In Steve Martin's book Shopgirl, Mirabelle has to keep fighting 'the immobilizing depression that would otherwise surround her and seep into her body like a poisonous fog.' I loved the book just for that one sentence. Though there's certainly more to like in it. There are days when depression really is like a fog, whether it reaches a level where you need medication or not. Nothing you can think or make yourself believe can lift it. It starts by clouding your morning with gloom and self doubt and goes on to blank out every other positive flicker throughout the day. Mostly without any reason. Most days we are lucky to call it PMS. But today, it's not even that.

Two thoughts for the day

Thought No. 1

When Mr Murphy was making his law he certainly wasn't thinking moms. The thing is, when you are at home with a bored 3 year old, chances are you'll spend the rest of the day trying to keep him occupied, reasonably entertained and trying to dodge Murphy's law. Because if anything can go wrong it will. For instance the glass of milk kept unescorted (by me, who else) on the table will spill. The TV, sometimes a much needed babysitter, will go blank. Frantic calls to cable guy will yield nothing but a busy ringtone. Child will reject every DVD in his possession and want to watch Oswald and only Oswald. Who for those not living in cartoonland is an Octopus that looks like a big blue balloon and speaks and sings in the voice of Fred Savage of The Wonder Years.

The mother, who could have easily abandoned everything else and played the nth round of bowling or jenga with the monkey, will have her nicest editor asking (on a Sunday that too) if she could help with just one input for a story and fast.

Poor freelancer mommy who must keep good editors happy in these times of need will say yes and try to multitask. This will involve switching on computer in the other room (the hand-me-down laptop has expired) and rushing back to continue with bowling in the hall then rushing back to comp to look up required numbers and making required phone calls and then rushing to kitchen as usually non-demanding child will suddenly have pasta craving. Mother will scan shelves and even look under the kitchen sink but fail to find new pasta packet. Will call the home delivery who will cheerfully inform her that it's Sunday, they are short staffed and therefore cannot deliver. Child will insist on pasta and nothing else. Mother will morph from wannabe freelance writer to wannabe marketing girl and try to sell child other edible stuff like french toast, parantha, idli etc etc. The doorbell will ring during all this commotion and it will be the maid's daughter, come to inform that her mother will not be coming today. It is a Sunday after all.

Thought Number 2


When you have one flash card too many thanks to the happy birthdays, this is a good way to keep the child occupied. There can be another point of view of course, as my friend who visited with her child when the project was in progress added.

Friend said she wouldn't do this as three year olds are too young to figure out when it's okay to safely keep toys/books or gifts and when it's ok to do something else with them. Phew. I'd never given it so much thought, though it is a point worth pondering over.

Me? I think it's okay if you drill into the child's head that not everything is meant to be torn or toyed around. I keep doing this 50,000 times a day with the simple use of that all in one expression NO*, although I'm not sure if Dr Spock or Dr Anand and those nice ladies who wrote the What to Expect series advised this. Tricky, this Mataji business. Or is my overly well read generation making it trickier?

* Nowadays NO comes automatically out of my mouth, due to sheer habit, just as words like Look! Aeroplane! and Look!Camel! tend to do. Even if child isn't around.

What are you doing?

Twitter is asking me.

Facebook is even more concerned. What's on your mind?

"Trying to edit really boring copy," mind replies instantly. But hey, do I write that? Of course not. It's so everyday and insipid. Instead I think a bit and and ask myself what I am really doing. "Nothing!" replies my most uncooperative mind with glee. Disgusted, I log out of FB/Twitter. What's the point of being on it when I can't even bring myself up to say something witty and observant?

The eighties had incongruities like Mithun Chakraborty and Michael Jackson. We have the status message. Do you ever see a status message on Facebook that goes, X has just got up and switched on the computer and hasn't brushed his teeth? Nope. You're more likely to see something on the lines of X has justed landed in Goa and is on route to his first lobster. If it's Twitter, X will probably be having a bite of that lobster instead of being on his way to it.

Then of course there are the er...status pictures. In fact, given the lack of activity in my life, I'm slowly convincing myself that people probably travel frequently because they need to post pictures on FB and update their cool status messages. I'm probably getting the signals all wrong but you can't blame me. They may not have been anywhere but Manali in the thousand years that I've known them but give them three months on FB and suddenly there will be albums crawling with pictures from Andalusia to Andamans.

Ditto with gTalk. I'm always here and there on it because I feel compelled to tell the world that I am not always around the computer. And not always fully there mentally either. Whether the world wants to know or not.

Long ago, in the sad days of Orkut where everyone could see anyone, I spotted (ok spied/sneaked/couldn't resist) one of those ex-crushes from school who posted pictures of himself in front of prominent monuments across the world. Needless to add, my century old crush vanished in seconds. Makes me envious about how lucky today's girls are. All they need to do is spy upon their object of desire on FB/Twitter or even Orkut to see if the guy is a smarmy showoff or a subtle sikandar. Sigh.

Going now. Need to update FB, Twitter and maybe even gTalk.

And so, just like that it is over. With a thumb impression and a hastily jotted signature on court paper. No goodbyes. A clean break is perhaps the best of all. I watch their marriage dissolve and think how different the end is from the beginning.

The beginning is handmade paper cards and an afternoon spent dotting them with haldi and sindoor. It's metres of brocade making their way to the must-have tailor and fat gold bangles balanced by delicate platinum rings. Benarasis at Gariahat market and Central Avenue for kundan work gergettes and crepes. It's train tickets booked in bulk to a different city and a red suitcase packed to the gill with zardozi, satin and cosmetics. The beginning is excitement, expectations and trepidation.

The end is simple and governmental. Stamp paper, photocopies, and attestations. Dry and monotonous. The contrast struck me the most. Ironical (or perhaps fitting?)that something which starts with so much abundance should end with so little of it.

The FREE in freelancer

In the two and half years that I have been working on my own, on and off, I've realized that being a freelancer is a good way to make many people show their asli side to you. For instance, if I'm working on a story for a well known publication, there are people who'll fall all over themselves to be available at the oddest of hours, get themselves shot at their own expense (with a camera of course) and even proclaim anytime lunch and undying friendship. Call them back the next time with the name of an obscure journal and suddenly they'll develop every imaginable block from network problems to nerve disorders.

There's also the Impatient Editor. She'll ask you to send in ideas at the speed of light and then disappear from your inbox forever. At some point, she will magically surface to demand the story that she had apparently forgotten about. In a few hour's time. Do remember however NEVER EVER to ask where the cheque is, if you do not wish to be vilified by her forever. So what if you spent 500 bucks one way on the cab to Yelahanka?

The editor is only beatable by the Sweet Talker, though both share a common trait. The aversion to all things monetary. You'll end up scrutinizing boring copy for sweet talker late into the night because he wants it "just looked into" as a favour. Sucker that you are, you'll also fine tune his press relase and in the end rewrite whatever is there in it because you cannot bear to edit every word written by the pre-teens he calls his PR girls. After you've got circles dark enough to qualify for the smoky eyes look, talker will thank you profusely, put his tail between his legs and run. What if you turn into a cheapskate and ask him to pay you whatever it was all worth? Money talk is so non classy, isn't it sweetheart? And you are a FREElancer remember? The free part is ingrained in your ahem...designation.

Eat, drink, man, woman*

He: I'm going for drinks with my colleagues this evening. Just got planned.
Me: Ok. I hope you have the keys. You do? Great! Don't ring the bell. Bye
End of conversation. Zimble!

Me: I'm going for drinks with R this evening. She just called.
He: Great have fun.

(Calls back 10 mins later)
Please ask S (the daytime help) to stay back late if she can. Can't reach home before 7 sorry.
Me: S, can you stay back a little later than usual? Like umm...7?
S: Theek hai didi. But Thursday ko chutti chahiye.
Heave sigh of relief. Rush to kitchen. Cook pasta & soup for father and son. Keep packets of popcorn handy. Keep A's favourite toys and books, special chocolate milk cup, jam biscuits etc, etc in the line of father and son's sight.

Run to wardrobe to look for nightclubby tops. Most have holes due to lack of usage. Realise after wearing standard Cottonworld/Fabindia uniform that one of the holes-in-the-top is actually a sexy sleeve! Make mental note to a)read highheelconfidential/vogue etc and stay updated on fashion AND most importantly b)GO OUT MORE OFTEN!

Call R to say I’m ready to leave. Dejected voice answers my call.

R: Sorry darling. Was just about to call. N is getting back late. Apparently has to do a business dinner (Stops for some heavyduty swearing). The live in maid is away this month, so tough luck.

*The title is a fabulous Ang Lee movie. In case anybody is wondering :)

A weekend of nothing

We left for Kuruva Island in Wayanad on the May Day weekend. And yes, that's the highway. As we discovered soon, the whole of Bengaluru had packed their bags and left on that very same day.


Standard jumbo darshan en route in Bandipur. These were with their mahouts.

Though this one wasn't...

No prizes for guessing what excited the boy most :)


Rich wood & red floor...mmmm


A sit out by the river...


And the obligatory winding village road that tempts you to take a walk that you never do because a) you are playing Jenga with the kid b)You do not wake up on time c) It rains in the evening d) You are ONE hell of a lazy person

What you do however is to read endless cups of tea on the inviting verandah and plan nothing...

And sometimes you actually stir yourself enough to go on a jungle walk with enthu father and son


The son incidentally had a great time and did all those ideal childhood type things that our dads and uncles and even 35 plus men are always going on about. Stuff like climbing over rocks, throwing stones into the river, killing ants with a chappal, playing football with a raw mango, dozing on the verandah, trying to eat kaaju straight off the tree and checking out chamelions while the mother shuddered and photographed it from the greatest possible distance.


The mother meanwhile spent her time gazing at the river, photographing the flowers (and a ladybug which came out blurred) and trying to finish a chick lit and The English Patient. For the record of the book snobs, she finished the chick lit first. Eng lit...er...patient is still on.

How to feel good about yourself...

Step 1: Visit a parlour. Ideally when your eyebrows start taking a Frida Kahlosque shape and your nose has more blackheads than skin. Or when you are almost there. Can guarantee you'll positively feel like something the cat dragged in once the beautician's through with you. Verbally through that is.

Step 2: Follow this up with a visit to the dentist. This will save you the trouble of having to sort and select through 20 different kinds of toothpaste at the shopping mart on your next grocery hunt. Why waste money on microgranules and minty flavors when your all you have is yellow, uneven, cavity infested teeth?

Things I found after spring cleaning...

&...

Just finished watching Revolutionary Road. Fabulous, immaculate and disturbing, everything about it. Don't miss.

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'Ány vices?'asked the doctor.

'Depends on what you mean by vice,' I snapped, wishing for a moment I could add smoking to the vice list that included drinking. What else should we add when faced with questions like these? White lies, jealousy, judgemental...?

Questions like these always throw me off balance. They make me wonder how an educated person could think these up with a straight face. This is the second doctor to ask me the vice question and it always surprises me how casually it is asked. To me, it implies that the good doctor already has some assumptions deep-rooted way inside her mind when it comes to the word. I once gambled in Goa, I'm tempted to reply. Does it count as vice as the thrill of winning/losing huge amounts of money probably played yo-yo with my blood pressure? Sadly, such people usually do not possess a sense of humour and my deep and searching questions just stay where they are. Inside. The vice question however, rates way up there when it comes to the weird questions list. 'What's your caste?' being the other all time favourite.

Mashed eggs with pasta and other delicacies

I'm the queen of leftover breakfasts. Ask Kahini and she will tell you of wonderful mornings of being hungover in Haryana and battling it with a great and greasy breakfast of leftover biryani and eggs fried in a few strips of fatty bacon. If you just went yuck this post is not for you so don't tell me I didn't warn. These days I do end up making a proper breakfast for the husband and the child. Now before you get any vision of a BBC Good Homes style colour coordinated table with a bread basket, Good Earth porridge bowls and gleaming cutlery, let me tell you that in my house 'proper breakfast' translates into one kadai of Poha/vermicelli upma/pasta plonked on the dining table with accompanying yells like 'Add some salt to the poha/take the bread out of the toaster' etc,. But still it's food that is good enough to go but would you find me eating it once the boys have gone and I have the house to myself? Never. I cannot eat a straightforward breakfast. I need to make it complicated. So the Poha would have some aloo bhujia thrown in and if I have energy left to throw it back in the kadai and toss it with some puliogare powder nothing like it. My absolute favorites tho are Mashed eggs with pasta and Moong dal with prawn balchao. For the first one you need a bowl of pasta and one boiled egg left unfinished by a three year old. This three year old part is very important because only then will it have the right consistency of being pricked with a fork a hundred times over and doused with sticky, sweet ketchup. Dunk this mashed concoction (carefully taking off the extra ketchup with a spoon)in a pan with a nice dollop of butter (I believe in good health) and press it all further with a potato masher. Add some water and let it simmer till you have something that looks unfit for human consumption. If you have Oregano left over from Domino's Pizza delivery add that. It's yum. My current fave though is Moong dal salad. No not the sprouted version. I run mile away from them. This is basically moong dal soaked overnight and then sauteed with jeera and hing and mixed with cucumber, tomatoes, chopped onions, etc. That of course is the husband version. Mine gets dried prawn balchao (available at the Koramangala Fabindia) and loads of green chillies thrown in for good measure. Simply divine. My heart will possibly not agree few years later but hey, as long as it gives me a good start to the day, who cares!

Rambling mommy post

Sometime early this evening, as I was climbing up the stairs to an electronics store, I tripped and dropped my sleeping son on the ground. He fell with a thud, rudely awake and crying his guts out. P scooped him up and there we stood for the next two minutes, rubbing the poor child's head and trying to soothe him and angry with each other. P with me for I wasn't exactly looking where I was going. Me at myself for doing what I'd just done. The fall was a nasty one, the sound of it even nastier. Mercifully there were no bruises or cuts, except a minor scratch on his arm. Back home, after a small hospital check up (I bet the emergency guy logged us as Paranoid Parents mentally), we couldn't get it out of our minds that it had been a close shave. He could have fallen further down the stairs and it could have been worse. Predictably, in true mother mode, I've been feeling horrible, despite everything getting back to normal. A's even done his Rock On routine for us before bedtime and proudly shown off the Band-aid on his arm. It's me who's in jitters. The klutziest mother on earth. Of course that isn't true. I may not have Angelina Jolie's ability to balance babies on various parts of her body but I do usually manage to walk in a straight line. Though to be honest, this isn't the first time I've dropped my son. The last instance was unavoidable but when he was a jiggly necked baby, my hands would almost turn to jelly every time I had to pick him up, which was practically all the time. Do other mothers feel like this? Perhaps they don't. Look at Meghna my friend. She can balance a clutch and her pretty daughter while walking in high heels. And another friend goes rock climbing with her son. I'd rather be turned into stone that do that! Why am I finding it difficult to move on after something so small? Do fathers have it easier? P came back to normal once we knew nothing was wrong. I'd have shouted at him too had he dropped A instead of me but would he have been feeling as weirdly horrid as I am? I'm indulging in self pity? Absolutely. What else do I have a blog for! Need to have this written and off my chest. Motherhood is such a fucking complicated box of emotions. You can go from happy, sad, warm, angry, frustrated, guilty, elated, proud, thrilled, envious, foolish, sheepish, bitter...all in a matter of seconds and I've actually run out of adjectives. There are many more. You can beat yourself to death mentally for having dropped your son and then feel frustrated later when he refuses to even touch his dinner. You start shouting/trying to make him eat and then that one drop of tear silences you because today of all the days, you should go easy, shouldn't you? The child being the cunning monkey that he is, knows just which buttons to press and when. Which makes me wonder if I am pressing the right ones. Of being able to take care, take charge, do all the right mother type things and blah blah. There was some Cher movie (forgot name) where she says to her kids 'It's not as if you guys came with some instruction manual. Well at times you do wish they did. Dropped child today? a) Allow him to play with his food b) Gently, but firmly remind him that food is meant to be eaten and there are no alternatives available c) Run to loo and cry. Scroll down to see answer.

Possible professions in 2009

With the job market in such a state, me and some friends thought of a few possible jobs in today's troubled times while having dinner. Here goes:

1. Moral Mausi

Job description: Upholder of Indian culture. Heavy demand in every Indian city. Will start by standing at every building gate and checking for errant school going girl children with skirts above their ankles. Will also post herself in front of pubs, clubs, movie halls, gyms and at rich Marwari weddings at the Oberoi to check for women in skin showing spaghetti tops, skirts, capris, shorts and sheer saris with sequin overdose. In fact will forward proposal to ban the sari altogether as it shows too much skin, that too around the erm...erogenuss/nous/noze (Chee chee! Moral mausi doesn't know spelling of such bad words) areas and still pretends to be Indian. Will uphold Mayawati style one size covers all salwar kameezes for anyone who's not a man. Problem solved.

2. TV Terror

Job Description: There is only one word for it. Suhel Seth. You will require a passable knowledge of what the 'gorment' is up to, highly stretchable vocal chords, some wisecracks and a dictionary with words such as 'buffoons,' 'cartoons,' 'baboons,' etc. A few years in Delhi cozying up to powerful media types will also help.

3. Luxury Consultant

Job Description: There isn't any. Will need to own sufficient Vuittons and Venetas, Cavallis and Choos. Will also require rich dad/husband to buy luxury mall post which candidate can call press conference, flash the Vuitton, call herself luxury consultant and pose for photographs. Tough call but easy job. All you need to do is look convincing as you give quotes like, 'The luxury segment is opening up in India/people are well travelled and know what luxury is/the time is right for luxury goods to enter the Indian market, etc etc.' People have been saying the same for the last five years so you will have enough research material.

4. Chamelion

Job description: Self explanatory. Think US returned IT person turned kiddie library founder turned playgroup founder turned restauranteur turned delusional turned IT person working on Banerghatta Road.

5. Model Mother

Job description: Franchisee for serenity, world peace and inner poise. Will need to be former model well trained in Yoga, own a large number of Lucknawi chikan churidar kurtas and a calm, peaceful expression. Will need to have friend with bungalow surrounded by greenery and basement for meditation.

Am off to sleep now on that peaceful note. Feel free to add.

Loved Gulzar's reply to why he didn't attend the Oscars in this morning's Bangalore Times. 'Kaala coat nahi mila,' he says. Cackle cackle. How could Raakhi divorce this man. Actually on second (and more mature) thoughts...how could he marry Raakhi!

Bitching apart, wish Rahman had thanked him a wee bit more publicly though...considering he's credited everyone from Subhash Ghai to his mother. Speaking of Rahmania, terribly glad that I'm not a Chennai based lifestyle journo at the moment. Friend working there says they've been asked by their newspaper bosses to dig up every impossible, unknown bit of info about him in the next few days or else...

Oh we're attacking the Sri Ram Sene, Yediyurappa and any moralistic political bugger all right but we've forgotten the handsome, yuppy puppy boy next door. He's the one who is part of your fun gang when you start going to pubs after work; he's the one hailing the autos for you at midnight and dropping you home (in these days of easy loans he probably has a car); he's the one going out with you for a late sunday hangover healing breakfast;he's the one who likes you, hasn't quite met anyone like you but won't take you home to mummy. Not even when you are sober. Coz you see, it's alright for him to take his sorry ass to the pub when he's tired after a long day's work but when you do that, you automatically get struck off as ideal wife material from his long-standing mental list. To make the cut you need to go home straight from work (after politely saying NO to all those loose moraled girls who want you to come out and drink), change into cute striped pajamas, eat your chapatis and spend your time watching 'First Ladies' or HBO. On the days you are out with him, you need to ensure you have nothing more incriminating than a Cranberry Breezer. A beer? Certainly not. Ciggies? Look around, I think he's run away already. So why just rant on the Sene in TV debates. Deep down in their hearts, most Indian men (and several women) still believe drinks and decency do not mix.

A very good friend got dumped by her handsome, supposedly cool, liberal boyfriend a while ago. The reason? He didn't really feel she could be the 'family type.' Now that they were talking marriage, he felt she needed to sober down a bit. Not too many long hours at work, not too much after work bonding with the girls, not too much this, not too much that. It's not commitment phobia. It's hypocrisy. Trying to mould someone to your skewed idea of what's moral and what's not, despite the fact that you aren't exactly following them. My friend is sad but thankfully had the guts to walk out of the relationship. So we are off to celebrate. In true 'pub culture' tradition of course.

Clarity, thou art hard to find...

Yes, even after 34 long years. Ok, may be I should make the number of years lesser because I'm sure I didn't try looking for clarity at four or 10 or even 15. At 20, maybe. In fact, I was quite sure I had found it. I was going to be a journalist. At that time, it was an all encompassing word, no shades attached. I had a job I loved and a clear head. This is where I belonged. At least for the time being. Until I found another newspaper or magazine that paid me better. Simple. Full and final.

Well, life, at least the so called professional part of it is not so final after all. Because here I am, 14 years down the line, confused as hell despite knowing where some of the answers are. I know that I do not want a full time job. The answer to that is in my guilt ridden mind and heart on the days I have a long assignment and have to pick A up late from the daycare. I know I want to freelance. But to what extent? Do I take whatever comes my way, work late nights, make my money and be happy? Or do I choose only the kind of stories that I really want to do even if those are few? Do I network and try to revive long lost contacts even if some them are masters in the art of cold shouldering or do I make myself believe that work will find me and sit tight no matter how implausible that may sound? Well I try it all. I take up crap edit jobs that make no sense except bring me a decent enough cheque which I promptly go and spend at the Strand Book Sale on vast amounts of books for myself and the child. I trudge halfway across town to meet a social worker for a story that will pay me lesser than the cab fare. I wonder whether to start a content writing service with a friend. I wonder whether to keep myself free, writing only what actually makes me feel good and not being the hyper when-will-I-be-busy-again kind of cranky person I usually am. And I wonder when will the focus, the clarity finally stop being elusive. Maybe when I do.

Of Goa, Bombay and other random stuff...

So the entire month of December 2008 was spent travelling. Well almost the entire month if you discount the 3 or 4 days of interim breaks in Bangalore that were spent in visiting dentist, cleaning dirty dishes left by absconding maid, fixing a non absconding one, attending budday parties and doing other such exhausting stuff. We drove to Karwar and Goa and as soon as we crossed the Karnataka border, a friend called to ask where we were. 'Goa,' I said, rolling the windows down to smell the (truck infested) air. 'Again?' She shrieked, 'don't you guys have any imagination?' Our trip to Hampi in between elicited mostly positive responses (That part of Karnataka is a must do, said one 'doer') but when we landed up in Bombay at the end of the year, most people laughed. 'You've actually wasted four precious days to holiday in Bombay!' the husband heard. I'm of course spared as I do not 'work.'
Who wouldn't love exploring new places on a holiday? Especially say a place like Hampi where we climbed several hills and stairs with a child perpetually attached to our backs. Ok joking, he was permanently attached but we loved the place, though it isn't exactly a holiday for a three year old. Going to Goa is like visiting an old friend. You know exactly what to expect. There's fun in that too isn't it? Like lounging on the sunbed the entire morning as your child is babysat by the sand and a few buckets; ordering the same prawn rechado and fish curry at the same shack everyday; going sick hearing your husband say he plans to paraglide, jet ski and do everything Akshay Kumar can since the beginning of the holiday (Yes Rupa, it's a middle aged male disease) and knowing that by the time you get back exhausted thanks to all those Kings and Belos in the afternoon or evening, the bed would be made and the bathroom would be clean :D. As for Bombay....for me that's a happy story forever.

The random stuff
* Why on earth is Ghajini the name of the movie? I mean the villain is hardly iconic...I could have understood Sholay being named after Gabbar Singh but this one is sheer stupid.
* And shirtless Aamir doesn't work for me at all. It's conditioning I guess. After all these years, the only shirtless 40 plus Bollywooder I can still tolerate is Salman Khan.
* Luw Dev Patel of Slumdog Millionaire. Terribly young yes, but that's how they all are these days. Except me :(

On the rocks

It's fascinating to see how the old, the new and the ordinary merge in surreal, boulder strewn Hampi. Fourteenth century balconies serve as drying spot for clothes



The granite columns of a century old bazaar becomes the perfect place to rest a tired bike.



A 14th century gateway stands tall as innumerable cars, autos and cycles pass through it everyday.

The ancient Virupaksha temple still holds wedding ceremonies. In fact, one was on while we visited. The beautiful ghats of Tungabhadra is at once a laundry and a shrine. The Hampi Bazaar that was once thought to have sold precious gems and rich silks is still as fascinating if in a slightly offbeat way with everything from Che Guevara T-shirts (didn't know they were still so popular!), lungi tops, Kutchi bags, musical instruments, Janpath style silver jewelry to Rajasthani handicrafts.





Across the river, in Hampi Island or Virupura Gadde it is a different world altogether. One that moves slowly with makeshift 'lounge bars,' tiny guesthouse with chickens and children running amok, internet cafes offering Skype and broadband and a lot of shaloms in the air. The landscape is mindblowing. More so when you head towards Anegundi. Boulders in browns and rusts, ruins strewn with granite and the sudden vivid green of paddy fields. I plan to go back again (Perhaps with Subs, who has actually worked among the ruins here!) may be to just wander along aimlessly or spend the afternoon lazing at Mango Tree, a very busy restaurant in a banana plantation, with 'seats' under a huge mango tree. Happiness!

Sun, sand and sunset...

What makes you sadder...

The fact that our cops wore bulletproof jackets that didn't even meet the required specifications?

The political drama going on all over? That we now have a home minister we identify with finance?

A little boy orphaned the day he turned two...

Or the story of so many families losing love, hope and loved ones.