(Phone rings)
"Hello?"
"Miss Anamika?" the man enquires.
"Yes."
"You had placed an ad to sell your car?"
"Yes."
"My name is Honey. Can you describe the car?"
And so the conversation continues. I talk money. He talks less money. Finally we decide on having him come over to see the car. As I'm about to hang up, I say, "Well, alright then, thanks. Bye Honey." And in my head is this voice telling me how silly it sounds. Nevertheless, it has been said.
"Ermmm...Ma'am, my name is HaneeF".
----
A good friend advises me that if I call them all Honey they will surely buy my car.
Many people I told this to laughed at me for thinking his name was Honey. But I'm from Delhi, where plenty of self-respecting Punjabi men are called Honey, Lucky, Jolly and even Goldie! (And sometimes, they're called Sukhwinder, but that's no fun!)
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Filmy, Very Filmy
My office was a casual place, with people bantering and commenting on goings-on, complaining about funny grammar in books being edited, and so on. People came and went. Prem Singh with the coffee. Negi to collect stuff for our typesetters. The occasional desk editor to ask about something. Santosh to clarify little matters before things went to press.
Sunaina and I worked at adjacent desks. And would sometimes (okay, often) disturb the other with a "Psstt...guess what!" or just make fun of each other. One dull day we'd been talking on and off. With my back to the office, and the cubicle wall rising to my left, I was lost in my own world - in deep contemplation about how to soothe an angry author. So when I heard Sunaina say "Mere paas kuchh nahin hai. Anamika, tumhare paas?" I only half-registered what was going on. I announced in a baritone: "Mere paas Ma hai."
Silence followed. It sank in after about 10 seconds that there was no context for Sunaina to have said that, and slowly turned. First I saw Sunaina, big grin on her face. Then I turned my head further. There stood Negi. Asking, "Mere liye kuchh hai?"
He always avoided me after that. What can I say? Yeh tum mujhe kis jurm ki sazaa de rahe ho?
Sunaina and I worked at adjacent desks. And would sometimes (okay, often) disturb the other with a "Psstt...guess what!" or just make fun of each other. One dull day we'd been talking on and off. With my back to the office, and the cubicle wall rising to my left, I was lost in my own world - in deep contemplation about how to soothe an angry author. So when I heard Sunaina say "Mere paas kuchh nahin hai. Anamika, tumhare paas?" I only half-registered what was going on. I announced in a baritone: "Mere paas Ma hai."
Silence followed. It sank in after about 10 seconds that there was no context for Sunaina to have said that, and slowly turned. First I saw Sunaina, big grin on her face. Then I turned my head further. There stood Negi. Asking, "Mere liye kuchh hai?"
He always avoided me after that. What can I say? Yeh tum mujhe kis jurm ki sazaa de rahe ho?
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
"Fire Fire"
Centuries ago, as a student at JNU, I giggled loud and long over a fire safety sign in our department building that enumerated several steps to safety. There were the usual suspects, such as "Do not use the elevator" and so on. But the one that took the cake was the instructive, demonstrative, and very, very practical: "Raise alarm by shouting 'FIRE FIRE'."
I thought that was the stupidest thing I ever saw.
But I remembered all that when I watched the blaze engulf a busy commercial building in Kolkata's Burrabazar area. I watched on Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. And the situation only grew worse. Firemen watched helplessly. The army got called in.
Apparently there wasn't enough water.
Apparently the pump wasn't working.
Apparently the ladders couldn't reach high enough. (This is a 13-storey building in a city where the highest building is 32 floors.)
Apparently the ladder brought in from nearby Haldia did not work.
Apparently the army - brought in to control a situation that should never have spun out of control in the first place - were not getting much help from the firemen.
Apparently the army would spray foam and the fire department would wash it out. (Where did that water come from? And why were they fighting each other instead of the fire?)
Apparently Kolkata is a metropolitan city of the 21st century.
This is (one of) the stupidest thing(s) I have ever seen.
The Weekend Blogger has written about Burrabazar and you can visualise a bustling hub of small commerce, all of which adds up to thriving trade. The fortunes of a huge section of Kolkata are in ashes right now. Burnt, tattered, flooded, destroyed. So it was an unauthorised building. So what? I just cannot understand how a fire in a big city with an 'organised' government (they even have a Fire Minister!) could be allowed to rage for three whole days. The Fire Minister behaved badly (on camera) with the lobby of Rajasthani politicians who came to represent the traders' case. He had nothing to say. He had plenty to do, but was not doing it. The CM never even went to visit the site. If that is the message from the top, what will the bottom-feeders do?
Over the last few months things have gone terribly wrong in Kolkata. And over the last year or more, in West Bengal. Flooding and constant road reconstruction angered everyone. Nandigram, and Rizwanur's murder, placed the city's intelligentsia at loggerheads with the CPI(M). I think the only silver lining of the smoky cloud over this blaze is that now, another section of the population will turn against that stupid, stupid government. And do you think that might mean a change for the better?
I thought that was the stupidest thing I ever saw.
But I remembered all that when I watched the blaze engulf a busy commercial building in Kolkata's Burrabazar area. I watched on Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. And the situation only grew worse. Firemen watched helplessly. The army got called in.
Apparently there wasn't enough water.
Apparently the pump wasn't working.
Apparently the ladders couldn't reach high enough. (This is a 13-storey building in a city where the highest building is 32 floors.)
Apparently the ladder brought in from nearby Haldia did not work.
Apparently the army - brought in to control a situation that should never have spun out of control in the first place - were not getting much help from the firemen.
Apparently the army would spray foam and the fire department would wash it out. (Where did that water come from? And why were they fighting each other instead of the fire?)
Apparently Kolkata is a metropolitan city of the 21st century.
This is (one of) the stupidest thing(s) I have ever seen.
The Weekend Blogger has written about Burrabazar and you can visualise a bustling hub of small commerce, all of which adds up to thriving trade. The fortunes of a huge section of Kolkata are in ashes right now. Burnt, tattered, flooded, destroyed. So it was an unauthorised building. So what? I just cannot understand how a fire in a big city with an 'organised' government (they even have a Fire Minister!) could be allowed to rage for three whole days. The Fire Minister behaved badly (on camera) with the lobby of Rajasthani politicians who came to represent the traders' case. He had nothing to say. He had plenty to do, but was not doing it. The CM never even went to visit the site. If that is the message from the top, what will the bottom-feeders do?
Over the last few months things have gone terribly wrong in Kolkata. And over the last year or more, in West Bengal. Flooding and constant road reconstruction angered everyone. Nandigram, and Rizwanur's murder, placed the city's intelligentsia at loggerheads with the CPI(M). I think the only silver lining of the smoky cloud over this blaze is that now, another section of the population will turn against that stupid, stupid government. And do you think that might mean a change for the better?
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Just a Table
When my grandparents sold their house to the builder and got a new flat on one floor, they also earned a decent sum of money along with it. This they invested, other than in the all-important task of indulging their angelic grandchildren (ahem!), in some excellent furniture. Of all those things, I remember best the dining-table.
A solid, wooden affair with a natural wood finish on the surface. Reliable and sturdy, it took the weight of the 4 dining chairs my finicky Dida loaded on it each day so that the maid could make a clean sweep below the table. Wherever I may eat, that is one table I will never forget. Other than the conventional role of a surface to eat off of, it served as my study table. Many are the times I have dozed while studying at that table. I would settle comfortably in one chair and rest my long legs on the chair across. Everyone knew that I used 2 chairs, even at lunch time. Since it was just she and I, and then my brother too, we had a chair going spare and I put it to good use!
On dull evenings, it doubled as a makeshift TT table. My brother and I would roll up a bedcover and place it as the net and play a boisterous game of TT, fielding the ball from under bookshelves, the toilet, the balcony, and from under the folds of a long-suffering Dida's saree.
I used to take pride in being the one to clean and polish up the dining table, soaping and gently scrubbing, then turning on the fan to dry the surface and resting my cheek against its squeaky clean, smooth surface.
That table hosted many huge dinner parties, birthday meals prepared with love and care, family reunion meals where maangsho (mutton curry), aloo-posto, tomato chutney and various other family favourites held pride of place. It was covered with plates bearing crisp motorshuti kochuri along with my 18th birthday cake. It was the site for the feast on my father's 50th birthday. It was the stage on which Dida presented her love for us all.
When she could no longer live on her own, she moved in with my parents, who were by now back in India. And so the 4-seater table was now where 6 people ate. My parents, my newly-widowed paternal grandma, and my Dida. Odd chairs and stools and occasionally even cartons served as the two extra chairs, but we all ate, elbow to poky elbow, at the same table.
Eventually my parents moved from a government house to their own 'dream-house'. I married and moved away, and the table's biggest supporter was gone. A practical lady, Dida recommended a new table. A new dining table was commissioned. Dida's dining table now lies in the store-room, a tablet to memories and happy meals shared by all of us.
I suppose it is silly to be so sentimental. Maybe life is too short to get attached to things. But we're only human. And we have memories for a reason. So that the past can be special and give us things to think about and smile over. I know I can make a story out of anything and find reasons to be sentimental about it. That's just how I am. As I said in my last post, it's time to move again. In May last year, I had written about how I hate moving around and want to stay put in one place, but that is, sadly, not to be. Oh, I know people who will always live in the same place envy me. But it's the grass-is-greener syndrome.
Anyhow, so it's time to say good-bye again. To some people, to a lot of places. And to sell off some possessions. And Eve's Lungs left me a comment saying it breaks her heart to sell things that she has used. That got me thinking about things that I have been terribly attached to and I decided to write about the table.
I tag Eve's Lungs, Orange Jammies, Sbora, Dipali and Diligent Candy to write about one material thing that holds many, many memories for them.
A solid, wooden affair with a natural wood finish on the surface. Reliable and sturdy, it took the weight of the 4 dining chairs my finicky Dida loaded on it each day so that the maid could make a clean sweep below the table. Wherever I may eat, that is one table I will never forget. Other than the conventional role of a surface to eat off of, it served as my study table. Many are the times I have dozed while studying at that table. I would settle comfortably in one chair and rest my long legs on the chair across. Everyone knew that I used 2 chairs, even at lunch time. Since it was just she and I, and then my brother too, we had a chair going spare and I put it to good use!
On dull evenings, it doubled as a makeshift TT table. My brother and I would roll up a bedcover and place it as the net and play a boisterous game of TT, fielding the ball from under bookshelves, the toilet, the balcony, and from under the folds of a long-suffering Dida's saree.
I used to take pride in being the one to clean and polish up the dining table, soaping and gently scrubbing, then turning on the fan to dry the surface and resting my cheek against its squeaky clean, smooth surface.
That table hosted many huge dinner parties, birthday meals prepared with love and care, family reunion meals where maangsho (mutton curry), aloo-posto, tomato chutney and various other family favourites held pride of place. It was covered with plates bearing crisp motorshuti kochuri along with my 18th birthday cake. It was the site for the feast on my father's 50th birthday. It was the stage on which Dida presented her love for us all.
When she could no longer live on her own, she moved in with my parents, who were by now back in India. And so the 4-seater table was now where 6 people ate. My parents, my newly-widowed paternal grandma, and my Dida. Odd chairs and stools and occasionally even cartons served as the two extra chairs, but we all ate, elbow to poky elbow, at the same table.
Eventually my parents moved from a government house to their own 'dream-house'. I married and moved away, and the table's biggest supporter was gone. A practical lady, Dida recommended a new table. A new dining table was commissioned. Dida's dining table now lies in the store-room, a tablet to memories and happy meals shared by all of us.
I suppose it is silly to be so sentimental. Maybe life is too short to get attached to things. But we're only human. And we have memories for a reason. So that the past can be special and give us things to think about and smile over. I know I can make a story out of anything and find reasons to be sentimental about it. That's just how I am. As I said in my last post, it's time to move again. In May last year, I had written about how I hate moving around and want to stay put in one place, but that is, sadly, not to be. Oh, I know people who will always live in the same place envy me. But it's the grass-is-greener syndrome.
Anyhow, so it's time to say good-bye again. To some people, to a lot of places. And to sell off some possessions. And Eve's Lungs left me a comment saying it breaks her heart to sell things that she has used. That got me thinking about things that I have been terribly attached to and I decided to write about the table.
I tag Eve's Lungs, Orange Jammies, Sbora, Dipali and Diligent Candy to write about one material thing that holds many, many memories for them.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Making a Sale
You sweep everything off the dining table. Arrange the 4 chairs around it so that they are each positioned exactly in the middle of the side they belong to. You remove all things that could get in the frame of the picture. You switch on the lights so that the glass top sparkles. You angle your camera and click. Uh-oh, what's this? A greasy thumb impression? You're too lazy to wipe it. So you click from another angle (God bless digital cameras) and ensure the spot doesn't show this time. The table looks rather bare, you realise. You look around for inspiration. The flower vase with yellow chrysanthemums appeals. You place it in the centre of the table. Marvellous! Not only does it look good, it brings out the yellow in the checked pattern of the upholstered chairs. What a lovely touch, albeit unintentional!
You upload the picture on sulekha.com and Craigslist. You make the table sound absolutely irresistible. It looks so good that you hike the price by another 500 Rupees. Hell, you'd pay that much for it!
Now, the fridge.
Sighhhh...it's moving time again.
You upload the picture on sulekha.com and Craigslist. You make the table sound absolutely irresistible. It looks so good that you hike the price by another 500 Rupees. Hell, you'd pay that much for it!
Now, the fridge.
Sighhhh...it's moving time again.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Pleasant Piper
He walks down the lane below my house, playing his magical music. The notes make him a pied piper and I, a little child, follow him from one window to another, seeking with my eye the man who speaks to my ears. A stack of flutes dug into a barrel balanced on one shoulder, he tunes out the world with his breath and his fingers as they dance over the bamboo flute at his lips.
The street dogs stare sleepily at this apparition. Traffic, car-horns, fireworks, squabbles and birds they are used to. But this? It is a sound they have not heard before. Their sensitive ears are soothed after the fireworks of Diwali, Christmas and New Year, and they rest their heads on their paws.
The much-louder sounds of children playing are drowned by his steady, sweet notes. There is a wistful resignation in his playing. He knows no one will really buy his flutes. He knows the tunes are not his, even if it is his life-breath that he puts into them. He knows that his playing may fill his family’s ears but not their stomachs. Yet he plays. For he has nothing else he can do. And because he does not care what people think, his music hypnotises.
He wends his way far from where I can hear him. But in my head I complete the song. And in those few seconds, I have thought of nothing but the music. A moment of purity in a crazy day. It keeps me sane.
The street dogs stare sleepily at this apparition. Traffic, car-horns, fireworks, squabbles and birds they are used to. But this? It is a sound they have not heard before. Their sensitive ears are soothed after the fireworks of Diwali, Christmas and New Year, and they rest their heads on their paws.
The much-louder sounds of children playing are drowned by his steady, sweet notes. There is a wistful resignation in his playing. He knows no one will really buy his flutes. He knows the tunes are not his, even if it is his life-breath that he puts into them. He knows that his playing may fill his family’s ears but not their stomachs. Yet he plays. For he has nothing else he can do. And because he does not care what people think, his music hypnotises.
He wends his way far from where I can hear him. But in my head I complete the song. And in those few seconds, I have thought of nothing but the music. A moment of purity in a crazy day. It keeps me sane.
Monday, December 31, 2007
A Bit of Sky on Earth
Six years ago, I used to tutor a young Israeli boy whom I was very fond of. Dekel was color-blind, which meant he would never be able to join the Air Force of his country. But he'd made his peace with that. What he told me with a grin, but which broke my heart, was about getting ridiculed by his teacher when he colored a flower's petals green at the age of 4, all because he couldn't tell some colors apart.
I remembered all that when I watched Taare Zameen Par. Oh, I know everyone's talking about it. But I had to, too. I watched it with my mother, who is a school teacher and deals with some kids who had learning disorders/disabilities. And I can freely admit that I was wiping my tears a LOT of the time. The vulnerability of knowing one's failures but not understanding them; of being teased for them but being unable to rectify the problem; of being abandoned (as a disciplinary measure) by the very people who are your last hope - the little boy brought it out so well in a story so empathetically told that all my childhood experiences of enduring bullies and occasional teasing seemed trivial somehow.
And it made me realise what a difference a teacher can make, if he or she is so inclined. I learnt some great lessons as a student but I never faced these battles. Lucky me. I hope a movie like this prompts schools to encourage teachers' awareness and sensitise them towards detecting learning disabilities. Language and writing are tools, and mastering them is a crucial step in self-expression. Everyone deserves a chance.
I remembered all that when I watched Taare Zameen Par. Oh, I know everyone's talking about it. But I had to, too. I watched it with my mother, who is a school teacher and deals with some kids who had learning disorders/disabilities. And I can freely admit that I was wiping my tears a LOT of the time. The vulnerability of knowing one's failures but not understanding them; of being teased for them but being unable to rectify the problem; of being abandoned (as a disciplinary measure) by the very people who are your last hope - the little boy brought it out so well in a story so empathetically told that all my childhood experiences of enduring bullies and occasional teasing seemed trivial somehow.
And it made me realise what a difference a teacher can make, if he or she is so inclined. I learnt some great lessons as a student but I never faced these battles. Lucky me. I hope a movie like this prompts schools to encourage teachers' awareness and sensitise them towards detecting learning disabilities. Language and writing are tools, and mastering them is a crucial step in self-expression. Everyone deserves a chance.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Tejeshwar Singh
When I heard about Tejeshwar Singh's sudden death, being far from Delhi my only way to pay my last respects was on this blog (here) and by writing about him so that more people could read it. It appeared in The Pioneer today, do take a look.
Of course, the printer's devil had to be at work on this one and the word 'Have' at the very beginning of my write-up has arrived from nowhere! How TS would have frowned to see it.
Of course, the printer's devil had to be at work on this one and the word 'Have' at the very beginning of my write-up has arrived from nowhere! How TS would have frowned to see it.
The Show Must Go On
It's been a while since I wrote something funny. Here, the joke is entirely on me. Read on for some sadistic fun. You'll come off feeling quite superior.
So, some years ago, my brother was still in school and I, having just completed my MA, was trying to 'figure out my life'. It helped that my father was posted in the Netherlands, and so I earned big, fat Euros tutoring some American-school kids in English and life was just peachy.
The high school drama class was rehearsing for a musical (Pippin) and a lot of my brother's friends were in it. He'd keep hearing about the play, and some of the dialogues, and the cast kept singing the songs at lunch time so it was pretty much all the high schoolers were talking about. So my brother got two tickets to go watch it. One for himself, and the other for his good-for-nothing sister. We decided to bicycle our way there. It was 7 kilometres one way, so that was a commitment. But, having moved there from New Delhi, it was a novelty to actually use the bicycle to go places rather than ride in aimless circles in the safety of a fenced-off park. Everyone cycles in Holland. In 2001 we were told the country had 15 million people and 16 million bicycles.
No need to memorise that. This isn't reading comprehension. So anyways, on the day, we cycle off well in time for the play. But we don't factor in the rough winds of winter blowing in from ye ol' North Pole or wherever and through the North Sea into the poor bicycle tracks of The Hague. So we huffed and puffed as the clock ticked and tocked and we barely made it to school on time. Dashing in to the auditorium, I picked up a programme along the way, just as a souvenir. The lights were already dim so there was no question of reading it.
The play began. My brother pointed out his various friends in their colourful costumes. Pipping sang some songs. Pippin seemed a confused, angsty sort. Pippin sang some more songs. This happened 6 years ago so I don't really remember but he did seem to be rather directionless. Oh well...
Then, Pippin caught on that this wasn't right. Pippin sang some more songs. The final one ended on a high note with lots of girls draped all over him. He seemed to have arrived in life. The note died out, the lights came on, the curtains went down, and everyone stood up, clapping. My brother and I hurried out. It was already 6 and would soon be pitch dark. We didn't want to die of lung breakdown on the way home so we wanted to hurry off before it got really windy late in the evening. So we scurried out, unlocked our bicycles, and raced off towards home.
The route was rather scenic. Framed against the setting sun were llamas and cows (the foreign-looking cows: brown and white, photogenic types) grazing in a rich man's fields on our right. Brother and I chatted about the play and how it was good but not great. Then I started dissecting it as I pedalled. My English Litt background paid off as I mulled over the various plot elements and realised that some of them hadn't been resolved. So I tell my brother, "They dind't show xyz..." and he says, slowly, thoughtfully, "Yeah, but I thought it was supposed to happen..." And then I think of something else that wasn't right. And he says, slowly, thoughtfully, "Yeah, but I heard it was supposed to happen."
And then I stop, pull out the programme from my bag and look at it.
It says, slowly, thoughtfully:
Pippin: A Musical
Show begins: 4:45 pm
INTERMISSION (caps mine): 6:00 pm
Act II: 6:15 pm
The cows seemed to be smiling at us as they chewed their cud. The llamas looked on indifferently as we stood, halfway between home and the play we had left during the Intermission.
So, some years ago, my brother was still in school and I, having just completed my MA, was trying to 'figure out my life'. It helped that my father was posted in the Netherlands, and so I earned big, fat Euros tutoring some American-school kids in English and life was just peachy.
The high school drama class was rehearsing for a musical (Pippin) and a lot of my brother's friends were in it. He'd keep hearing about the play, and some of the dialogues, and the cast kept singing the songs at lunch time so it was pretty much all the high schoolers were talking about. So my brother got two tickets to go watch it. One for himself, and the other for his good-for-nothing sister. We decided to bicycle our way there. It was 7 kilometres one way, so that was a commitment. But, having moved there from New Delhi, it was a novelty to actually use the bicycle to go places rather than ride in aimless circles in the safety of a fenced-off park. Everyone cycles in Holland. In 2001 we were told the country had 15 million people and 16 million bicycles.
No need to memorise that. This isn't reading comprehension. So anyways, on the day, we cycle off well in time for the play. But we don't factor in the rough winds of winter blowing in from ye ol' North Pole or wherever and through the North Sea into the poor bicycle tracks of The Hague. So we huffed and puffed as the clock ticked and tocked and we barely made it to school on time. Dashing in to the auditorium, I picked up a programme along the way, just as a souvenir. The lights were already dim so there was no question of reading it.
The play began. My brother pointed out his various friends in their colourful costumes. Pipping sang some songs. Pippin seemed a confused, angsty sort. Pippin sang some more songs. This happened 6 years ago so I don't really remember but he did seem to be rather directionless. Oh well...
Then, Pippin caught on that this wasn't right. Pippin sang some more songs. The final one ended on a high note with lots of girls draped all over him. He seemed to have arrived in life. The note died out, the lights came on, the curtains went down, and everyone stood up, clapping. My brother and I hurried out. It was already 6 and would soon be pitch dark. We didn't want to die of lung breakdown on the way home so we wanted to hurry off before it got really windy late in the evening. So we scurried out, unlocked our bicycles, and raced off towards home.
The route was rather scenic. Framed against the setting sun were llamas and cows (the foreign-looking cows: brown and white, photogenic types) grazing in a rich man's fields on our right. Brother and I chatted about the play and how it was good but not great. Then I started dissecting it as I pedalled. My English Litt background paid off as I mulled over the various plot elements and realised that some of them hadn't been resolved. So I tell my brother, "They dind't show xyz..." and he says, slowly, thoughtfully, "Yeah, but I thought it was supposed to happen..." And then I think of something else that wasn't right. And he says, slowly, thoughtfully, "Yeah, but I heard it was supposed to happen."
And then I stop, pull out the programme from my bag and look at it.
It says, slowly, thoughtfully:
Pippin: A Musical
Show begins: 4:45 pm
INTERMISSION (caps mine): 6:00 pm
Act II: 6:15 pm
The cows seemed to be smiling at us as they chewed their cud. The llamas looked on indifferently as we stood, halfway between home and the play we had left during the Intermission.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
T.S.
When people we have learnt from and admired suddenly die, it leaves you rudderless and shell-shocked. I first met Tejeshwar Singh when I walked into his office in early December 2003, a young desk editor at Sage Publications. I was being guided around the office and introduced to everyone and this was the last stop. T.S., as everyone in office called him, looked up at me over his glasses, the cigarette in his hand sending up smoky spirals to join the steam leaving his black coffee, and welcomed me to Sage.
Over the next 3 years he grew from distant, scary boss to a closer ally and a colleague, though still scary from time to time. We double-checked all our work, fearing that he would catch a mistake we hadn't, and summon us with a P.D. (Please Discuss) scrawled in his characteristic red ball-point writing.
I last met him at my wedding. He gifted me cash ('the easy way out', he wrote) and a card in which I have his handwriting preserved forever. He was not too happy that marriage was taking me away from Delhi and Sage, and said so, swelling me with pride at all I had achieved in those 3 years in a company I had loved belonging to.
Now, when I look back at Sage and feel like going back in time, I know that the memory is only perfect in recollection, that with T.S. missing, I can no longer go back to it and relive it in its entirety.
I had been in touch with T.S. over the last year and I never thought our association was over. I sometimes thought we might work again someday. Or that he may start another publishing house after he realised he'd retired too early. He was a young 60. Full of ideas and knowledge that he needed to share. And I have so much left to learn.
