Where the keys of the piano are brushed against lightly, finger tips creating music with the gentlest of touches

Music can be wonderful if you stop and think about it for just a little while. Fingers plucking the thick strings and running up and down the fret board, pressing down here and pressing down there. Creating music, creating magic, creating words that everyone can see.

Full beautiful only.


The thing about maadu food, and this is pretty cool, is that it is not really pretentious. What you see is, pretty much, what you get. There is this one dish called choorma which is like a super duper vital part of the dal baati choorma experience. And it (the choorma) just looks so fuckin beautiful.

Brown and deep-fried and stuffed with crushed dried fruits and just filled with ghee and sugar. Filled means if you take a deep breath (when it is all garam garam) your nose runs a pretty good chance of getting diabetes.

And even the baati – it aint no baati unless its dunked in a bowl full of ghee. And so you crush the baati with your hands and pour the hot daal onto it. And then you sprinkle some choorma into the mixture, pull that green pudina-mirchi chutney towards it and just eat. Ghee and sugar and the heat of the dal and the bite of the chutney – dear lord man. Oh my dear lord.

I was just comparing it with pasta and saala pasta is one proper deceitful bastard. Just lying in bundles on the plate. Looking all innocent and healthy. Sala liar.

And then there is Ker sangri which is like this super rustic and khatta dish and Ker (not keri but KER) ka acchaar – dried berries coated with masala and red chillies and all things yummy. Khatta khatta and spicy spicy.

Hai hai. hai ruku hai ruku hai hai.


Then then what else. Ooooo went and belted me this super sexy breakfast at this (relatively) new place called Fort Kochi. Its near JNC and fuck man, the erachi (beef) curry – oh my good lord. You HAVE to try it. Tender, soft, delicately flavoured morsels of moo moo in this warm, brown curry made with a million different spices. Just waiting for you to dunk the soft, cushy part of the appam in it.

Vaary naaaice. Means vaary naice only.


Am plodding my way through this autobiography of a chap called Khwaja Ahmad Abbas – real crazy motha. Some of the parts are a bit pompous but no denying that the fucker was a star. Like proper, idealogical star. And seen so much of the world. Some of his words are painfully honest, you know like the conversation you may have with yourself when you are a coupla drinks down and there is no one around. Barely able to hold the glass (but definitely not willing to let go) and mumbling to yourself, continuing the conversation in your mind.

Being broke is not necessarily a good thing. Sure, there are some positives but right now its full negative only.


Responsibility must be one odd motherfucker no? All pompous and shit (ooo look at me, I am so fucking important) and yet loved by some and hated by others. Fat, big boned bastard, resting nonchalantly on people’s shoulders, as if he is completely unaware of his incredible weight resting on those shoulders.

And then at other times, Responsibility shifting shape into this super-sharp suit. Suit with these neon lights blinking so that everyone can see the Responsibility, gleaming in the night in a roomful of people.

People grabbing after him, lusting after him for most of their lives and yet never really getting him. Or getting a half-baked version of Responsibility, a make-believe Responsibility made of polyester and fake promises.

And others running far, far away from him. Some scared, some in panic, desperately trying to avoid his outstretched and sweaty hands. Pushed against the wall of Fate, having no choice but to feel his slimy hands pull you in, feel him heave himself on top of you, breaking you down and crushing your knees into the ground.

But some, just some, manage to get back on their feet again. Legs initially shivering under the weight but then slowly, oh so slowly, getting stronger and stronger. The weight getting lighter and lighter until Responsibility becomes the suit, it becomes a shield, a gleaming, shining, burning shield.


No one gonna fuck with you today.

No one.


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2 Responses to Where the keys of the piano are brushed against lightly, finger tips creating music with the gentlest of touches

  1. Indrani Sen says:

    You write insanely well. Do stay that way. 🙂

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