The Noun and the Verb.

Why oh why do people say ``invite`` when they mean ``invitation``? It distresses me to see how loosely language is used. Some years ago, people did not pay heed and even less respect to art. If someone asked you what your profession was and you said, `art critic`, they would turn around and say, `yea, yea, but what do you do for a living?`  Although it riled me to hear such things, perhaps they did have a point after all. For, art, and most of all, art criticism, fetched very little money. And then fate spun on her axis and suddenly art was one of the most expensive luxuries ever. It was a what`s the word? Status symbol. Income tax officers suddenly began to call you to acknowledge, not ask after your profession (they wanted quick-fix courses in order to catch the art bandits). All that goes up must come crashing down, said the Sensex to the People. And down it did come. Tumbling down. Noone is buying art these days. Noone is stupid enough to buy art when they could be sending Invites to others to come buy theirs.

Nothing in Particular.

i like watching Hindi films. i usually cannot wade through an entire length of an old one, but can manage to view parts of the same, especially the song and dance parts.                                         Things have an amorphous way of merging with one another. People too. Dreams come and go at will. People too. Words and actions are usually misunderstood, or half-understood or most dangerous of all, understood according to the way a person wants to or can understand them.  My closest friends, who know me well, are the ones who understand me the least, at times. That can happen. Since words and actions also have an amorphous, non-crystalline form, that can happen. We are so shaped by the way in which we think, we believe, in the way we are, that it turns difficult for us to imagine that others can think, dream, believe, behave, be otherwise. If you are non-committal or bewildered about something that has been said, you are told how transparent you actually are and how easy it is to read you! That is the sweetest part because it is the most ironic. For instance, you don`t respond to something your friend just said to you because you think it is inane or you laugh and shake your head indulgently because you know your friend is childish and will never grow up or best of all, because there was some disturbance and you didn`t even hear what was just said. Your friend says, ``you are so peeved! You are so irritated! I know you so well, Anahite! Ohhhhh, you are so transparent!``  Oh well.   People`s attitudes and their understanding of others` attitudes is complex. Such things can reach mammoth proportions. Who knows, some day a war may be caused or prevented by cracking the code.                                                                                                                                         And this is why i love watching Hindi films, even if it is merely bits and pieces of an ancient one. They are simple and in order to watch and enjoy them, simplistic solutions may be employed. There are porous boundaries within a dialogue. Strange.                                        Remember Nutan in Anadi prancing around poor, naive Raj Kapoor throughout the title song? All he wanted to do was serenade her with a red, red rose and plant it in her tresses and all she did was evade him throughout the serenade. Ohhhhh, what am i saying here? Nothing. Nothing in particular, as usual. But my song, today, is full of mischief. Samajhnewale samajh gaye hain. Na samjhe woh anadi hain.

Nothing in Particular.

Have you ever wondered what would happen if people never saw each other? If they just kind of felt the presence of others, but could not actually see, hear, touch each other? It would be like having a shower, you know; getting thoroughly soaked but never absorbing the water. It would be like talking to someone over the telephone and never finding out what he looks like. What if people went through an entire life-time without ever seeing one another? What about those who lead an entire life-time without discovering what it is to be in love?

The Dance of the Muse.

``Make it bitty, scrappy, drift, come back...easy...it`s your space. Do what you will.`` This is what you wrote to me the other day about my blog. You said you had seen it and loved it. And then you corroborated it with this message ``make it bitty, scrappy, drift, come back...`` Oh me, oh my, that sounds like a waltz, i said, closing my eyes in my space. My words dance a dervish dance. Even just a bitty note from you sounds like music, and not just to my ears.

A letter to Sufi

Sufi, what a strange one you were! You arrived and left unceremoniously, leaving no trail in either case. It was my birthday and Radhika had taken me out for dinner and when we reached home at about 1 a.m., there were you, the most adorable honey-coloured creature, quite battered but waiting as though it were your mission to do so. Kindly neighbours were feeding you since you looked starved and were bleeding from every pore.                                                When i saw you sitting on my pristine white situ-floor among the hazaar plants, i gave a start. You saw me and said aloud, ``at last we meet``. You told me your name and decided you were staying with me. Someone suggested i send you off to SPCA and Pji said that he would send them to SPCA if they were mean to you. That kinda decided it. You were mine. The rest of course is a marvellous story. A fairy tale. i had to travel to Baroda once and panicked like crazy because to leave you behind was unthinkable and you would have loathed the pressurised cabin in the aircraft in that prison of a dog-box for which you were far too tall, anyway. You travelled with me to Baroda on the train and loved it so much, you wanted me to buy one for you. And that too, as i told Rongee the other day, would`ve been fine, but where would we have parked the darn thing, your lofty verhicle? You were the only dog who fraternised with the peacocks in our neighbourhood and was secretly scared of the big tom-cat lurking around, inspite of your nearly 30 solid inches of body height. You were an incredible creature. A prophet by profession. That is why you had to leave suddenly, i know.                                                                                                                                        Today, it is exactly six months since you left and i just send you this foolish note because for one, you were a high-tech guy and loved receiving mail (remember all that email exchange you had with Pji, you strange one?) and also because, most of all because noone but you really knows how i miss you. i have heard of odd things that happen in the kingdom above, Sufi. i have heard that souls get refreshed every now and again and inhabit a new body. i also hear that your dog can be as good as your own child and that even if he pretends to go away, he will soon return wearing new furs. Hey, did you hear the same stories as well? And are you taking so long just because you chose to travel by that stupid train? For this once, i implore you, get on a flying carpet. It will cost you nothing. And will bring us a whole new world of happiness. Think about it. All my love, a.

The Ice-cube and the Hibiscus.

Have you ever wondered about things? Have you ever wondered how relationships form? How people fall in love? How clouds gather from nothing and disperse into the big beyond, whatever the men of science might tell you? Have you wondered how water sizzles, then calms, then freezes into the most perfect, shaped little ice-cube, just so that it can mingle with other waters once again? Or the way in which a flower meanders from root to sap to bud to flower? After all, did you ever preempt the unfurling of a hibiscus bud? Could you ever visualize that the tiny, somewhat tubular bud ~ whether pristine white or baby pink or a grafted canary yellow with fuchsia ~ would suddenly fling open its arms one morning while you were still brewing your cuppa and reveal itself? Have you ever wondered about things, tell? Have you wondered how ice-cubes and relationships form or how a hibiscus unravels its secrets to those who can listen? Have you ever, ever wondered how people fall in love? Tell.

Pen-pals.

When i was growing up, people were still the same. They sneezed, laughed, winked, made love and war just the same. But but but in those days, there was no Internet (how did we ever survive?) And there were no cellular phones either! Those were the days, my friend! Even so, the need to communicate must have been the same ever since; after all, what do the cave-paintings of centuries ago, indicate?  And people wanted to reach out to other people all across the world even then. Letters were written on sheets of paper or on those strange blue Aerogrammes and so on. It was a veritable ritual ~ the writing, the stamping, the posting and ahhh, the receiving of a letter.                                                                                                             Massive columns in newspapers and magazines were devoted to addresses of unknown people all across the globe for the express purpose of being able to exchange little notes and foolish gifts once we got to know them a bit. A lot of time and energy and even money were spent in sifting out what seemed to be the right ``friend`` (depending upon his choice of music and films and hobbies and star signs and such rubbish!) Excited little notes of individual cultures were tossed across the seven seas like a ping pong ball. A few exchanges, photographs, then gifts and lo! at times the pen pal himself might make the Herculean effort and plan a holiday in your land! Hmm. Those were the days of the puny pen-pal. i never ever could indulge myself in that absurd luxury. And now, it is this omnipotent blog which i have resorted to, on the advise of my friend and with the sole support of Miss I in setting it up. Apparently, people can, if it interests them to make the effort, read all that i have written here and even choose to reply. i thought this was altogether spooky but am giving it a shot. Who knows, some day, i might just find a letter in my letter-box. And that will surely be my day of triumph, since i am neither Amir Khan nor Amitabh Bachchan.