Coming back home.

On my fourth night in Bombay, memories of the city I grew up in came flooding back in one shining moment.

It's about 10:45 on a Friday evening in the part of town which was formerly peopled with workers of cloth mills. Now, though its home to nightclubs and the assorted gentry of Mumbai. 

Me and a friend have stepped out to catch an international act passing through town. The traffic is snaking through roadblocks put up by the police to check for alcohol.

Interestingly, there is not a breathalyzer in sight. Instead I see the hawaldar stick his head into a window, pause for a few seconds and wave the car on. I see we're pushing the state of the biometrics art I tell myself dryly.

As I pull up to the barricade, the inspector looks intently in my direction and yells "If I ever see you here again, I'm going to kick your a*** !" I wonder if we've met.  A few seconds I hear clicking of hoofs. And then a young  boy riding bareback on a horse, racing past the barricade. 

I can't help grinning. This is old school Bombay, right down to the harassed inspector. He tells me, the chap has been up and down this road several times. And been warned for it too. I expect public nuisance or some lofty reason. But what he says stops me in my tracks. Loosely translated from Hindi, he says "Sir, the horse slips on this road. He is, after all, only an animal".

We share silent appreciation for a mute animal working bravely at the hands of a thoughtless handler. The moment passes. The inspector looks at me and waves us on - not bothering to check us. I feel something of  value passed between us in that silent moment. Thank you unnamed inspector on Tulsi Pipe Road. For bringing me back home. 

Silent Screams

I'm sad today. I heard silent screams from friends trying to be brave in their marriages.  Trying with every last breath of sincerity to make their way through the land of relationships. With outdated maps.  And finding themselves in forests instead of palaces.

The maps I have has valleys and flowers and sunshine everywhere. But the world my friends and me are seeing is different. There are thorns. Sometimes streets are paved with them. There are also flowers - on the top of icy mountains. There is venom. Freely flowing like water. There is also a philosophers stone. But only at the  heart of the volcano. It rains lightning. And it pours rainbows. 

Relating is not a matter of playing a role anymore. It appears to be more about facing fears with honesty. The safe routines  of an older world now seem limiting.  She wants to know I really need her. I need her to know I'm really scared of her leaving. With a  soft heart, the surface of the relationship seems to be able to weather storms our parents never imagined possible.  

The surprise is that I have been standing on this lesson my entire life. My planet needs the same from me that my wife does. A soft heart with a steady surface. She only expects what she is. The lessons, it appears will arrive from nature.

When in Bombay

When in Bombay, do as Bombay does - talk, flit, chat, run.

Why ?

In Bombay, moving is living. Running is growing. Earning is showing.

In Bombay, oneness is sameness. Be Different. Simple is a game to be played. Affection is an instrument.

Be Someone. If you are unknown, you do not exist. Be something measurable - a number, a position, a star, a designation.
In one word: be a quantity. Have many things. And everyone is finally a thing here - a door, a path, a destination, a ride. Have many things.

Be Someone Else.Being by oneself is the same as being alone.Be with someone. If you can't be someone else.


Not liking Bombay. I want the city I grew up in back. 

One Year and Twelve Moons Ago

One year and twelve moons ago, a boy met a girl. She loved maggi, he loved coffee. It was an uncertain beginning. They had been in love. They had been alone. They had learned that being with people is sometimes lonelier than being alone. Both were searching for the simple things - simple love, simple laughter, simple warmth. These had been the hardest to find. But they had found it with it each other, many years ago. Maybe they could find it once again ? It was far from certain, but it was by far the best thing in their lives.

So they lived their lives together. In the beginning, they lived in different cities. But the warmth of the times behind them help light up the way ahead of them. Sometimes she visited him. Sometimes he visited her. They loved and laughed. Everything was perfect.

Then, one wintery evening, they got married. She had dreams. He had hopes. A simple ceremony, close friends and a warm welcoming family. The ritual was beautiful. The friends were warm. And then, without warning, tradition descended on the wise. Their hopes for warmth, laughter and light was turned to dust. Families played their part in an elaborate play. Warmth was hidden behind clouds of mindless rituals, which no one understood and no one would destroy. They escaped to a simpler place for a few days just to feel again. The signs foretold difficult days.

And they came. First in the form of whispering voices - encouraging them so make themselves in the images of others, disfigure themselves to fit in. Adjust, compromise, understand. They tried it for a while. But the clouds grew darker. Then came the demons from unknown worlds. They fed on words. They were looking to feed on the anger and pain of the boy and girl. They cast a spell : All spoken words would be poisoned. Everything said in care would be understood in doubt. Soon they would forget what the other was like, deep inside. How long could they hold on now ? The demons laughed while the girl loved and slept in a bed of tears, while the boy prayed and walked on floors of crushed glass. The boy and the girl forgot what it was like one year and 12 moons ago. Anytime now.

But something inside the boy and the girl would not let go. They could not create the words, that could explain why. But they knew that it was pure. And powerful. They decided to look at themselves instead of the other. They decided to use their heart to talk to each other instead of their tongues. Suddenly, the spell broke! Having no words to poison, the demons screamed in agony. All at once they flew away, to poison other lovers.


The storm was over. Slowly, morning arrived. The boy and the girl expected to see scars and wounds. There were none ! The deep magic within them had healed all wounds. The boy made the girl a cup of maggi. He remembered she loved them, one year and twelve moons ago. She made him a cup of coffee. She remembered he loved them. One year and twelve moons ago. They spent the first day of their life together, doing simple things - loving, laughing. As the day turned to night - they sat up around a fire looking at the moon. It looked bigger and brighter than they remembered. Time flew. In a wink, a year went by. Maybe it was a sign of times to come.

Driving back with dreams in my head

On the drive back from a close friends restaurant (65 in case you live in Koramangla - they completed 6 months - well done Vijesh and friends), I started a conversation with the friend I was dropping home. Any dreams ? Hasn't work run its course for you ? Immediate response: yes. Earlier this morning, I land up late ( again ) for Start Up Saturdays at IIMB - The average age of someone looking to do their own thing - 28. Now am I imagining it, or does everyone want to do their own thing ? I read somewhere that we are in the Age of Aquarius, where creativity rules. From what I see, it seems its already here.

Have I any dreams ? Absolutely. Working upto the point where I can switch my passion and day job around. For now I'm learning that unlearning the engineering mind learning the product designer's is hard for one reason alone : rusted imagination. Its a muscle that I've not had to use for a while. At least not in the right way: to create.

But starting now, as the song goes I "get back, get back, get back to where you belong".

G'night world

Stairway to Heaven

An image that arrived during conversation and stayed:

There is stairway to heaven. But you don't see it. Each step appears only at the instant you place your leg with the intent to walk. The last step disappears the instant your leg has lifted from it. You do not know who is creating the steps or where they lead. But they always lead higher.

Smoke Songs

The evening rolls in hissing like an old steam engine. Its belly full of blackness, its mouth spewing impenetrable fog. Like a warm cloak I heard someone say. Yes, truly. Like a warm cloak which erases features and distinctions makes everything look the same. The ancient cloud from within which eveything is possible and nothing stays the same. Nothing is better and nothing worse. No distinctions and no separations. If we are all just one, isn't it possible we're just empty deep inside ? Empty like instruments ? The deepest human resonances are sound. The oldest human visions are smoke. So light a fire, inside or outside. Sing a song . We're one. I'll hear you.