Easter-ly

Well what does one know? Serendipity is me!- Given that I don?t be sitting watching TV suddenly out pops a box which informs me that I could have the pleasure of sharing Easter (eggs and all) with that chocolate-y dream boat hero of mine- John Abraham! Hmm, it was good. So how many of you caught him on CNN IBN last night? (the link is not up yet on the site- hope they do put it up for all you who'd drool too!) The poor man made such a pretty picture with his handsome visage and so much at a disadvantage too after his recent accident. And such an intelligent charmer- I could go on and on about him but shall stop here in deference to the sensibilities of the JA non lovers (can there be any such?)

I had a small errand to run at night. It had me running through the rain drenched cool streets - as usual I had no patience to slow down and was hurtling through when an uncertain but strangely familiar aroma wafted across. Wonder what breeze brought that on- was it an easterly? A 'purvaiya'?

What is it about the rain which releases these locked up scents and floods us with distant memories? There I was in a typically old-world Bangalore street and yet the trigger seemed to suggest I was in the tree lined avenues of dilli. The street- scape in the mind-scape was of large Neem trees spilling their sharp bitter fruits and the brilliant moon light streaming at nights on the dusty land through thorny acacia bushes.

Its been four months since I went to Dilli. While I do manage to talk to a couple of people- family or friends or both, its not the same as being there. I get daily weather reports and am updated hourly as it were on local gossip, new places opening, new things to be done there but I am losing the power to join the dots and complete the picture it all without the visual (and other sensory) inputs. The weather there would not be the same now as it was in January. The laburnums and jacarandas would have performed their grand show and retreated only to bloom after another year. Gulmohurs would still be surving. The mango trees (the few trees there) would be still bearing flowers while here there are young tart unripe mangoes to be had. And most of all, this is the season in Delhi of the small sweet-sour berry called phalsa. I doubt if anyone of my folk there who see it don't remember my fondness for that fruit. And, a dear friend rang up and pleaded with me inviting me to his wedding this week-end. If not for the reception, come for the sangeet, he said- alas, dilli door ast!