One of our dogs died Friday. We rushed her to the Bombay SPCA because it’s the only all-night vet hospital we know of. They treated her with a callous irresponsibility we are still raging against. She would have died anyway, she was badly hurt, but they certainly protracted our pain and hers (the subject of a complaint letter that has been circulated widely now). But what stays beyond to haunt me beyond my grief is the horror of the place. Remember how the Scarecrow in Batman visits upon someone an image of their deepest abhorrence? For me, this would be it. In an atmosphere of despair that sucks your soul dry, abandoned and sick animals cry all the time. Howls, whimpers, almost-human shrieks rent the night. Anyone with a brain and a heart would be tormented. I’m never going there again. p.s. please don’t post condolence comments.
Once in a while, I see something that takes me back to my childhood with such an intensity that I have to stop and take a breath. Remember these Phantom cigs? I’d lick their pink tips and pretend to smoke them (back when I thought smoking was ‘cool’.) I seem to remember competing with my friend Rima to see who could make the end most pointy before it broke.
Maybe these have always been around and I haven’t been paying too much attention. Some candies I adored as a kid have disappeared, but others, like Parle’s Melody Chocolate Toff, have been resurrected, with shiny new 21st-century packaging. Harnik, here’s blowing phantom smoke rings at ya! 🙂
I haven’t been to Crawford Market in forever. Actually, I’ll have to check with my mother to find out if I’ve ever been at all (I’m acutely wary of implanted memories based on my mother’s stories of a time gone by). Today at lunch, Tan and I whizzed by two storefronts that were completely bedecked with flower wreaths (“All the better to drown you with, Sheranwali“) for Navratri, we presume. Ramzaan and Eid just finished, now it’s Navratri and Durga Puja and next up is Diwali. I LOVE being back. All this exuberant color is instant seratonin!
Oh and a sehra is the headpiece of flowers worn by the bridegroom when he’s up on his white mare, fetching his new bride with the baraat, unable to see a damn thing, at least in Punjabi 😉
Since I got tagged by aditya, I’m doing a random post that doesn’t quite fit ☺
To be true to my own blog, the photo is of a place I have lived in. This cool dude used to show up and hang out in my balcony last year in Delhi 🙂
4 Jobs I’ve Had (in chronological order): Girl Friday at King College, News producer at boston.com, producer at an Indian radio station, & freelance radio content producer at my company
News Radio India Sonologue.
4 Movies I Could Watch Over and Over: Dr. Strangelove (or how I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb), (more…)
We used to know a pair of lhasa apsos called Samosa and Moongphali 😉 Anyway, this is not about them. This is about where your samosas come from 😀 Behind the halwai, in a dingy, cavernous room is where the raw samosas – still tender in their doughy skins – await their flash in the pan. So, I’m romanticizing 😉 Sue me. But the contrast was too stark to not post. Enjoy your next samosa… Oh and the post’s title? I knew a kid who couldn’t say “samosa” 🙂
India, shining, rising and ever colourful. The travel guides gush about the vivid colors everywhere (hmm, actually, so does every book on India ever, no?)
Of course, it’s true. We do colourful very well here. We sometimes leave vivid way, way behind and move into the territory of garish and outlandish with some dexterity.
Anyway, this is the inside of a teensy tailoring shop that is owned by a lower middle class sharp-talking, tobacco-chewing lady who employs three ‘masterjis’ to do the actual tailoring. At the outer edge of this tumble of color and texture you can see one hunched over an old-timey sewing machine.
I’ve lived in many cities now and one reason Delhi didn’t work for me was that it’s too landlocked. Boston, Bombay, New York…give me water! When I feel restless, here in Mumbai, I can’t jump on a bike and go off for a ride (there are no sidewalks to even walk or run on) so these days I slip off towards the sea. And then I can see the sweep of the bay – punctuated by fairy lights and the vast futility of man wrestling with nature. Or something like that 😉
I’m such a gavaar, I did not know that the Triveni Kala Sangam (~ arts center) in our capital city has a lovely garden cafe. I was quite pleased that someone in community radio suggested meeting here one spring afternoon. Ironically, we were seated right beside this sign and it totally tickled me. Apparently art and work are mutually exclusive. And maybe meetings, they think, kill – just like cigarettes do. It’s a distinct possibility, no? ;D
(In case it’s not clear enough to read, the sign says: “Right of entry reserved. SMOKING or MEETINGS Not Permitted”)
When my brother and I were little, my mother decided we were using too much ‘bad language’ — we were calling each other ‘stupid’ and ‘moron’ — and to curb our tongues, she instituted a fine. We were to drop 25 paise into a gulak for adjectives like that, 50 paise for using sh!#. These colorful gulaks in Mazjid Moth, Dilli, reminded me of that failed behavioural modification experiment 😀
Were this gulak thing instituted in our house again, all of us would be contributing quite a bit — parents included! Hmm, maybe we could use the spoils to get some good PG-13 DVD’s … 😉
I’ve been ‘home’ for one year. A whole year!
That happened sometime late last night and I was too frazzled to even think about it. Walking with my mother this evening before dinner, discussing my impending move to Bombay later in March, I stopped in my tracks at the realization that I’ve made it through an entire year — relatively unscathed! I can’t even begin to enumerate all the great things that have happened to me and the awesome people I’ve met, the fabulous stuff I’ve learned, done, and become a part of … not to mention the amount of street food I’ve savored… (I’m going to gloss over the crap radio job, the horrid winter, the awful allergies/ migraines/ bureaucracies/ roads …). And to make it all seem most fitting, today, I was given my first fortune cookie since I left America. And it read “You will have new adventures!” No $%*#, Sherlock! HAH!