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He stood on the west lawn. A cool winter breeze was blowing, causing the leaves to rustle. The dragon flies buzzed and mated in mid air, seagulls flew in lonely trios in the blazing blue sky above the Arabian. Up amongst the branches, the crows cawed. The sea was calm and the tide high. The waves merely sighed as they broke upon themselves in fresh immaculate foam.

Having a Good Time

Buy soft spiced bread, some cheese spread, a couple of fresh tomatoes, a huge sausage, six eggs and a box of apple juice. Cut the sausage, slosh a few eggs and break one straight on to a heated pan studded with garlic frying in some oil. Next surround the frying egg with the scrambled egg on the pan and garnish it with small pieces of sausage and a pinch of turmeric and salt. Slide this heap of joy onto your plate with the yellow still sunny and gooey. Now paint your slices of spiced bread with the yummy plain cheese spread and fold one to dip it into the delicious yellow of your egg. When you are finished with the yellow, fold the omelette (god it is large!) to fit your slices, (which of course are smeared in cheese) cover it with slices of fresh tomato and sausage, you could fry that in garlic if you wish, to make a sandwich. Take a bite and sip the apple juice.

PS: Don't do this too often.

Gateway Evenings

Getting of the bus near Sailors Home and walking past Wellington Mews to pass by the Naval Mutiny Memorial Garden I walk down Accommodation Lane to meet Colaba Causeway and even before I can cross the road, I see the salty naked horizon. The rains are not too good this time and the air is warm, but near the sea there is breeze. I take a walk down the pavement leading to Radio Club and stop like drifting wood near a rock to stare at the waves. It is high-tide and the waves are giving out a deep low rumble. As the waves rise along the stone wall, they fill in the pores which empty themselves in spurts before the new wave fills them again. This part of the shore is dotted, perpetually, with small fishing boats and large tankers. Across the road are colonial buildings with pretty names, their windows opening to this Arabian splendour. When I look at the Gateway from the Radio Club end, I see the Ramchandani Marg flanked on one side by colonial architecture and pleasant road side trees and the Arabian Sea on the other, and I can tell that some thought has gone into creating this urban landscape. I walk down Appolo Bandar road and turn into one of the alleys to bump in to a fast-food corner that sells juicy chicken-shwarma. I munch on the juicy melange of alternately soft and crispy chicken, filling potato ,beetroot and the heavenly white sauce from Lebanon, thank the fast-food guy and take the bus back home.

The Trek

I stood before this huge hole in a wall of rock, two thousand feet above the ground, and through the hole I could see the opaque screen, stark white. It was a cloud. We had reached the peak of what was the first mountain of the three that we would walk on over a span of twelve hours, starting at 6:30 am on a certain Saturday. The mountain with a hole at the peak was Nakhind. It is shaped like a blade, making it's peak the edge of a sharp razor. From the place we started, the hole looked really small, and I joked about how it meant that the mountain was a virgin and that the hole needed a little widening. It was only after I reached the hole after two hours of a gut-wrenching climb when I realized: It was not the mountain that I fucked, but myself. We had reached the peak and lost our way, going back was impossible as there was no way to descend the way we climbed without sustaining loads of injury, the mud had become slippery with the rain, and the only way to keep ourselves from slipping off the mountain was to hold on to these unreliable plants whose leaves looked like those of banana. The rain had begun when we reached the hole and the wind velocity was high, this is scary when you are standing on a patch of bare rock four feet wide, two thousand feet above the ground with a visibility of not more than 15 feet.



Naren volunteered to venture further down the sharp ridge and reported a way out. Soon we reached a niche on the razor's edge and it was going to require that we climb the eight feet high vertical patch of exposed rock, on the left of me was the the steep mud covered mountain back that vanished into the cloud below and to my right was the cloud which obscured all that was below, dangers accentuate when in a shroud. I was wearing cotton denim and promptly stripped myself off it. I went up after Shashi and Naren. I gathered it was Manna coming up next when heard a huge thud on the rock below me, a hold on the patch had dislodged when Manna tried to hold it, I still remember how I could hear the rock hurtle down the shrouded side of the mountain for about 30 seconds, each time I heard it hit a surface there was a shatter, and I was two feet away from that abyss. The same thing happened during Sayantan's ascent, and soon there were not enough holds, they had to make a rope out of two pants, one of which was mine. I figured I should walk without pants for the rest of the way as the thing was too dangerous for anything less agile than underpants. I had take my shoes off as the rock was wet. We walked for a while and then climbed another patch and then began descending to Peb. The way was steep, and there I was, sliding down mountains on my bare ass and feet, now I was wearing underpants, but they kept rolling into my butt crack, presenting it with thorns, raw rock, mud and snails. We walked for 12 hours on 25 kilometers of mountain rock and grass, often crossing moss covered water falls that fell into what you don't want to fall. The weather was covering up all signs of dehydration and I knew I was thirsty only when I had cramped thighs on a path that was less that one foot wide, with a slippery rock on my left and a huge deep nothing on my right. I made it alive to Matheran by 7:30 pm.

The Girl in Pink

It was six in the evening and the month was June, the shore which was so close to the hill made the air unpleasantly humid. Presently however the evening breeze was putting my body at ease, I was throbbing after the several high steps I had climbed. I made my way to the temple gate and stopped to take my sandals off, I saw this girl in her early twenties wearing a pink dress. It was a salwar kameez with no sleeves. Her face was pleasantly long, the curves around her cheekbones delicate, and her fragrance sensual. I noticed the elegant corners of her large eyes that did not look at me, but in them I could sense an awareness of having found an admirer. So subtle and mysterious was their emotion, that I could feel it's poison fill my manhood with a pleasant stupor. I lingered a while as she entered the temple gates and my eyes parsed her figure with wild guilt. The curves had an effortless flow and were veiled in an elegant attire. She was with her parents and after they were done with the temple they waited in the compound, all this while my eyes followed her, I was ravishing that subtle pleasure which plays on a woman's face when she is admired, and just like that she was gone. I looked around the premises in vain. I was staying at my sister's holiday home and an aunt of mine had to leave for the city the next day. I accompanied her to the bus stand. As I walked into the stand I saw her again with her family. Our eyes met and I found recognition in them. Their bus was ready, they went in with their luggage, but the afternoon was blazing and the bus very unlivable. I saw her coming towards the door for some air and standing there with her back towards me. My gaze was steady and I saw her turn her head to look at me. Through the slit of the half open door her eyes met mine and stayed there. This happened for one timeless moment, then she turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Midnight Snack

I like the pan hot,
I slice some onion and chop a chilly,
and sprinkle some salt.
On a hot pan.

I like to choose,
between the spread and butter,
between the jam and pepper.
I like to flip my creation,
on a hot pan.

The eggs I mash,
pour out a yellow I like,
The yellow goes a little brown,
on the hot pan.

I chomp away with delight,
the toast and the egg,
I like to end my day,
On a hot pan.

That Day

The other night I poured my self some vodka, and drank to the biggest bastard alive, my professor. The next morning it was breakfast at Mondegar, fried eggs, bacon, french fries, salad, a glass of orange juice-it went well with the bacon in buttered bread- and a cup of coffee. NGMA next, and then, It was the fort market, the alleys are queer in this part of the city, no matter which one you take, you get where you want to. I spent the next two hours lazing in the Strand Bookstall, got my copy of 1984 and then walked into the People's Publishing House, bought a copy of Mother, browsed through a few lesser known magazines, and took the bus home.

Saturday Morning

The cool breeze and the young sun took turns at playing against the back of my neck, The sea was alive with a full and low rumble, the water beneath the rock doing a majestic gurgle. The waves rustled into the crisp air, heavy with somnolence. To my left was the city shrouded in the morning mist, a Saturday was not hers to wake up to.

Sergo

His walk, as he walked with friends on the cobbled lanes of Karmapolis, was nonchalant with his steps falling like they did not care where. Very much a part of the group, yet, consistently aloof. His contribution to the conversation would generally be a loud laugh and an occasional remark on topics that went around, irking his company with mooning questions and all this while keeping his posture frank and genial. His coruscating eyes, as they stared right through his company, looked like they held an embarrassing insight.

Related:
Eyes

Fruit Salad with Jelly, Cream and Ice Cream

It is a tub full, rich milky almond pistachio scoops of Ice Cream drowning in the finest homemade cream as white as a fresh lily petal, studded with blood red jelly, the cream sprinkles over the red of the jelly at places and complements perfectly to the fresh fruity aroma emanating from the tub. This, it owes to the assortment of fresh juicy fruits that make up the salad part. And it is quiet a pastiche, emerald green Australian grapes, they are chilled, translucent, juicy and apple textured. Then there are orange petals, their juice swollen beads spilling out into the Ice Cream and jelly. The litchi is lush pink with the seed removed and ready to melt its luscious soul into your taste buds. Chunky Pineapples and velvet soft Muskmelons join the riot, the ice cream steams into the hot Bangalore air and it is a pleasure to see the red jelly playing with the orchard in snow. I like to have an occasional scoop of pure soft cream which is just right in it's sweetness and divine in it's texture. The jelly is best when had with the Litchi and Grape and the Ice Cream goes well with the Orange and Musk. I like the pineapple, cracks filled with the chilled steaming Ice Cream.

The author wishes to inform the reader that this is the description of a dish available at an Ice Cream parlour in Bangalore at Residency Street, it's name being Corner House, The author was enchanted by the quality and variety of Ice Cream available at the parlour

Related:
Rasgoolas
Breakfast
Black Coffee

Traffic

The wind was blowing warmth through windows of the tin bus, and even when the clock suggested that things be darker and cooler, the sun continued to radiate from well above the horizon. The road was a medley of whirring car engines and horns. The bus was now at a crossing and the evening was just like another weekday evening in this part of the city, people in their cars returning to what they called their home or to fancy restaurants, lounges, pubs, libraries and food.

The signal showed red and beside the bus came to halt a water tanker, it looked like a green dung beetle with a red mouth, a strong radio blared from the driver's seat, the red of his cockpit was gleaming with a mock against the sun, and if one looked at it, would in all certainty, bring a sigh of exasperation and curse the heat around. The tank in the rear which carried water (one is compelled to think that there is water inside the tank) was deep green in colour, the green looking at which one is reminded of the deep gloom in a prison cell or the deep feeling of loss and remorse. And further behind, as one continued to look along the length of the beast there was a huge tap with a cog wheel which when turned would bring the water gushing from the four inch wide spout.

She wore a cheap synthetic yellow sari, her frame was shriveled and her jaws swathed in dark skin glowing off the radiant heat, her eyes were fixed on the cog wheel and the wide spout, her hand carried an empty bottle made of plastic that was bruised and foggy, her feet hurried towards the tanker, knowing well that signals don't wait for the thirsty, she reached for the cog wheel and with all the strength her feeble hands could afford she tried to wrench it open, just then the giant beetle moved jerking away it's inertia, the signal went green.

Yet Again

I do not know what they call the tree occupying the corner of the east lawn. It has a trunk that looks brown and has prominent wrinkles, It stands taller than the building nearby and has leaves that look too small for its size. i think they have a glossy surface. On a closer looks one finds that the branches colonize in their final stages, giving the tree the look of a conglomeration of overlapping leaf clusters that quiver with the sea breeze. It bears white frail flowers that keep falling all over the green lawn by the dozens and render the ground beneath the tree with a white aura. Sometimes, if I wait, I get to see a single flower falling from the highest branch, the fragile white thing spins around itself in mid air before resting on the green beneath the lawn.

Patrick

The other day I saw Patrick going against my stride. He wore a short and no shirt, his belly bulged out spilling over the waist button of his shorts, his breast had hair that was turning while and there were scars of some sort all over, as he pulled his short that kept slipping off as he walked one could see his arm rippling with sagging muscle covered with old skin and white hair. His eyes had a sack of skin below them, his cheek bones were prominent. As he passed me -without looking in my direction- asked me the time, at first it looked like he was rambling into the air, but his rambling was a question, and with no one but me around, it suggested that the question was for me, before I realized this he was a meter past me, and as I looked back in a state of mild confusion he was already saying "Don't worry, don't worry!", then he turned and walked away.

The Evening Raga

The evening descends,
upon me as the shadows rise,
Slowly, she transcends,
the waking eyes.

The unfolding is a waking
mystery, her sleep an assurance deep,
the raga is in the making,
and the eve in the keep.

The notes swirl in eddies soft,
and the words are mire.
They come from the mystery croft,
setting my soul afire.

The spirit is vernal,
as the shadows leave
The melody, eternal,
and hence, is the eve.

A Train Accident

The morning was an hour old, and the smell of his bathing soap still fresh on his skin, Hurriedly he had his breakfast of boiled cabbage and wheat dough to rush out of the door into the cold swirling morning breeze. His laptop case dangled about his hips as it hung form a strap on his left shoulder. His shoes clicking away into the cold unfeeling air of the hour young morn. The alley was flanked on the left by a series of apartments with a similar story to tell. All had the dim light , all had a breakfast somewhere in the corner of their yawning cavities and all had a watch that ticked away mockingly into the morning.

One house however, was different, Its walls, as one could see through the large window, were smeared with blood, and the table had a butchers knife on it, no breakfast, only the knife, red with the blood on the wall. Somewhere nearby at the foot of the red wall was a little finger and on the clothes line on the window sill was the news paper for the day. The yellow lamp on the table was flickering, sobs emanated from somewhere within the yawn.

He went clicking his shoes into the morning, into his office. His assignment was due and complete. The project was coming up next week, he had plans for a holiday the week after that. At lunch he told his colleagues about the incident and they shrugged. The evening tea had forgotten about it, and the longing for his abode grew strong.

Tired and high on coffee he made his way back to his alley, the apartments were on his right this time and the bloody apartment of the morning was missing, he underwent an involuntary quiver and pressed the door bell. His wife opened the door for him, walking in he saw the walls had wall-paper on them.
"Why the new wall paper honey?"
"It's better that way darling, if it gets dirty, we'll just strip it and put a new one".

The Actor

This post is dedicated to Dr.Shriram Lagoo for his play 'Natasamrat'

Why do you,
around yourself, a universe spin?
Why do you,
upon your angry brow, give birth,
to tragedy's kin?

Clenching fists,
Shuddering cheeks,
Blooming mists,
of the darkest keeps.

What have you?
In your eyes so red,
What have you?
In your thunderous voice,
They torment me in my screaming bed,
And the life in my warring choice.

How they stomp, you drunken feet,
How they lurch and last they meet,
Did they stop? Did they fail?
The leary top, the heavy ale.

Smogland

The noise was like a screen, and it was showing stench, honks, people, more people, more bags, counters, tickets, train timings, and less of the thing people carry around and never show on the platform, their mercy. It would shroud everything beneath ones knees, dogs, kids, beggars, dirt, and trampled lepers, there was no time for that. The queue was long and fast disappearing I was the tail.

Through that smog which hid every thing starting from the knees to the ground, I could see some movement, a boy, two feet and a half, wild hair, dark skin with smears of grey dust that the smog covered, the eyes, powerful and piercing, smog defying, the nose small and straight, the lips moving, murmuring a language from smog land, the noisy smoke drowned it . He walked on all fours like a spider searching for a prey. 'Clink' somewhere in smogland a coin must have dropped from the hands of a man who was from the knees and upwards, above the smog and putting his change and the ticket into his pocket. The spider gave a slight quiver and turned and rose, yet not above the smog, turned this back towards me and ran towards the 'clink' in smogland, he was wearing a trouser with one leg, whose hind had been ripped starting from the heel to the buttock, the flap still clung to the trouser, a small buttock covered with dirty underwear, he raced and before the person form nonsmogland could put his hands into the smog that appeared so thick in the distance, the spider was there, desperately trying to capture the coin that was still bouncing on the floor of smogland. The people of the nonsmogland are powerful, he kicked the spider, once and missed, twice and the hit his chin, he fell on this bottom, about to cry of the pain and his smog defying eyes at the guy from nonsmogland. The smoke of the noise covers everything, even the words that came out of the guy from nonsmogland, to the spider form smogland. The powerful handed the weak a coin from nonsmogland, coins are a commodity from the nonsmogland, 'clink''s are form smogland. The spider rose to this feet and was still below the knees of the people from nonsmogland, he had to be, he belonged to smogland. He came back now and I could see the back pockets of his torn trouser bulging with white polythene, the coin was in his canines now, forming a mound on his grey cheek, he turned around again this half ripped pant revealing the dirty underwear form smogland.

Breakfast

A two egg omelet, two slices of fresh white bread, a scoop of red jam, and a cube of dairy fresh butter, a cup of steaming coffee with a smooth tan and half a spoon of sugar(keeps the bitter beans alive).

The slices go into the toaster and stay there till I get the smell of the moisture within the slice pores rise and leave the bread golden brown and pleasantly crusted, the crust is warm enough to allow the cold butter melt over the surface and penetrate the crisp pores leaving the slice scented richly with an aroma that belongs to the royal kitchens. I apply the butter with all the leisure I can afford, dividing the cube into two, one for each slice, careful not to leave the edges out, one has to do complete justice to the golden brown. The red scoop follows (it is red today, apple, it is a clear yellow on other days, pineapple) the knife that buttered now dives into the jam, the jam melds without conflict into the butter turning from the glossy red to a hazy red with grains, the pores are now richer, full with the wealth of fresh butter and sweet jam the knife runs over the slice like breeze over a cornfield, not leaving a single patch untouched making it look like a velvet cloak in rich red.
Two slices carefully buttered and jammed the mixture oozing over the crisper edge on to the omelet garnished with mushroom chops.

I place the omelet (entire, two eggs within) on to one of the slices and use the other to complete the breakfast sandwich. More honey oozes over the surface of the omelet and the pores so rich, must be proud of their existence. I take my first bite and my taste buds are receiving surprises from the heart of my masterpiece, as the egg and the mushroom chops and the butter and the jam and the crisp bread perform the most perfect of all symphonies the most graceful ballet and the most sumptuous breakfast, I like to alternate between a bite of my sandwich and a sip of my deep tanned coffee, it nudges me gently into a brand new day.

Colours

Winter was touching my skin with it's icy fingers and the air conditioning made it no better, the afternoon was in it's radiant youth and the sun shone across the pristine blue sky and through the salty sea breeze. The cobbled path along side the west lawn is bordered by flowers of the season, the gardener tells me about how the Marigold blooms best in winter and how he is quiet happy with the results this winter, sure enough the border is ablaze with bright yellow petals, crowded and like frills over the green, glowing with an aura they stole from the sun above. The petals appear like they have been stuffed into the flower, they are sheer abundance, some frilled some freckled all yellow and happy they sway daintily in the afternoon breeze all in one lot. The sun is doing a good job warming me up, while the cold breeze gently keeps me away from the sweat.

On these little balls of radiance are the butterflies flitting away and leaving you without a doubt that they are really happy. Black bodies with bright white spots , a loud shade of red separated by a black border from the yellow that must belong to the marigolds and has the habit of dripping in to these vibrant wings.Then the shades of black mixing with the yellow and the red around a bright white speck, the black playing around the islands of colours, swirling around and forming the best lace ever. The butter cup joins the party and this must be a riot of yellow for in it's flitting and floating it sprinkles the yellow from its wings onto the yellow of the marigold and it looks like this is where all the yellow came from, it is small and the wings are yellow with small red spots on the periphery so small that you have to stoop down to notice them, the flit about in pairs and the go in knotty circles around each other, the adjectives attached to these things are so jocund so happy so jolly, it would seem like all of the happy English exists because man wanted to talk about them. There are these butterflies whose names I do not know but who have managed to gather some of the blue from the pale blue flowers on to their wide wings which have the finest lace in black casing it. They flap once and then don't for sometime, and all this while they float on the breeze and sway with it as if there were not a care in the world, they too have black bodies and white specks on them, I look closer and I see their black thin snout busy among the petals burning with yellow, the vibrant black on the blazing yellow looks like it belongs to the heavens.

Lunch calls, I must head back, and while I'm on my way, two buttercups do a knotty flit around my leg.

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They quiver in transcentental harmony as the sea breeze filters through their colonies on the gracefully gnarled branches brown and wrinkled, persistent wrinkles, flowing through the silent eternal past into the wriggling, slithering, dynamic present. They are green without the glaze, just a sombre matte that rubs past the salty wind leaving behind the sparks of a timeless rythm. The fragrance emanates from the white, delicate, coy. They fall as flakes, turning as their petals allow them to fall on the lawn where the buttercup flits tiny pinks blossom.

The harmony is recalcitrant, it is sense out of chaos, order inextricable fom disorder. The trunk rises and in parts falls back to the ground to rise again with surreal grace, as if the fall had a posessive purpose. The twitter is varied and the abodes are in plenty somewhere among the cellars of a beautiful maze. They fly amongst the song of the green matte conducted by the breeze and the falling white fragrance that lands on the lawn.

It soars above the rest of the green and spreads beyond the reach all creepers, showering the green beneath it where buttercups play, with a magnificent and peaceful majesty.