Thursday, April 26, 2018

Mono no aware

There is sometimes an urgent need for melancholy in my life, not with the unthinking yet ceaseless necessity of the daily milk or the three newspapers, but with a more gentle kind of longing, that builds up slowly, bit by bit, only to deflate gently and evenly at a somewhat unexpected time: like today morning, when I became very overwhelmed, cried because I read a beautiful essay, had some tea, a quick shower, and am now cheery enough to write a blogpost.



The Perfect Pound Cake and Chocolate Cake (or more recently, chocolate cookies and oatmeal cookies) are the most recent thing I have mastered. I am now more confident of being a mom. I can solve any problem my baby will pose by throwing sugary baked goods his way. Now I'm just waiting for his teeth to arrive.

YAY. #futureproof

(I doff my hat to Smitten Kitchen here and here and Rose Levy Berenbaum for all the cakey goodness.)


The cappucino maker made a gurgling sound and I nearly jumped out of my seat because I thought it sounded like a baby crying. EVERYTHING sounds to me like a baby crying. Given that I live at home with a (my) baby and my next door neighbour has a baby that's a few weeks older, phantom crying is probably real crying. That or I'm going a little crazy. Both are possible.


I'm becoming moved by art and music more and more of late, I take this to be a good sign that I am not dead inside. Indeed I feel gradually more alive and inquisitive, birdlike even, chirpy and sharp, as the end of my maternity leave approaches.

What kind of art, you say?

Like the final notes of this piece, say, or the exquisite wistfulness at the end of this piece , or this album which is perfect for sitting on my couch and watching the chromecast wallpapers scroll:

HD earth and HD sky
glorious resolution
lets pretend its real

Haiku nice?


Since the pregnancy, everything, every moment is now more exquisite. I observe and have become mindful of my own mortality and fragility, I see it when I holdmy child - a visceral gurgling reminder of how fleeting and fine, this life is. I couldn't articulate it of course, nearly as well as the Japanese can. Mono no aware.


Excuse the Japan references, I am researching for my trip there and it is everywhere in the nooks and crannies of my mind.

Wednesday, April 18, 2018


Last post for today I swear (this is now like a torrent and is a happy less public outpouring compared to what I'd have done on twitter).

a poem I've been thinking about a lot - here:

Manash Firaq Bhattacharjee
For Akhlaq Ahmad and Swen Simon
You can’t write Urdu
On Dilli’s walls, Mian1
There’s a saffron lock
On your zuban2, Mian
Horsemen of all faith
Plundered Dilli’s rūḥ3,
They only blame it on
Your ancestors, Mian
From Bīdel to Ghalib
Run rosaries in Urdu,
They embalm history
With rare attar4, Mian
You outlaw a tongue
By policing the wall?
The gardens, the air,
Breathe Urdu, Mian
In the heart of Dilli
Graves speak Urdu,
Even parrots, dusk,
And my jigar5, Mian
1 Respectful address of a Muslim
2 Tongue
3 Soul
4 Fragrance made of rose petals
5 Liver, Shakespeare’s “seat of passion”

Shoes in the header image

are from a previous life when my biggest worry was the Dune sale and whether I would find zebra prints in my size.

I wear crap shoes now, I'm on a no-buy CAN YOU BELIEVE IT BLOGGY, I havent had a cupcake in months, and basically 25 year old me would be shocked and disgusted and extremely wounded at the sight of my nails and cellulite and how non tabahi I have become and she would be all like "what happened did some hadsa occur how to fix you".

Anyway, given all this: I wanted to change the shallow-cute header image but I can't pick one thats currently appropriate.

I went on an awesome road trip from SF to Chicago and I thought I'd pick a picture of a nodding donkey from there because...matlab, its honest also and cute also. But fit with the orange theme which is almost vintage now, is not happening.

How long do you think before I stop talking like the Butterfly.
(though maybe calling DF a zinda laash is a power move like no other that I must totes adopt).

Give suggestions for header image, reader.


Four days and nights I have been consumed by (chi no not passion) but dread at the thought of the April 31 Mithila Dystopic Story deadline for which I have not ONE not ONE idea. Am I to be a failed author after all. I was up at 2 am yesterday and instead of pinging people on whatsapp, I stared into the void and the void duly stared back and I was still no closer to anything. I am truly distraught.


My eyebrows are looking weird.


I realized it had been a while since I posted (at all) any art that had recently captivated me and for a weekend project I've been keeping aside this picasso to do as a sketch. Only replace with book with a phone and that is pregnant me.

I CANT FIND IT. everything sucks.
oh man this day started so well.

update: found it.

Tuesday, April 17, 2018

Bloggy and me are like Scurvy haha


Is bloggy my oldest and dearest friend? I suppose so, though like all of my other old and dear friends bloggy too has moved countries, and maybe gotten an iphone and an accent and a british passport and friends who it brunches with, snorkels with and posh new jobs at posh life changing institutions and generally built a life of urbane suaveness and winter coats.

Me? Hi. I'm still Angsty, curious, unable to fit into my sexy shorts, always on the lookout for great haircuts and sure there are days in which I wonder what the what the what the am i doing with my life but otherwise the same, only the Cranberries have been replaced by Mumford and Sons (Caro Emerald for when I'm feeling particularly saucy) and lullabies.

Ya. Also I had a baby. Also I moved. Also new house. Also somewhat new friends. Also more social media and less reading. In the last few months I have:

1) Read the Annihilation series and some other trashy scifi and fantasy and eh

2) Read Sacred Games and wow

3) Had my insides tickled in order by DF, a gynac, multiple speculum, ultrasound wands, scrape-y instruments, what felt like (and was I think) an entire arm of an entire human doctor, a moving baby boy (whose head, a few days before he was born, I compared to a musk melon sitting on the counter) and some needles.
(I say tickled but you and I dear reader know, that I do NOT mean tickled. This is classic, what do they call it? Understatement. Yes this old dog knows new trix haha.)

4) Watched Mad Men and Marvellous Mrs Maisel and some other soppy TV shows day and night  while nursing (this is the polite word for breastfeeding or as they should accurately call it breast plucking pulling nipple roughening milk clogs glass sandpaper bruising feeling cow like sweating).

The thing is, there's been more angst on this blog about an unfairly graded history paper (21/50 - come on!) than since 2017 Delhi. Which, in all of its glory has been ANGSTONIUS ANGTAMAXIMUS. You should have been there, or rather, bloggy should have been there.

I'll say this, I'm only sad I didn't chronicle it all because so much spectacular lazing around was done and fun was had and assholery was dealt with. DF is still around. I think I saw Amelie lying around somewhere. And 202 has not one mummy now but two. Smoke that.


I said yesterday to one old friend that I had dropped the ball and he said so did he and I wanted to say YES YOU DID YOU DROPPED IT YOU WERENT SUPPOSED TO but instead I shrugged and sent him baby photos. It is truth but then what else does one do at a point in life when truths are self evident but the conclusions they take you on are anything but?

Love me pick me choose me? But time zones. And time sheets.

I confessed I was in a maudlin mood to a somewhat new friend but then I realised it was because I missed bloggy and being able to loudly shoutily complain here. So I'm back.

So apparently a deficiency of Vitamin C causes the collagen that repaired old wounds to dissolve, leading to bleeding and aches, which was thought of as a new disease called scurvy but was mainly just the old wounds coming up knock knock and saying hi hello ji whether vitamin C? Odd but nice. Just how I like em ailments and boys.

I must go, baby will beckon shortly. But I cant stop thinking of the Butterfly, Christina Tosi, and the gentleness of Sroyon's blog. Duly we are of course grateful to Double A.

Hai koi hamein yeh hatecopy ke chai plates toh dilwaein?

Tuesday, January 31, 2017

The quality of mercy

is overrated.
Who cares for mercy
as though it can help you when you need change
and you're standing in the cold and
it feels like all of your life's bad decisions are
laughing at you.
and you have never felt less loved and more hated.

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Thinking aloud a while ago

Its that time of the year when I need to book tickets to go home and as always, I'm faced with some difficult questions.Lon-Del-Mas-Lon or simply Lon-Mas return?

There is a fabulous shoe store in Delhi that I simply must visit, and of course I must eat at Andhra Bhavan one last time before I return, but are these two reasons worth the extra ten hours either way in travel?

Edited to add in 2017.
No. They're not and you made pretty poor choices. Stupid 2012 Sow.

Monday, November 21, 2016

Look who's back

I have no where else to take my poetry. Spaax is back. 

The quality of mercy is not strained.

It is filled with bits of tealeaf bitterly regretting

letting go like the gentle rain that

droppeth on umbrellas

Ouch. Ah well, good that it is twice blessed

Triple filtered, osmosically

and did you know it blesses the receiver and giver

like good sex

Regardless, though justice be thy plea consider this

who among us has not while no one was looking

eaten all the peanut butter lindor

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

I love choice

Sometimes we make choices that seem like they're holding us back, but actually, they liberate us in ways we cannot even imagine.

I am making one such choice today - and while its a bit grandiose to claim that I'm going to be liberated because of this choice in ways I cannot even imagine, I *am* going many steps forward with this little step.

Goodbye tyranny, hello you bittersweet independence.