MY FASCINATION WITH RAAVAN

... just doesn't end.

Hence even though completely out of season (Dusshera comes up in the months of October/ November), here's a picture of one I spotted on Mumbai's streets last year *cough* year before last.

See his overlarge head? And nose, and hands, and feet, and fuchsia-and-blue tunic? They're all stuffed silly with firecrackers, which will light up the night sky a little after twilight, when all such effigies are burnt. The significance? Good v/s evil, and here's a link for more information: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ravana.

I can meander on about Indian mythology, and my fascination with it, but maybe this isn't the post. So let's just leave you with this little slice - and maybe you could do your own exploring! Enjoy!

BIRDS

These are what the sky was (over) populated with, earlier this evening.

THE FRAGRANCE LINGERS ON

He would stand patiently on the corner of the pavement, under the shade of a tall old Ashoka tree, the wisdom of his years showing on his weather beaten face, browned with the sun, a slight smile playing about his lips. Calm, always unruffled, his arm stretched out, laden with fragrant garlands of delicate brown blooms, those of the bakul flower. Dressed in a white shirt, always clean and pressed, but one that had obviously seen better days, together with a pair of brown trousers, carefully preserved and crisply ironed on the crease. His feet ensconced in brown Kolhapuri chappals, and a Gandhi topi on his near-bald head.

This is how I remember him.

Every summer and winter break (and some weekends in between),  Mum would whisk my sister and me off to Pune, to her parental home, where our grandparents lived. Having to keep us entertained (and thereby alleviate boredom and crankiness), she would take us out for a walk every evening. It was on one of many such strolls that I first saw him, standing facing Kaka Halwai, a sweetmeat store, under the Ashoka. Mum did too, and exclaiming at the exquisite beauty of the bakul flowers, purchased a garland for her hair. This was only the beginning of our association with him. Every day, every holiday - I had got accustomed to walking down that busy, bustling street - and seeing him stand, alone, almost unmoving, hand stretched out to display his fragrant wares better. A slight smile, a confirmation of the price, and subtly shifting a garland from one hand to the other, to be placed in a waiting soft, velvet-like green leaf, deftly folded over and tied loosely with string - all then handed over to Mum, the smile in place. The pattern of years.

Today, whenever I pass by that street, I still slow down that corner, almost expecting to see him standing there, flower garlands on his arm, never once calling out to passers-by, in a bid to sell his wares. The tiny, delicate beige-brown blossoms, those that would continue to give out their exotic fragrance even when dried. Those tiny flowers that helped him eke out his living, for so many years. The dignity they offered him, his humility and gentle nature shining forth. Simple and unobtrusive, similar to the blooms he held.

Of course, he no longer is there... physically.

The fragrance, however, continues to linger.

HE'S BACK!

That adorable elephant-headed God is here again!

Hello, Ganpati. Or Ganesha, if you prefer that. Or maybe just hello, Gamps.

THE RAINMAN COMETH

... and never go away. Or so it seems. Thought I'd gotten done with my cribbing about the rain for this year, really. About the damp, wet dog smell on everything. About the fugly fungus everywhere. Ick. Ick. On the housework front, laundry that just doesn't dry, rainwater that craftily sneaks in from invisible cracks in the wall. Bah.
So the MET has predicted three days of incessant rain, which roughly means we're looking at maybe five-odd days or so, given that the MET track record is really nothing to write home about.
How do I get to work today? I wish I were a school student, just for the day - schools have been asked to close, given the rains. (Hmph. Distressing not to be able to look 13 instead of 30 some days.) Instead, I brave the rain, waterlogged streets, human and vehicular traffic and cautiously ease my way into the parking lot at work.

Getting home, you ask? Rinse, repeat.

WEATHER UPDATE

Mundane, you think?

Well, we've I've been hoping for clear skies since a while now, given that it's been some months of dull, dreary grey now. While romantic and all (only out of a window, or walking by the sea), there isn't anything even remotely so about having to wade through ankle-deep water, or worse. And of course, bugs. Ick. And fungus. Ick. Ick.

Being a home owner (and one living close to the sea) makes it worse: there are these hideous, fugly, just plain gross forms of fungi sprouting out the walls. I shudder to even take a swipe at them with a paper towel, because as I approach them, they seem to grow in size, smell putrid and generally reach out to me with musty little feelers. Ulp. Strategy: Get gooseflesh on arms and down the spine. Leave paper towel as-is, and scream for the significant other to help, i.e. clean away the creepies. Which he does (bless him), but only after having a go with the camera. Do we really need visual reminders of super creepy fungi? Do we?? Do we???

Oh for loads of sunshine! *whimper*

MR MOUCH

In the garden!

RAINDROPS KEEP FALLIN'...

Was in New Delhi this morning. Was driving along the clean, wide green streets, enjoying the breeze... when all of a sudden these tiny crystal droplets of water smeared the windshield of the car. In a matter of a few minutes - or was it less? - the droplets turned into a steady downpour.

Cruising past India Gate, took in deep breaths of air, cleansed the lungs with the scent of rich rain-drenched earth and smiled. Together with the world. A leisurely amble through Dilli Haat, side-stepping the puddles of water and brushing some random stray drops off the chin and forehead... The sights and smells stay longer than I'd imagined.

BEING ALIVE

Some days were just so perfect. They'd lie together contentedly under the shade of the ancient apple tree growing in the garden, lazily sunning themselves like crabs on the beach. Chewing on a blade of grass, he'd suddenly turn to her, demanding to know whether she loved him. Yes, she'd assure him, a smile in her voice. How much?, he'd persist. This much, she'd respond, stretching her arms wide. They'd collapse together onto the grass, giggling like schoolchildren.

On others, they'd sit together enveloped in a comfortable silence born of years of bonding. She'd take up her crotchet, while he'd read the dailies, skimming the finely typed pages. Sometimes he'd read aloud an interesting snippet or two.

Reminiscing - it could be therapeutic. Or traumatic even, depending which side of the scales you were tipping.

The mug slipped from her now cold hands, hot coffee splashing onto the ivory walls, leaving a mud coloured trail behind. She didn't feel the searing heat when a few drops scalded the delicate skin at her wrist. Why did he have to die? Of all the people milling around campus that bleak winter morning, why was it him, caught in the shootout at the school? He, who'd normally never venture out on one of the season's coldest days unless it was absolutely vital. What made him take that step, one move in the wrong direction?

She'd never know. Just as she'd never feel warm again.

WINTER

Winter.
The cold, drab season
Of the heart
the mind and
the body.

Colours.
Nowhere to be seen
except for
Black
White and
Gray.

The Wind.
Chills to the bone and
the warmth seeps out
little
by little
by little

You can never get warm again.