The concerns about my well-being have been pouring in. While I am hugely touched (no, not in the head, although that too, is true), I am also a wee bit confused. You see, the concern is not about why I vanished from my blog. (Although, to be fair, a few people noticed that too. Much thankoo for caring.) But instead it is about why I have taken to writing pointy posts. (Um, non-pointless?) Apparently going gaayab on my blog is not such a crisis but non-dysfunctional writing from me is a sure reason for alarm.

Of course, frantic citizens of the blogosphere are running amok with wild theories. (We’re a bit full of ourselves, you say?) Have the aliens returned? Has this blog been taken over by her good twin? Has she been listening to Daler Mehndi? Has she been watching too many repeats of NTR’s Honda-man .. er .. Superman video in which he does PT exercises with Jayaprada, while he looks for his underpants? (Many thanks to Deitadi for introducing us to this gem.)

(The answers to the above questions, by the way are, no, nah, not over my dead body! and oooh yess!)

But worry not, my dear readers. However impossible it may seem, the Tin Man can have a heart, the Scarecrow can have a brain, the Lion can have courage and Dorothy will eventually get home. And seeing as it’s fall, she’ll be back with a ton of pictures for y’all. (Ooh, that rhymed!) Oh and some more gushy-mushy writing that’ll have you calling the paramedics. But until then, be the good readers that you are, say ‘neinn readddyyy’ in your best Jayaprada voice (Is she even a Reddy?) and sing with me —

Soooparrr-maaaannnn .. <la la laaaa laaaa laaaa> ..
Soooparrr-maaaannnn .. <la la laaaa laaaa laaaa> ..
Sooparrr-maann .. <laaa laaa> ..
Sooparrr-maann .. <laaa laaa> ..
Sooparrr-maann .. <laaa laaa> ..
Sooparrr-maann .. <laaa laaa> ..
chika chika bum bum chika jaa bum bum ..
chika chika bum bum chika jaa bum bum ..

Very good. Now, while on the delish topic of desi Supermans, here’s the classic from Dariya Dil (1988). (Greatbong readers will find themselves in familiar territory with this one.) Starring Govinda as Superman (check out the hip-n-happenin’ faded blue outfit and mismatched boots), Kimi Katkar as Spiderwoman (ooh, so many digs, so little time), a distraught couple and even more distraught goons who double up as ceiling fans.

There. Scare factor and cheesy costumes nicely in place. Now I just need to get into the spirit, put on my Spiderwoman costume, and exit with the traditional stomp-out-the-ants-in-the-grass-and-shake-shake- my-bum-while-I-wave-wave dance that Chichi and Kimi perfected. Oh yeah, that reminds me — happy Halloween, everyone. Boo!

There’s something very warm and friendly about old typewriters. Like a friend you sit down with and unburden your heart to, safe with the knowledge that he’ll take it to his grave. The steady clackety-clack reassuring you that he is listening. Each tching of the carriage-return, comforting you, making you lighter.

Then again, they’re like old men you meet near park benches. Weatherbeaten yet full of spunk. Packed with stories waiting to be told and retold. Of love, of valor, of sadness and of hope. And just when you thought you’d heard them all, a new one’s pulled out of the bag.

And sometimes they’re artists. Taking your disjointed thoughts and putting words around them. Making sense of your nonsense. Finding images within your incoherence and painting them for you. Giving you a chance to take a step back and look at your thoughts from the outside. Reintroducing yourself to you.

Some letters clean and precise. Others blackened and worn. Warm rusted metal and cool flashy chrome. The familiar smell of ink, like an old pal’s cigar. And the odd sharp edge that lurks around, nicking you when you least expect it. Little wonder that they make such good friends.