What are words worth?

My friend Gina (and roommate from another age, another era) called Wednesday the 'hump' day of the week...the day that was right in the middle, the day when you were just over the weekend euphoria and not quite into the anticipatory haze of the approaching friday. The day when, perhaps, it hit you that you were already into the middle of the week and your "to do" list was not even halfway checked! I think Wednesday could just as easily be designated 'slump' day...if you're the kind who comes back to work on Monday feeling all energized and motivated after a refreshing weekend ("What kind of strange species feels energetic on Monday?" I hear you mumble, through your own mid-week mind-haze. Monday, morning, you walk into your work space, and you look at all the bright little post-it notes on your desk top and in various strategic locations around your desk (if you're lucky enough to have one that doesn't get swept off every morning but an o

There's something about the monsoon that triggers memories. As i was driving home yesterday trying to avoid the puddles on the road in case they were cover-ups for deep potholes, I passed by several carts of tender corn, makka buttas , and as the aroma of charcoal and slightly burning corn kernels followed me, i remembered.... Mahrookh and i used to walk along Parade Grounds on rainy afternoons, with fifty-paise coins given by indulgent mothers, fifty paise to buy whatever we wanted with. And what could fifty paise buy, in the mid 1970s? well, a lot, really. anything from ten sticks of vanilla ice cream to two 'rainbow' ice lollies to a few guavas sliced and peppered with chilli powder and salt, and, in season, tender light yellow buttas, the blonde strands of their fibrous coats still stuck to the cobs. "Kanvla wala dena," Mahrookh would insist. Until then, I had assumed that the darker the gold, the bigger the cob, the better the butta. But no, it was the lighte

Listen to the falling rain, listen to it fall... For those of us who grew up in the seventies, this song by the visually impaired singer Jose Feliciano may bring back many memories of monsoons past. Having just returned from rain-lashed Bhubaneswar, and inundated by reports of a rain-battered Mumbai, the sound of the rain brings a mixed bag of memories. A good friend said that the sound of the rain is the same, no matter where you are, so it's hard to forget. But I wonder. The rain has a different rhythm at different times of year, when it falls on different surfaces, and when it curtains different landscapes. The rain on a beach in Goa is both poetic and devastating, coconut palms bending submissively to the force of the lashing sheets of water. The rain that washes the PVC hoardings that otherwise beam seductively at distracted drivers on the main roads of Hyderabad is a harsh reminder of the transcience of urban desire. And the rain on the slushy, potholed roads of Chennai's