Yellow Hibiscus

And then I found you,
Yellow Hibiscus.
That very yellow...the assuring one.
Not pale, not too bright.
Just that calm,
Just that sensitive enough.
I love your vulnerability,
Your not-smelling smell,
Moves me.
Gives me a little hope,
That you won't smile,
That you won't frown,
That you won't want,
That you won't command,
You will last neutrally
Just that long,
Yellow Hibiscus...

Candid...

People are frank sometimes and I appreciate that. A friend recently remarked, how bland the personal side of my virtual life appeared to him. He was referring to my relationship status of course on social networking sites, taking it as a measure of what he presumed, the "colourless" personal life I had. I smiled an unconvincing smile, and ended up laughing at myself as one belonging to "the old school" ;)

On second and third thoughts today, his remark appeared to me as a reflection of the sensational personal lives people wish to lead these days, with "fun" relationships. Different people, different choices, different attitudes. Ackowledged.

Let me be frank too. Its not the old school-whool. The concept of "relationships" bamboozles me totally yaar! Whats all this hubbub about relationships anyway? I believe in love! :) Idealistic, simplistic, generalized, hasty, sweeping as it might sound. But I do not understand these compulsory columns to be filled in...with a sensational use of relationships that end up dying after their short short short expiry dates...People make-up, break-up, lament, lose, and don't even cry! ;) They don't hum songs thinking of each other, nor do they get nostalgic in busy offices!....Won't do...at all!

It should touch you, move you, change you, build you, and last...last longer than anything you've ever experienced in your brisk Life! :)...Not that "committed" relationship! I am talking of Love! ;)

Wake Up...

There are memories standing

In a crooked line behind you,

And there are moments waiting outside

Your door...

Knocking and giggling.

Let them in. Them All.

Look at those rays of gold

That stretch on your window,

Call them in too.

Bend them into a crown,

Or, wear them as your little Halo...

Why should that unsure hand support?

Go, get yourself that iridescent dress,

That Rainbow...

Wait no more for uncertain clouds

To shed those warm, clear tears...

Go out bare feet

And wash your precious Self,

The happy rains are here.

Bitterness is sad, pathetic but sometimes, inevitable. For a creative person, its like poison. It kills the artist in you, depriving you of the tranquility you so badly need for synchronizing your thoughts. For the cheerful and dreamy human being its a sad reminder of the thorns which one needs to fall on in life and how! But for the wise soul, its another opportunity to assess the world around and drain out the bitter potions that deter one's growth as a happy, complete, satisfied individual.

P.S.- And here you have a new preacher in the making! ;)

Life this way...

These are impromptu days of an impromptu life. Packing, unpacking, moving, walking, eating, travelling...impromptu and continuous. The air is light and the clouds sensitive. They burst on you sometimes here, or they weep on alternate days. The Sun is clear yet benign. When I walk the wide roads amidst the green foliage, I sense a harmony around me. I am on my own. It startles me sometimes. Sometimes, I smile at the serenity of independent living. Bonds are nascent and unclear. A cup of coffee together, a session of book-reading in the library, a meal in the cafetaria, and you have mates. Or, a walk by oneself, an afternoon without people, a book to sleep on and you discover yourself.

After a long time today, I walked hand-in-hand through the heavy traffic and rain, ate pastries and had nariyal-paani, took delight in discovering places...like school children on an excursion. Came back smiling at the Sun-set and waving at the ink-smudged sky that promised fresh rains :)

Eager and Enlightened! ;-)

Home is where Amma is...

Independence comes...

I went out to the nearby Gaffar market today, only to be amused by the strange scene there. Packed with policemen and haunted by sniffer dogs, it looked different, of course. Its New Delhi’s way of preparing for Independence Day. Whose independence?... is too loaded a question to be taken up by mortal me. But, Independence Day it is, finally, one more time.

Present in the capital for the first time in the run-up to D-Day, I see the dizziness around me. Even on “normal” days, Delhi is especially aware of your benign presence. Enter into a metro station and you have the security people waiting for you…not arms folded…but arms open indeed…ladies to ladies, gents to gents ;)

Sometimes, I feel sorry for the Prime Minister. Not that he is a figure of pity all the time…but..but..but…As though the controversy on de-linking terror wasn’t enough, he has to bear the sultry weather here, read out a speech on the 15th, and prepare for more answers later in the parliament.

Coming back to Independence Day, can I write about Calcutta one more time? Haan? Yes, I can!...we have this thing for music there…of course everyone knows that...On “patriotic” days, we wake up to the tune of “Aamra korbo joi..” (Bangla version of We shall overcome…)..full-blast on the locality’s loudspeaker…unending, uninterrupted patriotism, dripping from the stereos all day. Time to take out green, saffron, white sarees and of course the flowers in the hair…sing a tune or two as part of the local cultural group…and carry home flowers, pamphlets and sweets to spread more independence...sometimes, even to the extent of ten-twelve boxes of mishti, if your dad is a big-shot at lokaal klub...;)

I remember having sung innumerable tunes with my mates on the harmonium, egged not so much by the fervor of patriotism within me, but more as a silly little girl, overwhelmed by the enthusiastic crowd, parents and family, the stage, the décor, the flowers, the loudspeakers and of course our harmonium sir!...Thankfully, I grew up…

Coming back to Delhi…I am itching to visit Purana Quila, Lal Quila, Qutub Minar, Jama Masjid etc etc. I know I still sound like a tourist…but can’t be helped! You see…I have to see!...The Capital...Its more like counting heartbeats here….the city gearing up for the 15th…not a beat less, not a beat more…the soldiers march on to the sound of the drum…independence…here it comes….

Epiphanies...

To brush aside those
Unclear dreams that hung hopefully
All night by the pillow,
And type, merely type
One’s breath out
All day…

To stare at the blank walls
Of coffee shops on Sundays,
To find in them a mate
That cannot speak.
To memorize smells of
Favorite trees
To sit tight-lipped
And recall the touch
Of a distant breeze…

Can you determine?
Can you think?
No soul, no heart
Not even a hand for you.
Just a whim
Like those
Cigarette smoke and rings…

The desire to parcel
Life off in glass bottles,
Across oceans, across streams…
Disown pain, weakness, bitterness, spite
For that drip-drop-drip happiness
Incidentally, a taste you may not like…

Book-marked

Cause And Effect-

The best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them

Charles Bukowski

Sway With Me-

sway with me, everything sad --
madmen in stone houses
without doors,
lepers steaming love and song
frogs trying to figure
the sky;
sway with me, sad things --
fingers split on a forge
old age like breakfast shell
used books, used people
used flowers, used love
I need you
I need you
I need you:
it has run away
like a horse or a dog,
dead or lost
or unforgiving.

Charles Bukowski

Finally it rained! ;)

Quarter to nine in the night

A rocket-fast rickshaw

One possessed rickshawala

Clouds and heavy drizzle

The wide wide Pusa road

A zillion speed breakers

Half-a-zillion pot-holes

Two cups of boiling tea...

A plate of hot noodles

Three samosas

A Dhokla

Chutney of course

Two crazy girls

And a grand feast on the rickshaw!

Gone with the...scissors...

For all the water she sprayed on my finely combed hair, my ears had become unusually warm. Even crimson…no red. I felt strange sitting wrapped in a white plastic sheet. It was finally my moment of reckoning after good ten months or so. I saw her gearing up with the scissors now. An uneasy smile broke on my lips, as my eyes met hers in the mirror. ‘Don’t chop a lot of the length.’- I made a last minute plea…well almost. Swish, swash, swish…and the first long lock fell into my lap. For once, I reverently admired the strand that was mine…and something welled up in my throat. She was going about dexterously, feverishly with the scissors. I closed my eyes and felt the warmth of the huge light over me. Too late…too late...

The spell broke with the hot blast of the dryer on my face. Over and out. I looked hard in the mirror finally. Not bad. Interesting. Can I say…good? I was almost pleased.

And then, as I walked out, I saw those many strands lying abandoned on the floor. Poor souls. Brown and fine. I touched my hair…recalling their smell and their touch. Gone… :(

Embers...

Those embers aglow,

Uncertain, Unsure...

There...just about it.

That sad hostility,

Mocking that confusion the other feels...

No lessons learnt,

None left to teach.

Why does it happen this way?

I wonder...

Annihilating together,

Perishing asunder...

Lets begin again,

Set them properly to fire,

Or put out that whimsicality,

Their half-stitched, orangish attire....

Gifts

Take a little hope tonight
And keep it in your fist
Till I open it
The next time.

We could sit and talk for a while,
Leaving the Sun to rise and set
A hundred times,
Smile and think of floating memories
Of happy days,
Of happy hours,
Of Journeys of thousand miles…

Draw for me a new sunset then,
With rays everlasting, truthful, fragile…
I will carry for you my bag of moist colors
To weave that promised, new sunrise…

Fragments

The wind that blew through the heart of the sky
Breaking the clouds into a dozen
Anonymous pattern…
Tells me to let go
And trace the scattered pieces of Life
Wherever they lie…
To just keep a handful of Time
And live uncounted days
Like eternity’s happy embrace…
Here it is…life…always.
There…it never was.
To breathe was never enough,
The rest I am incapable of….

Songs...

Stepping into the cool, bright metro, I instantly felt happy…very. Like good old days back home. Lucky day…I found my head-set and a seat…and in came Ronan Keating, Darren Hayes, Lionel Richie, singing those tunes into my ears after many many months. I started smiling to myself…when the guy opposite to me returned my smile, I realized people were indeed getting ideas. I switched to day-dreaming and reminiscing…wondering what the caller tune must be…now…scolding myself for that last bit…going back, back, back in time, till I came down to that Roja song…and then another unreasonable smile. And then a kid tugged my shoulder…

The train was empty. Thankfully, Dilshad Garden was the last station…

Each Morning...

Each morning, the soul feels heavy, with the burden of what I didn't do yesterday…the incessant dripping of Time and the continuous loss of all belief…its Life in painful circles, tied down with misgivings...whose is the onus?…I ask you, ask myself and the blank, thin crack I notice in the opposite wall…do I need to say?..I am not merely an option, a choice, a name?…I am a heart and a human being…I should have been at least a feeling…as you are…much much more...I know my 'self' and I almost love it with all its flaws...Its just that at times, I type, type, type, and this stupid feeling does not recede...I walk out into the dawn…and seek another numbness in the bare, green, long grass…

Dilli-Willi

It’s a colorful city…Dilli…but different, very different from my Calcutta. There is literally too much of color here…one wakes up to the howling of car alarms…and sees multiple of them lined up and glistening in the sun…so very different from the coconut trees and rickshaws that greeted Calcutta mornings…as always, I love some things, and I hate some…no middles please…

I love the wide, wide roads, the chat and paneer tikka, the green, lush parks with the Dhillon and Bindra aunties in chiffon salwars and Reebok shoes…the slim, slim maidens with baby clips and i-pods intact…markets full of lovely earrings, shoes, bags..(err…here I go! )...all very colorful indeed…to the extent of a slight overdose…

But the breeze here hardly picks up…like the mad gust in Calcutta…there are hardly any road-side golgappa shops…rickshaws aren’t that great either…and there are of course no Calcutta-mark Mishti Doi and Rassagolla available...These are testing times I say!

Chopra Aunty is great! I love her temper and her jhappis...The only problem is her Tommy (Tommy dear, I have been with many sweet pets…but you’re the rowdiest of all Tommies I have ever seen…)...her son comes a close second…read my blog you…(did anyone say moron?)…and see how I can’t stand you for some reason…

I have just about begun loving this independence…the impromptu cooking of French-fries at 2 a.m., the rounds of carom all night, the discussions, agony-aunt sessions, confessions till dawn, learning up the varieties of mangoes and buying them after haggling too!...not to forget Chopra Aunty’s recipes of Butter Chicken and Dahi Chicken, which, by-the-way, I don’t need being a veggie…

I am of course the same…though I did land up here thinking I was a naayika straight out of a Sarat Chandra novel…going to live stoically, quietly, in self-exile…but some things never change…so here I go…jabbering again…working, shopping…cooking….of course putting up with neighbors in florescent-orange night-gowns…and Chopra Aunty’s recipes and lo!...I hear our dear, ol’ Tommy barking again…

Misgivings...

And I wonder where Life’s headed…
A blank question I often exchange
With my soul
That nearly chokes itself
At the sound of those tainted songs…

What else will matter
Here on…?
When it all blew away steadily
And the carcasses of memory
Now stand as dead paperweights?

How do others smile?
All the time?
Heal and hurt by turns
And still survive?

How does one empty
The obstinate mind?
How does one relieve
The burdened soul?
When Life questions you each day…
When barrenness greets each breath
Like never before.

They stand now….darkly…
Those happy, belated days
Like the blueprints of what crumbled
And died…
Were we always weak?
Or were they unreal days?

Let me pretend to live on…
Let me pull up the curtains
And bring in the light…
But I see the sorrows hanging
All over the walls…

They speak of the unalterable
Unchangeable defects in my Life…

Senti...Sigh...Sigh...

I have been like a pensive, wandering bird these days... simply breathing in the air, letting my wings spread...too numb to think of those I bade goodbye to...of things I had folded up and locked in my nest...

Your call made my day! Your voice took me back to my old skin...those days...the bustling city of colorful buses, the campus, the bridge, the green grass, the umbrellas, the corridors...I could smell the air of the canteen again...our trips and misadventures...tales of sorrows, jealousies, misunderstandings and heart-breaks...old love and old wounds :)

When will I be back? The only thing you wanted to know...so do I...

I feel the way you feel...I feel the pull of our happy bond...the days of vanilla skies and fresh dreams...the happy happy group of dreamy souls...the maddening urge to pour my heart to you all...and to listen to your little/not-so-little stories, tales, joys, anxities...

This is for you my bestest, caring friends...and my dear Alahomora...I see we are in the canteen again...or lets say...City Center? ;)

Do I need to say how I miss... all the time?

Love...