We Calcuttans are very civic-minded.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
Thursday, December 28, 2006
At Long Last, Home
2 things of note.
ONE
New home. Total furniture comprises 2 bookshelves, a mattress, some cushions and rugs, and lots of floor lamps. Love it. LOVE it. :)
TWO
In approximately 8 hours, god and airlines willing, I shall be on my way across the Atlantic, thence on my way across Asia Minor, the Red Sea and wherever else, en route to Bombay. Where I will revel in Nariman Point dosa-wallah's idli, chilli beef at Leo's, that lassi in a bottle, masala alu sandwich, et al. And also meet some old friends. And thereafter, Cal. Sleep starved and brain-dead, there is still a grin, ear-to-ear, on my face tonight.
More from home, the land of phuchka and shingara, New Market and Park Street, and my room with green leaf sunshine and the warm breath of dogs on my face in the mornings. Huzzah.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Holly, Berries And Yule Logs For You
One of the nicest things about growing up in Calcutta was, I think, the fact that there was almost no festival that didn't belong to one, that one couldn't celebrate. Pujo, Christmas, Easter, Diwali... all were celebrated with equal enthusiasm - either as occasions to enjoy the warmth of family and friends, or as opportunities to overdose on the city's carnival atmosphere: Ferris wheels in corner parks, fish fry and biriyani at food stalls lining the streets, midnight mass at St. Paul's cathedral, huge warm bricks of fruitcake, walking down Lansdowne Road at 3:00 a.m. on New Year's Eve, being passed by cars full of extremely happy people serenading one with new year wishes (or, in some cases, when they had imbibed a little too much alcohol and gotten confused about the date, yuletide greetings). Calcutta took every festival and inhabited it. Every religious festival was an opportunity for everyone interested to get involved and enjoy themselves.
Which is why I find it strange that in the US, it is politically incorrect to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. Apparently, some people might be offended by a misplaced greeting, be it ever so warm and well-meant. When you greet someone here, you can, at best, wish them a happy new year, and if you really want to be correct, your greetings stockpile is limited to a bland "Season's Greetings".
But to hell with political correctness. To all, a Merry Christmas. May you enjoy the season with brownies and samosas (as I did every year, after the school nativity play). May you catch the Christmas special on TV, with that little boy with the awesome voice singing "O Holy Night", and may you sing along loudly and tunelessly. May you have fruitcake after inedible fruitcake delivered to your home. May you revive yourself with friends and laughter, wine and feasting, and not be sick afterwards. And may you be big enough to celebrate festivals even when you don't observe them.
Which is why I find it strange that in the US, it is politically incorrect to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. Apparently, some people might be offended by a misplaced greeting, be it ever so warm and well-meant. When you greet someone here, you can, at best, wish them a happy new year, and if you really want to be correct, your greetings stockpile is limited to a bland "Season's Greetings".
But to hell with political correctness. To all, a Merry Christmas. May you enjoy the season with brownies and samosas (as I did every year, after the school nativity play). May you catch the Christmas special on TV, with that little boy with the awesome voice singing "O Holy Night", and may you sing along loudly and tunelessly. May you have fruitcake after inedible fruitcake delivered to your home. May you revive yourself with friends and laughter, wine and feasting, and not be sick afterwards. And may you be big enough to celebrate festivals even when you don't observe them.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Random Thoughts
Atlanta, Georgia. I take the team out for dinner on Peachtree St (of Gone With The Wind fame) and get back to my hotel at 11:00. Work for a couple of hours. Before I know it, it's 1:30 a.m. I have a 4:30 a.m. start, and begin to wonder if there's any point in sleeping at all. Even consider the idea of going to bed complete dressed for the next morning, so that I can tumble out of bed and into the car the next morning. Go into the bathroom (this aids contemplation, in case you were wondering) and stare at myself in the mirror for a while. Brush my hair. And as I do, I see that the few grey hairs I've had since I was 18 have begun to procreate and produce new ones. Almost in a daze, I begin to count them, separating each strand. 1, 2, 3, 4... when I get to 16, I stop counting.
Kansas City, Missouri. On Tuesday night, before I left for Atlanta, the weather forecast predicted crisp, cold weather in Kansas on Friday. As the aircraft zooms down low over Kansas City, I wake up, and notice the ground covered in patches of glistening white. Hard to tell from up here whether it's sand or snow. I remain undecided until we land, and then, as the plane taxies to the terminal, patches of ice glistening on the runway catch my eye. Shit, I think. An unexpected snowstorm the previous day has covered freeways and roads, and on my way to my meeting, I see cars stuck in snowdrifts on the road. Once off the freeway, we get onto roads that the ploughs have not tackled yet - icy roads on which cars have slowed down to a crawl. Absolutely nothing all around. "Buckle up, Dorothy, cos Kansas is going bye-bye" runs endlessly through my brain. The airport has tornado shelters. Needless to say, my flight back to Newark has been delayed - thunderstorms near Newark have caused all incoming and outgoing flights to be grounded. When the boarding announcement for our flight is finally made, the waiting crowd cheers loudly. Suck as it may, I will be glad to get back to Edison.
Kansas City, Missouri. On Tuesday night, before I left for Atlanta, the weather forecast predicted crisp, cold weather in Kansas on Friday. As the aircraft zooms down low over Kansas City, I wake up, and notice the ground covered in patches of glistening white. Hard to tell from up here whether it's sand or snow. I remain undecided until we land, and then, as the plane taxies to the terminal, patches of ice glistening on the runway catch my eye. Shit, I think. An unexpected snowstorm the previous day has covered freeways and roads, and on my way to my meeting, I see cars stuck in snowdrifts on the road. Once off the freeway, we get onto roads that the ploughs have not tackled yet - icy roads on which cars have slowed down to a crawl. Absolutely nothing all around. "Buckle up, Dorothy, cos Kansas is going bye-bye" runs endlessly through my brain. The airport has tornado shelters. Needless to say, my flight back to Newark has been delayed - thunderstorms near Newark have caused all incoming and outgoing flights to be grounded. When the boarding announcement for our flight is finally made, the waiting crowd cheers loudly. Suck as it may, I will be glad to get back to Edison.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Joy
My first memory of dry leaves in winter is from a walk in the woods around Khajiyar when I was four.
I was holding Baba's hand - I probably had to reach up for it, his arm hanging down, mine reaching up higher than my head. The woods were shaded brown and ochre, and peaceful, my first memory of communing with nature. The leaves and pine needles, yellow and crumbling, rustled and crackled and crunched under our feet with a satisfying scrtsssstchhhhhh sound as we walked. I remember - I still remember - that momentous feeling - the feeling you get when something wonderful happens, or is about to, or when something touches and awes you, even when you have little comprehension of what it is. "Pa tule h(n)ato", Baba told me. I used to drag my feet (still do, sometimes) and he was trying to break me of the habit. I breathed in the smell of pine - pine cones and broken pine needles lying everywhere. Occasionally, sunlight pierced through to the ground, dappling it in shade and shadow. We crossed felled logs, Baba striding casually over them, me scrambling.
Where was everyone else? Ma, and Dada, and Didi, and Bui? I know they were all on this trip, but for those minutes, I have no recollection of where they were. All that existed was the wonder of a wood - an actual wood - and the smell, and the cool air, and the crackling leaves, and holding onto my father's hand.
Why am I suddenly thinking of this? Well, I suppose, because the leaves are lying thick on the ground, and gusting across the street and onto my balcony. Because the smell of pine is almost overpowering in some places. And because, for some reason, my memories are suddenly emerging from long-ago places and dusting themselves off and creeping towards the sunlight.
On days when my mind is crowded with long-ago-and-far-away thoughts, I sometimes wonder why we don't all implode under the weight of every moment we've lived through, every conversation and touch and smile we've shared, every story intertwined with our lives, every rare, wondrous moment when we've suddenly stared at the sky and felt the thrill, the sheer random luck, of being alive, here and now.
I was holding Baba's hand - I probably had to reach up for it, his arm hanging down, mine reaching up higher than my head. The woods were shaded brown and ochre, and peaceful, my first memory of communing with nature. The leaves and pine needles, yellow and crumbling, rustled and crackled and crunched under our feet with a satisfying scrtsssstchhhhhh sound as we walked. I remember - I still remember - that momentous feeling - the feeling you get when something wonderful happens, or is about to, or when something touches and awes you, even when you have little comprehension of what it is. "Pa tule h(n)ato", Baba told me. I used to drag my feet (still do, sometimes) and he was trying to break me of the habit. I breathed in the smell of pine - pine cones and broken pine needles lying everywhere. Occasionally, sunlight pierced through to the ground, dappling it in shade and shadow. We crossed felled logs, Baba striding casually over them, me scrambling.
Where was everyone else? Ma, and Dada, and Didi, and Bui? I know they were all on this trip, but for those minutes, I have no recollection of where they were. All that existed was the wonder of a wood - an actual wood - and the smell, and the cool air, and the crackling leaves, and holding onto my father's hand.
Why am I suddenly thinking of this? Well, I suppose, because the leaves are lying thick on the ground, and gusting across the street and onto my balcony. Because the smell of pine is almost overpowering in some places. And because, for some reason, my memories are suddenly emerging from long-ago places and dusting themselves off and creeping towards the sunlight.
On days when my mind is crowded with long-ago-and-far-away thoughts, I sometimes wonder why we don't all implode under the weight of every moment we've lived through, every conversation and touch and smile we've shared, every story intertwined with our lives, every rare, wondrous moment when we've suddenly stared at the sky and felt the thrill, the sheer random luck, of being alive, here and now.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Oh, The Places You'll Go...
Cincinnati... Schenectady... Albany... Philadelphia... Washington DC... Cincinnati... Pittsfield... Anaheim... Atlanta... New Jersey...
Long drives. Tedious lay-overs in sterile airports. Staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night, in alien hotel rooms. Flights at every unreasonable hour. Trying to navigate to strange airports down unknown roads in the wee hours, without a GPS, and watching the sky grow light on the way.
The days have begun to blur. The one shining light at the end of this haze is, at the end of this year...
HOME!!!!!! (This is where the soundtrack kicks in, softly at first, and then rising gradually as the scene fades out. Paul Simon, singing "Homeward Bound." How cliched can one get?)
Meanwhile, quick updates, for those interested:
1. No, Paul Simon didn't happen. (JAP, looks like your curse worked, you evil person.)
2. But (HA!) Roger Waters did - the Dark Side tour, in Virginia. He is THE man. I had goosebumps through most of the concert. (I wish I'd also had some of the stuff causing the blue haze above our heads, but unfortunately, that wasn't an option.)
3. The Bartimaeus Trilogy, written by Jonathan Stroud, is absolutely brilliant. Entertaining and witty, makes mincemeat out of some other popular wizardry-related series. Please pick it up.
I try to have all updates or learnings in nice round numbers, like 5 or 10, but my day's beginning to blur again, so hasta mañana.
Long drives. Tedious lay-overs in sterile airports. Staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night, in alien hotel rooms. Flights at every unreasonable hour. Trying to navigate to strange airports down unknown roads in the wee hours, without a GPS, and watching the sky grow light on the way.
The days have begun to blur. The one shining light at the end of this haze is, at the end of this year...
HOME!!!!!! (This is where the soundtrack kicks in, softly at first, and then rising gradually as the scene fades out. Paul Simon, singing "Homeward Bound." How cliched can one get?)
Meanwhile, quick updates, for those interested:
1. No, Paul Simon didn't happen. (JAP, looks like your curse worked, you evil person.)
2. But (HA!) Roger Waters did - the Dark Side tour, in Virginia. He is THE man. I had goosebumps through most of the concert. (I wish I'd also had some of the stuff causing the blue haze above our heads, but unfortunately, that wasn't an option.)
3. The Bartimaeus Trilogy, written by Jonathan Stroud, is absolutely brilliant. Entertaining and witty, makes mincemeat out of some other popular wizardry-related series. Please pick it up.
I try to have all updates or learnings in nice round numbers, like 5 or 10, but my day's beginning to blur again, so hasta mañana.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)