The Dead End.

You know it’s not your day when you log in to your Xmail accounts and find that there is not a single mail pining for you…not even a mail from your Prof screaming at you for not updating him on the project front. I know for a fact that my update mail is sitting happily in his inbox and he would just Shift+ Del it as trash and wait for my ISD call. Makes you wonder why one goes gaga over Internet.

Anything worth doing is worth delaying…that’s the philosophy for the day on my white board and I am still breaking my head on what to write here… I mean it’s all nice and cool to say “hey dude I got my own blog and blah…” but then what do I write in it?
I am sure the one who lands up at this page (even if it is by some freak chance) is not really interested in knowing if I am as jubilant as Bush or if I feel that the Indian cricket team needs to go into retirement. So why did I go to all this pain of creating my own blog. Beats me!

But then that is not the reason behind this whole exercise…i mean there are days when I have to write to somehow give voice to the anger welling up in me and then there are those euphoric moods when there are so many happy emotions having a fencing competition in my mind, that I need to sort them out before they kill each other…and there are days like today – Silent. Empty. Most of the time it is this silence I try to wipe away with those little squiggles running amuck …

However I forgot one other reason, by far the most important one on why I need to write…I need to see my name in print! Someone once said Power is the best known aphrodisiac but I feel Fame is equally good if not better. The very thought that a hundred netizens (Well there’s no harm in being optimistic) would read my piece and relate to it is a wonderful feeling…Now don’t get me wrong! I am not writing to change the world, or move the mountains but I am writing coz I am selfish…it is more to do with the perpendicular pronoun than anything else. 
Looks like I am stuck at a dead end and unless I know which brick to tap for a magical world to open in front my eyes, I am cornered. Till that magical moment unfurls… 

Of lifetimes lost in time spans...

To quote a perspective from Rathish’ blog “...it makes a world of difference when you look at what you have gained - a timespan that's worth a lifetime.” I agree.

This is not some bitter article in memory of a-love-that-could-have-been-mine nor is it one of those teary-eyed mushy letters about love's labours lost. In fact this is nothing now but maybe it would amount to something soon and eventually this would be everything I believe in. Hard to speculate now so I wouldn’t trespass into those grey areas.

Why do we talk about ‘a love lost’? How does one manage to lose love? Does that mean love is something that can be quantified, measured, treasured and in some cases lost? Can it be seen? Is that why we say we lost it, when we don’t see it anymore?
How? Why? Aah! the complex connotations to a simple word that moves the world.

*Sigh*

I don’t know about the rest of the world but I, for one haven’t lost love. Somehow, I never felt an urge to tie the two together. (I mean, love and lost). It is just one permutation/combination that didn’t click. How would that disprove the others? Does this mean, I sit in one place and run around the trees with mon amour in my dreams? Of course not, there is more to life and love than the few measly interpretations we choose to hold true.

I have been told time and again to let go and not to hold on…neither to people nor to their memories when they are gone. Easier said than done. You do move on in life…not leaving behind a love but carrying it. And no, it is not an unopened package, lying in some dark corner of your mind. ‘Unrequited love’, ‘Lost love’, ‘Broken heart’ –use any expression you want but to me it all means just one thing. Love exists in your life.

But what do you do with that truckload of anger, resentment, disappointment, you-name-it-I-feel-it-emotion on seeing a wise education sponsored dream termed as wild and buried alive under social commitments? 
You could do a rain-dance like the witch doctor in next door South America and hope the ensuing downpour buries you along with all that darn pain. Or you could sit in your little corner and count the scars you have (or the broken hearts in your trail, as the case may be) and forget to Live, while you are crunching those inconsequential numbers. Or better still, pour it all in a blog and try to clog the bandwidth, like yours truly just did. 
At the end of it (Damn the *#@%ing pun) do you know what aches the most? – That my lifetime didn’t last for that time span… 

The things we said today.

I had this conversation recently, about the importance of words. Yes, they're important, words that is, but why, or to put it more clearly, what is it about words that makes them so important?
I think words make memories, and sometimes, like a scent long forgotten, they come back to you, bring back some of those memories...  which sometimes mean the world to you, or which are, at times, absolutely pointless, like walking down a beautiful road with someone you love.. or waking up on a Sunday morning and just thinking about how good life is, just then, in that one moment.

But I'm digressing. Words, yes. They're the most powerful weapons too, they have the power to influence, persuade, dissuade and change. But then, there's the beauty of it all. You don't even need to be very precise, you know. Their vagueness, if used correctly, only adds to their beauty. So, I could go ahead and say something like "...and the smell of the wet soil hung in the air." and I find this sentence absolutely beautiful, or I could be very precise and describe it all in just one word. Petrichor. See what I mean?

And then there are words which remind me of certain people who have touched my life... certain incidents that have had some say in deciding the course of it... So everytime I hear the word labyrinth, I'm reminded of a person who taught me how just about everything could be associated with that word;   "planet" reminds me of an economics class, a long time ago when I sat with a friend and made more than 92 words from the alphabets of this word, just our way of finding out the truth about Da Vinci Code. :D "Breezy" reminds me  of this particular dress I had, all so flowy, I just couldn't associate any other word with it. "Home" reminds me of my living room couch and the crystal dinner set, for I don't know what reason!

Of course, its entirely possible to have situations when words fail you. Happens to the best of us, doesn't it? I think that's why we have eyes.. they say so much. But then that's another story.. :)

Realizations

It's time to stop and think
Look within and without!
It's time that's running out between you and me
And there's lots to talk about
And nothing to listen to, simply hear it and chuck it out
You out of my life and I out of yours
Forget it and finish it up
No infatuation, No obsessions
Just simply my job and yours too
I'm not crossing roads anymore
My dreams, my way
Shut up and listen!
No questions, no answers. Enough of nonsense, is that clear?
It's time to stop and realize that it's you,
You who's an idiot, and not me!

White

I wonder how long I've been here. Days? Months? Years? I don't know. I wonder how long it's been since I've seen the bright white sunshine and velvety black night. I wonder how long I've been confined withing the walls of this tiny white room, while smiling doctors and nurses, also dressed in white, try to make me eat the tasteless food. Oh, they smile at me alright, but their eyes-their cold, unsympathetic eyes, they tell me the truth. And the truth is that they're tired of being nice to me, tired of looking after the poor, crazy girl. Well, I don't want any of you to look after me either, doctor. I hate this as much as you do.

The door is opening. In comes Dr. XYZ. He's holding a needle and smiling. Hello, doctor. How are you? Have you come to poke another needle into me, in the hope that I'll get better and go away. Not a chance, doctor. Not a chance. I'm fine, doctor. Absolutely fine. You are wearing a white coat, doctor, and your eyes are cold and white. Do you know I hate white, doctor? I bet you don't SEE. I'm talking to YOU, doctor. I'm holding a CoN-VER-Sa-Tion with you, doctor. I'm telling you my likes and dislikes. Like NORMAL people do. So where was I? Oh yes. I hate white. You see, doctor, that's why I hate this place. Because it's white. White walls, white bed, white gown, white doctors, white nurses. The atmosphere, its cold and white too, doctor. Everything is white, even the food.

Are you approaching me and saying something? What are you saying, doctor? Are you telling me that it won't hurt? But that's white too, doctor. A white lie. Because you see, it will hurt doctor, it will hurt a lot. As you come closer, doctor, I start screaming and thrashing, because I don't want the pain,  doctor. But you don't understand and you smile reassuringly. A white nurse rushed in and holds me down, and you seize the opportunity and plunge the needle into my arm. As the needle pierces my skin, I close my eyes and feel pain, doctor, I feel white pain. Stringing white light flashes beneath my closed eyelids and I see brilliant white stars. When I finally open my eyes, doctor, I see hazy white images. The world spins a crazy white spin. Slowly, sleep overcomes me. It's not white this time, doctor. It's black. A warm, comforting black. With great effort, i pry my sleepy eyes open. You are watching me, doctor. You are watching me with a white gleam in you r eyes. Do you still think I'm crazy, doctor? AM I crazy, doctor?

When The Heavens Opened Up

It's raining again. The air is filled with the smell of the parched earth heaving under the cool showers. Petrichor it's called, someone told me once when I'd used a similar expression. Yes, petrichor, but then this one word could never possibly describe the way I perceive it, can it? It sounds like a bleaching agent. I don't know why, it just does.
There's Eric Clapton's "Walk Out In The Rain" playing softly, tugging at my heartstrings. Clouds cover the sky, and here and there a tiny star dares to peek out. I'm reading one of Pablo Neruda's. And yet another beautiful poem comes to mind.. a thing of beauty is a joy forever.....
A lot of things come to mind, and all of them are invariably brushed aside. I'll think about them, but not today. Here, this moment is just too perfect to ruin with thoughts. I let this breeze wash through me. Maybe I should make myself a cup of coffee... or maybe just not yet. For now, it's just me and the sound of rain, and the smell of rain, and the songs of rain.



{if you thought this post was utterly incoherent, you're not alone. I think the same, but now that I've typed all that in, I don't have the heart to delete it. You read it? My sympathies. But this one was straight from the heart. :) }

Lazy, Lazy Days

Lutyen’s Delhi is beautiful. I love the cool breeze, and the drizzle. As I walk alone on the lovely rainy road, good music blaring in my ears – I feel a smile make it’s way up to my face. Uncles and aunties staring at me. What is it that bugs them so to see someone relaxed, alone, happy? Two bus stops crossed, and finally I reach the Csec metro station. I make myself comfortable on the stairs. My phone beeps to tell me my friend will be late. Good forty five minutes late. Bless that traffic jam. I must be quite a spectacle – my bag on my lap, book in hand, and bottle on side, big smile…stares, stares, more stares. I ignore them all with practiced ease. Today will be my day.

Hours later on the metro, I vanish behind a wall of sweaty backs. My back against the window; I relish the solitude. The metro doors part and push me out on the platform. As I walk my way back home, I am overwhelmed with simple pleasures. My shirt still damp with the drizzle, I recall the hot three rupee chai washing down my parched throat. I recall the amazement on my friend’s face as I strike up a conversation with a perfect stranger. Most of all, I relive the silence, peace and the timelessness of the few hours spent absolutely alone in a public place. Best kept secrets are always carelessly left in the open. No one notices.
Back at home, voices from the other room stab my silence dead with a million words. Heaven. Drop that ‘e’ and you have ‘haven’ staring back at you. Sweet Irony, how bitter can you get? To dos point fingers at me from a wall. Unfinished target lists lie crumpled in the dustbin. As I stretch in my bed, I’m aware of the energy still within me; surplus, excess, waste. Tonight, I shall sleep with a load of guilt sitting square on my chest.

I’ve been told I have unrealistic expectations. From myself, especially. I should lower my standards, learn to be satisfied, let loose. I should also socialize, adjust with friends, watch series of English soaps and be less stuck up. I should accept people’s faults- you can’t have people without any. Why should I be such a snob all the time? Why can’t I just let my pretences down and behave like everybody else? Why don’t I well, basically, get real?

Heh. I can’t do it, because. Glee is not a TV. show. Pleasure is not a scooty.  This is reality. I am glad it is.