Rain

FINALLY, the skies opened up in Bangalore. After months of sweltering and exclaiming Gosh-wotz-wrong-with-Blore's-weather, the Gods finally smiled down. And boy - did it pour! I could hear the war cries of the clouds and smell the wet earth inside my sound-proof glass encased office....thankful that some things don't work, sometimes.

We went out to get a bit of the action. There is something about the skies opening up that makes you want to forget everything and just go out there and get drenched - maybe its a sort of a cleansing of the mind's cobwebs,or simply a desire to go back to the mad spontaneity of childhood. All around me I could see happy faces - people like me who'd come out to catch the first showers. Funny how weather can make such a difference to how you feel.

Feeling happy and uplifted, I was humming a cute Hindi oldie (Choti si kahani mein, baarishon ki paani mein, saari vaadi beh gayi). Someone close by was humming Raindrops keep falling on my head....yikes, what a bummer ! Who wants dejection when I was dreaming of getting soaked in the rain and then heading home to a steaming cup of masala chai and yummy pakodas.

And then it struck me - most of the English songs based on rain that I could recall had an undercurrent of melancholy/sadness -be it Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head or November Rain or All I Needed was the Rain - all are about rain bringing back memories of a loss or washing away a loss (mostly love, no surprises on that). Au contraire, a lot of romance and naughtiness in Hindi songs surfaces in the rain - be it the beautiful Rim Jhim Rim Jhim from 1942 a love story, the full-of-hope Ghanan Ghanan from Lagaan or the soft Saawan Barse Tarse Dil, not to mention the numerous songs where love/passion blossoms with a wet jig ...from Raj Kapoor-Nargis to the SRK-Kajol.

Well. Some people feel the rain, others just get wet.

*created 9 May

Jungle Retreat, Masinagudi

The Jungle Retreat at Masinagudi (www.jungleretreat.com) is a great weekend getaway for those living in and around Bangalore.



The location, at the foot of the Nilgiris, is breathtaking - you can see the grand hills looming in front of you as you lounge about during the day, and a carpet of stars at night - the perfect ground to test your knowledge of constellations. The cottages are warm and comfortable, and are spaced sufficiently apart from each other to provide privacy. Dont be surprised to find a deer sharing your balcony when you come out to breathe the fresh morning air.

There are activities for both the adventurous and the lazy - trekking, safari and a variety of indoor games. The guided trek through the Niligiris is fairly challenging, but there are ample opportunities for photographers, even though we didnt come across any animals (except a few frightened goats!). The jungle safari will have more than its share of elephants - we were lucky enough to sight a small panther, apart from the deers and the bisons. There are also wonderful photography opportunities during the safari - lovely flowers of all hues, cacti, and butterflies.

The food is delicious, the music great and the bar well stocked. Snooker, chess, fuzeball, carrom and a variety of other indoor games means you have enough to do.

I had a fairly hectic trip, but I did manage to snatch a blissful hour on a hammock. Amidst the gentle chirping of the birds and the awe inspiring Nilgiris, you feel a serenity that is difficult to describe. The staff is courteous, and I thoroughly enjoyed my amateur sparring at snooker. The bar is willing to invent a drink for you if you sketch our your preferences - the Cosmo is quite nice.

The tree house is breathtaking and oh-so-royal, and the view from the top made us forget our initial doubts about whether it'd hold our combined weight! And I loved the variety of music that they had.

Rohan, the owner, an enthusiastic wildlife photographer, has some amazing pics put up - do check out the python swallowing the deer. And check out his photo album - it shows the place while it was getting constructed, and also some famous visitors, including the Little Master - yeah none other than Sachin.

Caution: cell phones do not work here. I personally love the feeling of being un-connected and un-reachable, but for workaholics who cannot live without checking their mails or barking orders on the cell phone, this is going to be a true break from working!

On Beauty

So finally decided to test D's ravings about the salon at the Leela. I have a nagging doubt that it wont be as 'inexpensive' as she claims it to be, but wot the hell. Think I can try it once. And I need some pampering.

Some highights from the visit:

I was greeted at the entrace with blood red curtains - ohmigawd ! But otherwise the place was quite nice - pleasant lavender smell, the soft murmurings of the numerous staff (they outnumbered the customers), the creamy leather chairs and old-wood furniture and panelling - this is clearly a place for luxury!

As I looked around, I realized that the customer profile here was different from most other parlors - no college girls/ young women, but mostly middle aged women with lotttts of money and time to spare. All elegantly dressed, but what I noticed most were the sandals. Carrie Bradshaw would have cried at the awesome display of footwear in that square foot of land. All beauties - strappy, elegant, glimmering with the color of money...it seemed that Gucci or Versace had randomly selected those women to model their finest creations.

Sigh. Well at least Im not wearing my 3 year old platforms.

As I was getting my head oil massage, I saw the most shocking sight of them all - a kid, not older than 8 years, was getting her hair colored AND highlighted. Ohmigawd. To think that the first time I colored my hair was when I was 25, and even then I was so scared I was convinced my hair would drop off as punishment or something.. Granted I was a bit late in the coming, but isnt 8 years old a bit too young?

Damn, they should have an age restriction on this stuff, else I'll lose the few things where I can claim to be 'mast' in my teenage sis's eyes!

Bookseller of Kabul

Back at home. The Bookseller of Kabul had seemed interesting. At least the page I had opened it on - which prompted me to buy the book. So I settled down to read it. Boy, what a depressing book. Its not that she has written the book in a depressing manner - there is no over dramatizing, no attempt to make things appear morbid than they are, no searching for cynical hidden meanings and connections (ala Milan Kundera). In fact, the book is fairly journalistic - no nonsense and (hopefully) factual. But the facts themselves leave you with the feeling that there is no hope at all for the people of Afghanistan. And especially the women. It is quite evident that the writer herself was moved by the hopeless fate of the women born into that society, for quite sub consciously, her stories bring out the dismal situation that all the women protagonists - young and old, ugly and beautiful - are stuck in.

In a world which focuses largely on the joys of positive thinking and holistic healing and discovering your inner joy, the story of the Bookseller of Kabul comes as a rude demonstration of the helpness that a man's place of birth can put him into. I know that a lot of our postive thinkers would exhort me to look at this as an example of the resilience of the human spirit, and give me examples of the potter's wheel and coffee beans and what not to show how fate tests the strongest (so what if they have never gone through this so-called suffering). But I would rather face reality for it is - stark, naked, and for the women in Afghanistan - brutal and worse-than-death.

Hair and Now

So Khursheed refused to give me a hair cut. Some gyan about can-only-be-trimmed-right-now. Damn. And i went up about trilling to everyone to watch out for my new look, woke up early on aSaturday morning AND took a shower. Need to drown my gum.

So headed to Blossom. I can look for some second hand Somerset Maugham's and Russells. And I'll need some Georgette Heyers and Dorothy Sayers for the plane, rite? Right.

Mmmm the smells of a book shop...not the plastic and vinyl smell of the modern stores where you have the books neadtly categorized and labeled....but a nice old shop where you can inhale the musty smell that comes from pages that have been turned and marked and treasured, over and over again. And the joy of hunting for a book, and stumbling upon a beauty that you didnt even know existed, the thrill of finding several orginal editions of your favorite book, and trying to choose between them ...

So I finally ended up buying eleven books. AND came back to Blossoms (supposedly to buy a pen), and bought two more. Ohmigawd. I gotta, gotta make an inventory of my un-read books. And Ive already 'started' at least 6 books...sheesh. Okie I promise I wont read any of these till I finish the back log.

And didn't I want enough money as a kid to buy all the books that I wanted to? And now that I have that money, I still feel guilty about buying them. Why? Coz now I dont have enough time to read those books. Damn. Life always slips in an invisible caveat which you notice only when it's too late.

Thank you for the music

Watching Big play his parents' favorite song on a gramophone in Sex & The City today brought back some cherished memories from my childhood.

I know this may sound arrogant, but let me say it anyway : For those who have never heard music played on a gramophone - my condolences.

My first introduction to music was listening to Jagjit & Chitra Singh weaving their magic on a round black plastic disc....There is something about listening to a song on a gramophone - there is a richness to the timbre that I think is hard to find in even the fanciest surround sound/home theatre systems. It seems as if the singer is sitting in front of you, singing for you, only you. The feeling gets reinforced as the little needle takes your hand and gently leads you on a journey of love, hope, despair and beauty. Its the perfect make believe world, with the singer moving the potter's wheel, giving shape to your dreams...and your life. Fiction becomes fact till nothing else matters....just how music should be.

When I was about 12, we shifted into a new house. While packing (there were no Movers & Packers then), my mom threw away all my Dad's records - a priceless collection of at least 100, if not more - as junk. Even the kabadi would not have them. The beautiful gramophone - with its solid wooden casing, the smooth red velvet casing inside and the i-belong-to-a-different-era smell- was also given away, probably to the maid or the dhobi. So much for Rafi, Kishore, Manna De, Hemant Da, Geeta Di and the Mangeshkars.

I would give anything to have some of those records back. I still harbour hopes of buying a gramophone someday - supposedly for my Dad, but I suspect its more for myself.

Don't it always seems to go, that you dont know what you have till its gone ... They paved paradise, and put up a parking lot.

Yesterday's junk is today's loss.... and tomorrow's fortune.