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.