Next week I am in Mexico city.
The distance from Mexico city to Guatemala is 600 miles. From Mexico city to Los Angeles in 1150 miles.
I thought which would make sense.
And then I went and bought my ticket to Los Angeles.
In Redondo beach, there is a restaurant that serves tapas over flamenco performances.
And there is a sunset.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Dinner At A Batternberg Castle
Battenberg family is important to anglophiles. It was Prince Luis of the family that relinquished the German titles to become the first Mountbatten (Berg is mountain in German).
Two days ago, I had the rare occation to have a meal in one of their castles. Castle is perhaps a bit too fanciful a word, but it was nevertheless impressive, dating from the 15th century. We were a group of thirty and we walked from room to room eating bite-sized chunks of food and tasting a different wine in each room.
It was actually enjoyable for once. I just realized through the day that I was having fun. Which is something.
It was cold and rainy outside. Inside the fires were burning. I stood by a window where Queen Vicctoria signed her name by scartching the letters into the wood with her diamond ring. Outside, darkness was complete.
At 12:30 I got back to my hotel and realized that I had to iron my shirt before sleeping. So by the time I was done, it was 2:00. At 6:30 the car waiting to take me to the airport. I was the only passenger in the company plane that morning.
Landing back here, on the way to my office, I imagined what would it be to become the idle rich.
Then I realized I was late for a meeting.
Two days ago, I had the rare occation to have a meal in one of their castles. Castle is perhaps a bit too fanciful a word, but it was nevertheless impressive, dating from the 15th century. We were a group of thirty and we walked from room to room eating bite-sized chunks of food and tasting a different wine in each room.
It was actually enjoyable for once. I just realized through the day that I was having fun. Which is something.
It was cold and rainy outside. Inside the fires were burning. I stood by a window where Queen Vicctoria signed her name by scartching the letters into the wood with her diamond ring. Outside, darkness was complete.
At 12:30 I got back to my hotel and realized that I had to iron my shirt before sleeping. So by the time I was done, it was 2:00. At 6:30 the car waiting to take me to the airport. I was the only passenger in the company plane that morning.
Landing back here, on the way to my office, I imagined what would it be to become the idle rich.
Then I realized I was late for a meeting.
Gruyère Again
I park my car at the exact same spot as before. Except this time, it is light out and the air is only just nippy. I did not lose my way and found it in the most intelligent way; using my GPS. I climbed over the winding path to the top. There on the cobble streets, tourists were still marveling the souvenir shops and the fondue restaurants. I stopped by the restaurant with beautiful panoramic views below and then went to the fort.
Like last time, the fort was closed.
I tried to remember a poem. Or a quote.
There was nothing. I wanted to remember. There were no memories. I wanted to stand still and admire the fort in its lit-glory. But the lights were off.
On the way back, I just looked out into the darkening vista and commiserated with the cows.
Like last time, the fort was closed.
I tried to remember a poem. Or a quote.
There was nothing. I wanted to remember. There were no memories. I wanted to stand still and admire the fort in its lit-glory. But the lights were off.
On the way back, I just looked out into the darkening vista and commiserated with the cows.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
What is next for me?
I sometimes wonder when this life in the fast lane will come to an end. What is next? One day i will wake up and know when I have had enough of Europe and the travel and the stress and competition. And then what will I do?
I dream about being an olive farmer in California. Butthat may be more of a dream. I am not sure if that is what is in the cards next. Knowing my life, I have never had anything that i was actually looking for, even though life has indeed taken me to places where the end results were not terrible. Things could improve, and I have a few major regrets in my life, but in general, at least from a career point, I ought not complain.
So I think the more likely scenario is that i will end up in Downer's Grove, Orange County or Redwood City, some non-exotic and flavorless suburb back in America working in a job that perhaps would have less international travel but with a reasonable profile.I will probably keep better hours and travel less.
It is about giving up.
In one of the stories of Jorge Borges titled "The man on the treshold" he attempts to recall a story in second person from North India in Buenos Aires. He says, "what sort of exactness can the names Aritsar and Udh be expected to convey to Buenos Aires?"
Exactly.
What sort of exactness can these realities convey to you? what sort of geographic exactness comes through in my stories as they are spread through my own consciousness as think as butter spread over bread? Would it ever make sense to you why I am the way I am and why it is so difficult to change.
You couldn't possibly know.
As Sartre said, our life is only a long waiting; first waiting for the realization of our ends and especially waiting for ourselves.
I am still waiting for the first. But there is an olive garden somewhere in santa Ynes valley that is waiting for me.
I dream about being an olive farmer in California. Butthat may be more of a dream. I am not sure if that is what is in the cards next. Knowing my life, I have never had anything that i was actually looking for, even though life has indeed taken me to places where the end results were not terrible. Things could improve, and I have a few major regrets in my life, but in general, at least from a career point, I ought not complain.
So I think the more likely scenario is that i will end up in Downer's Grove, Orange County or Redwood City, some non-exotic and flavorless suburb back in America working in a job that perhaps would have less international travel but with a reasonable profile.I will probably keep better hours and travel less.
It is about giving up.
In one of the stories of Jorge Borges titled "The man on the treshold" he attempts to recall a story in second person from North India in Buenos Aires. He says, "what sort of exactness can the names Aritsar and Udh be expected to convey to Buenos Aires?"
Exactly.
What sort of exactness can these realities convey to you? what sort of geographic exactness comes through in my stories as they are spread through my own consciousness as think as butter spread over bread? Would it ever make sense to you why I am the way I am and why it is so difficult to change.
You couldn't possibly know.
As Sartre said, our life is only a long waiting; first waiting for the realization of our ends and especially waiting for ourselves.
I am still waiting for the first. But there is an olive garden somewhere in santa Ynes valley that is waiting for me.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Lights and sounds
Am I destined to follow the light around the planet?
I know the futility of this writing.
I know minds are made up and dreams are crushed
and movies are made and shown
Dirges are played
A house is bought and lost
an afternoon in a cafe
A dinner in a restaurant
An early morning
A breeze that comes like a whisper.
Am I destined to follow the sound
through the echoes?
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Ps: I made a lot of calls today to California. Throughout the day I thought what it would be to look into the Canyon and the hills beyond it all over again. I have seen little conejos running around the place at night. an ocational cayote when I walk springs out and stares. I miss it. Today, more than ever.
I know the futility of this writing.
I know minds are made up and dreams are crushed
and movies are made and shown
Dirges are played
A house is bought and lost
an afternoon in a cafe
A dinner in a restaurant
An early morning
A breeze that comes like a whisper.
Am I destined to follow the sound
through the echoes?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ps: I made a lot of calls today to California. Throughout the day I thought what it would be to look into the Canyon and the hills beyond it all over again. I have seen little conejos running around the place at night. an ocational cayote when I walk springs out and stares. I miss it. Today, more than ever.
Objects In The Mirror
I have an early morning flight to Rome tomorrow. Here I am sitting up sleepless and tired. I had a very very late dinner with Stefan at a restaurant where the woman apologized for running out of bread.
It is important to record these details of the daily grind because such days you forget. When you are seventy and you sit on the porch and wonder what you did with your youth, you need to remember the meal at the restaurant with no bread.
That is where your youth went. Also in the morning commute, in the irrascible crevices of memory and silly precipices of mere existence.
I have been dreaming weird dreams lately.My father's aunt has a house in a small town. When it was being buing built, I used to climb on top and look down from the terrace. I haven't seen that house in 22 years. Last night I dreamt that I eviced some Geneva partygoers from that terrace.
That is where my youth went. In nightmares and anxieties. In flight schedules and airports.
But I still want to live.
It is important to record these details of the daily grind because such days you forget. When you are seventy and you sit on the porch and wonder what you did with your youth, you need to remember the meal at the restaurant with no bread.
That is where your youth went. Also in the morning commute, in the irrascible crevices of memory and silly precipices of mere existence.
I have been dreaming weird dreams lately.My father's aunt has a house in a small town. When it was being buing built, I used to climb on top and look down from the terrace. I haven't seen that house in 22 years. Last night I dreamt that I eviced some Geneva partygoers from that terrace.
That is where my youth went. In nightmares and anxieties. In flight schedules and airports.
But I still want to live.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Lost
In the darkness everyone looks the same.
The streets of l'Hivernage are dark except for
the light from passing cars
But I am not alone, there are many people around me
yet I barely see them.
A man comes straight to me and I tense and make a fist
but he passes without a glance.
My feet hurt.
Dead words
Today I wander. There is always a fixed route when I wander. so is it even wandering if one follows the same path?
The lake is where I usually start. Well everything must start at the lake anyway, it is a rule around here. The lake is noisy today with a fair. I pay very little attention to the people around me. Lasy year this time I was dancing in one of these makeshift dancefloors by the lake; this time i don't feel like going in. Instead I walk away and towards the hotel. I stop in front of the non-descript building where a missing woman's poster still lingers. Her body was discovered buried in her own backyard months ago. But the poster still hangs. On the door a polite warning reminds the reader that the building is under video surveillance.
The side windows of the bar display newer paintings; nudes of African women done by a female swiss artist. They are tasteful and competent but not captivating. On the other end of the street, I sit on a street bench under a tree. I count to ten.
On the courtyard in front of the Kabab place, silence lingers. There is no sign of life. A fallen yet forgotten rain has left a little wetness on the ground. I stand there lost and look at the door of Edelweiss. This is a central point for meetings and running-ins. The Turkish restaurant that no one ever went to is now Bollywood cafe. They seemed to be having better luck than the Turks.
The video parlour is open. I cannot see inside. If I walk past it through the narrow roads, I will get to my old apartment. There on the balcony, if I leaned back with a lit cigarette I would see the lake.
Black and purple. That is now imagine this world. Sometimes, after you walk long enough on a path, you forget to notice. may be because you know those things are there, even when you don't look. I know where the youth hostel is, where the best breakfast is even though my seat is invariably always damn near the toilet, I know how the monuments look even when I don't see it.
Wandering along, I forgot why I was wandering in the first place.
Because summer is almost over. And the words are still dead within me.
The lake is where I usually start. Well everything must start at the lake anyway, it is a rule around here. The lake is noisy today with a fair. I pay very little attention to the people around me. Lasy year this time I was dancing in one of these makeshift dancefloors by the lake; this time i don't feel like going in. Instead I walk away and towards the hotel. I stop in front of the non-descript building where a missing woman's poster still lingers. Her body was discovered buried in her own backyard months ago. But the poster still hangs. On the door a polite warning reminds the reader that the building is under video surveillance.
The side windows of the bar display newer paintings; nudes of African women done by a female swiss artist. They are tasteful and competent but not captivating. On the other end of the street, I sit on a street bench under a tree. I count to ten.
On the courtyard in front of the Kabab place, silence lingers. There is no sign of life. A fallen yet forgotten rain has left a little wetness on the ground. I stand there lost and look at the door of Edelweiss. This is a central point for meetings and running-ins. The Turkish restaurant that no one ever went to is now Bollywood cafe. They seemed to be having better luck than the Turks.
The video parlour is open. I cannot see inside. If I walk past it through the narrow roads, I will get to my old apartment. There on the balcony, if I leaned back with a lit cigarette I would see the lake.
Black and purple. That is now imagine this world. Sometimes, after you walk long enough on a path, you forget to notice. may be because you know those things are there, even when you don't look. I know where the youth hostel is, where the best breakfast is even though my seat is invariably always damn near the toilet, I know how the monuments look even when I don't see it.
Wandering along, I forgot why I was wandering in the first place.
Because summer is almost over. And the words are still dead within me.
An unusual evening
Whenever I come to this city and drive around the neighborhood, I imagine myself living here. In one of these brownstones. I let my imagination wander.
There was a death in the family next door , so the house came on the rental market. Lucky. Perhaps.
May be that is not the story. But it is my imagination. If I want to imagine a townhome as fictional as this, it is indeed my prerogative.
The little townhome stood on a side street protected by one-way signs and no-turn signs right-off a main throughfare. Like all those places, it was non-descript. There was nothing that told that house or that street apart from any other.
There was an Ethiopian eatery within walking distance. Perhaps a laundromat. A twenty-four hour convinience store, a florist, a store selling hardware things and electrical components, a chinese grocery; a neighborhood. In the dark ethnic restaurant people sat around talking to each other as if it is a living room and service is just casual to the itinerant hungry person.
The house itself stood slightly raised from the ground. Perhaps the first floor is locked up or occupied by the landlady. On the second floor, there was a regular bedroom and a living room crowded with computer wires. The bathrom was small and the tub was covered on three sides by curtains. From the bathroom, one could see a small patch of green in the backyard. Beyond that, other houses.
On the roof, a secret opened up. A small table and two chairs. A private smoking den. A sliver of the sky. A three dimensional place to mourn, lament and laugh.
Houses come in different colors and shapes. They come with room to share and room to spare. This was a purpose. A calling.
If I needed a place to hide from my sorrows and find myself, perhaps it is here.
The fortune cookie said:' to you values in life are more important than wealth' -- True but sad. There is a whole life to live on this side of the fortune cookie literature.
The sliver in the sky just got smaller and died. I woke up.
Never a good idea to dream while one is driving.
There was a death in the family next door , so the house came on the rental market. Lucky. Perhaps.
May be that is not the story. But it is my imagination. If I want to imagine a townhome as fictional as this, it is indeed my prerogative.
The little townhome stood on a side street protected by one-way signs and no-turn signs right-off a main throughfare. Like all those places, it was non-descript. There was nothing that told that house or that street apart from any other.
There was an Ethiopian eatery within walking distance. Perhaps a laundromat. A twenty-four hour convinience store, a florist, a store selling hardware things and electrical components, a chinese grocery; a neighborhood. In the dark ethnic restaurant people sat around talking to each other as if it is a living room and service is just casual to the itinerant hungry person.
The house itself stood slightly raised from the ground. Perhaps the first floor is locked up or occupied by the landlady. On the second floor, there was a regular bedroom and a living room crowded with computer wires. The bathrom was small and the tub was covered on three sides by curtains. From the bathroom, one could see a small patch of green in the backyard. Beyond that, other houses.
On the roof, a secret opened up. A small table and two chairs. A private smoking den. A sliver of the sky. A three dimensional place to mourn, lament and laugh.
Houses come in different colors and shapes. They come with room to share and room to spare. This was a purpose. A calling.
If I needed a place to hide from my sorrows and find myself, perhaps it is here.
The fortune cookie said:' to you values in life are more important than wealth' -- True but sad. There is a whole life to live on this side of the fortune cookie literature.
The sliver in the sky just got smaller and died. I woke up.
Never a good idea to dream while one is driving.
Near Sudan Border, Lake Nasser, Egypt
One night in July, when the air was pure and the sky was bright like a million diamonds, I woke up without being able to sleep and came out of the cottage that was my home for that night. There was heavy military presence in this tiny hamlet and everything was watched. But within these walls I felt safe.
I was in Egypt, near the Sudanese border. Here what was Nile was now Lake Nasser. Here the landscape looks lunar, except for the emerald green waters. The Nubians are friendly. Earlier that day I had walked to the village square looking for something and in the scorching hear surveyed the complete absence of activity around me. The only traffic I ever saw was military vehicles.
I end up in unusual places.
I walked past the huts and onto the path that abuts Lake Nasser, the largest man-make water-body in the world. I was careful not to accidentally step on any vipers. Standing there alone was an eerie feeling. But I stood there smelling the desert night, not thinking or feeling. Not wondering.
Then I heard a powerful attack being executed in the lake below me. The lake is full of crocodiles and the extent of violence in the water could only have meant one thing.
Water gives life.
What it giveth, it taketh away.
I was in Egypt, near the Sudanese border. Here what was Nile was now Lake Nasser. Here the landscape looks lunar, except for the emerald green waters. The Nubians are friendly. Earlier that day I had walked to the village square looking for something and in the scorching hear surveyed the complete absence of activity around me. The only traffic I ever saw was military vehicles.
I end up in unusual places.
I walked past the huts and onto the path that abuts Lake Nasser, the largest man-make water-body in the world. I was careful not to accidentally step on any vipers. Standing there alone was an eerie feeling. But I stood there smelling the desert night, not thinking or feeling. Not wondering.
Then I heard a powerful attack being executed in the lake below me. The lake is full of crocodiles and the extent of violence in the water could only have meant one thing.
Water gives life.
What it giveth, it taketh away.
Near Fatima-Setti, Atlas Mountains
It is already september and the air is thick with anticipated winter. Life moves in thick, halted pauses here, no sudden thrusts or wayward movements. I am climbing to waterfall number 5 through barren arid paths and rocky outcrops, like a lizard. My guide, Kemal, who probably is twelve is much more agile. On our path, we pass a wailing woman attended by others after she tore open the sole of her left foot. But other than that, it has been peaceful.
I reach a panaromic point and look around. All around me is waves of undulating mountains. I can hear the waterfalls below me and from somewhere far, comes a faint wave of an Arabic song. down at the village, at the foot of the mountains, I imagine the Berbers are still moving about in their donkeys as I saw them earlier in the day.
Suddenly I remember I haven't written anything in a long time. Not just blogs, but anything. When i don't write, I don't know what to do with all my feelings. sorrow. Melancholy. Joy.
But here I remember that all I need to do is to open my eyes and listen. Words will come flying down from their coops they abandoned me to. And they come like that, I write.
Thank you Cascade Number 5.
I reach a panaromic point and look around. All around me is waves of undulating mountains. I can hear the waterfalls below me and from somewhere far, comes a faint wave of an Arabic song. down at the village, at the foot of the mountains, I imagine the Berbers are still moving about in their donkeys as I saw them earlier in the day.
Suddenly I remember I haven't written anything in a long time. Not just blogs, but anything. When i don't write, I don't know what to do with all my feelings. sorrow. Melancholy. Joy.
But here I remember that all I need to do is to open my eyes and listen. Words will come flying down from their coops they abandoned me to. And they come like that, I write.
Thank you Cascade Number 5.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Arigato Tokyo
Last night, driving through the rain-drenched streets of Tokyo, I wondered if this was the beginning of the end. Lives spiralling out of control have a way of creating forewarnings. I am tired and listless. This is the fourth city I have been in five days. Two days ago, I sat in a hotel room in a London suburb and watched traffic on the highway on a foggy and slightly chilly yet-not-summer night, the ame thought had occured to me. It was still daylight at 10 PM.
But it is hot and muggy here and the nights are short.
Tokyo looks brooding and overcast. May be it is reflecting how I feel. I don't feel like writing much these days. Words have deserted me. There are happy days though. Sitting on a bright green meadow and I looked up at a spindley tower on a sunny day earlier this week and had smiled happily. It was chilly but sunny. There were jugglers practicing their craft and students reading under the suns. Why can't I have more days like that?
Rain is following me these days. In every country. Perhaps I am a messenger for climate change, tracking it from country to country.
In a few days, I will be in the US, and rain is forecast there as well.
The Gods must be crying. For me.
But it is hot and muggy here and the nights are short.
Tokyo looks brooding and overcast. May be it is reflecting how I feel. I don't feel like writing much these days. Words have deserted me. There are happy days though. Sitting on a bright green meadow and I looked up at a spindley tower on a sunny day earlier this week and had smiled happily. It was chilly but sunny. There were jugglers practicing their craft and students reading under the suns. Why can't I have more days like that?
Rain is following me these days. In every country. Perhaps I am a messenger for climate change, tracking it from country to country.
In a few days, I will be in the US, and rain is forecast there as well.
The Gods must be crying. For me.
Bullets Over Janpath 3
They were in MD1’s home office. His wife, wife 1 as is customary, came out to be introduced and then disappeared into the large colonial era house with sure footedness and from where nothing else was heard henceforth. But through that silent vacuum, plates carrying vegetarian dishes emerged, carried by servants with sizeable moustaches and expressionless faces.
The seriousness of their conversation was justifiably counter-mirrored by a blank and assiduous blue sky that sat uncharacteristically outside up in the ether refusing to budge. Bullet saw the sky reflected on the thick glasses of MD1 and noticed how his lips quivered when he spoke. Every now and then a spray of spittle landed on his cheeks like the backwash of a great spray and Bullet accommodated this too with great cheer.
His proposal was quite simple, split RCC and RTC completely and make them entities that had nothing to do with each other. One will mind its business with tenders and such (and no prize for guessing which) and the other will be happy with maintenance of the roads. There is plenty to go around, he assured. After all, haven’t you heard about the bridge in Unnau that cost the taxpayers many a lakh in maintenance until the minister concerned (and he used the words minister concerned as if it was a proper phrase and not an anomaly of officialese) visited and realized there never was a bridge?
Bullet nodded. He had no heard about this specific bridge. But many such bridges existed throughout the southern block and through the entire Rajdom of Hindustan. One would argue that many an IAS-wedding was paid for by the non-existent bridge of various shape or form that sometimes took the form of an uninvited tender and at other times as a defense purchase.
MD1 let out a silent fart, the sort that lingers pungently like smoke from a paper factory on a humid day spreading malevolence and discontent. Bullet choked in his own tears and gulped down some whiskey. Another glass was quickly emptied. Dal dripped from his hands onto his safari suite and made stain marks in the shape of Orissa.
For all that juicy dal, he promised to be considerate to the wishes of MD1. As he ambled to the car, and rocked in its wavy motion, he slept a baby sleep and dreamt of Shaddo’s pear-shaped breasts. Then in the dark, he cried in his sleep.
MD2 was a little different. He met Bullet in his large office populated with books and a square table. It was an odd shaped room, Bullet noticed without irony, as if it was a large hollowed out geometric block of an isosceles triangle. MD2 sat upright away from his desk under a picture of Mahatma Gandhi and all dead prime ministers and stretched his long legs out as he spoke. He had a casual regal manner. His long hands moved in the air when he made a point as if he was preaching in a church of over attentive laity. Bullet slinked back into the couch as if he was a schoolboy. MD2 was much more senior to him and a retiree of the IAS. His moustache, a mere remnant of a former self (as ascertained from a picture on the wall where MD2’s moustache was presenting a garland to a former prime minister), was white in most part. This stood in stark contrast to his dyed jet black hair with its characteristic plastic sheen that comes from all the overuse of ammonia in the hair product.
The room smelled of a mix of gardenias and cigarettes. Every once in a while, a plump secretary with giant calves waddled in and handed him a file or a piece of paper. MD2 casually glanced at them and set them apart as he continued talking.
He made no demands. He didn’t ask what MD1 had said. He just said if you listen closely you can hear frogs at night even when it does not rain.
Then he chuckled over a cooling cup of tea.
That night Bullet had ejaculatory dreams about Coco. And Shaddo. In his dreams he interchanged the pear-shaped breasts of Shaddo with sizeable mammaries of coco and felt the tenderness of both. He imagined himself to be a schoolboy arrested in the sentimentality of motherly love as he was cuckolded by two pairs of tender breasts.
The next morning he awoke without shame or sentimentality. As he stood there in his undershirt contemplating the serious nature of the arresting beauty and sizeable asses of the poor dispossessed people without shame, he told Parashuram Singh, who stood there watching the master dress, how he was so interested in the tender nature of the local women.
Parashuram Singh sycophantically rolled his head and agreed a half hearted yes, the sort that was personally profitable to him like a salesman telling the customer how something looked so perfect on their pot-bellied porpoise-like torso. He pretended to be surprised that such talk will come from bade sahibs even though he was a master of this parlor game where many a bade sahib has prostrated himself after the sin and quite a favor was extracted for his continued pretence of respect.
The days in the office were humid and pointless. There was a loud ceiling fan that kept him company through the afternoon as all sense deserted him and he saw pictures of tenders and roads jump at him through imaginary convex possibilities of nothingness where none really existed. An imaginary bridge over Unnau stretched to oblivion in the afternoon orgy of sweat and non-comprehensible parade of bad English.
Favor me with a smile, he muttered under his breadth as Shaddo passed him by wafting in a malodorous cloud of domestic chores. She walked past hurriedly giggling under her duppatta. Emboldened, he walked to the open kitchen door and stood there with his arms on the top of the door and stared her intently.
He felt the hair on his forearms standing up. The scandal, he thought.
Shaddo kept on stirring the pot that ddn’t need to be stirred. In more ways than one. Bullet watched this and felt himself springing to life. His earthly need, hithertofore taken care of by the nocturnal self abuse protested. He stood there motionless and watched the pot-stirring princess of poverty. Then he advanced towards her in sure-footedness and grabbed her from behind in a fast sweeping motion, roughly and almost with intent to cause pain. She jumped even though she was expecting this. A spoonful of gravy splashed out from the pot around the kitchen table and a passerby cockroach that was minding his own business was hurt. The universe has a strange way of enforcing order.
There was violence of hunger in their love making. Right there on the uncleaned kitchen floor, smelling of masalas. Unclean and uncivilized, like animals, grunting and moaning, his black skin and gold-framed glasses over her light brown caramel skin body. Together they writhed in hunger and unspent passion of loneliness and winter nights. If it was a movie, there would have been fireworks and anxious mood-building music. But this wasn’t. So they made love to dogs yelping in the evening heat for a background noise.
They were not naked either. They looked obscene in their hitched up and scooted down compromising attire as they consummated and exploded in delight. Even without a convenient condom.
Shaddo, Bullet cried, what of us now?
Don’t worry, she said smiling, I never get pregnant.
He didn’t ask why.
Later in the evening, he joined Parashuram Singh on the veranda drinking cheap Indian-made foreign liquor and sat looking at the moon. Long after Shaddo had cleaned up and left, long after the smell of her cooking had faded from his unwashed chest, long after his desire for Shaddo’s bare bottom was replaced by a mournful pointless depression characteristic of IAS officers put out to pasture with no sights to move up or out of punishment. Like two men, unbound by official titles and convention, they sat silently in the darkness looking at the moon and taking their turns at smoking a cigarette. Parashuram Singh thought of his wife in the village and his children he hadn’t seen in months and thought why didn’t feel the need to see them. Bullet looked at the moon and thought why the sea of tranquility was not looking very tranquil.
- Do you where Washington DC is? He suddenly asked.
- Sahib is in love, Parashuram Singh said matter-of-factly
He wasn’t. Not anymore. Sure he felt those pangs for Coco on nights like these. But those were not from love. Those were from loss. Do you know the difference? Sure, they feel the same sometimes, but on winter nights, one hurts like exposed varicose veins, the other just longs to be stroked.
- Parashuram, let me tell you about Washington DC, he began.
For once Parashuram Singh actually listened. In the darkness he forgot to flash his sycophantic yellow smile and forgot to preach the preach-tried and true.
He sat there and imagined a place like Washington DC. Bhasingdon Deesee. A faraway magical place. Where girls with magical breasts and even more magical pudendas took men home and made love to them until they were lost.
A place like those stories about Krishna. And Mahabharata.
The seriousness of their conversation was justifiably counter-mirrored by a blank and assiduous blue sky that sat uncharacteristically outside up in the ether refusing to budge. Bullet saw the sky reflected on the thick glasses of MD1 and noticed how his lips quivered when he spoke. Every now and then a spray of spittle landed on his cheeks like the backwash of a great spray and Bullet accommodated this too with great cheer.
His proposal was quite simple, split RCC and RTC completely and make them entities that had nothing to do with each other. One will mind its business with tenders and such (and no prize for guessing which) and the other will be happy with maintenance of the roads. There is plenty to go around, he assured. After all, haven’t you heard about the bridge in Unnau that cost the taxpayers many a lakh in maintenance until the minister concerned (and he used the words minister concerned as if it was a proper phrase and not an anomaly of officialese) visited and realized there never was a bridge?
Bullet nodded. He had no heard about this specific bridge. But many such bridges existed throughout the southern block and through the entire Rajdom of Hindustan. One would argue that many an IAS-wedding was paid for by the non-existent bridge of various shape or form that sometimes took the form of an uninvited tender and at other times as a defense purchase.
MD1 let out a silent fart, the sort that lingers pungently like smoke from a paper factory on a humid day spreading malevolence and discontent. Bullet choked in his own tears and gulped down some whiskey. Another glass was quickly emptied. Dal dripped from his hands onto his safari suite and made stain marks in the shape of Orissa.
For all that juicy dal, he promised to be considerate to the wishes of MD1. As he ambled to the car, and rocked in its wavy motion, he slept a baby sleep and dreamt of Shaddo’s pear-shaped breasts. Then in the dark, he cried in his sleep.
MD2 was a little different. He met Bullet in his large office populated with books and a square table. It was an odd shaped room, Bullet noticed without irony, as if it was a large hollowed out geometric block of an isosceles triangle. MD2 sat upright away from his desk under a picture of Mahatma Gandhi and all dead prime ministers and stretched his long legs out as he spoke. He had a casual regal manner. His long hands moved in the air when he made a point as if he was preaching in a church of over attentive laity. Bullet slinked back into the couch as if he was a schoolboy. MD2 was much more senior to him and a retiree of the IAS. His moustache, a mere remnant of a former self (as ascertained from a picture on the wall where MD2’s moustache was presenting a garland to a former prime minister), was white in most part. This stood in stark contrast to his dyed jet black hair with its characteristic plastic sheen that comes from all the overuse of ammonia in the hair product.
The room smelled of a mix of gardenias and cigarettes. Every once in a while, a plump secretary with giant calves waddled in and handed him a file or a piece of paper. MD2 casually glanced at them and set them apart as he continued talking.
He made no demands. He didn’t ask what MD1 had said. He just said if you listen closely you can hear frogs at night even when it does not rain.
Then he chuckled over a cooling cup of tea.
That night Bullet had ejaculatory dreams about Coco. And Shaddo. In his dreams he interchanged the pear-shaped breasts of Shaddo with sizeable mammaries of coco and felt the tenderness of both. He imagined himself to be a schoolboy arrested in the sentimentality of motherly love as he was cuckolded by two pairs of tender breasts.
The next morning he awoke without shame or sentimentality. As he stood there in his undershirt contemplating the serious nature of the arresting beauty and sizeable asses of the poor dispossessed people without shame, he told Parashuram Singh, who stood there watching the master dress, how he was so interested in the tender nature of the local women.
Parashuram Singh sycophantically rolled his head and agreed a half hearted yes, the sort that was personally profitable to him like a salesman telling the customer how something looked so perfect on their pot-bellied porpoise-like torso. He pretended to be surprised that such talk will come from bade sahibs even though he was a master of this parlor game where many a bade sahib has prostrated himself after the sin and quite a favor was extracted for his continued pretence of respect.
The days in the office were humid and pointless. There was a loud ceiling fan that kept him company through the afternoon as all sense deserted him and he saw pictures of tenders and roads jump at him through imaginary convex possibilities of nothingness where none really existed. An imaginary bridge over Unnau stretched to oblivion in the afternoon orgy of sweat and non-comprehensible parade of bad English.
Favor me with a smile, he muttered under his breadth as Shaddo passed him by wafting in a malodorous cloud of domestic chores. She walked past hurriedly giggling under her duppatta. Emboldened, he walked to the open kitchen door and stood there with his arms on the top of the door and stared her intently.
He felt the hair on his forearms standing up. The scandal, he thought.
Shaddo kept on stirring the pot that ddn’t need to be stirred. In more ways than one. Bullet watched this and felt himself springing to life. His earthly need, hithertofore taken care of by the nocturnal self abuse protested. He stood there motionless and watched the pot-stirring princess of poverty. Then he advanced towards her in sure-footedness and grabbed her from behind in a fast sweeping motion, roughly and almost with intent to cause pain. She jumped even though she was expecting this. A spoonful of gravy splashed out from the pot around the kitchen table and a passerby cockroach that was minding his own business was hurt. The universe has a strange way of enforcing order.
There was violence of hunger in their love making. Right there on the uncleaned kitchen floor, smelling of masalas. Unclean and uncivilized, like animals, grunting and moaning, his black skin and gold-framed glasses over her light brown caramel skin body. Together they writhed in hunger and unspent passion of loneliness and winter nights. If it was a movie, there would have been fireworks and anxious mood-building music. But this wasn’t. So they made love to dogs yelping in the evening heat for a background noise.
They were not naked either. They looked obscene in their hitched up and scooted down compromising attire as they consummated and exploded in delight. Even without a convenient condom.
Shaddo, Bullet cried, what of us now?
Don’t worry, she said smiling, I never get pregnant.
He didn’t ask why.
Later in the evening, he joined Parashuram Singh on the veranda drinking cheap Indian-made foreign liquor and sat looking at the moon. Long after Shaddo had cleaned up and left, long after the smell of her cooking had faded from his unwashed chest, long after his desire for Shaddo’s bare bottom was replaced by a mournful pointless depression characteristic of IAS officers put out to pasture with no sights to move up or out of punishment. Like two men, unbound by official titles and convention, they sat silently in the darkness looking at the moon and taking their turns at smoking a cigarette. Parashuram Singh thought of his wife in the village and his children he hadn’t seen in months and thought why didn’t feel the need to see them. Bullet looked at the moon and thought why the sea of tranquility was not looking very tranquil.
- Do you where Washington DC is? He suddenly asked.
- Sahib is in love, Parashuram Singh said matter-of-factly
He wasn’t. Not anymore. Sure he felt those pangs for Coco on nights like these. But those were not from love. Those were from loss. Do you know the difference? Sure, they feel the same sometimes, but on winter nights, one hurts like exposed varicose veins, the other just longs to be stroked.
- Parashuram, let me tell you about Washington DC, he began.
For once Parashuram Singh actually listened. In the darkness he forgot to flash his sycophantic yellow smile and forgot to preach the preach-tried and true.
He sat there and imagined a place like Washington DC. Bhasingdon Deesee. A faraway magical place. Where girls with magical breasts and even more magical pudendas took men home and made love to them until they were lost.
A place like those stories about Krishna. And Mahabharata.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Fourty-five Minutes
There were fourty-minutes in that day
everything else grayed out
like a chimney blackened with soot
except where the flame shoots through
From beind the ledge
a snow leapard leaps
into the air
majestically
her eyes transfixed on something
bright and focused
Fourty-five minutes
of thrill
to watch
to be
Fourty-five minutes
to think together
dream a dream in color
sleep lightly, without fears
forget worries and dance
cook a meal
eat a meal, albeit very fast
watch a snow leopard leap
a tiger to defend its cub
a baby to be born
a room to be painted
a new wall to be broken and
light to enter
to worship
to get a foot massage
to go for a walk
or a run
in the rain
with cars honking
without a jacket
Fourty-five minutes
to wait for someone
for a phone call
to see a painting
to watch a flock of seagulls to land
to cuddle together behind a rock
to huddle together under a tree
to solve a riddle
to make a riddle
or to jump of the saddle and lead
If you had just fourty-five minutes
and you had to choose
will you watch a snow leopard leap?
Will you be a snow leopard leaping?
everything else grayed out
like a chimney blackened with soot
except where the flame shoots through
From beind the ledge
a snow leapard leaps
into the air
majestically
her eyes transfixed on something
bright and focused
Fourty-five minutes
of thrill
to watch
to be
Fourty-five minutes
to think together
dream a dream in color
sleep lightly, without fears
forget worries and dance
cook a meal
eat a meal, albeit very fast
watch a snow leopard leap
a tiger to defend its cub
a baby to be born
a room to be painted
a new wall to be broken and
light to enter
to worship
to get a foot massage
to go for a walk
or a run
in the rain
with cars honking
without a jacket
Fourty-five minutes
to wait for someone
for a phone call
to see a painting
to watch a flock of seagulls to land
to cuddle together behind a rock
to huddle together under a tree
to solve a riddle
to make a riddle
or to jump of the saddle and lead
If you had just fourty-five minutes
and you had to choose
will you watch a snow leopard leap?
Will you be a snow leopard leaping?
Miffed
I am miffed after missing the morning flight. Entirely my fault and without excuses. This is what happens when one gets by with so little sleep. Coffee is not a substitute for sleep no matter what they say.
Reminds me of the day i went swimming with the dophins in bahamas. Actually, come to think of it, it was not dolphins. They were sharks. And swimming is a euphamism for flailing about shamelessly trying to get out harm's way. and today is nothing like it. So, strike all of that.
So I am not in Rome, where I am supposed to be.
I am here.
And here is not where I want to be.
Reminds me of the day i went swimming with the dophins in bahamas. Actually, come to think of it, it was not dolphins. They were sharks. And swimming is a euphamism for flailing about shamelessly trying to get out harm's way. and today is nothing like it. So, strike all of that.
So I am not in Rome, where I am supposed to be.
I am here.
And here is not where I want to be.
Paris, Bombay
Sitting outside, on a chair facing the Champs-Élysées
I get called "a bloody Paki" by a young kid
no more than twenty, on his way to unemployment
walking with his friends, as I smile.
(He had a shy smile, even as he tried to look mean
inviting a fight, while covering his own shame
I feel no rage, no urge to fight
just a mild disappointment at his confused geography)
It is a loaded word, this Paki
that conjured up a lot of emotions,
frustrations and memories
but the slight of the obelisque transforms it all
My parents' flat in Bombay, where I have spent
more time than any other address in all these years
had windows overlooking silhoutted mountains
and far away views of slow-moving trains
(It is a pity how I think so little of it these days
even though I remember those books I read on my bed
facing the ceiling, legs up in the air, balanced
against the wall, thinking of distant lands)
where in the morning the bai brought in the day's milk
and my mother, still half-asleep woke up
and started the noises of the household waking up:
milk cookers, rustling of the morning papers,
other evanescent noises of the morning,
yielding themselves furiously to purpose,
then by ten, abate their fury, I imagined,
to a daylong stupor breached only by servants
In the evening my father, an irascible man, drank
gin in the company of himself while I read
locked up in my room, listening quietly to
far away sounds of clicking metal of trains
(how strange all this is, sitting in a cafe outside Gare Montparnasse
thinking of Bombay where I read Somerset Maugham
writing about Montparnasse, truth and fiction, present and fact
all co-migled like a Bollywood movie set in Paris)
It is raining, outside the Louvre and the small starbucks
near the Nations where I nearly choke on a pastry,
before hurrying off to Pere Lachaise
to sit by Oscar Wilde and wither in the storm
Literally steps from Wilde, lie the Tatas
those doyens of Indian industry, right here in Paris
whose interest lie thousands of miles to the East
where my memories lie, bedraggled and suffocated
There are no simple ways to remember, except to just
let it all fall in place, one memory after the other
until nothing is left except a deck of cards of yesterdays
that precariously wait for a breeze from today
There are tears and rain and failures and betrayals,
Like the friendly shop keeper in Sakinaka who made paan
To the bus ticket inspectors in white uniforms
who tried to molest me when he mistook my general enthusiasm
for something else, I wonder if the boy who called
me a paki was ever molested, I wonder if you ever woke
up listening to the rumble of trains, if you ever understand
why the rains make me cry the way it does, especially
when it pours as if Gods themselves are crying
Sweet dreams, even if those are not meant to assuage
but the night is still young, even for this weather
Those boys have disappeared, and Bombay vanishes,
all the remains is an airport coffee and an uneaten steak.
I get called "a bloody Paki" by a young kid
no more than twenty, on his way to unemployment
walking with his friends, as I smile.
(He had a shy smile, even as he tried to look mean
inviting a fight, while covering his own shame
I feel no rage, no urge to fight
just a mild disappointment at his confused geography)
It is a loaded word, this Paki
that conjured up a lot of emotions,
frustrations and memories
but the slight of the obelisque transforms it all
My parents' flat in Bombay, where I have spent
more time than any other address in all these years
had windows overlooking silhoutted mountains
and far away views of slow-moving trains
(It is a pity how I think so little of it these days
even though I remember those books I read on my bed
facing the ceiling, legs up in the air, balanced
against the wall, thinking of distant lands)
where in the morning the bai brought in the day's milk
and my mother, still half-asleep woke up
and started the noises of the household waking up:
milk cookers, rustling of the morning papers,
other evanescent noises of the morning,
yielding themselves furiously to purpose,
then by ten, abate their fury, I imagined,
to a daylong stupor breached only by servants
In the evening my father, an irascible man, drank
gin in the company of himself while I read
locked up in my room, listening quietly to
far away sounds of clicking metal of trains
(how strange all this is, sitting in a cafe outside Gare Montparnasse
thinking of Bombay where I read Somerset Maugham
writing about Montparnasse, truth and fiction, present and fact
all co-migled like a Bollywood movie set in Paris)
It is raining, outside the Louvre and the small starbucks
near the Nations where I nearly choke on a pastry,
before hurrying off to Pere Lachaise
to sit by Oscar Wilde and wither in the storm
Literally steps from Wilde, lie the Tatas
those doyens of Indian industry, right here in Paris
whose interest lie thousands of miles to the East
where my memories lie, bedraggled and suffocated
There are no simple ways to remember, except to just
let it all fall in place, one memory after the other
until nothing is left except a deck of cards of yesterdays
that precariously wait for a breeze from today
There are tears and rain and failures and betrayals,
Like the friendly shop keeper in Sakinaka who made paan
To the bus ticket inspectors in white uniforms
who tried to molest me when he mistook my general enthusiasm
for something else, I wonder if the boy who called
me a paki was ever molested, I wonder if you ever woke
up listening to the rumble of trains, if you ever understand
why the rains make me cry the way it does, especially
when it pours as if Gods themselves are crying
Sweet dreams, even if those are not meant to assuage
but the night is still young, even for this weather
Those boys have disappeared, and Bombay vanishes,
all the remains is an airport coffee and an uneaten steak.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Bullets Over Janpath 2
Bullet looked like a prune when he came off the train in the morning. The train stopped briefly before the platform at Muzafarbad giving the passengers false hopes, but giving enough time for the ticket-less urchins to jump off the trains and scoot away to safe horizons. Bullet hesitantly alighted at the station from his air-conditioned sleeper couch and looked hesitantly across the horizon for some one from the office to fetch him. There wasn’t anyone on the platform. At least anyone that looked as if he could be from the office. Old men in moth-colored pajamas skulked away to the door and women, with their heads covered appropriately as the religions dictated ambled about behind their husbands or other men practicing suffucnt husbandry skills and disappeared as well. There was a station master bloke who stood around waving the flag, part out of boredom and part out of practice, in his oddly fashioned uniform; he had traded his white trousers for a loose fitting white pajama to fit with the locals.
Dejected, Bullet headed for the door and almost bumped into the ever worried Parashuram Singh who had come with the express purpose of affording him a warm welcome befitting is circumstances but was late much to his own chagrin. Having observed that Bullet is unlikely to yell at him, he assumed a more relaxed posture and guided the overlord from the city on to the sufficiently fitted Ambassador car with red lights and other accouterments.
Slinking back into the cold comfort of its back seat with parashuram Singh, part orderly part confidante, two parts slime sitting beside him, Bullet had one thought, this too shall pass.
The well aerated yet genuinely impoverished surroundings where he was deposited without much apologies told Bullet that in spite of all the ceremony, he was generally looking at a time resembling of hell that he has read of, and the hell was going to be delivered to him in hand basket which was going to be carried by none other than Parashuram Singh, part orderly and so on. He sat on his rock hard bed and contemplated his armpits, which were of the texture of lime meringue pie and the color of crushed raspberries. His felt that his slinky puppet between his legs hurt as well, from sitting and lying in very tight underwear all night. There was nothing good that could come of anything except a hot shower. But in Muzafrbad, such luxuries as hot showers often came only attached with two or more pair of servant hands that did the necessary chores in a manually satisfying way.
The pair of hands in question belonged to Shaddo, the village bell-esque middle-aged woman, too young to be old and too old to be innocent. If that is confusing, just contemplate her breasts, quite oddly pear shaped and lovely peeking out as an outline from the flimsy duppatta and the worrylines on the forehead that he only saw when she occasionally lifted her head in his direction.
He viewed this with satisfaction. After all, there was something he could look forward to. Shaddo came in the morning, (he was later told) cleaned the house, did odd bits around the house and made his bath. And if he was so inclined, I mean not the type that shivered at the thought of a Muslim making his meals, Parashuram said, she could also make him his meals. If he was, on the other hand, caste-minded and so on, there could be a Brahmin maharaj whose services could be availed even though he was not sure what sort of availability he had.
Shaddo will so, Bullet immediately retorted, with the sort of over enthusiasm he was immediately ashamed of. Unlike with Coco, he was in his element, and Shaddo’s kajol-filled eyes and her expansive yet flat stomach made his slinky puppet raise its head a little bit.
Saab, Parashuram Singh warned in the sort of way slippery eels tend to warm urban cowboys in these parts, just so you know, her father is a butcher. Not the kinda girl you want any trouble with. If you are interested, we can arrange for others. He then flashed a yellowing smile.
Bullet stretched himself on the bed and thought of the vast vanishing skyscape of Washington DC. Then standing up, he carefully opened up the suitcase and changed into a lungi, freeing the tightened external organs in the process. Then settling back onto his rock hard bed, he smiled an officious half smile and said, arre Parashuram ji, what are you saying? I am a respectable Brahmin man. I am perfectly happy without such things.
Then having dismissed the slime with a nod and a half smile, Bullet got ready for the ablution.
Shaddo was quite a helper to Bullet. She cleaned and cooked, cooked and cleaned. And then every now and then glanced at Bullet as he sat about doing his business.
And he found the attention wandering as he read through papers on RDC and RCC.
RDC and RCC on the other hand held no such charms. As the ministerji correctly predicted, he found himself in the middle of the eyebrows of ferocious caste-warriors who sized him up and tried to kill him with sticky-sugary kindness and oily-shoily chicanery. Over mouthful of dal, which chewed with rice with an open mouth, hence dripping down back into the plates causing much revulsion to Bullet, the MD of RCC, lets call him MD 1 shall we, in order not to give so much importance that his caste equation with the Ministry already has given him, straightened up and muttered many a convincing arguments in his favor. Bullet tried to scoop out dal with his roti and solidified his hand with some thickly-sauced curried vegetables and then swallowed the whole concoction in silence. Between them sat a bottle of Indian-made foreign liquor that kept company for the whole spectacle as it has for ages.
Dejected, Bullet headed for the door and almost bumped into the ever worried Parashuram Singh who had come with the express purpose of affording him a warm welcome befitting is circumstances but was late much to his own chagrin. Having observed that Bullet is unlikely to yell at him, he assumed a more relaxed posture and guided the overlord from the city on to the sufficiently fitted Ambassador car with red lights and other accouterments.
Slinking back into the cold comfort of its back seat with parashuram Singh, part orderly part confidante, two parts slime sitting beside him, Bullet had one thought, this too shall pass.
The well aerated yet genuinely impoverished surroundings where he was deposited without much apologies told Bullet that in spite of all the ceremony, he was generally looking at a time resembling of hell that he has read of, and the hell was going to be delivered to him in hand basket which was going to be carried by none other than Parashuram Singh, part orderly and so on. He sat on his rock hard bed and contemplated his armpits, which were of the texture of lime meringue pie and the color of crushed raspberries. His felt that his slinky puppet between his legs hurt as well, from sitting and lying in very tight underwear all night. There was nothing good that could come of anything except a hot shower. But in Muzafrbad, such luxuries as hot showers often came only attached with two or more pair of servant hands that did the necessary chores in a manually satisfying way.
The pair of hands in question belonged to Shaddo, the village bell-esque middle-aged woman, too young to be old and too old to be innocent. If that is confusing, just contemplate her breasts, quite oddly pear shaped and lovely peeking out as an outline from the flimsy duppatta and the worrylines on the forehead that he only saw when she occasionally lifted her head in his direction.
He viewed this with satisfaction. After all, there was something he could look forward to. Shaddo came in the morning, (he was later told) cleaned the house, did odd bits around the house and made his bath. And if he was so inclined, I mean not the type that shivered at the thought of a Muslim making his meals, Parashuram said, she could also make him his meals. If he was, on the other hand, caste-minded and so on, there could be a Brahmin maharaj whose services could be availed even though he was not sure what sort of availability he had.
Shaddo will so, Bullet immediately retorted, with the sort of over enthusiasm he was immediately ashamed of. Unlike with Coco, he was in his element, and Shaddo’s kajol-filled eyes and her expansive yet flat stomach made his slinky puppet raise its head a little bit.
Saab, Parashuram Singh warned in the sort of way slippery eels tend to warm urban cowboys in these parts, just so you know, her father is a butcher. Not the kinda girl you want any trouble with. If you are interested, we can arrange for others. He then flashed a yellowing smile.
Bullet stretched himself on the bed and thought of the vast vanishing skyscape of Washington DC. Then standing up, he carefully opened up the suitcase and changed into a lungi, freeing the tightened external organs in the process. Then settling back onto his rock hard bed, he smiled an officious half smile and said, arre Parashuram ji, what are you saying? I am a respectable Brahmin man. I am perfectly happy without such things.
Then having dismissed the slime with a nod and a half smile, Bullet got ready for the ablution.
Shaddo was quite a helper to Bullet. She cleaned and cooked, cooked and cleaned. And then every now and then glanced at Bullet as he sat about doing his business.
And he found the attention wandering as he read through papers on RDC and RCC.
RDC and RCC on the other hand held no such charms. As the ministerji correctly predicted, he found himself in the middle of the eyebrows of ferocious caste-warriors who sized him up and tried to kill him with sticky-sugary kindness and oily-shoily chicanery. Over mouthful of dal, which chewed with rice with an open mouth, hence dripping down back into the plates causing much revulsion to Bullet, the MD of RCC, lets call him MD 1 shall we, in order not to give so much importance that his caste equation with the Ministry already has given him, straightened up and muttered many a convincing arguments in his favor. Bullet tried to scoop out dal with his roti and solidified his hand with some thickly-sauced curried vegetables and then swallowed the whole concoction in silence. Between them sat a bottle of Indian-made foreign liquor that kept company for the whole spectacle as it has for ages.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Bullets Over Janpath 1
Bullet Balasubrmaniam was quite furious when he heard the news.
He was being transferred again.
But he could not react. The news came to him in secret; a little bird in HR whispered it to him. He waited for the meeting with the Minister for the official surprise. It was not such a big surprise to him what with his falling out with the Minister-in-charge. But where could they now transfer him which was worse than his current dead-end post/
It had been quite a few days since he came back from a trip to America lovelorn and sick, to the desk job that neither provided him with satisfaction nor showed any reason for hope for a better tomorrow. He could not tell him that his official trip to America had been a complete disaster so he did the next best thing; he made up stories on how truly busy he was and how they loved him there so much that he could not even tar himself away to visit new York.
“Of course, Bullet saar. Family has to come first. Besides, look at our India. What a fantastic opportunity these days! These Americans are so envious of us, I, for one, will not go to America. Too much pride, you see. Besides, the missus is very happy in this set up. She can’t manage without at least three servants.”
with a change, old chap.”
Every now and then, the memory of the lost love would come up like a burp from the deep inside of Bullet to escape into the world. His wife, Parvathi Ammal was just thrilled to have the husband back now that he was an internationally traveling-sort of officer.
But bullet knew better. He knew it was going to be another dead-end job until he found a ministry staffed with someone from his own caste. That is how things worked.
He was not sure how to react when he stepped into the Minister's office.
" So Bulletji," the minister began smiling a fake smile, "how are you these days? Hope the work is interesting." He flashed his betel-juice stained teeth and paused.
Bullet noticed with some discomfort that the thick gold chain around the minister’s dark and wrinkled neck meandered like a snake as the veins moved when he spoke. The minister farted rather noisily as he spoke without bothering to apologize.
"I am quite enjoying Minister saab. Quite thoroughly enjoying only. This ministry is fantastic, what with you leadership style and all. When I was in America, I was remarking to the President of the Agency for International Aid rehabilitation how your style is also American. "
The minister nodded and smiled in perfect self-satisfaction. People notice these things; he thought to himself, I try to be American in these matters. Then he picked a toothpick and started cleaning the gaps between his teeth while talking more indistinctly.
" I know Bulletji. I try as hard as I can. But I am not really American that way, too brash those fellows are. I am a bigger fan of how the Aussies are. When I was in Australia, I was so impressed with their quick decision-making. We Indians need some change only. Too much traditional vaditional, we are. Nahin?
"I totally agree. When I was in America… "
Minister cut him off with a slight wave of hand. This America thing was getting on his nerves. I need to get invited to visit America, somehow, he made a mental note to himself.
" So anyway, Bulletji, I was a new assignment for you, you know how things are." he tentatively began while wiping the back collar with a hand kerchief. Then on second thoughts, he left the kerchief right there and continued, "only you can do what we need you to do. You have the right amount of tact and vision. "
"Whatever you want me to do, Minister saab," a sinking feeling came over Bullet. it had to be really bad for him to begin with suc pep talk.
"I know that Bulletji, isiliye tho I am coming to you. We have had our past differences, but I am very impressed with your intellegence and hard work. We have a little problem with the Road Development Corporation. The new MD we have appointed is a cousin of the deputy prime minister. The chap wants more power. Too many PWD contracts you see. He wants to merge the RDC with Road Contracts Commission."
"Why sir?"
"Because RCC hold the tender power," Duh! The minister said dismissively.
"Ah. Minister saab, but what would you like me to do? I don’t know a thing about roads. "
"That is OK. You see Bullet, we need someone to take a short assignment and smooth things over. The guy running RCC is of the same caste as the finance minister and we can’t just move him out. We want you to go and find a nice happy way to get this done. What you say?"
Bullet exhaled deeply. The sun was setting. I will live to fight another day, he muttered to himself.
"Of course I will be thrilled to," he forced a smile.
"That's it then," the minister folded his hands and rang the bell for his PA.
He was being transferred again.
But he could not react. The news came to him in secret; a little bird in HR whispered it to him. He waited for the meeting with the Minister for the official surprise. It was not such a big surprise to him what with his falling out with the Minister-in-charge. But where could they now transfer him which was worse than his current dead-end post/
It had been quite a few days since he came back from a trip to America lovelorn and sick, to the desk job that neither provided him with satisfaction nor showed any reason for hope for a better tomorrow. He could not tell him that his official trip to America had been a complete disaster so he did the next best thing; he made up stories on how truly busy he was and how they loved him there so much that he could not even tar himself away to visit new York.
“’ The president leaned to me and said, “Bullet, we need more people like you in the development agencies. If I tried to get you a posting, will you come?’ What can I say, hey? I said, I am so flattered, but will have to consider the needs of the family before I can commit,” Bullet told them.They nodded in agreement, while inside they felt the stomach convulsions of envy. They contemplated their status as workers who are not sought-after in the West and therefore had no chance of making it out of the dark damp halls of files. So they did the next best thing they could do.
“Of course, Bullet saar. Family has to come first. Besides, look at our India. What a fantastic opportunity these days! These Americans are so envious of us, I, for one, will not go to America. Too much pride, you see. Besides, the missus is very happy in this set up. She can’t manage without at least three servants.”
Thus having inserted the existence of three servants (two of who are shared with other eight households and the third is permanently absent because of a salary dispute meant very little to him) thus raising the status, e made a mental note to start looking for assignments in the west.
“So true. Look at Paliwal’s brother-in-law’s chacha’s son," he said, "The same Paaliwal, Under secretary of Commerce, next in line for Chief Secretary. we are very close you see. Totally getting invited to the parties and all. Well, anyway, Paliwal’s nephew went to New York on a development assignment. I am hearing the man is struggling to survive. These agencies don’t pay well, yaar. I can’t risk it anyway. I keep getting offers from London to teach at the Economy school there. But you know, the minister can’t live for a day with me. But you could dowith a change, old chap.”
Every now and then, the memory of the lost love would come up like a burp from the deep inside of Bullet to escape into the world. His wife, Parvathi Ammal was just thrilled to have the husband back now that he was an internationally traveling-sort of officer.
But bullet knew better. He knew it was going to be another dead-end job until he found a ministry staffed with someone from his own caste. That is how things worked.
He was not sure how to react when he stepped into the Minister's office.
" So Bulletji," the minister began smiling a fake smile, "how are you these days? Hope the work is interesting." He flashed his betel-juice stained teeth and paused.
Bullet noticed with some discomfort that the thick gold chain around the minister’s dark and wrinkled neck meandered like a snake as the veins moved when he spoke. The minister farted rather noisily as he spoke without bothering to apologize.
"I am quite enjoying Minister saab. Quite thoroughly enjoying only. This ministry is fantastic, what with you leadership style and all. When I was in America, I was remarking to the President of the Agency for International Aid rehabilitation how your style is also American. "
The minister nodded and smiled in perfect self-satisfaction. People notice these things; he thought to himself, I try to be American in these matters. Then he picked a toothpick and started cleaning the gaps between his teeth while talking more indistinctly.
" I know Bulletji. I try as hard as I can. But I am not really American that way, too brash those fellows are. I am a bigger fan of how the Aussies are. When I was in Australia, I was so impressed with their quick decision-making. We Indians need some change only. Too much traditional vaditional, we are. Nahin?
"I totally agree. When I was in America… "
Minister cut him off with a slight wave of hand. This America thing was getting on his nerves. I need to get invited to visit America, somehow, he made a mental note to himself.
" So anyway, Bulletji, I was a new assignment for you, you know how things are." he tentatively began while wiping the back collar with a hand kerchief. Then on second thoughts, he left the kerchief right there and continued, "only you can do what we need you to do. You have the right amount of tact and vision. "
"Whatever you want me to do, Minister saab," a sinking feeling came over Bullet. it had to be really bad for him to begin with suc pep talk.
"I know that Bulletji, isiliye tho I am coming to you. We have had our past differences, but I am very impressed with your intellegence and hard work. We have a little problem with the Road Development Corporation. The new MD we have appointed is a cousin of the deputy prime minister. The chap wants more power. Too many PWD contracts you see. He wants to merge the RDC with Road Contracts Commission."
"Why sir?"
"Because RCC hold the tender power," Duh! The minister said dismissively.
"Ah. Minister saab, but what would you like me to do? I don’t know a thing about roads. "
"That is OK. You see Bullet, we need someone to take a short assignment and smooth things over. The guy running RCC is of the same caste as the finance minister and we can’t just move him out. We want you to go and find a nice happy way to get this done. What you say?"
Bullet exhaled deeply. The sun was setting. I will live to fight another day, he muttered to himself.
"Of course I will be thrilled to," he forced a smile.
"That's it then," the minister folded his hands and rang the bell for his PA.
Tokyo: Visiting the Meiji shrine
The shrine was a kilometer walk from the nearest road. I walked on the gravel path from the station to the main shrine in silence. The gravel path was wide and was framed by large ceremonial gates at some intervals. Around the path lush tropical woods stood guard to protect me from the urban assault just a few steps away.
The Shinto shrine itself was a simple impressive structure. It was a wooden courtyard which housed the main building. One could perhaps imagine that it resembled a rural Kerala temple. The courtyard had granite steps around it and upon it sat older men and women contemplating religion.
There were young women in simple kimonos tied together with cotton obis selling candles. They looked happy.
I am a loner. I have come to a temple as an atheist to pray. I have come to seek absolution from my sins and to pray for all that I love. There was a wide tree on the courtyard with a rich mintgreen capony of leaves. Upon it hung wooden plaques from believers asking for favors and thanking for favors granted. I too wrote a plaque and hung it.
I am happiest in these moments, when I am free from the burden of having to listen to my own voice. I have nothing to say and no words to craft. And no one to impress. I am neither rich nor poor, neither young or old, neither from the right nor left. I am just the truly insignificant me standing in front of the symbol of the universe contemplating what truly matters.
I like this stillness.
But like everything else, this cannot last.
I walked outside onto the crowded street and got into the middle of the shopping district. I was surrounded by throngs of young girls and women in really short skirts, tattoes and hair styles. Young men in crazy inventive hair styles and crazy attire followed them. Clothes and cell phones were on display at each shop window. I barely had to walk as I was carried by the crowds from one place to another.
Modernity.
Here I am alone, a gaijin with no identity.
With all the stress of the last few days and the most testing of work situations, I realize that what sustained me through that was the visit to the simple shrine.
We all need a little centering once in a while.
A little less selfishness.
And a need to pray more for the people we love.
The Shinto shrine itself was a simple impressive structure. It was a wooden courtyard which housed the main building. One could perhaps imagine that it resembled a rural Kerala temple. The courtyard had granite steps around it and upon it sat older men and women contemplating religion.
There were young women in simple kimonos tied together with cotton obis selling candles. They looked happy.
I am a loner. I have come to a temple as an atheist to pray. I have come to seek absolution from my sins and to pray for all that I love. There was a wide tree on the courtyard with a rich mintgreen capony of leaves. Upon it hung wooden plaques from believers asking for favors and thanking for favors granted. I too wrote a plaque and hung it.
I am happiest in these moments, when I am free from the burden of having to listen to my own voice. I have nothing to say and no words to craft. And no one to impress. I am neither rich nor poor, neither young or old, neither from the right nor left. I am just the truly insignificant me standing in front of the symbol of the universe contemplating what truly matters.
I like this stillness.
But like everything else, this cannot last.
I walked outside onto the crowded street and got into the middle of the shopping district. I was surrounded by throngs of young girls and women in really short skirts, tattoes and hair styles. Young men in crazy inventive hair styles and crazy attire followed them. Clothes and cell phones were on display at each shop window. I barely had to walk as I was carried by the crowds from one place to another.
Modernity.
Here I am alone, a gaijin with no identity.
With all the stress of the last few days and the most testing of work situations, I realize that what sustained me through that was the visit to the simple shrine.
We all need a little centering once in a while.
A little less selfishness.
And a need to pray more for the people we love.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Nippon Tekki
1.
It is easier to live a lie if more people believed in them.
2.
A sheep chooses boredom. a wolf faces loneliess. Which one would you rather be? make your choice wisely.
-----------------------
Four-hour dinner in a real hole-in-the-wall place in Enobu with co-workers. The last botle of sake came in an earthern pot.
It is easier to live a lie if more people believed in them.
2.
A sheep chooses boredom. a wolf faces loneliess. Which one would you rather be? make your choice wisely.
-----------------------
Four-hour dinner in a real hole-in-the-wall place in Enobu with co-workers. The last botle of sake came in an earthern pot.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Somewhere Over Mangolia
I am somewhere overall the vast expanse of Mongolia on my way to the Far East. The cabin is dark and comfortable. I tried sleeping but I feel restless. I do most of my thinking these days like this, reclining on an airline seat captive and restless, with compulsive focus. It is disconcerting and unsettling. Thoughts, unbeknownst to me, rise up from the undredged bottom of the mind and appear as if in a dream.
One afternoon, when my father was resting, I sat at the edge of his bed and asked him how his marriage had been, overall. He smiled and recited a poem by a lesser-known Malayalam poet called A. N. Kakkad. I don’t know anything about the poet but this poem I will remember forever. When Kakkad was dying of cancer he wrote:
Are there no memories? None at all?
Wearing and taking off bangles with patina* of so many colors
And greeting each other with so many faces
Being hurt and hurting each other,
How much bitterness did we drink up
Through these unknown paths of thirty years
Just to taste a few sugar cubes of peace?
Are there no memories, none at all?
There must be memories?
Otherwise how did we know that spring is here?
(Brahman women of Kerala wear brass bangles)
My father was dying of cancer and he knew it. Just like Kakkad, he had taken a real stock of his own life and he had decided to face his death stoically head-on. Whenever I think of him, I think of that afternoon Tuesdays-with-Maury moment we shared.
My father had been a poet and I am left with six notebooks of his poems. Other than pictures, the only things I have of him are two of his shirts and those notebooks. The life of a man reduced to a few props!
We had a difficult relationship. Like the poem above, we too drank a lot of bitterness just to taste a few sugar cubes of peace. He changed as he was approaching his end and redeemed himself. But the poem he was quoting characterized our relationship as well.
I never thought much of his poems and sometimes told him so when I was growing up. We used to have long furious debates about modern poetry at night when I was fifteen. We never managed to agree on anything. On poetry, on art, on politics but we debated everything. I don’t think he ever knew how to handle his son once he was no longer five. It must have been frustrating to have a son like me.
He once wrote a poem about coming home from work and watching his four-year old son dismantling a brand-new umbrella in the middle of the living room. He stood there watching this with great dismay as the son continued to take things apart quite unaware of the presence of his father. He was so angry and yelled, what are you doing? His son turned to him smiling and with great excitement said, “look dad, I am making a rocket to take you and I to the moon.” And all his anger melted away to a great broad smile.
I saw this poem recently when I was going through his notebooks. I wish I could take a trip with him to the moon. Or a trip to the center of the town. It doesn’t really matter where anymore. And I wish I could tell him it is a poem that moved me to tears and that he was not always wrong. I miss him so much.
Two days before he died, I phoned him. His kidneys were failing and I knew he didn’t have too much time. His speech was blurred and thinking unclear. At the end of the conversation, I said, “I love you, dad.”
He said, “Thank you very much.”
It turned out that those were the last words we spoke.
I love you dad. And thank you very much.
One afternoon, when my father was resting, I sat at the edge of his bed and asked him how his marriage had been, overall. He smiled and recited a poem by a lesser-known Malayalam poet called A. N. Kakkad. I don’t know anything about the poet but this poem I will remember forever. When Kakkad was dying of cancer he wrote:
Are there no memories? None at all?
Wearing and taking off bangles with patina* of so many colors
And greeting each other with so many faces
Being hurt and hurting each other,
How much bitterness did we drink up
Through these unknown paths of thirty years
Just to taste a few sugar cubes of peace?
Are there no memories, none at all?
There must be memories?
Otherwise how did we know that spring is here?
(Brahman women of Kerala wear brass bangles)
My father was dying of cancer and he knew it. Just like Kakkad, he had taken a real stock of his own life and he had decided to face his death stoically head-on. Whenever I think of him, I think of that afternoon Tuesdays-with-Maury moment we shared.
My father had been a poet and I am left with six notebooks of his poems. Other than pictures, the only things I have of him are two of his shirts and those notebooks. The life of a man reduced to a few props!
We had a difficult relationship. Like the poem above, we too drank a lot of bitterness just to taste a few sugar cubes of peace. He changed as he was approaching his end and redeemed himself. But the poem he was quoting characterized our relationship as well.
I never thought much of his poems and sometimes told him so when I was growing up. We used to have long furious debates about modern poetry at night when I was fifteen. We never managed to agree on anything. On poetry, on art, on politics but we debated everything. I don’t think he ever knew how to handle his son once he was no longer five. It must have been frustrating to have a son like me.
He once wrote a poem about coming home from work and watching his four-year old son dismantling a brand-new umbrella in the middle of the living room. He stood there watching this with great dismay as the son continued to take things apart quite unaware of the presence of his father. He was so angry and yelled, what are you doing? His son turned to him smiling and with great excitement said, “look dad, I am making a rocket to take you and I to the moon.” And all his anger melted away to a great broad smile.
I saw this poem recently when I was going through his notebooks. I wish I could take a trip with him to the moon. Or a trip to the center of the town. It doesn’t really matter where anymore. And I wish I could tell him it is a poem that moved me to tears and that he was not always wrong. I miss him so much.
Two days before he died, I phoned him. His kidneys were failing and I knew he didn’t have too much time. His speech was blurred and thinking unclear. At the end of the conversation, I said, “I love you, dad.”
He said, “Thank you very much.”
It turned out that those were the last words we spoke.
I love you dad. And thank you very much.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Barcelona: Travellers with real souls
1.
I burned as the day approached. I perspired under my calm exterior and well-ironed shirts. I was nervous. I wrote pointless letters and left them on kitchen table without posting.
There were no windows from where I was sitting. This was not entirely true. In front of me, a glass panel opened up to a cement wall abutting the road. I was thirsty and there were glasses of water in front. I didn't eat our food nor did I touch my drink. Later, I drank coffee with relish and observed people around me.
Then I wondered. Lately, I have been a curious witness to the wasting away of my own life.
2.
Maria Molina is a long way away from here, the old man said. Maria Molina is simply a state of mind, I countered. As Pessoa once wrote, to travel, you simply have to exist. So, I could be in Maria Molina walking through the office buildings searching of a tapas bar looking for a cool, endless drink of cerveza.
Here, where I sit, I can see the highway and construction projects. The earth is brown and freshly exposed. I am on the one side of a conference table. The woman who is speaking has large manly hands. I watch a train go by far away behind the highway traffic.
I searched for fellow travellers in that train past all what the eye could see.
Across the building, the port was calm.
3.
I woke up with a beautiful dream this morning. It was the sort of a dream that comes to you as if it was a giant cinema screen. For a long minute, I was in the dream and I forgot it was not real.
Then I woke up. Then I wondered if others in my dream dreamt the same thing.
4.
Tomorrow at eight, a whole wide desert will open up. I wonder if there are any stars visible from where the mountains look own at the valley.
I burned as the day approached. I perspired under my calm exterior and well-ironed shirts. I was nervous. I wrote pointless letters and left them on kitchen table without posting.
There were no windows from where I was sitting. This was not entirely true. In front of me, a glass panel opened up to a cement wall abutting the road. I was thirsty and there were glasses of water in front. I didn't eat our food nor did I touch my drink. Later, I drank coffee with relish and observed people around me.
Then I wondered. Lately, I have been a curious witness to the wasting away of my own life.
2.
Maria Molina is a long way away from here, the old man said. Maria Molina is simply a state of mind, I countered. As Pessoa once wrote, to travel, you simply have to exist. So, I could be in Maria Molina walking through the office buildings searching of a tapas bar looking for a cool, endless drink of cerveza.
Here, where I sit, I can see the highway and construction projects. The earth is brown and freshly exposed. I am on the one side of a conference table. The woman who is speaking has large manly hands. I watch a train go by far away behind the highway traffic.
I searched for fellow travellers in that train past all what the eye could see.
Across the building, the port was calm.
3.
I woke up with a beautiful dream this morning. It was the sort of a dream that comes to you as if it was a giant cinema screen. For a long minute, I was in the dream and I forgot it was not real.
Then I woke up. Then I wondered if others in my dream dreamt the same thing.
4.
Tomorrow at eight, a whole wide desert will open up. I wonder if there are any stars visible from where the mountains look own at the valley.
converZation
don't apologiZe
mind is an unbending unyielding mirror
even against own judgement
it does not change but simply reflects feelings
like sky is reflected on still water
tongueZ lie
eyeZ refuse to see
earZ ignore warnings
but the mind just stands witness
so if you don't or can't
or can't or won't
there is no why can't or why won't
it is just is so
there will be licking of the wounds
and shedding of tears
but in the end
like a calm ocean surface
the storm will be hid within
without butterflies and lilies
there can't be a garden
don't cry over this barren patch
in the desert dates may yet grow
and a mirage will flourish
don't apologize
the mirage reflected in the mind
is just an expression of soul
reflecting its need
mind is an unbending unyielding mirror
even against own judgement
it does not change but simply reflects feelings
like sky is reflected on still water
tongueZ lie
eyeZ refuse to see
earZ ignore warnings
but the mind just stands witness
so if you don't or can't
or can't or won't
there is no why can't or why won't
it is just is so
there will be licking of the wounds
and shedding of tears
but in the end
like a calm ocean surface
the storm will be hid within
without butterflies and lilies
there can't be a garden
don't cry over this barren patch
in the desert dates may yet grow
and a mirage will flourish
don't apologize
the mirage reflected in the mind
is just an expression of soul
reflecting its need
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Mera Bharat Mahan - Bar Talk
Recently, I was in a bar celebrating the birthday of a friend. The bar was full of all sorts of people from all sorts of countries.
An Indian-looking couple walk in. They are young, in their early twenties. They are known to the birthday boy, it seems.
I acknowledge them, no more affectionately than I do everyone else.
- Uncleji, the guy says.
- who do you mean?, I ask.
- You, he says. She laughs.
- Nice, I say. And walk off.
A bit later, they are in no mood to let go.
- Where are you from? Aren't you Indian?
-Yes
- You don't seem to want to talk to us.
- Well, you are not my sister's son. So last time I checked, I am not your uncle. You were rude to call me that.
- In India everyone calls everyone uncle.
- We are not in India, are we? And no, no one calls me uncle in India. besides are you from India?
- he is really from Sri Lanka, the girl pipes in. She does not have an Indian accent - Where are you from? What are you? A Punjabi? A Bengali?
- Indian
- But where in India are you from?
- (I am from South India- But you don't look like a South Indian. Are you sure you are from South India? -No, I am from South Pole. - Why are you upset, this is what Indians do, when they meet each other, I have never had anyone upset at me for this. - May be I am not that sort of an Indian... - Why do you say that?)
- Sheesh, let it go. Where are you from?
- Delhi. But I have never lived there.
- Well then you are not from Delhi. You look like an Indian, but you are not. It takes a little more than watching ten Bollywood movies and eating some Indian food to be Indian. Sorry.
And I walk away.
My only regret. I was actually calm and not more condescending and icy. By the way, I deleted a bunch of other inconsequential barbs from them that is irrelevant. It was as if they saw some Indian stereotype sitcom and wanted to slot me in. The more I wouldn't play the game, the more they got frustrated.
I can't stand these second and third generation Indian-wannabe idiots. Get a life already.
Monday, April 30, 2007
MERA BHARAT MAHAN (My India is great)
I am Indian.
I am a hyphenated American too.
I love the country of my birth deeply. But as one grows older and has closer association with more than one country, questions about love, acceptance and cultural affiliation become more complex. What is it to love one's own country? What does it mean to be Indian?
More specifically, what does it mean to be Indian for me? Does it mean that I can't be Indian and American, both at the same time? Is there a conflict of interest?
I was about to write how different authors have addressed this topic lately. Then I deleted it. This is about what it means to be Indian for me.
I love India and Indians. I love the fact that since independence, the country has remained a democracy. I love the fact that we debate incessantly all the issues and in spite of the clear Hindu majority, Hindu right wing nationalism is not a dominant force. I love the size and complexity and the racial diversity of its population. I admire its long history that goes back to such a long time. I am amazed by India's resilience to fight against interminable odds. For me Indianness is something deep and real, almost like a religion, but it is also personal. In as much as Vande Mataram moves me to tears, you will not find me waving the Indian flag in public.
I am an Indian.
Does it mean that I don't and cannot have issues with India? Hardly. I hate the fact that India has debilitating poverty and no sense of public cleanliness. As Indians, I hate that we are OK with that. Our solutions, political and economic, are designed rather to put paint over a structural problem.
Does that make me less Indian?
But there is something I do that irritate some people. I refuse to discuss India with non-Indians. I don't like to do this because I don't want to trivialize Indian issues to soundbites. I don't want to validate their general feelings towards the country, be is positive or otherwise. I am not a cultural ambassador to India.
And no, I don't know Dr. Murthy, your dentist. Or Ravi, the cab driver who took you to your hotel. And no, I am not going to tell you what I think of outsourcing. Or Bollywood movies. And yes, if I want to feel like I am "different" from "other Indians", then it is my right to do so. and for your information, we are a billion strong and regardless of what Mr. Patel told you, we are all unique and different.
And no, we don't all treat "low-caste Indians" badly.
Some of us care about Indian development seriously. Some of us feel terrible about the inequity of the situation in India, whether it is caste related or purely economical.
And, yes, it is dirty. So don't go there if you can't deal with it. Good you had a lot of fun with elephants in Jaipur. And we all agree, Aishwarya Rai is beautiful.
So leave me alone.
I am a hyphenated American too.
I love the country of my birth deeply. But as one grows older and has closer association with more than one country, questions about love, acceptance and cultural affiliation become more complex. What is it to love one's own country? What does it mean to be Indian?
More specifically, what does it mean to be Indian for me? Does it mean that I can't be Indian and American, both at the same time? Is there a conflict of interest?
I was about to write how different authors have addressed this topic lately. Then I deleted it. This is about what it means to be Indian for me.
I love India and Indians. I love the fact that since independence, the country has remained a democracy. I love the fact that we debate incessantly all the issues and in spite of the clear Hindu majority, Hindu right wing nationalism is not a dominant force. I love the size and complexity and the racial diversity of its population. I admire its long history that goes back to such a long time. I am amazed by India's resilience to fight against interminable odds. For me Indianness is something deep and real, almost like a religion, but it is also personal. In as much as Vande Mataram moves me to tears, you will not find me waving the Indian flag in public.
I am an Indian.
Does it mean that I don't and cannot have issues with India? Hardly. I hate the fact that India has debilitating poverty and no sense of public cleanliness. As Indians, I hate that we are OK with that. Our solutions, political and economic, are designed rather to put paint over a structural problem.
Does that make me less Indian?
But there is something I do that irritate some people. I refuse to discuss India with non-Indians. I don't like to do this because I don't want to trivialize Indian issues to soundbites. I don't want to validate their general feelings towards the country, be is positive or otherwise. I am not a cultural ambassador to India.
And no, I don't know Dr. Murthy, your dentist. Or Ravi, the cab driver who took you to your hotel. And no, I am not going to tell you what I think of outsourcing. Or Bollywood movies. And yes, if I want to feel like I am "different" from "other Indians", then it is my right to do so. and for your information, we are a billion strong and regardless of what Mr. Patel told you, we are all unique and different.
And no, we don't all treat "low-caste Indians" badly.
Some of us care about Indian development seriously. Some of us feel terrible about the inequity of the situation in India, whether it is caste related or purely economical.
And, yes, it is dirty. So don't go there if you can't deal with it. Good you had a lot of fun with elephants in Jaipur. And we all agree, Aishwarya Rai is beautiful.
So leave me alone.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Blast From The Past
Just found out that someone from my past just resigned from Department of Justice under Bush over a scandal.
It is very small world. I didn't even know he was on the post. He was a pompous man even then. He was pompous enough to build a magnificent tomb for himself in the city cemetery on an elevation.
It made me think of that city. And of calmer times. He bid his time for greater glory during the Clinton years.
And it all ended today.
It is very small world. I didn't even know he was on the post. He was a pompous man even then. He was pompous enough to build a magnificent tomb for himself in the city cemetery on an elevation.
It made me think of that city. And of calmer times. He bid his time for greater glory during the Clinton years.
And it all ended today.
Ode To Last Fall
I cry a poem for the last fall
when
a bottle of date jam was opened
a can of toothepaste was gifted
a lump of weed was thrown out by mistake
a midnight was lost in the reflection of the moon
almost
when
a sigh was lost in the veins
a memory was washed out with soap
a journey was interrupted
a poem was written and corrected
crying a poem over a poem
written and forgotten
almost
standing by the road that went nowhere
without a head, thinking thoughts
playing cards with a deck incomplete
writing the editorial on inconsequentials
the fall came and departed
almost
when
a bottle of date jam was opened
a can of toothepaste was gifted
a lump of weed was thrown out by mistake
a midnight was lost in the reflection of the moon
almost
when
a sigh was lost in the veins
a memory was washed out with soap
a journey was interrupted
a poem was written and corrected
crying a poem over a poem
written and forgotten
almost
standing by the road that went nowhere
without a head, thinking thoughts
playing cards with a deck incomplete
writing the editorial on inconsequentials
the fall came and departed
almost
Street Fight
1.
I watch them intently, fascinated. The short one has stains of spittle on his collar as he spews about obscenities. The taller one scoffs at him blaring yellowing teeth. Then the first punch lands and the heavy gold chain jiggles and moves back as his head falls back almost in slow motion. The taller one takes a step in anticipation of the counter punch. The shorter one stands straight, his eye suddenly swollen but his gelled hair still nicel in place. He is unsteady in his footwork but has not lost his swagger. He smirks and lunges forward with his fist outstretched. Te taller one moves back, grabs his fist and spins him to the ground.
I stand there motionless having made no attempt to stop them.
2.
I walk by the Foyer after I park.The door remains closed. I am illegally parked with two of the side wheels of the car on the side walk. People are gathering on the sidewalk at the La Terrazze to get a drink. On a bench a lonely young African boy sits drinking alone. Ahead of him is the sunset. But the lights have not become bright at Cologny to be seen yet.
I watch them intently, fascinated. The short one has stains of spittle on his collar as he spews about obscenities. The taller one scoffs at him blaring yellowing teeth. Then the first punch lands and the heavy gold chain jiggles and moves back as his head falls back almost in slow motion. The taller one takes a step in anticipation of the counter punch. The shorter one stands straight, his eye suddenly swollen but his gelled hair still nicel in place. He is unsteady in his footwork but has not lost his swagger. He smirks and lunges forward with his fist outstretched. Te taller one moves back, grabs his fist and spins him to the ground.
I stand there motionless having made no attempt to stop them.
2.
I walk by the Foyer after I park.The door remains closed. I am illegally parked with two of the side wheels of the car on the side walk. People are gathering on the sidewalk at the La Terrazze to get a drink. On a bench a lonely young African boy sits drinking alone. Ahead of him is the sunset. But the lights have not become bright at Cologny to be seen yet.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Mountain View
(No, not the town in South Bay....)
It is a beautiful room under the rolling hills of a mountain chain. The room opens up to a vast rolling meadow and there is nothing between the veranda and the mountains. There is a man-made lake for water skiing and a beautiful golf couse that snakes around the hotel. The restaurant is just delectable, offering perfect nouvelle cousine. The wine list is extensive and the bar is open.
It is a beautiful day, neither too hot nor cold. The sky is blue and far away you can see sporadic traffic.
The bed is comfortable and bathroom is really nice. I am not that easily impressed with hotel rooms. But this is really good.
Yet, as I sit here staring at nothingness, i wonder why is it that they put me in places like this then fill the day with such a tight agenda that I don't have a moment to myself to enjoy the place.
I wish I had the time to pick up the phone and call people.
May be it is better to be in urban hotels to do this sort of stuff. At least you don't miss anything.
oh well.
It is a beautiful room under the rolling hills of a mountain chain. The room opens up to a vast rolling meadow and there is nothing between the veranda and the mountains. There is a man-made lake for water skiing and a beautiful golf couse that snakes around the hotel. The restaurant is just delectable, offering perfect nouvelle cousine. The wine list is extensive and the bar is open.
It is a beautiful day, neither too hot nor cold. The sky is blue and far away you can see sporadic traffic.
The bed is comfortable and bathroom is really nice. I am not that easily impressed with hotel rooms. But this is really good.
Yet, as I sit here staring at nothingness, i wonder why is it that they put me in places like this then fill the day with such a tight agenda that I don't have a moment to myself to enjoy the place.
I wish I had the time to pick up the phone and call people.
May be it is better to be in urban hotels to do this sort of stuff. At least you don't miss anything.
oh well.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Love Bites Bullet: Discovering Coco Part 2
She didn’t know what drove her to take him to her apartment after a long evening of abortive and unskilled flirting. This was unlike her and she felt that she had no choice in the matter. She didn’t know anything about him except his name, which sounded very funny for the way he looked. He had no idea what was happening either. He lingered in the club transfixed in her movements and let the magic in her control his movements. So when she finally asked him to walk her to her place, he could not even think of saying no.
Sometimes love just happens. It happens without reason or purpose. It happens despite all the best efforts. It happens even when it should not. He entered her car in silence. She apologized for the mess in the car and for the half-eaten banana on the passenger seat. They drove in silence with neither saying a word. The streetlights that had just become brighter in the evening mediated in the matter silently. A wave of intensity rose and fell between them and rippled out into the world. As she parked her car in front of her house, he leaned over and kissed her for the first time; on the lips but without tongue. She did not kiss him back. She felt his kiss and stayed stiff without reacting.
Her apartment was rather tiny, almost like a cell. It was painted in light green color. She lived alone in the basement of a rooming house owned by an immigrant Iraqi couple who after retiring made most of their income from their properties. She got a good deal when she showed up one evening desperate for a place and with no intention to spend a lot of money. They showed her the room and as an incentive offered to furnish it with a bed and mattress. She furnished the rest with IKEA furniture and bright colored curtains. There was a lava lamp in the corner that provided nighttime theatre to the otherwise drab ambience.
On the bed, with the lights turned off except for the psychedelic dots of flicker for the lava lamp and the radio playing softly, they touched each other for the first time, seriously and with determination, her forearm pressing against his crotch; his hand – shaking and unsteady- roaming freely across the faint moist curvature of her thigh without the watchful eyes of the bouncer. Like two lost souls in love for the first time, drinking thirstily from an endless cup they moved unashamedly into the final frontier and discovered each other. They were not skilled at it either, she having lost her confidence in a feeling that brought on a loss of control and he nervous and lost in the moment. He lost and found his hardness and she missed and regained her rhythm. They made love like two school children fooling around behind the schoolyard for the first time.
When they were done, all their nervousness had gone, wiped clear by the tender words and soft touch. Only a gentle feeling of well being remained.
Then he felt the urge. His stomach started to turn. First he thought it was his body feeling sick for the sin he had just committed. Then, despite the fighting of the mind over matter, the matter grew strong and he ran to the toilet with the urgency he had never felt before. When he came out of the toilet, after a long while, he no longer was in love. He kept going in and out most of the night and after the fourth time when the tenderness was replaced by certain revulsion, Coco also fell out of love.
They were then a curious pair; ex-lovers bound to each other by a hidden connection of the man in need of a toilet and woman who was the owner of the toilet. The fact that they had just made love made it difficult for her to throw him out right away. She covered herself and hoped he would leave soon.
At some point in the night, weak and muttering, Bullet suggested that she call a cab for him. Without protesting, she did.
The next day, Bullet was admitted to the hospital with a terrible case of amoebic dysentery. It was quite ironic, as everyone from the Embassy remarked when they came to visit him at the hospital, that a man from India would catch a tropical disease in America.
Finally when he was well enough to leave America for India, with his dream of visiting New York unfulfilled, he sat on his chair and contemplated the emptiness of life; his failing career, his unloved wife, his pointless trip to America and his one true love that lasted for only an afternoon.
Then he wrote Coco a letter.
My dearest Coco, it read, I don’t know why I write this. There is no point in writing a letter of love to a former lover whom I have only known but for a fleeting moment. But what I felt in that moment was true love. My illness and departure from your place tore my heart not because it ended so soon, but because it happened once. I can never be the same person again, having experienced it once. I am in turmoil. I shall return to India and remember you. It is pointless to expect that we will ever meet again or that if we met, we would ever feel for each other the way we did that evening. But for that evening, I thank you. For the illness and the subsequent silliness and all the inconvenience it caused, I apologize. Yours, Bullet.
Then in the taxi to the airport, sitting in the backseat, Bullet carefully tore the letter into a thousand pieces and let them all fly away into the night sky of Washington DC.
On her way to work, Coco saw a small piece of white paper fly though the air and land on her windshield. It stuck there confidently like it was fixed there with glue. When she parked the car, she pulled out the paper and read it. It was an advertisement for a mattress. It simply said, “Comfort. For one night or forever.”
Then she began to cry.
Sometimes love just happens. It happens without reason or purpose. It happens despite all the best efforts. It happens even when it should not. He entered her car in silence. She apologized for the mess in the car and for the half-eaten banana on the passenger seat. They drove in silence with neither saying a word. The streetlights that had just become brighter in the evening mediated in the matter silently. A wave of intensity rose and fell between them and rippled out into the world. As she parked her car in front of her house, he leaned over and kissed her for the first time; on the lips but without tongue. She did not kiss him back. She felt his kiss and stayed stiff without reacting.
Her apartment was rather tiny, almost like a cell. It was painted in light green color. She lived alone in the basement of a rooming house owned by an immigrant Iraqi couple who after retiring made most of their income from their properties. She got a good deal when she showed up one evening desperate for a place and with no intention to spend a lot of money. They showed her the room and as an incentive offered to furnish it with a bed and mattress. She furnished the rest with IKEA furniture and bright colored curtains. There was a lava lamp in the corner that provided nighttime theatre to the otherwise drab ambience.
On the bed, with the lights turned off except for the psychedelic dots of flicker for the lava lamp and the radio playing softly, they touched each other for the first time, seriously and with determination, her forearm pressing against his crotch; his hand – shaking and unsteady- roaming freely across the faint moist curvature of her thigh without the watchful eyes of the bouncer. Like two lost souls in love for the first time, drinking thirstily from an endless cup they moved unashamedly into the final frontier and discovered each other. They were not skilled at it either, she having lost her confidence in a feeling that brought on a loss of control and he nervous and lost in the moment. He lost and found his hardness and she missed and regained her rhythm. They made love like two school children fooling around behind the schoolyard for the first time.
When they were done, all their nervousness had gone, wiped clear by the tender words and soft touch. Only a gentle feeling of well being remained.
Then he felt the urge. His stomach started to turn. First he thought it was his body feeling sick for the sin he had just committed. Then, despite the fighting of the mind over matter, the matter grew strong and he ran to the toilet with the urgency he had never felt before. When he came out of the toilet, after a long while, he no longer was in love. He kept going in and out most of the night and after the fourth time when the tenderness was replaced by certain revulsion, Coco also fell out of love.
They were then a curious pair; ex-lovers bound to each other by a hidden connection of the man in need of a toilet and woman who was the owner of the toilet. The fact that they had just made love made it difficult for her to throw him out right away. She covered herself and hoped he would leave soon.
At some point in the night, weak and muttering, Bullet suggested that she call a cab for him. Without protesting, she did.
The next day, Bullet was admitted to the hospital with a terrible case of amoebic dysentery. It was quite ironic, as everyone from the Embassy remarked when they came to visit him at the hospital, that a man from India would catch a tropical disease in America.
Finally when he was well enough to leave America for India, with his dream of visiting New York unfulfilled, he sat on his chair and contemplated the emptiness of life; his failing career, his unloved wife, his pointless trip to America and his one true love that lasted for only an afternoon.
Then he wrote Coco a letter.
My dearest Coco, it read, I don’t know why I write this. There is no point in writing a letter of love to a former lover whom I have only known but for a fleeting moment. But what I felt in that moment was true love. My illness and departure from your place tore my heart not because it ended so soon, but because it happened once. I can never be the same person again, having experienced it once. I am in turmoil. I shall return to India and remember you. It is pointless to expect that we will ever meet again or that if we met, we would ever feel for each other the way we did that evening. But for that evening, I thank you. For the illness and the subsequent silliness and all the inconvenience it caused, I apologize. Yours, Bullet.
Then in the taxi to the airport, sitting in the backseat, Bullet carefully tore the letter into a thousand pieces and let them all fly away into the night sky of Washington DC.
On her way to work, Coco saw a small piece of white paper fly though the air and land on her windshield. It stuck there confidently like it was fixed there with glue. When she parked the car, she pulled out the paper and read it. It was an advertisement for a mattress. It simply said, “Comfort. For one night or forever.”
Then she began to cry.
Love Bites Bullet: Discovering Coco Part 1
Bullet Balasubrahmaniam heaved a sigh of relief as the plane touched down at Washington DC. They cannot take this away from me now, he said to himself. This was Bullet’s first foreign trip, a junket that he managed by deftly manipulating his connections in the UN and his influence with the ministry. He always wanted to visit the US, particularly on Indian government dime. “Keen to go to the States,” as he put it. The momentous occasion was a conference on Population Control hosted by a UN agency in Washington DC.
These have been lean months for Bullet with him falling out of favor with the Minister and getting moved to a backwater function as the Undersecretary of Population Management. Most of the day, he sat in his backroom office playing with paperweights of various shapes and colors until the idea to set up a foreign junket popped into his head. There was no stopping him from accomplishing his true mission, population problems of India be damned.
After much maneuverings around the red-ribbon weighted halls of officialdom and one or two close calls that almost smelled like responsible governance, Bullet finally made it to the plane bound for London and then on to Washington DC. He barely paid any attention to the topic of the conference, spending much more of his time making lists of things he wanted to see. Is it possible to visit New York City from Washington DC over the weekend, he asked his fellow travelers? Is the white house open to visitors? Can I get away with wearing a safari suit at this time of the year? He kept the last question however to himself. Bullet was going to see America the way she deserved to be seen.
The meeting was typical of such pointless conferences he had seen organized in Vigyan Bhavan before. Self-important suits with dark glasses sat behind massive nameplates announcing their eminence and mouthed unintelligible nothings that went on for hours without accomplishing much. There was a dinner, where old cliques renewed their circular closeness while new members circles the periphery looking for an opening to get in. Bullet was neither in nor out. He walked from on circle to another spotting an occasional Stephenite who weaseled a plum posting outside and thus managed to get his hand shaken by a few. He felt hot under his new synthetic suit and the tightly knotted tie. He was already bored.
He regretted his decision to come to America. This was not what he had signed up for when he ran from pillar to post trying to get his trip approved. There was nothing there for an inquisitive creature like him. Nothing at all.
So, on the second day of the meeting when he decided to skip the afternoon session and walk around town, he did so without guilt. He had seen an establishment curiously titled “The Frog pond” on the way to his hotel the night before. He was not sure what exactly went on in there but it seemed to him that the business involved naked women and sex. It was a windowless place with bright blue neon lights outside and a blinking lime green neon silhouette of a naked woman sitting inside a martini glass. There were cars parked outside and a rather unhappy looking woman and a bored yet tough bouncer kept the door tidy and organized.
As he came upon the club, on a whim, Bullet decided to go in. It was four in the afternoon and it lacked the intimidating external ambience of the night before. Inside, it was quite dark and creepy with the hall curving and hiding spaces. The wall was either or black or very dark red but without enough lighting in the room he could tell. In the middle of the room, there was an elliptical stage with pole in the front and chairs were arranged around the stage. There were a couple of bored customers sitting quietly on the chairs and the club staff paid very little attention to them.
He had been told plenty of times by those experienced in these matters that sitting near the stage involved loss of single dollar bills at an alarmingly rapid rate. Being a prudent Indian that he was, he picked himself an unobtrusive corner chair with an unobstructed view and sat down with his conference bag on his lap. Bullet ordered a coke and made himself comfortable as much as anyone could be in those circumstances.
Then he looked at the girl who was dancing naked on the stage and fell in love.
Coco!
Coco was quite a striking looking woman. She had the chocolate skin of a Jamaican and features of a Moroccan Goddess. She was tall and slender with appreciable breasts and thick kissable lips. Her shoulder length blackish brown hair fell about her lazily as she danced. She laughed easily when she was not working. When she was not working, she was Bettina, a quite comely young woman in a confident understated way; quite a determined young woman who was shouldering the responsibility of a large family back home in the islands and a low appetite for game-playing.
But work was entirely a different matter. At work at the Frog Pond, all the understatement disappeared into Coco the African goddess. She strutted her stuff vivaciously in larger-than-life movements. Her well-timed gyrations and artificially throaty laugh were designed for effect. She knew that the slow ripples of her breasts and the flash of her clean-shaven public area as she bent over them were irresistible to her customers. Frog Pond was right next to the UN agency offices in Washington DC. Most of her customers were middle-aged contractors and young interns circling the beltway in search of some diversion from the boredom of their lives. It was her job to make them feel better about their lives and do it better than the other girls at club. She took this very seriously and was rewarded handsomely for it.
In one phrase, pure sex!
But that is so far from love. And Bullet was no fool, especially to fall in love in a strip club. He didn’t ever remember falling in love. Ever! He barely tolerated his wife and sex mostly was a matter of routine business that was transacted without urgency or ceremony in the darkness of the bedroom. That did not mean there was no fondness in him for his wife; there was certain warmth with which he considered her jasmine-scented hair oil and the way she trembled when touched in unfamiliar parts.
Butterflies in his stomach!
He was not accustomed to feeling this way.
He must have blushed. He moved forward and pulled a chair closer to the stage to look at the dancer. It didn’t register to him that she was naked and her body was there on display for anyone with a buck to spare. He stared at her eyes and melted.
Coco saw another opportunity for tips as she saw Bullet pulling the chair closer to the stage. She has seen this a million times before, men moving closer to get a closer look of her body in semi-arousal and open lust. She has seen their letchy smiles and the self-important offerings of money. But he was different. He looked at her eyes and there was a naive freshness of a schoolboy in his battle-hardened face.
Coco liked the Indian man almost instantly then against all rules and practice. She was in this business to make money and not to care for the men who came day in aroused by the attraction to naked flesh. None of it, even the theatrics of performance, mattered to her much anymore; it was like driving or brushing teeth. On autopilot, she let her body do those things without feeling. But for reasons unknown to her conscious self, he aroused a primordial sympathy in her. She glanced at him and saw that he still wore a nametag of some conference over his ill-fitting polyester jacket. He was dark and short and had the demeanor of someone very uncomfortable with sex and all matters pertaining to sex.
She went through the gyrating motions for her other customers until her song was over and when done, parted company with them gracefully gathering up the loose dollar bills from the stage. Next dancer came on stage and the emcee tried to rev up interest by shouting out all the great things she was capable of.
Coco descended the stage and went straight to Bullet.
-- Want a dance, honey? She asked smiling sweetly. Almost condescendingly.
There was no other way she could approach him. In this world of transactions and trade-offs, every shy approach was an offering for touch, a promise of more touch, selling dreams packaged as desire.
He nodded like a child and followed her to a corner. She started with all the normal moves of writhing and moaning and then inexplicably something happened inside her. She felt a mother-like sympathy for this diminutive man much older than her. Her touch became tender and her sounds more muted, genuine and sincere. Her nipples became harder and her thighs moist.
There in the fake-coital position, an unlikely pair, an Indian administrative officer and an uneducated stripper fell in love while sharing an intimacy that was predestined and commercial.
These have been lean months for Bullet with him falling out of favor with the Minister and getting moved to a backwater function as the Undersecretary of Population Management. Most of the day, he sat in his backroom office playing with paperweights of various shapes and colors until the idea to set up a foreign junket popped into his head. There was no stopping him from accomplishing his true mission, population problems of India be damned.
After much maneuverings around the red-ribbon weighted halls of officialdom and one or two close calls that almost smelled like responsible governance, Bullet finally made it to the plane bound for London and then on to Washington DC. He barely paid any attention to the topic of the conference, spending much more of his time making lists of things he wanted to see. Is it possible to visit New York City from Washington DC over the weekend, he asked his fellow travelers? Is the white house open to visitors? Can I get away with wearing a safari suit at this time of the year? He kept the last question however to himself. Bullet was going to see America the way she deserved to be seen.
The meeting was typical of such pointless conferences he had seen organized in Vigyan Bhavan before. Self-important suits with dark glasses sat behind massive nameplates announcing their eminence and mouthed unintelligible nothings that went on for hours without accomplishing much. There was a dinner, where old cliques renewed their circular closeness while new members circles the periphery looking for an opening to get in. Bullet was neither in nor out. He walked from on circle to another spotting an occasional Stephenite who weaseled a plum posting outside and thus managed to get his hand shaken by a few. He felt hot under his new synthetic suit and the tightly knotted tie. He was already bored.
He regretted his decision to come to America. This was not what he had signed up for when he ran from pillar to post trying to get his trip approved. There was nothing there for an inquisitive creature like him. Nothing at all.
So, on the second day of the meeting when he decided to skip the afternoon session and walk around town, he did so without guilt. He had seen an establishment curiously titled “The Frog pond” on the way to his hotel the night before. He was not sure what exactly went on in there but it seemed to him that the business involved naked women and sex. It was a windowless place with bright blue neon lights outside and a blinking lime green neon silhouette of a naked woman sitting inside a martini glass. There were cars parked outside and a rather unhappy looking woman and a bored yet tough bouncer kept the door tidy and organized.
As he came upon the club, on a whim, Bullet decided to go in. It was four in the afternoon and it lacked the intimidating external ambience of the night before. Inside, it was quite dark and creepy with the hall curving and hiding spaces. The wall was either or black or very dark red but without enough lighting in the room he could tell. In the middle of the room, there was an elliptical stage with pole in the front and chairs were arranged around the stage. There were a couple of bored customers sitting quietly on the chairs and the club staff paid very little attention to them.
He had been told plenty of times by those experienced in these matters that sitting near the stage involved loss of single dollar bills at an alarmingly rapid rate. Being a prudent Indian that he was, he picked himself an unobtrusive corner chair with an unobstructed view and sat down with his conference bag on his lap. Bullet ordered a coke and made himself comfortable as much as anyone could be in those circumstances.
Then he looked at the girl who was dancing naked on the stage and fell in love.
Coco!
Coco was quite a striking looking woman. She had the chocolate skin of a Jamaican and features of a Moroccan Goddess. She was tall and slender with appreciable breasts and thick kissable lips. Her shoulder length blackish brown hair fell about her lazily as she danced. She laughed easily when she was not working. When she was not working, she was Bettina, a quite comely young woman in a confident understated way; quite a determined young woman who was shouldering the responsibility of a large family back home in the islands and a low appetite for game-playing.
But work was entirely a different matter. At work at the Frog Pond, all the understatement disappeared into Coco the African goddess. She strutted her stuff vivaciously in larger-than-life movements. Her well-timed gyrations and artificially throaty laugh were designed for effect. She knew that the slow ripples of her breasts and the flash of her clean-shaven public area as she bent over them were irresistible to her customers. Frog Pond was right next to the UN agency offices in Washington DC. Most of her customers were middle-aged contractors and young interns circling the beltway in search of some diversion from the boredom of their lives. It was her job to make them feel better about their lives and do it better than the other girls at club. She took this very seriously and was rewarded handsomely for it.
In one phrase, pure sex!
But that is so far from love. And Bullet was no fool, especially to fall in love in a strip club. He didn’t ever remember falling in love. Ever! He barely tolerated his wife and sex mostly was a matter of routine business that was transacted without urgency or ceremony in the darkness of the bedroom. That did not mean there was no fondness in him for his wife; there was certain warmth with which he considered her jasmine-scented hair oil and the way she trembled when touched in unfamiliar parts.
Butterflies in his stomach!
He was not accustomed to feeling this way.
He must have blushed. He moved forward and pulled a chair closer to the stage to look at the dancer. It didn’t register to him that she was naked and her body was there on display for anyone with a buck to spare. He stared at her eyes and melted.
Coco saw another opportunity for tips as she saw Bullet pulling the chair closer to the stage. She has seen this a million times before, men moving closer to get a closer look of her body in semi-arousal and open lust. She has seen their letchy smiles and the self-important offerings of money. But he was different. He looked at her eyes and there was a naive freshness of a schoolboy in his battle-hardened face.
Coco liked the Indian man almost instantly then against all rules and practice. She was in this business to make money and not to care for the men who came day in aroused by the attraction to naked flesh. None of it, even the theatrics of performance, mattered to her much anymore; it was like driving or brushing teeth. On autopilot, she let her body do those things without feeling. But for reasons unknown to her conscious self, he aroused a primordial sympathy in her. She glanced at him and saw that he still wore a nametag of some conference over his ill-fitting polyester jacket. He was dark and short and had the demeanor of someone very uncomfortable with sex and all matters pertaining to sex.
She went through the gyrating motions for her other customers until her song was over and when done, parted company with them gracefully gathering up the loose dollar bills from the stage. Next dancer came on stage and the emcee tried to rev up interest by shouting out all the great things she was capable of.
Coco descended the stage and went straight to Bullet.
-- Want a dance, honey? She asked smiling sweetly. Almost condescendingly.
There was no other way she could approach him. In this world of transactions and trade-offs, every shy approach was an offering for touch, a promise of more touch, selling dreams packaged as desire.
He nodded like a child and followed her to a corner. She started with all the normal moves of writhing and moaning and then inexplicably something happened inside her. She felt a mother-like sympathy for this diminutive man much older than her. Her touch became tender and her sounds more muted, genuine and sincere. Her nipples became harder and her thighs moist.
There in the fake-coital position, an unlikely pair, an Indian administrative officer and an uneducated stripper fell in love while sharing an intimacy that was predestined and commercial.
Letters
I haven’t written you in a long while
What is new with me but a thousand trips to hell
Pregnant with expectations
On abandoned ships with broken sails
A young son is lying dead; the mother is frantically
Searching. There are customary negotiations and
Percentage commissions, a deal is made and lost
The bus departs on a long evening trip
The woman is waiting for you with mustard
Collected from a house that has not known death
Truth has become dreams and dreams, journeys
Yet the dead still sleep the endless sleep
All this needs retelling, in an endless letter
That I try writing since I have known you
I sit with the pen you gave me and the paper
I stole from the mortician’s journal
Are the words still here? Or unseen by me,
Do they wait across the abyss of time?
This dark moonless night
You have come looking for me
Now I repent, I haven’t written to you
About my dreams and endless stories
The symphony of motion is slowing to an end,
And I am longing to see my friends
Even if I don’t post them, to whom else am I
Going to address these letters of life?
What is new with me but a thousand trips to hell
Pregnant with expectations
On abandoned ships with broken sails
A young son is lying dead; the mother is frantically
Searching. There are customary negotiations and
Percentage commissions, a deal is made and lost
The bus departs on a long evening trip
The woman is waiting for you with mustard
Collected from a house that has not known death
Truth has become dreams and dreams, journeys
Yet the dead still sleep the endless sleep
All this needs retelling, in an endless letter
That I try writing since I have known you
I sit with the pen you gave me and the paper
I stole from the mortician’s journal
Are the words still here? Or unseen by me,
Do they wait across the abyss of time?
This dark moonless night
You have come looking for me
Now I repent, I haven’t written to you
About my dreams and endless stories
The symphony of motion is slowing to an end,
And I am longing to see my friends
Even if I don’t post them, to whom else am I
Going to address these letters of life?
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Leaving Argentina : Lessons Learned
Do you remember those old days when getting outof India (or getting in, for that matter) involved a series of choreographed steps that looked like complete cacaphony and chaos from outside but had a sort of rhythm once you knew the game?
Things have become a lot simpler that you can hope to accomplish this without aquiring a new vocabulary and a new set of best friends and losing all the pocket change. Thank the universal one-eyes lightness for that.
Getting out of Buenos Aires last week reminded me of that as I left last week.
First of all, plan on getting to the airport at least a year before the departure time to leave ample time to complete the "formalities."
First of all, the damn short ride from the center of the city to the International airport (Ministro Pistarini International Airport) in Ezeiza ought to take twenty minutes but it takes one hour. But I am not worried, because I have two and half hours to catch the flight, so why should I be worried?
I should be worried. I should be very worried.
I reach the airport and as I enter the departure hall, it resembles a cross between the emergency waiting room of a large hospital (without any chairs and bleeding people) and a Sunday market. people are running helter-skelter and everyone is looking worried. I am quite unfazed at this as I walk to the counter because I see that my counter is free. I have a "been there, done that" look on my face.
Not so fast, punk.
There is a woman stationed between me and the counter and she stands behind a lecturn and has stamps and papers with her. This is never good news, especially in the developing world. So I smile and try to be VERY VERY polite. Meanwhile, I glance and see that the line for economy is snaking its way to Colombia.
She begins with innocent questions like, "who packed your luggage?"
I answer very politely. Then the questions get harder and harder. I am kicking myself for not paying attention in my general knowledge questions in high school. Later she wants to know the birth dates of my great grand parents and a brief history of the manufacturer of my suit case.
Finally, she smiles, flips through my passport and hands me a piece of paper duly stamped and notorized for what purpose I do not know. I am relieved.
I get to the counter. Nobody pays any attention to the notorized piece of the paper as the counter-lady processes my ticket and gives me my boarding card. Then she says, "hurry, you don't have much time."
This is truly prophetic and ominous. I look at my watch and think, hmm, I have plenty of time so why would she say this?
Then I realize I have another line to stand on. This is an egalitarian line with everyone heading everywhere has to stand on regardless of destination or class of service. This is to pay $18 exit tax. This line also snakes its way to Columbia. So I get to the back of the line and wait my turn. Another eternity passes by until i get to the end of the line and I pay. She gives me another receipt. Nobody checks the first notorized paper. Now with all these papers, I head to the cambio to get some dollars back for the pesos. There are two counters and two people. But one of them has decided to just stand around and not necessarily help people for some reason. So there goes another 30 minutes.
Then the first line of emmigration. The counter number comes on except at a place where the person in the front of the line cannot quite see. So everyone behind them have to shout, look look, you go to counter number 14 and so on. As soon as they reach the front of the line however, they forget this whole thing and begin to assume the clueless look.
I get though that hurdle OK. Except noone checks for any of my growing lit of official papers. They just want to see the passport, not even the boarding card.
Then there is a customs line and a security line, which seems more for comical reasons than for any real purposes. Shoes and lapt-tops stay on and in... and every one gets a once-over pat-down. From the look of it, Osama could walk that line with a ton of explosives and will pass the line.
Oh, yeah, the path from this point to the gate passes through what looks like the ladies section of Robinsons May or some other mid-style department store. Store-ladies wait for attract the attention of wouldbe customers and you are running through isles of merchantise towards your flight.
At this point I have consumed all my buffer and I am worried. I need to go to the bathroom but I realize I have no time.
There is another security inspection within five feet of the plane. This is a tougher one, I assume specifically designed for US bound passengers.
I get patted down, my dirty clothes get one too.. I am happy to be finally on the OTHER side.
No more queues.
I walk into the plane and I have one minute to spare.
As I sit down and sip some champagne 9which I hate, but I secide I deserve to celebrate the triuph of persistence over beaurocracy) I realize that people are still walking in.
So the departure time is a mere suggestion.
At some point in the night, we must have departed because when I woke up I was no longer in Argentina.
And here I thought Indian procedures were the worst!
Things have become a lot simpler that you can hope to accomplish this without aquiring a new vocabulary and a new set of best friends and losing all the pocket change. Thank the universal one-eyes lightness for that.
Getting out of Buenos Aires last week reminded me of that as I left last week.
First of all, plan on getting to the airport at least a year before the departure time to leave ample time to complete the "formalities."
First of all, the damn short ride from the center of the city to the International airport (Ministro Pistarini International Airport) in Ezeiza ought to take twenty minutes but it takes one hour. But I am not worried, because I have two and half hours to catch the flight, so why should I be worried?
I should be worried. I should be very worried.
I reach the airport and as I enter the departure hall, it resembles a cross between the emergency waiting room of a large hospital (without any chairs and bleeding people) and a Sunday market. people are running helter-skelter and everyone is looking worried. I am quite unfazed at this as I walk to the counter because I see that my counter is free. I have a "been there, done that" look on my face.
Not so fast, punk.
There is a woman stationed between me and the counter and she stands behind a lecturn and has stamps and papers with her. This is never good news, especially in the developing world. So I smile and try to be VERY VERY polite. Meanwhile, I glance and see that the line for economy is snaking its way to Colombia.
She begins with innocent questions like, "who packed your luggage?"
I answer very politely. Then the questions get harder and harder. I am kicking myself for not paying attention in my general knowledge questions in high school. Later she wants to know the birth dates of my great grand parents and a brief history of the manufacturer of my suit case.
Finally, she smiles, flips through my passport and hands me a piece of paper duly stamped and notorized for what purpose I do not know. I am relieved.
I get to the counter. Nobody pays any attention to the notorized piece of the paper as the counter-lady processes my ticket and gives me my boarding card. Then she says, "hurry, you don't have much time."
This is truly prophetic and ominous. I look at my watch and think, hmm, I have plenty of time so why would she say this?
Then I realize I have another line to stand on. This is an egalitarian line with everyone heading everywhere has to stand on regardless of destination or class of service. This is to pay $18 exit tax. This line also snakes its way to Columbia. So I get to the back of the line and wait my turn. Another eternity passes by until i get to the end of the line and I pay. She gives me another receipt. Nobody checks the first notorized paper. Now with all these papers, I head to the cambio to get some dollars back for the pesos. There are two counters and two people. But one of them has decided to just stand around and not necessarily help people for some reason. So there goes another 30 minutes.
Then the first line of emmigration. The counter number comes on except at a place where the person in the front of the line cannot quite see. So everyone behind them have to shout, look look, you go to counter number 14 and so on. As soon as they reach the front of the line however, they forget this whole thing and begin to assume the clueless look.
I get though that hurdle OK. Except noone checks for any of my growing lit of official papers. They just want to see the passport, not even the boarding card.
Then there is a customs line and a security line, which seems more for comical reasons than for any real purposes. Shoes and lapt-tops stay on and in... and every one gets a once-over pat-down. From the look of it, Osama could walk that line with a ton of explosives and will pass the line.
Oh, yeah, the path from this point to the gate passes through what looks like the ladies section of Robinsons May or some other mid-style department store. Store-ladies wait for attract the attention of wouldbe customers and you are running through isles of merchantise towards your flight.
At this point I have consumed all my buffer and I am worried. I need to go to the bathroom but I realize I have no time.
There is another security inspection within five feet of the plane. This is a tougher one, I assume specifically designed for US bound passengers.
I get patted down, my dirty clothes get one too.. I am happy to be finally on the OTHER side.
No more queues.
I walk into the plane and I have one minute to spare.
As I sit down and sip some champagne 9which I hate, but I secide I deserve to celebrate the triuph of persistence over beaurocracy) I realize that people are still walking in.
So the departure time is a mere suggestion.
At some point in the night, we must have departed because when I woke up I was no longer in Argentina.
And here I thought Indian procedures were the worst!
Electric Embrace : A dream
Give me an electric embrace and energize me or kill me
All I feel is the static electricity from memories of the past weeks
I am flying with a single wing over an ashen sky
Evicted from my domicile, my letters float in the ether
Without feathers, my wings don’t touch the air as I glide
And when I touch down, I hit the sand and meet a frog
The frog sits in the boiling water and laughs at me
As the temperature rises and his feet turn to meat
I laugh back for I know he will die before I do
Then I look down and see the quick sand beneath my feet
The guests of this summer city do not leave
I try planting signs at the seething lake and under the sky
They laugh back at me, pointing at the rose buds
Inviting them to stay back and relax by the shore
Am I the only one with the vision to see that the lake water
Has turned toxic from all the blood of innocents?
Why can’t you hear the muffled screams of their helplessness
Rising in bubbles from the bottom of the lake bed?
The frog closes his eyes and goes back to meditating
From under his webbed feet a banyan tree rises
I tie a noose on the tree and my neck to escape the quicksand
Now the frog, the tree and I are dissolving in your electric embrace
All I feel is the static electricity from memories of the past weeks
I am flying with a single wing over an ashen sky
Evicted from my domicile, my letters float in the ether
Without feathers, my wings don’t touch the air as I glide
And when I touch down, I hit the sand and meet a frog
The frog sits in the boiling water and laughs at me
As the temperature rises and his feet turn to meat
I laugh back for I know he will die before I do
Then I look down and see the quick sand beneath my feet
The guests of this summer city do not leave
I try planting signs at the seething lake and under the sky
They laugh back at me, pointing at the rose buds
Inviting them to stay back and relax by the shore
Am I the only one with the vision to see that the lake water
Has turned toxic from all the blood of innocents?
Why can’t you hear the muffled screams of their helplessness
Rising in bubbles from the bottom of the lake bed?
The frog closes his eyes and goes back to meditating
From under his webbed feet a banyan tree rises
I tie a noose on the tree and my neck to escape the quicksand
Now the frog, the tree and I are dissolving in your electric embrace
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Globbish Poem
A new form of stripped-down English is emerging around the world that is suppossed to be effective but not rich. This is the global English that is used by five hundred million speakers around the world who use it as a medium of communication around the world only in the context of business and rudimentary social communication.
Herald Tribune postulates that this will get even simpler and evolve into a different language from the preent-day English. English that is used in the US and the UK will become mere dialects of this global form of English. So, here is an attempt to write a poem in Globbish as I would write it in 2040. The poem is real, the sentiments are real and apparently the language is also real.
left faint smell perfume
unwashed shirt
Left bottom
old suitcase
nipple attached bottle vodka
Feeds child life blood
I kiss what left river
After sold soft drink bottlers?
old memory ranting unconsciously
emergency ward hospital
Lets bury dreams hope
They die asphyxiation
Collapse heap
Rise hope
Wait opening
Expect heartbreak
Shadow boxing
this dark alley
All myslf
Against world
Now let me be.
Don’t
--Obey me, listen to me
--Imitate me, pity me
--Shadow-box me
Herald Tribune postulates that this will get even simpler and evolve into a different language from the preent-day English. English that is used in the US and the UK will become mere dialects of this global form of English. So, here is an attempt to write a poem in Globbish as I would write it in 2040. The poem is real, the sentiments are real and apparently the language is also real.
left faint smell perfume
unwashed shirt
Left bottom
old suitcase
nipple attached bottle vodka
Feeds child life blood
I kiss what left river
After sold soft drink bottlers?
old memory ranting unconsciously
emergency ward hospital
Lets bury dreams hope
They die asphyxiation
Collapse heap
Rise hope
Wait opening
Expect heartbreak
Shadow boxing
this dark alley
All myslf
Against world
Now let me be.
Don’t
--Obey me, listen to me
--Imitate me, pity me
--Shadow-box me
Friday, April 13, 2007
Self Pity Is A Bitch
I was so lost last night. So lost that I wanted to escape my life and run far away and be someone else. I was tired and hungry but I wanted no food or rest. I took a tram to some part of town i didn't know. I got off the tram and started walking. It was night and my heart was heavy with thought. The river was ahead of me and I walked away from the tram lines and found a place on the sidewalk by the river. There was a bench. I sat down and stared at the city lights and the stars over them. There was nothing to do, nowhere I wanted to be.
The phone barely had any signal. I was distraught. I wanted to talk to no one. I didn't want to be polite or happy. I didn't care how any one else felt. There is some pleasure in guiltless wallowing in pain.
I walked many miles, until my feet hurt and my legs were numb. I didn't sleep all night, staying up and staring blankly at the computer. Don't you love days like that?
The phone barely had any signal. I was distraught. I wanted to talk to no one. I didn't want to be polite or happy. I didn't care how any one else felt. There is some pleasure in guiltless wallowing in pain.
I walked many miles, until my feet hurt and my legs were numb. I didn't sleep all night, staying up and staring blankly at the computer. Don't you love days like that?
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Kitsch-Americana
Sanjaya Malakar
I am not a fan of American Idol and I have never watched the show. yet this has reached me tells you how far-reaching this thing is. I am sure you have heard of this as well.
Synopsis: He is a singer on American Idol. He is a young man/teenager who is half-Indian-American half-Italian-American from Hawaii. He is by all accounts a very weak singer with funny hair-dos. He has outlasted other more talented contests with support from Howard Stern and a website called votefortheworst.com.
Comment: Nobody ever mentions he is half Italian-American. His half Indian status is big in India as they foolishly try to prop up the guy. And it is a big deal in the US where they attribute his "success" to call-center stealth to all sorts of other things.
White Guy Sings Bollywood
Synopsis: He lip-syncs, he dances, he makes Shammi Kapoor-esque expressions and his heroine is a finger puppet. This is hilarious.
Comment: If parody is the best form of recognition, then Hindi cinema has come a long way. It has become a genre in itself, much like opera or ballet is. You judge it within its constraints and standards and not by the general standards with which you judge "cinema" or Hollywood. The singing-dancing-weeping-crying-fighting-loving all-purpose hero swooning over the appropriately affected heroine is something Indian movie watchers have long loved. I don't think it is because they are stupid or unsophisticated that they like the predictability of these overly-affected executions of oversimplified story lines. They like it because it is a genre they are familiar with much like every third Italian sweeper in Rome humming Verdi while going about his job. Take it for what it is and don't get too touchy. It is OK to laugh at ourselves and our quirky nostalgia once in a while.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Byculla to Breach Candy
There are many places to walk in Bombay, but a walk from Byculla Train Station to Breach Candy Hospital is perhaps one with the most contrasts.
It is not an easy of a pleasant walk but if you could suspend judgement and seek what you seek behind the facades and the obvious, you will be surprised by what you will find. Byculla used to be one of the most fashionable suburbs of Bombay. Bombay is really a European city if you look past its modern squalor. When you cross over from the station on the fly-over (walk slowly and avoid the deadly traffic), you will see old buildings that still retain the charm of the old grandeur. After Hornby Vellard was completed in the late 1700s, creating what is known as Breach Candy today (or Bulabhai Desai Road if you prefer), Byculla came to be a fashionable suburb. Mazgaon already had faded as the central point for the ultra-rich and malabar Hill was not yet the in-thing. Later, after a great epidemic, the rich fled further west and built the mansions in Malabar Hill leaving Byculla in its current state.
David Sassoon used to live here. You may not know this, but Vidal Sassoon is a descendant of this David. A great Iraqi Jew, David came to Bombay when he was young and made a fortune and he remained a great benefactor to his adopted city to the end.
Under the flyover there is the small but important Christ Church Lane with its distinct buildings. Most of the residents still know each other and there is a sense of small town camaraderie here. If you walk down the lane, watch out for the most recognized funeral directors across the street - Pinto. I think they might still be the only body embalmers in all of Bombay. This is a long and rambling walk, past much ugly scenery. So you have to look carefully to find architectural gems hidden behind make-shift structures, tin hutments and sidewalk encroachments. The church and the hospital buildings both date back to the heyday of the British empire right before the causeway was constructed. This road, as you walk past much muck with go through the brothels of Madanpura. In Madanpura you will see a lot of interesting buildings way past their prime constructed to house laborers and most of them lived in the rental houses. These houses are still landlord-owned even though only nominally. Aside from prostitution, under the think facade of normalcy, Madanpura also hosts drug sellers and addicts as well as Muslim gangsters. Kamathipura is not that far from here. Be sure not to step on the people sleeping on the streets if it is night. This place comes alive during Ramzan nights with all sorts of exotic food stalls. It is second only to Muhammed Ali Road in its Ramzan night stalls.
Continue past the rotary, you go past Bombay Central station and on to Tardeo. Bombay Central station is a great handsome building built to host the Bombay Baroda and Central India (BB&CI) Railway when it was opened in the 1860s. I don't know when the building was constructed, but from its look I would like to postulate a much later date, perhaps early 1900s. The bridge over the railway tracks is also an interesting basalt and iron structure that will take you down to the middle of Tardeo. Tardeo I assume is named after a shiva temple even though I don't remember ever seeing the temple. There is the police station up ahead and Sardar's, the famous pav bhaji place is right after the bus stop. Across the road is a BEST bus depot that has been there 1950s. A small lane of buildings with great wood construction lies behind the BEST depot called Wadia street. At this point all the interesting buildings begin to taper off. There are two more I think, the rest are concrete monstrosities until you reach Heera Panna and the giant bill boards.
Mahalaxmi temple is barely visible from the road anymore, as you walk to Pedder road. Now you are walking on the first stretch of the famous Horny Vellard. mahalaxmi temple was constructed after a statue was recovered during the construction of the vellard. Most of the interesting mansions on this road were demolished in the 50s and 60s and ugly apartment buildings were constructed in their place. As you go up Warden road, the only old building that still stands is the palace of Gaikwads of Baroda which is now the officers' residence for BARC. Breach candy hospital is right after. Breach Candy is named after the great "breach" which was the gap that let water into the inner central Bombay during high tide. The water reached till Pydhonie (Pydhonie is a corruption of the term Pav-donie.. feet wash). If you have the right connections, you may be able to still enjoy the hospitality of the old Parsi mansions that lie hidden from the road by the ocean. But their days are sadly numbered. Unfortunately, there are no mansions open to the general public.
Our journey ends here. Remember to take a cab back.
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