No space for my red cruiser

I remember a time when sighting a car in my locality was rare. People depended largely on bicycles, cycle rickshaws and their own two feet to get around, and an occasional scooter thrown in. Houses were scattered far apart and you could see green fields and the skyline till as far as the eye took you. Herds of sheep, goats, horses, donkeys and buffaloes made daily rounds with their human keepers lending the whole scene a very pastoral feel. Sunsets were blazing and vivid and when the sun rose in the mornings, nothing escaped the loving rays. All was tranquil and I fondly remember many a hot mustard oil body massages out in the sun, better than any damn beach in Florida!

Then everyone tom, dick and harry decided to have three or four children each and little by little, slowly slowly, spaces began to diminish. Tall buildings, cars, honking, shouting, smoke - the whole package that is usually delivered to your doorstep once the purchase of development is complete. Today, I cannot recognise my colony. It used to be sprawled across a large area of industrially empty, green land - simple, happy, content and harmonious. Now every family needs a car or atleast two or three cars, everyone has kids, and everyone who got kicked out of Delhi came running here where land was cheaper. Unfortunately, too many came running to set up home here.

They've made a garbage dump of this place. Roads have narrowed since everyone holds claim to even a few inches off the roads. There is a car/bus/motorcycle every minute leaving behind smoke and shattered ear drums.

And why this sudden outbreak from me? Well, I have been thinking about this for a long time. The drastic transformation is confounding, but I was compelled to express because of the new man in my life - my red bicycle (which still needs christening).

I learnt in two days, after much loss of confidence and bruises that are still healing. Face it, I'm going to be 25 this year and here I am, struggling to learn an art that most normal kids master while they're toying with their GI Jos and Barbies (replaced in this generation by TV, you tube and video games). I conquered. Now I can ride without falling off or going into panic everytime I see a vehicle crawling towards me.

But where do I ride. With maniacs behind the wheels of 'harmful vehicles', a bicycle may as well be suicidal. Everytime I take out my bike to ride, I pray that I return home alive and undented. While I ride, I have five thousand vehicles going back and forth, passing me at distances from an inch to five inches. A slight loss of balance from either party and I'm a gonner. Some drivers are total jerks! They make the brush as close as possible to have their daily dose of sadistic fun (may they rot in hell!). A few are decent fellars, keeping their distances and letting me breathe.

What happened to all the spacious roads???? Will our country ever be able to contain its ridiculously inflating population to secure us bikers a safe bicycle lane? I might be fifty by the time they can. To escape the dirty traffic, I cleverly go out to ride on lazy Saturday and Sunday afternoons when the demons are asleep. It is then that I truly enjoy my ride, fresh cool air, the lovely winter sun, hardly anybody around and silence. How much I have waited for moments like these.

What worries me is - how much time left before bicycles are completely thrown off the road? Will there come a time when its insanely, certainly and obviously suicidal to make delicate tyres touch tar? Will bicycles be redundant one day, discarded as childish fancy and unnecessary since neither can it speed you to your destination nor is it socially enviable?

Today, children, electricians, plumbers, gardeners and factory workers are probably the only ones who venture out on these two-wheel drives run absolutely on human energy. Pathetic!

I

I’ve been watching the sun on its way down. Strange that it reminds me of me. When it rose, the world was filled with hope of a bright, sunny, warm day. It shone inspite of the cold, grey clouds and when it came overhead, it was at its best. The fall from the high is the toughest. It sunk lower and lower and lower, and perhaps it cried. But I saw no tears, only sadness, stark sadness in the dim orange which once was blazing. It hid behind a tree as it descended from its throne. Everyone needs something to hide behind when they’re sad. No one likes to be seen crying, at least I don’t. First I saw it hovering over the top branches. Five minutes later, it was lost somewhere amidst the intricate form of the tree, from where I lost it behind the massive trunk. It’s gone. I cannot see its definite shape any longer. What remains is the light it still manages to emanate. How can an invisible sun still leave behind light? Is that the magnificent power of the great giver of life on Earth? Amazing.

I am this sun. They all saw great things in me. Plans were made, my future was drafted and the words “winner” and “leader” were engraved onto my forehead. I kept it up with great pride and efficiency, giving way to the shortcomings of my being now and then. I was loved, revered and respected. They all thought I knew what had to be done all the time and I’d tell them too. I was the ‘doer’. I had plans too. I started believing them. “Hey, they think I’m wonderful…maybe I am…maybe I can do great things…maybe I am meant to do great things….maybe I was especially created for a mission….maybe I just need to settle on my cause and the way will light up on its own…” I wonder if confidence really is a good thing.

I am lost. I managed to keep standing while the earthquake rocked the world around me. But what’s so terrific about still standing? Stand? I can barely stand. I’m tottering. Unstable. Disconnected with myself and the outer world. I don’t know what’s happening inside me. People smile and ask me, “What’s happening with you?” I look blank. I’d pay them to find out what’s happening with me, it’d give me a clue. I’m on a skateboard fast wheeling downhill. Managed to keep myself on it, but a nasty fall stares me in the face. I’m waving my arms around to regain balance and control, even reaching out to clutch at something that might help me survive. But it all slips from my fingers. The icy air gives me blows in the face while my hair flies around wildly, out of control, just like me.

I want out. I do. I don’t want to be stuck in the pit forever. Other people seem to solve their mazes pretty easily, for some it isn’t that easy, but they do find their path in the end. I wonder if I’ll do too. Right now, the picture is bleak. I cannot control my anger, it engulfs me completely and I hate the whole world who’s out there to persecute me (largely imaginary). I lash out at others when it’s totally uncalled for, refuse to bury quarrels and others’ mistakes, and find cruel relief in punishing them. And I seem to punish them by tormenting myself, which leaves me more miserable than before and hence, I’m back where I started, only worse this time. I’ve caught myself in this crazy circle. Can I dig myself out of it?

Optimism irritates me. “Everything will be alright” has got to be the most over-used and least meaningful expression of the century and I have a rifle ready for anyone who sums up my situation with that. Its annoying how every tom, dick and harry has been sending me ‘Happy New Year’, quite obvious that it was sent out as a group email or SMS, nothing personalized about it, just an obligation, a formality. Do they even mean what they’re saying? Is it such a big reason to be happy and dance about like a kangaroo? The only thing it brings about is a change of calendar. Nothing else changes – poverty, pollution, wildlife extinction, crime, unemployment, cultural deterioration, sexism. Oh yeah, it’s also the time to take down Christmas decorations, an activity I keep miles away from. What could be more depressing than the end of celebration, back to dull life which has nothing worth celebrating anymore?

I am brain dead. Nothing motivates me. Nothing interests me. Nothing makes me completely happy. Even if I smile for a moment, sadness paces the ground of my mind in the background. I am not wholesome. I am dead.

KILL THOSE BLOODY TERRORISTS - Part 2

The masses are bored.
So when a stressed out, tired, focused, somewhere scared NSG is carrying out crucial operations to rescue hostages and dispatch the terrorists to hell, they come out for an evening walk for a dose of entertainment. That way, atleast they're saving electricity by giving their sobbing soaps a sacrificial miss for a night. They gather and contribute to the confusion and chaos that only benefits the heartless terrorists.

I've always known that the masses are incapable of rational thought. But this is outrageous!
Get outta the way you fools! Go home! Leave us alone to do our work in peace! Go, get your fun at the theatres! Dull bodies with dull minds and even duller lives, out for some action.

Heard from someone that yesterday a curious couple, peeping out of a window near Nariman House were shot dead by terrorists. A perfect example of how 'curiosity killed the cat'! Yet, the common man will not learn. And when the bullet goes through his head, his peers will for eternity blame the commandos for their carelessness and inefficiency.

You utter idiots! Leave those poor men alone! Cowards can only watch from a distance and laugh. Go home, maybe your wives and husbands will give you some action tonight!

KILL THE BLOODY TERRORISTS - Part 1

Everyone's been glued to news channels for the last two days. It is very disturbing, the biggest crisis they say, since 911. Terrorists shooting innocent people randomly and blowing up stunning heritage buildings that make Bombay what it is. Are these men utter idiots or what??? Who gave them the gun in their hands and ask them to go fight for Islam? Is this about Islam anymore? And why do these dimwits presume themselves to be representatives of the whole Islamic world, out there to avenge (imaginary) ill-treatment meted out to Muslims??? And WHO are these Muslims they are warring for? The same ones they're shooting at indiscriminatingly? The world needs to stand up and applaud these skunks for proving that one can still live while using 0% of their brain power. They have surpassed all limits of tolerance and purpose.

In this hour, we need a powerful and prominent Muslim leader to stand up and yell out that THEY are NOT part of this! That they do NOT seek terrorist help for anything and that they have been living happily and peacefully in a country which is as much theirs as anybody else's. He needs to direct his words at the terrorist world and tell them that his people have a heart and a perfectly functioning mind, which does not justify murder at any cost. This leader needs to voice the feelings of a million Indian Muslims who have been sitting before their TV sets, united in their solidarity and grief for those affected by this frightening tragedy. This leader needs to stand up and speak now! I just pray he's out there somewhere.

Coins

Coins fell from the left pocket of the upturned, coffee brown pyjamas. They ran in all directions to secure their own spots on the icy floor. Maybe they like the cold which easily seeps into their atoms and makes them like itself. A pleasant change from the warmth of the coffee brown pyjama pocket. Each coin made a different sound, a unique voice, and startled me. Then ensued the childish game of hide and seek. They are naughty, these coins. They roll away to dark corners, under mahogany tables and book shelves, beds and cushioned chairs. They demand that you bend your proud head, kneel before them on the freezing ground and lend your eyes in keen service. Fingers touch the coldness, impatient to feel the warm coins before they are infected with icyness. Got them! One by one I draw them into my curled palm with shivering fingertips, searching to ensure I got all. And one by one, they are forced through the pierced cap of the plastic Sil jam container which banked my treasure 11 years ago. As I hear them slap their new neighbours, they wail; disappointed to have been found, arrested and imprisoned, yet again.

Hot Water

You touch me with a thousand fingers, I sigh,
Desperate worry fast begins to die,
Vapour sails through many a jammed pore,
Far better than every before.

Addicted I am to you,
Like heated morning dew,
You make unfettered love to me,
No one guessed, so secretly.

You kiss my hair and change its shape,
So toxic but who wants escape?
Eyes drawn shut all the while,
Heavy lids, orgasmic smile.

Humbly surrendered to the overpowering element,
Willingly lost in this steamy covenant,
What plays behind closed door,
I promise you, no one will know.

Happy Birthday to me

I just didn’t feel it. Birthday came, birthday went. No bang, boom, blast in my heart. This is a first. Back in school, two days before my birthday it was difficult for my teacher to keep me still in my seat, for my mother to retain my attention during homework time and for me to focus on games. Closer than that, even last year, I felt it.
This year I am numb. Numbed by age? Numbed by the fact that my life has so recently undergone a massive change? Numbed by the lack of feeling within, a proud outcome of broken bonds? I search but I’m not getting lucky. “What’s up?” I ask myself. My mum understood exactly what I meant when I confided in her, careful to not let her feel that she is to blame. She instantly went on this guilt trip, “I know beta, maybe I haven’t done enough to make it fun for you.” No ma!! Nobody is responsible for this feeling that has hopped beside me for 23 years before and during my big day. It’s something very internal and involuntary. And she knew. Wow!

Am I becoming into one of those cynical, prosaic, moaning grown ups who crib about birthdays and feel no joy in celebrating one more year of life gone by? No! No! No! Not that! I won’t be able to take the dulling of my character. I’ll hate myself then. What happened to the defender of childlike, instinctive, happy, lollipop/ice cream- loving behaviour? Where’s that child who was wont to hop about excitedly when her birthday approached and couldn’t stop grinning the whole day? Where’s the fun? Where will I find it again?

I feel like my life is grey. Reasons, I don’t want to think about. Just a huge blob of grey paint plopped on my canvas and rubbed, smeared, stroked, spread in all directions. It’s not even pretty like an exciting and hopeful overcast sky. It’s an industrial grey, like in Charles Dickens’s Hard Times. Maybe I’m a character from it, born in the future to represent that dullness never ends.

There was a cake, friends, presents, phone calls, fabulous food, love, wishes and prayers. But something was absent. Perhaps it was me.

Going Away – 2

Tore away from those magnetic arms,
More soothing than all the balms,
Stuffed my little world in pouches and bags,
Picked my toothbrush, photographs and tags.

Sad eyes watch me as I run to gather,
Signs of me which they’d rather,
Keep now under our leaking roof,
Sorry for those days of acting aloof.

Tough to work with a heavy heart,
In spite of a busy mind quick as a dart,
Gobbling up the memories of all that was familiar,
Music, guitars, jamun tree, shoe rack and beer.

The coconut tree, my unfailing friend,
Tall and comforting till the end,
The parapet wall that held my weight,
While lazy Sunday lunches in a steel plate.

My “football field” where I danced and laughed,
Giving way to beliefs that I was daft,
The orange wall, the wall of art,
The images of all back home I’ll cart.

The hands that shirked now gloomily hold me,
The eyes that were casual moistly behold me,
The times our laughter touched the ceiling,
Our words reverberate with shaky feeling.

Goodybye my friends, I have to go now,
Dragging my heart away with a straight face somehow,
These times will never return that’s for sure,
But when I do, please open the door.

Going Away

The night was very silent. So was the day.
I laughed a lot, forgetting that I'm going away.
I smiled when the sun shone and my locks fell down.
Did I know that later tears would escape with a frown?
To hell with poetry and rhymne!!
I know you wanted me to cry!
Which is why you stabbed me and left me to die.
A gradual death, the taste of which you can taste.
Delicious it must be as you lick in haste.
Go away! All you masked serpents!
I know who you are, what you are!
Been hurt enough. No more.
Go!

Football in the Rain

Yes. I'm trying to learn the game.
And its thrilling!
Especially when its with the opposite sex. It's always been more fun playing with boys. Perhaps because they're better at it in most cases, are stronger and don't cry about falling and bruising their knees or dirtying their clothes. All that matters.
Yesterday I played with five specimens at twilight, the sky sprinkling raindrops on our heads very generously. The field was either mucky and slippery in places or had patches of tall, unkempt grass obstructing the free flow of the ball. And to top it all, I didn't have shoes. I didn't even have shorts!
That sounded damn funny the minute I wrote it!
Well, what happened was that I dropped in at Sam's in a skirt and silver dance shoes. The boys were heading to play and it hadn't stopped raining. A pair of shorts landed in my lap and I put them on and lo behold! I was one of them! Only with no footwear. Sam gave me his slippers which made the ground beneath my feet feel like ice. Now I know why slippers are called "slippers." Got onto bikes and rode off to the field, wondering how we'll see in the paling light. But these boys have all the solutions. On came the floodlights, which served us well, and off came my slippers after a firm decision that I was not going to break a leg. The wet grass under my bare feet felt great! Usually, I'm careful about not stepping into dirty puddles near the stations. But this was different. I was on natural grass and this kind of "dirtying" was fun. We played, nearly slipped, banged each other with the ball, laughed, shouted, felt the water streaming down our faces while our clothes hung on us (thank heavens I wasn't wearing white!).
This was what I needed, utter carelessness! And more importantly, real laughter! I love this feeling! When the world simply falls away into nothingness and all that matters is the game and the players. The friendly kind of competiton is the best, makes it more fun. And yes, even the jokes poked at me for my funny antics on the field, not to forget my direct shot at the goalkeeper's groin (he had to sit down for a while, poor soul). I reassured him by presenting to him to the option of child adoption. Pity he didn't seem too pleased.

I love the boys I played with. Good sports they are!
Long live all the boys I've ever played with, such fantastic moments I have had with them all.

Reading My Blog

I've written this?

Really?

I wonder what happened then

What inspired me to whip around such words

And splash them on the black canvas.

It's fun to go back and read again

To relive, recall and remember

Delightful alliteration!

Sometimes I cannot believe I wrote this

I may find it better now than I did then,

Or worse.

When I check comments, there are more from me than anyone else.

Hahahahaha...

Why so serious?

I could hear a pin drop,
That’s the kind of calm I’m inviting inside me.
Stillness.
They ask me, “Why so serious?” and laugh,
It’s a joke.
I see them all chuckling at me,
Their black eyes glinting like the blade,
Blood still dripping from it.
My blood.
That was all that remained to give.
Love was never enough.
You asked me why I smiled in my pain,
That’s coz you drew those bloodied upward curves,
To help me keep up the show
Of being jolly,
While I felt the blade pricking in my back all that time.
I ran away from it,
But it never left me
I still loved and feared losing,
I’d given so much, and still you turned away,
Forgetting.
Monsters creep closer, their tentacles snaking towards me,
I am alone,
No matter how much I fought it.
Like the Samurais we admired,
Their swords standing tall in sure hands,
Don’t know when my sword fell,
When the metal appeared on the other side of my heart.
I’m gone.
Falling in a pit that grows darker as gravity carries me to the end.
You called me “piteous”
I called you friend.

Friend and Foe begin with the same letter

The machine coughs and rumbles as the threads weave in and out and produce sheets of cloth. Some threads are grassy green. They make the eye happy and produce a smile on the cheek. Some threads are black. They pull you into them. To get lost in. A fear of losing oneself in them. You keep away from the black and edge closer to the green. The machine buzzes in your head, never ceasing to rest. The weaving. Colours meet and blend and unite to form one fabric. Who knew that the fabric married so many components?
Friendship is fabric.
You never know what goes in where, what is being weaved into it and what the final spread will look like. Sometimes, the black is more and the friend becomes a near foe. Dark condemnation. You writhe in hatred and the demons inside your brain scream in rage. You want to harm and hurt and lash out with your sickle to tear the flesh out of existence, and throw the scraps to the coyotes.
The machine wriggles. Weaves.
Sometimes, there's green and more green. Love. Understanding. Comfort. Security. Trust. You smile at the thought of your friend. You want to give so much. Dance, sing, hop, jiggle. When you meet, you know you're home.
The machine decides - friend or foe.
When the cloth changes colour from black to green or green to black, the cloth cannot decide. No one can find the answers in a magical orb. They don't exist, these answers.
Stronger the friendship, more powerful the hatred.
Stronger the hatred, more powerful the friendship.


To friends lost and friends gained.....

To all those who I lost….because of you or because of me

I liked you guys
And I thought you liked me too
And things could’ve gone on well
But you chickened out
Got lost in the labyrinth
Weaved in and out at will
Left me standing in the rain
Frowning
I went wrong too
Became a rug
Your shoeprints still linger
They say things happen for a reason, for the best too
Awesome!
So was this the best we could do?
I got tired
Some of you slipped away
For some, I opened my clenched fingers
And let fall
Into strangeness
We know each other no more
Memories tucked away in a musty corner
Familiarity paling like dissipating vapour
You found your way
I found mine
I wonder if they’ll ever intersect
And will I say ‘hi’ or will you slink into the crowd unnoticed
Will I glance at you steely and walk off
Or will you come running forward to shake my hand

Till then
Goodbye
I liked you before, then hated your existence.
But now
I’m cold
To your presence on this planet
My mind does not trace your movements anymore
You may become the Prime Minister in a few years
I might vote for you
Or I might not
My doors were open for a little while
Inching towards closure
Now they’re shut
Gigantic, black doors.
Shut.

Will he Wonky wonked out

Lit your way,

Cleared your clutter,

The junk was rotting,

You were relieved, happy even.

Me!! in a different light,

Attention!

Took it modestly, never expecting it to last,

Careful, cautious, my toes touched the water,

Hmmm....warm, nice, bubbly,

Let go,

Not too much,

Just a little,

Warmth and magnetism.

Cumbersome magic.

The end.

My toes touch ice,

The change in your eyes, the distance,

I keep away,

Not to offend,

Your "space,"

Want it?

Take it.

Here, I throw it in your face!

Shut your doors, latch your windows,

Pull on the black blanket and disappear,

In your prism of excess and waste,

Of many who will be smitten,

Dissipate.

While I disappear completely from your mind,

Lose me in them.

Maybe then you can forget.

And so can I.

Free from Colonialism

I want it back.
My life.
It's mine.
Has always been.
I just never realised it before.
It was held captive for eons.
By those who gave it to me.
By those who bound me with wires called "attachment."
By those who gave me a living to live a life which doesn't seem like mine sometimes.
By those who still eagerly hold a pencil over the map of my life.
Poised to make changes the minute I betray weakness.
To scratch out boundaries that I may transcend.
To contain me.
To keep me.

Today I decided for myself.
Like the rare times I've done before and faced the discord, the coldness, the isolation.
The same reaction thrown in my face.
How naive am I to expect those who control me to accept my mind.
My mind which desires and designs to its own accord.
Plays to its own beat.
And just yearns to kiss the free skies.
I am alone as usual.
In the decision I take.
Why I take it I have reasons for.
It is a difficult one.
But what matters is -
It is mine.

People are sick

People are sick,
They deserve a roundhouse kick,
On their sneaky, filthy asses,
And painful, itchy rashes!
Their own business they will never mind,
My privacy to the dust they'll grind,
And disappear leaving no trace,
All they leave behind is unrest, disgrace.
Alternative activities for them I will search,
So later I'm not left in the lurch,
Some evil pleasure they derive,
In eating people alive!
In hell will they burn and singe,
While I lean back and enjoy the binge,
Keep your nasty, malicious eyes off my back,
Or your head will end up with a crack!

Murdering a relationship

For about 2-3 days, I have witnessed slow murder. She stamps on his foot, he takes out his slicing knife and threatens her. She kicks him in the stomach, he pulls her arm into a painful twist. She struggles for liberty, he grazes her throat with his weapon. She screams, he panics and retreats. She hurtles a brick at him which leaves a maroon impression on his forehead. He runs at her frothing at the mouth, she jumps out of the way. She trips and falls, while he bangs into a wall and collapses. They lie for a few moments to catch their breath. Then, their watery eyes meet. They soften. Love! Fingers touch. Then bodies. Warmth bursts all over again. Fireworks, music and champagne!

He steps on her foot. Something snaps inside her. She slaps him. Shock. Then a retaliatory slap. She pulls out his hair in tufts, while he grabs hers. The knife slowly emerges from the back pocket and the cycle resumes.

This is probably the age of relationships metamorphosing into martial arts class. Even before two people develop a decent understanding of each other, jump they do, into a dark, seemingly endless pit. As they fall, the journey's pleasant and mysterious. But when their bottoms touch the flames at the end of it, they desperately strive to defy gravity, digging a hole upwards to get back for air again.

Lately, I've been writing a lot about 'killing', 'knives', 'cutting', needles', 'dying'....hmmm....I wonder why.

Aunty!

I somehow never realised when I started being referred to as "aunty." Just a few years ago, I was "didi" and quite enjoyed the sound of it. But lately, I've been coming across dangerous kids who out of ostensible innocence release the word "aunty" from their lips as if they were born to make others realise how much older they are. I remember this oversmart, 10-year old scraggy boy handing me my stuff over the counter and with a glint in his eye announcing the word that irritates the life out of me. I spun around fuming and firmly corrected him. "Didi....I'm not that old." He screwed up his face, his day made.

The thought occurred to me this morning as I brushed my still intact teeth. I can still play sports, run and jump around like a 12-year old, climb steps two at a time, can recite most of the nursery rhymes, worship ice cream and can kill for it, have never gotten over my taste for cerelac and lactogen and don't feel ashamed about putting my head in mommy's lap and dozing off while she plays with my hair. I'm not aging. And even if I am, does the world need to publish it in their papers and announce it over their radios?? These kids are the worst! They're most evil and dastardly and often get away with it.

When I was a kid, I could distinguish between an aunty and a didi. I guess, as the generations are born, one card from the intellectual structure falls away. Every future generation is a tad bit dumber than the last. To be incapable of setting aside two age-groups purely on the basis of what you see is plain incompetence.

Baah! These dumb kids!

Will he wonky
Crazy and wild,
Not more than a child,
Racing on his two-wheeler,
Relax! No one's a snake dealer,
Jet black locks bobbing in the breeze,
You wanna close my hand in a squeeze,
You say what's on your mind,
Whether its evil, mischievous or kind,
A free heart, a notorious daredevil,
Take my heart,
O notorious daredevil,
Take me for a ride into the night,
I wanna get lost in you.

Our love affair

The grit in my eye,
The shadow in yours,
They wander all over me,
I flush,
Toy with my fingers,
Warmth that brandy never brought,
You state,
I disagree,
I smile,
A frown sprinkles on your forehead,
You speak,
I argue,
I smile,
The frown grows deeper,
Your feet shift,
You withdraw,
I flounder,
You look behind me,
I turn to look too,
When I come back,
You’re gone.
Far.
Going further still.
I clasp your shoulder,
And ask you to stay,
You shrug me away,
You shrug me away.

Perhaps a thought I was,
Concocted when the rain kissed our heads,
And now evanescent,
Decaying shreds.

The folly was mine,
To ask, to hold, to clasp,
And as the grey expanse from him to me stretched,
I clasped tighter,
The folly was mine,
To smother, when I wanted to love,
To yell, when I wanted to whisper,
I sharpened the knife,
He cut me with it.
One last time,
I stand in your way,
You shrug me away,
You shrug me away.

This time, I walk away.

On painting T-shirts, playing songs on the guitar and nursing
What a random Sunday it has been. The cold helped me sleep longer, otherwise my wretched constitution doesn't allow me to "over-sleep" even when I have the luxury to. The mintues sailed past and I watched them go through half shut eyes, changing positions every four minutes. Restless even while resting! Had planned to finish this book I've been on for some weeks now, but just didn't happen. Too many clothes to wash. Took the easy way out and ordered for lunch from Cafe Udipi, perhaps also to hear the deep, polite and strangely sexy voice of the owner who always takes my order. I've dropped in a couple of times to pick up a few things, but he doesn't know it's me who calls often from this address...hahahahaha..Checked out egrets and pigeons through my new and yet-to-be-mine 75-300mm lens. Gave me quite a thrill imagining all the tigers, gaur and chital I can capture much closely now. The waiting begins. Ranthambhore's not too far now. Just hoping this cold dies soon.Took me sometime to remove the random words from the T-shirt. Such a lovely colour, with John Lenon's famous words on the back. How could I let the random words spoil it? I painted over them? Made circles, concentric ones, spiralling all over the words that you can't see anymore. It's dry, ready to be worn tomorrow. Kaaku not feeling well. Her cold got worse, much worse than mine. Then fever. Thank God my mother was nice enough to relieve me during fever, I knew all the methods of making Kaaku feel slightly better, if not on top of the world. Steam, Vicks vapour rub, Crocin, cold towel and more. The spicy, peppery sambar I made might have helped somewhere. At least the cough's better.When she was feeling better, she taught me my first song on the guitar. Quite simple, only two chords. I feel like an achiever. Atleast I know one song on the guitar. Drum classes are still a distant dream. That boy has to find me a teacher. Or I'll spend my life striking pots, pillows and pans with my drumsticks.Sleep beckons. I nod and ask it to wait 2 minutes as I wrap up with entry. Random as it may seem, this was an excellent Sunday.

Black

Black
Comforting black
Flows around you and hides you in its drapes
Lends a benign spot under its skirt
Take it
Preserve yourself from the harshness of a world that has forgotten how to love
The human acid rain
There’s safety in darkness
No one can see you, pry on you,
You can be the devil
If God does happen to watch; so?
He cannot reveal your secrets
He’ll sit quietly on his silver throne
And throw around his dice
Which decide your fate and mine
But darkness seldom comes when you need it to
You sit in the middle of the throng
Crying in your heart
Screaming in your head
You imagine the cool black fingers taking you by the hand
Into a serene corner
Where you can feel yourself
Talk yourself
Breathe yourself
Hear yourself
You can smile at the pain of another
You can frown at another’s joy
You can be evil in the dark
It is here, that you can cry

A Single Car goes Far
I've been single for 1 year, 6 days now. I must say it left me quite a wreck. Crying into my pillow every night helped me save on water and detergent, while cleansing my vision of all toxins and dust particles that may have gathered in the course of the day. Thank God for my naturally jovial countenance, I could manage to escape uncomfortable questions and excessive condolensces, that only etched the word 'widow' into my forehead. Basketball helped of course, it always does. Better than any counselling or movie or party. When I played, I ONLY played. The past, present and future blurred away and only the basket remained with clear, defined outlines.
A common post-break-up tendency is to reach out to another specimen of the opposite sex to perhaps replace the lost one. Well, I gave it a few shots, but it didn't really turn out to be as soothing as I'd expected.
I love time. What a wonderful doctor! You don't have to do anything and it gradually rubs out the sharp edges till they become blunt and eventually fade into the background. Other things come to the fore and a transition of focus and perspective happens. The smile becomes more real and the sparkle in the eye reappears, just as the laughter reaches a crescendo again. Life becomes green. Fertile, promising, exciting and sunny.

Ok, now time's done something funny. I have been an unrelated observer of great woe and misery. Woe and misery of those who are "double." Fights, long-distance tensions, insecurities, "if you don't talk to me every night, I'll be angry" attitudes, "why're you talking to your ex-s, I want you to stop this minute" arguments and so on. I have, in some instances, been called to unfurl the white flag of peace in the midst of a fiery couple on the verge of disaster; not a very smooth situation. I have carefully surveyed the loss of individual freedom when 2 people become "double." Activities like reading, hanging out with friends, going off alone on short trips, making decisions for yourself, and 500 other things that one used to do before jumping down the well, are rubbed out from the calendar of life. The oldest of friends lose first place to someone known for 5 months, who'll probably cause more pain than all your friends put together in a lifetime. Priorities jump onto a rollercoaster and emerge dishevelled and well, different.

It's quite fascinating how this happens. And you know that funny thing that time has done? Well, the formless entity has dug up the sand on the beach of singlehood and made me a delightfully comfortable hole to rest in. Here, I lie. In the complacent shadow of a coconut tree, with the breeze dancing in my hair. And I look out at those poor souls in the waters of "doublehood," struggling to keep afloat, not knowing whether to move their arms or to breathe. Luckily, some have learnt the art and have found a raft to sail away on towards the orange sunset. But most, are still hitting the liquid, which threatens to suck them into nothingness.

I sit and watch, taking occasional sips from my tumbler of iced tea. I see more, hear more, taste more, feel more and touch more, because I'm alone, alone with these sensations. My solitude gives me moments when I can 'sense' and experience things which could've otherwise been lost, had my attention been rivetted by another equally clueless human.
A man walks by and winks at me. I wink back and smile. I allow him to sit with me for a moment. And then I send him off. Because I choose to.

Unfettered am I, the thrill and the power,
Trust me O fellows, a single car goes far.

Phwatttt!!

Her palm felt like a dagger. The hand which had been outstretched to touch the warm body behind the green silk froze in the air before dropping. When the beetroot red drained out, a shadow crept up to his brow. He took a menacing step towards her, a strange vigour in his spirit. Her vision absorbed every movement – the taut jaw muscles, the angry vein on his neck, where the collar of the worn out, blue checked shirt ought to have been, a strange foreboding lining the fingers holding together the fist. She stared at the vein snaking its way into the flesh and for an instant gave up guard.
She saw her lips planting baby kisses behind his ear, while her hand………NO! NO! NO! Now’s not the time for silly whims! She shook her head and focussed on loathing him.
Left foot firmly rooted to the glistening black marble, she deftly raised her right and slid it about a foot back. Fingers knit together into two steeled balls, planted strategically before the chest to safeguard, and if necessary to land a blow. Her hair, a bunch of live wires gone awry, kissed her face, half shrouding the scowl that came easily. Her countenance, fierce like a warrior’s, about to bury a sword into the enemy’s heart.
He grinned, slightly amused by her poise. All she needed now was a short, dirty brownish-grey leather skirt, a metallic corset and high, leather boots, and she’d be no less than Xena. Though the light outside was paling, she saw the grin. A shiver darted through her – was it the sudden coldness in the room or just the fact that the dark shadow on his face had left behind something more dangerous?
He run his fingers through his hair and messed it up, his eyes never deserting her’s. Rolling up the blue checked sleeves up, he revealed arms that had been well worked upon. She gulped for a second, in the next, wondered if he had glimpsed the fear in her watery eyes that had now begun to hurt with the effort of keeping her gaze steady.
“Should we switch on the lights or do you want me to take you in the dark?” He was right. She could scarcely see him now. The orange light of the road lamp travelled through the window pane, creating an illuminated orange circle on the floor. His silhouette was still, she knew that for sure.
“If you touch me, I’ll kill you!” Her voice carried more conviction than she had intended to express. She felt him grin again a few feet away from her.
Wait a minute! Did his silhouette just move?? She could see it no longer. She hurriedly brought feet together, fingers opened and reached out into the darkness to find the switchboard, molten heat oscillating from her brain to her toes. Ah! There it was, next to the bookshelf laden with musty, bound volumes. She carefully edged towards what seemed to have become her sole key to survival. Her hand stretched out to touch the cool plastic, but it touched warmth. Eyes widened, shoulders stiffened. Fear!
Something warm and wet glided down her finger tips to her palm. For five seconds, she let it, giving herself up to that familiar tingling between her legs. When his shrewd hand squeezed her left breast, she suddenly pulled back. His hand pelted down onto her arm, while the other desperately sought another hold. She squealed, jumped and struggled. Pure fear! And then, fury!
Letting out an angry cry, she raised her leg, toe pointing to the ground, potential energy in its truest form. With a much practiced force, she made contact with his groin. He yelped like a dog who’s tail had been stepped upon. Loud curses went up into the young night, as she heard him stumble over the furniture and fall with a crash.
Now she grinned. Remembering the way to the door, she took sure steps towards it, light sneaking in from the edges and the bottom. Before the beast could rise, she pulled it open and ran out into the orange twilight. Free!

Pricking me with your Needle
You want to kill me.
I felt it in your tone, though the mask betrayed you not.
I suspected nothing.
Gently you kissed me.
I winced as the needle danced into my skin.
Poison.
Pain.
Pleasure. Pleasure was yours.
Your eye watered. I caught myself in it.
You pulled it out.
I winced again.
You smiled the smile I loved once.
You sat and watched me die.

Periyar
To many it's a holiday hotspot. They come, plant their asses on a boat, put on their Ray Bans and English hats and allow the cool breeze to touch their faces. If the hubby wants to hold hands in a flourish of romance, so be it. Spotless white complexions, the mehendi still quite dark yelling out to the world that "hey! don't look at her like that, she's married." Gold, heeled sandals and a lost look, perhaps wondering, "what the hell am I doing in the middle of this blasted lake with this offensive man I didn't really want to get hitched to??"Then somebody yelled out. "WILD BUFFALO! GAUR! STRAIGHT AHEAD!" Those interested in species other than themselves slipped out binoculars, some their shiny digital cameras, while the kids got all excited, trying to jump up and see over the elders. The one who shouted ran to the fore, steady stance, binoculars in position, eyes fixed. Two minutes of bliss, before the boat began to swerve away from the bank. Hair unruly, dirty pants, muddy shoes, smudged kajal, brown arms, thanks to the sun's generosity, a perpetual mad expression. Welcome. That was I. Behind me, the newly married bitch says, "What's the big deal, it's only a buffalo?" What stopped me from whirling around and telling her that "Honey bun, a tiger would think twice before attacking *that* thing, which means that *that* thing has something exceptional about it. But then, what would you know? You can scarcely look beyond your own nose."
Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. Some people just don't have it, and the sooner I accept that, the better for my temper.

The 9-hour trek was fantastic. We went through about four different kinds of vegetation, from shola to semi-evergreen to grasslands to something else which I fail to remember. The terrain was rough and challenging and we literally climbed up and down mountains, reminding me of the last scene of 'Sound of Music'. The tiger pugmark discovery was thrilling.

The camping was a different experience all together. Firstly, I thoroughly enjoyed being the only woman amidst 8 men - 4 guides, 1 armed guard and 3 cute Swedish boys. Zigzagged in and out of the forest, walked on the banks of the lake and finally reached the camping site, a picturesque location on a hill slope, beside the lake. The night was even better. No sign of human habitation, no light except from the silky moonlight and the bonfire. In the night, we heard elephants across the lake to the other bank, trumpeting angrily and bathing too. Thank God for that wide trench encircling the camping ground, or we'd make for some good elephant mattresses. I'll never forget that wild pig I scared out of its years growth, when I went into the foliage to answer the call of nature. And the poor soul will never forget me. Nasty human!

I worked out my muscles pretty well, rowing that bamboo raft for 2 hours in the hot sun. Hence, the tightness of my arms and the blackness too. Hard labour, but good fun. I wonder how it'd be if I became a rower to earn my living. Push-ups would become easier for one thing.

There are just too many things to recount and I don't feel like recounting them all. But O! I'm so smitten!

And the best part is. I was alone.

Labour

The pizza box isn't empty. Three slices, gone cold and heavy still lie untouched. They'll probably do for breakfast.
One sprawled out in the next cabin, the other beside me. The sound from their stuffy nostrils pronounced, in the silence of the neon. Something stops me from shaking them awake. Maybe because they look angelic, men gone back to being babies, curled up in a protective shell. I let them be.
Dribbling a crazy love-hate affair, trying not to get burnt, yet keeping it within reach. Some excitement. Do I keep it or does it keep me? He almost believed that I love him. Ha! Well, maybe I do. Or maybe, it's the devil demanding attention again. Another thing I shall let alone for the moment.
The iris touched 30,000 words today, the mind drank them and generated understanding, and so I judged, judged whether they should be read by thousands of people or not. Can I really decide that? Wow!
Sheets of parchment with more dancing words call out to me. They're interesting these words, but somehow, they never end, making them tiresome company.
A semi-stranger. My first personal contact. Brief. No comments. Nothing to comment on yet.
Flashes of the old house, with the mustard sunshine and the silence of a life less modernised. For absurd reasons, childhood always seems quiet. Perhaps the noise in the head grows with age. If so, I wish I go deaf by senility.
The yellow-orange pencil still sits unstolen on the flat wood, staring at me, happy. I like pencils. They're just so.....happy.

The myth of permanence

Who are you? Your face seemed familiar till a minute ago. Did I pass you in the street? Or were you on the train next to me? Did a whiff of your perfume touch my nose? Or your words reverberate in my memory? Did you touch me to let me know that you are? Had we made plans? Plans to sit and watch the sunset or to disappear together? Why do you feel like I know you, yet I don’t? Perhaps you were someone I once knew but no longer. Maybe you’ve become orange and I remember you to be blue. What happened? Did they bully you? Or did your own monsters get to you?
I’m scared. Scared to get caught between orange and blue because the mixture is ugly. A dirty colour. Almost unpleasant. I fondle the memory whose living counterpart is now dead. I mourn. But I shall not stand at my door to welcome the new you.
Go away! Don’t touch me with that dirty shade. I’ll never be yours.

RED

Slam the head against a stony wall,
Trip the bugger and watch him crawl,
Set a bed of nails and make him fall,
Don’t quit till he bleeds it all.

Slit his throat with a slicing knife,
Make him sob and pray for dear life,
Laugh, gloat, unleash and connive,
So pleasant is the smell of strife.

Wait..

Waiteth I for them so long,
Has anyone ever watched with an eye so keen,
To see the faintest sign of me?
To hear the ringing of my voice?
To smell my footsteps marching nearer?
My eye waters,
At the thought of being forgotten,
Forgotten as they live their happy existence,
Without me.

Do I wait or just flee?
Will they come back for me?
Will they remember my face and hasten their footsteps?
The way my heart beats faster when I see a shadow and think it's them?
I still wait.

A lone dog came over to sniff at my loneliness,
I fed him a biscuit,
Atleast someone is happy today,
Weary of the journey that took me to get here,
I wonder if it was futile,
Never have I been waited for,
I still wait, even as the white space runs out.

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Sometimes you cannot transcribe what goes on inside you.

The Said.

She stopped. A hook in the darkness pulled her back. Trembling a little, she retraced her path to a safe escape that lay dead now.
The eyes met blankness, not a muscle twitched on his watchful face. Was she doing what he wanted her to do?
The cologne again. She clenched her fist to allow the unsteadiness pass. Gradually, it became her friend.
She knew not when her finger tips touched his brow. His eyes spoke nothing. They were still like glass; hers, fluid like a stream.
Phwatt! It sounded like a burst balloon, it felt like a knife. The pain fogged her mind for moments she couldn't count. She felt the redness on her right cheek become eminent, the traces of his fingers leaving their indelible imprints on her mind.
As the blur cleared, she saw his back disappear into the inky blackness, the silence shaken only by his reverberating footsteps, walking away.

Tears never came.

The Unsaid...........

When his arms went around, they locked together more tightly than usual. She felt the heat. The cologne stole its way up her nose and she had a blissful moment. Lips travelled down her cheek, bringing fire to the skin that the coldness had mercilessly whipped. She waited for him. He for her.
Then she ran away.

You! in the dark!

A faint throb in my head. Thoughts cartwheel and somersault in the immobile space. The sound of the energising "Rookmani Rookmani" enters the inlets in my round, not so bald head. Yellow light watches itself on the surface of the steaming, placid water in my olive green mug, stirred occasionally by the hand of the breeze.
This kind of drunkeness needs no intoxicant to give it birth. It's generated by a feeling - exhaustion. All work and no play makes R a drunk. A bee buzzing about inside. Inhibitions at their lowest. I can say the shocking and do the adsurd without batting an eyelid. Nothing matters! Who cares what'll become of it tomorrow?? Tomorrow's still a distant possibility. I might be stabbed in my sleep.
I did something bad while the bee buzzed. The "buzzzzzzzzzzzzzz" drowned out what the conscience whispered. Like I care! Ha! Everybody deserves to be bad sometimes, without angels breathing down your neck! Damn! It's a free country.

The dark side smiles. It's secured a lawyer now. Me.

Playing with Light & Colour

They made us shoot roses in a walled classroom. Yuck! I loathe roses. They're ugly. And to waste film and focus on them is worse. Then we had to shoot each other. Some have the knack of shining before the lens, natural, glowing, beautiful. But it doesn't seem to awaken interest. It's monotonous. The same countenance, scarcely varied expressions. Dull!

The authorities took us far out and flung us into the arms of nature. "Go. Click whatever you want. Anything that seems amazing to you." And we went, the weight of the SLR a familiar friend by now; notebook and pencil ready, to scribble aperture and shutter speed details. The freedom felt like five pegs of vodka. I stole for myself the colour of leaves, the formation of petals, the bark telling its own story, the terrified chameleon, the swirling clouds, the stream snaking its way through the emerald carpet, the innocence of the young, the raw power of water, the lone wooden idol, the laughter on wrinkled faces, the fowl couple cosy in a corner, the shades of fibre, the bright red and green of freshly washed chillies, the potter's hands shaping life, the blacksmith's hammer poised to beat the docile metal, the forsaken wheel resting by a hut.

I stole it all. And everytime I go out there, I'm never disappointed. I always find something new that galvanises me to pull out my weapon and capture, for the human memory is hungry. The orange leaf penetrated by yellow rays, the tiny red beetle scuttling about the forest floor, the glistening grandeur of the ghost tree. How can one not stop, gape and click?

Scars
He followed her soundlessly into the room, with a faint hint of a swagger. She took off her earrings and wrenched away the band that held back her locks, unaware that she was not alone. Tired of the inertia caused by the intoxicant, he sprang into action. A cemented hand struck her smooth cheek and hurtled her backwards. Shell-shocked, she barely had let out a cry when he struck again, this time hammering his fist on her head. His hands held on to her skull and pressed as if wanting to compress it into nothing. Locks got entangled with his fingers and if her eyes weren’t sightless, she would have seen the silver glint of mad power in his pupil. His fingers clasped her hair and pulled. Her pleading screams went unheard into the inky night. When he released her, strands stuck to his palms. She fell back onto the unsteady bed, clutching her head, oblivious of the tears that sprouted from an agony worse than the one that had just consumed her body.
All this while, he had yelled, “You’re getting out of hand. I’ll teach you a lesson that you’ll never forget!”
His words buzzed in her ears. The comforting words of the inept, passive women, witness to this usual drama of life felt like snow.
The choked throat made way for the voice of rage. She looked into the faces of the others, despising them as much as she did him. “Cowardly wretches! He would’ve slit my throat before them, and they wouldn’t have moved a finger to my aid!”
She talked about leaving. The others hushed her. It was unheard of. They feared that he might return, or worse, that she just might act upon her words as she had done before.
“I will get out of this hole someday! Someday I’ll just run away and I’ll never come back!” she sobbed, as arms wrapped themselves around her.
“If you want to do that, don’t run away. Earn your living, stand on your own feet and walk out with honour.” The woman said it quietly, and in spite of the rebellion roaring in her chest, it made sense.
As her body weakened, so did her present resolve. She put her head in the woman’s lap, hiccupping a little, trembling a little at what the mind shall remember forever, even if the body forgets. The eyelids felt weighed down, as if mourning the loss of precious tears. Darkness seemed closer every minute. Then, when they thought she had escaped to slumber to heal, she murmured sleepily,
“How could he do this to me? He’s my father...”

Colour me Everything!

Fluorescent green socks, orange bed cover, multi-coloured checkered blanket, green knap-sack, a red one too, purple nightclothes, maroon towel, orange rain sandals, blue sneakers, green room, pink bucket, yellow umbrella, a mutli-coloured one too, green mugs, violet doormat, a wardrobe resembling a million rainbows.

Vibgyor ought to be my second name.

Snow White, Rose Red & Ashen Grey

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Do I see a dark shadow fall?
Underlining the upward curve of my eye,
Draws a weary, burdened sigh.

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Why does that frown so often crawl?
An invisible weight,
Who stained the virgin slate?

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Whither went the rosy doll?
Why the paling countenance?
There prevails a constant wince.

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
I don’t recognize her at all,
Bereaved of golden sunshine,
Grey ashes and youth entwine.

Static Electricity

He bends down to whisper something in my ear. I hear nothing. The exhalation of warm air, mingled with an intoxicating fragrance, brushes down on my neck and catapults a current through my body, powerful enough to consume me. His eyes dance in the paling light, so luminous in contrast. They pull me closer. Closer I come.
He chatters away. I hear. I listen to nothing. My eyes run through his hair, my mind kisses his lips, which speak, knowing not how much they are desired.
I sit on the pavement, barely conscious of my fingertips sailing softly on the skin of my arm. My feet want to tread towards him, my fingers want to clutch his untamed hair, my chin wants to get bruised by the unkempt stubble.
I rise. His eyes follow. In an instant they read my body. He knows.
My ears ring aloud, the pace at which my heart runs is scary. He knows. What do I do now? What if I lose my mind if he touches me? What if I can never be another’s if this boy before me metamorphoses into a man and leaves his footprint on my spirit, binding me to himself forever?
Now his eyes are hungry, I know from the way his silhouette has frozen, those luminous bulbs marking my every crevice, every curve, every gesture. Desire never yelled out so loud before.
We lie in the stillness, his touch still reverberating through me, the smell of his mouth fresh in my memory. His locks sleep on his forehead, just as he does in my arms. His warm breath sweeps on my neck, but this time it feels different. My swollen lips twitch into a smile. The man has become a boy again.

The Charm of Black and White
“Hum hai rahi pyaar ke, hum se kuch na boliye,
Jo b hi pyaar se mila, hum ussi ke ho liye…….”
Simple feelings and bare innocence, expressed so plainly, so effortlessly that it makes me cry. The actor, happy under the blue sky and golden sunshine, with nothing to lose, joyful in his existence. Simplicity rules.
Where did those days disappear to? I guess, they got rubbed out by mistake, and still remain forgotten, replaced era after era by colour, better technology, complex plots, more opulent costumes and sets and violence.
Black and white Hindi films (I shall not call them “bollywood” because the word gives it a commercial, marketish, prostitutish sound) were immensely light. Even when a scene was loaded with emotion, it didn’t weigh on your heart or mind. The lyrics were meaningful, the melodies original and pleasant to the ear, unlike the cacophony that you get to hear today. For people like me, who have grown up listening to my mother sing “Aayega aayega aayega, aayega aane wala, aayega…” to me, the films today are torturous.
I wonder how it would’ve felt to have lived in that era. When I reflect, I often visualise those time as black and white and it gladdens my heart that there existed such a time when a movie could be so ‘easy’ to watch.
I barely watch films now. I can’t stand most of them. And I will not even begin talking about the music. It’s all so revolting!! It’s all a big, organised prostitution machinery – prostitution of talent, of morality, of quality, of good taste and most of all, of people.
Plagiarism is the order of the day and so is nasal singing. Nothing works without publicity and sensationalism.
Ah! The black and white times. Of course, they had their share of snags, but in relation to the monstrosities that are created today, they’re like the lights on Marine Drive, shrouded by the smog of commercialisation and vulgarity.

Who said we're "Independent" ???

If I got a chance to be a freedom fighter, I'd take the job on. We have a serious problem. And this time, the enemy isn't even flesh and blood, it's invisible. Most people can't see it. They don't even realise that it exists, even if it's staring them blatantly in the face.

The enemy has many faces. It is clever, as it is destructive. It lurks in the darkness when it wants to and comes out into the sunshine when desires. Things can't get more fatal than that.

I cannot put together a visual description for others to see what I see. But I can try.

Today is Independence Day. We've completed 60 long years of being able to 'choose' for ourselves. I walked out of home in colours of the flag, expecting to smell celebration in the air. I think I expected too much. The day looked bland, blander than usual. The streets were the same, the people seemed busy, the cars still honked at those who live life more slowly. I saw no posters, no music, no streamers. Nothing!

But why is it that days like Valentine's Day, Friendship Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Rose Day, Chocolate Day and the million other 'Days' are celebrated with more pomp and excitement?? What do we know about the origin of these 'Days'? Most of us would go blank if asked.

But we do know why we celebrate Independence Day on August 15 (unless you're a hopeless West-aping mutant). We know that people gave up blood and lives for the air we breathe today, which we fill up with smoke. We know that people endured torture for the ground we walk on so freely, and pee and spit on. We know that people gave up their sons and daughters so that we wouldn't have to sit in the 'under dog section' at theatres, buses and trains.

We KNOW. And yet we take no pride.

I feel ashamed. So ashamed.

We've lost focus and it's all the enemy's doing. Who is this enemy? Is it Westernisation? Commercialisation? Consumerism?

I think more than anything else, it's indifference. And for those who don't feel anything any more, believe me when I say this - I feel sorry for you.

Life between Green Walls

The notes are flowing smooth and melodious. She's playing the guitar just like a man gently caresses a woman. It's 12:44 in the morning and we both have work tomorrow. But who cares??!! This is the moment to live in and we're living.
I sit on the floor, my window to this blog safely placed on the mattress that causes me great backache. I hate this mattress. It's one of those folding ones, which can be converted to a sofa during the day. Only thing is, we never convert. Who's got the time?
The breeze adds a heavenly touch to the small room which is actually meant for one person, with its green walls and Enid Blyton style green door.
The notes of 'O Mandy' soar high into the night. The song's addictive. Curious readers may check it out on YouTube. It's a superb example of creativity and originality.
I've to wake up at 7 am tomorrow morning, but I don't feel like sleeping. Slumber is so dull, and yet so necessary. Sigh!
The ceiling's white but.

The Rat that ran the Show

We moved into our cosy little room, relieved at its cleanliness. It wasn't sordid and mucky like the last. Thank heavens! It took a few hours to convert a freshly-painted lifeless room into our comfort lair, with every shade of colour under the sun flashing from all directions. I like colour. So does my companion.
The roof doesn't leak. So now I wouldn't have to wake up in the dead of the night just to realise how drenched I am. We don't have our darling mango tree outside our window anymore. But we could certainly do without the monkeys that sneaked in from that very tree. Maybe because we humans have left them no place to go, they hate us. I bear no ill feelings.
Cupboards arranged, mattresses settled, groceries in place, everything from soap to earrings had a home of its own.
The pleasant breeze found its way into our home, and decided to stay, much to our comfort. And then it came. A quick black flash of flesh, elusive yet bold, negligible yet making its presence felt. My roomie went into her usual paroxysm. Sigh! Times like these I wish I had a video camera. Up she jumped onto her bed, and screamed enough to give a banishee a complex. She even 'tried' to cry. After taking in such rare moments of amusement, I pick up my bamboo stick from the National Park and chased the godforsaken rodent out of the window. Once the paroxysm passed, she stop quivering and called up the whole world to recite her life-threatening experience.
The rascal returned that very night, detected by my roomie who happened to be sleeping on the mattress on the floor. The show repeated itself all over again. I couldn't believe this was happening!! Our clean, freshly-painted room and a rat in it!!! On top of that a hysterical roommate. I drove it out again, this must be some sort of a fun game for it, I'm sure. Closed the window shut and exchanged beds with the trembling gollywog on my bed.

And this was the escapade with the attention-starved rat who came to take a stroll in our room. Must be a PR manager in ratdom.

Feelin' Random

Sometimes I feel so random in life. I randomly end up doing and saying things that aren't for the greater cause but just for the sake of their existence.

I meet a lotta randoms everyday, but then they're figures I wouldn't really wanna be associated with, coz they're more random than I am, in fact in a worse way.

So while randoming about the place, I sometimes randomly think about life and it's whole purpose. Then these randoms stop and interrupt me and i'm forced to make some random conversation with them. I feel sorry at their 'randomness' coz they lack too much purpose in life.

And then I introspect again, watching the world whizzing past, all participants of the rat race for money. I stop. Time freezes for me. I sigh. I smile to myself. And then I lie back again by the sea thinking to myself, "It feels good to be a Random."
:)

THE 'NEVERS' IN LIFE

1) Never say 'no' to ice cream.

2) Never get involved with a married man.

3) Never make out with a friend's boyfriend, especially one who is dangerously immoral & wild.

4) Never try to be someone you're not, unless you're onstage.

5) Never allow others to get you drunk.

6) Never trust someone your instinct fails to warm up to.

7) Never let sex dominate your relationship.

8) Never need anyone.

9) Never marry till you're absolutely ready to junp down the well.

10) Never wear a deep necked dress when you're changing the tyre.

What do you do when he falls
out of love with you?

You feel shock

You shed a silent tear

You endure the pain

You train yourself to accept the deceit

You still breathe

You heal

You begin to live again

You find happiness

You emerge stronger

You realise you were the better half of an incompetent partner

AGE

Is being old 'uncool'?

The times have been numerous when I've found birthday boys and girls of my age and above sound 'not so cheerful' on the very day they were born. When I ask, "so what're you doing to celebrate?" the usual response goes like this,

"What's to celebrate ya? I'm too old to do all these things. Till school it was alright.........blah....blah.....blah."

I must admit that it kinda annoys me. Just because we're growing old, it doesn't make our lives less special. The fact that we still have the good fortune to wake up to a new day ought to be reason enough to celebrate. And why is age even a consideration, when it comes to celebrate the fact that you've lived one more year, that you've had a chance to experience so many beautiful things. THAT YOU'RE NOT 6 FEET UNDER THE GROUND!

It'll be cool to throw a funky birthday party when I'm 40. I hope I live to be 40.

HIM

He holds out his hand towards me and ain’t ashamed to do so.
He leans on my shoulder and cries his heart out when he can’t bear it anymore.
He fears a lot, yet fights it like a man.
Everyday with me is different, every moment indelible.
He never tires of me, stability is his charm.
He never hesitates to touch me, whenever, wherever, certain in the belief, that I am his.
When he pulls me closer, I see a strange combination of passion and tenderness.
When he kisses me, he thinks of love.
His eyes are brave, never faltering, they pour out the truth.
He knows not the depth of his love and neither do I.
We sit together, silent for hours, yet speaking more than words can convey.
He dances with a pretty girl, I look on, smilingly. He wants only me. I know.
With me, he’s a child. Innocent. Unassuming. Simple. Opens his door to me freely.
He’s free. Free of vanity, of fears, of spite. He’s free.
He never lets my hand hang alone when walking down the street. His fingers wrap themselves around mine, telling me, “You mean the world to me, and nothing shall harm you.”
When I wake up in the morning, I find his arms nestling me, warm and strong.
He’s crazy. Absolutely insane. But his wild antics make me smile and blush.
Whenever I find a mad thing to do, he’s my partner in it. We’re reckless.
He never feels embarrassed by my presence when his friends are around. In fact, he feels proud that he’s with me and has no qualms in showing it.
Even in a crowd, his eyes single me out and stick to me, watching me as I interact with the outer world.
He knows what and who he is, which is why it’s so simple for him to be him.
He thinks I’m beautiful. I have no words to describe him.
We’re friends, we’re lovers, we’re soul-mates, we’re just two individuals who can’t get enough of each other.

What the human heart desires, the mind paints……….

She lives on Venus.
She’s one of them. Their culture, their language, their trends, their attitude – it’s now all hers too. When she threads through the busy streets, she blends with the colours of the land. Yet, in a unique way, she stands out. Life sails on smoothly with some inevitable rough patches here and there.

And then, it’s time to fly back home to Pluto, the lands of her roots, her birth, her adolescence. Whether her land of death, one never can say. Love, warmth, care, love. An incessant flow.
And then it’s all put to test when two different cultures cross each other like strangers on the same path walking in opposite directions. Friction is born.
They don’t approve of the liberty she takes to be herself. She doesn’t care about what others would think if she wore a sleeveless dress. She doesn’t refrain from speaking her mind. That’s the way she is on Venus. It just comes so naturally.
But then, what comes naturally isn’t acceptable. You gotta tweak it till it suits everyone else. And the real you, is lost somewhere below those layers of modifications and compromises.

So, does she devise a plan to develop a split personality, to keep everyone happy? She could be someone else on Pluto and someone entirely different on Venus. Wouldn’t that be convenient?
Ha! They wish!

LIVING WITH YOURSELF

Living on your own ain’t easy.

You won’t find the comforts of home, the luxury of a washing machine, the opulence of hygienic food ready at the dinner table, the convenience of an air conditioned car, and the warmth of a sparkling clean home.

The skin on your palms would grow coarse washing clothes every week. You’d find yourself eating trash, which is probably all you can afford. The body would get acclimatized to coolness granted by an archaic, noisy fan. You would also discover that no matter how hard you try, your room still looks like a pig sty, a week after the spring-cleaning spree.

Not to forget, the ‘broke’ status, which you would find yourself in frequently. Borrowing from kind friends is the next resort, and mind you, every penny ought to be repaid. That’s the unspoken rule.

But what an individual living on her own, in a city she cannot completely call ‘home’, needs is emotional support from her family, her oldest friends, and of course, her man. This support and love is indispensable to fight moments of loneliness and home-sickness. It isn’t a piece of cake to start a new life elsewhere, far away from your roots and everything that’s familiar. You’re actually transcending the comfort zone built up through childhood and adolescence, and it takes great courage to walk right out of it into the big, bad world.

It’s scary to live on your own. But, it is the best way to learn how to fly. Independence feels terrific. You decide, you choose, you use your discretion. And you’re responsible for everything.

A combination of loving parents, awesome friends, a caring man, a courageous spirit and the freedom to live in your own ‘random’ style rubs out every inconvenience and predicament that you might face when you’re on your own. It strengthens you. And you go out there fearlessly, certain in your belief that there are many to whom you mean the world.

TO THE MOON AND BACK

1,166 kilometers.

Nearly broke.

Exhausted.

Anxious.

Excited, yet calm.

Terrified, yet dogged.

She went the distance.......... To him.

His astonished face was worth a million. His happiness, much more.

The precious, few days, at times crawled, and at other times flew.

Love. Conflict. Discord. Love. Turbulence. Near separation. Love. Irritation. Silence. Love.

What is it about love that it butts in and saves two human beings from the end, that keeps them together like two parts of the same thing?

Love binds, it heals, it breeds patience and most of all, love forgives.

There is a lot to learn. Many mistakes to make. Loads of pain to give and loads of pain to receive.

The mind asks, “Is it worth it?”

And the heart passionately replies, “Yes.”

ISABEL

We found her exerting her young vocal chords outside our door on a quiet Sunday morning. Her abnormally loud meows alarmed us considering that she wasn’t any bigger than our palms. We frantically waited for her mother to come. She never did.
We looked helplessly at each other as the little creature’s cries grew more desperate. And then we decided to do something. Our motherly instincts galvanized us into action. We put her in a box with some scraps of cloth to serve as warm bedding, bought some milk, a dropper and fed her with great difficulty. She has survived like this for two days.
Her mother refused to claim her as her own flesh and blood. She smelt it suspiciously, turned tail and went back to her other three kittens. Down she plopped beside Isabel’s step siblings and put a protective paw over them and her eyes spoke, “These are my only children I don’t know that imposter.” The bitch! I hate cats precisely for this.
So Isabel came to be taken care of by three surrogate mothers. We try to feed her, understand her demands and needs and provide her with love which her own mother never offered her.
Tomorrow, madam goes to the vet for shots and professional advice which we ignorant young mothers desperately need.
Whether Isabel will survive or not is uncertain. It’s an eternal battle between life and death. And we hope Isabel wins it.

I'M NOT THE CENTRE OF ANYBODY'S WORLD SO WHY SHOULD I CARE ???

The world would be great if there was no dependence - on persons or inanimate objects. Perhaps it is this dependence that makes us so mundane and ordinary and pathetic. Its true, we're all a pathetic bunch!! There are a few exceptional ones who don't need anyone. They're good all by themselves. Are we to envy them and lock them in the furnace to burn out their existence or to learn from them? Well, the former sounds better to me. Or better still, us lesser humans who need others should just excommunicate the superhumans. Then we shall see who needs who!!!

INEXHAUSTIBLE EXHAUSTION

When I try to jog my mind back to last week, it gets stuck and begs me to stop. It refuses to go through those streets again, those memories of truckloads of assignments, unrealistic deadlines, 15 hours of disturbed sleep in 72 hours, backache, tired eyes, writer's block, warped eating cycle, mugs of tea and hot water to keep us awake, and marathons to college with my heavy laptop slung around my sore shoulder, racing against time to be in class for attendance. It's been a rollercoaster ride this last week and schedules and workloads don't seem to be getting any lighter. There were times when I nearly gave up, sat back and considered what would happen if I failed, shuddered at the thought and returned to the grind. There were times when I laughed at our situation and told my roomie, "Gowri, if we can pull through this, we can handle ANYTHING in life."
And anyway, this rat race seems crazy, but it isn't impossible to win. And win we shall.