30 sweet seconds to enjoy a winter full moon in an inky black sky framed by the bare branches of a tree looking like a Van Gogh painting at Lonavala. 30 alone seconds to watch the tops of the 100 feet casuarina trees outside our cottage at Dive Agar erupt into a confusion of yellow as two dozen Golden Orioles rose out of it to the accompaniment of a cacophony of twitter. 30 all-too-short minutes to enjoy the biting cold of early Delhi morning at Chanakya Puri, watching school kids bundled up in woolens going to school, like so many bees. Four achingly nostalgic hours to dash from Marina Beach to Saravana Bhavan to Mount Road to Besant Nagar Beach, remembering those crucial three years of shedding small town-ness, growing wings, growing up, falling in love, being betrayed, picking up guys at a fast food restaurant on a bet, pillion riding to Mahabalipuram on a bike...
Vignettes framed sharply by the strict confines of time to enjoy them--like looking through someone else’s photo album. No time to savor, no time to linger, no time to roll it around in the mouth like candy, making it last. No time to take that luxuriating bath in the marble bath tub set in the marble bathroom, watching TV through the transparent wall at the hotel in Delhi.
Books half read, things half said, hurts half mourned, sleep half slept, things half remembered. Stopped for 10 seconds outside TQMS at Pune, remembering the shy fish at the pool outside the strictly formal dining hall, adjacent to the teak and rose wood evening room with a grand piano, next to the library of endless dark wooden shelves where I borrowed Daddy Long Legs and read it in two hours.
Emotions dealt with quickly, like those time-bound tasks that pop up in the inbox. Three measly hours stolen from myself to get lost in a darkened theater and rethink responses to life’s persistent problems. Four truncated hours of being slapped around by the rough sea to come to terms with my all too palpable mortality.
Little chores piling up like plastic garbage. Three dense weeks before I can fully unpack the bag from a previous trip. One month to clear the laundry bins. No time to search for a missing top. Passport yet un-renewed.
Sleepy taxi rides to think of a hundred things to write about--pregnant thoughts that never bear any fruit. Haven’t written about how the ho-hum hills of the winter time Sahyadris magically transform into incredibly romantic dark hills cradling bejeweled valleys at night and how the winding roads take on a soft, dreamy aspect with some old Beatles numbers on the pipe. Haven’t written about the wonder of the deep red sun unsteadily hovering over a shallow still pool formed on the beach, a little away from the restless waves at Shrivardhan. Haven’t written about the stinging feel of the cold floor on bare feet and the late night chill that penetrated shawls and quilts on a winter night at Kolkata. Haven’t written about how much my colleagues enjoyed Murugan Idli Shop and how one of them tipped the teenaged waiter specifically for serving him unlimited quantities of sambar. So far.
Life strewn with many homes one made, but never lived long enough. The assistants at the beauty parlor in Kolkata remembered me from last year’s visit although I haven’t lived in the city for four years. Chennai looks like one of those sci-fi time warps--feels like I can reach across the transparent portal and touch 1998, so little has changed. Walked past my and V’s erstwhile flats at Yaari road last evening and thought of that time when life could have taken a different route. Shots of Chicago in a recent movie I saw constricted my throat with an unexpected pang.
I wonder how it will feel like to have a Hermann Hesse-esque moment of slowing down to listen to the flow of life. I wonder what I will remember of all this when I am old, retired, and my memory is failing. Damn!
Vignettes framed sharply by the strict confines of time to enjoy them--like looking through someone else’s photo album. No time to savor, no time to linger, no time to roll it around in the mouth like candy, making it last. No time to take that luxuriating bath in the marble bath tub set in the marble bathroom, watching TV through the transparent wall at the hotel in Delhi.
Books half read, things half said, hurts half mourned, sleep half slept, things half remembered. Stopped for 10 seconds outside TQMS at Pune, remembering the shy fish at the pool outside the strictly formal dining hall, adjacent to the teak and rose wood evening room with a grand piano, next to the library of endless dark wooden shelves where I borrowed Daddy Long Legs and read it in two hours.
Emotions dealt with quickly, like those time-bound tasks that pop up in the inbox. Three measly hours stolen from myself to get lost in a darkened theater and rethink responses to life’s persistent problems. Four truncated hours of being slapped around by the rough sea to come to terms with my all too palpable mortality.
Little chores piling up like plastic garbage. Three dense weeks before I can fully unpack the bag from a previous trip. One month to clear the laundry bins. No time to search for a missing top. Passport yet un-renewed.
Sleepy taxi rides to think of a hundred things to write about--pregnant thoughts that never bear any fruit. Haven’t written about how the ho-hum hills of the winter time Sahyadris magically transform into incredibly romantic dark hills cradling bejeweled valleys at night and how the winding roads take on a soft, dreamy aspect with some old Beatles numbers on the pipe. Haven’t written about the wonder of the deep red sun unsteadily hovering over a shallow still pool formed on the beach, a little away from the restless waves at Shrivardhan. Haven’t written about the stinging feel of the cold floor on bare feet and the late night chill that penetrated shawls and quilts on a winter night at Kolkata. Haven’t written about how much my colleagues enjoyed Murugan Idli Shop and how one of them tipped the teenaged waiter specifically for serving him unlimited quantities of sambar. So far.
Life strewn with many homes one made, but never lived long enough. The assistants at the beauty parlor in Kolkata remembered me from last year’s visit although I haven’t lived in the city for four years. Chennai looks like one of those sci-fi time warps--feels like I can reach across the transparent portal and touch 1998, so little has changed. Walked past my and V’s erstwhile flats at Yaari road last evening and thought of that time when life could have taken a different route. Shots of Chicago in a recent movie I saw constricted my throat with an unexpected pang.
I wonder how it will feel like to have a Hermann Hesse-esque moment of slowing down to listen to the flow of life. I wonder what I will remember of all this when I am old, retired, and my memory is failing. Damn!
Comments
With words half uttered
Over half a cup of black tea
Worth a half life’s wait."
Enjoyed every bit of it. Loved the dainty oscillations between the "nows" and "thens" carelessly strewn around like yarns of wool across the floor, all feeding to granny's knitting needles as she weaved the colorful patterns. :)