shamiana

As I entered the YP gate, I realised I might be asked for an ID. I had none. Luckily  I was not. I walked to the HSS Dept, calling my friend, constantly. Well, she said she would be late. I nervously strolled about. Disoriented and clueless. Was it not here that I learnt to ride a cycle? Where was Mafco the one mecca for school kids? Nowhere to be seen. I went along. Continued till IDC...Well, here's where we would come and check the acoustic sweet spot er the echo! I wish I could go home. This place was my home till last month. No longer anymore. Why was is it so tough to fight back those memories and tears rolled down. There were lots of people I could have called. They would have welcomed me in their homes may be for lunch or chai or even a stay over. But, it can't be the same. So I did not make calls. I continued to walk for some more time. Going to LT(yes, that's what it was called), Convo and finally came to coffee shack. Had a cuppa. helped immensely. The phone buzz...

Thank you for being: My friend My guide My confidante My colleague My student  Thanks for :  stealthily making lemon juice at midnight  coming on long bicycle rides on the IITB campus  taking classical music lessons with me  making me read and forcing me to write  bumping into me at Strand  fixing train timings and screwing them, too  motivating me to attend Sanskrit lectures discussing "Tom Joad" with me learning French and tolerating my dismal linguistic skills translating "tum se hi" singing "Tere haath mein" from Fanaa listening to the endless drone that are my lectures sharing my Kafka and Sheldon Cooper obsession becoming the victims for my culinary experiments sharing a samosa paav with me losing your mind over Paradise Lost parsing sentences scanning poetry looking for SPOCA and glides calling Gus a scoundrel and taking that as a  complement sharing a silly chain with me doin...

"Hi there! What are you writing?" "Nothing much. Something that you said the other day when we last spoke of the issues bothering you, as in me." "Whose voice is it anyway? Who's talking: you or me? It's like coming and going Who knows what's real?" "Stop! you confuse me. Why don't you leave me alone?" "That defines my being" "Being what? A nut?" "I prefer :ALIVE" "Shut up and let me write" "That's from Donne" "Well, let us just say Donne inspires me" "You suck at writing. Accept and move on" "Well, how could I excel at anything,with you watching me- always " "Should we part ways?" "High time already" "How would you write without me" "I would write like a mindless mad creator" "Maybe you could choose to write in third person; Takes the pressure off."

John had had a long day. All he wished for was a whiskey and soak himself in the tub.Just then the phone rings.It's a call from his wife, Mary. Reluctantly, John answers the phone. Mary tells him that she would be  late and that he might order Chinese for dinner for she would grab a bite at the University cafeteria. John does not mind. He's got used to being alone. Lately, this had become a pattern with Mary. She would call and cancel at the last minute. No prior intimation. John enjoys his bath and the whiskey. Then, he orders Chinese. Eats his dinner while watching TV. Mary has had a long day. All she wants is some food, a glass of wine maybe and loads of sleep. She has not slept for days. She opens the door with the spare key that she wears around her neck. She quietly gets in. Has a quick shower.She opts for a cup of cocoa, rather having the take away from Chang's Palace. She creeps into bed very gently. John is snoring by now. She curls up to him and dozes off in an...

Gurupoornima is about Gurus and disciples. As a teenager, my mother pushed me into learning Hindustani Classical music. I had been learning the form for some time now. I had not developed a liking for it. I was very apprehensive to approach Prof Malshe. For, I knew that he would have high expectations from his students.Nevertheless, I did meet him one day. Surprisingly, he agreed to teach me. I remember Sir started off with Raga Yaman . After making me sing a few notes, he noted that my voice had that tonal quality required to take up Hindustani Classical music. Thus, began a musical journey that I would cherish for the rest of my life. Every year, Prof Malshe's students (read:shishyas) would organize a Gurupoornima event on the IITB campus. Sir would allot Ragas to each student. It was a common practice, for freshers to start the morning session with "Ishastavana" (an invocation to God) the others would follow as per their respective seniority. In  the evening  Mals...

It has been raining all day now. She listens listlessly to the sound of continuous rain.The incessant drizzle almost fizzles her out. Unwillingly, she tries to go back to work. She has to finish  writing her paper.She has been invited to read at a HSS conference in Cal Sci. She picks up a book she's been meaning to read.Reading might provide an instant escape from the boredom that descends upon her. All in vain ! She lights up at the idea of a hot beverage: tea, maybe.Music might help too. Her favourite tracks are already on the playlist. She turns up the volume. Suddenly, her face glows. Bryan Adams is reminiscing about the Summer of '69. The song takes her back,a decade, almost. The spring time of life! The blithe spirit that she was she would enjoy every moment of her existence. Full of the insouciance that defines youth! She smiles and rushes to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. She sits cozy and comfy on her bean bag, sipping the  hot,aromatic, cinnamon flavour...

I keep down the book. An acute sense of shock surrounds me. Kazuo Ishiguro's A Pale View of Hills has moved me,deeply. We know memory can play games. We use memory to unmask reality, seldom do we realize that memory and reality can be seamless.Memory is a mask,too. Perhaps more stubborn and opaque than reality because it is careful constructed. Memory reflects upon the past. The past is constructed through memory. The events and characters remain hazy like sepia toned photographs. This lack of clarity and credibility permeates the novel. Estuko remains cunningly deceptive. We continue to form and modify impressions about her. We see her as a mourning mother, grieving over Keiko's death at the same time she is trying to reconcile her relationship with Nikki.Interestingly, she never becomes a victim-social,domestic or political. Ishiguro talks about post War Nagasaki: how nothing could ever be the same again. Ishiguro talks about the post War life in Nagasaki. The times pre...