Someplace Else

A January list of favourites...

2012-01-25T16:42:00.000+05:30

I am spending less time on the blog and more of it with mountain goats (a couple). I'm not sure how I'll live through the end of this month. How is it even allowed to end?

My '12 favouriteness from January, so far?

Waking up at three to see sister's new snow boots
Karkash winterwaale haath
Finding Qasim jaan
Enjoying Kareem's more by the response on the other side
Playing teen do paanch, winning everything, forcing 'let's change the game'
The squirrels could be small, but the pigeon was fat
Outguessing, the Nine, of Clubs
Knowing that I am in Qutub and Humayun's thrice within the same month
Being unable to find a mall, and knowing Ballimaran se Daribe talak, all the kahani Dilli mein
Dad texting me from one room to the another, to be non intrusive, and asking us to 'not make noise and sleep now'
Sleeping late and wanting to wake up, at four twenty-seven, already
3am texts that I reply to. Alarms that I speak to. And then switch off again...

My Favourite Things from kidswithcrayons on Vimeo.

The green saree...

2012-01-10T18:30:00.000+05:30

I am scared mother will slap me for writing it. But I can't not share it.

Sister's come home with a lot of gifts, and we were all very thrilled- I got my new camera already! I love it (some birthday gifts do reach me!) :-)

So then, ma and I started talking about gifts in general, and first gifts in specific. Till I asked her, if father ever gifted her anything before they got married. [They had a short engagement, and since the wedding was arranged, didn't know each other for too long]. Her birthday happened to occur a few days before the wedding. In his niceness, father asked his cousin's wife to help him select a suitable gift for the girl. A really nice green 'south silk' saree was thus bought.

He gave the saree to her, admirably, only post the wedding. But they lived with Hitler daadi [you know I love grandmother, but I've taken to scaring the new maid that she's coming soon :D, of course, she was/is strict as well]. The gift was a secret. So, now, ma couldn't wear the saree at home. I don't think anything was going to happen if she did. But my parents have always been less expressive and outwardly about feelings in general. I think they're a lot proper and a bit shy. And most of all, had someone in the house appreciated the saree and asked where it came from, both of them would never have been able to make up a story. And he was perhaps just coy to admit that he got his wife a birthday gift like that, before the wedding. Sometimes, I feel my grandmother lived in more advanced ways, but then, you know.

It was then decided that the saree must go to naani's house (I don't know if ma told her mother that it were a gift). Naani kept it in her trunk for many years. And later, she wore it for someone's wedding. And then, someone else's. When naani passed away (I was in the final year of my engineering, but I don't think I ever knew her too well), her children opened the trunk. Many a times, the clothes are given away to some needy people. Ma looked at the trunk, and said, all she wanted was that green saree. She didn't want to have it been given away to just about anyone.

Just a couple of decades in, and she got the saree home, finally. And gave it to the maid.

Radhey Radhey...

2012-01-05T13:19:00.000+05:30

O'er the neue Jahr weekend maid, me and mom landed in Vrindavan. I'd been wanting to go there a while, and it was strange that in all these years in Delhi, I never had. The first sight, isn't pretty. There are animals all around like the cows and pigs you see in India, blocking traffic, jumping from one open drain to another, feeding on food from open garbage dumps- which are visible in every galli and kucha. And that's not pretty, you could call me snobbish, but seriously.

We begin with the Brij Bihari temple, if you like me decide to pretend the quick gajjar ka halwa before that didn't exist. The gallis are small, even so, it's not hard to recognise which one leads to the temple. It's so crowded, that you can't quite forget to take a deep breath just before you enter the street. You look around a little to see people dressed in yellows with big chandan (sandalwood) pastes smeared all over their foreheads. I make a mental note to get one too, for kicks? The Joota ghar (shoe house?!) is barely visible from the scores of heads and falling children, so you do what you do in India, keep the shoes near the thele wallah selling necessary flowers and accessories for entry. Oh but I wait near them shoes and let the maid and the mother go in first. They come out gushing that they couldn't reach the God with flowers. I go in next. Of course in a women only line, I reach the God easily even without having to stand up on my toes. I feel very smug about being reasonably, un-Indian-ly tall. At these times I wonder if God's peeping at me sneering at that woman who just pushed me. I keep a note to remember where the mother was left by finding a post office adjoining the temple, barely visible. Of course when I step in, they only open at "10" and don't keep postcards (that's for private guys they tell me). I tell God, he needs to stop making fun of me.

picture from here

We step out of the street again, and at the head, we meet a man, 5 feet, who I tower over, but he doesn't care- offering a 'guide' service for Rs 20. He's a find! I readily agree. He guides us through a blurry of streets, I tell myself I would positively not see a thing if not for him. Mother and maid walk really slowly and I keep pace. The man tells me I am walking through the Kunj galliyan people rave about. One person can walk past those at one time, so I am not sure what I am supposed to be impressed about. I hmm him. Finally, while walking to Madhuban (or van) he asks me the critical question- madam aap kahan se aaye hain? [madam, where art thou from...since I am wearing jeans I am madam, and not behan]. I dryly mention Delhi. He continues, Delhi waale kafi aatein hain yahan. [Delhi people come here often] Forced to respond, I say, paas hai na. Radha Rani ki kripa hai Dilliwaalon par. [ Delhi people are Radha Rani's blessed lot] Takes me a while to gulp, till a man walks to overtake me, but says Radhey Radhey. I look back to see if it's for real. He passes me by casually. A blonde lady then comes by and exchanges Radhey Radhey with my guide. Madhuban- the garden of the Maha Raas, where speculation says, post 7pm the Tulsi [Vrinda plants] change into Gopis and anyone who sees the spectacular scene either dies or goes into trance unable to explain the experience. It has the only Krishna temple where the God is seen as a 'sevak' of Radha. Just as he is telling me these stories about Radha Rani, my phone rings. I realise in a very un-Indian way, it seems to be not cool to take the call while he's talking. I am impressed.

We walk again to reach the Radha Vallabh temple next. In this one, Radha mein Krishna dikhta hai aur Krishna mein Radha. [it is here that you find Radha in Krishna and Krishna in Radha] I am still breaking my neck and trying to see what others can see. The payal on one foot and the guy's clothing on the other side. I wonder, if gender really is only just a structure. I think of the Pregnant King. Vrindavan shows you the concept of Shri Radha. All with graffiti on the wall to go along. And then, I turn back to see a massive crowd. Dancing.

I can't explain it. Ich kann nur Ihnen sagen, it has to be felt. Because sometimes a large crowd sharing happiness and dancing their hours away, doesn't feel ordinary. It's moving. And powerful. And I am scared that I can't turn away.

Pashmina memories...

2012-01-02T18:39:00.002+05:30

Grandmother once told me, as kids, they would buy Pashmina wool, and use the Yendr (Spinning wheel) and sell back very fine yarn to shopkeepers, for twenty rupees worth of financial independence and pocket money. It seemed quite common with girls in the valley at that time. She got married in the winter, in '42, wearing a Pashmina saree. Post marriage, she would knit Pashmina sweaters for grandfather every time she was away spending time at her mother's. The sweater at the end of the separation period was to signify how warmly she thought of him, and cared enough to think that he should have the most 'special' outwear to brave the schnee (snow-that german, but the Kashmiri word isn't far, it's sheen). She also liked a little fame, as the wife who had the most exclusive gifts for the husband.

Every shawl has a quiet story. The one my maasi restored and shows off frequently in weddings, comes from her grandmother, and had been hand-embroidered by the women themselves. Ma has a red shawl often used in Poshpuza's (there's a flower (posh) puza (prayer) in Kashmiri weddings, where the bride and groom get their heads covered under a shawl and others shower them with flowers) of cousins, that she practiced embroidery on herself pre her wedding . One of ma's Pashmina sarees is now a shawl each for sister and me. And then, there's this and that.

Delhi will all its fog and winterness can't somehow realistically muster the courage to have me use Pashmina, unless I'm in summer fabrics in an evening party, unwilling to wear coats lest they spoil the dressy fun. *At* that time, a Pashmina scarf, or shawl comes in handy. Though, it is unheard that any self respecting Kashmiri woman (esp of mum's age) should be seen in a winter party saree without the Pashmina from the iron trunks- some of which stay under my gratherfather's bed (which has been passed on to me, and exists still). For the rest of the year, the only other outing for the shawl is to the dry cleaners and friendly odonil checks.

And even so, it's not unusual for families to have deputed family shawl-wallahs. Ours got married recently, and we were invited too. He often visits on a Sunday for tea and biscuits, and shows up with the softest, nicest Pashmina, finding new ways to have me get one everytime. He is often most interested in my travel to different cities, where the margins and the cold really matter. He thinks firangs from Europe and the west are able to appreciate his 'art' more and buy it more readily at the right price.

Beginning of the year, and I was looking through a stack of old photos, and went through my surprise of noting a shop on a freezing Stockholm day, again.

The power of vulnerability...

2011-12-31T23:56:00.007+05:30

I feel very grateful that this year has moved past really quickly, and I have finally managed- meeting and calling people. I feel much more normal having met people I wanted to meet a while, coincidentally and/or with a plan. I feel even more 70s and retro, when my favourite thing to do would be to plop myself to a friend's place, just because, I was passing by.

On the family front, I am shocked to report, that post a lifetime of being my mumma's girl, I have realised I am as much papa's as I could be. And this includes writing letters.

I feel very grateful to people who let me feel vulnerable and be able to express. People who pushed me to open up and not go away- which is always my easy way out. I wish these people many more years, selfishly and especially in my life. And despite all its niceness, I can't wait for it to end already, I want the next year almost sooner :-), don't you? My sister's getting me a camera for my birthday! I can't wait to get to more quirky places with pics to go for them now! [ and show you all my first Habshi halwa from Balimaran :-)]

Vishal (he got married this year, and it was my favouritest wedding!) knows that a lot of my unmeekness comes from not letting people know that I could possibly be nice too. I spoke to a friend on my birthday mentioning this video I had seen, and it made me reflect a lot upon what I am as a person as well. So here is...and wish ye'all a happy new year!

Christmas notes...

2011-12-27T20:36:00.000+05:30

The boy asked the girl to marry him in quite a way. Filmy. And largely nice. Candles, and songs and an odd ring. So, I came back, dying to tell ma about it. I continued (unable to stop) about how the boy had made plans for the girl too- how she could achieve her personal goals, while they were decidedly taking the together path soonly. I found the planning particularly nice. Ma retorted (eager to tell her other stories) that aisa hi hota hai (this* is *how it happens). I found that a tad annoying. Because, I don't think niceness can be taken for granted. Things go awry often times. And, such efforts to me mean a lot more than they're given credit for.

Ma seemed upset and said, fine whatever you're saying is right. But I wasn't even discussing who was right or not. She continued, your father also used to write my notes when I was doing my M.Ed. This obviously got me interested, so I probed, he *wrote* your notes, oh and he had the best handwriting, of course, but *why*. Because he knew I used to keep working, taking care of the house a big family and a baby, so he would help. There are so many assignments that have gone in his hand. I would tell him the answers, and he would write them for me.

I'm sure I'd melt with Garfield-looking-at-spaghetti-eyes, if someone even offered to help like that, let alone take those notes or make a plan for my personal goals.

Oh well, maybe I'm unusually soppy during Christmas. I maintain it's cherish-able though. And you could congratulate my panic-stricken friend too. Good news near about now is always welcome, ne?

"To the lady who saw me crying"

2011-12-22T21:01:00.002+05:30

Ru asked in the last blog where one could read the unposted letters. (While the plan is to have a book,) You can see what's been coming through already! :-)

I really liked this one to the lady who say me crying...I can't say that's never happened to me. In fact it's easier to cry in front of ladies who we don't know. There's a lot of comfort in strangeness.
[I'd love to tell that girl outside R343 in Strathclyde how when she smiled at me, my worries lightened up too.]

Text

To the lady who saw me crying:

thank you. I will never forget your act

of kindness, reaching at to me when

you saw me crying in the rain at side of that

Persian restaurant. I'm sorry I had to decline your offer for

coffee or tea. but I was too upset to do anything. But thank

you. You made me realize that good does exist, and

not everyone's afraid of people on the street. For that, I thank

you. I wish I knew who you were in order to mail

this to you personally, but...this is the best that

I can do. Keep loving.

- Girl in the red pants

You can browse through more on the Facebook page here !

The Unposted letters project...

2011-12-21T22:03:00.000+05:30

I have often wondered about intimacy in personal communication. Most times, I feel, letters just mean a lot more to me. I am able to share more. I feel far more satiated. One could argue it's largely a monologue, with no instant responses, but don't we sometimes, want to share thoughts and let them away in red helium balloons? Like in movies, and books and fairy tale diversions :-)

Don't we sometimes find unposted letters stacked away in old drawers and at the back of notebooks. I am not sure entirely why we don't post some. I don't know if everyone has a different reason. I don't know if there's this whole community out there, which has just the same reasons! I do know for sure, that, sometimes, most people stack away thoughts. And in days close to Santa Claus times, this balloon logic excites me even more. What if, you didn't really post the letter, what if instead, you let it out, to the world?

I stumbled across The Unposted Letters Project a while back, and am glued now. I want to read all of those unposted, uncomfortable, awkward, funny, pointless, poignant letters, and find my story, in someone else's. Don't you?

Please "like"/ "follow" the project and help spread the word? I recommend, you show some love- it finds it's way back, often times, you know, as they say ;-)

PS: My support for this project is voluntary, though you know how I love letters, just *my* thing :-)

It's my birthday...

2011-12-18T00:00:00.011+05:30

from a mid December night, last year

Kyun desh videsh phire maara

Kyun haal behaal thakha haara

Kyun desh videsh phire maara

Tu raat beraat ka banjaara

[Why do you flit between your land and the foreign shores, spent, out of sorts, tired ? Why do you flit between your land and the foreign shores- you eternal gypsy.]

It's been an exhausting year. And exciting. And low. And crazy funny. I feel so spent...

...On January for losing objectivity. On February for picking up newness in the old. On March for its large moon-ly lists,an odd game. On April for being Garfield. On May for discovering my new Face, and time. On June for a whiff of raw cat eyes. On July for realizing it's not cat-like to pet. On August for Peri towers! On September for the love of the country. On October for articulating touch has a memory. On November for spinning with the world. On December for realizing, Kun faaya kun.

Kateein chahe jitna

Paroon se hawaon ko

Khud se na bach payega tu..

Koi bhi le rastaa

Tu hi hai tu berastaa

Apne hi ghar aayeha tu..

[No matter how much air you're able to pass by with your wings, you can't save yourself from you. Take any path, it'll just be you pouring. You'll (finally) reach your own home.]

All this being me-ness and the year really flew. And there are a couple of whole weeks to go still.

2012: Ich bin nicht blau. Ich bin orange...

2011-12-14T18:50:00.003+05:30

Nearing the year end, I always get fascinated by 'trends'. One way of doing trends is just to get an outside-in, take a step back sort of a perspective, and logically figure out 'what could happen' based on what has been happening. It's more fact based than predictive.

And while I am sure there's a strong logic to it also, I still always marvel at how experts bring about 'colour' and 'lighting' trends. I wish I could know. No well. That's not true. Personally, I don't much care about what colour will gain importance because I adopt colours I like, irrespective of whether others like them or not. I am quite convinced I am the only one in love with my yellow and pink jeans. My mother's only view on it is, just how I didn't take to those 'colourful' ones she had suggested a few years ago. At that time I brushed them aside. But then, I like realising what I like myself, no?

here's the original and here

But for those who care (to know, or think about) and for those who marvel at the how (like me), here's what the Pantone Color institute has come up with.

And for 2012: It's tangerine! (You think there's a German word for it? I was lazy to find out, I used orange ;)). Oh well, but tango, tangerine! I'd also love to know who on earth comes up with these fancy names! On twitter the other day, someone commented saying 'how a boy in her team calls yellow 'amber' on the spreadsheet, and that make her feel like a boy'. Well, see Blue Iris, and Mimosa then ;-) Oh, wait can I show off a little, German for purple is lila! :)

"Pantone Color Institute® tells us by way of explanation that it's "reminiscent of the radiant shadings of a sunset" and "marries the vivaciousness and adrenaline rush of red with the friendliness and warmth of yellow, to form a high-visibility, magnetic hue that emanates heat and energy."

Oh well bright, colourful year coming up!

Bahu Begam: Hum Intezaar Karenge...

2011-12-12T18:24:00.003+05:30

I love Meena Kumari. Ma was 10 when Bahu Begam was released, but we have both loved and oohed, aahed our way through it. We still do.

I can't also ever get enough of Rafi.

Bujhi bujhi si nazar mein teri talaash liye
bhatakte phirte hai hum aap apni laash liye
yehi junoon yehi vehshat ho
yehi junoon yehi vehshat ho
Aur tu aaye...
My bleary eyes search for you. I wander aimlessly carrying my dead body on me. Let this passion, this madness persist, and you come by.

Humara aalam-e rukhsat ho
Aur tu aaye...
Khuda kare ke qyamat ho
Aur tu aaye...
Let my end be near, and you come by. May God will it, let the judgement day arrive, and you come by.

Travel hunt...

2011-12-09T17:43:00.000+05:30

With the YIF project, the team is following a few travellers who came to India in the Mughal times (near about Shakespeare's & Aurangzeb's) and got massively attracted to India. Some kept coming back, while some made India a home.

Now the intriguing part of the research is a couple of real questions: what about India attracted them, aside the visible aspects of say religion & business. And, what body experiences did they have which met that craving the desire to travel & stay put, greater than the need. In the Lacanian world, desire can never be satisfied but it comes to fruition with the creation of a desire. And while I do think it is possible to answer what you do as a result of it, I do not think there's a reason why you don't have a desire.

Lacan: "desire begins to take shape in the margin in which demand becomes separated from need." And as Slavoj Žižek puts it "desire's raison d'être is not to realize its goal, to find full satisfaction, but to reproduce itself as desire.""

Sometimes I travel to go away, to think through. Sometimes I go away because I do.

Shared family brands...

2011-12-07T20:46:00.001+05:30

From the company website

Saw this advert recently. Made me think [of different things on the link] and mostly the brands we've hung out with since childhood.

Crowning Glory! (I don't know anyone else who was swayed so much by Dimple Kapadia's ad :))
Bush (unbelievable how I still believe that small screen TV felt better than all the new ones we've had since)
Keo Karpin ( legacy from grandmother, in the end I always go back to it!)
IFB ( We should get a prize for having the oldest washing machine in history, even multiple change this change that later it exists)
Bonjour! ( It used to be our clothes shop when we were in school in the pre-mall era)
Malhotra Jewellers ( Oh my Gold!)
Meena Bazaar (Most sarees in our house. My mother won't go anywhere else, given an option )

Your family pick?

what's in a bugni...

2011-12-05T21:29:00.002+05:30

A month and a half back, I joined as a contributor for a fascinating project for some extremely exciting fellows of the 'Young India Fellowship' (soon on that!). During our 'welcome to the YIF family' event we were all given a bugni (Kashmiri for Gullak, or a piggy bank).

As a child I faintly remember having a bugni and the making stacks of the coins in order (of course in times when a rupee or two could buy many things). I had to check up the significance of calling it a 'piggy' though, it seems to be derived from 'pyggy' - a sort of clay with which perhaps it was made, and I also figured pigs were considered lucky in German folklore (it's awesome these fun theories, no?)

The one bugni rule we had was never to break it. We would keep collecting, moving it to hear the chinking of metal money, till we could hear it no more, which meant the need for a bigger bugni.

What it says:

A symbol of timeless prudence and enduring growth the Gullak just as the young India fellowship is an investment in the future

The idea (click link for more fleshing out) is still somehow with me, a coin at a time, a long term investment, even if with no short sighted gains, no apparent tangible immediacy in benefits. It's so hard to live like that sometimes- always with the big picture. But more thought through, no? Guess it's time to collect those coins now!

Who's got a piggy bank story? :-)

Naresh (not just anybody) says I'm fine...

2011-12-03T17:43:00.001+05:30

I met Naresh a couple and a half years back. He's generally magic. At that time a relative starter, he started from the start and ended ensuring everything was in place. A girl (who I have intense dislike for, at this moment, mostly since she's made a job out of making her life sound like a sob story which it never is...) had told me how he's for the keeps. He just almost always manages a good job.

I got upset last night, in general, nothing quite grand. And even though it was pre-planned, a visit to Naresh started to look even more appealing.

It is always quite elaborate, never less than three or more hours. And sifting from one chair to another, eyes closed for the most part, it's an absolute luxurious feeling. Naresh takes me through my mundane day to day, tries to suggest things I could change in polished non-intrusive ways, talks about the new things he could try (never making it sound like an over-sell). I ramble off and on, never once feeling hurried. Time moves quickly and yet it feels like the slowest day I've had in months. In the end almost sad that it's over, as I gather to pick me up and have my last mirror glance, he makes me sit back again, for one last touch, asking ever so mildly if I liked the efforts. I always nod (and tell myself the next time I should come in sooner, and then never do that).

There's something about these long-winded hair and cuts. No matter where I begin, in the end it feels just fine.

This day, 2 years ago...

2011-12-01T17:00:00.020+05:30

The other day Vishal and I were discussing my unusually boring phone habits (I find phone calls unnerving most times, if I am calling someone, it's a huge deal, just to part with my space). And then, as usual, Vishal shot back a very detail oriented question, on what do you do with the space?

Then, I just read a tweet from Shruti: "around this time, 2 years ago" and since I do maintain a record inadvertently (in the cloud) I was yearning to find the cool stuff I was doing this day, 2 years ago, with the all my space. So well,

I wrote to a professor in Australia asking if I could enroll for his creative writing class, I was also talking to a publisher to have my play printed. I could still do the former and I dread the later (thank God, I didn't)
Papa sent me "a gem of an article" from the first woman to work in a Telco ( Tata motors) factory. He always alleviates my engineering degree to another level.
I told the world about the goodness of the Delhi Half marathon. The photo is me this year!
I tried finding out how I could go for the Tata Jagriti Yatra! [ There's hardly been a day, that I do not day-dream travel]
Rahul Khanna replied to my tweet! I was so kicked hehe!

Sometimes I feel nothing has changed, I could still see myself doing the same sort of shit, and yet, I feel so much more travelled.

Do you recall your 2 year old boredom?

Flying kites and siphoning off a hundred rupees...

2011-11-28T20:26:00.001+05:30

Papa said the other day, excitedly, that he is going to write his memoirs. This started a memory game at home.

Grandmother's memory started at 9 months in the late 50s, when unfraid papa was found in the garden with two baby snakes in each hand. The neighbours came rushing in to tell 'Gauri, yeh kaka ne kya pakad rakha hai' (Gauri, what is the baby holding). She narrates it with pride and a glint in the eye. I can imagine her being more fascinated than afraid even then.

His personal favourite memories included one from primary school in the 60s, flying guddis (kites) on top of rooftops on hot summer days. Once while trying to catch the one that was going away, he stepped carelessly in between and landed right onto the floor. From the stark afternoon sun of 1pm he stayed put on the floor till the sun got bored and left 5ishly. It wasn't the hurt that kept him there, but the need to have someone notice.

Mother's memory was from the time papa was out studying for his master's in the 80s, away from home. Following Hindi movies (we're so filmy!), all the children would deposit their monthly salaries with grandmother. Papa more than obviously more in love with grandfather would deposit it with him. Grandfather would then pass on 'pocket money' back. This when I was already born (It never ceases to amaze me). When papa was away for studying, his manager passed on the salary to ma, when he noticed her catching her daily international airport bus (we lived close to the airport, and maybe that's why I love them, but that's another story). Ma went back home and dutifully passed it on to grandfather. Grandfather counted it once, and then once more, and many times more, bewildered. What was supposed to be a thousand and forty five rupees was one thousand, one hundred and forty five rupees. He couldn't quite understand the extra hundred. Till he realised. And in triumph, he related it to ma, 'Yi shikasti osa mei hath ropiyi kam diwaan?' ( Was this loser giving me a hundred rupees less ?).

My favourite memory is hard to pick, but these when everyone fights for air space to narrate theirs, often top charts.

World spins madly on...

2011-11-24T06:54:00.003+05:30

Some people grow up on birthdays in between years.
Some in the old pages of hidden unposted letters.

Woke up and wished that I was dead
With an aching in my head
I lay motionless in bed
I thought of you and where you'd gone
And let the world spin madly on

Everything that I said I'd do
Like make the world brand new
And take the time for you
I just got lost and slept right through the dawn
And the world spins madly on

I let the day go by
I always say goodbye
I watch the stars from my window sill
The whole world is moving and I'm standing still

Seoul-full love...

2011-11-22T20:15:00.001+05:30

Several sleepless but purposeful travel nights later, it's okay to be cheesy on blog titles, especially if you've had cheesy quesadillas singlehandedly in between helpings of squid kimchi pancakes and an odd crocin. Of course it's also exciting to be on the blog again!

After back to back years of working on the seoul and then being wistful about the seoul of a river. Last year's odd email let itself transform into a voice with human pauses and whispers. This was the time to let go and be one with its charm (or find profound ways to say: time to have fun). There's something about a third date, yes?

A run up and down a hill, a third time? City lights from up above and a moon to go with it. Surely something about observatory towers that makes people go loco about cross your heart feelings?

I <3 you?

When I was a child, I'd think the Taj was the ultimate authority in romance. Highly affected by Hindi movies of course. When I grew up I saw A <3 R on Qutub initially with interest and later with sheer contempt, because I didn't quite understand the need of ruining an old monument by digging in such proclamations. And I was relieved to find, this wasn't an India-only phenomena. It's a flourishing industry. N-tower keeps the love and gets around the ruin. You get your share of sticky notes, tiles and postcards (and the highest post-office in Seoul) to declare, keep and send. (I still don't quite understand the need of declaring it in the tower. I must be far too boring.)

//Purposeful digression: My grandmother's love tip came at the end of the Seoul party. To deepen love, you should give something (that is yours) to the person and get something from him, or her, for keeps. In the Victorian times, Jane Austen made them exchange "hair" (real), grandmother talked about watches and odd old rings. I thought shirts. Don't you love my grandmother? I love such tradition. //

Perhaps there's no single reason connecting monuments and sticky love notes. Surely, it makes no difference whether it's at the top, or not. Perhaps there's a little magic out there, in red, that they look out for.

Of course I sent out my postcard to Santa Claus, you can't take chances with serious magic!

PS: Everyone needs sleep after 6 nights, even jet set go i love travel types.
Pictures from Loveleen's camera

Mad (we)men...

2011-11-11T21:45:00.001+05:30

Many people say the most cruel things as jokes, and then if you react, they often come back with 'why are you taking it personally', or 'i am just kidding'. Many people are not direct about showing displeasure and choose this way. For most people who do this, I don't react at all. Cos they don't matter. For the ones that I do think about, this gets me mad, because everything in my life is personal. Okay, maybe I have no sense of humour left. Perhaps I meet too many sad people and get offended at stupid jokes also.

When I do get mad with people (like family and very very few people): I shout, say something really mean, go to my room. Most often, I want to be angry but also want to show that I am upset. In the conflict, I cry in hoarse voices. Shit, I may forever be in my teens. I guess I am tantrums if upset, though it takes me a few seconds to forget it all.

And then I read Shruti's Facebook update ["someone who I'm mad at because they were clearly wrong can buy me this (picture)" ]. I thought it was a pure epiphanic moment, what a refined (awesome) way to be mad.

From asos

<----If you were mean to me this week and I've been mad you can buy me this :)

I knew I had to come to terms with polka dots one day. I should get mad more often. I am far too greedy.

Who has better ways to get mad? :-)

"You are so glorious I would be dazzled if I looked at you..."

2011-11-08T07:30:00.029+05:30

I can't stand video recording unless the person who holds the camera is Sohini [someone] who I can look at while talking; or say my sister, who'll make fun of me anyway [though her welcome to Istanbul video is the funniest thing... ever].

I also find it very very hard to look at people while talking unless I know them. Even if I know them a little, some are just tough to look at, even on Facetime. To begin with, my comfort of knowing a person is largely proportional to how frequently I am looking at that person directly. Many times, I have no recollection of the first time I meet anyone (even people in college who became friends later) because I'd have never look at them directly.

I feel I can't hide a thing and my eyes give away, and I want to keep it till I know a person.
I'm a visual thinker...Often times because I need to 'see' what I am talking about. I do make up points visually. Ooh how Zen-ish!
Cute boys are hard to look at too, you don't want to be caught staring, yes?
Someone wearing something striking in a good/ bad way hard to look at too, so you don't make them conscious?
If it's a video camera, my instinct is to hide. Why can't someone shoot when I'm not looking!

I could come up with more psycho crap, if you allow me. The fact is I find it difficult. This when I have no issues making eye contact to make a point, professionally. Just that making eye contact and talking directly (and to the camera) feels far too personal, far too close. And I need some time/comfort to get there.

I wish I knew how these cool people just don't feel nothing when they yank in front of the darn camera and go direct one to one. It's so hard for me not to be 'aware' and keep eyes fixed someplace else. Sudden found respect for Sonam Kapoor. Okay maybe that's a stretch, but you know!

How to look people in the eye?

Just flushed thoughts post the torture of an introductory video for a presentation, where I had to ask the whole team to get out so that I could be *alone* in front of the camera, and of course I still re did it with Sohini in the end, looking at her, to pacify my head. Oh well.

This circle is mine...

2011-11-04T07:33:00.002+05:30

This video is doing rounds on my Facebook feed thanks to both the Michael sisters I know. I'm largely skeptical. I think people move on too. I think Krishnadas is seen as another tourist attraction too. But still it's so human, that it pushes me to marvel at the guy who has such faith and intent, even if not necessarily the most practical in my cynical eyes.

And I'm most interested in knowing what made him do this in the first place. How do people decide to become sages?

Ghalib...

2011-11-02T18:18:00.000+05:30

Huyi Muddat Ke Ghalib Mar Gaya Par Yaad Aata Hai
Har Ek Baat Pe Kehna Ki Yun Hota To Kya Hota

(I inherit Ghalib love). This post has been under "drafts" since March this year. I just never finished it.

Normally I judge writers who artfully make everything sound sad (in the end). But then, gods are beyond petty critiques and judgements. Besides these are not sad, they're skeptic, ironic, and all sorts of fancy- jibes- I give up, I won't rebel, I won't make noise, so go now be mean jibes.

One of my favourite songs (of course it's pointless to choose favourites but still...)

tere waade par jiye ham to ye jaan jhoot jaanaa
ki khushee se mar na jaate agar aitabaar hota
If one were to live by your promises, life would be a lie, my love. Wouldn't one die of happiness, if there were some faith?

ye na thi hamari qismat ke wisaal-e-yaar hota
agar aur jeete rehte yahi intezaar hota
It wasn't my destiny that I should end up with my love. Had one lived, it would only have been a further ( unending) wait.

ye kahaan ki dosti hai ke bane hain dost naaseh
koi chaarasaaz hota, koi ghamgusaar hota
What sort of a friendship is this, that friends have become counselors? (Wish) there was some to heal and lend an ear to the wounds.

kahoon kis se main ki kya hai, shab-e-gham buree bala hai
mujhe kya bura tha marna ? agar ek baar hota
What should I tell anyone what it is, the night of sadness is a bad deal. How bad would it be for me to die, had it been just this once?

Love is...

2011-10-30T21:42:00.000+05:30

...what causes you to loose concentration.

...being attached to his magical personality.

...seeing his face everywhere.

...letting him drive with the hood down.

...when you can't just get him out of your sight.

...a sigh.

( I was too awed to make these up. I generously borrowed from the Love is fan club)

A treasure hunt...

2011-10-27T08:55:00.001+05:30

Was looking up Grandfather's treasure in a secret basement of the old house. Had help from a boy who plays video-games. Didn't find out what the treasure was yet.

Grandfather passed away in 90. The house got burnt in 91. Sold in 95. Related the hunt to Ma, she said, he loved me a lot. Perhaps he did leave a treasure behind.

You found yours?

Oren Lavie. Her morning elegance.