I spy with my little brown eye ...

This is what my terrace opens out to :)

It looks even better if you've got some hot coffee and a good book by your side.

D-Day

Today was the day. Finally. It had taken a year to get here. From the first time her parents had met him, and had totally hated him. She remembered every minute of that torturous dinner. Worse still, they had hated his parents, if it was possible, even more. That was an even more vivid memory.

Never.
Over our dead body.
Is this what we brought you up for? To see this day?
Our very own daughter. *Sigh*
Why didn’t I die before having to go through this?
We gave her too much freedom. *Sigh*
No!

This story had all the ingredients of the perfect Bollywood pot-boiler, now, if only she could sing and dance to it all. It had taken months of crying, screaming and threatening to convince them that they had no choice. It had taken even longer to get the parents to be civil to each other. To be honest they never really got there. Though they did reach a sort of semi-civil state of being, where they ignored each other completely and went ahead and did just what the other didn’t want.

Horoscope.
We don’t believe in all that.
Diamond ring.
We insist on gold. It’s tradition.
Temple Wedding.
Fancy Wedding.
Fancy Wedding.
Temple Wedding.
Our style.
Our style.
Bombay.
Bangalore.
Yellow sari.
Red sari.

It went on and on. She didn’t have a say in any of her wedding preparations. Neither did he. Apparently it was enough that the parents had (reluctantly) agreed to this match, and from here on they would run the show. And the way they went about it, it was more like four parallel shows, all running at once. At times during the year, they wondered why they hadn’t just eloped. It would have been so much simpler. And so much more enjoyable. But the drama had stretched out the year. And survived. And from a Balaji production, this show was heading for a Yash Raj finish. Today. This was the big day. Their big day. The day that they had all struggled towards. Today was the day they tied the knot. Today was the day she was going to call it off.

Page number ...er .. umm ...

I am numerically challenged. I can’t remember phone numbers or number plates, or any other important information made up of numbers. It’s a malady I first noticed in the sixth grade. I would be reading in my room when my mum would yell for dinner; reluctantly I would look up the page number, shut the book and sulk my way to the dinning table. When I’d get back an hour later, I’d flip the book open in search for that memorized page number, but would mysteriously draw a blank. No matter what I did, I just couldn’t remember my page numbers. So when I discovered the bookmark, I became an instant fan. I began treasuring my bookmarks. And over the years from a random habit, it developed into a hobby. I am now a bookmark hunter. Wherever I go, I first scout the place for interesting bookmarks; and in a bout of self indulgence, I am putting up a few that I totally love …

A Japanese paper doll, by far the most gorgeous bookmark I have

Adding a bit of Mumbai to every story

In pure leather, from Norway

American and practically impossible to use, but it's just sooo cool

King Tut and his words on Papyrus

Beyond brilliant while travelling, discovered during a stop-over at Vienna

A wooden Tulip from Holland

A hand crafted banana boat on a Palm leaf, from Kerala

P.s.: If you find one that you think I should absolutely have, please do the needful …. :)

At Home

He is sitting behind me with his bag on his lap. His hair is gelled and neatly parted in the middle. He wears a formal shirt and strange fitting, ugly pants. A black jacket and a pair of sports shoes complete him. He is looking for something in his much used blue handbag, intently shuffling through its contents. Where is it? His brows bunch up, and doubt begins to cloud his eyes, but his relentless hands keep searching. The group around him, his group, shift from one leg to the other, following his search with greedy eyes. They mummer to him, maybe words of encouragement, maybe rebuke, till he finally finds what he is looking for. He breaks into a crackling smile and pulls out a packet. A wave of cheer goes around the group. Riiiiiiiipp, opens the packet of shev bhujiya and instantly gets devoured. Kurumm-kurumm-kuruumm.

I don’t feel home sick anymore.

Thought for the day

There is no such thing as too much Coldplay*.

*replace with band of choice and current state of mood swing.

Finding a voice

Maybe you’ve seen this; a response to Dow Chemical’s "the human element" campaign. But if you haven’t, take a minute to stop here, and here.

Stuck

He tried to free his hands. Man, sometimes he could be so damn stupid. If some one walked into the room right now, how would he explain this? As he worked his way through the little knots and clots that bound him, he wearily thought, “Who says there isn’t a flip side to being Spiderman?”

A mistake

They sat next to each other, awkward and uneasy. This whole thing had been a big mistake. It had seemed like such a great idea a few hours ago, and yet now they could barely look each other in the eye. “Listen, let’s not mention this again, okay?” she said. “It never happened”, he agreed. And just like that, their world cup came to a crashing end.

Murder

He had a history of being stalked by the dark side of cricket. Kerry Packer, Hansie Cronje and now death. Ironic how the game he loved so much, took away so much from him.

R.I.P

Bob Woolmer
1948-2007

Me

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Shhh

No cricket post for me.

!!

Yaaaaaaaay! Leprechauns on the cricket field!

Getting it right

She switched on the News as a last resort. Maybe the tragedies of the world would be enough to distract her mother. Or at least get her started on something other than marriage. It didn't work. Her mum just kept on going; past the shattered Iraqi buildings, across the Zimbabwean protesters, over to the sullen Russian, and his not so sullen ex-wife. But as the figures of their multi-billion dollar divorce settlement flooded the living room, her mother trailed off, quietly adding, “That’s what happens when you marry right.”

Quack

I had a good sports day yesterday. Chelsea won, in one of their rare Drogba didn’t score, Ballack did, games. India got through a warm up game without any (too many) scars. And I came across this …

Bits and pieces

I switch on the TV and I see bits of Africa being torn to shreds. I go to the movies and I watch Africa bleeding a brutal death. I open the papers and read obituaries of a place I treasure. And it breaks my heart.

I grew up in Africa. In a small country called Zambia. And in the ten years that I spent there, I learnt almost everything that makes me who I am today. I discovered books there, I poured through libraries full of them, in a childhood not hounded by homework but in the shadows of leafy green trees, behind paperbacks and watching Hindi movies. It is where I first began to write, which in the coming years, I realised, was the only thing I was any good at. It’s where I fell in love with football: the Africa Cup, then the World Cup and then the European Leagues. Tennis followed football and paved a future for cricket.

I spent my holidays in the most amazing places – in safari parks where giraffes reached somewhere above the jungles, chewing leaves off the top of trees and elephants tapped at our windows in the middle of the night. I remember the guides telling us of man-eating lions on the prowl and pointing to a leopard in the tree overhead. I remember having breakfast watching crocs and hippos sunbathe. I remember being completely over awed at the Victoria Falls, not realising that not every kid gets to see what I was growing up with. And I remember almost falling into a river infested with crocs. Happy, happy memories.

Of course, something dark was always looming around. Crime was common and we constantly heard of coups and civil war around the neighbourhood. Rwanda happened when I was 13. And it happened next door. Uganda, Angola, South Africa and Zaire were always near by. And AIDS had just kicked-off. But it still didn’t seem so morbid. It always seemed like things would eventually get better. They never did of course. They just got so much more worse. War. Refugees. Genocide. Landmines. Maimed Limbs. Failed economies. Civil war after civil war. Poverty. Hunger. Disease. Pain. AIDS. Death. Africa.

When I left Zambia, it wasn’t just Zambia, but Africa I rooted for - African teams, African athletes - because they took me back to a time I so loved, bringing back memories of a happy place, full of people with the warmest smiles.

One day, they will get their smiles back.
I hope.

Still Counting

It was early in the morning and the air was sweet and crisp. Just the way he liked it. He had been bringing the sheep up here for over 2 years now. Alone. It was his most favourite chore, and if he could tend to sheep all day, he would be the happiest. It was easy, really. All he had to do was lead the sheep safely to the grazing site, make sure they didn’t get eaten or lost and then take them back home, safely. And while they nibbled at the grass and made baa-baa noises, he would stretch out on the cool green floor, bite on a twig and dream. He’d dream about a bottle of ice-cold coke and girls and movies and football and silly things like the other side of the world. It was easy to see why he liked doing this. Who wouldn’t? The only thing he had to be careful of was the wild dogs. Occasionally he’d get lucky and kill one before it got to the sheep. He would take the dead animal home and ceremoniously present it to his parents. But sometimes a sheep would wander off too far and disappear. Those were the worst hidings he’d receive. He remembered each and every one of them, all four. He still had marks to show. He was particularly proud of the purple patch on his leg; every boy in the village was envious of it, even the bigger ones. He smiled as he propped himself up on his elbows. It was time to head back home. Come on, let’s go, let’s go, he yelled at them. One, two, three, he started gathering each one. Four, five, six, something wasn’t right here. Seven, eights, nine, oh god! Ten, eleven, where was the last one? He frantically looked around the landscape for twelve. No, no, NO! Not again, this couldn’t happen to him again. He clutched at his hair for support, he yelled and he cursed, even his purple wound began to burn. But twelve didn’t come.

Far away from the boy, on the other side of the world, where it was still dark, a young man lay twisting and turning in his bed. He kept getting stuck and he kept losing count. He just couldn’t get through. I hate the bloody sheep and I sure as hell hate their bloody fence, he thought as he reached for his bottle of sleeping pills.

...

I need to write, need to write, need to write, but ...

The view from my window

Save the earth! Now!

*Warning: petrifying post

Scary things are going on in Germany. With the weather all topsy-turvy, this year’s crop has been badly damaged, which in Germany means a horrendously poor potato crop, which means no potatoes, which means an extreme shortage of potato chips in the market!

And you thought global warming didn’t matter.

Six O’clock Surprise

Warm sleep is nudged awake by the singing church bells. It is early. It’s still dark outside. And I can already tell winter is being mean today. I pull my blanket up to my chin and glare at my window.

I Glare. I frown. I squint. I squeal.

Floating past my window pane are soft delicious flakes of snow.
My first snow.

*crazy extremely embarrassing, girly excitement follows*

I forgive the biting cold and the icy floor. I pull on a sweater and pull open the door. Brrrrrrr. The morning air tears into my skin, its sweet scent lost in the view that has been conjured up during the night. Snow-coated roofs and white park benches. Trees all dressed in white trimmings. Tiny flakes precariously perched on twigs and branches. A little black dog surrounded by white. Pink boots and scarves wound up tight.

*dumbstruck awe. or maybe just frozen stiff*

Click.
Click.
Click.
Something to remember it by. And then I shiver, I cling to the warmth hidden in my sweater sleeves and run back to my warm bed.

*yaaaaaaaaaayyy my first snow!!*
*crazy extremely embarrassing, girly excitement follows*