Octopus' Garden

I'd like to be under the sea
In an octopus' garden in the shade
He'd let us in, knows where we've been
In his octopus' garden in the shade.
-The Beatles

It is a serene feeling, to be among the sea lions at fisherman’s wharf. They make strange noises and slither on top of each other. Noises that sound like grunts or groans. It is a language without words. And hence its meaning is so clear.

I have come to fear words. Words mean different things to different people. That shows how easy it is to misunderstand someone. Sometimes I think it is best to be silent. The language of eyes, smiles and expressions sends messages so universal that they are easily understood. The sea lions make me realize that. I can spend hours gazing at them.

Sweet Simplicity

Will you teach me,
The sweet smile,
Of your soft sensuous lips,
And free my mind,
Of thoughts,
So futile?

Will you rid me,
Of my reason,
And that insufferable,
Miserable question mark,
That doubts,
Everything beautiful and pure?

Will you tell me,
How to live,
How to wonder,
And be amazed,
At this glory,
All around me?

Will you save me,
From my mind,
All its intelligence,
And shameful arrogance?
Will you fill me,
With sweet simplicity?

Hide and Seek

A strange interplay,
Of light and shade.
Leaves cast their shadows,
On my face.
Wind whispers softly,
Into my ears.

Rollover on my back,
Watch the clouds,
Swim about in the air.
In the corner of my eye,
I see you standing there,
But as I turn around,
You are gone.
Who are you hiding from?

A zephyr stirs up,
A bunch of leaves.
Each fluttering,
Shimmering, glimmering,
Golden leaf,
Happy in itself,
Carefree, full of glee.
And then a glimpse of you,
A fleeting glimpse,
Gone in a blink.
Who are you hiding from?
Show yourself to me.

(Photos - A lake in Redwood Shores, Statue of Liberty )

Blinded By You

Can’t get you,
Out of my head.
So dazzled,
By your whimsical ways.

Can’t comprehend,
Your setting me aside,
Yet your earnest longing,
When I am not beside.

Can’t see,
That self-evident truth.
These days,
I am blinded by you.

(Photos - From Empire State Building, Times Square, and Broadway)

Central Park

It’s been a while since I read the book. But I remember that I had sketched vivid images in my mind while reading it. “The Catcher in The Rye” means different things to different people. Over the years lots of people have sworn by this book – people both famous and infamous. The book has had an impression on me too, so add another one to the list (except I am still very ‘unfamous’). I had identified with the book so deeply at one point of time that I would imagine myself as Holden Caulfield walking down the streets of Manhattan and sitting in Central Park by the night.

But then it has been a while. That the images still lay intact in some deep recess of my mind came as a surprise to me. It came back to me suddenly as I walked down 5th Avenue somewhere near the crossing of 51st Street. I was alone on the street, and it was crowded as ever. Snow was melting around me, and the slush on the street made it difficult to walk. And then it came to me, like an epiphany, that it was just around the corner. A strange eery feeling I cannot explain. I walked on delirious with excitement. It had to be there, and there it was. Shining dizzily, dressed in snow. My Central Park.

It was all slippery, sloppery and I flip flopped several times trying to keep my balance. A carriage passed me by, pulled by one of those big hairy horses. A golden statue looked on at me with a sly smile. Children slid by on sleds and parents nodded approvingly. Lovers slipped their hands around each other and stared at the tall buildings in the distance. Freaks jogged in the snow (yes freaks, just imagine jogging in the snow in that kind of weather!). Where was it, where was the lake? There it was almost frozen. Where were they, the ducks? There they were, some of them, cringing in the cold, under the bridge. Is it real? Am I dreaming? My mind was going wild – Penn Station, Edmont Hotel, Greenwich Village, Grand Central Station, Broadway, 5th Avenue, Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was all in the book wasn’t it? And where was that “Little Shirley Beans” record that he had dropped that night when he walked out of the Wicker Bar and roamed all around Central Park. Where did you drop it Holden? It broke into pieces. Did you grab them all and take them with you Holden?

Where was Phoebe?

I felt so damn happy all of a sudden, the way old Phoebe kept going around and around . . . It was just that she looked so damn nice, the way she kept going around and around, in her blue coat and all.

There I was, all alone. Like I have always been. There I was walking down the street away from it all. The golden statue looked on. It was cold.

Gem of the Ocean

It is a play I saw last Friday. Written by two-time Pulitzer Prize winner August Wilson, the play is set in the year 1904, in Pittsburgh. The play is very engaging, almost a fairy tale. The protagonists are Afro-Americans primarily. Naturally it touches on topics of racism and the disillusionment of Afro-Americans after the abolition of slavery. The situation in which we find the characters is nothing short of extraordinary. Factory workers have gone on strike because of low wages. A black man drowns himself in the river in front of a crowd of people to show that he hasn’t stolen a bucket of nails. There is news that afro-americans in Alabama are undergoing extreme persecution and have no way out.

In the middle of all these extraordinary events is a small set of Afro-americans that have seen so much in life that nothing seems to surprise them anymore. Hardship is so much a part of their existence. Misfortune follows them at every step. And it is this that brings them together – a strong feeling that they have nothing but themselves to depend on.

A young man from Alabama finds his way to Pittsburgh and is sucked into the city’s vicious grip. At work his employers cheat him and pay him less, and at home his landlord charges him much more than market rate so he just can’t make ends meet. But all that is fine, until he does something wrong (steals a bucket of nails and unknowingly causes the death of another). His guilt consumes him and he needs his soul washed. This is the beginning of the story. Through a series of events that changes everybody’s life, the young man undergoes a metamorphosis. He finds a cause to live for. He finds himself.

The play is so natural and real. It is easy to put oneself in the shoes of anyone of the characters. It is easy to understand their helplessness, to admire their courage and their perseverance that makes them take every setback in their stride and strive on towards true emancipation and equality. More touching to me is the fact that I could not point fingers at anyone. Everyone is justified in his/her actions. Even the person that brings on suffering to this group of afro-americans is black himself. And he too is merely obeying the law. His eccentricity and his arrogance are forgivable if you take into account his background and ideals in life. He is after all a self-made man and a man who knows his job and does it well. Everybody is so caught in a web. From an angle it seems society is doing all right and yet from another it seems everything is disintegrating into something uncontrollable. The plots and sub plots merely play a side role. The essence of the play is something that hasn’t even been said explicitly. I found it brilliant.

Photos - Poster of Gem of the Ocean, Denver Center for Performing Arts, Larimer Square, 16th Street

Colorado Rocky Mountain High

The chill seems to follow me around. I missed my flight last weekend and was stuck in the blizzard in the northeast. Manhattan was frozen stiff and central park was a pearly white. It was cold there but Denver is worse. They recorded –13 degrees Fahrenheit! So today when I got ready for my trip to the Rocky Mountains, I wore 5 layers of clothing and an optimistic grin.

As we drove westward the altitude began to increase steadily. The Red Rocks Amphitheatre at an elevation of around 6400 ft was a sight to behold. People told me Red Rocks held the hallowed distinction of being the best natural amphitheatre in North America. The Beatles had played here. U2 will play here tomorrow. Some of the biggest bands of all time have played here. Gigantic Red Rocks (sandstone in composition) were the prominent feature of the landscape. Geologists would point out that the rocks of this area predate the Rockies and are hence not foothills, but actually “Ancestral Rockies”.

Moving on, we made our way through Clear Creek Canyon, an area marked by three frozen rivers and plentiful alpine forestation, into a snowy peak known as the Loveland Pass. Its elevation was a mighty 11990 ft. This was the great continental divide. The water on one side flowed into the Pacific Ocean and on the other side flowed into the Atlantic Ocean. The wind roared straight into the face at speeds of 50 miles an hour, and the conifers was conspicuous by their absence. This was the Tundra region where the vegetation consisted primarily of stunted shrubs on the leeward side of the slope. Nevertheless, the view was nothing short of spectacular.

Our next stop was the town of Breckenridge, known mainly as a skiing destination. On our way we came across a number of skiing spots buzzing with activity. High up in the Rockies, Breckenridge had a spectacular skyline studded with beautiful mountain peaks. The streets were packed with tourists who made a beeline for souvenir shops and restaurants.

Sometime later we turned back and crossed the Continental Divide again through what was touted as the longest and highest car tunnel in the world. The conifers bunched together so closely- evidently there was a lot of water and nutrients in the soil. Besides gold. Isn’t that what Colorado is famous for? The third great gold rush led to the creation of towns such as Idaho and even Denver. There are apparently 20000 gold mines in the region. We made a stop at one and marveled at the deposition and concentration of gold in the mines. Created in the 19th century the mine was carefully planned and rich with history. In those days miners (most miners in a mine were part of a single family as it was difficult to trust everybody with gold!) would labor for days with manual implements. Then came the drills, and later more advanced drills. Despite all the technical advances mining is very exhausting and miners are known to have notoriously short lifespans. It is estimated that around 75% of the gold in the region still lies untapped. The gold mining industry is dormant, and the euphoria is long gone. But with the gold prices rising, who knows?

Back in my hotel room everything is warm and cozy. The scenery around me however is not so great as my clothes lie in utter disarray. When I close my eyes I am transported back to Loveland pass. That scene won’t be easy to forget.

Photos - Red Rock Amphitheatre, Red Rocks, Photos from Loveland Pass, Skiing

Balcony Circle

We managed balcony circle seats. The view wasn’t all that bad. Craning my neck I could see the musicians waxed to their seats like statues from Madame Tussaud's. The curtains were drawn and people of all kinds of shapes and sizes were moving purposefully into their seats. All of ‘War Memorial Opera House’ seemed to be stooping forward precariously towards the stage. Before the balcony caved in with the weight of the audience still pouring in from different sides, the curtains decided to part. And there it was, like a painting of Vermeer, staring at us from the stage. Until it all came alive – with the familiar theme track. The dancers began to pirouette on their toes defying gravity at will.

Prince Siegfried floated in, as people made merry on his 21st birthday. They danced and entertained him. Hand in hand, so coordinated and balanced. Siegfried was obviously having a lot of fun, getting drunk on wine. Until Queen Mother paid him a visit and asked him to choose his bride by the morrow. His picture perfect life was now crinkled with uncertainty.

And so he walked away, to a lake, with a crossbow in his hand and came upon a flock of swans. Wantonly he aimed his crossbow at a swan but he couldn’t believe his eyes, as the swan transformed into a woman. A woman so beautiful and enchanting, like he had never seen before. She was Odette and Siegfried was madly in love from the moment he saw her. Thereafter Siegfried was passionate and earnest, he danced like a man possessed. Odette trode with caution at first, but she was swept off her feet and fell helplessly into his arms before she could realise what she was doing.

Swan by day and maiden by night, Odette’s life was governed by the spell of evil Von Rothbart. The story now had all the elements of a melodrama. The forces of good and evil, the element of love and ofcourse the suspense of what was to be. The balcony circle didn’t exist anymore. Nor did the thousands of people of different shapes and sizes. Prince Siegfried was being deceived and we all felt bitterly against Von Rothbart and his machination. I felt transported into the story – a character from the time of Siegfried, Odette and Von Rothbart. It all seemed so true – the swans, the villain, the story. It took some loud applause to rouse me out of my reverie. But why did they all have to die? Why couldn’t it have been otherwise? Outside the sun decided to take his leave for the day, but the ballet performance wouldn’t leave me alone. I wandered away in quest of my own lake of swans.

Everytime ...

Everytime I feel larger than life,
You set me down,
Put me back to where I belong.

Everytime I walk on air,
You nasty thing,
pull me down, will you?

Fate, I'll get even with you, someday...

More wild animals!

Travelogue Part 3 - Kaziranga

It feels strange on elephant back, towering over the rest of the animal kingdom. For the last 15 minutes we have waddled through blades of elephant grass that are so tall that they come all the way up to my waist, even though I am seated atop the elephant. Daylight hasn’t broken into the sanctity of the quiet night and the forest is a blur of ghostlike images, almost magical in the moonlight. The mahout (handler) of the elephant soundlessly guides the elephant to the right, but it all looks like acres and acres of elephant grass with some trees, here and there, reaching out to the sky like outstretched hands of a man buried under the swampy land trying desperately to come out. The mahout tells me that they burn the grass in springtime so that new grass can grow. Until then it is so easy to be lost here.

A solitary owl ensconced on a tree is surveying the forest. It looks at me with sharp eyes, as though to question me, “What brings you here?” Suddenly the forest is abuzz with noise. The high pitched “caw caw” of birds that I cannot see. We hear some wings fluttering. It is like a burglar alarm that just went off, and the forest is now aware of us. After a while it is silent again. The elephant waddles on into a small pond of water, unperturbed by all this. We sight a herd of wild elephants on the other side of the pond. The mahout tells me it is rare to spot a herd of wild elephants. We spot an elephant with beautiful long white tusks, and when it makes to move towards us it is a real cause for concern. Even the mahout straightens up, his face tense with concentration. But then the herd leaves to go and we move on.

It is then that the mahout points towards something moving in the bushes. We move towards it as fast as we can. The elephant expertly circles around it. The sun peeks at us from the east and the light shines through the bush and reveals two rhinos busy having breakfast. So this is the famous one-horned rhino from Kaziranga. Muscular and majestic. If it wanted to, it could ram into the elephant and knock us all down. Fearlessly the mahout moves in closer and furiously I work with the camera and gulp in as much of what I see, as I can.

The rhinos gaze back at us. The pair is not alone – there are more rhinos hidden in the bushes. The horns move up and the heads along with it. The rhinos won’t budge from their stance. The elephants hold their ground. The silent tussle continues for an eternity. It is a strange power struggle where so little is spoken but so much is said. I look on as the sun finally decides to emerge, shedding colorful light on an incredible scene, on an unforgettable day.

Travelogue Part 2 - Omnibus

“What time does the bus leave?”
She looks up at me and sees a face that doesn’t quite fit in with the people in the bus, the squalid interiors of the bus and the city of Shillong outside. In her lap is a book of tickets in which she mechanically scribbles the amount and tears off the receipts. Around her, three locals stand in abeyance, awaiting her next order.
She replies absentmindedly, “The bus will leave now. And that will be 60 bucks”. She hands me the receipt as I fumble for the money in my wallet.

“Now? Do you mean right now?”

“Yes!” she replies and dismisses me from her thoughts with a wave of her hand. The bus ride to Guwahati is good business and one can’t waste one’s thoughts on nosey tourists such as me. I would be getting down at Jorabat (on the border of the states of Meghalaya and Assam) and then change buses to go to Kaziranga, Assam. On the map the road looks fairly easy to navigate and if I were to calculate distance and assume an average speed of 60 km per hour it works out that the total duration of my transit would be around 6 hours and I would be able to reach kaziranga by 3pm.
But the map doesn’t show hairpin bends and treacherous mountainous roads. Nor does it show elevation, proclivity and declivity.

The seat next to me, which is now occupied by a squint eyed gentleman with a stony sphinx-like face. The humming of the engine and the cool, fresh air of the mountains make my eyelids feel very heavy. Every now and then through the corner of my eyes I check if my backpack is still with me. I notice that the bus is now very crowded and the engine is sputtering like a dying man with internal injuries.

A few hours later I change buses. Now I am in Assam. The people look different. They speak a different tongue. The seats are cramped and nobody seems to understand English. The man next to me with a royal moustache and an all-knowing expression is looking at me with suspicion. I ask him about where I should get down. And he tells me so much more, in his broken English and charming style. He tells me about how he goes every weekend to meet his wife in Nagaon. About his work in Guwahati. The politics of Assam. The economy. His childhood. He just loves to talk and I to listen. When we get down at Nagaon (where I need to change a bus), he offers me a lift in a ‘cycle rickshaw’ and invites me to his home for tea. He even talks about meeting me in Mumbai and his business plans if I am ‘interested’. I thank him, as he writes me his phone number in a piece of paper and asks me to call him ‘anytime’. And then he waves at me from the ‘cycle-rickshaw’ for the last time I will ever see him.

The next bus I change into is even more cramped. Next to me is a hefty man and we can barely sit. I crane my neck out the window and gasp for fresh air. The child in the seat behind me won’t stop yelling. I am surrounded by a plethora of human beings piled up all around me. I can feel a hand near my neck and notice a small child squeeze between the seats and sit almost on my lap while I hold on to my backpack with my life. Somebody is stooping above me and I can feel the enormous pressure of the people around me that is trying to jettison me out of the bus through the narrow window. The bus crawls along like an old mule pulling a heavy load.

The cheerful man next to me is smiling despite all this. I venture to ask him when I would reach Kaziranga. And he tells me about his life and times, and his family problems and the wonderful history of Assam. The trouble is I can barely understand his language. But he speaks slowly and often repeats the words for me to help me understand. We get along fine. The language of human beings is so universal. The lives are so similar. The problems and issues are the same. Just minor adjustments here and there.

By the time I reach Kaziranga it is dark. My watch reads 6pm. The air is foggy, my body is aching and the memory of my co-passengers still lingers on.

From top - Two sail boats in the Bay of Bengal, Dida - my beautiful granny

Travelogue Part 1 - Time Warp

Time started to whiz past from the moment I landed in Guwahati. Every time I glanced at my watch I wondered how fast the minutes were disappearing. Even the winter sun was in a hurry to go down making it so difficult for me to stick to my plan of reaching Shillong before sunset and making good use of the remaining bit of light. The cab driver tried his best to help me. Like everything else he too was in a hurry – he wanted us to reach Shillong in time, dead or alive. But as fate would have it, when we reached the gloomy and sleepy town of Shillong, negotiating the many perilous bends and turns in a road that seemed to go straight up to heaven, it was already dark.

Determined to make amends for the lost time, I roused myself early next morning from the shady hotel room, and plunged straight into the chilly foggy morning outside. Reached the bus station before everybody else and booked a ticket to the mystical town of Cherrapunjee – the wettest place on planet earth with an average annual rainfall of 12000mm. Situated in the northeastern state of Meghalaya, India, Cherrapunjee is not half as crowded and popular as the capital city of Meghalaya, Shillong. Consequently it is a traveler’s delight especially in the month of December when it rains less and most people find it too cold to travel in Meghalaya.

Sometime later I was in a rickety bus, speeding to different nooks and corners in the mountains of Meghalaya. Every corner had a spectacular view and a very unpronounceable name in the Khasi language. I went to the dark and dank Mawsynram cave, the enchanting Nah Ko Likai falls, and numerous viewpoints, lakes and gardens. When I looked at them through binoculars, the villages in the hills of Meghalaya, appeared to be scattered randomly, with no motorable roads connecting them. They were blissful islands of human habitation, isolated and so aloof.

The beautiful people of Meghalaya like to spend their lives smiling at each other, chewing betel leaves. To them the world seems to be speeding away from one place to another, in a perpetual hurry. They merely look on and wonder why all this haste. I too had to leave the next day. So they smiled at me and said ‘Khublei’ (Khasi for ‘God Bless’).

From top - Nah Ko Likai falls, Mawsynram cave, A lake in Shillong

Unaware

Under the floodlights, loud commotion disturbs the sleepy night. And when the objects that I see become dim and blurry, I flop my head back and look up at the dark sky and notice that the moon has a wonderful halo around it and that the stars are twinkling far away, unperturbed perhaps unaware of all the commotion in this tiny place in a tiny planet in a tiny solar system.

The steps I take as I retreat from the crowd go unnoticed. A few more steps and I am walking on the grass, grinding my teeth, battling a sharp pain in my left ankle that had twisted unabashedly earlier in the evening. In the distance I see shadows dancing round the fire, gyrating like madmen to music so loud and unearthly. As I approach them I can make out their faces, knarled and twisted and their hands wildly beckoning me to join them in their carousal.

I keep walking past them, to a gallery of people who stand and applaud me. I notice a man standing on an elevated platform speaking gibberish, waving his hand making big gestures and inviting me on stage. The lights are on me now as I walk up to him and straight through him. I emerge from the stage with a plastic smile and watch intently as the buzzing crowd dispels into a hissing nothingness. The lights are dimmed. And there I am in the middle of nowhere all alone in the cold. The moon has a halo around it and the stars are twinkling bright, unperturbed, unaware.

Sleepless

As the night,
Grows dark and hazy,
I turn out the lights.
With practised ease,
I close my eyes.
Curtains downed,
The show is over,
I'm off to sleep.

Wretched eye,
Like a restless beast,
Looks inside of me,
There is no peace,
A torrent of thought,
Awakens me,
And then the night,
Is a ticking clock,
A dreadful wait,
For the drudgery,
Of the day ahead.

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.

"If you please - draw me a sheep"

A tiny voice inside me whispered,
"If you please - draw me a sheep"

But it's been so long. That little boy is now a grown-up. He no longer does silly things like drawing. He stopped believing in Santa long ago. He doesn't play hide and seek anymore. Its been ages since he swung on a swing, slid down a slide, went round and round in a merry-go-round. The waves swept aside the sand castle long back. Ofcourse he can talk about golf, politics and neckties. I am sorry, that little boy who loved to draw, is lost and I don't know where to find him.

"That doesn't matter. Draw me a sheep ..."

My red jacket and all things ridiculous!

Yesterday as I walked past the malls and showrooms I felt the urge to buy something. Something I really didn't need. Something I could definitely live without. Something that I might repent buying later. Something that would be completely superfluous, pointless and vain!

I might have bought the first thing I saw in the showroom. But the red jacket caught my attention and I had to put it on. It fit me and I liked the way it looked when I drew the chain right up to my throat. I noticed it lacked collars. My friend smirked and said the color was too loud, that I might look like a red cherry bobbing up and down in the middle of the street. But I was in a mood to ignore color, collar or any such thing. Well may be I want to bob up and down the street like a red cherry. So shut up!

Ridiculous and Pointless,
Loud and Insane,
I am splashing water,
Dancing in the rain.
Running here and there,
Jumping up, arms outstretched.

You standing there,
Looking at me,
Break all shackles,
Set me free,
And when I run amuck,
Let me be!

To the Sea

It's been raining so much.
It's as if the sea has evaporated, collected into colossal clouds and started pouring on us. It won't stop raining.

You have come to meet me? Its been so long since we met. I can't quite remember, was it in February that I walked up to you. I didn't have much to say, besides I had company.

Why am I silent? There isn't much to say. Do we have to speak when we meet?

I flew by you a couple of times. The plane touched down but I had a connecting flight. How could I meet you?

You have come to me. May be that's why it's raining. You have come to meet me, haven't you?

The Quandary of Dimensions

When I first saw his book, 'A Suitable Boy', what struck me was its enormous size. It was a gift to me and instantly I had begun to think of the person who gave it to me to be a quintessential 'sadist'. Was I to read that book? I might as well practice weightlifting with it! The book contained 1600 pages and was around 5 cm in thickness! It had no illustrations but a solitary photograph of the author. He looked like a handsome debonair, but then he bore a diabolical grin that said, "Go ahead, read it”. I wasn't seduced by that smile. The book was just too thick for me! I had almost decided to let the book gather dust on my shelf when I was prodded on to read the book by somebody who had successful journeyed the entire thickness of the book and was so brainwashed by its contents that she couldn't stop praising it.

So I relented and began at the very beginning. I laboured on till I was around a cm into the book beyond which the book grew on me to such an extent that I could no longer live without it. I followed the book around, chased it everywhere like its shadow. The book didn't find a moment of peace. It was under constant surveillance and I had my eyes all over it. Had I spent a few more weeks reading I would have become a fictional character hidden somewhere within the 5 cms of the book. I confess by the time I finished the book, I found it too small.

When I first saw the author I was struck by his lack of height. I thought the possessor of the handsome face would be atleast 6 feet tall. He was hidden behind the furniture somewhere, and we could make out his approximate position by the commotion surrounding the spot and the entourage of press photographers that had encircled him. This is perhaps how physicists locate black holes in the universe - by the flurry of stellar activity around it! The black hole slowly made its way to the stage. He seemed quite uneasy, didn't know what to do with his hands, didn't know whether to sit or stand. So they gave him his book, and asked him to read.

He spoke. Eloquent speech and diction that was so British. He would use words such 'vicissitude' and 'foible' with such ease that it made the rest of us sound like ignoramuses. On stage we saw him grow in size. We saw the depth in what he meant. We saw his clarity of thought. We saw his acute observation of detail, the vast ocean of his knowledge. We saw his simplicity and we saw the complexity. We wondered about his chemical composition and his physical attributes. I couldn't believe my eyes for by the time he finished he was 7 feet tall! I am sure he is a quirk of nature.

What is it about sizes,
The length of shortness,
And the weight of lightness?

What is it about sizes,
The depth of gladness,
And the scale of madness?

A Slight Oversight

This one is for that sweet little girl who is my best friend. Are you reading?

It's eery how the two of us can be so similar.
Everything you do seems an act of my own.
Every emotion of yours is mine.
When you eat, I must be chewing.
When I itch, you must be scratching.
When you are hot, I must be sweating.
When I am happy, you must be smiling.
Knowing you is like self discovery!

A slight oversight by God - He made you a girl, when he was photocopying me!

Coffee, Ice Cream or Me?

Over a cup of coffee,
Between sips,
Silly gossip,
Giggling fits.

Drag me along,
To boring mushy movies,
Or shopping malls,
To carry bags?

Ok what next,
Chocolate ice cream?
That's something,
You can't resist!

Outside your house,
You still haven't finished,
I turn to leave,
And you hold me back!

Conversation

We drew each others faces. She was a designer, an artist by profession. But drawing faces wasn't her cup of tea. So she scratched it off as soon as she was done drawing. I had spent a lot of time, in my classroom days, sketching teachers. Besides I pride myself as a good portrait painter. I even sold portraits at one point of time. Anyways that is besides the point. I drew some kind of likeness of her, and showed it to her. She smiled but didn't say a word about how good it was! I found her silence amusing.

Then another day she painted my bedroom wall. We had fought earlier in the afternoon. But she was not one to leave a job incomplete. She painted blue waves and green waves. She wouldn't let me touch it. It was beautiful. She cried all the while and wouldn't speak a word. I couldn't bear her silence. I asked her why she was still painting. But then I realised that I would never get any answers.

Instinct

A breeze. The leaves rustled. She awoke with a start. Lulled by the sound of bubbles and fishes she had fallen asleep, she did not know when. The boat was anchored almost midstream by a tight rope to a mangrove tree. But it was the backwaters and it was low tide. The branches of the tree knarled powerfully and gripped the soil with all its might. No storm could pluck it apart. The shore was not too distant. But the night was dark and foggy, so she couldn't see beyond the shore. The forest was dark and impenetrable. It was a vast unknown.

The beast stood there. The breeze wafted towards him, bringing to him her smell. He lay hidden behind the trees. Along the shore he trode, his eyes upon her. With his practised eye he measured the distance to the boat, and wondered if he could make it. He was prepared to wait. He had set his eyes upon her.

She shifted uneasily. She could sleep no more. She had a premonition. May be she saw it coming.

Ulysses

Travelled far and wide,
Fought my private wars,
Lost my friends,
You pinned me down,
But I got up again.

Met one-eyed beasts,
Pillaged islands,
Courted nymphs,
Oh such strange places,
Have I seen!

Gods conspired,
To hold me back,
Utter misfortune,
Have I faced,
Now I come back to thee.


The earth, she can take so many forms. So much beauty, all around. So many mountains, have I to climb. So many seas, to swim across. My list grows longer, each day. Time is running out.

There is nothing I love more, than to wander about.