The Now.

For once I want to draw and I don't want it to be about symmetry or shape. I want it to be blurred and foggy and mildly reminiscent of intangible, unidentifiable memories. I want to paint, not with a brush, but with my fingers and a knife, and I want to not care about the outcome. Once, again, I wish to be a word stuck at the back of the head that becomes a whole story, and then a whole new life, a whole new existence, a whole new me. 

Inhale. Exhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaale. Inhale. Exhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaale. Inhale deeeeeeply. Hold your breath. 

*And never ever let go.* 

"Life starts with a deep inhalation which triggers the baby's first cry, and ends with a long exhalation at the time of death. So life is just the space between a deep inhalation and a long exhalation. And when we do Pranayam, we try to bring in this life, this prana." Such an astoundingly beautiful analogy! 

I have brought some discipline to my life. Long walks, Yoga classes(finally), visiting and teaching in a school on the weekends, and right diet. Yet, something is amiss. Something elementary. 

I am unable to write, or frame sentences. I will have to wait. It will come back. It always does.

Random thought

We waste too many precious things fretting about the future. If we are happy now, why would we not be so in the future? Wasn't now future too? But we survived, right? And quite brilliantly at that. Lets not blow the unknown out of proportion. Let's allow life to happen.

Encore

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.

Random Thought

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.

Faith

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

Banaras

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

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!

Style!

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 :)

1. I am a Software Engineer. I enjoy science as much as I enjoy art.
2. 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.
3. 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. :)
4. 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 :)
5. 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.
6. 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.
7. 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? :)

Of Dreams and Him

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

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.

11.11.2010

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 :)

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.

Such A Story

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...

Perception

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.