a lot has happened. left my first job, got a whole new family, moved towns, contemplated new careers.
at 23, life is busy shifting gears. and i need to find my neutral.
24.12.05
31.3.05
urban overkill
we were standing on the captain's deck. a pretty place, tiny with space just enuf to squeeze three people in. a beautiful thatched roof over it, the space was replete with the boat-version of the steering wheel, the compass, and bamboo shafts along the four sides of the cube to keep us from falling overboard.
i must add though, the trip, the sights, the breeze, the boat, the waves and of course the setting sun absolutely made my day. i felt like i could reach out and touch that last bit of orange left on the horizon before the former went for its nocturnal dip into the sea. even as i tried to do that, the captain warned me of the possibility of my very last dive into the ocean.
a sheepish grin i gave him. later i asked him if we could swap our careers. he said he would have loved to if only he had atleast known how to spell j.o.u.r.n.a.l.i.s.m
damn! next, i wanna ask the same thing to that chai walla i met, who sells his magic potion to cold, wet trekkers on one of those numerous bends in the himalyas. how i loved his kutty hut amidst maple and apple trees. in it was the damp wooden bench, the hearth over which was a pitcher of sizzling hot tea and a bowl of garamm aloo parathas, the lantern hanging over the roof giving out a faint light just enough to see the gleaming eyes of the chaiwalla and his fluffy huge friendly dog.
...damn this urban life!
i must add though, the trip, the sights, the breeze, the boat, the waves and of course the setting sun absolutely made my day. i felt like i could reach out and touch that last bit of orange left on the horizon before the former went for its nocturnal dip into the sea. even as i tried to do that, the captain warned me of the possibility of my very last dive into the ocean.
a sheepish grin i gave him. later i asked him if we could swap our careers. he said he would have loved to if only he had atleast known how to spell j.o.u.r.n.a.l.i.s.m
damn! next, i wanna ask the same thing to that chai walla i met, who sells his magic potion to cold, wet trekkers on one of those numerous bends in the himalyas. how i loved his kutty hut amidst maple and apple trees. in it was the damp wooden bench, the hearth over which was a pitcher of sizzling hot tea and a bowl of garamm aloo parathas, the lantern hanging over the roof giving out a faint light just enough to see the gleaming eyes of the chaiwalla and his fluffy huge friendly dog.
...damn this urban life!
9.1.05
slow time
It was something to wake up to the slow, rhythmic tunes of Doordarshan starting its day at 7 AM in the mid-eighties.
This was the age of chitrahaar, rangoli, rini khanna and the colourful but simple nirma ads. The time of mythological series of Mahabhaarat and Ramayan, that made grandmothers in every Indian household sit as close to the television as allowed with diyas in their hands and admiration in their eyes. Some even sat with folded palms!
Of what I remember of it, I loved the eighties. It was a time when Bangalore’s M.G.Road had an old-world charm about it, with the pink bougainvillas sprouting by the side road. Believe it or not, back then the whole of M.G.Road wasn’t half as crowded as today’s Hebbal. Really!
And if we felt like taking that train to Ernakulam on the spur of the moment, not to worry, the tickets for the day after tomorrow would still be available. No haggling with travel agents, searching for online tickets and definitely no bleary-eyed customers waiting by the ticket counter at 4 a.m. just so that they can grab that Tatkal ticket. Need I even mention the absence of irate bus conductor and drivers and of course, traffic cops. They could have been smiling at every passing vehicle back then (okay, a li'l exaggeration here).
I loved the eighties for another reason too. For, they were my wonder years. The eighties taught me to ride the bicycle, to know the difference between a friendly cow on the street and a cow that would be contemplating surprising me from behind. those were also the days of stacking pennies in my piggy bank. and no withdrawals. of any kind.
This was the age of chitrahaar, rangoli, rini khanna and the colourful but simple nirma ads. The time of mythological series of Mahabhaarat and Ramayan, that made grandmothers in every Indian household sit as close to the television as allowed with diyas in their hands and admiration in their eyes. Some even sat with folded palms!
Of what I remember of it, I loved the eighties. It was a time when Bangalore’s M.G.Road had an old-world charm about it, with the pink bougainvillas sprouting by the side road. Believe it or not, back then the whole of M.G.Road wasn’t half as crowded as today’s Hebbal. Really!
And if we felt like taking that train to Ernakulam on the spur of the moment, not to worry, the tickets for the day after tomorrow would still be available. No haggling with travel agents, searching for online tickets and definitely no bleary-eyed customers waiting by the ticket counter at 4 a.m. just so that they can grab that Tatkal ticket. Need I even mention the absence of irate bus conductor and drivers and of course, traffic cops. They could have been smiling at every passing vehicle back then (okay, a li'l exaggeration here).
I loved the eighties for another reason too. For, they were my wonder years. The eighties taught me to ride the bicycle, to know the difference between a friendly cow on the street and a cow that would be contemplating surprising me from behind. those were also the days of stacking pennies in my piggy bank. and no withdrawals. of any kind.
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