Nothing has changed....Yet everything has!!

10.40 pm. There you stroll into my place to collect your stuff, I invite you in graciously. This is the last goodbye I am ever going to waste, I almost order myself. You ask me if I am okay and I lie convincingly. The awkward hug, a peck on the cheek. No tears, not in front of you at least. You wonder if I have any plans for tonight. I don’t. Dinner? Yes, you wait patiently as I get ready.

You take me to your favorite restaurant again and I pretend to enjoy the mushy salad yet again. We avoid eye contact when our song begins to play. Later, over dessert, I look over at your perfect face, you seem faded. My hands have forgotten how your skin feels. I notice you have missed a couple of spots while shaving. You smile. And cause an intense ache in my heart. I smile back, pleasantly surprised that it has the same effect on you.

Let’s not talk about how you broke my heart, how I smashed your Blackberry into the wall, about all the passion that wilted away, the way you stormed out, the way I slammed the door, all the words that were thrown at each other, vexed looks, irate gestures, petulant behavior, vicious words, heart wrenching truths, streams of tears. Hurtful.

As you take out your credit card to pay the bill, I notice you haven’t taken my picture out of your wallet. Neither have I. We talk, but avoid the questions we really want to ask. You talk about your mother. I crib about my work. We both listen politely.

Driving along the shore, I request you to stop. It’s a beautiful night. May we? You oblige. I ask you to take your shoes off and sit in the sand. You are kind and for once, do not complain about it. I dig my feet deep into the wet sand. You frown disapprovingly but only when my head is turned away. We share the headphones, like we always did. And it would be safe to stick to Rahman.

I reminisce about the fresh love, the lost love, shy smiles, holding hands, biting into the same bar of chocolate, sharing an ice-cream. You smile your disarming smile, hide my hand in yours and promise me that nothing has changed. I shake my head disappointingly. You remind me of the reasons. You use some of my words. I smile meekly. You place your arm over my shoulder, our heads touching in collective dismay, tears streaming down my cheeks. The moonlight bleeds through the sky, blessing the cursed.

Quietly, we wonder where it all went wrong. You watch me looking at the stars, wistfully, straining my neck a little. You take your jacket off and place it on the sand behind us, for our heads to rest on. I look at you gratefully.

The phone runs out of charge, silence reigns. Ruptured by the deafening waves & sounds of broken hearts. We listen, entranced; to keep the silence at bay. You begin to whistle; I try not to get annoyed. You stop.

I turn my head sideways and catch you looking at me. Just like the old times. For a moment, we both believe the lie we have spun for ourselves. Nothing has changed.

Love Affair with quotes..

Cantankerously sans inspiration

P.S. Read at your own risk.

A slow sliding of a drop from the top of a condensed Pepsi bottle to the bottom of it. One after the other. What a beautiful trail it forms on its way down. In its hurry to reach the bottom, it speeds past others. Cutting through the slow pokes, fusing with the fast paced and sometimes totally ignoring the still ones. Is its mission accomplished when it reaches the wooden table top? Or is this just the beginning of a tedious journey? A journey. Oh help me because I am so very bored.

A solid looking table that could do with some coaster using. The stains on it tell a lot about the kind of treatment the table goes through every day, day after day and also how meticulous the dhaba waiters are. Cigarette ashes are scattered unevenly over the surface, forming interesting looking puddles wherever they are met with the condensed liquid or spilled drinks. Lean over to place your elbows on it at your own risk please. Clumsy regulars who were too busy flirting, making a point, laughing, texting, drowning their misery in the cold drinks on a hot sunny afternoon, to even notice. The glass of lime juice is untouched and looks a little out of place. I wouldn't want to be that glass of Vitamin C and pulp. It garners too much attention and starts off quite a few conversations on the wrong foot. The table top is scratched up from all the rough use. And in some places it is even engraved. That must be flattering. To have individuals taking out the time and effort to mark it with initials, important sounding philosophical messages or just something in crude and angry strokes. The harsh and low lighting doesn't do anything to flatter it. The conversation surrounding the table is mind numbingly uninteresting.

It is getting painfully tiring to force a laugh at appropriate time and to listen to the same stories again and again. The onslaught of smoke on the sensory organs is not helping. How much more time before it would be okay to gather one's belongings and leave? Time is ticking real slowly now. Almost mockingly. A story is being related to the group. A cacophonous voice starts with the annoying details. Details that change with every narration. I choose to concentrate on the condense again. At least that isn't predictable.

I..you..we…here..there..anywhere…

02:52.

Not tonight. I can't recollect how I got here. It's quick when you want time to stand still. To sit back and watch. To cherish what isn't yours. To pause the words and sneak through their subtleties. This isn't the happiest hour of the day, but right now time doesn't matter. I am smiling, to myself, as I revisit the last few conversations. Sifting through random ones and picking out the bits that I want to remember. To never forget.

Tina is giving words to my thoughts. The ones that are yet to form. Those that refuse to unwrap the hidden secrets. It's puzzling when you aren't sure what the other wants. But it is absolutely crazy to not know what you yourself want. She is putting her thoughts into me while coaxing my own out of their hidden spots. And as always she is creating magic with her music. Be my friend. Hold me, wrap me up. I'm needy. Warm me up. And breathe me...

I didn't mean to get lost or revisit the past. I didn't mean to feel relieved to have left it all behind. To have left you behind. Nothing more is expected of us. No pretending. No cracks hidden beneath the beautiful muslin. No audience. A silent look. And then we turn our back to each other and walk away. Slow, deliberate steps. The curtains fall. No claps. No cheers.

There is silence. Clear, flawless, undeterred. And Tina is tearing softly through it. Carefully. Not wanting to disrupt the harmony. But there is silence in her words too. The other kind. The fractured one, the one mutilated beyond repair. Without a trace of sound. Or a spur of the moment. Did I just hear you slur? Blow it all away, don't wait for me to say. But even if you had your way, you would find a way to blow it all away.

Signs of a slight headache creeping in. Slowly. The kind that kills. Silence. It fascinates me. This absence of noise. Or sound. Or movement. It scares me, this silence. And I keep trying to fill it in. If not with words, then with thoughts. The clock is leering.

03:09. Obscene. Make no sense of this, because there isn't any. There rarely is. But you knew that already. You were always the smart one. I wish there were more like you. I wish it would stop ticking. Let's not fight today. I am so dead tired.

I want to be in the park. Will you follow me up the rungs and down the slide? I will walk you through a world of fantasy and we can swap smiles. And then walk towards the sea and stop only when the waves pull us in. But I won't leave your hand because to you I am beautiful and that might keep us afloat. For a while. And if we die, we will die knowing. Knowing all that was unsaid. Because we didn't always need words to communicate.

Tomorrow will be different. Without them around. It hasn't hit yet. It will when I wake up. A new day comes with bitter realizations. Always. This is a first. I can't believe it myself. Did we hug? I don't remember anymore. Maybe we didn't. Maybe we should have. Maybe I don't remember because it doesn't matter. It is after all, inconsequential. Nothing that is forgotten can be of any importance to you and I. You. And I....

03: 24.

Dreams..

I dream of a grand house with high ceiling.

Old furniture and huge windows.

Flowing curtains and stained glass.

I dream of kids grown and gone.

This makes me a little sad.

I dream of a home by itself.

Huge bookshelves manning the walls.

And rocking chairs meant specially for us.

I dream of cold nights and a hot cups of tea.

A grandfather's clock and sultry afternoons.

An aging lover who will sit by me.

Holding hands and reminiscing.

I dream of tender caresses and quiet conversations.

Understanding and accommodating.

I dream of having led a full life.

And having had someone special to share it with.

I dream a dream that I know will come true.

I dream of you and me.

And sometimes, I dream only of you.

Of book covers..Of beautiful lives that are yet to be led.

In a beige rack full of books sits War and Peace. By Leo Tolstoy. I am quite taken by its cover. It shows portions of a woman in a flowing white gown. There is a hint of a man in a uniform in the background. Both have a very aristocratic feel about them. She is sitting straight and looking down. The book stops near her nose. I imagine her eyes to be sad. She seems very docile. Someone who is admired from far. The one who always gets noticed in a room full of people.

Certain book covers have the power that make my lips form a tiny oval of awe, my eyes to sparkle with fascination and my knees to go weak with giddiness.

I try to imagine what kind of days they were when people would wake up early on a cold, quiet morning, tighten their dressing gowns around their waist and brave the chill by opening the front door and stooping to pick their daily ration of milk bottles and instead be surprised by a cheap wicker basket housing a new born child. What would be going on in their minds when the baby looks at them through a sleepy early morning daze and extend its tiny fingers for them to hold. Did they feel an instant sense of responsibility toward this life? Is their first thought the well being of the baby? Did they have the heart to walk all the way to the orphanage in town? And as they walked did they hold the baby protectively in their arms or did they hold the basket gingerly? Did they, from time to time, over the years, think back to the day when they found a baby on their front porch? I wonder.

That fresh tingly feeling of a new crush? The small smiles, happy thoughts, the day dreaming, the quickening of the heartbeat, the shyness... Ah the delicious wonderfulness of it all. I am trying to wipe this grin off my face. In vain. Sigh.

 

 

I Will Follow You Through The Clouds, Big And Small. Yes, I’m all set to be start a new journey with Nutties. Save the date – 26 april 2014. And my grin just got wider & refuses to go away.

 

 

Spices & herbs...and aromas wafting across..

There is something so divine about cooking. Almost enticing. The tantalizing aromas that are unleashed. The sizzling noises that fill the air. The satisfaction garnered from chopping those vegetables into minute cubes. The happiness that comes when tasting your own creation.

I don't know of anything that is more ambrosial than the smell of garlic crackling in hot oil. And the smoke that glides provocatively. Spices are wonderful like that. With the way they fuse with each other and create something so completely delectable. These spices are what I like best about Indian cooking. They add a whole new dimension to my kitchen experience. I want to say I cooked today. Or that I at least helped ma. But all I did was look. I sat by the kitchen counter, nibbling on a carrot, happy to be there. Feeling like a five year old again.

I love looking at stuff being cooked. I like being surprised by the way certain ingredients rise through the rest and tickle my senses. It's a hot afternoon and the sun is disintegrating through the backyard door and falling all over the kitchen floor. Like little diamonds of snow scattered generously under my feet. They glisten attractively and make me want to never set foot on these tiles, lest I disturb the pattern.

The two people I used to enjoy watching around the kitchen is ma (my mom) & amma (as we fondly used to call our maternal gran). Both so great with the cooking, it was as though the ingredients themselves want to please them. I was always amazed by the way they make things fall in their right place. Two of the most pragmatic people I know. Both, different in their treatment in the kitchen but the results, always delicious. I still get to eat what ma prepares & I miss you amma.

A face in the thoughts

There is a face that is keeping me company today, following my train of thoughts into winding paths of rustic melancholy and those of bittersweet symphonies. Refusing to leave my sub-conscious mind, refusing to leave behind fragmented vagueness of its temporary presence. A photograph of a face. Something that appeared in my news feed early today. The hair are pulled back and covered in a red scarf which has been tied around like a turban, allowing just a glimpses of the hairline.

The face is radiant, with a hint of freckles decorating the high cheek bones, the bridge of her nose. There is a smile, curving the thick lips into a haunted craving. Pale pink, hint of peach. The lines around her mouth refuse to give away her age and the crinkles around her eyes are too shy to make an appearance. The smile is inviting, charming almost enticing. But what held my gaze were her eyes. I am convinced that if I stare into them long enough, they will divulge a secret. A tale, maybe a saga. Something that I know will change my life forever. Something that will lift my senses, my spirits, my hope and give me the final push towards my destiny. I can't remember the last time I saw someone as beautiful as Zadie Smith. Zadie is a Brit author, having various short stories & novels to her credit. I was tempted to buy one of her books last week but restrained myself as the guilt of having new unread books at home swept over me. But I will read Zadie Smith one day.

I have been accused to feeling too much. Allowing emotions to take over all other senses. Letting the beauty wrench my heart and the sorrows to bury my day into strange bubbles of denial. That I look too deep and notice too much. That every word spoken is taken to heart, every promise broken tears me apart. That if I want to live, I should change. But I don't know any other way of living. I don't understand how not to see, feel, sense. How you can turn a blind eye to the beauty in those faces. The ones which have suffered through many a tragedies but are still smiling at you, nudging you to smile back. How can their words not feel like a twist of a knife, piercing your heart? How can the beauty not make you sigh?

I can't remember much of what I did today, or for that matter, yesterday. It's been a quiet passage of time, one minute overlapping another, till the sands of time escape my distracted existence. I think time stopped for me after I do not remember what. Time for me to stop blabbering. I like myself more when I make sense. So long.

Daughter dearest

This post features a loving & honest letter from a mother to her daughter. Rarely are such words spoken & when they do, they certainly strike the right chords in all daughter’s hearts. Sonali, for sure, is a lucky daughter.

Here’s to Rashima massi for baring out her heart & love. Thanq for letting us publish this.

Dated 15/03/2012

My dear daughter,

You are the most precious gift God has bestowed on me. My first interaction with you immediately after your birth is still refreshing and difficult to erase from memory. Unlike other kids, you did not cry immediately on birth. Your eyes were wide open as if you were searching for a known Soul in a strange world. Both of us were put in the same room on separate beds. You took your own time and started crying probably experiencing loneliness for the first time I was dying with a desire to comfort you in my lap. Post-delivery weakness, however, prevented me from doing so. Disappointed being helpless, I vowed to protect you against all odds in future with the shield of love and affection.

Next day, your father put you in my lap. First time I experienced the whole world falling into my arms. My love with you was love at first sight. I am still in love with you and shall always remain for the rest of my life. Being a woman, you gave me the honor and privilege of motherhood. They say the kids should be indebted to their parents for being their creators. In my opinion, it should be other way around. I feel indebted to you for blessing me with motherhood and making my life meaningful.

Your smile on waking up in the morning was and still remains most adorable. You were the most charming and active baby I had ever seen. As you were learning to crawl, sit by yourself, stand and eventually walked, I enjoyed each bit of your progress .Within 8 months you weaned yourself, at 11 months you walked on your own and before the first year was over you were talking in broken sentences and potty trained.

My life revolved around you and your slight sniff or cough would worry me. Nothing mattered to me except you. I took you wherever I went and you also clung to me as if we were inseparable I was elated and felt at the top of the world.

At 3, my motherly affection experienced the first challenge, should I say so, from your father when you stated” Mere Papa Madhuri Dixit se shadi karange, yai mummy bahut gandi hai”. (My father will marry Madhuri Dixit because my mom is very bad). I felt hurt; probably a jealous first reaction of a new mother .I was quick to realize that your love for both of us was equivalent.

Your commitment towards your father was unconditional. At the age of 7, when all children used to play in swimming pool, to please your father you would swim 50 lengths at a stretch. At such a tender age you acted like a perfect daughter and left no stone unturned to change your father’s dream into reality. I admire you for that.

Playing with baby dolls and making dresses; School admission and swimming competitions; Celebrating Birthdays and attending Kitty Parties; ride on scooty and trip to Patiala; facing property disputes and getting house  constructed; depressions and bad health and last but not the least curbing our desire to shop, we have been through all together in good as well as in bad times .Thank you for making this otherwise arduous journey so pleasurable.

You have grown into a beautiful maiden and your perception towards life has changed. Quiet naturally, you desire to explore yourself and feel suffocated to act as a “Perfect daughter”. I respect your natural instinct and opine that this very characteristics of yours shall only make you self-reliant and capable of facing the world all by yourself, one day.

You started realizing that your father had pushed you too hard at times. Perhaps he did, but that is the difficult part which one of the parents has to perform. I know you understand the same.  His best intentions and your special place in his heart are also known to you. You know more than anybody else that his unconditional support shall always be with you and will always be your ship in the storm of life.

Remember that you are strong and can accomplish anything no matter how long the roads to your goals look. Nothing is impossible for you as you have demonstrated it repeatedly with your performance in classroom, swimming pool or golf course. You earned admiration from your peers, juniors, seniors and gurus alike. This quality of yours puts you in different class. Be confident and take pride in yourself .Remember that everyone is different and different is beautiful. Dream big.  Leap high and go for it!  I have faith in you, my beautiful daughter.
 
Sonali, take the life as it comes .Don’t be scared of failures .Ups and downs are the part of life. Laugh!  Your giggle is just one of the many things I love so much about you.  When you are sad, I am sad with you. When you worry I do also. But when you are happy all is right in my world. All I want from you is to be a good person and to be happy with yourself. If you can do that, everything else is a piece of cake.

Sonali, treat your body like a temple. The mind and the body work together. Your body is a good support system for the mind and the spirit. If you take good care of it, you can strive your dreams and attain maximum potential.
 
You have grown into a responsible, tender, young and beautiful woman who will someday be an awesome wife and mother. The man who wins your heart will have the greatest treasure. I hope you choose well. We have often talked about this and I believe God has been preparing the perfect man for you. He has been grooming him all these years. I am confident that the man of your dreams and worthy of you will come one day.
 
To the world you may be an adult but to me you will always remain my baby, my first love, my heart, my little girl, a beautiful young woman and a part of me that no one can ever take away. If I live to be 100, you will be 76. I will still be your mother and you will be my darling baby. I love you forever. Without your knowledge, I have learnt a lot from you.  I thank you for the same and for all the pleasure you brought along with it. Thank you for all the smiles and even some of the tears .Thank you for being a part of our family.  But most of all…Thank you for just being you.

I love you,

Your mom

Silence at the dawn

The silence threatens to take me down.  It's 03:53 AM and I am in a semi-sleepy state. It is lovely. At this moment. This state. Usually it is annoying. And doesn't make for much productiveness in life. But right this moment, I am not complaining. Not because it is not bothering me anymore, but because I am not in a mood of complaining. 03:54 AM is not the time to complain. It is the time to lean back and stare at the ceiling. It is the time to let the silence take over. To let the mind wander through uncharted territory. To count sheep.

The sun is rising. At 04:08 AM I can already spot a few stray rays making their way through the drawn curtains. The building opposite to my place blocks the view. And from where I am lying down, all I can see out of the window is the building.

The air is warm. Drifting through the open window. Creeping in. And making everything uncomfortable in its vicinity. Getting hold of life and making it sweat. The signs of summer fast approaching. Slowly making its way to my bones. Through my toes. I will forget it when I get back to wherever it is that I will get to.
 

Wuthering Heights. The book that messed up my sleeping cycle. The one that I had so meticulously maintained for some time now. I stayed up till 3 last night. Reading. And didn't leave the room. Reading. It is gripping. It is. Wonderfully so. A nice change. From everything I read in recent past.

The sun is rising as I write this. Technically, the sun is always rising. Somewhere. And falling. Whether I am writing, reading, sleeping...

I just heard the squeal of tires. And another. At 04:24 AM I am not too optimistic about the drivers and their sobriety. And from what I hear, there wasn't anything sober about that angry squeal. I am sure they left tire marks on the smooth road. How presumptuous I am. I have been told.

I should sleep. 04:29 AM. The birds are chirping. More rays are joining the party. Gay and merry. We stalk the night and little by little take it over for a day before it engulfs us again.

More birds chirping. There is no silence now. Is there ever?

 

Placebo on my track list. Because his voice sounds full of pain and yearning. Which feels very appropriate at the moment. It's as though he sings with a stake through his heart. Sigh. The lyrics, googled of course.

 

I wrote this novel just for you

It sounds pretentious but it's true
I wrote this novel just for you
That's why it's vulgar
That's why it's blue
...
You're always ahead of the game,
I drag behind,
You never get caught in the rain,
When I'm drenched to the bone every time,
You're the first one to swim across the Seine,
I lag behind....
...
Slip and stumble at my first offenses
It's not treason, it's no lie
You talk in paragraphs
I write my sentence
You'd better keep it in check
Or you'll end up a wreck
And you'll never wake up
You'd better keep it in check
Or you'll end up a wreck
And you'll never wake up
Wake up
 

The sun is in the room now. Uninvited. Unwanted. Around me. On me. And the chirping. It is getting slightly deafening. Time for bed.

Captured on a roll

I recently caught up with a friend of mine, an avid student of photography, after quite a few months. While we chatted nonchalantly about a lot of other things, I was intrigued when he mentioned of Nicholas Nixon & his work ‘The Brown Sisters’. An google search & here I am, writing  this post.

The Brown Sisters happen to be Nicholas’ wife and her three sisters who he photographed every year since 1975 in the same line up. What started as a whim has been an annual tradition for decades now. By the time I reached the last few photographs I felt like I knew these sisters intimately. The change through the years is very tangible. Love, happiness, disapproval, dislike, anger, affection, sadness, acceptance, excitement, aloofness are all visible - the richness of the details all captured. That's the power of photography. I could imagine the life and troubles of each of the sisters and how she dealt with it. Also, their relationship with each other went through quite a few ups and downs. You can see it in the physical distance or the lack of it maintained between them over the years. Quite endearing really.

See for yourself: http://www.zabriskiegallery.com/Nixon/TBS/nixon.htm

there is silence..

Another year without dad. I miss sitting with him, talking. Sitting with my feet tucked under me, listening intently as he told me some of the things that I won't ever forget. I miss that feeling of safety, of assurance I feel when I am around him.

The packing is gone to the winds. I cross dates for inspiration. And it ain’t working its wonders. Not yet.

Procrastinate. Procrastinating. Procrastination. I am well versed with all its forms.

Every teardrop is a waterfall - Coldplay.

She stood there with her head down. Her palms pressed against the wall in front of her, her arms outstretched. She followed the stream of hot water with her eyes. Flowing down her neck to her stomach to all the way below her ankle where it formed a puddle, waiting of its turn to be drained down the little hole. The steam rising from this puddle hindering her vision. But she didn't seem too perturbed about it. She had other things fogging her life as it was. A little steam could go amiss. Rather, will go amiss.

Just realized that the time-piece on the table has stopped ticking. Looks like the time has stood still for me so I can come to terms with my loss.

xx

Time.

Time. I would like to know what time has to race against. I wonder what keeps the time going.

At times it is crawling past me, languidly at first and then with misplaced audacity.

In fact, I would like to be time.

xx

helpless..

I slip into the empty space next to my sleeping mother, in an attempt to comfort my aching heart – hoping that her rhythmic breathing would calm the pain. But it only worsens my loneliness as I curl up to avoid the blows of reality.

The pain of longing is explosive, shattering the heart into fragments, scattering the mind to follow a zillion tangents at once. However tonight the pain is quiescently crushing, in silence. There is no tearing of the heart into a million pieces, rather a sharp stab in the heart – not only is his intensity tormenting but also the consistency throughout. I try to ignore the acute pain bursts with every breath. There is a fear pulsating through the veins at the thought of what would happen next & the mind goes numb.

My fingers are stained with ink from writing – the writing turns from a frantic scribble to a subdued scrawl and then silence reigns. I’m seated at my desk in my study, my mind finding solace in the familiarity of the surroundings. When the memories superimpose themselves on me, I try to turn my back on them & shuts my eyes hard. I will myself to believe that the tears are out of gratitude, that it’s my way of requital for all that I have, all that I have lost & all that I am to gain. As the tear dries leaving behind a trail on my cheek & I pull the hair away from my face, I am greeted with the scent of a happier day.

As the soothing effect of the words evaporate & my heart threatens to be entombed in despondency, I try to recollect the last time I felt light - the memory of being stretched tall as I dived deep, a moment of complete calm and then the thunderous splash when my body hit the cold waters. But I remember not loosening up in time, and staying underneath a while longer, my sense of being disconnected from the rest of the world. It was the kind of quietness which I wish I could visit tonight, a moment where nothing is real except my struggle to survive. And the only difference between that day and today is that then, I had the choice to pierce through the surface and reclaim my life.

random..

Random conversations are popping up into my thought bubble right now.

School lessons – renaissance!! (haven’t read about it after school). Past conversations being replayed. There are only 800 zoos in the world. I have no idea from where this little piece of information came to me. But nevertheless it is occupying a tiny little space in my head. Don’t ask me why, I do not know.

xx

& back!!

Back, yes. 

Back with a sizzle, a quiver, a bang? I do not know for now. 

Is that important though? What should rather be important is that I am back, back on the blog.

It’s been 8 long months since I put up my last post. Quite some time. It would be a lie to say I hadn't missed this space. & it would be a lie to say that I just remembered that my blog exists. All excuses.

So I am back for now. Though I can’t muster up a post, here’s some scribbling.

People, all around you;

Some with a purpose, others lost, some eager, others slouched.

Each of them having a story to tell;

A happy one, a tragic one, one with loads of drama, but all unique in themselves, all important.

Strings that connect them;

Are entangling, tightening, breaking loose, snapping, determined not to let the people manipulate them.

There is no fighting a lost battle;

Surrender in time & you’ll be a survivor;

Accept that the bonds that the strings will weave for you.

xx