The Parsis celebrated Navroze on Wednesday 19th August this year. Till a few years back, I was quite oblivious of this festival, until I wrote a story which fleetingly had its mention. Then, I had done a bit of research to incorporate in the narrative. In Delhi, where Parsis are less than a handful, one never learns of this festival. Here, in Bombay, it is quite well celebrated, and we observe a holiday. Anyways, getting a mid-week off is always a welcome manna.

On this auspicious day, I embarked on the second phase of my Holy Grail’s quest – buying a record player. Having failed to find a good (and reasonably priced) three-speed player, I have finally settled to buy a Denon two-speed one, and had also learnt that the only shop that I could purchase it from is at Atria Mall, Worli – quite a distance from my residence (and a major reason for damning procrastrination). In between, I had bought a stand-alone Philips player, from a used-goods seller, but the sound quality turned out to be woefully pathetic, and I just packed it up, hoping to return it for whatever price I get to the same seller.

Before going to the shop on second floor, I parked the car at Atria Mall, and hailed a cab to check the shops at Heera Panna Shopping Center (near Haji Ali Dargah). I had heard much about it, but never could get time to pay a visit. The airconditioned market is a veritable maze of closely packed little shops selling electronics and leather goods and other trivia. In essence, it is much like Delhi’s underground Palika Bazaar – similar to the extent that both markets are known for their ‘gray market’ stuff, and were hugely popular in India’s pre-liberalizaton era. I walked the market’s criss-cross alleys taking in multifarious sights and smells, but I could discover nothing that held my interest.

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We all know what it means. And I am sure no one can say they haven’t had their own small embarrassing moments – you know, the kind where you dash off a quick email stating ‘heartiest condolences’ at your friend’s uncle’s demise! Or, where you wish a person ‘Happy’ festival, when it is actually a martyr’s day of some prophet or guru!

In one classic instance, my ex-colleague G started to extol on the dumbness of a lady in front of an important official. As soon as he opened his mouth, I knew we were in serious trouble and kicked him hard on his shin below the table, and hurriedly broke in firmly stating that the lady was truly very hard working. She was now the wife of the official we were sitting with!

In another incident, a colleague called out to an abundant-attitude-charged peon as ‘Oye Vice President, come here’ – only to see our company’s Vice President alighting from the elevator from the opposite end!

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Yesterday, poet, director & writer Gulzar celebrated is 73rd birthday. Thanks to his recent successes, he is one name who is still pretty reknowned amongst the young generation. These days, his Kaminey‘s Dhan Te Nan is quite popular. And earlier this year, he co-won the prestigious Oscar for Jai Ho (Slumdog Millionaire)

Due to this, every radio channel worth its airwaves played his songs on their daily ‘oldie goldie’ programmes. By ten pm, I was furiously switching between four channels, simultaneously sms’ing to two friends the favorite songs (multi-tasking, eh!).

Well, as the frenzy endied, I thought I had to list out a few of his songs that the Melody Queen Lata Mangeshkar has graced with her mellifluous voice; after all, both have immense mutual respect for each other. She has sung in most of his films. And he has directed her home production (Lekin). The association started right from Bandini, when a young Gulzar wrote a lovely lyric about a love-lorn woman, based on refrains from Radha-Krishna lovetale. Mora gora ang lai le continues to enthrall listeners, old and new; S D Burman’s frugal but fruitful music enchants.

(As always, this is a random list – not in any particular order, and since Mora gora ang lai le has been mentioned above, and deserves to be before any list, it is not mentioned below).

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It’s like a wave – the water recedes, seemingly never to return, and yet, the very next instant the deluge rushes forward, callously erasing away any footprints imprinted in the soggy sand.

I had thought I’d almost given up this space (not literally, but definitely figuratively). Perhaps, the biggest sign being I visited London and Scotland this year, and did not even once feel writing about the trip. Yes, I had kept the space ‘artificially alive’, for no other reason than nostalgic value – the way one keeps a momento cleaned and polished atop a showcase. But clearly, I hadn’t meant to keep it a well oiled machinery, the way it was in 2004-2005 and for some parts of 2007.

Many old friends have moved on. Many blogs have slipped into a numbing silence. Many links are invalid. The comments have dried. The visitors have thinned. The thoughts have perished. In short, the wave had retreated. Or, so I thought.

Yet, it never does.

A few days back, like a shocking jolt, out of nowhere and catching me absurdly unaware, the entire deluge came gushing and hurtling and howling down; deafening me in its thunderous roar, sweeping me in its force and hurting me with its impellent impact.

The wave had returned. And how! I spent the entire Independence Day weekend browsing through my own writings – amused at some, ashamed at others, and proud of quite a bulk (especially the stories). And like a wave, it brought back its own residues – twigs and dirt and pearls and seashells…those memories! The posts (both on this site and my previous one) are virtual age-lines on a tree-trunk; through them I could chronologically trace my life’s past five years. The happiness, the sadness, the silliness, the intelligence, the highness, the lowness of all those years are so firmly etched in this supposedly nebulous cyber-space (and what a range! From a routine walk through Kathmandu rains to an oh-so-intelligent discourse on living alone, these pages carry them all). And, it brought back that recurring dream. A dream I knew I had strangulated. A dream I thought I had rested. A dream I believed I had buried.

I read these pages with happiness. I read them with sadness. I read them – and I hate to admit this – with regret. Because, the trace ends two years back, when I shifted to Bombay. Woefully, the past two years are practically lost from these pages (other than a few odd posts here and there).

The wave had also washed off the resolute resolution of keeping creativity in check, and concentrating on life/work in its mundane form, the way the majority do. My imprints in the sand. No longer there.

I should have seen it coming. I should have immediately built a dam around it. After all, I had mentioned this space, not to one, but to two people in a span of few days. That triggered the return. Suddenly, once more, yesterday I was looking at words the way an artiste does his pallette. I saw them dancing impishly, waiting to be created into intelligible sentences. I watched them playfully tickle me to arrange them to form a page of thoughts. I noticed them mirroring my emotions and feelings. As I have often mentioned earlier, It’s that urge to write. That irrepressible bug within me. It’s awakening. It’s alive. It’s not that (in past two years) I haven’t tried to write. Truthfully speaking, there are a few unfinished posts lying on my master word file. However, the fact is, the impulse never exceeded its defined limit, and I always managed to curb and hold it at bay. Till a few days back. Till this wave.

But…but…can I afford to carry on? Can I allow the bug to take control again? Can I permit that dream to be exhumed and still expect it to breathe and provide fragrance?

Questions, to which I have no answers as yet. I will allow them to rest awhile.

It was an innocuous little sneeze.

Just below my house, while walking towards the car, a tingle in the mucous membranes within the nasal confines brought out a noisy spurt. Just a measly little chheenk. Yet, when I looked up, I could see time frozen. The doodhwala-shop owner glared in disdain; the lady across the road gasped and pulled her pallu over her nose; the children crossing my path rapidly steered away; and an autorickshaw-wallah, idling around, speeded off. I looked at them apologetically, but their collective stares were dirtier than what the swines love to roll in. Just a measly little chheenk. And such a huge reaction. Sigh…indeed, times are bad. I promised not to sneeze again, not in public, not on the roads, till the time this whole swine flu (or H1N1, as the scientists have formally named it) scare blows away.

Oh, with due respects to RGV, for the title of this teeny-weeny post. (I hope RGV takes a clue, and makes a watchable film on this ‘known terror’ than inflicting the audience with agyaat ones. I have already provided him with a title).