windmills_of_your_mind's Xanga

Ahmedabad Diaries by Yamini

Sat, 27 Dec 2008 09:37:31 GMT

December 2008

Hi! If you’ve known Dharini for more than 2 years, you might have read my tales about travelling through UK with Dharini. Well 2.5 years on, D found her way to Ahmedabad, the heart of Gujjuland, finding herself amidst all the Gujju food she loves to eat and I run away from.

Dharini on a Gastronomical Tour

Dharini’s call to my Mom before she gets here:

“Aunty, I’d like to eat Undhiyu! I remember how it tasted the last time you made it and I have been trying to find that here but just haven’t been able to find Undhiyu as nice as the one that you make”

Dharini’s words to my Mom, after Undhiyu, Bhakhri, Samosa Bun and several other Gujju delicacies:

“Aunty my Mom is convinced I have gained 2 kilos on this trip!!!”

(As if that’s humanly possible!!!!)

Dharini on Moobs

If you haven’t heard of this, moobs for Dharini are male boobs. And of course, she doesn’t shy from talking about them in publicly inappropriate places. Namely, my friend’s apartment in reference to the moobs of a dude sitting next to her which she wondered why he needed to cover. In the past though, she had indulged in comparisons. The men around Dharini, beware – she might be staring at your chest next! (Yes, she is a self-proclaimed feminist!)

Dharini and her feathered friends

Pigeons make Dharini happy. No seriously, they do. She starts smiling with a glint in her eyes when she sees one on her windowsill. At work, when bored with nothing quite entertaining to do, Dharini stares at pigeons. So when we came across a flock at C G Road, Dharini had to stop to feed them. Here’s the thing though, she decided to walk right into the flock, scaring them shitless and causing them to fly away before they realized she came bearing goodies. And she decided she needed to feed them herself. So there she was, picturesque and pretty, stepping out of a Victorian novel, being a gracious lady feeding one rather scrawny and greedy pigeon off her palm. While KK prayed she didn’t over feed them and end up having them crap over her newly straightened hair.

Dharini thanks God for a blocked nose

“Dharini, this guy has really cheap perfumes”

“Thank God I have a blocked nose”

“No I mean they sell really cheap perfumes”

“Yeah, I’m glad I can’t smell it”

“No, I mean they sell Gucci, Hugo and others at half price”

“Huh?”

“I mean they sell branded perfumes very cheap”

“Ooooooooohhhhhhh…..” *tubelight*

We’re debating whether this is a Yaminism or a Dharinism.

Of course, then Dharini still crosses the roads like she owns them, still laughs her open laughs with no care in the world, still smiles to light up a forlorn sky, still listens patiently to silly rants before she discusses the seriousness of her own affairs… and she still lets me sleep in rather than berate me for falling asleep.

Yes Dharini, you have the keys to that pretty little place in Greece, you are welcome to barge in whenever you like in New York – God knows I miss your stories involving slightly confused and paranoid men, writers with abysmal grammatical errors, journos on steroids, alcohol induced dancing at bar tables and silly little faux pas involving moobs – usually more than a pair.

Most of all, I miss your ordering me to plunge head first, to be unafraid to fall because you have all the faith that I will stand up right no matter what.

Love you and come and visit me in NYC soon!

A link to Dharini's description of the trip is at http://www.xanga.com/armaana

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Tue, 25 Nov 2008 14:15:39 GMT

Dear sea-of-my-city,

I've known you – perhaps better and longer than I've known anything else. Your fullness, your precise shade of grey.

Dipped littlefeet into pools of night. Placed fingers, hesitant, by your waves. Whispered things, things-I-cannot-tell, to your tides. Emptied myself – tears, questions, recriminations, panic – all of it – into greywater, knowing, trusting, with fiveyearold trust, that you'd hold it. Hold me.

Today, sea-of-my-city, keeper of my soul, custodian of all my secrets, I give you my grandfather.

You may not know him like I do. Seeing, as you must, but a fistful of ash, an urn of charcoal, milk and dust.

Let me acquaint you then with the man who is. Who was. It's only fair.

He was tall, very tall – ninety-one years, ninety-one feet of remembering. His face smiled, and his wrinkles, soft folds, said that he let life touch him. His hands were soft, as soft as your waters, and his voice, when he had it, was resonant, sure, and for the most part, unselfconscious.

You should know too that there were things that changed in the last month. He seemed taller somehow, almost as though he had moved past scales and integers, and his wrinkles, always deep, became cups of light. He was luminous, a glowing orb, shining the way fading-stars-of-the-milky-way do. So on the last day, when he said, sans dentures, with large, baby eyes – clearly, all too clearly, with just the hint of a lisp, "Doctor. D-o-w-n-h-i-l-l. It's all downhill", I sensed: he was leaving.

And he left.

Beloved sea of my beloved city, first among all I love, he's with you today. My grandfather.

My grandfather, you must remember, loved music. Travelling with him meant cranking up the stereo. And if there was no stereo, he'd sing – ancient ragas – darbari kannada – his favourite. There was a tune for every mood, a note for every God, a melody for each hour of silence.

Not that he minded silence. No. For, his second love was altogether quiet – the little garden patch, those pots of plants by his windows. He pruned them himself – their leaves, their stems, watered their roots, urged them quietly to blossom. So each morning, his most-adored of flowers, purple, no, pink, would greet him, wordlessly. On tiptoes.

More than pink-stillness though, beyond even song, my grandfather loved my grandmother. All four feet, ten inches of her. There were no grandiloquent gestures in this relationship, nothing obvious. Yet, on mornings when my grandmother slept too long, my grandfather would nudge her gently, walk to a tape-recorder, and play for her a singer she has always loved. And my grandmother would smile, rub her eyes. Wake up.

Sea-of-my-city, treasured friend, you hold in you a man who believed in perfection. When my grandfather would write, each alphabet would be exact, each flourish, decidedly measured. When he'd speak, he'd say, with a firm nod, that it was always the Queen's English. Impeccable. And even as the tubes criss-crossed through his chest, he asked the nurse to keep his pink shirt buttoned.

Sea of my city, collector of Orions, today you have the father of my mother.

Let your waves be gentle, deliberate – never awkward or tangled, never cluttered. Let them blush violently, turn pink. Let them hum to him, high then low, mournful, like a stereo's raga. Let them tell him of my grandmother, and my grandmother of him.

Most of all, dear sea of mine, tell my thatha – my only thatha – tell him I miss him. Tell him to come back home.

Saturday, March 15, 2008

Sat, 15 Mar 2008 14:55:19 GMT

Pics from Paros....

The view from the aircraft....

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Thu, 28 Feb 2008 13:02:53 GMT

To Paros....

:D

Monday, January 28, 2008

Mon, 28 Jan 2008 12:22:51 GMT

Greece will be my new home from March to June.... :)

To: paint and write and learn art history....

Visit, if you're around :D

Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Tue, 25 Dec 2007 20:50:11 GMT

I haven't posted online for a while.

There's nothing to say.

There's too much to say. Too precious.

***

But it's a new year (well, almost.). Perhaps, I can make allowances.

***

What I learnt in 2007

I've learnt that....

I need happiness, like I need the night, or hot-chocolate, or a set of songs that I listen to over and over and over again on loop.

I can spend a lifetime pursuing happiness. Or I can pause. And be happy.

Happiness is a risk. Sometimes (Oftentimes), I lack the courage for it.

I've learnt that.....

I must choose. There is stability. And then, there's a dream. One must grow at the expense of the other. Initially.

Stability can buy me sleep. But the dream is what makes waking worthwhile.

I've learnt that.....

Life untangles the knots and unravels itself, luscious and beautiful (look!), when I quit interfering.

I must quit interfering.

I've learnt that.....

I cannot be someone's concept. I cannot be one thing alone -- a woman-child, or a creature-with-stars-in-her-eyes, or a-proof-of-happiness. Sometimes, my skin sags; sometimes, the stars seem distant, very distant-- unknown and unknowable. Sometimes, I must curl up and cry like the earth is splitting. Sometimes, I am real.

It's not easy being me. I change too fast. Far too fast. I do not know the person I was last year. Next year, I will not know me.

I've learnt that....

I'm not exactly a people's person. I cannot socialize. I eventually snap. I need to withdraw into silence. All too often.

I cannot network either. I cannot make conversations-- bargains, and people-- tools. I find that-- it belittles the sanctity of human contact. If I talk to you, it's because-- you are beautiful to me right now. That is all. The rest is secondary. Or irrelevant.

I must leave, when the beauty ends. When the sacred is profaned. Even if it hurts. And hurts.

I've learnt that....

I need to keep moving. Because there is something out there. Something bigger. Something beyond the here and the now. There must be (yes?). And I must know it.

The earth is tiny, frightfully tiny.

The earth is just not enough.

***

Cinema: 2007:

These are films I've re-watched this year (for the nth time), or have only just come across.... so here goes, the list of films that made 2007:

1. Garden State (because there hasn't been another film, quite like it. Because there will never be another film, quite like it. Because of the soundtrack. Because of the script. Because.)

2. Amores Perros;
Y Tu Mama Tambien;
Lucia Y El Sexo

3. ALL of Ingmar Bergman, without exception (the seven I've seen are magnificent, anyway).

4. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

5. Hable Con Ella (the Almodovar that I'll cherish most)

Literature: 2007:

My personal favourites: One each:

Prose: Ian McEwan (almost all that I've read of his writing)
Poetry: Robert Creeley.

***
The Language:
~ Robert Creeley....

Locate I

love you some-

where in

teeth and

eyes, bite

it but

take care not

to hurt, you

want so

much so

little. Words

say everything.

love you

again,

then what

is emptiness

for. To

fill, fill.

I heard words

and words full

of holes

aching. Speech

is a mouth.

***

New Year Dreams: Greece, for a while. Who-knows-where, after :)
Also, the book.

***

And here's to a new year-- any colour you like :)

Monday, September 17, 2007

Mon, 17 Sep 2007 21:28:57 GMT

There was poetry.

John Stammers read.... words were spun in silk...

And tomorrow-- Tarantino.

***
Thames... flow softly.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Wed, 22 Aug 2007 11:16:06 GMT

And then sunshine.....

BBC. London. Finally.
:D

Oh what tangled webs we weave.....

Tue, 17 Jul 2007 18:48:34 GMT

Maybe I'm a lost-soul. I wish the world didn't expect me to know my way.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Tue, 10 Jul 2007 09:01:23 GMT

CROW'S FEET:

(A title that may be misleading, but it's there: because Ab. insisted.

About my visit to Bombay, again: because Ab. insisted

Hence this is--- for Ab.)

I write of places I visit- but never of places that call me. I wonder why.

Bombay.

Two months ago, I struggled to speak of it. When I mouthed the word, my lips trembled. When I pictured it, I froze. Perhaps, it's because I missed the city. Perhaps, it's because I missed― something else.

What did I miss? I missed the little road I once knew, that ran outside a building I once occupied. I missed the twelve friends who lived there, four of whom were imaginary. I missed the lawn with yellow bougainvilleas, where you could lie on your belly, unselfconsciously, and read about witches, and manor houses, and rabbits that made their way down enchanted burrows. I missed believing that, one day, if I closed my eyes, tight, I'd meet the March Hare.

Maybe I missed believing in the March Hare.

Maybe I missed believing.

Maybe that is why, I returned.

However briefly, I had to return.

***

I'm not sure what I did in Bombay. A lot of it had to do with dogs, and cameras, and microphones. The rest of it is a blur.

I vaguely remember hugging my parents tight, and feeling― what's the word for it? Secure? Yes, secure. I remember staying up all night, piecing together a year, letting disjointed fragments slip by, till they formed a picture― half a picture― for M. I know I skimmed through an Ian McEwan, I recall, I laughed a lot, with A…

But most of all, I remember the rain. {Even now, if I pause, I can feel it. Never a soft patter, sweet nothings that mean so little. It's an explosion, a burst of water slapping against your skin.}

I remember walking on a terrace, the sea, grey and furious in the distance. Clouds crowding together. Sky collapsing. Waves crashing against the balustrade. Rain, and then some more rain, howling with the wind.

I remember smiling, tasting the raindrops, and, drunk on water, announcing-- something simple, something rather silly--- that if you believed in the rain, magical stuff was bound to happen. I remember using the word "magic" more than once.

And after a long, long time, I remember believing.

That's the thing about the city. Come June, it washes away your scars, and heals.

***

And so I returned to Bombay: because I missed an old self.

I'm not sure I found it. Too much had changed. But I did recover a shadow of it…. a dim shadow…. and it felt― complete.

My relationship with Bombay has morphed over the years, changed definition. It's like an old song, that at first, is nothing more than a wayward tune; then: a fugitive lyric that breaks your heart; and then: then, the psalm that heals you.

Bombay is my prayer.

It always was.