Zebra Talk

You think you are smart. I think you are art. And we both agree to disagree.

2012-02-01T04:26:00.000-08:00

It's a sunny day and my window binds are blocking the view. I don't feel too sunny today. It's a day of gloom and dread. It's the day I would ask you to follow me down to the valley below. And watch the moonlight bleed out of your soul. Porcupine Tree is whispering soothing tunes into me. So rest your head upon me. I have strength to carry you. Follow me down to the valley below. You know. I miss the time when we would hold each others hand while we slipped and slid down over the rocks and to the lake. Still clear water. We would peer over to catch our reflections. Make funny faces that were distorted by the ripples of touch. Moonlight is bleeding, from out of your soul. And I can no longer look. I thought I had the strength to carry you. But I don't.

I am weak. I am muddled. I am broken. I am blinded. Blinded by you. I am humbled. My heart has been fumbled with. I am hurt and distressed. Disturbed and ousted. I am lost. I now walk down to the valley below and there is no one to follow me. I sit there by the lake and watch the moonlight bleed into my soul. When I peer over the reflection, I see no faces. Just vacant stillness that feels like a stranger's touch. The words are whispered. The thoughts are desirous. The pain numbed. And the heart broken.

We sit around the grand piano. You select the notes and I try to play them. It sounds horrible but you don't say so. You lift me gently off the center of the bench and place me on the corner. You ask me to look carefully as your fingers work their magic. But I am looking carefully at your face instead. Oh how beautifully it hides the lies. The pain. The anger. I wish I was half as strong as you. And when you caught me looking you plant a kiss on my forehead. Never look for the truth in your mother's eyes. Never trust the sound of rain upon a river rushing through your ears.

The sun rays are fierce. They are forcing themselves through the edges of the blinds and onto me. My hands, my face, my thoughts. Little specks of red marks are glistening on the back of my hands. Tiny scratches that are passionately crimson. I have no idea how they got here, on my skin. How they became a part of me without my realization. I am guessing paper cuts. Though it looks like I have a huffy cat for a pet.

All of my plans, compromised. All of my dreams, sacrificed. Let's get into our old Chevy nova and drive away and into. Away from these compromised plans, these sacrificed dreams. Into the rainbows of candy lit happiness and snow tipped pine trees. Let's blast melancholic music and hum to it. Let's not stop at any traffic signals. Let's just keep driving till there is no where left to go. We want to arrive somewhere but not here. Oh never. Did you see the red mist block your path? Did the scissors cut a way to your heart? Did you feel the envy for the sons of mothers tearing you apart?

That crunching noise when a jaw gets broken. When the knuckles meet teeth. Those crackling seconds right before everything is relocated. Displaced. Dislodged. Blood gushing through the gums and on the tongue, making its way out of the mouth even before the head hits the ground. When is the will broken? How long can the ego hold tight? It's always body against mind. Mind against body. Nothing like this. Felt in his kiss. Cannot resist. Fell for his charm. Lost in his arms. I keep a photograph. Give me a glimpse. Let me come in. Here it begins. Here is the sin. Something to lie about.

The time is flying by and there is no solace. It feels like I have come a long way while I have only just walked in circles. Something broke inside my heart. And I let the pieces lie where they fell. I walk on tip toe around your broken promises. I don't touch the wounds you have left behind. I get a feeling that I am hiding too well. Okay, so what's next? Gave him the hours. Gave him the power. Cannot erase. Gave him the truth. Gave in the proof. I gave him everything.

I turned in your direction and saw something I wasn't looking for.

2012-01-28T12:30:00.000-08:00

I am at Parker's Piece. It's unbearably cold and the wind is taking great pleasures in slicing through my skin. Everywhere that it touches, it leaves pain. My eyes are mere slits, trying to keep the wind out. But the tears are uncontrollable and make me feel like I have lost. And how does it feel to lose something you didn't know you owned? I can hardly see what is being typed.

Alone, on a bench, with tears running down her face. Oh, what would they make of me? Do they think I have suffered personal loss. A tragedy that hit home. Do they smile ruefully at the thought of my assumed broken heart? Do they wonder if he was special? Or maybe they sigh pitifully at the thought of me alone. Scared. New surroundings can be deterring, they say as they nod at each other with understanding. But no one will care to blame the cold. Because our mind tends to dispose the obvious. It's too plain. Too simple. Too boring.

The bench is damp. Cold to my touch. My fruit market spoils sit beside me. Strawberries, plumps and cherries. I could bite into their deliciousness now but I don't want to stain my fingers red. Not yet anyway. Red specks around my mouth, on my lips. Little blemishes adorning the tip of my fingers. They make for beautiful company though, wrapped tightly in their blue polythene. It's only after we have lost everything that we are free to do anything.

The sun is setting. It has left behind faint traces of orange scribbling on the white canvas. Littered clouds. And there is beauty trapped in the many trees lining the opposite side of this park. They seem to be emitting the last of the orange sun. And then there is the mesmerizing blue.

There are kids playing football on this side of the park. Their shouts of glee and dismay are my only link to reality. It's too cold. You are too bold. And the smell of earth is tearing through the air, reminding me of things I thought I had forgotten. I am thinking of ancient gardens in far away hometowns. Little crawlies worming their way through the freshly dug vegetable patch. Of coconut trees that loomed high above and threatened to crack my skull if I asked too many questions. And since then, I have never been able to talk to a tree without flinching.

Confessions is getting intriguing with every turn of page. Autobiographies have a way of ruining apologies by presenting them on a silver platter of excuses. But then, he isn't Rousseau for no reason. And the cold has crawled through my clothes, my skin. I can feel it tapping my bones, nudging my muscles. Making it difficult to think of anything else. What's the point of baring the truth when you are going to end up covering it with lies. Unspoken is attractive. Ask any mystery writer.

To my right is the hotel papa and I stayed in when we first got here. An alien town it was then. There is a lot to learn in that little window of time I get with him. And it's a ritual now, this dropping off. Something that I cherish. Because when it is time for him to leave, he leaves me with words. Thoughts. Ideas. And I listen. There is a lot to learn. This time he left me with one word. Intention. Because if your intentions are good, nothing can hurt you. And if your intentions are bad, nothing can save you.

There are leaves falling over me. And there is a Zebra on my shirt. I am Jacks's inflamed sense of rejection. I am Jack's heightened sense of surprise. I am Jack's broken heart. And I want to breathe smoke. Have you ever felt like destroying something beautiful? Oh, the ideas a human mind can come up with. Never fails to amaze me. Fight Club.

Warm thoughts. Hot meals and bear hugs. Old friendships and long baths. Problem with easy solutions is that they are not solutions. They are a way out. And you have made me suspicious of everything around me. I thought there would never be any distance that would hold us apart. No distance. But that was my mistake. And I am learning to live with it.

Of the books that have kept me awake through the night.

2012-01-27T10:24:00.000-08:00

There is joy in waking up to see the sun reflecting off the cover of a book you have been reading. I woke up with Confessions by my pillow. It is prescribed reading for my autobiography class. I was hooked the moment I opened a random page and read the bit about why he denied being named in Lord Marshal's will but settled for a monthly stipend as long as Lord Marshal lives. But, O my benefactor and my father, should I have the misfortune to survive you, at least I know that, in losing you, I have everything to lose and nothing to gain. Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Oh Rousseau.

And is it possible for memory and imagination to be untangled? To trace the hint of a fine line that shies its way through both. I keep thinking of it. This idea of a distorted past. Of imagining things that I believe to be my past reality. It makes me doubt all of my childhood memories. Makes me second guess my entire life. But too much reflection only delays the traveler; it is time for me to resume my journey.

I would soar to heights of sublime feelings, but as promptly fall back into my habitual indolence. To be loved by all who came near me was my most urgent wish. The thing about this book is that he doesn't give you much time to think. To decide for yourself whether you like what you are reading or not. He does it for you. He tells you how to feel about his words without telling you. He has his readers by the collar as he drags them through his dirty laundry. But he does it in such a way that you forget the pull he has over you. And you can almost convince yourself that you are following him on your own free will.

The last time I got so dangerously addicted to a book was almost a year back. Wuthering Heights. There was so much passion in it, there was simply no other way to read it but with passion. And the first time I was mesmerized with a book was when I read The Secret Garden. I was eleven years old and there was no going back from there.

The story is of a spoilt orphan, Mary Lennox. I related to her character more than any other that I had read of back then. I was that child. That rude, disinterested, detached child. The book helped me realize that. It helped me see myself for who I was. Who I might turn into. It was education like no other. To read about her being plucked from the bright vibrancy of India and transplanted to a mysterious old house on the moody Yorkshire. I still dream of those moors and the wind cascading through the hills. Of locked doors, curious robins and strange cries ringing down the corridor. Of friends who will open secret doors for you and share precious moments of bliss.

And now, almost ten years later, I can hardly contain my excitement at the thought of revisiting my most favorite story. I will be watching The Secret Garden today. In less than an hour actually. Angel Exit production unearth the dark heart of Frances Hodgson Burnett's much loved classic and retell it in their rich visual style, blending ensemble storytelling with striking physicality, beautiful puppets, haunting songs and an original soundtrack. Sigh. It feels much like I am about to meet a person I have only ever heard of for a long time. A favorite author maybe. Or James Franco. Overwhelming comes closest to describing it, this feeling in my heart. And now it's time to walk to the theater. With bated breath and quick steps.

Will you follow me home on the wrong road that I led you through?

2012-01-25T17:35:00.000-08:00

He was the most peculiar man. That's what Mrs. Riordan said and she should know, she lived upstairs from him. But she never told us why she thought him to be peculiar. Maybe it was understood. He had no friends. He seldom spoke. And he lived all alone within a house, within a room, within himself. He died last Saturday. And on this cold cold night, I am snuggled up in bed and listening intently as Simon and Garfunkel lament this most peculiar man.

I should be sleeping. Wrapped up in layers of quilt, I should be dreaming. But I am afraid to sleep because when I do, I dream of you. And I am tired of wasting my dreams on you. What if we could? I was always weary of life's sense of humor. It's wry. Very dry. Bordering dark. But it's been here for a while and must be getting bored. Come, let's put it on hold.

The light is dull and pouring out from above me. A tiny lamp placed over my bed. It has thrown the rest of the room into darkness. And in it the blinds crash against the open window. I get a feeling that the wind is trying to tell me something. That it wants to let me in on a secret. That it feels it can save me from myself. Oh how sweet.

I dream of white kitchen walls with a thousand windows. I am asleep but I can hear the piano. There is coffee being brewed and late morning light caressing my bare shoulders. And there is that sound of you making breakfast before noon. I am lost in a mangled mess of white bed linen and the phone won't ring. There is no knock on the door and the alarm wasn't set. And there is no reason to wake up from that dream. No reason to remember that I don't own a coffee machine. Or a piano. Or that I live alone now. Oh how did we end up here? I was never good with directions but what is your excuse?

Remora. How beautiful it sounds. Re. Mo. Ra. It could be the name of a mistress. A delightfully passionate lady who smokes thin cigarettes and reads Emily Dickinson poems out loud in her Italian accent.

Silky voice and scarlet lips. She drove him mad with her twirling hips. And then he made the fatal mistake of believing that she could be possessed. That she would want to replace his wife. That she would feel honored to be more than just the mother of his bastard child. Remora. An obstacle, hindrance or obstruction. The word is obscenely beautiful to mean any of those. But it is best not to doubt the dictionary.

Drive. The movie. There is something about him. His silence. His smile. The slightly furrowed eyebrows when he gazes at her. At her son. The way he holds the steering. The way he keeps an eye out for trouble when he is but the only trouble. I am finally going to stop mistaking him for Ryan Reynolds. There was something calming about him even when he was covered in blood.

There is a beautiful visual moment that the two share. It's night time, they are in his car, he is driving and the silence between them is natural. And just as naturally she slides her hand on to his, the one that is gripping the gear. And he acknowledges it by lightly lifting his fingers so hers can entwine with his. No words pass, no smile, no glances. None that I can remember. Second chances are rare and they are worth celebrating.

1:20 am. The wind is getting fierce. And the glass is being knocked on. Repeatedly. Is this a plea? You have accused me often of not caring. Not understanding. Of never seeing the signs. Where do we go from here? Why does your heart beat? How could I let it go? And now, why do I feel? And would you walk your cool walk the next time you walk away? Swaggering your way out of my life. I couldn't have imagined it any other way.

Let's delay the hurtful words of complicated overcast.

2012-01-24T02:45:00.000-08:00

It rained earlier in the morning. My window panes can't seem to hide the telltale signs. It's a wonderful feeling, waking up to a distorted view of trees against the gray sky. I am trying and failing to remember something as beautiful as watching stale droplets slide lazily down a glass pane. There is fog looming over the horizon and the thought of it is sending shivers through me.

I went to bed with The White Tiger and I must say I was mildly surprised. This is not like any of the other Booker Prize winners I have read. Aravind Adiga has a way of surprising me with his humor. I don't think he was trying too hard to be funny there. The character of Balram is strangely interesting. Just enough to get you to lean in and ask him a question. But regret it the moment you have his attention. If I was in the same room as him, I would keep glancing nervously at the door, hoping for someone to intervene. And quickly.

Murder a man, and you feel responsible for his life - possessive even. You know more about him than his father or mother; they knew his fetus, but you know his corpse. It's the casual tone in which he reveals everything that scares me. He justifies and I let him. There is no resistance. No doubt. Whatever he says, is the truth. The right thing. Something that we should have thought of ourselves. And he knows that too. I have always had a weakness for psychopaths anyway.

He is a murderer who loves Urdu poetry. There is a quote by Iqbal that I really liked. They remain slaves because they can't see what is beautiful in this world. But what of those who are slaves to beauty? What about their freedom?

A friend from Germany will be visiting me today. Gianna. She is coming over from London. And her visit is going to bring with it an avalanche of Bremen memories. I miss the Bremen Starbucks from time to time. I miss sitting there with a steaming cup of Earl Gray and a strawberry cheesecake. I miss that little corner space that I used to occupy. That's where I started writing again.

I missed the bus and got splashed by a speeding car. I couldn't find a cab so I ran all the way to work. I was late and while I tried to meet deadlines I was slighted and provoked. And on my way back it started to rain. And when I got home I was soaked to my bones and freezing. But then you wrap a towel around me and hold me tight and so everything feels alright. And even if my life crumbles to the ground and everything I know to be mine is lost to the heavens it won't matter much because you are here. And we are together. But dreams have a way of shattering against the sharp sun rays. And I will try not to shed a tear. Or two.

I am thinking of Jamun today. Balram reminds me a little of him. It was good to have him around. A forty year old man disgruntled with life, on a self appointed mission to find his 'missing' father who died in front of his eyes. It's all good in a book I suppose. So safe. So disgustingly voyeuristic. I am not sure if I would want to meet someone like him. And so I won't make a hasty wish. I tend to regret those the next day. Groggy life, seldom loved. I think it is his sense of humor I miss the most. It's been a while since someone made me laugh. Way To Go by Upamanyu Chatterjee. Strange book that one.

I had my first class yesterday. The Business of Publishing. I didn't like how the subject stripped the illusion I had of the 'magic' of creating a book. And I also didn't like how my favorite publishing houses were reduced to embarrassing numbers. Welcome to the real world, eh? It's not an easy business, this publishing. Too vague for my liking. But I can't imagine myself anywhere else. Every hit seems to be a mistake here, as Mal Peachey so delightfully informed us.

It would have been five years today. Five. So much could have been sealed within these five years. But we got it wrong, we lost sight. I am sorry I wasn't in love. I wish I was. And it was by accident that I remembered. Blue October. My words, they won't come out right. But I will try to say I am happy for you. And I can't change this and I can never take it back. Mostly because I don't want to.

Of strong winds, light rains, fond remembrance and bittersweet symphonies..

2012-01-21T13:50:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I imagine a lady on the wrong side of forty sitting by the window in an elegant dress writing away in her journal about lovers from the past and all the possibilities. The if not's and if only's. Someone who has lost love, found it and then lost it all over again. And has only herself to blame for it.

The light is dim, yellow and soft to her skin and the recent wrinkles around her eyes are suffocating under too much concealer. There is music playing in the background. French. Think Sous le ciel de Paris. The curtains are heavy, brown and smell a little musty but only if you get too close to them. The view from the window is inspiring. There are trees bellowing in the wind and then there is rain. And clouds with silver linings.

She is the kind of lady who used to be the center of attraction at masquerades. A ravishing beauty in her youth she was the fantasy of every man she met, married or not. I think it’s her long faded beauty that is the cause of such loneliness at this age. She felt she was too good for the rest of the world. Much too good for those who gave her their heart. Ah the tragedy of delusions. Sigh. And she is alone now, without the comfort and company of neither her beauty nor a soul. The splendor is lost and so is the magnificence.

She is the spinster who will die alone. And die with regrets. She will die without the pleasure of raising children and pampering grand children. But mostly, she will just die alone. Destitute. Arrogant. Reclusive. Lonely. Disconsolate. Miserable. Discordant. Incongruous. Egregious. Cacophonous. I need to find her a name.

I spent most of today exploring this new town. I feel like a child with too much candy in her pockets. There is a lot to taste. To see. To feel. I walked through a narrow lane that was lined with bookstores on either side. It was quite a delightful sight to behold. Needless to say, I will be visiting it again. Among other things, I also chanced upon the most famous building of Cambridge, the King's College Chapel. It's breathtakingly beautiful a structure but I was stunned most by the stained glass windows. Such striking red and blue. And more than 500 years old too.

While I was waiting outside the chapel, in the courtyard, a trail of little boys in black gowns hurried past. The choir boys for the afternoon mass. For a moment there, I was transported to the first Harry Potter movie. To that particular scene where Hermione overhears Ron making fun of her and pushes past them, leaving Ron red with shame. I later found out that some parts of the movie were shot in this compound.

When he breaks up with her, he tells her that it's not her, it's him. That he thought he loved her but he didn't. That he wished there was more but there really wasn't. A conquest, a mere conquest, that's what she was. Disbelief and then anger flash through her eyes. She was broken. Devastated. There were tears. It must have been quite sad for her, that moment. To have her heart broken like that. But it will always be for Sebastian that my heart aches. It's his pain that pierces through me. His loss that I find hard to bear. It is not as easy as it looks, this business of breaking hearts.

I am impressed, she said. Oh well, I am in love, he replied. Cruel Intentions has the most distinctly powerful characters I have seen on screen. And Sebastian will be the character I learned to hate but love. 'Even more treacherous than he is attractive, he hasn't uttered a single word without some dishonorable intention.' I have always found charming and manipulative to be a lethal combination. God save the rest of us. Sucker love is heaven sent. You pucker up, our passion's spent. My hearts a tart, your body's rent. My body's broken, yours is bent. And Placebo at its best.

So the thing with Cambridge winds is that it is lazy. So lazy that instead of going around you it goes right through you. I can still feel it within me and the mere thought of it makes me shiver. The heater is gurgling away, spurting strange noises in my direction, reprimanding me for bothering it at this strange hour. I almost feel the need to apologize.

I can't seem to concentrate much on anything today. Especially writing. My thoughts are all over the place. Let's blame Cambridge. The place and the people. My room here is a beautiful little space. The view is brilliant, with its trees and the ground. The desk is huge and already cluttered. The shelves are gaping for books. And at the foot of my bed, are three chairs. I have arranged them to face each other. So every time I enter my room I feel like I am interrupting a cozy tea party. And it makes me wish I had knocked.

King's College Chapel Courtyard. Braving the Cambridge wind and rain.

The thoughts that cracked their way through the confined shells of restrain.

2012-01-17T14:43:00.000-08:00

There is a taciturn ache pulsating through my bones. It could be because of all the walking I did today. But I think it's the cold. The kind that has crawled into my bones and made itself comfortable. I don't mind it much, this ache. It's a tantalizing reminder of the city I walked through today. My new home. The morning was spent discovering hidden alleyways. The ones which wind through beautiful structures that are in a habit of taking my breath away.

I am sitting in an octagon room of a hotel lobby. And when I place my head back and squint in the right direction, I can see my distorted reflection smiling back at me from the ceiling. There are mirrors everywhere, adding depth to a room I can't stop admiring. Slouched comfortably into an antique armchair, I reek of contentment.

There is a grand piano sitting royally in the middle of the room, something that the other guests have to walk around if they wish to get to the Darwin room. I am tempted to sit on the piano bench, lift the case protecting the beautiful keys and play Fur Elise before I forget how to.

Fur Elise. The most beautiful three minutes of my life are entwined in those three minutes. And everything else pales in comparison. Just the thought of its magnificently powerful tune which uses no words but speaks volumes makes me sigh. Do you sense longing in its beauty? A peculiar yearning that is going unheard. The haunting voice of the broken heart. A lover who won't budge, who refuses to understand. Someone who seems unmoved by the desire, the truth, the love. Oh how can anyone deny something this transparent? Oh how could she turn him down? Elise, if only you believed. If only.

My beloved Charlotte Bronte character comes to mind tonight. Because I am not afraid of solitude. It is my first home. It's a place where I am not dependent on anyone. I find myself reflecting most of Jane Eyre's many thoughtful musing in these regal surroundings. I am not afraid of you. I simply do not wish to speak of such nonsense. And when I find myself out of my depth while talking to you I shall not hesitate to state as much. And you might talk insolence to see me blush, but you should know that I am not easily unhinged.

There is music resounding through the room. I would have preferred it to be silent. But an invisible orchestra insists on keeping me company. Right in front of me, across the piano, through the ajar wooden doors and into the bar, sits a man with a drink in his hand. His armchair is facing away and all I can see of him is his hand on the armrest holding a glass. He hasn't moved it much. Maybe he is deep in thought, causing the drink to be forgotten. His fingers around the glass are tapping to the music. Maybe the harmony is helping him think. And so I no longer wish for silence.

If I walk up to the window to my far right I will be welcomed by the glorious view of Parker's Piece, the grounds on which Queen Victoria chose to celebrate her coronation. There is a painting of the coronation feast mounted at the hotel entrance. It's a huge canvas of once bright colors. It gets you to think of things you never thought you would think of.

The fireplace is behind me. Carefully cut wood is stacked neatly all around it. Tonight though, it's the heaters doing the job. I took a walk along the main street after dinner. It was biting cold and slightly wet. I felt like Sherlock in my long coat. And then I wondered of Sherlock and how it must feel to take one look at a person and know almost everything about them. I wondered if he knew of the joy in discovering someone over a hot cup of coffee. Of asking rather than deducing. Of listening rather than concluding. I wonder if he knew what he was missing out on. But I am not too hopeful.

I wish to take my shoes off and place my exhausted feet on the table. But Sir Isaac Newton might disapprove. That's the thing about portraits. Regardless of where you look at them from, you know they are looking right back at you.

It's late and I am sleepy. It's been a long, tiring day of university rounds, cobbled streets and delightful bookstores. The name of my University is Anglia Ruskin. The course is Publishing. The city is Cambridge. And the swaying shadows cast by the grand chandelier are not helping my will to stay awake.

To new beginnings. And shivery winters.

Here's to you, bruised, abused and blue, as we follow the cops back home.

2012-01-13T01:37:00.000-08:00

It's in your reach. Concentrate. It's in your reach. Concentrate. If you deny this then it is your fault. It's in your reach. Concentrate. It's in your reach. Concentrate. Placebo is at it again. Hypnotizing me with their words. Telling me what I am not able to tell myself. It's not early but it feels like it is. I am sitting by an open window and letting the breeze tease me. It is surprisingly cold today. Just enough to make me want to snuggle back into bed. Every time I rise I see you, falling. Can you find me space inside your bleeding heart?

I was never faithful and I was never one to trust. I was never loyal except for my own pleasures. You sang to me and you whispered these words. You told me everything there was to know. But I trusted you anyway. And I thought being loyal to me would be your pleasure. And now here I am with a healing heart and no one but myself to blame. I was never grateful that's why I spend my days alone. Are you smiling? You think this is funny, don't you? You did always have a weird sense of humor. I remember how we used to laugh at Dead Baby Jokes.

It was drizzling as I hurried into the railway station. There were little specks of water decorating my coat as I took it off and placed it on the chair opposite me. I had just spent a week in Paris and was on my way back to Bremen. It was early morning and the station was deserted. I ordered myself a coffee which I don't drink. And a chocolate croissant I don't like. And as I sat there with my newly bought copy of a book I don't remember, I thought of you. I know. You love the song but not the singer. I know. You have got me wrapped around your finger. I know. You want the sin without the sinner. I know. I know.

In that moment, in the city of our dreams, alone, I missed you. And I wanted to tell you all about the midnight walks through Paris. The way the lights dazzle across the bridge. The Louvre which we both yearned to visit. The paintings that we love. The sculptures that we thought were funny. I wanted to tell you about the newly married couple I met on the top of Eiffel tower. They were there in their wedding attire. I clicked a picture that I wanted to share with you. You would have loved the idea of it and I would have scoffed. But you were not there so I told them in your stead, how beautiful the thought was. How beautiful they looked together. I am sure you would have agreed.

You frame the photograph and I sit on fences. Change of season, love can die. I think it is going to rain tonight. I can hear the leaves rustling urgently, trying to warn. And the strong rays of the sun are being deflected shamelessly by the crowding clouds. You better keep it in check or you will end up a wreck and you will never wake up.

They ask me if I am okay but they don't believe me when I tell them that I am swell. They think I am trying to be funny when I put on an accent. They think I am hiding my pain behind familiar words that sound strange. You were the only one who believed me. I dreamed of you last night. It was a phone call. It made me realize that I have forgotten how you sound. I think of calling you up sometime. To tell you about the number of prawns I ate the other day. Or the coat I bought. Or the book I read. The music I liked. Just to talk. Hear her calling you. There is a place within her mind with rains already falling. She's insane, this friend of mine. And she is always bawling.

Placebo used to be our band. Now it is just mine. You would sing the song for me and I would smile. You would tell me about how I am the first to cross Seine and how you lag behind. You made me believe that I was ahead of the game while it was me who dragged behind. You told me I never got caught in the rain while I was the one who got drenched to the bone every time. But you possess every trait that I lack, by coincidence or design. You are the monkey I got on my back that tells me to shine. But it's so cold and I wish it would just rain.

Because I know that my heart beats for someone I am yet to meet...

2012-01-11T05:32:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I dream of a tree. The tree is my life. One branchis the man I shall marry. And the leaves, my children. Another branch is myfuture as a writer. And each leaf is a story. Another branch is a glitteringacademic career. But as I sit there trying to choose, the leaves begin to turnbrown. And blow away. Until the tree is absolutely bare. And then I open my eyes,anxious and petrified. It's autumn again. Sylvia Plath's words are pulsatingthrough me. Her fears are my fears. And her uncertainty with life tooI seem to have embraced today. And just like her, I feel the hope wilting away.I tell myself that whatever I choose is the right choice. I hope I can continue fooling myself forever.

It's windy. There is a lone tree in the middle of the fieldwhich is being rustled ruthlessly. The dejected leaves fall to the ground andthe disappointed birds fly off high above. It's twilight and the darkbranches are getting lost within the dark sky. And then there is that noisethat the wind makes. The one that is intimidating and provoking in equalmeasures. The one that unsettles and torments with its disquiet. The one thatrefuses to leave my thoughts. The one which has ingrained itself intomy subconscious mind. The one that keeps me awake at night.

I want to get on a bright red bicycle. The heavy metal ones withbicker baskets and round bells. I want to pull up my dress and tie up my hairand just cycle through the countryside. And I will keep pedaling till I leavethe streets behind and the sunflower fields too are out of sight. And I won'tstop even when I pass the lake. And I won't spare a glance to the ducks andbaits. I will keep pedaling through the stress and strain and notrest for even a minute under the shade. I will keep going until nothing cankeep up, nothing is left. No people, no memories, no thoughts and none of thedoubts. And when I reach that place, I will stop. And then I will look up at the clearsky and I will try not to cry.

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'llprobably want to know is where I was born, and what mylousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and allbefore they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, butI don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the firstplace, that stuff bores me, and in the second place, my parents would haveabout two hemorrhages apiece if I told anything pretty personal about them. - Opening lines of The Catcher in the Rye

I have been carrying my littlecopy of The Catcher in the Rye with me wherever I go. A dark blue cover holdingwithin it the most delightful character I have ever had the pleasure ofreading. From the opening sentence to the characteristically crypticline at the end, everything is enlightening and endearing. Don't ever tellanybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody. There issomething about Holden. Something attractive, while also being repulsive. Iwant to get to know him but I want to maintain a distance. I want him to talkto me but I don't want to tell him anything about myself. But mostly, I justwant to hug him.

The book reeks of reality. Of the truth that we areevading. Of everything we know to be right butnever acknowledging it. Of teachers that touch you, inappropriately. And then there was the brother he lost. Death in thefamily. And a kid sister who is the only person he really just wants to spendtime with and have a conversation with. Another elder brother who is being a prostitute to Hollywood by writing commercial stuff that Holden doesn't approve of. He preferred the short stories instead. Especially the one called The Secret Goldfish. It was a story about this little kid that won't let anybody look at his goldfish because he'd bought it with his own money. It kills him, to read that story.

Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playingsome game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, andnobody's around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edgeof some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they startto go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look wherethey're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I doall day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, butthat's the only thing I'd really like to be. And this is the bit from the book that kills me. Every time.

My semester starts on the 23rd of this month. The course schedule was mailed to me a couple days back and every time I think of it, I can't help but smile to myself. Among other delightful courses, there is one that is labelled The magic of used books. And there is a 'field trip' to the London Book Fair. Sigh. Field trip makes me think of huge yellow buses and swirly colored candies. Five more days of home. I can't imagine the time when I won't be waking up in my bed. Close the binds and shut the door, you won't need any friends anymore.

Dido is singing me my favorite song. On a loop. I apologize once again I'm not in love. But it's not as if I mind that your heart ain't exactly breaking. And I always thought that I would love to live by the sea, to travel the world alone and live more simply. I have no idea what's happened to that dream.

And I am trying not to feel maudlin about losing that dream. And losing you. And nothing I have is truly mine.

The time to sleep is now and there is nothing to cry about..

2012-01-08T16:56:00.000-08:00

It's so late in the night and I wish I wasn't here, convulsing in my misery. The tears are flowing silently, crawling over the fingers that clasp my mouth. Lonesome. And Death Cab isn't helping. Not today at least. 3:05 AM. And I long for this mirrored perceptive of when we will be lovers at last. Lovers at last.

It was a long time ago when I had clasped my hand to my mouth like this. My back against the wall I slid to the floor. Relief flooded through my body and caused my legs to buckle when she answered her phone. She had no clue what she had made me go through, in those moments leading up to the most dreaded phone call I have made in my life. I had walked through a door left wide open and the ceiling fan buzzing on full speed. Loose sheets of paper from my half finished assignment were flying across the room. The water in the bathroom was running. I didn't move to stop the flow. I walked instead towards the ominously placed sheet of neatly folded paper tucked under my laptop.

It was a note. Addressed to me. Something about goodbyes and apologies and wishing not having to do this. I have very vague memory of the words, of what was written. I only remember the gut wrenching feeling of having the ground swept from under my feet. I had forgotten to breathe. I called out her name. There was no answer. I remember emptying my bag on the floor to find my cell, to make that call. And I remember her hesitant voice. An almost whispered hello. She was with friends. She was okay. She was alive. And I breathed again.

Cause now we say goodnight from our own separate sides. But I don't want to be like brothers on a hotel bed. I want us to hold hands and walk along the shore. I want us to share stories, new and old. And laugh, laugh at all those who got it wrong. Those who said you were bad for me and I should turn you away because they don't know about us and they have never heard of love. And when I look at you and you hold my hand, I know we have nothing to lose.

I don't want to feel this way tonight. I don't want to sit here in the dark and think of all the times I have cried. All the times I have felt alone. I want to roll the window down and then begin to breathe in the darkest country road and the strong scent of evergreen. From the passenger seat as you are driving me home... Take me away, because it is getting difficult to breathe here. The walls are closing in and the memories are haunting.

I am taken back to that day... Some one I had once known was being wheeled into the operating theater, completely sedated. There were lots of friends, waiting outside. But I walked aimlessly through the corridors till I found a corner. And I sat by myself in a passage full of swarming people attending to their sickness. And I placed my hand over my mouth and I cried. I cried at the thought of her alone, surrounded by strangers prodding her. Cutting, fixing, stitching. And I cried for her pain. For the fear she must have felt when she was thrown out of the car. And I cried some more, for her heart. And for mine.

And this is the moment you know. That you told her you loved her but you don't. You touch her skin and then you think that she is beautiful but she don't mean a thing to me. And I try to hide my disgust as you well up and tell me all about how you don't care. That you were pretending that it meant something more. I wish I could believe all the words you spoke to me as we moved together in the dark. I wish we were not together in the dark.

And I want to tell you that I will follow you into the dark. That someday, you will die and I will be close behind. And moments before you die, I will not lie. I will tell you how much you mean to me, how much I care. Oh how I will cry.

I wish I could allow you to love me the way you want to. I wish I could let these walls crumble to the floor, so you could walk in and take over. Because I am tired of holding the fort alone and I am tired of wiping my own tears. I am tired of pretending that everything is okay and everything is fine. And you tell me, Baby, there is no need to live in the past cause now I found the love and am going to make it last. And you tell me that when they look at me they don't see what you see cause they don't know about us and they have never heard of love.

I am part of a circle that has swallowed me whole. Swallowed. Me. Whole.

2012-01-06T21:16:00.000-08:00

It's 6:25 AM and the sun is yet to rise. The view from the window is many shades of black. It took a while for my eyes to get adjusted to the lack of color and light. Silhouette of my favorite garden is slowly coming to view. I sat outside for a bit, on the bench that no one sits on. It's cold there. Cold and unwelcome. It made me come back inside, in search of warmth and love. In search. Warmth. Love. Ah, when will I stop looking?

It's an Eddie Vedder morning. There's a big, big hard sun, beating on the big people, in the big hard world. When she comes to greet me, she is mercy at my feet. When I see her bitter charm, she just throws it back again. Once I dug an early grave to find a better land.. She just smiled and laughed at me and took her blues back again. It's 6:45 on a Saturday morning and I am suddenly very curious about her. The one who is comfort by his side. The one who opens up her hands when he tries to understand. She sounds so beautiful. And when he stood to lose her, my heart ached for him. For them. I wish she hadn't cried.

I am on the floor of the living area. Sitting with my back straight against the wall and my legs parallel to the floor. I am amusing myself by alternately stretching my toes forward and backward. Something I need to practice for my ballet class. It's dark inside as well, but stray rays of yellow light have escaped through the passage door and spread themselves comfortably over the beige carpet. A room of shadows. A place of comfortable darkness. Sleep is tiptoeing around the edge of time, trying to sneak in, waiting for me to lower my guard. The spilled over light keeps prodding my attention, demanding regular glances. The look that is reserved for the door when you are expecting someone special. Someone who is never late.

There is whispered activity buzzing through the walls of this house. Rasha is sitting beside me in her uniform, her hair neatly combed and braided. She has some time before her bus honks for her. She is reading a book, my book. Harry Potter. The Order of Phoenix. What I had taken great pains to keep intact for most of my childhood, she has managed to tear and disintegrate half way through hers. It hurts. Hurts to see the pages fall apart. Hurts enough to make me want to cry. But she was eleven when she first read this book and I will try not to hold it against her. Not for long at least.

Papa just left the house for his morning walk. The sun is rising. Slowly, lethargically. Papa was surprised to see me up. That should explain the unexpected hug. He believes me to be his laziest child, he said so himself. How kind. I haven't seen mama yet, but I can tell where she is. Noises carry themselves quicker in this house, their way of making sure we are all connected I suppose. Like a family should be. The kitchen has quietened, the breakfast ritual done with. My bowl of reliable yogurt sits beside me, camouflaged as breakfast.

There is a recent art work of Raiyan's that I can't stop looking at. His bird of prey, he calls it affectionately. It's mine now. A gift for his didi. And it is beautiful. The work and the gesture, equally so. The patience he has developed over the past months never fails to amaze me. I sit in his room from time to time, to watch him create one little piece of brilliance after another. We sit together in complete silence and when our eyes meet, we smile a smile that can only be exchanged between siblings.. It's the one that is full of knowing. The one that can lead to stomach clenching laughter at a moment's notice. I will miss him the most when I am gone.

I woke up to a beautiful surprise in my inbox. Just lots of words strung together in a heart pleasing manner. Words that are woven through mine. The first paragraph is dipped in concern. It's a happy feeling, to know that there is someone out there who cares. I haven't read the complete mail yet. The thought of having something to go back to is making me smile. I am smiling and the sun is here. Half its glory. The rays are not strong yet, nothing is being pierced by the light. Just calm, quiet, almost shy. As though surprised by their own courage. Like he said, 80% of success is showing up. Just showing up. Woody Allen, you smart man.

Papa is back. Shower, breakfast, office. He is humming to himself. Mama is sitting in solitude with her cup of morning tea, her work starts a little later. She likes it that way. A friend is online. And we will catch up like we usually do, at unusual hours of the day and night. There is something beautiful he wrote recently that I keep going back to. It's appropriately titled Pillows. "I am every decision in your life that you wish to take back. I am the look which messes with your chain of thought, makes you shuffle uneasily. I am the gesture of detachment...."

Soon it will just be me and my piano wrapped lovingly within these walls. And the morning shall pass, one melodic note at a time. Fur Elise. The tune makes me dreamy. And yearn for the love that isn't mine. Beethoven. Surely, there can't be a more beautiful way to start a day...

Everyone knows you are my one regret. Everyone knows you are my one weakness.

2012-01-03T13:52:00.000-08:00

My skin is red. Delicious crimson under these dim yellow lights. I can feel the heat dissipating leisurely from it. It's so quiet that I can almost hear the drops trickle through my wet hair and onto my shoulders, my neck, me. I can feel the once scalding water slowly crawl its way over my skin, getting me to shiver as the the bitter cold in the room looks on. A silent audience that has everyone fooled, pretending like it has nothing to do with it all. A late night shower. To wash away the day. The deeds. The memories. I wish I was one of those who is asleep in this house right now.

There is something liberatingly beautiful about flowing water. It all goes away. Nothing is permanent. Not the good, the bad or even the ugly. And the beauty too fades away. It makes you think, it makes you ask, what then is for keeps and what is for sale. I like the feel of water escaping from between my fingers. It reprimands me for trying to grasp on to something that wasn't mine. It lets me believe that I will survive even if I let go. Even after it all flows away, I shall remain. For eternity. And let me remind you, eternity is a very long time..

There is no music tonight. The iPod lies beside me, surprised at its inactivity. Or maybe I have mistaken smug for surprise. I tend to do that sometimes. I guess it knows I will come crawling back to it soon, like I always do. Ten minutes to midnight. I have had three hours of sleep in the past twenty four hours. Three. And it's the 3rd of January today. Exactly a month away from my twenty first birthday. Twenty first. Twenty one. The number feels overwhelmingly large. Oh how time flies. I wish for myself strength. Strength to wade through the muck you have left me in. And I wish for myself, hope. Hope to find all that was lost to me. I wish for myself courage. Courage to fall in love again. Twenty one is too young to be decidedly maudlin and melancholic. I hope you agree.

I am wearing my raspberry lip balm. The one that I always have on. It's the first thing I apply after I get out of a shower. You had asked me once if it is a quirk. But I think it is just a bittersweet habit. It makes me happy, this scent. It is a beautiful reminder of everything I used to be. The words, laughter and love that have escaped these lips. And I shall try not pout at the memory of it.

There is a short story by Kafka that blows my mind away every time I read it. I have meticulously copied it down in my journal and I keep going back to it whenever I feel threatened by mediocrity. For no particular reason, I wish to share it with you. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. I hope it makes your lips form tiny ovals of awe. And I hope it makes you want to go back for more. Because Kafka is worth visiting, again and again, every now and then.

The Men Running Past

If we happen to be walking along a street at night, and a man, visible already from afar - because the street inclines gently uphill in front of us, and there's a full moon - comes running towards us, then we will not grab hold of him, even if he's feeble and ragged, even if someone is running after him, yelling, but rather we will let him run on unmolested.

For it is night, and it is not our fault that the street in front of us in the moonlit night is on an incline and, moreover, it is possible that the two men have devised their chase for their own amusement, perhaps they are both in pursuit of a third man, perhaps the first of them is being unjustly pursued, perhaps the second means to kill him and we would become accessory to his murder, perhaps the two of them don't know the first thing about one another and each one is running home to bed on his own account, perhaps they are two somnambulists, perhaps the first of them is carrying a weapon.

And finally may we not be tired, and have we not had a lot of wine to drink? We are relieved not to see the second man.

Aahh Kafka. Making a girl sigh so late into the night... Is there no end to the treasures you keep unveiling for me?

I wish to whisper my words to you tonight. I wish to lean over and talk in slow deliberate manner if you so care to listen. To read. I wish you could see the smile playing on my face as I share with you my day. Because it is my absolute pleasure to have been of any interest to you. To know that you take pleasure in my words. That you choose to read. And I want to thank you, for the words you leave behind for me. The ones that are encouraging and flattering in equal measure. Thank you. It means much more to me than I am capable of expressing. And I am sure it would make you smile to know that your words leave me wordless. Always.

And if there was song it would be A Thousand Years by Christina Perri. Because they met with an accident and I don't know if he survives, if they survive. I am not one for love stories. But. It's Chuck. It's Blair. It's love. It's real. To me at least.

"Be of love a little more careful than of anything else." -- e e cummings.

2012-01-02T14:11:00.000-08:00

Can you pretend I'm amazing? Instead of what we both know. I cut to the punch line. Oh the line that was blurred, bruised and abused. I don't know. A lot has been said. There are no steps to take. Not backwards anyway. The room is quiet and the lights off. I hope you are smiling. I hope you can pretend that I am amazing. And now our history is for sale. And for that I apologize. I would go down on my knees if it would make any difference. But it is dark and I hope you are smiling. Oh, did I say that already? But do you know that I am sorry? And that I would truly want to change..

It was late. Later than usual. We were still at the beach and it was time to make a move. To catch the last bus and get back. The sun was long gone and we had to make our way through rows of backyards. There were dogs barking but you insisted that I would always be safe around you. I believed you. I always did. We were guided by moonlight. The one that filtered through the trees. Somewhere the crickets were chirping. And then we were faced by a wall. There was no way out but to climb it. I went first. And for a moment I lost you. Lost you to the night, the darkness and the wall. That's when I knew I couldn't lose you. But I wish I had known better.

Do you remember? That time when I asked you if you would let go of my hand and you smiled, leaned in and whispered a promise to never let go. We were standing by the shore and the waves were getting higher. I needed my hand to roll up my jeans, I didn't want them to get wet.. But I didn't want to get you to break your promise either. So I got wet. And then it started to rain and I laughed. You gave me a quizzical look. I am glad I didn't pull my hand away. Quite recently I made the same promise to a friend. The only difference would be that I plan to keep my word. Broken promises are not the cracks I want on my coffin. I hope you live a long life. And that there are always people around to bless you when you sneeze.

If you asked me I would say no. Because that's the truth. No, I don't miss you. But I do miss me. I miss the person I was when you were a part of my life. I miss the hidden smiles and the carefree doodling. I miss the walks I walked with you by my side. I miss the thoughts I thought when I thought you were mine. That's what I miss. Don't be mistaken. You were nice when it lasted. But you aren't very nice yourself. And it hurts to say so. Green Eyes. Oh honey you were the rock upon which I stood. Because I came here with a load and it feels so much lighter since I met you.

I want to go on a first date. I have never been on one. It seems so beautiful. The shyness. The conversation. The smiles. The almost holding hands. The night that you don't want to end. Flowers. Sigh. The life that suddenly becomes beautiful again. I have forgotten how it feels to fall in love. A memory lost in time. I don't quite know, how to say, how I feel, but I know you understand. You always did. You are the trust in mistrust. You thought you were the catcher in the rye. But you weren't.

Oh, all that I know, there's nothing here to run from. Coz yeah, everybody here's got somebody to lean on. The last seventeen seconds of Don't Panic keep playing in my head, trying to keep me sane. Oh how hard you try. Try to fix this broken heart. But I am not sure I want to be fixed just yet. But I do know that when I am ready lights will guide me home and ignite my bones. And that's good enough for now.

"I'm gonna buy a gun and start a war, if you can tell me something worth fighting for."

2012-01-01T05:51:00.000-08:00

Headache. Not the dull throbbing but more of a loud hammering. I should be sleeping. Rest the head, the mind. But it threatens to get rusted. There is a conversation playing on a loop, weaving seamlessly through my thoughts. An unfinished conversation. I want to talk about it. Have a conversation about a conversation. But the world seems to be sleepy. Or cranky. Or maybe it's just me. The tightrope I have been walking on might snap. And I just want to be there when the mountains crack and the lightening strikes.

There is discordance between my thoughts. Something just unsettled itself up there. I keep going back to last night. And the words that were exchanged. Because they were interesting. And they opened up lots of closed doors. Doors that were slammed shut and forgotten about. There is beauty in being told something that you knew to be true but didn't have the words for. Ayesha. Oh, what a beautiful name. Oh what a beautiful person.

Let's make a plan to meet up years from now and pretend like no time has passed. And catch up from where we left off. Made to leave off. We will smile and hug and get lost in the awkward pleasantries. But we won't notice the years that are visible on our skins, in our manners. We will pretend to be twenty again and walk through the streets. And keep walking till we have left everything behind. Everything that is stopping us from walking away together right now. Spies hide out in every corner. They can't touch you because they are just spies. They are just spies. That's what they do. That's what he said.

There is beauty in discovering a new person. In sharing thoughts. And everything else that is worth sharing. I won't let you down, said I. I wish the pain would go away. Can you make it go away? Please. I saw sparks. It's you that I hold on to, that's what I do. I know I was wrong, but I won't let you down. Yeah I saw sparks. I want to sing it out and let them wash the pain. Or am I asking too much from Coldplay? I hate imposing. But I did rather be disappointed than disappointing. Can anybody stop this throbbing? Preferably, before my head explodes.

Pain. It overtakes all other senses, doesn't it? Making it difficult to concentrate. To listen. To enjoy. To live. I want to get into bed, curl up under my quilt, place a pillow over my head and weep. I want to fly and never come down. I can't read. I can't think aloud. I want to jump off my pillar of thoughts and crash into an abyss. How infinite that sounds. Oh the loveliness. Anything to make this pain go away. Who sells their soul to the devil? I would just gift mine. Don't tell me the idea hasn't crossed your mind.

Disapproval just flashed across your face. I noticed it. You might have thought you were quick but you weren't quick enough. I know it's something I said. I tried not to, but it is difficult to lie. All's not lost just yet. Oh oh yea yeah.. Everything is not lost. Come on yea yeah... Everything is not lost.. Oh oh yea yeah. Told you so. And then there is that maniacal laugh that scares the living bejabbers out of you. I will try not to do that again.

You are an emotional lepidopterist. You just pinned me onto a board, to watch my painful fluttering, for your own sadist enjoyment. Excuse the accusatory tone, it can't be helped sometimes. I want to be unpinned. And just lie down. Somewhere quiet. Alone. Under a clear sky. Lots of stars. And then fireworks. For a few minutes. And clear sky again. I would like that. Right now. Very much. Thank you. Some just laugh, some sit and cry.

We look at the moon and agree on how pretty it is. The first thing we have agreed on in a long time. We smile before we look away. And those are the last words we utter for the night. Would you like to see me crumble and fall on my face? If so, I hope you have the time to wait forever.

The language of friendship is not words but meanings, said Thoreau.

2011-12-30T09:12:00.000-08:00

I sat on the front porch and watched the sun go down today. The breeze gentle and carrying with it many comfortable thoughts. It's so dark. The lights are off. Inside and otherwise. Freshly out of a quiet bath, I feel tropical. Definitely smell like one. The wet hair are hanging loosely over my shoulder, staining my gray t-shirt. My mind won't stay on one thing today. Hopping, screeching, tapping away. Running in circles. Starting just when I thought it had all ended.

I am sleepy. The tiles under my feet seem to sway to Coldplay. The air is swirling lazily around me, humoring me with its presence. Oh such pretense. I want a cup of hot beverage. If not to drink then for moral support. I would like to sit here, on the steps, my knees folded. And I would hold on to my cup for dear life. A cup that might declare me to be the best sister in the world. Or daughter. Or friend. But it doesn't. If I remember what the good days felt like, I would miss them. Sometimes I wish I wasn't alone even when I am not.

There is a beautiful quote by Shirley MacLaine that pierces my heart every time I read it. Fear makes strangers of people who could be friends. I wish I was fearless. But I don't want to sound too wishful.

My phone is blinking. Beeping. Doing its thing. Tap tap, how do you do? Oh I miss you too. No, this isn't love. But I am glad you felt so. Oh oh oh.. it is true, you use your heart as a weapon and it hurts like heaven. Coldplay. But we could be talking about anyone here. I am not sad. I am just me. You say you hate making me wait, but you don't know that I never do. This waiting wasn't for me anyway.

Mama and papa will be back tonight. There is a lull in the house. A certain kind of stillness that is surreal. It feels empty. Halfhearted. Dying. No place is whole unless all its people are together. This is the first time I have been left behind. Usually, I am the one who goes away to do my thing, leaving this family incomplete. I will be gone soon. A few more months and Raiyan will be out of here as well. And then there will be no coming back. Just moving forward. We will soon be creating our own little families, adding new people to the equation and hoping that the foundation will survive. Such risks.

Most of my life I have breathed with absolute belief that there will never be a person I could just talk to. Someone who believed in me enough to stop me from doubting myself. And the sad truth is, that a lot of people tried. And failed. I wish I was less reserved. More open. Accepting. Trusting. Loving. I wish. In spite of my own shortcomings I do have one such friend. And it's his birthday today. He has turned a particular number of years which I am not allowed to disclose. Scout's honor and what not.

There is a lot I could tell him, but it's not like any of it has not been said before. But Awi, it's a special day and I wish for you everything that I have wished for ever person who is important to me.

I wish for you
Each big and small success
That makes you feel complete
I wish for you
Lazy Sundays
Brilliant Mondays
And occasionally a day with nothing to do
I wish for you
A second glance from pretty girls
A second glance for pretty girls
And friends who make you happy
I wish for you
Creative freedom
Interesting conversations
First class tickets to new destinations
And food that makes you forget everything else
I wish for you
Long road trips to unknown places
And a smile
I wish for you
Cozy bookstores
Jokes that are actually funny
Comfortable quilt
And memories. Lots of happy memories
I wish for you
Time, to stand still and enjoy what you have
Time, with people you love
A soul mate. But you have found her so I wish for both of you happiness.
And I wish for you
To have everything you ever wish for.

Happy birthday Awijit. I might not always like you but I will forever love you. And now we are both smiling.

Dragging the ruined past through a messy present and into the perfect future...

2011-12-28T14:51:00.000-08:00

I don't know how it happened, but there it lay, at the bottom, in pieces. I didn't notice the glass until it was the last thing left sodden in the sink. I didn't notice its brokenness until my finger scraped against its edge and blood slowly swirled into the swimming water. It was beautiful, in a very wrong way. To see the thick crimson slowly push through the clueless transparent. To form patterns that were graceful in their motion. It was the kind of beauty that captures your attention because of its unexpectedness. It was strange to watch it all slowly disappear into pink. I wish it would have lasted a little longer. Pale pink. The kind of color that makes one crinkle their nose and look away.

Stupendous. I think it is stupendous. I want a summer day by a country side. Lush green grass and cloudy sky. There is beauty in subtlety. In saying nothing at all while saying a lot. In tip toeing around the edges. In that smile dripping with meaning. It makes me think of a couple of strangers from centuries past. The ones who have got down to the dance floor and the first words between them are yet to be exchanged. A debutante's ball, maybe. There is eye contact. Shy glances. And a particularly delicious feeling that has wrapped them up into a bubble of silent smiles. The only sounds known to them is that of the piano, the tap of his shoes and the rustle of her dress.

The thing about words is that once uttered, they can never be taken back. There is no erasing their permanent effect. There is something almost ugly about saying what others won't. Immensely courageous. And undeniably attractive. They could be shouted off rooftops. They could be whispered to you under a winter blanket. They could be scribbled on the fridge in a hurry. They could be scripted conscientiously in a letter. These words. I wish there was an escape. Once in a while.

I am thinking of brothers on a hotel bed. I don't know if the thought was triggered by the song. Maybe it was. I have images of two little boys tucked into bed but far from sleepy. They are talking to each other, whispering words in the darkness. There isn't any enmity. No hint of pleasant rivalry that is often seen to cause friction between siblings. This image reminds me of my own brother. Of Raiyan. There are all sorts of blessings that God bestows upon us. But finding a friend in a brother is probably the most beautiful of them all.

Each broken heart will eventually mend. You will be loved like you have never known. And memories of me will seem more like bad dreams, just a series of blurs like I never occurred. You may feel alone when you are falling asleep and every time tears roll down your cheek. But I know your heart belongs to someone you have yet to meet. And I wish you would know it too. I am but something that should have been forgotten with the new day. Leaving behind a light scent of darkness. Something that can be easily shrugged off. There is a lot I want to tell. Words of mine that I have arranged carefully just for you. But I chose to borrow those of Death Cab's. Because for now, they will do.

It's been three days now. Without mama. Without papa. And it is interesting to see the three of us exist. Live. Grow. Laugh. Love. Dinner conversation has definitely changed. Siblings talk differently in the absence of their parents. Mostly because parents tend to be the topic of discussion. Causing us to splutter through food that should have been long swallowed. There is mirth. And a beautiful understanding that tends to knot a family together in a tight bond. The one that no time or triumph can break through.

This is also the first, the three of us are getting to spend an extended period of time with each other and no one else. It is interesting. To be constantly surprised by how different we are yet so similar. Uncanny almost. There is pleasure in seeing a loved one grow. And I have two such people who bring joy to my heart with every success they embrace. Blood is thicker than water. And much more painful to wipe off when spilled.

I wish you could ask me to look at the stars again. I miss having someone whisper to me that it was all yellow. The memory of it is quite vague too. But it is enough to make me smile. When you told me about the line you drew and all the jumping and swimming across you would do. You made me believe, that they all shone for me, these stars. That for me you bled. That you wrote a song of all the things I do. That it was all yellow. To make a melancholic girl feel beautiful. To sing for her a favorite song when no one else would. To have her fall in love. In that moment. Oh what a thing to do.. And I never got around to thanking you..

If I could start again, a million miles away, I would keep myself, I would find a way.

2011-12-26T14:21:00.000-08:00

"She was pretty, definitely, but more important was the book she kept in her bag. A girl with a book is innately attractive; men understand that if she can tolerate the act of reading for the sake of pleasure, she is likely to put up with all manner of nonsense for the sake of a relationship. I was smitten." Something that made me smile today. From a Jack Cazir article. It went on to make numerous unrelated points and lost me half way through. But there was a bit about Pick Up Artists and the Neil Strauss book called 'The Game'. I don't know why this one isn't compulsory reading for every girl who has the slight chance of coming in contact with these douche bags. Harsh? Sigh. Read the book. It is unbearably infuriating in general and devastatingly accurate for most part.

It was a slow day. Spent within the protective walls of the house. Nothing interesting caught my mind. Pending work was procrastinated for another time. Phone calls weren't returned. Chores were delayed for a while. It was a day where there was time to watch the sun filter through the gaps of the window blinds. Or stand by the kitchen sink and let flowing water trickle through the dirty dishes. I hurt myself today to see if I still feel. I focus on the pain, the only thing that is real. Oh the old familiar sting. When pain is a habit, there is no going back. What have I become, my sweetest friend? Everyone I know, goes away in the end.

I could blame it all on lack of sleep. But the heart is feeling self righteous today. It wants to own up to its deeds. I don't know what pleasure is derived here, but it isn't mine to feel. The thoughts are seldom nice but they are there in plenty. I don't know if you know. I don't know if I know. It is so difficult to share vision with your people when they are not only on a different page but reading a different book altogether. A whole different book. Is it a thriller? Do I survive? Is it a happy ending? If you had anything to do with it, then probably not.

I find it very, very easy to be true

I find myself alone when each day is through.

Yes, I will admit I am a fool for you.

Because you are mine,

I walk the line.

I miss the confirmation that we provided each other. When I saw a shooting star, I always had you to turn to and ask if you saw it too. Did that really happen? Shouldn't we hurry to make a wish? Don't they always come true? And in a life that is full of amazing moments, I could do with some confirmation. Someone to tell me that it isn't all a dream. That the brownies taste great and that I should bake more often. And then there is consolation. When the simple sadness of the passing of beauty becomes unbearable. When death, loss, fear and pain visit, I miss you. It really felt like everything would be okay, when you would say so. Do you miss it? It's okay if you don't. There is always someone else we can turn to. For consolation. For an embrace. A kiss. For love. It's okay. We will be okay.

Beneath the stains of time, the feeling disappeared. You are someone else and I am still right here. What have I become, my sweetest friend? Everyone I know goes away in the end.

It's so late. And I said something about wanting to have Subway. You said you would take me there. You asked me to be ready in five. But I had just taken a shower and my hair weren't dry. You shrugged and said that you will leave the window open. It made me smile, that thought. The thought of an open window. It is a beautiful one. Especially when we are thousands of miles away.

I never apologized. For that time when you told me how you felt. About us. About me. I was in denial I think. The signs were clear but I had refused to accept them. I am sorry for the way I reacted. For the lack of reaction, more like it. I saw you struggle through your words and I didn't utter any comforting thoughts. I could have made it easier, but I was too shell shocked. Three years is so long. So long. Where did it go wrong? I apologize. For not feeling the same way.

You ask me if I will forget my baby.

I guess I will, someday.

You ask me if I will get along.

I guess I will, someway.

You ask me if I will miss the kisses.

I guess I will, everyday.

You ask me if I will find another.

I don't know, I can't say.

I don't like it but I guess things happen that way.

[Johnny Cash Lyrics. The title and everything else which is in bold font.]

"I wish you were here. Or I were there. Or we were together anywhere."

2011-12-25T17:11:00.000-08:00

3:02 AM. I can't remember how I got here. Not tonight. It's quick when you want time to stop. To sit back and laugh. To cherish what isn't yours. To pause the words and tiptoe through their subtleties. This isn't the most happy hour of the day, but today time doesn't matter. I am smiling. Smiling to myself, as I visit recently elapsed conversations. Sifting through the random and picking out the bits that I want to remember. To never forget.

Sia is giving words to my thoughts. The ones that haven't formed yet. Those that refuse to unwrap their hidden secrets. It's puzzling when you aren't sure what the other wants. But it is absolutely maddening when you don't know what you yourself want. She is putting her thoughts into me while cajoling 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. Unfold me. I am small. I'm needy. Warm me up. And breathe me...

I didn't mean to get lost. I didn't mean to 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 lines that are to be memorized. No cues that were overlooked. No pretending. No cracks hidden behind beautiful muslin. No audience. A silent look passes between us. And then we turn our back to each other and walk away. Slow, deliberate steps. The curtains fall. And no one cheers.

There is silence. Clear, unblemished, undeterred. And Sia is tearing softly through it. With care. Not wanting to disrupt the harmony. But there is silence in her words too. The other kind. The one that is cracked and broken. The one that was mutilated beyond repair. Without a sound ever heard. Without a minute of spur. 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.

There is a slight headache creeping in. Slowly, without a noise. 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. 3:49 AM. 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 tired.

Oh, I never meant to let you down

I will wait for you to get back to town.

And in the meantime,

I am trying not to fall apart..

You made a promise you haven't kept.

And I have lost sight of the depth.

I want to be in a playground. 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 even that which went 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 always comes with bitter realizations. 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.... 4:10 AM

"And in the streets the children screamed, lovers cried, and poets dreamed."

2011-12-24T05:20:00.000-08:00

Happiness. Hiding behind a smile that I didn't know my lips had curled into. Or the affectionate crinkles that formed around my eyes. It always leaps up on me when I am least expecting it and then waits patiently as I take my time to accept it. To let the smile turn into a full grin and then maybe a hearty chuckle. It always gets me by surprise, this happiness. It reminds me of how comfortable melancholia is. Adding hues of yellows and bright blues into my gray days, making it difficult for me to stay subdued for long. Stubbornness never works with this happiness. You can't frown it away. Very persistent. Thank God.

I spent close to an hour going through my books today. Right out of bed and straight to the shelf. It's time to pack the ones I want to travel with. I have stacked up ten already. I am told that it is madness, to travel with so much unnecessary weight. I stopped listening after unnecessary. Lolita is crushed under the pile. A book that has been waiting too long to be read. It has one of the most beautifully provocative opening... Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

Before I bought the book, I had downloaded its audio version. And I heard the opening for the first time on my way to Berlin. I was in a bus full of friends. An University trip to the capital. There wasn't much conversation flowing between the rows. Exhaustion from the long drive had enervated through the singing, laughing and stumbling over each others feet. My head was resting against the wide window, taking in the German landscape. The iPod was on shuffle and between two songs, a deep voice with perfect diction declared Lolita as the light of his life and fire of his loins. I was hooked.

I don't know if it was the voice or the words itself that first time. Or a combination of both. It's been a while.. But I remember falling asleep to Lolita for quite a few days after I got back to Bremen. There was something hypnotizing, almost surreal about him. Humbert Humbert. I remember being scandalized by the words that were tumbling into my ears. Taking in a sharp breath as his thoughts weaved with mine. Sighing when he sighed. Letting the beauty engulf the perverseness. Lolita.

She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.

Sigh.

War and Peace. I am neck deep in war. There are swords clashing, people falling, stretchers being called for. Spirits are being broken, humor losing its sheen and blood forming puddles on the streets. The women are forgotten and life before war is a haunting mirage. Discontentment has risen through the dust and into the souls, the bravery is taking a toll. Grim and grit. War cries and terrors. I hope it passes soon. I am one for peace.

Can you teach me to dance real slow? I saw you dancing in the gym... you both kicked off your shoes. Man I dig those rhythmic blues.. It's a Don McLean day. American Pie. Such a wonderfully melancholic song it is. Dripping with meaning and soulfulness. It has always made me want to pull off my shoes, to find someone whose hand I can grab and pull them on to the dance floor. But I don't dance. And moss grows fat on a rolling stone. But that's not how it used to be... In a coat borrowed from James Dean..

In a coat borrowed from James Dean. James Dean. Have you watched his biopic starring James Franco? So lovingly caressing the talent hiding behind that pretty face. I didn't know much about Dean then. So I didn't see it coming. The car, the speed, the laughter, the freedom, the sudden death. The end. It was a rude shock. I was left gaping when the credits started to roll. Ah. And there was Franco, doing what he does best. Making my heart skip a beat. We all got up to dance. Oh, but we never got the chance.

Bye, bye Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry

And them good old boys were drinking Whiskey and rye.

Singing this will be the day that I die

This will be the day I die.

Why do you always almost drown before you remember you can swim?

2011-12-22T04:25:00.000-08:00

My days are passing by quickly, leaving behind a vague scent of having existed. There isn't enough time to linger between thoughts, to ponder over words. The countdown has begun, as it usually does when there is less than a month at hand. Tickets are booked, itinerary set, plans being made and a new life waiting ahead. There is a hint of excitement, too shy to make a complete appearance just yet. It's time to pack my bags again. Time for some more goodbyes. I will not cry.

I am at the dining table, my practice piano mat unrolled in front of me and my piano notes littering the surface. They are beautiful to the eyes, these notes. With their treble clefs and bass clefs and all the little beats. War and Peace lies forgotten. From where I sit, I can see it wilting despondently on the couch, getting comfortable in a corner. It has remained untouched for days now. The sun is reflecting off the cover and giving it a broken identity. The book is rarely ever out of sight and never out of mind. It's too beautiful to be either.

I started watching Secret Window some time back. I lasted exactly fifteen minutes. It's every writer's nightmare come true, that movie. Also, Johnny Depp has interesting hair. They seem to be doing their own little thing as the camera rolls. I don't watch trailers so I have no clue where the movie is headed. Somewhere dark, if my premonitions are to be trusted. Based on a Stephen King novel.

He is sleeping on his couch, wrapped in a torn dressing gown. It's past early morning and quite dangerously dipped into late afternoon but he doesn't care. He is a writer, he will do as he pleases. He is going through a tough time. Writer's block. You can see it in his eyes, in his deep etched frown, in his swagger as he makes his way to the kitchen. You can sense it in his silence, in the way the cereal bowl clashes loudly against the kitchen counter. There is a dog following him around. And it is quite clear that even the loyal animal knows something is amiss. This movie has left an ugly taste within me. I don't think I will be going back to it anytime soon. Maybe never.

Papa is back. And for now it doesn't matter that he will be traveling again in a couple of days. He read the book I had packed for him. And he felt exactly how I felt when it ended. There is melancholia slicing through the pages of Artist of Disappearance. Just the thought of it is enough to pull me down into the darkness deep within me. It's so difficult to get past powerful words. Past endearing characters. Foreign tragedies. Life. You. So difficult to smile through my memories.

I am going to miss this living area. Being able to navigate through the dark without stubbing my toes. I will miss all the writing that it has inspired off me. The way it attached itself to my thoughts and the way it adapted to whatever I was reading. Experiencing. Never hindering. Always cajoling. Encouraging. Allowing me to drift off to another world. I am going to miss falling asleep here. And the feel of the carpet under my bare feet. This space is going to be redecorated soon. And when I come back home the next time, it won't be the same. It never is.

Death Cab is whispering for me. Something about the window being rolled down and the breathing that began. Of looking upwards and straining the eyes, to tell the difference between shooting stars and satellite. They have always made me want to get into a car with you. Put my feet on the dash and let you drive me through the darkest country road. Of wanting to be your pride if ever you are embarrassed. Of wanting to be your guide if ever you are lost and in need of directions. And if you ever feel discouraged by the lack of color here, don't you worry lover because it is really bursting at the seams.

You remind me of days from distant past. I think I have told you that. The ones I had forgotten about. I feel the cycle repeating itself. Pleasant. Happy. Unblemished. It's been a while since I last made a new friend. So long since I smiled through the night. A fresh breath of brightness piercing through the dark cold of hidden lonesomeness. Life is measured by the number people who want to be engulfed in your presence. I don't know if I have scored much.

Being with someone so dangerous was the last time I felt safe.

2011-12-19T04:20:00.000-08:00

We will forget about our sorrows. And think of a beautiful day that lies ahead. The one that will tiptoe through the blinds just to get us to smile. And the flowers that bloom in our backyard and make us look up at the sky. And the rain that splatters through the heavens and onto our happy faces. The birds those chirp about, telling us to keep the laughter in our eyes and the kindness in our gestures. That everything might disappear one day and because life is beautiful that way.

I have a key but no lock. It follows me wherever I go. And when people ask me why I started from the end, I shrug and say, “I couldn’t understand the beginning until I reached the end.”

I don’t often think back to that time but when I do I think of you. Of me. Of everything in between. I don’t know when you figured out that I knew. Was it something I let slip with my words? Or was it the way I had started looking at you? I believed you not because I had complete faith in you, but because I didn’t want to lose the little faith I had in myself. And when you lied, you were not the only one losing my trust. The heart is too weak to withstand self doubt.

The room is wide and barren. White walls and a single mattress in the corner. A coffee mug sits on the floor, surprised at having survived another night. A huge window spreads across one wall, a few panes missing. It’s a windy day and the curtains are bellowing accordingly. Sunlight is cascading into the room like a waterfall. Gushing, powerful and getting you to look away. The loose sheets of paper are swaying to the wind, back and forth, back and forth. Your words, they are flying! Did you see? They are not in your control anymore. I guess that’s the thing about writing something you know. Soon, everyone else knows it too. Maybe the wind was the reason you did what you did. Maybe there was no reason at all. Maybe I should stop finding excuses for you. For what you did.

Tarradiddle. A word I learned specially for you. Because there wasn’t any in my dictionary to describe the person you are. I could be wrong. There might be other words which would do you more justice, reveal your multifaceted personality. Maybe if there was some more time at hand, I would be motivated to look for stronger words. But that is only because I don’t swear.

Don’t mistake hate to be the opposite of love. The same way as death is not the opposite of living. Not breathing isn’t either. Dying isn’t what people who stop living do. Breathing isn’t the only reason a person truly lives. I am trying to get somewhere with this but the paddles aren’t fast enough. I would row my way to you but I don’t feel like seeing your pretty face today.

Diatribe. You want to think I am up to something here but you know me better. This isn’t a subtle rebuke. I don’t expostulate. I don’t confront. You had blamed this character flaw on my star sign. You are a true Aquarius you told me and I tried not to gag on my thoughts. This is a revelation that should have been unveiled a long time ago.

You can’t be an artist if you don’t see. It isn’t about being good or bad. It is about why it is good or bad. I see too much it seems. You tend to get lost in the details, I was told. Look at the bigger picture Zeba. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to see the bigger picture. I am happy with my many little realities.

What if I close my eyes to think? And in my thoughts you pass by. And when you do you hold my hand. And in my hand you drop a petal, something soft and rose like. Something to remember you by. And when you leave my thoughts I open my eyes. And when I raise my hand to wipe my tears I see a crushed petal staining my palm. What then is reality and what is a dream?

And when I find a person who makes me laugh through my tears, I will stop looking.

2011-12-17T16:35:00.000-08:00

The top drawer stood open, defiant and unapologetic of the secrets it was revealing. Her delicates were strewn within it, a mangled mess of previous rebellions. She was curled at the foot of the bed, her dress lying a few feet away. In her hand was a letter, a handwritten reminder of a past she thought she had overcome. There were tears and sorrow and a busy day ahead that now lay forgotten. That's the power of people who we wish never left our side. Especially those that we lost to death.

I am sitting under little yellow lights that are making me look pale against the white walls. I don't see much difference between me and my shadow tonight. Everything is so dull. Everything feels subdued. Even the voice in my head seems to be whispering. Telling me to stop despairing. But I am not, I want scream back to the thoughts within me.

The ring on my left hand is catching the dull light. It looks beautiful as it sparkles to the movement of my hand over the keyboard, distracting me from my words, my thoughts. There was something I wanted to say, but it no longer feels important. The ring hasn't come off my finger since my seventeenth birthday. It's a gift from mama. Three years, it has been symbolizing the love that I carry in my heart for her. As a reminder of the love that she has for me, her first born. Mothers are such, that a mere thought of theirs is enough to reaffirm the lost faith in life.

Remember Me is playing somewhere in the background. Robert Pattinson is heart wrenchingly delightful as Tyler. A boy of dreams, this one. Someone you meet and immediately fall in love with. The guy who will strike a conversation with you at a cafe and make you smile. A conversation that never ends, mostly because you don't want it to. Gandhi once said that whatever you do in life will be of no significance but it is very important that you do it anyway. Tyler only agrees with the first part. He also puts things in perspective for me when he talks about how Gandhi had three kids by the time he turned 22, Mozart had 17 symphonies and Buddy Holly was dead. So was Tyler's brother.

This movie evokes the strangest of emotions within me. I have watched it once before and could never get myself to come back to it. Till tonight that is. It's strangely still outside. The trees are frozen in a single position, not a leaf swaying out of place. It looks like a painting, this view from my window. A badly lit Van Gogh. The sky is clear and the stars twinkling. Such beautiful patterns they form... Starry starry nights. Paint your palette blue and gray. Look out on the summer's day. For they could not love you. But still your love was true. And when no hope was left in sight. On that starry, starry night, you took your life, as lovers often do.. Fragments from a beautiful Don McLean song.

Our fingerprints don't fade from the lives we touch. Is that true for everybody? Or is it just poetic bullshit? His words, not mine. But I find myself echoing them tonight. I am comfortably settled between cynicism and indifference.

He has an eleven year old sister. Her classmates think she is weird. He is concerned and wants to know more. It irks him that they stand there whispering, pointing and giggling. She is trying to pretend like it doesn't matter. But he is her elder brother and knows better. She spaces out sometimes, when she is drawing. She needs to be snapped back to reality. They call her a freak of nature. So he puts on a funny French accent and talks about how his sister is a freak of nature. Some relationships are so pure, they shouldn't be tainted with words.

There is such pain within a person who sees the world for what it really is. The eyes that refuse to be veiled by the heaviness of society and its vaguely unnecessary norms. So difficult it becomes for them to live a normal life. To try and look away when others commit such spiteful crimes. A caged soul free to survive among the wild. Feed for the ravenous, torn from limb to limb. Blood everywhere.

There is a Greek myth about a God who banished all his children to the under world. Now his youngest son, to get even, castrated him with a sickle. It's a little excessive maybe, but I get it. That's all.

-Excuse me, can I bother you for a second?
-You are already bothering me.
-Ah.. Umm.. I am doing this sociological experiment and uh.. I was wondering if you could help me out for a second.
-You are kidding me right?
-Can I ask your name?
-Anonymous.
-Anonymous.. is that Greek?

This is the part of the movie I like best. A beautiful relationship that starts with an awkward conversation at a cafe. There is a quote, I think its Mark Twain's. Or it could be Oscar Wilde.. Relationships that start with laughter are good. But those that end in laughter are the best. The movie takes a whole new twist somewhere in the next few minutes. But it is 3:26 AM and I am sleepy. My eyes hurt and the screen is slowly turning into a blob of blur. So I will stop it here. And go to bed with sweet thoughts of new love, witty conversations, escaped smiles, failed social experiments and the pleasure in discovering a new soul, layer by layer.

"I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality" - Frida Kahlo

2011-12-15T15:42:00.000-08:00

The color of her house is striking blue. It pulls through the imagination and settles itself deep in my mind. And she sits by the table, her grief not letting her scream in pain. She says she has had two accidents in her life. One being the trolley incident and the other her husband. And as she watches him walk in, she declares him to be the worse of both.

How do you forgive infidelity? How can you wipe the past away with a moist handkerchief and pretend like the stains were just temporary? Infidelity is a disease I suffer from, he told her, something that his doctor friend had diagnosed for him. Oh what a convenient diagnosis, she laughed. But that was before she knew that he was serious. Is fidelity so important to you, he wanted to know. Well if that's the case then just be loyal to me, she made him promise. Such a fine line it is, between fidelity and loyalty. So fine, that I can't even see it.

I don't know how they do it, some people. How they come to terms with the deception. The cheating. The vileness of it all. To be able to look in their eyes. To live and pretend as though it is alright. I used to be impressed by him. That he could forgive and forget. That he chose to give her another chance. But he seems to be struggling on a daily basis. And now, I feel he couldn't have been more foolish. I wish I was proved wrong.

Artists are born with a curse. Their vocation is the weight they carry all the way to their graves. Their mind is out of their control. They are capable of self destruction. And of destructing those around them. They are just a means for the art to be brought out to the rest of the world. It's quite sad that they can claim nothing for themselves, not even their work. Their strokes on canvas. Their words on paper. Their thoughts in other people's mind. Nothing.

She is cutting her hair. Symbolizing the grief. The pain. The unbearable ache. Her system is pumping alcohol through her veins and she is quite out of her depth. With her own sister. Her own sister. That's all she is thinking. That's the last thing her mind processed. She was quite an interesting artist too, this Frida. Could be mighty surrealist when she felt like it. A painting of a naked woman lying dead in bed, covered in blood, stabbed twenty one times by her husband. And when asked why he did it, he shrugged and said something about them being little nicks. Little nicks. Oh the people who have roamed this earth.

There is a saying that goes something like this... When you marry a man who cheats on his wife, you marry a man who cheats on his wife. Why isn't someone shouting this from rooftops?

Frida the movie. Salma Hayak is a pleasant surprise. I wasn't expecting such brilliance. There is strange beauty on the screen, unexpected in its many appearances. The colors are most pleasing to the eye and stand out the most. It inspired me to pull out my sketch pad and smear some stunningly bright colors on paper. It didn't last long, my tryst with the paintbrush. Halfway through, I found myself printing down a word at the bottom of the page. Plethora. In dark purple. And then there was no stopping the flow. Nothing escapes the words floating in my mind. Nothing. And I wouldn't want it any other way.

Her body was a mangled mess. Like a jigsaw that was forced to form another image. The physical pain is something that she confessed she was used to. That she didn't remember a life before the pain. Polio, an accident that left her with a broken spinal column, broken collar bone, broken ribs, a broken pelvis and eleven fractures in her right leg. She lost her toes to a disease and was ultimately bedridden after her spine collapsed for the last time. She spent her whole life being fixed up. I hope the exit is joyful and I hope never to return. Frida Kahlo

The paint is wet under my finger tips, slowly revealing my unique print. It's so late in the night. The only time worth creating something. There is inspiration in the quietness of the time. And in the dark veil that it hides behind. The mind relaxes its grip over rationality and lets imagination out in the wild. Someone who was never meant to be a stranger had told me that there is a reason why people sleep at night. It's because they are too scared of what the night was capable of making them do. There is a hint of evil that everyone misses. An edge that everyone is afraid of toppling over. The dawn hurries up, just to protect us from ourselves.

"But I hope you know that it won't let go and stick around until the day you die."

2011-12-15T04:24:00.000-08:00

It's sunny afternoon siesta time. The house is quiet.. mostly because everyone is immersed deeply in their own worlds. Mama has her work spread out on the table, reading through her notes, a slight frown of concentration playing on her face. Rasha is meticulously taking down some French sentences into her notebook and Raiyan is poring over finely coarse paper with his colored pens.

It's a day of no thoughts. No beautiful thoughts at least. The only thing flowing through my mind is the book. I have reached the part where the pages are smeared in too much love, desire, yearning and heartbreak. Jealously is such an ugly feeling, evoking strong emotion that one didn't know they were capable of. I pity Sonya. I really do. It is quite painful for her to see Nickholay conversing animatedly with a beautiful girl his age. He is off to war soon and to make matters worse, he is also her cousin. And Russian Orthodox Church prohibit such unions. And he might lose his standing in the society and she might lose the favor of his family. It was an issue worth crying over. And she is doing just that, much to my chagrin. War and Peace.

In other pages, Pierre had tied a policeman to a bear and thrown both of them into a lake. Or was it a river? Either way, it got him much notorious fame and I have no idea how he is planning to live this one down, especially now, since his father is on his deathbed and doesn't even want to see his bastard son. He is awkward at social events and getting good at putting ladies ill at ease. His shaky lineage is also working against him. A child born out of marriage comes with his fate etched deep onto his forehead for the world to see. Or that's what they say.

On days like these, I go back to a mail. A string of words that were intended to make me happy. It's been a while but they gallantly rise to the occasion even now. The words. They make me smile. They make me laugh. And then they make me think. Think of last bus stops, Death At a Funeral and brothers on a hotel bed. Of museums in dusty little towns and overfed birds lurking in trees. Of BodyShop, schools, new jeans, over sized hoodies, little black sandals, becoming aunt to all my friend's children. Of all things nice and sweet. Everything that forces the ugly out of my heart. Leaving behind sweet memories of long past.

It's so difficult for me to let go. To loosen the grasp. To let the hand slip out of mine. So difficult to turn away, start walking and never look back. It's almost evil, the things circumstances gets us mere mortals to do. Makes my soul wrench in despair. If I had my way, I would lock all my people up in my heart and lose the key. I want to go back to thinking of rains, puddles, never fixed umbrellas and twisting fingers by wet bus windows. I want to go back to thinking of you. But the mind doesn't allow what the heart wishes. And they both struggle to keep me afloat.

Boris has promised Natasha four years. Four years till death does them part. And till then they shouldn't. But she is thirteen and couldn't care less. So she got on the garden tub to give herself some height, threw her hands around his neck and kissed him on his lips. There wasn't much he could do after that.

Where did it all go wrong by Oasis is playing on a loop. Do you keep the receipt of the friends that you buy? If I ever meet you again, I would ask. I would ask 'why?'. Do you think of the times gone by? And until you have repaid the dreams you have bought for your lies you will be cast away alone under stormy skies. And if you had come any closer, you would have seen the love that you were hell bent on ruining. I hope you know that it won't let go. And I hope you know that it is touch and go.

I don't know what I am looking for but I know I want to look some more.

2011-12-13T14:23:00.000-08:00

I don't know what I am looking for. But I know I just want to look some more. And I won't be satisfied till there is nothing left that I haven't tried. For some people it is an easy choice, but for me there is a devil and an angel's voice... It's was a Brendan Benson day. And the music won't stop.

It's going to be a long night. I have fished out three of my old journals from the store. They smell of my past. They reek. Three identical black sketch books, all filled with words. There were more of them but the others are currently sitting in different parts of the world. I wish they would all be together, a black pile of memories. I should rectify that soon.

And you hear it from strangers and you hear it from friends, love never dies and love never ends. No I don't wanna fight, no I don't wanna argue, because you are always wrong and I am always right.

Words. How beautiful they are. Especially those that belong to others. Separate and when conjoined. Alone or when strung together. Such power in the swirls and cuts of pen on paper. So beautiful to the eyes. Melodious to the ear. And meaningful to the heart. Tranquil. Scrumptious. Melancholy. Cantankerous. Clairvoyance. Whimsical. Nonchalant. Disdain. Ah.

I can never have enough words. Written. Read. Sung. Spoken. I want more conversation. Conversations are so soothingly quiet late in the night. Keeping one awake while asking to sleep. Give me a good conversation I say. The kind that unearths the long forgotten beauty of the past. The kind that lets slip a hint of a smile onto my lips and then refuses to leave. The kind that helps me discover a person. Give me words that spin, swirl and flow through sentences before settling into me. Give me poetry if you can. A smile. An approving nod. And maybe later a hug.

I am reading War and Peace. "Love and battle, terror and desire, life and death. It's a book that you don't just read, you live" - Simon Schama. There is beauty in the book that can't be described. The past few days have been distinctly divided into two part. The one where I am reading the book and the other when I am thinking about it. It's a new Penguin translation by Anthony Briggs and it is brilliance. Brilliant too.

It is a tightly packed book and pleasing to the eye. But then, all Penguin books are. They create magic with their covers, those people behind the bird. The colors hold your gaze with confidence, daring you to look away. The images are striking, trying to get you to touch them. And the words that accompany, etch themselves in your memory. The power of Penguin.

There is a comforting ache flowing through my hands from holding its weight. I can feel it as I type. When I eat. While I work. A gentle reminder for the book that I will soon be going back to. A quote from it that demands to be shared... The only thing that we know is that we know nothing.. and that is the highest flight of human wisdom.

The characters are delightful in their scheming. The ones with no ulterior motives stand out. The book takes me back to the time of long white dresses and dark gray tailcoats. Of ball room dancing, musical nights and the need to be introduced formally before being allowed to speak to a stranger. The writing style reminds me of E. M. Forster. Both have a way of revealing their characters, silently justifying their flaws and gallantly glorifying their past sagacity.

Dad's gone again. He texted from a couple of places but now I have lost track. It bothers me sometimes, when I wake up or when I am about to go to bed that I don't know exactly where he is. Is he comfortable? Is he happy? Is he reading the book I gave him? Is he eating well? I don't know. Such are questions that go unasked.

Feel like taking you home now. Feeling like being alone. Darling here comes the trouble. Darling, here comes the curse. I am buried under the rubble and it only gets worse.. Brendan Benson. I like his music, it tells me that I am not the only one. You can feel the doubt in his voice, his words, him. And it is always accompanied by slight provocation which assures me that he won't be lost forever. And neither will I. Sometimes it creeps up on me and before I know it, I am lost at sea. But no matter how far I row, I will always find my way back home...

When you feel embarrassed I'll be your pride and give you no reason to hide.

2011-12-10T15:37:00.000-08:00

Silence but not solitude engulfs me. The house is sleeping, content and at peace. The walls breathe in the quietness and exhale stillness. Stifled and subdued by the day's cacophonous behavior. I wonder if they sigh, as they watch me struggle through the night, sleepless and restless. Would they croon me to sleep with melodies of the dark if they could? I wish someone would. Sleeplessness is a curse that I wouldn't wish on anyone.

The room looks punctured. As though sucked out of its life. It is strange to see the sofas around me vacant and the room unoccupied. The cushions are strewn about and the phones are not in their cradles. The laptops are shut down but left propped open. Remote controls adorn the center table and the TV is miffed into blankness, not pleased by the lack of attention.

If I hadn't personally seen everyone off to bed, I would have been worried. The room looks abandoned, hinting at a catastrophe that required the family's immediate absence. And in the midst of past activity is my rolled out bed, serene in its presence. The stage is set and the actress ready, lines memorized and repeated under her breath. Only sleep needs to find its way to her now.

I can't find my iPod. I haven't looked for it and I am sure it is somewhere close by. But the silence has strapped me into immobility, scared to be ruffled out of place. This silence, it yearns to stay. And I yearn for some words of hope and the knowledge of not being alone. If there was music it would be Death Cab. It is always Death Cab. Especially when it is not Coldplay. I want to talk in whispers and hope you understand. If you feel discouraged that there is a lack of color here, please don't worry lover, it's really bursting at the seams, absorbing everything, the spectrum a to z. Because subtly I try to tell you something that you never hear.

Styrofoam Plates comes to mind, one of their most beautifully resentful songs. There is a saltwater film on the jar of your ashes, I threw them to sea but a gust blew them backwards.. I can always taste the salty tinge of seawater on my lips when I listen to this song. Saltwater film. Passionate aloofness. One must have done some really hateful things to muster up such indifference even in death.

Papa is home after a long time. It's good to be a complete family again, even if it is just for a few days. The laughter is louder, the jokes funnier and the food more delicious. Ah, family. I will miss it. This feeling of complete and absolute emotional safety that their presence warrants. This time, I stayed home longer. And now the goodbyes will be difficult. Will I crumble when away?

The story is of Ravi. The third and final narrative from The Artist of Disappearance. It starts with him sitting disheveled on the steps of burned down structure that was previously his childhood home. A lonely childhood. He was adopted, but I am not sure if he knows. No siblings and left to the care of a butler. The couple's pressing obligation towards bridge parties and summer holidays in France came in the way of parenting.

Anita Desai. I have no words to describe her effortless story telling skills. She is every writer's delight. I want to live this book, meet these characters. Make sympathetic noises when they unburden themselves to me. Look them in the eye when they falter towards self doubt, hold them by the shoulder and tell them that it wasn't their fault. Tell them that I would do the same if I was in their place. Because I would. Do the same.

A book that haunts me on such nights is The Other Hand. By Chris Cleave. I wouldn't ever want to meet Sarah. Because I would never be able to look her in the eye and tell her with complete confidence that I would do exactly what she did. Because I am not half the person she is. How much would you give in charity? Where would you draw the line? The book is a must read. Raw. Real. Unusual. It will never leave you.

You may tire of me this odd December night because I am not who I used to be, the wrinkles masterfully disguised. Jumbled up Death Cab lyrics. I need to move. To be on a move. Quietness is calming. Stillness is disarming. And solitude is charming. I can feel myself fall for the alluring smile, dissolving into a fit of contentment, of happiness. An illusion. Happiness is real only when shared. The quicker I understand it, less pain I will be in. But when I accidentally catch my reflection on the glass surface, I can't help but smile.

You like to be home most of the time and I lose my mind if I stay in one place.

2011-12-09T16:06:00.000-08:00

I walk in. And I walk out. But you don't notice. I want to forget what we have been told. Before it is too late. Before we have grown too old. I want to waste time. Blow bubbles in the middle of a park. And watch them burst on dry autumn leaves. There would be kids laughing nearby. And they would want to blow some bubbles too. I don't want to share. But you request. I could never say no to you anyway. So we sit on a bench and watch as the kids blow all the bubbles that I wanted to blow. I am not scowling. But you place your arms around me and ask me not to. That makes me smile. You make me smile.

I had so much to tell. About my friends, my family, my pet Turtle that understood me. And you don't know that I like gummy candies. That I have started learning ballet. Or that I stay up with my friends when they have an exam the next day. Or that I cry every time I watch Sister's Keepers. I don't like being called Zebu. I am always in a middle of a book. I love it when someone gifts me flowers. And I have traveled to every city that I have wanted to.

I have always had a crush on you. I am getting so tired and so old. Since I can remember, you were the only one who could make me stammer with your questions. Make me blush with all that attention. I miss that feeling. Of sitting in a room with too many people and waiting for you to walk in. Full of anticipation. And butterflies in the tummy. Waiting. And when you finally turned up, trying not to look. Did you ever notice? I am not sure. Maybe you knew. Maybe you didn't. I wish I could tell you. But I am afraid I will get tongue tied again.

If you were here I would tell you about this book I have been reading. The Artist of Disappearance. You would have liked it. A writer's writer, Observer has declared her. An undeniable genius, says the Washington Post. A woman after my own heart, I must admit. Anita Desai. I would tell you about the woman who I am scared of turning into. I read about her today in this book and I felt so bad. For her. For me. What if I never find my passion? My calling? What if there isn't any? And it is beginning to get to me, that I know more about the stars and sea than I know about your life and dreams.

Are you traveling? Have you been studying? Sometimes I am up, late in the night, wondering. Are you writing? You had asked me to make sure you keep writing. But I am not around anymore. And I don't know if you know that you write beautifully. I never got to tell you that. I miss your words. They always created little dreams in my subconscious mind. They flowed through my soul and made me fall in love with you every time. I hope you still write. And I hope there is someone out there who gets to read it and fall in love with you every time they do.

It's 2:50 am here. Quite late. If I could I would tell you about the wonderful day I had today. And the friend I got to meet. She is a delight. You would have laughed at the stories I had in store. You would ask me to shut my laptop and get to bed already. Because you know that I get a headache when I don't sleep on time. You would ask if I took all my meds for the day and if I am feeling okay. I would nod and then ask, "what would I do without you?" You would answer with a smile and a sigh. And say that you want to hug me tight.

No I won't wait forever. You were the smart kid. The teacher's pet. You knew all the answers, I flunked math. Your science project always looked the best and mine didn't stand a chance. You talked your way out of everything, I followed behind, hoping the stutter would go unnoticed. I just need a little more time. I thought we would make a good team. But you were into breaking hearts and I wasn't ready to give up mine.

There is a little faith left in me and I have decided to place it in you.

2011-12-07T15:16:00.000-08:00

She heard him. She woke up in the middle of the night to a whisper from miles away. Maybe from light years away. Her husband held her tight and assured her that it was a bad dream. But she wasn’t convinced. She knew he was around, their son. That he was alive. And he was calling out for her. Mom.

Into the Wild is playing, for the first time in months. And it is forcing me to siphon all its sadness. He is making his way through the thick snow and through treacherous waters. He is alone and happy. High on his solitude. His independence and false sense of achievement. A wrinkle forms between his eyes, through his forehead when he is thinking. And he is always thinking. He must have found his magic bus by now. I can hear rustling noises. A hesitant hello being called out into the vacant white vastness.

It’s been a while since I last followed him through his beautiful journey. To see him fight the world and eventually himself. To see him struggle through mundane. To see him live. And breathe. To see him see everything around him. To feel his fear. Commit his mistakes. Hear him go unheard. To love him. To want to hold him back. Protect him from himself. Rather than love, than money, faith, fame and fairness you asked for truth. You were paraphrasing Thoreau. And I was holding my breath.

That feeling of holding the hands of a person who is whispering his last words. To look on as a loved one silently escapes your grip. I think back to the time when you held her in your hands, her bloodied body dripping on you. Her face a mangled mess, her pain piercing your heart. There was guilt too, if I remember correctly, tying you into a tight bubble of suffocation. You thought she would die, in that moment. You thought you had lost her forever. And when she revived, you killed her a little every day.

Some people believe that they don't deserve love. And the sea only gives harsh blows and occasionally the chance to feel strong. Would you leap into perfidious waters just to feel strong? The strength that you possess, is it enough to protect me from myself? Hold me when I try to jump into the unknown. Tell me to stop. Tell me you love me. Would you? I would.

And when you are alone, what do you think about? It always made me wonder. How long can a book keep you company? How long can words guide you through the dark? How long before you need to hear a voice? A whisper. A silent plea. A soothing touch. A soft kiss. A smile. How long?

Let's play cards. Let's sit across from each other and be absorbed in a game of silence in which we both lose. This sick society that you talk about. I understand. But I want to tell you that it isn't all bad. It's a mistake. But you won't listen. You won't understand. Sit down before you hurt yourself. Look me in the eye. Let me take you away. But you have made up your mind. It is Alaska. All the way to the top. It will kill you. You don't know it yet. And that kills me. Every time.

My shadow is what lays beside me,

the dent in my bed that you don't see.

It stays back when everyone leaves.

Making space for pain that seeps.

Bouncing off walls on a silent night

trying to make me smile while I weep.

Our voice echos as we shout at each other from distant mountains. We are trying so hard to be heard that we are not paying attention to what is being said. They might come back to haunt us, these words. I sigh too much, I have been told. A sign of a heart that is easily pleased. Easily hurt.

There is a chapter on family. The fourth one. The family that you left behind. The family who is forever broken. The same that can't sleep at night. The one that misses you every day of their lives. You are responsible for their misery. But I am so used to justifying your actions. And glorifying them.

To miss someone you have never met. To love someone you never knew. To shed tears for those who don't exist. To wait for letters that won't be posted. Into The Wild, you disappear. And I am left here with the memories that were never mine to begin with. Everything you are doing has to be done. I have come to terms with it. So will they. Chris McCandless, if I could sing for you I would. I would tell you that if dreams were thunder and lightning was desire, this old house would have burned down a long time ago. And I don't want to cry, not tonight. But then you die.

"The heavens reeked of the muck of ten million people".. And we looked on.

2011-12-06T03:11:00.000-08:00

It's a silent morning. The kind that is followed by a sleepless night and accompanied by a restless mind. I greeted the dawn today, alone and with a smile. Letting the rays appear from behind me, shy and hesitant. They are burning through the window now, creating fierce patterns on the carpet and me. I think the smile helped. Inhibitions that are shed so easily were never inhibitions to begin with.

Nothingness. I like that word. Nothingness is drowning me in its heavily invisible presence. That word. Upamanyu Chaterjee uses it quite aptly in his book. In fact, all his words are apt. Falling effortlessly into their rightful places. If the book were a river, the words would be smoothly flowing through it. Silently without carnage. I am dangerously close to finishing the book. Just a few pages left. I could have ended it last night, but it felt right to leave something for a new day.

The middle class India portrayed in the book is such a peculiarly intriguing species. With its eccentricities, unjustifiable actions, strange mindsets and a certain amount of sadism. The book takes you through it all, and with a straight face too. The humor is dark. Unexpected. And unacceptable for some. The book is disgustingly enrapturing. You want to stay away, lest the stench latches onto you. But you also want to follow it with your crinkled-in-disgust nose. Beauty attracts and never lets go.

You never know where his sentence will end. "... she looked like a pastoral Cinderella from the north India cow belt on her way to celebrate a traditional Indian wedding that would eventually end in a caste war and a couple of burning villages." The similes too are delightful, if not scandalizing.

The characters are bemusing. The kind that get your mouth to curl into a disdainful smile. A wife beater, a pharmacist on a run, a urine drinking foreigner yogi, a plump self important TV producer, a little girl with a twisted sense of humor, an old man who walks out of the house to never reappear, a mistress with leucodermal blotches, an interfering neighbor who dies while trying to fart... you get the picture.

Loneliness. It's an emotion that is very whimsical in nature. Anywhere. Everywhere. Without reason. It never ceases to amaze me how it might pop up when you least expect it to, among friends and with family. Between a good conversation. In the middle of a hug. When holding hands. While sharing a smile with a stranger. Forlornness. Solitude. Aloneness.

I want nothing more than to be in a beautiful little place where everyone is friendly and there are cozy cafes selling fresh cheese croissants at the corner of every street. And this place has bookstores. Tiny ones, with naked bulbs hanging over the rickety shelves. It's never too hot here. Just sunny enough to make me want to put on a dress and a big beautiful hat. And it gets cold in the winters. Maybe even snows. And it rains quite often. Not too heavily though..

At this place, there would be good music. And there should be a beach close by. The clean one with loose white sand and light blue water. Starfishes. Shells. Ice cream stalls... There would be laughter. And happiness.

This reminds me of my favorite picture from Manipal that I never shared with you... The beach, a person I have come to adore, the sun, waves, great conversation between collecting shells, laughter, the works. Happiness.

Aditya and I, at his 'secret' beach. Photographed by Laura Bohlmann

I never got around to writing about my trip to Manipal. I should have. It was beautiful. The place and the people. Pleasing me with their mere existence. It was difficult to leave. I am not one to cry while bidding farewell. So I didn't. But I remember bursting into tears after my departure, alone in my misery, wrapped in my shawl in the middle of the long night.. It was too much to take, so many goodbyes. It was drizzling and I was looking out of the wide window as everything I knew to be mine just whizzed past me in a hurry. Never to come back again. So I cried.

I think it's time we stop pretending that I didn't break your heart.

2011-12-03T15:22:00.000-08:00

I am whispering. It's been so long.. A year. Maybe more, since we last spoke. I have forgotten how you sound. Your voice is a wisp of vague recollections. I crunch up my face to remember, in vain. Your laugh no longer haunts me. Your thoughts are seldom visitors and have learned to knock. Your words don't make sense and I can no longer connect with them. Is this sad? I wouldn't know. I have stopped feeling.

I think of you. From time to time. But emotions don't well up anymore. And there are no tears to fight back. My heart doesn't hurt. It continues pumping nonchalantly, doing the required. The bare minimum. It's tired. Tired of all the sleepless nights and the broken beats. Burdened. Vexed. Weakened. Scared.

I spent a little part of the night out in the lawn. In my sleeping bag. It was cold. And my hoodie smelled of you. I could see the stars. I think I missed you then. In that moment. When the melancholia sliced through my skin and the moon shone despondently over me, trying to stop the bleeding. Annoyed. Give me a smile, everything around me seemed to say. But you are not here. And it feels a waste to even try.

You don't have a clue.

What it's like to be next to you

And I am here to tell you

That it is good

That is is true.

And we are talking through the hours. About headless gummy bears, sand boxes and yellow crayons. I am pretending to be miffed. But I am not. I can't remember the last time I was this happy. It's night. And you are wonderful company. But you know that already. Let's go down to the fashion show. With all the pretty people that you don't know. We will sit down on velvet chairs. Let's hand out award for the best hair. And if we don't win one, well, then.. We will blow off our heads in despair. We will blow off out heads in despair.

I look at you. And then look away. There is nothing to say. Not anymore. Do you have anything to say? You reply with silence. Typical. Did you hear of the crazy lady? Whose house burnt down. And during the day she walks around in her night gown, a vacant look in her eyes. She lost everything she had, everyone she knew. Would you hug her if she passed by? She doesn't know where she is going. She has no where to be. So you won't be causing any delays. I promise.

I wish I could just leave everything for a while and walk to a friend's house. Barefoot and in my favorite pajamas. And sit on their couch or at their kitchen counter. Or lie down beside them on a double bed. And talk. Or listen. Or just be there doing nothing. Comforted by their mere presence. Yawn in the middle of a sentence. Stretch my legs and plonk heavily on the carpet. Flip channels. Watch trashy movies. Go down memory lane.

You are such a beautiful freak.

I wish there were more just like you.

You are not like all the others

And that is why I love you

We are in the middle of shadow creatures game. I am in a white dress and you didn't tell me what you are wearing. I should have asked. There is a sandbox somewhere. And an Enid Blyton book. I forget the name. There is a cat lurking close by. Your pet. I am scared of cats but I haven't told you yet. But I think you have guessed. The crayon box is missing, its contents strewn across the floor. The castle in the sandbox is destroyed. I look guilty. Are you one of the beautiful people? Am I on the wrong track? Everyone needs to be somebody. Everyone needs to find someone who cares. I don't know if you know what I mean...

I want to be dissolved into this night. It is too beautiful to not want to be a part of. I want to disappear into its opaque curtains. I want to be lifted from myself and taken far away. Or maybe I just want to disintegrate into little molecules and float through the air and away. I have always wanted to be in more than one place at a time. And standing with one foot across the border just won't do it for me.

That look you give that girl.

I wanna see

Looking right at me.

When I go to bed, I dream of you. And when I wake up I dream some more. It's quiet at your side of the world. I wonder what's happening. You miss me. I know. You don't have to say it and you won't. You miss the laughter. The witty banter. The random journeys. The shared music. On nights like these, I miss you too. But you don't know.

[Everything in bold font are lyrics of various songs by The Eels. One of my favorite bands.]

Just because it keeps getting better doesn't mean it won't get worse.

2011-12-01T15:52:00.000-08:00

It's 2:30 am. The night is heavy and in a pensive mood, as though depressed by its own darkness. It's been a day of too many thoughts. Thoughts that couldn't be comprehended completely, mulled over leisurely or reflected upon fairly. A day where seductive fragments of ethereal world were lost to the dustiness of reality. A handful of evanescence that slipped through my fingers like loose sand. The loss is mine to antagonize over and I am doing so with a brave face. The pain hiding behind a lazy smile, tired bones and sleepy eyes.

I dreamed.
I felt bewitched.
I saw you push me back in bed.
Your palm touching me just below my neck.
A painful shove.
It woke me up.
I can still feel it between my collar bone.
On my skin, your touch.

I have a memory, wedged deep into me, from years back. It is not a shadow of thought but something more tangible. It is physical, this memory and it is resting near my heart, dangerously close and ominously opaque. Threatening to grip my being, tightly and forever. I must have been six years old. Maybe five. It was a game of push and pull with my brother, pillows, bedspread and a favorite uncle. And somewhere in that plethora of playfulness I got trapped. Literally.

I found myself buried in quilt and something else, something that was stopping the air from reaching my lungs. My brother had me by the shoulders, his hands around my neck, his weight on my back. I could hear him laughing with mirth and accomplishment. I remember his voice ringing deep in my ears. It was the only thing I could hear. And there was no air.

I couldn't get up. I couldn't make a noise, my mouth muffled in cloth, my arms crushed under my weight, my legs twisted painfully and not in my control. There was nothing to do but wait. Wait for a breath of air to reach me. Wait for fate to intervene, show death the door. Wait for Raiyan to stop laughing.

It can still make me cry, that feeling of utter helplessness. The thought of not being able to breathe. To not have control. To be in the hands of another person. That's a terrible feeling. Of not being sure. Of not knowing. The bleakness of it all. Something that I decided I never wanted to feel again. Something that has dug deep into me a seed of fear. A need to be in control, always. Of never losing myself to another person. Or loving with no inhibitions.

Someone pulled Raiyan away and fished me out. Lifted me to my feet and patted my back. It rattled me, that thumping that was meant to reassure, to let me know I was okay. I was anything but. Between heaving sobs and hugging mama I tried to explain to her what I had just been through. She didn't get it. No one did. And no one will. And that's what has made all the difference.

When you say you understand, you don't really. But I appreciate you lying to me. For me. Do you lie? Do you hide the truth? I am smiling. But truth is not synonymous to honesty, DiCaprio said. And if he said it, it must be true. Call yourself an honest person. Wash your sins away under feeble pretexts. Believe that your heart is not changing colors. Believe whatever you wish to. Because what you think is what you are. You think therefore you are. Cogito ergo sum. Je pense donc je suis. Just in case you didn't get it the first time. Or the second.

Sleep is clogging my mind, restricting free flow. I want to stop it. These seemingly unfinished conversations. The silence is deafening tonight. Nothing around me feels friendly. Comforting. The house too is aloof, the walls turned away from me. Is it something I said? I would apologize, if I knew for what. I would grab your hand if you tried to walk away from me. Fall to my knees and shed a few tears. Swallow my pride and beg you to stay. To forgive. To smile.

I dreamed.
Of us in a house.
I rushed to get out
But the door was locked.
I turned to you
Scared and out of breath.
You smiled.
I trembled.

"I came along, I wrote a song for you and all the things you do and it was called Yellow"

2011-11-28T08:08:00.000-08:00

I am out again. On the bench. Mama's carefully mowed and watered lawn is spread wide to my right. The lush green looks inviting under the orange glow of the late afternoon sun. I like this space. This little bit of earth that I can call my own. There is a hint of a crescent. A sharp cut on the blue canvas. It is going to get prettier by nightfall and make me sigh when I chance upon it later tonight.

Trees are swaying around me, breeze sweeping through the stillness, rustling up the dead. The birds too seem at peace as they hurry over to their nests. Least bit disturbed by my presence, chirping about a day well led. The mosquitoes though seem very much to be enjoying my company. I wish I could say the same.

It's quite cold. Unusual for this time of the day and this part of the world. I am snuggled deep in my hoody. The grayness making up for all the color inside me. The air is taking turns to slice through my clothes and skin. Making me wince in surprise. There is something very morose about sunsets. They come by too soon, mostly uninvited. Before the day's work was done, the night interrupted. Seducing it with her alluring nature, its obligations lay undone and forgotten.

I am half way through The Aviator. The movie has come highly recommended to me by many people. It was more than a year back and over lunch that I first heard of it. Harvard Huges' life was laid bare for my curious self while I sat playing with my food. I have never before heard words that were dipped so deeply in admiration. In passion.

Passion. It scares me. This passion. To find something that is so important that everything else ceases to matter. Passionate people overwhelm me. They also somehow manage to embarrass me while simultaneously inspire me. People who live for a reason. I wish that someday I too find that reason. A reason to jump out of bed in the morning. A reason to not sleep at all. A reason to breathe. That must be a wonderful way to live. To live for a reason. To be good at something. I have always envied people their passion.

A record by Coldplay is sitting beside me. Parachutes. It is propped up against the bench in all its vinyl glory. If it were human it would have one hand resting on my shoulder and the other limp on the armrest. It would be slumped slightly and slouched into a relaxed position. Probably with its head resting back, eyes surveying the cloudy sky, lips forming a slight oval to whistle a tune of its own. It would not disturb me as I read my book and probably whisper strains of Yellow in my ear. It's a graduation gift from a friend. Both the gift and the friend have a way of making me smile..

I came along
I wrote a song for you.
And all the things you do.
And it was called yellow.

The book isn't ending. And I like it that way. It is going all over the place though. And it is fun. Most times I am following on tip toe, hoping my chuckle goes unheard, my mind wandering on a different plane. But in other places I am grabbed by the collar and dragged through the pages, my mind unable to get a grip of itself. This is a delightful book for readers. For writers, it might be a little painful though. To read something this brilliant and not know if they could ever surpass it. Way To Go. By Upamanyu Chaterjee.

The sun is down. Gone. Dejected. The laptop screen is giving out an eerie glow into the darkness and making everything around me a little strange to the eye.

Look at the stars.
Look how they shine for you.
And all the things you do.

If you look at it from here, you can almost pretend that it doesn't exist..

2011-11-26T14:47:00.000-08:00

It's a cold, cold night. The kind that makes you want to walk under the stars. To spot the ones that twinkle. To have someone put their arms around your shoulder. It's the night that whispers to you. Whispers melodies of distant past. Of lingering touches from a beautiful present. And a quietened hope for a pleasing future. The night itself seems to be talking to me, as I sit here shivering in my pajamas, on the front porch. The ground under me is cold, startlingly so. And the walls behind me engulf sleeping souls. I can feel their collective breathing, their drifting off to separate worlds, their sweet escape.

Today was an extraordinarily uneventful day. I spent the hours in a state of determined nonchalance. I think this has something to do with the book I am reading. Jamun is strangely disconnected from the world and reacts in ways that are quite alien to me. I am finding it very educational to follow him through his day and get a frequent chuckle out of it too. You won't believe that he has just lost his father if you tapped into the thoughts going through his head. He amuses me, this character. Jamun. To calm yourself, it's best to think of yourself as already dead. However, that is not always possible because of mosquitoes and so on. Way To Go by Upamanyu Chatterjee.

I can hear the neighbor's TV. Faint gibberish is floating through the air around me. You would think it might disrupt the beauty of a silent night, but it gives an interestingly surreal sense to my space. Informing me of a presence that I hadn't previously felt.

In the previous compound where we lived, there was a back lane. A very narrow but long stretch of land between the compound wall and the villas. It was a secluded area with no visitors, high walls towering on both sides. And was buried foot deep in dried leaves that fell from trees that periodically lined this space. I would walk through that stretch by myself sometimes. My hands behind my back, my eyes on the ground, my feet following one another. I used to pretend to be lost in a thick forest. I would also muster up tears and tiredness. I would convince myself that I would be dying of hunger, when I had not even digested my last meal. I was rarely ever bored during my childhood.

I wrote a letter today. A long, handwritten saga, detailing my day and some accompanying thoughts. I don't really have anyone to send it to so it is sitting folded and pretty between the pages of my journal. Someday, it will get delivered. When I find a person who I am absolutely convinced wants to read it. That would be a happy day.

I want happiness. In fact, I want to be happiness. I want to turn into tiny little bubbles of happiness that float through the air and make their way to every sad corner of this world. I want to burst on people who could do with a little happiness in their lives. Spread the joy. Bring a smile. Happiness is but a state of mind. And you are feeling it already. Sigh.

The time that wasn't spent writing letters, pining with a broken heart and aimlessly following Jamun around town was utilized to observe Raiyan work on his art. It's incredible, to see his thoughts spill out on paper, with amazing precision and enchanting colors. I am in awe. It's difficult to believe that he was the bumbling child who used to follow me around everywhere I went when we were little. It seems as though I was momentarily looking away when he decided to grow up. I am so proud of him, this kid brother of mine. The results are brilliant but not as much as the process. It's an experience, to watch his steady hand create enthralling magic. Inspiring. Mesmerizing. Fascinating. Enrapturing.. I wish there was a way I could share this experience with you. What I could do is share his art work. He has been kind enough to upload a few of them here. My favorite is The Last Tree of Eden. The crescent looks appropriately evil.

The night is closing in, getting possessive of my thoughts. It doesn't like to be pushed to the back of my head. And such a night doesn't deserve to be either. I think I will sit here for a while. Lament the beauty that went unseen. The thoughts that were not shared. The voice that wasn't heard. The love. My love. The one that wasn't felt. The night that won't last forever. The smile that went waste.

Let's get to know each other through the quiet nights and into the silent mornings..

2011-11-24T15:19:00.000-08:00

A book by Ian McEwan is propped up beside me. They are on the cover. Cecilia and Robbie. She is beautiful, with her face resting on her hand, her eyes lost in a far away dream and her thoughts forlorn. She is beautiful to me, with her hair escaping in curly tendrils, framing the sadness surrounding her face. He is looking down. Looking away. Breathing. There is a frown, apologetic for its presence. It is accompanied by dirt and dismay. They are both separated by the name of the book. Bold black on different shades of sky. Atonement.

I have watched the movie. More than a year back. And since then I have kept going back to it. For its love. Its intense passion. The tragedy. The pain. The irreversible mistakes. The maladroit nature of pain. The atonement that is incompetent to its very core. This is a story that will never leave me. It flows through me. Like blood, it oozes out when my heart is in pain. It dries up over my wounds and protects me.

This will be the most difficult book to read. For my heart to bear. For my soul to suffer through one more time. How can something so tragic be this beautiful. Just the thought of it makes me want to cry. I read the first page last night before going to bed. I woke up today and read that page again. I had once said that there is nothing more beautiful than the movie Atonement. Looks like I might have to eat my words. Choke on them.

I bought myself a sketch book and five different shades of pencils. I spent an hour with it open in front of me, a blank page. A mere servant to inspiration, I wait to be called up on. The doodles no longer please me, I demand something bigger from myself. I have been waiting for images to trickle through my hands and rest on paper, but only words appear on it. And they look beautiful too, smudged pencil on rough beige.

It's quiet. And 18th floor balcony by Blue October is playing on a loop. I close my eyes and I smile... Knowing that everything is alright...... My breath is on your hair and I'm unaware. So yours for the taking. And then you kissed me. Trying so hard to not fall asleep. Flying away... Aye yay yaaaay. The heart is beating only for my ears to hear. The painful rhythmic flow punctured by agony and desire. I want to speak but I can't. I want you to know but you don't. Maybe in another lifetime, in a different space. Maybe. A broken heart can only hope.

Way To Go. By Upamanyu Chatterjee. He woke up and found his father absent, from the bed, the room and eventually the house. Gone. Missing. Vanished. There is remorse. But no panic. Strange. The lives are being beautifully untangled from one other and spread across the pages for the reader to discover. The hints are subtle and amusing. This book is written with love, tenderness and unexpected humor. There is exceptional charm in every sentence. Every truth. Every lie. Those who find a reason to laugh at their tears are those who will survive.

It's been a long day. My feet ache slightly from the evening spent on heels. The throat is a little irritated from the loud conversations and happy laughter. The skin seems annoyed by the need to rouge it up. The perfume has gone stale. I am tired. I want to change and crawl into bed. I want to place my head on my pillow and surrender myself. Let my quilt embrace me in a protective hug. I want for Blue October to whisper me into abeyance. I want to fall asleep and wake up inside this book. I want to see the pet skull for myself. I want to help him look for his father. Be there when he finds out. And tell him everything will be okay.

And I'll try to sleep
To keep you in my dreams
'til I can bring you home with me..
I'll try to sleep
And when I do I'll keep you in my dreams..

Don't drive off so far away that you might never cross my mind.

2011-11-22T15:24:00.000-08:00

It's 1:03 AM and I just said goodbye to the last person I will be talking to tonight. Familiar strangers. Conversations are beautiful when they ebb and flow through the many unraveling secrets. Like a thread that has escaped the intricately patterned knit. There is a strange delight in getting to know a person for the first time. Makes you smile. Makes you think..

Across the Universe is playing. I am about halfway through and just realized how much I needed to watch this movie. I envy kids their imagination. Their will to believe everything and anything. And this movie brings those precious moments back. It's a reason to set the imagination loose. Lose. To find music in everything. Where panthers fly and humans hop upside down. Mustaches use walking sticks and buttons fight for space. I want the world to turn into a huge trampoline so I can jump up and touch the sky. Run my fingers through the clouds and bite into the sickly sweet rainbows. That's what I want. And a partner in crime.

I miss. The memories are greasy smudges on my hands, my face. I look at them and wonder how they got there. And before I know it, they are being wiped away. Nothing is left of them. I no longer remember how it feels to walk barefoot through cold grass. Or the sound of wind whistling me a melody. The whisper of rain on my finger tips. The look that is only for me, the one that tells a lot without saying anything at all. The long walks through puddles of statuesque thoughts.

August Rush. The movie. I can only remember that boy's smile. And that dimple. And the way he sat by the window and wished to be rescued by his parents. How sure he was. Faith. I need faith. That strong, unwavering faith that I seemed to have lost somewhere in all this traveling. It's like I unpacked it at a friend's place and forgot to pack it back again. And now it is lost. Look under the bed, between the sheets, behind the desk.

There is a something exceptionally quiet and tender in waiting. Just waiting. And not knowing. And hoping. And failing. Wanting. Loving. Longing. Stillness. Let me pause life for a bit. I want a moment to really look at you. To find you within me.

I need to sketch again. And be surprised by the darkness of charcoal. And the roughness of white. The sharpness of strokes. The bluntness of blemished black. He just tacked up strawberries on the wall. And they are bleeding red over white. And he stares at them, wistfully. And sings of strawberry fields forever. The symmetry is uncanny. Haunting. I am worried about them now. These poor fruits that got in the middle of war. And color. And the desperate need to express the restricted. Silence has the power to kill.

I want to get on a bus and get off at a random station with a person who was previously a stranger. I want the world to turn into a candy shop. Colorful little bears who are fighting for a cause. Not having their heads bitten off is a good one. I want a cause. Something that will make me get out on the streets. It's been way too long. The only reason I don't want life to be a musical is because I can't sing.

The lights are too bright. Blinding. The mike is caressing her lips. The sounds she makes are lost in the crowd. Her voice feels hoarse to her ears and there is an irritation crawling through her throat. She needs a break. A break from all the lies. Ever carried the weight of another? But for how long.. Give me a happy ending. Mother superior jumped the gun.

Ah. Surely it's not what you do. But the way that you do it. Hey Jude, don't let me down.

Looks like crooked teeth, in the mouth of a man who was devouring us both.

2011-11-20T07:38:00.000-08:00

On dry days of mere existence, I sometimes wonder. I wonder about the life that I am leading. The love I am feeling. The thoughts that are consuming me. The people that are keeping me busy. The books. The music. The movies. The trash. The unintended. The ones that are mightily longed for. Everything. Anything. I am in pain. A silent ache. So often, that I have become that pain. I am pain. I am solitude. I am quiet. I am quietened. I am looking. Looking at you. And the unspeakable that you do. And I am quietened by that charming smile. I am servile. I am bought. I am vexed by it all. I am a reflection. A mere reflection of the person I used to be. I try. I try so hard I want to cry. I am crying. I am laughing. I am smiling. I am frowning. But you don't care.

And I knew I'd made a horrible call,

And now the state line felt like the Berlin wall,

And there is no doubt about which side I was on.

You are laughing. You are laughing hard. You are laughing so hard that the walls around me are shaking. I run from one side to the other, lacing the trembling walls, my hands high above my head, touching the concrete surface. Trying to keep my house from falling. From crumbling away and settling around my ankle. I try to stop your laugh from entering me but in vain. It slips and slides through the air that I breathe and right into me. I let it get to me in a way that nothing else could ever get me. I look up. I ask for God. Where is he when I need him? There is faith. There is hope. And you know best how to crush them both.

I braved treacherous streets,

And kids strung out on homemade speed.

And we shared a bed in which I could not sleep,

At all, woo, hoo, woo, hooOoOo.

In the field of rye, when you stand at the edge of the cliff and catch falling kids, I want to stand by you. When you get tired, your arms ache and your heart is full, I want to hold you. I want to hold you tight and let you know how proud I am of you. Proud of all the catching you did today. I want to catch you before you fall down yourself. I want to catch you and put you in my pocket and carry your weight around the streets of your hometown. And when I am done with my daily chores and the sun has long set, I want to come home with you. I want to take you out of my pocket, rip you off the pages of the book and listen to you talk while I fix dinner for one. Holden Caulfield, it's been too long since we last spoke.

For not having loved one's dead father enough, could one make amends by loving one's child more? way to go. By Upamanyu Chatterjee. The book feels good in my hands. It is appropriately heavy and nonchalantly gray. The cover is misty and reminds one of early mornings spent alone. way to go. The name looks strange and out of place on the cover. And the lack of capitals doesn't help its case much. way to go. Keeping me awake. Leading my thoughts on a whirlwind. Cruel. Let me rest.

You are so cute when you're slurring your speech,

But they are closing the bar and they want us to leave.

I am home. And it feels safe. Nothing can get to me here. No one can break my heart when I am surrounded by this towering love. There is no space for vulnerability. There is no reason to tiptoe through the corridors. No fear of disturbing or imposing. No need to be uncomfortable. Home. How I missed your crooked walls.

Cause I built you a home in my heart,

With rotten wood, it decayed from the start.

I wish I could dance. I wish I could stand on my toes and sway to the music that would resonate through my being. To be able to feel the rhythm. To create magic with my body. To be able to express emotions in a way that moves another being. Wouldn't that be wonderful? To let go. To move. To live. To be heart wrenchingly beautiful.

I am a war of head versus heart,

And it's always this way.

My head is weak, my heart always speaks,

Before I know what it will say.

It's the end of a road but we forgot to slam the breaks down. And here we are, both of us, holding hands and falling into a deep pit of unknown. We tried driving each other off the edge but only managed to roadkill ourselves in the process. Are you scared? I am too.

The title and lyrics: Crooked Teeth by Death Cab for Cutie.

"I fell in love and out of love and back in love with you all in the same day."

2011-11-16T05:09:00.000-08:00

It’s been so long since I last wrote that I fear I have forgotten how to write. The words are not spilling out as easily as they used to. I find myself forcibly disengaging the words away from one another. And when they do free themselves from my thoughts and appear on the screen they merely tumble down in a disorderly manner instead of gliding smoothly into place. There is a strange effort going in typing down my thoughts today. Disarray. Clutter. Excess. But nothing is unwanted. I am greedy like that.

Candide by Voltaire. The cover makes me sigh. And wish for things I shouldn’t be wishing for. It’s a painting of lovers lost in each other’s eyes, frozen in an everlasting kiss. Candle light is caressing the curves of love that surrounds them like a bubble. She is leaning against the piano but facing away from it. He is leaning towards the piano, his right hand tapping at the keys, but seeing only her. Creating music, memories, love. She is holding a violin in one hand, but between them it lays forgotten.

The book sits beside me, quietly trying to gauge the effect it has on my mind. The size of the book disheartens me. The words end before they start, the thoughts merge before they are permitted to and the pages turn quicker than I would like. A part of the book remains unread, but not for long.

I tilt my head to the right
to look up at the sky.
And wonder instead
Of the black birds that fly by.
And for a strange moment in time,
I forget the black birds
Those are trapped deep within my mind.

I couldn’t tell you, as we hugged good bye. I might have, but only for it to get lost in the hurried honking of life. I am not sure if you understood how much you mean to me and I wish there was a way to let you know without letting you know. You didn’t see it in my eyes, you didn’t feel it in my touch and you didn’t even sense it in my quivering voice. And so I convinced myself that it probably wasn't there.

I want to write about the people who surround me. I want to fill pages after pages of words that commemorate the lives that have touched me and made my life the beautiful journey it is. I want to tell you about the smiles that stole my heart, the words that made me smile, the thoughts that had me thinking, the gestures that made me realize, the love that made me falter. I want to justify their actions. To glorify their intentions. To make you understand their fears. And to let you know how much they mean to me.

I sat on the beach
And heard the summer talk
While fragments of memories
Rushed past and lost themselves
Into the froth.
I used to think of you as mine.
But now you only belong to the sea
Seeping through sand
And crashing against rocks
You no longer mean anything to me.

I am in transit. A couple of days in Bangalore with dada dadi. It’s a quiet life. Silent days and thoughtful nights. A much needed time to contemplate the days that just passed me by. It was difficult to leave Manipal. Usually, I leave behind people but this time I left behind little fragments of me with different people. I feel incomplete now. Like a half solved jigsaw puzzle that someone gave up on. Tiny pieces spread across the low table, in a jumble that doesn’t interest anyone anymore.

My internet time over the past 3 weeks has been very limited. Quite a nomadic life I have been leading. And because of that I haven’t been able to reply to the lovely mails trickling into my inbox. I signed in after a long time to beautifully kind words that have made a decidedly melancholic girl very happy. Thank you for that.

Jeddah in a couple of days. Back to the life that I can call my own. Back to the people who are my own.

Stop, drop and roll might save my burning skin but not my burning soul.

2011-11-05T10:55:00.000-07:00

I am sitting on the stairs beside my favorite window. The leaves are rustling and the rain heavily hints on making an appearance. The earth is breathing in deeply, sucking the air, sound and feelings, preparing itself for onslaught. The electricity is gone and the candle light gives me company. It feels good, in a calm and cozy way, the light swinging in all directions, unpredictable by nature. Stooping down and lurching upwards, causing shadows to dance all over me, my words, and my thoughts. The hot wax has formed a soft puddle on the wooden stair. I have pressed into it, leaving strange patterns behind. Till the time it gets meticulously scratched out by the maid, my imprint will remain here, vague and unnecessary.

Let’s hold hands and walk
through the sun and rain.
Let’s try and fight the pain.
And exchange stories,
Of our hopes and fears.
Our dreams and tears.
Let’s.

I unearthed an old picture of mama’s today. It was taken on her mehendi ceremony, a couple of days before her wedding. She looks pretty in her greenish sari. The ghoonghat has slipped off, revealing an innocently charming face and dark curly locks. I was quite taken by her beauty when I first saw the picture. And even now, as the photo leans against the railing, half hidden under the shadows, I can't seem to look away from it for too long.

She looks delicate, sitting there with her henna stained hands outstretched, head down, a shy smile lingering hesitantly at the corner of her lips, fighting the urge to curl. She is as old as me in this picture and I wonder what was going in her mind as she slouches awkwardly from the many prying gazes. She seems happy. And very sepia toned beside the candle light.

The moon looks jaded today, as though surprised by its own appearance. It is shining over the plants outside, giving them reason to sway, to swagger. The light is reflecting off the windowsill, adding an element of surrealism to the darkness that is lurking close by. I can hear bats. I can hear their urgency and their desperation. The rain will only disappoint by its absence now.

Picture of Dorian Gray is being read. Again. The knowledge of what’s going to happen next somehow adds depth to the words uttered carelessly by carefully created characters. Words that have etched themselves deeper into my mind the second time around. Making my heart ache for Basil. And for Dorian. Allowing bad influence is as big a crime as having a bad influence. 1984 and Love in the Time of Cholera lay forgotten.

Artists need to be protected. They bare their souls too often and for too many people. They strip their thoughts one by one and lay them on the ground, allowing it to be trampled over by the moving crowd. The book makes me want to sit beside Basil, cover his shoulder with a thick shawl and whisper words of hope into his ear. To hold his hand when he shakes in dismay, at the thought of losing his love. His muse. His life. I want to invite him into this house and show him around. Give him a reason to breathe again.

I change the channels but nothing is changing.
I whisper a prayer but no one is listening.

Manipal in a few days. My heart is too easily swayed in that city. I am bowled over a little too suddenly, pleased too easily and swept off my feet repeatedly. I plan to have a tight grip over my heart this time around. To look both ways before I cross the street and to think twice before I melt away into oblivion. I think it has something to do with the beauty that surrounds that place, the surprises hidden in every corner and the memories of the past 3 years that strut suggestively within my grasp. It will be the end of an era for me. I am trying not to feel maudlin about it. The rains, the greenery, the secret waterfalls and the noisy classrooms. Interesting friends, tacky restaurants, winding roads, splashing puddles, buzzing campus, shimmering love. And all those people who touched my life and molded me into the person I am today.

Papa is sitting with his parents, reminiscing about the old times, talking about people they love and the life that has been led. I can hear bits of the conversation from the living room, filtering towards the foot of the staircase. If I bend a little and tilt my head to the left, I can see them. Their faces mere shadows, their smiles hidden, their outlines faded. Dada, dadi and their first born. I think I will go join them, their first grandchild.

I hear you.
As you turn over in bed
And as you think of me.
I hear you.
As you sigh and go back to sleep.
But.
You don't hear me.
While I stay awake by the window
Looking at the moon and thinking of you
Thousands of miles away
And sigh.
.
.
You don’t hear me.

Everything you have ever wanted is either fattening, illegal or in a relationship.

2011-10-31T04:00:00.000-07:00

It's late morning and for once, I slept through the night. The sleep is still lingering close by, threatening to take over the moment I turn my back. But it doesn't know that I have fought worse.

Tree Of Life is playing. Muted and on a different screen. There is so much beauty in those 13 inches that it's difficult to look away. But it is also difficult to look for too long. No one could have possibly captured nature as sensually as Terrence Malick has. Its beauty, its ugliness and the people trapped within it. Brilliant.

I speak in his defense, and for that I apologize. He wants something that he thinks is perfect and that's his tragedy. Instead of working towards creating it, he chose to steal it. He sees the two of you complement each other so immaculately, lovingly and effortlessly that he fails to realize the obvious. The equation is complete only when you both are in it. I understand the anger and the avalanche of ugly emotions that are now strewn across the paths that connect all three of you.

But all I can do is sympathize with him. Only a person who wants to be loved so desperately can stoop so low as to break another relationship. Only he can believe that there will be happiness from such manipulation and deceptions. I am sorry. For you. But more so for him. Because someday, you will get what you deserve and sadly, so will he.

I am back in bed and surrounded by everything that is dear to me. My legs stretched and crossed at the ankle. And near my feet the movie plays. Not too close but not very far either. The movie has somehow managed to sift through every tranquil moment there is to see and feel in nature. Every emotion that forms the fabric of a tender heart. Baby toes. Slight rains. Autumn leaves. Pink flowers. Rocking chairs. A child's laugh. A mother's love. A favorite pet. Pretty eye lashes. A strange fear. Wet grass. Open windows. Bright butterflies. And the sun.

Grace isn't about pleasing the eyes.

It's about pleasing the heart.

Maybe one day I will watch it the way it is meant to be. Tree Of Life. Maybe then I will know the story entwined through these beautiful images. Maybe then I will appreciate it even more. But for now, this is enough. This is all the beauty my heart can hold tight to.

A writer is sure to be born in this house. And it might not necessarily be me. Everywhere I look, I find scraps of paper with scribbled notes. Moleskin diaries adorn the bedrooms. A hunt for a stapler results in me finding a poem instead. There are words waiting to welcome me at the most unexpected of places. Stationery boxes, showcase, drawers, between books.. The handwriting is horrendous and the spelling almost laughable but the thoughts behind these words are powerful. Extremely so. I have been pestering them to chronicle their work with the help of a blog but seem to be failing miserably. Rasha stopped blogging at the age of 10. The combination of her talent and her age scares me. Raiyan has bowed down and agreed to start afresh. She works on praise while he works on inspiration and I hope they both find what they are looking for.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez has a way with people that is frightening. His characters are layered and unnecessarily dark. I wouldn't trust him if he were a friend. So powerful he is, that he could unearth secrets of mine that even I didn't know existed. And I would be too afraid to know what he really thinks of me, this man. Love in the Time Of Cholera. It's getting better. It's building up on a death and there is no way it can fail.

I will be traveling to India tomorrow. And through the coastal belt of Karnataka for the next couple of weeks. I can't wait to walk barefoot on my favorite beaches again. To start on the long and twisted road trip to all the towns that are so dear to me and to meet people who matter. There will be rain. Heavy, scary, tireless rain. There will be sun. Hot, scorching, unforgiving. There will be food. Delectable, familiar, inspired. And most importantly, there will be family. And friends. Then there is also Eid and convocation. Sigh.

This space will be barren for a few weeks. And in that time I'm sure to experience moments of absolute compulsion to write about everything happening in and around me but can't. It's my loss to bear and I will try not to feel too bad about it.

Let's please never confuse stubbornness for strength.

2011-10-28T20:33:00.000-07:00

Young Victoria, the movie, is playing in the background. I am watching it. But then I am not. There is a hint of an impending romance. And there is humming to oneself, quiet smiles into the mirror, sly glances, shy kissing of the hand, beautiful poetry and a motive that seems nothing but evil at its core. A story based on Queen Victoria's early life. I seem to be falling in love with the lovers as the minutes pass by. An outsider. An unknown. There are many who love for money and those who love for beauty. But who love for the sake of love are those who are spared.

The color is green. But not just one shade. It's rich and lush. Dark and light. Pale and fading. Almost black and almost yellow. So imagine trees. Different shades of green. And there are hammocks tied to these trees. Or hammock, depending on how you feel about company. It's sunny. But not hot. There is enough shade. And there is a beach nearby. And one interesting book. Maybe Catcher in the Rye? And when you lie in your hammock and look straight up, all you can see is a bit of the sky which has made its way through all that green.

3:52 am. The scarf is wrapped around my shoulder, keeping the chill away. My toes are bare, sticking out of the quilt. The pillows are stuffed into the little space between my aching back and the wall. My books are piled high beside me. I am not reading them. But their presence is reassuring. At this time of the night, they add grandeur to my otherwise dull life.

The dreams are hovering just out of reach. They are wilting from the wait, losing their sheen as time passes them by. I stretch my hands and try to grasp them but they tantalize the awake, escaping too quick. Strict orders, to visit only when asleep. Looks like we both have some more waiting to do. Withered dreams, I have in store for me. The tears won't fall. Not yet at least.

A tiny circle of NIVEA rolled from one end of the room to another. The jar hit the wall and fell on its face, hiding its identity. This state of unarmed and nameless vulnerability caused the child sitting at the other end of the room to chuckle. After taking a moment to enjoy the pleasures of watching the blue rotate away, he braced himself on all four and started the stumbling journey towards it. The jar had made a faint mark where it hit the wall. A closer inspection would reveal a dozen or so marks on both side of the room.

Hiba. Because I know you will read this. I have never told you how proud I am of you. And how grateful I am to be allowed into your life. Having you around has always been like a breath of fresh air in times of darkness. Thank you. For being there when no one else could be. You made the last two years of high school quite memorable for me. Sending you all my love, all the way to Karachi. You are better than the rest and you don't even know it.

The world is such a softened blur without my spectacles. Like an abstract painting with a hearty collision of contrast. The colors spilling out of the lines. And the lines converging into opaqueness. Everything is laid before my eyes, waiting to be interpreted. It is not what you see but what you think you see. And it can be anything at all. Such a wonderful world. Occasionally, I like getting lost in it.

The sun has sneaked up on me. Unnoticed, the early rays are hesitant to intrude. So hesitant that I can't get myself to begrudge them their arrival. I think they can tell when they are not welcome. And that's the worst infliction one can throw out there.. Knowing that your presence is not desirable, much less gratifying.

And then Prince Albert got shot. The tears could no longer be held back. I envy them their love. Victoria and Albert. Their love and the beauty with which it has been portrayed. Sigh.

It's a Good Day to be You. By Eels. Because it is. Just so.

Your love is going to drown if you don't let go.

2011-10-26T17:19:00.000-07:00

An American soldier is on my mind tonight. It's 3 am, it's sad and I am alone with my thoughts. I don't know who he is, how he looks or the demons that dwell within him. I haven't met him, seen him or heard from him. The little I know about him, I know from dad. He was described to me as 'a young man, little crazy and very messed up'. Papa was on one of his many business trips, a mere routine. And this soldier, on his way home for the first time in two years.

He chose to go to Germany first, to meet his girlfriend, who decided this was a good time like no other to break up with him. He was stinking and temporarily homeless in a strange country after his girlfriend threw him out of the house. He was wounded in Iraq but refused to talk about it. There was no one waiting for him in America either. He had no home. No hope. No job. And a break up to deal with at that. To be coming back home after two years and no one to receive him at the airport. No one to hug him and tell him how glad they were that he got back safe.

I think about him from time to time. I wonder if he is safe. And happy. If he has been able to forget his love. If he is dating again. If he has a drinking problem. If he comes back to an empty home. If he has nightmares about his days in Iraq.. I hope he is surrounded by people who love him. I really do. And I hope they never forget that he is allergic to cashew nuts.

I don't quite know,
How to say
How I feel
About you.
I wish there was a way
To let you know
How important you were.

There is an acrid smell in the air, a remnant of the paint job done earlier today. The dark maroon to my right has been washed over with light beige. The walls around me stand tall, proud in their spotlessness. The plastered area is completely camouflaged. Not only is there no window but there is no hint of a window ever being there. I can't decide which is worst. A bitter sense is blanketing the tongue. Strong enough to force me into my bedroom.

I have started reading Love in the Time of Cholera. Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Always be wary of books that are preceded by great reputations. They are more capable of disappointing you. Too many things need to be said about it, but currently I am quite taken by its cover. A splash of delicious orange. With hints of flowers, blood and buckle. There are cracks, adding depth to the treasure within. The words, I have a feeling, are only going to get better.

I am like a stranger in my own room. The ticking of the clock is annoying. The stickers on the wall seem childish. And the bumps in the mattress feel unfamiliar. There is a wind chime hanging from the chandelier, a gift. It sounds beautiful on quietly windy days. But today, it looks out of place. The glow in the dark galaxies over my bed no longer please me like they used to. There is too much cacophony. It feels as though my state of mind is being reflected around this room. I should try and spend more time here. Get to know my own space. Make friends with my childhood again.

These are slow days for me. I have the time to lie down and look at the stars, read one book after another, scribble disconnected and highly pretentious thoughts in my journal, watch strange movies and get inspired. And if I so wish, I can also just sit in a corner and do nothing at all. The books are all jumbled up in my head now. It's one long, amusingly twisted tale of brilliant characters who have come together on one stage just to please me. Bringing a smile to my face.

You said you were lonely
And I held your hand.
But when you tried to hold the whole of me
I got scared.
Are you lonely again?

Just because we can't be friends doesn't mean we aren't.

2011-10-23T16:57:00.000-07:00

Melancholia, the word. It is deep red, as though hiding a million little bittersweet sorrows that a single soul could possibly hope to bear in a lifetime. It's almost faded and frayed around the edges, tired from the avalanche of emotions it sweeps around. How am I supposed to breathe when you refuse to? How am I to live when you have ceased to? Melancholic. On a brisk night it cascades silently, destroying all illusions of happiness. It grips by the throat and strangles the little hope within. I have made you into something more delicious than you really are. Melancholy. Adding depth to the music I listen to, the words I read and the people I love. Withering in all the passion that wells up. And the tears. Sweet melancholy.

It is the kind of night that demands of me. To get out of the house, a thick robe wrapped tightly for protection. And walk through the dusty streets under the pale light of a reluctant moon. I wish it would rain. I miss the raindrops on my skin. Reminds me of an evening I spent by myself in Bremen. It was what I had always imagined Europe to be like. Light rain causing the headlights to reflect across the road. Tiny shallow puddles. Cars whizzing past at random. The wind sensuous, with feelings. The trees swaying and the leaves rustling but not falling. The water trickling lovingly over everything. Possessively engulfing every surface.

The roads were glistening and the air was the exact temperature I prefer it to be. The sun had hurried away to greener pastors but left behind a few rays. The clingy ones. The ones that were not ready for change and would hold on till it is absolutely necessary to move on. Pitiful. Familiar.

I remember taking off my footwear. Holding them between my thumb and forefingers, my sleeves rolled up, my hood down, my life in tatters. I remember my naked feet ankle deep in a clear puddle, distorting the gray tar under them. It was cold but I don't remember shivering. At some point, I sat down. And as the water seeped in, leaving nothing dry on me and the feet were completely hidden into a puddle of clear water, I tasted tears, their presence expected and welcome. That was also the day I let it all go.

The picture was taken in India. Almost a year back. One the happiest days I have lived. This is a hurried click from my phone, right before packing up. An attempt to save a bit of sunlight for the dark days. It's beautiful for me, this day and this picture. I love the hues of calming blue on top, setting yellow in the middle and the hint of promising waves. It was a day of memorably bumpy bus rides and one too many coconuts cracked open. It was a day of splashing laughter and melodies. A guitar between us, we hummed along to everything from Johnny Cash to Oasis. It was a day of letting the numbness be washed over by the sand and salt. Hogging on different kinds of shrimps and lime soda. A day to forget, for a little while, the life that was left behind. The sorrows, the heartbreak, the nebulous nature of truth.

I'm glad to say that we've met.

But I am sad to say that

the circumstances weren't on our side.

A heart isn't valuable until it is conspicuously broken. A smile isn't remembered until it fades away. A plea isn't heard until it is too late to forgive. And life isn't led until a road is chosen.

3:03 am. The internet modem is blinking accusingly at me. Horrid green. It's cold. And the AC is humming comfortingly, trying in vain to lull me to sleep. There is music. Blue October and Porcupine Tree. There are words. Of Sylvia Plath. There are images. Of James Franco reciting Allen Ginberg's Howl. And they all culminate beautifully to keep me awake. Conspiring against the law of nature. But I am not complaining.

Tiny yellow lights are creating shadows over the walls around me. Trying to divert my attention from the big rectangle of recent plaster over the wall. The small window was boarded up today, leaving my favorite window lonely. There will be less light in this room when I wake up tomorrow. And I will try not to feel bad about it.

Soon. Furniture will be lugged out. Paintings will be taken down. Walls will change colors and the carpet will disappear. The plants will be rearranged and the couch replaced. And just maybe, I might no longer want to stay awake.

Through the lanes of your memory, I walk on tiptoe.

2011-10-22T06:53:00.000-07:00

There are tree shadows playing on my toes, bringing along with them a trail of light and dark. It's a pleasantly windy day and I am braving the summer heat to sit in the garden. My eyes are mere slits, cowering under the angry sun. The wooden bench feels hot under me. And dust clings to my fingers when I pat the space beside me, inviting my imaginary friend to lend me some company.

I accompanied dad to his office yesterday. It was echoing silence through the corridors as I followed him with hurried steps, trying not to disturb the eerie calm and quiet. Having never visited on working days, this is how I have always remembered his work space. Cold. White. Serene. Barren. Forcing a shudder down my spine.

Unlit empty office corridors give me the feeling of a murder mystery waiting to happen. A body sprawled across the polished white tiles, limbs stretched out at irregular angles, dark red blood forming a puddle of sticky mess around the head... The protagonist is the last to leave the office. He walks purposefully towards the elevator, briefcase in one hand, a cellphone in another. At the last turn, he trips over the body, falls flat to the blood stained floor. He finds himself looking straight into the eyes of the dead. There is silence. And then he screams.The elevator leaves without him. The lights come on, the dead wakes up and the protagonist spits out the bitter red paint that had found its way into his mouth.

On my right wrist sits a coil of prayer beads molded into a temporary bracelet, a residual from the Asr namaaz. It keeps brushing against the keypad and creating an absorbing melody of its own. The purple in the beads is glistening provocatively, radiating a beauty of its own, making it impossible for me to look away. I can't remember seeing anything this beautiful in a very long time. It's a gift from Rija, something she picked up from Madinah. This will always be a cherished possession of mine.

Northanger Abbey. The movie. I am about half way done and it has left me dreamy.. I haven't read a Jane Austen. Yet. But I seem to have watched all of the film adaptations there are. Except Emma. Because I bought that book about 10 years ago and I have every intention of reading it. I am sure it will be delightful.

Jane Austen takes me to a whole different world of fantasies. The flowing muslin gowns, corset tops, sheer nets, straight backs, ridiculous hats, exquisite carriages, chivalrous men, elegant houses, delicate china, gripping novels, passionate romances, pretentious society, pretty shoes, gleaming jewelry, gallant natures, unwarranted bravery.. Sigh. She makes me want to fall madly in love, something that I otherwise abhor.

I found a picture under the sofa the other day. It now sits between the pages of my journal. He is 6 and she is a few months old. She is on his lap, his hands engulfing her in a protective embrace. Her face is partially hidden but her eyes are smiling, her baby body wrapped in flowery pink and white. He is captured mid-laugh with his mouth wide open and his front teeth missing. There is a look of disbelief and happiness about him, for getting to hold his little sister.

And here we are, 12 years later. She is already a couple of inches taller than me. I watch as she pulls out her bike and shouts a distant bye while hurrying to catch up with her friends. He is coming out of the house with his laptop. I turn the photo upside down as he fills up the space beside me, crushing my imagination, laughing the same old laugh. He wants to show me a funny video which he is convinced will crack me up. I have a feeling it's going to be another Ray William Johnson..

You have to listen closely, because truth doesn't make a noise..

2011-10-19T09:45:00.000-07:00

There is so much pain in betrayal. So much love and hate. Guilt and pleasure. So much of everything. And then nothing. The risks. The hypocrisy. The lies. The sheer evil which engulfs it all. I still fail to understand how people can think they will be happy while thrusting another deep into misery. Tristan and Isolde. The movie. A gentle reminder of the love that is lost on me.

Why be prolific if you don't want to feel?

Why long for things if they are not to be ours?

There is a scene where Mark is looking down at Tristan. And shouting. A fiery rage dipped in heart break. Terrible combination. And Tristan just looks on, his eyes half closed, his back to the wall, sitting with his hands limp over his knees. And I don’t know whether he is mourning the loss of his friend's trust or the loss of opportunity to ever be with his love again. And there is peace reflecting on his face. At the possible thought of not having to continue betraying, I suppose. I don't know if life is greater than death. But love is more than either. I humbly beg to differ.

If I could have moments of my life captured on camera, I would want my reel to be a series of goodbyes. Of all the times I have walked away.. A handshake. A tight hug. A lone tear, hidden behind turned backs. A lingering gaze. A soft kiss. Fingers squeezing my shoulders. And parting words that twist my heart. A promise to meet again. And then those other kind of goodbyes. The ones that cause relief to flood through my being and those that don't garner any ceremony. The ones that are simply meant to be.

It's evening. And I can't think of anything productive that has been done since I woke up or the possibility of doing anything worthwhile in the next few hours before bedtime. This will be one of those days that will be forgotten. Nothing about it will stand out in my memory. It's almost as if I never lived this day. Maybe because I didn't.

Sia's music is playing. Somewhere. Ruefully. The minutes of the day chasing at its heel. The playlist is one long uninterrupted song. Be my friend. Hold me, wrap me. Unfold me. I am small. I'm needy. Warm me up and breathe me. Her music takes me to a quiet place where nothing can bother me. It locks me up in a room within myself and opens a tiny little window. And through that window it pushes in chunks of melancholia. For me to bite on as I contemplate life. It tastes of bitter strong vanilla and orange peels. It tastes vile. Of forgotten happiness and imagined miseries.

The Age of Shiva. It's beautiful, as expected. Moments of puzzled joy can bring with them a lifelong trail of tribulations. I like where this book is headed. He has a way of entwining age old Hindu mythical tales with the modern day lives of his characters in a way that makes it impossible to separate one from another. There is a strange grayness about the book and I don't think it will be getting colorful anytime soon, if at all.

The skin brushed against shards of glass but refused to puncture.

The tears touched the eye lashes but refused to fall.

Everything you can't be is everything I should be.

2011-10-17T11:56:00.000-07:00

When you come to collect your stuff from my place, I will invite you in graciously. This is the last goodbye I am ever going to waste, I promise myself. You ask me if I am okay and I will lie convincingly. There is an awkward hug and a peck on the cheek. There won’t be any tears. Not in front of you at least. You notice the shirt I am wearing. It's yours. You wonder if I have any plans for tonight. I don't. Dinner? Why not? You wait patiently as I get ready.

You open the door of your beloved car for me and I will allow myself to feel like a princess again. Take me to your favorite restaurant and I will enjoy my soggy salad. We avoid the others eye when our song starts to play. Later, over dessert, I look over the table at your perfect face. Under the yellow lights, 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 a piercing ache in my heart. I smile back. And 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. And 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. Indignant looks. Infuriated gestures. Irascible behavior. Ferocious words. Heart wrenching truths. Hurtful. Heartless.

And when the valet winks at us you tip him. I see you haven't taken my picture out of your wallet. I haven't either. Conversation will be made. But we will avoid the questions we really want to ask. You talk about your mother. I will drone on about my writing projects. We will both listen politely.

While driving along the shore I request you to stop. It's a beautiful night. Do you have the time? You comply. I will ask you to take your shoes off and sit in the sand. You will be kind and not complain about it getting between your toes. You are thinking about the messy laundry you will have later tonight. I will dig my feet deep into the ground. You will frown disapprovingly but only when my head is turned away. We will share the headphones. And it would be safe to stick to Coldplay.

I will reminisce about the fresh love, shy smiles, holding hands and biting into the same candy. You will smile your disarming smile, hide my hand in yours and promise me that nothing has changed. I will shake my head disappointingly. You will remind me of the reasons. You use some of my words. I will smile a weak smile. And you will place your arm over my shoulder. Our heads touch in collective dismay. There is moonlight bleeding through the sky and onto us. Blessing the cursed.

Quietly, we will 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, smiling a thank you.

The iPod charge is gone and there is silence. Ruptured by the deafening waves. And the sound of broken hearts beating. We listen on, enthralled. Anything to keep the silence away. You start to whistle and I try not to get annoyed by it. And then 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.

When black was slowly dipped into clear crystal.

2011-10-15T17:51:00.000-07:00

It's 3 am and it's lonely. I have taken to sleeping on the living room floor, squished comfortably between two quilts, a pillow for company and a book for moral support. The setting is going to be changed soon. New furniture is expected, and tiles instead of the soft beige carpet. The beloved window too is being altered. To what, I didn't ask. Ignorance is bliss. I quite enjoy lying by it every night, twisting my head at a particular angle so I can stare right into the sky. Stars. Twinkling. Shooting. Falling. Sparkling. Breaking. Disappearing.

I just finished watching Little Ashes. I wept. At the death of an artist. Birth of a demon within another. I wept at the tragic losses that a man has to suffer. At the beauty of it all. What a poignantly enchanting movie. The credits rolled a while back but the sadness is still swelling within me. Salvador Dali. A man who amuses me to no end. With his work and his self obsession.

Each morning when I awake, I experience again a supreme pleasure - that of being Salvador Dali.

I don't do drugs. I am drugs.

There are some days when I think I'm going to die from an overdose of satisfaction.

There is only one difference between a madman and me. The madman thinks he is sane. I know I am mad.

I first encountered him at an exhibition in Frankfurt. There was so much angst in his work, it was dripping anger, desperation, urgency and blood all over the floors, over my feet and right on to me. Surrealism. That element of shock. The one that made me take an involuntary step backwards, my hands flying to the railing to support myself. The shock that had me peering into the strangeness of a man's mind, my mouth forming a silent oval of curiosity and awe, bending slightly on my knees and leaning dangerously close to understand it better. And then standing up straighter, none the wiser and an insistent ache throbbing through my spine.

Robert Pattinson. If there was a role of his which I could lock him in forever, it would be this one. With his crooked steps, swaying body and unsteady composure. With his outlandish attire, rude hairstyle and splendid accent, he ceased to be Robert Pattinson. Just when I was getting to appreciate his acting, he got a make over and his sharp features and his charming smile took over the screen, hiding away the actor. A curse. These good looks.

It's late. And my bed isn't even made. Currently it is a crumpled mess of blue and white, crushed despondently onto the couch beside me. Waiting to be rescued. Waiting to be spread across the floor. Waiting to be slept in. The sight of it is depressing me.

A desk of my own, in a space where no one but me sets foot. A place where I can color code to my heart's desire. And line all my freshly sharpened pencils according to their shade. And stack my papers in a neat bundle, giving order to my thoughts. A table lamp that bleeds yellow light over my world. And where there is silence. And cold that causes me to shudder occasionally. A carpeted floor so that every step is muffled and there is only an illusion of movement. A curtain that can be drawn completely to keep out anything and everything that might interrupt. And the birds chirp when I want them to. The light dances when I ask it to. The wind comes to a halt when I turn its way, my palm outstretched.

The Age of Shiva. By Manil Suri. First few pages and it is full of promises already. Death of Vishnu. By the same author. Excellent book. So real. So raw. Yet so sensitive. A gentle reminder of everything that is wrong with our society, with us. I remember taking a week to read it. And loving every moment of the time I stole from that book. Delicious words. Sigh. I always like starting a book by an author that I have already read and liked. I feel like I am waddling around in familiar territory, with a friend.

There is sleep. Taking over everything that I know to be real and transforming it into a mirage that escapes my grasp. The days have already merged behind my back. And here I am, lamenting today. Yesterday. And the books that were never read, calls that were never made, love that was never shared, movies that were never watched, things that were never said, hands that were never held... And the same mistakes that will be repeated with every sunrise.

Strawberry stained tongue, coffee breath and mint candies.

2011-10-13T13:59:00.000-07:00

My hands have just been dried, my fingers pruned, the front of my shirt damp from being wiped on and my heart swelling with satisfaction. There is something sedating, calming and even tranquilizing about washing dishes. I understand if you would beg to differ. But, there are some thoughts that come to mind only when your hands are completely dipped in a sink full of pots, the smell of dishwasher is threatening to take over all your senses and the swift strokes are cleaning away the dinner and leaving the cutlery gleaming.

I have been watching the Tree Of Life. Since the time I woke up today. And I am only halfway through. By choice, of course. This is one of the most visually pleasing movies I have seen in a long time. In fact, I can't remember any movie that has come this close to making me sigh per frame at this rate. Atonement comes to mind, but for entirely different reasons. With the Tree Of Life, I am lost in a world that I can't comprehend. A world that is too beautiful for me to step into. I am not too sure about the story line. But. Excellent visuals. I am going to keep coming back to this movie. It is playing in the background, the bits I have already watched. And it's surprisingly soothing to have Brad Pitt whisper in your ears while you go about your work. I don't want the movie to end.

My brother's friend has come over. So he very politely threw me out of his room. And closed the door behind me for good measures. I tried not to feel bad. I can hear laughter, filtering through the doors and the hallway. They crossed over to ransack the fridge and in answer to my one eyebrow raised look they replied, "Horrible Bosses". Well at least that explains the crazy guffaws and choking noises.

One of the most beautiful things that never fails to move me is the way the sun rays screen through foliage and scatter beautifully over my feet. I don't think there is anything that overwhelms me more than million little bits of the sky welcoming me when I peer through the trees. The hint of a lone bird, crackling of the unknown, shadows, broken sun rays, a mirage of rainbows, something hidden, something imagined, a scrap of blue. One of my greatest source of despair is that I could never truly capture this beauty. Neither in my words nor in my camera.

I have a few more pages to go before finishing A Passage to India. But the book is over for me. I got everything I needed from it and I am at peace with how things turned out. I have no complains about the plot or the characters. But I am looking forward to reading those few pages anyway. E.M.Forster's specialty is that he not only knows his characters but also befriends them. He loves them, appreciates them, justifies them and never allows the reader to misunderstand them. There is beauty in the way he sees people, the way he feels for them and the way he protects them. He must have made a great friend. I am sure of it. His humility and his thoughtfulness has oozed through the pages and permanently stained me. And I quite like this new pattern that now decorates my being. I can already see myself harassing the staff at our local bookstore for more of his works.

The meaning of my posts seems to alter every time I read what you have to say about them. All the comments, mails, messages and texts add to what I had in my head, giving it clarity, direction and appropriate punctuation. So thank you. For molding in a new dimension to words that I previously believed belonged only to me. And for making me realize that most things change only for the good.

There are stars in the sky and sand by the shore, washed away repeatedly. There is love in the air and doubt in the heart, as strong as mountains of rocks. There is hesitance and there are misunderstanding. In abundance both. Oh and also, there is no hope.

My castle is built on towers of sand, towers of sand..

2011-10-10T12:59:00.000-07:00

It's cold and I have tightened the grip of my purple scarf around my shoulders. It sits snugly, restricting my hand movement. My feet are tucked under me, toes squished together in happiness. I am in my brother's room and there is a strong stench of men's perfume wafting around me. Wedged comfortably into his couch, cushions strewn across the place, I am trying not to take deep breaths.

Platinum and diamonds. White flowing gowns and black tux. Lilies and daises. Champagne and clink of glasses. High ceiling and dim lights. Straight backed and formal. Fixed smiles and shallow conversation. Good food and no appetite. It’s not time to go home yet, but it’s late. You are looking your best and feeling your worst.

The Pianist soundtrack is unraveling itself. Slowly, deliberately, accusingly. I like this room more than the one I share with my sister. For starters, it's not pink. And there is character. This room has a personality. With its strangely orange walls, dented shutters, an almost double bed, a wardrobe that aspires to touch the ceiling, a couch that refuses to fit in, cushions that are defiantly mismatched, a bookshelf that doesn't discriminate, a desk that is always overflowing and the floor that is a mesh of wires.

He is sitting with his back to me, working away. I like how his hands work across the desk without his eyes leaving the laptop screen. And all those books. Books that I wouldn't ever read. Books with words like blood suckers, velocity, murder, police, invisible, extraterrestrial thrown all over them. The blurb of the book sitting beside me reads something like this. 'If you don't take this note to the police... I will kill a lovely blond schoolteacher. . . . If you do . . . I will instead kill an elderly woman active in charity work. You have six hours to decide. The choice is yours' Wow. There is a whole genre of books out there that I haven't even heard of. And with good reason. Sigh.

The Hireling has made a surprise guest appearance. I don't think he knows of its existence. Maybe I left it here myself. I can't be too sure. I would have asked. But I don't want to disturb the detached harmony of the room. The Hireling by L.P. Hartley. I read it quite a while back. A classic, apparently. Set in the 1960s. A quote from it that has stuck with me - “The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.” From what I remember, the novel is slow paced yet gripping. And has one of the most heart wrenching endings ever. The kind that has you gaping at the abruptness of it all. It's almost as if Mr Hartley lost interest in the book and penned down the ending in a hurry, one eye focused on his new muse. Possibly a woman. It's always a woman. And I am the most presumptuous of them all.

Her hair is still wet from the shower. Slicing the air sharply every time she moves her head. Her sari clung to her body as though for dear life. The whiteness of her blouse lost around her shoulders, giving way to moist translucent. She is in a hurry. It has just struck noon and she still hasn't started preparing for lunch. Soft round rotis and hot tadke wali dal. Maybe some fried brinjals, just the way her husband likes them.

A Passage To India has surpassed all my expectations. E.M. Forster takes me straight into the heart of colonial India. The British India. It feels as though I am crouching behind a high backed chair, under a grand chandelier, hidden from view, one hand resting over Mr Forster's shoulder, heels stressed, ready to jump up and run if the need arises. I can imagine him in the same position, turning his head and looking back at me, a finger over his lip, a wide grin slowly spilling over his face. Delighted to be sharing the lives of his people with me. He seems to be a friendly man. I am sure he was. I think I am falling in love.

Yours is not to wonder why. Yours is to do or die.

2011-10-06T15:31:00.000-07:00

What The Body Remembers. By Shauna Singh Baldwin. It was late afternoon when I was nearing the end of the book. Quiet. Just mama and I, busy in our own worlds, our work sprawled across the living room. Loose sheets adorning the center table. The laptop perched dangerously on the edge of the couch. The iPad suffocated between the cushions. The T.V on mute. The words passing between us sparse and mumbled, punctuating the comforting humming of air-conditioners.

It's August 14, 1947. The India Pakistan border is a mess. Rivers of blood. All kinds of atrocities. Swords are lashing out. Bullets are scattering the heavy air. Women wailing. Women lost. Women raped. Men shouting. Men hurt. Men killing. And then there are the children.

I read of it all. Of all the things that happened during that godforsaken time. Of all the horrors that were executed upon people of another faith, another caste, another sir name. Of every thing inexcusable that was excused. With a heavy heart, I read of it all. But when I read the bit about men killing their own families, something inside me broke. I can't even imagine the kind of desperation that might be floating in the air, the kind of fear that can get a person to slaughter his own family before the other gets them. Blank. Let's just say that the book is done and I am mightily relieved. If you absolutely must read it, then read it for its poetry like prose. And endearingly real characters. And the hope that always lingers just out of reach.

It's the weekend and there is a party by the pool area. I can feel it. Literally. It's 44 past midnight and a soft Dhab-dhab is resonating through the walls and hitting me from all directions. It's not loud, but it's heavy. And I need to sit still to hear it. It feels as though someone is tapping the wall behind me with the heel of their palm. I don't mind it. The music that is. As long as the music plays I know that there are people out there enjoying. Laughing. Socializing. Happiness is real when shared.

There is too much sadness in me. You said so. And it hurts to admit that you may be right. You were nice enough to take responsibility for it. But. The smile won't linger. A touch won't heal. A hug is no longer the answer. It hurts so much when a relationship breaks. Cracks. Shatters. Fractures, permanently. Especially when there is no one to blame. Take it from me, closure is but a myth. Scout's honor.

Give me the pain, I will tuck it away.

To be taken out on lonely nights.

As a silent reminder,

that I was not always this alone.

I spent an hour looking for my copy of A Passage To India. My next read. It is sitting beside me now. With pretty red elephants printed on its green cover. E. M. Forster has previously delighted me with A Room With A View. And I can't wait to sink my teeth into what is considered to be his best work. I hope it's not tragic. I might cry.

Mama asked me if I miss Bremen. I don't, I replied. But right this moment, I miss dragging my weight into my room, late into the night. After hours of long and engaging conversations with interesting people. Tired, aching to the bones. And happy. Shedding off the clothes and burrowing into my over sized hoody and pajamas. Being engulfed by the stony silence of white walls and a gray carpet. Switching off the lights, placing the table lamp precariously over the edge of the bed.

I miss grabbing my trusted bar of Lindt white chocolate from the fridge, my only vice. Letting the music play in the background. Eddie Vedder. Coldplay. Death Cab for Cutie. Or a movie. An Education. Atonement. Into The Wild. Images flicking off the wall, my back turned away. Curled in the corner of my bed, snuggled deep into my blanket, I miss fighting the cold. My eyes peering into a book. The light ache that flowed through my legs and the silent protests of a mind that wasn't allowed to rest. All the minutes of the previous day forgotten. Already a dream of long past. My thoughts transforming me into a character that has risen gallantly from the book, asking my hand, pulling me into the other world. I miss waking up groggy, not knowing where I am, a book in my hand.

It's an hour and a half past midnight. The party is over. And then silence. Let it never be said that it was all in vain.

"I wrote this novel just for you. That's why it's vulgar, that's why it's blue."

2011-10-03T15:02:00.000-07:00

Placebo is playing. Silently, desperately, urgently. I was never faithful, I was never one to trust. I was never grateful, that's why I spend my days alone.

The pages were torn loose, gently, sliding across the wooden surface and then floating through the air to touch the ground. Paper upon earth. The former forever smudged by the reality of the latter. The pages weren't crumpled. Their smoothness only disturbed by the words that were passionately whispered into them. A heart that was poured out. For no eyes to see. No lips to curl. No hands to hold. No thoughts to spare. No being to understand. No reassurance. No love. No one. To stop the atrocities of the hand while the heart protested. With every tear it bled a little.

You are always ahead of the game

I drag behind

You never get caught in the rain

I get drenched every time.

A match was struck and flicked with unnecessary panache, as though performing for an audience. The flames leap up, licking away in earnest, eager to not leave anything behind.. And with that, a lifetime is lost. Lost in the smoke. The ashes. The coughing and spurting. The charred tiles and blackened furniture.

It gets windy at night. The kind that pleases everything is caresses. Bringing a smile to my face, a pleased purring from the stubborn stray cat, a content rustle within the foliage of tall trees and happy swaying among the new plants. The flowers look prettier, the grass looks calm and the garden bugs look mildly apathetic. I'm on the bench, outside our house. My legs on the table, crossed at the ankle and careful not to be pointing towards Makkah.

The light is penetrating through the panoramic window of the living room and falling clumsily over the garden. Harsh white that forgot its way. Brian Molko is begging to be protected from what he wants. First in English. Then in French. And I listen intently, both times.

And while the cat swaggers in all its glory, my thoughts are with a man from the past. A man who wanted all evidence of his brilliance burned. Maybe the thought of it was as unbearable for him as it is for me. Maybe that's why he wanted his works to be destroyed after his death. Burned unread. A cold shudder travels through my spine every time I think of how close we were to lose the treasure that we can now call our own. Something to adorn our bookshelves, pepper our conversations, fuel our imaginations. I can't decide if Max Brod can be classified as a good friend or a bad one. And this bothers me.

Franz Kafka. I always have to be on a look out because he has a nasty habit of pulling the ground from under my feet, the breath from my lungs, the beat from my heart, the rational thoughts from my mind. His words pierce through me. They create wounds that refuse to heal. They sting repeatedly, till the last of my feelings are sucked out and I'm left with unfamiliar numbness. They make me bleed and they allow me to watch as a part of me oozes out into the stillness of this strange world.

It's been a while since I read him. But somehow, I can't get myself to go back. I love him so much that I hate him. I have only read a few of his short stories. The thought of all his unread words makes me sigh in happiness and deep sorrow. Maybe his friend should have followed the instructions. All must be burned unread.

I am half way through What The Body Remembers. And the book is getting unbearable. The injustice of it all. To have her own child taken away from her at birth. And then the second one too. How is she expected to smile and nod and go on living like every thing is okay? I am dreading every turn of page. But the words are so intricately interlaced that is is difficult to shut the book and erase it from memory. An extremely compulsive read. Books like these aren't meant to be forgotten. Aren't meant to be read and shelved. I am not even sure if I want you to read it. It's the kind of beauty that you want to suffer by yourself. The kind of tragedy that you don't want to inflict on others.

What the mind refuses to remember..

2011-09-30T07:20:00.000-07:00

She slipped into the house, unnoticed. Keen to reach the safe haven of her folks. But the danger lies within and she knows not of it. She got her named tattooed on her wrist. Her mama had one. Her aunt has one. So does her nanny. Roop. Inked into her tiny 7 year old wrist. Etched forever in the Urdu script. The language only the Muslims use. It's 1937. It's Rawalpindi. She is a Sikh. Yesterday, her father had banned anything that the Guru doesn't endorse. She is in for some trouble and I can't get myself to read further. What The Body Remembers.

Dad is traveling. He usually is. Away from family. Breathing strange air and eating stranger food. Working through the day and coming back to an empty hotel room. I wonder if he misses the permanent cushion dent that his weight has formed on the left side of the couch. The way he can navigate through the dark from the bedroom to the kitchen for a glass of water. Or kissing his kids goodnight and tucking them in when he knows they are going to get out of bed the moment he shuts his bedroom door. I wonder if he misses swooping in as the good cop when mama does such a fantastic job of being the bad one.

There is this anticipatory moment of doubt and excitement that hangs low over me every time I am to meet a friend after a long time. A moment of uneasy happiness. A moment of not knowing. What if she has changed? What if I have? What if it is not going to be the same? And then I spot her across the crowded room. We wave. We shriek. We hug. Then we appraise each other quickly. She declares I have changed. I do the same. We sit down. We order. And the moment passes. We laugh. We gossip. We squeal. We hug over the table. We sit back with a thump and laugh some more. Childhood friends. I can never let go.

Last Goodnight. The band. Not the kind of music I usually allow myself. Nothing extraordinarily amazing about it either. In fact they can get quite cantankerous sometimes with their overenthusiastic drummer. But. There is so much pain and desperation in their lyrics that it makes me want to go hug them. Tell them it's okay. Hearts break. Trusts lost. Truths hidden. Lives led. I don't remember how they got on my iPod. But on the long cold nights spent in dim rooms and with faded shadows I forget to ask such questions.

Of all kinds of people in the world, it is the selfish kind who enjoy a soft spot in my heart. How sad life must be for them. To not be able to put others before themselves. To leave behind a distasteful air of ugliness wherever they go. To be perceived as someone vile. To never be trusted. To not be loved. Sigh. Must be difficult, this being selfish business.

Of the hearts that were broken and never healed.

2011-09-26T08:05:00.000-07:00

I have bit my lower lip. I don't remember doing it. But I must have. A spot of angry red glistens as proof. A tiny little dot of pain. It hurts when I am angry. When I press my lips together to stop everything mean and hurtful from cascading through my mouth, my mind. It stops me from breaking hearts. From tearing relationships.

I got done with The Good Muslim today. Early in the morning. My eyes glazed over without my knowledge as I swayed through the last paragraph. Realizing the full depth of the words that were seemingly innocuous in appearance. I like the book. I like the thoughts smeared on the pages, the tragedies, the misunderstandings. The things that went wrong. The mistakes that could be avoided. The life that could be lived. The pain that could be lessened. The love that was lost. And found. The war that was fought. The freedom that was deserved. The country that is Bangladesh.

I chanced upon the author's picture. Tahmima Anam. Sitting quietly on the back cover of the jacket. I was touched. By her simplicity. By the intelligence that was oozing out of her very being, surrounding her with an air of assured confidence. Minimal make up and common clothes. I have been inspired by many but I have never had a role model. Never have I wanted to be exactly like another person. And she is getting dangerously close to changing that. So close.

She looks beautiful to you. As she stands there, behind the gate, waving you away. With those slender hands that fit so snugly into yours. Her hair are loose, strands tucked away self-consciously behind her ears. Repeatedly. A cotton sari, plain, almost frayed, encircling her, beautifying her simple features. And she waits till you are out of sight. Just in case you turn back. Smile at her. But you never do.

I have started reading What The Body Remembers. And I can't seem to recall the last time I read such a vividly beautiful book. The emotions are so lovingly revealed to the stranger's eyes. It is heart breaking. It started with jealously. And it makes something so ugly reflect so beautifully to the reader's eyes. Jealously. Such a distasteful emotion. Unpleasant. Dragging with it the most nose crinkling thoughts and memories. Jealously. And how carefully it has to be justified to retain its existence.

I find myself addicted to the book. An almost desperate need to never let the book out of my hands. To clasp it securely to my heart and not let go. I am living the life of a 42 year old Sikh Maalkin who can't bear a child for her beloved husband. Who has to live with this tragedy on a daily basis. Who has to bear it alone, as the second wife, as old as her unborn daughter breathes the same air has her. Wears her jewelry. Commands the attention that was previously reserved only for her.

The sickness won't go away. I don’t mind it much during the day. But at night it is devastating. To not be able to sleep. To be hit with bouts of coughing fits that have me doubled up and convulsing. And to have no control over it. And there is a loneliness of an intense sort that creeps in through your skin at this time of the night. With the household asleep and the lights out. The only shadows caused by the moonlight through the glass wall. I don’t think I have felt as alone as I have felt these past few nights. Sitting on the floor of the living room because I don’t want to wake my sister up. Because she worries. Because her brow wrinkles and her lips quiver. Because she comes closer and I have to push her away, lest she get infected. Because she is only 12.

Zindagi Hai Dhuaa Tho Kya

Buj Gayi Har Subaah Tho Kya

Roota Mujh Se Khuda Tho Kya

Bewaja Har Waja Tho Kya

Bai Guna Hi Hai Guna Tho Kya

Ooo Bai Asar Hai Dua Tho Kya

Ho Gaye Hum Judaa Tho Kya

- Mehfuz. A song by Euphoria.

I waved at the stars, but I guess they didn't see me.

2011-09-23T15:56:00.000-07:00

When a book falls out of its place right where your foot would be in the next couple of seconds you know it's a sign. It has to be. And when the book is something as magnetically green as What The Body Remembers you know that someone up there is happy with you. Very much so.

It fell face down. And by the time I was up on my feet again, I was decidedly in love with it. The cover is a million shades of green, if not more. The background has an almost deliquesced map of the India Pakistan border. And blocking this glorious view is a girl, not much older than 17 by the looks of it. A green scarf placed lightly over her head, about to slip off any moment. And most probably cause a catastrophe by doing so. By Shauna Singh Baldwin. What a delightful name. Marriage brings about the most interesting of combinations.

There are all kinds of funny. There is the smile funny, the chuckle funny, the strange sounding giggle funny. Then there are the downright rib tickling funny and the uncontrollable laughter fits funny... And THEN there is Modern Family funny. Each character is so distinctly lovable and endearing while being equally annoying and stupid. It's their collective awesomeness that I can't get over. Don't want to get over. The most unexpectedly hilarious twists. I no longer watch the show to feel good about my dysfunctional folks. I want the liberty to declare that this show is the best thing that has happened to T.V. Granted? Pretty please.

Yesterday, I found myself amidst a crowded road that was close to suffocation, the cars and pedestrians strangely interlaced into tight knots of stillness. Braving the madness of erratic Saudi traffic I followed closely behind mama and papa. And that's when I spotted it. Papa gently taking hold of mama's hand as he maneuvered the way through the bumpers. She continued talking and he continued listening, neither of them acknowledging the beauty of it all, their eyes never leaving the unknown path that was sluggishly unraveling in front of them.

It was a silent gesture, a lovingly protective one. And as inconsequential as it was for them, it was just as significant for me. That single gesture symbolizes the love that exists between them and the collective love that will always be there for me. Their first born. And as long as those hands are holding each other tight, there is nothing that can happen to me. Nothing untoward that they will allow to happen with me. A support system that I can always fall back on. The unconditional nature of it all. Regardless of where I am, with whom and for however long, I always have this to come back to. And this is the single most comforting thought that has crossed my mind in a long time.

I'm sitting back, amused. I see that you have chosen to go with painstakingly curious. I think I will continue sticking to nonchalantly stoic. Staccato. This is headed somewhere fierce. That's what happens when two can play the same game.

It's 1:44 am. And I am not making sense. My eyes are red from the sleep that they have been fighting valiantly. My throat feels sore from all the talking, gulping and grumbling that today was. Time for a hot cup of milk. And cold lined pillows.

A night of bright stars in the sky and slimy slugs in the grass.

2011-09-20T14:35:00.000-07:00

I got back a little late and found myself entering my house to darkness, quiet and baked cookie smell. It is by far the best entrance I have made. We are not a family who bakes. So it was quite a pleasant surprise to find half a French Vanilla cake and left over cookie crumbs in a tray on the kitchen counter. It all tasted wonderfully like home. This home. With its dignified walls, secure doors and wide windows.

"And in the middle of them, with filthy body, matted hair, and unwiped nose, Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy." I got done with Lord of the Flies. And if I had to describe it in one word I would go with surreal. I still haven't decided if I liked the book. It was interesting but unsettling. Heartwarming but bizarre. Scary yet real. Boys. May they never have to face such adversaries.

The Good Muslim. By Tahmima Anam. It's been a while since I last read a hardcover. I find myself getting lost in the texture of the pages more often than the words. Both of which are beautiful. The cover houses a photograph of an extremely charred book. The state of it is such, that a mere touch would cause a quick disintegration of paper, words and thoughts. It depresses me.

An old picture of mama's fell out of that book. I have no idea how it found its way into it. But it did. And as I turned the page, engrossed in the rickety train ride through the summer day, the picture slid through and fell on my lap. Face down. Mama in a black burka. Mama at least ten years younger. Simple, beautiful, angelic. It was taken in Abha, a hill station in Saudi Arabia.

I am sitting alone in the kitchen. With the lights off. One hand busy fighting the crumbs. Losing battle. They are teasingly few in number. I feel a little left out from the family fun that this baking business surely was. Must have been an eventful evening. I spent mine with an old friend. And her daughter. Aleena. I felt an emotion I am not quite able to give a name to. When I held her baby in my arms. A beautiful part of my dear friend. We really seem to have come a long way from the days when we would get punished for talking in class. Time has a way of deceiving me. But it is forgiven. As always. I am a masi now. Ah, the joys of becoming an aunt.

My brother has started reading War and Peace. The thought of it is making me uncomfortably uneasy. I know I should be proud of his literary leap from vampire/ werewolves/ bloodsucker literature to something much more somber, solemn and upright in nature. I did notice how snobbish that previous statement sounds. My apologies. But. He is reading War and Peace. My copy of War and Peace. And he IS going to crease the spine. The size makes it inevitable. And the thought of it is making my heart fret. OCD much? Ah, I am aware.

Of a beautiful life that is yet to be led..

2011-09-20T01:35:00.000-07:00

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.
Bookshelves manning the walls.
And a rocking chair meant specially for me.
I dream of cold nights and a hot cuppa.
A fireplace 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.

P.S - The pictures are from my stay in Florence. Hotel Cellai. Had an extravagantly rustic feel to it.
P.P.S - The piano. 1839 Original from Stuttgart, Germany.

A song for overcast skies, an open highway and you.

2011-09-19T04:54:00.000-07:00

There is something so divine about cooking. Enticing almost. 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 mama. But all I did was look. I sat by the kitchen counter, nibbling on a carrot, happy to be there. Feeling like an eight 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.

One of the people I used to enjoy watching around the kitchen is Živilė Šimkutė. My Lithuanian friend. She was so great with the cooking, it was as though the ingredients themselves wanted to please her. I was always amazed by the way she made things fall in their right place. One of the most pragmatic people I know. She was a delight, laughing and talking between all the baking, stirring and boiling. Some of the best food I have had when in Bremen came from her kitchen.

A beguiling archive of mails, sitting pretty in my inbox. An elongated list of beautiful words, quiet songs, interesting links, Sartorialist pictures, heart wrenching lyrics, sad experiences, happy thoughts, sweet nothings, angry retorts, humorous comebacks. "Untitled by Pearl Jam. A song for overcast skies, an open highway and you. I think there's a bus stop in there somewhere too." I still haven't listened to this song. And it's almost been a year. Sigh.

I have started the exhilarating process of learning to read a language. Urdu. Not much of a challenge since it is my mother tongue. And I already know how to read Arabic so it's even more of a cake walk. But the thought of the quantity and quality of literature that will soon be open to me has me delirious with happiness. Or maybe just chuffed. I have been asked not to get delirious. And with good reasons I suppose.

Yesterday was calm. Mystical. Fun. In a lonely sort of a way. I picked up a couple of Krispy Kremes from the Bowling Alley and walked through the compound. Slowly. Lingering. There is a peculiar bliss that engulfs the being when subjected to faint familiarity. The Pianist soundtrack was whispering its melancholia into my ears. Into me. Not to take away anything from the brilliant movie that The Pianist is, it was the soundtrack that stole my heart away. And the way his beautiful fingers tapped away magically. Artists. How they suffer.

Sweet fingertips to lick, glazed sugar lining the lips and pleasant memories to chew on. I used to skate through these streets. Grazed knees, bleeding elbows, swollen ankles, broken wrists. There really is no where I would rather have been as I walked over crunchy leaves and through puddles of car wash residue.

Car wash. It was a lifetime ago.. When I was giggling while being thrown in to the car, locked in, windows up, my nose flat against the glass as I let papa hose the car down. It used to feel like I was behind a waterfall. A Waaaaaaa-aa-ter-fallllllll. Every teardrop every teardrop every teardrop is a waaaaaaaaaaaaterfall..

"He used to be a doctor. But he gave it all up to peel potatoes."

2011-09-16T13:59:00.000-07:00

I just finished watching The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. The credits are quietly rolling somewhere on my laptop, hidden between all the tabs that are left open. A mesh of windows that lead me into the worldwide web.

He was by himself when he fell off the tire swing. The Jew was the only witness. He helped the boy up and took him to the kitchen, for first aid. A few thoughts were exchanged. A joke cracked. The irony lost on the younger gentleman. I sat up straighter when the mother walked in, anticipating a bout of cruelty that was generously unleashed during that time.

She took in the scene, frowned, lifted her son off the table and ordered him back to his room. I was hoping a Thank You would be passed around the room, a look of gratitude, a smile. But no eyes were met, no warm feelings released into the sultry atmosphere of afternoon shadowed rooms. He was looking down, peering into the bucket of potatoes he was peeling. And in that heavily silent room, her back turned to him, her voice crystal clear, slightly curt, she uttered those magic words. And then I sat back, relaxed into my armchair. There was hope.

There is such devastating innocence wrapped tight within the screen space. The questions that aren't asked. The answers that are understood. The restrained horror. The tight lipped nature of it all. When he put on the gritty pajamas and crawled his way into the concentration camp, I wasn't worried. When he walked through the houses and asked to wait in the cafe, I wasn't worried. When they were pulled into a mass of lost men, I wasn't worried. When they were forced into an unfamiliar huddle and marched into a room, it hit me. He wasn't going to survive. They didn't even spare the kids. Oh God, they didn't even spare the kids.

It's been a long winding road. And all the twists and turns are making me dizzy. My head will spin out of its axis and topple off before I can lean over in haste and get hold of it between my crippled fingers. Only to have it slip through my hands and crash into the deep bottomless abyss of nothingness. And then I will sit by the edge and shed tears of misery as my life slowly unravels itself to the stranger beside me. Suddenly, I am as bare as a new born. But ashamed. To be revealed. To be seen. To be discovered. To be.

I am sitting on the kitchen floor, under a soft yellow light. Everything around me seems pale, crestfallen, dejected. The refrigerator is humming a soothing tune, reassuring me of awaited treats, safe behind closed doors. Like a family secret.

My legs are crossed at the ankle, preparing for the customary ache to surge through my body. It's a little late, but it is coming. Starting from the ankle and painstakingly climbing over the knees and through the waist before settling comfortably into the stomach. Treadmill. My temporary escape from the carefully constructed reality I am seeped into.

My favorite bit is the complete stillness that follows my mindless expedition. After 90 odd minutes of continuous workout, when I get off that treadmill and sit down on the nearest step, I can feel my heart. Physically. And the next few minutes are spent coaxing it to not fall off its cage. My hand over it, my head between my knees, my thoughts all over the place. You might give it all sorts of hormonal labels, but I know that at the moment it is only pure happiness that is rushing through my veins.

The mother flew in from Dubai. A look of vacant sorrow engulfing her. Just in time to see the last rites being performed on her son. The heart wrenching, gut twisting consternation of it all. A bike accident. 19 year old boy. The paroxysm. I wonder what she was doing when she received that distressing news. Was she out shopping? Lunching with friends? Was she in a disoriented state, having just woken up? Was she alone? Was she seated? Was there anyone around to hold her, hug her, comfort her? Death of a child. Her child. There are some things that even words fail to describe.

My sister is muddling about the kitchen, burning sugar in a deep pan. A pungent smell is overtaking the kitchen, but I seem to be the only one to notice. The knife is slicing swiftly through the potatoes as she explains her project to me. Looking down to where I sit. A look of amused concentration masking the lateness of day. Something is going to turn blue and I am to wait and watch. 7th grade science projects. Sigh.

Lord of the Flies lies forgotten, beside me. I didn't read anything today. The day was spent grieving. Past horrors and present sorrows.

My Fairy Tale From Copenhagen.

2011-09-13T14:07:00.000-07:00

(Click Image to view it in full size)

I like how the sea has taken the place of the sky and the waves of the wind. There is so much going on in here, but from a distance it is all quiet. The space between them is so lovely. So full of tangible quintessence. The conversation is unheard of, but I can imagine how beautiful it must be. Slow words crossing paths on a bright day like this one. I remember the day to be pleasant. Cheerful and lighthearted. Buoyant and peaceful. The wind adding to the semblance of serenity. All the love, hope and laughter hanging around expectantly. Sentences forming different shades of dark and light, adding to the blue around them. And the boulders. So perfect in their random arrangement. And everything sensual allowed to rest around their being. The breeze cascading through the air, the hair, the communication, both with and without words. I hope they caught a fish. I hope they let their feet in the water and I hope they took home some sand between their toes and scrumptious memories between their entwined hands. I hope they walked back with a smile on their face and love in their heart. I really do.

The Words In My Head Go Round And Round.

2011-09-13T02:11:00.000-07:00

I am a prisoner to words. I listen when they talk. I make space when they barge into my heart. I let them, as they go about vandalizing the space, carving their initials deep within me, making sure they are never forgotten. I allow them to settle over me, like a thick blanket on a shivery night. And then I make the mistake of believing that they are mine.

Repudiate: to reject as having no authority or binding force.

I decided to walk slowly through the wide, vacant streets of my compound. I wanted to enjoy the joys of silent familiarity as I take in the sights of my childhood. But there were none. On the roads which I could previously navigate with my eyes closed, I was lost. And the Sun. The SUN. So harsh, so painfully uncomfortable. Oh so unforgiving. And the accompanying wind, sucking the air around me, leaving a layer of wretchedness over everything it touches.

This heat is ugly. It forms little patterns of sweat around the iPod that is clutched tightly within my palm. It makes me wipe the top of my lips with the back of my hand. It forces my eyes to form little slits, struggling against the austere rays. It burdens my eyebrows with a fine line of moisture which constantly threatens to brim over. It contorts my face into something outlandish.

Diatribe: A bitter, sharply abusive denunciation; attack; criticism.

Lord of the Flies. By William Golding. A novel that has been keeping me company through the long days. I haven't read much to decide where this book is headed. And I haven't gotten over my previous book to truly be able to appreciate this one. But there is a sense of foreboding as I turn the pages. A feeling of something terrible awaiting me. A bunch of young boys marooned on an island, inflicting little horrors on each other. The fact that they are their own boss hasn't hit them yet. I hope it doesn't.

Purloin: to take dishonestly: steal; filch; forge.

On a quiet day like this I sometimes wonder about the things people do. And why they do it. The despicable deeds of delightful people. Especially when it is designed to hurt another being. It never fails to amaze me, the lengths they would go to grieve the other. Subtleties were never my forte. The thought of my point getting lost in the narrow details of empty mind spaces is too irritating a thought. The tragedy, I believe, is that I overestimate and the other underestimates.

She sat up straighter as she read the anonymous mail. She could sense his presence, hidden in those words. It has happened before. And it's happening again. She almost wanted to lift her hands in the air, cover her face in mock dismay and declare that she has lost to his manipulative ways. But she won't. Because pity win is not what he was looking for, is it? She is tired of the mind games, but is also very curious to see how far he was willing to drag this. She just might play along. How much time was he willing to invest? How many more words? How many false promises? It's almost amusing. To see the desperateness of it all. And the flattery. Sigh.

Sycophant: A self seeking, servile flatterer; fawning parasite.

These words. They swirl around in my mouth, titillatingly and with purpose. A hidden agenda of their own. They refuse to come out at my command. They resist my advances and throw at me simpler versions of themselves. A replacement. It is most devastating.

Platonic: Free from sensual desire, especially in a relationship between two persons of the opposite sex.

Not one of my favorite words. But widely used by me in recent times. Justifying can be so tiresome. Oppressive. Vexatious. Demanding. Laborious. Annoying.

The tragedy with pain is that it can never be shared.

2011-09-09T13:53:00.000-07:00

"Years ago, when they'd raced on a muddy field, Rudy was a hastily assembled set of bones, with a jagged, rocky smile. In the trees this afternoon, he was a giver of bread and teddy bears. He was a triple Hitler Youth athletics champion. He was her best friend. And he was a month from his death. She was saying goodbye and she didn't even know it."

It's seems as though Mr Zusak ripped out the pain from his soul and splattered it across the pages of The Book Thief. Like warm blood oozing out of cold white snow. The blood has dried on the pages and as I trail my fingers over it, I shudder. I shudder at the thought of evil that men do and I shudder even more at the thought of evil that men bear. How long before you crumble? Allow me to wipe that tear. Please. You have been through enough as it is. Let me hug you and take away a bit of your sadness. For safe keeping. Because sadness needs to be dealt with delicately. It multiplies when manhandled.

The book is coming to an end. A part of me has gone still. I can't feel it and I can't feel with it. Beautiful words that are like shovels gutting out parts of me. Extracting the old, useless. Making space for fresh feelings. I will miss most the unexpected humor that jumps out in triumph through the pages, smug at having survived the odds. Standing out among the rubble of fallen humanity, humor is the true hero. It lives through wars, death, pain, loss, heartbreak, betrayal. Respect.

There is pain in her eyes, her words, her life. I can see. It hurts to see her so. But I can't do anything about it. And that too is a source of pain. Such a vicious cycle, this helplessness. How about we embalm it under the moonlit sky and let the stars suck away the darkness blinding the heart? Here, hold my hand. I will take you through the door. We will lie on the grass. And when you close your eyes, time will stop. For you. I promise.

A gift from dadi hangs bashfully around my neck. White. Pure. Sparkly. Close to my heart, it feels alive. Tucked away under my shirt, possessively. I think of her every time I feel the prick of its edges dig into my skin. Somethings are so difficult to love. Sigh.

I wonder how it must be for dada-dadi, my grandparents. To always be the ones who are left behind. To have to wait a whole year to see their sons, their grand kids, their family. I wonder how they live in an empty house that echoes of footsteps, conversation and laughter that no longer exists. Do they console each other and reminiscence? Or do they slip comfortably back into their routine which we so rudely disturbed? I hope it's the latter. But I doubt it.

Midnight in Paris. I was saving this movie for a special occasion. The trailers were promising. And rightly so. I have never before been jealous of a character from a movie. A book, maybe. But never from a movie. Then Owen Wilson came about and changed that. For those 100 minutes, I wished I was him. Except for the nose. Ha. Hemingway. Picasso. Dali. The ones that stood out. What is it about shy, brooding, artistic men that is oh-so-attractive?

Woody Allen is a man after my heart. There is a scene. Where it starts to drizzle and he eyes her in dismay. She shrugs it away with a "I don't mind getting wet". And a look of absolute bliss washes over him as he turns to be by her shoulder and walk with her through the magical lanes of Paris. She extends her hand and introduces herself. Their backs are to me when he smiles. As I watched expectantly to see what happens next, the credits started to roll.

We are spread across our wide living room which cheekily sneaks into the dining area. The five of us. There is silence as we all breathe away the minutes, lost to each other. You know there is a problem when the only noise around the dining table is made by the food. Ah, we have survived worse as a family and this too will pass. Inshallah.

I may see my friends to the door. But the friendship is safely locked in my heart.

2011-09-08T03:30:00.000-07:00

I am not a big fan of Bollywood cinema. In fact, I watch Indian movies with painful reluctance and the times when I am awed by its occasional brilliance, I accept it only grudgingly. Pyar ka Punchnama. I won't rave about its cinematography, dialogues, music, acting or directing. Mostly because it was all extremely mediocre. But at its core, the movie was about 3 friends and it's this portrayal of friendship that warmed my heart.

In the book Kite Runner, when Hassan said to Amir, "For you, a thousand times over", I smiled. And when Amir said it to Hassan's son, I cried. When Hermoine conjured a bouquet for Harry to place over his parent's grave,unasked, I was touched. In The Book Thief, when Liesel kissed Rudy's dead lips, I sighed. In Entourage, when E and Vince go out of their way to save the others ass, I nod in approval.

Do you have such a person in your life? That one person you can share anything with. The person who knows before you say it. Who trusts you. Who shares. Who listens. Who never lets you forget your stupid mistakes. Who laughs the loudest at your jokes (and you). Who says 'it's okay' and it really is. Who looks you in the eye and asks you to stop bullshitting because they know you better than you do. And you shut up because that's the truth. Who can't lie to you. Who doesn't want to lie to you. Who is happy when you are. And refuses to let you be sad when you feel down in the dumps. I have been lucky enough to have two such people in my life. Who really have stuck around too long to not be mentioned. They go by the names of Awijit Paliwal and Rija Ziauddin. For them, a thousand times over.

I am at the Dubai airport. Slumped comfortably low in a deep armchair, I feel quite hypocritical for the thoughts swimming in my head. Mostly because this airport reeks of luxury. Of good times that have gone by and those that are about to come crashing with full force. This place is like a warning of what lies ahead, in the city itself. It leaves a strong tinge of a nasty aftertaste in my mouth. My entire being. It makes me cringe involuntarily. Of all the cities I have step foot on it is Dubai that never really settled well under my feet, in my heart. For every other city, I am like freshly ground coffee, dissolving without resistance. But in Dubai I am coarse desert sand. Stubborn. Miffed. There is something very fancy about this city, in a desperate way. There is a view to the sky line from where I sit. It looks distant, photographed. It's beautiful in an ugly way. Think of a classic beauty with natural curves. Long wavy hair flowing elegantly over her shoulders. A smile that lights up your heart. Now think of a size 0 model with hair extensions and loud makeup. Someone who has fallen victim to too much silicon. See what I mean?

There is a hum of detached activity in this place. People in traveling mode. All around me. Those who no longer travel for the sake of traveling. Those who have too many things on their mind to enjoy the beauty, however silicon, around them. I wonder how many times a year these people sit in this very lounge, waiting to get somewhere. I think of what they might be thinking. Of who they might be. Of what might be bothering them. Do they think the same of me? I wonder.

I see myself stride towards me, making my way purposefully to where I sit. A low bagback slung carelessly, swinging behind me with each step. I carry the weight of my books with pleasure. My eyes straight ahead, my eyebrows knit in concentration, my lips slightly apart. One hand stuffed uncomfortably into my jeans pocket and the other holding onto a juicy golden apple. My shirt is loose, ill fitting, blue and white stripes, sleeves rolled till the elbow. The jeans have seen better days. The false wooden floor creaks under my feet and I smell of cabin space, of travel. iPod headphones are twirling around me, playing a game of their own. I see myself from a stranger's eyes. My trademark bandana and my shoelace undone. A messy bunch of hair escaping the band, trailing listlessly at the nape of my neck. I need to work on my posture. And pay a little more attention to the way I dress. And the frown isn’t very attractive either. But I am happy with what I see. Who I am. I seem intent. Open. Comfortable. And for now that's enough.

I received a mail today. A long, delicious one which I devoured in such hurry that I am sure I missed out most of it. It's full of lovely delectable words that are strung together like a dream. And the best part? They are meant only for my eyes. I read it once. And can't wait to read it again. There is happiness in my heart, playing by itself in the corner. And I don't want to bother it just yet. Happy Prince. :-)

Of the hand that held mine. In the past.

2011-09-06T13:04:00.000-07:00

Bittersweet memories have a way of appearing when you least expect them. Like wild mushrooms after unforeseen showers. Things of distant past come floating by the horizon, half hidden, waiting to be picked at. A few hours spent selecting the perfect perfume for my uncle resulted in me being sprayed with various strong scents. And now, as I sit by the desk, my mind held tight between the pages of The Book Thief, I am being teased shamelessly by a delicious plethora of fragrances that have been surrounding me through the day. There is a particular strain from my left wrist that just dumped an avalanche of memories into my lap. And here I am, sitting precariously on my revolving chair, sifting through them, a smile playing on the corner of my lips. The vague familiarness of it all. Sigh.

I am in my room, oblivious to my surroundings, engulfed in silence. But I am also walking along a busy street, laughing, leaning in to whisper a fact, letting the light drizzle take its time with drenching my shirt. I am alone, but I am also exchanging shy glances from across a room, trying not to give away my secret. I am sitting by the shore; my head resting on my knees as I listen to a monologue that I am sure is being repeated. But I am too polite to say so. I am sitting still, staring pensively into the screen and I am also in a bus, jolted rudely by every crater on the road, sitting by the window leaning against a sturdy shoulder, tired, sleepy, happy, all my worries momentarily forgotten. It's time for bed and I am sitting at the edge of an empty school playground, sharing my day with an intent listener, my legs swinging freely. My iPod is switched off but Coldplay melodies lazily drift through my head space.

It's been a long time since. And the details are a mere blur. But these weak whiffs swaying suggestively around my wrist drags with it a string of images. Images of a half smile. A twinkling eye. A witty retort. A funny joke. A shared laugh. Images of a reassuring hug. A peculiar habit. An irresistible charm. An inviting gesture. A forlorn expression. A grazing touch. An intent longing. A touching lie. A prelude to something interesting. Something melancholic.

I am smiling as I take a deep breath. I am smiling at the thought of beautiful days from a different world. I am smiling at my naivety. My carefully constructed illusions. I am smiling at reality, which hovered over me like a Guardian Angel. An angel with a lot of patience. Thank you.

There is silence. In and around me, as I dust these memories off my lap, with a nonchalant flick of my hands. Making space for new ones. I watch as a bit of me falls to the ground and grumbles at the thought of death. In an ocean of past deeds, everything is lost forever. Among strange memories, they weave intricately, dodging outstretched arms.

And suddenly we are back to The Book Thief. As she struggles to survive the harshness of love, war and everything in between. As she reads to keep a crowd calm, distracting them from their lingering, inevitable death. As she jumps through a window, barefoot into a library, to steal. As she thinks of her best friend, naked. As she helps keep a Jew alive. As she lives. And I follow her. Closely. Possessively. The book is like a movie that is playing continuously in my head and I am allowed to tune in and out at my leisure. I only have a few more pages to go and the thought of not having it by my pillow when I wake up is almost devastating.

This book is different. For once, I don't feel the desperate urge to share this wonder with anyone. I want to hide this one from curious gazes. I want to destroy every other copy of this book and know that I am the only one ever to have discovered the beauty hidden deep within its pages. I want to stow my copy under my mattress, for safe keeping. Because this one is a treasure and I am going to lose it. Passionate, much? Ah, I have my days.

I fell into some cowdung once. It didn't taste good.

2011-09-05T09:40:00.000-07:00

Stray naked bulbs hung on a despondent looking string as it wove its way over my head. It was early afternoon and the sun was hammering through the trees and shade. The narrow path under my feet was made of decomposed vegetables and fruits, lying alongside each other in perfect harmony. The color of mud was lost in this closely knitted pattern. A peculiar smell was rising from under my feet and I squished and squashed my way slowly into the crowd. Above me and the bulbs, huge sheets of plastics were spread across the sky, causing dramatic red, green and blue color lights to bounce over everything underneath it. Children in uniform were scurrying away from one direction to another while scooters and bikes gambled dangerously for space. My nose was assaulted by varying degrees of rottenness.

The air was bursting with noises of clicking bangles as the mostly female vendors weighed the goods and demanded an exaggerated price for it. Toe rings flashed under the harsh light as they walked quickly through their vegetables, selecting the ones their customers desired. They would tuck away the money into their blouses, replacing their saree with a smile of smug satisfaction. Their hair were combed severely and with passion, pulled back into a tight bun. The flowers were, I presume, entwined through their hair a little later in the day. A gift from a loving husband? Probably not. Huge red dots sitting firmly between their eyebrows, foreheads forever crinkled in an enquiring expression, these women mean business. Noisy housewives haggled to the last rupee at their own risk.

It was interesting, to follow papa and dadi through these lanes of precarious widths. I had my headphones on. Amazing by Blue October was delighting me the way it always does as I stepped into this unexpectedly strange world of vegetable markets. Armed with mama's list of things to buy, the three of us took to the streets, in combat mode. Papa was busy perusing the list from time to time, trying to spot the next thing on it, dadi was in charge of picking out the good from the rotten and I concentrated on avoiding tripping over tiny, barefoot, bare arsed toddlers crawling their way through the muck.

By the time we were done, an uneven layer of sweat had caused my shirt to stick to my back. The smell of the street was getting comfortable between the folds of my skin, threatening never to let go. My hair were still wet from a recent shower. My jeans kept inching uncomfortably closer by the minute, convincing me of imminent suffocation. And my scandalously pink espadrilles were half hidden under a layer of dirt, lost in the decomposed mass, no longer pink. Wrong choice of footwear. Sigh.

Bangalore. For many years, this city was the whole of India for me. The only home I knew. Having lived out of the country all my life and shuttling like nomads from one little town to another when we did make it to India during the summers, my sense of belonging was rudely distorted by the sheer number of places my parents insisted I belonged to. Bangalore was and always will be the only city I can claim rightful ownership to. Without feeling guilty.

I'm back in the house, freshly showered and smelling "appropriately seductive for all occasions". A wild promise made by Dior. I washed an entire vegetable market off me today. And I won't mind doing it again. Anything to be part of this lovely city.

Let's leave this one untitled.

2011-09-01T23:21:00.000-07:00

A whispered 'I love you' that was never heard.
A broken heart that was never healed.
Passage To India, yet to be read.
A threadbare sheet that should have been changed.

The loud hum of vibration on silent mode.

And distorted figures on 46'' screens.
Dogs that bark themselves hoarse for no reason.
Men who smile at other men.
A red sign that shouts 'SALE'

And AIDS virus that are silently transmitted

On sultry nights, through strangers.
Toenails that need clipping and nail paint that is chipping.
Scarlett scarf that trails behind her
Gathering dust on her way down.
Bangles that clink seductively.
And those that break when treated harshly.
He should never have held her hand so tightly.
And now they are both covered in blood.
A mail that won't be read.
People who are long forgotten.
Diamonds that made her smile.
Love that wrenched her heart.
Friends that swear with every sentence
And those who choke to death.
The white dress that no one liked.
Matching heels that have broken many an ankles.
Cameras that don't capture.
Relationships that don't evolve.
Chocolate wrappers that clutter the floor
And sway to the ceiling fan's tunes.
There is disharmony and melancholia.
A tight hug and 'You are never alone'.
The lies that people choose to believe.
And the betrayals they allow.
Education that continues through the wee hours.
And alcohol that no longer helps.
Too much of a good thing is never good.
But define 'good' for me, will you?
There is angst, unrest and sadness.
Threatening to take over the being.

A pillow that is heartlessly pumped

And a quilt that is violently mangled.
A palm resting silently against the glass
As eyes take in the horrors.
Fingers that are entwined through the fears.
And lips that are kissed too often.
The hint of blemished crimson on a white collar.
Enough to raise suspicion and cause damage.
A troubled wife too scared to confront.
Instead hugs her child for comfort.
There is loneliness, depression and silence.

A heart that beats mechanically, without purpose.

And grins that are flashed when accompanying slyness.
The black that is washed over the day,
Causing the Sun to flee in terror.
War and Peace, Love and Hate. It's yours to pick.
Bodies that are piled one over the other.
The truth of every massacre.
A locket hanging despondently.
Eyeliner that matches the lipstick.
Tacky leather skirts that prowl the night.
Wolf whistlers that keep shut.
Ugly marks that show under the harsh light.
Just making a living. Let them be.
Toes, fingers, eyes, ears, nose, lips.
Oh, what a perfect baby.
Now lets hang it upside down and make it cry.
Damp towels that are crumpled on the floor.
Making conversation from between the tiles.
There is surrealism and disbelief.
'Why me?' screamed from within.
Hands are held, promises are made, lives are led.
Friendships are forged, love is found, happiness no longer eludes.
And when it is time to walk to the grave,
There is acceptance, peace and a smile. Faked.

The blackness that won't go away.

2011-08-31T17:01:00.000-07:00

A huge window is sitting pretty on the wall opposite me. The curtains are bottle green and cascading across the window, hiding it from view. A dull light travels from one side of the room to another every time a vehicle drives past. I am sitting in my bed. Pillows propped against my back, trying to ease the pain. The fan is humming soothingly, causing the curtains to sway along in silent pleasure. In this partial darkness, everything seems to be swaying. The wardrobe, the foot of my bed,the desk, the screen, the books that are strewn across the room.

I tiptoed barefoot into the study upstairs and sneaked out papa's laptop back to my room. There is something heartwarming about being surrounded by people who are all asleep. Stuck in their respective head spaces. Together yet separated. Also, it feels good to know that in this house, I alone seem to be suffering from insomnia. I am planning to sneak back up sometime soon and hope to place everything back where it belong. If I don't make it in time, I will have less explaining to do since papa visits this space occasionally.

Dido is whispering into my ears. Dido. Her voice. There is something enchanting about it. Dreamlike. Silky smooth, it slides over my being and slips through my outstretched hands. It swirls seductively, just out of my reach, before disappearing into the mist. It breathes into my ears and makes my thoughts sluggish. Slow paced. Like overweight middle aged men who are too lazy to move from their couch. I wish I had a voice like hers. I would lock myself in a room and whisper into the mirror. Transfixed.

"I'll try to keep a hold all your hand,
And ordering a coffee that i wouldn't ever drink,
Just to keep you and paris on my mind,
I didnt know it would be the last time,
The last time,
I saw you,
The last time,
I saw you,
The last time,
I saw you,
The last time,
I saw you..."

- Paris by Dido

It's peaceful this time of the dark. I find myself thinking about thoughts that are too scared to materialize in the brightness of the day. Cowardly. For the thousandth time, I send a quick thank you upwards, to be staying in this house and not the other. This way the reality seems distant. I can almost convince myself that it never happened. The horror cannot reach me here, I tell myself. I won't wake up in the middle of the night with tears streaking my face and sweat dampening my clothes. The violent nature of it. The loss. The ultimate end of a person. Fire is so unforgiving. So heartless.

I think of her. On days like these, memories of her come floating by. But I am no longer afraid of them. I allow them to engulf me and let the tears flow. A few visits home, between college, were my only interactions with her. When she was done with the day's work, she would pass by my room, to check if I needed anything. If I was awake and not reading she would ask permission to sit with me and talk for a while. She had lots of questions. About my life, my college, my friends, the books that I read. She wanted to know everything about my studies, my life plans, my childhood. She would sit on the floor, near the foot of my bed and listen with her head on her knees, her arms around her legs.

If she caught me reading she would walk away, without making a noise. Never asking to stay, never wanting to interrupt. She was amazed by these books. Enthralled. She voiced a wish to be able to read them, but settled to have the stories recounted by me instead.

I didn't know her long nor did I know her well. But I knew her. And I know how it happened. And how she struggled through her last few breaths. I heard about how she was alone in the kitchen. How her clothes caught fire. How she tried to fight it desperately. About her cries for help. The agony she was in. The time it took for help to come. The pain she felt. The fear. The tears.

I wish we had talked about her as well. I wish she was here. At home. Helping about. Laughing her quiet laugh. Getting scolded by the other maids for her clumsiness. I wish. Bibi.

5:25 am. The darkest dark before the light forces its way through this thickness. Today, I am not looking forward to the sunrise.

Home Is Where The Heart Is.

2011-08-30T05:37:00.000-07:00

It's drizzling. And I am sitting outside our house, on the marble floor near the entrance. A puddle has formed around my feet. And a strong smell of earth is floating about me. Teasing. If I stick out my tongue, I am sure I could taste it. This is the smell that I have forever attributed to India. The occasional drops fall into the puddle and splash water over my feet. So cold. Pleasant. Serene. Bangalore.

Inside the house, there is a frenzy of activities and noise as feet run about the kitchen preparing the last feast of Ramadan. A lot of laughter, shared jokes. Loud conversations and goodnatured backslapping. Kids waddling about, tripping over their own feet. The men of the house sitting gallantly around the table, chipping in the conversation but not the work. And everyone is happy.

It's raining now. More ferocious. Cankerous. The noises from inside have washed away. Just the pittar patter of water is keeping me company now. And swift droplets on the screen. Which are being wiped away hastily with the tip of my shirt. Such a futile effort.

Somewhere far away, someone is raking fine lines into the mud, in quick, strong strokes. And through the dark clouds, high walls, thick trees, heavy traffic and loud water, I can hear it. Regular, effortless.

A tiny plant is trying desperately to withstand the rain. A few more minutes and it is going to be squished flat to the earth. Tragic end. And at such an young age too. But that's life, eh?

There is a breeze. Ruffling through the layers of clothes and patting my skin. Reassuring. Familiar. Calming. Sedative. Encouraging. Full of longing.

In a valley of mist
By the river of Sheeba
Near the house of Moses
Lay an unnamed grave.
On many a moonless nights
The earth around it shivered.
Wind blew the soil away
And trees let their leaves astray.
Rain splattered through it all
And turned the land upside down.
But the tombstones remained
Nameless.

I want to say I was hurt. I was to say my heart was broken and I cried till my tears dried up. I want to tell you about hope lost and days when I merely existed. I want to tell you about the love lost and the time that was spent regretting. But. I also don't want to lie to you. So. Relief is the only truth I know.

A lesson learnt the hard way. Next time National Geography screens back to back episodes of Epic Airplane Crashes, I am going to dutifully change the channel. Sitting rigidly, with my arms woven tightly around me and my nails digging painfully through my flesh is not my idea of fun traveling. Sigh. Faint bruises.

I will be visiting my University town soon. Manipal. There is a shiver of excitement making itself comfortable within me. Eid Mubarak.

I Will Follow You Through The Clouds, Big And Small.

2011-08-27T12:52:00.000-07:00

To my right, on a pile of deep beige cushions 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.

Dorian Gray. The book. It keeps coming back to me. In delightfully detached fragments that knock my imagination for permission to enter. Very polite of them. It's the wit that got me. I fall for anything witty. Always have. It's my weakness. Wit has the power to make my lips form a tiny oval of awe, my eyes to sparkle with fascination and my knees to go weak with giddiness.

But I have The Book Thief to finish. Which is getting better with every page. Just moments back I read a little paragraph that had me smile ruefully to myself. Allow me to type it down for you please. And it would read better if you keep in mind that it is Death who has been kind enough to narrate this...

"...... as did another onslaught of Heil Hitlering. You know, it actually makes me wonder if anyone ever lost an eye or injured a hand or wrist with all of that. You'd only need to be facing the wrong way at the wrong time, or standing marginally too close to another person. Perhaps people did get injured. Personally, I can only tell you that no one died from it, or at least not physically. There was, of course, the matter of forty million people I picked up by the time the whole thing was finished, but that's getting all metaphorical."

Don't Tell My Mother. A wonderful show on NatGeo Adventure. He is in Delhi right now, with the men who are in charge of capturing the cows from the street. A young man's cow just got taken away by the cop. He is wailing into the camera, begging them to give him back his cow, his only source of income. It is heart wrenching.

But I like Diego Buñuel. He is enjoying a wrestling match now. And looks in awe as the Indian women take to the arena. He has a way about him, with his goofy smile and curious eyes. He tilts his head slightly when he takes in the information from the locals. And when he is surprised, he jumps slightly and utters 'Oooiie'. If I wasn't scared of toppling over, I would have liked to follow him to the roof of the train and travel for free through the vibrant streets. I worry for him sometimes. I want to run after him, tug his sleeves, and request him to stand back. Especially now, as he clicks his tongue and tries to force feed a cow. Sigh.

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. Do 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 am off to India tomorrow. I missed the colors. The noise. The smell. The texture. The music. The life. The people. The country.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, Once I caught a fish alive...

2011-08-25T20:13:00.000-07:00

It's a little after 5 AM and I am sitting in the dark. The laptop is giving out an eerie glow and I am sure in this partial light and mostly shadows I look quite ghostly. And ghastly. Ah. There is silence. Now. The Imam is done with the prayers and most people in this part of town have gone back to bed, well fed.

There is a light throbbing within my head. A constant headache. It's like the Lilliputs dwelling peacefully within my skull are suddenly engaged in Civil War. Not just any Civil War, but the most violent of its kind, with excess of ammunition and enthusiasm. And no one enjoys a good Civil War.

An occasional plane can be heard whizzing overhead. And the sunlight is slowly creeping in from behind the trees, clouds and rooftops. I wonder if there are birds chirping in welcome. The windows are shut tight and I want to keep it that way. Silence is good.

Outliers. This is the book that you hold up in your friend's face, look them in the eye, shake your head in amazement and mutter,"Good shit dude. Good shit. Good. Shit." And then you slam the book onto their chest and walk away because you need to take time out to get over such brilliance.

The Book Thief. Sigh. I just don't have the words for this one. I have always had a soft spot for Markus Zusak. And so it shall remain. For a long time to come. The book is set in Nazi Germany. And the characters are wonderful and the narration is delightful. You can't expect anything less when Death himself has penned down the words. Must Read. There, I said it.

The sunrise is pale purple today. Through the transparent curtains, the glass window and the little leaves that are swaying in unison. It's the time of day when you want to walk barefoot through the grass. The lawn looks so subdued. As though preparing for the heat that is inevitable. Later in the day, when the sun is up and the wind is non existent, the same patch of grass looks angry. It looks so miffed. As though daring me to walk over it one more time.

I like the sprinklers. I like to see the way the water zooms around in circles before laying itself lovingly on to the ground and letting it be seeped though the blades and cracks. I like the sound it makes as it slaps on the flat tiles and as it whooshes onto the grass. When no one is looking, I like to stand by the edge, barefoot, and let the water fight its way to my feet. And if I close my eyes, I can ALMOST imagine myself at the seaside. And in that moment, the heat too ceases to exist.

Everything around me seems to be in slow motion. And I keep forgetting to slow down, allow it to keep up. It's like I have raised my hand to answer even before the question has been asked. An uncomfortable silence follows as I pretend to be stretching instead. Aftermath of a hectic semester I suppose. I miss making random plans to far away places for the coming weekend. I miss the feeling of tying up my shoelace and running out of my room, just because I can.

The sky is white. The leaves are green. The window is still clear. The curtains are transparent. The day is new. The grass is lush. The silence persists..

6,7,8,9,10, then I let it go again..

In the mornings, I close my eyes. And it is night again.

2011-08-23T16:10:00.000-07:00

The most delicious ache is flowing tantalizingly through the soles of my feet. I have stretched them out in front of me and from time to time I wiggle my toes, just because I can. An aftermath of my pilgrimage to Makkah. One of the most serenely majestic places I have set foot on. There are very few places that allow a quiescent peace of mind to engulf you in a protective blanket and stay on for as long as you want it to.

Faith. It's important. For me. To have something to believe in. Something to fall back on. Something to turn to in dark times. Every one has something to hold on to, tightly, between their fingers, when they take those hesitant steps towards uncertainty. Self confidence. Charm. Money. Knowledge. Love. Assurance. Morals. Baseball bat..

There is something about the crowd in Makkah. Something so moving. Heartwarming. Stirring. Gratifying. Analeptic. Awe inspiring even. Tens and thousands of people, bind together by one truth. A belief. There are people, from around the world, who wait all their lives to make this pilgrimage. Every day, they turn up, in hordes. And you can always spot them among the regular crowd. There is a look of sheer bliss, entirely rapturous and mingled with tears of ardent admiration. It must be a good feeling, that sense of accomplishment. Something so alien to me. It's moments like these that we live for, don't we?

My days here are slow, sleepy, happy, calm. The house is mostly empty but for myself. And it is heaven. There really is nothing like home. For many reasons, this place is my favorite place on earth, but mostly I like it because of the number of books that are existing harmoniously under this roof. On shelves, on tables, jammed into drawers, packed into cartons that are stacked precariously in the store room, under the bed, above the wardrobe, between the couch cushions(!), in the corners of a room, piled untidily, among clothes(this is my wardrobe), on side tables, beside pillows, .... I even spotted a couple in the kitchen the other day.. Sigh. It's lovely to be surrounded by readers. And it helps that my siblings have the most quirky and varied reading habits. A fleeting glance has already yielded 4 books that I have been wanting to read in a while. Their reputation precedes them. A Million Little Pieces. The Book Thief. Outliers. The Hobbit. Highly recommended.

Outliers. By Malcolm Gladwell. Wow. This is such a feel good book. Slowly and quietly, he makes you gape in wonder at the little secrets he patiently reveals with every page. It's a gripping book. My first Malcolm Gladwell. I am going to change that soon. This guy needs to be read. And soon. And what's wonderful about this book is that it answers everything that it promises to. Very thorough. And oh so inspiring. Read this one for yourself.

Of all the things I thought I would miss about Germany, it's their apples that have me sighing wistfully. Who would have thought, eh?

Someone please roll that red carpet.

2011-08-20T12:26:00.000-07:00

I like traveling with Coldplay. I am moving without moving. It distorts reality for me. Takes a bit of me and transports it to a different dimension. Makes me exist in more than one fragment of illusion. I like how it blankets my surroundings with a sense of surrealism. Quick. Loud. Haggard people. Frantic. Lost (Frankfurt airport I tell you. Sigh). Tensed people. Running. Moving. Never stagnant people. And then there is me. Still. Seated. Quiet me. No hurry. At peace. Traveling within my head space. Discovering new hidden pathways. Letting Coldplay hold my hand and lead the way. I feel like a little girl in a night shirt, out of bed way after her bedtime, talking to strangers, accepting the candy they offer...

It was a long and dark December
From the rooftops I remember
There was snow, white snow....

Gulag. The book I let me keep company at the airport. A history. Of Russia's forgotten holocaust. It is heart wrenching. It has open wounds within my heart that I didn't even know existed. To feel another person's pain is a gift, they say. I will try to accept it graciously. This book is a monument of their sufferings and to read it is to honor that suffering - ADAM ZAMOYSKY. It is not one of the easiest books to read, but I would recommend it anyway. "Extraordinary...heartrending... painful...devastating." - T.J.Binyon.

We live in a beautiful world.
Yeah we do. We do..
Coz here everybody has got
somebody to lean on..

Frankfurt airport makes my heart beat faster. It causes tiny creases to appear over my forehead. It forms a thin layer of glistening sweat over my eyebrows,. It makes me burst into random bouts of muttered, under the breath prayers. Sigh.

I want to be the Luftansa worker behind the service counter. The one who helps those who have missed their flights. I want to be the one to take the distress, misery and the occasional tears away. I want to look into their eyes and say "It's okay. I will take care of you. Let's put you on the next flight and get you going." I want to exchange pleasantries while I tap my fingers on my keyboard and make magic happen. I want to see relief wash over their very being as I hand over the boarding pass. And see them stand up straighter and try on a little smile. Yes. I would like that very much.

Look how they shine for you.
Look at the stars.
Look how they shine for you.
And all the things that you do.

Water For Elephants. The movie. Ah. There are movies that move you and there are movies that let you move with them. There is no love without betrayal. There is no heart without pain. There is no life without fear. There is no happiness without risks. And then there is Robert Pattinson. Such an endearing screen presence. It hurts to see him in pain. It hurts to see him fight. Again and again. For me, he ceased to be a terribly pouting, blood sucking, sparkly dude after Remember Me. Another great movie. And it helped his credibility when the credits rolled and his named popped up as producer. Not your average pretty boy then. Like it was once said of James Franco (deep breaths Zeba), his good looks are his curse. Yes. I bite. I think Pattinson is a pretty darn fine looking lad. Don't you?

I used to move the world.
See it rise when I gave the word.
Now in the morning I sweep alone.
Sweep the streets I used to own.

Home. Memories. Friends. Family. Known. In My Place. It's good to be back. I thought I would be downright miserable to leave Bremen behind. But. It's always good to come back to your people. Your place. Your life. I wish to stand on my toes, stretch my arms out, close my eyes and seep in all the familiarity around me. Once I get over the heat that is. Sigh. Jeddah.

So I am going to buy a gun and start a war.
If you can tell me something worth fighting for...

I will have a cola. On the rocks please.

2011-08-17T14:26:00.000-07:00

I'm at Red Rock. Behind the bar. The lighting is dim. Yellow. Pleasing to the eye. And under it, everything looks beautiful. Through the glasses that have been piled up in front of me I can see the sink. The water is sloshing around with foam rising and falling through the little waves, threatening to flow over the brim. I am fighting a desperate urge to hop off my chair, walk to the sink and bury my hands into this sloshy mess of water and soap. I would love to be the one to wash all those tall glasses. I love washing dishes. Provided I have a huge sink, sufficient amount of soap and a steady flow of water. Ziv has offered to let me get behind the bar later in the night when there is a lot of rush and not enough help. Hadn't it been for my strong aversion to anything even remotely alcoholic, I just might have taken up the offer. Sigh.

There is a match going on. Which has attracted a huge group of young men to huddle around the large screen. I can feel the tension in the air. The unexpected whoops have almost made me fall of my chair more times than I am proud to admit. It's an interesting scene. A crowd of well built, tall German men, their eye brows knit in concentration, their beers almost forgotten and full length conversations that take place without taking their eyes off the T.V. Now that's passion, eh?

I have a secret something that is keeping me happy. It has me breaking into a smile at the most solemn of moments. It has me hopping when I should be walking. It has be bobbing my head when I should be sitting still. It has me wistfully staring out of tram windows when I should be engaged in excited conversations. It is too early to share it just yet. All in good time. And no, it's not love. Far bigger. Far better.

The clink of glasses is quite melodious. If it had been the only sound in this place. But there is the match. Loud customers. Quick waitress. The elegant bartenders. The music. The collective noise. Booming into my ears. Like distant waves. Periodic but unpredictable.

I like how busy this place is. It is interesting to see them hold the fort, keep the orders flowing, managing the crowd and doing all this without getting under each others feet. Swift. Nimble. Prompt. Breakneck. Sudden. Unexpected. Alacritious.

A nerdy looking guy is leaning over the bar. Prominent jawline. Horn rimmed spectacles. Curly brown hair. There is a shy smile playing around his lips. He is flirting with one of the bartenders. He is talking softly, forcing her to lean in as well. She is giggling into his cocktail. Good for her. She has been working real hard for the past hour and a half.

The beer is flowing seamlessly through the taps. Into curvy glasses. The foam is bubbling over the edge and trailing to the end of the glass. Most times it is wiped off hastily and the glass is slammed on to a moving tray. Other times it is left on the bar to fizzle out.

There are people walking in. Ordering. Settling down. Eyeing each other. Trying their luck. And me? I am calling it a night and moving out of here before it gets ugly. Ah well, I have always been boring that way.