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What’s on our playlist?

Part I

By the Artist in San Francisco

Part II

By the Designer in Madras

Does your music make you tap your feet? Does it bring with it a whiff of nostalgia? Does it make you close your eyes and transport you to a whole another dimension of nothing but beats, tunes and music? 

The fuel to my work energy, the company in solitude and background music to life’s dramas!

Part III

By the Shutterbug in Sydney

Torn from my journal.

Soaked in the first shower of monsoon with breeze whizzing through every strand of my hair, I sought shelter beneath a make-shift shawl doubling as an umbrella. With nowhere to go until the rain decided to show mercy, I reached for my earphones and shuffled the playlist. It was probably because there was nothing else to do, I listened to the lyrics carefully and the amalgamation of nature’s surprises, words filling in the crevices of tunes lightened my spirit and I was ready to take on another day. 

Here is a tale from the journal I keep- the tunes that played on the day and made them as well. 

Dated 02 September’ 16.

Indulging much at Indulgent Sage, McMahons Point, North Sydney.                   "Sun rahi hoon sudh budh koke, koi meh kahani"

It doesn't feel like home but it's a feeling that completes the desperation, the unsettling rubble of emptiness.Sitting by the window, staring at an empty bench and eating vada Pav. It still doesn't feel home but it's a sense of belonging that deserts you at times of uncertainty, but also cuddles you when you longingly reach out for it.There are a myriad of stories sewing itself around my head. Of the constant voice of the girl talking behind me, hardly giving the guy with her a chance. Of the mother and the daughter sitting next to each other, not as much consideration for the two empty chairs across the table.There is enough room. For humans and inanimate things, antique at its worth. For the warmth to flood in thru the windows and breathe alongside the soothing music.For thoughts and stories.For coffees lifting up spirits.For conversations.For unpretentious smiles.For silent presence.For that foot subconsciously tapping to the music.

Two coffees and a zillion rays.Of warmth. Of love. Of life. 

[cupoftales-blog]

Scribbles and Doodles

Part I

By the Artist in San Francisco 

I have extremely fidgety hands.

If they're free, I'll tap rhythms on surfaces, fiddle with them and create patterns. At the beach, I'll write my name in the sand, wipe it away, and write it again and again. And if you put a pencil in them? They'll take off! I'll draw tiny triangles, mysterious eyes and sometimes just scribble with no shape or form in mind.

I have a clear memory of my introduction to drawing. I found my sister scribbling away on a piece of paper and demanded to know what she was doing. Admiring her work, I asked her how she could draw so well. I remember her placing an apple before me and telling me to look at it properly. And for the first time, I really looked. I noticed the bumps and bruises, the tiny flecks of yellow in the red skin and the way its form tapered down to its bottom. And there it all begun.

In school, I was fascinated by how beautiful eyes were and covered my textbooks with them. My Biology record would contain the most detailed diagrams of organs. In Chemistry class, my best friend and I would think up comical ways to kill our classmates and ourselves and I would draw little sketches of them. When giving an exam, I would invariably complete my exam early out of boredom and proceed to draw all over my question paper, eliciting either admiration or intense frustration from the invigilator.

As my scribbles turned into my career, my sketchbooks now accompany me through my days. A view of the Golden Gate bridges demands a drawing and a day spent at the Art Institute of Chicago filled my sketchbook with master copies. A few hours to kill before class will find me at Union Square, trying to discreetly (sometimes unsuccessfully) draw the lunch crowd. I spend ages at the Bay Bridge studying the patterns in the water and wondering how to depict them. On any given day, you can open my handbag to find it stuffed to the brim, my pencils and pens occupying the most space. And planning a trip anywhere demands the purchase of a new sketchbook.

Oh, the appeal of a new sketchbook. The fresh, pristine pages, just waiting to be filled with memories and thoughts.

My doodles led to a career that gives me extreme happiness and sometimes crippling self doubt. Now how can one not be thankful for that?

Part II

By the Designer in Madras 

Doodles have been an integral part of boring classes, boring meetings, and waiting over coffee for someone. Doodling is inspiration, doodling is clearing my mind and doodling is what keeps my career running!

As a designer, I might usually end up doodling logos, designs and random sketches of things that catch my eye. When there is left over coffee, there is a coffee doodle in my doodle book, when I am working on a project, it is all lines and patters and geometry in my book.  

When random doodles become book covers!

Random floor plans are all around my sketchbooks; dream home, dream office, dream bathrooms. Featured here is one such floor plan, post exam boredom writing/scribbling and Friday mood doodle at a work meeting. 

Part III

By the Shutterbug in Sydney

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Chai, C(k)aapi & Chocolate

Part I

By the Artist in San Francisco 

The witness of my first few encounters with 6-hour long drawing classes- hands cramped from painting in the company of owls; coffee trickling thru the veins and relaxing the movement. 

Part II

By the Designer in Madras 

Nothing like waking up to the smell of mother’s filter kaapi decoction as it drips down the percolator in the morning. Oh well, she is the reason I still have trouble putting my head into sense until the first hint of coffee hits my nostrils? In my home, the coffee is a staple, twice a day, the wake up call and the one at 5 pm. And mind you, the beans are bought in the exact proportion and ground freshly at home to make five tablespoonfuls and stuffed in the percolator to derive the most refreshing coffee! Away from home, I sure do miss her coffee; But I am not letting go of that tradition. However, I have become someone a little less of an addict- the morning cup of filter coffee, the I-reached-office-accomplishment-cup at 11 am. The after lunch cup at 3 pm followed by I-reached-home-at-7-cup. And sleepless nights definitely demand a cup or two.  Once in a while my boss encourages me to add a spoon or two of Cadbury’s Drinking Chocolate to create an even more magical concoction of Mocha! Oh, the bliss!

If I went to watch the sunrise on Sunday early mornings, I am not returning home without a cup of Saravana Bhavan filter coffee. I would have been a zombie if not for the coffee machine at work-making me an exhilarating cup of espresso twice or thrice a day (subject to increase with the increase in stress levels). My weekend visits to my grandparent’s promises a cup of paati’s blissful cup of coffee. Never choosing anything over a warm cup of coffee, any day!

Part III

By the Shutterbug in Sydney 

I have often wondered; If James Potter’s invisibility cloak was real, how would a stranger judge my different moods from the many trickling fluids I bribe my system with. From the Chai in Colaba to keep our shopping spirit alive to the piping hot Italian thick chocolate in Central Park that was meant to heal the writer’s block; don’t drinks collude with the situation to make it better? 

Hot chocolate for the merry, coffee when dusk transcends into dawn, chai for a chat and an iced tea for a day musked with SPF-50. 

[cupoftales-blog]

Sway, Spin & Swirl

Part I

By the Artist in San Francisco 

Part II

By the Designer in Madras

Part III

By the Shutterbug in Sydney 

It wasn’t the hopping kangaroos or the swaying wharfs, not even the twelve years of rigorous classical training I undertook. 

Shifting to the land down under required quite a bit of reorientation towards every other aspect of my life, one of which was to find inspiration to continue dancing! But prepping my mind for it, or watching old videos converted from cassettes didn’t. And then one day in transit, between my eyes and beyond my ears, I saw someone dancing in the middle of nowhere, attenuating the awkwardness of stares at her direction. It was then that I realized, inspiration needn’t be guaranteed from just motivational speakers or cathartic exercises. I picked mine thereon from the nod of a beat, empty trains, blurred lights, and everything else that sung a song and told a tale; and the moon simply cast a spotlight where I decided the stage! 

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Six Yards of Happiness

Part I 

By the Shutterbug in Sydney

Clad in Denim and an asymmetric shirt, I stared at maa a little longer whenever she tucked in one corner of the six-yard fabric at her waist on her left. No, right-side. Sorry. It is the left side. She whirled around wrapping it around her with the turn. The most fascinating part came after. While most of the fabric still remained unconnected, she quickly picked them up and pleated them zig and zag and zig and zag. I cupped my face and widened my eyes while she tucked it all in and flipped her hair the other side to pin her blouse with this magic clothing. The middle part dangled a little longer while she walked. But she gracefully lifted the pleats with one hand, holding me with the other. The other day, she ran to my school bus with my forgotten lunch box, one end of the pallu stuffed in a hurry into her waist. I figured a pattern. The pallu was tucked in when she was tensed; when I was about to get scolded for not finishing my lunch; when she was helping my grandmother lift those heavy boxes to be kept in the loft. And I thought I found the solution to calm her down in such situations. I just had to remove that pallu from the waist !!!

When she was away, I silently opened her almirah where she stacked this fabric neatly, with the fragrance of naphthalene balls emanating with every fold I undid. She stared at me from the doorway while I struggled to imitate her. I gave up exhausted; she came laughing and tied it around me with a pride I didn't recognize then, and fixed safety pins anywhere it could slip predicting every mismanaged step I would take.  Today, I swiftly wrapped one around me for the Diwali celebrations at work, clumsily placing the pallu on my shoulder without those pins. She scrutinized me up and down and round about from a distance, disapproving the chaos I plunged her favorite Sari into but I, I couldn’t look past her eyes that were filled with reminiscence! 

Part II

By the Artist in San Francisco 

Part III

By the Designer in Madras

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Bound Snuggles

Part I 

The Designer in Madras turns writer this week

Trrrrrrr. Snip. I take this long stretch of clear scotch tape and stick it to the sides of this new book I picked up at the Chennai book fair a few months back- Ka by Roberto Calasso. There is something about protecting my books, a fold or tear on the corners of my books mean a scar on my heart. The next day, my boss, a voracious reader herself, speaks to me about the incredible Brief History of Time which she hands to me the day after. Stained corners, faded pages, covered in a dilapidated sheet of newspaper, dating way back to 23 June 1993. Ah, these preserved books are pieces of art on their own.

As a child, I've dreamt about the characters in my book coming alive (a distorted version of Toy Story indeed). I remember when I was merely 8, the store around the corner of the street with tall glass cladding always had a new book on display. Darn you- Look n’ pick. One fine day, a blue colored hardcover -Good Night Stories caught my attention. This time the store-keeper was sly enough to not change that attractive book over the window and I saw it for three consecutive days. On the fourth day, I couldn’t take it, I pulled off mummy's hold and sat on the road, tapping on the floor and wailing to her for the book. She eventually bought it for me, but on the sixth day. An affinity for reading developed even before I started speaking, mum recollects. And now, I could choke you with a list of fifty titles if you'd asked me to point out a favorite book of mine. A monsoon morning, coffee in the hand and a book in the other, fiction or nonfiction, transporting myself to another world, visually picturing word by word, illustrating my own characters, their faces, their gestures and their environments; show me a better escapade? Reading has been meditation, joy, a friend and everything in between. Reading has imbibed most of the technology-less vacations before the digital era. Reading before bed, reading as the decoction drips down in the stainless-steel coffee filter every morning, gobbling down a few paragraphs during coffee breaks at work, reading while I wait for my pasta to cook, and definitely a book to accompany me in the toilet. What would I have been if I hadn’t drowned myself in these pages and pages of nothing but words? 

Part II 

By the Artist in San Francisco

Part III

By the Shutterbug in Sydney 

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1.. 2.. Three Servings of Maa

Part I

The Artist in San Francisco turns Writer this week

To be honest, I hadn't even tried cooking Indian food until last year. I've spent years dabbling with pasta recipes and making pizza dough from scratch, baking red velvet cupcakes and chocolate chip cookies. But ghar ka khaana? Nope, never attempted it. So imagine my surprise when I open my recipe book a month after moving away from home only to realize that Mom's dal recipe includes coconut!

Moving halfway across the world and starting a new life in a city where I knew no one led to pangs of homesickness and bouts of confusion. For the first time in my life, I was learning to live by myself and to take care of myself. And so, a few months down the line, I finally opened my recipe book and flipped the pages till I reached the page where my mother had written the header 'பருப்பு குழம்பு' (dal). I dusted off the brand new pressure cooker she had sent with me, searched for the varieties of dals she had snuck into my suitcase and googled the English or Hindi names for the ingredients she had listed. I watched the crackling mustard seeds and prayed that my curry leaves wouldn't burn as I tried my best to multitask over the three separate pots cooking the rice, dal and potatoes. And a half hour later, as I drenched the freshly steamed basmati rice with the golden yellow dal and added a dollop of that sweet smelling desi ghee over it, I felt a wave of nostalgia pass over me. It took me back to those days when I would insist that Mom feed me and she would mix everything together and crunch up an appalam and feed me mouthfuls as I rambled on about my school day; to the smells that would waft out of her kitchen everyday and draw my angsty teenage self out of my room.

Hailing from a town in India that shares Tamilian and Keralaite culture, our Tamil was heavily influenced by Malayalam and our cuisine was an odd mix of both. I grew up on paruppu sadham and potato fry, the smell of sambar wafting through the house and appams with piping hot fish curry. Dosais were a staple breakfast and idlis drowning in sambar and chutney were my favourite. Maa would try anything from North Indian parathas to Mexican tacos but South Indian food, the food she grew up eating, was what she made best. Following her recipes, I now realise that's what I do best too.

I now experiment with her recipes, using the iron kadais she sent me and digging through the bags of spices she packs for me every time I leave home. I try to replicate her chicken biryani and attempt to figure out her knack of making puttu and appams. And every now and then, I call her up with silly doubts like the difference between appalams and poppadams, because asking her and hearing her patient answers filled with memories of years of cooking will always feel more natural than simply googling it.

Part II

By the Designer in Madras

Part III

By the Shutterbug in Sydney

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Lullabies of the Sea

Part 1

The Shutterbug from Sydney turns Writer this week

When I was six, I was convinced it wasn’t possible. That I could ever get tired of chasing the waves and punching my fists into them until they retreated in fear. They came back bringing more of their wave friends and I took them all down with my glee.

When I was twelve, I was convinced it wasn’t possible. That I could ever remain angry at the waves for taking away the first piece of jewelry I was trusted with. We were in the ring fighting fair until the waves decided to play otherwise.

When I was fifteen, I was convinced it wasn’t possible. That we will let our crossed hands down and make peace with each other. I held my chin high and stared down at the waves from afar, building sand castles on the shore.

When I was nineteen... I wasn't convinced anymore. The sand castles I built with my heart and soul, came crashing down every time I tried holding them up. I looked up at the waves. They seemed to understand the fury within and beckoned me to them.

I stood there apprehensive, remembering the betrayal from all those years ago. They came at me, but with no menace. With a pace, slow and soothing. My feet stumbled when they left me for a brief while to come back with a slightly heavier tide, carrying hope and consolation with them. And apologies. We were friends again. But the tumultuousness of my age did not allow me to soar and enjoy the callousness of the moment.

With my walls half broken and age doubled, I visited them more often. It felt like they were the only ones who were still interested in playing with my feet rather than add to my pique from the throngs of long days and sleepless nights. But that is not all. I introduced them to my friends and we played together; sometimes, just watched them play and rejoiced the momentous pleasure filled with bristling innocence. And most times, we sat across each other in solitude despite being in company.

Across seven seas, having met their extended family for a breath of reassurance every now and then, I still miss teasing the ones back home about their alleged betrayal and running away quickly before they held my feet, forcing an apology. I miss sighing with them when they brought back oodles of plastic and reminiscences of other people, especially their lost slippers. I miss the unspoken optimism they filled me with the very second my ears heard their cry of welcome as I made my way thru the parking lot.

With time, I am convinced,

that bygones can be bygones.

I am convinced,

that I miss them;

that I miss home.

Part 2

By the Artist in San Francisco

For as long as I can remember, I have always spoken to the ocean. Somewhat like how you speak to God or to those who have passed on, every time I visited her, I spoke to her in my mind. I carried on conversations with her about my day, my anxieties, my dreams and my ambitions. There's something about the calming constancy of that vast expanse of blue that always manages to put my life in perspective. The beach has, and always will be, my happy place. 

Part 3 

By the Designer in Madras

What an affinity to the waves! 

Take me anywhere around the world, but make sure you show me the coast. The beaches possess a strong, immovable spot in the heart. Ask me why, I fret I will not able to put to words!

Groggy sunrise mornings, hazy evenings, to burn the burden in the chest, the sunset. What is the coast? Healer? Hearer?

[cupoftales-blog]

Cities in Context

‘This is where it all began.’

Years down this ride of life, we hope to look back and feel the gratitude for the city that helped us evolve and make decisions, cope with crossroads but also, just.. let us be! 

There are thousand many websites over this giant network that will tell you what any given city is like and overwhelm you with breathtaking images of its picturesque landscape. But we have put together something no click will tell you. Because this is our interpretation of the city that has taken us in and accepted us for who we are. 

Part 1

By the Artist in San Francisco

This city created the beginning to my ode of solace and solitude. 

San Francisco is a city of firsts and a city of passion to me. This is where I enjoy the privilege of snuggling into my blanket any time of the day and not owe an explanation to anyone; where I suddenly jump out of bed at 2 am to sit with my ink and brushes because the professor had graded a C in my dream or because I’ve finally managed to figure out the composition for my next drawing from the hundreds of ideas tossed around in my head; where having a lunch date with my favorite novel was company enough. Here is where my plunging passion for drawing breathed some air, where mentors drew importance to enjoy the process of learning.

After three flighty seasons, I've fallen for this city. For the playful winds and the beautiful views, the crazy people and their boundless creativity, the bustle of downtown and the calm of the ocean.

Part II

By the Designer in Madras

Maybe Madras didn’t want me far away from her; she brought me back, after a brief while away. Those faded terracotta walls of one of the oldest universities will echo to you a hundred million memories that were made within her perimeters. The Bengal Bay will recite to you the poems of amity and solitude that melodically married every confusion of mine and birthed a sane one. The 12 chai cups that might never fall down the wall, the very-Madrasi music and some ups and downs, I present to you here, in this very personal graphic of Madras and me.

Part III

By the Shutterbug in Sydney 

Synonymous with solitude and synchronizing with some sort of salvation. That is Sydney to me. It is beyond the symphonies of the Opera House and cosmopolitan nightclubs. It is of walks filled with violets of spring and pink sunsets, of the caffeine nourishment around the street corner, of spontaneous road trips with drained playlists, of distant unspoken agreements with reptiles and amphibians alike, of missing home and, of falling in love with everything capable of reflection. Sydney has been a realization of myself. It is poignant, personal and one to preserve.