The ties that bind..

Watched DOR over the weekend. It had been much hyped, and the director is an old favorite anyways…

A story, one could even call “simple”, if it weren’t lifted from that, by the clean sketches that Nagesh Kukunoor etched.

2 women, one strong, the other soft, both in very happy marriages. The husbands, going to Saudi for work, become friends and roommates, till a freak accident kills one, and police suspect foul play. So one sets out on a journey to save her hubby, thru a “maafi-naama” that only the other woman can give, and ends up making amazing friends along the way.

Lovely and haunting music, spectacular locales (H.P. and Rajasthan) and truly amazing acting by each and every cast member made it a movie worth every penny spent and more.

The only irritant was N.K himself, who has developed a penchant for doing cameos in his own movies. Thought it a bit forced and artificial acting, and in the smoothness of the fabric of the movie, it jarred. He is infinitely better as a director, a role he slips into with ease and finesse.

Out of Africa

The muse is dead! Long live the muse!

Yep, she’s back. Yes, it did take a trip to do the trick.

For those who knew, and those who didn’t.. I was off on an African Safari, to Kenya.. sort of a birthday gift, albeit rather an extravagant one, to myself.

Had two weeks of the best time EVER, and will keep writing about it, in bits and pieces. Will also try to upload the pictures on Flickr soon, its just the sheer number of them is bogging me down a bit.

randomness..

It seems like I haven’t written in “forever”. My muse, or whatever it is that makes us do what we do, had taken a long hike. Not that I’m overflowing with genius right now, but I have decided to MAKE myself write.

So, will put up random scribbles for a bit, till I get back into the flow of things. Bear with me.

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go..

... but I'm not.. not quite ready to let go, that is...

Ma called today. It seems S. isn’t well.

S. is my dog, more like my baby. Tho, he definitely Ma’s shadow more than he ever was mine. Now 14 years old, he roams around the house, not seeing as well as he used to. Sometimes, one has to call him LOUDLY, as he doesn’t hear that well either.

But whenever I hear that he isn’t well, it always leaves that cold feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. I know that we all have no control over life and death, but if I could hold him tight and shield him from all the pain and hurt and “going”, I would. Maybe THIS is the level of emotion that we read about in Indian mythologies. Pick any random one, and the wife is following her usually errant husband into depths of hell or wherever. Could never understand it...

A friends sms-ed, to ask me how my mood is, before chatting any further (he knows me well). Said I was ok.

What would I say? Would telling random people that I suddenly feel “needy” and depressed make me feel better? Would the scared feeling, almost like a tangible lump in my throat making it difficult to breathe, be smaller? Could he do anything about it? Would he even WANT to?

So, I write it away, knowing these letters won’t be left feeing jittery and nervous and uncomfortable at my displays of intense emotion. And for once, I pray a lot…

Rain

Monday, some-date, April
Today was the first rains of the monsoons, in Bangalore. Now, one has to be living in India, to understand the greatness of this concept. In India, the summers come a-charging, white hot heat that blazes down and burns into the skin. So when it starts to rain, the world is happy. At least THIS part of the world is. In England, they probably don’t view the rains with the same joy.

The rain comes suddenly. The first inkling we get of it, when we come out for our coffee break, are the little puffs of cold wind that chill us to the bone. The treetops lean into it, and the leaves murmur madly, almost trying to fly off in the gust. The air turns into one of excited expectancy, like little children getting ready for the “coolest birthday party on the block”.

The wind speed picks up, its blustery weather now. The clouds race pell-mell across the sky, each hurrying to get there first. It’s grey, turning almost black. Billowing across, these are the huge black thunderclouds that carried Zeus and Thor, kings in age-old mythologies, off to war.

And then the rains start. Little droplets, which tell us of better things to come. Some of us run out, pell-mell too, onto the terrace. The remaining boring lot, look at us like we have lost our minds. I open the windows wide, and lean out into the storm, feel the rain on my face, and revel in it.

It’s a welcome end to summer.



That same week, Friday
It has been raining everyday now. In the mornings, it’s hot, searing. Then at 4.30, like clockwork, the sky turns grey. Clouds sweep the sky, gathering like an angry herd. The then, when they judge that the timing is right, the heavens burst. It usually takes about 15 mins, each time, for the whole thing to orchestrate.

The problem is that this weather makes it very difficult to work. This is the ideal weather to sit down on a comfy old chair, wrap something, or someone, around oneself. Grab a steaming mug of coffee, maybe some munchies, and your favorite book, pages old and faded. And of course music playing in the background, in my case, Floyd, U2, and such like.

I run back home as soon as I can escape from work.

You'll remember me when the west wind moves upon the fields of barley
You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky as we walk in the fields of gold

Sting croons in the background. The lights are off, the windows wide open. The rain pelts down outside, and inside I’m toasty warm. There is total quiet, the kiddies in the apartment block have been hustled home by their mothers. The stillness is broken only by the sounds of nature. The rain pelting down on the concrete outside, and hitting window panes with a cracking sound. The sudden gusts of winds that shake the trees, and make the leaves dance a whirlwig. Occasional lightening splits the sky wide open, tears it apart, and I wait for the sound of thunder to follow. I drink in the smells.. of the rain carried in the wind, the wet earth, the trees awash and green.

This is a time of utter quiet and tranquility.

cityscapes..

last part of the tales...


Chennai has changed over the last 3 years, or so my friends tell me. I don’t have much frame of reference, so I’m just going with the flow. Honestly, I don’t even want to know much about the place. I have been here two days now and I’m dying to go back home. To Bangalore, with the whispering winds. Only my friends keep me from running, screaming for the hills.

We go shopping. Spencer’s Plaza one day, and a hideous monstrosity of an architecture, called City Centre, the next. It is, perhaps appropriately, bang in front of the very odorous city fish market.

A. and I proceed to get a little crazy. After all, we have been window-shopping buddies through college, and now that have a little money to splurge, that too, in each other’s company, we really go overboard. I had been told of the wonderful leather in Chennai, and so proceed to buy 4 bags and 3 pairs of shoes. If my mom saw me shopping, I think she’d have a coronary. J

Meet up with S. and S. at the coffee shop. They bring along another friend. For guys in banking, they are still the chaotic, crazy people I have known since years. We have a blast, sitting around, talking shop, and random trivialities.

Café Coffee Day, I find, is the same everywhere. Characterized by bad service, and worse pop music blaring across hajjar speakers, it is difficult to make oneself be heard. I’m definitely a Barista aficionado, with more comfy seating, and better music, and definitely better coffee.

There is a lot of good natured “dissing” of each other, and the cities we frequent. While waiting for our dinner reservation, the guys light up. I do too, it’s a casual gesture. It’s only when I catch random people, of all ages and classes staring at me, that I realize that for all the “hep” attitudes, this is still a place steeped in conservativeness. I suppose they are amazed by the sheer audacity of a woman taking a puff, on the road. Once again, I’m thankful I’m in Bangalore and not Chennai.

The city HAS changed though, I have to grant. The city looks younger, more “spiffy” from this angle. Teenagers over the world are the same really, and Chennai is no exception. Daughters have escaped their mother’s coconut scented clutches, and are out in droves, all capri-ed and short-topped. They sit around in casual elegance, with the city coffee shops, bright eyed and bushy tailed, and wile away time with their friends. In shopping malls and coffee shops, at least, there is no longer the flower wielding, oil slicked public I had encountered, as early as 2 years ago.

All in all, its an illuminating set of experiences.

Chronicles Continued...

When I’m out walking I strut my stuff yeah I’m so strung out
I’m high as a kite I just might stop to check you out
Let me go on like I blister in the sun
Let me go on big hands I know your the one
Body and beats I stain my sheets I don’t even know why
My girlfriend she’s at the end she is starting to cry
Let me go on like I blister in the sun
Let me go on big hands I know your the one...
Violent Femmes › Blister in The Sun


The Chennai hits you like a two-ton truck speeding down the freeway. It blinds the eyesight, and leaves you gasping. From the time I’ve got here, I’m breathing in a furnace.

Sleep doesn’t come easy, I keep jerking awake, feeling stifled and smothered. I wake in the night, drenched. A. has flung a leg solidly across me. It kills, I swear. We have fitted ourselves into what I call a 1.5 bed.. too large for one, too small for two. I grit my teeth, and almost as abruptly she moves away. Blessed relief!

I cant imagine how she is so fast asleep. Snoring too. I guess its an acclimatization thing. I keep getting hotter and crankier, till I cant take it any more. “A. is the a/c on? Doesn’t seem like it. can I turn on the fan too, please?” A. has a cold, she has been heavy eyed through the evening. In a resigned murmur, she says yes. I put the fan on, with a sigh of thanks, and fall back into bed.

R. bless him, is awake, or at least makes sure he is, so I wile away part of the nite smsing him, till I finally fall asleep. He likes Chennai tho, and wants to relocate for a year, to learn to be serious or whatever. I tell him I can’t bear the place, so he laughingly tells me he will come to B’lore over weekends to meet me.

We get up in the morning, lazy, relaxed, slovenly.. whatever our minds make us. Opening our eyes, smiling sleeping across the bed at each other, we go back to sleep again, when I finally open my eyes, stretching lazily like a cat, its 10.30. I’m already covered in a fine sheen of sweat, droplets beading my arms and legs.

Guzzling back water, that seems to have turned hot during the night, I fall back yet awhile, while A. makes us tea, and if I whine long and loud enough, coffee for me. Indolence, rarely got, and well spent.

Almost all the clothes I got for my trip remain in my bag. All I can keep on, and that too, barely, are my shorts and spaghetti tops. The enchantment of an old relationship, I think, as I drape myself in inelegant poses over A.’s furniture, is that one can do just that.

Mis-aligned tops, hands wipe away water splashed over skin. A fly, somnambulant in the heat, is buzzing lazily around the window. It spends more time just sitting there, than making any real attempt to fly out. Its burning outside, if I close my eyes and pretend, I can almost hear the tar slowly dripping, melting down into little black puddles. I’m desperately trying to keep cool, in this blasted heat. What would I not give for a bathtub filled with ice cubes, right now.

I’m glowing, skin turns almost translucent in the heat. Skin stretched, taut over muscle. I can almost see the sinews stand out, in clear definition. Feathery green veins whisper across my skin, I become absorbed in watching them form paths along my hands and thighs. Would the heat make my skin totally lucent, I wonder.

I DO shriek in dismay, however, when I first come across them. A. brushes it away “No one asked you to be so fair. Shut up and chill! It will be fine”. I grumble, but do as she says. She’s right, the lines fade away in a day, leaving only a faint murmur behind.

The Chennai Chronicles..

...this will happen in bits, as its too long and too "separate" to write together..

Southward Ho!!!

From the very onset, there were upraised eyebrows. And some loud guffaws. “what, ur going to CHENNAI? In this HEAT?..Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you”. And more jokes to that effect. O what we suffer for our friends..3 of them, who had been badgering me for over a year to visit them.

The trip started off, not with a bang, but a whimper. Standing at the bus stop for an hour, after which 4 of us assorted travelers were bundled up onto the bus, by a kid from the travel agency. As I sank into cushioned AC comfort, some random instinct made me ask my co-passenger what time we would be reaching Chennai (ok, so he was young and cute, and I was making conversation :-D)

To our total consternation, he looked at me wide eyed, and said “This bus goes to Hyderabad”. At which point we all scrambled down the steps, retrieved our baggage, yelled that the idiot guy, and returned en masse, on sit on the steps of some ramshackle house , and wait for the correct Volvo.

Gave way to hysterical laughter as I thought of how I was almost unknowingly carried off into the land of the famous biriyani.

Purge, purge, purge

Wash out, flush out, get rid of and remove. Eliminate, eradicate, and do away with. Cleanse and purify.

My system, my thoughts, my feeling, my emotions, my soul. Air the cobwebs of my mind. They clamor, jumping over each other to be heard. Let me out. Type frantically till my fingers ache, and I’m exhausted.

Catharsis. Write, write, write, and pour it all out. My very own “Anne Frank”. My non-judgmental one. My friend, my foe, my lover.

And when it’s all over, slip into quite solitude. Deep breathes, and pools of relaxation in an imaginary Zen garden.

The voices are silenced. All is well.

Takeoff from a sms –Part 1

Sms 1. It said “tui nijey A-Z korchish in an alien city! Would give you a bravery award for that”

It was from an old old school friend, who I have grown up with, shared 1 rupee chaat and (back then) 5 rupee coke, and Cookie Jar goodies with. We had ridden the school bus together, and run after it, while we were both busy gobbling up aforesaid chaat and other forbidden fruit.

Those were the old days. Today, she is a mom of 2 boisterous boys, running a very successful boutique, and by her own admission, totally harried.

Today, I’m living in B’lore, away from family and other loved ones, whom I miss terribly (specially when there is nothing to share, momentous or otherwise), with a good job, acquiring all the material things I want, and by my own admission, equally harried.

That sms made me come to a screeching halt. What WAS I doing really? Ya, I had the job, I was making it on my own professionally (touch wood), I was on my way to buying my car (my first big investment.. the others will come a long way later). But I didn’t deserve any awards, or even any pats on my back.

Life, as I now am living it, and as are all my friends around me, sadly, is merely “work and home, home and work”. And no, there is no work-life-balance so spouted by new age gurus, evident in my life. I hop out of bed, hop into work, sit glued in front of the laptop drinking zillion cups of coffee, and leave office not before 9.30. After which I simply come home and crash.

An “A-Z” would be if I would sit up and take more control of my life, live a healthier and fitter life, dust those cobwebs away form my mind, and get a grip. I would go out there, do the courses I want, and also those I need. I would re-invest time in my old interests like music and dance, like DOING them, not just having a “couch potato” interest level. I would grow my own wings, fly wherever I want to, without any qualms, visit the world and revel in being alive. And when I do even ONE of these I mentioned, I will go and claim that award from her.

Till then, tomorrow is just another day.

..and the leaves that are green, turn to brown..

The times that I miss home desperately, is when I get sick. That may be a huge thing like chest pains and being wheeled to the ICU (yes, it happened) or small things like virals and stomach infection (no, not bird flu)

What one really misses is the feeling of some one watching your back. To know that there is someone there, to pamper me, hand to foot, and mentally and emotionally cosset me, when I’m feeling I can’t take a step, or that I just want to collapse from it all.

I remember when I was a kid, whenever I was ill, my dida (gran) would sit beside me, in a dark room, for hours on end. Her touch on my hair was so gentle, it would inexplicably comfort and soothe. I don’t think I have ever felt that kind of tender “giving” love in a touch, from anyone else, and don’t think I ever will, now that she is gone.

Even when I was older, facing ups and downs, teenage angst, adult fears.. she would be there. By that time, age and illness had forced her into a wheelchair. She became pretty good at circumnavigating around the house, on it, and so, would wheel into my room, and stroke my hair till I would calm down. I miss her unbearably, more than I thought I ever would.

Today, I can’t afford to collapse. Even if I was to be dying (ok, so I’m melodramatic :-D) , there still would be too many arrangements to make. Or at least, call Ma back home, and make sure she’s not falling apart (which in itself, is a mammoth task). I always tell my mom what happened to me, only AFTER I get better, so as she wont have hysterics back home alone, without being able to o anything about it ASAP. My mom hates feeling helpless, and I think that is what she feels when I get sick, us being so many miles apart. So, I try to prevent that as much as I can.

Maybe that’s what’s the hardest. As we grow up, and go through life, the “taking on the mantle of responsibility” becomes a heavy burden. Roles get reversed, lines get blurred. So, we put on our brave faces, act like we’re untouchable, unstoppable. And we move on.

Things I have RE-learnt over the weekend

1. 
   That I can actually cook ‘typical Indian” stuff. Butter chicken, no less, which was gobbled up by my team mates. And also salad, which I make well. The rest of the spread I happily left to R. who whipped up a storm in the kitchen and came up with a whole “North-Indian lunch” menu.
   
2. That I’m house-proud. Woke up on Saturday at 9 am, to clean house, for aforesaid guests. Which is saying a lot, as my usual time to surface over weekends, is around noon. Got “oohs and aahs” of appreciation by friends, who teased me mercilessly about how I had cleaned the house just for them. Tho, that’s ok, as now they all want a house like mine :-D
   
3. That my house looks like a dream, when spotless. The camera that S. got, and took pics of us, with a timer, captured the afternoon mellow sunlight filtering in thru the blinds. And the tall green fronds framed in the doorway.
   
4. That, while its great when good, given the choice between “no sex” and “crappy sex”, I will now know to choose the former… any day…

Mine, mine, mine…

A random thought that took off, from a conversation, and general musings..

Acquisition is the most basic force that drives us all. Irrespective of who we are, what we are, where (or not) we have reached.. sex, age, caste and creed…

People go shopping when they’re “blue”, or even if generally bored.. they wander into a shop, vowing determinedly that “no, I will NOT shop”, and then proceed to buy up anything and everything in sight. YES, I speak from experience, people :)

And this is not a “girl” thing. I have a friend who says that he often has a… I quote… “specially if I go into a frenzy to quire & own”. Though, with men, its mostly about the latest gimmicks and gadgets.. the I-pod, the camera, the cell with fancy attachments one uses once in a millennia.
But whatever it is that we buy, we feel great.

Or to move a notch up the expensive scale, the house, the car, etc. yes, they are investments, I agree, but basically it’s about hugging that feeling of “Ooh, this is MINE” close to you chest, and feel your heart swell with happiness, pride, or secret gratification.

So why do we really get such a kick out of, say, being a part of a couple? Apart from the very natural factor of the lovey-dovey scene, and the obvious other benefits that come with it. Deep down I think its also because there is something rather exultant about thinking “he/she is mine”.. which boils down to acquisition at the very end.

A stray thought...

This line IS me..


“Sarcasm is pure truth hidden in the open”

- Anon

Finally, it maketh sense

Was watching a program on Discovery channel, which was discussing the vagaries of “Sex across Species”. No, not just the act of it, but also the concept of “gender and DNA”.

Apparently, females of every species produces lesser “eggs” in her lifetime, than the male produces sperm. In context to that, the show said something there that stuck in my mind.

“Quantity versus Quality,
Male versus Female.”

Loved it.. totally loved it. :-D

Hail, hail the name we own..

I hadn’t heard our National Anthem, in years, not being a type, who wakes up fanatically, every Republic Day, and switches on the TV to see our guards march past. I think the last time when I really “heard” it, was when I “sang” it, an odd 10 years ago, at our school Founder’s Day. With pristine, WHITE uniforms, starched till it almost crackled, we would stand, shoulder to shoulder, backs straight, and heads held high. Our school song, and the national anthem, lead the general proceedings. And damn, did we feel proud of all that we symbolized, with those two refrains.

Last nite, I heard it again. On TV. Zubin Mehta and his orchestra. He began the show with the Anthem. For a moment, I just sat there, slack-jawed, as I hadn’t been expecting it. Then, some deep inner being kicked into place, and up i scrambled. And even though I felt weird standing there alone, I couldn’t NOT do it. And I’m glad, for it proved to me, that I’m yet not overtaken by the blasé-ness of our times. I know many people, even some who are good friends, who wouldn’t have bothered. I’m ashamed to say that I honestly don’t know what I would have done, if in a totally public setting, with none others standing.

Guess it sometimes takes a grand old man, and a team of wonderful musicians from far-flung Bavaria to remind us of what our families and our schools taught us, in our innocent days. And what we still hold precious.

this is a rant

I have an idea what fanatics feel now.. how an obsessive hate drives people to maim and kill. My dear dear colleague, after screwing up on work, and he does it really well, believe me…was creating a racket. So asked him to pipe down a bit, as I couldn’t think straight.

To which, his answer was “u think? Wow”.. in a tone that mingled contempt nicely mixed with condescension.

Counted till about a million, till my curls bounced with the electric current around me. Didn’t deign to reply (too much) as I believe some people don’t have the basic intelligence to comprehend even a retort. I would call him the missing link, is it wasn’t such an insult to Darwin, the big bang and all of that.

I think if I had a good sharp knife, and an opportunity, I would have of all that precious hair from the Punj head of his. And would feel damn good if he was blown up by rabid gun toting freaks, from wherever. Please note here, that this is NOT against Punjs in general, I have some of my closest friends of both sexes, in that category.

However, not this one.

Home (in Calcutta) is..

..my doggies. They are my babies, and what/whom I miss the most, in Bangalore. Everything, and anything else, including family, friends and sundry loved ones, comes in a second by a wide margin. To be greeted at the door by tails wagging so fast, its almost a blur, hear whines of petulance/love which mean “where were you all this while..its so wonderful to have you back with me”. Fresh clean fur I bury my face into, and draw a deep breath in. Only another animal lover may be able to understand and appreciate what I’m rhapsodizing about right now.

..being woken up with bed tea, at random hours, depending on my whims. And the kind of biscuits I like.. little flaky and crisp. Gitadi, who has worked with us for years, asking me what else I would like, and then in the same breath telling me “don’t eat too much.. u’v gotten a little plump”. I love her concerned understatements.

..Calcutta sunshine. I sit in what was till a year ago, my dida’s room, and a year later, is now just another room. I bask in the crisp sunshine that filters thru the windows. It makes nice geometric patterns on the floor. A storybook, churan to pique my taste buds, a good book, and I laze like a cat in the sun.

..books. Old books, from almost another era, opening a floodgate of childhood memories. Of a relaxed, stress free life, lay days spent on my stomach in bed, feet kicking the air, reading voraciously. Enid Blyton, Tolkein, Christie.. anything I can lay my hands on.

..reunions. With friends, near and far. Friends lost and found again, after years and years. Those who sailed mighty seas to study, work, live.. and when we meet, it’s a jumble of joyous faces, bear hugs and delighted exclamations. Its like the years melt away, and we pick up where we had left off, in some cases, as much as 12 years ago. The group is now much bigger, as most of us have significant others who have mostly meshed within the lattice of the group, with a gentle and happy ease. And there are solemn promises to DEFINITELY keep in touch this time around.

Road Trippin'

Neil Diamond croons on my headphones. A relaxed sigh and my thoughts flow through my fingers.

I’m on my way to Shantiniketan. The land where once Tagore made poetry, under a famous banyan tree. In the recent and less famous times, it’s the place where my aunt has a divine farmhouse, where we escape to. I’m going there after two whole years. It will be a good experience, I think.

The road is long.. and wide. Smooth and sinuous, it winds along roads that glimmer in the sunlight. Both sides of the highways are marked by fields. Clad in autumn colors, they are shades of gold and brown and very dusty washed out green. The lack of water is evident. Sometimes the fields give way to a copse of trees, all huddled together as to escape the sun.

Shonajhuri gaach. Tall thin trees, with square-ish leaves. A whole forest of them, on either side. Leaves glinting gold in the light. Inviting shadows that beckon one to stop and stay a while. I seem to remember the forest stretch being more than this, though.

The heat haze gets to you, and the road shimmers in the sunlight. Suddenly, you think you’re driving into water. But Moses, we are not…

The wind whips through my hair, and it’s a tangled mess as I run my fingers through it. We stop at a random point, to refuel with lovely piping hot coffee, and samosas. My sister’s joke about a “somash’ (a Bengali grammar thing) runs through my mind, and I laugh silently to myself.

Our car screeches to a halt in surprise. A procession of camels. Easily an odd 200 of them, walking across in stately procession across the road. A very unusual sight indeed, on the NH1. They are better suited to the sand dunes of the desert, than to the dusty roads of the city. And through it all, they still manage to look elegant, carrying themselves with an odd lanky gaited dignity.

And I say to myself, it’s a wonderful world..

Road Trippin"

Neil Diamond croons on my headphones. A relaxed sigh and my thoughts flow through my fingers.

I’m on my way to Shantiniketan. The land where once Tagore made poetry, under a famous banyan tree. In the recent and less famous times, it’s the place where my aunt has a divine farmhouse, where we escape to. I’m going there after two whole years. It will be a good experience, I think.

The road is long.. and wide. Smooth and sinuous, it winds along roads that glimmer in the sunlight. Both sides of the highways are marked by fields. Clad in autumn colors, they are shades of gold and brown and very dusty washed out green. The lack of water is evident. Sometimes the fields give way to a copse of trees, all huddled together as to escape the sun.

Shonajhuri gaach. Tall thin trees, with square-ish leaves. A whole forest of them, on either side. Leaves glinting gold in the light. Inviting shadows that beckon one to stop and stay a while. I seem to remember the forest stretch being more than this, though.

The heat haze gets to you, and the road shimmers in the sunlight. Suddenly, you think you’re driving into water. But Moses, we are not…

The wind whips through my hair, and it’s a tangled mess as I run my fingers through it. We stop at a random point, to refuel with lovely piping hot coffee, and samosas. My sister’s joke about a “somash’ (a Bengali grammar thing) runs through my mind, and I laugh silently to myself.

Our car screeches to a halt in surprise. A procession of camels. Easily an odd 200 of them, walking across in stately procession across the road. A very unusual sight indeed, on the NH1. They are better suited to the sand dunes of the desert, than to the dusty roads of the city. And through it all, they still manage to look elegant, carrying themselves with an odd lanky gaited dignity.

And I say to myself, it’s a wonderful world..