Sunday, February 20, 2005

on mornings

it’s cold as december should have been, only it’s february. dawn is early these winter days, the birds wake with the sun and being to chirp with the throaty voice that follows deep sleep. i like waking people up just to hear that voice…’tis the only time in the entire day that you are unguarded, not thinking of the things the world puts inside your head.

on praying

i know why one folds their hands upon their breast when one prays. so that you can feel your heart beating in time to the words you whisper.

on ‘twenty love poems and a song of despair’

when you nikaalofy a faal, you read saadi, if i’m not wrong. in a small similar way, i think my neruda is my faal book. it has settled on the desk where the PC sits, and at intervals i pick it up and discover something new within its mere sixty-five pages, despite having read it time and time again. i don’t believe in faals and i don’t believe in that much randomness, but it’s a thought that amuses me. ah, silenciosa!

on the bachi

if it's possible, she grows sweeter by the day. i inhale her exhalations, hold her close enough to let her eyelashes graze my cheek. babbling purity in a pale green-and-blue ensemble with a monkey on her bum, emerson is right. babies turn grown people into babies.

on nana (as always)

went to pick sana up from khala's, and made mandatory detour to nana's room. he was just about to put the first bite of his dinner into his mouth when i hijacked it, remembering amma's story about the perfect niwala of aalu-gosht. never let a good moment to be spoilt pass you by, i say, and being fed the best boti by the man you love most in the entire world is something you can always hold close to your heart and sparkle with. nana-thing, you make my heart sing :))

on art

turner. i love turner. his opalescent light suffuses the canvas like it were from heaven...he takes industrial revolution london and turns it into magic...sometimes gentle, yellow light and sometimes clear and sharp, slicing through menacing, grimy shadow. i am fascinated- this is paint. just paint on canvas. and marvellous, breathtaking genius, but all the same: it is only paint. wow. turner doesn't insist on your attention like van gogh does, but i love him just as much for it...the quiet statement in his canvases captivate me. thank god for art, and music, and books.

Mina at 8:54 AM

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