Hyderabad

I went to Hyderabad for the weekend: in one day, out the next. I went alone by train, sitting by the window with the wind in my hair. I carefully avoided meeting the eyes of the other passengers in my compartment; I didn't want to have to speak. For one night, I wanted silence.

I read my book till it was too dark to read. Then, as the tubelights above began casting blue shadows on everything, I leaned my forehead against the grill and thought. I noticed that I felt annoyed each time the train slowed down. I wanted, even if I was slowing down, for the train to go fast, to give me a sense of purpose, of moving forward. Even a false one. I forced my annoyance down and told myself that for one night, it was all right just to be. Not to think, but to dream.

R is getting married. My best friend from college, my roommate, the one enamoured of purple coloured walls, who loves chubby babies and dusty teddy bears, is getting married. It seems like such a grown up thing to do. I tried to say it to myself, fast and slow, weightily and airily, to see if it would make any difference. It didn't. It seems like a fact too large to wrap my mind around, and yet, like something that had to happen, that I've accepted a long time ago.

The Saturday morning was already warming up when my train pulled into Secunderabad station. It was the same blistering heat that dyed me three shades darker and gave my feet the most interesting tan lines, all those years ago. It was vaguely endearing.

The station was as busy and noisy and colourful as ever. J was there to receive me and we drove home. Secunderabad perhaps has more right than any other place to be called my home. I lived there for eight years; we built our house there. We buried one dog and adopted another one there. It is the place where I made my decision to become a physicist, and the place where I changed my mind and decided to become a writer. J drove me to our house, his house now. It is the house with the little yellow corner room that I called my own. I would wake there at five in the morning and play the veena till my fingers stung. I would curl up in bed each night, and dream, big dreams. I used to have a mirror in there, a tiny crooked one next to the window, that I would stare into for hours and wonder who it was I saw.

I didn't have much time for introspection though. I was meeting A and R, after what felt like an age. Phone conversations, chats, all aren't really as satisfying as an honest-to-goodness coze, are they?

After a giant breakfast, J drove me to A's house and left me there to wake her up and then catch up. Our tongues worked tirelessly for the next few hours, there was so much to say! But then, there always is. R was busy with engagement preparations, but we were determined not to wait till the evening to meet her, and so joined her at the parlour where she's been camping all afternoon. We interrupted her facial and got glared at by her attendant, but it didn't matter. We ended up getting pedicures together, and on a reckless impulse, I chose to have my toenails painted vermillion.

Then we went out to dinner, the three of us, and R's fiance, and we talked some more. After R and her fiance dropped us off at A's place, we of course analyzed him to bits and concluded he seemed a very good sort and pretty perfect for R. Having settled that, we slept contentedly.

The next day was spent at the engagement. R looked very pretty and suddenly very grown up in her saree, her hair in a long golden plait. A and I giggled together and took a lot of photographs. I strained my pitiful Telugu vocabulary as far as it would go and then, having exhausted it, fell silent. Too soon, it was over. Garlands were exchanges, blessings were offered and it was time to leave.

A and I went to a restaurant and sat there quietly for about an hour, trying to digest what had happened. It seemed terribly important to understand and I couldn't quite explain away the vague sadness I felt. Perhaps it's because R is moving on and away, to a new life that I can't be a part of. The nights we spent in our room, her on her bed, I on mine, talking with the lights out, they seemed inexpressibly dear now. The times she comforted me when I cried, our KFC binges, the hours we spent shopping, all seemed suddenly significant. Too soon, it was time to leave.

I bid goodbye to A at the station. We shall meet again very soon at R's wedding, so the parting didn't seem too hard. Then I boarded the train and as it began to move, I propped my feet up on the berth before me, stared at my vermilion toenails and thought about it all.

PS: Reader, if just R's engagement has me getting this, um, deep, I wonder what her wedding's going to do to me. I'm dreadfully certain I'm going to cry.

After the rain

It rained in Chennai last night. It had to. It has been almost unbearably hot here for a week. By yesterday evening, it felt like the very sky had had enough, what with its bad tempered rumbling and occasional flashes. I philosophically had a second shower, turned on the air conditioning and went to bed. When I woke in the morning, it was to the scent of wet soil and sights of that particular clarity that only a good dousing of rain can give.

The streets were filled with that crisp gray light that is the particular product of a good night's rain. Colours seem brighter, the air feels cleaner. I want to drive a yellow jeep some day, Reader, its rear full of tail-wagging dogs.

They're constructing yet another multistory eyesore nearby. I have nothing against apartment complexes in general, they're only eyesores because these Chennai people often paint their buildings the weirdest colours. I've seen neon green, copper sulphate blue and a pink to rival this:-

I always wonder how petals as delicate as those of the bougainvillea hold up to the battering of the rain. They are translucent and shrivel up at the slightest beam from the sun, but they sit up proudly, wetly, in the rain, dripping raindrops from their tips.

One in every three houses here has a tiny temple built into its outer wall. You never have to go too far here, to pray.

The entrance to the park was blocked by a giant puddle. I executed a rather ungainly hop-skip maneuver to get in, but once I did, it was worth it. The park was almost deserted and I could jog bumblingly along the red paths, trying to count shades of green.

This leaf might have bent submissively under the rain but it was up and cheeky by the time I got there. It waved its long pointy fingers derisively at me, when I climbed up on a park bench to take its picture.

So yes, Reader, I got a new camera for my birthday and I'm going to turn into one of those bloggers for a bit, it looks like. I'm assuming it's a phase. Like all the others, this too shall pass.

Two of me

I'm up late tonight, Reader. The house is silent and I can see the darkness beyond this cone of light I sit in. I have work to do, a great deal of work. My eyes are burning and to shut them, just for a moment, is a great relief.

I wonder why I never thought about this before: how doing anything at all worthwhile is the product of so much effort, how I need to have voluble conversations with myself, motivating myself, each time forcing myself back to work when I drift away. I've drifted a great deal already, checked email, checked facebook, read the news, read my favourite blogs, and pushed myself back to work relentlessly, after each distraction. But I'm like a child with ADD. I only need a whiff of an idea to be away again, to pursue it, to do anything but what I ought. I ought to work intensely for two hours and then go calmly to bed. I wonder when I'll grow that mature.I just thought of you and here I am, typing away on this blog, when I ought to be working.

I can hear myself scolding.

Night and day

Hello Reader! I've missed you! It is warm in Chennai; a sweaty, sticky warmth like a very close hug, where if you take a deep breath, you can smell the unique smell of the city. I stepped into that embrace just about a month ago, and it was comforting after the icicle that was Delhi. It smells of the sea here, and in the evenings, when the jasmine buds open, they add their own heady perfume. It smells of the ghee frying dosas on a thousand stoves each morning, mixed with the incense burning in the temple down the street.

I watched the Republic Day parade this morning, and felt proud. It was very nice to watch it on telly, on a balmy Chennai morning, sunk deep into a sofa. It was very easy to feel patriotic. I had planned to attend the parade, but well, I had to move to Chennai. I remember the night I walked down Rajpath alone. It was lit here and there by gaunt, gloomy looking streetlights and the papads a seller was waving at me looked ghostly. There was only one man selling soap solution; he would blow through a tiny loop, surrounding me with bubbles that burst as they touched me. There were many people there, wearing devil's horn hairbands that glowed redly in the dark. I stood at the Amar Jawan Jyoti and wondered what it felt like to actually give your life for your country, not just talk about it.

That road was busy today, ringing with the sound of a thousand marching boots. And I watched and sank deeper into the comfort of my sofa.

Bonfire

It is Lohri today. In the hostel, the girls will dress up this evening, in a flurry of borrowing and bright colours. They will light a bonfire, more smoke than fire, and dance around it, clapping their hands. The one amplifier we bought, during my third year there, will blare out popular Hindi songs, some of which will no longer be familiar to me. There will be boys, standing apart, awkwardly. The seniors will watch from the first floor corridors and sometimes shout out encouragement. Everyone will munch on damp popcorn and sugar. They will dance till the fire burns down and their eyes are red and watering, from the smoke.

Panda

Reader, looking back on my posts, I find that mentions of a certain black and white pup have become very regular, and indeed for those who don't know him, perhaps quite tiresome. The thing is, Reader, a few months ago, I went through a pretty dark phase. It was the sort of thing we all go through, at one point or another in our lives, but for me it was of obsessive importance, because you see, it was my life. I turned into the sort of person I never wanted to become: self pitying. So when Panda came along, and wriggled his way into my heart, I finally had someone other than myself to think about and it was providential. However, I don't think I managed to get rid of my demons, I simply succeeded in transferring them, to him.
In him, they take  a far more vicious form. Indeed, quite often, he seems almost possessed. Why just last night, I pleasantly anticipated spending the evening reading a book, lingering over dinner, chatting up a few friends. Instead, I rescued a cushion and yelled at Panda, mourned my chewed up headphones and yelled at Panda, chased him around the house and stubbed my toe, wiped up muddy paw prints and yelled at him some more, nearly turned deaf by his barking at imaginary noises and when I finally collapsed, exhausted on the bed, watched him chew a giant hole in the bedspread, too defeated to protest.
He can be absolutely angelic for hours on end. Right now for example, he's curled up beside me looking impossibly virtuous, but I know that in another couple of hours the whole cycle will start again. People, the internet, trainers, all tell me this is a phase, that it will soon pass. But I'm having a deepening conviction that I'm grown too old for this.

My happy place

Reader, I've only been working two weeks, yet my days somehow seem to have acquired a sameness. Don't get me wrong, my routine is pleasant and I am content, at least for now. But I can only tell you so often about how big Panda is growing, how he leaps up, tongue out, his whole body vibrating with the eagerness to greet me, after a long day at work. I can't tell you about sunrises too often, even though each one I've seen has been different and memorable. But wait, I don't think I've told you yet about our dear, misshapen kitchen.
It has far more counter space than anyone needs and too little width for two people to stand and work beside each other with the slightest bit of comfort. But it has lots of fully stocked cupboards and my own dear old pots and pans, which I didn't realize I had missed until I caught myself caressing a bowl. The kitchen is shaped like an L, with the counters running down both sides. Since Amma and I are the only ones who cook and we both don't like spreading ourselves out too much, most of the counter remains black and gleaming, just the way I like it. Our familiar old four burner stove is on one corner, and Amma and I are constantly constantly claiming the space before it,. it is prime real estate. Since we've come here I've cooked puddings and sauces, made chutneys and chappatis and once, a sambhar that Appa said was better than Amma's.
All the while, Panda spreads himself out as wide as possible at the door, making me trip over him several times a day. He always lies there when he sees me cooking, he knows he will be fed illicit scraps.
I'll be telling you more about my culinary adventures soon, on my other blog, but for now I just wanted to tell you about my kitchen. Gleaming counters, the smells of spice, and dog. I think I've found my happy place.