est

the downside of belonging everywhere, is belonging nowhere.

i have a feeling that i’m going to like bombay. everything just seems so much more intense here. it’s like a city of superlatives. people are busier. poverty is poorer. the stink is stinkier. the glamorous, somehow even shinier. the industrious even more hard-working. the parties, more laid back and more fun. the gods more perfect. the crowds bigger and more magnificent, than elsewhere (they demand attention. and sometimes, shock and awe. they are a collective. and most politicians in bombay have learnt to harness that power. the power of a crowd that only thinks and feels in superlatives). and the contrasts will constantly hit you on your face.

it’s like people are more involved with life. like they share a personal equation with it. like they need to squeeze it of very last bit of what it has to offer. like they can’t bear to be short changed. they can’t bear to be in the sidelines. and they won’t let you stand there too. you have to be there, in the thick of it. in the midst of a mad crowd. you have to be there, racing against time. being pushed and jostled. you have to be there, breathing the air, heavy with fumes and the slightly salty, slightly decaying whiff of the sea. you have to be there, playing by their rules or yours, but playing the game.

and every once in a while, you can stop to take a breather, by the edge of the sea. where the city leaves you be. where the winds blow through your body. where for a brief fragile moment you can straddle the space, between a world you belong to, and a world you don’t and be perfectly content.

take it to the limit - one more time

i’m two hours away from moving out from the city i lived in for eight years. and i’m sitting at a cyber café asking myself if i really want to do this.

don’t get me wrong. i do want to leave. i’m restless. i realise that my time here is up. and i’m really looking forward to living in bombay. thing is, i hate having to leave the people i love behind. now i know you’re going to tell me, it doesn’t make a difference. my friends will always be my friends. and bombay, it’s hardly that far away. but, trust me, anyplace that’s not an auto ride away is far away.

and that is what sucks about leaving. and that is what i’ve been struggling with. not being able to get into an auto, at any hour, for any reason, to see some one you love.

i’m making a hash of this. i need to leave for the airport. so i’m going to use laura’s help. friend. traveller. listener. whale watcher. wolf lover. will-o-the-wisp. in between two thousand words about watching bears in alaska, she had this to say - "but in between these highlights there has been a lot of reflection. a contradiction has arisen that grows stronger and harder to ignore with each passing day. a dilemma i do not quite know how to resolve.

it’s fairly simple, really. life is all about choices and choices we make have consequences. and all things do come at a price, but a price we often come to fully comprehend only when it is almost too late.

i guess i am a bit of a gypsy at heart and in a world this filled with wonders at each and every corner there is always this drive to go explore, to be on the road, temptation to be on the move towards somewhere i've never been. lets face it, i suck at being stationary. now, that of course is not a problem as such. at least it hasn't been thus far. but if i was asked to name my top priority in life (or at least one of them) it would come down to people i love, my family and friends. see the problem? my future always seems to be somewhere else and way too often it means at a distance from everyone i love. (and, to this one can add the additionally challenging fact that my loved ones aren't exactly geographically concentrated either.)

now, i've tried to compromise with bits of time spent here and there, home and away, but the end result seems like a greatly diluted version of either of the ideal extremes, a compromise that really satisfies no one and one that brings along a sense of guilt for neglecting either others or that deep-seated drive within me. it results in me being neither here or there. but if i change will i still be me or does that mean sacrificing a part of who i am in essence? is this travelling lifestyle a true choice or do i in fact lack the ability to put my roots down even if i so wished?
i don't know.

but i sure got to find out.

during one of those night time greyhound stops at a gas station somewhere (a toilet or a smoking break for passengers in need, in other words) i stood outside the bus stretching my numb legs and from inside the words of an old eagles song lingered on and provoked a perhaps somewhat melancholic smile to my face. for some reason finishing this giant of a letter with a quote from that very song seems appropriate.

you know i've always been a dreamer
spent my life running around
and its so hard to change
cant seem to settle down
but the dreams i've seen lately
keep on turning out and burning out
and turning out the same…
so put me on a highway
and show me a sign
and take it to the limit
one more time…”

i don’t know if she’ll find a place between traveling and staying put. and i don’t know if i’ll find a place between leaving and staying. but i do know this, if i have to move again, or if i want to move again, i will do so only after getting myself an auto that will give the boeings a run for their money.

that stoopid feeling

stupidity, it’s a virtue. (or so i keep telling myself. sometimes on an almost daily basis) it’s especially important to remember this when you’re caught in the spotlight of a wholly irrational exploit. when the alarm bells in your head are clanging out loud, but not loud enough to drown the forceful imaginary voices of wisdom which are telling you that you should have known better. when you’re praying to the high heavens to open up the ground beneath your feet or shower you with lightning bolts or some such like. because god knows, you’re never never ever going to live it down.

stupidity, it’s an asset. it’s inversely proportional to age. directly influenced by spontaneity. and has a residual after-effect that lasts for as long or as little a while as you want it to.

the young do stupidity gloriously. with consummate ease. with a beautiful lack of self consciousness in the act. like they were born to it. like it’s fun. like it’s okay to be stupid.
they’re right, it is.

let me tell you why:

usually you only end up feeling stupid because you took a chance, put yourself out there, and had it blow up in your face. now, don’t associate stupidity with the 'blowing up in your face', instead, associate it with ‘taking a chance’. and at once you’ll see why stupidity is a desirable quality.

people look at you with kindness. they shake their heads as if to say, ‘poor sod’. but hell, they'll treat you with patience and thoughtfulness.

you’ll find that your reactions to your stupidity are even more stupid than the original stupidity itself. so quit at the first stupidity and feel really happy with your self that it wasn’t much worse. we should all count our blessings, where we find them.

and that’s not all, stupidity is fun. really fun. it’s fun to not have to worry about other people’s image of you. it’s fun to go out on a limb. it’s fun to not always think something through. it’s fun. period. and we could all do with a little more of that in our lives.

that said, if you don’t see me around for a bit, know that i’m living in a little hole in the ground under your feet, waiting to live my latest stunt down.

may i take a minute to PANIC

i leave delhi in three days time. after eight long wonderful years. and this is how i'm preaparing for it.

have been busy orienting myself at the new workplace. taking time off to pack up eight years of junk. saying goodbyes to some. and 'please, please, please, for the love of god come and visit me' to others. transferring bank accounts, gas connections and affections. being the perfect daughter for my mum's visit. travelling outside the boundaries of my little world (to gurgaon) everyday. and all the while, quietly going (completely, totally and absolutely) crazy for having made the decision to move.

no wonder then that i haven't found the time to write. but yes, i promise to be back soon.

hello, miss what'syourname!

what do you call a girl who tells stories the best way she knows how - in squiggly figures and loopy words? who doesn't know whether she should follow her idle time passion. who has a style that's original and an eye that's fun, fresh and absolutely fabulous. who, like all of us at some point, is wondering if she should freefall. who has got talent and sass in equal measures. who takes transitory moments in time and transforms them into permanent delicate lines on paper.

what do you call her - crazy child woman with great stories?

i still haven't figured. but she calls herself runjhun. and these here, are some of her stories.

on a wing and a prayer

silvio simonit. crazy italian man who talked with his hands. who made space for me in his life and on his couch. who listened to my completely non-existent, irrational, self-created problems. with half an ear (but listened, none-the-less). who was passionate about CNG, kebabs and quiet dusky women (and not necessarily, in that order). who was willing to talk about anything but his phd thesis. who really believed that he was indian royalty in his last birth (i don’t know which was more amazing, that he believed in reincarnation or that he believed he was a king). whose fridge was always full of coronas and devoid of food. who wanted to stay but had reasons to go.

silvio simonit, who looked at me yesterday and said “where’s my rakhi?”. and saying so, took the last flight bound for italy.

i hate that he’s gone. but thanks to some unknown people of pakistani descent in london, i’m glad he flew yesterday. and not today.

the art of having good mornings

you wake up in the morning. bright and early, for a change. the sun is shining. the birds are chirping. and your head doesn’t feel like chandani chowk on a monday morning (chalk up some brownie points for yourself, for that). you think to yourself, “it’s going to be a wonderful day”.

now, if you were watching yourself from the outside, you’d give yourself till the count of ten, just about the time you’d be standing in front of the bathroom mirror. by now the warm fuzzy feeling is madly whooshing out of your body, only to be replaced by the sheer adrenalin thumping horror of what you did last night.

it could be going home with mr totally-completely-absolutely-irrevocably wrong. well, not just going home with him, but somehow spending the night looking at him with the love light blazing in your eyes.

it could be going out to celebrate your friend’s 5 hour old mercedes slr, and on the way back pulling out the ashtray and throwing up in it. (a f -up where horror, amusement, disgust, concern all come together magnificently, don’t you think?)

it could be collecting all the files in your office at the conference table and setting fire to it. only, and this is important, only after having worked for five days and five nights straight.

it could be deciding NEVER to have a relationship again, after having dealt with commitment-phobic men for 32 years. and then going to a bar to celebrate that by picking up a man, who turns out to be the only one in the universe who is looking for a relationship.

i have been witness to, as well a participant of a great many f-ups, and i have to admit this - not everyone can be a f-uper because not everyone has that special talent of orchestrating a truly imaginative f-up.

like all jobs, you require a skill set for it.

you need perfect timing. every f-up requires one or all of the below - wrong place. wrong person. wrong time. (appropriate wrong words). in f-ups, as long as you are wrong, you’re right.

you need to understand that, they are lying when they say, ‘you learn from your f-ups. no, you don’t. you can’t. for the simple reason that no f-up is quite like another one.

you need a short memory span. you can’t make the same f-ups again and again. this just won’t do for a professional. you need to forget them once they’ve occurred and find fresh avenues in which to f-up in.

you need to move on. you need to be able to hold on to your embarrassment/ horror/ incredulity for a certain period of time and then let go at just the right moment to move on to bigger, brighter things. like the next f-up.

those of who were not born with this special talent, need not fret. for you can learn to be a good f-uper. all you need to do is start small, (a school suspension, for example) and then progress, slowly, one tiny f-up at a time, till you’re orchestrating f-ups worthy of several entertainment awards. something that involves a bigger audience, a lingering sense of embarrassment and moving up the rating scale from ass to supersize jackass.

and maybe, then, the sheer adrenalin thumping horror you feel while standing in front of your bathroom mirror will slowly change back into a warm fuzzy feeling. of accomplishment.

big deal

there is something about bombay, (and i have a niggling suspicion that it’s bollywood) that causes most musicians to gravitate towards the city. i could be wrong, maybe it’s not the huge amounts of work that the industry provides that’s the cause of this mass movement. maybe the attraction lies in the nice balmy air (when it’s not raining cats and dogs) or the laid back attitude of people which is completely at odds with the city that bustles and buzzes. or maybe, just maybe, small cramped apartments, clogged roads and a daily life that makes you feel like you’re living smack bang in the middle of a bollywood movie is very conducive for making music.

how else would you explain the fact that some of the best bands i hear in delhi, seem to belong to bombay. a few years ago, it was ‘bombay black’ (that’s the story of another post, though) and this time around it’s ‘black market’ and ‘interplay’.

i first heard ‘black market’ at dv8, having had gone there with a friend, straight from work, tired and yearning for six feet of horizontal space to lie down in. but minutes into their gig, and i could have kissed my friend. these guys were fantastic. funky, fresh and a complete treat to listen to. combining influences from r&b, rock, acid jazz, the outfit had a line up, i’m told is ‘killer’ – consisting of dhruv ghanekar (guitar), lindsay (drums), sonia saigal (vox), harmeet (keys) and sheldon (bass).

‘interplay’, i caught on thursday at haze. in a city, where jazz enthusiasts sit around twiddling their thumbs (i say that loosely, since i really don’t know what they do) and wait for the ‘jazz yatra’ to hit town, ‘interplay’ comes as a can-i-bend-down-and-kiss-your-rings relief. primarily a jazz band, ‘interplay’ has sonia and harmeet (from black market) joined by adrian dsouza and rushad mistry. the reason i enjoy them so much is, when you watch them play, they look like they are enjoying every single moment of it, as much as you are. they play with genuine ‘feel’. and that is fantastic. and fun. like harmeet says, “we basically do all kinds of other things and other music by day, to pay our bills ... we don't really get too many opportunities to play jazz which is all we really want to do ... so when we do get to play a gig where we can go and play this music that we love, it's a big deal for all us”.

well, harmeet, it’s a big deal for us too. you guys should play here more often.

and those of you who haven’t seen either of these bands in action, should absolutely make a point of it the next time they’re in town. if only to find out what the big deal is.

1979

• alien was released and went on to reinvent the sci-fi horror genre.
• mother teresa won the nobel peace prize.
• 21 year old paul shirley of australia, sucked a lifesaver for 4 hrs 40 mins.
• the sugar hill gang released the first commercial rap hit, "rapper's delight," bringing rap off the new york streets and into the popular music scene.
• religious leader ayatollah khomeini made a triumphant return to iran after 14 years in exile.
• president carter was attacked by a rabbit on a canoe trip in plains ga.
• iranian militants seized the us embassy in teheran.
• the soviets invaded afghanistan.
• someone in stamford, texas paid the highest price for a pig- a whopping $42,500.
• margaret thatcher became the new prime minister of the UK.
• rocker tom petty filed for bankruptcy.
• vietnam and vietnam-backed cambodian insurgents announced the fall of the cambodian capital phnom penh and the collapse of the pol pot regime.
• sex pistols' bass player sid vicious died of a heroin overdose in new york.
• pakistan's former prime minister, zulfikar ali bhutto, was hanged in spite of international calls for clemency.
• elton john becomes the 1st pop star to perform in israel.
• the chicago blizzard started on friday night january 12 and lasted until 2 a.m. sunday january 14.
• longest doubles ping-pong match is played. it lasts over 101 hours.
• gulf + western paid $3.2 million for a single periodical ad in time.
• due to equipment failure and operator error, a partial nuclear core meltdown of the tmi’s unit 2 reactor, the worst nuclear plant emergency in united states history, occurred.
• pink floyd premiered their live version of "the wall" in los angeles.
• world's worst oil spillage occurred in the gulf of mexico.
• sri lanka beat india by 47 runs in cricket world cup upset.
• dancin' fool by frank zappa hit #45.
• muhammad ali retired as boxing champ.
• soviet cosmonauts vladimir lyakov & valery ryumin returned to earth aboard soyuz 34 after a record 175 days in space.
• snow fell in the sahara.
  
  no wonder i came into the world, kicking and screaming.

pataka

"in india images are loaded, they explode with meaning... they have great potential," writes peter nagy, former director of new york's nature morte gallery, in his introduction to the provacatively titled ‘cock’ - a book about indian firework art. compiled by gavin aldred on his trip to india, it is a stunning and rather pointless book that was released a few years ago.

for those of us who have grown up here, the almost violent colours, the mad and sometimes crude graphics, and the extreme typography that you would find in firework/calendar/street/billboard art is pretty ho-hum. yet, when you see a collection of images together, it’s like an explosion in the brain…too much, too soon.

printed on boards in concertina form and packed in original fireworks boxes, this book (like a reviewer claims) celebrates a graphic language where understatement is suicidal, excess equals success, and sheer spectacle is everything.

it’s difficult to find a copy here, so, on your trip abroad you could pick one up. or simply order it on amazon.