Nib 'n' Notes

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 10:45:00 +0000

No, I don't doubt

No, I don't shout.

But I think, and that's worse.

Shrieks

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 13:24:00 +0000

Of pain, anger, resentment
in my dream
she fought with him
he spat fire
she, shrieks
long, beastly, ghostly
in my head
a drunken head
they echoed in the dark
and only that evening
they'd fell Ravana.
They were real
from an apartment? Hell? Home?
No, she couldn't be in that much pain.
A frantic message sent for help
But Solitude was the only friend in sight
Until Sleep came along.

Why?

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 14:21:00 +0000

In seven beautiful days
Why do I feel like writing about that one miserable night?
In an infallible eternity of faith
Of that fleeting moment of doubt?
In that wish to stay forever
Of that one moment when I want to escape?
In that ‘beyond’ belonging
Of a strange estrangement
When I judge my life most harshly as the heart pounds loud, questioning itself
But the ifs and buts stand no chance
For the morning must take care of this monster

A wretched, wretched day

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Fri, 20 May 2011 10:00:00 +0000

Yeah one of those.
When you don’t feel a thing.

Sleep, disturbed, cold
Dreams, confused, insignificant
Just a warm arm to take refuge in
Don’t feel peace don’t feel rest

Morning alarm, a message
Of disappointment at work
Harried hurried
Love, lost to the sun
Smiles, to many a ‘let’s go quick’
Don’t feel no good morning, this

A dead, dreary ride
Spotting familiar faces so unknown
The train gates open to the sea of mankind
And you float about lost, up an unfamiliar spot
Thankfully, a bottle of mango shake to down
A miraculous moment – oh, so that’s why I landed here
But no, it feels no better

An auto ride – short, sun fought
Stops at that structure so mighty
It stares, you feel small
And still smaller in the day

A part wants to get away
Another wants to stay, find a way
Amid absolute apathy and desperate drive
My best nerve, numbed

The misery makes you reach out
To deaf ears, busy souls
Who care
But aren’t quite there
When you can’t feel life inside

And so you ping at random
Greeting friends for some solace
They’re generous
You write a poem
Pouring it all out
Stare at that unresponsive window
Yawn wide
Crave a long free ride
And by the time it pops an active orange
You’re gone
The seeker, sad and sleepy
The help it sought, welcome no more
The lover, low and in slow mo
It doesn’t feel a thing.

In Your hands

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Thu, 17 Mar 2011 15:14:00 +0000

The chaos theory.

The perplexing practical.

Beautiful as it is.

Great. Fate.

Smiling skies. Hidden highs.

Slowly showing. Free flowing.

Fighting the norm

Feeling changing form.

Realizations of blasphemy

Beaten by bouts of insanity

So sure. Is it premature?

It’s hard to break this guard

Clouds of doubt, despair, disapproval

Now there, now gone

Cautious of the crescendo

Judgment, the devil of dreamland

Peeping, poking, joking

The mind, a cynic soaked in sense

The heart, smitten by a simple, sweet smile

Their wars, leaving me worried

Till warm words and arms end them all

Sweet sleep

This dream, say the Lords, I must keep

An elegy for the ephemeral

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Thu, 30 Dec 2010 12:44:00 +0000

Time to leave the rants and remnants of the year, here…

Effortless exhibitionism

A speck in the scheme of things

From rhododendron groves to the rhododendron grave.

I sealed my past with tears

To wake up to smiles of us

You, yo-yo

Opening closing

Reopening all chapters,

Tore the beautiful book apart

Chose habit over heart

No-ing me. Knowing yourself

‘For old time’s fake’

Words can lie. Silence can’t.

Like those wisps of juniper

Memories burned, fragrant

‘So much for my happy ending’

No mercy, no befriending

Others drew paintings from my pain

Tried to wipe it all out, in vain

No – I wasn’t washing dirty linen in public —

You had already wrung it dead and hard and put it out to dry

I, an emotional standby

Battled heart and dust

With memories of that fresh water spring over those of the one that went by

Summer, dry, diseased

A flower whose fragrance I had hoped would heal me

One that I thought, I’d someday really get to see

No one told me uphill was easy

Downhill, not

The Buddha, smiling, his secrets, bare.

Can’t brush them into oblivion, that epiphany so rare.

A thousand negations and sadly, I’d still care

When I was falling into the blackhole from a place so high

I pushed you away

You popped up

I was breaking away, there was the ‘what’s up’

All talk so topical lest we stumbled into never lands

Miles away from the magic

Of wee walking, holding hands

Prayer flags aflutter

But my dreams had pulled the shutter

My thoughts wandered in a strange universe

Were things to get better? Could they have gotten any worse?

‘My blessing became my curse’

I stood in preparation of permanent pointlessness, still enchanted

My sleep blown away by mountain wind

My waking hours

Washed with realizations

Of rhododendrons vs reality

As I sought myself in my city

So complete as it was, once

You non existent, forget being a cause

Of smiles, sorrows, sense of self

Your ego, a giant. My hopes, an elf.

Random thoughts

Of what nots —

Touching me with a purity

Which in that moment was

Promising a surety

When all was gonna be a loss

You failed. Me, struggling to pass

It wasn’t I who was wrong

It was you on a different song

Matter of tactly

As Sartre said, existence preceding essence

I kept telling you to do what your heart felt like

Didn’t know part of it wanted to murder mine

Does hurt render all things false?

Perhaps I know. Makes it easier to let go

And even as to go away is to stay

There feels nothing like the final washaway

Summer start

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Wed, 06 Oct 2010 08:50:00 +0000

Part-tiring, part inspiring.
A blog boy who fascinates
A silent spectator who ruminates
A shiver
It's the liver.
Giggly girls, and me, the yellow journalist
A quick copy, hope it wasn't sloppy
Not in form. Not my norm.
Bright reds and soothing whites floating about
Kindness no less
Need to wait and get better I guess.

(Written on Day One of new work , back in July)

Afloat that sinking feeling

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Fri, 10 Sep 2010 15:03:00 +0000

No's ark. No shore.
The devil and the deep blue sea
Above, below and all around
As life proceeds on auto-pilot in a parallel land
Pits and pats
Rapture and rats
A zombie on a neverending zebra crossing
Pouncing on every piece of peace that falls on the way
Their full circles
My hanging halves
A host of hellos
From friends who seemed so far
House hunting
Home punting
Mess in my mind
What a loss of a find
Still reeling from the shock
As the heart runs amok
I pull the reins tight
But it knows no wrong no right
Blinded by hindsight
What looked like love’s light

Lies are all he tells
But pretension by temple bells?
That first sunrise, faked?
Spring waters, poisoned?
Hills, hallucinations?

And now, floods. Pourdom.
The ark, drowning without defence.
With its beasts of burden —
Trust. Togetherness.
Memories. Happiness.
Not struggling to save themselves anymore
Or counting on strangers so full of deceit
Waiting impatiently to pass away
And never wake up to tears in heaven

How convenient, “I couldn’t possibly tell”.
‘That all the while, I was watchfully walking you to hell’.

Rhododendrons vs reality

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 16:28:00 +0000

Now I know how those grand counts came
I have just one word — shame.
A figment sold as firmament
A fallacy I failed to fathom
A dream I never knew I’d dread
A love that was never born, what dead!

I spoke about signs all along
Sang your song
Made right of your wrong
While what made you stick
Was something you called in your language, ‘click, trick, kick’?

And now, nothing moves the pen like pain
And I suddenly see what you meant
It wasn’t What If but What F
Not Nefertiti — Nevertiti.
That one time you declared me ‘Better Half’
And turned out the Bitter Half.

To you, it was a deed. Perhaps a need.
To me, a seed. To you, a weed.
I partied in fool’s paradise
While you were waiting to break hell
How, I still wonder, can a heart hardsell?

All those tunes you hummed
The profound parallels you drew
None were ever for me
I so wish I knew!

You walked me in wonderland and left for the world midway
No tears shed the burden, no more lies save the day
And know what’s the worst part?
You fall from the pedestal, but it is I that die.

I chose, I rose, and you pushed me to the fall
Maybe just another trick in the wall
But I’m glad the truth still stands tall.

Down the pine tree

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 16:27:00 +0000

Fond names, given taken godforsaken
A summer that now reeks of its non-being
Dreams, promises, betrayed on pain’s premises
Only cause more.

An army of hooligans in a hospital
And you join them in their demeanor
Before they dare at me, it’s you
Who gives them the cue

Walking through passages of memory
I find a text
On another pretext
“I promise I will never be loud again.”
And I smile at how no word is everlasting
Yet to meet a man whose is.

I struggle between wiping that glib off my phone and life
And keeping it for old time’s sake
Maybe some blessed day will prove they weren’t all fake
As space becomes distance, distance a dead zone
And most conversations, hastily ended monotone

Work, your new world.
Love, reduced to an ‘activity’ you finished last year.
Revival? Oh, better things on the mind.
Balance? The weighing scale succumbed this spring.
Isn’t it amazing, how seasons reveal so much about men?

Coming of age

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Tue, 11 May 2010 12:26:00 +0000

Proud private secrets washed in a public puddle.
A day's acquaintance over months of trust.
Forsake the friend, if you must.
Nibbling on niceties till you choke on offence.
Have fun, who cares about the sense?
Or the place or purpose
The equation or situation
Unless of course, it's your own.
Faith, falling by the moment.
Elsewhere, personal plans in progress
A pilgrimage. Mandir to market.
Who cares for keen company.
When it's really about industry.

In that hopeless hour

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 12:27:00 +0000

Sitting on a sticky chair,
She struggles to get herself back
A reverie, a dream, childlike charm, smiles
An awakening, a jolt, a whack
It’s tough, rough
She wants to let go of the stuff
It hurts, in spurts
And heals, when he feels
Almost love, mad love, sad love, almost loveless
And still, there’s the hope, the wish, the lostness
It’s called Neverland because it’s never gonna be there
A fairytale when they really meant feary-tale
There are cheerful colours in the air, but he wants none smeared by me
Every li’l disappointment, a ‘fight’
Over foresight
Home halts. My foolish faults. The cheek and its sorry salts.
Apologies all the time. And everything that follows is crime.
The I and my that make me sigh
Sprinkled with a gesture sweet
A dinner discreet
Ever-escapist feet
Rumi refused, connections confused
Words wielded like weapons
And I thought we’d let go, end the sour show
Spring. A new beginning to that lovely thing.
I’d take you everywhere I know you’d like
Didn’t think, in turn, you’d deny me and delay and psych
Laughter isn’t always the best medicine in love
It’s not frivolity and impulse that give birth to the dove
Yeah, I know it’s lame to blame
And not, to me, a win-lose game
I’ve reconciled. Almost resigned.
Cried, been livid. Hoped, wished, pined.

Cold play

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 12:20:00 +0000

Now you know me, now you don't.
Today, I play along, someday, I won't.
Dinners refused and others enjoyed.
The smiles, flowers and times together you avoid.
Save that side for someone you'll truly love
More than you did, me, more smooth than rough
I dunno how any love can do that.
If it's really as unconditional as you say,
Does it really care for every silly spat?
Dunno how relationships, to a matter of convenience, reduce
Ones that don't come like love anymore, and you still can't seem to refuse.
The heart's a funny being, you know,
The chase makes you praise
But know there's no dearth of feeling, and it's a taken-for-granted case.
Prelude.Elude.Feud.
But no, no vengeance, no anger, no grudge.
Just fear being numb and dead by the time there's a nudge.
But why, sigh, do I even hope,
Knowing you want us down the slope.

Holiday hangover

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 20:27:00 +0000

From hills to hell. And hardsell.
Making ’em wait when they want to move
Dancing to the groove; there’s love to prove
The past popping up from doubt-dens
I did hunt them down, but the ghosts are never gone
He plays planchette
Or so it seems
Even in daybreak beams
Of Tiger hills
Tea garden thrills
The thorns still stuck somewhere
The air, still fresh

The Fall

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 21:43:00 +0000

From a wondrous windward to a lonely leeward.
And now, a sweet strangeness inward, outward, at times awkward.
The trust's tall. And it's His call.
Stopped, stooped, stumbled, surrendered.
And rose.
From violent to violets.
An Elf shelved.
But babies born are never quite gone.
Love, just changing forms.
Behold; it's still beautiful.
And there's nowhere to go than better.

Muddleheaded

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Thu, 14 May 2009 09:53:00 +0000

Piles waiting to be filed
Stories, barring the one that’s my life
Lost in perplexity
Bad men on bikes
Good men on hikes
Being hushed, crushed, shushed
Cabins refilled, with ink of a different colour
Elsewhere, lackluster pages loom over the future
A thought-salad of love, defense, transience and letting go
On my soul’s platter
One of better rank and responsibility, on my mind’s
The heart, however, eats out of itself
As it turns into a messed pie
Every morsel infused with a muddleheaded high

Read-write conflicts

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 12:08:00 +0000

It’s 5:16 by the clock and I can’t believe it’s my first Word document in the day. And the first written words, too, except the odd Gtalk greeting. Journalistic blasphemy; Shakespearean sacrilege. Especially when Zen in the Art of Writing looms over my bedside lamp, with it wondrous revelations and simple yet spellbinding suggestions. I often wonder why great reading and good writing can never quite go hand-in-hand… maybe the subconscious is skilled at it all — imitating, soaking, standing apart, spilling out — but only one thing at a time. I don’t know which one’s in progress at the moment, but till then, soaking up the city feels tolerable enough.

Khusro ki class

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 13:06:00 +0000

The Sufi spirit is intoxicating Delhi's cultural hubs. Here's trailing the Beethovens of Balli Maran and beyond...

The magic of mystic music will never die down in the City of Djinns, its author assures. "At quarter to six, I will be at the Hazrat Nizamudin Dargah, like I am, most of the weeks — it's a spectacle," said William Dalrymple excitedly, hoping to catch us there when we called to ask how the legendary lore of the Chishtis is doing in Delhi. It's quite crowded, so he offered the Mehrauli Dargah, explaining how this city has a fascinating history, and qawwali helps it connect with its roots. "Great performances may come and go, but the art will forever shine." I wandered about for proof.

No, I discovered, Delhiites aren't a set of Wajd (ecstasy) wannabes. Harshdeep Kaur, a young Sufi singer who'll be performing here soon, feels this is the most fertile soil for these songs of love. "I grew up here, and the place infused in me this fondness it has the best listeners. I'll be singing Bulle Shah, and modern compositions by Rahat Fateh Ali Khan, too, because tastes have evolved." The well-known Warsi brothers will accompany her at Seher's three-day devotional music do, Bhakti Utsav.

Sourced from the term 'Qaul' meaning utterance of the Prophet, qawwalis, or selfless renditions devoted to God and gurus, are supported by a many a cultural group in the capital, including Spicmacay, Chinmaya Mission, India Islamic Cultural Centre, India Habitat Centre and music labels like Mystica Music. And it isn't just the Walled City that's singing to the art's tunes. Only the other day, author Omair Ahmad's new title, The Storyteller's Tale, was released in the midst of a qawwali concert by the famous Pakistani Sabri troupe at the American Center on KG Marg.

Apart from usual sessions in dargahs and a major outpour around the 'Urs' to observe the death anniversary of Sufi saints, the eighth century form thrives in the hearts of musicians of other genres, too. "Some people might misunderstand it and others only sit around the stage and clap, but for me, it's about far more than that," said city-based sitar maestro Ustaad Shujaat Khan. A fan of both the Aashiqana form that sings to the lover and Sufiana that praises the lord, he has a clarification for Wikipedia, which classifies ghazals under qawwalis. "Ghazal is only love poetry, expressed in songs. First, they sang it alone, then, some rhythm was added. Gradually, it was sung in groups, but never as an ode to the almighty. So, it can never qualify as qawwali." There are more corrections in the pipeline. The Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) feels the Nizammudin Dargah offers limited scope to the heritage act, and is toying with the idea of taking performances to the spacious Humayun's Tomb nearby. Elsewhere, Bauls are being embraced as part of the Qawwal community. They weren't wrong when they sang yeh sheher nahi mehfil hai!

Catch the best of qawwali at:
>> Hazrat Nizamuddin Dargah and Dargah Sharif, Mehrauli: Thursday evenings
>> Qutub garden complex during the Qutub Festival
>> India Islamic Culture Centre, Lodhi Road (011-43535354)
>> Bhakti Utsav: April 3 to 5, Nehru Park, Chanakyapuri

Thank you...

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Sun, 08 Mar 2009 10:59:00 +0000

Just wanted to thank you for being here, and hope this interview of mine at Ampercent helps your blogging lives, even if by a bit. Thanks Ani, Soumen and everyone who's ever been here.
Take care.

A season without reason

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 10:38:00 +0000

A scent I've sniffed before
that of nostalgia, freshness, joy, apprehension
All at the same time
Mysterious whiffs
from a source unknown
The Springseed just sown
Feels like autumn for all that was
Scorching summer for all that is to come
And rainshowers of sweet surrealism in between

Director's special

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 14:55:00 +0000

It’s one of those days and times when feeling floaty equals bliss. There are dreadful deadlines lurking round the corner, a pending piece on love that ironically calls for more sense than soul, and a Sunday that stares into your sorry face. But amid all of it are fond hangovers, that of a solitary morning coffee that killed the monotony of a typical media chat, of sunny surrealism that fills the air, and snippets of a conversation with a man who doesn’t believe in the chaos theory of everyday life.

I happened to speak to director Sudhir Mishra one of these days, and that was perhaps the most meaningful chat I’ve had with a celebrity in the past few months. Before beginning on anything else, I couldn’t help but bring up Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi, a masterpiece that still leaves me awed every time it plays in video or audio. “The movie is beyond me now; it has a life of its own. It travels from one person to another, and people find meanings in it that I never meant,” he smiled at the other end of the receiver, I could feel. Back in my college days, I always wondered which character was a portrayal of him — all great movies are autobiographical, you know. He took me by surprise. “If I were to pick one, I’d be Geetha.” Whoa. “I’m neither a fixer nor an extreme radical, just like her. She just believes in taking the journey, without wanting life to change as she wants it to. And, she’s the only one who stays intact in the end.” Hmm. Silence. A very comfortable one, unlike that shared with most pretty public figures with plasticized smiles. “I’m so glad, not a single day goes without someone talking about Hazaaron… to me, it just feels so nice. It was a beautiful film. The flaw lay only in the marketing. If it were to happen today, it’d do very well.” Silence again — a moment of mourning, and the next, of moving on.

I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. What’s up, what next, your take on Slumdog, all that jazz. He read my mind. “There are movies and movies, and most of them, both in Bollywood and Hollywood, are advertisements for a way of life.” But I insisted there are white sheep in the black herd, too, still reeling under Dev D’s charisma. “Yes, of course, there’s Anurag (Kashyap), Shimit Amin, Dibakar Banerjee, Sanjay Khanduri, Farhan and Zoya (Akhtar). They are good people who’ve watched the best movies from around the world, and are influenced by modern cinema but not corrupted by it.”

Thoughts drifted, and so did his words, shifting from muse Chitrangada (Singh) to movies that made him to comparisons between entertainment and enrichment. “UTV is creating an atmosphere for good movies — those that have the ability to change you if you let them enter you.” He cited Gurudutt, Fellini and (Aki) Kaurismäki as ideals. “Their films aren’t pretentious. They take you into worlds, families, hardships and rhythms you’ve never known; they invoke and provoke. If you allow yourself, they are even entertainment.” And, most importantly, “They’ve made me the man that I am.”

I trusted his testimony, but he explained more. “Most people make films that judge people and typecast characters. I try to make movies that don’t judge. Sometimes, life doesn’t permit you to be as good as you want.” Does he feel it in his own? “We all do.”

And then, he readied me for his very own Chanda. “My next movie isn’t another Dev D or anything; it’s only inspired by Devdas and Hamlet in some parts. Chitrangada, who I think has a lot of potential, plays Chandramukhi.” But I was curious of the plot, beyond all hearsay. “It’s about political lineage — about children who come back when their families get in trouble.” And just to set the record straight, “The whole story of Devdas happens only in fifteen minutes.” But I don’t doubt the impact of a quarter. So much came about in this one.

TGIF

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 13:36:00 +0000

The home chores list stares at me
With a filmy ‘things to do before I die’ thought
I juggle between 10 telephone calls every hour
And the urge to run out to the neighbourhood park
Holidays are to soak up the sun
Have some fun
Get to poetry and pun
But I stand solitary reaper
To the yield of mess
Piles of clothes to be folded
Thoughts to be penned
Hurts to be tended
Shower gel baths to be taken
The clock ticks away mercilessly
While I put the quilts out for sunning
Get veggies, dust the bookshelf and brush myself up
For a Saturday turned working yet again
A 16-minute chat with a peace-giver to the rescue
A sweet CD from a far-off friend I’ve never met
I squeeze a lemon for some nimbu paani
Just as I do, everything else
The thirst for stillness quenched a little.
Thank God it’s Friday…

Words

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 10:00:00 +0000

Pen to paper
Breeze to peace
After long it’s a midnight when I’m alone, at ease
The Zee lobby is as blank as my brain
A silent, solitary spectator to what’s beyond the window pane
No souls to be felt, just a humming radio about
I desperately search for mine, as the guards laugh and shout
My words crawl deliberately, though they make no sense
Every sentence uncertain, every thought somewhat tense
Professionally, a writer
But right now, all but a fighter
I need them to rescue me from me, to find me in me
But they’re sick and tired of the taming, infuriated, I see
Crisp in the morning, witty at noon
Too fagged out to greet the moon
And yeah, this still manages to form a rhyme
But without them, it’s all but a pitiful mime

The past few days

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 08:33:00 +0000

A gold chain snatched right in front of my eyes
The patrol van stands watching right behind the victim’s car
A Sri Sri Ravi Shankar convoy blocks the road
Out on a mission to teach the art of living
People run the marathon
Tired of the rat race
I review a Mexican restaurant
And take refuge in chai at JNU
Destiny brings me to seek help from a friend
For whom I’ve never quite been there
Another one’s brakes failed, just came to know
He’s battling in the ICU, God be with him
The sun shines bright
But there’s winter haze
So’ve been the past few days…

Painfully plush

noreply@blogger.com (soumya mukerji) — Sat, 13 Sep 2008 06:38:00 +0000

Perfection doesn't define the ideal parameters for reading, someone tell the Frenchmen. The latest on the global intellectuals’ block, I read, is a book boutique by Parisian luxury publishing giant Assouline. It’s flawless to the T – rich hardcovers at painfully geometrical angles, furniture so fine you’ll be worried about causing butt dents in it, shelf designs so sharp they’ll intimidate you with their excellence and stacks of up-fashioned titles for the luxury-obsessed – ‘Make up’, ‘Racing Style’, ‘Hotels De Paris’ – they read. Thankfully, the honest reader still exists in our country by and large, reveling in a Ghalib meets Jane Austen literary exuberance within the humble walls of his shack, one who won’t quite fall prey to this new business bait, fast followed by Vadehra Art Gallery's posh new book lounge here.

True aesthetes, after all, get inspired from the raw charms of the world, not fat-priced glossies and ‘exclusive’ journals, just as internal journeys can never quite be about external exquisiteness. But then, there are those like Martine Assouline for whom art’s more about what lies between lounger linings than the covers. Her praise for the Tawaraya hotel in Kyoto in a national daily’s supplement says it all – “For me this is the most luxurious place in the world, thanks to the quality of every detail here: the flower in the vase that curves at just the right angle, the bowl of soup that has a pattern to match the weather outside(!).” And shall we say trivialities in taste to go with it, huh?