Ivy

That somnolent branch
Bottle-green, solitary
Dewy and alive
After a drizzle
Sits on a red brick wall
And moves with the balmy breeze
Breaking my morning reverie

I gaze at it
Framed in the grimy window
Of the Mumbai local
As toes in battered chappals
Scuttle up and down the bars

For a moment, I forget
The repugnance of reeking
Filth on the tracks
And the jostling-for-space human flesh
As the babel of screams
Turns into a fading echo

Not Quite Toeing The Line

This is a first. I haven’t been inside a mall for a month now. My broken metacarpal doesn’t permit it. Now I feel far too restless. Nobody at home pays any heed to my demands for that particular variety of organic brown rice and green tea infused with lemon, mint and honey. For weeks I have been a sitting duck for their ministrations.
Sigh.
I never thought a spot of spot jogging would put me under house arrest. Or “a compulsory holiday,” like my doctor declared. Just like dear old Reggie who would ski all over the slopes without incident only to come home and slip on the bathroom floor. I guess it is after all like Ram says, “Es Muß Sein.” It Must Be.
Besides the pain and the terrible inconvenience to me and the family (to say nothing of the two crutches), I must admit it hasn’t been all that bad. No rush hour traffic, no smelly trains, no malodorous commuters, no grubby platforms. No sprint runs to catch the local, no gymnastics to get in and no sukha bhel.
There were of course friends to regale me with tales of paranoia, hypochondria, matchmaking and summer recipes. Some even paid a visit. It’s a pity that my synthetic blue plaster did not allow for any autographs. The faraway beau, for his part, sent sweet nothings for the beleaguered bone.
I have an appointment scheduled this week. May the X-Ray show healing. Then it is back to the grind. Not that I mind.
Mind it!

Wuthering Heights: A Prelude to Ecstasy

In two different worlds
We roamed the moors
Together
Hearing the anguished words
Of doomed lovers
Merge with our own
And ricochet off
The pauses in our dialogue
And the eternal rocks beneath

LDR Musings

Late night calls.
E-mails.
Kisses.
Lost And Found.

(I didn’t know about the acronym till I got into one.
The beau is back)

Luckless

Darius' eyes finally met those merry brown ones whose attention he had been seeking for a fortnight. He had stood in the aisle unable to control himself from staring down at her. Even as passengers pushed and biffed him in their rush to alight, he stood mesmerised. That was the first day. He had gathered curious looks from passengers at the time. Since then he had exercised restraint.

He took the same bus, the 714 from Dockyard to Marine Lines. The bus lurched heavily, thrusting headlong into the traffic. At every signal, it stopped with the motor still reverberating and then picked up speed overtaking tiny two-wheelers till its next halt. It’s intermittent motion mirroring Darius’ thoughts. He knew that she eyed him, or at least he liked to think that she did. Maybe surreptitiously, her spectacles helping her to steal furtive looks at him. And now as she glanced at him over the sheaf of newspapers she held in her hands, he felt the blood rushing up to his ears. And why not? Wasn't he good-looking, well-built and decently attired?

Her hair was tied in one tight knot at the nape of her neck. Her exposed ankles were always fastened with thin brown straps. Wasn’t her footwear like that of a schoolgirl’s? Brown shoes and black buckles. Only the socks were missing. He smiled. Why did the picture of a homeless owl enter his head whenever he thought about her?

The bus felt unbearably hot. At every detour it took, Darius cursed inwardly. How long would he have to undergo this ordeal? He had saved enough to buy one of those small cars. He lapsed into a pleasant reverie, thinking about driving his car to the bus stop where she’d be waiting. He would roll down the windows in style and offer her a lift. She might refuse at first, shyly and timidly, he would insist and then she’d accept, smiling. He would drive her to work, breathing in her perfume, listening to music, talking and laughing. And then he would do it everyday. Well, almost.

He felt comforted to see her safely ensconced in the place reserved for ladies. It was always the same—the window seat in the third row on the left. She looked oddly familiar. Today, he would get off at Marine Lines and follow her, only to see where she lived. Maybe with her parents or better still in a hostel.

She shifted in her seat, folded her newspapers, collected her bag and got up, wading through the crowd to get to the door. He followed, hoping to alight immediately after her. In his effort to be right behind her, his right foot came heavily on her and left an ugly imprint on her dainty brown shoe. She eyed him with disgust. "You creep! Are you blind or what? Can’t you see where you are going?" she snarled at him. Some passengers snickered. "Sorry," was all he said, before he slipped away.

Zephyr

In the desolate fields lies a tree that’s dead.

Charred to the roots with scavengers for blossoms.

The heat is oppressive, the breeze engulfs you, leaving a film of dust.

Two old villagers have furtive eyes.

And only the birds fly into the yellow haze

with cries that pierce the sun.

Mayhem and Sadness

The attack by Shiv Sainiks at the Nallasopara function is shocking, horrifying and brutal. I read about the incident in the papers, saw the video on TV, and it was disturbing. And the function was not even held to celebrate V Day, which people assembled tried to explain.

A crowd of hooligans broke down the door and barged into the hall. Some of the men, groped at women, pulled them by their hair, pulled their clothes, slapped and kicked them. The men who tried to protect the women ended up being whipped themselves and were beaten with iron rods. A distraught girl clung to other members in her group, and one man went up to her and slapped her hard. She cried in pain, and he would have kept hitting her had someone not intervened. The DJ who had taken a loan of Rs 4 lakh for his equipment, now just has the broken pieces to behold.

Among the attackers were four councillors of the Nallasopara municipal council. How could the TV crew just film it so nonchalantly? Only a handful of the goons have been arrested.

And these vandals have the gall to say ‘Jai Bhavani’ at the end of it, chanting slogans, and laughing after molesting women, hitting men, pilfering the jewelry and watches and even pocketing the samosas and cold drinks at the party. Why this dislike for V day celebrations? What can be achieved by the utter denigration of some citizens who just assembled to have a good time. Are there no other pressing issues—poverty, education, unemployment? Why leave this trail of destruction? At least stick to the ideology of Shivaji Maharaj if nothing else.

Shivrayanchya nakhachi pun sar nahi ahe tumhala. Kharach, parat ashya jantya raja chi garaj ahe...

At Kala Ghoda

Finally, I could go for Kala Ghoda Arts festival after two years. Anya and I reached CST station at 10 in the morning. After an exceptionally refreshing cappuchino we cabbed it to the Kala Ghoda intersection. And arrived just in time for the heritage walk.

The guide, a cheerful young lad, lead our very enthused group through Elphinstone College and the David Sassoon library and garden. We gazed at those Neo-Gothic and Gothic wonders, with their corinthian circles on pillars and steeples on the rooftop. Elphinstone college for one, had a most impressive facade and an even more beautiful lobby with antique chandeliers. And it also has a staircase that looks straight out of The Haunting.

The exterior of DS library resembled a quaint holiday home more than a typical heritage structure. The peaceful garden within its precinct was where I later came back to in the evening. A wooden spiral staircase on the second floor led to the terrace which afforded a pretty good view of the city.

And after that we somehow managed to lose our group. So we went to Westside instead and while away a good hour there. Then it was looking at all the displays on the Kala Ghoda Footpath. From paraphernalia resembling bollywood sets, cartoons on ghise pite Bollywood dialogues, to astrology, mehendi, shoes, bags, clothes, papier mache, puppets, nameplates, jewelery—and lots more. It was a very carnival like atmosphere. There were some exceedingly eyecatching sketches for sale-those of the Gateway of India surrounded by a flight of pigeons and another of Flora Fountain in all its minute details were truly unforgettable.

And then Anya decided to get her face portrait done. A scrawny old painter sketched a very lifelike pretty Anya! Our next halt was at cafe Samovar. Indeed, a delightful eatery at the Jahangir Art Gallery, we pigged out on parathas, green mint chutney, an assortment of pickles and dessert: strawberry parathas with ice-cream. Yes, we reacted just as you did when we came across the food item in the menu. But to our disappointment it was nothing exotic, just rotis stuffed with jam and served with halved strawberries and a huge scoop of vanilla ice-cream. But sinful nevertheless!

We then spent a quarter of an hour gazing at some totally inexplicable paintings. Only the nudes needed no deciphering. The art works on the terrace were mostly landscapes. One depicted a cart passing through a foggy street in Old Delhi—although done in warm colours it looked very desolate.

That done we visited Max Mueller where Arzan Khambatta’s ‘I’m Only Human’ stuff was on display. Hmm, unusual, eyecatching, some spikey, others round and all in shades of brown.

And there was this other exhibition dedicated to the ‘Crow’ that had poems, essays, animations and paintings truly capturing our dear scavengers in all their glory! We headed to K R Cama for the screening of Arth, an arthouse women-oriented flick, with a great performance by Shabana Azmi. I really liked the song “Tum itna kyu muskura rahe ho?” Hmm.

Then Anya left, and I went to David Sassoon for the Non-fiction writing talk by Darryl D’Monte, Dilip DeSouza and Dionne Bunsha. Discussion revolved around books, media, journalism, falling standard of newspapers and blogs. Amongst the hundred of things that were talked about, D'Monte remarked that the MMRDA itself is situated on a bend in the Mithi river and so is the NSE. That was part of his reply to a question concerning 26/7 amd development issues in the city. Pretty Scary.

Then I sat through a few short films that were part of the 'Beats, Bars and Air Guitars' theme dealing with music in the UK. Ho hum.

All in all a very fulfilling and a happy day.

The Year Of The Dog

Came across a horrifying news item today. Dogs are eaten in China. They are brutally butchered, most of them subjected to a slow and agonising death which supposedly tenderises the flesh and enhances the flavour of the meat.

As of now, the French SPA is crying out against this heinous crime. In fact, newspapers and magazines refused to publish pictures of the severed bloodied body parts of dogs as they were too shocking. It is speculated that thousands of dogs are consumed annually. Even Koreans eat cats and dogs. Dog meat is believed to have aphrodisiac and other beneficial qualities. Which weirdo would subscribe to this line of thought? And this practice is centuries old.

The mere thought of eating dog dumplings is enough to make me throw up. As if killings goats, cows, pigs and birds weren't bad enough, even those furry affectionate darlings have to come under the knife.

New Year At The Cross

I could not have imagined a more glorious way of welcoming the new year.

The five of us stood on a desolate cliff that overlooked the ocean. At a place called The Cross. And indeed, a pale white cross does stand out from the overgrown heather covering the hilltop. Known only to the locals, The Cross is the favourite haunt of couples. No wonder, Goa police keep patrolling the area.

We shivered in the wintry breeze. Nonetheless, we were glad to be away from the noisy carousing and come to this quiet spot that afforded such a breathtaking view. It’s a sheer drop from the cliff. There are rocks below, and then an endless stretch of the sea. Only faintly can you make out the horizon, the sky and the sea seem to merge. Like someone remarked, the night sky really looked like a blanket of stars.

And in the distance, were the lights of Dona Paul, then there was Vasco up left and a tiny row of lights lining the private beach at Cidade de Goa on the right. The landmass before us spreadout like an arc, and hundreds of fireworks erupted along that semi-circle.

Oh, the fireworks! I have never seen a more spectacular display! One after another, rockets burst into the dark midnight sky shimmering brightly in all the colours of the rainbow. Some glowed silver and golden for many seconds together. The sky became a riot of colours. Every time a rocket appeared, it would be like daylight. Some rockets flew high up and shone brilliantly before dying out, while others were not so luminous. And with each firework that exploded, we could hear a loud crackle up above.

If one rocket went off at the far right, another would appear in the centre and more would go off towards the left. Our heads turned and our faces shone in the light every time a firework hit the sky.

This went on for a full ten minutes. Afterwards, as everything turnded peaceful again, it was the sea that appeared to glow. A deep mysterious orange colour started to spread on the dark waters near our cliff. Actually, the water was reflecting the lights from the shoreline.

We sat down carefully and tried to dangle our feet over the edges of the cliff. The wind was bitingly cold. Now, we could only hear the waves. And even they seemed serene.

Time Stops

A million specks of sunlight
Fresh mountain air
Bramble and cherries
Rustling of leaves
The whistling wind

Twilight followed by sundown
A forest filled with crickets
Faces dappled with moonlight
Under a starry night sky

Walking Into The Past

I could not tear my eyes away from it. A solitary relic, it was incredibly beautiful—derelict and ruined yet regal. How could so many people pass it by without even a glance?

In spite of being in the midst of the busy thoroughfare, the area was strangely peaceful. I glanced up at the towering building. At first, I just stood still gazing at it. Inscribed on the arch of the front gate were the letters “THE ROYAL OPERA HOUSE”. Around it were empty sockets that must have shone with bright lights in better times. I felt as if I had entered another era. I conjured images of the past—when this place must have been alive and full of activity. Men, women and children, all dressed in their Sunday best, to enjoy the evening matinee. The Royal Opera House in Mumbai ever since it was built only screened films. Had any soprano ever stepped here? I think not.

It was interesting to note the figures in the frieze right at the top of the structure. Each holding one musical instrument—the harpsichord, the violin and the cello amongst others. The figure in the centre appeared to be wearing an ugly black crown of thorns. I scrutinised it further and realised that it was just bramble. Further right, a Roman guard remained sentinel. They were beautifully sculpted.

I walked to and fro trying to absorb every brick, every angle and even the creepers around that encircled the struture. I wanted to feel every inch of the building with my fingers. There were hawks circling the hot afternoon sky. The withered ivy leaves around the wrought iron trellis of disfigured balconies fluttered gently in the wind.

The building looked onto the main road. Within its premises there was a small compound that was empty except for an old dusty vehicle and a dingy eatery. An incredibly long four-wheeler, it was parked in the centre of the compound and covered with a muddy cloth and layers of dust and dry leaves. I was tempted to lift off the cover to see the make of the vehicle. Must be another vintage oddity. And the makeshift restaurant was painted in yellow. The board said ‘Italian Mama Mia—Mama knows best’. It had a huge drawing of the Little Mermaid on one wall. So much for evoking the Italian ambience!

The only person I spoke to was the gurkha, who sat on a chair in the courtyard. He appeared to be in his sixties, had a crop of white hair and was of scrawny built—even he seemed ancient. He said he had been the watchman ever since this place showed the latest films released. He was very hesitant to talk. And somehow I did not want to persuade him any further.

The building was locked, there was no way I could get in. The sole occupant seemed to be a stray dog who lay asleep within the grilled portico. What would it feel like to be inside the cool, musty and dark interiors? Would there be a Phantom who haunts the lonely corridors?

There were some baniya stores built into its ground floor selling raddi and other scrap. An utter decadence of a once majestic edifice. I gave the Royal Opera House one last look and hailed a cab.

Half-Blood

I finally finished reading Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. As always, I was glad to be able to sink into another Potter adventure. More so, after reading the Fan Fiction of the Half Blood Prince, which I admit was immensely exciting, but too melodramatic and implausible.

The most interesting parts of Rowling's book were Dumbeldore’s and Harry’s exurcions through the Pensieve as they revisited Tom Riddle’s past. The house of Gaunt, Merope and Riddle Senior’s ill-fated alliance, Merope’s death and the orphan Tom’s gradual change into Lord Voldemort—were I think the most intriguing parts of the 6th book. Apart from these insights into Voldemort’s past, there was not a single instance where You-Know-Who ever made an appearance.

Somehow Dumbeldore’s death didn’t wrench buckets of tears as it should have. And obviously there has to be a reason why he trusted Snape so much. In fact, even in the end, Harry admits that the Potions book had helped him—the bezoar saved Ron’s life, and even when he used Sectumsempra on the loathsome and pitiable Draco, Snape did not take away the book.

And of course, Dumbledore’s last journey with Harry, and the confrontation with the Death-eaters were other nail-biting moments. And who in heaven’s name is R.A.B? If he or she turns out to be some hitherto never mentioned character like Eileen Prince, then it would be difficult to find out. I guess I’ll just have to wait.

Rowling is good. But sometimes, she can be exasperating. Take ‘snogging’ for instance. What’s the big deal about it? First its Ginny and Dean and then Ron and Lavender and then Harry and Ginny ‘snogging’ all the time. Couldn’t Rowling use ‘kiss’ or ‘smooch’ for once? It was totally overdone.

Although, the Amortentia potion points out who Harry would really care or crave for, how could he suddenly become obsessed with Ginny? Yes, she’s a hundred times better than that silly Cho Chang. But why make it all Bollywoodish and part from Ginny at the end?

And the name of the good luck ‘Felix Felicis’ potion has to be derived from the characters of LM Montgomery’s Road of Avonlea chronicles. From ‘Felix and Felicity King’, children of Avonlea’s King family. I am not complaining, any slight reference to the Avonlea chronicles makes me very happy!

The 7th will be brilliant, there are more four Horcruxes to be found and Snape to be dealt with before Harry finally encounters Voldemort.

I wish we could have Sirius back.

Purr!

Her name’s Miaow. She’s My Cat. Had been in hiding for some days, but I finally coaxed her out and put her back on my desktop. Ya, she’s a virtual kitty, but the most adorable one I have ever set my eyes upon.

Empty

She hates disappearances. There’s this horrible searing pain that makes her go numb and feel totally forlorn and helpless. And tears like huge drops of rain keep trickling down her face. Is it futile? Lonely it will be.