in a day or so, i will leave bombay for a longlong time. i wrote ordinary love stories in tribute to andre jordan, one for every friend who came to bid me fare-thee-well. and they wrote some back for me.

just discovered yet another thing-to-do-when-i-should-be-working
and a most worthy addition to the democratization-of-art category of tools: www.shirtmockup.com.
choose a tshirt [limited options but both nice], upload an art work, save.
so easy, quick, intuitive, i could go on and on and on...

last month, i attended a course on buddhism at the tushita meditation center, up in the pretty mountains of dharamkot, above dharamsala. our instructor was robina courtin (technically, "venerable" robina courtin), a kickass australian punk-turned-politco-turned-feminist-turned-kung fu practitioner-turned-nun.

robina speaks a lot, and fast, and i'm a bit of a compulsive note taker. so i wrote and wrote and wrote. and sometimes made doodles in the margins of the people, things, or concepts around. here are some of them.

i went from
a noisy cricket match

look, look, look at my blog
the template so airy!
the pictures so big!
we're officially a cell phone and dslr pictures blog, people!
expect some not-so-dinkies soon
and pssst, i've also started sneakily going back in time and editing past photo stories
 wheee...

when i first started this blog, it didn't mean that much to me. i gave it a silly name and randomly started uploading to it whatever pictures i had on my cell phone. but i've started thinking of it a little differently now.

pictures have become important to me because they contain all these unwritten stories and poems and things said and unsaid and about to be said and never to be said. sometimes, it's about what the picture does not show or is trying to show or intended to show but got lost somewhere. what i've been writing around my pictures has been like that too--lost somewhere between the brain and the typing hand.

so the thing is, i want to start being more careful with the stories of these pictures, not just whip 'em out and hit publish like i've been doing. also, over time, i want to treat the pictures differently: maybe as posters, as still-frame films, as comic book panels, as found objects, as picture books for the broken hearted...? i don't know how or when, just putting it out there so i don't forget.

and here is the dilemma of the editor in me: i want to go back to some posts whose pictures i've loved but didn't do justice to with the stories. is that ok? i think it's ok. isn't that the fun part of the digital product, that it gets to be a bit of a shapeshifter?

also, i just bought myself a dslr (which i'm still too scared to use) so maybe there'll be a whole new parallel track on this blog. who knows? i certainly don't. may the energies evolve...!

if we could flip over digital pictures like we once could photo prints,
what would be written behind them?

in a day or so, i will leave bombay for a longlongtime. i wrote ordinary love stories in tribute to andre jordan, one for every friend who came to bid me fare-thee-well. and they wrote some back for me.

stories i wrote...

for Nash
I have fallen head over heels in love with a curly-haired designer named Nash. He smells of Adobe suites and cat hair.

For three weeks now I have sat in his apartment, watching him doodle naked women on his Mac, hoping he will laugh at one of my jokes. But Nash only stares at his Mac and softly bobs his curly hair to an old song on the radio.

Then yesterday as I was playing with his cat as a cheap substitute for his love [even though I am allergic], I began to sneeze uncontrollably. I sneezed thirteen times in five minutes. At last Nash looked up at me from his Mac and laughed and laughed and laughed, while I plastered a heartbroken smile across my face.

for Diti
I have fallen head over heels in love with a tattooed photographer named Diti. She smells of Nikon lenses and crochet thread.

For a week now, she has been teaching me photography on the new camera I bought just to earn her approval. Last night as I struggled over my aperture and shutter speed ratio, it became disastrously obvious to me she had no idea what our photography classes meant to me.

I take picture after picture of Diti, telling her I want to learn how to take portraits. But Diti only takes pictures of cats and chai cups and human pyramids. When will you take my picture Diti, I often sob into my pillow. But Diti’s camera never turns my way.

for Veena
I have fallen head over heels in love with a dramatic editor named Veena. She smells of fixed comma splices and Bollywood item numbers.

In my dreams, I write the most perfect prose to prove my love to her. I write poems about music and romance and impeccable grammar to show her how I care. When I wake, though, I have to look up each word in the dictionary to make sure I spell it right. I’m not even sure of the difference between “who” and “whom”.

Veena deserves to be with someone who knows the difference between “who” and “whom”. And so I sleep alone at night with nothing by my bedside but a cold-hearted dictionary that knows all the spellings. That bastard.

for Parag
I had fallen head over heels in love with a Gujarati businessman named Parag. He smelled of broken grammar and unaccounted money.

Every time we talked, I would try to understand his garbled words, but find myself weeping with frustration. His love notes gave me headaches and we stopped talking on the phone a long time ago. I wanted to believe he loved me like I loved him, but he was so unclear, I could never be sure.

Two years later, walking past a familiar street, I saw Parag with another girl. Together, they were painting a mural on a wall that left no need for words at all. Oh how I cursed all my fancy words and wished I could quietly paint instead.

for Milann
I have fallen head over heels in love with an eccentric filmmaker named Milann. She smells of Final Cut Pro and authentic pasta.

Every week I write silly little scripts to impress Milann, but she is never impressed. “Too linear,” she will always say, “and your characters have no depth.” I turn away disappointed and try again.

Then the other day, for the first time, Milann came to me with a script. “The character is based on you,” she explained, when I looked at her, confused. The character had no depth at all, and then I knew why she would never love me.

for Isaaco
I have fallen head over heels in love with an unusually tall Italian named Isaaco. He smells of coffee beans and Milan Kundera novels.

It is silly and futile this love of mine. You see, Isaaco has a stiff neck so he cannot look down. And he is so tall, he has never even seen me. He spends his days watching the sky and meeting only other tall girls while I skulk around his ankles. I have tried everything—wearing heels, stretching my legs, hanging upside down. But I am never tall enough for Isaaco to notice me.

Then one day I bought a ladder and stood on it all day until he came around. He entered the room screaming in delight. “My stiff neck is cured! All I want to do is look at the earth and talk to short people!”

Oh, I sighed. I was quite enjoying my new ladder.

for Ravi
I have fallen head over heels in love with an interiors designer named Ravi. He smells of hair product and magazine paper.

Every time Ravi comes around, I frantically clean up my house, laying out my most beautiful things, hoping he will approve and fall maddeningly in love with me and my refined taste. But my house is never beautiful enough, and I know Ravi will never love me in it.

One day I asked him to take me shopping to help me buy new things for my house. As we walked past shelf after shelf of expensive, lovely things, I saw Ravi’s eyes light up. He looked at the lamps with such love in his eyes, and had an impassioned conversation with the handsome salesman about curtain rods. I cannot compete with these salesman who know so much about curtain rods, I thought, and so I hung my head in shame and walked back alone to my ugly house.

for Dheeraj
I have fallen head over heels in love with a complicated copywriter named Dheeraj. He smells of Marlboros and unwashed jeans.

Every year for the last twelve years, I have made one sincere effort after another to get Dheeraj to fall in love with me. One year I took him on an all expenses paid trip to the beach, another I bought him new clothes, and another I showed up at his doorstep with my heart in a brown paper bag. But every year I was out-performed by someone else vying for his attention.

This year at last there was no other girl to compete against. I showed up at his doorstep, clutching at my eager, trembling heart. When he opened the door, we looked at each other for a moment and burst out laughing at the very idea. The last twelve years suddenly made perfect sense.

for Yogesh
I have fallen head over heels in love with a financial wiz named Yogesh. He smells of stocks, bonds, and other things I don’t understand.

I often ask Yogesh to explain these things to me, but he dismisses me with a wave of his hand. I feel stupid and hang my head in shame and walk away. I am not smart enough for Yogesh, I think.

As I walk out, gloomy and embarrassed, behind my back Yogesh hangs his head low as well. How should he tell me he barely understands these things himself. How can he tell me his true loves are cooking and photography and laughing very loudly at silly things. How will I ever know the real Yogesh? How will we ever figure it out?

for Vikram
I have fallen head over heels in love with a highbrow editor named Vikram [it’s a real name]. He smells of superiority and newspaper ink.

I read every newspaper before going to meet Vikram the day I had decided to tell him how I feel. First, I’d dazzle him with my knowledge of world affairs, then amuse him with witty jokes about politicians, and end with a serious discussion about the Israel-Palestine conflict. That should do it, I thought.

When I walked in the door, Vikram was eating peanuts, playing a silly video game while listening to loud Bollywood music. I was so not prepared for this.

for Arunima
I have fallen hesd over heels in love with a banker named Arunima. She smells of check books and expensive perfume.

I can’t go through this again, I decide, and set her up with Yogesh. They will live happily ever after while I slowly age beyond my years.

stories they wrote...

by nash
I have fallen head over heels in love with a very negative girl called Tanushri. Tanu for short. She smells of typewriter ink and panic.

I often think of ringing her bell and professing my love in a some kind of silent slutty song but I always get confused about which train to take. People tell me different things and all this confusion has led me nowhere near Nerul (or Neral?).

The other night however I found a mean_ass bass player. I know how she adores him. and he me. He decides to float me across the Thane creek on his double bass and then lay the foundation for my love. My (other) the weather man friend selects a day for optimum winds and minimum tide.

We drown but reach. Wet and irritable, I feel love and empathy. I am greeted by three dogs at the door, they lick and bark and piss lovingly.
Meanwhile, Tanu is on her way, her flight irritatingly on time...

by ravi
I have fallen head over heels in love with this girl called tanushri. She smells like pages of old books do & wriggles her nose to the taste of red wine. Her pretty long fingers fascinate me, they’re the kind of fingers you’d want to be strangled with, if you’d like to be strangled that is.

She sits amidst her mount of books, immersed in poetry and verse; legs crossed, hands playing with her toe rings. I try very hard to sneak into her world, buying books, pretending to understand poetry so she’d like me. But she sees through me. Always does. I think she doesn’t like my hair. Why god why? Why me?

Then one day I put a photo of mine between pages, hoping she’d find it and start thinking about me, notice my waxed hair I styled to impress her, only her. Maybe she’d dream of me, and wake up wanting to like me.

Years pass with me fighting for her attention.

Then one day, I go wear her favorite pair of socks. She stared in horror at my feet, shrieking how her tiny feet would never ever again fit into those socks again. Crying she vowed never to speak to me again & she never did. Sigh, I wish she’d had strangled me with those pretty fingers instead.

by dheeraj
I have fallen head over heels in love for the 12th time with a girl named Tanu. She smells of Buddha and Apple products. And of all that was good about yesterday.
The first time i came to her with a broken heart and told her i loved her, she introduced me to Rushdie, Rand, Marquez and Kundera. I packed my bags with the words and left. Leaving her weeping on the floor.
The second time i knocked on her door, she made music with her bangles. In the morning, i left. And never heard them again.
The third time i confessed, she showed me pictures of her feet and the ones in her head. I took the albums and i left.
Ashamed, the fourth time, i whispered it into her book, and left it in her bag. She left the book halfway and never heard it. So i left.
The fifth time, i sent another boy to tell her that i love her. He took my words and left.
The sixth time I came to her door, the boy told me she doesn't love me anymore.
The seventh time I fell in love, she didn't believe me.
The eight time i fell in love, her true love sat beside her, and an estranged friend beside me.
The ninth time i fell in love, she was lying curled up in her bed. With a half-empty bucket of salt water and a weeping mother beside her.
The tenth time i fell in love, she screamed at me like she always did. In a fit of rage, i turned and left.
The eleventh time i fell in love, she showed me her doodles. She showed me a hot-air balloon as free as the sky that desperately wished to find its way back to land. I decided to only love her between the white, empty walls of my room and left.
The twelve-th time i feel in love with the girl named Tanu, she showed me her Buddha flags and designer dreams and love-stories she'd written to ten ordinary people. She put a pipe right through my heart and squeezed twelve years of emotions into my frail, struggling heart. Until it burst.
She picked up her overflowing bags, took twelve years worth of love, and left.

so it's pretty well known i deeply love and revel in the twitter format. one of the things i love most about it is how a tweet is a perfect little jewel, small and perfect by itself. but sometimes, once in a while, there is a story behind the story that's worth telling. so sometimes, with some tweets, i'll do that here. with no capital letters of course.

my cupboard was turning into a cubist nightmare... i needed more space!



one day, walking down the road, i saw this stack of boxes just as a ray of sun slanted down upon them



inside the shop were many little gems



so i paid 1400 rupees to buy mr. tarzan star





with a secret unicorn inside for extra luck



some turquoise paint, which for some strange reason looks blue in all these pictures. turquoise can be a shy color.



i got paint on the railway budget



and on rohit bal's heart attack (hope he's doing well)



and then i was done!



here's a random picture of the buddha on my (now entirely different shade of) blue box



more photo-stories over at dinkypictures.blogspot.com!

i've been writing more around/about/for my dinky pictures than anything else these days
have always enjoyed the interplay of words and visuals
and for some reason always found words flow easier with a visual starting point.
so instead of fighting it or analyzing it or trying ambitious doomed experiments, i started a silly blog a while ago to record the silly pictures i take with my cell phone cam like all of the rest of us
but maybe the words aren't all gone
scrolling through the image titles it struck me
there might be a poem hidden in this seemingly random presence of words

yesterday i attended a film screening organised by the friends of tibet and presented by tenzin tsundue who i last saw at the jaipur lit fest. i've been finding myself more and more interested in buddhism and wanted to know how a buddhist nation fights for freedom. turns out, it doesn't. it just quietly marches along and keeps repeating its request over and over as loudly as it can. the film, "the sun behind the clouds", was a good primer on the tibetan freedom struggle. first there was tenzin tsundue smiling, with that signature hair. then he was on the screen with a military buzz cut, getting ready to be arrested.

so on one hand is the dalai lama who travels the world, lives in a lovely home in dharamsala, speaks of love and freedom and non violence. and then there are the tibetans who live as oppressed minorities in tibet or as refugees outside it, cry for him to return to tibet and lead the movement and lie prostrate every time they see him on the tv. why is there always such a distance between us and those we worship. isn't it easy to be god when you don't have to live in human reality?

when we went to ladakh, i often saw world maps and globes in cyber cafes and restaurants with tibet drawn onto them with a felt tip pen. yesterday, they gave us these maps with tibet represented as a large white area. it says, "the world with tibet." the map's gone up on this random grid of things on my wall. there, now my world has tibet.

Flavors.me from Jack Zerby on Vimeo.

i'm not sure why one day i decided to paint this column in my room orange
but i'm giving it purpose now


it's going to be my quote wall!
with all my favorite quotes in one continuous inspiring stream

many little-little more gems from the festival, many of which i can hardly remember.


there were kites in the trees


and women with the most gorgeously appropriate bags

and geoff dyer whose reading from jeff in venice, death in varanasi had people running out like mad dogs to buy his book (me too and made me realize reading a book is a vastly different experience from listening to it being read by the author and can often seem totally disconnected, unrelated literary experiences)
and s. anand of navayna press whose talk i attended quite randomly (and also adored) and later happened to travel to delhi with
and chugge khan who is a mad man on the khartal
and tony wheeler! and tony wheeler at mrigya!
and, oh, the bauls! william dalrymple performing nine lives with the bauls whose videos i will certainly not put up, it would be a sin really.
and the pretty diggi palace rooms
and snakey lunch lines and people "insinuating" themselves into queues (a sweet word thing i have officially imbibed from geoff dyer)
and silver shopping (maharani market rocks!) and whining authors (amit chaudhury, you know who i'm talking about) and witty new discoveries (omair ahmad with the gorgeously pronounced name) and flamboyant displays (coughcoughsunilsethicoughcough) and many lunches with ndtv royalty later... jaipur lit fest was over, and delhi started saying pack those skirts away and hurry up and get here already.

one of the nicest hours i spent at JLF was in the durbar hall listening to javed akhtar read his standard old poems (from perfect memory). i'm not sure if it was the yellow walls or the chill in the air or how my long flowery skirt felt twirling around my legs all day... but it felt very close to perfect, that evening. pooja and i stepped out from different corners of the durbar into an evening getting steadily colder and quickly needed a glass of wine inside us.

p.s. who knew prasoon joshi can sing! and how.

one hour left for my interview
in an empty house that is not my own
up since 8 AM to wait for 4.30 PM
feeling like one of those movie characters
played by actors like bill murray
clink of a single spoon against a single plate
one bottle of water, one waiting book
one cigarette for the nerves
one lit lamp
one pair of shoes by the door
a wait, a sweater
and the cold.
soundtrack and all.

today i am in delhi, in vikram’s house, enjoying sitting next to—because i can’t sit in—the only patch of real sunlight i’ve seen since i arrived here day before yesterday. i am expecting a telephone call from my university; they are going to interview me for the course and this talk will decide the course of the rest of my life. no pressure. “informal chat” they say, of course. it is 12.30. the interview is at 4.30. I am experiencing a very contained kind of hyper-nervousness where i am nervous but unable to truly allow myself to internalize and therefore deeply feel it but also unable to not feel it and relax and watch a movie or something. what a shit in between way to be. i’ve experienced it often in such make/break situations and i know it’ll go as soon as the situation begins, within seconds literally of the interview starting, and then i’ll be fine. unless i royally goof up and make a giant ass of myself. which has also been known to happen.

i am arranging and rearranging my space, folding the clothes and blankets, shifting my chair first to one then the other side of the table, creating the perfect sitting in which to continue to sit. and wait. i even felt the need to dress well. i think it will make a difference to how i sound on the phone.

luckily, the maid has come over to make lunch and the house is filling with household smells and household sounds, which is making me feel not quite so lonely. if she only knew what a difference she is making in my life. helping me get into university! yet this poor toothless old woman in a thin cotton sari and short-sleeved white blouse-sweater underneath, who first arrived at 8 am in a heavy fog and biting cold, will only trudge to the next house to make the next stranger’s lunch, and every day until the day her limbs don’t move.

now i’ve depressed myself. which is not good but a far more tolerable (and handle-able) emotion than nervousness.

i recently discovered siteinspire.net, which is a (somewhat limited) database of interesting websites. nothing new about that, except that the sites are categorized really nicely. instead of the typical categories of 'personal', 'business', 'retail', etc., they have infinitely more useful categories like 'unusual navigation,' 'feminine,' 'big background images'. it just seemed like a much more useful way of finding websites, especially for people who make websites for a living. i think we need a way to extend such useful categorization to other media as well. every time i'm going on a trip, for instance, i spend a seriously unholy amount of time trying to find just the right book to carry with me--i have to find something that is not too heavy, because i can't really focus on airplanes, so it has to be fiction, an absorbing, simple tale; then it has to be not too heavy weight-wise so i can carry it easily down train stations and airports, so it should be paper back and also preferably under 300 pages; and then maybe it should be relevant to where i'm going, either set in the place or somehow related to it. sometimes, only sometimes, i've managed to make just the right match, like when i matched into the wild with ladakh or, too obviously, the beach with goa. but mostly i've failed at this quite miserably (i carried stieg larsson's third to bhopal; it was the totally wrong weight and size to hold lying flat on a hard train seat and only at the last minute i discovered character-fatigue had set in after the first two parts). this is of course just one kind of situation in which you need to pick a book based on useful criteria. and likewise for music. i happened to hear a really awesome song sung in pashto a while ago and want to listen to more pashto music but sadly i can only browse for music by 'artist' and 'album' and 'year'. or like maybe i'm going on a road trip and i want to create a playlist of good road songs. and then there are movies and and it can all get infinitely more specialized. sort of like a greeting card model for media. or a directory with logical-emotional categorization.

i wouldn't want this to be mixed up with social networking. sure i can go ask questions on forums and get people's opinions and all, but i don't want people to have to go through that mess and spend all that time. the experience should be one of flipping through a directory. simple. the results could be improved by having users vote on them but that's about it. and for people to be able to create their own categories, like amazon lists but more searchable, useful. moderated. curated. serendipitous.

i remember singing this with jaya in her house one night

Amazing grace; How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now am found;
Was blind, but now I see.

'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
'Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

The world shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun refuse to shine;
But God, who called me here below,
Shall be forever mine.

When we've been there ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Than when we'd first begun.

in 2009, i visited many cities...

ahmedabad, where i became a movie star


igatpuri, where i thought and thought but then forgot

(photo by scratchpost)

kolad, where i wasn't afraid of water


atlanta, where my favorite socks tore


cincinnati, where i was quite quiet


new jersey, where i wasn't


new york, which i really, truly do heart


delhi, where i ate six cuisines in two days


ambala, which went by in a blur


amritser, where i'm convinced my mom willed me to go.


chandigarh, where i was too sleepy and hungry to take pictures.

mandi, where i lived someone else's life for a night


manali, like goa but with mountains

(photo by scratchpost)

jispa, which was cold cold cold awesome cold


leh, o leh.


bhopal, where Y got hitched at last!


some of these cities became my friends (wazzzaaaa manali), some remained a distant acquaintance (ciao amritser). some were simply like coming home (here's looking at you new york). but of all these, it was only in leh, up in the mountains, the farthest, highest i’ve ever been, where i slept a deep, sound, calm sleep. and i think how well i sleep in a place is always an accurate measure of its love for me. so thank you leh for the love, for keeping me warm and putting me to sleep with the flowers at your window and the mountains at your doorstep.

before the year is over, though, i am returning to visit an old friend i haven't seen in too long.

goa


i think i ran all around the world just so i could come back to you at the end of the year. it’s just you and me again, goa, and i have a feeling my sleep is going to be just fine.

i am in deep love with the feeling of wearing skirts
the long voluminous kind that go down to your shins, swirl around
and announce your arrival with soft swishy sounds
like shy church bells or old trees
and when you have to sit, you are involved in this sitting
and it is a grand sitting
with lengths of fabric to arrange, display
just so.
then they busy themselves, my skirts
chatting with the small bones in my ankles
dancing around my tattoos
playing with my silver anklets
these skirts of mine that are always Up To Something
sometimes get so chatty and bold
brushing up against strangers' legs when all
i am trying to do is walk away quietly.
but sometimes they fall into strange, limp silences
folds immersed one in another
many random wrinkles
going darker, falling into themselves
turning into the mere weight
of cloth
yes i do love that wearing my skirts
is like wearing a conversation
that begins, "dear world,
this is how you made me feel today..."