... scribbles...

Night is such a weird time. After midnight, in the absolute silence of the dark (and perhaps the occasional snore and grunt of the roommate), suddenly one finds oneself in that mood that we, humans so easily call nostalgia. Maybe it’s not just nostalgia for me, it’s that melancholic mood, one when memories do come running by, but more than the memories themselves, one just wants to experience all those emotions that one did… and to feel surprised and full again. And what better, in the face of such craving, than the random lines from books that made one laugh and cry for good times and bad, not respectively. I’ll tell you something that’s not better, but as equally wonderful- one’s favourite movies. And so in the night, I started doing it, opening random movies and watching them- those scenes that are never quite over. First came Butter, ah!! How I never tire of watching that one. Whether it’s the stripper buying knives for Destiny, by sacrificing her ‘work clothes’ or the melt...

For the past 23 years of my life, Diwali was one day that did not have a fixed meaning. Diwali was about 'flower pots' and sparklers and gift boxes of fireworks. There were photographs by achan and warnings by amma. There would be sweaters and stockings under my pattu pavadai. There would be visits from friends and the new dress thrill. There would be the 'colour dress' excitement at school the next day. There were comparisons of the paunches that were the evidence of a couple of days of gluttony. There were tales of bravado and escapades and all that bluff. That was childhood atop a hill in Ooty. Teenage Diwalis were all about crackers, fireworks, lakshmi vedi, sara vedi, sweets which had ten times ghee than it normally would have, neighbours walking in all through the day and the dining table being filled with sweets, prasadams and an occasional chrysanthemum flower. All night long there would be the far away din of fireworks, and the scream of a child whose joy j...