Experiences

Circa May 2012. Tadoba Andhari Tiger Reserve. I was standing on the grassy carpet that would be a lake bed in monsoon. But now, the water had receded far, drunk by the greedy sun that was beating down at a relentless 45 degrees. All around me was the deceptive quietness of the forest. As I walked around, training my camera at anything of interest, I discovered something profound. Under my feet was a universe of microscopic dimensions! What I took to be grass was not really just a homogeneous spread of indistinct greenery—it was actually a teeming world of multiple species. What’s more, every single one of them was blooming in a kaleidoscope of colors, much like the coral reef. Deep purples, shocking pinks, striking whites, bright yellows, and arresting blues were the flowers whose detail I could see only through my 70 – 300 lens at tight close up! And they were fed on by even tinier insects, bound to this world in a symbiotic marriage. And my God they were busy—with this ...

15 years ago, I met a boy from South Bombay. He was quite ridiculously intelligent and creative. He was funny and crazy to boot. I was a neophyte in Mumbai, all wide eyed and wondering, with the metaphorical small-town-South-Indian-coconut-oil still on my hair. For all our cultural differences, we could’ve well been from two different planets. No this is not a love story. Definitely not one with a happy ending. This is the story of the fast vanishing Art of Conversation a.k.a. “talking shit.” We talked miles and miles of deserted streets in Fort, Church Gate, Nariman Point, Colaba and Marine Drive. We talked hours and hours of Roxy, Metro, Sterling, and Eros theatres. We talked years of All Stir Fry , Under the Over (alas, not there anymore), Churchill and Crystal. We talked shit man. From “leading a life of quiet desperation” to Douglas Adams, Martin Scorsese, Incubus and Succubus, Warm Water under a RedBridge , sizzling brownies and the “greater creative question.” ...

Season of Love It seems like every young person in the 16 – 22 age group in Tamil Nadu is in love—with someone unacceptable to their parents. They are expressing their feelings vocally and dramatically, through TV music channels, FM channels, friends, WhatsApp and other social media. They are shaking up the very fundamentals of societal structures and hoary traditions. They are eloping or standing up to opposition; they are marrying in police stations, registrar offices and temples. Some end tragically, but a lot of them seem to be thriving, as parents are resigning to the new order. Sociologists might talk in terms of social mobility, aspirations, westernization, urbanization et al. Be that as it may, every time I call home, I hear one more story. Of clandestine actions, dramatic proclamations, and cinematic gestures. And Tamil movies—that bastion of “ energetic physicality and frank passions ”—supply the voice, plot, lyrics and music for these micro-epics unfolding in...

Every city of character has that one book shop that defines its past, present and future cultural health. Isn't it strange that these book shops are invariably old, cramped with books, and curated in a way that will always surprise you? Sarvodaya Ilakkiya Pannai (Sarovodaya Literary Farm – a place that sows the seeds of knowledge) in Madurai is one such place. It matches the ranks of Strand Bookstall in Mumbai and Citylight Bookshop in San Francisco for the sheer variety, quirkiness and general lack of modern bookshop fancy-factor. A place for serious book worms, this! As I was browsing the Tamil pop literature aisle, several titles such as CIA Secrets, FBI Files and KGB Facts jostled for attention with some serious red books. But my fancy was captivated by a thin volume titled (I translate) “Aliens and continuing Mysteries.” It was just the book for me and my reading companion for the past three weeks – my dad. A rather unconventional book to read with my 78-year old fath...

Not very far above the dark hills on the road to Karjat from Mumbai, shrouded by mist and pre-dawn gloom, we saw a bright light, seemingly static and unsupported by anything on the ground. To me it looked like a UFO looking for a landing site. The other four sleepy members in the Toyota Fortuner protested half-heartedly. It was little after 6 a.m. on a cold (for Mumbai) Saturday morning and most of us had met each other just 30 minutes back. “Why do you want to be abducted by aliens?” petite A asked from the back seat. “I’m done with traveling on this planet. I want to travel to other realms,” I stated stoutly. As we drove past Neral on to the country roads beyond, it did feel like another realm. It was difficult to say whether we were in the wilderness or in villages. There were some buildings, a sudden market street, long stretches of lonely road, an unattended railway crossing and an unexpected school busy with its morning assembly. There were hills that kept u...

Fuck Companionship! Some days I think That the companionship argument is valid— I think this when I struggle to Change the light bulbs Fix the leaking gas tube Whup the recalcitrant carpenter's ass Or win a “couples only” lucky draw pass. These things I cannot do alone. These things defeat me. So perhaps it would be nice To have a man to take care of me There is perhaps magic In matched footsteps on quiet walks. But on most days I think— Fuck companionship! I want adventure everyday. I want seduction every moment. I want the lightning jolt of awareness. I want hot kisses in dark autos. I want warm breath and cool fingers. I want the selfish urgency of need. I want the suffocating weight of desire. I want smiles that light up rooms. I want jokes that stop the heart. I want banter, sharp as a knife. I want ideas, bright as stars. I want ideals, hopeless and impractical. I want big surprises, silly gestures. I want ...