Be yourself….


Be yourself…..


Be yourself…..

Be yourself....

Okay, wait!

Uncertain, moody embers
Like uncertain truths and promises…
Waiting to ascertain their tired lights,
A tame hope of a new-born future
Wrapped in hazy dreams...
Still unraveling, sorting knotted sorrows
Following all those gray, cloud-borne roads
Leading to your shrouded, sad abode…

Cold mornings and colder dawns,
Meeting and melting before the Sun,
Arriving…with the smell of the eucalyptus.
The first glance of the day
Wrapping you with warm assurance,
A cup of brown, deep coffee,
Carrying sweet silent promises for the day…
Half words and half questions…
Silently shared and shifted under the bed…
And the happy blanket drawn again
Adieu Reality!
Of a paralyzed, gray love…

There are these bad days…when you wake up with a bad taste in your mouth…irrespective of what you ate/ did not eat the previous night…and it tells you there is a seedy day ahead…a day when you feel high-strung, tired, impatient, and very self-critical…when you cannot pat yourself for the advice you imparted to your friend, but rather question your own conscience…whatever it is and wherever it hides…where do you stand? What do you do? Which truth are you following?...and a similar set of philosophical luggage that you suddenly discover lying in one corner of your mind…sigh…and a deeper sigh…a long stare in the mirror…and you give up!
And then you blog to universalize your angst!

We step once more into the vacuum of time
And trace the cunning noise.
A witness,
To our footsteps…
Companion…clock…critic…
Tap, tap, tap….mine and yours.
Towards infinity,
Hand in hand…
A word or two.
Perfunctory, empty, bare…
Floating in the air,
Catch and fold them…hide them in your pockets…
Wide-open eyes…drinking the white…
The white of the vacuum…
Sip, sip, sip…
And then rest on the shoulders of time,
A minute or two…at the station,
To catch the four o’ clock train,
The left-hand pocket of your overcoat
Carrying in it
Our tickets to eternity…
My creaky gray umbrella and yours…?
Here we go…
The whistling engine
Staring breathless and blank’
In the cold, white rain…
Tap, tap, tap…

Let them walk out of the room,
Lest they count,
One, two, and three…
The number of times I gasped
Wanting more of the air.
Let me close the book;
The words might catch an eye,
And speak aloud the story
They never wrote…
Let me not talk to you anymore,
Else it might shatter hopes,’
Dispersing vapors,
As before…?
Let me draw the curtains once more
And bathe in the darkness
Of tales untold,
The words and worlds that are mine,
And live out this life…
Unnoticed on the murky shores of time.

I CAN wade grief,
Whole pools of it,-
I’m used to that.
But the least push of joy
Breaks up my feet,
And I tip-drunken.
Let no pebble smile,
T’was the new liquor-,
That was all!

Power is only pain, stranded through discipline,
Till weights will hang.
Give balm to giants
Wilt, like men.
Give Himmaleh,-
They’ll carry him!

-Emily Dickinson.

The rains are a big help…they make you abandon the hibernating holes underground and look into the eyes of the Sun…

Life...

The rays break upon the windowpane…
Trembling and vanishing into the room…
The sinewy hand attempts to tie a bun,
Hiding the grays and blacks of life within it.
A dry face recognizes itself in the light of the faded sun,
The watch assures the presence of time and a world.
How long? How long? The heart beats again and wonders…
The pace of nothingness grows anew.
The door stands dumbly, the dirty walls look on.
And life in a cold room shamelessly hangs on…

Placid...

There is a strange contentment in leaving things as they are…teaching your brain not to think…to let the moment pass…read a book...type a post…talk to your friend…make a new dish…listen to the radio…learn with your soul…switch off the phone…fold old clothes…take up the crossword…write on a fresh white page…smile in the mirror…and quarrel with your bro…and it shall pass…leaving you to yourself…a happy soul!

Exchange...

Question- (asked with a napkin like straight face)“What kind of men turn you off?
Answer- (uttered with deep-shut eyes and breath-exhaling firmness) “Unintelligent, Uninteresting, Unfaithful!”
Reaction- (Stupefied dumbness) “Ma’am! Wah! Kya answer hai!”

blabber...

No, I don’t like melodrama! I really don’t!...Even you don’t I am sure…
Well…I do like it…I confess…but only when I am its centre of lament!

Again...

And you knew it would come…
Rolling down…threads of your life loosening themselves
Without your permission…
The moment drops into oblivion like the sigh from your tired soul…
You thought you had better control…
Control?
Like the traffic man at the signal…
You stretch your hands and the wind escapes you…
Damn! Not even the wind!
Lets take a walk tomorrow
Far and far…wide?
No! It takes me to your house…
I shall walk only far…
Far…far…far…
Will you come along?
You have seen the threads fall out…will you weave them now…
Weave and tie…tie me to you? Will you?
No…I shall walk…the rain comes now…I don’t need you…
I can weep.

Nothing!

Sometimes, it doesn’t satisfy you to be a simple, stupid, soul…you want to go further…and further than that…full length…touch the zenith…or is it the nadir?...never mind…its a weirdly engrossing journey to see yourself be duped, stand back and contemplate, shut your eyes, let things be, and then exhale deeply and proclaim-“Damn! I have been a fool!” :)

And it really turned metaphysical…I swear it did! I find no proper imprint of it in the camera of my mind…only a faint smell of food, fading memories of some awkward pauses…blurred essence of time and place…mixed voices behind…the damp breeze and a wide road…and the rolling of a couple of hours like a gusty wind!...it passed…and it remains…coming and going with the smell of the air-conditioner, warm coffee and my new white dress.

And to write...

Some people can write…write well, admirably…. touching things in a unique way.
You had thought of it, your brain had conveyed you the impression. But, you could never articulate it correctly enough. And then you read those lines and feel..bingo!..precisely what I wanted to say….not written in black and white, but put in a shade of appealing and touching gray…And you turn and tell the writer-“Great job! Bravo!...the writing is indeed beautiful!” But what of the writer? Does he/she talk equally magically for himself? Or, is there a semi-paralysis that the writer suffers from? Can he talk on his own? When does he do that? Probably, when he is talking through his characters…? Or, do his characters say more than he agrees to…? Can he articulate “his” feelings? Does he end up borrowing a line from his character’s agony to express his own love?...may be it was “him” all the time…Or was he pretending in one of those mellifluous passages of expression? What is it that surely belongs to him? Who can say…? May be the writer….Or will his characters doing the talking…?

BLOT!

The dark ink knew…
The sheet was done for.
It had blotted it alright…
BLOT BLOT BLOT
Spreading itself thick and dark…
Touching the very atoms,
Or do they call it the heart?
BLOT BLOT BLOT
The present, the future,
And the unerasable past
Once and for All
BLOT BLOT BLOT
Dumb, defeated sheet,
Hide in my tattered diary fast…
I know you not…no, not with this
BLOT BLOT BLOT.

Survive...

Quick…it will envelop you...!
Overcoming you… in an embrace...
A plunge…a slip…a dark eternity…
Led into a lull…a hush…a forbidden place…
I admit…you have been deceived,
You are there…suffocated yet alive…
See...The world has found you out…
Now breathe…breed…kill...and survive…

TYPES...

People are essentially scared of people...has someone said this before?...may be...well, you can read it one more time...so the strategy is to read as much of each others' character at one go...so that one carries an advantage at the next interaction...a common ploy is to typecast each other into particular frames...intellectual, loud, happy-go-lucky,snobbish, bore, "amma" type in girls, "ghochu" for boys...but the scariest are those you cannot put into frame...they just lurk around you, with a dangerously undefinable character,judging, observing, chuckling knowingly, cracking a joke when you least expect them to, reserved, yet so helpful, strategists and yet charmingly easy...BEWARE OF THESE....I have got a frame to put them in...someone told me, they are MY TYPE!!:)

Menu...

Some people went to a restaurant few days back...okay, me, Sohini and Rashmi...
we ordered some stuff...ate...anyhow, somehow...gulped it down with each others' support...time to pay the bill...the bill came...
V.POLIO- Rs. 70/-
CHI-MEN- Rs 50/-
SEND-WITCHES-Rs. 70/-
Implying...vegetable pulao, chow mein, sandwitches! ;)