The green green grass of home..

"Oh my god, look how thin you've become! Poor thing! You looked so much chubbier in June!" This is part of the de riguer homecoming reception speech on each of my sporadic trips to meet kith and kin. If you have not already guessed it, this heartfelt show of concern emanates from my mother. This sentence is usually followed up by a helpful rejoinder by my sister, who thoughtfully points out the likeness between the midriff of yours truly and certain pneumatic products of esteemed companies like Dunlop and such. This,quite predictably, leads to some amount of discussion between both of them in an attempt to reconcile the stark differences in perception about my general appearance.

Some things, thankfully, never change.

The early morning hustle and bustle around the house where no late nights are an excuse for late mornings, unless you want to miss out on the morning walk down the tree-lined road and the freshly brewed ginger chai. The precious nuggets of gossip unearthed from the early morning banter in the kitchen when the day's meal is in preparation. The slew of instructions issued by the powers-that-be with regard to washing of clothes, errands to be run and other such matters of huge socio-economic import.

As the day progresses, the agenda for the day emerges where attempts are made to fit in divergent objectives to create a somewhat hybrid schedule which includes a matinee movie, a trip to the tailor, some grocery shopping, a game of badminton and even a dip in the pool/jacuzzi. As democratic as that may sound, the much sought after trip to "town" is put off for later, leaving some sniffs of dissaproval amongst the proletariat.

All that has been said,is done and the day nears a satisfying end. The lights sparkle across the road in the shops and the swimming pool below gleams in the moonlight. The stars look down and carefree clouds float past in the sea of glowing darkness, rowed along by moonbeams.

All is still. I am home.

Nothing in particular!

I am in a mood to not be topical for a change on my blog. Which basically means that I am going to whimsically skip from poetry to art, from movies to Jagjit Singh and lots of rain, all of which peopled my weekend.

There's nothing like the rain-washed Marine Drive on a still misty saturday morning. The zillion pigeons on the promenade are shaking the drizzle off their wings, pecking curiously at the ground and looking expectantly up as their breakfast makes an appearance in the form of a man bearing a bag of grain.As my cab speeds along the wet shiny road towards Nariman Point, I can feel the salty ocean spray mixed with raindrops on my face through the open window.

I walk the tree-lined lane towards Jehangir Art Gallery.

The rain comes laden on gusts of wind in a sudden rush. And then quickly dwindles into a quiet drizzle. Like a naughty hyperactive child ordered to the corner by its teacher and told to put its finger on its lips. Which is just as well. Because I am not equipped with an umbrella or even a handy wind-cheater. So its just me and the raindrops. Wanting to walk with each other. Yet playing hide-and-seek.

.........

The first gallery had an exhibition by assorted artists. The paintings were mostly still life, village scenes and a bharatnatyam dancer in action. The artist had depicted her graceful movement in the dance posture fluidly. Nothing dramatic to really catch my fancy, however. I moved to the next gallery. This one had an exhibit by a specific artist. And the title? Tits, Clits and Elephant Dicks. The display was a combination of nude mannequins and collages. Whatever happened to good old landscapes, I thought to myself. Was'nt art supposed to convey some degree of aesthetics?

The next day of course, I read in the papers about some one having lodged a police complaint against the exhibition. Since then there has been much discussion in the media about suppression of art and so on and so forth. More on that some other time.

I like to be a traditionalist some times. And on sunday I wallowed in some of that through the poetry of William Wordsworth, Robert Burns, John Masefield and William Blake. The rain outside and the music just added to the all-pervasive feeling of peace. World Peace. And Harmony.

Good Night, and Good Luck.