Musings

During my early days as a journalist, I had the fortune of attending a talk by Gulzar. Someone from the audience, much younger than him, stood up and asked him a question. Unable to comprehend what was being asked, Gulzar politely said to the person "Beta can you repeat it?" For no apparent reason I started crying. Maybe it was the kindness in his voice or may be because he called a perfect stranger beta, unknowingly granting the comfort of childhood . The incident has stuck in my mind after so many years because I remember hoping that someday I wish someone will call me beta. My own father is unfortunately plagued by his own demons to express any kind of affection through words.  That being said, for all its stings and thorns, life can be generous most times. It has been especially generous to me, or so I think. I have been singularly fortunate to have met some of the nicest, kindest, honest, sincere and always immensely loving people. Jayant uncle fit the bill on almost all...

I recently took up cross stitching with gusto. I embroider at a feverish speed of a recent convert - wanting to prove my allegiance and worth to the faith, father or both. Everyday I cross stitch for at least an hour if not more, hoping to complete the project in a month or so. At the face of it, cross stitch is a fantastic no brainer. All you need to do is cross one stitch across another. Several such crosses assembled in close proximity reveal a design, symmetry, pattern or picture. The challenging bit is to go through with it, one stitch after another and never quite know how much longer before the disparate stitches finally yield to a picture, pattern, symmetry or design. As a rule, I try and embroider one yarn every day. One yarn is made of 6 strands. Two strands are used at a time to embroider a cross stitch. A standard length embroidery thread allows one to embroider roughly over an inch by an inch. Multiply this by three and you have a rough idea of how much I manage to get don...

If I were to ever sum up the essence of Pune, I would probably call it verdant (much at the risk of being ridiculed or accused of fibbing). The once lush canopy that spread over the city is now reduced to mangy tufts of isolated patches of green. Worse still, it is something that exists only in nostalgia backed by a few photos. Nobody in their present encounter with the city would remotely associate verdant with Pune - unfortunately. Back in the day, a green cover meant something that was given. Not an abrogated promise by a builder of a housing society. There were trees and plants which were not specifically chosen for their aesthetic appeal but rather, like the citizenry, they were there because their forefathers had once been there - they were an organic part of the city, when organic was not something which cost an arm and a leg. My earliest memory of trees as individuals is that of a huge Mimosa tree opposite Sambhaji Park on Jangli Maharaj Road. Its smooth, dark bark was a v...

Guess which one is Bandu? You were probably the only one who got a name from Aai. Its not that she did not like pets, but unlike us, she was sensible about disciplining them as well. And she tried to do the same with you. Initially you complied, but then of course things didn't quite stick to the course -- as was expected. Bandu was a name of endearment. It meant a very dear one. A very dear, little one. And that's what you were. Our precious, dear little one with the softest fur and blackest, loving eyes. Of course they were not kohl-lined like Tony's, but neither were you drop dead gorgeous like Tony. You were good looking, that is the intrinsic quality of your breed and it was natural that you would be so. Unlike Tony's, I was not witness to your baby steps as you dashed and jumped your way in the house. In fact I wasn't even around when Baba got you home. I got to see you only on my subsequent visit to Pune. But none of that quite affected your anima...

White fury of buses in traffic snarls Pink whispers of bicycle bells Black clings of taxi meters on a downward swing Red cries of peddlers adds to the din Brown drains carrying debris of food and shit Mumbai you dream, you elusive bitch! Mumbai, a deafening noise in deathly quiet lanes A shove for space in overcrowded trains Piles of anxious shoes outside temples and mosques. Drying laundry and bird droppings on window panes. Mumbai, teary-eyed longing for a tangled kite A catacomb of glitzy malls and godless shrines Despondent schools and angry universities A mesh of installments homes, never quite owned. Mumbai -- an idea a cosmos a mess a space a dream a sigh a scream maybe. A city that won't be and neither will we.

Maakadwala In Hindi, he would be called Madari. English will loosely translate him as a 'Monkey man', but like all things touched by English, the translation alienates the reader and makes them assume it is a characteristics rather than being titular. Marathi has it rather straightforward --  Maakadwaala (Person with monkey(s)). Maakadwaalas don't exist anymore. A very rigorous and welcome activism from powers-that-be as well as a sensitized public has put an end to the likes of him and their 'monkey acts'. But maakadwaala was a regular feature in a Pune that I grew up in -- the late '70s and early '80s. His patrons knew maakadwala only by his trade -- maakadwala. Ironically, his pair of monkeys had better defined names -- Raju and Sita, Dharmendra and Hema or any such to which not only the monkeys but even the public responded. But makadwala was deprived of the common courtesy of a name. Maakadwaala would saunter into our compound in the early evenings or l...