around like popping mustard seeds in oil.. A shop named Flamingo laundry, swathed in a dim blue light that makes the people walking around look like fish in an aquarium.. The low-throated purr of autorickshaws interspersed with the bells of the ice-cream seller.. The smell of Anjalai drawing the morning kolam ( the smell of water sprinkled on mud, like the onset of rain ).. The humid darkness at 3am dispelled by a swinging avocado shaped bulb.. The ferocious cyclone that brushes past my face to reach out and pluck a mango leaf from the sky and fling it to the ground..

My city, there's a lot to like in you.

Green Bubbles

2011-12-22T23:15:00.000+06:00

Long long ago, a tiny bit of heaven broke off and fell on Earth. It had lakes that spangled with sunshine , mountains that shimmered with purple leaves and the only people who added maple syrup to everything. It now goes by the name of Canada.

-------------------------

All around me, there are dancing little cobwebs formed by sunshine that managed to pierce through the thick canopy above. I note again for the umpteenth time that the trees here are really, really tall. I look above to see green circles rising conically to the sky. I feel safe, far away from concrete troubles in the land of tall trees, humming birds and a singing sun.

-----------------------

'Look!', K's grand-aunt points to the distance beyond a babbling brook. We all freeze in a moment of awe. Standing there, enclosed in a mushy swamp of bright blueberries, is a wild moose. He stands looking at us, with the doleful eyes of a curious cow. His ears and horns look so soft, as if someone gave him a pair of Christmas party horns to wear. We tread carefully away, not wanting to distract him by taking pictures. On the way back I make a serious decision that if I ever had a pet moose I would call him Moussaka.

-------------------------

- Transcribed, scribbled notes from Nova Scotia, Canada.

Yellow Miracles

2011-11-21T01:37:00.003+06:00

A damp, foggy, grey day is nothing unusual for London in late November. Perched atop the hill at Greenwich, I survey the sun that struggles to pierce through the grey clouds with the useless bravery of a dog that barks at passersby through the iron bars of a tall gate. Far away in the horizon, I can see just the tips of the skyscrapers that line Canary Wharf, swathed in mist, as if those buildings belong to their own parallel universe. Suddenly, the air lightens up as sunshine floods the hill, descending as a miracle hand that sweeps open a curtain to reveal the Thames, the ships that line the harbour and the spires of tall churches. Everyone around me gives an audible sigh of joy and putters around with renewed energy. Nowhere else have I seen sunshine being almost revered as a religion. I join in the prayer.

Nothing like a good storm

2011-08-24T23:09:00.009+06:00

Of all possible names one could give a petrol bunk, the one I passed by today called Oinkstation takes the award for chuckle-worthiness.

The ride from Schiphol to the tiny port of Den Helder is pretty interesting as you can see the glitz and glamour of Amsterdam slowly giving way to the quaintness of a small town. I pass through innocent looking farms with spotty cows, cupcake colored houses and hay jacketed windmills. I check into one of the four rooms in a tiny inn, appropriately called Land's End. I open the back door and take a sharp breath as the rusty knob gives away to an arresting view of the ocean that stretches beyond into infinity.

Tempted, I walk across the pier, noticing the storm clouds that rumble in mild disapproval. There is nothing quite like the ocean before the onset of a good storm. The water looks calm and mercurial as clouds loll in the sky like restless grey kittens waiting to be fed. I walk further, broken crab shells crunching under my feet and sit down, listening. To the sound of chirping sparrows in a land far far away. To the sound of the gurgling waves trying to muffle its giggles against the shoulders of the beach sand. A man runs by, a flurry of blue. This breaks my reverie. I start walking back and smile to myself as I feel small drops of water falling, tingling my spine.

There was another reason to smile as a casino ship floated by. It called itself The Dokter Wagemaster.

In between Mitten Twitten

2011-06-12T17:48:00.002+06:00

When you board a propeller powered plane, you know that you are going someplace obscure. And to add to it, when you board a prop plane along with only five other people, one of whom is handcuffed and accompanied by a police officer, you are going to someplace really obscure. The handcuffed guy looked pretty scared actually, and sullenly kept looking out of the window in the seat across from me. But I really couldn’t help chuckling fatly when J leaned forward and whispered in a low conspiratorial voice, ‘ This is the real Con-Air, man.’

J, who had been to the place before gave me a cryptic clue to describe the place as we pulled our bags from the luggage belt – ‘ Behind every tree in Shetlands is a beautiful woman.’ And turns out, there were absolutely no trees in the island. I had expected a cold swept place, considering it’s at the northern tip of the UK where the shrubs would be bent in grotesque shapes by a wind that is generally more powerful than gravity. However, I was taken by surprise at the beautiful landscape of rolling green fields with ponies, llamas (yes, I even took a picture for those who wouldn't believe), puffins and lighthouses with the ocean crashing in on all sides of the narrow road between the Sumburg airport and the town of Lerwick where we were headed. The taxi driver was a tiny feisty old woman was not only chatty but also a lot of fun. Saying that she hardly gets visitors to the town of Lerwick, she was determined to show us what a wonderful town it was. To the point of pulling up near a bushy pony and teaching me how to pat them without annoying them enough to have a nip at your hand. And the stories that she narrated about the island made me gasp, giggle and give mock sighs of disbelief. The story of two warring family factions who fly their kids on a private chopper every week to a school in the adjacent island, about the arrested guy on our flight who was actually her friend’s grandson who got into drugs, about how there were no prisons on the island, about the lighthouse that was soon to be converted into a bed-and-breakfast. Her stories could have most certainly put the storyline of Desperate Housewives to shame.

As the sun set over an abandoned pier except for a skeleton boat, she stopped besides what seemed like a house that could have been the set for those shows you find in amusement parks, that would most likely be called The House of Horrors. This, is your hotel, she says with a bright grin that doesn't match the murkiness of the hotel ahead. The inside of the hotel, was not so bad, and was actually slightly charming. My room was ancient, as if someone had preserved the room of a loved one who had died in 1882. It came with fading scarlet wallpaper, copies of Shakespeare, a trouser press and a bathtub that could stand on its own legs. And a spiral turret balcony from where I could see the entire pier slowly starting to glow in embers as the sun was setting and the lights were coming on.

As I sit by the light from daffodil shaped lamps and watch boats sail by in the misty horizon from my window and write this, I think that I would rather not be anywhere else but in this ocean of obscurity.

2011-06-11T06:31:00.002+06:00

It was one of those dark, rainy English nights when the moon makes a pale appearance and then calls in sick to work. The airport, slightly after midnight, is filled with people waiting for the train out to the city. People, who look used to the art of waiting. The tall man with his hood pulled over, swaying to the rhythm of a song that only he can hear . Airport staff, despite their neat hair and black carry-ons, looking rather lackluster in their uniform that generally looks rather smart in the sky. A young couple lost in their own world, and in each other's arms. A pixie haired woman crying quietly in a corner while checking her mascara periodically. A man in a business coat reading what was possibly yesterday's news.

Sometimes, I wonder about the point of it all. This waiting for something to happen. This waiting, to be taken somewhere. I think if the moon would have been there, it would have agreed with me.

Half Awake

2011-06-10T00:50:00.005+06:00

Like a slowly awakening murky mirror from deep slumber,

the world ripples and everything dissolves into soft focus;

through the raindrops in her eyelashes. This time.

The Solitude of a Cat Lover

2011-05-25T16:44:00.004+06:00

Tales of murder, rampage, victory and love spray across from the television and illuminate the room as the cat walks in. It glides through the floor and onto Maya’s bare ankles smoothly as if it was the continuation of the same terrain. Maya folds her legs cross-legged, in reflex action. The cat nestles into the boat formed by her legs and opens its eyes to a half-lid glassy eye to meet Maya’s that are filled with the warmth of seeing a favourite friend after a long time. As Maya scruffs the cat’s neck and muzzles her nose fondly against the furry skin , the cat shrugs its shoulders quietly and looks distantly into the horizon beyond, to indicate that this act of intimacy doesn’t necessarily mean that her love would be requited. Maya purrs contentedly for both of them. Ah, the foolish solitude of cat lovers.

Wings over water

2011-04-13T03:51:00.005+06:00

Window seats on an Augusta 139 are not for the faint hearted. When this helicopter swerves, with windows wider than anything I have seen on any flying machine, I thought I was really going to fall into the sandscape below. But as the pilot stopped showing off his antics, it was pretty cool, almost like floating in a palanquin, if you ignore the rotor noise through the ear muffs, that is. But looking at the landscape below through such wide-angled lenses made my mind spasm into a world where the real thing is the metaphor.

Smooth dome of a mosque. A heaped scoop of vanilla ice cream.

Neatly divided fields of paddy and corn. Patchwork quilt of a green goblin.

Shadow of clouds on buildings. A cotton-candy umbrella.

And slithering in-between it all, the glittering cobalt multi headed serpent of Kalinga. The Nile.

Served

2011-04-04T00:36:00.003+06:00

Your delicate creases remind me of the swirls on a nautilus that I saw in the aquarium the other day. I unravel them, slowly and carefully, wondering how symmetric you are, each sum of the parts being the same shape as the whole. If you had wings and could flutter in the air, I wonder what a handsome snitch you would make. And if you could float on water, your zesty copper color would complement the pure whiteness of water lilies.

However, in return for my ode to your beauty, you make me cry. Angered, I slice open your heart.

Tomorrow Never Knows

2011-04-03T05:46:00.003+06:00

I walk to the train station and there are edible newspapers being dispensed with nonchalance by my daily newspaper vendor. Apparently you now have news that you can literally digest. This city's quirks never ceases to amaze me. Plastic umbrella cover dispensing stands in the lobby of a Michelin starred restaurant. Musicals for an hour and half with no song or dialogues and yet, that can make your ears perk up. An evening being lost in the world of Dali where pianos not only play music but also sprout legs and dance. And, today morning, when the spring sunshine spilled into a thousand pieces through my window blinds turning my yellow daffodils into solid gold, my mind couldn't help playing the opening guitar chords of a song yet to be written.

A city worth living in. London.

Two sparrows on a palm tree

2011-03-03T21:47:00.006+06:00

As per usual, I watch two sparrows fooling around on a palm tree against the Egyptian sunset instead of doing the work that I am supposed to be doing on the laptop in front of me. There's something about this city, Cairo, that seems to draw my eyes to just stare at things, as if I am watching television from inside its cathode ray tubes. The grey cape of an old man billowing against a brewing sandstorm. Women shrouded in black selling bright red roses against the fortress walls of the graveyard. Three men on a tiny yellow moped. Sand upon endless sand spinning out of control on seeing the wind.

' Smell the freedom in the air, Hema', my Egyptian friend dramatically sniffs the air in his red Fiat. All I could smell was good old sand and dust and a faint trace of something someone must have been smoking. The people here do profess to be imminently happier. Democracy, finally, freedom are words that are thrown into sentences and spoken to anyone who cares to ask. But they do sign off with a tired note bordering on relief - glad to be getting back to business and making some money, I guess.

While on the long drive for my morning meeting, the radio is switched on instead of the usual arabic melodies that invariably remind me of belly dancers and snake charmers. Listening to something, the driver 'Ohhs' and shakes his head. I raise an eyebrow at my Jordanian colleague who understands the language. Apparently a school van was stopped by escaped criminals in a robbery attempt not far from where we were. These thieves must be pretty desperate, I think, when my car slowly swerves to a halt in the middle of the highway. Flat tire, says the driver. So there we were, two people very foreign to the environment, standing awkardly in the side of a highway while schoolkids were held at gunpoint two streets away. A cranky car heads towards us and pulls to a stop by our side as my heart starts hammering harder. 'Need any help?' , says a voice in broken English from inside the car. No, we are good, I say smiling madly in relief. Before long, we were back on the road and headed to our destination.

As I sat listening to the Nile pur gently by my side over my evening cup of coffee, I couldn't help thinking of an incident a friend had told me earlier. He had gone to visit Kashmir recently and was boating by the lake when the still air was suddenly broken by a loud metallic sound. He said he had panicked and crouched instinctively. Turns out the sound was that of a Vespa being kick started.

Speaking to the Sea

2011-02-16T04:57:00.004+06:00

I tiptoed away from my sleeping friend and closed the door quietly as the wind brushed my face invitingly. Shrugging a coat on, I walked out in the opaque darkness of the Catalonian night, to meet the voices that I could usually hear in my sleep in the past. And there, across the pier, after the longest period of separation in the last few years, was the ocean, reclining in its resplendent beauty under the cover of the stars shining like a million jewels on a Bedouin velvet carpet.

Ah, my ocean, I can't think of words to describe what I felt when I saw you then. I sat there, watching you, so happy to just be with you. As words formed in my mind, they were in the shape of Tamizh letters, that swoop down like the neck of a swan, rise up like the edge of a mountain and curve like a lover's spine. In the beautiful voice that used to come from an easy chair reclining against the village breeze under the full moon, filling every nook and cranny of Bharathiyar's letters with life.

சுட்டும் விழிச் சுடர் தான் கண்ணம்மா சூரிய சந்திரரோ
வட்டக் கரிய விழி கண்ணம்மா வானக்கருமை கொலோ
பட்டுக் கருநீலப் புடவை பதித்த நல்வயிரம்
நட்ட நடுநிசியில் தெரியும் நட்சத்திரங்களடீ

சோலை மலரொளியோ நினது சுந்தரப் புன்னகை தான்
நீலக் கடலலையே நினது நெஞ்சின் அலைகளடீ
கோலக் குயிலோசை உனது குரலின் இனிமையடீ
வாலைக் குமரியடீ கண்ணம்மா மருவக்காதல் கொண்டேன்.

Here, Down on Green Earth

2011-01-04T02:13:00.003+06:00

Walk with me along the sun-kissed pier as the sunrays dance crazily on the diamond blue water. Seagulls hop on land and then fly away in one sweeping motion leaving gravity behind to lesser mortals like you and me. Behind us, a market is waking up to the sound of footsteps and the aroma of freshly ground coffee. I inhale the elusive Finnish sunshine and ask you to try some. It tastes so good, you say, that you never want to leave.

- Note written while sitting by Helsinki's pier.

When bangles orbit the planet

2011-01-03T05:27:00.002+06:00

In the twilight between sleep and wakefulness
I heard the sound of women washing clothes
fabric splayed on mortar
their bangles orbiting like dizzy planets
again and again -
until I realized it was the sound
of my neighbour
fixing his kitchen.
After all, I had woken up in the city of London.

Fold like a cat's ear

2010-12-25T01:39:00.005+06:00

I am not entirely sure if I like this travelling for business thing. When what I really wanted to do was watch a little boy eat bananas while pretending to arrange them on top of a rickety green van passing by, I had to churn out some very important sounding numbers from my laptop balanced alongside my coffee, inside a madly moving vehicle, as an Egyptian businessman sat there, inhaling my every word and processing them in his head. These Egyptian men are quite chivalrous, I must give them that. He proceeds to take the coffee out of my hand, lets me work better and then gives the cup back to me in intervals, so that I could take a sip. This, is immensely thoughtful and insanely embarrassing, and I curse myself for picking a takeaway coffee when I drop some on my patent pumps. Double damn. But looking as calm as one can be in such a situation, I continue to attempt asking the right questions and I give him more numbers when suddenly his face lights up like those slot machines in Vegas. I could almost hear the clanging sound of money in his head too, if I listened hard enough. Which, is a good thing by all means.

That out of the way, I proceed to enjoy my one precious free evening in beautiful, mad Cairo.

Some of my old cronies from the boats who lived in Egypt managed to land up at my hotel and after our boisterous reunion involving cries and yelps, it was a crazy ride into the old town part of Cairo, the car zigzagging along like Alice's tumble into the wonderland of mad characters. 'This, is the oldest cafe in all of Cairo,' declares my friend with a flourish as he leads me down a tunnel like opening. Old druids in white robes carrying glassy globes of shisha pots, cross eyed men walking around looking for a shoe to polish, young girls dancing to the sounds of cymbals, old women carrying genie lamps... all of these characters walk in this smoky haze as I sit, watching enthralled, enjoying a rather normal cup of warm milk, I think, under these circumstances. The milk tastes different. Alarmed, I look at Sameh, my friend who had emerged out of the smoke with this glass of offering. 'It's just coconut mixed with milk and some nuts. Very vegetarian,' he adds with a smile. I finish it quickly. It turned out to be delicious. So was the khosheri, a mixture of pasta, rice, onions and younameit. And then they proceed to teach me to eat bread. 'Well, I know how to eat bread', I say flippantly. They tear open the bread horizontally, like stripping peas from a pod. And then my friend says, ' Fold the bread in the shape of a cat's ear and scoop the gravy in it'. I say this in my mind, 'like a cat's ear'. I chew happily on this phrase, thinking about the little epiphanies of travel, in the noisy, smoky cavern of floating Egyptians. I think that night I dreamt of genies, bananas and lots of cats.

Like the Sun

2010-12-19T07:12:00.005+06:00

' Like the sun that moves across the sky, the scarab beetle moving the ball of dung is believed to represent the cosmic forces of the lord Khepri who governs our universe.' This sentence which would have seemed unreal reading off a computer, seemed quite real when placed on a placard in front of the mummified remains of a tiny dung beetle in Cairo.

' Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.' This sentence that sounds inane before every single station in London seemed to have a new meaning when I watched a student's guitar twang in protest to the automatic closing doors.

Things, that make us perceive everything ordinary to be a little less ordinary. In probable digression, I remember this discussion with a friend about the night sky; If the billions of nebulous stars were to come out and twinkle for just one night, there would be stampedes and balcony bookings a year in advance. Now that they are there everyday, people spend lifetimes without merely glancing up.

Seeing is Believing

2010-11-09T04:56:00.005+06:00

As the Marina mingles with mud, a man stands on iron poles holding the torso of a body ten times his size. Flattening the body on paper, he pours it over the rectangular hoarding and it seems to hold a liquid shape, like water poured into a goblet. I can see only his back, his spine glistening like smooth pebbles that you can find along the seashore. Finishing his job, he stands straight, hands on his hip, legs askance , looking more empowered than the dapper man in the advertisement he just put up. In one sweeping gesture, he removes the towel tied around his head and splashes it on his shoulder like an emperor, as if the sun, the earth, the stars belonged to him and him alone. Rain falls, segmenting his kingdom into little slices as he climbs down a ladder and comes down to Earth.

Raindrops for Diwali

2010-11-06T23:18:00.009+06:00

As dragonflies volley between badminton bats on the terrace, as rainbows align their bodies along the curves of coconut leaves, as the air rumbles with the sound of thunder competing with firecrackers, as firedrops form dizzying designs of golden octopuses on the ground, as a barebacked man stands for cover underneath a poster for designer clothes, as golden sarees escape the clutch of plastic clips to form a bed for the stars, you, my city - you do love getting ready for an evening of fire and rain.

2010-10-31T00:40:00.005+06:00

Any God Will Do

The air spins with dust and something else-
I can’t place the smell but it is a lot like hatred.
Silhouettes of people running are cast against a grey blur
as fire does its mad dance on top of buildings
with its flames licking up hungrily at the sky - not satisfied
until the entire sky bursts into flames.

On the road, next to a bench breathing orange,
a child sits confused as it stares at a pile of grey filmed flowers,
while the flower-seller wails a street away – praying
for a miracle. Anything, she says. Any God will do.
Her voice is lost in the air ignited by dynamite cries,
but somebody, somewhere must have heard her because
the child looks up in surprise at the sudden cold touch
of a drop of water as it gently. Falls.

(A poem written ages ago based on the communal riots in Gujarat )

A Dangling Moon

2010-09-05T03:57:00.006+06:00

It had to be there somewhere. I could find only one of it. That other one from the pair of earrings I had haggled for in a street market in Shanghai. White with purple flowers engraved. A crescent of a moon laid to rest with a lavender wreath. Where could I have placed it, leaving its shy twin to languish in unfriendly foreign company inside a stuffy pouch?

Well, it's not about the earring really, you would know. Things from the past, some half mended, some simply just lost. After all, in the democracy of memory, everything is not meant to be equal.

Untold Stories

2010-08-20T17:27:00.002+06:00

The morning sunshine swims seamslessly towards the window, nudges through the window sill and proceeds to tickle my eyes, waking me up.
A group of white birds fly in the sky and then swoop down, like a bunch of falling feathers, as words. I write.
Characters in the story walk out of sentences, drink coffee over a conversation by the beach and return leaving a trail of sand over the keyboard. I barely recognize them now.

One page. And the morning is already ancient.

Ceylon Conversations

2010-08-15T02:05:00.015+06:00

' I am the smoke from fire and incense. Thrown into the sky in prayer.'

'Just one phone call before I marry you, honey.'

'I am the latest in elephant couture. All trussed up for the upcoming Maligawa Fashion Week.'

'What are you staring at me for? Never seen a bat bearing tree before?'

'Wheeee! Look, our own little coconut leaf boat!'

' We are the red and luscious rambutans. We come in the colors of the Sigiriya stones'.

One for all the ocean years

2010-07-21T03:15:00.003+06:00

Dark black sea. White moonlight
Everything is a silhouette

Two red lights shine at a distance
Like midnight pomegranates

I watch
As they move towards each other
And the two ship shapes
collide. Soundlessly.

Airborne Identity

2010-07-10T03:50:00.003+06:00

Today, shortly after sending shrubs of grass quivering like knees with stage fright while taking off, my helicopter swerved between two skyscrapers under construction in Qatar, emerging out of it to a stunning view of the pier lined with glistening yachts. Window seats on a chopper are really cool like that. Even for a fairly colorless city like Doha, the passing aerial scenery is quite engaging as you make out shapes of sand dunes tussling with a brewing storm, coral green waters against blinding white sand and outlines of what you reckon to be land masses of Iran and Bahrain. As I fly at close proximity, I try to give these countries a character from the snatches of palm trees and mud houses that I see.

I try to form images of what life would be like in these places that I fly through, much like trying to guess the personality of a person from the contents of their see-through Walmart shopping bag. Brings me back to images that have flitted across the landscape below into the postcard clips filed away in my mind.The white birds flitting around looking like innocent snowfall on cotton trees in Pipavah, India. The Palm islands from the sky looking like an uncanny commercial for tourism in Dubai. The gorgeous amethyst mountains lapping against the emerald shores of New Zealand that then breaks away into the turbulent waters of the Antarctic.

And unlike flying in planes, I am not reaching for another city where the ocean is just something that needs to be traversed as part of the journey. It, in fact is my destination. As I fly away from the safety of land into the oceans waiting beyond, I can't help notice how fragile, and thin the crust of the land that we live really is. In sharp contrast to the verve and veracity of the ocean that covers most of the world we inhabit. My thoughts are interrupted by a rare airborne sighting of an Orca , making me wonder about the creatures living under the skin of blue, as naturally as I do in my world breathing in the air around me. A humbling sense of how much more the world is, than what meets my mind's eye.

Not another rain poem

2010-07-07T04:33:00.003+06:00

Rain breaks over the leaf
Shards spilling to the ground
I walk barefeet over broken water
Leaving footprints like a wounded tiger

Little do I know
That broken water draws blood too
When the full moon watches
The one who has sinned.

A Question Divided

2010-07-04T14:47:00.002+06:00

Sometimes I wonder
About the importance of my education
Mathematics to check if my taxes are right
Chemistry to understand cooking better
Geography to calculate my plane fare
World history to know that life is not fair

So why did I spend a perfectly good Sunday afternoon
Ten years ago sitting in this same spot
When the sun was shining with a million possibilities
Enticing me to engage in the world outside

Studying Calculus?

Red shoes named Desire

2010-06-16T01:21:00.004+06:00

‘ I would never wear them ’, I exclaim opening a parcel from which a pair of shiny Louboutin – lookalikes stare open-mouthed at me as if they couldn't believe what I just said. I lay them on the floor as I get to fetch a glass of water (and a reality check if I could) for my rather ambitious friend who was bent upon getting me to try them. When I return and resume normal conversation, I could feel all the eyes in the room moving involuntarily in regular intervals at these red shoes standing three inches tall, as if they had a breathing personality of their own.

I still remember the warmth of the evening sun on the beach in Jericoucara, a town in the northern corner of Brazil. The place was filled with evening revellers; where sunset itself was an occasion to celebrate for them Brazilians. As we walked along the beach, there was a small crowd formed, cheering someone in the middle. We go near to take a closer look. It was a good-looking couple who looked dressed for the ballroom rather than for the beach, and also behaving as if they were still on the dance floor. She was wearing a scarlet dress with black stockings and a red rose behind her ear. He was dressed in a formal black suit with a red tie. I noticed that her feet, in red heels stuck deep in sand, still managed to move sensuously. Seemingly oblivious to the onlookers, they started to move slowly without any background music. But as their movements picked up tempo, there was a soundless music that began to play between them. The effortless strength in his arms as he dropped her only to catch, the way she looked deep into his eyes before tantalisingly turning away to do a swirl, the careful brush of his fingers against her neck. The last thing I remember is her raising her foot high in the air above his shoulders in an ending flourish, her red shoes reaching up to the evening sky and setting the sun on fire. If desire had a background score, their music would be it.

I put the shoes away and I had the feeling that I could hear them howling in the darkness of the night. Like a she wolf in my closet, waiting to be set free.

The Belief Shop

2010-04-05T21:55:00.003+06:00

I will believe you when

I see penguins flying a Boeing
Yellow lets go of blue and no longer turns green
My drive way in Chennai is filled with snowmen
The entire ocean is perfumed cinnamon
Trees start uprooting themselves and do the rumba
It gets illegal to drink tomato juice
The frogs in my backyard hum Brahm's second piano concerto
You can describe the smell of a durian in one single word
A conglomeration of sheep take over New Zealand
You can add God on the afternoon's conference call

.. Well, I guess you get my drift.

Incensed Kites

2010-04-02T03:42:00.004+06:00

I watch the colorful kites incense the sky with a slow dancing movement that reminds me of colorful corals moving in water.

I watch the vibrantly alive evening through green spikes, as I feel too lazy to lift my head up from the grass I am lying on. Watching the normal everyday habits of a foriegn land, I feel like I am watching the neighbour through the door's peep hole. With not the guilt of an adult, but with the impish thrill of a child.

~ Some notes penned at Fuxing Park, Beijing.

Arrack in the Afternoon

2010-02-20T01:32:00.002+06:00

The night looked young wearing a polka dotted sky and walking in with a fresh breeze in its stride. Delicate reflections of the coconut trees against the neon night lights danced black on yellow against the walls of my terrace. I sat on the parapet wall, enjoying the smoothness of freshly polished red cement against my bare feet, when they swooped.

A small tribe of black creatures that flew without batting their wings swam seamlessly above my head into the darkness beyond. Perking my ears up, I peered closer into the darkness. A relatively smaller winged creature smoothly turned with a grace that I wistfully wish I had with my car and proceeded to hang itself upside down from a ladder and blink beadily at me. I watched with amused consternation as it further closed its eyes. I think the situation would have been a bit too much for me to handle if it had started snoring, but it did not. I tried to make shadows with my hands to mimic it without much success, as its shadow looked like a mere corn cob. And as I tiptoed away , I had a sneak view of a scene that I don't think gets repeated often - an upside down bat swinging from a ladder hammock under a softly swaying coconut tree.

Mars Attack

2010-02-10T05:25:00.009+06:00

Am back in Malaysia after three years and I must say that I still appreciate its glamour, flavour and chutzpah. But, something else has not changed as well. Not sure if it is racism, or gender discrimination though I think it is mostly the latter. Be it the cab driver who asks why a girl travelling by herself needs to be dropped at a fancy hotel at midnight, or the guys who catcall on the road kerb - you don't even have to look to find them.

I sure didn't go looking when I entered a shiny new hair salon inside the Petronas Towers, fairly excited about sporting a new look. To my absolute surprise, I found a hairdresser who had been rather obnoxious to me three years back, in a positively different salon (yes, I have the memory for unwanted facts such as this and you can also ask me the names of the polar bears in the zoo in Germany) . What is the probability that amongst the eight people in the salon, this exact same one had to attend on me ? Well, the mathematical amongst you can say one by eighth, but I just found that as disappointing as finding brussel sprouts on my plate after ordering a slice of chocolate cake. Hoping that my memory was misplaced, I took my seat. Only to realise that his creepiness hadn't changed one bit. As he started talking, I watched in the mirror as he slowly morphed into a centipede and started crawling over my toes. I couldn't squash him, so I asked him to be more polite, in the politest way as possible as I could see that he was chopping away at my tresses and I really didn't want to end up with a mop on my head.

While paying my megabucks for being treated badly, instead of walking away, I told the lady at the counter that the guy, Sam as he calls himself was downright rude and that I was never coming back again. This woman, in fact surprisingly looked like she was waiting for exactly this opportunity, jumped into action by bringing out the owner and Sam. I looked at him level in the eye and told him something which I don't really remember , like the speeches you give on stage , mostly powered by adrenalin. Instead of applause at the end of the speech, however, he gives back a retort of how he wasn't paid for being nice - in other words the verbal equivalent of the middle finger. Raising my eyebrows triumphantly at the owner to prove that I had made my point, I walked away, as I heard arguments erupt behind me.

What is it that makes some men think they can get away with treating women however they want? I can start the answer by saying that it is because they almost always get away with it.

I am more than anything you see.

2010-01-24T18:09:00.001+06:00

The Rain Game

2009-11-19T13:53:00.005+06:00

The drop of water
pitbulled into its neighbour
driving it down the sides
of the window pane
in a wicked curveball.

Everywhere a Desert

2009-10-25T22:18:00.009+06:00

I watched the particles of sand do a sizzling number with the air molecules. The desertscape with its delicate sand pleated furrows does look pretty poetic as long as you are on the right side of man's invention called air conditioning, I thought to myself. Having spent quite a few days working in the unforgiving glare of the bare sun, making shifty tents on sand dunes and tasting the sand between my teeth, I knew exactly what the desert was capable of. Driving back from the remote deserts to the palm tree lined civilization, I was surprised at the number of vehicles that passed me, carrying yachts of varying sizes, sand mobiles and fancy cars. It didn't quite go with my mental image of a lounging sheikh near an oasis being fed grapes by a bevy of arabian beauties.

As I neared Dubai, I went to meet the friend's friend, as someone from a BMW convertible waved. Thinking that this was rather inappropriate friendly behaviour especially for the middle east, I looked agog at my friend who was now waving back in enthusiasm. This was when realisation dawned. I was getting the opportunity of a lifetime to meet the elusive persona of a clan that is merely seen floating in hushed white importance in the arab emirates. I was getting to meet, ladies and gentlemen, the real Sheikh.

Respectfully, I entered Ali's (ahem, name changed to protect identity - his and mine ) car as we drove off in style into the heartlands of Dubai. We drove past some rather impressive sounding buildings, actually. The world's largest shopping mall next to the world's tallest tower overlooking the world's most expensive hotel - you get my drift. I quite liked the way the psychedelic colors of the city zipped past me, trying to catch up with a furiously fast car. And as dusk was setting, the city was looking downright glamorous, in a glittering Bianca Castafiore kind of way. The car suddenly stopped and I woke up from my reverie to find that we were in front of a Ferrari showroom. Too much was happening too fast and my mind couldn't really keep up with my environmental changes. I looked questioningly at Ali who asked us politely if we minded if he stopped by the showroom to just check on an order he had previously placed. I quietly walked in respectful silence into a room full of Ferraris raring to vroom, when Ali decides to ask my opinion on something. Which shade of grey would look better for the fiber coat on his Ferrari, he asks. A grey Ferrari? You must be kidding me , I think. But cheerfully point at one while returning a sad shake of head to the red headed four wheeler next to me.

We then head to his penthouse for dinner. And behind his house, instead of a car park, there is a yacht park facing the marina. A very handsome yacht, a Riva , to be more exact glides by as I sit by the waters. I have no interest in joining the conversation of oil stocks, Iran or the prices of Dubai real estate that happens around me. I look at these people sitting on their low marble stools on one side. And the sea, the stars and the horizon beyond on the other.

At that moment, I realise that I have never been more proud, of simply being me.

Mad dogs and Finnish men

2009-10-04T02:50:00.005+06:00

' Would you wear a seatbelt when you drive off a cliff?' was the first sentence that I heard on my way to Finland. And it came from the eighteen year old sitting next to me on the flight. I must admit, as an afterthought, that this would be a rather good pickup line. If you are looking for a borderline insane girl that is. My reply was the old ' one-eyebrow raise, are-you-serious?' look to him while frantically trying to tap an sos to my friend sitting behind. Before my friend could gather his shining armour, however, TalkativeTeen told me that he was referring to some guy's daredevil accomplishments that I was reading about in my inflight magazine. Looking down, I realized that my thumb was infact on a picture of a certain Chris guy trying to drive off a cliff and then in the next picture, he was smiling balmily at the camera about how he was so clever and unhurt. With a sheepish 'Oh' , we continued a much tamer conversation about Finland's music schools.

Landing in Helsinki at night, I thought that the airport was rather sparse. And so was the city. In a quiet, no-nonsense way. Went for a quiet walk by the pier which was also mildly lit and one thing that struck me was the awesome brightness of the stars due to the lack of light pollution.

Morning dawned with the crispness of a newly baked cookie straight out of the oven. We walked along the pier with the seagulls flitting by, and the sun shining crazily on the diamond blue water.

A street market was slowly being assembled nearby and we sat alongside the waters with double scoops of caramel icecreams, watching little boats huffing and puffing to overtake the bigger ones. Walked along the market and the unusual thing about this place was that the things that they were selling denoted a simpler age - wooden toys, stone earrings and coat hangers made from reindeer horns. In the middle there was also a snack shop that was purely peddling green peas. And there were families huddled around tables having merry pea-pod breaking sessions! Watching this rather heartwarming scene, I was smiling to myself in the realisation of why I had fallen in love with travel in the first place.

............To be continued

Black Mirror

2009-09-23T23:30:00.003+06:00

The white disc spins
In watery turmoil
As the calm reality
Watches serenely from the sky.

Silent Rhythms

2009-07-27T13:30:00.003+06:00

In the rhythm of a pumping auto-rickshaw engine,
Like the fresh spray of a waterfall,
Like the angelic mist that covers a deep precipice,
A heartbeat.

Terrestrial

2009-06-15T10:46:00.003+06:00

The sun peeped from behind the soft curves of a sleeping lady giant. And I watched with a little flutter of exhilaration as my ship anchored near the shores of Sanya. I couldn't help thinking - what a beautiful name! Sanya. Befitting the view of slender clouds covering misty mountains floating amidst coral green waters. A slight drizzle and a soft wind blew a suede brown butterfly towards me which whispered something in my ear . Some mysterious chinese whispers.

Home Video

2009-05-23T17:53:00.003+06:00

The dust on the road was sprayed on the bus like a thin layer of turmeric powder. I had got into the bus just for old times sakes and was looking out of my perch at a window at the passing scenery with open curiosity. It has been ten years since I had taken this route and as expected, things had changed along this road that reached to the inner villages of Tamil Nadu. As the public transport bus wheezed to a halt in a bus depot at Vizhipuram, I realized that it was bustling with activity unlike the last time I was there. Young kids were selling peeled jack fruit pieces in tiny plastic covers by the dozen through the window. There was a pharmacy at a distance displaying colorful packs of sanitary napkins in the glass display. A jeep stopped nearby from which brown goats hopped out, like spilling coffee beans. Flower sellers, carrying bamboo saucers of white, yellow and red did their rounds around the bus and were frequently stopped by young men who bought them for their lady sitting in the resin seat next to them. The entire place was like a living, thriving organism where each constituent performed its bodily function.

I remember ten years back, when this very spot consisted of a single tea stall and a dilapidated shed that functioned as a bus stop and a cow shed rolled into one. As the bus drivers were on strike, there were very few buses plying into the city and I had waited along with the grandfather on one of the wooden stools outside the tea stall for something like four hours. The night had been warm and clear, with the sky filled with a smattering of stars that I have recently begun to associate only with my deep, dark ocean. The tea stall had been open well into the night, lighted by a single, slender bulb that attracted the inspection of curious insects. The waiting passengers, mostly farmers from the village and their children had been singing to while away the time, while me, in my 'city' clothes sat quietly listening in to their laughter and conversation. Sometimes, I do yearn for those simpler times.

Coming back to the present. A five hour bus ride and a wake-up later, I was in the city of Chennai, sipping a caffe latte with a few friends in one of the fashionable coffee joints that offered wireless Internet. A few college students sat in the table nearby, discussing animatedly about how Star Trek was still hip. The boys were dressed in baggy, waist level pants and the girls in jeans and singlets. A few Canadians sat in the next table with a Lonely Planet in their midst and passing around a camera looking at just clicked pictures. For a minute, I thought that this scene looked vaguely familiar - I could have been sitting at the Hard Rock Cafe in Melbourne, Singapore or Rio and the scene would have been pretty much the same. Youngsters in Madonna T shirts, a few girls having a good time , some tourists and a laughing bunch of friends. The realisation, I must sheepishly admit, made me feel proud.

This narrative has no concluding passage as to the moral of the story. But I can say that I am curious to see how that bus depot in Vizhipuram will turn out ten years from now.

How I ended up in a Swedish prison and other stories.

2009-03-26T23:31:00.003+06:00

Copper strips encased in glazed silver. This was how the islands of Sweden looked from the sky as the entire ocean had frozen over. Aerially unreal.

As I entered Stockholm, I couldn't help but immediately notice the difference between Oslo and Stockholm. There were pigeons flying inside the train station, a pipe in the corner was dripping water and the people were definitely more friendlier. As perfect as Norway is, I liked this first impression of imperfection.

Having no idea where the train had stopped, we started wandering around the streets. It was a rather enjoyable walk, soaking the warmth of a yellow winter sun and turning around the streets to suddenly discover a waterfront, and then walk further to see a majestic statue and then we finally stopped at a rather magnificent building that called itself the Royal Palace.

We later came to know that we were in fact, in the old part of the city called Gamla Stan where all the ancient buildings are located elbowing each other. I think the best thing that we did was not to buy a map or a guide book and head for our destinations, but generally get lost. This made us uncover this palace and other gorgeous buildings totally by accident.

This palace is pretty much like an Elizabethan movie set, down to the sequined cushions and huge portraits of kings and queens. Although the interiors were altogether disappointing, I was quite enamoured by the glass chandeliers that came inspired by various forms - snowflakes, ice crystals, diamonds and even human faces. Kept my neck up throughout the walk of the palace, looking at these works of glass art and the mild sprain at the end of it was well worth it.

As we headed out of the palace, the sky had turned a blue hue that I shall decide to call Hooloovoo . ( A term not to be bothered with by the h2g2 challenged person). For others, Ref h2g2:39. In fact, this all pervading hue speared by the spires of the tall churches made the landscape of this part of the city look all the more like a fairytale book.

Went inside an ancient church that shone with its golden interiors and architecture, quite like the famous Duomo in Milan. Traipsed into a museum which we later discovered was purely a museum of coins. Unless you get a kick out of looking at grim looking faces staring back from little metal scraps, I would advice against this. To the museum's credit, it did house the world's largest coin ever, which, was not only incredibly cool but incredibly heavy as well.

What did blow my mind, was the cafe that we entered next. Suitably named Cafe Art, it was situated in a cubby hole that we had to stoop down to enter. It took a little while to get used to the dark interiors. With a cave like appearance and paintings hung over the stone walls, it looked like the perfect place where one could sit with endless cups of coffee and write an entire Ulysses. It was also fun because all the three of us travelling together were practically unknown to each other, despite coming from the same nomadic workplace. After some delicious lunch, we realised that between the three of us, we had been kidnapped at knife point in New York, escaped from a burning building and fought for a certain mafia. It never ceases to amaze, the kind of interesting people you meet and how much more down to earth they seem, the more they have seen.

A further walk away from the old city revealed a wide waterfront that could be called an icefront with ducks and swans skating on it. Ships and boats steamed around purposefully with a modern city as the backdrop. A rather pompous looking hotel calling itself The Grand Palace stood ahead and we decided to keep its haughtiness in check by seeing what it was all about. Entered in with our backpacks and was looked up and down by the waiter inside who grudgingly gave us a seat and the menu to see if we would be frightened off by the prices. We almost did, but ordered a coffee and cake instead. It felt quite royally nice, I must admit, to be served food with silver cutlery and it was one of the best chocolate that I have tasted in a while. The fact that it came with hand made passion fruit icecream also helped.

I must say here, that every place - be it a restaurant, cafe or a museum, exuded its own personality and character. Be it radically interesting like the place built entirely with ice or the tallest hotel piercing the sky giving a bird's eye view of the city, each one was distinctly different. And the food, very flavorsome.

------------------------------------

Oh, and if you are wondering about the title - yes, I did spend the night in a prison cell. But it was one a few years back. Recently renovated, it is a backpacker's hostel now and offers an unbeatable, though admittedly spooky ambiance of a prison.

Vanilla Earth

2009-03-06T02:26:00.004+06:00

It has been a whirlwind of colours. From the deep blue ocean to the burnt sienna of land.

And now white. Whiteness as far as the eyes can see. Whiter than the white in a soap advertisement. What was once water is glazed over like frosty glass. White mounds stand proudly like miniature mountains. The morning sun coddles the white, melting it into scoops of mushy vanilla icecream. I can see some of it dribbling off the chins of baby trees even. If only snow could come in butterscotch flavor.

Where the Gods once lived

2009-01-12T17:57:00.012+06:00

There is a procession of royal elephants followed by the palanquin bearers as crowds throng the street. The princess sits inside, golden curtains drawn as the procession marches towards the temple amidst the deafening sound of conches and trumpets.

Five hundred years later, I walk through the same streets and enter the same doors of the temple. In hushed respect. At Hampi, what was once the bustling capital of Vijayanagara.

The entire town looks as if the Earth gave a little shrug, forming boulders. As if not satisfied with its result, it then sighed, coating the entire landscape with golden sandy dust. In this golden incompleteness of the ruins, lies some unformed beauty. Like an unfinished painting. Or a broken moon.

Walking amidst this terracota labyrinth, we stumbled into this building that I instantly fell in love with. With its wide freedom, simplicity and pride. Walking in, as sunlight beamed in crazy patterns, we were caught by the gentle breeze and we sat there for a while. To ponder. And wonder..

There was a central theme in all these buildings. Light. Peeping out through a window. Escaping into the blueness of the sky. Or simply forming patterns that fancies its mind.

And we watched as this light bowed and exited gracefully with a sparkling sienna sunset over this town that was.

Bars and Crosses

2009-01-05T21:17:00.004+06:00

Literally speaking, my job does require me to go to a lot of obtuse places. But the Kumaran Nagar police station was something I hadn't quite bargained for. ' It is like going to just another Government building', I kept reassuring myself - like the RTO office, like the Passport office..as I entered into a police station for the first time ever. Sitting on a wobbly wooden bench, I surveyed the scene. It was exactly like how you would think a police station should be like. Yellow walls peeling themselves to the rhythm of creaking fans. A benevolent Gandhi smiling sideways at a spider sleeping in its web, while a board on top of his head does the talking for him. The board says something to the tune that the police station is a kind of temple. I wonder if that is an indication of justice or a hint to bring offerings for the deity. The crime chart spanning the last three years stands ominously while an A4 size printout jostling its elbow announces a happy new year to everybody. And just when I thought I was going to get bored, an old lady ran in wailing, her elbows scratched, saree torn and spectacles broken.

It should be mentioned here that I was the only one who sat up straight, giving her my full attention. Her arrival warranted a response that an ant would have got had it sneaked in through the same doorway. She started lamenting that her grandson was beating her up, threatening her to sell her house so that he could get some money. While my mind was whirring at the pathetic unfairness of her situation, a constable calmly came out and asked her if she wanted the police station to be shifted to her house, so that someone would always be there to give her protection in case anyone threatened her. But I must say the Inspector of the station was much more courteous. He asked her to sit down and rest for a few moments and then tell her story. I couldn't help beaming that there are, in fact, nice people in this much tainted picture drawn of the police.

And that is how Karuppayee * (ahem, name changed to protect identity) came to sit next to me as I started to concentrate extra specially on the crackling radio in front of me. Her manner seemed to have changed entirely now. She was calm, and if it doesn't sound ridiculous, even a little gleeful. She pointed into a room ahead and said that in there were three murderers behind bars.Now that she mentioned it, I remembered reading about the chase in the local papers. They had slashed the throats of an old couple and ran off with the money. I gulped, now steadfastly refusing to look into the room ahead as Karuppayee started getting into the details. ' They had jumped through a window, cold bloodedly taken a knife to their throat and sliced them like squealing hens' she said with the relish of a gossip monger biting into a juicy story.

Then she quietened as the Inspector went in, to take the three men out of the lockup for a court hearing. My curiosity got the better of me and I looked. They were not burly mustached men with a mole, but mere kids who would be barely eighteen! And cold blooded murder. Can anyone be pushed to murder for money, or should you possess the innate steeliness in your heart to take another life? Whatever it is, it takes a bit of the same steeliness to assault your own grandmother for the same money, I think, looking sideways at Karuppayee. The things people do for that thin paper note,you read volumes in newsprint and paperbacks. It is just a little hard to digest when you look at it in real life, that's all.

A monster, a volcano and a year ahead

2009-01-01T13:58:00.007+06:00

Imagine being chased by a twelve-legged, green scaled, terrifying monster that seems to make the Earth shudder with every footstep it makes. And as you run away on your roller skates, feeling the mammoth breath down your neck, you encounter Mount Merapi spewing molten lava that flow towards you like red clawed fingers trying to burn you in its grasp. At a speed quicker than a normal monster or volcano can calculate, you dig a hole in the ground and you are extremely thankful that you decided to bring your scuba gear along despite sensible advice from your friends while embarking on the mountain expedition.

You don't need to be a graduate wizard from Hogwarts to realise that this was the after effect of reading up on volcanoes in the National Geographic magazine and watching Save the Planet on the tube. But during the time of the momentous escape from steely talons and being made into a human pancake, the feeling is quite real - the pounding of the heart and the liberating feeling of escape.

If I can be superhuman enough to escape unscathed and enjoy the warmth of sunshine with a hot cup of elaichi tea and my morning crossword - anything is possible.

Here's to a superhuman year ahead.

Pine Morning

2008-12-22T19:28:00.004+06:00

Lights and dew and a sparrow.

One could almost believe in Santa Claus.

Aloud Talk

2008-12-14T05:51:00.002+06:00

Young girls are the same everywhere. Whether it be the arctic or the antarctic winter, you can find them shivering gleefully in their nylon stockings and barely there bling coat. Giggling in groups waiting for the subway and then trooping into the train, touching up their lipstick and mascara with one hand while texting nimbly on their cell phones with the other. Snug as a bug in my plump jacket, I look at them sitting opposite to me in the midnight train and suddenly wonder if the difference between them and me was more than just two feet and two years. A woman by herself on the roads and trains of any city cannot afford to do a lot of things. Infact, the more you travel, the less emboldened you become. I wouldn't walk on the same desolated streets in Oslo at night by myself that I did when I was twenty one. I have seen enough evil to know what it can do. Now I can make out the 'Do you have a cigarette?' in any language. Not that I am multilingual, but because I can recognise the insistence urgency in the voice of the homelessly desperate. Which has only made my pace quicker and my eyes unwavered. Nothing seems to really shock me though. Two women making out in a phone booth. Drunk men trying to rip passers by. Transgendered people beckoning ( I still don't know who they beckon however). Today, I even watched a complete lamb being roasted on a spitfire and I couldn't feel it pull the strings of my usually soft vegetarian heart. During moments like these, I can't help but wonder if I have seen too much, too soon.

No Stone This

2008-11-26T21:38:00.004+06:00

The colored veins
of
Onyx.

Why are all the mannequins white?

2008-11-25T13:32:00.004+06:00

And other questions.

Before I start righteously voicing my opinions about the little bit that I saw of KwaZulu Natal, South Africa, I must admit that I suffer the symptoms of the less spoken, much widespread traveller's disease - cultural relativity. The mental state in which you assume that what you think is best or worst for the people you see, is what they want themselves. In clearer terms, you put yourself in their shoes and of course, forget that what you are viewing is still through your eyes, filtered by your brain.

That said, I am going to start thinking aloud. 1991 is not very far back. Before which this was a government sanctioned racist state. And it is pretty impressive how the entire place seemed to have blended all the colors into one like a Kissan mixed fruit jam. Of course, there are pieces of pulp sticking out. All the laboring class, that I noticed building houses, carrying garbage cans, selling in pavement shops - is still the colored kind. But I could still see some blacks and browns zipping around in Mercedes Benz and sipping martinis as well. So, these people had enough opportunities to get rich pre-apartheid? I guess so. So, even if you had a million bucks, you couldn't saunter into an area of the beach because you were black. And people my age, have seen and felt this discrimination, which was what I found hardest to digest.

A taxi company's brochure had a marketing sign boxed in a square stating, 'Run by all blacks'. An Indian taxi driver quite blatantly questioned me and my friend why we were staying in a white neighbourhood, which I was blissfully unaware of until he mentioned it. Some restaurants had an exclusive white clientele, an unspoken code, apparently. I can go on, but I think you get the snapshot.

But I have the most cliched but true ending as the last picture - two kids, one white and the other black, holding hands and walking home from school. The friend of mine imaginatively suggested that they might have got into a fight and then been forced to hold hands as a punishment by the teacher. ( To give it to her, their shirts did look a bit scruffy) . But still, they looked deep in conversation in a comfortable content bubble that only children can get into. Which makes me believe in a better world all over again.

Of coffee, hell and love

2008-10-15T02:51:00.002+06:00

This city is neither outwardly pretty nor glamorous. But there is something heart rending in the way it tries to run away from the clasp of the mountains surrounding it and head towards the gold lined oceans.Something fascinating about the way the mountains have lights twinkling all through the night. In the way you can get completely lost in translation, yet manage to smile at the end of it all. Rio de Janeiro- a city that captures you by stealth.

My first impression of the country was formed even before landing there. In the local Latin American flight, I was served the best dessert I have had in the air. Called Tres Leches, I later came to know that this was made with three types of milk and served with cream. Not understanding a single word that was written on its packaging at the time, I devoured it with the utmost enthusiasm. And when the flight attendant liltingly addressed me as 'Senorita' and asked if I wanted anything else, I was transported into this other worldly charm seen in those Audrey Hepburn types black and white movies. I was however quickly brought back to reality, in other words , land, when I had to fill this immigration form that was completely in Portuguese!And the fact that I was able to fill it up is single handedly attributed to the number of immigration forms I have filled till now. Or maybe due to the fact that I had a sneak peek at my neighbour's form. If the mode of transport of 'air' is written as 'aero' how much difficult can the language be?

I was quickly proved wrong at the counter itself when I had to do a lot of pointing and miming to convince them that I wasn't Spanish and in fact, knew no South American languages. That done, I hopped onto the taxi and took in the calm and every detail of what went past. Lighted up domes of places of worship, a bridge across a river, the full moon, coconut trees and restless beaches waiting for the sunlight to show off their colors.
And show off they did in the morning- a brilliant golden glow. Just as I had been promised. Coconut trees lined up alongside sandy beaches and yes, the beach volleyball reflecting sunlight off perfect tans. On a Monday morning. And the sign - ' Do not build sandcastles. You are in Brasil.'

The usual attractions of Rio - the Christ statue at Corvacado was pretty impressive, but I wrinkled my nose when I heard that it was one of the seven modern wonders of the world. As if to chide me, I could see the eyes of the Christ boring into mine, and I almost averted my gaze in guilt. But that place does give one a bird's eye view of the city, from where you can see immediately the reason for why there are so many riots there. There is this land of luxury and paradise marked by the Copacabana and stately industrial buildings while in the actual mountains surrounding the place, live the favellas, who as legends go, storm the city at night and plunder buildings if you dare leave the window open. One of my local friends promised to take me there, disguised appropriately, to go for the ethnic samba experience. I found the prospect madly exciting, but I never did pursue it.

I heard the saying there that Brazilians like their coffee black as death, hot as hell and sweet as love. And pardon my superlative here - whatever the saying, the coffee is phenomenal. Whether it is served in the hotel at breakfast, or in the push carts along the Copacabana drive, or in their local huts called pasoudas, I could never get enough of it. And so are their desserts. There was this chocolate centred mushiness covered with a more baked chocolate served with a white whey which I guarantee would make any chocolate lover's knees go weak.

After Rio, we went to this beach village called Jericoucara, in search of the true soul of Brazil, but more on that coming up later.

I must say Brazil has become one of the few places I would not like to visit again, for the fear that it might never match up to my first.

Art Now

2008-10-12T17:04:00.004+06:00

Wet paint getting encrypted pixel by pixel by the virgin canvas in the only language that it will understand - Blue.

Dragees

2008-10-10T17:57:00.001+06:00

Little bit of used chewing gum
Stuck underneath your sneakers
Flip-flop it annoys you
Shake it, however hard you try
Follows you wherever you go.

Norwegian Night

2008-09-29T02:59:00.002+06:00

Like a living jewel you breathe light
As I window shop through the glass pane from the sky.

Cryptic

2008-09-09T12:13:00.002+06:00

It is only when you are being choked , and you are gasping for air , that you realise the worth of the breathing oxygen that you take for granted.

And sometimes you need to gasp in order to open your eyes wide. And don't close them. If you do, this moment will be gone.

Gusts

2008-08-06T11:17:00.003+06:00

It wasn't even a month back so I remember it quite clearly. I was waiting for a bus, sitting on one of those make shift stools. There was a nice, cool breeze wafting from the shaking coconut leaves. I was tired after a long journey and I fell asleep, feeling my hair caressed by the wind, almost gently. I let myself sleep as I knew my friend would look after the backpack. A thoughtless, pleasant sleep on top of a mountain. I wasn't exactly enthralled or euphoric but had the feeling of happy contentment, like a fed baby. I want to get back there. To my mind, at that time.

Reverberation

2008-07-15T03:45:00.006+06:00

Hundred thousand hands erupting in applause and cheer. My brain pulsating with the energy and shock of sound waves. The footwork of red against green of some of the best in the world. Human despair and celebration at the most primitive form.

The sheer energy of raw human emotions.

At the temple of football. Maracana stadium. Rio de Janeiro.

Simply Water

2008-06-24T00:38:00.003+06:00

I have always thought it mildly unreal when it starts raining when I am swimming in a pool. Then imagine standing at the helm of a floating island in the middle of the night watching the waves storm up in fury at the sky which opens up to send quivering arrows of pure liquid. An almost paranormal existence where one is surrounded by the element in all three dimensions. Ah. Water. Glorious water.

Moonshine

2008-06-15T00:44:00.005+06:00

The dark night pulled off its drapes

to reveal the ivory sculpted full moon

as the ocean waves broke into silvery ripples of applause.

On the Albany Highway

2008-06-03T18:42:00.018+06:00

If you think the decision to go to Albany was done by opening the West Australian Lonely Planet and looking up the alphabetical list of towns, you are not far from the truth.

The drive along the Albany Highway was accompanied by torrential rain, the type that doesn't even make the radio audible. Within an hour, water had turned the arid mud road into red slippery slush and the bristling karri trees to wobble and dance like banshees in a trance. We were more than acutely aware of the vast distances between towns and how much longer you can drive without passing a single other car on the highway.

But when the rain stopped, our mood lifted. It was no longer the dusty outback that I was familiar with. The entire scenery looked newer, with the grass leaping out greener, the kangaroos looking cleaner, the deers more spotty, the orange trees brighter and the fat sheep much thinner. And sticky spider webs looking like crystal art.

It was dusk by the time we reached Albany. It is a quaint coastal town with a waterfront view from almost anywhere, lined with colonial buildings complete with spires and cobble ways. Walking around the town, I could feel the laid back attitude of a small town in the many of little things. People almost recognising everybody else. The restaurant owner coming around to tell everyone eating that the diner would be closed for the next day. And the way everyone waved and smiled at everyone else, in contrast to the click clack of high heels and boots meeting each other on the streets of the city.

The morning of the next day found us completely bewildered as all the roads of the city had been turned into race tracks! But the quizzical look on my face was enough to get ol' Bob,who had a chequered flag in his hand, started. He explained how this was a tradition in Albany for the last seventy two years and that we were very lucky to have landed on this opportune day. He was clearly very excited and I tried my best to look equally enthused to be witness to the 2008 Vintage Car Race. Or something like that. Despite being pretty skeptic about it , it was fun watching the entire brouhaha over it. All the cars were wearing the best colours for the occasion and as I was taking pictures of this tweety bird ...

the owner realised that he had lost his keys. Pitched in on all fours to search for the keys until someone jimmied the motor and started the car. And then all the fun began.

The map of Albany had little drawings of wind mills on the edge, and we decided to look at them up close. And as we drove up to what turned out to be a wind farm, it was not just one or two, but hundreds of windmills lining the horizon. They looked mildly ominous, standing super tall, in slow motion and looking over you like lean mean giants. Or like a congregation of aliens who were conspiring before they decide to take over the planet.

As we drove closer to the windmills, we found a post that called itself as the beginning of The Bibbulman track. As we treaded along it amongst bushes and thorns, the path suddenly gave away to a view that made me hold my breath.

Where else in the world but in West Australia can you find acres and acres of footprint less, pristine and gorgeous whiteness of a beach? And this point was at a height from which you can see the expanse of the entire coast - and watch tiny waves breaking gently against the sand, stronger waves fuming against the rocks and feel a wind that can almost blow you away. And as I stood chin up there, I had a feeling of complete liberation. There was nothing in the world that I needed to make me happier. I was simply glad to be alive to look at this.

A further drive away from this was a rather famous piece of rock called the Gap. As I looked closer, I found a placard saying that this was the piece of rock that had earlier connected Australia with Antarctica. It was pretty impressive, with huge waves lashing across this rocky precipice. And I couldn't help thinking of the friend whose eyes would have gleamed madly thinking of a bungee jump off that point. I for one, was content sitting on the edge and contemplating what must have gone through the rock's mind 40 million years ago as it drifted away from the whole. Was it like each one of us, searching for the meaning of its existence? Or drifting, letting life take its own course? But most likely that it was thinking like the falling bowl of petunias that went ‘Oh no! Not again’ .

At Salmon Bay, the edge of the southern most point of Australia. Aussies were trying their luck at catching fish. I was told by a local that I could throw a line almost anywhere there, and stand for ten minutes and manage to catch something. Being left brained, I stood for ten minutes there and made a discovery that had nothing to do with fishing. Salmon Bay had the most perfectly shaped wave, the kind that you draw in fairy tale books when you describe the prince going across seas in search of the princess who was held in a fortress guarded by a dragon. Yes, the wave.

The sunset over Albany. In this case, the picture speaks louder.

During the drive back, we had a hunger pit stop in a an almost ghost town with no people. The coffee shack, was an experience by itself. A family business, it called itself and had a note outside that if we heard the owners having a fight, we should consider it as business as usual. Ordered a cheese and salad sandwich and the owner grabbed a basket, went to the garden in the front, plucked a few tomatoes and nipped some greens that were growing out of what could have only been her grandmother's washing machine. She diced them up expertly and asked me casually, if I wanted goat cheese and whether I would like to see her niece's pottery art. Intrigued, I followed her into her house and there were these little dolls made out of earthen clay which had the look of fresh innocence that can only belong to a child’s work. From behind the door, a blond little head popped out and looking at me, popped back in. I craned my neck around the door and told Clara how pretty her artwork was. She blushed, giggled and kept looking down, curling and uncurling her apron while talking to me. While I was having my sandwich she came out with her 'special' ingredient that was supposed to make it much tastier. I told her that it was the best sandwich I had ever had. The aunt refused to let me pay for my coffee. Bridgetown. I shall never forget this place along the Albany highway, I told them. And I never will.

Oxygen

2008-05-30T22:31:00.003+06:00

What is it with the human heart that feels attached even to a hotel room after a week of stay. Moved when an almost stranger leaves an unexpected box of wine and chocolates. Feels touched by an old cab driver who waits and makes sure your fumbling in the bag resulted in the finding of keys. Smiles fondly at the gurgling laughter of a Chinese two year old when you try chopsticks.That leaps in joy looking at an orange elm set afire by red clouds, knowing too well, that even this will pass away.

A Summer

2008-05-22T15:21:00.003+06:00

Crackling heat. Burning bright on a glorious green neem.
On the man's back. Breaking sweat into tiny rivulets.
Coconuts rolling around in a cart. Like a random game of pin ball.
Beach crabs. Walking sideways on stilts on a sandy runway.
Fresh cold water on a parched throat. Mind burst into a rain dance.
Creaking fans. Mindless lapses of wakefulness. Into a yesterday.
Starched cotton sharp and crisp. Into mushy mildew as a drop of water. Falls.

Back from the Blurb

2008-04-13T22:36:00.003+06:00

This was a trip that had happened more than two years ago. But suddenly, looking at a few shaky photographs, the words spill ….

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I don’t remember thinking much as the plane landed in an airstrip surrounded by unremarkable concrete as I sat eavesdropping on the conversation of the woman sitting behind describing the dog that belonged to her fiancé.

The airport was definitely the most dirtiest I had set foot on. With burly, unfriendly policemen patrolling around, my thoughts began to spiral into something close to disappointment and apprehension as I couldn't find the friend I was supposed to meet at the airport. Great. Alone in a new country which I had begun to dislike and more importantly, without even a reservation for a roof overhead. So much for being impulsive and following one’s instincts or rather, the lack of it.

Just when I was about to look for a taxi driver who did not have a crooked nose, my friend materialized and I swear I haven’t been more happier to see a familiar face against the sea of mob spewing and chewing in a language I couldn't comprehend.

During the train ride from the airport to Rome, I began to relax, trying to sink in every inch of the walls filled with graffiti. Just coming back from Oslo, this city was just as different as polished radish is from grubby potatoes. But as the night grew colder, I was beginning to warm up to the place..

Reaching the heart of Rome, with the night air filled with the sights of ancient, regal buildings, walking around was like..magic. Like those houses where the toys suddenly come alive in the night, these marvels of architecture seemed to get drunk with the thickness of the night and revel in unabashed glory. And we sat content, in front of the building, that half broken arena that was moonlit by an unequally broken moon which made the whole scene more complete than I could have ever asked for. Sighing. At one of those moments in life.

I had come prepared to get awed, but the city was just too much to take. Milling pizza houses by the road side, white flowers set aglow by lilac lights, a sudden turn and a magnificent marvel in marble, my hands on a sidewalk which once had the hands of Michelangelo shaping it, dark cobbled alleys lit by the sound of a violin, fountains gushing through the hands of cherubic angels, people waltzing around to the sounds of street music, I could have walked forever.

And that was exactly what we did, considering that we did not have an accommodation anyway. But as luck would have it, we found a caravan that was for rent, sunk deep in mud to the point that it was no longer something that could move. But we gladly trudged in, and woke up in the morning to find that the caravan was infact, parked in a lovely garden and also that we had walked almost into the next town.

Off we set back to the city of magnificent ruins, this time, viewing everything in a literally new light. Gawked at people who had dressed themselves as ancient gladiators, silver statues that looked so real that even a pigeon would believe, street vendors selling only umbrellas. But all this was drowned in the sea of white marble, brown baked ancient bricks and gigantic columns that you thought this moving sea of humanity was merely floating around in this place before the ancient emperor and his army blew them away and claimed the buildings which were rightfully theirs. And true to that, most people kept a respectful distance from the buildings, didn’t really stay in one spot for long and did walk around with a look of wonderment in their face.

That evening, we set our minds on eating breakfast the next day in Pisa. We heard that as there was a railway strike, there was only one train bound for Pisa in the next two days and we promptly bought tickets even after the warning from the kind man at the counter that the train was overbooked. Squatting on the floor of the overcrowded train bound for Pisa, hearing bawling babies in the distance , looking at green fields roll by, smelling the smoke from the exit nearby - it all seemed so madly real that I felt it was surreal. And then somebody decided to play music. It was one of those Russian composers whose name rhymed with Schottky and arguing with my friend that it was not the name of a mosfet transistor , I fell asleep.

Landed in Pisa at three in the morning, tremendously seized with hunger. And obviously not a single food store was open. I couldn’t really believe it was happening to me – hunger, sitting on pavements and sleeping on train floors like a tramp. But as we started walking, there was this glorious moon and charming bridges with silvery waters and all was right with the world again.

So at three forty five in the morning, I found myself staring at a fairly small tower that was not standing quite straight. With not a single soul around. And a shy sunrise just about to begin. There was nothing really magnificent about the tower honestly, but the sheer fact that it was imperfect, and standing proud despite that was something that struck me in the wee hours of the pale, baby morning.

Quite forgetting that we had a train to take, we lingered around the city as the day dawned on the tower, bringing out people whom I began counting and soon lost count.

A charming place, really, with corner shops selling excellent coffee with warm cookies. And it started raining and there was this sudden burst of colorful umbrellas that popped up like magic mushrooms. People who own such incredible umbrellas must definitely be very feisty, I concluded..

To find out more about them, I will go back there. Someday.

Red and Blue and White

2008-03-13T09:41:00.006+06:00

'In God we trust' said the coin that I carefully pocketed in the Traveler's Exchange counter. As I walked around the Los Angeles airport, it was pretty much like any other international airport, except for the loud din of yelling people. When I listened closely, the accent immediately reminded me of Saturday night television. Feeling hungry, as I always seem to do when I land in an airport, I walked up to the Pizza joint and asked for a slice with a bottle of water. I was served a slice with a glass of Coke. Too tired to protest, I made my way to the local airline.I couldn't help but chuckle at the airline brochure that described how if all the metal of the Coke cans consumed by only students in the country in one day were recycled, one could make 21 Boeing planes. So much for statistics, I thought as the plane landed in my destination of Knoxville, Tennessee.

For the trivia oriented, Tennessee is supposed to be the place where Elvis Presley is from. The next paragraph has nothing to do with him, however.

Knoxville is a rather charming little town, as a walk around the place revealed. Walked into the Blair's Antiques, which is the kind of shop where you would think you can find Mad eyed Moody's eye if you could stretch your hand far enough into the wooden cupboard that has a grinning gargoyle on its handle. I was completely taken in by a wooden revolver replica which I am now thankful that I didn't buy. Walking along a daffodils lined street, I reached a hand painted sign for a deli that sold pizzas and subs. It even had a sketch of Michael Jackson holding a pizza. Alright, someone with a black hat, black glasses and very red lips holding a pizza. Most surprisingly, under the crackling heat, sound of afternoon cars, I could still hear a few birds chirping in the vague horizon.

A drive to the nearby Great Smoky mountains during the weekend was through a series of changing landscapes. We passed through Gatlinberg which is this vibrantly colorful town with huge Ferris wheels, an upside-down building, sprawling parks with dinosaur statues, peppered with children holding holiday things in their hands like balloons, ice creams and well, parents.

On reaching the Smokies, I was quite elated to find the trees carpeted with a fresh blanket of snow and found a spectacle that is every child's dream - ice candy growing on trees.

--- More odds and ends on Red, Blue and White coming up.

One Liner

2008-03-04T14:18:00.004+06:00

I hate this country. For breaking my heart with its sky tearing mountains, deafening waterfalls, contentedly gurgling brooks, nodding huge ferns, pastel perfect rocks, budding buttercup lilies and madly twinkling night sky.

New Zealand. I want to take it back with me.

Abstract

2008-01-21T15:52:00.000+06:00

I have always wondered what was inside the West Australian Gallery. And today, I decided to find out when I passed it by. It was one of those buildings, which blind you as soon as you enter with an impressive effect of steel, granite and quietness that it takes you an entire minute to figure out ordinary details like staircases or, the ceiling. And once I got that figured, my sigh of relief was caught mid air by a florescent rhinoceros clambering at ninety degrees on the wall. Next to it, was a gigantic dragonfly cut out of triangular wooden patterns. Thankfully, between these two was a window out of which I could view the comparatively normal Perth skyline of a railway dome and a builder's crane. Otherwise, I could have thought that I had stepped by on the sets of a high budget movie based in the future. Yes, I do exaggerate.

Next to this science fiction art, was a show by a certain Bernadt. It was an array of mannequins donned with designer clothes. Strangely, all the dresses were black and the mannequins headless. So, I guess you can imagine this vast expanse of a cubic white room filled with silent, headless figures dressed in a black garb, like a congregation of magical beings before they plan to take over the planet. And I was the silent, last witness.

Sauntering away from this scene, I found myself in a photography exhibition. Looking at the stark black and white pictures of humanity and animals captured in time, I found my cynicism slowly being replaced by growing awe. There was a magnet like quality about these pictures, which were definitely not aesthetically pleasing. Standing in front of Old man shaving his beard, I could feel myself transported into the picture, walking by the cracked road, looking at this old man who seemed lost in concentration and I suddenly stopped my gawking when I felt my toes curling under the hot African sun.

In the room adjoining this, was the real art gallery. With the expected canvases of flowers, landscapes and human anatomy. And I stood there gazing at them, enjoying every brush stroke and soaking up the drops of paint. What I love most about most painstakingly created paintings is the artist's eye for detail. Whether it is the horse's bridle in its reflection in the pond below or the symmetric ridges in a house's roof, each little discovery makes me beam. And at the end of these conventional paintings was a set of psychelic prints which I couldn't completely appreciate, but I thought they would look rather cool as T-shirt designs.

Nearby was a section on aboriginal art, and I was quite surprised to find a picture which was actually there on a T-shirt I had seen in a souvenir shop not too long ago. Yes, sometimes truth gets stranger than fiction.

Baby Sunflower

2008-01-15T12:33:00.000+06:00

Impish smiles with a naughty twinkle that glints like a little sun. Baby sunflowers extending pick-me-up hands. Alfresco plays under a fingernail moon. Melting chocolates steeped in bailey. Ice blue beaches with caressing sand. Men with cute dimples. Friendly dogs (yes, dogs) on their morning walk. Surprise gifts with a lovely footnote. Movies that move you. Organic popcorn that makes you go pop-aholic. Rippling, cascading chocolate-ness before it fluffs up into a cake. Watching ships walk down the aisle into the sunset. Aimless walks chugging steams of coffee.

Things. That make you Believe.

Alloy

2008-01-09T11:02:00.000+06:00

This was one of my first experiences in living in those flat type places in Chennai. Have you ever wondered why we call it a 'flat'? And just let it splotch and fall flat on its face, even without giving it a chance? Yes, you open your door and find the mirror of your house staring back at you. Yes, you can hear exactly when the baby on the ground floor is hungry and when the boy opposite is getting a dose of verbal medicine from his mother. But it has just opened up my whole perspective of how other people lived. It is quite entertaining, really, in a Desperate Housewives sort of way.

And for new years, they had this general body meeting to usher it in a community spirit, sans the spirit of course. Where there was a motley of children singing endearingly for a while and I listened from the comfort of my sofa, with the open window doing the amplification. It was close to midnight when I heard The Voice. It was unmistakably an adult's. I am going to write the next few sentences in the complete belief that the mami living few houses away does not read my blog. Or even if she did, she wouldn't think this is her. Well, The Voice was remarkably tuneless. If I can throw my diplomacy away, it sounded really bad. Make that really really bad. Of course, I couldn't make out the language. And out of sheer curiosity, much unlike the children who followed Pied Piper, I slipped down in my pajamas in my quest.

And there The Voice was, singing with eyes closed, absorbed in The Music, the mike trembling in trepidation and the few people standing around to watch, transfixed to the spot. As I was watching flummoxed, there was this little girl in red ribbon and blue frock who was slowly starting to giggle. With her tiny hands covering her mouth, her body was shaking in the effort to cover up, with her eyes dancing wildly. Looking at her, I gave the burp of a giggle and I knew that instant that it was the beginning of what would be an embarrassing story that would circulate tomorrow. As our eyes met, I began to puff up with choked laughter until better sense made me whisk Red Ribbon to the car park nearby.

And then we laughed. Giggling madly , in loops until I could feel tears in my eyes. This went on till The Voice went on. Slowly, as my laughter subsided, I watched her dreamily swirl around a pillar, alternating the legs that go up in the air. I remembered being like that not too long back. Somewhere along the way, I had obtained this capacity to feel mind numbing despair and not feel unalloyed happiness. Somewhere along the way, I had grown up. How and when did that happen?

Concrete Sunset

2007-12-27T19:45:00.000+06:00

To soar higher than the sun,
You fly at sunset.
But little do you know,
About the darkness that descends.

Someplace Else

2007-12-22T01:36:00.000+06:00

Bits and pieces picked up from here and there.

Port Lincoln. If you look closer, you can see the only footprints . Of gulls.

Port Bluff. And a calf.That mooed a message for its cousin I am meeting next month.

Bluff. The city with the broken smile.

This view broke something in me.

Queenstown. Does the mountain look like an aftermath of Holi or is it just me?

If you listen closely, you can hear the water hum with radiance.

Book Marked

2007-12-17T08:14:00.000+06:00

I have to confess. I have never really been the adventurous type of person. Let us not even go near bungee jumping or scuba diving. In plain roller coasters, I would be the self appointed person who holds every body's bags and stands firmly on Terra firma. It stems from childhood actually, when I used to prefer cozying up with Malory Towers in the library than getting my pigtails pulled by scruffy boys in the football field.

So what was I doing, getting tossed around like a duck in a swirling bathtub, in the Antarctic Ocean? And it was supposed to be part of my job profile. And as of the minute when the biting breeze was chewing my hair, I thought that I would rather not be doing anything else. It is amazing, this continuously evolving human mind.You are now not the person you were a minute back. So what happened to the person you were ten years back? And what will you be ten years from now?

Doing the flashback again, I remember opening a well thumbed copy of the National Geographic at the dentist's when I was fifteen. And looking at one of those photographs that always look so beautiful that you believe it is beyond your reach. It was a picture of an exotic looking volcano in New Zealand, its spout laced with snow. And that was the first thing that crossed my mind when my bouncy ferry touched the shores of Invercargill -one of the southern most points of that country.

A modern town which could very well pass for an Australian one if you had taken me there blindfolded. But wandering by myself, the first thing that struck me was the complete lack of foreigners there. To the extent that I got the kind of stares that a foreign woman would get at the temple in Guruvayur. The road was lined with little shops lighted with christmassy bulbs and twig reindeer. Naughty lingerie shops and kilt wearing bagpipers. And as I was soaking the spirit of getting ashore, I was joined by my friend who was hunting for a place to lunch.

The best thing about exploring a new country along with a person from another country, is the perspective. For instance, we realized how women from this part of the world line up in front of tanning salons in search of the sun kissed bronze look. While those who do have the brown skin layer it with fairness creams. We always want what we don't have, don't we?

Lunch was in this cafe that was quite weird. It had some scene from the bible painted on its ceiling. And plants that had no leaves. And I can swear my coffee was spiked with jalapeno pepper. But I had one of the best conversations I have had in a long time. We wondered if humans could breathe underwater, considering that we do breathe in amniotic fluid before we were born. We wondered if it would be possible to have aeroplanes which would fly from New Zealand and beyond the atmosphere, wait till the earth turned on its axis and then land in London within half an hour. We also wondered what was the song in the strains of the bagpipe we could hear in the background.

And as I have always believed, the best experiences in travel are not about the scenery or the night life. It is always about the people.

Lost and Found

2007-12-15T08:01:00.000+06:00

You hide it under the pillow.
Freeze it in an ice tray.
Lock it in a cupboard.
Throw it in the attic.

Your disappointment.

But like all things, you find it when you are not looking for it.

As the reason for someone else's happiness.

Freedom and beyond

2007-11-29T23:15:00.000+06:00

The water is soupy with birds. Amidst the flock of brown, black and white specks, emerges the most magnificent flying thing I have seen. It unfurls its wings, leaving gravity behind to lesser mortals like us and glides seamlessly into the pewter sky.

If I told its name, you would immediately have unpleasant images of it created by that rhyme about the ancient mariner. Or pictures of it in captivity.

Contrary to all that, I believe with all my heart that if freedom had a form, it would be that of an armada of albatross in flight.

Break over Dawn

2007-11-27T06:04:00.000+06:00

There is nothing quite refreshing as watching the dawn break over your first sight of land amidst a fiercely cold wind, after days of being thrown around in turbulent seas. The blue silhoutte of land slowly forming a majestic mountain barrier topped with snow.

And swarms of birds swooping all around. They are black and white, much like tiny penguins with wings. And these penguin-birds have this strange fetish to glide a semi circle, swoop down and skim the surface of the water with the tips of their wings. Maybe it gives them the same tingling sensation that you get when you have water droplets falling on you from the leaves of trees, after the rain is gone.

By the Way

2007-11-24T20:08:00.000+06:00

Let me describe this town of Port Lincoln to you. It is this kind of quaint, old town that still looks like it has not woken up from the 70s. This is indicated by the hand painted discount signs on the walls of shops. By the coffee shops that aren't part of the StarBucks or Dome chains. By the huge trucks that roll past you, covering you with yellow powder from head to toe. Pure, pristine beaches that are footprint less. Old people ambling about, hand in hand, crossing roads in a mild gleeful jog. And in the sound of birds chirping that can be heard at midday, in the middle of the main road.

And I entered one of the cafes, clearly in search of its title, 'Delight'. It was one of those places where the owner of the shop takes your orders, brews the coffee in front of you and serves it as well. In this case, the old lady decided to give her customer company as well. And I heard about how her grandchildren were the bestest, and how the Prime Minister was useless, and how a big storm of eighty knots the day before had flattened the tree in her backyard. And it was excellent coffee - the kind that comes as a strong milky whey with a sprinkling of chocolate powder on top, served in a mug that had poppies sketched on it. Delightful.

While walking out of the cafe, there was a small by lane, which I entered and found an entire seascape staring back at me. An extremely quiet beach with not a single soul in sight- not if you count the seagulls as souls, however. The kind of still scenery that makes you fall in love with immortality and hate the inevitable transience of life. The kind that makes you marvel at the random sequence of events that brought you up to there. And be glad for pure existence.

Head In the Clouds

2007-11-15T19:17:00.000+06:00

So much of limitless sky, endless sand and infinite water. Makes me light headed and cottony like a cloud.
I look at the quivering world outside through a drop of water in the windshield. I look at the sunset reflected in the rear view mirror, where the sky looks closer than it appears.

I look up at the clouds where a vortex comes straight down, swallows the sun in its shining ruby spin and shoots up, and quickly changes its color and shape. Maybe so that it doesn't get caught by the moon when it comes on its night patrol.

What the Planets Conspire

2007-11-03T23:47:00.000+06:00

Astrology. When you say it, there is a sense of abstractness to the word that is markedly different from the concise, solid feel of the word astronomy. Astrology, as I understand, is how your life is affected by the motion of certain planets in the universe. So, when Mercury makes a turn in its axis, is it going to determine if I am going to ram my car in a U-turn?

Maybe. Maybe not. It demands the benefit of doubt that you need to give to anything you can't completely explain. Like the presence of UFOs.

When six months back I was told by an almanac-pocketing aunt that the planets were conspiring against me, I gave a benign smile of indulgence. And today, when I was told that I was back in favor with these celestial beings, the benign nod struck again, and surprised me by bringing with it a mild trace of happiness.

Some things stand stranded with no thread of reason. Like why I still wish when I see them shooting stars.

Rain Wash

2007-10-30T17:11:00.000+06:00

There is something about this city that embraces the pouring rain. In the way the leaf drips water like the sweating glass of chilled wine. In the way the water breaks into indigo ripples of applause as a brightly painted bike passes through. In the way the school kids play lets-paint-each-other-brown. In the way the little tea shop makes takeaway packs of steaming vadais packed in the day's newspaper. In the way the clouds roll over, smirking at the power they have over the tired wet clothes dangling from plastic clips.

In the way the little drop gets clasped in my hand, with the intimacy of two pages in a closed book.

Footprints on the Ocean

2007-10-02T13:19:00.000+06:00

Watched the sun rise as it blew auburn ringlets in my hair and golden ringlets in my friend's. And in a sudden fluke of the way the ocean smelt, the way the sun shone, and the way we giggled, I was transported back to another place, another moment, releasing happy sparkling bubbles like a freshly uncorked bottle of champagne. Wished I could bottle this feeling in a tiny cologne flask and dab a little in the nape of my neck when I needed it. But instead, I left the moment in the ocean, and gently tip toed away, as it is considered inauspicious to leave footprints on the ocean.

Glycerine

2007-09-22T17:22:00.000+06:00

As little things you had fervently hoped for come crashing down,
You persist like a tiny windscreen wiper fighting against gushing rain-
One drop at a time.

Black as in Statue

2007-09-17T09:30:00.000+06:00

What is it about time, that makes you more cynical and less trusting, more courteous and less genuine, think more of tomorrow and less of today, more indulgent in health fads and less indulgent in ice creams, more mature and less impulsive, exercise more and play less, more money driven and less content, more out of touch with friends and less in touch with yourself, more acceptant of failures and less acceptant of frankness , buy more shoes and kick stones less, and makes those stars in your eyes that once made you dream, slowly but surely and relentlessly fade away ?

Sometimes, I wish I was less human.
And more like pure carbon.

Cherry Morning

2007-09-15T10:58:00.000+06:00

The curtain slowly flutters, in an attempt to blow a cooling breeze towards me and wake me up. I open my eyes slightly to the sound of familiar trees and smell of mild sunshine. But the cosy, warm blanket around me refuses to let go, holding me in a tight embrace that I don't want to break. I try to think of the last thing that was running in my mind before falling asleep, but my mind appears clean and fresh, like newly washed laundry smelling of a nice detergent flavored with lime. I reach out and fish the book I was reading the night before and continue dwelling in its pages of a house painted like a garden and a girl who plays hopscotch in an abandoned nunnery. There is only one thing that I want this moment to complete this picture. A favorite cat. I stretch languorously, much like a cat, and pad slowly downstairs to a room that is set aglow with the sharpness of light that can come only after the blunting effect of morning rain.

Balancing a cup of ginger and honey tea and my book, I proceed to sit in a chair outside, situated in the midst of a garden that could have been. There is a lulling, soothing insulating quietness. With the sounds of chirruping birds and jostling trees that seem to only add melody to the silence, instead of interrupting it. I notice how there are little white flowers reflected on the glass like specks after a snowfall. And how the dried leaves seem to huddle together in the comfort of old age. And how I ended up starting the day with tea instead of coffee. Things change, and so do you.

The Morning After

2007-09-07T20:46:00.000+06:00

There is this thing called as the subconscious. Which is of frustrating familiarity as is standing in a queue outside a government office. Futile in its sheer logical and bureaucratic impossibility. It utters a faint murmur and before you can reason or argue, it deposits itself as an injured, sulking bundle in the corner of your mind. Then you try to lodge it out with wheedling arguments while it hums a tune incessantly, in a vein that is close to smugness while your mind swirls trying to place the almost forgotten tune that you had heard yesterday night.

Seeing is Believing

2007-09-05T12:51:00.000+06:00

There is something quite charming about these train rides in Europe. The passing landscapes flip like a picture postcard gallery - dark chocolate horses outlined over lush green meadows, pink ice cream houses with white layers of icing, yellow fields with smiling and shining corn, water that gallops across rocks in a free fall, streams adorned by colorful pebbles underneath.

And as we traveled further west from Oslo, the scenery was soon cloaked with carpets of pristine white.....

I quite didn't feel like getting off the train when I had to at Myrdal, a little town on the way to Bergen, situated on the west coast of Norway. From there, we took the circuitous way to Flam and waited in its rainy desolate station as a quaint and rather ancient looking train wobbled its way towards us and huffed and puffed as it stopped. It took us through deep ravines and resounding waterfalls, creaking its knees all along, like a retired roller coaster. And a terrific ride, it was.

And from Flam to Voss was in a boat, through the crusty, awe inspiring fjords that border the country. Unbelievably mind blowing. By its mere existence. And as a few seagulls pirouetted their way in between, I knew that this was a Moment. Which is one of those that make you heady, ecstatic and also makes you believe you have supernatural abilities like flying and dancing.

As we reached Bergen, the rain was pouring in torrents and we finally found our destination for the night just when our wet map decided to wilt into paper mush. The next day , however, the rain left leaving all the green trees greener and wet roads wetter. Making the gorgeous green at Mount Floyen leap back at my eyes, and dance in swirls...

After a winch ride through seven mountains and fjords, and a little trek through gorgeous green, yellow and pink and everything summer, I sit back in the wharf of Bryggen and close my eyes. I can hear the strains of a distant violin playing in harmony to the sounds of horses' hooves. I can hear the mild rippling of water as the yacht near me tries to break free. I can hear the distant busy sounds of a fish market. A bird call. And that would be the picture I would take back with me.

.... Scape.....

2007-08-29T00:21:00.000+06:00

So much of sky in a fluffy cloud coat...

So much of water decked in diamonds...

So much of sunshine on fire...

Heartbreakingly so.

That I could almost cry.

We, the living

2007-08-27T23:22:00.001+06:00

Whatever the color, race, creed or sex, we, the living, reduce to the same resolution. Of infectious laughter, aches in the heart, conspiratorial winks, unfulfilled wishes, euphoria and quiet solitude.

And so we seek the one thing. Happiness. Risking the one shell that protects us. In all our vulnerability.

Of Rheine and Fine Whine

2007-08-23T00:33:00.000+06:00

My memory of the Perth airport is of bawling babies and drunk men, in the scaly backdrop of waves like in the Timor Sea. The scene pretty much followed at the Singapore airport where I was fervently wishing that I was rather headed to a nearer place like Phnom Penh or Jebel Ali than on the eighteen hour flight to Oslo. Else, I wished I could at least be the little kid nearby who was flailing her arms and legs in an open tantrum that she did not want to get on the flight. At the least, I found myself sulking that it would be nice to transform into one of the plants that sits cosily in a mud pot, cheering on the running passers-by. And when the plant shifted its leaves in a belligerent sulk directed towards me, I decided to abandon all humanity and plant and headed towards a secluded spot from where I caught the sun by surprise as it peeped into the world.

I watched along with a wicked cup of chocolate, as the sun extended its rays, gingerly trying to grasp the shape of a plane's wing, pat the head of a tall palm tree, bounce against the glass wall, and dance in my swirls of chocolate.

And I flew into the sunshine, seated next to an old Italian couple with the cutest English accents. And the flight flew so low, that we had quite a squealing time looking outside the window and spotting Afghanistan , islands of Greece and the Rheine. And that was when the power of the plane to traverse such vast expanses of land in half a day , truly sank in. Suitably humbled, I opened my Douglas Adams to find that it was about a girl who travels to Norway, through Heathrow and takes the 15:37 flight to Oslo. My jaw dropped so low that it hit the Siberian desert below. But what happens later in the book was that there is a blast at Heathrow and she never reaches Norway. Fingers crossed, I reached Heathrow.

The Heathrow airport doesn't need much description. It is like this musty cardboard box which has people walking inside it, looking as if they are in perpetual search of their luggage or their loved ones. Through a hole cut in the cardboard box, I had a view of the city, London, which looked like it was painted by this artist who ran out of all colors except grey and black. As if to prove my point, big fat droplets of grey splashed all around, bringing out more black umbrellas and raincoats.

And yes, for those who are curious, there was no blast at Heathrow.

However, there were some interesting stories in the papers on the way. In Singapore, there was this rather amusing article about how scientific studies of monkey behavior has helped their political science students to predict reactions in politicians. And this went on for half a page. In London, submerged within all the useful information about the Prince, there was this article on how people with blue eyes are more intelligent than those with any other color, with key words like science and proof and Alexander Fleming. The person who wrote it was obviously not blue eyed, if the theory held true. And if the person was blue eyed, then the mere presence of the article disproved the theory. As Holden would have said, it nearly killed me.

By the time the plane swooped towards Oslo, I was so sleepy that the green tips of coniferous trees looked like acres of bedding, topped by a misty starched blanket. And there were also candy shaped cloudy pillows billowing around. And that is the last thing I remember seeing.

Remote Connection

2007-08-12T02:02:00.000+06:00

Remember that shampoo ad? In which there is a young girl, tossing her obviously uncombed hair from left to right alternately, looking critically in the mirror, leaving you no doubt that the ad was either about a shampoo or a neck sprain balm? And then the door bell would ring. Leaving you no doubt that a dashing young man was about to enter with a bouquet of red roses in his hand. You still watch in enthralled concentration, as the door opens, and he enters , of course with his roses in tow, and a seemingly genuine grin that would disappear at the sight of messy hair. And only when our dame gets a pretty mane with the help of our No1shampoo, he would give the roses to her, literally sweeping the floor and hence her, off her feet. And there would be a chorus singing a jingle which would hum in your mind when you use the shampoo next.

If only things in life were that predictable.

White Magic

2007-08-09T03:09:00.000+06:00

The night still drips blackness left behind by the sorcerer's dark coat. The sky sparkles with the shining drops of mercury that was spewn by his spell. I watch the sky shaking the drops in the rhythm of rippling water. I extend my hand, trying to grasp a fistful of the silvery starry dust. But the spell left by the sorcerer has not been broken. I feel myself getting pulled by the moonlit, white ripples in the water, in a plane where gravity has turned to the horizontal. Underneath my skin, there is no fear, no pain, no hunger. There is no sense of destiny as the darkness glows with light.

For a minute, I am immortal.

You Name It

2007-07-30T00:57:00.000+06:00

Karthik slipped into the seat with a visible sigh of thankfulness. It was the peak hour of the day when the bus was always crowded and he had strategically stood in the gap separating two rows of seats so that his probability of finding a seat doubled. So much for his math as a struggling chartered accountant.

He peered out of the window, more for fresh air, than to enjoy the passing Madras scenery. He always noticed the names of the shops, however. Though, the names of the roads, he had no idea. ' Taj Tea Stal' , with a hand painted three stars, he knew, would be near the little Shiva temple in front of which an old woman always sat threading flowers into neat strands of worship. And he would always smile at ' Diamond Motors'. What was the owner of the shop thinking? That his motors were as precious, or shiny as diamonds? Or, as his astute friend had once pointed out that the owner's wife's name must be Diamond. Yes, Diamond Kuppuswamy, she must be. And they had laughed all the way through the journey.

And the bus screeched to a stop near the Oxford School, and the smell of fresh paint indicated its arrival. And he also knew this was the stop in which she got on. As she entered with a basket of vegetables, he was immediately conscious of himself and looked away, outside the window, lest she thought he was one of those types. She was young and frail, and not certainly what one would call pretty. But she had this charm about her, an air which seemed crisp, like her neatly tucked sari. She entered the bus, obviously tired after her day of selling greens to people who always bargained just for the pleasure of the gamble. And she always made them think they won. Otherwise, they never came back, she knew.

She must be called Kayal, thought Karthik, just like he thought everyday. With her fish-like kohl lined eyes, no other name suited her better. But today, he noticed, the happiness that danced in her eyes usually had taken back stage. And she had this vacant stare, as if she had lost something that can't be replaced. What must be her problem? Drinking husband? But no, he had never seen any toe ring. And as his mind was racing with possibilities and solutions, ' Thomas Church' came, which meant she would get down.

And as she did, a friend called out to her from below.

'Kayal' .

Attack

2007-07-25T23:40:00.000+06:00

The alien spacecraft hovers over the horizon, its metallic eye gleaming at the thought of conquest and destruction. Waiting silently to swoop down on its unsuspecting prey of a planet.

Don't tell me I didn't warn you.

(Sadly, if the earth were to exist tomorrow, this picture would have been dedicated to m.)

Of Light

2007-07-22T01:19:00.001+06:00

Chandelier. How grand the word sounds, almost like a member of a royal family. And sparkles like a jewel, unreachable on the ceiling, like those stars in the sky. Just as I am thinking so, I find myself shrinking in size , and I stop at the size of a bee. Instead of doing more fun things like socializing with fellow bees with a glass of honey, I go near this chandelier, which now seems like the huge palace of glass, tempting me to come near with its enchanting light. But once inside, it is no longer beautiful, but in fact like this never ending labyrinth of light, where my magic wand is blinded at its intensity. Light reflects from fragments of glass, mirroring me into an army of pygmies. And the light is neither yellow, nor white, but a pale cream, what is more commonly called off-white. Very familiar, this light is. I am not able to place if it was the hand lamp of the vegetable vendor, or the table lamp over chemistry books or the spotlight in the government museum over the dinosaur bones. Strange, how anything grand, unreachable and mystical finally breaks into smaller pieces of more familiar bits that is preciously mine. And to believe I would have taken it for granted if not for the chandelier.

And so it was..

2007-07-17T18:30:00.001+06:00

One moment of my life passed by as a honeyed skyline took shape.
Paint it as it is. Hold it close. Embrace it. Celebrate.
For that moment held a very rare and precious thing.
That was close to contentment.

Faith

2007-07-09T08:29:00.000+06:00

Is pretty unexplainable. I remember that the full force of the word had hit me, in a rather unrelated way, in the mosque in Ajmer. Watching hundreds of people bend low at one instant, with their white caps touching the floor, I had been moved by the sheer magnitude of their emotion. I think I realized it more so because at that moment, I had been devoid of any feeling, and was quite impassive to everything around me. Quite like how all wise realizations dawn once you have fallen out of love. But do these people really love God ? In the true sense of the word? Or is it fear. Or is it the fact of having a safe haven where hope is replenished. Or is it because believing in a superior existence gives one a safe cocoon where you can have someone to take the blame for all things good and bad and prove the fact that one can never truly control one's life?

I visited a temple in Perth recently, and was surprised, that I felt the similar void. A kind of numbness where I almost envied people who could lay down their troubles and worries with the surety that someone else would take care of them. The only places I have felt anything close to devotion have been places of worship which have intangible memories associated with them, where I feel I am going to visit this familiar friend who would give me empathy without question. Like the Saraswati mandir in college. Where the cool marble floor would soothe the most common problems of heartache and bad grades. Merely writing about it makes me want to go back there, in search of lost faith. But maybe, that is not what faith is all about.

Wednesday Afternoon

2007-07-04T16:22:00.000+06:00

It is Wednesday afternoon. A listless city.
Where sunshine jabs yellow and green sweaters.
To the tune of a violinist's poverty.
People sit together. But in all reality
Will be moving apart tomorrow
Today's happiness could be morrow's sorrow.
Hark. These thoughts profound.
Do you smell cookies, golden and round.
Handmade ones, you imagine with satisfaction.
(But on the way) A baby and mother blowing a bubbly loop.
A couple dribbling a double scoop.
And a you. On the glass's reflection.

Blip Blop

2007-06-29T08:28:00.000+06:00

Little Yellow Polka Dot jumped into every puddle on the way. Splash said the water, jumping out in fear. Lavender Flowers bent low and picked it by the collar and marched off to school. Clickety Clack said her boots.

Stoopy Brown Checks bobbed gently to allow two grey heads under his canopy. Clip Clop said the walking stick to the pavement, as Dark Black Checks hurried along.

Bright Red Flowers with matching lipstick, dreams of Yellow Sun as she walks with a smile. Ho Hum she sings along.

Here a Splash. There a Clatter. Everywhere a Plip-Plop.

I watch as the umbrellas go marching by.

Justice

2007-06-26T14:06:00.000+06:00

You watch the scales of the balance dance with each other
To join in a verdict.
Like lines in a poem leaping after each other
To join in rhyme.

You know why there is some harmony in poetic justice.

The Present

2007-06-20T21:50:00.000+06:00

It is wonderful to wake up and have nothing to do for the rest of the day. And watch the gulmohar tree drip water drops from red flowers as a reminder of the night's rain. And lazily indulge a chubby squirrel with nuts , watch it nibble and then contemplate between naming it Noddy or Nobby. Do the crossword while sitting in in a balmy patch of sunlight while a crisp dosa steams its way into my hands. Go to a shop and find a little girl clasping my hand in wide eyed confusion. Watch, whistle and hoot in a theatre unabashedly. Make a two day plan, drive for two hours, discuss the outfit, all in an effort to eat Italian.

Sometimes, it is good to enjoy the sunshine of the present and pretend short sight. And ignore the darker crevices that far sight, or even hind sight would decide to show.

Kleptomania

2007-06-18T19:52:00.000+06:00

Has it ever occured to you that any from of writing or any idea, steals its aroma from the olfactory senses of the outside world, a sniff from a rose, from the petrol bunk, some from the sea , the sky and the wind.

A story on a similar topic led me to think about this. How all writers steal unknowingly from the outside world. Your heart ache. His hazelnut brown eyes. Her printed bandini motif. Their frenzy in a concert. Her pearl necklace. His stammering words. Her hands over the piano.Your grief stricken face.

Taken with fidgety fingers and pocketed into words, without a tangible feeling of transaction. Like a wave grabbing a fistful of sand in its folds, in the form of a castle, or a grain and depositing it as a new strand of dna. Without a shred of the allele that it was.

In Memory

2007-06-13T17:27:00.000+06:00

I shall always remember her hands beckoning me onto the bus, 5E, at the bus stop. And with beaming gratitude, I would deposit my ninth grade book bag to her as I clambered on to the bus. And that was when a relationship ensued that went beyond that of a student and teacher.

Interesting, thought provoking conversations, oblivious to the conductor's whistles, squabbling vegetable vendors and screeching tyres. Some of which I remember to this day. The one in which I said I have never had the best moment of my life yet and hers was the day she gave birth to her daughter. The one where I shyly, with utmost hesitation showed my first poem which met with the most encouraging approval , without which I wouldn't have written another. The one in which I was reprimanded for not polishing my white canvas shoes enough. And during her class hours when I was one of the other students, just when I used to get mildly angry that she would pretend the morning conversation never happened, I would be met with a conspiratorial smile.

And the black little puppy. Which a friend and I found limping in the school playground, and we smuggled it into the Biology lab, with the assumption that she wouldn't mind. The lecture that ensued that ended with yelping laughter. And the joke , looking at the lab's skeleton as our skeleton in the closet.

The last time I met her was five years back. She was the same, sitting on her chair in the lab, just as I remembered her. She had said I looked pretty and grown up now. And I had asked if she still travelled by 5E.

Want to tell her now that I had madly admired her, that she had definitely touched my life and made a difference.

In The Eye

2007-06-10T04:49:00.000+06:00

A grain of sand. Following you . Wherever you looked.
That. Even with hot and wet cheeks. Refuses to be cleansed.