Pictures

Photo credit:pixers.us
Memory tag:Writing in the freshly minted cafe “Matter of Taste” Shillong.

In ink, in films, in oils, in acrylic, in food on platters, in mocktails, in the medley of people, in a matter of taste; a kaleidoscope that swirls around islands of tables and chairs, of food and kitchen. Why is it when strangers talk they create islands of silence which easily cocoons, and when the familiar talk they intrude into your silence? I continue writing my travelogue, sip my Cost Rican Tarrazu coffee and let the saxophone, the guitars strings, the human voice - move, float, weave, impinge on the ear drum and lightly move away- one more sense briefly occupied, then free again.

Then I am momentarily drowned in a whiff of familiar perfume! I resurface in another time, another place, nearly half a century ago. I was young, very young then. A spectator, as this beautiful lady puts on her make up and brushes her long brown hair. She would gaze up into her silver framed hand mirror, engraved with her initials and pick up a small handkerchief to perfect her lipstick. And in one final graceful moment of adornment she would touch her wrists with perfume using the ornate glass stopper! She’d then waltz out in her red chiffon sari with large white polka dots and they would line up to say,'Darling, you look wonderful tonight!’

Small, feminine, luscious red, embroidered cheekily with three tipsy martini glasses. That red hanky over these decades has been an everlasting aperitif to my imagination captured by a poem in Louis L’Amour’s, ‘Smoke From This Altar’, ‘And....what are you doing tonight?’

It made me meet Gatsby in Long Island and hear Billy Joel sing she’s got diamonds on the soles of her feet. By then I was in college, focused and giddy by turns; focused on Biology and giddy again. I believed someday, someone would dance cheek to cheek, steal my heart away and tell me,’ Darling you look wonderful tonight ’.I forgot I had diamonds on the soles of my feet ;I forgot I was beautiful ,I forgot I was I; mirage became reality and reality a mirage. I had another dream, to collect the prize of prizes; now, maybe in another life, in another time! Yet I live in Billionaire Row, my account banked in the hearts of family, friends, life and dreams. And today, to use the beginning of the same poem…
“Here’s to the lands untravelled
And to the roads I’ve never known,
To all the things I might have done
And all the things I’ve missed……
To the urge that’s burning bright
For my pulse beats strong and my heart is warm”

Pen to paper, I need no ticket, and no passport to enter any port, in any destination. On the Kaveri, meeting Tilo, spending an evening in a Café, bringing you the Samosa, talking of Tree Roses, embroidering Winter Quilts; or now on the Atlantic crossing the Equator, in Africa meeting Lucy in the sky with diamonds, now in Galapagos; yet I am no Ancient Mariner vending my story once a year. This troubadour comes home every Sunday in Green Cardamoms. It’s been wonderful meeting you all my readers. Thank you for being with me for a whole year!