Gushing waters froth stories. When set amidst lush landscapes, the viridian violence can give rise to some very haunting ones. Sarojini Omanakuttan remembers a few with moist eyes, though not exactly a shudder – toughened by the wildness of office, nothing is shook enough for her. She pointed nonchalantly to a spot outside the wayside shed where she sat keeping an eye on visitors, guiding some and sharing stories with the solivagant. “It was exactly three years and three days ago when the engineering student drowned over there.” The spot
Bitch is a life. Posthumous glory is easy – you don’t really work on it. It is something like Hugh Hefner’s last marriage to Playboy Playmate Crystal Harris, 26, when he was 86 – the world knows you have a good thing going but you aren’t really there. Posthumous glory is a sort of karmic correction – we all have a top favourite author whose life didn’t do justice to the misery endured. There might have been some placation in the one good friend or family member with an
The buzz you feel about a place is a collective one – it comes from within the heads of those around. Including your own. The shop had buzz. Talking buzz, loitering buzz, peeing buzz, wide-eyed, quiet, staring buzz, snacking, sneaking, ogling buzz, people-watching, jiggery-pokery, horny buzz. Violent buzz. I loved the buzz, I was the buzz. It was a mom-and-pop shop but a sexy mom-and-pop: a couple in their early 40s, good-looking, garrulous, perfumed, twinkle in the eyes, with a hot daughter. The sari hung to the missus reluctantly but
Sometimes a bit sticky but eventually rewarding, I have this habit of entering strange places through less-used accesses. Looking around for one in Nehru Place, away from the hawker-choked pathways, I found a secluded stairway. A dark crumbling stretch led down to the subterranean parking lot while a slightly brighter one went up to a corridor ahead of which I could see a sun-burnt square. In the midst of the square stood a dried up fountain with a cracked basin and snouts – remnants of merciless Delhi summers. The legendary
Like most things statutory the question too didn’t accomplish much. Aap kya karte ho? What do you do? Asked the agent whom I found on a real estate portal. Even if you say you undertake contract killings, the answer will still be acha. Good. More than eye on your money, this is also the unshakeable, ebullient, die-hard ‘ho jayega’ spirit of Delhi. Can be done. Nothing is impossible because impossible is everything. There is a whole economy that hinges on it – on securing the unobtainable. Issues are created, obstacles
If languor is your hearth then Pondicherry is home. Clocks in this union territory are known to miss a few ticks now and then and make different times of the day – and night – linger. This temporal deceleration hems in the spatial and limits the experiential. Take the chief lure, The Promenade. This landmark drag fronting the sea is not more than a leisurely trot. In your quest for the best coffee you are sent in different directions but to the same spot. This is again next to The
A flurry of ringing at the door. Nobody has been in such a hurry to feed me ever since I left home. It was Vishnu. A baldpate Vishnu. And I was ready to fist a rando. I didn’t know what to ask first: what’s gotten into your head? Or, what’s gotten into your head? Vishnu I was staying in a large company’s backyard, mostly countrified. One of those rare remaining places in the world where bigness of heart is equated to the amount of food served. So my breakfast came
We sat atop a red oxide stairway that led from the reading hall to the pool area with its mauve sun deck chairs. Rain fell at soft angles on the water surface creating little pimply ripples like thousands of greedy Garra rufa at a foot care spa. A darker hue spread over the chairs as it began to come down harder. Metallic blue shutter cloaked the horizon, crackling thunder tore through. An empty teapot in a tray with two cups had been pushed away from the flurry of amorous limbs.
Traveling together is a benchmark of compatibility. I know at least five dating couples who decided to move in together as they found they were still pining for each other at the end of each trip. More than onism dawning, it is the realisation that you have made some ground together. Yes, if anything can go wrong, it will when you are tripping together – trapped together, literally, for days on end. Across flights and ships, buses, trains and cars, over several thousand kilometres, many different cultures and peoples, types of
Hanging welter covered peeling plaster. The veneer on the butt of an air rifle reflected light, hockey trophies and team memorabilia; a discoloured snood probably worn by Charlie’s wife on their wedding day, frayed ‘Jesus loves you’ pictures curled at the corners; a clock in a chunky wooden case which kept ticking away loudly sometimes even creeping into the catching up underway between the menage and the guests. A smartly attired Charlie from another time smirked from a glassed studio photograph at the gathering through smooth, full lips. My compliment
