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