Desicritics Category: Culture: The Writing Life

Poessay: Rosary 23: Musings

temporal — Mon, 5 Jan 2009 06:48:44 EST

Edge of precipice. Cliff?
Diving board. Looking down into water.
Water?

Of hope.
What hope? Mirage. Shimmer. Illusion. Belief in the unseen. Acceptance.
Acceptance? With conviction.
Conviction of what? Faith or reasoning?

Of reason.
Rationality. Two plus...Cause and...Things not...
Self-existential illusions. Illusions or hoaxes? Certifiable?

Of faith.
Belief of unfathomed power. Recognizant of the unrecognised.
Unresolved nothingness. Ensconced nothingness. Transference.

Back to hope, reason, faith. Nothing.
What if nothing is the vacuum cementing life to death.

Oh death? The final dot. -30- Kaput. Kapitsh. End.

End, another beginning. Movement towards another dot. To other
unresolved queries. To other needs and desires. To know or to give
in.

Again.
Earlier:
Poessay: Rosary 1 - Pink Sand Beach
Poessay: Rosary 2 - Fishing
Poessay: Rosary 3 - Adam and Eve Limited - I
Poessay: Rosary 4 - Adam and Eve Limited - II
Poessay: Rosary 5 - Descending
Poessay: Rosary 6 - Dinner In The Park
Poessay: Rosary 7 - Under the Jamun Tree
Poessay: Rosary 8 - Voices In The Air
Poessay: Rosary 9 - Life Rosary I
Poessay: Rosary 10 - Life Rosary II
Poessay: Rosary 11 - Creating In Isolation
Poessay: Rosary 12 - Kohled Eyes
Poessay: Rosary 13 - By the Lake
Poessay: Rosary 14 - Snow Flakes
Poessay: Rosary 15 - The Drop
Poessay: Rosary 16 - Ageless Quest - tishnagi
Poessay: Rosary 17 - Hemashree
Poessay: Rosary 18 - burning blazing fire rages
Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwur LafzouN Ka
Poessay: Rosary 20 - Thanksgiving I Poessay:
Rosary 21: KhamOshi - Wordless Poessay:
Rosary 22 - A Simple Poem

poetry: january 1, 2009

temporal — Thu, 1 Jan 2009 15:39:29 EST

georgiou emptied the bins - coffee cups,
crushed cans, mickeys, wrappers, paper tissues
and sweeeping the Nathan Phillips Square
gathered frozen kisses, melting sighs,
discarded resolutions and shouted greetings
that had ushered in the first day of an uncertain year
as he went about methodically he knew he'd survive
- as would most in the west, relatively unscathed

the future is full of long shadows
for those in occupied Gaza, Somalia,
Darfur, FATA, Afghanistan, Iraq...
the world has shuttered the window
blinds drawn

wish you and those around you
health and peace for the coming months

having put in his hours in the chill
georgiou smiled pensively, took off work gloves
changed and went home

Poessay: I'm Not Dev Das and You're Not Anarkali

temporal — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 12:20:07 EST

painting - Gulgee

Permanence is a Utopian illusion. It is nurtured by groups that ferment a vested interest - popes, padres, rabbis, maulvis, pundits, financiers - purveyors of permanence.

Insomniac Dream Sellers of
Truth, Beauty, Wisdom, Courage, Love, Anger, Hatred

Sea
and Mountain
Enslaved and encircled with smile.

Then the smile melted
His?
Her's?
His smile melted her? Her smile melted him?
0r like the shivering polar ice
Melting under the rape of environment
Euphemism for global warming

Sea - the mother of transmogrification
-clouds, snow, rain, lakes, rivers
And completing the circle - sea

The circular reverberation
Womb - grave - womb
Is the tale of drops
spermatozoa
"Read, read in the names of thy Lord..."

***

for believers it is Him
for others some grand design
that would finally still
                           the drop
the last meltdown
when neither love
                           nor hate
will deter, defer, persuade or play
                         when the smile
will last for ever sans flesh

we, who indulge in super hate
we, who miss not an opportunity
to throw barbs, grenades
and uranium tipped mines and bombs
we, who excel at malevolence
- when will love conquer us?

yaadOn ka guldasta thamay*
sar-saratay sukoon maiN ghar'q
jub saa'yay hum aa ghosh hotay haiN
tou mudhoshi ki devi bhee
khud hee muskurati hogi
hosh apnay kho bethti hogi

ab tou yaad ki baiRiyouN maiN qaid
dabay qadmON t'ra tasawwur
youN chala aata hay kay
khood faraibi ka shaiba
bhee choo ker nahiN guzarta
choti ki is joostujoo maiN
khaai maiN girnay ka ehsaas kisay

said the bluebird to the bulbul
the simpleton is unaware
and the curmudgeon unconcerned
love has been cremated
in hiroshima

Man shorn of humanity is hurting and hurtling down the precipice, brakes worn, singling gaily, oblivious of the rushing winds of time, aware but not cognizant of the abyss.

_________________________________________________
* translation:

clutching the bouquet of memories
and drowned in the whispering quiet
as the shadows embrace
the goddess of intoxication
would smile at herself
while letting go of sobriety

bounded in memory-chains
your thoughts tiptoe
swirling and cascading
around whims and doubts

in the strive to conquer the peak
who thinks of a fall into the abyss

A Different World Part II: Zina ul Haq's Debauchery

temporal — Tue, 30 Dec 2008 03:27:51 EST

(Continued from A Different World Part I : A Travelogue of Sorts)

The irony is this: people on both side of the frontiers were predominantly Punjabis. Only fifty plus years back they spoke the same language, looked the same, shared similar culture and passions, but today they are different...not physically different...but in their mindset and attitude.

Zina-ul-Haq (Zina means rape: Haq is Truth – my coinage for the erstwhile dictator) induced religious stupor had flamed the latent fundamentalism and created such a wide gulf of intolerance and divide that most Pakistanis today accept segregation as the norm. Some even elevate it with piety. He unleashed his version of Islam that has polarized Pakistanis, increased the chasm not only between Sunnis and Shias but also between Sunnis themselves as well as fanning parochial differences between residents of all provinces.

The denial of one's roots and ersatz emphasis on a culture that was and is almost alien led to an influx of mental and sexual depravity. The orthodox misinterpreters of religion (read Islam) twist and bend the religious injunctions to satisfy their limited understanding and fetishes. This increase in provincialism, parochialism and ethnic diversity played well in the hands of manipulative politicians and the occupying army. Divide and Rule!

And it has also led to the killing of Pakistanis by other Pakistanis in the name of the same Allah.

Today's West Punjab and indeed Pakistan is set on a different course. Not the one envisioned by any of her founders or detractors in their wildest hallucination.

Off the intersection of Aram Bagh Road and Bunder Road, now M. A Jinnah Road, the Pakistani equivalent of Indian cities' Gandhi Margs, there is a side street. To the south is Dow Medical College and to the north is Pakistan Chowk. At the end of this side street there is a gurdwara, I was told. I had dragged M through the traffic, dirt and pollution but all we could see was the walls. The side street was a furniture market and unless you knew there was a gurdwara once there you would miss it.

In Mata: Meem, Alif, Tay, Alif I had written about visiting some of the mandirs in Karachi:

Karachi has lots of mandirs. And there are a few functioning ones too that I visited. There is one in Clifton, one across from the KMC building on M A Jinnah Road, one near the old Native Jetty Bridge, two in Soldier Bazaar and one in Amil Colony # 2 near the Islamia College. And there is a crumbling one on the beach in Manora that ravages of time has turned into a crumbling structure.

The Lakshmi Narayan Mandir across from KMC building on M. A. Jinnah road is in a compound. When we visited it one afternoon, the mandir was closed and some boys were playing cricket nearby. One twelve year old asked us if we were Hindus. M smiled and said she is an insaan. The kid nodded wisely.
Tu Hindu banayga na Musalmaan banayga
Insaan ki aulad hay insaan banayga

Neither a Hindu nor Muslim will you be
A human you are, a human you shall be
Another day we visited one in Soldier Bazaar. One thing is imprinted on my mind from that visit. Inside the sanctum sanctorium on the far wall Mata was spelled in glittering Urdu lettering, about two feet high - meem-alif-tay-alif. Mata was written in multicolored glitter ribbons, the kind used in garlands and for decorating the bridal car. Mata: Meem, Alif, Tay, Alif

Karachi is perhaps in the top twenty cities of the world by population. It citizens are always on the go and unaware of its history and heritage. Less than one in twenty Karachite is aware of a fort in Karachi. It is a city of affluence and poverty - of palaces and mansions with high walls, private zoos, monitoring cameras and Kalshnikov carrying guards and jhuggis and huts. In a nation where prohibition is the law, more alcohol is consumed than can ever be imagined to the loss of the exchequer. The private bars of individuals would shame the sommelier of a seven star establishment.

In one evening friends spend more at the BarBQ Hut or Coppper Kettle than the average monthly salaries of their drivers and servants. The poor can be seen lining outside modest hotels in the evening, where the affluent drive by and pay up for the meals for 20 or 30 people.

The middle class wants to shrivel and disappear. It is despondent and despairing.

Lawlessness is rampant and its acceptance is annoying for the casual visitor. Almost everyone you meet has had their cellphones snatched or robbed at gun point at least once. Every acquaintance you meet has a home robbery tale for you.

My notes for the trip - names, places, times and photos stored on the Palm Treo were lost to a gun totting polite robber. "Uncle, please give me your cell phone." With the gun inches away from the stomach, there were few options available. The phone was replaced the next day but it took me a long time to get over the loss of those notes.

Poessay: Rosary 22 - A Simple Poem

temporal — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 13:28:01 EST

painting -nahid raza

love me or let me go
the crooner sang
as i channel surfed,
ate, walked, read,
intermittently gazed
at this ball point
wrote, paused and
pondered over the feel
of all the pens have possessed
ball points with fine points
blue, black, red, even green
old fashioned ink filled pens
ah the old parker
the zee nibs, the ink pots
stained hands and clothes
the set of unused calligraphy pens
pens with cushy holders
handcrafted tops
folding pens for travel
thin pens, modulated pens
and reminisced
the feel of my favourite pen
a pen warm and flowing
comfortably imprisoning wayward words

laikin kalam qal`m ka marhoon e minnat kahaaN?
aamud hoti hay kalam ki
phir woh sadiON seena ba seena
musafat tay karta hu`aye
safha e zaati say safha e qartaas per
kabhi youN muntakil hota hay
kay paRhnay wala baisakhta bOl oothay
`wallah! kya baat paida ki hay dost
yehi baat tO m`ray dil maiN thee
yehi baat tO maiN kehna chahta thaa...`

words
ensconced in dictionaries
listless and trembling
only a writer's pen
can furnish them a soul

through the centuries, bosom to bosom
brain to brain, to impulses, to fingers
to pen, to ink, to paper
the journey enigmatic, intricate and involved

flawlessly the moving finger infuses
words - simple, loaded
burnished in the heart
and when reader reads
s/he simply nods in agreement
at the palpitations shared

i get up
fetch some water
return, read, surf
write and rewrite
as the crooner sings
…or love me forever…

Earlier:
Poessay: Rosary 1 - Pink Sand Beach
Poessay: Rosary 2 - Fishing
Poessay: Rosary 3 - Adam and Eve Limited - I
Poessay: Rosary 4 - Adam and Eve Limited - II
Poessay: Rosary 5 - Descending
Poessay: Rosary 6 - Dinner In The Park
Poessay: Rosary 7 - Under the Jamun Tree
Poessay: Rosary 8 - Voices In The Air
Poessay: Rosary 9 - Life Rosary I
Poessay: Rosary 10 - Life Rosary II
Poessay: Rosary 11 - Creating In Isolation
Poessay: Rosary 12 - Kohled Eyes
Poessay: Rosary 13 - By the Lake
Poessay: Rosary 14 - Snow Flakes
Poessay: Rosary 15 - The Drop
Poessay: Rosary 16 - Ageless Quest - tishnagi
Poessay: Rosary 17 - Hemashree
Poessay: Rosary 18 - burning blazing fire rages
Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwur LafzouN Ka
Poessay: Rosary 20 - Thanksgiving I

Poessay: Rosary 21: KhamOshi - Wordless

A Different World Part I : A Travelogue of Sorts

temporal — Mon, 22 Dec 2008 13:58:22 EST

'Sirji will you take our picture?' a college student asked me. And when I nodded he handed me his camera. There were seven of them. They wanted a picture with the Golden Temple in the background. It was an early December morning and the sun was struggling to break through the clouds and the Punjab morning fog.

I took off my back-pack and the heavy camera bag and rearranged that group while checking them out through the view-finder for a good angle. This took a few minutes of adjusting, cajoling and coaxing then. When I was ready I snapped three pictures with their cameras.

Then I asked one of them to take our picture. The young man took his time and took our photograph. That picture turned out to be one of the better ones of both of us from that trip. We have it enlarged and framed over the fireplace in the real baithak.

We were then at the tail end of our Indian tour, having arrived at Amritsar early that morning from New Delhi. We checked in our bags at the cloak room and then ordered breakfast in the station restaurant. All other passengers had left the platform by then. There we met Henrik and Jacob. Had crossed paths with them thrice in the past few weeks in Jaisalmer, Delhi and Ratnagiri.

I asked them where they were heading this time.
'Dharamsala, and you?'
'We are crossing Attari to Wagah this morning.'
'You are going to Pakistan?' There was just a hint of incredulity in their tone.
'Afghanistan,' I jokingly replied.
'Good, we will see your pictures in the newspapers.'

Touring all over India in the aftermath of September 11 we had met many foreign tourists. And Indian tourists too, a testimony to the burgeoning middle class in India. Though both the tour operators as well as State Tourism Agency officials bemoaned of the diminishing number of foreign tourists.

As we walked around the Darbar Sahib a kindly and elderly Sikh became our guide, pointing out the highlights. Loudspeakers broadcast the Gurbani Kirtans sung in the upper floor of the Harmandir Sahib, the inner sanctum sanctorum. Peace and tranquility mixed with the morning fog and floated soothingly over the water.

(digression: one of the things I look forward to doing in a new city or country is to visit the oldest house of worship there. I find the peace and calm in those mosques, temples, synagogues, mandirs, gurdwaras very invigorating, calming and overwhelming. Sometimes, the visits produced interesting insights - like the mandir in Port of Spain with pews and the church in Goa or Cochin where we had to take off our shoes. )

After the Golden Temple we stepped back into the bazaar and walked the short distance to Jallianwala Bagh. Paused and paid our respects at the eternal flame in memory of the unarmed civilian Indians who were butchered by General Dyer. There were many families visiting the garden and from their conversation snippets it became apparent they were from Gujarat, Bengal and Tamil Nadu among other places.

It was still early in the morning but we felt hungry after all that walking around. So we searched around for a restaurant and ordered the traditional sarsooN ka saag and makkai ki roti. Then we walked through one of the main bazaars to a central chowk.

It was a typical Indian bazaar scene. Narrow streets, filled with people and cars and scooters and trucks and buses. Crowded, dusty and dirty. Throngs milled about.

I suggested M to look around and absorb the scene very carefully. In a couple of hours we would be crossing over to the other side. (I had experienced this difference before but this was M's first foray into the country).

In the crowded Amritsar bazaar, in addition to men there were old and young women and children. M would soon find this for herself. What set this crowd apart was that the young and old women were driving cars, riding scooters and bicycles and even motorbikes navigating expertly through the crazy Indian traffic. (Forgive me, sometimes I inadvertently judge desi scenes from a non-desi perspective. Attribute it in part to living in the west for so long.)

Women owned stalls and kiosks and thelas. School and College girls also rode bicycles through the traffic.

At the square I bought two copies of the daily newspapers, the Hindustan Times, Times of India, the Hindu, Indian Express and some local papers and magazines. (the second copy was for Lahore friend Feroz.) The Newspaper stall was managed by a retired journalist named Narang. When he saw the newspaper purchase he inquired if we were heading across the divide. And was kind enough to arrange our transportation to the border. While we were waiting for the car to arrive he ordered tea and we had interesting conversation with him. He talked of Bhindrawale days. How he was an outspoken journalist then and his life was under threat. How Indira Gandhi gave him police protection. Our ride arrived and we had to cut short his tales.

We were the only travelers to cross over that day. It was closed to local traffic. This was in the aftermath of the attack on the Parliament in Delhi, and the military deployment was notched up all along the border and LoC. As we entered the customs hall the coolie asked us to wait. Finally a Custom Officer emerged, took our passports and disappeared across the road, Half an hour later, he returned and examined our luggage. Picking out a box of Cuban cigars (again for Feroz) he wanted to levy duty on it.

I asked to see the Superintendent. A petite South Indian Lady with an ear to ear smile came in and was introduced to us as the Asst. Collector. She listened to the Custom Officer and turning to me said I would have to pay the duty. I pointed out the fallacy, this time slightly more forcefully. The Esplendidos were rolled in Cuba, and I had brought them into India and was now taking them out of India, therefore there was no logic in paying any duty or 'export' levies. She understood, smiled and let us go. Simple as that!

We walked through the no-man's land into the Islamic Republic. The Rangers and the Custom Officers were sunning themselves in the foggy afternoon sun. After the passport check they wanted to examine our luggage.

The Custom Officers, two of them, blatantly asked for chai money. M and I exchanged glances. We were now officially in the Islamic Republic. Later as we left the check post there was a lone taxi cab. He would charge us Rs. 1500 for the short ride into Lahore. Knowing the distance I balked at the highway robbery. I told him, "Think once more before you quote me the fare- I will not negotiate." He would not budge. I looked up and saw a local bus. I walked over and asked the driver if he would take us and our bags. Sure if you pay for them. So we made it into Lahore in a public bus.

The Conductor told M 'Aap oodhar baithaiN,' pointing to the caged partition separating the driver and the front section from the rest of the bus. 'Woh tO pinjra hay, hum yaheeN baithaiNgay.' M had spoken. The conductor shook his head and relented.

For the first thirty minutes of the ride into the Islamic Republic, we saw a lot of people and traffic. But, no women. Even in the center of the town across from the ever busy Lahore Railway Station, at what must have been rush hour, there were few women to be seen. There were no women driving scooters, cars or riding bicycles. Later on we did see women driving cars. Maybe we were in the wrong part of the town. No woman behind any stall or thela.

And within two hours of crossing the border M confessed, 'Look at the way these men are staring...as if they are trying to...'

19 Varieties of Gazelle: Poems of the Middle East by Naomi Shihab Nye

Vivek Sharma — Mon, 22 Dec 2008 02:03:31 EST

Naomi Shihab Nye's collection contains sixty poems about Palestinians and Middle East, about love and longing for lost and imaginary homelands. The poems are fragrant with spices of the Middle-East, flavors of figs and olives, and served with a tenderness of a grandmother talking to a grandchild, a five year old to his mother, an aged man to his beloved he unites with after a lifetime.

In the world torn by religious and political conflicts, these poems represent an oasis of hope. It is the humanity of these verses, that leaps from the page like the memory of nineteen varieties of gazelle described in the title poem.

The poems assume special significance in the context of post-September 11 world, for they contain a platter of understanding and taste served to assuage our need to be comforted. The solace is brought in by the mint green language of a poet born to a Palestinian father and an American mother. Perhaps the unique identity of Nye offers her perspectives about the Arab East and American West which her creativity has shaped into a narrative that offers respite from the reactionary rhetoric that dominates our daily thinking and actions.

As an Indian residing in America, I sense a brotherhood with Nye's characters, who chase the voices, flavors, visions, music and familiarity that maps their nostalgic world. As a poet with Indian heart and Americanized mind, I find Nye, like Agha Shahid Ali, present our cultural and emotional duality in a lyric that is both powerful and poignant. The tapestry of inheritance of the East is laced with tales quite unknown in the West, and this wealth can nourish many a chasms that exist between the material and spiritual. It is voices like Amichai's and Nye's that remind us that the transcendental humanity within us can help us to outlive the wounds inflicted by the fanatic forces everywhere.

Poessay: Rosary 21: KhamOshi - Wordless

temporal — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 11:01:14 EST

(photo by Brian Mayeux)

khamOshi
sukoot
qayam rakhtay hu`aye
oos nay raaz e dil a`yaaN kya
jaanay kis haal maiN hoga woh aaj
lafzON ka yeh ehtraam
jo oos nay sikhaya
qaim hay

wordlessly
inaudibly
she conveyed her
dreams, doubts, aches
don't know where she is now
this respect for speech
she inculcated
lingers
Earlier:
Poessay: Rosary 1 - Pink Sand Beach
Poessay: Rosary 2 - Fishing
Poessay: Rosary 3 - Adam and Eve Limited - I
Poessay: Rosary 4 - Adam and Eve Limited - II
Poessay: Rosary 5 - Descending
Poessay: Rosary 6 - Dinner In The Park
Poessay: Rosary 7 - Under the Jamun Tree
Poessay: Rosary 8 - Voices In The Air
Poessay: Rosary 9 - Life Rosary I
Poessay: Rosary 10 - Life Rosary II
Poessay: Rosary 11 - Creating In Isolation
Poessay: Rosary 12 - Kohled Eyes
Poessay: Rosary 13 - By the Lake
Poessay: Rosary 14 - Snow Flakes
Poessay: Rosary 15 - The Drop
Poessay: Rosary 16 - Ageless Quest - tishnagi
Poessay: Rosary 17 - Hemashree
Poessay: Rosary 18 - burning blazing fire rages
Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwur LafzouN Ka
Poessay: Rosary 20 - Thanksgiving I

A Love For Shoes: This Has Nothing to Do With Iraq and Yet...

temporal — Mon, 15 Dec 2008 14:32:20 EST

mera joota hay japani
yeh patloon inglistani
sir pay laal topi roosi
phir bhee dil hay hindustani
shailendra - shri 420

tr:

my shoes are Japanese
this trouser is English
the red cap 'ver my head is Russian
but my heart is all Indian

Shoes had a fascination for me. (Notice the tense?)

The diabolical reason for that fascination was champagne. I had seen some actor drink champagne from his companion's red high heels. I was enamored with the companion too, but geography won over anatomical inquisitiveness by a few thousand miles - more in kilometers.

Backgrounder: Prince Henry of Prussia visited the Everleigh Club of Chicago in 1902. A dancer's shoes flew off, hit a wine bottle, spilling some champagne into the shoe. A guest at the table picked up the shoe and imbibed the wine. As if on a cue, everyone there borrowed a shoe from their companion and drank wine from it. In case the reader is fascinated with this more here.

In the mall, or on the street, passing by a shoe store, eyes inadvertently look for red high heeled shoes - whirling sleek stilettos.

And if encountered on a hourglass bombshell - double the envy. More on Kelly shortly.

***

Leather can be tough. It protects the animal through ravages of heat and cold and when turned into footwear it can withstand the wear and tear of trudging miles upon miles.

Memory is fickle - high school or college it was - when I heard a sweet one warn a friend "jooti khao gay." Gold Rush and Charlie Chaplin aside, there was something in her tone that sent a chill up my spine even though the young lady was so diminutive.

A movie still shows Charlie Chaplin in the

classic shoe-eating scene from The Gold

Rush (1925). (Bettmann/Corbis)

The scar above my left eyebrow, comes in handy when government directives blatantly ask one to mention scars or body marks on official applications. In the pre-scan passport days they even used calligraphy to highlight this minor blemish for foreign officials.

Yes, a leather chappal caused it. She hurled it at my friend J. He ducked. Passports can reveal unusual stories sometimes. [Reading a draft of this M says, 'hmmmmmm.' - translation - so you did not fall on your face?]

Wonder what George W's passport says. He ducked today. Luckily no one was standing behind him. The shoe hurler also called him man's best friend.

I wonder if in Arab culture what is worse, calling one a dog or a pig? Yasmin can you help?

I also wonder where is Kelly LeBrock? Am not sure if it is the shoes or...

Missing InSomnia

Chaitanya S — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 11:14:20 EST

“We are having a blast at the Taj tonight…remember to bring your camera along…it is going to be an all nighter”.

As I sat glued to CNN, I realized what words like “Taj”, “tonight”, “blast”, “camera” and “all night” meant to me. As I sat through the night watching the footage, the brain screamed of fatigue but the eyes remained wide. My roommate passed by at 5:00 am and sniggered, “Still up? Are you suffering from insomnia tonight?”. “No. InSomnia is suffering tonight”.

I knew InSomnia had shut down a year or so ago. But all my best memories (only memories?) of the Taj revolved round that night club. We’d make it a point to party there whenever possible. For us living in the suburbs, the 30 minute drive to reach our destination was more than worth the effort. The slow moving traffic gave us an opportunity to actually “talk” and catch up with each others' lives. The moment we’d cross Worli, the traffic would give way and the road was there for the taking. Marine Drive, was where I’d roll down the windows. The cool sea breeze hitting our faces added to the thrill of going to party. The screams of “put the windows up, you idiot, it’s ruining our hair” couldn’t dampen our ecstasy.

On 26/11, the absence of cars round the Taj was an antithesis to my experience. I recollect the plush automobiles snaking round the grand building. I remember being caught up in that long queue for valet parking on every occasion. On such occasions, comments from my beloved backseat drivers ranged from, “this is taking us longer than our drive” to “I told you to leave early, numbskull”.

I’ve frequented all the best nightclubs in Mumbai city. Anyone would tend to do that if they’d party at least twice at week. But InSomnia always had an X factor to it which I could never actually put my finger on. Maybe it was the architectural splendor of the Taj on entry. Or maybe it was the element of mystery I felt as I approached the club for the first time. It was through a narrow corridor which was flanked by designer stores on either side. All the shops were closed by the time we’d go to the club, but it was my secret ambition to shop there someday. I no longer nurse that ambition, but you tend to have crazy aspirations when you are younger. I remember entering the darkness of the club down a flight of stairs and immersing myself into the loud music and flashing lights.

Back then, the only shots inside were either at the bar or through my camera. The blasts were our youthful emotions exploding on the dance floor. Every ounce of fatigue which had accumulated due to the 60 hour work week went up in smoke. We made sure to uphold Mumbai’s reputation as “the city which never sleeps”.

On the way home, I remember the “nakabanis” or roadblocks at which I’d stop at. Police would speak in their stern but polite Marathi and screen the car. Far from being a nuisance, it would be reiterate the fact that I was safe in my beloved city. The police were just making sure that we citizens drove home safely.

I will always feel safe in Mumbai. It is my home. I know I am being protected. Fear will not give me sleepless nights. Now even InSomnia can’t give me sleepless nights in Mumbai. I really do miss InSomnia.