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A Few Odd Thots and Me
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Friday, October 30, 2009 I just realized that even though a person lives, ages, and eventually dies, our memories about her keeps her alive. (It is true for men as well!) My grandfather passed away in 1986. I was five years old and I can count the total number of times I have met him. While some of my luckier counterparts have spent years with their grandparents, I had the chance to meet my father’s father just 2-3 times. His passing did not evoke any emotion in me. I remember my upset father lying on the bed in deep thought. (Maybe he was sad that he was 3000 kms away from where his father was.) Last evening when I spoke to my father, we cracked an inside joke and laughed. When I hung up the phone, I realized that the joke was a generation older. It was something that my grandfather has passed on to my father, who now passed it on to my siblings and me. To me, my grandfather immortalized himself with that joke. Immortality has always enticed us. All historical accounts tell us of ambitious alchemists, scientists, and explorers who went in search of the “Elixir of Life” and other items in the similar vein. And all that was required was to sing a new song or cook a new dish. So, go ahead, create a meme and become your own god. Be immortal.
posted by pr!tz @ 14:00 | 0 comments
Thursday, October 29, 2009 And yet, it happens to me one too many times. Each time I resisted it with as much might as I can. But it was inevitable. Like the first movement from Kuwait to India. I had absolutely no idea of how life was going to be. I think I fared pretty well. Considering the fact that we were Gulf War refugees and had lost almost everything we had. The second movement came when I had to move back from India to a reconstructed, post-war Kuwait. I remember crying into my pillow worrying what awaited me. I even told my parents that I am willing to live separated from them but please will they let me stay back in India. Of course, that was not accepted. Seven years later, I moved back to Delhi. It was a very different world. This time I had actually left home. Close to ten years were spent in Delhi. But that too with a lot of movement. I led a sheltered life in my first three years with cousins. Two years in the hostel. And finally, four years in my new house. And then one October evening, I flew out once again. I have spent a year in the US and not really realized it. I have already moved twice. These were all physical movements. But what about the movement of my thoughts, my being? Philosophies have changed. Beliefs have changed. Friends have changed. Is change going to be the only surety as life goes on? Is this the only aspect in life that I will be able to rely on? What am I in search of? I don’t know. But whatever it is, it is not here. Maybe it is within me. Maybe I will realize that one day.
posted by pr!tz @ 22:20 | 0 comments
Wednesday, October 07, 2009 They met that day. Clandestinely. * * * Eyes met, hands locked, lips met. Faint scent of musky perfume. Neat hands. That taste of Rooh'afza again. * * * Sunset. They were at their favorite outdoor café. The heat was milder. Did it rain? Bikers drove past them, college kids strummed guitar songs. He had his cold coffee while she played with a broken keychain. It suddenly began to pour. They raced towards the car. Strains of a familiar song floated in from the distance as they sat beside each other, holding hands, watching the rain. * * * Late night. They were at the famous chuskiwalla's stall in front of India gate. Weaving their way through the mob, they got crushed-ice-candies. Khatta-meetha. He recommended. She made a face because she does not like anything tangy. With sticky fingers and stained lips, he stole Khatta-meetha kisses from her. * * * Winter afternoon. It snowed outside while he cooked for her. Whatever he cooked, his first ingredient that appeared was salt. She stood beside him and watched him in action. Steamy rice and vegetables materialised. Some paranthas, some pickle. A complete meal. She made a mental note of the dishes to wash. * * * She sits in cafes and watches people pass by. Alienated in a different country; in a different world. He goes through each day thinking similar thoughts in the distance. Both waiting for the next episode to unfurl.
posted by pr!tz @ 23:55 | 1 comments
Sunday, September 27, 2009 It would have been early evening. Much warmer. The buzz of dusty traffic and hawkers' cries. When you step outside your house, there are a few lanes lined with those beautiful trees. Those that bloom late evening with those white flowers and that sickly sweet smell. The scent lingers heavy in the air all through September and October. I love that fragrance. I associate it with everything that is beautiful. Late night, after-dinner walks in the quiet galis. A lonely ice cream man waiting for you to buy his goods. A tired street dog by the street lamp... Dushhera Melas, lights, fireworks, raamleela, crowds, hot milk and jalebis. Glitter, movie songs, serpentine traffic jams, irreverant baraat on the road, emaciated rickshawalas. Metro trains, crispy honey chicken, cineplex movies, Khan market window shopping. Pandal hopping in CR Park, street food, unexpected bike rides to Old Delhi. A friend's wedding. A power cut. A song. A story. A lazy Saturday afternoon. All these made up my ten years in Delhi. Agar firdaus bar roo-e zameen ast, Hameen ast-o hameen ast-o hameen ast. If there is paradise on face of the earth, It is this, it is this, it is this * * * While I get back to my American chores, you might want to visit this related link: http://oddthots.blogspot.com/2007/05/places.html
posted by pr!tz @ 00:05 | 0 comments
Sunday, August 09, 2009 But that was a long time ago. When a job meant covering a “story” of Sharmila Tagore cutting a shiny ribbon in IHC or Arun Shourie delivering a mundane speech at Kala Akademi. When choir practice would end at 8 in the night and when he would wait for her across the street. When Janpath and Coffee House were places to hide away. When she would run barefoot. Over moist grass, just when the rains were over. When he would travel in precarious rickety buses, standing on footboards. When walks in the park meant tangy gol gappas and stolen light kisses. Oversweet chai and frothy coffee. Naps on her lap while she read and played with his ears. Saturday winter afternoons in the feeble sun, peeling oranges. But that was a long time ago. When the choir practices discontinued. Running barefoot was “eeky”. Nachos and airconditioned multiplexes. Office emails and ongoing projects. Salsa lessons and BBQs. African printed cups with steaming green tea. Then, what is now?
posted by pr!tz @ 19:31 | 4 comments
Monday, April 06, 2009 The children grew up, the summers moved on to winters, and lovers walked away. Thankfully, this friendship remained intact. Last Saturday, we finally met. I was taking pictures of the museum's beautiful architecture, when I saw her walking - well running - towards me with the biggest smile in all of Wisconsin. We recognized each other instantly. Gosh, she is real, I remember thinking. I hugged her girls and met her husband. Cute family. I felt right at home. We walked around the museum catching up, chatting up, taking pictures. We had a humongous dinner and parted ways. But not before promising to meet soon. Until we meet again, let's keep blogging. Pictures: http://picasaweb.google.com/preethi.paul/DayWithTheHitchcocks#
posted by pr!tz @ 05:06 | 7 comments
Sunday, March 29, 2009 The void pained her. She remembered another lifetime. When, together, they had dreamt of Solomon’s vineyards. Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field; let us lodge in the villages. He had earnestly appealed to her. One dark night when they laid together on the floor, bodies fused together, fingers intertwined, his breath moist on her bare neck, he whispered these verses to her. Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth: there will I give thee my love. He continued to quote Solomon. She laughed and kissed his cheek. He placed her palm over his heart. His quibbles and her promises. His riddles and her laughter. Their dreams and the life they wanted. But that seemed another lifetime ago. When, together, they dreamt of Solomon’s vineyards. She continued to dream of the vineyards one lone night when the fog refused to let her see him go. The same lone night when the headlights refused to pierce through the winter air. The same lone night when the fog settled on those vineyards. And on his motorcycle’s path. She sang the songs of Solomon while he skidded past the sharp curves he didn’t see. And when the last heartbeat left his body, she sang unknown: Return, return, O Solomon; return, return, that I may look upon thee.
posted by pr!tz @ 18:00 | 9 comments
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