I push the trolley down the supermaket aisle looking for a jar marked happiness.
I am sure it's there somewhere hidden behind the soul soups, comfort foods, iPods or even the 42-inch LCD TV. Could happiness be out of stock today or do they call it something else now. The old man in the corner, mopping the floor, whistling a tune seems a good one to ask. He is resigned to his fate, whistling in appreciation, carefully wiping clean a mighty fine electronic toy that will never be his. Or perhaps he just doesn't want it.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Night flight to somewhere
Have I ever told you how much I love airports?
Ironically, I hate air travel but that's another story. I love the energy of airport terminals, it's like the world in a bite-sized helping. It's fascinating to watch people at the concourse ... you see hope, anxiety, happiness, despair, frustration and resignation. What you don't see is a pause or a full stop, you see many commas because life never stops at an airport. It's going somewhere and the seats, lights, capuccinos and bustle are just signposts on the journey.
You never feel alone at the airport because you are going somewhere like everyone else. When you are perched on that seat at the cafe, they look at you and smile because you are waiting for someone. No?
Ironically, I hate air travel but that's another story. I love the energy of airport terminals, it's like the world in a bite-sized helping. It's fascinating to watch people at the concourse ... you see hope, anxiety, happiness, despair, frustration and resignation. What you don't see is a pause or a full stop, you see many commas because life never stops at an airport. It's going somewhere and the seats, lights, capuccinos and bustle are just signposts on the journey.
You never feel alone at the airport because you are going somewhere like everyone else. When you are perched on that seat at the cafe, they look at you and smile because you are waiting for someone. No?
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
On days like today
What happened to Preeti with the braces and the lisp from junior school? Did she grow up to be heart-breaker, I wonder.
And whatever happened to Mr.Muralidhar who flunked me in math more than once. Did he turn blind and grow an extra nose like I wished him to.
Would I recognise Nirmal if I saw him cross the street? After all, we walked to school every single day when were were five. He still owes me the candies he stole from my bag.
I wonder if the little white bungalow with its sloping tiles and mango trees in the backyard still stands? I learned to walk there.
There is a piece of earth where Sunil and I buried a clutch of marbles, a top and bus ticket stubs for a rainy day. I worry that many rains may have washed them away.
There are little pieces of me that have been lost on the way. But they come back to me in flashes on days like today.
And whatever happened to Mr.Muralidhar who flunked me in math more than once. Did he turn blind and grow an extra nose like I wished him to.
Would I recognise Nirmal if I saw him cross the street? After all, we walked to school every single day when were were five. He still owes me the candies he stole from my bag.
I wonder if the little white bungalow with its sloping tiles and mango trees in the backyard still stands? I learned to walk there.
There is a piece of earth where Sunil and I buried a clutch of marbles, a top and bus ticket stubs for a rainy day. I worry that many rains may have washed them away.
There are little pieces of me that have been lost on the way. But they come back to me in flashes on days like today.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Sunshine of my life
I have a friend named sunshine.
Sunshine has no gender, it's not even real. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, Sunshine tells me I am going to have a beautiful day. Often, when I am grappling with darkness, it tells me things will be okay. Sunshine has seen me through testing times, broken relationships, foolish decisions, indecision and excessive happiness. I have tried to rename it instinct, kung fu, destiny, superstition and even insanity. But Sunshine describes it best because I am still alive and hopeful.
I have a friend named sunshine, it's like BB King's guitar Lucille, sometimes when I am blue Sunshine calls my name.
Sunshine has no gender, it's not even real. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, Sunshine tells me I am going to have a beautiful day. Often, when I am grappling with darkness, it tells me things will be okay. Sunshine has seen me through testing times, broken relationships, foolish decisions, indecision and excessive happiness. I have tried to rename it instinct, kung fu, destiny, superstition and even insanity. But Sunshine describes it best because I am still alive and hopeful.
I have a friend named sunshine, it's like BB King's guitar Lucille, sometimes when I am blue Sunshine calls my name.
God's child
What if you woke up one day and realised you are God's child. That you could make your toothbrush fly and turn your neighbour into an owl. What would you do?
Would you attempt to part the sea? Or if you are in a place like Bangalore that doesn't have water even in its taps, would you try something cooler like flying to work arms wildly flapping and all. Come to think of it, why work at all. Come on now, what would you do child of God?
PS: Yeah, no comments on serving the poor and the homeless etc. Leave that for the Miss Universe finalist.
Would you attempt to part the sea? Or if you are in a place like Bangalore that doesn't have water even in its taps, would you try something cooler like flying to work arms wildly flapping and all. Come to think of it, why work at all. Come on now, what would you do child of God?
PS: Yeah, no comments on serving the poor and the homeless etc. Leave that for the Miss Universe finalist.
Monday, March 16, 2009
The fountain pen
I am going to buy myself a fountain pen today.
There is nothing to be worried about really, these things happen to me. I have had this craving to own a fountain pen all weekend. Call it a mid-life crisis or worse but I am getting one and no arguments please.
For those of you born in the unfortunate and ignorant 80s, the fountain pen is a magical and messy instrument of the Doordarshan age. Owning a fountain pen is like owning a Zippo lighter, you don't throw it away when it runs out of gas. Instead, you keep a bottle of ink handy and fill it carefully till you see dribbles of ink leaking. Then you clean the nib and you are good to go again.
The fountain pen has an ink reservoir, a nib (usually made of stainless steel or gold) and a mind of its own. You have to be nice to it or it can mess up your freshly washed shirt or examination paper. It's a moody instrument, it can shut shop without warning. Then you give it a good old fashioned shake and if you are lucky it will squirt a stream of indigo at anybody prowling in a 1-km radius.
Back in the day, the fountain pen was a symbol of success. There were Indian brands like Camlin for the masses, Waterman or Sheaffer for the privileged and Hero (from Red China) for ones with uncles in Dubai. I have to buy one.
There is nothing to be worried about really, these things happen to me. I have had this craving to own a fountain pen all weekend. Call it a mid-life crisis or worse but I am getting one and no arguments please.
For those of you born in the unfortunate and ignorant 80s, the fountain pen is a magical and messy instrument of the Doordarshan age. Owning a fountain pen is like owning a Zippo lighter, you don't throw it away when it runs out of gas. Instead, you keep a bottle of ink handy and fill it carefully till you see dribbles of ink leaking. Then you clean the nib and you are good to go again.
The fountain pen has an ink reservoir, a nib (usually made of stainless steel or gold) and a mind of its own. You have to be nice to it or it can mess up your freshly washed shirt or examination paper. It's a moody instrument, it can shut shop without warning. Then you give it a good old fashioned shake and if you are lucky it will squirt a stream of indigo at anybody prowling in a 1-km radius.
Back in the day, the fountain pen was a symbol of success. There were Indian brands like Camlin for the masses, Waterman or Sheaffer for the privileged and Hero (from Red China) for ones with uncles in Dubai. I have to buy one.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Sean Penn and the heart of art
What has remained with me years after I watched Mystic River is Sean Penn's eerie menace. Penn as Jimmy the ex-con gone straight has this repressed intensity that threatens to uncoil and burn when prodded. His brooding physicality looms large over the movie.
And then I watched Milk. Penn is incandescent again. In the hands of director Gus Van Sant, Sean Penn turns gay with such control and conviction that you almost forgive him for kissing James Franco every five minutes. Penn and Sant stay clear of all the gay cliches, the campiness and fluttering eyelashes.
Milk is a powerful film, iconic even. How often do you find a film that deals with that most primordial of human rights ... the right to be yourself.
PS: Yeah, fairy tale would have been a sick headline:)
And then I watched Milk. Penn is incandescent again. In the hands of director Gus Van Sant, Sean Penn turns gay with such control and conviction that you almost forgive him for kissing James Franco every five minutes. Penn and Sant stay clear of all the gay cliches, the campiness and fluttering eyelashes.
Milk is a powerful film, iconic even. How often do you find a film that deals with that most primordial of human rights ... the right to be yourself.
PS: Yeah, fairy tale would have been a sick headline:)
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