Window

There are two wooden chairs

One on each side of the table

That is set beside the window

Which overlooks the forest

Of dreams and aspirations

That had been woven

Together

As we sat and sipped our tea

Our impressions are still there

Little prints of fingers

Not very apart

The stain of the spilt tea

That greased my dress

Exists as a reminder

Of the days that have gone by

Days that won’t return, ever

Of conversations that breezed out

Of the framed orifice in the wall

I now see you living

In that forest of dreams

Happier than you were

On other side of the table

I still sit here

Staining the table

Hoping you will return

But you have met more people

Beyond our framed wall

You might not have erased me

I might flicker in your mind

When you hold that hot glass

And wince before burning your tongue

I remain sipping the tea

With memories to hold on to

Which I won’t let go of

Ever

It keeps me alive.   

Inspired by a photo taken by a friend. 

Dil-li

A smoked journey to dream land

Fresh breath of nostalgic air

Warm hugs of comfort

Lazy morning of laughter and cheese

A long drawn lunch

Walk to the alley of guitars and buckets

Clouds of smoke, hot tea and singing

Foursome gallivanting on treaded paths

Jokes of bathing styles and masala fries

Metro-ed to the heaven of food

The cozy posters and benches

Chocolat fancies and sinners of gluttony

We are lost and found

Till we dream of the next day.

Egged breakfasts, drowsy and disoriented

Move to the peacock-garden

Big toothed smiles of reunion

A lunch made for three days

Knocked everyone down

Movie motive lost to language and seating

An endless adventure for Burqous*

Practiced Zen at Tao

Night of Mata, her bawling and sweat.

An early dawn of bread and packed lunch

The dreaded squash on the station

An unexpected parting

Walls of love beckoned

Arrival with summer mangoes

Eternal quest for the a/c

Coffees shared and a wallet lost

The wait for the bathed beauty

Un-censored talks and cooler

Carmensita to going Gaga

A walk to the Centre with gallons of nimbu pani

Chai Chat with old buddies

A friend who dresses for Sabarmati. Phew

Keicha, Quereshi and the three musketeers

Midnight mayhem, eating and editing.

Jaaneman and Jan Path

Coloured beads, popping eyes, bargains, bhaiyas

Pre-calculated lunch order and kazoo’s prettiness

Mapping the way back home

Rocky chatter and pizzas

An auto ride to remember for life

Hugs and promises

Sleep.

Day of departure

Locking and unlocking doors practiced

A visit of a grumpy friend

Another goodbye

Lunch over Mongolia and theatre

Dreams of scaling mountains

More promises and adieu

Final calls at the long station halt

Bye

The train hoots

I’ll be back. Soon. 

The Work of a Babbling Brain

A wooden floor
Six creaking pairs of feet
Walk the line of duty
It is their drama to learn
Their karma awaits
Success is doubtful
It always is
For everyone
Certainty breeds contempt
Of self and others
They learn with very word
Every move
Every breath
They laugh and cry
For work and for pay
How much will depend
On how much they shed
Clothes or tears
It's a choice of life
Personal decision
Not many can make it
Break it
Fake it
To mould the body
The voice
The self
Into casts of every situation
Existential and created
Real and unreal
Is an art
Or craft as some say
The predisposition to learn and master might exist
Persist
To aspire is one
To escape another
The intent is the key
Same words can break or mend the soul
Breathe
For there will be many with wrong intents
Intentional or unintentional
You are alone
Misunderstood
And unheard
Bear it with an armor
Made of bone and muscle
Iron ones are fictitious
Made up to soothe a child's fantasy
It lies shattered with age
The pieces prick
Wounds that bleed are rare
In such situations
Hurt isn't tangible
Empirical measurement lies in textbooks
Hug that doll
It shall be with you forever
If you allow it
And fight the taunts
Turn deaf
Numb
Cold
It's the anti thesis of a fever
There are no analgesics
No pain killers
No blessed beads for protection
And definitely no shoulders
To cliched-ly cry on
Sympathy doesn't exist
Never did
So don't hope for it
Keep the hope for better things
It's what they all say
Advise
Preach
The ears ring with voices
That sound distasteful
If such a description is possible
But of course it is
Anything is
When the person sitting by you is living the life you want
It's uncanny
But you're jealous of the unknown
You can't curse it
You don't know it's name
Cuss the earth, the sun, the planetary positions
Most find respite in it
Now get back on that crowded bus
Hang on the high bars wishing you were taller
Thinner
Eyes watch
Judge
Leach
You ignore them like always
The ride is rickety and long
Six stops away
Eight signals that are always red
Does nothing go right
'Hahaha nope'
Says a voice in the cerebral cortex
Biology classes and twelfth
Then its a sepia journey until present
The stop comes
You squash your way out as your parts get squeezed
Private and public
Holds are loose and tight
Breathe
There is a rope hanging in the hardware shop
And then there were none
A twisted smile walks you home
There are no messages
The answering machine beeps
Red
Hollow
The fridge has bread
Eaten for five days now
The caps are left for todays dinner
Scrape off the jam
It tastes funny but worse has been ingested
Sickness hasn't haunted the bodice for a while
There is no consultation money
Incentive
There is class again tomo
The uncertain future awaits
Lines have to be learnt
Recited
In a thousand different ways

(4th June 2012)

.

Chipped graphite rolls in between the finger tips

It has a wooden cloak

It nudges the white under to let it move

Allow it to dance on it

But it is repelled

By the brain that is lying beside

For it has gone through 300 emotions in the past second

The graphite mulls

Not knowing what piece to perform

Its confused

The wooden cloak it wears is getting sullied

It looks ancient

But has no proof of experience

It is still long but not drawn

It has not been written with

Danced with

It is handled by nail-bitten appendages

Anxious and trembling

Scared of what might be said or heard

It needs to let go

Of the brain

Of the fingers

Of the cloak

Of the white

All of it

A Minute

Give me a minute

Let me rewind

To a time long gone

To a wind blown away

A morsel chewed

Trickled bead of sweat

A morning tea

Rustling crisp leaflets

Fogged spectacles

Kohl smudged eyes

Tired jubilant smiles

The stretch on the bus

Heavy backs of bags

The setting sun

Starry night walks

Familiarity of populace

Touch of books

The lost letter

Seventh birthday card

A crumpled photograph

Snippets of my Coloured Compartmentalised Life.

Canvas

There lies the white

In a room cluttered

There is a smell of damp wood

Wet by the moisture of paints and sweat

It stings the air

Creates a vacuum in the lungs

In the darkness, it sparkles

With a dull antiquated sheen

Newness is stark and sharp

This has a soothing warmth to it

Ironic, as the room is still cold

There is no inspiration

Eyes are glued to the pristine board

Not knowing what to do

Not knowing where to begin

Not knowing how to end

There builds a bond between the two

Speechless, yet heavy in meaning

The wood echoes the muted voices

There are no more in the room

But it feels claustrophobic

The white must go

The echoes around need to be inked

Only then will there be a breath

Respiration for life

Perspiration of desire

The paints drip

The canvas is weeping

With joy or sorrow is unknown

What lies in front is a motley of strokes

Is the air lighter?

The lungs expand

The chilled musty air rushes in

Discomfort persists

There is something wrong

I forgot to add my heart

And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?

A script is in the offing. As I write this I am having a conversation with a friend about the title. We're playing around with words, their synonyms and the like. The play was in Hindi. The beauty of the language never ceases to amuse me. But it can't be done with that beauty here. It would be lost. Incomprehensible. It has been translated, transcribed, and is now going through the final processor. Getting cleansed and purified. What will come out shall have a beauty of its own. Mythology is magical, regardless of the language it is in.

The past few weeks have been slow on me. The days have dragged their feet around in slushy waters. Barren lands. Parched grasses. They have reminded me of days gone and made me wonder with fear of the days to come. We all go through days like these. They come and go leaving you stronger and bolder.

Standing in the sun, sweat dripping from every pore of my skin, I saw the stack on the road side and gasped in utter disbelief. I had just walked out of a store that I had last been to nearly 5 years ago. Back then it was different. The outer walls conveyed nothing what they held, but now they bear resemblance to the inside. The owner and I spoke for about an hour. The conversation started with a discussion on a photograph and ended with marriage advice. Its funny how these conversations take shape. Most of the times one is unable to the trace the trajectory. Anyway, the shop held within its palms treasures of the past- ranging from gadgets to comics to CDs. I could see, feel and hear the history radiating from the room. Whatever I held was not on sale. Comics being my weakness formed a big part of the conversation we had.

Coming back to the scorching heat and popping eyes, I stood aghast at the sight of DC marvel comics at the road side second/third/fourth-hand bookseller. I had just walked out of a store that had preserved them as collector's item-Not for Sale. And there my old man was selling them at a pittance, cause for him Batman/Superman and the like were heroes that would bring him his dinner home. I drowned in a pile of them and emerged with half a dozen. I looked like a five year old who had just got her favourite candy. I came home a winner. I will be seeing my old man soon, and will rob him more.

Hugo. A great movie after a really long time. A movie after a really really really long time. I loved every angle of it. Scorsese, my man. It certainly outlived my dreams. Made my day hopeful, bright and warm. I screamed a text to my friend saying I loved it. She replied with a I-know-what-you're-feeling smile and said its amazing how the movie with such great ease tops all our lists. It does. I have made a movie list for myself, and I am ticking it down. Slowly.

Case of Exploding Mangoes. You are a delight. You are dark. You are painful. But you are incredibly funny! Just how does Mohammed Hanif do that? I want his brain. Check if he has a cerebral cortex of humour that is lacking in others. I need to get back to him. I need my dose of cheer for the day.

Solitude

I feel like going on a trek tonight. There are several places in my mind. In the the evening I wanted to stomp on snow and make my way up a mountain. Feel the cold winds numb my fingers and turn my nails blue. Breathe the winter. Freeze time in that pristine whiteness that would surround me. But now, as the moon appears behind the pitch blackness, I am reminded of my midnight walk along the deep woods from university to the monument. It was a mass trek, with close to a hundred odd people. We still managed to lose ourselves.

I remember laughing till tears rolled out as we cooked up stories of having been diverted by a strange man in a white t-shirt, who we morphed to be a ghost. In the dead of the night, a bunch of us were stranded. We had gone around and come around. Or so we thought. In the darkness, all the trees looked cloned, all the branches scratched and all the paths were sparkling with foliage streamed moonlight. It was past Cindrella's time. We awaited a fairy godmother to come show us the light. A light different from the one that was spooking us all.

A man hailed from afar. Our light. The different one. Having sung songs of the past to keep ourselves entertained, we moved ahead after what seemed an hour. Closer to the voice, back on track. It took our group much longer to reach. We took routes the others hadn't. We trailed heights that others saw from below. We did reach, but much delayed. The others were on their way back. Some made fun of us, but we gloated at having passed shrubs and trees that they hadn't, graveyards that they hadn't, experienced haunt as they hadn't. We always were good story tellers.

It was a full moon night. The trek had lasted for about 5 hours. We reached the arms of our cozy rooms in taxis at the break of dawn. Exhausted. We dreamt. Of what, I don't remember. Must have been something pleasant for we slept with smiles pasted on our faces.

Memories have a snowball effect. But the snowball I want right now is the one I'll make for myself. I want my snow tonight and I am not in a mood to share it. Not this time. At least for a while.

My Lee Filters swatch book is lying next to me. I have spent the day painstakingly looking at each filter against the sunlit window. I am still looking at them through the white tubelight. I am not a fan of white light. I like to add colours, maybe thats why I enjoy lighting. I want to rig a spot light climbing up the ladder, focus it at stage centre, put the colour I like the most at the moment and sit under it with my book.

Let the hall be empty.

Let them not know I am here.

Let them not know I exist.

Let them not know I am lit.

Desiderata

I want to sit on a cushion of plush green grass

Let the cold dew drops wet my clothes and skin in patches

Allow the breeze to whisper sweet nothings into my ear

Bring a message from a dear old friend who lives afar

I want to creak on a wooden floor again

Let the dust from the past scrub my feet

Allow the words to echo and get absorbed into the walls

Bring a dialogue into the emptiness

I want to grease my hands with paint

Let the water and not tears dampen the canvas

Allow the brush to make its strokes of affection

Bring some colour into the lifeless

I want to run on that winding road

Let the yellow flowers shower my head and soul

Allow the scent of the trees to warm my insides

Bring out the shawl for a tight embrace

I want to laugh with you in that room

Let the door ajar for the cheer to spread

Allow the gang to join the communion

Bring out the tuck and tea

Its going to be a long night companions

Revelations of a motley mind.

I go through phases of silence and those are moments when I wish to write the most, but thats not what happens. I don't pen what I feel and then regret having let the moment pass without having any written proof of it. I still feel everything but its not the same. There is a constant fear that I will lose it, that I am losing it with every passing second and that I have lost most of it. Slight smiles, a deep sense of satisfaction at the smallest of gestures, a joke between friends that becomes a secret, a walk down a road with shaded trees and scent of mangoes, a train journey with books-sleep-companionship...

Its World Theatre Day again. I scarily remember last year's today with pristine clarity. I remember what I ate, with whom I ate, the conversation I had and what I wore. Not because it was special, but because it was as plain jane as it could be. And thats what scares me about it the most. That I remember the mundaneness of the day. It must have been a vulnerable moment, that which I was going through. For it is etched so deeply.

I travelled again, for my love. It was a successful affair I must say. It was appreciated. But more than anything else, I loved doing it. Lighting. There were the usual reds, blues and pinks but this time I was behind the board. I had my super special blue. The hands slid with ease and I loved every moment of it. Red charts haunted me for days. The sticky tape glued it to my unconscious. It was a true communion that night. A little boy came up and asked for a flower in the purest voice. Our hearts swelled and we parted with the whole bouquet. The sweetest joy of the evening. Packed and exhausted we sat at the station for a delayed train. We were tired but content. We stood out from the crowd but we were together.

The floor was burning. The water overflowing from the tank sizzled as it kissed the earth. It spread and slowly formed a moist mushy puddle for the dog to have its cold nap. The lady shook off the white garments that glowed in the sunshine, from the clothesline. She danced around as her feet burnt on the terrace. The leaves from the trees are browning and thirsting for a shower. Summer.

Fountainhead. I replace Architecture with Theatre and the book makes most sense to me. I love it so far. Scares me in bits at the harshness of the characters. It is true to an extent but I tell myself they are only words and let the fear pass. Each person in it is so distinctly described. I can almost feel them sitting next to me. Roark making his sketches at the table. I can here him sharpen his pencil. Keating banging the door on me as he leaves the chapter. Catherine just asked me for a tissue to wipe her tears. I am going a little insane which is why I have picked up another book to read alongside. Short stories by Parashuram. They make me laugh out loud with streaming tears. What a contrast. But I am dealing with it now. Better, hopefully.

Theatre is not a business, not a career, but a crusade and a consecration to a joy that justifies the existence of the earth.

Sets. Costumes. Sounds. Lighting. Acting. This year. I sign off today as a theatre artist. Goodnight.

Your secrets, they dance on my finger tips.

I saw him walking down the road I traverse everyday. It was a new face with wrinkles. He stumbled over blocks he was unaware of, but balanced himself. He was returning from his long walk, probably at the beach. He carried with him a scent of the west. The shirt he was wearing was probably a gift from his US-settled son/daughter. His shoes were brand new and he was still getting used to their grip, while losing his own of the world unknowingly. He carried with him a small stick to ward off chasing dogs. They all do.

There was a white plastic bag in his hand that I couldn't help but peep into. In there, were a couple of oranges and two packets covered with foil. Food, for sure. Steamy vapours of fragrance emanated from them. He won't let his wife cook today. They will sit back on a couch and eat the grub while discussing current affairs, a movie, their children/neighbours or bygone days. It'll be a relaxed evening with oranges for dessert. We're too old for ice-creams and too young to just feed on medicines.

People age very differently. I have seen many old people in my life so far and each one has been as different from the other as possible. But uncannily, they're all similar in numerous ways. They do behave like children but different children they all are. They're stubborn but about different things and in different degrees. They all look beautiful with experience, but sometimes that experience can be imposing, restrictive and harsh. They won't understand, so don't try to tell them. Change, other than physical, ceases to exist for them. That needs to be accepted at one level and ignored at another.

The summer colours are out. Bright. Scorching. Blazing. Glistening. I strangely like the heat. The pent up emotions erupt and cleanse one's soul. There's nothing that remains cooped up in cages, or so I think. Or so I would like to feel. I have probably started living in a parallel reality. Defense mechanism. I slip into it and take breaths of solace. Soothe the bursting blood vessels. No, I won't burst.

I have started my affair with the brush again. The paints are out and so is the virgin paper. The book is lying neglected next to it. Fortunately, its a book of anecdotes that doesn't need continuous sitting down. I can pick it up anytime and it'll welcome me with open arms. I wouldn't have missed anything. It'll read itself out to me and I promise to be a patient listener.

Its late and my eyes are droopy. I have a long day tomo. It shall be a good one and I shall spend it doing things I love and care about.

Goodnight my old man. I hope you had a nice meal and a nicer conversation.

Title: Courtesy the song Fortuneteller by Prateek Kuhad

Colour me

Its a lazy Sunday afternoon. Most Sundays are. Actually, all are, but today is a day to sprawl out on the bed with old photos in hand. Let the photos ring echos of conversations in the head that make you smile silently or roar with laughter.

We are all in different parts of the country. Yet, there is something that keeps us close to one another. We may not mail each other long letters describing the days we are having. Yet, we know each other well enough. We don't feel out of touch. We don't feel awkward when we suddenly buzz each other. I guess thats what makes the relationship special and all the more stronger. We go through phases of mocking each other and pun prodding. We have songs for each other and each occasion. One such occasion is coming up and that day, for sure, I'll be in withdrawal.

Holi is despised by many, but I guess being a deviant in every way, thats why I love it. I love the colours, the water, the dirt, the filth and the utter chaos. I love the way all differences are erased. Rather, coloured by shades of similarity. They might be temporary, but for just that moment we are indistinguishable. There is a sense of unity that prevails and runs like the coloured water between us. We soak in it and breathe it.

The aftermath is obviously the most painful, as we rush to occupy bathing cubicles, hoping and praying hard for a continuous supply of tap water. Some are lucky, while some, well... the less said the better. Famished stomachs gorge on food ordered from places that deliver the fastest. Tired and exhausted, one gets the most beautiful sleep post all this. Oblivious to the outer world, one sleeps in peace. Absolute.

I won't be going through all this, this year. But, somewhere in my heart I will be reliving every moment of it all through the day. I might be found smiling on the road randomly. Don't be horrified, for I would have just remembered a joke/ a fall/ a poke/ a splash. I might hop-skip-jig all of a sudden at the thought of a song we'd sung probably a hundred times. Screamed our lungs out breathless.

I think I might be found in an asylum soon. I don't sound normal, do I.

Colour me and my world.

My hearts alight and my vision blurred.

The city has trapped the sun.

The sweaty days are back.

Of juices and baths.

Umbrellas and caps.

The sun blazes overhead.

Without respite and grudge.

The mornings are warm and still.

Leaves have died. Trees have decayed.

Birds sing sore. Maybe a Malhar.

Faces are brighter now. Darker, for once.

Buses stink and autos hoodwink.

Yellows and Reds prevail.

Of Mangos and Watermelons.

Sluggish road side eating.

Under spot shaped shades.

Rings of friends and lines of strangers.

A new story shall begin.

With the blue skies and pink nights.

Its summer again.

The city has trapped the sun.

Lets fall in love with it.

Shattered glass and hollow window panes

Sometimes certain words evoke aural memories. The mere whisper of a place can remind you of a robotic voice announcing the station in a metro. Then its a vicious cycle of remembrances. The station reminds one of the reason one boarded the train, the people it was boarded with, the place one actually got off, the songs sung on the train to pass time, the fun one made of co-passengers etc. The scene is cognitively recreated. It feels real and one desires to go back in time and relive it. I have spent the last couple of hours in such a fabricated reality. Its been a comforting journey. I am a lover of the past times. My affair with it is endless. The future is something I do look forward to but not at the risk of letting go of the past. Coward twit, maybe.

The music flowing in my ears is fresh and hopeful. Songs sung by a junior from school. I love them and hope he sings like this forever and that his music reaches out to as many people as possible. They drip of honesty and warmth. I can imagine myself feeling the soft green grass at my feet as I thrust myself on a swing, under an early spring sun that sparkles through the thick foliage of a great big tree, in an open lonely silent field.

There is a strange heaviness in the air. Its been there all day. A melancholic stillness that is turning stale and lifeless. Maybe the spark of the sun will rejuvenate its spirit. The colour of tomorrow might resurrect it. I hope it does cause its seeping in and spreading despair.

Another stage is calling on to me. It will certainly not be the last. I will light it with all my love. Its a play I love. It has actors I love more. It shall be a communion of honesty, something that seems to have shrouded in veils of duplicity and cozenage. But thats true of a lot of facets of life. Theatre, still remains the only place where one can speak the truth in its crass and stripped form. Its another matter altogether that only a few indulge in this heroism. And those who do, have a path of shattered glass laid before them. Scarred and blood-stained, they continue. Its what they live for.

Its so difficult to explain oneself to others. Not as a justification of actions, but just to be able to word and articulate the surge of emotions that arises and drowns one. There surfaces, on certain occasions, a desire for the other to be able to hear one's beat, feel one's pulse and sense the mood and give a i-know-what-you-are-going -through nod. I have given the nod to many this week. Its time I got one too.

Paint that hollow window pane.

Let it show what you wish to see.

Keep gazing at it till it comes to life.

It will.

Just wait.

Intellectual claustrophobia and the darkness

Being a student in a class that has an average age way above yours can be a problem. Thats when one gets a real sense of generation gap. Everything you say is blasphemous. Mouth ajar, unbelieving eyes stare and mock at your naivety. The idea that I may know/understand things that others may not is again, unthinkable. I have a problem. Intellectual claustrophobia. The need to be open and non-judgmental fades with age I guess. I may fade as well, but for now, the world to me is full of possibilities and lacks boundaries. I am not unethical and immoral. I have different ethics and different morals. My vision is not as coloured as yours. Not as black as yours and certainly not as white as yours.

I want to hold your hand. Feel it crush mine with warmth. With a sense of certainty and security. Lets walk down those yellowed lanes of memory and laugh, if just for once, till our lungs are ablaze with the gush of cold air. Let it be a winter night warmed up by the rising sun. I want to drink that small cup of tea and then drink some more. And more. Over that stone cold slab that has etched our conversations for many seasons to come.

After a very very long time I have laughed out loud while reading a book. Mother Pious Lady. It chronicles events of India. Not the epic, monumental and stupendous events, but the everyday mundane nitty gritties of an Indian life. How it has changed for real and fake. How it might change and will change etc. Its hilarious and nostalgic. I don't want it to finish.

The paints are out and the parchment is still lifeless. I am going to pump it with a colourful life. Let it breathe in the vibgyor and let out a palate of unseen beauty.

Do you think there's a heaven?

The stage was set. A neat pile of platforms were arranged in the centre. Each platform breathed of timeless usage. Nails jutting out from every corner. It would be life threatening to walk on them, sit on them or just walk beside them. But that is our set. We will love it for the next 120 minutes.

The lights don't always work. They hang there lifeless and ignored. There are patterns of dust on them that look prettier than a lot of stuff that is sold as modern art. Not that I despise modern art. I just love lights more.

What is a filter? The Japanese wale? Nahi, we don't have them. So, we use the sheets of coloured transparent paper that remind one of class 5 projects/ sweet dhabbas that are covered with 'amber' sheets. We had our blues, pinks, reds, ambers and greens. And yes, they looked blue, pink, red, amber and green. Japanese wale got kicked out of business for one day.

There was electronic music all round. People don't know what a rehearsal means. In a couple of dictionaries it seems to mean a time when one plays loud music, walks across the stage (mind you, they are not actors), runs across the stage (again, we're not talking about actors) while the actors are prettily sitting life threateningly on the platforms delivering lines. Aghast at being seen as absorbed into the stage. Being seen as a piece of furniture that seems to be producing some sound. It did bother. A lot.

But we prevailed. Like always. It was beautiful.

Although the city was pink, like someone said we painted it, not just red but with myriad colours that'll colour our vision for days to come. Maybe months. Maybe years. Actually, maybe this lifetime.

Train journeys are always fun. The laughter over food, games and gossip. The stretched out legs with huge blankets to keep them warm. The cards strewn over them. The solving of the mystery of the missing chappals. The war with roaches in coaches. The morning and evening walks at random stations. Eyeing remote places that we'd like to settle in later in life, once retired, invariably adorned with a big mango tree and vast expanse of open spaces. However, I feel by the time we age to retire the vast expanse will be commercialised. Lets retire now. Lets sit under the tree and tell our stories. Its what we all love doing the most. Lets live it.

The cold kept me snuggled in a blanket. A TV remote was held after months. I've forgotten how one watches TV. But I managed to watch a bit of a movie without guilt. Sherlock can do that to anyone. It was a city known to me. There were places to go, people to meet, but I chose to stay inconspicuous. There was something in the air that told me I won't be able to deal with it all together. Withdrawal it still is. It'll never go but I shall be more courageous next time. Walk down those lanes that have made some of the deepest marks and cuts in my soul.

Its funny how one can be alone in a group. A crowd is different. But in a group you know, you can suddenly feel detached. The strings that were holding you snap. Then there is free fall. A sinking feeling that churns the stomach to a great height of discomfort. Its human I guess, but its also human to want to know why.

The sea washes away a lot of filth. Both literal and metaphorical. The air around always refreshes the body and mind. Clears. Purifies. Detoxes. Emerges out a fresher self. Ready to face more. Ready to get more dirty. Both literally and metaphorically.

I lost a friend. It was tragic. I miss him. I wish he'd called. Told me what it was that bothered him. I would have told him to stop. Would have given him a hug. Held his hand till he stopped shaking with fear. Shaking with rage. Shaking with uncertainty. I will never get to see him. His dimpled smile will haunt me for long. Ironical that happy things become haunting. His number is still stored on the phone. I wonder if he'll pick up if I call. Talk to me from heaven. I hope there is one. I want him to be happy there. Very happy, for once. And for all. I love you.

You can't always get what you want.

But if you try sometimes, you just might find that you get what you need.

Thanks Rolling Stones. Its difficult to stop wanting things but I guess one lives happiest then. Lower expectations and let things unfurl for themselves. Its true of tangible and non-tangible entities. But then are we allowed to let things unfurl for themselves? Is one free to exercise that liberty? Many argue that its all in one's mind. That if you want you can do exactly what you wish. Easier said than done.

The world is a gnawing place. Every corner of the body and every word breathed out is scrutinized, judged and commented upon. You might not ask for it. You might never. But you will get it. And it will be sharp, harsh and upsetting most of the times. It'll cage you in a box and feed you guilt till you crumble. You might see pretty sights beyond the bars but they aren't for you.

Funnily. we're all in boxes and as the adage goes. the grass is always greener on the other side. We appreciate each other's lessened restrictions. There is no such thing as freedom in its purest sense. Well, then again it depends on what one defines freedom as. Its such a relative term, like all others. Everything is relative. Nothing exists without the other.

I have a dream. I will have a small room to myself. I will have a cozy bed next to a warm fire place and a rack of books. Let it be a windy cold evening. There will be a window near my bed. And as I will rest my head on the pillow, the moon will peep into my room through it and spread its bright white light that'll sparkle the room. It will be a happy companion and it shall read with me into the darkness of the night.

I walked into that space after more than a year. It has changed so much that I can barely recognise the concrete I lived in for three years. The walls don't feel the same. The heartbeat is different, or rather has died out. Some areas still call out to me in remembrance. I have lived, loved and laughed there. Stood in the middle of the ground, that unfortunately doesn't exist anymore, and yelled to the first and the second floors. The trees still smile with warmth and welcome me. I don't want to go there again soon. Not alone atleast. I am not afraid. Just uncomfortable.

I don't have an end to this note.