Renewed passion

She had moved seas away, and her amiable biba had moved worlds away. As much as she tried to bury her memories and let the past live in the winding hands of the chiming clock, she couldn’t cut the umbilical cord. She yearned to meet people she knew from childhood, the people who had the cords of their lives intertwined with hers, people with fragments with the same blood.

The old teak desk had travelled long and far with her. The steaming kahwa in her hands and the splashing rain on the windows activated a long lost passion- to write. The old scrappy notebook was dug out and she sat pouring her imagination on the paper and writing each word like an artist, weaving and curving the soul of the letters as she went…

The squirrel, the hole and the cake

It couldn’t have been denied to her.. the sweet innocent girl that she had been, for the longest time, undemanding and yielding. It was after all, only a simple slice of chocolate cake. She ran out in the garden, her soft curls flying back, and her pink frilly frock doing its own little ballet. She tripped on a rock and fell into the dug up hole. The hole was never visible to her before, but now she could see for what it really was- an escape. A beautiful strawberry bush grew in the corner and the little one went over and plucked a few. Suddenly, magically, of course, a squirrel appeared in the corner. There was nothing unusual about the squirrel, except that it was wearing an apron! A tiny squirrel apron. The little one waved a hello to the strangely civilized squirrel. It was returned by a shock and a yelp for help and the animal scampered out of the hole.

To this day she wonders if it was a figment of her overactive and over-magical imagination or was it, eerily, real?

____________________

Delhi Musings

My older and learned friend told me a couple of days ago that am now a ripe mango (on the account of my age) and would burst/ rot soon. He said that in reference to the birthday and the grand entrance to the later part of the good age- the twenties. Now that generally is not a very nice feeling is it? Being told that you are akin to a highly fattening fruit which would rot soon anyways!

I have been driving around in the good old capital for a while and the people here don’t cease to shock me everyday. If I had to count the number of people who randomly dart in front of your car, and not with the intention of giving up their precious lives, I would have a full time job doing just that.

Has anyone heard/seen the legendary "payal" (chime-sound making-anklet/ trinket) wearing ghost? I had been visited off late by one and rather frequently at that. The scared mind refused to check the hell called balcony and I stayed put for nights on end. Then yours truly gathered all the guts that I had and ventured out in the dark, only to find the watchman chaining and then later unchaining a gate in the backyard. Ugh, he killed all the magic and supernatural for me in one gusty move. Sad, very…

And all this pointless writing only because this city killed my creativity and my friend accused me of being too busy to blog :)

The union

She winked and her eyebrows narrowed to a twin-arc. It wasn’t a frown, she was hit by the greens outside. The fast train flew by the scenic beauty outside. The Dan Brown in her hands called her back to the print, but it lacked the strength. The pitter patter outside turned into a storm and she loved storms. The unrest gave her peace, unusual but not unique. There were others of her kind, only far and few. The swaying greens of the plains and the grey atop all other life made her brood. Soon, very soon she would meet a part of her, separated a long time ago.

The soul fry

This is not in reference to the yummy restaurant in Fort, this is also not in reference to "soul curry", the mouth-watering Goan stuff, but this is in reference to the real real thing. How one person could control her whole life, was beyond her imaginable beliefs. How one person wanted to control her time, was unthinkable. But that's what it had come to be, her soul was finally fried. And they tell her this is only the beginning.

Telectroscope!

And now this! I wish I was in London today. I would have been found peering through the “Telectroscope”. An artist called Paul St. George with a very intriguing ancestry developed the idea and now Londoners can see New Yorkers live! Paul tells a story of his great-grandfather, an eccentric Victorian engineer, Alexander Stanhope St George who supposedly constructed a gigantic tunnel under the Atlantic oceanbed, stretching from one corner of the world to another- between London and New York. He claims that though this orginal venture failed at the turn of the 20th century, he has now installed parabolic optic mirrors at the two ends of the tunnel to enable people from the 2 continents to see each other in real time through the tunnel. Of course this is all faff. The actual broadband transmission gives people the impression that they are peering down a huge tunnel across the ocean. It purports to be magical and something different.

WANTED this very instant: A very efficient TELEPORTER!

http://www.tiscali.co.uk/telectroscope/home.php

The new crossroads...

The woman loved everything about rains, the smell, the wind, the squeaky-clean greenery, washed roads and getting soaked. She sat cross-legged on the floor of the balcony. Elvis sang “suspicious minds” in the background while the fresh lavender flowers pleased the senses. The rain poured down the skies and drenched the solemn soul to the bone. The trains came and went, their gong boomeranging through the plain. The sound stayed for a while in the heavy air before dying out. That enveloping sound had begun to become a part of her routine. She used to talk about cross roads and now she lives at one. One of the busiest in the country.

She sat musing at where the twists and turns of her life had brought her. A new beginning or a new end? A new shore or a new edge?

At peace in the hills

She wandered in the hills by herself… despite the crowd, the solitude burnt intensely inside. The thematic pauses and lingering memories of yore made her smile. She was always a loner, a loner surrounded by the love of the world. Blessed with the things desired, friends needed and the family that was forever yielding. No one would believe her if she told them that she liked being alone…

Her writing always had props, just as they existed in real life. Today she saw the most beautiful wind chime she had ever laid eyes on, made of pink colored glass. The reflection of the light from the bulb in the shop fell on her cheeks and formed a halo around her. She smiled again and took the longest route to trek back home.

The old telescope had been lying neglected for a while. For the star gazer she used to be, this was sacrilege. She cleaned and toiled and polished the darn thing and then set about fixing it up. It was duly mounted on the stand on the rooftop and she sat there for what seemed like hours, gazing at the virgin, clean, dark, star studded sky. Have you ever done that? If not, I strongly recommend you do. It makes you one with the rest of the world, the space called the sky and the space within you…

Recycling memories

The haunting tune from OSO emanated from the dark. As Abdul took the curb to get back on to the Marine Drive, I thought to myself- is there any other place I would rather be in? The magical moments of life come to us when least expected.

Teary goodbyes and “see you soon’s” are the best things in life, they tell you that you are loved, that you will meet again and that nothing is permanent, even separation. We meet, we talk, we make friends and we move to other worlds. What remains are memories and the ringing sound of laughter from the world left behind… We grow wings and fly away, only to disappear into the sands once more to be reborn and this cycle of life and death is the only thing which is forever.

And as I read somewhere, it's good to have friends who live at a distance, it makes the earth seem larger where friends make the longitudes and the latitudes.

Wings

Ah, there it is, on the charming window sill again. Sitting beautifully, softly moving its gorgeous wings. She hadn’t seen it in a while. While she moves from one understanding of the world to another, she will carry these images in her mind, forever, and those on paper will always be b & w. A little like her profession, devoid of colour but exciting and aggressive nonetheless. A long time ago, she had fought with her childhood best friend. To make up for it, she gave her friend a tiny caterpillar in a small box with air holes in it, with a note which read “one day we shall grow up like this caterpillar which will soon become a butterfly, and fly away… let’s make the most of what we have”.

Another farewell

Every time she moves to a new place, she starts writing a new chapter in her book. The romantic fool that the woman is, she weaves her life into a beautiful fairy tale. But she has closed so many chapters in that book of hers that she carries a choked feeling around for a while. Her heavy heart bids adieu to the city that gave her her first bread and butter. The wind scatters her hair and the sea beckons her to stay. Bye bye Bombay, love you to bits.

BOMBAY, The life that was

For the better or the worse, this city has grown on me and it only took a year to do so. To leave it feels like amputating a part of me. I will carry figments of it in my heart forever. The exhilarating, the smelly, the crowded and dirty yet beautiful, formidable, spirited and the extremely fair city... The long drive to work, the crazy traffic, Hard Rock Café, Gokul’s, Tea Centre, friends, loved ones, midnight excursions, exchanging notes on books with the Butterfly, friendly banter with colleagues, office and even the cabs, trains and the rains!! Bombay never lets the lonely down. The solitude is always momentary and the crowd exists forever. The only city that kills you one moment and breathes life into you the next moment. The only city which made me fall in love with it, unconditionally. The only city which took away as much from as it gave. Here, now, our paths that were or are meant to be, separate for the moment, to come together later.

Colours :-)

She loves colours, in everything… Not flashy, gaudy or bright, just colour… Every morning she lights an incense stick in a yellow printed holder, it’s like her food for the senses- smell, vision and touch and her ode to the fire God. Then she lets the sun in and makes her morning flush tea. The pink tea mug with the brown fluid is another reason behind the perfect morning. The blue bedspread and the light peach curtains absorb the yellow energy of the sun. She messes up her hair while reading the news and plays with the red sequined anklet. The green tea box is like a treasure chest, one will find various types of tea bags in there and all one needs to do to de-stress is to open it and inhale deeply. If you ever have a dull day, surround yourself with colours and enticing smells and be ready to take on anything and everything!

Senseless

The silver haze on a platter, the meandering truth in a splinter,
The darkness of the light and the beauty seen by the blind,

The flowers on a grave, the love of a slave
The deity of the priest, the life of a sinner…

Lesson

The spices had faded away a long time ago, leaving only a hint of vanilla behind. Vanilla is a rather strong and seemingly nondescript spice. Its notes remind you of a warm sunny day with all well in the world. It smells lovelier on women. She wanted to go back to the shop to get the dry spice. On her way she stopped by the stationery shop which sold vintage photographs of the city. She climbed the ladder to look for an old Trafalgar pic and she was trying to find her way in the dark attic when she tripped over something. There lay, the most beautifully preserved vines of vanilla. Sometimes we look helter skelter for our heart’s desires but they lie in front of our eyes, for our taking. These spices never cease from haunting and yet teaching you life’s lessons. If we look hard and we look far, all the joy in the world can be ours.

sands...

She was sitting on the beachside, sipping mojitos and musing. She had stopped ravaging the canvas a while ago. Her friends were away, dipping into the ocean and her momentary solitude seemed blessed. People people everywhere and a not soul to love. The hues of blue merging into yellow seemed strangely green to her. All the contemplation took her attention away and she spilt her drink. The mint and the alcohol made strange prints on the damp sand. It looked like a banyan tree with roots touching the ground. The tree of knowledge and enlightenment, the print was speaking to her. It said that the surface isn’t always what we fathom it to be, maybe the sky is the end and earth is the beginning. Maybe sadness is better than happiness. And maybe comfort is discomfort.

The X Files

I had been trying to get rid of the clutter surrounding me, human and non-human. I was sorting out my cupboard back home, it looked like the netherworld on a bad day and it was a tough job. I found this old green file, another ghost from the past, which was full of print outs of what looked like vague black and white images. As I turned the pages I saw Fox Mulder and Dana Scully staring from the pages. I was an avid X Files fan. A thorough search of the forgotten drawers revealed jazzy platforms, scarily high heels (I honestly didn’t ever need them) and mushy cards from various quarters. My mother hates clutter and keeps pestering me to get rid of old stuff. I save everything and find it tough to discard old notes exchanged in class, letters from people I might hate now, and generally exceedingly irrelevant stuff.

I sat on the hillside by myself at 4:30am; the noise outside the room had begun to spook the hell out of me and I decided to be brave for once. The untouched serene valley is the epitome of purity and brings a sense of well being to even the worst stricken. I have never seen the sky so clear, the stars so bright... the mountains stood grey, old, monstrous and unyielding. Matt sat next to me yawning and licking itself as I patted its soft black coat.

There has to be more to life than the generic weeks that have passed by at an alarmingly fast pace. The soft cold breeze bit my face. Moving on and moving out are both tough calls but one cannot get stuck in a warp because of complacency. So many things were tugging at the heart simultaneously but I have found in myself the strength to follow love and passion.

The yellow butterfly

She was scribbling away as usual, on the tattered handmade paper book she so adores. Some people are just so old fashioned and yet blend into the nouveaux so well. She loves to write letters and send postcards and touches lives of many.

The old mud baked cup sat on her desk for hours before she thought of re-heating the tea. The wild rose creeper had begun to conquer the window and the foliage looked radiant in sunlight. The glow of the green and the beauty of the red, in her eyes it was the perfect combination, at once soothing and at once exciting. There are very few things in the world that have that effect on you.

There has been a change in her little microcosm off late. The nomadic heart has been feeling the urge to let go of the known and the have’s. The dreams have been conspicuous by their absence. Then out of the blue, a yellow butterfly flew in and fluttered and settled on her mug. She watched in awe and then stealthily started clicking photographs on the new black and white roll. All that colour captured in the monotonous tones. That’s how life becomes sometimes. That’s how life has been for a while now.

Splinters of the fragmented mind

“It is not easy to truly have the measure of those who live aslant to the rest of us”.

I told a friend yesterday about my wish to go to Pakistan and see a part of our heritage and a part of the sub-continent with unbiased eyes. She literally went into convulsions! How I would love to have the famous kebabs of Lahore, see the old Punjab, walk down the beach in Karachi, and see a life well removed from ours in NWFP!

She had been simmering with something for a while, her anger was not centered, and it had started to turn into rage off late. She had to find something new to do, a new place to go to, a new life… The restless soul can be unforgiving and in constant search of the unknown. She was walking down a street in the evening by herself and she saw a child sitting on the sea side. The effervescent woman can make conversation with anyone, literally. Anyone! She started talking to the urchin and there was an instant connection. They joked, laughed and chatted till late. She bought the child some food and water. Her anger started dispersing. You know what an aura is? Hers was huge, she had too much energy and despite working hard, she had lots left to spare. The restlessness began to fade away that night and she was able to write again.

The Bong Connection

There are remnants of the bygones in each and every dust particle in Calcutta. The city I love unconditionally, without belonging to it, without having ever stayed in it, without having any connections to it. I still remember my first visit to Cal vividly, as if it were yesterday- the monsoon drenched roads, the lively Park Street, the crowded Forum, the beautiful Millennium Park and the place I guess I’m not destined to see (on the inside)- Victoria Memorial. I remember getting bewitched by the angel on the top of the structure and the tanga ride that followed. People wonder why I would want to go to Cal for a holiday; it is an unusual place to go when there are the hills and the beaches selling tranquility. Why would one go from one maddening metro to another? Because, I feel the Cal-Calling, a little akin to the call of the wild. And of course, there is the case of my inimitable Bong connection.

There was this lingering silence, promise and peace on the banks of the famous river. The setting sun, the lamp on the boat and the lights on the bridge; they were all yearning for attention. The coffee at the Coffee House asked to be appreciated for being in circulation since aeons ago and the crumbling College Street sold hopes, ghosts, jokes and love. The lifeless yet ageless old monuments stood in grandeur as the vestiges of the empire that it was once a part of. Modernity mixed with culture; that is Calcutta for the uninitiated…