It's funny how some memories of childhood stay fresh and clear, while others disappear. I came across this memory in some notes I'd made on childhood during my course, and had to write them up before they disappeared once again. My nineteen guests sit in a circle Splay-legged on the carpet, Silent, eyes blank, looking straight ahead As if in the company of strangers. A mixed, assorted bunch, From tiny dolls with painted hair, To blue-eyed, blonde-haired Fiona, Standing half my height, my latest friend. Mixed in between, with no distinction made, The hunched and furry bears, Reaching out their worn and clumsy paws Towards impossible teacup handles. The shaky teapot pours juice into their cups, Red plastic plates are passed around To share the iced ring biscuits politely, Though every one is bitten by my proxy teeth. The party warms up as 'tea' and biscuits disappear, Guests slump in their places, inhibitions lost, As they regain the toy box familiarity Of li...
Our journey from Mumbai Airport to our hotel on Marine Drive was a wonderful reintroduction to India, and reminder of the sensory overload that Indian cities bring to the world. That peculiar smell of somewhere new: heat, spice, diesel, The pleasant heat of morning promising more heat to come, Traffic stretching to infinity through the coach windscreen, The constant cacophony of horns, scooters weaving between lines Drivers helmeted, their one or two passengers bare-headed, Yellow and black taxis jousting their little brothers the auto rickshaws, Buzzing around and between, busy bees searching the quickest route. The garish vibrancy of giant hoardings, buildings, glaring neon signs, The urgency of roadside shops offering all types of goods and services, The blue tarpaulin-covered slums making way for new reclaimed land. The dark of a tunnel waves a magic wand; the other side Emerges swathed in morning mist. New skyscrapers shine beside The decaying splendour of a...
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