Goa / Escape routes The path was so pretty he knew it would be a dead end. It was six in the morning and he had crept out of bed without making a sound when she was still sleeping. A few months ago he had opened the windows of their hotel room in Pondicherry waking her and she had given him hell. It was a sunny ten and he wanted to fly his drone before the harsh light of noon. Yes, she was taking medication for depression and bipolarity and
Forest Where there is indescribable beauty, expect to find god in the vicinity. In the pristine mountains of Himachal Pradesh, devtas, the goddesses who are the genius loci, are taken on picnics; tribal households flaunt their own deities represented by a dang, a triangular flag, tied atop a bamboo stick, in the lush forests of Chhattisgarh. In verdant, virginal Nagaland, the souls of the dear departed reside in wild animals. For the forest-dwelling Kadars of Kerala, god is in everything around them – animals and plants are ancestors and family.
Advanced age hinders accepting more than it hampers understanding. The resistance fuelled by conditioning than sound sense or fair play. My folks know there’s a contagion in the air and that it’s a mean one – after all, the chief minister of the state can’t be lying everyday on the dot at 6PM. But why would it come in the way of life as they know it they refuse to understand. Or maybe just quick to forget. Like the people in hinterland Chhattisgarh who keep lolloping across their erstwhile backyards
At this roundabout I give my turning the miss, deliberately. Once in the car I did it thrice prompting my co-passenger to firm up her mind on what she always suspected: I was a directionless nig-nog. Its hugeness doesn’t let me notice the hexagonal shape but allows me to zip, zigzagging through traffic. There are many pedestrian crossings where you wait for animated families, parents dragging skipping children lost on ice lollies. Many continue earnestly into their slightly raised mouthpieces without missing a beat; couples hand-in-hand, springing steadfastly towards what
Like my mother’s favourite refrain these days goes ‘every day is worse than Sunday.’ Then born and brought up bang in the middle of town with the landmark Kurisupally chapel next door and a busy junction where vehicles slowed to gather steam before springing in different directions, it was understandable that she found the quietude rattling. We have been living for the past many decades in the suburbs, about two kilometres from where she grew up which hasn’t diminished her fondness for clamour. A few days into the Corona lockdown,
(At home during the Corona lockdown, I decide to do some spring cleaning and come upon a bunch of albums where termites are having a ball. These happen to be of my folks from their years when they were younger than I am and dapper than I ever will be. As I show them the cleaned photographs, some make them visibly excited while some a little poignant, memories flooding of people close to them who have passed on. This article is also a note to myself that nothing remains –
Some people will tell you that slow is good – and it may be, on some days – but I am here to tell you that fast is better. I have always believed this, in spite of the trouble it has caused me. Being shot out of a cannon will always be better than being squeezed out of a tube. That is why God made fast motorcycles, Bubba… Hunter S Thompson, ‘Song of the sausage creature’ It was in the way he announced it. The Wall Street attitude and related
Riding through a manufacturing belt has its rewards – the roads are laid out like duvets, nary a wrinkle; crouch a bit low into the wind and you can open throttle till your heart reaches your mouth. But there is a price to pay – vast swathes of the landscape, what would have once been picturesque, are windowless concrete warehouses or manufacturing hubs with all the scenic value of toppled matchboxes. ‘You can’t have it all’ you console yourself and thole on, racing the wind. Dawdling trucks of unending lengths
Love People who are getting ass always think it is funny when somebody else isn’t. Bukowski, Notes of a dirty old man ‘Quaranteens’ was a joke I received over WhatsApp. It was defined as ‘the generation of children born from quarantining entering teenage by the year 2033.’ I found it funny that is till I received the ‘I want to make love to you’ message. From an ex. She had arrived from abroad after a nasty divorce, giving up custody of a kid to pursue a career in acting. A
The Gangaur Ghat rose resplendent in the path of the sun. The waters of the Lake Pichola on whose banks it loomed stood still awed by the grandeur that surrounded it – and in its midst. Pigeons cooed gratitude for tourists strewing popcorn, rising shortly in hordes indulging the Instagrammers among them. A gaggle of old ladies sat on the steps, pallus covering their faces, getting ready for the evening arti or prayers with lit lamps. Tourists and local vendors swarmed the landing, the latter with their portable vending stands
