December 17, 2012


There was a restlessness of the spirit that did not stem from events that happen. It exists. Like how that patch of dirt has always existed on the corner of the almirah. No one knows how, but its existence has been proven over generations of the family. 

The singing comforts of everyday sounded off-key. That trail of ants that crawled near the bedside annoyed incessantly. A half hour was spent every night before sleep in killing the army, only to see a fresh crop emerge the next day. 

Srishti needed to leave. 

The city and life as she had known and loved had ceased to be. A new chapter had to begin and she had to fill the ink in her pens to write it into her life. 

That morning she had snapped. When she woke up to the drumming noises of the factory nearby. The strange consolation the sounds of its machinery once gave, sounded jarring. The coffee was just not of the right consistency. 

So she decided she needed to pack. And leave. No notices. No formalities. Simply leave. She had no idea where she was going. She needn't know. She knew she was a woman who felt life from within. She will find her way. That much she knew. 


(I don't know what this is a part of. I just had to write) 

December 16, 2012

Off the top of my head- III

(a severe bout of creative writer's block, thanks to the madness that has been my life for the last few months. Below is some remnant energy siphoned off to make marginal sense. Hopefully, the times ahead are more kind and more vision-endowing)


Fear had become a bedside companion talking non-stop to keep me afraid. It capitalized on the silences,  explained with reference to my past and sang with nonsensical words to make me feel like a weakling, all over again.


There never is perfection. It is all about imperfections and learning to run alongside it.


Sunlight sifting through cobwebs, a pappus floating into your outstretched palm and the smell of wet earth play symphonies within, when vulnerability strikes. Trivialities rescuing from palpitations.


I lost myself in those changing images. One transience I could trust wholly in. Even if it was a bad film  there was still the magic in it that lead me on.

It made life worth living and no matter what went wrong, I could dive into its world and feel the comfort of mise-en-scene, background music and the like!

Films are the lullaby of my life. Calming my nerves, reducing paranoia and helping me continue to dream.

Thank God, for films!

November 25, 2012

The Wildings by Nilanjana Roy

Yes, this review has taken me wayyyyyyy more than the stipulated time. I am sure, however, that every one who has read this book would understand that this is NOT a book to be hurried with! It is meant to be savoured and soaked in. So with due apologies, I think I am justified in having lived with the book for my own sweet time. The protagonists demanded that I did! The style and pace wanted me to engage myself in it! The author definitely wanted me to stroll over the words and take in with refreshing sight, those fantabulous illustrations!

I generally don't like reading about animals. I am not a pet crazy girl. I like pets but from a distance, having been brought up with the fear of animals and never had a pet myself. Over time, I have come to an extent where I will 'oww' and pet a dog or cat, but not to the level that I'd kiss them or let them lick me silly.

I had my apprehensions when I began reading this book as animal fiction has not enthralled me, with the sole exception of the Jungle Book. Where James Herriet failed, Nilanjana Roy easily had me floored! The style of writing is so engaging. 

The story is about a wild bunch of cats living in the Nizamuddin area of Old Delhi. Their lives, fears, interactions are all elaborated in a carefully careless manner, such that you get involved with them as if they were your own, but at the same time not find it tedious. Special credit must be given to Nilanjana Roy for the same. Not always can a writer tuck in as many details without making the reader feel it getting laborious!

Holding on to the feline charm, yet making it possible for us to relate to the motions and characteristics of being alive, Nilanjana sculpts the cat world of Beraal, Mara, Miao, Katar, Hulo, Southpaw and others with charm and control.

The outline is right there on the blurb and the story is a ‘google’ away! So I am not going to give away the story; hence, you may breathe and read on. What particularly charmed me were the absolutely detailed illustrations. They were stylish, quirky, part realistic, part abstract and mostly as much a fabric of the overall story as the words themselves. A perfect jugalbandhi of talent between Nilanjana Roy and Prabha Mallya.

The interaction between predator and prey, friendship amongst equals, trusting the unknown, bravery etc are beautifully and thankfully, non-preachily etched out through the many incidents in the book. 

I have always found cats strangely similar to humans in their behaviour. And hence, I have had an overall neutral and specifically affectionate reaction to cats. This book, however, will make you love cats, if you did not already. You will crave to have a furry thing to purr around you! Also you will wonder how you never noticed these things about the felines so far! Nilanjana pretty much infects you with her own obsession for the furred beings. 

Pick this book if you want to read a refreshing tale told in an absorbing manner, juxtaposed with imagery that would only go to make the tale that unfolds even more gripping than ever. But don’t hurry up your reading. Live with Mara, travel like a Sender through the book’s world when you are not reading it and yet are thinking about it, savour the nuanced descriptions of the climate changes, ponder over the societal demarcations in the animal world and astound over its similarities, enjoy the innocence as well as the ruthlessness of their lives and celebrate this book that is sure to demand a re-read from you.

It is one of those rare books, so singular, so unique and absolutely enjoyable that will always proudly hold its fort on your book shelf.

This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at Participate now to get free books!

November 10, 2012


and always so!
the perennial loop that strangles
the circle of mad dances
the breathlessness and the emptiness. 
that somewhere
the jinx gets broken
teach me the spell
to unhex existence

November 09, 2012

At the end of the day

if I can hold on to truth in music
if I could have taken one breath of absolute freshness
if I had managed to smile or laugh for a moment with abandon
if I have done one thing that made me respect myself

I promise you, the powers around, I probably wont not ask for anything more!

November 04, 2012


It was almost midnight when I heard the song. Unavoidable circumstances denied me an earlier delight of watching the show in its first telecast. I had been angry that I couldn’t watch it, after planning for so long, making sure we are subscribed to MTv, reminding everyone in the family that I rule the TV from 8pm.

However, it was for the better. As rain drops toned down to fall softly outside, after a sudden downpour, with just the silence of sleep enhanced by the absence of electronic noises for company, I first heard ‘Nenjukulle’.

There are certain memories that cling to my first-hears/best-hears of some Rahman numbers. Like Taal will always be rain, smell of wet earth, chikki, hills of Lonavla, hide and seek with light through some twenty odd tunnels, my green Walkman and a series of AA batteries.

Munbe Va is clock strikes midnight, Naresh Iyer crooning “Naan naanai”, housing development drawing sprawled on A2 sheets on my wooden drafting board, the radio, a T-scale suspended mid draft and a Steadtler 0.1 mm lying forgotten.

Nenjukulle will always be rain, silence, a young happy girl singing and ARR playing the accordion- lost in some inspiring microcosm of the universe he alone has access to.

I loved everything about the song- the lovely lyrics, the evocative music and Shakthi’s simple soulful rendition. Here was as song, finally, after Saanwariya from Swades, where the emotions of a woman in love with a man are so artfully described.

And as always, the   ARR-Mani-Vairamuthu combination makes me a synesthetic wreck! I can feel the cool breeze in this song and a mixed smell of wet earth, sea, mallipoo and a non-repulsive smell of sweat.  Earthy tones- predominantly brown, in contrast with the cool blue of the water- saturated.

I see furtive glances, long shots of the ocean.- a very 'Deivam thanda poove' kind of visuals for this song. Also maybe a little of Raavan's detail in the foreground(like a golusu-clad feet shuffling away)-shift focus-actor in the background kind of imagery!

And I can also sense that maybe the violin strains will be part of the bgm for a major part of the film. Or well, here’s hoping!

It has been a really long time since a song evoked such a strong deep reaction in me. The sincerity, simplicity and straightforwardness of Rahman’s composition hits you like a sure shot arrow in this song. And you are reaffirmed and want to believe in many of the finer, more honest emotions that the world at large is losing out on.

I have always been biased towards Rahman’s music and seek refuge in many of his songs whenever I feel my faith shattered or shaken. Over the years, I have probably worn out the songs on so many hears and pretty much know how they all pan out- voice, instrument, nuances wise- although many a time, a sudden little curl of tune surprises me from between a piece. I was pretty desperate for a new song to come cradle me. I needed that comfort, so I can abandon myself in a song, in these confusing times.

Thank god, Nenjukulle arrived!

October 31, 2012


(inspired by my blue eyed baby)

On a stormy night
Even the sounds
Seem distant.
A trace knock –
Maybe thunder?
A pin drop –
A tree uprooting?
Cut off,
Even shut eyes
Lend more vision!
Break the box-
This closeted life!
Allow me,
To elope with the wind!

October 22, 2012

The dance of light

I dance
in those mad circles
light shining from my hands
forgetting all else
in the darkness
we are rings of light
with beats filling our insides


Written in memory of the Diya dance that we perform during Garba at Ahmedabad. 

October 04, 2012


It is that phase again. Of that general lost feeling. But this time, I am going to fight harder. To be alive, is probably what one should be most thankful for. Rest, is transient.

September 28, 2012


*Engaged tone*
"The subscriber you are calling is busy on another call. Please try again later"
"I am sorry no one is presently available to take your call"
"You are getting a busy tone on this number."
"Can I call you back?"
"I'm sorry! You are not allowed to make this call"

And so life goes on
with unfinished calls
unsaid words
and a cellphone
that one wishes
would beep

September 25, 2012

Yes blog, I trust you with such random rants

Finally, there's proof to show to the world about how I am NOT "lucky", as they call it. That, if at all I have got something, it is out of tremendous volumes of hard work and effort and toil and tears. If something comes easy, I am pretty sure I'll lose it.

No, I am not being pessimistic. Just realistic.

Besides the point.

The truth is: I am definitely cursed. AND jinxed.

Go figure how someone can be both.

And no, I am not unhappy! I am just cynical. VERY cynical.

P.S: If you didn't understand head or tail of it, good. You were not meant to. This is one of those posts I write for myself, and sort of file it in my blog. It is the the witness to my life.

September 23, 2012

Short Story- 29

And she just didn't know when it all began-the tumbling of the blocks that held together her life. She always knew it was rickety; what with having the steps that carried a 'do not climb' board and a yellow danger tape cutting access to it from the world. So similar to her stern face when she walked by herself on the roads in the night- clearly spelling a stay away.

It all began to crack up just when she thought finally everything was coming together. Slowly she could see the banalities through the polishes. Why did they feed her fantasies as a child? Actually they had not, she fed herself those- always searching for the lost cloud, seeking the end of the rainbow. The unattainable had always fascinated her.

Any other person would have given up. But she was sincere to a fault, competitive to an extent that she just couldn't see her not win. A task at hand had to be completed. She was severe with herself, probably she was the harshest of her critics.

She had tried to gel the cracks. Put some m-seal and cover it up. But it widened instead. The chasm gaping at her with a foreboding. And she was scared.

But there was no hand to hold. No one to pat on the head and reassure. No one to just hold her calmly and not say a word. Her silence deepened with the cracks.

A loneliness so complete, it rendered her faint at times. A darkness so absorbing, she was slowly getting used to it. Five steps to the right, with a song, would make her happy for 23 minutes. Two steps left and down the ladder in the rain, would bring a smile for an hour. And then, once again- the darkness and her.

There was something to relish in this melancholy. It was a unique tale with no other contenders around. The reigning queen of depression.

Sometimes she grew tired of it all and she craved sleep.

August 26, 2012


Slip in more such days like today, where I can laugh at simple mistakes, live in innocent happiness and soak myself in rain, music and the fragrant history of how a song was born.

*knocks on wood

Thank you, whatever that keeps everything going!

August 23, 2012

Cold Nights

In the middle of the rubble-
I wonder how I got here!
Amnesiac and unaware

Cold, lonely
and homeless too
as if
being cold and lonely
was not enough

a chimney belches out
a happy dinner
a home with tinkling glasses
and tinkling laughter
and anklets too

I remember
I used to be that woman

Alone, Beaten

I battled with patience
built townscapes out of matchsticks
shot down some stars for a neckpiece
only to face a wall of silence

Thick creepers
clutched down my throat
viscous words
defeated in the depths

And tears
never when needed
never when needed

In that silent continuum
as night folds people into sleep
with wraps of anger
or lack of love and feeling
dreaming their purple dreams

I sit
alone, again
vomitting words
streaming tears

August 20, 2012


And then I had an epiphany...
no many epiphanies!
And instead of clarity
It dragged home confusion

August 15, 2012


And it rains softly in the night
an echo to my whimper of tears
the low hum of its existence
a reminder of things that never left

June 15, 2012

Lost and/or found

I was lost and/or found
you can find me in the box
that your teacher used to keep
high on the shelves
where last year's workbooks
and snubs of chalks
rotted with lizard poop.

search within me
find what you were looking
enlightened, leave
me bereft of
one more thing
that made my world
lost and/or found

June 09, 2012

Simple pleasures

A lawless wind, a solitary walk, some lovely music, an hour's tryst with myself and somewhere mid-way...maybe a word the singer crooned, maybe a gust of cold air or maybe the untraceable yet palpable magic around...something swept away my soul cobwebs; and the aching beauty made me believe that "God’s in His heaven—All’s right with the world!"

June 07, 2012

The Self-Image

(written after an obnoxious lady told some cruelly careless words about my appearance in the most casual fashion, within my earshot, to my mother, in a function, and I wanted to be cruel and mean to her and dig her eyeballs and pickle them in little earthen jars. But all I did was shut up and boil inside and feel pitiably vulnerable-till date- and leave the function soon!)

It is quite a pity that we as humans really depend on so many people to build our opinions and image about ourselves. How much ever we don't care about society at large for our actions, we do care about their opinions on certain things- our vulnerabilities.

When we already have certain insecurities regarding traits of our personality, or more commonly, about the way we look, all of a sudden every Kamakshi, Meenakshi and Visalaakshi's opinions attain prime focus.

Especially, what you hear about yourself, as a kid, really somehow never leaves you. Having been brought up as the 'brains' of the family, I never had a great opinion about the way I looked. And it took three years of acceptance in NID to finally feel good about the way I look. Casual comments and snide remarks, however, still shake me silly.

What is the cure to such issues of one's self-image? Acceptance, is one thing we all search for in our lives.  In our families, within our circles of friends, in our romantic partners, husbands, wives, children, and so on. At every turn and phase, we need some kind of pillar or one person who would stand by no matter how large our noses are or how small and crinkly our eyes are.

As kids, more or less every one has this acceptance in family. Which is probably why childhood forms the best part of everyone's lives. We delight in the very existence of every kid, celebrate their every move and basically give them superstar status, except the occasional moments of strict disciplinary action. Even after reprimanding a child, most sane parents convey the motive for scolding and make peace with the kid. And hence restore the rosy perfectly loved world of a child.

When we grow up, however, checkboxes come into play in every walk of our lives. People require you to be a certain way, respond thus, refrain from talking to their 'enemies' and so on- making it difficult for us to ever dissociate from expectations and disappointments. Our self-image becomes deeply connected with peer viewpoints.

This remains pretty much the state for a really long time. Although I am a person who does her own thing based on her own logic and conviction, and rarely does things to please society just for "playing safe" or "being conventional", I would be lying if I say I don't get affected by snide careless remarks that people make about me, around me. Their words remain with me for long and do affect me, mostly if it concerns the way I look, and I am not sure if a day would come where I'd base my self-image merely on my own opinions than get affected by what the world has to say.

How much our vulnerabilities weigh us down! How much we let our weak points put setbacks into our lives?

I wish there would be a day when I can completely accept the truth- your body is merely a vessel and what kind of a person you are, is what matters. I have only made partial peace with it still.


June 03, 2012

The Summer

(inspired by Long Afternoons, composed by Ben Hantoot)

There is a little bit of exposed skin
from the burn
of being out in the sun for long

in this humid heat
these long afternoons
of endless dusty winds
and whirring fans

That which was raw pink
and soft to touch
and hurting once
as if impaled,
over the summer
has got a dull coat of brown
and worries me less
even during a casual brush
with wall or skin

Over time, I think it will heal
a new skin shall spread to cover
this summer shall be long gone
winters and autumn shall visit
maybe a spring
maybe other summers
and other sunburns
and their varying degrees of heat

Or maybe, this will remain
a scar between skin folds
when old and worn
still constantly reminding me
of that summer I could never forget.

May 11, 2012

Thendral Vanthu Theendum Bothu

(dedicated to Swetha Ramachandran for the rediscovery)

Someday sometime, listen to this song.

And you will know what I like about life.

I am waiting for the first summer rain so I can prop my feet on my balcony sill, look up at the sky ripped into a brilliant many pieces and white pearl drops fall off from its torn inky fabric, to listen to this song again.

I can almost smell my happiness at that moment.

May 08, 2012

Hill side stories- 1

(a series, dedicated to my bachchaa and my moody kettle, Mayank Bisht

He crushed the stalks between his fingers. The citrus-y smell of lemon grass filled the garden. I suddenly felt like I was under a waterfall on a cold evening during twilight.

I picked up the crushed stalk and smelt it up close. The attic. Yes, it reminded me of Nani's attic, with its many dusty trunks and old clothes my sisters used to stitch clothes for the dolls and boxes tearing up at the edges, filled with books in languages- Tauji's once-upon-a-time obsession.

Tauji was always up to something new. He was unmarried and stayed with Nani. Every year, he took up a new hobby. It was always so wonderful when we came back in the holidays to Nanis place. Tauji would be studying insects, or building tree houses, or cooking pastries! And he would always let us kids try out. My summers were spent peering through microscopes at the brittle wings of the dragon fly or running up hills trying to fly gargantuan kites. Tauji was the favourite of all kids.

May 05, 2012


This is my 500th post and I wanted it to be special, like I've wanted everything in life to be. Somewhere in my search for the special things, I have probably lost out on very many things.

However, this post is not a lament.

So I decided, I won't wait for that perfect poem or that well-worded prose to mark the 500.

I decided, I was just going to be write a simple toast to this space that has meant so much to me- a partner since 2004, unflinchingly listening to my raves and rants for eight years now. Okay, we have had our tantrums as well: posts that disappeared before getting published, drafts that surprisingly never got saved and very very many appearance adjustments that sometimes ended in a fiasco. 

But we have come beyond it all in this ride, and I am happy I still have this blog as proof for how juvenile I had been, and how so much better I have turned out. I mean, I could have been worse! (Go read my old posts. Or rather, please don't!!!)

I have often wondered why I post so much and how I have managed to be pretty regular, writing in my blog. I guess, I never thought of it as something to 'maintain'. It was effortless and self-sustaining. 

So here's to my blog, for being there, and for hopefully continuing to do so, for as long as I can write!

Here's to a fabulous 500! :)

May 02, 2012

Bleating for rain!

In the sleepy fringes of the city,
the rain falls.
an unknown fury in its fall
hiding in its sound
the pietous cries
of a wailing woman

as the wind howls
through cracks in walls
and huge unused drain pipes
a little child stays awake
scratching at window panes
tracing the slithering routes
of water snakes the drops make

as threats of a storm
gather up clouds
to strengthen its troop,
a new born shoot
shivers in joy
as water drizzles down
welcoming its birth

under the dazzle of light
and the boom of thunder
as a fear untraceable
ripples across the city
two love lorn puppies
snuggle closer for warmth
a faded film poster
of the hero-heroine
coming to rescue
on a rainy night

far away in a distant city
burnt with the heat, and
weathered to a dull decline ,
two dreamy eyes,
hungry for rain
put to pen a vision
with a hope and prayer,
for a little shower
to paint her night 

Looking at the fair

In the distance
A giant wheel spins
Colours of every kind
Circling in the horizon
A rainbow swirl lollipop
I can almost taste

May 01, 2012

...and today

under a sickle moon
stars scattered carelessly
across the black skin of the night

when an inexperienced wind
tossed in sputtering bouts

on a stretch of weathered tiles
over the belch of angry trains
walking, I spoke to you

April 09, 2012

Bucket List- 1

So now I am building my Bucket List.
1) Learn to play one musical instrument with flair

2) Design a book cover
4) Learn to draw humans in a not-so-weird way.
5) Have a pin-board wall

March 30, 2012

Give me a song

There are days when you wish you had a voice and a song that could express how deeply you feel for something. No. Mere spelt words are just not enough. They need a tune to go.

March 20, 2012

Short Story- 28

She was playing by herself. In the corner of the attic, facing the column. A line of dusty light, coming from the high window from above, illuminated her.

"Oh pillar" and she clapped thrice.
"Caterpillar". Thrice again

I stood in the side and waited for her to stop. She knew I was standing there waiting. She had a smug smile about herself. But she seemed relentless.

I lost patience. 
"Where is that box?" I asked her.

She stopped playing and looked up at me. That annoying smile was still playing about the ends of her lips. She looked impish. Close cropped hair. Twinkling black bead-like eyes that were small, but somehow appeared big because she opened them wide. As if having prayed for big eyes and not having them, opening them wide to compensate.

"Which one?" she asked, smiling knowingly.

"You know which one"

"No I don't" she said, and let out a silly giggle.

"The memory catcher's dream box?" I told her.

"Look around. Can't you see it?" she asked, looking at me with pity and still smiling.

I did not reply. I continued to stare at her.

"You are in the box," she said.

"You are lying. This place is in ruins. The box is wooden. It is carved. It smells of sandal. You KNOW it! You had it first!" I argued.

"It crumbled." she said and suddenly looked sad. Tears welled up in her eyes slowly.

I kept looking at her. I couldn't believe it!

"How could you?" I asked, nearly choked.

"You grew up and lost the key. Why did you grow up? Didn't you like it when you were me? WHY DID YOU GROW UP?" she shouted and wept.

She tugged at the ends of my dress and collapsed in a heap on the floor near my feet. 

From her pocket, a key fell out.

March 14, 2012

Off the top of my head-11

They always escape- finding little gaps in the brick wall. I had left those for little stems to shoot out, green as the pensive ocean. But they used it instead. They never left stealthily. They loosened the bricks more, when they shuffled their way out roughly- gaps widening and making my wall look shabby and unromantic.

Sometimes I wake up to find they are gone, and then, only the graffiti is a remainder. Colourful graffiti that will constantly claw my eyes till they will pop out of their sockets and crawl into the secrecy and warm safety of my treasure chest.

They never stay. Either it is not cosy enough. Or it is too cosy, lavish and luxurious. It is never a Goldilocks state where they can snuggle in the crevices and let the wind cradle them. It either gets too hot or remains too cold.

The wall was built with hope for mortar. Slowly time, patting it gently to ease, knocks off crumbs first, and pieces later.

Someday, the wall will fall. And there needs to be no escape. There never would be a place to stay in the first place!

Postcards with love

I will dig out from my chest of unwritten postcards
and on the one most faded and with curling edges
old and most cherished
I will write you a love note today

Leave me then your address scribbled on a torn slip
tuck it under my doormat when no one is looking
And when the world goes to bed
with stealthy footsteps I shall come to pick it


March 11, 2012

In fond memory of Ashish Lakhia

(PHOTOGRAPH by: Mohammed Farooq)

It was a hot Sunday morning. I was woken up by the phone to hear Ashish Lakhia had passed away. Ashish Lakhia-collector of things, writer, documentary filmmaker, artist and a man brimming with stories was no more!

I couldn't collect myself. Snatches from my film kept playing in my head. His voice echoed.What is it with voices? Why do they always hold so much more?

We fled to the Jama Masjid. Anywhere else, and we would have split into two like a peapod. On the way to the masjid I had seen a fire and emergency water tank while Lata's voice constantly resonated the line '...chale hi jaana hain' from 'Baahon mein chali aa' and I couldn't shut it out.

In Jama Masjid, there was silence and the metronome of a bird. It was bright.I wore my glares and wept behind it. It felt funny to be hiding little things like tear drops in such a wide expanse. Could I get some glares to hide the weirdness as well?!

The silence, the stillness, the incessant voices in my head- everything was driving me mad. How can someone who talked so much, who collected things like a hoarder, who left behind scores of memories even in those artifacts, not exist anymore?

He was brimming with fantastic bizarre and wild stories. His eccentricity was what drew me towards him as a subject for my documentary film, and made him endearing. There was a lawless charm about him that enchanted me even the first time we had met.

I hate the past tense when it comes to people. Death can't make a clean cut, ever! It always severs so shoddily-parts of the flesh dangle loose and messy. 

There was something about the open space of the masjid that reminded and settled for me that Ashish Lakhia wouldn't walk and talk again- in life. But I have some memories strung together when I want to hear the crazy genius again. When I wish to hear a tale. Of some fascinating object. From that fascinating man.

Rest in Peace Ashish Lakhia!
Watch The Creeper, the Alien & Other Stories, my documentary film about him:

March 05, 2012

Kahin to hogi woh duniya

"Jaane naa kahan woh duniya hai
Jaane naa woh hai bhi ya nahi
Jahan meri zindagi mujhse
Itni khafa nahi"

Is there such a world, really? Even if it is a mirage that will last but a moment, a minute, a night, a day- however short or long- the hope of it sounds so fulfilling.

How is it that certain questions can never be answered? Maybe the answers are around, but in a stretch of years, what exactly is defined as "just around the corner" in a time span?

There are corners in our spirit that can be yanked only by the ones that own that bit of you. You never auctioned your spirit, thank god. But will the owner of that missing bit stand up and claim? We would like to give you your due, else we need to begin to find someone else who may consider your returned rejected piece.

"Manzilon se raahein dhoondthi chali, aur
Kho gayi hai manzil kahin rahon mein"

This is always the problem with ignorance. You never know if you want to have it around. Sometimes, it is a comforter on an icy windy night. At others it is that flat dent in your pillow that keeps you awake all night. It never announces which form it will take that night. To be lost is wonderful, as there is a possibility of finding your way. Just that, you are puzzled at times. Is there really a way out? Or is being lost the only way to get through, till you collapse from the tire of the long arduous walk.

"Kahin to hai nasha
Teri meri har mulaqaat mein"

Tangible. From a distance. From up close. Thick and yet with a poetic vulnerability. Like a freshly beaten and baked blueberry cheesecake in your mouth. Inexplicable understanding. A madness and drug, a habit that cannot be kicked.

Ondaatje is always right- "From this point on, we will either find or lose our souls."

© Dryad's Peak
Maira Gall