sur notes

confounding variable

2009-07-09T09:28:00.003+05:30

I blog.
You know me, you might not read.
You do not know me, you might read.

Or

you google 'Hair Chop Malaysia'
reach my blog,
and read

Cliches, some cannot be resisted

2009-07-06T08:17:00.003+05:30

They walked off from the two mothers, this was only their third meeting.

The two mothers have been close friends since they were 16. She is the very same one who shared an award with the father of my child.

The contemporary

2009-07-04T11:37:00.003+05:30

She knows MJ will not sing anymore. And that people were out and about on bangalore and dilli streets with rainbow bodies.

She croons 'emotional atyachaar'.And asked where Congress and BJP had their party, and that BJP lost the big party game.

A plane broke in the sea. And Mamta rides a train in today's papers.

But to make meaning she breaks it all down slowly, Ss-Ee-Aa-Ll-Ii-Nn-Kk.

Fragmented like that, I try to make sense of all of it, all over again.

Rainbow Pride

2009-07-03T08:34:00.006+05:30

A historic judgement has decriminalised those who love 'differently'.

Can there be a love that is different?

Up until the 1st of July every person who is a part of the queer community could have been charged with a criminal offence! No more!

There is reason to be proud today. Here is to a celebration of differences.
Even my almost 4 year old knows that its more fun to colour a house with rainbow colours than in one single block of black or blue.(Her inspiration after seeing the lovely photographs from the rainbow parade in bangalore)

Let religion define your morality, not our law!

Ek Dhakka...

2009-07-02T08:13:00.006+05:30

aur do, babri masjid tod do...The Liberhan Commission report has been submitted.

Not one hate filled slogan spouted in the past 17 years has filled me with more dread and despondency.

'Hum mandir yahan banayenge'was scrawled everywhere. We guffawed when we spotted the slogan on a public urinal near Andheri station. We were secure in our ridicule of the ridiculous.

A single brick rattled our composure.We argued and fought bitterly with a classmate who urged us to send bricks for the kar seva. He said the brick was a symbol against the dominant pseudo securalism practiced by the state. We said the brick symbolised all that we abhorred. Fear and dread was never in the picture. It was a fight, well actually more of an argument, in the realm of abstraction. We were heady with the power of ideas and constructs.

And then, driving back from someplace in Chembur that sunday evening, my mother and I realised that something was amiss. The roads seemed very still. My mother stepped on the accelerator, we knew that something had happened in Ayodhya.

We came home to see the images on TV. All of us saw the top leaders urge their men, Ek dhakka aur do...The leaders did not step in, not the police, not the army. A stone structure crumbled in a matter of hours.

We lived in Andheri, five minutes away from Jogeshwari. Jogeshwari was burning.I had just begun work in an NGO, and I knew the bylanes, the people who lived in the area that was burning. A structure somewhere had crumbled, lives everywhere were crumbling.

A week later, late in the evening I got a call from a fellow activist who lived in those bylanes."Can you bring your video camera/ still camera/anything and come right away." I had the office video camera at home, I rushed out. My mother urged me to hurry.

I interviewed 17 men in the same mohalla, maybe more but thats the number etched in my brain. They were between the ages of 15 and 50. I would walk into each house, get introduced to the person, I would be offered tea, and the same, very same story would unfold. Of being dragged from the streets while rushing back home, or from within the house, by the police and kept in the lockup for a week. Swollen shoulders, fractured fingers, welts, bruises, I went over these marks with my camera.I so desperately wanted to avert my gaze.But each wound had to be accounted for. A zari worker with broken fingers. A carpenter with an immobile shoulder. A young student with deep welts and shattered confidence.

I had no wounds, I was secure in my hindu, middle class world. The one non descript plastic tape that I held in my hand as I got back late that night had dented the bubble I lived in. I am grateful for that.

I went onto learn how to make images.I became more conscious of the act of switching on the camera. The photograph of the terrified man, his hands begging for mercy, splashed across the dailies during the Gujrat riots led to a precious exchange of mails with a friend and batchmate. She was shaken by that moment when the photographer clicked the photo- the nudity of the moment in full display in our comfortable homes the next day.I said, thank god for the raw wounds put on view while we sat pretty in our drawing rooms.

Its been years, I still dream of gallis burning, sometimes I am being chased, at times I am charging, and at times I stand partially hidden watching.

The stark image of a dome crawling with people remains one that I can not deal with. Even after years of being numbed by all kinds of horror telecast live 24x7.

Faux Some

2009-06-30T15:14:00.005+05:30

The Dhurrie-in-cooker making Maid in Malaysia was pretty awe struck with my recent aero dynamic stance so she tagged me to write a few things about how awesome I am.

I peer into the magic mirror sketched by wordjunkie and shout awesome , it echoes back, fauxsome!

I take the cue.

1.I cook : not clean
2.I sing(always outloud) :without the tune
3.I spin stories : and always miss/mess up the end
4.I am a workhorse :but gallop onto the next track before reaching the end
5.I talk :I really can talk
6.I gush generously :Gushing Ganges,thats my middle name
7.I remember birthdays :Of friends I made between ages 5-25. All you who met me later, dont expect me to remember even if you reminded me yesterday!

When he got an earful!

2009-06-30T10:20:00.002+05:30

I chattered on, then paused, waiting for some insightful prose.
But all I heard was a very loud snore, very up close.

"Did you hear that?" I plaintively cried.
"His ears are open mama, keep talking" She replied.

Beautiful black

2009-06-29T08:12:00.005+05:30

The Bombay morning sky a couple of days back.

Here

and

Here

And an army of wet warbling frogs greeted me at daybreak today.

Around the same time, last year:

Did Cinderella fly?

2009-06-21T18:44:00.003+05:30

She rushed out of the ball. Her shoe slipped off her feet as she ran down the stairs. Poof, she was gone. And a pumpkin sat at the end of the steps, a mute spectator to her flight.

I did it differently.

I was not rushing out, not from a ball, away from a handsome prince, nor to a dreary life.

I absentmindedly stepped onto the first step of a flight of stairs around 4 feet high- maybe ten to twelve steps.

Like Cinderella, my shoe slipped off. My second foot was poised to hit the second step. Taken aback, the second foot slipped. So now I had neither foot touching either of the steps.

Yes, I did fly.

Must have been a graceful sight, I would not know. I was thinking, oh dear, this will not end prettily.

Thwack!
My face crashed onto the hard floor.

The comics got it right- Thwack, Splat, all these are rather realistic depictions of sound when you crashland.

I lay still. White faced sales girls circled me. They probably thought I was dead. They were still. I was still.

I thought, oh that George, his phone does not have any signal just when I need him to. ( I had dialled his number five minutes before my flight) So I dialled a friend's number, handed the phone to the shop lady, pointed to the cafe on the first floor, and said " my friend is there, call her."

"Madam, aapki friend gir gayi".

Not sure if I got up, but I pointed to my face and asked the ladies "All well?"

How the hell did Cinderella get away so prettily?

Afterword: No serious damage. Lip cut. No teeth broken. Bruises and aches in strange places. I did not fall prettily, but I fell perfectly! And for a few days I will look like Ms. Jolie.

ColouRED 2

2009-06-18T08:59:00.003+05:30

A halo ahead

2009-06-17T08:58:00.001+05:30

Rear View

2009-06-16T10:24:00.001+05:30

Bent

2009-06-15T19:47:00.001+05:30

Shift Focus

2009-06-13T19:25:00.001+05:30

Parading Foolishness

2009-06-09T09:41:00.003+05:30

Parents can be foolish. Thats a given.

And at times we parade our foolishness.

First day of school.
New school van.
Butterflies in stomach- said stomach belongs to parent.
The child wakes up like normal. Smiles at her uniform.Bathed, brushed, combed. Gulps her milk and is ready.

Parent blows her a kiss as the van takes off with the child.

Parent darts into a waiting car. Fellow parents and I, we tail the van.

Next stop, more parents wave good byes to their tots. Van takes off, more parents slink into cars, autos, whathaveyou.

We were a parade of one van, six cars, two autos and one veryveryvery big car, bigger than the van itself. A retinue of parents wearing anxiety like a bravery medal.

Bumbling detectives, the van driver must surely have laughed looking at the rear view mirror.

A baraat without a groom. Thats what we were. The trumpets were in the head, the drum beats in the heart.

As we reached the school we nodded politely at each other. "We must do this for the safety of our kids", we reassured each other.

I am not really sure what we did do for the safety of our kids.

Next time we bump into each other we will probably avert our eyes. Cannot see eye to eye with such unadulterated foolishness.

And yes, since yesterday was the first day, the route has already changed today. We told ourselves we needed to know the route the driver would take. In the age of mobile phones, we needed to memorise a route that has already changed.

The other parent in this house: read the newspaper, had his tea, and sent me a message- come back home, all is forgiven. He has not stopped laughing at me.

Graphing Discrete Points of May

2009-06-05T10:43:00.006+05:30

-Clouds refusing to melt into rain, heart sinking

-Newschool-bigschool, school bus, batablackshoes with whitesocks, littlechild- excitedschoolgirl, butterflies in mother's stomach

-Corporate PR programme in the garb of a school orientation churns mother's stomach

-Morning newspaper eaten into by page3-type reporting white ants, nerve throbbing

-News analysis chomped off by oprah-type sentimental bandicoots, nerve bursting

-Clouds turning black and then cruising away to make way for wispy white foolish floaty page3-type clouds, blood boiling

-Fibrous langda heaven, toes curling

-Two completed films, almost, heart beating fast

-One completed proposal for film, almost, and faster

-A month of summer camp for the child, in the house, with her mother. Two A-3 size sketch books full.Painted boxes lined up.A couple of songs invented, complete with choreographed dance in the genre of kathak, ballet and monkey style jumping. A kilo lost and more anarchy gained by child. A couple of kilos lost and wrinkles gained by mother

-Pending to-do list grows like the famed beanstalk that jack grew.Giant sized guilt waiting at the other end. Kaleja shrinking.

-Father of child grows one year older, but still does not catch up with me. Did get some fantastic gifts from the older lady, even if the older lady lady says so herself. Heart bursting

- Some excellent films watched. An exquisite rough cut watched.Mind grows calm

- A lot of TV news watched. Brain goes to mush

-We are in the six month of the year two thousand and nine, blood curdling

Y Axis: Body Parts
X Axis: External Factors

Any volunteers to draw the graph?

The ghosts and the journey back home

2009-05-29T11:33:00.005+05:30

He had been a priest-baiter since school.

Thats what we were told.

Holy men were summoned, to talk sense into his head. Without exception they blustered out of the house. He always explained, I just asked some questions, gave some suggestions.Dont know why they left in such a hurry.

And then he made a house close to the sea, in his village, in the land where cashew and feni abound.

Thats when we got to know of the ghosts.The ones who broke into the house soon after it was built, stealing the new fittings, the taps, and whatever could be unscrewed.Everyone agreed, the ghosts visit empty houses, new houses, even houses of non believers...

Last we heard he called a priest to do the house blessing. A big feast was organised, many people fed on the food and drank the drink, and cackled about him returning to the lord after a long journey.

The feast was lavish. The blessing earnest.

Many will remember this house blessing.Even those who stray far, must come back, they will announce.

And he has been walking around, fulfilled and at peace.

"The ghosts are well fed, and wont be back in my house for a while" .

The story is based on hearsay and folklore. But I believe it, have never seen him look so pleased.

city love- bangalore

2009-05-27T11:37:00.003+05:30

Ofcourse there is a lot more to love in any city than the food and drink that it offers.

But what can I say when this blogger posts this

And then this

A Sunday walk

2009-05-26T13:40:00.005+05:30

To storm out of the house and head to a market...

And you come back with:
summer fruit-
250 gms of jamun
250gms of fanas( ripe jackfriut)
fish-
13 bangdas
1 big halwa
meat-
2kg undercut
1kg mutton chops

I missed buying the rajnigandhas, the honey straight from the honeycomb, and some more jamun.

This was a couple of sundays back. And ofcourse now i barely remember why I had stormed out.

As I attempt to distract myself from work, I think of the market lolling around in the humid heat with more wares to bring more good cheer.
-The last of the alphonso mangoes as the luscious langda will take over and erase all memory of the alhonso.
-Lichees
-More jamun
-The last of the really fresh water bearing vegetables- gourd(all types-ridged, smooth), kakdi, teende
-And the gulmohar trees frantically shedding their leaves to ready themselves for a less riotious look

There is a reason that water melon did not figure to high on my list this year. And the reason is the sunday film watching club that a few of us are a part of. But thats another post.

Mindgames

2009-05-22T19:30:00.002+05:30

with self, with help from the my photos folder on my external hard disc.

Its hot. Its humid. Its hell.

Of Blocks and Bullets

2009-05-19T18:25:00.003+05:30

I now seem to have a block against writing on this blog.

So maybe I should list out in precise (and sharp shooting) bullets what are the options open to me:

- Click on 'Delete this blog'.

- Start a new blog with a funky name and funkier agenda

-Convert this blog into a Sanah in the City blog- since it brings together my two loves- Sanah and talking about this city

-Continue with the blog but only write in precise bullet form- be pithy- that should be the motto.

-Shut shop and pretend this blog did not exist.

-Shut shop after saving each post.( Thats what I was meant to do almost two years back. But writing a new post was easier than going back to the archives and copying each and every one of those darned posts. Thats when I would also spot the innumerable typos. Horror!)

-Shut shop without thinking too much.

-Abandon this space and add to the virtual debris floating around.

Inspired by the 70s 'middle of the road' cinema

2009-05-08T19:55:00.004+05:30

A Crow at Horniman Circle

2009-05-08T19:53:00.002+05:30

a film that is blue....

2009-05-06T18:51:00.002+05:30

Do take your child here and watch this precious little film.

507

2009-05-06T13:40:00.006+05:30

After 'For Rama' last year we were pretty excited about watching Kat Katha's 'Almost Twelth Night'...

Kat Katha's work is truly special. Its a privilege to be able to see a production put together with such care with a child who is not yet four years old. Kat Katha's actors, and puppets, speak directly to her while we follow the larger narrative.She sees details, remembers movements and parrots a line that are easily forgotten by adults. A little memory stick that follows us like a shadow.

Do try and see this production if it comes to your city and other productions for children here

A bit embarassing actually- this is my 507th post. A mommyblog should surely not go on for that long. I should be through with all this gushing ...