Snapshot flashback # 2

March
charge of the highlight brigade

April

May

June

My dream job...

Llama-measurer...as illustrated by this delightful picture I came across in an FAO report:

Why?
Because:
1 there'll be no grumpy foul-mouthed demented horn-blowing motorists on the pampas,
2 I will be honestly and justifiably underpaid,
3 and my gently whiffling co-workers will be soft and furry.

Cudgels to canvas

If you're inured to the stream of gushy, gee-whiz type of wondrously eulogic writing that art-reportage in India usually involves, the Guardian's searing Mr Searle has a sobering corrective for you.

Take for example, his slapdown of Husain, with a delicate swipe of the wrist:

If Husain were a western artist, it would be unlikely that his work would excite the kind of protest it has. His is an insipid sort of figurative modernism that doesn't appear to have developed much since the 1950s. [...] The paintings abound with a cavalcade of indeterminate gods, humans and animals. Mother Teresa and Gandhi are in there somewhere, as well as a moustachioed officer of the Raj, posing with a cuddly blue elephant and a dead tiger. This is as pointed as things get, so far as I can tell.

Puss moth

1995 - 2008

When I'm back home in Madras, like a feline myself, I spend a lot of time prowling my friend's backyard garden. Much of this time is spent communing with her many cats, each of whom has a distinctly unique personality. There's Kali, with her lustrous black coat and flashing malachite eyes, who's as pliant and affectionate as a dog, and makes a regal descent from her favourite tree when she hears her name being called. There's biscuit-coloured Muffin, with fur as soft as felt, and a kinky bent ear, who revvs up his welcoming purr as soon as you're in earshot.

And then, there's stately, gracious Puss moth, with his whitened ruff and exuberant bottlebrush tail, who exudes warmth and well-being as naturally as a toasty little fireplace. Jean Cocteau said his cats gradually became the "visible soul" of his home. Puss moth was the animating spirit of the backyard, presiding over it from his cushioned throne. But today, he had kidney failure, and was put to sleep. RIP, dear Puss moth. My backyard jaunts will never be the same without you.

Snapshot flashback

September

October

November

The leopard who changed his spot

And finally got himself a little flat.

Benares

I'd been looking forward to going to Benares for the longest time, and all the while, I imagined it would be all sonorous, echoing chants wafting over the intense burning ghats, with devotees dipping and bobbing into its murky riverbanks while corpses flickered and sputtered behind them. Sure, it was all this, but what I didn't count on was its other, less holy avatar: a giant big seething tourist trap with the generic yoga-massage-falafel infectation of all Indian tourist traps, and shops hawking cheap, limitless stocks of the hippie-on-holiday tourist uniform: om t-shirts and tatty fishermen's pants.

As an Indian non-Ganges banks-bobber, camera-wielder, and worse, accompanied by two white women, I presented rather a bewildering spectacle to the local populace. Was I a sophisticated high-class tout? A tourist guide? A masseuse? Or all 3? They made their own bold assumptions, which they shared with me in many an insulting greeting. The top 3 merry accostations I was hailed with: "Are you Indian!" "I think your parents are Indian!" And, said with hearty self-congratulation at their miraculous perspicacity: "I think you are Indian!" By the 543rd time I heard this one, I yelped back: "And I think you are an ass!" Another obvious disadvantage: my companions were irresistible tout-magnets. I'm now an expert on touts...their arsenal of overfamiliar pick-up lines, and the charming ways in which they try to appear coy and innocuous right before persuading you into visiting yet another scurrilous astrologer/ daylightrobbing silk counterpane seller who just happens to be around the corner.

All the same, I did manage to stray out into some non-tout-magnetic spots. I painted a mirthful mini-Gabbar Singh, was butted by a churlish cow, and assaulted by a monkey, who riffled through my bag, and, displeased with its contents, indignantly bit my trousers. Such fun! Some photos:

Obligatory sadhu-related opening photo

Buffalo Baywatch at Shivala Ghat

Clearly, the snarling roughneck villain of this episode