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)

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.

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.

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.

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.

Mr. Ravana, please stand up.

“Hahahahahahaha”

“Hohohohohoho”

Am I celebrating a premature Christmas?

No.

These were the opening lines of Ravana’s scene yesterday. Come Dussera and the whole neighbourhood throngs at the Ramlila Maidan of the locality. Age/caste/class/religion/gender no bar.

We have been ardent followers of the last-day-of-the-navratra mayhem. So last evening my brother, father and I set out for our yearly laughter marathon. The chairs were set. The eye piercing bright-pink satin curtains drawn closed. Incomprehensible bhajans were being sung deafeningly by the mandali. We were early.

We seated ourselves equidistant from the stage and the to-be-burnt Ravana that stood quite malnourished compared to its previous avatars. In his good old days he used to have Kumbhakarna standing next to him for company. The recession has spared no one. Sigh.

Suddenly the singers muted themselves, and emerged from the wings Hanuman with his, handful in number, Vaanar Sena. They did a little disco jig to entertain us while the other characters, I presume, were getting ready. Soon enough, Rama and Lakshmana entered the scene and settled themselves on the thrones looking rather jaded. Nine days of acting can take a toll on anyone. While the audience was filling up, Rama and Lakshmana sat like statues with the rest attempting to hop-shoot-fly as they sabotaged the mike periodically to bellow- ‘Jai Shri Ram.’

But what I was waiting for was my favourite bhajan that’ll put even Metallica to shame; a beat-iful number- ‘Ram ji Ki Sena Chali.’ It gives me epileptic fits every time I listen to it. Its another thing that the thunderous loud speaker seemed to send waves that penetrated one’s chest as though someone were administering a cardio pulmonary resuscitation. Pardon the medical metaphors. It’s a genetic habit.

Well, once the Ravana was ready with his nine heads. Yes. I said nine because we believe in physics and the principal of balance. If there is a central head that cannot be shifted, we make do with four on each side, irrespective of the fact that during the famous battle when Ravana found his extra heads inconvenient, he quietly stepped into the wings and got one of his minions to remove them. Voila! A one-headed more comfortable, hence more confident Ravana surfaced.

It was interesting to note that during the battle Rama and Ravana exchanged pleasantries. ‘Don’t step too close to the edge of the stage.’ ‘Avoid tripping on the mike lines.’ ‘That make-up looks superb.’ Personally, I would want Ravana to enter a dance competition. The grace and panache with which he waltzed around the stage was unparalleled.

The battle was the laughter bomb. Those not participating in the battle (this happens when one side has more people and they have to wait for their chance to fight) posed like body builders centre stage, much to the delight of the photographer. Here, I would like to establish that the fight sequence comprised mainly of Rama and Ravana revolving around the stage like two planets in an orbit. It is also imperative to bring to your notice that while Rama revolved with his bow and a set of arrows, Ravana did the same with his sword and vice-versa. In the midst of this circling circus they employed a new theatrical technique- that of stills. All of a sudden all the characters would assemble at the centre of the stage and form a still- mostly of Ravana in the centre with Rama stepping on one of his thighs and all weapons pointing at him. Picture taken. Disperse.

This happened more than a couple of times. Similar formations. Different positions. Only problem- they were all smiling. (This, however, is a technological problem as we have invented cameras that click pictures only when people are smiling)

Highlight of the day- Ravana’s abrupt death as the Mayor, the Chief Guest of the evening, arrived. Flutter of an eye lid and out of the blue Ravana is horizontal. Hanuman bends the mike to capture Ravana’s finale act- ‘Raaaaaaammm… Raaaaaammmmmmm…’ Anyway, we obviously need a politician on stage saying- ‘Truth will prevail. The unjust will be punished… etc.’ One could have just rewound and replayed all their campaign speeches.

We probably hailed the gods a gazillion times as the itinerary of the evening had to have fill-ups. The fill-ups were undoubtedly getting the audience hands up and letting out religious roars.

The moment that we had all been waiting for finally arrived. Combustion time. As Rama and Lakshmana strode through the aisle towards the to-be-burnt Ravana, we had our hand up again. Religious roar number gazillion+one. It was lit and a string of fire crackers blew off. The children screeched in delight. But. Post the singular string of a couple of fireworks the plan of the whole Ravana setting ablaze flopped. Ravana was still upright and alive with fluorescent red lights for eyes. I’d love to say it was an epic fail, literally. Pyro-technological error.

Solution: just poke the thing with a fire stick. Kaboom.

End of story.

There was a lot more I wanted to say but I’m so sleepy that the words are now doing a jalsa in my brain. It was an eventful evening with tears of laughter streaming down our faces. We haven’t laughed this much in a while. It felt good.

Will we go for it next year? Always.

Dusk Tales

As I hang the freshly washed, damp clothes to dry, something about the evening takes me back to the lush green grounds on which stood a stage and a few lights- rehearsals of annual functions. The hustle-bustle backstage in a curtain-created green room. The long lines for abhorrent hideous make-up that turned everybody's lips a luscious blood red, sex irrespective. The multi-tasking teachers who would pin up costumes to prevent faux pas, do head counts of cast, yell at mischief mongers with third eye vision, gossip with colleagues about other colleagues etc. The last minute stage back-drop disaster management. The munching of dry noodles, chips, gulping of sneaked in bottles of cold-drinks; yes, for many souls it was a picnic, much to the distress of teachers. The constant shushing. The several rounds of truth-dare and dumb-charades while the torturous speeches continued endlessly. All this is sorely missed and more.

The sun sets with a whiff of forthcoming winter. Certain smells always linger and take one to a distant memory; a memory that cannot be relived but felt with a similar intensity. Actually, its not just the olfactory sense that is capable of such feats; there are many things that can rekindle remembrances. The brain is an intriguing organ.

I

I am an actor.

Happy World Theatre Day.