'People-work'

It is haloed  moment when a child, a small notebook in hand, takes her shoes off at the door and enters the room of her Guru, her music teacher. She is very likely in a space that has music particles in the air, notes swung through the octaves of imagination and many hours of grinding riyaaz one note at a time till the sound of each one fuses with the singer. Sound becomes prayer. She enters the habitation of prayers as she steps into the space of her Guru. Learning music used to be a common in small town households in India when we were growing up in the 70s and 80s. Almost everyone I knew used to be enrolled for learning some kind of music - Hindustani classical, carnatic classical, Indian or westerm instruments, and so on. Parents would make time to ensure kids were ferried to classes being held somewhere in the neighborhood. It was a quasi social gathering where parents met other parents and shared notes, while their children sat infront of the Guru, and imbib...

This is Ruchika holding up her class 6 project on 'water conservation' which got the highest marks in her class. Encouraged by this victory, she has since made projects on topics such as dances of India, health benefits of sports and types of food. She walks into the living room, where I also have my work desk, and announces the topic of her latest project, saying "Mujhey information nikaal ke do (Please pull out the information for me) ". She starts the conversation with a half apologetic smile and an already-victorious glint in eye. And within minutes, as the google search throws up stuff, her face turns intent, her eyes flit across the screen with an urgency and speed as though if she were not fast enough all this information may just go away out of her reach, never to return. Then she selects what she finds useful. Takes a print of a funny illustration and laughs out loud. Then she puts her finger on the screen on a word she can neither pronounce nor ...

In the smoking room at the Delhi T3 this morning, I spot a man carrying a dark blue green bag, big enough to be small and comfortable. The man lit up after fiddling through the bag for all the tools needed for the vice. A laptop and other such items peeped thru in the process. I say, involuntarily, and against all better judgement, 'That is a lovely bag there!'. A confident thank you came back, and a smile as he patted the bag with obvious pride. 'Where did you get it from?' I persisted, hoping he would mention a Lajpat Nagar shop. 'Germany. Not too big, not too small, just right - has been with me for the past 5 years' I nod in hitherto unknown longing and appreciation. I did not take a photo of the bag because that would have drooled away my effort at seeming nonchalant about it all. I blame this uncharacteristic encounter on the impact that a friend's fetish for collecting bags has had on me in recent months - my delicate annoyance with it, ...

Waiting to be billed as this boy is looking for 'cabbage' on his price list after checking with me what 'bannd-gobi' is called in English. My offer to help was politely turned down. With a sheepish, almost apologetic smile, he said "Abhi naya aaya hoon. Khud karoonga toh seekh jaaunga."