Dillema

Too short for The Rockettes and too tan for The Smurfs. Where does that leave me?

Answers

Nothing is relevant.

Except, Martinis must not be had with Vodka. Only Gin.

And Gin and Tonics need to be imbibed with a certain melancholic sensuality.

Nothing else is relevant.

Questions

Could any amount of Karmic bribery cancel out repugnant Cosmic debauchery?

She Is A Woman, She Sighs When It Rains

Rain loudly proclaims
of things that are to come cloaked
in dark enveloping cloud
of elemental feelings
which are then dropped in increments
of greedy fat raindrops
accompanied by an ominous sigh.

----------

Its hard to tell when the
mist, the spray and the rising
steam all come together
but in one over caffeinated moment they do
to unravel the most knotted thought
and lie silently in waiting
for that unbidden deepest sigh.

Scotch. Neat And Succored.

He dreaded to hear her sigh,
was it one of deepest content
or that of an unfulfilled desire?

And with those confounding thoughts
he swirled his drink, again and again
going around in circles, chasing tails.

He wondered if the sigh signified
coming to a truce with the fates
a stalemate so to speak with destiny.

It was hard to tell, he cursed for the hundredth time
and poured himself another if only to ease
the growing unrest, if not to quell the rising doubt.

She sighed with a smile in the quietest of moments
her eyes belying nothing of the turmoil
she must know she unleashed.

And yet sigh she does when she thinks no one is looking
or perhaps when sure someone is,
the mysteries hard to unravel.

And with every long drawn in breath,
he strengthened his resolve.
And with every hastily expelled sigh,
he once again was left to refill.

In A Musical Sort Of Mood

Okay, so am not a ‘musicals’ sorta girl but, there are a few that just make me smile! ‘Singing In The Rain’ anyone? How I love ‘Good Morning, Good Morning’! For a (very, very) non-morning person, it sure has me feeling some love for those early morning rays!

Oh who am I kidding, just makes me want to stay up late so that I too can go...

Good mornin',
Good mornin'!
We've talked the whole night through,
Good mornin'
Good mornin' to you.
Good mornin', good mornin'!
It's great to stay up late,
Good mornin', good mornin' to you.
When the band began to play
The stars were shinin' bright.
Now the milkman's on his way,
It's too late to say goodnight.




“ As a matter of fact I rather feel like expressing myself now and I could certainly use a release” said Audrey Hepburn famously before bursting into this lil' number! Can you see anyone else doing that? Sheer brilliant cookie'ness!

Time to draw the blinds, turn some music on and proceed to make an ass of myself. Please excuse. I too could certainly use a release.

And after that, a stiff, dry Martini.



Thank God for You Tube!

When You Are Still Awake At 3 AM

Well now, it's three o'clock in the morning
And I can't even close my eyes.
Three o'clock in the morning
And I can't even close my eyes.
Can't find my baby
And I can't be satisfied.

It really is 3 am as I listen to this song. Sigh. Irony.

Oh, how I heart this song.

Its a song that reminds me of sleepless nights, heartaches, smoky rooms and half-filled glasses.

It also reminds me of spaces that are intimate and personal and of things that are only to be discussed in hushed tones.

You've got to love the blues.

Over Gin And Tonic

I have been fortunate enough to have lived in many cities, having studied in even more schools and having had the opportunity to call many streets, neighborhoods, addresses and zip codes home. And unlike most who have moved a lot, who often get thrown for a loop when asked where they are from, I never did. When asked, I always say ‘Delhi’. Not ‘originally from Andhra but lived all over’, just a plaintive ‘Delhi’.

I don’t think any city has more to do with who I am than this one. For me, it was a city of many firsts. My first boy friend, my first very own drama post-break up, my first kiss, my first smoke, my first drink and my first real best friend.

A city rife with many contradictions, of grandeur that screams itself hoarse from rooftops and the unexpected grace that comes from vestiges of ancient times, of dignity in beaten down ruins. A city laden with character.

Autos that proudly proclaim, ‘haan yeh road mere baap ki hai’ or dhabas that proudly declare ‘lassi aur email, aur ki chaheeda’, ‘free wi fi hai ji’.

It’s a city that right away stakes its claim. Or you, yours on it. One can’t help but get caught up, and not calling it ‘home’ is unimaginable.

Whether it was those competitions like ‘Mr. and Ms. High school’ and ‘Cornucopia’ or the rivalry between Modern and D.P.S. Bunking school to go to PVR or in the later years meet up at TC for a drink. There always was an Oasis, Djinns, Mirage, or Someplace Else to go to... now only to be replaced by their swankier, hipper alter egos.

There were the great dosas at Sagar’s in Def Col, shopping for imported stuff at GK, shady but dirt cheap drinking joints in CP, shopping for export surpluses and rejects at Sarojini Nagar and hot chocolate fudge at Nirulas. There was 'Flavors'. There was Haus Khas, Santushti, later MG1 and MG2, now only to be replaced by Crescent Court and DLF Emporio. The silver stores in Paharganj and a million places to grab a bite. Coffee at Café Turtle in Khan Market.

All so Delhi.

A city of brusque Jats and garrulous Sardars. And all the Telugu and Tamilian folks in Munirka and R.K Puram. Of early morning walkers in the colony and laughter clubs in the park. Of the retired army types walking their dogs and the kids who grew up much too fast.

All so very Delhi.

Mostly I have this one very early memory of Delhi. This one winter evening my parents were having a party in our rather small Vasant Kunj DDA flat. Scotch was poured in crystal decanters and hors d'oeuvres were catered. Ghulam Ali played in the background and my sister and I were banished to our room. Expectedly, being curious, we’d repeatedly sneak out to see what was happening. I vividly recall the adults sitting around, the women in their silks, the men in their kurtas, the dress de rigueur those days, the conversation ranging from movies, politics, music, and crime to bathroom humor. Told with the choicest words. Even for my world-weary all of sixteen years I was awe struck with the hum of conversation over strains of music interspersed with clinks of ice in their glasses.

A moment when parents stopped being just parents.

A moment when as a precocious sixteen year old who could make a career out of being twenty one, right from the dark matte lipsticks and teetering in my mother’s heels or affecting a nonchalance over boys’ advances was reminded just how very young I was.

Realizing that’s who I wanted to be when I grew up. An adult.

And for that I love Delhi because for me it held the promise of adulthood.

Because as a city it is quick on laying its possessive claim on you. A city to which you either take an instant dislike or fall passionately in love with. But mostly because it lets you be, who you are today and whom you choose to be tomorrow.

Foggy winters, traffic infested evenings and curious by lanes.

Expletive spurting people. Old used bookstores, rickshaw rides in Old Delhi, a love for the theatre and the theatrical and unexpected surprises at the next turn.

All that which makes it home.

A place no matter how many more times I move will always be home. And when asked where I am from, will always first say, ‘Delhi’.

A Life Consumed

Hate was something that rarely went unnoticed
(Not under its harshly whispered guises and certainly
Not in its verbose declarations from the metaphorical rooftops)
And always unquestioningly crowned as too strong a word
Not a virtue in this case you understand

It wasn’t something one did but a state that came upon oneself
(Much like a habit that long seems to have been forgotten
And is now only lived.)
A feeling so exclusive to the bearer, no burden seems as heavy
Or a romance as intimate

And those who claim to have been singed by being in its mere vicinity
Knowing of no such passion themselves only do so out of their
Own inadequacy to feel so grandiosely
And so days and nights are consumed in feeling so fastidiously hateful
Until when finally the fog lifts and its for all to see

The epitaph that reads
She loved. So she hated.
She hated. So she could love.
A message etched in stone so to speak.
Clearly a lesson learnt, a life consumed

And in its four letters a lifetime spelt.

Of Rainy Dispositions- Part Deux

It’s been a day of incessant rain. One filled with many a ‘chai’ and twice abandoned crossword. Fraught with shot nerves over fragile resolve to not reach for a cigarette. And it holds. For now anyway.

Frustration over being homebound, the romance long worn out.

Tea has gone cold, patience has run dry and it only continues to pour.

Of Rainy Dispositions

Something about rainy days
And nights
The melancholy and doubt
Contradicting lethargy
That comes from contentment
Or discontent
A feeling as varied and unpredictable as
Intermittent rain
Makes me want to go home even though
I already am.

Rejoice

"I've been thinking Hobbes..."
"On a weekend?"
"Well it wasn't on purpose..."

- Calvin & Hobbes

-------

The follies of the week have passed, and now onto the vegetative state of being. Oh Friday, I succumb to thee.

Exclaim

It was surprises she loved. Those grand romantic
unexpected gestures. Those which at the opportune
moment could be shrugged off with practiced
non-chalance. But also be secretly smiled at,
even enjoy at some unguarded moment, having
first fortified with some misjudged humor
of course.

But she confused. Caught between perceived and
projected realities. Playing charades. She excelled
but no one else quite caught up. And so at the end
when she expected the waiting hoardes to scream
a gleeful and long drawn out 'surprise, surprise'
she found herself at the finish line all alone
Exclamation less.

What, Its a Wednesday?

The weekend was all about indulgence... it was about spending time with the girls, about excessive drinking and binge eating... It was also about resolving to never get so excessive again that morning after when addled with the nastiest hangover! But as sure is a Monday to follow the weekend, resolves too are destined to meet a certain death.

Salut.

“I went on a diet, swore off drinking and heavy eating, and in fourteen days I lost two weeks”
- Joe E. Lewis

Champagne Wishes And Caviar Dreams

“When her guests were awash with champagne and with gin,
She was recklessly sober, as sharp as a pin.
An abstemious man would reel at her look,
As she rolled a bright eye and praised his last book.”

-William Plomer

Acts Of Love

They said they were consenting adults
Of legal age and sound mind

Ones who knew a gin ever naught mixed
With a bubbly of character less

For there is no sin like cheap champagne
And does not a conscientious act make

But what are two lovers to do
When the morality dissolves
With bubbles long gone in the long stemmed flute

So they shed their clothes
As their conscience claims its inhabitancy elsewhere
The clothes fall off as flimsy resolve often does

And lust is consummated
As a toast is raised to the now warmed sheets
As only a gin soaked glass can do!

In Motion

“There are always two people in every picture: the photographer and the viewer.”

-Ansel Adams

Sorry For The Interruption?

How does one get time on their side?
The treasures of mighty tide?
After decisions weighed
Faith tested, karmic battles waged
And absconding luck mutated.

But a fortune needs to be made
So they said, "Spin the wheel"
Ill luck goodbye bade
Changing destiny but assured
A guaranteed good deal.

But then the spotlight goes off
Drowning all in a pall
Of all that is reality
Only to come alight again
Reflecting off of cast away hopes.

Gloomy it may sound but isn't
That the owned truth
Time makes its inroads
The 'suits' are the fortune-tellers
Money is to be made
And splendor to be had.

And so, the genius of programming
Every commercial, interrupted viewing
Rings a cash register somewhere
And such you realize is life
Interrupted.
But commercial free.

Of The Man In The Lighthouse

The man in the lighthouse
Stood in mute testament, which now may
be attributed to being passive aggressive
Isn’t that after all what a lighthouse do?
Stand resolute to the forces of nature
Which of course goes not unaccounted
Fate he calls it, after all
A tempestuous storm may only
Be a deliverance of karma he says.

Fear of weather is for those with roots
With land under their feet and those
With the fear of being uprooted
He lived with no such illusions
And if he did, he timed them to the tides
The rise and pull was temperamental enough
Then there was the famed moonlight
For the man in the lighthouse
It was hard to separate the man from the lighthouse.

He did step out, out onto the shores
Sustenance was an inconvenience
To be dealt with periodically
Just the way the lulls had to be tolerated before the
Drama of a storm unfolded.
Patience is a virtue to be cultivated
Skill at solitaire came with it
As did imagination laced with fortitude.

So between glasses of tea and
An aging deck of cards for company
He looked out for ships that long since
Stopped to pass, picking out shapes in mist
Conjuring characters central to plot
Watching for the perfect storm
The man in the lighthouse every night
Lit the beacon, sounded the gong
And perfected his game of solitaire.

The Party

Its been a few hours now, the crowds have left, the scented candles long blown out, now a mere whiff remains, a suggestion of the scent and of those people who were here just a while ago. A suggestion remains of the wine they had, cigarettes they smoked and if you listened long and hard enough, even snatches of their conversations still stayed in play, etched as if in the very fiber of those walls.

Amrita reached over to open the windows; the smells were getting stifling, more dangerous than the swarms of flies she knew that would soon descend. The fan was on high, its rusted hinges, a source of comfort. There was a faint breeze outside, the leaves moved just a bit and if you hadn’t caught the furtive motion, there was no other way to know that it was even there in the first place. Sort of like hiding and seeking, one that she was increasingly becoming familiar with.

With a sigh as long as time itself she straightened up to begin tackling the cleaning up. There is something perverse about the contrasts just at the end of a party; the air falls silent as if too got tired after the evening’s excitement. The lipstick marked glasses remain in testament to things that were said or almost were. Depends on the glass in question. Ashtrays of course had their own stories too, but like the butt, all signs of life were now gone. All that remained was that stale air. And bits of nibbled cheese. And a spot on the rug that no one wanted to own up to and one that she just noticed.

She began to pick up the bottles and started emptying the ashtrays into a big plastic bag to leave outside the door for the bai to pick up in the morning. She wondered what Mary would think when she sees all the alcohol bottles and cigarettes. Her lips would curl in displeasure for sure but would soon be replaced by a gleeful grin as she’d realize the stuff she’d have to tell Mrs. Kumaran living on the floor directly below.

Amrita being single and having regularly entertained every weekend for the last few months well late into night, sure meant she was talked about a little. A lot if her own bai, has anything to say about it! As she is sure to remind her everyday and chide her, "Amma its time you found a nice boy. You are marriageable now and if the fruit gets over ripened and falls off of the tree even birds won’t eat it”. And then she would ominously add, “Only rats will eat. Is that what you want? A rat boy?” and thinking it came out too harsh would quickly add, “you are so nice Amma and people thinking wrong things, find no Amma, a nice boy…” and would walk off into another room to dust, to rub off some of its unseemliness, that she thought could only come from girls like her. Thirty six, single and living alone.

It was with that morbidly hilarious analogy on her mind that she continued onto her room to finally change, wash off the make-up, and call it a night. The final vestiges of the party cleared. And the proverbial slate clean for another day, and another night. And to a whole new year to follow tomorrow.