Be Amused

Attitude as big as the...bus.

Cynic me

So,this kid here was totally disinclined to a conversation I was trying to start about what exactly he intended to do with those empty mineral water bottles he was refilling from Allahabad railway station public water taps. He continued to ignore me completely until I told him that I thought and feared those bottles would get resealed and sold as new at the stalls. He finally relented in rough local lingo only after I clicked a picture of him threatening that this could be a snapshot that might land him in trouble. My assumption was absurd. This kid sells refilled water for 2 rupees in general compartment of trains.

The City (Journal 2)

The Excursionist (Journal 1)

I will be posting a pic and sometimes more everyday from here, there and everywhere that i have been and loved. If you have questions or thoughts about these, feel free to bug me.  I'm an excellent tour guide.The sand biker on the left is me.  OK, that  was a joke. Trust me, beautiful as it may look, you have got to be slightly insane to go dune smashing  like this in mad heat and sand dust - mouthful, eyeful and earful to say the least. Anyways, not a total wimp, i am tucked inside in the first picture.

                                                

Chha, Vic and I M, hello.   :)

Travel A Pic A Day With Me

XYZ

45 years ago

On a piece of land in a very salubrious locality a house was built for and under the supervision of the vice-principal of the Polytechnic, he was an engineer himself. Sadly, he never got the chance to live in it because just the day before he and his family were to move in, he slipped in the bathroom , hit his head on the sink and died of head trauma. People said to the widow that the house would bring only bad luck but she with her three children decided to move in. She grew turnip in the backyard and kept her kitchen warm. 

Yet

The Picture of Dorian Gray has been resting at page 44 because there have been distractions. Things needing attention and time. She stands in front of the divan sofa which she best utilises for reading and then glances at the clock. The doorbell rings incessantly- one, two, three, four, and five times. Almost tripping, she rushes to answer the door. Her five year old is grabbing the front of his shorts and scurries to the bathroom, ``Mummy, wee-wee!’’ she laughs and calls out. ``How was school? Did you finish your tiffin?’’ and life goes on.

The nth time optimism

She purchased about a dozen and a half t-shirts, five skirts and two pairs of jeans. She didnt know yet of the itinerary but the trip abroad was imminent. She wanted it to be perfect. She had been planning on losing weight for six years. She must now. Starting from tomorrow. Only today she will binge on a box of mixed fruit pastries from Ribbons and Balloons and the thick creamy strawberry shake at McDonalds. Also, she must not miss the doughnuts with jimmies from MOD.

Ego

She knows its him but just says, ``Hello? ’’ some seven times into the mouthpiece. He remains silent. She waits. He places the receiver back in its cradle.This has been going on for over a month now. He has not shaved in all these days and looks poorly. He doesnt sleep well and is thinking about her all the time. He will make the call again tomorrow, same time,sharp at 9, thats just before she leaves for college. She grabs her satchel and is on her way hoping she will not have to wait forever for his sorry. 

Artsy fartsy Conceptual Art

She always tries hard to figure out the mind of her photographer boyfriend in his work. These are a series in a row, they all look the same to her, like 22 copies of a single photograph but he had insisted they are not. ``Look at the rain drops, the window is a canvas, the rain paints, differently each time.’’ She wonders what he really feels about her being so artistically challenged. She looks around , everyone seems to be enjoying the open air exhibition. She goes to get some beverage at the portico. He comes from behind her, pulls her close and kisses the top of her head.

Photographs, a dime a dozen

My porridge cup
Plumes on my Coldplay T-shirt

Amsterdam, by the side walk
Holding cotton clouds on its thousand year old branchlets
Time
Once upon a time, there were many little toys
From the terrace in the countryside
Gold ink Buddhist Thangka
49 flavours. Net Wt. 4lb
The making of house-boat in the backwaters
Frangipani sisters
And they all called it a day

Dear Family, I protest (since your initial enthusiasm for owning a dog has passed).

This is Champak Lal, a little over five weeks old. I’m not big on dogs but this pooch’s one so-lost-in-this-world look and I’m a goner. He’s adorable and all those names you may feel compelled to squeal in delight-snowflakes, white frosting, cotton candy or soft vapour bundle but wait, he’s also little puddles, no, MANY little puddles of susu/piss(atleast ten in an hour) and also occasional melted fudgies. I'm going nuts cleaning his mess because everyone else’s ass is just so high and mighty or too fat to stoop! FYI , getting this pup wasn’t my idea, in fact I wasn’t even around when this idea and the pup came home.

PS - Ok, I may have exaggerated a bit on the frequency of Champak Lal’s peeing but seriously, be nice, develop some dignity of labour, sense of responsibility and above everything else, get someone to potty train him!!!

PS2 - Champak Lal, no issues. I do love you. Really.

PS3 - Lord and Lady Slothingtons, don’t hope that I will feel guilty about posting this. It wont happen. :D About time you picked that bloody mop.

And here's something totally out of the context http://webneetech.com/2009/12/22/interview-with-blogger-tongue-trip/

A day of Nouns and Two Photographs

Caramel Toffees
An Equal Music(dog-eared at 179)
Suzanne Vega
Jumbo Jet vapour trail
Oven-fresh-baked cinnamon bread
3 Postal greetings
Tiny windmill souvenir(s)
Agony Antidote
(I )Love (you)

A Tin Full of Tomorrows

At night
in thunderstorms
in the balcony full of potted Philodendrons
pregnant and big
she shudders
cowers
sobs
and bleeds.

At other times
you could hear her scream
but that’s only
Tinnitus in her ears
you know, that noise within.

Last night
I heard her again
when I pressed my ear to the wall
she doesn’t wish for death, she said,
and likes to go for walks.
She also likes the colours pink and white
Walt Whitman
and Snickers Bar.

Little Stoic and her friends

This was on one muggy summer afternoon from the years of unstructured rearing when disobedience and shenanigans are nonchalantly tolerable.
Every evening upon finishing our homework and a glass of milk, the friends would gather at the derelict outhouse which provided the most suitable setting for our juvenile games.
Out of the seven, after the ritualistic chant of ``in-pin-safety-pin-in-pin-out, khelna hai to khelo warna (play if you like or else) get out!'', I was the singled-out participant for the `dare you’ game of the day. Very compliantly I climbed into the corroded age-old closet wherein I, `poorani almari wali chudail' ( the witch of the old closet) , the spell-weaver, had to remain till my companions would challenge and call out in choral rhyme, kya tu hum sabse darkar, baithee jo almari ke andar, bana sakti kya hum sabko bandar, chala kar apna jadoo mantar? ( are you afraid of us that you hide in that closet? Do you have the power to weave a magic spell and turn us into monkeys? ). Thereupon, I, the closet witch, had to come out of my cubbyhole and cast my spell on whoever I’d come upon first.
I did not see the lever turn in the black opacity, nor did I hear the hurried footfalls fading on the desiccating grass. I waited alertly for that signal from my friends, instead, I heard my sniggering mates yelling out that they had tossed up the key to my freedom high up which the sky devoured. Funnily, I did not find my friends' meanness peculiar.
It must have been the clamminess inside, or the suspended stale air, or the cold solid metal against which I reclined sideways, tucking my legs together. In next to no time my olfactory nerves became comatose and I slept. Or fainted.
Noises.
A weepy and a very hysterical mother discovered me.
Sometimes I dream of those tittering friends from my childhood days.
The key, it was never retrieved.

Cyclone alert, my bloody ass

Last evening was at Worli, by the sea. Good idea, left the umbrella back in the car, bad idea, was in denims and a cold shoulder top. Took off the scrunch and let my hair loose. Rolled up the frayed ends of my jeans. Walked over to the bench, the one at the distant end, unoccupied, all of them. Hugged my knees to the chest, resting my chin. The sea, a disparate version of Monet’s unflawed watercolours. Pelt down through the murky, weakening light. Still too early to return. Missed ma's divine bhuna gosht, a ritual every monsoon..she makes it fiery with pepper corns and lal mirch that goes in the phoron.
Shivered uncontrollably. Noisy chatter of the teeth. Cuddled up closer, tighter.
On my way back, a frankie at the Linking Road, pretty decent. Two of the old fashioned doughnuts, the ones dusted with powdered sugar, supple and warm. Another two take-away for the just in case post-midnight-sweet-yen.
Two days, two nights, the out of season gentle sprinkle continues today.
All this and there is no diversion.

Vacation (2)

This woman in diaphanous white, in some verdant outdoorsy land, captures a brilliant butterfly. Perhaps the Monarch or the Clouded Sulphur or some unbeknown species. Dead black with thin splodges of untarnished gold all over its wings and delicate fiery scarlet trimmings. The woman panders to this unsophisticated instinct, with childlike naivete, she pinches it just so lightly between her thumb and the middle finger and unhurriedly places it on the tip of her nose. So amused by the prickle and the tickle of its teensy feet on her skin, she begins to chuckle in gurgled mirth. Blithely, she then places it on her cleavage, holding it there for a few sensational seconds just before setting it free. It quivers and quickly flutters away. Unthinkingly she runs her palm over her bosom as if to smooth away the goose-bumps.
The spirit of this diurnal insect is so catching. It does not die away with the lengthening shadows of the day. It is simple, elemental, unspoiled. It is happiness.

The Almost Perfect Vacation (1)

Under the weather

Grumbling Gerbil Eggspressing

I DON'T THINK YOU WANT TO READ THIS

I feel real crappy, you know, that time of the month kind of crappiness, and then the so very annoying visiting relatives having taken up your room so that’s like TWO WHOLE WEEKS OF COGENT CRAPPINESS, or when you totally ruined your new crepe dress spilling over kala khatta (yeah still that gore thing they are making with mineral water these days) crappiness and having that bad feeling that your plan for the big holiday is actually going to stay just a plan….that sort of STINKPOT CRAPPINESS. Now that’s exactly what’s happening to me right now. I think ill just go eat worms, fat ones juicy ones…how did the rest of it go? AAARGHHHHH And whining about this isn’t actually helping me much, its only making me realize that I am feeling THIS pathetic , so PATHETIC that I am actually even writing about it here and there might be people who will come visiting me and probably even leave pep-talk, sweet hugs, look how the sun shines brightly kind of good cheer comments for me. Or maybe they will just find this SO BORDERING ON NOXIOUS NEGATIVITY KIND OF POST that they will just never want to come back again. NEVER. Sigh. Guys, I love your comments/feedback, especially when its from these certain people who actually do seem to like my blog. Well, I like them too, actually I like them a lot and not just for their visits here but more for what they are doing, I mean there are these bloggers who have compelled me to smile even laugh when I really wasn’t even in the mood to. OK, now I must put this down, I so HATE those who leave comments without even actually reading the stuff( and I can always make out, mind you! SNIGGER SNIGGER), then you may sometime, later, while leaving a comment at someone else’s post come across this feedback left by the same other blogger saying exactly what he/she said for your scrap some fifty days ago!!! HOW BLOODY LAME. Now that makes me angry, actually that makes me MAD ANGRY. Hmmmmm now I’m thinking what’s with this ACTUALLY word that I am using in almost every fucking sentence. No, but really why do they bother at all? For me to get curious about them which would obviously take me to their posts pouring mellifluousness in the comment box? Gee I'm so twisted. Am I? No, I'm not. OK, never mind, so as I was saying how I hate the………
OK, I think this is not at all going how I want it to. Maybe I should just shut up. OK.

The Ninth Letter of The English Alphabet

I have an idea
Its called Love

I have a story
Its called Life

I learnt a new spelling
Called Subterfuge

But couldn't master the trick
Called Mind

I avert a curse
Called Religion

I am on a high
Called Spirituality

I have two names
One’s called Mistakes

I ride on the carousel
Called Intimacy

I dog-eared the ghost pages
In the Book of Yore

I slip into this cardboard box
Called Memory

Concealed in the circus tent
Where murdering The Clown
Is a felony

Warm Glow
I have fallen in love with these old fashioned wrought iron lanterns. If anyone’s got anything similar and antique, I’m buying it.

Red

These nail paints can have such amusing names, Scandalous, Vampire, Sugarplum, Bohemian Blue, Jealous Green and so on. This one is called Always Flaunting. Go figure!



Sharing a Secret

Bruno and Brutus

Cola wallah at your door-step
Super cool! I mean I was like what the……!!! Happens only in India?



Chirp-ling
Early morning this she sparrow was perched on the bamboo vase in the balcony, tweeting away. Groggily I dragged myself out of bed and snapped her.



Monkeys
I shooed these boys who were climbing up the almost naked tree to pick the last remnants of spring. It was hilarious that they actually believed I was clicking them to pass their photo to the Environment Police.



Brutal
500 pieces of this Dutch picture-painting puzzle. The pieces are not as big as they may seem in this close-up. I think I will frame it once done. Next challenge is a 1001 pieces.




To Bee or not to Bee
This bumble bee was most likely struck by the ceiling fan . I found it lying there on the table, head twisted, its antennae still alive when I stroked them with my pinky.



Sweet
My ``Happy Birthday!'' cookie with a mini chocolate topping and a candle.

Untitled

Since her children left home she has been cooking much less. Her recipe book which has pasted scraps and cut outs from weekend supplement magazines or newspaper is resting on the headboard next to the picture frame of her kids when they were nine and eleven.
Some good years ago there was a time when she would simply not hear of those exotic smelling soaps for the skin. She insisted malai, besan and coconut oil were the essentials to a healthy-glowing complexion. Of course I fancied the shampoos and those beauty bars the emigrant aunt would get from abroad but she never relented.
These days she calls often, sometimes even up to four to five times in a day. I sometimes feign a patient ear (being not at all a phone person). She asks me,
``Do you remember if I used to put tomatoes in UP waali saunf-aloo sabzee?''
``Certainly not. You were never a fan of tomatoes, anyways.''
She agrees and is plainly irritated at her frequent forgetfulness. Then the other day she sounded troubled over her thinning hair (result of taking prescription medication to treat diabetes), wondering hopefully if I could suggest a remedy or a shampoo. I tell her about Fab India stuff that I swear by. And as always she readily believes I know the best.
Before hanging up she asks again if I will be able to make it home for Diwali. ``The ticket is booked,'' I assure her.

Hello, Reader, just talking

I like my ice cream halfway melted
always avoid coleslaw in my burger
and blush at the drop of the hat.
I hug trees and trust me it doesn't look ridiculous
I think Vega's songs have the soporific cadency of poetry
I find prolific out-of-kilter cliches and phrases in Cohen's lyric poems
I know Jimmy Page was not a charlatan
and Clapton, uh nevermind
I find this fact amusing that Steely Dan is named after a giant steam powered dildo featured in some novel
and that 10 cc claimed its superiority over the average 9 cc sperm count
I think Swift is entitled to more than a passing consideration
and Coleridge was the ultimate dreamer
I turn to Gulzar and Kabir for comfort when I want to unburden.
Perhaps a lesser known nazm but very distinctly Gulzar I am putting down here. For the not so familiar with Urdu reader I have translated a few phrases at the bottom.

Mod pe dekha hai wo boodha-sa ek ped kabhi ?

Mera waqif hai, bahut salon se mein use jaanata hoon

Jab mein chhota tha to ik aam udaane ke liye

Parli deewar se kandhon pe chadha tha uske

Jaane dukhti huee kis shaakh se jaa paanv lagaa

Dhaad se phenk diya tha muje neeche usne

Meine khunnas main bahut phenke the pathar us par

Meri shaadi pe mujhe yaad hai shaakhein dekar

Meri vedi ka hawan garm kiya tha usne

Aur jab haamla thi 'Biba' to dopahar main har din

Meri biwi ki taraf kairiyan phenki thi isi ne

Waqt ke saath sabhi phool, sabhi patti gaye

Tab bhi jal jaata tha jab Munne se kehti 'Biba'

'Haan,usi ped se aaya hai tu, Ped ka phal hai'

Ab bhi jal jaata hoon. jab mod se gujarte mein kabhi

Khaanskar kehta hai, 'Kyo, Sar ke sabhi baal gaye?'

Subah se kaat rahe hain woh Kameti wale

Mod tak jaane ki himmat nahin hoti mujhko
...............

parli (on the far side)
haamla (pregnant)
Biba (the wife)
kairiyan (the raw green mangoes)

My box of charcoal and colour pencils

Gossamer

MOJO
The politics woman

The girl from next door