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One of my friends, watsapped me. A friend of hers was doing a recitation of Kabir in Mumbai. I was headed towards Mumbai from Ahmedabad, after completing a 10 day workshop in mud house building. That post is still waiting to be written and posted. I am twisting my arms right now, just for delaying that. But this post should not wait.

From SMSing how to get into the concert, and asking my friend whether “I was ankit ka dost evam do saathi”, or “Hum ankit ke dost hain”, would work at the gate. We were slightly late. The show had started. And there sitting on the stage was Beerbal telling a story about two girls named Satya and Kahani. For a moment I felt like King Akbar collectively with the rest of the audience, listening to Beerbal solve a cause. So fine a salesmanship it was, that it was very easy to forget, that you were being sold. Sold the philosophy of prem. But how would you sell ‘prem’ without seduction. And it was an act of seduction. The audience moaned collectively with vaah vaah. The symmetry between the philosophy of kabir, with the bhava on his face, was yang and yin.

Picture courtesy Ankit

I had read Kabeer earlier, here and there…once or thrice. I found them profoundly common sensical learnings. I was seeing him today in a new light. One of softly yellow lightings, and smartly dressed, tasteful crowd. There was no hint of NCPA snobbery at the Yashwant Chawan Auditorium.  The stewards were old, gentle, government employees, who pulled open doors and showed you the way.

Unfortunately couldn’t meet Ankit because his was phone was on silent. Will keep an eye out for him.

Seen at Rourkela railway station. How does one design with usability in mind on one hand, and protecting public property on the other?

I had goose bumps From this youtube description, the lines means this:
Tse Kus Be Kus Teli Wan su Kus
Who are you and who am I then tell us who is he the creator that permeates through both you and I

Moh Batuk Logum Deg
Each day I feed my senses/body with the food of worldly attachment and material love (Moh = attachment)

Shwas Khich Khich Wang-mayam
For when the breath that I take in reaches the point of complete purification (Shwas = Breath)

Bhruman daras Poyun chokum
It feels like my mind is bathing in the water of divine love (Bhruman = nerve center in the human brain, poyun = water)

Tekis Takya bane Tyuk
Then I know I am like that sandal wood which is pasted for divine fragrance symbolic of universal divinity. I realize that I am, indeed, divine (Tyuk = Tika applied on the forehead)

The latest collection of illest has something faintly familiar. Intentional? Accidental mistake? You decide.

A furnished 2bhk for Rs.300 per day.

A glitter stones and squiggles bindi on the right corner of the mirror.

A half used pack of condoms beneath the bed.

Red hued spots on the wall reminiscent of explosively opened wine bottles.

Of long barefoot walks on the beach. In and out of the loopy arcs of the waves.

Smooth flat pebbles and blue-velvety remains of a sea creature waiting to be made into a pair of ear rings.

Of smooth round flat seeds floated in from god knows where, painted on, sitting in the hot humid afternoon, shirtless and in a lungi.

5 liter water bottles and sand which gets into every nook and cranny. Waiting to be discovered a few months later when you are back home.

Old 1940s hollywood fare with headphones on in the evenings.

Mid aged aunties becoming kids again, soaking in the surf.

Gang of drunk marathi boys trying to make a human pyramid in the safety of the crashing waves.

Guys who will ask a white girl for a picture with her. Or use their long zoom lens to take voyeur shots, all day long.

Kids from Mumbai having there bacchanalian break.

The early morning beach cleaners picking up the empty bottles and the half eaten corn on the cobs. The green tea made in the room with a Rs 50 immersion heater named Deepak. And then the hot porridge at the shack for breakfast.

The tattooed and pierced waiters from Himachal, who can speak in 10 languages and who can put on their charm at a moment notice on well heeled white women. And men.

The thin old white man in a g string doing tai chi in the evening in front of the setting sun. The indian families who pretend he is not there.

The barking dogs on the way back from dinner. Who always end up wagging their tails, when they sense an absence of fear.

Goa is good. Always.