Orange Skies and Orange Sun...

So you have come?
Beneath orange Skies and orange Sun?
Though centuries rolled
Like a mad stream
Of disenchantment, discontent.
Terrible was the Father's voice
Questioning love, life, melancholy, patience,
Contorted the dreams gasping,
Half-dreamt, half-done.
They said it was a game,
They said it was a hunt,
They said it was madness,
They said you were numb.
So you have come?
With promises of new promise,
With dreams of old dreams,
With reasons to kill reasons,
With lessons to learn, unlearn.
So you have come,
To paint this Winter dying,
With gray wisdom, brown ferns,
Building our kingdom in that snow
Melting in obedience to reverened Sun.

Pauses

The Sun was out, distributing perplexity. He took out a complacent, unconvincing smile from his bag.
She looked left-wards and then right, quickly checking whether a new thought was on its way to her. It wasn't so. In the rolling up and down of her sleeves, she sought consolation next. The question remained. It had made the air heavy, the moment unbearable. Time must be travelling somewhere...she kept tracing it on her wrist.


The grass died last week. Another day goes to bed. Another year burns itself out. Bewilderment has multiplied. So has discomfort. Questions choke conversation and anxiety robs the present of all joy. The effort of breathing under the same roof seems to be drowning their lives. The Sun stands by today too. The Fuel and the Fire.


They now breathe more wisely. But, the first trees of Promise are dead. The Sun is harsher and supreme. Several years have gone mute. Cynicism now ascends to the throne. They sit unperturbed under mock-trees, servants of the cynical empire. Dreams do not come. They never order for them.
Live on, they tell. Sing song, they say. We are rational beings- forever learning, forever calm, forever hopeful, forever in dismay.

At Dusk

Familiarity is a reprieve if not a comfort. And sometimes, it startles by being both.

There is generosity in the bewildered breeze dancing at Sunset. And love in the babbling of the coconut trees. A tea-cup is happily emptied in their company...in a series dedicated to similar emptying of tea-cups on many hope-filled dusks. I think the Sun has been grimacing in the same manner over here all these years. It doesn't change. It doesn't let the Sky change. Not even the people and pets.

I have learnt to walk here with eyes closed. I know where the old flowers are. I know where the birds sit. I know this trickling of the water from the droopy tap. I know the number of steps to the broken seat. I know it all!

So do the birds. They have watched my fumblings all these years. I am sure they saw while they ate and drank calmly....From the corners of their small eyes, while pretending to nod in affirmation of my decisions. Wise folks!

I see they have plastered the peeling walls. Covered the cracks. Tended to the rusty windows and coloured all things gone bleak and inglorious. Home stands. Wrapped in peace. In recovery and salvation?

Life though is reluctant still..

Bitter, Hither

Frigid, Rigid,
Us.
Annointed?
Disappointed?
Fooled,
You were over-ruled!
Sigh, i say
Double sigh!
Fooling, Drooling,
Waves break,
Waves surge,
Passion's promises,
Gone to dust!
Sigh, sigh!
I say fie! fie!
Haloed, mellowed,
Thunderstruck,
Lessons-gulped,
Well schooled,
You were over-ruled!
Sigh i say,
Double sigh!
Frigid, Rigid,
Us.

Reverie

All the answers do not lie within. Do not believe them. One can at best frame the dull questions. And may be that is why disappointment sits so close by.

I say this. And I do not believe this.

We are all idiosyncratic. Strange. Waiting to be appreciated, or even loved. To spread wings we imagine we possess.

Inhibition helps. It keeps you at bay, at a removed point of safety. Allowing only slight tipsiness and not the sweeping comfort of delirium.

May be words make life difficult. Without them one would babble and know. Or, not know. Stare or smile. Sit tight or simply go. What respite! The discomfort aroused by a compliment, the predicitibility of abuse.

They often ask you about the wings...Have you found your wings yet? Did you try? Do you really want them to grow?

Pause and think I say. And then pause again. The Wind is picking up. The noise recedes. The crimson face does not even wish to look at the Sun.

Nothing awaits you I know.

Buh Bye!

Tomorrow

I am amused
At the beheaded profoundity
Swimming around.
I see you deep,
In the sea of falsity.

Are you happy
With the word Happy?
Did it tell your story?
Then it must have come with
The shadows of a creature
Unknown.
I know, it wasn't me.

Blue is the night,
Red the dirty reasons in the embers
That refuse to die.
To sift today from yesterday
Is tiresome;
Weary with the burden
Of waves carrying
Dead memories.

Tomorrow will bring the wind
To do justice for
Moments unborn,
Heavy-breathing ones,
That ought not
Be born.
Hold that thought lest,
Life slip out in gaps of Time.
You were meek yesterday,
You will be dumb tomorrow.

Home

I feel happy with the rains. But, there is something about the sight of old, lonely trees, swinging uncertainly in the wind. Washed and beaten all day. Makes me home-sick. I wish I were snuggled in my familiar bed at home. Safe and warm.The happy voices calling out my name, the aroma of Maa's cooking circling the house...

Winter

She rubbed her palms heavily,
Stamped with her yellow shoes.
Like the wailing mist around,
She could see sorrow grow.
To turn pages all day,
To hear the roar outside,
The million welled up things within,
Songs scrapped, tunes to hide.
To bury a sigh in the blanket
To dig for memories in the overcoat,
Like the wailing mist around,
She could see sorrow grow.
Today passed on the streets,
Tomorrow travelled too,
Trepidity danced in vacant rooms,
Hope lay on dirty floors,
Like the wailing mist around,
She could see sorrow grow.
They came, and they came,
He went on,
He went away,
She folded away happiness,
Left hope on the shabby roof,
The memories gasped a little
Tried hanging on windows.
Like the wailing mist around,
She could see sorrow grow.
The aloofness of shrivelled jasmine,
The surrender of coffee-mugs,
The sound of tired flutes,
She gathers them and throws.
Like the wailing mist around
She now lets sorrow grow.

Let there be Light!

In an act much inspired by spirited, happy-morningy rom-coms, Hollywood flicks, television, Maa's habit, or may be by some hit Hindi film song...can't exactly pin down THE inspiration...I pull back my window-curtains first thing in the morning. Much like a faithful one remembering his deity...
There is this strange connection between my choice of the MOOD OF THE DAY and the way the light is outside the window. Too much of the Sun and I know there is a huge workload ahead. If there isn't a workload, I imagine one. Remember...I am choosing the mood. If its sombre and gray, its a nostalgia-day. And if the light is just about pleasant and mild, I declare it a picnic-day...a day you ought to spend away...away from work...as the weather wants you to. Mind you, you do not need to have an actual PICNIC. The idea is...even with work around, you needn't give one hundred percent to it. To work whole-heartedly on a picnic-day is sheer cowardice...
Nostalgia-days are great for writing. If you are an eternal cribber and lamenter like yours truly, you wouldnt dread them. The intolerable ones are the bright-light, 100 watts-days, where the glare is too much on life, work, life and more work. Too bad I tell you...I am not even describing them!
Picnic days are my favourites you see...Prayers work. They do! I have often gone out with hopes of seeing clouds on an unbearably bright morn...the morn that carries the face of a teasing Sun..have often got ready praying to some invisible force to send some lazy, rolling clouds overhead...that would defeat the glare. And lo! It has worked! Gape as you might...shrug as you may...in disbelief. But, it works! By lunch the Clouds arrive...By tea-time, it even drizzles! :P
Like always, am itching to come up with my MORAL OF THE STORY. It goes something like this..."You may wake up under any Sky, but you can always choose the light that colours your Life!" :P

Attempts

How long will you wait?
I imagine the wrinkled eyes.
The withering effort of sooty years.

Night falls again here.
Today is eternal.
No one remembered you.
No one sighed,
No one mumbled those words today.
But the Moon I know is no longer white.

The Tree looks scarred to me.
My mind.
It is inside it.

From all the words and glances,
I choose a smile,
Sad and pale,
But yours.

That broken star,
I see it does not gaze.
Tie it to the chariot.
Let us now Sunwards go...

The barriers the Sky puts up,
The gaps the Earth digs forth,
I will one day,
Find you out.

That crumpled promise renewed,
The Moonlight burnt,
To shed hopes,
I yesterday borrowed...

With the Night

After they had clipped those wings,
It sat on the old, old tree.

The Night had no dwelling for it.
The Moon looked mercurial,
The Sky too detached
To be with it.

Where could it hide?
Tie its throat down.
Bury that small neck,
Put its husky voice out?

The scene broke its heart,
But, it remembered this
Had happened before...

Then the surrender to
Those soft, round eyes,
Yes, they'd
Weep for it today
As in the days of Yore...

Musings

I am now confident that I could beat Hamlet anyday in a Soliloquy competition. I could even beat him in the "To be or not to be" Challenge.
I am not confused though. My category is often that of the sheer dumb. Often, the most obvious things are not obvious to me. People expect more. Especially, when you tell them you delve in Literature.
But, life doesn't dance in books. It catches you in strange alleys, dark lanes, unprecedented turns. You are just not prepared. Not for change. Not for realizations. One merely hopes the world is getting enlightened. People are becoming wiser. A new path is being envisioned and followed somewhere, by somebody. But, we do not allow these notions to pin us, mark us, as individuals. As a lone human being we go on living same lives. Exact, difficult, unbending, unlearnt.
How then will change arrive? Who will let it touch his/her life? Not me...I am the sheer dumb. I know not. I want not. I cannot. Misery has its ways of becoming a comfort zone. In it these Hamlets shall dwell...

For Narcissus...

There is a song to sing for happiness, they say,
A song for despair too.
For pure lament, nostalgia, love,
Affection, attachment,
Pain, Discontent.

All he sought was himself.
Like Narcissus, he sang the song of self-love,
His own pain, joys, regrets, lessons,
Life's agonies revisited and performed,
Again and again.

Oh, the hours one wastes
Near the pale whiteness of Narcissus's face,
To know the Narcissus in him,
It takes an immense life time, you see,
A string of numb, deceiving days.

To turn now and see the mocking Sun
To witness the irksome garden and rain,
She shall teach her heart, by and by,
That song of sweet Revenge.

The Skies shall see that
Moon-lit hour,
When Narcissus sits and broods.
The hour of a new agony,
Her gift,
When another's pain in his heart intrudes.

Nemesis, she needs you not.
I see that venom, that power
That Song of Revenge
Shall fill the blue air,
When Narcissus walks in that her-willed hour.

All the world's a stage...

We know not what we are made of. I don't...I know. Our claims are our whims. Or, at best, our wishes. There is a satisfaction in thinking of oneself in particular ways. May be, we aren't that. Who knows?
We are not that which we talk. Talk is talk. Its simply a version. May be actions help. But, they carry their own intent- of being seen in certain ways, of making certain impressions, of protraying oneself in a certain genre? Where do we actually belong? When are we out of the play? Off the stage? Un-acting?
Thoughts might actually constitute some kind of inner voice. Things we say to ourselves perhaps are a better reflection of that within us? May be we tell ourselves "act nice", "wear that one...", "he'll like it..", "she''ll approve...", "oh...all this lecture", "they arnt worth it...", "i need to get away...", "one more glance and she'll be in.."?? ;)
May be we act out our entire lives. Say things people want to hear. Do things they would appreciate. Make impressions round-the-clock.
And so we change. For good. For bad. In somebody's good books. Out of somebody's wish-list.
Who do we think we finally are? That which we were trying to be all our life? Or a bad version of our "original" selves. Will happiness be closer then, or Illusion be our new reality? Is that called metamorphosis or self-deceit?
Why do we need to think before talking? Dress-up with an eye on others' taste? Order food and bother about plates and tongues? Why do we need to bring any one around? Live up to any one's image? Or, may be create and live our own? Why do we need to be bohemian, chic, elegant, intellectual, sophisticated, cute, sharp, humoruous, witty,brainy, melancholic, dreamy? Anything?
Being is not enough. Life has its own traps. Living is perhaps that...an entrapment. A desperate attempt to get into Life and then get out of it.
In the interim...All the world's a stage...

Morals of Multiple Stories:

-Ideally, you should help drive the last nail in the Coffin.

-Mistakes can be avoided if you stop ackowledging them.

-Courtesy should be practised. Even to the dying.

-Silence is Golden. Beacuse words are fake.

-Move On. Or be pushed aside.

-You are happy. You dream too much.

-Options help. Even when Option is just a word.

-Life goes on. No time to see where.

-Happiness!? The word sounds cool!

-And...In the end...there's actually THE END.

Old-Fashioned

If you skipped today's daily, news is that I was recently called old-fashioned by somebody. Details are not to be revealed as the case is currently under investigation. But, this comes to you directly from the horse's mouth, so you better SIT-UP-AND-TAKE-NOTICE. (Hope you have by now!).
I did not react. Not much. One cannot, sometimes. Yes, even if 'one' is me.
My patent strategy of part-mockery, part-overconfidence, part-stubbornness didn't rescue me. Something penetrated my skin. Just deep enough to be a bluish, bad prick.
My wise, old heart has begun doing the damage-repair. It tells me there are a zillion ways I could justify I am a NEW WOMAN (but..but...but..can women be new? or, only girls are that??). I talk, think, write, live in ways that are incomparable to the bleak tag of being old-fashioned!!May be, if I tell you all my ideas (even the ghastly, guarded ones) you would think I am well ahead of my times, like all great thinkers are.
On the other side, whats so bad about being old-fashioned haan? It just makes you a rarer species around..the nostalgic-wostalgic, "value"-loaded, guarded, obscure, crazy, antique types...adjectives, I don't really mind!
So, either way its a win-win situation for me you see. The case is in my bag. (no, I wont say kitty!!).
Question is...how are the guilty to be punished?

:)

Certainities

The last time that a dream knocked,
I was busy counting leaves
Falling from the brown Eucalyptus.
I never could make way for Hope
To drop by on a Sunday afternoon,
When nostalgia and loneliness
Would descend to fill my home with
Their heavy murmur.

There is nothing to know,
Let all of them be.
Like our usual
Forevers
There is a 'you' left.
And there is half a 'me'.
Between us is the melting bridge,
Built of sunshine and dews,
On that evanescent rainbow
We woke up too
Late to see.

Will

Even if nothing lasts,
You will.
It isn't about believing,
I Will.

And now some (urgent) almost-quarterly resolutions...

I will not sulk. Not, not, not.
I will not regret. Not at all!
I will check pages before collecting photocopies.
I will make sure my cell is sometimes switched off!
I will not have un-occasional ice-creams.
I will say no, no matter what who feels.
I will not miss breafkfast.
I will be a patient listener, let others talk!
I will stick to two teas a day.
I will reach my targets each day.
I will go on impromptu walks, like before.
I will love myself even more! :)

Two Ideas...from childhood days ;)

With nothing to do one evening, one blessed evening, I was plain thinking. So I thought of why I do certain things and do not do others. Two odd memories crossed my mind...both peculiarly ME...

As a five-six year old, I would often wonder why Maa never dressed in a tip-top way at home, or never tried looking her ravishing best outside. She had the permission na! I didn't!...I would think to myself why, just why on earth would she not try matching her bindi with the saree, the nail color with the make-up, wear pink-white bangles, for pink-white sarees, apply lip-stick each day...when all this was ALLOWED to her, contrary to my state of frocks and hairbands only!!! Didn't she see Madhuri and Sridevi in movies or what!!...;)

Thought no.2...Often on a bright day, the sight of white, clean clouds stretched across the Sky would look very tempting to me...Tempting in a way only I could imagine!...I always thought with better infrastructure, resources, tools at my side, I would climb up on a ladder and scoop out a chunk of a bright cloud, as it might make for good Vanilla ice-creams! ;)

Moral of the Story- I now know why earrings are imperative to my scheme of things...and from where my love of ice-creams comes!=)

This thing and that...

Seven minutes to three...p.m...and there is a very pleasant breeze coming in with the curtain. Seven minutes before peace abandons me and I begin my marathonic paper-writing session. There is a calm at least in this little moment. A small dot of serenity before madness sweeps across. Enrique keeps coming in now and then..."Do you know?" the Ping Pong Song pouring in from another part of the hostel.

On pausing one might sometimes notice how extraordinarily moments are stringed into an oridnary life- moments good and bad, of various colours. With time they all become rainbow-coloured, with time one knows they had meant more, even been precious.

Each thing, each person possesses his "being-ness", uniqueness, essence, may be something like Hopkins's idea of Inscape. How do you replace the icy, orange, excessively sweet taste of the orange-bar clinging to a bare, thin stick? Bad example, I guess, but its fresh in my memory so... :)! Two ways: You think of the next thing on your l-like-list, or, you simply take any other flavour, it doesn't matter that much...

A third one?...Either the glistening, orange-wrapped, tangy sweetness of your dear orange bar...or nothing!:)

Vague, sense-less deliberations!

Well...Seven minutes are over!!!!! ;)

Dull-Hour

Something is missing. Sounds cliched, hackneyed, deja-vuish. Almost. Something is lying unattended in a corner of a small, silent room. Something that does not call out for help, but sits still. Eyes closed. Something is ticking away like a time-bomb gone defunct. Something has gone wrong. Hopelessly. Predictably. Something is sinking deep, in a brown, dirty rut. Something says life will not be the same again. Something says its angry. Red and arms-crossed. Take it or leave it. Its walking away now. I see it crawling on the road of life again. Wise, sad and dirty.

Turning Away.......

How good are dreams? How useful? They sometimes stand as stark contrast to the Real...or they define all that one would hope to obtain on one's journey. I wish all that I love was part of a dream. Because dreams have possibilities. Reality is bare.

To dream is to turn to the unreal. To dream is to run away. To dream is to obtain relief from the pain of all that is so obviously impossible. To dream is to let Fancy berserk. To change people, places, circumstances. I wish you were a dream, far away from the jotted realms of my Life. I wish this grass under me was of a brighter shade, the Sky a little bluer, the Sun a bit more orange. I wish I could erase mistakes, unhurt myself, bend my choices the other way.

To live is to dream of dreams that elude perpetually. Like a deep sigh that forgets why it was born, mingling into smaller sighs released in memory of Life's multiple sorrows. To dream then I turn for discovering a faint whiff of all that has been smudged and stained forever.

!!!

Life's Unfair-
One has to Love and Hate the same things!