Today, my friend Lynn tore a few pages of a writing pad and gave them to me. Each page had this image. A few lines that meant so much Lynn. Thank you.
:)
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Knowing Me
Today, my friend Lynn tore a few pages of a writing pad and gave them to me. Each page had this image. 
Friday, March 12, 2010
Release
When I was 5, my dad was given the special opportunity to go and do a 6-month program at the University of Cardiff. I didn't realize the prestige of being invited to something like that until recently. Back then, in my eyes he had "fair-skinned friends" and it felt fascinating. I distinctly remember one professor at the university. He took a liking to my ever-so studious father and when he made a visit to India, he came over for dinner one night. I remember my mother opening the doors of the balcony as he stood and stared at the view. I remember his words "Murdy, you have a millionaire's view, you have a millionaire's view."
That line somehow remained in my head for the longest time. I took a picture I had of the "millionaire's view" and put it on my desktop at work. A colleague passed by and gasped "Where is thatt!". Would you believe if I said Mumbai? The non-slum, snake charmers and elephants, part.
The millionaire's view had tiny boats filled with fresh fish. Every morning these boats would come into the harbor after spending three days at sea. Every morning at 6am people would throng to the water’s edge and stand on a protruding stretch of land that over-looked the boats. I always thought that they would fall down into them and then I would hear the sirens going off declaring a state of emergency. But it never happened. The fishermen would take baskets of fish and fling them upwards to the keen, standing buyers. I always thought those baskets would suddenly burst open and the fish would fall all over the place instead of making their way into the hands of their master. But that never happened either. The movements were made with precision and incredible timing. If they played sports, the fishermen would make incredible bowlers or pitchers ;) As the day went by, while the masters enjoyed their seafood meals, the fishermen began their journey into the sea again. It would be nice to one day talk "emotions" with the Mumbai fisherman. Like Bach did about flying, did he enjoy the waters, the adventure of fishing, did he find passion in his profession, was it beautiful? Isolating and lonely?
Beyond this precision, timing and fun activity was a very old mill. It just lay, aging and groany. Once in a way it was all spruced up when some big-wig producer in the Bollywood film-industry wanted a place near the water to film a low-budget song. We would spend months on end listening to same lines repeating and repeating, like a stuck record. It didn't help that some of the actors were terrible dancers. And then suddenly, after 4-5 months you would see it on television. And say "of my god, that's my house there at the back!". And then you would hear it in the rickshaws and think the same thought. The song held little meaning without "my house there at the back!"
The millionaire's view also held the breathtaking backwaters of the Arabian sea. We faced the east, the sun rose and the waters glistened like gold. Kind-off like the Grand Canyon in McKenna’s Gold. Always reminded me of that. The few times I woke up really early to witness this miracle of the sunrise, my mother would come into the balcony and do a quick prayer to the sun god, and even if she didn't, I knew she was praying in her mind. I would smell tea with ginger, yes, morning had arrived. On full moon night's, the water's had a different kind-off glisten. Calming, like a smooth black velvetty calm. The fisherman would have enjoyed this night I used to think. And the lighthouse would hum light, dark, light, dark.
There was a giant old tree to the far right, a magnificent, majestic creature. It bowed gracefully and let the wind pass through. It always seemed perfectly harmonious with its surroundings. I sometimes wish I was like that tree. At the foot of the tree was an old heritage home, built by the British when they were seriously messed up and thought they could rule the world forever. I meant to ask the Cardiff professor that, what were you thinking, really. Outside the house was a small seating area under the tree, which had a small glass cupboard and an idol of a god. I always thought someone would break that glass down one day while playing cricket in front of the house. It never happened. Or maybe someone one day would steal the idol. That didn't happen either.
It's all coming back to me today. Just a simple minimizing the screen on the work laptop and I am transported into another time, another place. A picture is worth a thousand words, but a single memory...that's an unending story.
That line somehow remained in my head for the longest time. I took a picture I had of the "millionaire's view" and put it on my desktop at work. A colleague passed by and gasped "Where is thatt!". Would you believe if I said Mumbai? The non-slum, snake charmers and elephants, part.
The millionaire's view had tiny boats filled with fresh fish. Every morning these boats would come into the harbor after spending three days at sea. Every morning at 6am people would throng to the water’s edge and stand on a protruding stretch of land that over-looked the boats. I always thought that they would fall down into them and then I would hear the sirens going off declaring a state of emergency. But it never happened. The fishermen would take baskets of fish and fling them upwards to the keen, standing buyers. I always thought those baskets would suddenly burst open and the fish would fall all over the place instead of making their way into the hands of their master. But that never happened either. The movements were made with precision and incredible timing. If they played sports, the fishermen would make incredible bowlers or pitchers ;) As the day went by, while the masters enjoyed their seafood meals, the fishermen began their journey into the sea again. It would be nice to one day talk "emotions" with the Mumbai fisherman. Like Bach did about flying, did he enjoy the waters, the adventure of fishing, did he find passion in his profession, was it beautiful? Isolating and lonely?
Beyond this precision, timing and fun activity was a very old mill. It just lay, aging and groany. Once in a way it was all spruced up when some big-wig producer in the Bollywood film-industry wanted a place near the water to film a low-budget song. We would spend months on end listening to same lines repeating and repeating, like a stuck record. It didn't help that some of the actors were terrible dancers. And then suddenly, after 4-5 months you would see it on television. And say "of my god, that's my house there at the back!". And then you would hear it in the rickshaws and think the same thought. The song held little meaning without "my house there at the back!"
The millionaire's view also held the breathtaking backwaters of the Arabian sea. We faced the east, the sun rose and the waters glistened like gold. Kind-off like the Grand Canyon in McKenna’s Gold. Always reminded me of that. The few times I woke up really early to witness this miracle of the sunrise, my mother would come into the balcony and do a quick prayer to the sun god, and even if she didn't, I knew she was praying in her mind. I would smell tea with ginger, yes, morning had arrived. On full moon night's, the water's had a different kind-off glisten. Calming, like a smooth black velvetty calm. The fisherman would have enjoyed this night I used to think. And the lighthouse would hum light, dark, light, dark.
There was a giant old tree to the far right, a magnificent, majestic creature. It bowed gracefully and let the wind pass through. It always seemed perfectly harmonious with its surroundings. I sometimes wish I was like that tree. At the foot of the tree was an old heritage home, built by the British when they were seriously messed up and thought they could rule the world forever. I meant to ask the Cardiff professor that, what were you thinking, really. Outside the house was a small seating area under the tree, which had a small glass cupboard and an idol of a god. I always thought someone would break that glass down one day while playing cricket in front of the house. It never happened. Or maybe someone one day would steal the idol. That didn't happen either.
It's all coming back to me today. Just a simple minimizing the screen on the work laptop and I am transported into another time, another place. A picture is worth a thousand words, but a single memory...that's an unending story.
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