Beyond the obvious

Tonight I watched a movie that reminded me of Oscar Wilde’s plays. Indeed as I later found out by googling here and there, the movie was inspired by one of his plays “Lady Windermere’s Fan”. The Screenwriter chose to transpose the play to the 1930s. Yet the dialogues were so familiar, the wit was vintage Oscar Wilde, and the plot bore such an unmistakable imprint of him.

The world of yore to me is like a beautiful photograph in black and white. Charming people with an impeccable sense of dressing, and a grandiose manner of speaking. Nowhere is this typified better than in Wilde’s plays. The characters are so fictional, for how can a real person ever speak that way. There is a bit of Wilde in all the characters. As if he is the only one speaking and the people are merely moving their lips in synchronicity.

But even if you have a hundred Oscar Wilde’s talking to themselves it would still be so marvelously interesting. They would all have their own opinions, even contradictory opinions, and they would articulate it with such panache. Here is a quote that seems to have stuck in my mind. “A man can be happy with any woman as long as he does not love her.” What do you think of it? Ridiculous? Profound? Untrue? Whatever you think of it I am sure you find it perplexing and striking. I try to understand it, find a meaning in it and always miss his point.

But then the point is he is not trying to make a point! The drift of the play and the meaning of it are for you to derive. The reader will have to weed out all that fluff and witty distractions and think beyond the obvious. Sort of like life. Nobody can tell you it’s meaning. It’s for you to find out.

Let me try an Oscar Wilde-ish quip to describe this great man. “A true intellectual is one who doesn’t mean a word he says.” Or may be, “A true intellectual is one who means so much more than what he says”.

Little Things

A little something,
That happened today,
A little, trivial,
Forgettable something,
Such a trifling,
And yet I have to,
Tell it to you,
Tell you,
Every little thing.

A little something,
That makes me happy,
So worried,
Or even unhappy.
Such a trifling,
And yet it is,
that this little something,
means everything,
to me.

Dear Stranger

We have never met. Perhaps we never will. Your presence in my life is a soft whisper I almost heard. You are not a part of my physical existence, sometimes I wonder if you are real. Tomorrow our lives may drift apart and it will be as if nothing ever happened.

I never asked who you are. You told me your name, but I didn't need to know. I don't know you enough, nor did I care to know. Bits of information, things that you chose to reveal - I have known you in fragments. Our interactions have been sporadic, so accidental.

But those brief moments have brought me a smile. Every moment memorable. Every bit of it has been a joy. Bit by bit we have grown familiar. Bit by bit ... but then.

Between you and me, there is a chasm - I can see you, so far away. You can see me too. But this chasm is unsurmountable. Dear stranger, sometimes I think of you as a friend, other times I shudder to realize that you are indeed, a stranger.

I am fine

Those words you said,
Are long forgotten,
Even if they aren't,
I am not affected,
Even if I am,
The wounds have healed,
Even if they haven't,
Don't worry, I am fine.

Those words you hid,
I haven't heard,
Even if I have,
They haven't hurt,
Even if I'm hurt,
I do not bleed,
Even if I do,
Don't worry, I am fine.

It's a kind of magic!

In the beginning there was emptiness. The emptiness of untouched innocence. There was the floor and there were walls. Big windows would interject the walls every now and then. Ample sunlight bathed the room, and the wind whistled through the corridors playfully. The white floor glistened brightly in the brilliant sunlight, a sight as inviting as a careless uninhibited smile. It was clear from the start, the bare, unadorned condominium had potential.

First came the furniture. Beds to sprawl on. Low reclining chairs of wood. Rugs and carpets. Kitchenwares and dinner plates. Bare necessities to subsist on. Electronic gadgetry followed. Refrigerator, TV, Music system and ofcourse, the laptop.

Then followed those sweet nothings, that fill up the emptiness of vast open spaces. Things of aesthetic beauty. Some paintings and artifacts. Posters of Elvis Presley and The Beatles. Center tables and side tables. Pen holders and flower pots.

The condominium looked more and more like home, yet something was missing. Emptiness lurked here and there, and loneliness would sneak in every now and then. Then came Mom. It's been a week since she arrived. She leaves day after. It’s amazing, what I couldn't do over months, she did in a week. This empty place now smells like home and feels like home. I have realized Mom's can do magic!

Temper

Everything,
Is quiet,
On the surface,
Then a ripple,
Breaches the sanctity,
Of the quietude and amplifies,
The discord to such gigantic proportions that it engulfs,
Every shard of sanity, demolishes the last bastion of reason,
And submerges any hope of reconciliation till suddenly,
The storm subsides but not before,
It's too late and the damage,
Is done and it's all,
Over.