Sthira...One English summer I found myself

And yet, Hindi music and movies continue to enthuse. Ill, at home, sipping tea, I watched 'Rock On' on my laptop. Reminded me of 'Dil Chahta Hai' - that very fresh, clean, modern look that characterise Farhan Akhtar's movies. It's amazing that he's sung most of the songs himself - his powerful voice lends a totally different quality to the music. His movies represent a youthfulness that most Hindi movies lack in general. I am inclined to believe that he is THE film-maker of our generation. He wins because the usual melodrama that form such an indispensable part of most Hindi movies are absent from his. The camera techniques, the strong performances as also the focus of the story make his films an experience. His style is stamped all over 'Rock On' though he did not direct the movie. I love the songs 'Sinbad The Sailor', 'Socha Hai' and 'Tum Ho To'.

Ah, friends! I miss mine quite a bit. Those who write letters to me in ink, those who send me postcards, those who send books, stationery from far away places, those who remember me, those I think about, those with whom even a short chat is an instant source of joy, and even those who've diverged.

I'm getting addicted to the 'Li'l Green Patch' on Facebook! Hopefully, this would also help save the rainforests.

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The first 3 paintings (two on top of the bookcase and one in the second cube from the top right):

I don't know how to paint. I remember watercolours but seem to be missing memories of myself with those boxes. But I am convinced I must have done it sometime in my life because my documents folder has a certificate from Montessori when I was awarded a prize while participating in the Camel Colour Contest. Regardless, I LOVE art. I can spend hours in museums and art galleries. I love the experience, what they do to my senses and my mind. I have been painting - it started only a couple of months ago. Well, I pursued it fervently for an entire week producing four works and since then, have been looking for appropriate frames and engaging in mere visualisations of them hanging on a wall. We've officially run out of walls given that there are originals lying under the bed. The process of painting a blank canvas is intense, consuming and so very beautiful. It's mesmerising. Being someone who usually likes to know the technique behind something before doing it, I got several books from the library to learn how to paint. Of course, they didn't work. As I painted the canvas over and over again, unhappy with each attempt, annoyed that I could not duplicate what I had in mind, unable to create the effect, that very curious element of art that draws one to a painting with a single glance, I kept mixing colours. Forgetting everything the books said, the canvas began dictating the brush strokes, the palette opening me up to a world of myriad colours. Shapes and colours started to emerge from underneath the coats. With some, I remember what lies behind, with most I have forgotten!*

*Written as I wait for a coat to dry. I love Phthalo Blue - it reminds me of cobalt blue in the chemistry lab. It was so beautiful I wanted to drink it.

How crazy is this ! The children will be orphaned in just a few years.

I find American TV shows very relaxing. They have an element of comfort and humour that lightens up your day. I'd have to say that 'Friends' saw me through the last couple of years of my PhD. No matter how many times you watch the episodes, you still laugh at the same things and more than anything, the characters probably reflect different aspects of people you've known, loved, had good times with, it very easily makes you a part of that group of people you are watching on telly. The feel is of an ordinary, everyday kind of a chat with your friends and there's nothing over the top about the jokes or the dialogues. We usually always watch 'Becker' and 'Corner Gas' (unless it's 'House' season!) as we're having dinner or slouching on the couch after it. I like 'Frasier' too - it's incredibly funny and Daphne of course, with her Yorkshire accent, makes me laugh all the more. If the TV's turned on while we are cooking in the evening, it's usually time for 'Seinfeld', 'Everybody Loves Raymond' or 'Reba'. And of course, if and when I'm ironing (which hasn't happened since October I guess), it's 'Sex and the City' that plays in the background. What I like about the show is how these four friends keep getting together to talk about things that trouble them, the most private bits of their lives which is where a lot of their problems seem to be stemming from and how the sharing of their woes, the frank exchange of opinions and ideas, being in the company of friends they trust whole-heartedly relaxes them. I guess 'comfort' is indeed the buzz word when it comes to TV shows. But it seems a lot of Americans want to stretch that a bit more and bring the smell of it into their homes. I was in 'Body Shop' a while ago looking at fragrance oils, searching for the ones I'd seen in England but what I kept coming across here seemed totally weird to me. They were all in some way or the other connected with food - I was horrified by 'Burnt Milk'! As I mentioned this to M, he pointed out that for a lot of people here, such smells remind them of their childhood, of their mothers cooking and it's extremely comforting for them. It made sense but the smell, ew!

It's a Saturday morning. There's silence around me. Suddenly, I long for a rainy morning, when the warmth of the duvet seems the only pleasure one wants. If it were a rainy morning, I would have slept in. Slept in to have woken up with heavy eyelids. Enjoying the cold, I would have gone to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. Just one cup of tea as if no one else exists. Had the kitchen been bigger to accommodate a table with chairs, I would have sat and looked outside. At the rain. Falling.

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But alas, there is no rain. It's summer and it's California.

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Sometimes you want to imagine that you are elsewhere.

For Lalunadiosa:

Last movie you saw in a theater - Sex and the City

What book are you reading - Cry, the Beloved Country

Favorite board game - Scrabble

Favorite smells - Lavender, Fig

Favorite sound - African Drums

Worst feeling in the world - Boredom

What is the first thing you think of when you wake up - "It's 7.30!"

Favorite fast food place - Quiznos

Future child's name - Not thinking on those lines at all!

Finish this statement. "If I had a lot of money, I'd...." - go travelling, buy awesome furniture and lovely art.

Do you drive fast - No, always pretty close to the speed limit.

Do you sleep with a stuffed animal - Don't like stuffed toys!!

Storms - Cool or scary - Cool if I am not out braving it!

What was your first car - None in my name yet.

Favorite drink - Tea

Finish this statement. "If I had the time, I would..." - create inspiration!

Do you eat the stems on broccoli? - Yes

If you could dye your hair any color, what would be your choice? - Don't like hair dyes

Name all the different cities/towns you have lived in - Patna, Manama, Delhi, Leeds, San Jose

Favorite sports to watch - Cricket and tennis

One nice thing about the person who sent this to you - I think she's a very lively person.

What's under your bed? - Two paintings

Would you like to be born as yourself again? - Sure, let's give it another go!

Morning person or night owl - Morning person

Over easy or sunny side up - Sunny side up

Favorite place to relax - In the mountains

Favorite pie - Blueberry pie

Favorite ice cream flavor - Chocolate

Of all the people you tagged this to, who is most likely to respond first? - Not sure

Who gets tagged next - Anyone who wants to do this!

This was my longest vacation in India since I left seven years ago. But this was my first trip when someone who really mattered, who I associated with all my vacations, was not around and would never be. Ever. And time and again, the memories kept coming back. Flooding the eyes as I met my own whose lives had changed by an absence. And I wondered how one lives the hours with the memories and the photographs that sit atop the pelmet. Photographs that are as old as the relationship, the acquaintance, photographs where others resemble you but not you yourself. And then it struck me, suddenly, that perhaps that's where children come in. To take over your old life and make fresh, new memories!

This space. This comforting space. Blank white pages on a screen.
This morning I was listening to Jhumpa Lahiri talk on KQED about her new book of short stories 'Unaccustomed Earth'. I am always fascinated when I hear writers talk about how they write, why they write, what they write. Even if it just begins with an "I don't know", there's always a whole lot that follows it, a whole lot of complex ideas, of articulate inarticulacies, of honesty, of the relationship that a writer shares with his characters, of the implicit, of refuge, of several hidden pasts, of untold stories, of the inexplicable, of many journeys, of reactions, of moments. The simplicity with which a complex world is unfolded by the writer is remarkable and the way in which it impresses upon me is what makes it a joyous experience. I really like Lahiri's short stories. She has a great eye for detail and she builds her characters very well. Her short stories often open some every quiet worlds to me where I feel as if I am watching everything through a keyhole. I remember reading her first novel 'The Namesake' on my way to India four years ago. It frustrated me that she couldn't take her characters anywhere in the novel - I could not feel what she was trying to convey. There was a disconnect somewhere. And yet, when the novel was adapted into a movie, I was overwhelmed by the way Mira Nair had translated Lahiri's prose and given body and emotions to her words.

I took a shower and even got dressed while listening to the talk but just as the program wrapped up and I was about to leave the house, a sense of utter dismay filled me. Dismay with myself. For ignoring the things I truly enjoy, those that give me a sense of who I am. For not having engaged with myself. For not having engaged with a sensible book in the last few months. For not having thought. For not having written words. For having melted in this melting pot. For just having been. I don't think I can just be - I need to live, think, read, write and let the moments linger on.

"Fiction is participative. When you get into it, it's about you exercising your imagination. And if you can no longer exercise your imagination because it has atrophied, you have reality television and books about multiply abused amputees because it's great to stare at them because they're animals and your life is so miserable that you really need programmes about people who are excessively miserable to make you feel better. But use of the imagination means that you can make your life or someone else's life better and that they're humans with interior lives and not just somebody on EastEnders going, 'You stupid cow.' It means you have the imagination to change the government, to know when you're being lied to".

-- AL Kennedy, Scottish novelist

You saw me off at Borders, then turned around and cycled away. It was summer of some year, many years ago. I stood at the beginning of a never ending life, waiting for it to end, wondering every morning how the riddles would get solved. The happiness was yours, of fresh love, of fresh herbs on your window-sill and fruit juices bought at Marks. Creative, energetic, whacky, you played with life, with every moment, on impulse. I had a long walk ahead of me. I thought I'd buy false dreams with real money to occupy those steps upto Devon Road. The book I bought that day lies in my cupboard of disposable books today. There was a time when I didn't know you. You lived with me and yet I didn't know you. You know what it's like when you meet someone through a friend, nothing individual develops till you get to spend time alone with them.

And then one winter some years later we ordered Indian takeaway and sat holding brown mugs of hot tea on a chocolate leather couch. We were alone, there were so many random things to talk about and we pondered through the night over the meanings of words, concepts and how they evolved in different settings. I hoped that night that some of what we talked about in totally academic tones would help you with your own personal ordeals. I wished the mugs wouldn't break. I wished it was all just a bad dream, of tears, of estrangement.

And then the other evening, we sat together again and that wine flowing dinner of giggles, variously accented chatter, weirdly soothing music, soft light evoked such a strange feeling of deja vu, like nothing had changed, like the happiness was always there, for you, between you. As for me, that never ending life had ended and yet I was experiencing an unwillingness to part with it. But there we were, celebrating - for small mercies and achievements, for friends who cared for us, for lovers who added something valuable to us, for questions that were answered and those that were left hanging halfway with dots to be continued, for our own tiny universes of joy and sorrow, guilt and remorse, dilemmas and crossroads, for the many journeys, past, present and future!

And you know, when I think of good times I often think of the times spent with you, lost somewhere, in between words and thoughts, in between life, ideas and dreams.

Night falls, the
glow of the evening
lamp; sat on the
couch, it's the perfect
time for poetry.

Been a while. A long time infact. Feels a bit strange now.
I got here at the end of spring. Summer came, dragged on a bit and then flew by. I like California in autumn, winter I am yet to experience thoroughly! Summer here is a bit too much for me though. You can't walk on the streets without a hat and without perspiring. There are leaves strewn everywhere now. I like the way the cool morning air blows on my sweat as I walk back from the gym. I like the soft warmth of the sun as it lights up our house everyday. The blinds are up, the irises in the vase bloom. A week from today I leave for England. November -it must be cold, the nights chilly, the trees bare, beautiful earth when the sun comes out, nose and cheeks flushed and beautiful, dying sun on the walk back home, criscrossing the sky with poured pink; I choose not to remember the struggling umbrellas, drenched clothes, clattering teeth, numb ears. I look forward to the University, the sight of lecturers and students, the rush to make it to a lecture in time, brick and stone houses, Hyde Park, moss covered barks, city centre, tortellini, Saturday with The Guardian, Whittards, Muji, London, art galleries, museums, the ancient, friends. In the way that people think fondly of home, with memories stacked within them, I think of that small island.

The thyme, basil, coriander and mint are all in a pot on the patio. I water them everyday, just as I do the dishes, as a chore, wondering when they'll grow big enough to be picked and used in the kitchen. I like them in the wild, not when they are so close to me that I have to care for them and they have to cling to me for dear life. Perhaps the way I like my relationships, nurtured from a distance, not in my face, not on my toes, not living with me 24x7!

Orhan Pamuk was at Stanford recently. The man has such a great sense of humour, and it comes out so very well in his thick Turkish accent. He spoke about the novel and literature among many things in general; how the novel is an exploration of the other and in that process an exploration and exposure of one's own self. We have many secrets, secrets we accumulate over the years, secrets we don't even consciously remember, secrets we forget with the passage of time, secrets that sometimes appear as dreams, nostalgia, nightmares. For Pamuk, the novel is the place for all our secrets and most importantly, the secrets that shame us. With his books written only in Turkish and translated into English for us, he pointed out that each time he has to read the drafts of his translated works, he undergoes a lot of agony, not because the translator hasn't done a good job but because he has to find that voice, his voice in that other language, in those sentences, feel the same flow and rhythm in the words. It's that, finding that voice, and being satisfied with it, that causes the anguish. Yes, your words are your own, to read them in another language, constructed by someone else, must require a lot of juggling with your thoughts, impressions and feelings.

People, for me, are nice in small doses at intervals. Anything more than that feels like poison!

Respect, you either earn it or lose it by your actions. Love, strangely enough, you love someone or you don't. You almost cannot tell yourself to love someone or get yourself to do it in the same way as you cannot make yourself stop loving someone.

"I do think that choosing a life that makes you happy takes bravery. It takes a lot of courage if you're a person who cares at all."

- British author, Charlotte Mendelson

The flowers arrived in the mail early Tuesday morning. It was a day of greetings and phone calls. He'd called at 4 a.m.; I am glad we spoke to him in our stupor and did not promise to finish the conversation over the weekend, as we usually tend to do these days.

It's been a cold and bleak couple of days here in the Bay Area. I go around shutting the doors to keep the house warm, pretending to myself that everything's normal, that nothing unusual has happened anywhere, that no one has gone out of range of my radar and that I haven't gone off anyone's radar. But I merely pretend, for somewhere in the background, no music is playing, but reels of film turn clockwise, with some characters missing.

I have been reading Orhan Pamuk's 'Istanbul' over the last few days. It's not only a book with words and pictures of the city but almost also an auto-biography, two parallel and yet intertwined narratives, one the story of the author and the other of the city. And yet the beauty of his words are contained in the way he laments the loss of the glorious past of the Ottoman city, in the descriptions of the crumbling buildings that have witnessed history, in his frank account of how Turkish life has changed over the years. I have only just started reading the book and on a futon in a warm shawl, it leaves me melancholic, with an urge to participate in and share the author's and the city's loss.

There are times when death seems distant, so distant that you do not know how to feel it, how to embrace it, how to accept it. There is no visible absence, there is no affecting loss. There are some grandparents who bring you up singing lullabies, telling stories from 'The Mahabharata' and 'The Ramayana' during afternoon nap times, sharing their life's experiences with you, cooking sheesh kababs on coal stoves, crying with you under a blanket because you're going to be leaving soon, and then there are some who don't do any of that but call you often to enquire how you are doing, when you are going to be graduating, whether you have enough money to sustain yourself, they call to ask when you'd be visiting, they call to tell that the litchis and maldah mangoes have arrived, and when you do go visiting, they seem happier and calmer, satisfied, without any acknowledgements. They are the ones who share silent relationships with you, their love expressed in the packets of samosa brought back home for tea or the fish and meat that will be prepared for lunch the next day. They stand behind you like stalwarts, always ready to provide in case you fall short. And when they go away, you don't know what to feel. For a moment, I thought it was another one of those emergency calls where everyone would rush fearing they'd be too late. But eventually, he'd back on his feet and most importantly, at his clinic, with his eyes behind the microscope.

And yet, so many times rehearsed, and for me, so many times experienced before, I am left thinking that nothing ever prepares you for someone's departure. Perhaps one's own death must be the easiest to deal with, here now, gone hereafter. It's bundled with so many contradictions, for the one who leaves it's the end. A Period. For the ones who are left behind, it's an end and yet not so, in fact far from it. For the ones who remain, it's a reminder that someday everyone will go, those you love and without whom you cannot fathom your life; no matter how many cremations you see, you will not hurt less when a precious one goes. With dry eyes, you don't know what to make of your mother's crying and what her words mean to you till you call your father and encounter his loss in his voice, encounter the broken strings of his relationship in the lonely night he spends with his memories and his pain. I sit here, with cold feet; nothing seems to have changed in my life except for those reels of film that have been constantly moving in my head as I try and do other things. The film is a flashback of my life and that house in Muz where so many summer holidays were spent, often figures in it.

I do not know what to make of "May his soul rest in peace", I don't think I ever will. I do not know what to make of last rites and prayer sessions for those who go away, they seem more like consolations for those who are left behind.

I grieve for my parent and his siblings at the loss of a father, for my grandparent at the loss of a lifetime companion.

I am still sleepy; tired from last night, my eyes hurt. I wish I could go to a gallery and cry infront of a painting.

The daffodils are not smiling anymore. They are droopy and cold.