my brain be like tch remembering passwords be for losers hahaha

(i hate it when i get locked out of my email account)


how to read an american cookbook

how was i to know
that nectarine means
summer, bright red, fresh;
that summer invokes warmth,
not searing, sweltering heat;
that when you said i
taste like nectarine jam
(your grandmother's recipe:
three parts sugar, half a cup of
lemon juice, no pectin needed),
it was seeped in nostalgia
for fruit trees and cousins?

nectar (n): food of the gods
brings to mind a story
about men fighting for
i think it's sweet with a
hint of cinnamon and chilli.
deep gold in colour (because
that's what amar chitra katha
makes me imagine, just like
it refused me the capacity
to imagine a god in that story
who transcends bodies: their shapes,
their meanings, their constraints).


now i need a place to hide away

no, beatles. love was never an easy game to play. 


if you wanna

You've gotta write if you wanna be a writer. 

I want to say that's not true. I want to say that it's a state of mind. You don't necessarily have to write, you have to chronicle. You underline sentences you think you can make short stories out of. You footnote moments you can build around. You archive shapes of noses, the way people wriggle their toes, how people like their eggs. If you linger too long on the way someone sticks their tongue out awkwardly, you may not ever write about it, but you know the emotion. The private thought, the joke they're not telling, the shyness, their bodily manifestation for a single second in that stuck out pink tongue. You'll use that. Or you'll plan to, anyway.

You don't make sense of things until you do. You always have an idea you're playing with - a person, a word, a thought, an author, a concept, a history, a newspaper article, a narrative. You're trying to fit it into a narrative. You're pulling it apart and putting it together at the same damn time. You don't realise it, but a moment comes along when you can see it in front of your eyes. I want to say that it looks like a perfectly consistent image, but it's more like an impressionist painting (Monet, most likely. You're staring at it from 2 feet away and all you can see is swirls. You stare at it from the bench and you can only see loneliness). You don't really know what it is. You write it desperately, urging yourself to remember what it was you saw in that moment. Sometimes it works out. Sometimes it doesn't. 

It doesn't matter, you think. The important thing is that you gotta write if you wanna be a writer. But then you get older, and you feel like a fraud. The truth nobody tells you is that it isn't enough to write. You gotta write well if you wanna be a writer. You gotta suck up and do the work. Read. Write a first draft. Then a second. Then take it apart and write a third. The truth is - you gotta edit if you wanna be a writer. And you absolutely have to have taste. You're just a blogger if you don't. 


lack of motivation

losing lucidity again. hate it when that happens in the winter. more cocoa for me, please. 


echoes of turkish delight

You'd think I'd be craving elaborate turkish breakfasts - we spent half a morning at a village near Kayakoy, devouring everything they gave us. Bread (cooked like a kind of french toast; toast; fresh bread - the Turkish don't seem to believe in buying bread. Always only seem to eat it fresh from the oven); sausages (sucuk! a love letter); six kinds of jam (of which sour cherry jam, tomato jam and pumpkin jam are favorites); fried eggs in a pan; four kinds of cheese (my lord the cheese!) and four kinds of olives (sigh), watermelon, cay and kahwe. I do miss them. (Sigh, do I miss them or what).

But more than anything else, I miss menemen. One bowl - tomatoes, olive oil, eggs (slightly runny, perfectly cooked), paprika and (if they love you very much) a slightest amount of cheese. top this off with fresh parsley/basil. Eat with fresh, warm bread.

Menemen, I want you now. :(


happiness is at the depth of our being

A couple of days before my grandfather died, he gathered enough lucidity and strength to defy every bit of pain in his body, sit on a wheelchair and come out to the living room. He asked for the newspaper, read the headlines, chewed some food (he had entirely stopped eating a week before that meal), drank some coffee, then sang a song with us. (I can’t remember which – but my mother made a recording). Six months prior, he would have demanded Aar You Em to go with it.  

Despite his extended bitterness, physical pain and unhappiness, his inability to move his limbs, his dependence on somebody to go to the bathroom (all of which angered and embittered him to no end), he wanted to sing that evening. We were only too happy to oblige.

When I was leaving that evening, I said “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He made no such promises. “Alllll the best,” he said. He started to deteriorate that night. The next day, I learnt what it meant to have a death rattle at close quarters. The only kind of hope it has is for us. Before I left to be with my grandmother, they were beginning to unplug the pulse monitor. It seemed to be as strong as anything. He died later that night.

I can’t still figure out where these impulses come from – to be happy, in spite of everything else. It must be at the depth of our being, where else?


As I write this I must note something that has been bothering me since yesterday*. The past two years have been Death years. More people around me have died than I can count. Not everybody I was close to – they were family members who I met on a regular basis and had conversations with. Some were loved ones of friends and family. Over the past month, four people I knew personally or who were close to people I love very much have died. Most died of old age – but that begs the question, why now? why in these two years? I know there are no answers, but my heart is asking them. It defies logic.

*Two people passed away yesterday. A grandmother and a father. Both lovely people, both loved and loving people. Both related to people I love very much.  


yalan dunya

But Istanbul is where it's at.


in absentia

i seek you in my darkest moments.

at my loneliest, dingiest moments,
when i’m dissipating into everything around me
not bothering to gather myself
sans locus.

you are at the depth of my self-pity.
my very worst.
you are what i fear i will fall into
if i give in to my mediocrity.
you are what pulls me out of it.
you are what i hope for.

how can i explain that without
falling into the worst kind of rhetoric?
i suppose you believe in reincarnation
(i don’t).

would that explain the kind of
familiarity i feel for you?
the intimacy with which i know
your laughter, your fingers, the bumps on your head?

would that explain
the cruelty of my gaze,
my rejection of you,
my refusal to engage even in
the most perfunctory eye contact?

it’s inconsistent to reduce it
to something so physical as lust:
but your body draws me to you,
and i make fiction
of everything else.



A poem in the Scribbler's wonderful new exhibition, 'Home'. 



translating a folk song i just heard in gujarati:

salt eats up our land.
it eats the shade, it eats the trees

our days are spent in the sun. 

if this wasn't enough,
we turn to the sea for work

our sweat is salt, our blood is salt
even our labour is salt. 


a song by the maliya mahila shakti sanghatan: a women's collective of fisherwomen in maliya - the coast along saurashtra, gujarat.

women whose lands have turned salty because of excessive (legal and illegal) salt extraction pans; whose livelihoods, dependent on farming and prawn harvesting have both been taken away from them because of land grabbing and change in soil quality because of salt pans, and climate change has affected how freshwater meets seawater, so prawn harvesting is less and less profitable. even where it's profitable, it's monopolized by large contractors who sell to cities and companies.  


selling my soul for money

it's absolutely worth it!


exclamation point

when i see you with her
on facebook, at dinner,
at a friend's wedding, at
a bar, i try hard not to
giggle. i'm all charm
and exclamatory marks.
how're you doing!
where've you been!
man, it's been forever!

in truth, all i can think of
is that day, over ten years
ago - i sat on you, most
irritated, and taught you
how to kiss.
i bet she'd be thankful
to me that you
don't slobber all over.
don't stick your tongue in.
don't pucker like a duck.

when i'm lonely, i wonder
if you lick her on her nose
the way you did


mr. barnes writes only to make me sad

"Beforehand you think: when I grow up I'll love someone, and I hope it goes right, but if it goes wrong I'll love another person, and if that goes wrong I'll love another person. Always assuming that you can find these people in the first place and that they'll let you love them. What you expect is that love, or the ability to love is always there, waiting."

- pp. 160; Love, etc. Julian Barnes. Vintage 2009.

let you love them?! an arrow through my heart, mr. barnes. 


who's a waste of time?

i want to run away and read. i'll keep reading till my eyes tire and my brain hurts and i can't take anymore. i'll sleep till my dreams start to bore me, wake up, drink some tea, then read again. the only reason i haven't done that already is because i'm afraid i'll end up reading mostly mediocre fantasy and mills & boons. (they're a frikkin' blackhole! bah.)



a year in which:

i lost two grandparents to death and watched a third rapidly slip into alzheimers dementia and turn into a child. i let one go without getting to say goodbye, i held on to one till he stopped breathing, i love one more than i was able to when i was younger.

i got a job and saw the country in ways i hadn't before. i understood poverty and deprivation more closely than i had done. i understand the indian railways better than i want to. i see more similarity than difference, and i wonder if that's a problem.

i got closer to some friends, some friends have more formally become family, got older with some others. i let go of some friends, stopped expecting things from them (even friendship). there is no catharsis in that.

i wrote less, read less, watched less television, lived on the internet much less than i would have liked to.

this was an adult year with adult considerations and adult possibilities. age can teach you all sorts of things - some things you shouldn't have to learn. in spite of everything, i think i wear mine quite happily. i hope this next year's better. 


in 29 days,
i'll tell you
if i really like the story
i wrote last night.

until then,
this poem will do. 


a man waits for his death

for my grandfather.


A man waits for his death.

It is monotonous. Days pass and he cannot move. He can’t tell night from day, or doesn’t want to. Hours are no matter for the mortal. His legs have given up on him. His mind is numb. He cannot say if it is life that has given up on him, or he has given up on life. It is perhaps a bit of both. His organs started to fail a year ago.

Obviously it was his kidney that started to give way. A sign of the life he lived, perhaps. A drink every evening at 7 pm. Aar. You. Em., he used to say. Two cubes of ice. Soda. For the more lavish evenings, whiskey. Call him a connoisseur. You wouldn’t be wrong. Dialysis tied him down. It stripped him of his independence – he moved out of his home, left his red typewriter, his law books, his letters. His alcohol cabinet, his photographs, his television. It tied his body to a clock. Words and numbers on pieces of paper. Fluids. Urea. Creatinine. Too many other people started to tell him what to do. What to eat. When to sleep. When to use the bathroom. His body started to rule him. No more alcohol, no more chinese food, no more travelling alone, no more driving, no more visits to the British Library spending an hour at every shelf but knowing exactly what he wanted, no more quiet evenings on his sofa with all the lights turned off, no more no more.

They say many things. Sodium levels. Pulse. Urea. Blood pressure. Sugar. These numbers don’t matter anymore. They all say the same thing. His brain is shutting down. The Hindu crossword is useless. He always preferred the Guardian. A weekly visit to the British Library. (One day, I would like to look at the list of every book he’s checked out). World War, detective novels. American writers are useless. They think they are too clever for their own good. They have no flair for language. It is too sharp, even today. So sharp it breaks your heart.

Lift me up! Make me sit up! He raves. This is Tyagaraja, he says in between screams. Semmangudi. Sukhi Evaro, he asks. Kharaharapriya, he identifies. Ramaaaaaaa, nannu brovara, he shouts. He shouts the name of his deceased brothers. He wants to go to them, but his body does not let him. He holds on to his body as much as he wants to leave it. My brother sits next to him while he is delirious. He is trying to do the crossword with him. The capital of Wales, he asks. The old man pauses. Double-U, he says. It is not always the obvious, he says. He shouts for the attendant again. Takemetothebathroom takemetothebathroom  takemetothebathroom takemetothebathroom takemetothebathroom he says. He yells, and rants and raves it. In two minutes, he is threatening to file a police case against the attendant. Take. Me. To. The. Bathroom. Nannu lechu!
I want to die. Let me die. Have you come to see me because I am dying? I am dying. I will not get better. Tell her I am dying. Turn off the music. Let me die in peace. Take her out of the room. What do you do with a mad woman for a wife?  I need to go to the bank. I need to go to HDFC. Take me to the bank. I have to do something there. Take me to the bank. No money, he used to say under his breath. He would say it all the time. When he was driving his old fiat, he thought I couldn’t hear him, perhaps. When he was working. Pauses between typing. He would stare into space and say emphatically – no. money.

A man waits for his death.

A green monitor beeps every time his pulse falls. His breath rasps. A tube at his nose for oxygen. A tube in his nose for food. Even in a coma, even when he’s leaving, he’s holding on to himself. His hands fidget constantly as if he is tying his veshti. His hands fidget – he thinks he has dropped a tablet. He puts it in his mouth and drinks a glass of water. His hands fidget with his IV fixture (I don’t know what it’s called). Eventually, they can’t find a vein anymore on his hands, so they put it in his legs. There are sores and blood clots all over his body. Put some petroleum jelly on it, they say. He fidgets with his diaper. He hates his diaper. He has been reduced to human being from man – his diaper reminds him of that.

His daughters sit around him reading Sanskrit shlokams. The Vishnu Sahasra Namam, they read. The Lalita Sahasranama Stotram, they read. It is for themselves, more than it is for him. They want him to go in peace. They want the strength to let go. He, himself, preferred reading the Sundarakandam. It is much more poetic. He was never a religious man, he preferred to pray in his own way in his own time. It is possible he can’t hear them now, anyway. His daughter-in-law has dispensed with the shlokams, and simply chants the same line over and over again om namah shivayah. He would have been amused. Even in his coma he fidgets with the heart monitor on his middle finger. Even in his coma he resists.

It cannot be said that the man waits patiently. He waits with anger and bitterness. He waits, but he doesn’t want to wait. I say Good Night, he says Good Bye. I say I’ll see you in the morning, he says allllll the best. He is afraid. He is in pain. He is suffering. He just wants it to end. Even an animal can go to the bathroom by itself. What am I? Call him! Tell him I want to go to the bathroom. He is stripped. Of his dignity, of his pride, of his independence most of all. He flinches every time someone speaks to him with the slightest hint of sympathy. Go away, he shouts. Po! Po! Po! Po! Po!

The man wants no sympathy. He just wants to be left alone. He wants to be treated for the hyper-intelligent, powerful man that he used to be. He doesn’t want to be this human being anymore. He wants to take a shower, apply powder, sit by himself in the evening, then eat some freshly fried vadams with a glass of rum. He wants to live, not hang on to life by numbers. The man is tired of waiting.

The man dies.

Death comes to him as an afterthought, but the man dies with a smile. 

He will pour himself a glass of scotch now – something fine, something aged. He will drop two cubes of ice in it. He will put a record in the gramophone. Abba, perhaps.

Can you hear the drums, Ferrrrrnannndoooo?, he will sing with an exaggerated South-Indian Accent.

I remember long ago another starry night like this
In the firelight Fernando
You were humming to yourself and softly strumming your guitar
I could hear the distant drums
And sounds of bugle calls were coming from afar
They were closer now Fernando
Every hour every minute seemed to last eternally
I was so afraid Fernando
We were young and full of life and none of us prepared to die

(There was something in the air that night
The stars were bright, Fernando
They were shining there for you and me
For liberty, Fernando
Though we never thought that we could lose
There's no regret
If I had to do the same again
I would, my friend, Fernando)


i need coffee

and a swimming pool.


(can i please rant to someone in private about HOW MUCH it sucks to not be a member of the secunderabad club anymore? please?)


ain't got no coffee that's perkin'

i miss not having an office.

i was more frequently broke (truth), but it was more private.

i could wake up and then think about where i would go to work that day. on days i didn't want to think, it would be the library at teen murti - sprawling, private desks, really really really really shit coffee (this is where my carry-my-own-coffee-wherever-i-go practice began)*.

some days, when i felt lavish, i would go to piano man (which is shut now, and i will forever miss that broccoli almond soup, the mint iced tea and the music). or costa coffee (when i needed a shot of espresso and a place with no wi-fi). or market cafe (when i needed to meet someone in the evening. or pasta. or other people around me, being alone, possibly working. or a waiter who will bring me black coffee without even ordering it. or student discount, bitches). in hyderabad, i had coffee cup. (it was a bit of a drive, but the chilly garlic potato fries and a shelf full of comic books made it worth it). in gaya, be happy cafe. (carrot cake! pesto pasta! at the end of too many people with poverty and deprivation! although i must say - the american woman who runs the place is pretty damn grumpy all the time, especially if she has to serve indians).

i miss being by myself in a place full of people. offices aren't like that. you have to make conversation. blech. you have to pretend to work if you don't feel like working. if you want to just read a book, you have to keep a window open full of work stuff so you can switch if someone is walking past. you can't just order a coffee** when you want one - you have to make it yourself. i have office friends. banter. jokes about the clothes i wear sometimes. (i can't just wear shorts, which downright sucks.)

the real question - one that someone at pianoman asked me - do you get any work done in these cafes?

the answer is yes, sometimes. when the deadline is now.

(but i can say the same thing about working out of my office).

*which reminds me - i have to renew my membership! shit.
** i'm allergic to coffee these days. did i tell you about it yet? my whole body breaks out into violent rashes all over. the hunger thing was a big problem when i went cold feet. but i'm swimming now, and that's helping.

(title from ella aunty's brilliant song, ain't got nothin' but the bluuuuuuuuueeeeeee-hooos.)


map me

map me:

if there are such linearities
as you might find
upon my body. 



i need an excuse to wear lipstick.

any excuse, really. i brush my lips before i do - gotta get rid of the dry skin, put on chapstick, wait three minutes, then put on lipstick. i pout at myself in the mirror, then blot it out. by the time i get to the party, the lipstick is a ghost. it only exists in my mind - and on the corner of the glass. by the end of the night, i forget i was wearing any to begin with.

eye make-up is another issue. i wear kajal everyday. i look too sleepy without. i don't know how to mascara. the few times i've used it, i've felt super pretty. (make-up is too often in the feeling, don't you think?) i have three boxes with colour for my eyes, but i don't know how to put it on. i've watched too many youtube videos, but i haven't practiced enough.

my mother used more make-up at 27 than i possibly ever will. she used to have these two huge boxes full of lipsticks, eye shadows, mascara, blush, brushes, foundation, two compacts in her handbag at all times, a concealer. she used to wear lipstick and matching bangles to office everyday. she doesn't anymore - i really don't know why.

so why is it such a big deal for me?



an old memory came back to me last night.

we are sitting in the triangle. the flooring is made of mismatched shahbad tiles - grey and gold. we play a hopping game. we hop across the room - one end to the other - making sure we only jump on the gold-tinted stones. it gets tricky around the middle of the room. the gold-tinted tile is under an elaborate stick-on muggu on the floor. it is a matter of much debate - are we allowed to land on those stones or not? 

what did we call it? noranti? warranty? 

the rest of the house is red oxide flooring. the grandfather's room has large square patterns on the floor. it's not fun to play on those floors. outside, though, that's a different matter. the flooring outside is made of unpolished shahbad stones. for a large part of my childhood, half the stones outside were broken on one side of the front yard. we played another game on it, i can't remember what it was. when it was repaired, i remember being heartbroken. i don't know why. 

each window had a different grill pattern - do you remember them? i can't. i was sure i would. the dining room had a square grill? or was it the one with the rectangles? and the faux-study room on the first floor, next to ranga chitappa's room? i can't remember the grill on that either. 



someone inside my head is screaming. i don't know what she's saying, but she's constantly screaming. i've tried everything to calm her down. i'm swimming, i'm listening to music - but she doesn't let me do anything. she doesn't let me read (she screams too loudly to concentrate), she doesn't let me work (she screams oh my so much), she screams she screams she screams i don't know what she says but she screams so much my head hurts. how do i clear my head?


swimming, day 1

i started swimming again this morning after a year and a quarter.
my shoulders feel like someone jumped up and down all over them.
and my feet hurt. i didn't think that could happen?

(on the other hand, 1 km. 27 mins. woot.)



"the real reason i don't drink is because i think i'll be stuck in a state of inebriation and won't ever escape."



first world problems

back in a world with working phones and broadband internet and facebook and twitter and toilets and tv and skype and gchat and email (frikkin email!) and uninterrupted whatsapp after 4 days and i missed everything but nobody misses ME.


(also, i'm in a city for exactly 1 day in 2 weeks, and it's a city with no alcohol. can we all please ban ahmedabad from being a city?)



I’ve never received a letter
(hand-written, on aerogramme paper
with a stamp, quirky handwriting
a chat with the postman
delayed news from last week
or the month before. paper flying
across states or countries or continents
smelling of oregano or jeera or sambar
of home or a yearning for home.
ink blots made by leaking pens where
you stop to think.)

I have no nostalgia of my
own; only borrowed from my grandmother
or her siblings sent fifty years go
in a sack full of letters
(apprehensions about marriages to someone
i only know as my cousins’ grandfather;
or the weight of gold in a bangle
i know was stolen twenty years ago
by someone who took it to “polish it.”
references to polishing copper pots i
have never seen used; and excitement about
televisions they bought in foreign countries)
we found when we were
clearing out the attic of our
70 year old home.


punjabi song on the radio

i want a cryptic way to
tell you that i
miss you today. i want a way for you
to know that a sentence
i read triggered
emotions that taste like whiskey,
cigarettes, the smell of raat ki rani
in October (a foreboding of winter,
cocoa, blankets and naphthalene balls).

i want to ask you if that isn’t
poetry in general?
anecdotes hidden between words,
jokes only i laugh at. 
breaks and poetic
time that only make sense
if you’re listening to the song
you asked me to listen to



late valentine's day post 2015

"You're like a witness. You're the one who goes to the museum and looks at the paintings. I mean the paintings are there and you're in the museum too, near and far away at the same time. I'm a painting. Rocamadour is a painting. Etienne is a painting, this room is a painting. You think that you're in this room, but you're not. You're looking at the room, you're not in the room." 

From Hopscotch, Julio Cortazar. 

In the same book, he also says - (keeping track of time was difficult for Oliveira, happy, ergo futureless.) 

This valentine's day (like every other one on this blog) I wonder if this encapsulates my (non) love life. 

"happy, ergo futureless." 


Older V Day posts - 2014201320122011 and my favorite, 2007. :) 


guest post: brotherly love

My crazy irreverent brother just hacked into my blogger account and wrote an unsolicited post for my blog. I decided to let it be because it's hilarious even though I hate him. Remind me never to give him my laptop again.

i gave my laptop
to my brother
for his laptop was in the laptop-shop.

my brother in his wisdom
only proceeded to write
for my blog.

from what i know of my brother,
he is a brother like no other.
not that i've experienced other such buggers,
but i've known  cousin-brothers
and they're much worse than this sucker.

what you do need to know about my brother
isn't that he is younger and more useful
than his blog-writing, scandal-watching sister
but that he doesn't stop eating when he's full.

he may be right about a few things
but he's wrong about the dieting fling.
the world hates fat beer-drinks
and i can't stand the hate.


My sister thinks I'm the best. But how does it matter what my sister thinks if she is dieting all the time, right? However, I think her dieting won't help her beer belly if she continues drinking. Perhaps, she should shed the beer for something like white rum. (though i'm sure she has explored more healthy options like whiskey) Maybe my sister should write a story about a fat dietician battling a McDonald's burger problem which stems from the dieticians love for the ambience at McDonald's. Or maybe, she should write a story about that fat guy in the metro who refuses to wake up from his fake slumber.

Most definitely, my sister should write a story about a size zero girl who's in love with a woman whose eyes are red, as if she always has conjunctivitis, whose legs are fat, which makes people think her mother cross-bred with an elephant but whose nose is as pretty as Deepika Padukone's before she started snotting. This story about them should involve constant dates at Andhra Bhavan, Saravana Bhavan, (midnight buffet at) Pickles and lots of cheese. They should eat the same things, drink the same water, live in the same house but feel different about their bodies. One day, the not-so-thin-woman should disappear to make the size zero feel like she's a tourist in Goa without alcohol. She should descend into a deep, dark depression which makes her lose her 'shape'. This size zero woman should meet the fat woman who is now a really thin kashmiri separatist. That meeting drives her to suicide.

That's what my sister should do about her size. write about it. not change it. it isn't really that unhealthy to be fat anymore. I don't see why you shouldn't be fat, then. 



writing is 90% staring.


of course bukowski offers these words of wisdom:

"if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
don't do it."



it is not i

angulimala, my cousin says,

i squint my eyes at him - i can't recall the story but i remember the image from amar chitra katha quite vividly. a bare-chested man with a necklace made of thumbs. dark, like all the asuras in the series.

my cousin continues - it's a story about a dacoit in the hills. angulimala is an orphan forced into dacoitry by circumstance. so infamous, even the sound of his name makes one shiver. he would take everything you had - and then cut off your finger to keep count. 

one day, he sees a man in the forest. he shouts out at him - stop! i am angulimala. he chases the man but never catches up to him. he runs and runs and after a while, he tires. he stops running and calls out - do you not fear me? why don't you stop?

the man turns around. angulimala immediately sees that this man fears nothing. not even death. "it is not i who is moving," he says. (this man, of course, turns out to be the buddha).

what a thing to say. none of us understand what that means. not when we were nine. not today.

but it clearly works on angulimala - this cryptic statement from a man he couldn't catch up to. he gives up dacoitry, takes up beggary and lives in the city. until one day a woman recognizes him as the man who killed her husband. she shouts - a crowd gathers and throws stones at him. angulimala remains smiling and silent through this.

when buddha finally shows up, he collapses in his arms. "i seek refuge in you," he says, and dies.

after a quiet moment, my cousin tells me - it's an intense story when you're 9. i say - it's an intense story even now.


(i stayed in bed all day today. it was cold and raining and anywhere outside a blanket was hostile. but i've a story nevertheless. thank you sharan. :) )



he's a hard-nosed, street-wise, brilliant motherfucker.

you know it's true.

a minister calls him this morning. "i'm contesting for elections from your area," she says. that's a bloody problem, he tells me. a dharm sankat. i'm campaigning for the other guys.

"send me some kids to do it then," she tells him.

it's not like i can give birth to them he tells me. where will i send them from.

he makes some calls in front of me. then he calls her. "i'll send you about a hundred tomorrow" he says.

he packs up and makes to leave. "come eat gol gappe with me," he says.

how can i refuse.  


a story a day project

HELLO new blog project.

i'm going to write one real story i hear everyday. something someone tells me within a 24 hour bracket, preferably. but if i'm really not in a conversation mood - may be something i read. i'm a horrible listener - but the point of the project is really to think about how we make conversation and what i take away from them.

and to hoard stories. always that.


they went to japan in 2002. this was back when everything digital was new. they stayed in the fanciest hotel there - there was a 42 inch flat screen tv in the bathroom. the toilet seats were heated, and the faucets had pressure controls. but the star of that trip was really the 50 year old chivas regal whiskey they were giving out as awards. which they couldn't accept - because they were winning the award, among other things, for their work against alcoholism. ha.


"we have all kinds of meat on fridays, she said. it's not for you if you are scared. wild boar, deer, porcupine, we cook interesting things with my grandmother's recipe - and no shortcuts. we even grind our masalas by hand."

"porcupine?! really? i've never heard of porcupine being eaten. what does it taste like?"

"pork, without the fat. they run around in the wild no? so there's only meat. no fat. and i cook it well."

:| rosang, green park extension market. not for the fainthearted.