Have I ever mentioned that I totally and unconditionally adore Mel Brooks? There’s an episode of Mad About You where Paul and his cousin go to their Uncle Phil’s apartment to move a couch. (Grainy video. Bad sound. Totally worth watching!) Uncle Phil, the source of all Buchman family history, is played by the inimitable Mel Brooks. After the move, they discover a stack of old photos under the couch. Uncle Phil looks at a picture, and proclaims ‘Paulie on a pony!’ He then holds it up to his face and changes his mind and declares it is ‘France!’ Thrilled that the same picture can be multiple things, he moves it back and forth, announcing — Paulie on a pony! France! Paulie on a pony! France! Paulie on a pony! France! Romania! The last bit is when he moves the picture really far away. Priceless moment, it is.

Now for the photo. It had been raining all day. But when the sun announced that it wanted to set, the poor clouds were compelled to take a breather. They stayed gray and overcast, sulking. But we’re not done!, they whined. But the sun ignored them and shone through anyway. Too bad, it said, making it clear who was the boss. And just like that, the rain on my windowpane turned into little drops of molten gold, reflecting the last rays of the sun, as it vanished into the indigo blue of the horizon, on its way to embellish another window and intimidate another cloud.

There’s two things I love about this shot. One, that the sun is nowhere, except within the rain, which is a lovely bit of irony. And two, that the picture looks like a world of spiraling galaxies, mysterious planets and flaming meteors from afar, and yet, up close, imprisons the infinite sunshine within a few drops of rain.

Today, I have my own Paulie on a Pony! France! moment. Happiness comes.

Many years ago, when I started listening to Marathi music, I came into the possession of an album of bhavgeet by Asha Bhosle sung under the baton of her brother Hridayanath Mangeshkar, a composer who often gets shortchanged when judged on the basis of his Hindi output, but who has done far brilliant-er work in Marathi.

The CD, titled Aawaz Chandanyache, is a must-have for anyone who likes Marathi music, be it a beginner feet-wetter or a connoisseur. Hridayanath, who is renowned for his complex and intricate compositions, is also known for reserving his best for his sisters. This album is no different. Be it the incredible raaga Puriya Dhanashri composition jivalagaa raahile re duur ghar maazhe, the sensual tarun aahe raatra ajunhi, or the delicate and nuanced kevhaa tarii pahaate, every song makes one marvel at the singer’s ability to traverse the complex notes with such remarkable ease and grace. There should be a law against it somewhere, methinks.

But the song from the album that makes all this babble relevant is one called kaajal raatina odhuun nela. The melody of this will be familiar to Hindi film music listeners as the Lata Mangeshkar sung khudse baatein karte rehna from the Ketan Mehta directed and Hridayanath composed Maya Memsaab (1992). The low and high notes and chord changes in this gorgeous roller-coaster number make it a joy to hear and a challenge to sing. The song is from a Marathi movie called Ha Khel Savlyancha (1976). I have no idea what the movie is about, but its intriguing name stayed with me, skulking around in the backbenches of my mind. And today, on seeing this picture, it ran up to the front of the class to the teacher handing out chocolates, waved its hand excitedly and said — Me! Me! Pick me! And so here we are.

Coming to the picture — every once in a while, the evening sun reflects off a neighbor’s porch door, streams in through my kitchen window, gets partially blocked by a wall and finally casts a spot of light on my living room’s vertical blinds, illuminating the leaves of my ficus plant. It takes a very specific set of conditions for this to occur, and when it happens, it lasts for just a minute. But while it does, it is an incredibly beautiful and moody sight to watch. The orange glow of the sun contrasting with the blue-ish light slipping through the chinks in the blinds. The fascinating play of the many hues of light. And more so, the play of shadows. Ha khel savlyancha.

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.

Don’t you love it when you accidentally take a nice looking picture? Yep, this was one of those. Point, click and whee! And then, a not-so-sudden moment of realization happened that I haven’t posted a photoblog in some time, so here I am, making amends.

The title of this post is also a Gulzar-written movie from 1981 starring Rakhee, Rekha and Shashi Kapoor, with lovely music by Pancham. Do you remember a Chitrahaar/Chhayageet moment where a zombie-like Rakhee is walking around in a garden with Shashi and a little kiddo? The kid tugs at her pallu and nervously asks her — jahaan pe saveraa ho? and Rakhee replies nuh-uh and continues to sing in a very high-pitched Lata voice — jahaan pe baseraa ho, saveraa vahiin hai. Did that moment scare you enough to never watch a Rakhee movie again? Did it, did it? Yesh? Well, this is that movie.

Hope you like. The photo, I mean.