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

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.

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

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.

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.

Let there be light.

There is Cliff Richards playing in the background. The night is cool and the laptop warm on my stretched out legs. Its been a while since I wrote here. I have forgotten a lot of things that I wanted to jot. The month has been quick to pass. I don't know whether I am happy about it or sad or just plain neutral.

Ka and Music Room are still sitting close by with bookmarks a little more than half-way through. A thin sheet of dust on them tells me that I have neglected them too long. They need a hug and a flip. They want to be heard. I will hear them out tonight and let them lie near my thin blanket when my eyes close to wander in a parallel world.

The stage was set on fire. There was a splash of blood red. A flush of pink light. And three actors I admire a lot. The phone receiver was off. The milkman had raped one of the maids while having an affair with the other. The madame, dressed in black, more conscious of her fur than her imprisoned monsieur, refused to drink the cup of tea. It had ten sleeping pills. The role-plays had exhausted the maids. They sought salvation in crime. Domination turned into an obsession masked as love. But slaves don't love one another. Its filth. Everything was played to the hilt.

I have been away too long. It was my decision and I don't regret it. But there are times when I wish for things to be different. Wish that the choices from which I had to choose were different. Life would be different. I don't know if I'd like it more that way. One never knows. Thats the beauty of it all.

I will paint soon. Holding the brush to a canvas; letting the bristles tickle the cloth beneath. The cloth shall bleed the colours I want. There are far too many that I want. It will camouflage what I truly feel.

As I yawn I move towards my books. Its a far far better place I go to. Goodbye world. Let tomorrow unfurl well for all.

Even the stars sometimes fade to gray. Even the stars hideaway.

The year started a while back. Its halfway into the first month. I am yet to make resolutions. I guess it'll pass without any. Again.

Sweating in January on the terrace with pots of blood red paint, a cap and rolled up pyjamas. Good start, won't you say?

An evening was spent with a great bunch of kids who I have been working with over the past few months. They sparkled that night. I will remember it always; the gleaming faces after the show. A sense of satisfaction spread like a warm breeze. Comfortably numb I am now. Bittersweet symphony. I hope to see them again. Hopefully, sooner than I know.

Two books are being read simultaneously. Ka. Music Room. They're both very different. While one traces stories of Indian mythology like never before, the other follows a girl through her tryst with hindustani classical music. Both have kept me engrossed and they shall for a while to come.

There is too much music around. A bhajan being sung in a distant temple, the radio and my earphones. They are all merging to form a motley that has its strangely pleasant moments. The rest is noise.

I want to reach out for inner peace. Ciao.

And you know that she's half crazy. But that's why you want to be there.

Though the temperature isn’t exactly as low as it should be, it does look like a winter morning. It’s gloomily cloudy and it smells cold. Yes, funnily it smells and doesn’t feel cold. You should be here to know what I am describing. I would love to go to the beach now. Lie near the shore. Let the water tickle my outstretched feet. Let the warm sand rub my back. Have my book in my hand and let the breeze turn the pages for me. Serene and solitary.

I have switched from the rib-tickling tales of a rebellious priest and his arch rival communist mayor to a treasury of Indian mythology. It’s beautiful so far. The pages are new, yet there is something antique about it. I guess its the ancient tales typed on them that make them different and special. I love the calligraphy on it. Reminds me of the calligraphy pen Pa got me a really long time back. It still has its price tag on it. I was always scared to use it. I know the shelf it’s on. I am far from it right now, but when I get closer, I will use it. Write something for Pa with it.

I am doing something I love more than anything else. It can’t be the only thing I do cause some things don’t change. Some opinions don’t change. But I am proud of myself in a strange sort of way; for having kept the embers of my passion burning all through. They will burn like this today. And they shall burn like this forever.

I want to learn how to weave a carpet. Inspiration: a beautiful picture I just saw of a man sitting behind the wooden machinery that was producing the most colouful piece of art. From barren nothingness arises a splash of design in colours of one’s choice. I know I’ll love the feeling after having completed a piece.

The TV has been endlessly screaming for the past several minutes now. And what is one it makes me nauseous; the sickening background music, intolerable voice modulations and the insufferable dialogues. Just why people watch it is beyond me. I pray sincerely that I never reach a stage where the TV becomes my best friend. Never.

Give me a canvas the size of a wall. I want to splash colours on it. Use anything but a brush to paint on it. Go unconventional. I don’t want to show it to anyone till I finish. Maybe I won’t show it at all. Paint it black after I am done. It will be something I made for myself. It will remain mine. Or, I’ll paint a huge Calvin and Hobbes on the white surface and worship it. Yes, I have a strange sense of religiosity.

And she feeds you tea and oranges

That come all the way from China

And just when you mean to tell her

That you have no love to give her

Then she gets you on her wavelength

And she lets the river answer

That you’ve always been her lover

And you want to travel with her

And you want to travel blind

And you know that she will trust you

For you’ve touched her perfect body with your mind.

Suzanne- Leonard Cohen

Well, I had a dream I stood beneath an orange sky.

I woke up this morning groggy and sat cross-legged on the bed facing the window. There was a silent breeze brushing the sun's early strands. I closed my eyes and tried recollecting my dream. I remember snippets that don't fit together. They are pieces of different puzzles. I had more than one dream.

Somewhere a friend is snuggled under a warm blanket refusing to leave the bed. I want to make chai for her, snuggle in next to her and have a long talk. Its been too long since we met. A lot has passed between us. More than half of December has gone. And I haven't shivered even once. I am nearer to the equator. I can't complain. It is geographically impossible. My wish.

Reading has taken a stand still although I have a set of new books piled in front of me. Each wanting to be touched and flipped. Each wanting to be heard out. I will. One and one. All of them.

I made what I was supposed to. It came out well, served its purpose and made the person it was made for happy. Satisfaction swept in that evening. It was beautiful. I could do with more such evenings. Many more. And they shall happen in time.

I have been listening to a lot of music these days. And when I say lot, I really do mean a LOT. I have been breathing, eating and obese-ing on music. Genre irrespective, I have had headphones on my head all day. My grandmother now thinks I have transmogrified (Calvin style) into an extra-terrestrial specie.

I am going to return to watching Prison Break now. I will return with more that is in my head.

Did the wind sweep you off your feet? Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day?

I want a room to myself. I want to paint it blue on two adjacent walls and white on the other two walls. On the white corner I want to paint a tree. Blue it will be. Let it grow from the corner and branch across on the whiteness on either sides. Adorn the walls with pictures and posters that'll make me cry with laughter. Wash them with memories of the happiest and most loved people. Have a window that'll give me a view of the sky when I'll lay beside it at night. Let the stars wink me to sleep. Let the moon read me a bed time story. A shelf of books that'll smell old and friendly. I want to stick glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Have a stain-glass lamp hanging from the window. Let the sun sparkle through it and spill into the room. Let every breeze waltz around the wind chime. Allow it to drop in a 'hello' as it passes by. I want a Kaleidoscopic that'll show me new colours and patterns every day. Set against the same world, it'll be pretty nevertheless, without fail.

My hands are numb with glue. I have been sticking things other than the pieces of my scattered life. The table's turned into a workshop. Whether something creative will emerge from the debris strewn across is a million dollar question. I have to answer it in a few days. I will.

Justifications are tiring. The need to explain every move one makes. Every choice chosen. Every road traveled. Etc. I will, on days like these, lean on my painted blue tree and let things be. Let the branches soak my frustration and grow stronger. Let me grow stronger as well. A strange symbiotic relation that would need no words.

I have been reading about the psychology of pain. It is interesting to look at the several views people have about pain. Unlike happiness, which we tend to think comes in greater degrees to others, pain is a feeling we attribute with magnified intensity to ourselves. Tell those who wish to comfort us that they will never know the feeling. That it is worse than anything they have ever felt or will feel. Relativity is twisted to suit one's needs/desires. Is pain that cannot be attributed to an organic lesion false? Can one claim it is a case for psychological intervention with certainty then? Does the need for psychological intervention mean one is not strong enough to deal with one's problems? Does the blame then point to the sufferer? Does the sufferer become the cause and effect of the pain, unlike in the case of a lesion where the cause and effect can be separated? Does the sufferer, from a victim, become a perpetrator?

Its a gloomy day and its rubbing off on me. Sigh.

We're living in a den of thieves. Rummaging for answers in the pages.

The wind is violent today. It is insistent on blowing me away. It brings with it a new sweet smell. Usually smells bring back several memories. But this one is pure, untouched and un-smelt. It is not of the past. I am not reminiscing, for once. Though the future is still swimming in uncertainty, I feel a strange sense of control. It may not last tomorrow. So I shall let myself afloat. For now. For today.

The Little Man is thinning on my right hand. It has been a great journey of love, dreams, desires, and hopes. I have grown with him into a little woman. My aspirations are different, but our enthusiasm is similar. Our restlessness, even more.

The TV has been running nearly all day. From one channel to another, its the same story. A story that makes my blood boil. Yes, they are called soaps. I wish they'd rinse themselves clean with it. They get filthier with each new production. I am amazed at their increasing viewership. I am either degrading in patience, or the TV viewing community is gradually losing its strings of sanity. The grey matter fading into a numb white. Scary. The ladies are more heavily clad in ugly jewellery and pokey sarees. The men are using more vulgar language and torturing the women. The children are increasing cranky and spoilt. The elders are well, the less said the better. The evil mother-in-law has taken a new avataar, worse than its predecessors put together. The spineless good-at-everything, but always-ill-treated daughter-in-law is more subservient than ever. She resigns to her fate and begs her husband to not protest against the atrocities committed on her. She even encourages him to take her mother-in-law's side for she is the head of the family. I want to slap them. Hard.

Sigh, I have been ranting most of the day. I really wish the wind would carry me away to a place with silence and sense.

Trust is probably the hardest thing to achieve and the easiest thing to break. You try and build it up to a crescendo only to plummet down due to a mistake/misunderstanding. Reason ceases to exist and life becomes a whirlwind of justifications, subconscious self-questioning and unconscious guilt. I guess its a part of growing stronger. As they all say.

The year's coming to an end and when I look back (reminiscing now) I feel strangely happy. Its been a quick year like all others, but different in so many ways. World views have changed. The world I live in has changed. Physically. Socially. And metaphorically. Its going to be a warm December, strangely. I didn't start the year with resolutions. I never do. In a way I have lost nothing. But, somewhere I have lost myself to the year. To the places I have been to. To the people I have grown to love. To the gushing river in which jumps were made. To the long late night walks. To the spaces of rehearsals. I wonder how much of me is left now. I am ready to lose more next year. To what? Only time will tell.

I gotta find my way home.

I have been living like a nomad over the past few months. Wake up each morning to a new routine. Each day is defined and made use of by the moment. Perpetual uncertainty. It was hard initially, for I was so used to regularity. But now, I am flowing with it. Some days are more rapid than others. Louder than others. Sweeter than others. The 'others' are dealt with patience and hope. I am aging in both.

New friends have been made with words that are gently whispered in the ear with rhythm and those that are inked in black on sheets that embrace me. I converse with them everyday over a cuppa of hot something. We get lost in each other. Always.

Its a newer city. It has changed since I last walked it and breathed it. Nevertheless, it is treating me well. A new relation is growing between us. It is bitter-sweet like most. New routes have been traversed and explored. It will continue this way for a while.

The Colour Purple lies finished, with its back to me. The colour is deep and moving. Its hard to let go of it. I think I'll be purple for a long time to come. The Little Man awaits me. Its about a boy who's 2 inches tall and out to conquer the world. I would love to join him. Pack a bag and walk the stretch of the earth. I've always wanted to do it. I shall. Someday.

I've used up 8 packets of M-seal since yesterday. You might think I've turned into a master sculptor. I would like to think the same. Its a beautiful crown, that which I am supposed to make. Hope it turns out as pretty as I expect it to be.

I want to go back to 355. Pull down the curtains, give them a wash and hang them back up. Smell the room turn fresh. Open wide the balcony door to oversee the mist rising to hug me from the baby green foliage that spreads across on the ground below. Listen to the pigeons flutter and argue. Run down the aisle beckoning people for a meal. A meal we are sure not to relish, but its the eating together that is important. Take the plate out in the warm sun and chat more than eat. Fold my clothes neatly in piles and clear the bed that is a beautiful blue. Smile at the soft board that has faces, old and new, smiling back.

I have not been a huge lover of the winter season, but I must admit I miss it. Much more than I thought I would. Hands turning numb under the tap. Cheeks blushing pink outdoors. Holding on to a freezing bus pillar, only to get off at a stop that'll serve the warmest and tastiest parathas. Give and receive bear hugs. It might be cold, but the blood runs warm.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there's a field. I'll meet you there. - Rumi.

Maybe thats where home is for most of us.

Jupiter is catching a bus this year.

I turn the music up, I got the records on

From underneath the rubble sing a rebel song

Don't want to see another generation drop

I rather be a comma than a full stop

Its the penultimate month of the year and as always, it seems to have come too fast. Its been a life changing year, like every other year. A lot of new people have been met. Old doors have been knocked. Unperceived goals have been sought. Familiar places have been re-visited. A few favourites have been revised, furnishing the pages with more fingerprints. New books have been inked to the list. The taste buds have feasted more. The nights have been haunted with bizarre dreams and the feet have tread more gradients. New hugs have given warmth, while lost ones have been missed.

There are heroes in the sea weed

There are children in the morning

They are leaning out for love

And they will lean that way forever

The Jupiter is closest to the moon today. Apparently, it happens once in a hundred years. Hmmm, I feel historic, now that I have witnessed it. But it isn't the breaking news on TV. For once. The sky has always been an intriguing space. Small dots, that are actually magnanimous in size, wink every night- tirelessly.

The buses haven't changed and thankfully, neither have their fares. The conductor gives me a glace of recognition. He's seen me before. A gazillion times. Its the same girl who lost her balance every day, while trying to hold on to her several bags, sanity and the pillar together. Its been a couple of years, but I have still not lost my charm. I still fall. I still stumble. I still like my bus.

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend

Somewhere along in the bitterness

And I would have stayed up with you all night

Had I known how to save a life

The Colour Purple beckons me now.

P. S.- The lyrics incorporated are a result of my listening to them while writing this. And the title, well lets just say that a fall in the bus shook my sanity out.

Vivid Vivacious Visceral Visions

Dreams.

(inspired by P. G. W.) I mean it is from him that one learns to complicate the utter simplicities of life. It is delectable on some grounds but not on many others. God bless technological savants who produced the digital dictionary. If I were to hold the Oxford in one hand and the P.G.W. omnibus on the other, and make references every two minutes, I would have either made six-packs by now or had a hernia operation. The latter more likely, of course.

Living next to a kachchi basti has its own consequences. It has been there as long as I can remember, only it has grown topographically from its utter kacha-ness to concrete pakka-ness. We are witness to many events periodically- long-drawn filmi jagrans, flamboyant weddings, high-decibel verbal spats, Amitabh Bachchan-put-to-shame fight sequences etc. Whoever made 'boom', 'pow', 'dishoom' sounds while fighting! Films teach us wrong. Utter wrong. Blood does not ooze like a holi-water-balloon, for one.

Sea of Poppies has been a delight so far. Although I can't help but wonder how a foreigner would read it. It is so complete with local lingo and subsumed in the Indian Social Structure that I think someone not from India will conjure a very different interpretation of the book. But I guess it'll be beautiful in its own way.

The weather has been as unpredictable as the Indian Cricket Team. I have been getting bowled out by the googlies of the clouds; dismissed by run-outs as I run between creases trying to save the clothes from getting wet on arrant false alarms.

Since morning I have heard 'Find My Way' by the Gabe Dixon Band 7 times. I am now delusional. I retire.

Contours change.

Colours change.

Facets change.

What remains is the black shadow.

Black as ever.

Sharp as ever.

Haunting.

Powerful.

Defining.

Me.

Eh+Blah+Huh= Life

its been a while since i wrote something and i fear i've forgotten how to. these past few months have been maddening in a lot of ways. i was standing at crossroads every few days making decisions that would change my future. it hasn't been all pleasant. well, it never is. there are times when you feel that you should have taken the other road or rather gone to a totally different country and tried new roads! i have also learnt that all roads aren't smooth. they all have there own manholes and bumps at differing frequencies. it all depends on when you encounter them. profound point being don't be jealous of the other for happy times await you and well there are manholes awaiting the rest. :) [apologies to the 'rest'- no offense meant]
new places always thrill me. this one did too and still amuses me with its randomness. its full of people with opinions- some i agree with and some that i condemn altogether. it is full of people professing large things when small things need attention. its full of people who are so sure of themselves that at times it leaves you intimidated. its full of people wanting to achieve greater heights. (i fear falling hence, i shall not even attempt such dangerous desires)
now that i don't know what to write i'm going to religiously cut copy and paste the lyrics of the song i'm listening to. it actually states my condition well.

Put your faith in what you most believe in
Two worlds, one family
Trust your heart
Let fate decide
To guide these lives we see

A paradise untouched by man
Within this world blessed with love
A simple life, they live in peace

Softly tread the sand below your feet now
Two worlds, one family
Trust your heart
Let fate decide
To guide these lives we see

Beneath the shelter of the trees
Only love can enter here
A simple life, they live in peace

Raise your head up
Lift high the load
Take strength from those that need you
Build high the walls
Build strong the beams
A new life is waiting
But dangers no stranger here

No words describe a mothers tears
No words can heal a broken heart
A dream is gone, but where theres hope

Somewhere something is calling for you
Two worlds, one family
Trust your heart
Let fate decide
To guide these lives we see



disclaimer: this post is a result of caffeine+insomnia+work

The Time of My Life.

Black out

(Slow) Fade in

The warmth of the light brightens your face before a packed hall

The air in your lungs gets caught and refuses to burst out

The simultaneous intake of breath (in alarm) of the audience sends a chill down your spine

Eyes closed- you slowly exhale the first word

Your voice fills the air

Its what they all breathe

You provide it

Eyes re-open to see an ocean of black

A black that rejuvenates you

You walk across the stage and feel the world at your feet

The moment that you'd been waiting for for months is before you

The next few hours pass like seconds for its a time you control

A time that people will remember for you, as you and because of you

You turn deaf all of a sudden

For the applause fills the air

It sweetens the air you inhale

Standing in the centre you feel a void

The ocean before you recedes

The hall is empty again

Awaiting another you

Another time

Another word

Another applause

Black out