Short Story 15

"He hurts me more than anything else. Every failure is related to him. Every success is a proof to what he's missing out. He's too embroiled in my everyday." she sobbed and wrote.

Her tears touched the paper and turned crimson. The book ripped open. A gash was formed, and as if from a hidden mouth the painful wail of a woman was heard.

The book burst into a million droplets of blood. They splattered the wall. They splashed on the lone hurricane lamp that was flickering beside the table. The fire turned red.

Three dwarfs in one

Grumpy

Sleepy

Droopy

And not because anything happened, but maybe because nothing ever does.

Drifter

a ribbon of moonlight
alone
drifting where the wind takes it
not belonging
a sliver
of silver longing
looking for reason
to persist
or perish

On Writing

Writing is my self-defence. It is my way of making peace with myself. Somehow, when you see words shaping your thoughts and insecurities, everything seems lighter.

I don't write for anyone. I know a few people read me. But I don't write for them either. I write to send a fragment of me into the cosmos. To get rid of that excess baggage of thoughts or emotions that can't seem to be held anymore in my pea-sized brain.

I'm glad I can write to vent things out.

*phew!

Quote- 1

"Immersed in centuries-old art and architecture, the young couple in Before Sunrise search for meaning and clarity in their conversations, hoping that the connection they are forging will give them something to cling to in this potential shipwreck of life. Yet it is only when we revisit the couple nine years later in Before Sunset that it is clear these lessons have been internalized. The Celine and Jesse of this film are so young and unseasoned that they don't realize just how special this connection and their time together is, and it is only after nine years of struggle that they are able to put what they had together in Vienna into its proper perspective. The magnitude and rarity of their Viennese Brief Encounter is only evident through the perspective that the years provide."

By Dan Jardine in "Before Sunrise and Before Sunset: Laden with Happiness and Tears"
ref: http://www.slantmagazine.com/house/2010/01/before-sunrise-and-before-sunset-laden-with-happiness-and-tears/

*sigh*

Time gives perspective.

PART 1: Trichy

A trip of three days. Three cities. Trichy, Thanjavur, Srirangam.

I went knocking on old worn-out stones. Some that had grayed with age, some that still had old scripts paving lines on its ruggedness. We went through meandering streets which stank of money and material, into a stone den that once had my mom captive. Still does. I seemed to smell maiden dreams in the air, probably the ones my mother spun some twenty five years ago, when as a demure lass she walked through the same entrance into the Malai kottai temple of her Uchchi Pullayaar, eyes alight with hope, friends in tow and simple joys to define everything.

Distant bells echoed in my head- all the bells my mother would have heard through her three years in the city of Trichy, where every weekend meant a visit to the Rock Fort temple.

Old stone talks to you. In silent resilient tones, after withstanding years of hands that touched it: crassly, gently, caressingly and cruelly; some defying the holy scripts that run their breadth on the walls by imposing shaky hearts and etching lover names on it.

The million steps to climb seemed an invitation to heaven-hewn out of rock and made to obey the dictats of humans by enclosing it within corridors spanned by lofty gopurams.

And when we reached the top, after folding palms in front of the other many gods you have to pay respect to on the way, I was left shattered at the stark negligence with which the sanctuary above had been renovated. Cold impersonal sparkling granite in black and gray stared with brutality. Stark and bright tube lights stole away the sanctity and the few old stone columns wept silently, forcibly rendered to watch the ruin of their times.

For once I wished I could cry out loud how much the climb above had not been worth it. As the entire city of Tirichinapalli lay sprawling beneath like a little architectural scaled model, I wondered if any heart had bled when they had mutilated the beautiful stone hall that had years of prayers resonating within. In the name of renovation, a sanctuary had been violated, thoughts that drifted across times and secreted in stone had been cladded with death cold granite blocks.

And suddenly, I could not hear the whispers of my mother and her friends that I suspected I was hearing all the time I was climbing up.

My tryst with the past remained unfinished.

Short Story-14

She piled up the stones one after another. This was her joypile. There were thirteen stones in all. One for the little blue mug. One for the feather of the Azure-winged magpie that her uncle got from China. Then there was one for that day she got to climb the hill and saw a rainbow.

Suddenly, a gust of wind blew, and the stones toppled over.

Thirteen was always unlucky.

Short Story-13

Once again she collided with the wall of the past. It had grown longer, sturdier and thicker somehow. Piled up, she thought.

She wanted parts of it broken. Will a slap do? Will anything heal?

Some walls cannot be broken. They'll be there to shamefully remind us of all our failings. To taunt.

Short Story- 12

There was a time when all I had to do was reach out. And a rainbow would be mine. It was a life of sunbursts and glittering rains. Answers were simple one words. Worries were bound between school textbooks and were left behind once homeworks were done.

And then I grew up.

Perspectives got added. People walked in and out of life like I gave them a choice. Things that mattered died with time. I never thrilled the same way when I saw a touch-me-not shrink within itself. It was too familiar a sight. I shrink almost everyday. From people, events, truth.

The delight of being home

I wanted a dose of a new city. To flap my wings and stretch it and put a sort of litmus test to my existence. Ahmedabad happened and opened my eyes and intellect to the big good-bad world.
*A Whole New World plays in the background

But every once in a while there comes a point where I get saturated with my freedom, limitlessness and the fun and hard work of NID and I crave for a whiff of home.

And when I DO FINALLY get into an auto to head home, after the painfully stretchy last days at NID, the feeling is un-word-able! A sudden hyperactivity seeps through my veins and I begin looking forward to everything from that warm first hug from my sister to the undeniable Koovam.
* Sorgame Endraaalum plays in the background

Nothing can quite equal the first morsel of favourite food- mostly vethakozhambu and urlakazhangu roast- that you down with all the attention from the family.

The home-bound happiness is Part A of the joy of returning to the turf. The familiar sounds that lull you, the smells that waft from your kitchen that you can predict with a sniff("Amma... vendaikka roast pannariya?"), the clockwork precision of sleep-rise-sleep, the fights to shun the sob serials of Aththipookkal and Magal and other crap, the stolen moments of TLC that warm my heart, familiar niches where I curl up to read and write, windy walks in my terrace and the good old jolliness of the family become therapy to a home starved kid.

Part B cause of joy would be the public transport itself-Share autos and struggling for bum space and leg space, the heart-wrenching "anna" word you can use to call out to the bus driver before demanding a ticket to streetnames that roll of your tongue so easily and unconsiously(Thambiah reddy road, G.N.Chetty road, Pondy bazaar, Ranganathan street) and the train journeys- especially at dusk when you see tributaries of Koovam transforming into romantic silvery pools as your train whizzes past.

The C cause of joy are the favourite haunts in the city. The Kleios visit that is soon-to-be, Bessie beach that seems to be on the cards multiple times, good old crowded Station road, mad Deepavali obsessed T.Nagar, the stately majestic Sardar patel road, The Landmark tucked under Apex Plaza, Spencer's from the outside, Express Avenue that is enchanting me with a promise of Escape, Okkiyam lake that I might skip this time, Vivekanada Coffee for the brew that can never be matched anywhere, Khivraj automobiles as a reminder of a long ago's perfect day and dear old Gemini flyover for being the stable icon of my life. My list would be blasphemously incomplete if I ignore my very own(ahem! excuse me dear owner whoever-you-are) Satyam Cinemas and their tub of caramel popcorn and the visions of that lovely spice jars that they once had to flavour one's buttered popcorn.

The D cause of joy is just the smell of Tamil. There's really something to the language. When you hear snatches of street fights in a Chennai by-line, it simply fascinates me, whereas a similar incident in Ahmedabad wouldn't be even quarter so interesting. The language has a charm that is indescribable. The films that are made in Tamil have an essence that nothing ever seems to duplicate. A well made Tamil film or revisiting one of my old favourites is enough to keep me smiling from ear to ear in a way no other film can do. After all, this is the land which gave me the joy of watching Sam Anderson who can cheer me up anyday!

The E cause would be the calmness that the city seems to inject into my system. What do you have Chennai, in you, with you, that you seem to gift me every once I return? No matter how battered, how disturbed, how lonely I feel before I touch foot on your sand, you seem to erase it all and charm me into becoming your dutiful slave forever!

I am sure I will travel immensely and may end up working in some other distant city. But Chennai is and will be to me something that no other place can ever dream of being. My own, my precious dear home nest! :)

Poetry in the wee sma' hours- 2

It is one of those nights
when moonlit coldness
yanks at memory pools
and raises questions
that have no answers.

where hands grope for a clasp
and feels an empty room
and searchlight eyes
meet darkness as a guest.

It is one of those nights
where the jigsaw puzzle is scattered
and pieces go flying
some get lost in cranny abysses
some hide themselves under bedsteads
and some get crushed in the edges
and the pile that remains
just can not fit right.

It is one of those nights
that in endless armour
fights your defenses
teases your meaning
and raises questions
that have no answer.

Poetry in the wee sma' hours-1

images of sepia past
whizzing on small screen
while reality paints
a contrary messy picture

mind transfixed in random past moment
goes through a monotonous mindless reel
rewind
replay
rewind
replay

pity washes the feet
with its cold clasping hands

once again questions are raised
that have no answers.

There are things to talk on dreamy winter evenings
when cold fog hugs cold feet
and toes wiggle to the tune of chattering teeth.

Remember coffee cups
and hot fumes rising
brown liquid bubbles
burst dead by the cold.

There are things to tell on dreamy winter evenings
tales and confidances and wholehearted jest

When hands reach out
to tease the rising flame

There are walks and talks
and forgotten laughter
There are some memories
pleasantly to be made.

Short Story-11

(Inspired by the Rupali theatre in Ahmedabad)

The reels must play over and over again. Even in the stranded hall. Light still came through perforations that made their way through wasted concrete. Little specks of light through little holes.

The moth eaten chairs stripped naked, foam exposed, with a stench that rose in the air stood testimony in silence. After all could the halides and nitrates stop shimmering! They were still around, suspended on dust that floated thick around the echoing halls.

Images rose- black and white, faint traces of colour-yesteryear's forgotten dreams rekindled.

And voices...they resounded, one over another, music interlacing through it-chaining them captive like memory.

And once again, cinema was born...

Ripple

Across still waters

Reminding how

Trifle sized things

In moment’s notices

Could upset balances!

My precious dear you!

Many many years ago, this day, you were born crying into this world. Something I could call my own. A sister. So small, but who'll grow up along with me. I vaguely remember being happy that there is someone now who'll always be around.

In the first few months of you entering my life, I slowly grew to feel left out. No one paid any attention to me anymore. I was not exclusive. I was going to share everything from now on. This pang lasted a while, but only later did I realize what a wonderful thing it is to share.

As we grew up, the fights exceeded the fun I thought we would have together. We barely understood each other, we were contrasting personalities- you the supposed quiet one, me the chatterbox. Little did we realize how beautifully we complimented one another and taught each other little things every day.

I remember how dainty-you kept her things clean and tidy, whereas scatterbrained-me was more of a messy freak. Your neatness and orderliness, even at such a young age, made me ashamed of the lack of them in me.

You had a style of your own even as a kid. You'd doll up beautifully, spend hours in front of the mirror, whereas in those days, I barely spent a second dressing up. You taught me what it meant to present oneself well.

My temper, my impulsiveness and emotional graphs got toned down in the presence of your maturity, composed nature and sensible self. Was I really the older one, you dear thing? You have taught me so much!

Not until we grew up to our late teens, in complete confidences, and long terrace walks; in mutual trust and simple sweet sisterly love, we discovered finally a wonderful friend in one another.

You know my ways, I have an obsessive compulsive disorder to explain in detail and give long descriptions of the why-how-what of my emotions! I have tried to tell you in a million ways how precious you are to me. It still somehow seems insufficient.

To my bundle of joy, my steady sweet support, the one I rush to every time I need, the one little thing that seems to love me so much despite my gazillion faults and failings, the person I miss acutely during happiness and sorrow, to my own precious little sister...

I wish you the best of birthdays and every single thing you dream of in your life at your feet. I wish dearly to be there by your side now, getting you a cake and showering you with gifts. But since I can't be, I am telling you that I wished for all of these. So forgive me for not sending you any gifts this time. :D You shall get them in double measure when I return!

Love you loads da! Miss you so much.

**hugs**

Short Story-10

Is there ever a point of no-return? Or is everything such a point?

Where are lines drawn? Will they always be blurred? Or should we necessarily detail everything to its last dot?

What is right and wrong? Isn't it just a perspective? A view we take with ourselves due to what life has dished out to us? Will different things apply differently to different people?

Where is truth? What is?

Too many questions bogged her down. She wished she had a ctrl+alt+delete to manage the tasks of her life at will. She could have closed one application, started a new task with ease or just plain hibernated from all the crap and escaped a hang.

She decided, sometimes, life was better left a rhetoric!

Thoughts-5

Potatoes.
deep fried.
like the feet on hot summer afternoons.
slaking thirst with lemonade.
bottled as a drink.
wine is something I should try.
Bunjee jumping.
With an umbrella?
Mary Poppins and her frilly skirts.
Vintage thoughts.
Ball dances with Prince Charming.
Anastasia.
Things I yearn to remember.
thoughts.



Thoughts- these are how mine are fashioned. This is an attempt to shape them on paper.

Check out my art work on Behance Network:

Click here on the Project name: Cobweb Crawls

Or type the following on your browser window:
http://www.behance.net/gallery/Graphic-art/633672

Thoughts-4

Certain thoughts,
I tuck between the lines
It is my escape route
of having said, and yet
left things unsaid.

I may
shimmer clear like crystal to you
in dazzling white tones
little do you know
there is a vein of rouge
in undertones, running through.

Look between the lines
under the sheets
things are hidden
meanings are laid thick
stashed away.

Thoughts-3

I want to levitate, or like Mary Poppins, fly away with my umbrella into far far away. It is raining and I think the world would look more wonderful from up up above than at human eye level.

Why agree to view the world from mere living eyes. I want an elevated version of it.

When the rivers of slush wade in and out of my toes, my feet get caked in the mud. The earth wants me rooted. I want to fly.

Maybe when I put distance between me and this life, I'd appreciate it more. Maybe...

Or maybe in those skies are answers I stupidly search for down below.

An umbrella, the wind, pellets of rain and me... romance never had a better description!

Thoughts-2

A crumpled paper
set on fire
curling up
edges singeing
rocking in fetal positions

Thoughts-1

ratiya kari kari ratiya
ratiya andhiyari ratiya

The voice dug holes into her spirit. Her eyes announced a vacancy!

raat humari toh
chand ki saheli hain
kitne dino ke baad
aayi woh akeli hain

She looked around at the colours that invitingly asked her to crawl within their swirls and strokes. Thick enamel stuck with obstinacy on white washed walls. Walls, oh yes, she knew she could colour walls; but...

andhera rootha hain
andhera baitha hain
gumsum sa kone main baitha hain

A little hole in the wall was what she wanted- to crawl into. It would definitely not make her feel restless.

andhera Pagal hain
kitna ghanera hain
chubhta hain, dasta hain
phir bhi woh mera hain

In the sadness she found love. A love that was hers and hers alone. Romance layering itself thick and falling like a shroud over her. An envelope of sorts. Where she needed no postage stamp to travel. It was the destination in itself for once!

uski hi godi main
sir rakhke sona hain
uski hi baahon main
chupke se rona hain

Tears betrayed her by refusing to give attendance when they were sought. Their stark disobedience built up the rebellion within her. She could learn to make conversations with pain in the absence of tears. After all, a stone had crept within and built a fortress over her heart.

ankhon se kajal ban
behta andhera aaj

Black swirled in her cup of tea. Layers of dust magically had inked the water in black. Black. black. black. The more she uttered it loud, the more thick it tasted in her tongue. Thick like the hurt that festered within. Like a thick undergrowth carpeting the floor, daringly questioning the entire existence of the floor below!

samjho ki baati bhi koi bujha de aaj
andhere se jee bhar ke karni hain baatein aaj

She had made a tryst with pain when she decided to be born into this world. She had kept happiness as a hostage back there.

Ekphrasis

As part of our Music Workshop conducted by Vasu Dixit (lead singer and rhythm guitar, Swarathma), we were asked to go freewheeling on words or images as we heard a piece of music play.

The music we heard was the background music of a Dutch industrial documentary short film called Glas(Glass) by Bert Haanstra about the glassblowing industry. The music was primarily jazz and the way the music enhances the visuals and vice versa makes it worth a watch.

We did not know that the music was from a film as we just heard it. We had to create something with the music for inspiration- 'ekphrasis' as Plato would call it.

Here's what I wrote, before realizing that I was absolutely off the mark! :D


Tiptoes and cats
slender tall woman
smoking a pipe
Holly Golightly?

Furtive taps on
black and white keys
sleepless nights and serenades

Metal holes
fill with music
resonate within four walls
along with wine glass clinks

Red
and also a faint tinge of blue
waterlights and romance

rolled-up ball of fur
purring in delight

bristlestrokes of yellow
like cat eyes
shards of black
like hers.
canvases on walls
fairylights winking.

"a little more cheese, please
a sour dumpling of it."
Crispies breaking
and getting soggy in the mouth
heavy viscous sour cheese
zing
tang
explosion of taste

a twirl here
handclasps
flirting eyes

***********

dissonance
metal telephone vibrations
android calling home
"CSE04 reporting discontent
among species of the alienship"

music breaks
symphony freezes like the icefloats

Time has been broken down
opened up to let
another dimension pop in.

******

like a bad dream forgotten
music sets right
romance
rosepetal smells
sprinkling of salt
on ovenhot curry
white crystals
shining a second
before being consumed
by the everyday colour
of the curry.

a moment before forgotten
in the moment that came by
to overwrite

a joyous abandon
classics on Tv
plush sofas
hearty embraces
sip on wine
delicious cheese
a meal for two.

******

Music calls out to me-

its invisible hands holding me captive

in a stronghold embrace;

the sound noiselessly treads,

to nibble at my ear,

and whisper some secret sweet nothings!

Short Story 9

The two of them walked in the mystery of the twilight, holding a promise in their handclasp. Wordlessly, they seemed to know where one's footfall was going to be. They seemed synchronized, as if they were both a part of some magic spell that bound them together. Perhaps, there was a magic spell!

She stole a look at him. With blatant disregard for societal norms, she was one to express what she felt. Yet, how much can a person look at another and not creep them out with the hunger of one more vision?! So after a while, she had to satisfy herself with these stolen sidelong glances, noticing the bridge of his nose once, looking at that sparkle in his eyes or seeing how his mouth crinkled up when he smiled.

He always noticed those sidelong glances, and turned around to see her eyes sprinting across his face. He loved it that she did this, as it gave him one more reason to look at her. See the calmness and excitement taking alternate hold of her features. That quest in her eyes, the steady nature of her gaze and the loyalty of her smile. Her face was a promise he wanted to hold.

It had been some days since they went on these trysts. Every evening, he would come home, and she would accompany him. They would walk, sometimes wordlessly, other times, throwing in a word or two. Mostly, words seemed unwanted. They spoke through some unworded language that only the two of them understood. A bat of an eyelid, a fleck of a hand, a suppressed smile and one knew what the other was saying.

Today had been the day when they had finally confessed what one meant to the other. It is not like they gave it a tag or began building airy castles of marbleburst and glass. It was yet again a kind of acknowledgment- now in words- that life was meaningful in certain ways because they had found in one another something undefinable yet deep. It was not as if an unbreakable seal had been formed, but more like a hope of something beautiful had fluttered for the first time.

They had suddenly found beauty in life together, and they wanted to see where this journey would lead. There were no conclusions, it wasn't even a beginning. It was just an understanding, and probably far more beautiful than any of those verbose promises and grand declarations that the world had seen.

Raindrops
falling all over the earth
trespassing
with a kind of arrogance
raising a faint muddy smell
as it slakes the earth's thirst.

With a roar
the rain unleashes its yearning
lust flashing in its eyes
like lightening.

The sea rises and tumbles
as the breeze and the rain
attack it with all their
inner strength

Heavens exchange melodies
with the sea
rains and wave-splash
encounter mid-air
in a raucous play of
light sight and sound.

As the skies lock lips
with the dancing waves
as it reaches out for an embrace
in an orgy of sinful passion
a burning fire within is roused
and some molten passion bursts forth
in golden lava
spewing out its anger
pleading a reason
for its heartbreak!

A few genuine questions

The more films I watch, the more I seem to be looking at them from the audience's perspective instead of a director's. Yes, all I want to be, in my life, as of now(and probably for the rest of my life) is a director who makes interesting films out of interesting stories. But somehow, I still seem to be trapped as part of an audience, still thinking out of their shoes.

And every time I watch an Indian film(and here I'm using it in terms of Tamil and Hindi that I predominantly watch), it saddens my heart that 8 times out of 10, I end up being disappointed.

As an audience, I feel cheated out of my three hour worth time and as an Indian, I feel that most of our films pay meagre interest in the rich possibilities that our country's culture offers.

A few questions, invariably keep popping in my head time and again, after watching these so-called 'formula films'.

I totally understand that the Indian film industry is the busiest and churns out a phenomenal amount of work for around 750 crores per year- this money being equivalent to what one man swindled off through the Satyam scam!

But I don't understand why directors have to resort to doing the same kind of films over and over again, with just a change of star cast and location and probably other things like costumes, crew etc, repeating the same story again and again!

Our folk tales offer a rich source of inspiration, everyday occurences kindle a lot of situations and more than anything else, we have such a talented bunch of actors, technicians and other facilities that remain to be tapped.

The same story gets repeated in half-a-million different ways year in and year out. It ANNOYS me that the audience is treated like an idiot that asks for such things on screen. The blame game between audience and the industry can only be resolved by the industry. How can we decide that the audience likes formula films only, when we have barely exposed them to any other kind of films!?

If Subramaniapuram won the audience hearts, if an Eeram provided a sensible supernatural thriller, why can't such audience reactions ever be considered the next time anyone ever makes a film?

Why do we keep getting just one kind of film? Agreed that there has never been a better phase for young filmmakers to bring out their ideas on silverscreen than now. But such films are so few and far between.

One really wishes, as a part of the audience, that we don't get repetitive cliched characters. It irks me to see women portrayed time and again as mere dolls on screen. It is high time the actors take a stand and demand a scope for acting rather than just paste make-up on their faces, stand in the sideline, make a guest appearance and get reduced to glorified extras!

Even the heroes are time and again, larger than life, can-kill-anyone-with-a-mere-blow demigods, celebrated by their community. Villains are dummy caricatures who mouth uncouth dialogues and have thugs following them to probably even the toilets.

Why does a country that produces such brilliant cameramen, editors etc fail to make solid scripts? Yes, languages are plenty and probably a course in scriptwriting does become a tad difficult. But it is definitely not impossible!

I'm sick of hearing the Tamil parallel of "We have a situation here"- "Naan oru kudumbastan" time and again in every goddamn film!

When people can figure out fancy locales and stunning stunts, where does the creativity get stoppered when it comes to sensible plots and interesting dialogues?

I hate to accept that we watch more 'foreign' films than Indian films in our class when it comes to learning about any wing of filmmaking. There are a few Indian films that we end up watching as exemplary ones.

In a country that is so rich in every aspect, it really pains me to see no variety being offered to the Indian film audience.

I'm tired of watching the same old thing. I want something different from normal, films for kids, supernatural thrillers, film noir, drama, MUSICALS!

The star power probably does have a role to play, forcing directors to resort to time-tested plots. But it saddens me that if we watch a random muted song sequence of many actors, it is so difficult to figure out which film it is from, since they are all so alike!

Yes, we have such a song-dance subculture in India that we SO don't utilize. Songs and dances could be beautifully woven into the plot than having them as a breather in between the drama.

This is an immediate reaction after watching a recent formula Tamil film.

I hope we get to see something different soon. And yes, I also hope I'd someday soon be given a chance to attempt something different on the big screen!

Short story 8

Somewhere, by the sea, Krishna laments, playing his flute. I can hear its faint notes. For all the games he has played- with minds, hearts, lives... he laments.

"I too am a mere toy of fate," his song claims. A plaintive note arises. A struggling breath, choked with tears he dare not shed in front of those who worship him, finds its way through bamboo shoot and musical voids and begs for forgiveness!

The sky. The sea. The earth. Early stars standing testimony for the cosmos. And the dying embers of a smouldering sun lining the horizon. He prays to the Panchabhootams through his music, pleading to be relieved from his bounden duty of playing his crafty game- turning kin against kin, twirling destiny between his thumbs.

The faint sounds still visit on rainy days like this one... Between the patter of the drops, I almost hear Krishna's sobs. In the breeze, I still can hear the lull of his flute and when the raindrop touches me, I feel a love so pure, so gentle and so trusting. Who else, but Krishna could touch that way?

Is it just me?

1) When something goes right, something wrong usually follows.
2) Volatile is my new middle name
3) Figuring things out makes me lonely and not figuring things out makes me claustrophobic.
4) Wish there was an undo-redo-delete-home-end-pg dn-pg up button in life.
5) Ghajini's Sanjay Ramaswami/Singhania's short term memory loss could be used at will-on myself and others.
6) NID could be shifted to Chennai.
7) Wish shopping was the single biggest meaning making substance in life and I desired nothing beyond that!
8) Wish I did not have so many expectations out of my own life!
9) People were a lot simpler, thoughts could be read and hatred erased from all of the universe.
10) a+b=c (but heck, no... it HAD to be a complex equation!)
11) I could put things back in their place and not live in a messy pig-sty-ish style.
12) I could colour my life when I found it drab, like walls and switchboards!
13) Wish growing up was easier and childhood had less fancies about adulthood.
14) I could travel when I blink.
15) Machines were reasonable beings to whom you could talk and get them self-heal or self-destruct!
16) Food was always good EVERYWHERE!
17) That you could allow family in baggage.
18) Thoughts and ideas could be beckoned at will and brilliance was on speed dial.
19) Memories could be altered and obliviated.
20) All my life could be spent in watching films, reading, writing and painting.
21) Intentions were visible in comic stylized thought bubbles.
22) Mood swings did not exist!(sigh!)
23) Life was not such a complex game, or I was not so simple in the head.
24) More focus, more strength, more I-don't-cares!
25) The little butterfly that is fluttering within could be let out to soar to great heights.
26) Happiness was an over-the-counter medicine.
27) Certain things in life were not mutually exclusive and certain others were not mutually dependent!
28) I had sturdy wings to fly away from everything and soar awhile for some self-discovery.
29) I could talk less, think more and be more independent.
30) I could actually cheer the world and myself easily. *sigh*

_______________________________________________________________

Beginning stages of homesickness. Unrest. Cramming for time. Searching for inspiration. Wanting more meaning. No heart to go anywhere or do anything. Beginning of the blah. Desperately wanting Mysterious Mentor for whom I wish for every-goddamn-day ringing my doorbell!

Probable solutions: Endless mugs of tang. Shopaholicism(being followed to a 'T'), self-motivation(urghh! I detest the word), a trip to the mountains, new Rahman album like one of the really old ones, a little more meaning, one single rain, a bit of indifference, a slice of maturity and some more home time!

*sigh*

I really wish life was a little more easy! :(

Random Jabberings

I have come to realize, over time, that there are a precious few people and things that stay with you forever. And by forever, I mean an illusion of a really extended period of time over which these people and things almost become a permanent fixture of your already short lifespans.

If there's one thing that scares me, it has been separation- from people and things. But life is washing over me with its astronomical strength that I have had nothing but to accept certain separations- from home, from friends, from people, from things with equanimity.

I'm being forced to not think of what-may-have-beens and concentrate just in appreciating the what-have-beens and what-is. It is hard. VERY hard to accept things and life as it comes. I almost wonder how generations have survived this, and this very same thought is what motivates me to reconcile to situations and accept whatever that causes a tremor in me.

Time slips away through my fingers like fine dust. I feel like I just left home, biting back tears and not showing even an iota of all the tension that was mounting within me, and now I'm almost near entering my second year!

SO MUCH has happened. So much has been learned and unlearned in the pages of this one year. I must say, I've emerged stronger, and maybe a tad wiser. Sometimes I wonder, why we accumulate all the strength and all the wisdom? Something always proves what you have wrong!

Probably there have been lessons I've learnt that have only lent more credibility to whatever person I've always been, and some others that have made me proud of my good upbringing. There have also been lessons learnt that have smarted my ego, told me not to be so impulsive and naive and oh-so-trusting.

In a world of confusion, somedays, my clarity of thought drives me crazy. I am always so sure of exactly what I want. It annoys me when people don't see the point of my actions when it stares so clearly at me. I've learnt to accept people for what they are. It is easier to forgive and forget this way.

People- they still continue to fascinate me. Their actions still scare, strangulate, surprise and soothe me. It takes all kinds of people to make the world, alright!

My first year in NID has been a beautiful learning experience. But soon as the academic year was over, I couldn't wait to get back home. I needed my old things that belonged to me. My space! My heart is slowly pacing up at the thought of leaving all the happiness of home.

Home has come rushing to me, or rather, I came rushing back home, at a time when I couldn't bear to stay a minute longer away from it. When I wanted the comfort of the familiar, when I wanted reassurance and support and just simple happiness of honest and pure love of family and friends.

And today, when I sat with not a care in the world, forgetting all the bitterness of growing up (which is not turning out to be as simple as I once imagined, nor as honest, direct and truthful an experience), I realized that home has come as a balm to me, preparing me for the challenges that await when I go back to fight my battles alone. Friends there are, and family too, to support me even there, and I feel blessed to have both. But well, this time the battles are going to be tougher, the challenges more intense.

There is still a voyage of self-discovery left for me, and I've barely begun. Scary, yes, but I'm willing to take it so I make mistakes far less than I have. With a few regrets and holding strong to all the strength and happiness, I shall keep rowing.


P.S.: Just some random jabberings!

Short Story 7

Niti switched off the radio as the radio jockey jabbered on. It had been a long day. Too much work. Too little satisfaction in it. And a horrible head ache to top it all.

"Come here kitty-cat!" she twitched her cat's ears and let it curl around her feet. She dug into the box of cookies and tossed one at her foot and popped another into her mouth.

She wished something could unwind her a bit. The radio couldn't and neither could the book. Way too heavy to read after a day's work, she thought.

Something to soothe her and make her feel comforted...

The lights got bright. Something zipped in through the window. Her jaw dropped. A parade of musicians had zipped in through her window. Eyes popped out, jaw still frozen mid-air and voice in a knot, she managed a gasp.

"Hello and welcome to Wishwhatever works inc. We operate at your deepest requests and needs. We just received a neurospiritic signal from your internal systems requesting our services to unwind you. So here we are, presenting the Interstellar Orchestra," a man greatly resembling a smiling Dali declared.

The musicians started to play and two men handed out tall glasses of some frosted drink to a still-shocked her. Finally managing to come to her senses, she almost started to protest, when the drink handlers gently nudged her to sip her drink.

As she sipped her drink, she found her muscles relaxing and her heart pacing back to the normal.

As the lilting jazz number drew to an end, the Interstellar Orchestra sat on their knees and drew out a rose each from within their neatly brushed jackets. A baffled, but calmer Niti, graciously muttered a 'Thank you' and managed a smile.

At the sight of her smile, they bowed and disappeared in a blink.

"Kitty-cat!Erm... Did that actually happen?"

Kitty-cat continued to nibble at the cookie.

Short Story- 5

She wondered where he hid the rainbows. They were probably hidden in one of those million lockers in 'Earth Needs' section. They were so beautiful, she wished her Dad would let her throw them merrily on earth whenever she wanted. He was the chief of everything the world was about. Many told her, they called him 'God' down there and apparently that was the highest post anyone had ever got. She didn't quiet understand all that, but she knew everyone loved and respected her Dad and that was more than enough.

She was very happy today. When she got up, a globule had died and a spectacular show of light was visible in the distance. She loved the way all kinds of colours just burst out in randomness. They had all trooped near the dying globule and had watched the 'death dance', as it was called.

It had made her so jubilant that she felt like throwing some colour down below at the earth. Her Dad however had just given her a stern look and walked away, when she had suggested it.

Now, she slowly sneaked to where he kept all kinds of rainbows hidden. The Rainbow Locker, it was called. She had discovered the small locker, number 203, adjacent to The Unlimitted supply closet of laughter and the Limited extra toe cabinet.

A dread ran through her. Last year, her enthusiastic exploration had resulted in an extra toe being tossed accidentally down on earth and a newborn chewing merrily on it. That her mother couldn't make out what that rubbery thing was that her wee little girl puked, was another story altogether. A whole village of ideas poured forth, but time healed their curiosity and that tale now remained forgotten and buried.

She chided herself for being so reckless and slowly opened The Rainbow Locker, and chanted,

"Give me a rainbow that would span a mile
That would make the world delighted for a while."

A mist developed within the endless locker. Colours stirred within. A faint strain of music slowly built up to an audible symphony. And a thin, wispy and beautiful rainbow emerged. It twirled around her. She touched it and the colours passed through her hand, leaving a pleasant coolness on her palm. She whispered softly, "Go spread joy wherever you wish to". The Mile Rainbow headed towards the earth. She sighed and then readied herself to tell her Dad what she had just done.

Eraser

Wipe it off!
Throw away the remnant rubber pieces
they scare me
with the possibility
of reforming those words
that they had just erased

Reaching for the rainbows!

I'm embarking on my journey to Cumbum- my dear native land of simple joys. My excitement knows no boundaries, as this is a return after six years. But the added tag of shooting a travel documentary there is what is making me apprehensive.

Yes, a long aspired wish- almost 5 years of meditating on that later- I'm finally making it. There are still a million ways in which this shoot might not happen, and I'm hoping none of those ways interfere.

I badly want to do this documentary. First and foremost, for my dear Cumbum Thatha- as a dedication to him and his life.
Also for that wonderful gift of childhood that it gave me.
And thirdly, to fill in what my life is missing these days- self-sufficient calm.

I am asking all of you who read this to just send a wish and some strength floating towards me. It is a very important trip, and I hope it goes well.

Please put in a second of prayer for me. This means a whole lot!

Cumbum... here I come...


P.S: In case you want to see what the original inspiration was, these three posts below would help. Reading them, Arvind Caulagi suggested I think of making a film. THAT was the moment that has changed a lot of things in life.

Thank you Arvi!

Part One
Part Two
Part Three

DESPAIR!

Half our battles are fought alone. Struggling to grapple with people almost takes half our everyday life away- people and their capacity of cruelty, people and their inability to express, people and their non understanding of things.

I'm struggling with this now. I am happy. Really really happy in life. But there are so many things that plague me. Things that bother me.

I don't know where to run to. I see walls or opinions all around me.

I need my mentor. That one person who's always been elusive. MY mentor. The one who shall be there to knock me on my head and drive in some sense as well us thump me on my back and propel me forward.

So confused! So confused!
I feel like a million people are existing inside, ordering me around, telling different things. Does life necessarily have to be so cruel as we grow up? And people crueler?!

Does the world know that nothing cuts open people as much as words. Ah the power of words!!!

And I hate to see people and things drift away from me.

Can't wait for my trip. I just want to find some things out for myself. I want to snuggle back into the childhood space where life was simpler, world was nicer and my own happiness depended on smaller things!

For really, nothing and no one is going to do that for me. There is no mentor. No nothing.

Revive

twang twang
metal twang!
a pluck of a string
some strange guitar
nice-voiced guy hums
a melody
in alien tongues.
And it soothes me
pours some invisible
hot fuzzy liquid
in a place
where once was my heart

I hear a faint beat.

Short Story-4

"I love you, Harry. You make me feel like a person. Like I'm me... and I'm beautiful. " Marion slurred in the film.

She rewound the disc and replayed it.
"I love you, Harry. You make me feel like a person. Like I'm me... and I'm beautiful. "
She flung the remote and walked away from the room and into her study.

"Lies", she wrote, "Films are lies. They make us believe in something that does not exist. They are like little 'how to' programs that try to tell us what life, love, truth, expression, sadness, happiness etc should be. The writer's ideals of these concepts are what we see fashioned on screen and what we, religiously look for in our own little lives. And that is the reason why all our love seems stale, our happiness too less and our sadness overtly dramatic. And this is why I have decided to stop watching films. I have ruined my life enough by aping everything that comes on the screen. And I shall no more. "

And she broke the nib, as if having declared a death sentence!

Short Story 6

She tried writing. Over and over again. Her mind was not able to siphon its thoughts and articulate what she was feeling. The prose froze, she stupidly thought.

Untitled 8 was opened and not one thought emerged that had any interesting bent to it. She typed blah as her status message in every possible social forum.

And she closed all the documents without saving them. She shut down her computer. She crawled into her bed.

Sometimes, one should never try to write, she sighed to herself and slept.

Short Story 3

(for all those who are puzzled by these sudden short story series- my fiction project begins next. I'm just freeing my mind and pen by these tales of randomness.

DISCLAIMER: The themes might be influenced by my own life or of people and things around me. But by no means are these stories chunks of my life or anyone else. THIS IS PURE FICTION.)

The idle familiarity of home calmed his frazzled nerves. Finally...finally he could rid himself of all those clawing agonies that had plagued him through morn and dream.

Home was the best eraser to wipe away pages and pages of things you never wanted to be associated with, but had inevitably got yourself mixed with.

The smells of that single layer of dust that somehow managed to always stick to the sofa cushions acted like a balm. The faint sounds of the radio from the kitchen across the bend of the corridor, sounded like a lullaby. He sank deeper into the sofa and told his mind that nothing could go wrong anymore. He had got his soul back.

Short Story-2

That was so long ago, she mused. Her limbs ached with a kind of tiredness that was not just physical. Yes, age had finally caught up with her, after running a furlong behind in the marathon of life.

She shook the dust of the cloth. It was lying like a rag in the corner of the room. She remembered the exact moment she had cast it off. Tearing it into shreds, fat drops of tears wetting its surface, and a guttaral cry of hatred and the throw to that forgotten corner.

Long ago suddenly seemed like now. The memories had just played their trick on her, all at once intensifying the simmering flame of thought and evoking everything.

She didn't cry this time. She felt the texture of the cloth, and with it, its memories and smiled. It didn't really matter anymore. But she felt tired, very tired for having to go through the motions of the past once again.

She threw the cloth back into the forgotten corner and decided she needed a nap.

Short story 1

A raw fear gripped her. The dream had been too vivid, too beautiful. She had lost herself in that dream- letting all the beauty ensnare her and in all abandon, she had let go of her hold on herself.

And she had woken up. Crudely. From those images of pristine perfection. To the stark drab graying walls of her leaking room. To those flaky patches of concrete still struggling to hold on to the wall with invisible ivy hands. To that wooden skirting that was paling and crumbling in parts and annoying her by their presence and absence.

She had known somewhere, when the dream began, that it was a dream. But why then did she allow herself to sink in its embracing waters?! She had lived through the carousing ways of happiness and mortgaged sanity for it.

And now- she was left with nothing but fear. Fear of the craving gnawing crushing emptiness that she once called her heart. It was not there and she wanted it.

 ...and time changes, 

like chameleon skin, 

ushering in the old and new 

in random alternation! 

And we remain, 

mere witnesses 

letting time wash over us 

with its brute force!

My world

little voices in my head
squeak to grab attention
from the noises in my earphone
chewing noises
anklet sounds
wind whisking by
birds chattering on a balmy noon.

idle dreams fly by my head
in circles and triangles
and vaguely sometimes
in squares too
mocking at the meaning
i try to draw from those shapes
telling me they are after all
just dreams

i swat them hard
with the micronet of thought
swok swok swok
they die their dreamy death
into oblivion
their firefly existence
drowned by the power torch
of my willpower.

haywire the thought-web spins
from potatoes to placebos
jangris to gazebos
armchairs to Computers for Dummies.

random
vague.

confusing
belittling
the strength of my selfhood

buzzing sounds
of high voltage ideas
striking with intensity
a singed smell
accompanying
the birth of thought.

swimming colours
floating figures
nursery rhymes
lyrics of forgotten songs
embers of dead fires
cyclonic storm raging within

trippy, the world i make for myself
a lego block world
with doctor sets and barbie dolls
G.I.Joes and mosquito net houses
fake mousch-es and wigs from thread
sock dresses and paper boats
imaginary friends and real enemies
office-office and fake responsibilities
card games and bus ticket currencies.

i move the coins
my will and wish
my fingers point inwards
at myself
when castles break
clothes rip
paper boats get soggy in the water tub stream.

i still have my rose tinted glasses
cracking from the sides
as time beats it down with its hammer

someday this glass shall be made into powder
and i know i'll store them
in a photo roll can
and wait for my miracle maker
to come up with a formula
to resurrect my cool rose shades
to wear them once again.

Awaiting questions

Shutters
black and blue
dull rusted metal
clinging on
to one another for survival
as vines creep up to eat them away

I draw them around me
by the diktats of the world
that command me-
fashion yourself in a certain way
forget what you feel
no more is this an open kingdom
bottle them up, they say!

the shutters bind
I have no key
no secret code
no magic chants

standing outside my cage
the world laughs
imbecile!
loser!
weirdo!
calls me by different names
I know not, sometimes, how to respond.

Words, my slaves,
at times fail me
buckle me and chain me
their silence, their absence
or as blunders and potholes.

These shutters
that curb and contain and impose and refrain
these shutters
I want a release from these shutters.

********************************************************************************

Too much philosophy is happening in the quiet of the head. As earphones plug me off from the out-worldly sounds, as moving images of two of my ad films digress me from the movements around, introspection has set in.

How quiet my life seems, and yet so cluttered with the voices in my head. I wonder why I have so many questions. And I wonder if anyone can even be addressed those questions to.

Twenty three years and yet I feel life has just gone a full circle. No wisdom, no sense. Impulsiveness and trust still belittling all the knowledge I amass.

Work anchors me. Thoughts of home and family set in a calm. Friends- here, there, everywhere inspire a smile.

But what is all this about? This struggle, this defeat, those minor random wins, that heart-wrenching pain that plagues me in spasms of suddenness, that hysterical laughter that drowns every goddamn existing thingsoundsmell in a whisker.

I am not depressed in the least. I am just too pensive, and introspective. Attempting patterns of sense, figuring the bigger jigsaw puzzle that includes my own little set of puzzle blocks as a minor set.

Like they say, maybe only time can tell...

Snipping away...

I am snipping away...
not just the reel images that I once conceived
in a particular fashion
in a certain style
flowing to a perfect rhythm brewed.

I am snipping away...
also the fingernails that grew over
that hurt me when I clean my face
that scratch me in my sleep
the nails I let grow hoping to see prettier fingers.

Snipping is all I do in life
The baggage I carry
of thoughts and emotions
fashioned from mud, artistically by eager hands;
those very hands gripped each other in fear
when it saw the world had trampled it over
in naughty enthusiasm.

Snipping snipping snipping
cloth, film, hair, nails, thoughts, feelings
cutting to fit
some hand in glove
some feet in sock
some spirit into life
some happiness into days

snip those sad dreams
that wilted
snip away those idle thoughts
that wasted
snip away everything, just everything.


*****************************************************************************

After five whole days of undiluted happiness, a poisoned drop of sadness pollutes. This is my self-cleans(i/o)g.

I am, asking too many questions out of life...

The Quest

When thoughts clog your senses down like a hair-infested gutter
When what you feel rules over your everydays
When distractions amount to mere reminders of what-is-to-come
When bubbles of questioning break the surface of your spirit
asking you for answers to the questions that you have asked a million times over
where do i hide my bandaged soul
where do I go plunge my hot-head full of worries?

No voice soothes these erupting pus-filled boils
No comforting book can provide a perennial balm

The inner struggle to truth continues
Questions questions and more questions
Of approaching events
of struggles to come
and oh most importantly of the scary battle with time
that everyone faces alone

Time that tests you
your patience
that knocks on the city gates of your resilient spirit
and comes calling to wander far.

Time that mocks your
arrogant wish for permanence
knowing the word exists
but in mere fragments of thoughts.

Time that takes away slowly
sometimes crudely
everything you tagged as your own
grabbing and breaking it all to smithereens.

Time that looms ahead
smiling an enigmatic smile
and in mock-challenge asking me
"Will you survive what I have in store for you?"