Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Cheddar, Labneh, Brie, Feta, Quark, Circassian

All the fish in their tank. Cheddar was the candidate- he always sought more for his school. He would find it, invent it, create it, execute it. If it meant a nudge or two at the other fish- so be it. He kept telling the school about the fish in the Singapore Strait, then the Malacca Strait and then the Gulf of Thailand, Java Strait, the Indian Ocean. About the colors of the waters, the expanse of those waters. Their aspirations were growing, their appetite too. And there just wasn't enough cheese in their little tank. The kids had gone to see all these larger waters, larger buildings but not the cheese, Singapore had no cheese to rival the fish back home- but it had those large waters. The fish decided- we'll move our cheese!This was Cheddar's plan-  when the kids left, they would leave their cheesy bodies and rush to those waters too.

Labneh hoped to find some peace with Brie in larger waters. Of late Brie had seemed disinterested, distracted and worse- irritable. She had started chewing off more of Labneh, larger bites, harder bites. Labneh wanted some peace, some corals to swim around, and green waters. He had always looked at the plants in the balcony from the tank and wanted to swim around them with Brie. 
Brie wanted the same too, but she wanted different things everyday. On the day the kids left- she wanted to drink all the alcohol they had left behind. 
Quark was being too wise for Cheddar. Quark said- we are too domesticated now. We'll be sandwiched with eggs and bread on either side of us in no time in those large waters.
Feta was mostly ignored. He always feared- the little girl would eat him with her fruit loops one breakfast. He liked Brie- she treated him like the smelly cheese he was- but she acknowledged him at least. 
Circassian nodded to everything- Cheddar's pompous speeches, sweaty efforts, Labneh's consent, Quark's protests, Brie's aspirations, Feta's ignominy. When the time for the plunge out of the tank came- Circassian didn't follow suit. Circassian stayed put in the tank. He had his Victory. 

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

I am the Tintin


You came from Brussels. You lived with keys, keys to my places, keys to other’s places. Of course, you are the detective; there are no locks for you.
Let me tell you how you died- It started with an arm amputation. Herge said to me “This wasn’t good, Jasmine, take better care of him”. Then I found a fake leg in the cupboard- prosthesis. But you hadn’t lost a leg- you lost an arm. You could never become a ‘slow man’. Your fox terrier- Snowy and you had to run together. You could never be the one feeling like you were dragging a weight.
And then there was the more grotesque death in store for you. What was worse was me dragging you around even after you died. I dragged your weight around. I didn’t feel the weight of you around my shoulders like an albatross but I smelt the weight of it.
I thought I will put you to rest for so many days Tintin. Herge died too. Herge quoted like Flaubert - I am Madame Bovary-I am Tintin, only I can be Tintin. I can be Tintin, hence Tintin exists.
You even made a big tantrum before I put you to rest. You disappeared, you reached the authorities in uniforms but they turned you over to me. Where were you trying to leave unfinished?

Did you leave like Herge left Tintin and Alph Art?

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

They just left

The family had just left, plates on the table, the smell of food in the living room, towels on the floor, bedsheets with their bodies impressions. They stormed into the place, started looking through everything for a trace of their tale- where did they go, why did they flee so quick, some of them are examining ‘ecological, societal, macro-level factors’. I just look for him.
I fight back my pride, and search with them, through things he must have touched. Also searching for a reason. I notice some of them have started pocketing some of the things from his house, their home. I stop them vehemently, return the stuff to its place. They say- they will never probably come back, what use is it to anybody anymore. I am thinking of how distant they are from our lovely truth- they think of a crime, the thrill of the chase of solving a puzzle, marauding and looting. Such vehemence. I am looking for what happened. I search too- through things I would never touch ordinarily, stitching a story I think I started and he says he invited me into.
It is like I have blocked that little period of when it happened. Like when I design experiments- I block a factor to shut out its noise, to understand others better. What was I trying to understand if not him? I thought he was the pivot of all my excursions. I just know he is gone now. He left in a hurry-he didn’t take his watch as if the time that had passed had to be left behind. He didn’t take his brown shirt.
They are still searching, tumbling through glass and crockery and gilded articles. I turn away from their faces, my face will betray how it hurts. There is so much motion in his large house, the colors and the shine blind my thought like tears blind my sight.
We find nothing- I don’t find him, they don’t find them either.

Sunday, March 2, 2014

Another shirt

So much detail. But not like the detailed lines on your palm. There is no quirk, no surprise to this detail. It looks like a regular product post the Industrial Revolution. Mass produced- the same shirt with the same little 'shells'.  Episodic, repetitive. Indistinguishable. Excelling in its quality for it's uniformity.
And yet so unique. On you, it pauses the world and asks it to deliberate. You said they weren't shells, but eyes, you're right. It is you being the pivot of a lot of attention.

Thursday, January 30, 2014

Lights

I can't believe this proximity
I can't believe this distance

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

An Open Letter


Dear Anzhela,

You left me with a gift I cannot thank you enough for. Also, you left me with inspiration to write and I am so thankful to you for it. I want to write to you about my Russian experiences. The most significant of them.

My Russian association began with this story book: In the land of sunbeam bunnies. 
This is what the cover looks like. It taught me an important lesson very early in life- do not always believe the written word. It so happened that I made a grammatical error in my homework- and my father corrected me. And I protested- “The sunbeam bunnies say so!” It was then that my father told me- just because it is in print, it doesn't mean it is right- the Russians know Russian, not English- they are capable of making a mistake- and you should be capable of recognizing it. Slowly I learnt that lesson well. Not just grammar, the written word means nothing till you want it to.


Anzhela, I told you about how I was considering a job in St. Petersburg many years ago. This happened many years before I read Dostoevsky. Many years before Crime and Punishment moved me like the strongest reading experience ever possible. Many years before I visualized St. Petersburg like Dostoevsky describes it. And this happened many years before you taught me how to say the gentleman's name- Dostoevsky, properly. And before you told me about St. Petersburg- the way you see it and the way he saw it.

On a sudden trip- me and my boss suddenly decided to go to a city I had always wanted to visit and study TRIZ (теория решения изобретательских задачteoriya resheniya izobretatelskikh zadatch). And there I heard of Altshuller and his incarceration of 25 years in the Gulag. And how he proposed the theory of inventive thinking through that time.

A friend talked about the Trans-Siberian railway- travelling from Moscow to Vladivostok and I thought of how nice that journey would be, perhaps nicer than any destination.

I met you in the port town of Vizag- a city where only the sea and the men of the sea made the news. India's military ties with Russia, especially the Navy's would find their way into my newspapers everyday.

And that evening when I showed you around the Indian Handicrafts bazaar in Delhi- I asked you- “I want a Matryoshka doll when you come from Russia next”: You just smiled. And just before you left- you pressed a Matryoshkya doll into my palm. How did you ever know that I always wanted one, and how did you contain the surprise gift for so long? You left me stuck in that moment, it was magical: Matryoshka Dolls have always fascinated me. A toy that never ends... I also look at Mise en abyme also like this: the idea of never-ending joy, that there is always something to look forward too. 

I look forward to us like that too: there is something around the corner always. Things for us to discover together or about each other. Like how you spell your name as we bought money with money. Like us calling Russia 'Rus'.


I miss you.


Best Wishes,
Jasmine





Saturday, September 7, 2013

The Le Chatelier's Principle

I wrote this very long ago in one of my plants:

The plant is smelling wonderful in whiffs. These are not my fancies. In the pressing smell of toluene, there would be brief and yet long pauses of a wonderful smell. Not a natural smell, it would be very chemical, like esters put together, but it was so fresh- like a wet morning flower. And it happened through the day next to the Agitated Nutsche Filter. Every disturbance is undone. The Le Chatelier's Principle.

Friday, July 26, 2013

I'm still here

It surprises me, that i am still here.

Friday, October 26, 2012

A recent discussion of Chivalry

My reaction to Chivalry:

I'm no feminist usually, but it does disgust me. But my disgust turns into amusement soon. I am no Victorian lady, I am able bodied and wear convenient clothes, all of these enable me to- Open my own doors, Pull out my chairs, voice my statements as loud as I need them to be. 
What amuses me men dithering around me thinking it's scoring them points while I'm laughing my heart out!
'Understanding and consideration' is better deserved by the needy not women who play needy when they need to. Chivalry is the 'modality' that needs to be kicked back to the Victorians and their era.

Saturday, September 1, 2012

The Header

The header is a collage of Felix Vallotton's woodcuts. How did I discover Felix Vallotton? Well, I did.


Here is another woodcut, not from the collection in the header- The Assassin. I love the drama in this image.

Dreams and Fears


Like a child throwing a fit, I threw my things away. I picked up all I could reach and threw it. I looked around at the expanse of my clutter. I felt secure with the mess around me. As if every one of those objects served as a defense. Then he came, he picked out every one of those in exacly the order in which I had dispersed the pushed them out of his way and moved closer and closer to me. Then he stood facing me.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

He is there

I see him playing a keyboard in the corner of the big white room as I lead my life.



The notes are interspersed with his laughter, that strange guttural sound he makes.


I also keep hearing him say ‘Jasmine’. And weighed breaths. He lurks in the corner, never stops playing, never comes to claim the spotlight.


Sometimes I turn around to check if he is there. He plays the same tunes, interrupts with the same laughter and calls my name the same way.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

In loving memory of Romeo


You little lovely being, you spread so much joy, I hope you find peace.


Friday, January 13, 2012

They are tearing it down

They are tearing it down. Piecemeal, little pieces in every direction, all the time. Can it still be piecemeal?



Like a cat jumps at its scratch post and slides its claws down the length of it. Disintegrating the wood. Freeing it of itself.


The debris is being broken further. Further and further. It looked like a piece of the autoclave an hour ago. It looks like a piece of something now. It could have been anything- a part of a remote, a part of a chromatographic circuit etc. They are leaving no grace for the remains.


And who are these agents of destruction? These men who work unscathed by the dust, by the sound and by the sheer magnitude of their task, they are no ordinary men. While we cringe our noses, try to filter our breath, search for places to plant our feet in, distract ourselves from the sound, these men-they lumber on. At times we stop and examine their work, it is almost moving to see the building that shelters us facing the savageness. It seems that the sheer ferocity of their task propels their beast. They pound at the Aluminum harder, cut through the meshes faster and ram the crumbling walls harder. They look into your eyes through a glaze; something in them is hard to reckon with.


In a little spot in all this destruction, there is something being constructed.



Thursday, December 8, 2011

Say it, Say it, Say it

When my computer says 'This may take several minutes', it means it.

Friday, September 9, 2011

The can was fluorescent green

I picked it off my friend’s shelf. The can was fluorescent green. I didn't expect much from it, "Just don't let me stink". I sprayed it, it seemed ok and then I busied myself with exiting the place. I picked up my bag, found my hairclip, dusted my shoes and slipped into the long drive to work.



In office, as it sat down beside me, I asked the Smell- "Where are you from?” it replied “From a girl's bedroom". "But I know you", I said. "You think I smell like your cousin and her room?" "Perhaps" "You think I am a homely feminine smell? Like a half-open girl's dressing drawer with sunlight shining into it?"I get distracted by my vacuum calculation. The size of the nozzle just doesn’t seem right. I turn around to ask my colleague. The Smell catches my attention again as I look over my shoulder. “I’ll get back to you later, let me design now”, I push the smell back into that drawer and shut some of the sunlight with it.


Tuesday, June 28, 2011

There is a palm tree

It is some kind of a palm. I walk past it everyday. Sometimes it sways with the wind. Usually it just looks down at me as I walk by it. Yesterday I found a fruit lying under it. But the fruit was not from the palm. 

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Gifts



Strange gifts from friends. 
This was from one who shares a penchant for libraries. 
Thank You!

Monday, December 27, 2010

Where, Here?

"Have you been here often?"
"No, not since the last time I met you here."

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Indicators

So I've been thinking of buying a car. I always thought I'd buy the most fuel-efficient, low maintenance, sturdy mechanics car, but I have a lovely little brother. He loves the big, shiny things in life and can be very persuasive with his charm.So I thought of a lot of cars, thought of my budget and again thought of a lot of cars. Then came the new Alto K10 but bros said it looks like a creature from Tralfamadore. Then I thought of the Chevrolet Beat and kept thinking about it. At this very opportune time, my friends also decide to buy new cars- the Volkswagen Polo and the Ford Figo. Another friend drives the Fiat Punto.  And I noticed that I was noticing cars all the time. Piqued by my lack of attention, my Maruti started getting even with me. Clutch Bearings, suspension, steering wheel, all the big expenses that my little car could ask for came home uninvited. One not so fine day, in the midst of the IFFCO Chowk mayhem, I was trying to turn right. And I cursed as I hit the indicator. My last memory of it was that it was not working for a long while, like my odometer and I was used to getting exasperated every time I tried to point my car right. But that morning it worked! The mechanic had fixed it. I had been so flustered by the repair, trips to the mechanic, by the new car search , the car loan stuff, selling old car search. The blinking indicator was like a poultice. The rhythmic blinking was somehow so peaceful, so distant from the conundrum of a new car.
It was probably the right indicator.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

An Anand Karaj

My cousin sister is a practising Sikh born into a Sikh family. She married a man who is also an apparently practising Sikh born into a Sikh family this June. Recently, they went to get their marriage registered in Punjab. The clerk asked them for a picture from the "Anand Karaj", and my sister replied, "Oh, I don't think we had that ceremony". The clerk was obviously taken aback and she asked again- " Did you walk around the Guru Granth Sahib four times?". It was then that the newly-wed couple registered that they did participate in an "Anand Karaj", and in fact it was the "Anand Karaj" that they had dressed up so gaudily for. It was why their profiles mentioning their hobbies were on that matrimony website. It was what they invited all those guests to. It was where the bride shed those tears. It is what the Sikh communion is, it was the occasion that was marked by those recitals of those laavans that they didnot strain themselves to listen to, but did 'walk' around the Guru Granth Sahib to.  It was the "in-between" those two evenings of partying. 
I attended that Anand Karaj that June, or did I really attend one?


I know that non-Sikhs are not encouraged to participate in an Anand Karaj. How do you distinguish between a non-Sikh and a "lets party after this" Sikh? So many such questions, isn't it?

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Clef




The floor was littered, with the exigency of their moment; they didn’t wait for the soprano to soar, they soared on another floor, while this lay littered.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

A Kureishi Shelf




I've had strange factions of luck with Kureishi. My first Kureishi- Love in a Blue time with the lovely Blue cover found its way into my bag from a government library somehow. I loved the spined copy so much, and even more so after discovering the much duller paperback version in the expensive bookstore, I  immediately decided to keep the forbidden copy away from its lawful home-the State Library. But, the beautiful cover played elusive and I lost the book to a friend so dear I didn't scratch him bald when he told me that my first Kureishi had decided to move on.


Gabriel's Gift I found in the AC Joshi Library, a library that had a noted dislike for modern fiction and hence my surprise, " Kureishi, you, here?". The silvery blue cover reflected my "blue love" for Kureishi back at me. And hence a pleasant afternoon under the winter sun with Kureishi in my lap before he returned to the dark hustled library shelf less than 14 days  from our shelved encounter.


One grumpy day I happened to turn into the little old magazine kiosk and found the most  brilliant cover I've ever I've seen on a book. Intimacy limned as a couple in bed, intimate.
This cover I've never seen in any bookshop, I had to discover it between obsolete India Todays and Womans Eras. And I hold this Kureishi close to me like no other, intimate. 


In Bangalore with my Twink, I found Love in a Blue Time again, in a pile that threatened to self destruct anytime. I escaped with Kureishi, myself and my Twink-then tight under my arm.


And then this Sunday, I again sauntered over to the little old magazine kiosk and found The Buddha of Suburbia content amongst the Pregnancy and Childcare and Digit Magazine. So even though I owned a much more expensive sparkling version, I still picked up the spent Kureishi.


And now I live with the Kureishis.
:)


P.S Dear Hanif Kureishi,
My apologies for completely discounting my copy of Midnight all Day from this narrative, I, well, didnot enjoy it a bit.







Thursday, November 12, 2009

Point

The ends of his fingers marked the beginning of my desire.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

The Love beneath their Fleece


Dedicated to Booker who contrary to all expectations, did not take off his shirt.


They drove up a 40 degree incline and then they shared their first breaths of air with Her. Their wide open collars breached to her the lumps in their throat at the sight of her.
Nobel had created a goddess of her. She saw that he even had prayer beads with her alphabet on each of them embracing his gullet. Booker’s driving was enough wild to scare even the immortal Goddess. She sat perched between them both; the writers not further than the expanse of her shoulders allowed and not closer than that. Booker gave the impression he would turn his face to hers and seal the kiss that was lingering in both their heads. Nobel and she had serious business to do; they both came armed for each other; the arsenal in their bellies, their eyes shone at each other with the glimpse of the fireworks they could create.
Booker looked perfect with his eyes that reminded Her of dark forests and his structure which she would have loved to explore had he only undid his buttons. Nobel looked all-pervasive, his hair echoed the despair in his eyes and his dimples betrayed it all.
Having arrived at their destination at Bookers mercy, they placed themselves in the ascent to Zafraan. Intoxications ran freely here and Booker and the Goddess rejoiced. Dear booker, with his contempt for such “pleasure-measures” rejoiced in rubbing with the Goddess’ shoulders during their revelry. They dismissed the carrot-head who offered his obeisance to the Goddess all evening before allowing him to lay their table with ambrosia. After the alcohol had filled his soul Nobel silently declared looking directly at Her a cardinal sin.
She told Nobel how the polka dots and the music of the forest in the toilet reminded Her of Her heavenly abode. Nobel had recently beaten Her at a game of verbal intercourse and she was poised to stake Her claim in the conversations that evening. Matters of love and sexual intercourse could not have been accorded with these lesser mortals but she was adamant and with Booker safely in Her cape, Nobel looking Here, there everywhere but at Her, she felt she was headed at a win.
On the way back up the 40 degree incline, Booker finally confessed of his sources of pleasure and displeasure; he was assured salvation was his. They found their preferences rhyme, that their laughter rhymed and that their scorn also rhymed in some stanzas.
There were embraces at the end of it.
She suggested they catalogue this tryst, a first hopefully; and here is Her account.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

The color on my fingertips


The red is so sad.
My fingers look like they could play a dirge.

Saturday, July 4, 2009

a white shirt

The detergent washed away the malaise, they now smelt of oranges and lilies and over-ripe plums put together. She pulled them from the washing line as the rain and gust tugged at each other. They fell on the mosaic, got caught in the fence, fell on the grass, and then they gathered in her arms. Still warm with the remains of the sun, still crisp from the remains of the detergent and damp-stained with the waters from above. I closed my eyes, picked one of them up and buried my face into the cornucopia of that aroma. I knew with my eyes closed, I knew that it was white. It smelt white.

It smelt like Paras did that wonderful noon in Bangalore.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Back

Back to where my hair smells of "Guaiacol Malonate" and not "Mallige".

Sunday, May 3, 2009

The New Plant

I am in a manufacturing plant that uses rechargable batteries in torches.
I am in a manufacturing plant that has a wood-fired boiler.
Believe me.