wutheringheights

In the morning, i saw two guys cleaning the sunshade of my apartment, using a ladder from outside. I was a bit worried. A week ago I found two pigeon eggs near the Ac compressor on one of the sunshades. It rained after that,but the pigeon somehow managed to protect the eggs.As soon as I heard the noise, i opened the window and told the guy not to break the eggs. He looked at me, and said, "Sir, I just had both. Nice and fresh." He was right, I found this egg shell at the parking, a symbol of remorse...

Thirty-five years ago, when my uncle bought a Bajaj Chetak scooter, many came to see it. “Please don’t apply front brake, the vehicle will skid, and you may fall,” said one. “Green is nice,” another one said, praising the colour of the scooter. “Can you handle it?,” an elderly couple asked my uncle, taking a dig at his short stature. He laughed and checked the orange colour indicator of the schooter, the way a child learns about digits. One, two, three, four… When he turned the switch on, the light blinked, like a melting orange chocolate. Soon, his wife, who is taller than him, came to the front yard. She was fond of scooters as her father had a Lambretta. Even though many raised comments, no one tried to read the name of the brand which manufactured the scooter. The aunt rose to the occasion, after looking at the scooter. “BAA … JAAAJ,” she whispered. A little boy who was standing near her heard this and he tried to correct her, Aunty, it’s Bajaj, not BAA JAAJ.” Aunt smiled;...

REACH Foundation's Citation of Merit 2018 

https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/chennai/file-that-could-solve-boses-death-mystery-closed-for-100-years/articleshow/61856208.cms

I love rains. But I was a bit angry when it suddenly started pouring as I reached Krishnagiri on my way to Hosur to attend a seminar a week ago. I stopped my bullet in front of a small hotel and walked in. The idea was to have a tea and wait there until the rains gets over. After seeing people eating porotta, I had a second thought. I asked the man what was available to eat? "Sir, Chapathi, porotta and Thalakkari," said the young owner of the hotel. I never tasted Thalakkari in my life, but that was the only curry-item available now. I told him to give two porottas and a plate of Thalakkari. The man asked the old lady to clean my table. A plastic plate covered with a plantain leaf was placed in front of me. I started eating the porotta, looking at the Thalakkari. Bones in different sizes and shapes. I literally struggled, after trying to bite the fleshy parts from the bones. But eating Thalakkari is an art in itself. I somehow finished the porottas with the help of the gravy...

Sanjaay threw a citrus fruit straight up in the air. He then caught it with the accuracy of a cricketer. The ‘game’ was on. He was not successful in all the attempts he made. The fruit sometimes slipped out of his hand while catching. But that didn’t bother him. Was it a catch-practice session? No, ‘uska dimag kharab ho gaya hai’ (something wrong with his mind), said the ice cream vendor, who was clueless about how many times Sanjaay threw the fruit up in the air. And how often he caught it. Dropped it. Saanjay even risked his life getting on the road while running to catch the ball  But there was skill.  He knew how to handle the traffic People gave him dolls, shirts... He accepted gifts, but never asked anyone for money Sanjaay never looked at people who watched his action. His game began with throwing the citrus fruit up in the air and ended by catching it He jumped, slipped and at times fell down. Did he miss any important catch while pl...

2003. I was sitting inside my office of the New Sunday Express when a colleague walked in with a white polythene bag half the size of a pillow. The hall had a separate room for the Editor, which remained closed with lights always on even when he was out. "Hey, can I use this room for five minutes? I am going for a party tonight and I need to change," she asked. I didn't know what to say. I never heard anybody using the Editor’s room for any such ‘changes’ before. Apparently, she didn’t wait for my response. "See, I am using this room for five minutes, ok,?". She opened the door and then locked it from inside. I was alone in the department, and now a pretty girl inside the Editor’s room. Even though the Express office on Mount Road functioned in a very old building, it had a well-furnished washroom for ladies. Why didn’t she use it? I thought for a moment. Should I peep her through the ventilator? I knew if I wanted to do something, I must do it in five m...

As Naomi Wolf walked to the dais wearing a red dress, an elderly man seated on the back row showed a V-sign to his companion. Perhaps, what he meant was not victory. Naomi was going to talk about an important but overlooked connection between vagina and mind in female sexuality. The author of the "Vagina: A New Biography" moved freely around the dais with a microphone in her hand, challenging the traditional ethos associated with vagina. In ‘Vagina’, Naomi used research by Concordia psychology professor Jim Pfaus to study the complex subject of female sexuality. As she began to speak about sexuality, words like ‘vagina’, ‘orgasm’ flew one after the other. A mother soon left the hall with her two teenaged sons. But a man who sat on the back row with his daughter was cool. The little one was too young to understand anything from the speech. With a notebook in hand, he tried to write down points. Did ‘vagina’ first appear as ‘china’ in his notebook? Women ou...

It was an October afternoon in 2001 I walked into the house of violin maestro Lalgudi G Jayaraman with a ‘sorry’. I was late by almost an hour for the interview that I had fixed with him over phone a week ago. But there was no problem. With his trademark humility, he invited me to his house. “Music is like a painting. The seven swaras denote seven colours...” He began the conversation with music. “A violinist should be a vocalist,” he explained, “Otherwise he can’t play the lyrics correctly.” Lalgudi Jayaraman was trained in Carnatic vocal, but he later chose violin because he was fond of the instrument. “Violin gives an extension of my imaginations. It’s a part of me. I can’t see it separately,” he said. When I asked him about the violin that renowned American violinist and conductor Yehudi Menuhin presented to him while attending the Edinburgh Music Festival in 1965, he smiled and started talking about Menuhin. “He loved our music, art and culture. He was a good friend.” Wh...

Eight years ago, I had a tough time inside Landmark. I spent almost an hour inside the bookstall, holding “Things Fall Apart” on my right hand and “Anthills of Savannah” on my left. Both the books had the name of the author 'Chinua' on top of the covers and 'Achebe' at the bottom. Between Chinua and Achebe, there was a line of praise, which read: “The Classic Bestseller With More Than 2 Million Copies in Print.” But the interesting part was the one at the bottom, written by Nadine Gordimer, a South African writer. “Chinua Achebe is gloriously gifted with the magic of an ebullient, generous, great talent.” Even though I wanted to buy “Anthills of Savannah” (I liked the title due to some strange reason), it was “Things Fall Apart” that finally found a place in my bag. Unlike in the cases of Kafka and Pablo Neruda, no one really introduced me to the world of Achebe. I don’t know how Achebe entered my world though. Was it because of the African tag? Back home, I started...

There was every reason for a dog-catcher to throw his rope at Thomman. He never wore a collar – the symbol that helped identify pet dogs from the stray ones. Thomman was healthy and handsome. He had big black & white circles on his body. A chronic wanderer, he would walk into our house only at lunch and supper hours. In the early 1980s, animal protection laws were not very effective and the dog-catchers used to kill the dogs they trapped. It was on the way to school we saw his body lying on a drainage slab with his mouth open. Tears kept rolling down from my eyes till I reached school.  Pomeranian dogs were fashionable those days. One day, dad got up early and left home before we woke up. He returned before noon, holding a white puppy in his hand. “Female… female dog… throw her outside now itself,” shouted my grandfather. “No, I paid Rs 50 for the puppy. I don’t want to throw her out,” dad said. Grandfather was cool, but he looked at his son as if he did somethin...

“Don’t ever touch the silencer… It’s hot,” said the hippie uncle soon  after parking his brand new Royal Enfield  Bullet  on the street where  we played cricket. “It will burn your hands. Be careful.” With two  garlands, one tied around the headlight and the other on the rear  lamp, the  Bullet  had a dozen sandal-paste marks on its body. The potbellied uncle was never in a mood to leave the  Bullet , foreseeing  the possible harm I would have given to his new machine. So he checked  the vehicle a couple of times to ensure that it stood firmly on the  middle-stand. After walking a bit, he would return and stay close to  the  Bullet , adjusting the garland around its headlight. He wanted to  know whether I would approach his machine in his absence. The action  went on for almost half-an-hour, and finally the uncle gave up,  smiling at me. I could still feel the heat evaporating from the silencer as...

1996. It was a cassette shop inside the Palika Bazaar where we first went together with a common idea, after we became friends ten years ago: buy some good collections of ghazals. She knew Gulam Ali was my favorite. I never knew who she liked. I bought a couple of Ali’s famous ghazals, including ‘chupke chupke’ after an hour’s search. In fact we were meeting after a long time. At the bus-stop, when I was about to board a bus to R K Puram where I lived, she hurriedly handed over a small box to me. Sitting on the bus, I slowly opened the wrapper… there were two cassettes: both by Mehdi Hassan. “Ab ke hum bichhade to shaayad kabhii khwabon mein milen” was the first ghazal I played immediately after reaching home. I must have played this ghazal one thousand times. Interestingly, we have never met after that. In 2009, when I went to Kozhikode to meet Ahmad Bhai, a music-lover and friend of Mohammad Rafi, he told me how the town was graced with the presence of Mehdi Hassan in 2000. “Wh...

  I never knew Narendran Nair maintained a blog till I ran into ‘Thoughts’ hours after his death. He never liked the idea of even chatting online. A totally different character very few people could understand. He was often misunderstood by colleagues, but he didn’t bother much. Our friendship started with migraine way back in 2005 when he joined Express after quitting his job in Bombay. We both were suffering from that serious painful disease for long time. I don’t know whether he liked me, but he used to talk to me a lot. I still remember the day he left The New Indian Express and joined The Hindu. Many in Express thought Narendran would never find a job in Hindu , but he got a good, a senior post with the paper’s Madurai edition. After joining there, he used to call me from Madurai to share his displeasure with the former organsiation. The conversation went on and on. When I went to Madurai to cover an official event three years ago (I was Deputy News Editor with the New Sunday...

I don’t remember when I met Sunil. But I remember the day I took some photographs of him, using my favourite Pentax K1000. The year was 1999, soon after we finished our journalism course at Press Club, Trivandrum. One evening, Sunil handed over a roll of Konica and asked me to take his pictures in different angles. I took him to first floor of the Press Club building and started clicking. Close-ups, medium shots and long shots followed one after the other... Finally, we both went to Babas (a famous studio) and got it developed. Sunil didn’t tell me what was the purpose, and I didn’t even ask him. After two days, Sunil told me that the pictures were sent to London. For a moment, I was shocked. London always evoked a kind of nostalgia. It was my dad’s favourite place. The smell of London always surrounded him although he left the place when I was seven. The chocolate bags, toy planes and post cards… Everything he brought in from London had a smell of the town. So London was always a ...

I recently read a photo feature on Manuel Alvarez Bravo in an old issue of The Massachusetts Review. A set of eight pictures was featured, each documenting his native Mexico's archeology, spirit and aesthetic. A boy who grew up witnessing the violence during the Mexican revolution, Alvarez was keen on the culture of his country. The landscape, people, rituals...the unending list of what makes Mexico Mexico...