Indulgence

Music

2012-01-21T16:15:00.005+05:30

Come under the tent and let me show you the night sky that I have painted. Listen to the sound of the forests and the rustle of the winds, but be silent, for you do not want to disturb, the creatures in slumber.
You and I, are but fragments, of a larger fragment, and nothing we say or do is going to suffice. So, be silent and listen.
For when you listen, you will find a music flowing through everything. You will never find the words to sing, so let the music fill you too, all the spaces and silences and nothingness within you, that you attach so much importance to.
Lend me your hand and lie by me. Listen also to the rhythmic beats of my heart while I listen to yours, because you and I are nothing, but notes of this ever-flowing music.
Lets create a symphony that is above sorrow and disappointments, expectations and regrets. Let us just be music for once, for the sake of music. Because that is all there is.

Unnamed

2012-01-18T00:00:00.000+05:30

I am here.
Between night and day
Between the domain of slumber and wakefulness
The day slowly and subtly dilutes, casting on my face
an innocent beam of sunlight
A beam that started a million years ago..
to fall on me the way it does now
from the opposite window of the bus
and to turn my eyes and hair
a reddish hue of brown
Me, an unknown face, wandering
through nameless roads and fields
Why do some of these people
look straight into my eyes while the others
just pass through me
Perhaps life, being an undefined, unquantified force
is capable of causing flickers
and ripples by mere presence
or absence, for that matter
The rays weigh my eyes down
and my ears are clouded with the whispers
of the trees
They speak of weather and color
and words that sound to me like
Patience

China Glass

2012-01-04T23:37:00.003+05:30

On the verge of breaking apart
Fragile figure of China glass
Too much glue and too much tape
Too much effort to keep a face
Shabby layers of Persian paint
Covering up a shallow dent
Polka patterns in pretty pink
Peeping from an ugly chink
A crystal of a sand-like thing
Escaped the fusing in the kiln
And a certain handle of sorts
Twists and curiously contorts
It rumbles, rings and also rolls
All in very clumsy control
And had you not seen its tiny mounds
You'd think it almost round

Quite a tricky object I see
No shape, no color, no certainty
Peculiarly odd for a glass thing
To be no vase, no goblet, nothing

Its almost like it aims to be
just a random oddity.

Have a Wonderful New Year

2011-12-29T10:03:00.000+05:30

When the day dawns on January 1, what would really have changed? It will be another day that comes after the night, birds will chirp, animals will wake up and go about looking for food, pretty much everything will be the same, except us, the advanced beings that need celebrations and a sense of newness to keep us going. Why is it that we constantly need change? Why do we need a year-end and a new year to renew our spirits? I guess too many of us don't live the way we were intended to live. Boredom is the most underrated menace to existence. We as a civilization have tried very hard to downplay it and portray it as something harmless, but sometimes I think, boredom is a sign. It is a sign that as we spoil ourselves with multifold and complex choices, we lose a bit of what we were intended to be: adventurers. We have reached this far because of the spirit of adventure, because there were men who set out for the unknown on ships onto unfathomed waters, because they cared to climb the Everest, because they believed there was something more, to be seen, experienced, lived, acquired.

If we look deep enough, we all have that adventurer within us. There is, at least one thing on this earth for each of us that triggers that adventure, that makes us want to know more, and push limits to learn it and do it. But there are too many distractions, too many mirages along the path until we lose sight of what we had set out out for, and give in to boredom.

This year, find your adventure. Find something that excites you not only for the outcome but also for the effort. Find the one thing that can speed up your heartbeat and make you lose sleep over it. It can be owning a grocery shop or exploring the Tibetan valley,if it gives you the thrill, that is it. Fight for it. Be proud. Be glorious and beautiful. Be passionate. Give it your best because it will bring out the best in you. Because it will show you love and beauty of the greatest form. This year, fight boredom. Create something, learn something, and live freely. Speak your mind, ask questions, find answers, express love. Just this one year, give the habit of life a chance.

Have a wonderful year in the sense of the word, a year full of wonders.

Change

2011-12-25T01:37:00.001+05:30

Some time in the last few years, she changed irreversibly. The realization of it dawns on her sometimes for a few fleeting seconds, in brief dreams when she's half asleep and she feels like she just slipped off the edge of a cliff, or in that headrush when she gets up too quickly from the bed. But then, these are very short insignificant moments and she does not want to make much of it. She is good at deceiving herself. So are a lot of people she knows. She has learnt to remain quiet, but deep down she knows, that her self of a few years back, the one closer to a child, would not have approved of a lot that she approves of now. Some time in the past few years, everything that seemed fair and just as a child, is now hushed away in boxes labeled 'over-simplified' or 'silly' or 'socialist'. Sometime recently, she started to understand the words taboo and censorship, and realized that democracy is not always 'better' than dictatorship, and freedom is not always better than bondage, that you need to let go of self respect sometimes and label it sacrifice and love, that a mind without fear is a bookish concept, and that most of the times, its too much to expect humanity from human beings. The thoughts give her head a spin sometimes, so she shuts the lid on them tight, and places a heavy object over them, like a dream or a nostalgia. Strange thoughts, you'd say, for Christmas eve. But she does not exercise much control over them, specially on occasions like these. She, is just a bundle of pronouns after all, she could be me, yes, but she could be them, or you, or no one at all.

Guava Tree

2011-12-13T14:34:00.003+05:30

A fragment of her, perhaps, never made it to adulthood. It got stuck somewhere on a branch of a black&white guava tree. "It brings bad luck", someone had whispered about the tree, when tragedy had struck the family. And they had brought it down. She had picked up a leaf and smelled it, torn it, scratched it, and rubbed it on her palm, to have the scent long enough. A fragment of the guava tree too, had survived in her nail beds.

Someone like her

2011-12-11T16:21:00.000+05:30

He watched her as she hurriedly baked chapattis to pack his lunch, her wet black hair dripping on her saree. A perfume of incense sticks filled the air. It was unbelievable sometimes, the fact that she was here, in his house, in their house, packing his lunch, running his household like a typical Malayali wife. He still remembers the day he had first seen her draped in a Saree. She looked beautiful, both in the elegance of her attire, and the clumsiness of her steps. It was their convocation day. She had been talking to him excitedly, asking him from time to time, if she looked okay. He was just reassuring her for the nth time that she looked breathtaking, when S had arrived and made a dramatic gasp looking at her. All uncertainties vanished from her face in that moment as she beamed and moved towards him. He noticed the unmistakable pink of her cheeks, when she told S he looked wonderful too. Those were the days of transition. They were days of political unrest and liberation movements, of strong opinions and feminism, and of rainy nights when his heart had started to secretly whisper her name, fully aware that she was deeply in love with S.

D and S were made for each other. They could take up an issue and debate all day, over ilaichi chai and bakery bisuits in her apartment. And at nights, tired of all the disagreement, they would have a slow, quiet dinner on the terrace and watch the lights of the sleepless city under them, and the twinkle of the stars above. She would often fall asleep in his arms under a shared blanket. And he would watch her for a long time before he tucked her in bed and left. They would take off to unseen destinations on instinct, only to come back with animated stories about their experiences. It was as if they had a thirst, to explore and stretch the limits of life, as if there was no tomorrow, as if they could never have enough of each other. He watched them with a mix of envy and awe. He knew S deserved her. Because S was not ordinary like him. He did not spend solitary evenings writing poetry dipped in nature. He did not prefer to remain quiet on controversial issues. S was not like P. For P dreamt of a small life with a scooter, a 2-bedroom apartment, and a loving wife, someone like D. Someone pristine and beautiful like D. Someone passionate and intelligent, and ever understanding, like D. Someone who twitched her nose like D when he talked about his ordinary dreams, but then touched his hand gently to smile and say, "You will have it all.". Someone who could laugh off annoying habits as idiosyncrasies, someone who would question, but always have faith, someone who would bring to his heart a feeling of coming home, every time he saw her. Someone like D. But not D. D was for S. She deserved S. And he deserved her. More than anyone else. The brilliant sparkle of the ring on her finger was a proof of that.

That chilly morning of 3rd February is still etched in his mind. He had rushed when he heard the news. S's parents were standing in a corner, with D's father consoling them. He could see a never-ending haze of known faces, as he looked for D, with desperate concern. There she was, with a bandage on her head from the accident and a stony look in her eyes. He stood there. Fixed to the spot. He did not go near her. He didn't know what to do or say. He backed away from the scene like a horror-struck man.

The days that passed were a haze. D had started to spend more and more time indoors. She had sent her parents back, saying she was okay. P would visit her sometimes, but she did not like to be disturbed, although she never said it. Her dad visited every weekend, just to take her out forcibly for meals, ensuring she got some fresh air. That evening, when he visited her apartment, he saw her sitting in the terrace, gazing at the city lights.This is all she had done for the past few months. Her father slept on the couch in the living room. He went and sat next to her.
"How are you?"
She didn't reply. He exhaled and sat there for what seemed to be an hour when she said, "P, will you marry me?". He turned towards her with a start. Her eyes were still fixed on the lights below, a tear glistening in them.
He turned to look at her father, still sleeping on the couch, looking fatigued, as if he had been running for ages.
"Of course I will.", he replied, and sat beside her in silence for the rest of the night.

D has only vague memories of the wedding and of the many days that followed. P took care of every detail of her time table. He would wake up early to cook for her, run the water down for her bath, make the bed, clean the 2 bedroom house, and then leave for his office on his scooter. The only conversation she had with him were answers she gave to his mundane questions, like, "Did you eat?", "Shall I get you a book?", "I will be in the other room. Call me if you want anything, ok?". She always wanted the lights on.

It was on midnight of 19th October when she was woken up by the ringing of the phone. She heard P's steps in the hall, and his voice saying "Thank you", after which he returned to his room. She remembered then, that it was his birthday. That must be M, his best friend of college, she thought. She noticed in the morning that he had kept the receiver aside.

"I am going to the temple. You want to come?", he had asked the following morning, knowing she did not believe much in 'worship'.
"Ok", she had replied.
She had come back looking breathtaking, draped in a traditional Kasavu. He thought he saw a faint smile in her eyes when she said, "Lets go."
That night, as he lay awake in his bed, he heard her footsteps entering the room. He shut his eyes. She climbed on the bed next to him, and he heard stifled sobs for the next few hours feeling every corner of his heart melt away. Then, he felt her breath on his face, as she kissed his cheek, and whispered, "Happy Birthday, P". He is not sure if she saw the tear that ran sideways to his pillow. She was still sleeping there when he woke up the next day.

It has been five years now. S is still the unmentionable subject in the house, and P thinks, sometimes, she still sobs in the shower when he can hear all the taps opened. P has never aspired to be S. P can not be S. He is ordinary, and safe, like he always was. He buys D little gifts from time to time, that she smiles and accepts. He took her to Coorg last summer, and she petted a rabbit there and brought it home. She laughs sometimes, while playing with the rabbit. She still leaves her hair loose, almost all the time, and sometimes, she still sits in the small balcony of the 2 BHK apartment to watch the city lights.

"Something on the left cheek", she said, touching his cheek to remove a flake, as she handed him the lunch box.

Confessions

2011-12-09T00:15:00.005+05:30

Sometimes, I turn around on my heels
in a public place
Just to feel small again
and rejoice when I find no one paying attention.

Sometimes, I cook with just a little oil and very little salt
to let all the vegetables have their natural flavour
comparing them, in my mind, to people
young, impressionable and wishing them the freedom
to be.

Sometimes, I read multiple books
one after the other
alternating identities, between Hermione and Jane
David and Celie, Gandhi and Gulzar
My version of a literary peek-a-boo

Sometimes, I cover my face
with all my hair
and open my eyes only a little
to watch ordinary sunlight
transform into marvelous shiny fractals
- hexagonal boxes with mystical secrets
cut by the magician's sword
but still intact
like stubborn, residual, unyielding hope

Sometimes, I still
talk to myself and write self-addressed letters
in order to discover
things I forgot to tell myself.

Classroom

2011-12-04T13:47:00.000+05:30

I want to go back to being in a classroom. Classroom education should never end if you ask me. I know life teaches a lot outside the classroom, too. But I wish we could go to classes all our lives. Classes with an inspiring teacher, where questions are asked and answers are sought, where theories are stated and examples are demonstrated, where life is simplified on the blackboard and friendships are made effortlessly, the way they are supposed to happen. I love classrooms for the way everyone there is equal and everything being taught is just another lesson. I love that, the homogeneous whole of heterogeneous individuals, the sharing, the discussions, the submergence of egos to the only thirst for learning. Voluntary classrooms, shiny, beautiful subjects of choice that go side by side with regular jobs and life, that is my dream for a better world.

Reasons

2011-11-30T22:31:00.004+05:30

‎"I don't love you only for who you are. I love you for all that you are not but you so badly want to be. I love you for all those dreams that give your eyes that glint. I love you because you laugh so easily. I will never understand how anyone can laugh so easily. I love you because you are crazy. You would stick out your hand to shake hands with a child on the adjacent vehicle, you'd make faces at and wave at kids on a school bus, you meet people as if you've known them for ages, you make friends with shopkeepers, you smile at everyone that you can smile at. Its insane. It can get you in trouble. But you are you. I love you because when I had put everything at stake, you stood like a rock beside me. Because when we sip Chocoberry together, you make funny satisfied noises and laugh. Every single time. I love you because you are never about mediocrity. You are always analysing, improving, yourself and the world. I love you because when you talk about something that you feel strongly about, everyone shuts up. I love you coz you screw up, so often. And I love how you never pity yourself but fight back. I love how you can be extremely lethargic for days and then completely in charge of your life for the next few days. I love that you are able to forgive, so easily. Its impossible for me to fathom. I don't quite believe in forgiveness, but it goes with you, with who you are. I know I will never understand a large part of you that resides in verses and stories, but I love how you make a complete fool of yourself just to make it sound alright, as if your talent is something abnormal. Well, of course, it is. But I love that you pretend to accept it."
"I think you are much more than you seem to be on the surface. Like a marshmellow."
"That's it?"
"Well, I love you for the companion that you are. I love you because you laugh along, because you want to see and feel and hear and touch and live and love as much as I do. And I love that you never pretend to be who you are not. I guess I love the child in you that you have managed to keep intact despite gaining all the skills and management one needs to face the world. I will never understand this paradox of your personality. As you will never understand why I spend hours writing and listening to old sad songs even when I am not sad. I wish that you weren't a lot of things that you are, but never that you were what you aren't."
"I always knew we were very different :)"

.....

2011-11-29T14:26:00.002+05:30

There are some things that are best left unsaid. They are to be felt, involuntarily, in the silences between two hearbeats, in the spaces between words. That is how I have experienced it, the unspoken pain of my unfulfilled dreams. They are too proud to wail. They will remain quiet. They will remain unquenched, spent embers with a tiny silent flame inside them, that will continue to burn at late hours of the night when the heart is the truest to itself. These shards of broken dreams, they are sharp around the edges, but colourful none the less. Sometimes I play with them over my veins as I wait for dawn. In the sunlight, I hold them against the sky and they diffract and multiply, giving birth to a million small dreams again. I believe them and I live them, fooling myself all the while. But at night, under the stars, there is no pretense. Its just me and the broken pieces again. And a very old kind hearted moon that spreads her milky grace over us. She tells us not to wail. It is not of grace to wail. We obey her in our silences and await the dawn again.

No Questions

2011-11-20T17:03:00.001+05:30

I listened then
to the sound of life
resonating with my own breath
under the green waters
I floated
for an eternity
amazed
touched
silenced
A golden fish
slid between my toes perhaps
And I wept
a little salt water
into the sea
I had
no questions anymore

Sometimes

2011-11-19T13:46:00.002+05:30

Sometimes
I float above us
and watch
tangled fingers
lazy afternoons
filtered sunlight
and tiny fractions
of hopefulness
warming
our entwined
bohemian souls
finding home
in each other

Sometimes
I float above us
when we sleep
and just watch
figments of you and I
strewn together
into the total
of a 'we'
and
I weep
softly
so as not to
wake us up

Refugees

2011-11-13T11:38:00.002+05:30

Do not worry
for the generations
to come
for they shall forget
the loss and blood;
for history
is selective
and is written
by conquerors.

Lets just hold a fistful
of soil
and weep
just a little
as we leave behind
childhoods and love songs
marriages and separations
tears and laments
of our half-lives,
while we turn overnight
into something
distant and unknown
that they call
refugees.

Hold on to the soil and weep
for our kind, they say
are forgetful
but the land
the land
shall remember all

What do you want to be?

2011-11-07T21:16:00.004+05:30

I have had a very traditional, middle class and conscientious upbringing. My mother decided never to work to raise us, and she did a great job at it. When I was growing up, we had limited resources, but plenty of love and laughter. My parents never fought. Not in front of us, at least. We could take them for granted, and I am thankful for that. I grew up being loved and pampered by the whole of the extended family. Two big vans and jeeps full of relatives would arrive at our house around our birthdays, and the party would last a week. Most of the times, they would come for my birthday on December 30 and leave after my brother's on January 26. Everyone would stay in the two bedroom houses we lived in and my mother would be completely unreachable and out of sight, always in the kitchen, with her salwar-kameez and a pink cardigan over it, dough on her hands, but never without a smile on her face. My father is the epitome of principles. He would live with days of troubles and threats from local goons but refuse to sanction a bad loan, he would not save a penny but never refuse to meet the needs of his immediate as well as paternal family, which was tragedy-stricken, disease-ridden, big, and had only him to depend on. My father was the perfect son, my mother the perfect daughter-in-law. My brother was the blue-eyed first born on both sides of the family, I, the lucky second. I would carefully observe everything my brother would do and try to be like him all the time. He was a quiet and observant child, inquisitive, intelligent, and respectful. I tried to be him. But I was not born to fit in. I was defiant, talkative and I would always want to judge wrong and right on my own. 'Rules' never made much sense to me. But we were looked at as the perfect kids to have. We loved each other ardently, protected each other fiercely, and never fought.

But this is not about my childhood. This is about my dreams. But to know someone's dreams, to understand them truly, you need to know who the person is. I have very early memories of myself. I remember being all of three or four, conversing with 'God' when my mother took her afternoon naps. I would close my eyes and talk silently, and pray to grow up to be someone who would make my parents proud. I remember believing that I did not need to speak it out for him to listen, for he is supposed to be everywhere, even within me. I don't know how I had that idea at that age. Perhaps it was the number of stories I had heard while having my meals. I would always ask questions about God, about who was right in the story and why. I remember having given my mother a hard time after I heard about Sita's 'Agni Pariksha'.

My parents believed in not sending kids to school till they were at least five. So we were taught our initial lessons by Mom and Dad. I would insist on learning everything my brother learnt, and in that enthusiasm, even before I could actually read the words properly, I knew all his lessons by heart. Once, when a friend of Dad's was visiting, I sat on the chair opposite to him, and started to read a chapter on 'Gai'(Cow) putting my fingers on the lines and speaking out the words that I had heard my brother read so many times. Dad's friend was amazed, because I was too small to even know alphabets properly. He started to express his amazement when my Dad smiled and asked him to make me read a random sentence. At this, I laughed and ran inside. When he came to know that I couldn't read and was just reciting it from memory, he was more impressed; by the pronunciation and the confidence. I guess it had already begun then, the love for words, and for the way they were pronounced.

Another time, at a family wedding, a relative asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. "Hindi teacher", I had replied. The whole big family had laughed a hearty laugh. Some had said, "She is already so preachy, she could do a good job at it." I was confused. I didn't know what exactly was so amusing about wanting to be a language teacher. Then, I was told that everybody would like me to be a doctor. I thought about the job of a doctor, and thought it was a noble profession. So my answer to "What do you want to be" changed, to everybody's satisfaction.

Growing up was difficult, as it is expected to be for any independent spirit in a highly traditional family. But growing up, my dreams changed from those of just being successful to make my family happy, to those of travel, and a dream home, and leisure. In those days if you asked me what I wanted to be, I would probably just say 'a successful software engineer' which would imply being able to fulfill all other dreams.

When I was twenty, I was on a bus one night with my best friend, when I told her, "I don't like the idea of being twenty. I am not sure I am everything I wanted to be when I was twenty".
"Why do you say that?" she asked.
"All the wrong choices and mistakes I've made."
"But they make you who you are. They're going to make you a better person of twenty-one or twenty-two, or seventy-eight. And, you still have your dreams." she had told me.
Just the words I needed to hear at the time. So her.

I am twenty-three now. Am I who I wanted to be when I was twenty-three? Yes Sir, I am. It took me many mistakes and downfalls to be here. But I am here, and I am happy. Not because I have attained a perfect job, or because I have fallen in love. But because I have lived every day of my life for the past few years. I have laughed, I have traveled, I have made friends, I have risked being hurt, I have been hurt, and then I have received love and friendship. I have lived like a child, bruised my knees, and I have grown immensely in the process. I have lived in the mountains, listened to fireflies in the wild, tasted the sea water and witnessed the life under it, I have listened to the whispers of history in ancient ruins, I have been to war museums and ancient churches, and I have coloured myself with different cultures and cities. This was exactly my dream. This is still my dream. To always have wheels on my feet. To never stop exploring. To never miss the opportunity to play with an animal or a child, to never miss an opportunity to make a difference, and to always, always learn. Thankfully, the world is large enough to fuel this dream for a lifetime and still leave a lot to be done.

Ask me again, "What do you want to be when you grow up?". My answer: I do not want to grow up, thank you. But I want to be. I want to be so much that being is looked at as an art. I want to quit my job. Sometime soon. And I want to start something with a difference to make a difference. It will take care of old people, because I love them, more than I love children and animals. I love them because they, who once knew the spring of life, are learning to deal with its fall, and they are trying hard, alone. I love them because they are ours to love, they are stories, they are old buildings and history, they are a bundle of memories. I want to teach. Because education in the true sense is the solution to all our problems. But we never educate people. We make exam-experts and desk-jockeys and perfect corporate slaves. I want to 'educate'. I want to write a book. A marvelous, glorious book that creates history. But before that, I wish to read and travel, a lot. So that I can do justice to my first baby. It needs to be right. I do not like apartments, I wish for a beautiful bungalow, with enough garden space for my kids to grow up in. I would have a lot of pictures and quotes on the walls. I would have a large white room with just a canvas and a glass wall that overlooks a beautiful garden, or a sea. I would have unique furniture in the whole of house. It will be a practical and useful house, with space to walk in, lie in, run in, play hide and seek in, and a lot of light and air. And of course, I would always, always have the wanderlust. I would go to unknown places and experience their cultures, deeply and genuinely. I would taste different types of cuisines, learn languages, traditions, hear stories, listen to the whispers of nature, and continue to grow and share the joy, till the last breath I take in, wherever in the world that is.

Take me

2011-10-23T22:50:00.004+05:30

Take me from me
like you'd take
a poem
and make it your own
with sighs and pauses
under your lukewarm breath

Take me on face value
like a promise
of bright springs
and sunny mornings
of soft, slow, dry kisses
and of the less than ordinary things
that would make us
a little more
than ordinary

Take me
like an opinion
and read me between my silences
Contradict me, shape me
nurture me, mould me
grow on me
till
I cease to be

To Life

2011-10-23T13:07:00.000+05:30

Here's to sleeplessness
and to wide eyed dreams
and also to jobs not challenging enough
and to ennui of extremes

Here's to fucked up relationships
and all the shit they create
to dilemmas and deadlocks
and all the love and hate

Here's to adolescence
and its foolish expectations
and to growing up and letting go
and all its implications

Here's is to the only thing
with no hidden strings
to childhood and its rains
and its marvelous springs

That time of the year

2011-10-21T01:46:00.005+05:30

Its that time of the year again . . .
The nights are starry and almost cold
and it is almost the season of love

Its that time of the year again . . .
when people take out their overcoats
and walk on the pavements we had walked.
Once.
With the stars brightening our eager souls
and our hearts fluttering in the breeze . . .

The city is almost dressed up again . . .
with yellow flowers and fragrances
and a few leaves are dying again
to be crushed by couples walking under trees
so that new love can be born . . .

Its that time of the year again . . .
when we had walked the stretches of the city
on foot and heart, and on hopefulness
when we had wished upon stars
and lit candles in old historical churches
for the unknowns and the uncertains . . .

Its that time of the year again . . .
and my heart breathes out
warm dreams that we had weaved
upon a broken star
that no one wished on . . .

I have a dream

2011-10-16T15:20:00.005+05:30

I dream of writing songs. I dream of being in the company of musicians and write songs and watch them become music, watch them float in the air, in the sea, and in the pores of the soil and sand. I want my words to add, however infinitesimally small, a meaning, to sunshine and salt, to winter breeze and the taste of sea water. I dream not of a name, no, thats not what I want. I just want my words there, out there in the world, on their own, without my shadows, but with hidden bits and pieces of me, and all that I am, in a secret way. I dream of a day when the sun will shine through a window and someone like me, someone I've never met, in some place I've never been to, would recite a few of those words, with sighs and pauses, with the sun in his face, and gratefulness in his heart.

Divide by zero

2011-10-16T01:33:00.012+05:30

Lets place our dreams in expressions
as a sum total of all unknowns
Let them scatter
into bits of nothingness
And watch them be
infinite

Tonight.

2011-10-13T14:24:00.002+05:30

Tonight, love me not
for the luster of my locks
or the softness of my eyes
Do not compare
to velvet, my voice
or to music, my laughter
Tonight,
take off my pretense
and watch me
naked with my sorrows
Kiss the disillusions on my eyelids
and touch on my trembling lips
the laments of a life
not entirely mine
Find in me the night
that has stagnated in some corner
as an endless wait
and the darkness that smells
of unfulfilled promises
and unfinished songs
Tonight,
drink from the cup
of my regrets
and soak in my solitude
Tonight, lets be solitary
together

Encore

2011-10-13T12:43:00.006+05:30

Then, there'll be times when you'll be there. When you'd have done everything you wanted to do when you were ten years old, or twenty, or a few years younger. Then, there will be a moment of calm, an eerie silence, a void in the world of your dreams. Success can be scary. It will be scary. You'll be solitary, you'll be scrutinized and misinterpreted, you'll be loved by many, but not for who you really are. No matter whether you are a writer, an actor, a musician, a dancer, a painter, to the world you're just an entertainer. They wouldn't know where to stop asking you for an encore. There will be times when the noise of encore will transcend from the ears of the entertainer to the ears of the human being who craves for silence. There will be a blurring of the boundary between the entertainer and the person, the beauty that is created and the beauty that really is. You will not be expected to stop. You will not be forgiven failures. That is why you need to know not just your passions but yourself. That is why you need to realize that you are more than your passions, you are also your failures and disappointments. That is why you need to learn to forgive yourself. That is why you need to learn to fail.

Dawn

2011-09-03T17:06:00.001+05:30

You fell on me
gently, like a wistful drop of dew
on my million lonely dawns
when sleepy eyed
I had watched the sun rise
and closed my eyes again
to dream of the dusk in your porch
You fell on me
warmly, like the whimsical figment
of morning light that makes its way
through the crevices of our joined bodies
and weighs down my eyes
as I watch you
breathing, sleeping, dreaming

Remembering her

2011-08-30T22:15:00.001+05:30

An incomplete poem, an unfinished sketch, solitary sobs, cold forgotten questions that don't seek answers anymore, they are cold and heavy, like those eyes, that have forgotten to sleep, many times. Crushed hopes, caged, tamed dreams, they have closed their wings, forgotten to fly, they just float, somewhere around her head where she can't catch them anymore. Her world is closing down on her, day by day, and in the distance, rings away the temple bell. The world goes about. Living. Laughing. Praying.

Martha

2011-08-07T23:20:00.003+05:30

She stood there watching the drops of rain on the wire outside, some drops joining each other to become one before they fell down and were lost forever. It had been raining all night. At this time in life, everything you see, reminds you of something long gone. Life becomes a sum total of memories and stories. She felt uncomfortable and loosened the shawl around her neck. That night too, it had rained incessantly.

She opened her eyes to a dripping morning in Lubeck. There were birds chirping outside the window, as if it was just another morning. She watched him, the light from the screens refracting on the side of his face as he slept. She ran her fingers on the somewhat grayish stubble. He opened his eyes and smiled at her. "This is the best morning of my life." She closed her eyes and smelled him again. This was disastrous. She started to panic. "I should go." She started to get up when he held her by the shoulder, "It’s a Sunday. It'll be hard to get a taxi now. Let’s have breakfast in bed. I will drop you to your hotel after that." He closed his eyes and decided to feel this dream some more.

He was in sophomore year then, on a vacation in India. She was studying history at JNU. He remembered being impressed at first, and then bowled over, by her forthright, clear and strong opinions on everything under the sun.

One evening, she took him to show him the Taj Mahal on his insistence.

"I've heard so much about it! It’s marvelous! A symbol of enduring love and everlasting beauty."

"Yes, and of monarchy and ultimate indulgence." She had smiled. He looked at her, surprised. She was glowing in the moonlight, beautiful with her defiant and revolting soul. She looked at him with a smile in her eyes, "It is breathtaking, nonetheless."

The day he was leaving, she appeared unruffled. At the airport, she hugged him and said, "Write to me" and left without turning back. He wrote. She wrote back every time he wrote. He would talk about his plans of moving to Europe and writing a book. She would tell him about the communal tension in India and how angry it made her. Sometimes, she would ask him questions about life in the states like a curious child. Other times, she would chide him for his disconnect from the tradition he belonged to. When he wrote to her about graduation night, he omitted the heavy drinking and making out part. When she wrote about her graduation, she told him about the proposal. He had sat quietly in his balcony for nights, imagining how it would have happened. He wondered if he held her hand as he said it, if he kissed her when she said yes, if he wore spectacles, if he appreciated poetry. He did not write back for months. Finally, he wished her a happy life. That was the last correspondence they had.

Thirteen years later, on a particularly cloudy and foggy evening, she hurried back to her hotel after meeting a museum curator for her research on European war monuments. It was then that she saw him, a tall figure emerging from the mist. It was him, unmistakably. There was that walk. He looked stronger, perhaps. He walked uncertainly towards her.

"Is this a dream?" he had smiled that familiar smile. She felt a thud in her chest.

"I was here for my research. What are you doing here in Lubeck of all the places in the world!" she couldn't hide the excitement in her voice.

"Long story. I live here at the moment." He smiled. "Wow! Where are you staying?

"Alstadt. I am leaving tomorrow afternoon."

"So, we have some time, don't we?"

She nodded.

"You must have already seen all the historical places." He looked at his watch. "Let me be your guide." He smiled.

They walked the pavements for some time when she learnt that he had already published two moderately successful books. The protagonist in one of them was an Indian brought up in the US with identity conflicts. She made a mental note to ask him for a copy. She told him about her son and the life-changing experience of motherhood. It was like finding a long lost friend. She remembered how well he always understood her, how in the letters; she would read his words and identify with almost everything. He stopped at a shop to buy marzipans for her. She watched him as he chitchatted with the shopkeeper in German.

Later, she smiled, "You know, when I had met you first, I took you for a non-cultural sort of person."

"And I thought you were one of those obedient, cultured kind of woman." "I am just kidding." He smiled again. "I missed you, D. You stopped writing completely after your engagement."

"Yes, wonder why I did that considering how thrilled you were by the news!” He remained silent.

He talked at length about Martha, the protagonist of the novel he was writing. He told her how she had shades of every woman he had been with. He mentioned gently later, that she was heavily inspired by her.

Four hours, a walk by the beach and a few drinks later, he asked her if she would like to see his unfinished novel. It had started to rain heavily as they walked with tipsy steps to his apartment. She felt free, very free, after a very long time.

They sat by the fire with the draft of his book. She was too drunk to read. She just picked a few words and pronounced them again and again, more and more slowly and beautifully, when he kissed her. For a long time. She told him she had not slept well in a very long time and fell asleep on his bed. He watched her sleep for hours, painting the beauty of that moment in his head. Martha would take on unexpected hues tomorrow. He finally fell asleep beside her. It kept raining all night.

It rained all night in that small German town, as it rained in Delhi last night. Only, there was no fireplace and novel in progress. There was no one watching her as she slept, cold and uneasy by the haunting memories of the night. That morning, he had dropped her to her hotel after breakfast as he promised. He had hugged her for a long time and assured her that nothing had happened. But she knew she had been disloyal to her husband that night. It was not about the kiss or sleeping in his bed. It was about the realization that in some corner of her heart, he was still her soul mate. She hated the fact that she believed in that concept. He was the man she dreamt of for nights together in the weeks before her wedding, and then dismissed the dreams as cold feet. She remained a good wife till her husband's death, although she often met him in sonnets and fireplaces, Taj Mahal and Holsten Gate, and on rainy, dreamy nights. She often wondered what could have been had things happened differently. Perhaps she would still be lonely and cold while she slept at night. Or perhaps, they would walk with their frail figures in the woods and talk about Faiz, Ludhiyanvi, or Cummings, in warm togetherness.

Last night, as she flipped the pages of a magazine, she read him,

"I have not slept in ages love

Let me rest tonight

Like I let you rest

when you needed

not to be touched

just watched

For once, turn your face away

And let me close my eyes

without the knowledge that you

will never be my own

I, too, need tonight

to go to sleep alone."

'The writer and poet died in his sleep on...' She had shut the magazine and toppled on her bed all night as it rained outside. He never finished that novel he started. She wondered what that novel was all about.

Random Thought

2011-07-31T20:41:00.001+05:30

Its like people running with their backs on the present towards the unknown. Everyone seems to be in a frantic attempt to win over the uncertainties of life. Its surprising how many people forget to 'live' in the process, how many people never know love, the magic and the beauty of it, how many people just don't let out a sigh at a beautiful sunrise, how many live their whole lives with a compromise, because their souls were too chained to fly in search for what was best for them.

Ambient Light

2011-07-10T14:35:00.007+05:30

[I often narrate in first person, but I am just a story teller. Almost everything I write here is fiction. This poem is from the perspective of a man remembering his wife.]

The light escaping from the screens
falls on our photograph on the side table
You and me, dim shadows
warm candle light
You were high on champagne
and laughed that hearty laugh
and my heart glowed a little brighter
than the ambient light
I had held you by the waist
and you were laughing loud
facing the ceiling
when the camera clicked

"You will have to move on"
you had said, teary eyed
as I had hushed you
and told you about the advances in science
I lived in denial, you said
and showed me the statistics
You saw the seventy percent
I tried desperately for the thirty
That was uncharacteristic of us both

I was painting the porch
for the imminent summer
and watching the butterflies
in the garden
when the doctor had called
He had the reports
Its all too distinct now
the smell of paint
the warm breeze
the exact brightness of the afternoon
All the months that followed are blurry
syringes and wards
disinfectants and phone calls
Identical days of urgent rush
and my solitary tears at night
I often watched that picture of us
to remember your laughter
and the long golden tresses
that chemo took away from you
You still looked beautiful though
Nothing could take away the twinkle
of your hazel eyes

I often sat by the bed
wondering
in what precise moment
the white cells in your blood
decided to mutate
and tip the beginning of our journey
into a cruel terminal
Your pale skin
smelled of lilies that night
when the moon was full
and you had shown me
how the diamond on your finger
glittered
"Preserve me in your poetry
when I am gone"
I have kept that part of the promise
But it feels unnecessary to move on
anywhere away
from your pervasive smell
that dwells in the house
and from our togetherness
that comes alive
in perfect tenses
on full moon nights

Shared with Poets United.

May be

2011-07-09T00:53:00.003+05:30

May be we shall meet

only after the moon

has been half asleep

and the heart, sleepless,

awakes to solitary dreams

May be you will keep searching me

touching me and exploring me

through your words

on such long breezy nights

and go about your life

the next morning

May be that is how we will stay

in what we call love

deeply, dreamily

Shared with Poets United.

Journey

2011-07-07T21:21:00.001+05:30

Let me see you once

against the sunset and the sea

Blue, yellow and then orange

Your silhouette will be

Fill again your palette

and paint me once again

with hues of skies and waters

till only blue remains

Come climb the deck with me

and breathe the salty breeze

Lets gaze together the horizon

until the shore is reached

Faith

2011-06-30T16:23:00.002+05:30

They push and fight

for a single sight

of the sacred stone

I turn my eyes

and think

of someone who died
in the hope to unite
them all in his love

Oblivion

2011-06-28T13:36:00.004+05:30

Toothless smile

oblivious

of the still silence

in the room

She will never know

what its like

to lose a mother

Last night

2011-06-28T12:45:00.011+05:30

You came last night

dressed in your best suit

My heart fluttered

as you smiled

that familiar, disarming smile

That gold wrapped box

you held

glistened

in the light of the moon

that looked almost

like a halo behind you

But it was blurred

by the mist in my eyes

as you placed

under my feet

those beautiful ballerina shoes

And I lost myself to the music

and to you

for what seems like an eternity

It still smells of you

all around me

almost as if

you were really here last night

Just you

and me

No accident

No wheelchair

Linked to One Shot Wednesday. Happy Birthday to the site!

Banaras

2011-06-27T19:14:00.001+05:30

People here name their kids 'Banarasi' and 'Varanasi'. That is how pervasive the spirit of this city is. It seeps into your identity before you know it, like the water of the Ganges filling all those earthen lamps of hopes, prayers and dreams that float on its surface every evening. The city bustles with its very own Banarasi energy that years of bewildered foreign gaze could not refine and change. They wear saffron and chew paan. They wear green and chew paan. They laugh a paan-ful of laughter as they roam the streets of Daalmandi and Chowk like the characters in Premchand's Sevasadan. But that was decades back. Since then, the bicycles and horse carts have been replaced by cars and buses. But the streets are just as narrow, the buildings just as colonial and ancient. But that is Banaras, ever bubbling with noise and energy, never changing.

Love Died

2011-06-22T21:02:00.000+05:30

There was a love who died. No, it was not resurrected, not even on Easter. It died a sudden death. True, it was not doing well for a while. But its death was like that of a man dying of common cold. Shocking, mocking, almost comic.

P.S. This is just a random scribble. To me, this story is complete in itself. But if it inspires you take these words and create something more, I will be interested to read. Leave me a comment! :)

P.P.S. I am still on the 'break', and I am enjoying these days of refrain when blogging does not come much in the way of life. I have moved to a bigger, more airy house that overlooks a park, and I love it! Thanks for your love!

Oblivion

2011-06-18T10:04:00.007+05:30

Fling me back in oblivion

where I could paint you

with naked desires,

no eyes on them

Where you would smell

the fragrance on you

and know I have

stroked my brush again

and changed something

tiny, and impossible

for you to find

but never letting you be

the same

I would shroud a shade of you

with purple

and love you until

I wouldn't remember

what you really are beneath

Thats when I would start over

bottom up

to reshape, refactor,rearrange,

my reasons of loving you

Linked to One Stop Poetry. Visit them to read other poetry and also Shay's brilliant opinion on what makes good free verse.

Letting Life Happen

2011-06-14T23:37:00.002+05:30

It has been a hectic blogging spree for me for the past few days. I have met and made friends with a lot of amazing people in the blogosphere. These are friendships that transcend space and boundaries, because when art speaks to you, it speaks to your soul. It inspires you to create. To live. To slow down. To breathe.

Art is alive. It is not the artist. It is more than what the artist is. Because it is also what the artist wants to be. The artist is human. Art is her attempt at things more celestial. It is her attempt to dream things that are somewhere above her, in a place more glorious and more beautiful than the world she lives in. An artist lives multiple lives, dies numerous deaths. Art is those lives and deaths that are not her own, but that she experiences every day. It is the dance she was too awkward to dance, the song she could never strike that right note of, the painting she spilled wrong colors on, the dessert with an extra pinch of sugar, the verses that never rhymed. Art is the artist's imperfection. It is what makes her go on. She loves what she creates, but it never satisfies her, because she has a taste. For utter brilliance. She explores and pushes her human limits expecting a new glimmer every time. She is always trying. Never, ever content. Art is her child. She suffers to give birth to it, and she is reborn when it is born. She protects it from mediocrity, and nurtures it in details. She knows it is not perfect, but she loves it none the less. Art is the mark of her affair with life. A passionate, ignited affair, the flames of which burn her soul and keep her thirsty all the time.

I am going to take a break. And allow an inspiration to engulf me, till I write my next post. I am going to lay back for a while and allow that inspiration to happen.

Style!

2011-06-13T23:59:00.007+05:30

I returned from work this evening and logged on to blogger as a routine, to see this sweet surprise waiting for me. It was a moment of elation, of that peculiar squeaky feeling you feel when something amazing happens while you're least expecting it. Thank you Anne for the lovely surprise. I must confess I was a little amazed to be called 'stylish'. Apart from my avatar picture where I'm posing with a stupid hat(that I did not even buy) in a shop, I did not think anything on my blog was really 'stylish'. Again, thanks to Anne, for thinking otherwise.

Style, is not just in glitter and glamour, its also there in works of art that are understated, but that still shine, due to brilliance of content. So, I will pass this award on to

The West Wind, whose creativity I truly enjoy and admire, and to
Helen, whose paintings, made with deft and detail, speak to me without words

The award requires me to write seven things about myself. I usually don't speak much about myself here, so I guess its time :)

I am a Software Engineer. I enjoy science as much as I enjoy art.
I do not consider myself a good writer. I used to, once. I wrote my first poem when I was 6 years old; since then, there were always a few people who liked what I wrote. So, I kept believing that I wrote well until the day internet (and blogging) happened to me. That was when I saw how ordinary people similar to me, people who write casually, have the power to move you, touch you and turn your world upside down with their writing. I knew I had a lot to learn. I am still learning.
I am blessed with a healthy and short memory. If I decide to move past something, I eventually do. Although I often feel nostalgic thinking about good times in the past. May be I should say, I have a 'selective' memory. :)
I love F.R.I.E.N.D.S. I have watched re-runs of it over and over and it still has me in splits whenever I watch it. In general, I laugh a lot. Possibly a little too much :)
I dream a lot. I wish to see and experience as much as I can. I dream of making a difference to at least a few lives by the time I close my eyes on my own.
I am currently evolving to be more aware, and 'world-wise', as you call it. I am a year and a half into my first job, and I think life takes a 180 degrees turn when you start to earn your own living. You are suddenly not just an observer and receiver, but a do-er and giver.
I have never been called 'stylish', except may be when,as a child, I would pretend to shape my eyebrows by touching the tweezers on them, and my mother would exclaim how stylish I was going to grow up to be. But I grew up to be someone too lazy to care much about looks, as long as what I wore was comfortable. But does it really matter, as long as you have style in what you say and do? :)

Gathering Dust

2011-06-12T10:43:00.003+05:30

Picture by Rob Hanson

Its been a year

since the end of anticipation

since the last of the million times

she picked the receiver

to check if the line still worked

and placed it back

with shaking wrinkled hands

He had said he would call

to tell her how high

the jet had flown

How inviting the sky seemed

even at war

'Although there are
no borders in sky'

She had observed and sighed

He was thrilled beyond words

Too thrilled to hear the prayers

she muttered

beneath her shaky breath

Then one day, the phone rang

and severed the last thread of hope

in her tiny fretting heart

Yes, the battle is won,

but he was her only son

The phone, his victory, her life

since that day, gather dust.

The picture that inspired this poem is taken by Rob Hanson, who is interviewed today at One Stop Poetry, and lends his picture for the Picture Prompt Challenge. If you are inspired by his picture, or if you would like to read other entries inspired by it, visit One Stop Poetry.

Could Have Been

2011-06-12T08:37:00.001+05:30

She walked the aisle

and looked at him

as he sat there misty eyed

If only he had loved her

just enough to try

and not so much

to put her on a pedestal so high

This 160 characters poem is posted for the Sunday 160 challenge over at Monkey Man's.

Old Woman In The Moon

2011-06-06T21:07:00.007+05:30

As a child, I was very choosy about food. It was a pain to feed me. The only possible way to make me eat my meal was to distract me with stories. My mother was a wonderful narrator, and she had a rich stock of stories to tell me. My father, however, would have a hard time as I would ask questions when the stories did not make sense, and I could tell when he was making them up.
Once, when I had a stomach infection, I woke up in the middle of the night due to pain. My mother went to the kitchen to cook the only thing that I would agree to eat those days, and my father picked me up and took me out on the verandah. I must have been four years old then. My father wiped the tears off my face and showed me the moon and the pattern of an old woman in it. The memory of that night still transports me to that verandah with the cool summer breeze drying my tears, the sound of utensils clattering in the kitchen as my mother prepared my food, the moonlight washing the street outside, the comfort of my father's lap, the peacefulness of midnight with the knowledge that the world is asleep, and the pattern of a kind old woman watching over us from the moon.

Somewhere, something inside me had captured the beauty of it all, for me to cherish years later, on a similar summer night.

Faking It

2011-06-03T23:49:00.014+05:30

I understood that not a lot of people got the perspective behind this poem. Of course, its art, and open to interpretation, but I would not want you to miss the message. The poem is written from the perspective of someone who is deep in the abyss of prostitution and has lost all hope of coming out of it. Hopefully, this knowledge will add more meaning to the poem as you read it.

I twirl a toe,

let out a sigh

Its practised

and perfected in a classroom

I was forced to enter

I am the clatter you hear

on glass bangles, slowly breaking

I heard the same clatter

in the shatter of my hopes

long ago

I am a lesser human

I pray to a lesser God, perhaps

who is as polymorphous

as the dark street I live in

that turns bright red at night

My God too, changes faces

comfortably

Perhaps she too is accustomed

to the only rule of my trade

'Faking it'

I loved music once

I'm deaf to it now

It helps to be deaf,

and blind,

and numb,

and to fake it.

P.S. Thanks to Daily Love for featuring one of my stories today. :)

Linked to Poets United. Visit them and read a lot of inspiring poems. Savour art! :)

Its a Warm Winter Afternoon

2011-06-02T23:39:00.012+05:30

I ran away from your thoughts

all night

and sat down on the bench

in the park by the lake side
where I had seen you

that first time.

Here, you permeate me,

like the winter sun

that shines all afternoon

and brings the most dreamy naps

I allow your dreams

and this time,

they glisten and shine

as the children play

and the churchbells chime

The world spills over

on my search for you

and I seek you out

in a lonely stroller

who walks about

and stops to admire

the fallen, golden leaves

that crunch into my heart

as the wind blows

the hair off your eyes

I peep into them

Deep and blue

and I open my eyes

again, without you

Its a warm winter afternoon

and you have come around

in my poetry.

Again.

Thanks to Poets United for the above picture prompt. Park benches can inspire such varying lines of thoughts. So much happens on a park bench! Love, heartbreak, the frolic of childhood, the agonies of adulthood, the imaginations of a poet, the laments of loss, the mundane gossip of everyday life, the lonely memories of old age! This beautiful picture is taken by Ella Wilson.

You might also like: A Vague Dream

Write to Me A Poem

2011-05-28T23:33:00.003+05:30

Write to me a poem

about the flame that I am

Let me glow in your joys

and smoulder in your pain

Whisper to me your words

Let them melt in my being

Give them to me in a bundle

and I'll wrap them around me

I'll rove in your verses

over moors and fords

and wait for Highwayman

as the night unfolds

Make me the solitary reaper

and I'll melodiously lament my loss

or let me be the sailor

who killed an albatross

Or may be you would let me dance

over a lovely hill

and I would smile at all who pass

- a golden daffodil

Or if you wish, just paint me

in words of pastel shades

Mix up my existence

with the traditions of your trade

Give me your imagination

and I'll give you my being

Cage me in a poem,

Love, this time, set me free

Of Dreams and Him

2011-05-27T12:36:00.016+05:30

I was going through some old pictures and came across this one. There is something about this picture that I think is very deep and meaningful. It takes me to some lines of a beautiful poem I read when I was probably 7 or 8.

आदमी का स्वप्न ? है वह बुलबुला जल का,

आज उठता और फिर कल फूट जाता है,

किन्तु फिर भी धन्य ठहरा आदमी ही तो,

बुलबुलों से खेलता, कविता बनाता है|

This poem is called 'Chaand Aur Kavi' (The Moon and the Poet) written by one of the most celebrated Hindi poets of the modern era: Ramdhari Singh who wrote by the name 'Dinkar' which means 'The one who brings the day' or the Sun.

The poem talks about the moon talking to a poet, and expressing his exasperation at the tendency of man to create his own problems and then to get entangled in them. What amuses him more is the fact that in all such situations, man decides to stay awake and restless all night, and to weave dreams. In the lines above, the moon says, "What are human dreams but bubbles of water that are born today and gone tomorrow. But man - he incorrigibly plays with these bubbles and creates poetry." The poem goes on with the poet's retaliation which talks of the impossible things dreams and the power of imagination can achieve.

A lot of what I write tends to center around dreams. I think dreams are special. I think they make us more than complete. They make us look forward to the unknown, to go on when things are tough. They are something like the idea of Him, the higher power, that I believe in, not because of reason, but because of faith. Because it feels right to me. It calmed down the monsters of night in my childhood, it brought me home when I was a lost little girl, and it taught me to hope, and to dream for something more in every day of my small but magnificent life.

P.S. I had once written a story around dreams, interestingly on the same day that this picture was taken. You can read it here.

P.P.S. Yes, the girl in the picture is me.

The Village of Dance

2011-05-27T02:16:00.004+05:30

I am thankful to my friend for directing me to this link. Nrityagram is a word with Sanskrit roots that means 'Dance Village'. I am not a dancer. Yet. But I have always dreamt of being one. And knowing about places like this inspires me immensely. Some day, I'll pack my bags and head for this village, to learn and live dance. Not being able to dance has always felt like a handicap. I wish to be able to express myself in this beautiful form of art that has the ability to transform one to a realm of greater things. I wish to experience the liberation of portraying a story - human, dramatic, real, surreal. I wish to be able to communicate to something deep within me, positively dark and unknown, something glorious and unexplored. I wish to be able to dance some day and forget there is, or ever was, an audience.

Some day.

Toy Story

2011-05-23T18:43:00.006+05:30

What is true art but something that evokes emotions - genuine, sharp emotions. While I passed by Channapatna, the land of toys, I stopped by to admire this native and old form of wooden toy making, and I spotted this one (the picture above). While all the other toys will also adorn the house and bring a smile to a child's heart, this one- single piece, lying in a corner, seemed to have a tale of its own. There is sadness, ignorance, experience, and a haunting silence about this toy that makes it a masterpiece in my eyes. The couple shake their spring necks under their loaded heads, and in the attempt to amuse, they screech a muted story of toil, poverty, negligence, burdened love, and of an anonymous artist who sat down in a corner to pour out his stories in his work.

Love

2011-05-13T23:38:00.008+05:30

Love,

What we share

is sweet and scented

and dream-like

A story that movies are based on

Just sometimes I wonder

if behind those celluloid smiles

and happy sing song tunes

hides a muffled song

like the one of my soul

that does not fit in verses

but that plays, without cue

on nights like these when you refuse

to grant me your friendship

and peep into my heart

When you surround yourself

with walls of silence

and leave me on the other side

solitary and unheard

On these nights my love

I sing silent songs of longing

of a faraway land and a kingdom

and a princess and a prince

that kissed and made up

and lived happily ever after

Linked to One Single Impression. This week's theme was Love :)

P.S. The picture was clicked by me on my trip to Travemunde beach near Lubeck, Germany. Let me know what you think. :)

Polymorphism

2011-05-07T01:59:00.014+05:30

"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players"

The teacher's voice comes muffled to her ears, mingled with multiple different threads of thoughts. She sees class 8A going to the playground in a queue. Her best friend winks at her from outside the window and mouths 'Games' explaining the cause of her imminent freedom from the classroom. She acknowledges the unsolicited information and turns back, to look at the Lesson board, which announces the Chemistry class topic 'Polymorphism', many forms. She wonders if tonight will be different. Or will something she says get on her mother's nerves again. Last week, she mentioned how funny someone's dad is, and it went really ugly. She had to pick the pieces of the shattered china and give her the blood pressure medicines before she could run to her room and cry her heart out. She deflects the thoughts. Turns it to when her mom wakes her up in the mornings and apologizes with genuine tears. Her throat chokes, and blood gushes at the recollection, its like a craving for something you really really want, something that makes you so happy, it embarrasses you. All she does in those moments is smile. Too much articulation is not a convention in their relationship. Her mind soon roves to that first night, when she saw her, tipsy stepped, smudged make-up, getting down from his car. He helped her in and sat her on the couch, all the time ignoring that there was someone else, wide-eyed, terrified, confused, standing in the room. She hated him, she hated that woman on the couch, laughing the saddest possible laugh, looking at her through the most helpless and disappointed eyes.The next morning, she lay in bed expecting her to come in and try to make up for the night, but she didn't come. Instead, that morning, she was at her best fake happiness, wearing a mask of unshakeable confidence to disguise her haunted conscience. At her polymorphic best. Many forms. "Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation". She wonders what Shakespeare's life would have been like, for him to gain this enviable talent. She envies the ability of expression. She envies the other girls of the class who are always so glib and smooth, and who laugh so easily. She wonders if her hair is frizzy again. She wonders if tonight, she'll again dream of her father, throwing her little self up in the air on a golden afternoon amidst mustard fields. She wonders if this time he will finally be able to catch her back, or if the dream will again end in free fall.

Thanks to Carry On Tuesday for the wonderfully inspiring prompt that made the story happen.

Sometimes

2011-05-06T14:41:00.006+05:30

Found this little prompt on Weekend Wordsmith and realized it conveys just what I wish to convey today:

Sometimes, its just me -

the reader and the writer
united in a moment of wordlessness
so that those volatile crystal dreams
are safer

locked within the airtight boxes
of silence

About Me

2011-04-30T19:02:00.003+05:30

Writing happens to me, like love, like the weather. It makes me a million things more, it gives me an adrenaline rush, and at times it induces an enveloping, nurturing calm. Sometimes, I write for myself, and sometimes, just to be read. I love words. Words that are soft and simple and still magnificent in their implication, and the way they are pronounced. I would not be me but for this congenital love for words, and stories. I love everything simple, and everything old and classy. I love the scent of old yellow pages of books, and the scent of the earth satiated by rain. I love beautiful Rajasthani ornaments, Victorian buildings, old, heavy metal boxes that contain secrets, and stories, of lives lived long ago. May be thats why I love all things old, the story part - stories that are hidden in a smile in a black and white picture, in the wrinkles at the back of hands, in the silver of the hair, in large dusty, sound-echoing rooms, in the widespread roots of age-old trees that still stand with enviable dignity; which reminds me, I love trees, and flowers, and mountains, valleys, rivers, deserts, and oceans. They overwhelm me, they whisper to me in the language of the universe,and they love me too, I think. I love having leisure, like now, to sit and write about all things I love, or to stop and smile at a child, to click pictures, to hold an old man's hand and listen to his stories, to stare at the star studded night sky, and relive the fairytales of childhood. I love the distant sound of the namaaz. I laugh, pray and cry a lot. I love being foolish. I love to narrate, if you'll listen.

P.S. The picture was taken by me near the Holsten Gate, Lubeck, Germany.

Gold

2011-04-29T23:57:00.009+05:30

He found love in gold

sheer glitter and glory

that made him take risks

and place all he once had

Integrity, Innocence, Identity

in shiny chain-links

until they were all smothered

or sold

Gold, for her

was his curly hair

that she drew circles in

on golden evenings

amidst golden sunflowers and

mustard; when all was fair

like his promise

to grow old

together

He watched them silently

returning from a long day

on the fields

and wiped

the golden beads of sweat

that trickled down his cheek

as his body ached

and children starved

for a few golden grains

of wheat

Inspired by In The Moment. The cue was 'Golden' :)

Linked to Poets United. Visit them and read a lot of inspiring poems. Savour art! :)

You are not all I want

2011-04-16T11:45:00.003+05:30

I wish to feel the morning breeze

and taste the morning dew

I wish to smell the lilies

and watch the sunset hue

I want to tread on unknown lands

and form friendships all along

To wake up on a boat

To be the subject of a song

To see the lights of a far off village

that glisten on an evening still

to pour my love in the glass of the universe

until it fills and spills

I wouldn't say you're all I want

that would be thoroughly untrue

I am just a gypsy, and life my dance

that I want to share with you

Linked to Poets United. Visit them and read a lot of inspiring poems. Savour art! :)

She is a child, after all

2011-04-06T22:56:00.003+05:30

The smell of cigarettes and shoes, the noise of ‘chai’, and a predominant feeling of dust all over me; I’m drowsy; and I force myself to look out of the train window as someone mentions ‘Bandra’. I get down, uncertain, fast heart-beat, heavy steps; I’m thinking of the orphanage I ran away from, I’m tired of running, my breath is heavy, hot, difficult; its hot, very hot, and suffocating, too many people, there’s sweat, and stink, and shove, and I’m too small; I wish I could be taller, soon. Someone shouts, “You! Boy!” I turn. I see khaki. I run. Again. Fast. Very fast. Till I am far far away. But I keep running. Because I can’t stop. I try to stop. I can’t. Why am I so small? Why am I running? Oh the ditch! I need to stop running!

It was a dream. I need to wake up. I can’t open my eyes. There is still noise. And wailing. Numbers. Lots of numbers.

“What about 143?”

“85% burns. Still unconscious”

“Hmmm, Observe for some more time. We need beds. There’s a fucking queue outside.”

I still can’t open my eyes.

“Glucose!” “We can’t do anything” “No”, Wailing, “Sorry”, “Get the injection!” “Fast!” “Who the fuck left it here” “Burns” “We are out of bandages” “Number 21”

Why can’t I open my eyes? I feel pain. It boils. Overflows. I should sleep. I’m slipping. There’s a thud. In my chest. It’s the scent! Oh God!

I run and run for a long time. I stop there. The chai shop. I run no more. I breathe. Chacha Jaan. The saucepan. Brown masala chai. Ilaichi. Hot. Money. Labor. Tears. The tea boils. Overflows. Like something else that I can’t remember now. It stains the slab. I clean it with the cloth on my shoulder. For a very long time. “Ek chai”. I pour it through the filter. I get tipped. One rupee. Gandhi on the coin. I wonder why.

They order it from the house today. I carry the metal stand. 6 cups. Daddu on the khaat. He smiles. He talks cricket. He talks of his days, years ago. It was a better world. Cheap. Good. He laughs. She laughs. I look at her. She smells of lilac and jasmine oil, or something like that. She runs behind her brother, and laughs. Adjusts her anklet, and laughs. Teases her mother, and laughs. Her eyes water. She smudges all her soorma with her dupatta. I smile. She is a child after all. I feel much taller, stronger. She is a delicate little girl. God bless her.

The scent fills the air. I see nothing else. Just her small feet and her green dupatta tangled in her anklet.

“They are coming!” I see them, coming towards Mohammad Ali Road. I see swords. And sticks. And a lot of saffron. Fire. Shouts. They are at her gate. They are banging. I hide and watch. Jumman comes out, and the other brothers and cousins. The gate is locked quickly. They are fighting. They are hurt. I know one of ‘them’. He plays cricket with Jumman and me. He is not himself. No one is themselves. It makes no sense. My heart will pound out. I need to hide. I am ashamed. Why can’t I fight? But I don’t. I am scared. For life. For her. I can’t run. Anymore. I peep out the back window. She is outside the back door. With the other women of the house. And her small brother. She clutches his hand. She stares back. With her big, black eyes. Will she ever smudge her soorma again? They are already there. I squat. I press my head between my knees and squat. I wait for them. They kick me. “Hindu ya Musalman?” I wish I knew. I can’t speak. The boy I know sprinkles the kerosene oil. They step out. Everything burns. Instantly. For a long time.

“She is critical.”

“Hmmm..We observe for a few minutes”

I inhale her scent. I shut my eyes hard. I won’t try to open them anymore. Give her a chance. She is a child after all.

वात्सल्य

2011-03-13T20:58:00.001+05:30

चाँदनी थी धवल, शीतल थी वात

कार्तिक की पूर्णिमा की पावन सी रात

पर नदी के तट पर था क्षण क्षण का संघर्ष

रेत पर लेटा था नन्हा सा, हाय, ममता का रूप वो वीभत्स

नन्ही सी हथेली में बंद था एक जीवन

क्षण क्षण रुक कर दम भरती थी धड़कन

क्रंदन कर सकने का भी कौतुक ना था शेष

कैसा था हाय यह माता का क्लेश!

पर सृष्टि के कारक की लीला अपरंपार

उसकी ही कल्पना का नाट्य तो है संसार

की देख लिया उसको वात्सल्य की उस मूरत ने

मर्म को भेद दिया निष्कलुश सी उस सूरत ने

वक्ष से लगा कर, सहेज कर ले आई वो घर

"ईश्वर के इस उपकार को सींचूँगी जीवन भर"

यदि जीवन की कथा होती है पूर्व लिखित

तो मुस्काया होगा विधाता, सुनकर उक्ति ये विदित

उर के आँगन में बसे उस तुलसी के पौधे को

निम्मो कहकर पुकारा गया

अश्रयों से सींचा और आशाओं से निखारा गया

माता की गोद, सखियों की टोली

क्रीड़ा की उमंग और तॉतली सी बोली

कब छूट गये पीछे भान ना हो पाया

काल चक्र की गति थी या अपने मन की ही माया

आँखों में अग्नि, हर कदम में दंभ

हृदय में तरंग और साँसों में हड़कंप

विश्व विजयी मुस्कान लिए

माँ का आशीष, अरमान लिए

महासागरों के पार, जो है अनोखा संसार

था उसकी प्रतीक्षा में, सजाए संभावनाओं का हार

"शीघ्र लौट कर आऊँगी, किस्से सभी सुनाऊंगी

माँ बोलो ना परदेस से, उपहार क्या क्या लाऊंगी"

अनगिनत स्वप्न थे, अपार था हर्ष

फिर भी माँ की मुस्कान का था अश्रुओं से संघर्ष

थरथराते होठों से बोल न निकलते थे

मन में पल पल ममता के टीले जो पिघलते थे

पीछे छोड़कर भाव विभोर सा संसार

निम्मो आ पहुँची सागरों के पार

अथाह आसमान की नीलिमा के तले

भविष्या के अनगिनत स्वप्न थे पले

समय के साथ स्पर्धा थी जैसे

दौड़ रहे थे निम्मो के दिन रात वैसे

कि एक दिन गाँव से पत्र वो आ गया

रोशन जीवन में अंधकार-सा छा गया

"चली गयी छुड़ाकर वात्सल्य का आँचल,

माँ क्या रुक ना पाई तू मेरे लिए पल-भर?"

आँखें जैसे खोई हों टूटे सपनों की समीक्षा में

निगल ना जाए रात इन्हें भोर की प्रतीक्षा में!

टूट कर ढह गया साहस का हर स्तंभ

अब कैसी अभिलाषा! कैसा कोई स्वप्न!

कोई नही जानता था उस हृदय का क्लेश

जब लौटे वो कदम वापस अपने देश

घर की चौखट पर था सन्नाटे का शोर

और मुख पर अंतिम दर्शन से वंचित नैनों का बिछोह

दीवारों की तस्वीरों में बीते हुए सुख का दुख

शब्दों से रहित था उस सुवाचिका का मुख

पर माता के प्रेम को स्वीकार ना थी हार

मेज़ पर रखा था एक अंतिम उपहार

उन परिचित हस्ताक्षरों मे लिखी पंक्तियों का चयन

दे गयीं थी वो एक नव निर्माण का वचन:

"जीवन में एक सितारा था,

माना वो बेहद प्यारा था,

वो टूट गया तो टूट गया,

अंबर के आनन को देखो,

कितने इसके तारे टूटे

कितने इसके प्यारे छूटे

पर बोलो टूटे तारों पर

कब अंबर शोक मनाता है"

(जो बीत गयी, सो बात गयी)

With all due regards to Harivanshrai Bachchan and the magic he created with his words!

11.11.2010

2010-11-11T23:47:00.000+05:30

Its easy to stoop, to be blatant and crass. Sometimes I feel trying to be right all the time is an onerous task. Its starkingly surprising how easy it is for a person to distrust, to hate, to criticize another.

Even though this blog is a place close to my heart, I have always tried to distance my personal life from it, since it is nobody's business. But there is so much to say at times, and its such an easy vent; hence, please forgive my outburst.

Everytime that I face a situation like this, a little something inside me breaks. I do not shy away from accepting that I still have that perfect-world picture in my head, I still believe in the basic goodness in every human being and I still start out by trusting people and making friends. But occasionally, my fairyland turns into a fierce, ugly battleground where no one is no one's friend. I am not perfect either. But I know what I am not. I never trample over someone to prove something. I never hate someone to the extreme of harming him/her. I might wish to at times, but I have never done that. I am not a hard worker but I try to be one. I try to learn, explore, question, but not at the cost of my basic principles of honesty and helpfulness. Beyond this, I really don't care what you think of me. I'm proud of the fact that I accept and acknowledge my mistakes and I think it takes a lot of courage to do that, as much as it takes to point someone else's mistakes to them and not talk about them behind their backs. This is and probably will be the most direct post I've ever written but I wanted the message to go across. I know in a few minutes, I will go back to being in love with the world, but right now, it stinks!

Confessions :)

2010-10-09T03:23:00.000+05:30

Indulgence has been around for more than 4 years now. 4 years of predominantly silent observation interspersed with some outbursts of emotions and creativity. It stands witness to the creative and spiritual journey I have had from 1st year of college to a professional life. At times, its naive, over-simplified, at times, too impassioned, and at others, too dreamy. I always write on impulse, and that is the reason for the long periods of lull. Writing happens to me. I never review, re-write, or re-read more than once. If I do, its very probable I eventually wouldn't post it. However, I wish to change. I wish to be a more disciplined writer who starts with an idea, nurtures it over time, chooses just the right words and then embellishes it with better phrases and beautiful imageries before presenting it.

As I read through Indulgence, I have the urge to make minor alterations here and there. But there are a few things that I think will remain as its identity: the blog description and the 'about me'. They continue to be relevant even today. I still evolve. I still consciously try to improve on at least one count each day, I remain a perennial learner, head over heels in love with life, and I truly believe this relationship will remain as rosy :)

An individual's perceptios are subject to constant change. There came a point when I became content, truly happy and in sync with the world, it was peaceful and perfect. But thank God, it was only a phase! Perfection is boring. There has to be something that bothers you, irks you, stirs you and provokes you. Something to which you respond passionately, hysterically. Some cause to keep your mind ticking and your heart racing. Something that keeps you awake till morning, something that kindles and quenches a million flames inside you. Something that keeps you alive! Ignorance is bliss. So when life becomes too blissful, go out there and explore, live it a little more. Find reasons to celebrate. But also find reasons to complain. And change.

I have gone through phases of utter loss in self belief. At one point I felt, I couldn't write anymore. I tried to write a decent something and failed-many times. And then I realized where I was going wrong. I had started writing for an audience, unlike earlier when I wrote only for myself. In fact, I would try hard to hide what I wrote to keep anyone from reading it. May be earlier, when it was not this easy for mediocre talent to get published, people wrote with more honesty and fluidity, and worked harder for improvement. But then, it was upto me, to try and not hide. To not just portray some shades of my thoughts but to be able to be myself, entirely, the whole package- the lovely things and the not-so-lovely ones. I'll try to do that more. I'll try to be.

Emerald Colored Lake

2010-03-30T00:18:00.001+05:30

[I realized this post might appear vague and incomprehensible. I went overboard with my incoherent blabber in this one. :)

So, just to simplify, its a letter written by a girl who has been sent to a mental asylum. The letter is addressed to her elder sister. Hopefully, this knowledge would add more meaning to the post as you read it.]

Dear Aapa,

I am happy. I have finally got wings. I am learning to fly. This morning, I flew across to the mountains through a haze of cold fog that settled between the earth and the sky to dissolve the boundaries between them. I kept flying until my wings slowly melted in the warm morning rays and I landed onto an emerald colored lake, where I fell asleep, because the water was so still.

These days I sleep a lot, and dream a lot. Ammi used to say, dreams are like bubbles. I believed that, until recently, I stretched out my hand and felt a dream.... D-R-E-A-M....and guess what, it wasn't that fragile.

I love my new home. I feel free. I no longer see the world through a window. Here, they let me step out of the door into the garden, and bathe in the sun. Remember how I was scared to laugh because then I always had to cry later on? Here, in the garden, I laugh a lot, because the others join in to laugh and cry in chorus with me, so that the balance of the universe is maintained. Balance between laughing and crying, between loving and hating, between windows and doors; there are many such balances-this is what a friend here tells me. He is wise. Sometimes, I also join in to cry when someone else feels like laughing. You know, its not really that bad to cry.

And yes, thanks for sending my favourite butterfly to me. When she lived in the painting back home, she never flapped her wings. I always wondered why. My wise friend tells me, may be she flapped her wings whenever I flapped my eyelids. So now, I have befriended the butterfly. She doesn't play that trick with me anymore. She seems happy too. Sometimes we play hide and seek. But then she cheats me and flies out of the garden. I am not allowed to go there. So, I get angry and shout at her. The nurses then give me an injection. Its a sting, like the one that occurs when I bite my palm with the corners of exactly two teeth. And then, I get wings again.

The other day, it rained while I slept. And when I woke up, the garden was full of my favourite scent. I tasted a little bit of earth. I felt very happy, very free. Then I went back to sleep. My friends here tell me its because of the medicines. But I think its like a blessing - that I don't need to identify where D-R-E-A-M ends and R-E-A-L-I-T-Y begins.

A Vague Dream

2009-10-27T15:36:00.004+05:30

How strange is the chase

for dreams that don't have a visage

Nor a definition

A vague hill...fluid, unbounded

A valley of unidentified flowers..

yellow and white

a soul, soul-mate-like

unnamed, without a face

but well-defined fingers

that slide behind my ears

to tuck a stray strand of hair..

And time..is frozen..

ice-cold. But its pleasantly warm

under the skin of my cheeks

I see no colour

hear no sound

as I try to identify

You....

But all I am left with

is a dream

and its characteristic uncertainty

that tests my patience

bit by bit, crystal by crystal

through a narrow decade-glass

of Not Knowing

The mist above the hills

grows denser

and you walk away

leaving behind the illusion

of a smile, and the reality

of longing

This poem is linked to the Poetry Pantry at Poets united. Do visit them to share your work, or just to read some beautiful poems by other poets.

Such A Story

2009-10-01T20:01:00.000+05:30

I am craving...for a nice, sweet, simple love story. One where they see each other and notice their hearts skip a beat. Where they steal glances at each other whenever he crosses the well where she comes to fill water. Where eventually, he gathers the courage to smile at her and she feels a thud in her chest. And the next day, she smiles, her face flushed. And this time, he feels the thud, and the thunderbolt. Where they finally meet and walk together in the yellow mustard fields. Where he plays the flute under a tree and she lies down in his lap, almost asleep, being caressed by the music and the gentle afternoon breeze. Where they look at each other and don't say anything...just smile...or may be cry. Where he fills the red sindoor in her maang, and she finds herself, completely transformed, completely surrendered to him, in that one moment. Where he goes off to the fields and she cooks for him, and waits for him. And the droplets of sweat glisten on her face when she holds up the lantern while opening the door for him. Where he sees a choodi-vendor and buys some choodis for her, smiling in his own thoughts. And she notices a missing button in his shirt and stitches it deftly, carefully, as if she could pour all the love in those stitches. Where they spend lazy afternoons alternating the hand fan between them, staring at the ceiling fan that never moves. Where she sells her bangles for his mother's medicines, and he kisses her on the forehead, both of them, overwhelmed, in that moment. Where they sit on the chaar-pai outside the house on a summer night...talking about the stars. Where the night plays its part, and the wind plays its own part, modulating their breaths, their heartbeats. Where he goes away to the city, and she waits....imagining, every moment, what he must be doing, writing a letter each day.....and keeping them safely....to give them all together when he comes back. Where he watches the moon after a long day at work and wonders if she's watching it too. Where they can't sleep the night before he is to come back. Where tears flow unrestricted in that moment of reunion until the throat gets blocked...by weird longings, belongings, admissions, anticipations.

It has been very long...since someone told me...such a story...

To NDA, With Love :)

2009-09-20T11:23:00.004+05:30

On this nostalgic Sunday morning, I raise a toast to NDA, for being a part of our identities. To those endless preparations for talent nights, sports days, teachers' days, debates, elocutions, one-act plays, to those majestic corridors where we laughed and ran during the breaks, those morning assemblies and prayers, that 'Big Field' with that 'magic' brick boundary which could 'make your wishes come true' if you completed one round without falling. To the canteen and the panipuri wala. To the grand Julie Hall that we thronged for all occasions. To the chapel where we prayed whenever we were unprepared for a test. To the mysterious sisters' convent where we weren't allowed to go. To Mrs. Bhavana Shekhar for her motherly attention to details and for kindling my affair with the Hindi language. To Mrs. Rekha Srivastava for her oh-so-fabulous accent that could make anyone fall in love with the English language, to Mrs. Madan for being the strict disciplinarian that she was and for always pushing us towards those perfectly tailored 'to-the-point' CBSE format answers. To Mrs. Tresa David for her infectious love for numbers, to Mrs. Sujata Mukherjee for those free periods and Mrs. Sushma Prasad for being a wonderful person and encouraging class teacher. To Miss Ekata Harshavardhan for supporting us when we needed her despite the hard times that we gave her. To Sister Joan, wasn't she the most innocent creature possible? To her music classes where she made us clap at 'clap with your hands, our God is good' , and to her Value Education classes where she taught us the Ten Commandments with extra elaboration of the 'Do not covet..' part ; ) . To that 12th std English class where we sang a prayer of rain with her and it actually rained. To those long queues of Michaelites, Loyolites, Boscons, etc outside the gate, who no matter how much we pretended to hate, managed to boost our teenage egoes everyday. Toast to Sister Jayshree, we grumbled and made fuss but we knew you were the best administrator possible. May your soul rest in peace. Toast to Shubhangi, Chinu, Nishu, Sneh, Nidhi, Sachi, Garima....my comfort circle, my friends for life..and to the uncountable magical moments we spent together. To Ruchi, Pallo and Monica who meant to me in their own special ways. To every single day spent in that second home that shaped us into who we are. To those memories that are still as fresh as if it all happened yesterday. To that ideology of Notre Dame where strength of character and truthfulness came first and material success second. To the 'women of substance' that it strived to turn us into. To all the girls in red who will undoubtedly rule the world and who will always remain Damians at heart. No matter where they go. Cheers...

The Secret

2009-08-02T13:56:00.002+05:30

Snehal walked on the sand- barefoot, lost- neither happy, nor sad, just peaceful. Full of sea smell and the taste of humid breeze. She sat on a stone, gazing at the horizon, at the sun that was setting away from her day to rise into his. She felt connected. To him, to the sun, to the unfathomable sea, to the changing sky, to the birds that returned home in flocks, to the empty shell under her toe. She looked up at the lighthouse and noticed two lovers watching the sunset from above, silhouetted in orange, dusky red, and then grey, as if morphing into souvenirs. Souvenirs of the beautiful moments that had slowly, stealthily grown into memories. And now, they were her most treasured belongings- the hysterical laughters, the unembarassed tears, the crazy stories, the fast music, the long drives; life, in hindsight, looked like a fast forwarded reel. Only at some points, it stoppped. Like the day they spent building castles of sand. Like the game during which they exchanged dolls as a promise to be together forever. Like the day he picked up a fight with the bully of the colony for her sake. Like the evening she spent waiting for him in the park, full of anticipation, anxiety, hoping he would come (though she hadn't called him and he didn't come). Like the night of college fest that they danced away. Like that night on the beach when they came close, when friendship crept away from between them like sand from a tight fist, only to make way for something else. Bigger or better was for fate to decide. She smiled at the moon. It smiled back, a mischievous smile, as if it held a secret it wouldn't disclose. She understood. She had secrets too. In her heart and in her womb. She inhaled the scent of wet sand and closed her eyes, trying to listen to the second heartbeat. She wondered if it smelt what she smelt, felt what she felt, if it was aware of the strange pangs of love that she felt for it, love that choked her, engulfed her, transformed her. She did not know the answer. But she was content with the not knowing. She felt complete. She got up to leave. Tomorrow he would be made party to yet another secret of hers. Rest was for fate to decide.

Perception

2009-07-14T09:08:00.002+05:30

I have come to believe in the two forces theory. The first force drives you in the direction you should be going, and a second force which tries to take you the exact opposite way. The influence of the second force becomes visible in events and actions that you fail to justify on a rational ground. We condemn this force when it strikes the hardest- in the forms of crime and terrorism; but we ignore it, allow it, and even give it impetus while it grows inside us. Something tells me life was supposed to be simple- just as the creator is. But we complicate it. We make rules, norms, rights, wrongs and then define crime, punishment, sin, redemption. Ironically, inside, we all sin and forgive ourselves, each day. Its just too hard to do that for others. We get restless hearing about terrorism, racist attacks, but we do not care to contain the narrowing of eyes or discomfort in our body language realizing the presence of someone from a different community around us. We all nurture in our minds baseless negative prejudices, in large or small amounts. Why is it so hard to give others what we want the most ourselves- respect and acceptance? It does not require more than a thought to see the meaninglessness and futility of our everyday hate stories. We do not choose where, when and as who we are born. How can we become so 'proud', aggressive or for that matter, defensive about something that is not even under our control! God created diversity to break monotony, not to divide himself. Faith can not be fought about. What you fight about can not be faith. Because faith has nothing to prove. It is absolute, certain, obdurate, pure. It is part of the first force. It can only lead us in the right, simple direction.

Open Diary - 27th October

2008-11-06T12:55:00.000+05:30

I feel it too often these days-this strange déjà vu, this tendency to cling to sadness when I ought to be happy, to be celebrating. There’s something amiss in the picture of life, or may be there’s an extra piece somewhere that I can’t remove no matter how hard I try. The wind- it makes me so numb, so blue as if I’m not where I ought to be or I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be. It brings with it such distinct, fresh memories that they refuse to register as memories- they become the here and now with every hollow breath, every single sensation alive. I dive deep into it, knowing it leads only to nowhere. Darkness has a strange charisma about it. It invites you with open arms and you somehow melt into them. There’s a certain glory, a liberation in every single tear you shed. Its as if you’re accepting, embracing, and may be even forgiving yourself for your mistakes. I just figured why life does not have a rewind button. Its something like a computer program with multiple threads. It takes different paths of execution every time you run it. So may be even if you had a rewind button, you couldn’t go back to exactly where you wanted to- the butterfly effect of life…

Open Diary-21st August 2008

2008-08-29T20:32:00.000+05:30

The college has already started looking like a soon-to-be-past thing. Thoughts of the future have affected the present so much! I go down for a coffee and see a swarm of new faces, and it all appears like a big cycle that I’m a very minute part of. Not just the college and the passing out, but life on the whole. I don’t know why and I don’t know whether this is good or bad, but my mindset has suddenly become very spiritual. I try finding a purpose in things I do but I can’t see it. There is a big blunder somewhere in the whole equation of life that we’ve set for ourselves – all of us running this mad race and trying to work for ‘happiness’! sacrificing today’s sleep, rest, talks, smiles and laughters for a better tomorrow- I wonder where this recursion ends. Sometimes all I long for is utter peace, absolute beauty, pure nature and the ultimate solace of being in the company of myself. I wonder whether this phase will pass too; may be tomorrow when I have hordes of responsibilities scuttling up and down my priority queue, I’ll come to terms with the meaninglessness and obscurity of life. But right now, at this very moment, I find myself wiser, older and all the more inadequate and ignorant about the gift of life, breath and spirit that I’ve got.

On The Midnight Stroke of Independence Eve 2008

2008-08-29T20:24:00.000+05:30

Its midnight and a wild crowd of students adorning expensive brands, riding expensive bikes and exhibiting an expensively rare surge of patriotism have come to celebrate Independence Day at kc. It’s indeed not often that you witness nationalism in one of the costliest engineering colleges of the country, where ‘sense of duty’ awakens, stretches lazily, shakes off the dirt on it and gets down reluctantly to work not more than ten days before sessionals, or 20 before end sems. Its amazing to see how events and occasions like the independence day transform mundanities like Indianness to stark realizations. I am a true Indian. My throat enmasses with awe at every reminder of the long tale of independence and the incredible sacrifices made so that I could be born into a free country, breathe free air, get the best education, have fun and try out my own little destiny in the crowd of a billion. We’re a very fast progressing nation- a young population: armed with unlimited technology, instant communication, clear cut visions and hoards of our ancestors’ mistakes to learn from. We roam around with plugged ears, lensed eyes, chemically straightened hair, electrically razored legs and a mobile database of everything we consider essential. But then when I look down the highest histogram of progress, I see a deep abyss, staring back with helplessness, still waiting to be filled. I see my counterparts in J&K trying to figure out a way to keep themselves and their families alive in yet another avatar of the age old communal tension. I see politicians playing an evil game of chess with innocent lives as pawns. I hear of an engineer like me believing in, dying and killing for the principle of terror. I read about heart-rendingly high figures of domestic violence. I question and I wonder. And I crawl into my bed and sleep. May be tomorrow, the newspaper will be a more heartening read. As Independent India turns 61, I know I’ll still swell up with pride and melt with humility before the flag of my nation. The white between the green and the saffron will still be there and it will definitely give me the promise of a day when we shall be free. After all, imperfection is what keeps the world going.

2008-01-20T11:28:00.000+05:30

It is one of those nights, ah well its 3.30 in the morning, when the consciousness of your existence makes it impossible for you to repose in slumber, when the heart races very fast to keep pace with your thoughts, when you think only of yourself, your 'perceptions' of the world, your dearest domain of plan and activity where nothing challenges you, when you can look straight through the obstacles as if they are not there.
I am usually awe-struck at the thought of how amazing I am, or you are, or humans are in general- the intellect, the emotions, and above every other thing, the power of expression. I marvel with pride at a baby making its needs felt, or a patient of cerebral palsy, unable to speak or even move, expressing his joy, anger, disappointments and utter euphoria watching a cricket match.
Your inner world is the mirror of the outer world. How you perceive the world depends on how deep you have dug inside yourself. I might be a tiny speck in the universe, a conception of too few dimensions, or may be I am not even there, as followers of some schools of philosophy might claim, but the very fact, or illusion of my existence makes me question and analyze my thoughts and actions and thus those of the entire human race. My beliefs have changed as I’ve grown and they will continue to….without cease, but there is one thing that I’ll never stop believing in, and that is the power of man, because it reaffirms and exalts itself more and more each passing day. The more you try to tie him down, the stronger he becomes. We are inherently curious creatures and when our potential is challenged, the curiosity to see where the limit lies can work…..well….wonders- that’s what ‘impossible’ things are called once they are accomplished.

2007-11-04T11:22:00.000+05:30

The whiff of life in the morning air
Those sights the heart beheld!
The noisiness of the playful river

that the silence of the mountains bequeath!!

The spirit's merry,broad-winged flight
while on an appalling course
...and on the zenith of the night
the indulgence in repose!

When after a long chaotic slumber
a familiar blessing voice reminds
one by one in astounding numbers
the melodies we left behind!!

The crashing cymbals in the heart
when the churchbells solemn chime
The crumps of longing in throat enmasse
listening to a forgotten rhyme....

The subtle songs of love and praise
that evolve with us through time!
The lovely caress of life's embrace
like the smell of earth.....divine! sublime!!

Dedicated to the two pillars my world stands on...

2007-04-23T14:20:00.000+05:30

when the night was dark

and the way unknown

how did u still

lead me back home

when the body was bleeding

and the weapons gone

tell me how

u still fought on

when emotions were still

and eyes were dry

u still kept smiling

tell me why

how do u make all moments so bright

why do i feel u r always right

why does every fairytale

make me believe

your values will prevail

why do all deceiving eyes

convey to me

that truth will rise

whenever the wrong

battles the right

wat makes me speak

"i will fight"

yes it is your firm conviction

that truth is always

mightier than fiction

its your belief that makes me say

that my footsteps

will never go astray

no, gratitude would be too small a word

to tell you dear parents

that YOU ARE MY WORLD!!

2007-04-22T17:12:00.000+05:30

बचपन का वो आश्वासन

शायद था अंधविश्वास

दोषी भी तो शायद

है अपनी ही आस

स्वार्थ लिप्त इस दुनिया मे
भावनाओं का मोल नही
गूंगापन मंज़ूर यहाँ है
पर मन के सच्चे बोल नही

रह जाता है पंछी फड़फ़डा कर अपने परों को
तोड़ने को आतुर वो लोहे कि उन छड़ों को

एक एक कर ढहता है धीरज का हर स्तम्भ

आहत मन का दंभ है

या है साँसों का हड़कंप

आंखें जैसे खोयी हों
टूटे सपनों की समीक्षा मे

निगल ना जाये रात इन्हें

भोर कि प्रतीक्षा मे

फूँक कर रखने हैं कदम

कहीं छूट ना जाये संयम
और टूट ना जाएँ कहीँ

"सुसंस्कृत" समाज के

ये दृढतम नियम

ambition!!

2007-04-22T16:52:00.001+05:30

silent creatures
silent skies
silent r these waking eyes
but thumps away the beating heart
all set to tear itself apart
and the active roving mind
oscillates far n behind...

when the world sleeps
they r wide awake
choosing to put
all at stake

its a constant drive
a blazing fire...
an unsatiable deep desire...
to keep the storm blowing by
to keep the tides rising high...

there r numerous embers in the urn...
still alive n ready to burn.

the anxious surge of blood n passion!
the strong emotion..tamed ambition..!

A Contrast With Life

2007-04-22T14:54:00.000+05:30

All the while i struck

a contrast with my life

with tons of grief in my heart

I have learnt to smile

while I'm mum like a doll

and emote like a toy

I wonder whether its my sorrow

or my search for joy

To talk about all else

but keep shut my grief

to relieve others' cravings

and myself crave for relief

The distances are too long

its so hard to get ashore

not a glimpse of the land

and hurdles such galore

its a battle.....a silent one.

its a battle......that can never be won.

for i had dreamt of the sky

which was pretty much too high

and the nature's wierd rules

are too tough to defy

so I struck a contrast

with my beloved life

and amidst the looming darkness

I lit my torch alight

yes..life is a lost battle

but I prefer to fight

to enjoy the course of the strife

and go with all smiles..

2007-04-22T14:41:00.000+05:30

Sometimes u win

and u dont know it....

this battle where both of us lose each day....

Sometimes u manage

to make me feel

the heat from ur soul smouldering away...

when your meandering melancholy seeps quietly

through the invisible barriers I have created......

and i watch helplessly-the long gathered heaps of my strength...melting away..

transforming into fluid compassion....

And i know u won again

when my heart breaks into a billion pieces...

watching u cling to a thin thread....

oscillating between the fear of losing...

and the meaninglessness of winning....

But what u fail to know is...

I know, I feel, and I die everytime my realisations come alive....

We both are fighting......u your fears....and me my pretence.