Today, I met Jerry Pinto

If Em and the Big Hoom was in my home here, I would write on this blog how much I felt while reading it. Jerry said, the amount you bleed, the amount your readers will feel it. I'm guessing he bled a lot. He told me that he would tell himself, "write about the Mendezes … Continue reading Today, I met Jerry Pinto

Before the Heat Runs Away 

At some point, I fell in love with my freedom and the knowledge that H and R would always wait for me after a long night, just as I would wait for them. On Friday night, we created a triangle on the middle of the floor, heads on each other's laps. Laps for each other’s heads.

Cooking and Leaving 

It is R's birthday today. Her new home gave me the courage to leave my old one. Her friendship and care reassures my anxieties in starting a new life. In this one, the writer revisits another old draft. Written in the shade of R's new home, away from the brilliant Hyderabad sun. They are another chapter in women leaving parents to make rooms of their own.

Hold it in

S has a mannu kalam full of guppies swimming in them. Light falls on their sunset fins at noon. It is almost as if I write poetry only when the sadness dawns.  She has created a home in painted pots, stitched curtains and glass bottles that let money plants fall over.  I forget that human … Continue reading Hold it in

On Writing

I had forgotten my love for details. In one of my classes, a student asked me why I wrote that way - Brigade Road smelling like a Prateek Kuhad song. I remembered the days in college when noticing things was my most favourite thing to do. I'd collect conversations, moments and little details. Like the curve of a person's handwriting, the fall of a palm frond, and the hexagon shaped tower that housed classrooms.

Difference, Cartesian BS and Mad Writers

Disclaimer: Spoilers ahead. The thing about reading and watching so many things at once is that they all start to make a muddle in my head. I am drawn to mixture and khichdi, so this might be a tragic flaw. In The Talented Mr Ripley, Italy is a ripe orange waiting to fall. Blood spreads like a painting … Continue reading Difference, Cartesian BS and Mad Writers

Re-searching: Rashomon in Class

Episode 1: Research Journal Series Finding, Searching, Reading, Watching and Collecting, Rashomon in Class. This is the story of how I grew to appreciate Akira Kurosawa's Rashomon. I'm forcing my loafer lousick body to write this so that I can finally start and (hopefully) continue a series on the boredom and quiet thrills of academic … Continue reading Re-searching: Rashomon in Class

Teaching Journal 2: On Kindness and Mistakes

Incomplete ramble, posting anyway because the day demands it. When I left teaching I had one regret - letting go of students and the space to talk to them. The reassurance they provided to my fragile ego. With students, it was easy to falter. It was easy to be myself and be seen. Because I … Continue reading Teaching Journal 2: On Kindness and Mistakes

Shiva Baby and The Dysfunctional Woman

I just spilled coffee on the right corner of a book that's becoming a favourite - Olivia Laing's The Lonely City. I have little choice. It always has been an obsession to obsess over loneliness. I wouldn't be writing this if not for the spilled coffee. It suddenly reminded me of Danielle. In the course of … Continue reading Shiva Baby and The Dysfunctional Woman

Naalukettu Memories – 9

Black Soil litanies and Latin American rosaries Macondo is here. Brittle, sensitive. Catholic saints sprinkled on cupboard-tops and radio stands. Heat and sweating skin. Women struggling with mass and words. And then ants, resident geckos and mice. C gave me the book. I slumbered through One Hundred Years in seven blurry months. Liam thought it … Continue reading Naalukettu Memories – 9

Transitus

/v. time of passage from death to life Ecclesiastical Latin. crossing Today we had a class with Prof. A and I made a fool of myself. I didn't think it was possible after being an awkward teacher for a year and a half.  In Masters, I remember Prof. A coming fifteen minutes late to our … Continue reading Transitus

Forane Roads and Patron Saints

The road curved a little in the middle. Like a sleeping woman clutching a belly in which she expected to hold life. The family loved some selected ("selected" like the duties they assigned to body parts) saints they had borrowed from a strange culture. They believed that the saint’s souls had power over the weather, … Continue reading Forane Roads and Patron Saints

Women I like

I like how there are pastel bits all over that house that is a sad, old brown. A yellow lamp, some off-white poster, the turquoise cigarette case and the mandala shirts that Dorothea wears. I don’t remember who I was talking to when I said, I love talk movies. I know it was a boy. … Continue reading Women I like

The Prayer and The Song – Deconstructing the Case of Arundhati Roy’s new novel

Arundhati Roy in her interview with Zac O’Yeah for The Hindu says that writing a story, “is a prayer, a song.” If you have read the prose that she has woven together in The God Of Small Things, you’d utter that prayer, you’d hear the song. Roy’s writing is like her description of Estha’s memories … Continue reading The Prayer and The Song – Deconstructing the Case of Arundhati Roy’s new novel