Of this and that...

May 1, Tuesday was a holiday. I took Monday off making it a long 4-day weekend. The whole family packed up and we drove down to Kodaikanal or Kodai as it is fondly known. The plan was to start early (hahha) Saturday morning, and drive down to Kodai by the evening. We did start early (well its relative!) around 7. And drove ahead full speed. The most important aspect was of course the food - K2 very responsibly stocked up the car with food of all kinds, some sweet, some savory, something to drink too. With very many stops en route eating, drinking, reading and sleeping, we made our way to the Palani hills. As we were driving by at top speed, I noticed men, clad in nothing more than yellow veshtis, clutching yellow cloth bags, walking barefoot alongside us. Curiosity led to enquiry, they were devotees of Lord Muruga, who had vowed to walk barefoot from their homes to Palani, Muruga's most sacred earthly residence, their dark faces calm and serene, full of purpose, unmindful of t...

There is definitely a lot to write about the sights and sounds of Lucknow, the town traditionally known for its cultured Nawabs, mouth-watering kebabs, exquisite chikan and of course the warm hospitality. But I am a little disappointed. I was hoping my camera would share some of my burden in capturing the decadent splendor and a serene, sleepy city vibrating with life in pockets like Aminabad. But unfortunately, the first day here, I left my camera behind in my hotel room and day 2 was just too hectic for me to be able to even wield it on unsuspecting people and sights. So here I am, at 6 am on a Tuesday morning with exactly 10 people in the Amausi airport, struggling to keep my eyes open and waiting for the Sahara staff to arrive – I don’t know if this is a first but I was the first person into the airport. I was here at 5.30 am, exactly 2 hours before the flight time and was welcomed by 3 very amused police officers at the entrance. They wanted to know what time my flight was and I s...

10 pm in the night. I have successfully managed to wiggle out of office and also let thoughts about work wiggle out of me...I reach for that slim book I had so neatly covered in newspaper, a strip of white paper which is the label tells me the book calls itself "A Writers Nightmare". I wonder what it means. I open it and start reading. Its full of 1 or 2 page write-ups on everything under the sun - marriages, school, mathematics, the scouts, the traffic situation, the writer's ego and even umbrellas (yes you read that right - there is actually an essay on umbrellas and a very interesting one at that explaining how we should all have 3 umbrellas - one for us, one for lending and one back-up in case anything happens to the other two!). I read each and every word with relish. I think about how unassuming the author is. And how humble. He actually says he started writing columns in The Hindu because he wanted to have a regular income - his first 3 novels bringing him fame bu...

She is you, me and everyone else. She is every teenager brought up in every family. She is insecure, curious, confused, self-righteous, takes herself too seriously, yearns for acceptance, hates everyone one day and loves them the next, is angry before she understands why someone is different from her, she is every single girl. But she is amazing. She is amazing because she speaks about her dreams. She speaks about them to her dearest friend, Kitty. She loves to talk to Kitty, about herself, her every dream and emotion, her thoughts and feelings, her love and life, her hatred and pity. She finds in her diary her only true confidant, self-reflecting and self-indulging at times. She is amazing because she endured everything that came her way with the innocence of a child and the maturity of an adult, in all senses a teenager. My heart goes out to her and her honesty to her diary, when many of us shudder to be honest to our own selves. I salute her because she found the courage to write do...

Our eyes locked for a moment. I could see his eyes, smoldering with passion and intensity. I could see anger and frustration as well as the fire that drove him to be who he was. And then he turned around and started walking away. I looked down, took a deep breath and waited. I knew he would be back, he had to. His life was at stake and so was mine. I watched as he walked away, carefully counting his steps as he always did. There was me and there was him. The millions around did not matter. I could see him and that’s all I saw. And I could see what he was doing, and I could picture what he would do in a while. I waited, ready for him when he came back. And then he turned, pausing for a moment, assessing me one last time before he ran towards me. The tension was building up. I watched him, unblinking, my sight fixed on one thing. A fraction of time passed. He hurled the ball at me, I met it with the middle of my bat, and the umpire raised both his hands high up in the air. I had hit a si...

“Will you write to me? I will still be available on mail. I am not really going away you know. I am going to be around.” “Yes, technology, isn’t that what they call it? That’s what you will use to still be around.” Anjali could not pretend she didn’t grasp the hint of sarcasm. It was painful for him. It was painful for her too. But no one will understand that. “You have to promise me you will take care of yourself”, the emptiness engulfed her. She could not say anything more. What could she tell him? How much he meant to her? How much she wanted to remain, to wrench herself away from the life that beckoned? The laughter they shared when they talked about everything and about nothing. Yes, it was his laughter more than anything else that she would miss. Or maybe it would be his voice. The voice that lifted her spirits, made her believe in herself, encouraged her. The voice that calmed Ma when she was hysterical. But she could not find those words. Every word seemed empty as if by expres...

I miss the written word…and I mean writing. Remember, the days when we used to pick up a pen and write on a piece of paper (uh, what’s that again?!!!). I do. Perhaps I miss it because it was such an important part of my childhood, when buying stationery was an event and a delight in itself. Buying text books and note books, new, crisp and waiting to be written. Peering through the dull transparent glass was a row of shiny pens, ball-point, “Pilot” pens and the best of them all “ China ” Pens – fountain pens which were reserved for use only for our fair note books. I miss going home with all the goodies, pumping ink into the “China” pen and eagerly waiting for the first day of school to dawn, so that the crisp smell of new notebooks and fresh ink, the scratching sound the nib sang out as it created those alphabets could all be experienced once again, a coming of age ritual, the symbol of starting a whole new year, being a year older and presumptuously wiser! I miss holding the pen in my...