my father opened the window as we skyped and I heard the Dhak

The three pictures are of the construction site of the Pandal, I saw in the lead up to the Durja Puja. I never could see it completely built because I was not there for Puja. I had hurried back to Santa Barbara, a bit nervous about TAing for a silent film class, to get the class schedules and be done with all the formalities for getting a phone. However, thinking back I regret not having stayed back for the Puja -- my third successive year of missing it. As I write this post, and i know you (my readers) will realize, I should be careful about not lapsing into the all too familiar "longing and belonging" that not-so-often-great Diasporic writers are guilty of. And yet, perhaps I have of late been too harsh on them.

With the winter vacations having set in, there is immense time, especially since I ended up striking off all plans to go anywhere, partly because of meagre dollars and primarily because I cannot but remember. I write this blog, therefore, to fill time, the time it takes for a YouTube video of Kandukondian Kandukondian to buffer. I promise this is not going to be long. In fact, when I started blogging, people would say it was a way to make ones' narcissistic self reach out to others. Nowadays, trite smart facebook status postings serve that purpose/motivation well enough. Shorter the posts, better chances are they will be judged as being well written. The ecstasy of speed is doing overtime nowadays in all walks of life - scatter-brained and limping, I am always left looking for prosthetics. Forgive this aside.

Before I forget as to why I wanted to write about these pictures and memory, I must mention they are related to the conversation I was having with my parents today. All of these pictures have been taken from my second floor balcony adjoining the room from where my parents video chat on skype with me, on a static desktop pc. As they talked to me today, they opened the door leading to the balcony and I could hear the man coming to sell fish shouting Mach Mach. My parents talked for a while and then I asked them to wait because I needed to go the kitchen and set the potatoes to boil. When I came back to resume the conversation, I could hear the Kashmiri shawl and sweater sellers calling out to people in the apartments - it is winter time there too.

I came back to SB seven days before Puja - the pandal construction finished soon. I knew it when seven days later, my father opened the window as we skyped and I heard the Dhak.

they say 'money'....'money' ...'money'

Somebody told me - he could look at this picture and keep looking at it. Dhanushkoti for me was a place one could keep walking, on sand, straining to look at the sea on both sides amidst an old church, an old temple, some hamlets all in ruins. a whole village lived ( no thrived) we are told by the guide till 1964 - a cyclone came. My father tries to find his own people in the historical imprints of this place pointing to a narrow gauge railway track, barely visible covered by sand. He tells me grandfather came here on a train...I wander, hopping broken windows, wiping sand from my fingers as i support myself on rocks to come to smiling children engaged in a game. I take out the camera for a pic. they laugh, i think of taking another pic, end up taking three more, they pose for me in wrestling positions, they are in a battle in the next, and peep through a tyre for the third, when I am about to leave, they say 'money'....'money' ...'money'

He replied "Saddam"

At Tanjore, we admired the Bhadisvara temple in a way that architecture illiterates are expected to do. We could see people around who did exactly the same thing. They were very eager like us to capture the temple and more so their visit in photographs and videos which they themselves were producing. While leaving, just at the temple gate, we were accosted by a sweet little bright boy, selling incense sticks. When asked about the price, he said "ten for the sticks and two my commission". "Please take the sticks" my mother said and I took them and gave him a ten rupee note. He repeated "ten for the sticks and two my commission", mildly complaining to my mother about her stingy son, it appeared. We could not help but smile.My mother gave his ruffled hair a maternal toss as he smiled taking in a breath and showing those broken newly growing incisors. Mother asked "what is your name".
He replied "Saddam".