A rescue of no mean proportions

It was a common man on a day of uncommons. A common man, amidst the cacophony of celebrations. A mere common man who dragged up the fallen idol, back on it's pedestal. The procession had halted for a split second. The elderly matrons had started to chant, as the idol comically toppled over. You see, it is not auspicious to see the gods slither and slant. We don't allow our deities the margin of error. Poor dears. Such impossible stress! But then like that stray mindless act of faith that sustains the Hindu universe in the minds of it's devotees, a common man stood with his legs wide apart, pulled on the ropes, wrestled with the bindings and up and about, the high and mighty went! In that one instant, man and God were equal. I wondered if the rituals ever, were meant to be thus commonplace.
I am not religious. Or should I say, I am not sure if I am yet. I have too many questions and religion has too many answers for everything else. And yet during those few days of festivities, I find myself giving faith a patient hearing. If you ask me to interpret, I would probably say that God had toppled over so that man could feel godlike in that one instant. Much like in our imaginary universe, we like to believe that God might pull us up, when we happen to slither and slide. But funnily enough, this being, this entity, this God, usually exercises a will of his own. Suppose toppling was his chosen game?
So when Ganesha found himself prostrate on the ground, the fisher boy jumped to his rescue. The elderly matrons chanted, blew on conch shells, shook their heads harder and all was well. The procession still had it's merits. Ganesha still had most of his limbs intact. Only the common fisher boy, grew half and inch taller with pride. After all, his was a rescue of no mean proportions.

A mark on him

There was a mark on him. A mark, probably meant to warn me off the damage that was about to be inflicted. Some say that in the bigger scheme of things, in the strange ways the universe conspires to let damage attract damage. Or conversely to let hellfire attract inflammable bundles of woodstock. Only the match has to be lighted. And all that remains is smoke and burn. 
There is a perverse sense of intensity in the toxicity of such a fireball. When all hell breaks loose, and all one can do is burn in heat. Slowly and then with putridity. In the aftermath of doused remains, it is hard to guess who drew whom in. The toxicity, the damage, the intensity, the passion, the overdrawn strings of resistance. I can only state with certainty that passion doesn't warrant grovelling. Neither does it beg for attention. So when the fire has consumed the remnants of affection, intensity picks up it's head and walks out of the pyre. Damaged, yet pieced together. Singed and yet whole. Patterns of the cosmos repeats it's cycle till the time that somehow the voids get clogged back up. Bundled up and pushed behind the curtains of pretense. Until the next instance that the hellfire attracts hellfire.

If adventures had a soul

If adventures had a soul, I would find him and chain him down. The hollows of the heart, the insignificance of sorrows, all of it. And none of it. I would find him and chain him down. In ancient times, there would be droughts. The concepts of little as compared to the abundance of present reality. There would be droughts, and not a drop of water would trickle down the parched sky, onto the equally fractured earth. There would be droughts and just like you and me, there would come a thousand old children of the soil. They would till, they would toil and they would perish. The luxury of abundance, just like the luxury of thought wouldn't be available to them. And so there would be droughts as opposed to floods. As meticulously as abundance breeds floods, so does ire breed void. As he moves from flesh to flesh, from ecstasy to rapture, the lacuna of stillness fades. So if you find abundance wrapped up in folds of abstract, chain him down, sit him across and converse. Maybe will the floodgates open. Will the soul to re-inhabit, speck by speck, drop by drop.

Do we have to hate men?

They said in the previous times that, behind every successful man, there is always a woman. A woman who inspires and motivates. A woman who supports and sacrifices. So men are supposed to care for them. But roll back to the 21^st century, women are strong and proud. They are fearless and successful. They wield as much power as any other. So why are the men still supposed to care? This is a question of questionable intents which has of late bothered so many. In the wake of the #metoo movement, we often hear our men, complaining. Why did it have to come to this? Why couldn’t we all be languishing in blissful oblivion like we always did. Why do we women have to hate our men? Honestly we don’t have to. And we don’t either.

Men, like all God’s creation, are beautiful. Quite tongue in cheekily so. They till, they toil. They provide and sustain, following the patterns set for them by the almighty creator, who very conveniently also happens to be of the male gender, 90% of the time, in the least. Keeping the religious debate aside, patriarchy runs through the veins of our social framework. Providers are protectors. Protection, entitles them to concession and concessions can be forced. When a woman defies that protective cover, she opens up the channel for judgement and discord. And then comes the force, which is rarely with her (pun intended). Her non commitment to rules could be of any degree. It could be as irrelevant as being beautiful or aesthetically pleasing to look at. It really doesn’t matter. As and when she challenges set norms, she has to be accordingly dealt with.

This is the common narrative of the feminist order. And it is largely true. Just that, sometimes it isn’t. It is not a far flung conclusion that there still does exist a relatively healthy number of good men around (and I am keeping our fathers out of this debate). By good I don’t mean, the quintessential Indian boy. No thank you! But those friends, the colleagues, cousins, acquaintances even, who happen to be very much a part of our everyday lives. And who make it a lot more fun, most of the times. When we interact, have a conversation, become friends, it is usually outside of the gender filter. We choose people to spend our time with, because they intrigue us, interest us and sometimes challenge us. There are still those men who count women, as important parts or influences in their lives simply because they connected despite their gender and subsequent differences.  

There are those men who are fiercely feminist and there are those women who are vocally misogynists. Personal opinions have as many colours as the spectrum allows in a rainbow. In the increasingly polar and non inclusive society that we are building for our kids, what is surprising is how we are consciously segmenting our interactions with others, packing them in neat little boxes to be stowed away in fear of social censure. Notwithstanding the fact that women should off course voice their opinions, experiences, concerns, as freely as men do, but what is imperative is men should start treating women as any other equal. Amidst the loud noise of feminist chatter, what is drowning is the voice of strong women, who are now rising up and denying any form of special gender consideration. We women do not hate our men. What we hate is the patronising attitude, the inconsiderate condescension.

One would think that with the growing prominence of women’s rights and freedom of expression, the necessity and requirement of sustenance provided by a man would take a backseat. Sadly, that is not the case. The increasing need of putting a man down to shore up a woman’s place, defeats the purpose of upholding the collective feminine pride. Does a woman’s self worth revolve around how she is/was treated by a man?

Contrary to biblical beliefs of God having created man and a woman being created out of a man’s rib, essentially making her a diminutive of his all encompassing self, post industrial revolution world presented us with an egalitarian society. As the decades slowly glide by, we have successfully freed ourselves of many of our prominent social evils. Slavery, colonization, untouchability, religious orthodoxy etc are more or less a thing of the past. Despite us moving out of proverbial dark ages, women continue of be treated as second rate citizens. Yes, they don’t conduct elaborate witch hunts or burn us at stake anymore. But discrimination has never really faded. And the new found aggression is only widening the gap.

So what the future generation needs to imbibe is that everyone is equal in the truest sense. Just as a girl doesn’t deserve to be mistreated or manhandled in any way, in the same way, it is not necessary to limit interactions between male and females out of fear of social embargoes. Neither is a man root cause of all kinds of social abuse, nor is a woman an epitome of all that is just and true in the world. Experiences are individualistic and so should be the judgement (if any at all). And lastly, no, we don’t need to hate men in order to be feminists. All men don’t have to die.

Media in today's times

As the academic and business circles are swearing by Yuval Noah Harari’s insightful capture of the evolution of “Sapiens” into “Homo Deus” of the future generation, I am penning down a brief expose on Media. Not the popular, or rather pop culture influenced media, but primarily the platforms for consumption of information.

Why do I quote Harari and his arguments, right at the preamble? Mainly because, in both his much appreciated works, he emphasizes on the ability of human beings to cooperate, share and disseminate information, as the key to the species’ ability to dominate evolution in it’s favour, on this planet for the past 70,000 years. The need for information barter birthed Media. As we know it today, popular Media is a mouthpiece for information exchange.

Traditionally media outlets spread as centres of learning, exchange, scientific inquisitiveness, religious propaganda and also dissent. One can say that the earliest examples of media hubs were probably, religious monasteries, temple pathshalas, madrasas etc. With the advent of learning techniques, speech, writing, documentation, knowledge began to find fits across geographies. So as knowledge moved through the timelines, so did the form of traditional media. From religion sponsored research, the torch of this quest passed on to power centres of ruling monarchies. The rulers patronised scientists, scholars, poets, composers etc and their courts became the centres for cultural revolutions. These were phases where religion and nations often collided, and in select cases blended into one form.

As centres of learning and research began to find independence from religion and state, the zeal to share began to increase. This was spearheaded by inventions like papyrus scroll and gradually paper. As words began to be formed on printed surface, news began to take shape. Take two to the beginning of the modern era, newspapers and bulletins rose as relevant power centres. Revolutions sparked off from tables of dynamic thinkers, reporters and mass leaders. Ideas began to reach every corner of a state and movements first took their births. Media as we see today has the power to topple governments, damage reputations, wage information warfare and influence citizens like never before. Technology has just managed to add fuel to an already uncontrollable fire.

The pertinent question in today’s times is, “Is media, serving it’s true purpose or is it increasingly being used as a tool for propaganda and misinformation?”. From the brief history I outlined before, we are more than certain that media primarily serves the purpose of knowledge enhancement and aides and enables the search for information. Perhaps it is, idealistic to think that media should be used for the purpose of bringing together, of educating and ultimately to serve as a platform for equal opportunities. Unfortunately, in the present times, media has inflated itself into a Goliath of inordinate proportions to which human ethics are but an insignificant David.

It is mostly an irrelevant and to a large extent widely accepted fact today, that media as an institution is largely corrupt. There are numerous examples to bring to front the excesses of media outreaching the boundaries of moral code, so much so that, we can comfortably compartmentalize media as a cohort, serving the purpose of entertainment more than anything else.

Take for instance, the raging debate on the #metoo movement which has become the talk of the country for past few weeks. Irrespective of my own opinions on the issue, it is nauseating to see how the topic is being talked upon, enacted on series of popular mediums. Starting from insensitive discussion forums, to memes, to open letters, to wildly hurled accusations, the movement is being reduced to a mockery of mudslinging. The citizens or rather the netizens need to realize the fact that the issue is a highly sensitive one and should be treated with utmost caution. Safety at workplace, against serial predators is imperative to proper organizational functioning, irrespective of the industry and irrespective of gender.

This is not a struggle of women coming to parity with male dominated world. That is a concept as old as civilizations. What is important here, is the power abuse in the name of chances, opportunities, advance. And hence the men should be given a hearing as much as the women finding the courage to come out and tell their stories.

Equally obnoxious, is the tide of intolerance which seems to be organically evolving in India. The widespread misuse of popular news mediums, may it be print-tv-digital to criminalize the student fraternity from prestigious institutions is highly appalling. The way that freedom of speech is being curtailed and the influence that troops of marginally educated (if at all), short totting so called bhakts wield is comical, to say the least. I can dramatically tell you that the borders between good and evil media trends are blurring. That doesn’t make this any less tragic and comic at the same moment. Shakespeare would have turned in his grave.

So, what exactly needs to be done? I personally feel, the foremost measure that we as a society should adopt is to stop believing everything that is put in front of us on a silver platter. Someone very long time back, sagely said, all that glitters is not gold. And so, don’t be a vessel to all that you are told. Unfortunate truth in our world is, facts that are out there for public consumption, barring state records, are largely doctored. It is great to have an opinion, but not a rushed one. By all means listen to media, but treat it as a source of information, that needs validation from your own research, and not something which is set in stone. And lastly, laugh it off, media in today’s time is meant to be taken with not a pinch but a generous dose of salt.

When in Doubt

It has been raining incessantly today. Rains always make me think. So today of all days I have been thinking. You know, there are days that you wake up with certain half crafted dreams. I woke up with a strange after taste of emptiness today. This has been happening quite a bit lately. This sudden feeling of lost, abandonment, desolation. So I started keeping notes of my thoughts. So that consequently I can keep track of my mind. I might sound a bit crazy to you, but trust me I am more than fine. I have everything in order.

Just that, I see flashes sometimes. Flashes of my life flying past me. Flashes of all the people I have loved and who in their own ways have somehow loved me. Perhaps. I can’t be sure. This is the magic of uncertainty that I am talking about. This stage, this juncture that makes you doubt yourself, is where I have lately found myself standing. I am not regressing into an alley of mental stalemate. The fact that I can string coherent texts explains that I have not lost reason. Yet there is a certain level of doubt. More often than not, these days, I have had moments where I have doubted myself.

As layers of a hard frost start peeling away, you tend to realize where all it had hurt when you started to fall. Sometimes the person closest can sow the seeds of doubt into you. By constantly nitpicking on you, by constantly telling you that what you say-do-feel is wrong. That you are wrong. In those moments we start doubting ourselves, till the time that doubt starts seriously taking over your conscious mind. Would you call this love or a form of abuse? There is really a thin line.

I doubted myself when he questioned, who was I? I doubted all the years that I had spent being in love with him. I wonder if love has limitations. Or if it comes with an expiration date. When do you stop loving someone? When they abandon you midway or when they question your existence? Whom would you say is a greater evil? Or if evil had a lighter greyish tinge to it. I surely wouldn’t know. I have even doubted it being evil.

I have stood under the splatter of rain on the asphalt and questioned smiling too much. Questioned trusting. When years of blind love stings you with a question of your own existence, you doubt yourself. When the glass cages of your faith opens the door wide for speculation, you gamble yourself. Everyday when exchanges become a toxic broth of accusations, you mourn yourself. As invigorating as love can often be, it does also drain you of life. When loves gnaws you into shards, you doubt, you question, you spiral.

When it burns in the corners of your heart and causes you unutterable pain, would you call that as love? Someone once told me very sagely that, if it doesn’t make you happy and always inflicts suffering, is it worth it? Some of us become accustomed to pain. We make a habit of it, till we realize that it is not normal. We realize when someone walks in and tells us that, what we have is broken. We reach a certain stage when doubt starts seeping in and drying the corners of our soul. Where do you go from there?

One of the scariest things one ever has to do is to let go. To regress. To walk back. To let him be. But on some small occasions walking out is also liberating. If you wait around the corner and let yourself be at that moment, a tiny part of you might feel, a tad bit relieved to have let go of the pain. And that is the miniscule part, you need to focus on. One step closer to recovery is being in sync with your hurt.

So, I pause. I see my life flashing past, and I pause. Heedless to the timetable, I breathe and I pause.

Why don’t we empathize with others and ourselves?

Recovery is a process of self discovery. More often than once, I have heard people mention that certain incidences changed their lives. Change in terms of giving them fresh perspectives, altering their patterns and rescheduling their brain wires. Something like a factory reset on your systems. Unfortunately or fortunately our brains are not precisely programmed for a complete cleanup. We tend to go back and ponder. Specifically, for people who tend to contemplate much before acting, have this good fortune. Pun intended. Take it from someone who has the happy chance of being on the other end of impulse; it is certainly not a wildly intoxicating place to be. My question to you is; are all these people ultimately risk averse? Stagnant, static and perpetually boring?

So let me initiate the argument by asking you, do you think people in general are one-dimensional? Does indecision or stagnancy in certain facets of life mean that the individual doesn’t have another side to his/her personality that could easily redirect your opinion? In our fast paced lives today, we meet, talk, exchange and discard so many people on a regular basis. I do. And so do you. Some you dismiss as uninteresting, some as uneventful, some as naive, some as foolishly idealistic, and the list goes on. Judging, stacking and subsequent labelling is not exactly a crime.

But how many of us, step back and give our opinions a second chance? Call me a naive idealist, but I happen to be a big fan of second chances. I have got some and I have messed up so many. But the important point is, that those people at those moments have had the courage to look beyond their constraints.

The crucial part is probably realizing that everyone is on their own time table. I might not be at a crossroads of an investment decision right now, that doesn’t make me risk averse. I might be a believer of government bonds and not the equity market. Similarly, just because I take time moving any relationship to the next stage, doesn’t make me cold meat. Maybe I believe in building trust before going full throttle on the accelerator. These are choices really and not always individual nature.

More often than not, we tend to place judgements on people within the first 5 minutes. With age or rather with experiences, I have learnt that a little bit of flexibility doesn’t hurt. Sad truth is, you never really know someone unless you’ve had either a late night conversation, an inebriated episode, or you’ve been privy to some amount of pillow talk. So the best advice I have given myself, in the past year is, cut yourself some slack, and keep an open mind. Honestly speaking, as you grow (hopefully gracefully) you tend to realize there is a lot to learn. Specifically about people. Everyone deals with some amount of turmoil at some point in their lives. Poise is to deal with it at your own pace and not become a raving juggernaut that destructs on it’s way to oblivion. Everyone deserves a little bit of empathy once in a while.

When something happens that makes you stop, breathe and re-evaluate, use that time to discover yourself. Everyone of us is a complex web of emotions. Some like remaining bottled up, but when they unravel, that is more often than not, quite painful as a process. Being on your own on this path of discovery is loosely recovery. There is often beauty in being on your own. Relationships don’t have to be based on co-dependency. There are high chances that, if you try and explain this concept, you would be scoffed at. However, individuals who deal with changes on their own are mostly the strongest you would come across. Be social by all means. But not a nerve wreck of social niceties.

When I was a child I was fascinated with the likes of Ayn Rand. Her books spoke so much of truth to me that individuality came as a natural consequence to my mental framework. Humility has taught me that everyone probably hasn’t had that choice. You can call me fortunate to have had these opportunities or you might say that awareness about self is something that our society truly lacks. Speaking for my gender, we often take pride in being an ideal daughter, girlfriend, wife, mother at different stages in our lives. How many of us follow the paths that give meaning to our selves? It might be that living each of these roles to perfection gives you fulfilment, but to a lot of us, probably a concept of a he/them is not all encompassing. That has to be fair too, right?

So, I tell myself routinely, recover yourself, discover yourself, be comfortable in your skin. Self is not a big dark hole on the ground where you need to be buried. And off course to my other impulses I say, a little bit of empathy goes a long way.

Strangers who soothe...

Distinctions of time and spaces are fading. I have been moving around through shadows for some time now. And do you know what all crosses my mind? As much as I would want to believe that I am imbibing and inhaling peace, more than once, during these past weeks, I have found myself wondering about a certain someone I happened to have met once or twice. A certain someone who happened to have told me that I should read into the places, the people as I walk past the narrow lanes of an unknown land, rather than read the written word. I had found it strange then, however time and again I have been thinking about what all he had said. Am I impacted by all of what had traversed during our conversation? Maybe in a way. But I have found myself wondering about him more than once. When you are taking a step back, walking around aimlessly, as a tiny speck in the distant horizon, you tend to think, as probably I am. Maybe one shouldn't think about people you probably wouldn't hear from ever again. But sometimes, in far off distant lands, of the chanting mantras, or in the claustrophobic parties of an unsettled metropolitan you tend to find yourself soothed by a total stranger. Maybe he tends to teach you a new perspective, while being heedlessly lost himself. Maybe your paths would never cross again. And yet he crosses your mind every now and then, to remind you that there is still a lot to be surprised with. As there are a lot of reasons to smile.

Firefly in the sunset

In those days, I would wake up inundated with fragmented dreams. There would be particles of afterthoughts in my memory which glowed in the distant horizon. Like those buzzing fireflies. That's where the inspiration for a name came. Not that I enjoyed Entomology, in the least. But these lights used to churn around in my conscience state, and then I had to put it down in the material world. Kind of like, words behind a picture postcard. They tell a story. Everything connects to everything and words weave a web of imagination. And a firefly is in the middle of it all. Sometimes reflecting, sometimes absorbing, but never quite failing to light up the void around. Sometimes the tiny little being would make tangible sense of the material. Like sketching in a perfect symmetry. And sometimes, it would be a jumble of white noise. The frequencies intersecting and giving up a soundless screech. If you would only tune yourself, you could hear the failings. You could make sense of the perfect balance of nature, only if you would follow the trail of the firefly. Or you could watch it disappear into the sunset, where ether mingles with the clouds. The firefly and it's web of sparkles, forming and untangling as the lights change colour.

Are Millennials the entitled children of peace?

A lot has been said about the generation we belong to, namely the millennials. The world we live in, is definitely in a state of flux. Definitions are evolving. Interpretations are changing. Boundaries are blurring. But what exactly makes a millennial tick? How much is technology, a driver in our daily lives today. How has technology expanded our environments, as well as shrunk the world. These are questions which largely flash across our media outlets. We will probably try to look at some these changes through the lens of a millennial.

Let’s begin at the beginning. Let’s begin with the times we live in, the society that millennials are a part of. It wouldn’t be colossally wrong to say that ours is a generation of peace. Most people in our generation have never lived through trying times. We have never been first hand witnesses to war, oppression, discrimination or slavery. Barring off course certain exceptional situations in the Middle East, Korean peninsula or interiors of Africa etc. Ours is not a generation that aspires to the ideals of revolution, dreams of freedom, struggles to change the societal frameworks, living their lives knowing that there might never be a tomorrow. We inherited a largely stable world order post the cold war, eliminating regional skirmishes (there are definitely exceptions like Kashmir which has impacted a larger population for decades, causing mass exodus, spewing hatred). The ideals of democracy is a natural order of things. Probably something we take for granted. Freedom of expression is the new struggle where being assertive, opinionated while being cheeky rules the roost. Take for example, the zomato campaign of OOH hoardings with “MC”, “BC” sprawled across city carrefours (Here “MC” is Mac and Cheese while “BC” is interpreted as Butter Chicken). The struggle now is whether these billboards are offensive to sensibilities. Ask a millennial; most probably the answer would be that it’s cheeky and fun. Not in all cases though, opinions in our world have colors (religious, racial or economic). We will come to that later.

This brings us to the question of technology. How important is technology in the life of a millennial. This is probably a no brainer. I highly doubt if today, we can wake up and not instantly check our social media feeds. Crawling down the facebook, Instagram walls come as naturally as the hygienic need of brushing our teeth. Connectivity is the new big thing. Come to the millennial age, we have fully utilized the phrase that man is a social animal. In order to survive our daily grind, we require relationships, and trapped in the compartmentalized boxes, we turn to the virtual world of social bots. Over and above social, today, almost every aspect of our human experiences is being shaped by technology. May it be shopping (online shopping), education (e-learning systems/modules), sport (gaming technology), relationships (online dating), experiences (travel, gastronomy etc), finances/currency (Blockchain), Healthcare (e-nurses, health apps, bots), almost every dimension is undergoing a rapid makeover, generously peppered with doses of technology. As a consequence, the world as we see it, is shrinking. Distances are a matter of no consequence. A millennial today probably aspires to a world of Tesla manufactured auto driven cars, SpaceX built Martain colonies, Facebook’s VR Oculus Rift. Her highpoints are Apple’s annual product upgrades (iphone range), Amazon’s Alexa launches (AI). As the sizes of desktop slowly shrinks to laptop, then to pads/palmtops and eventually to rolltops, it wouldn’t be a misnomer to quote a millennial today, as a truly evolved sub species of the larger frame of Homo Sapiens. Whether we mutate from this state, metamorphose into a hitherto unknown evolutionary pinnacle, is yet to be seen.

Therefore, probably the apt answer to this primary question of what exactly makes a millennial tick, is technology. Or probably aspiration to achieve, master and control his surroundings through technology. However, aspiration to control is not new to millennials. As a species, homo sapiens desire to dominate and control has in a way written, rewritten, shaped modern contemporary history. So, are we as a generation, as millennials, so very different from our predecessors? The only difference I see, is not the erosion of ethics, values or choices as so many righteous preachers would have us believe. The difference lies in how easily this segment of the population is shifting through experiences. The sheer pace of it, is sometimes unnerving.

The colors in a millennial palette of opinions keep on changing and that is what is worrying sometimes. With the advent and influence of technology, camouflage is gaining prominence. Misinformation, maltreatment, defamation, slander, libel is rampant. Right winged politics, sometimes conservatism (religious or otherwise), dogmatic propaganda is being readily picked up by impressionable young minds more readily than ever. For instance, the affinity of young, educated, dynamic yet radical youth to IS propaganda is truly staggering. Can we say that, until just a year back, the rush of young minds to the charred remains of Syria to associate with so called jihad, stems from the desire to save Islam from infidels or was it a part of the collective millennial dream of making a change, an impact of significance, to alter the world dynamics, or simply to bring a certain meaning to life as they comfortably view it through rose tinted glasses? A distorted view of La vie en rose probably.

In conclusion, much can be said about the so called frivolity of the younger population. However, criticisms apart, the collective conscious of the millennials is not entirely dormant. With newer times, fresher perspectives are coming to the fore. Slowly but surely the archaic divisions existing in the society are losing their hold. Today, the human society is more unified, even virtually. The barriers of race, culture, color, economic class still exist but they are not so severe. Oppressive systems of colonialism, feudalism, despotism seem like a distant nightmare. A millennial today doesn’t identify herself as belonging to a particular caste or color, but chooses her associates irrespective of boundaries. And that is where the beauty of these times lies, somewhere on the edges of inclusion. We have indeed come a long way off.

Trains of Memories

The train was chugging along. Soon, she would hear the porters calling out. 2018. New Delhi junction. Naina was going back where it had all started for her. 12 years after the first time she came to that city. 12 years after she had first met Veer.

The story is rather a simple one. Of love having unexpectedly surfaced at a college campus. Philosophers often say that life is what happens to you, when you’re busy making other plans. The realization hits you one fine day, like a gut wrenching blow. Naina and Veer, had met, become friends, fell hopelessly in love, and had gone on to become strangers with memories. Like so many of us do every single day.

What was it that caused the fissure? Fate? Ego? Anger? Hurt? Resentment? All had piled up in neat little boxes and tucked away in a far corner. When it ended, they had moved to different geographies, worked hard, built different lives for themselves. They had met new people, fell in love again. But deep down the tug at that unfinished desire stilled lingered.

12 years from the time that Veer had stood on the same platform, waiting for her to step down. She could still see him. The sheepish grin on his face, intended to surprise her. Trains and platforms reminded her of him. Much like everything else did. Everything reminded her of him.

It was the halting, wet, waterlogged end of July. A month where the city gets a tad bit of respite from the relentless heat. Arush was tying the knot. He had wanted everyone to be there on his big day. And they had readily complied, not just for him, but for that one last chance at memories before all of them started deviating away. She hoped miserably that Veer would come. It was at the station that she had fought with him the last time. He had wanted her to stay. And she had wanted to flee before she could begin to comprehend her feelings for her best friend.

Naina knew Veer had never forgiven her quitting on him. And she had always been hurt that he hadn’t tried to bring her back. He had never tried for her. She could still see his face as the train had started to depart. His eyes had that haunting look as he stood rock still amidst the cacophony and chaos of the platform. His eyes had never left hers, until she had had to look away to hold back her tears. He had never spoken to her after that. She knew he hated trains because of her. She knew he hated her too.

But did he really? Did he hate her? Veer had disappeared. He had done well, as had she. However, he had practically cut chords with everyone, except maybe Arush. Everyone thought she was the reason. They just hadn’t said it out loud. Maybe she was. She knew she was. Naina had needed to space out from him. And yet, today she had taken the train in the pointless romanticism of finding him there again. Like the last day she had seen him, standing motionless, aloof on the platform, looking at her, looking into her. She had wanted to reverse the clock and go back into that moment, when he was still her Veer.

Life had moved along different paths for her too. Naina had bumped into Sujoy at a coffee shop near the local station. He had come to work on his presentation and she had needed some downtime to think. The button sized place was overflowing as were the streets outside. Mumbai is equally dreary and beautiful in the rains. Arush had called her that morning to apprise her of the fact that Veer had found someone and was thinking of settling down soon. Naina’s collective conscious had screeched to a halt. She had never considered that Veer might love someone else someday. In her mind, he was always hers to love and to keep.

So when Sujoy had walked up to her and struck up a conversation, she had gone through it as if in a trance. Sujoy was a good person. She had ended up hurting him, and herself in the process. He hadn’t deserved it. The relationship had imploded on itself. But Naina knew she was damaged with or without Veer. Or rather, she was damaged except for Veer. When his relationship had ended, as suddenly as hers had, she had made up her mind to amend and atone. Naina had promised herself to find Veer and tell him how mistaken she had been and how much he had meant to her.

When the chance had come to come back to Delhi, she had jumped at the idea of taking a train in the salt pepper nostalgia of old days. Veer was going to be at the wedding, she knew for certain. But would he know her after all this time?

There was an arrival announcement on the intercom. They had jazzed up the old things so much. Trains, like so much of this city lived and moved in parallel dimensions. The old rustic nostalgia of a past that is all but gone. And the new, recent world of updates and automatons. Strange how all their realities often interwove and skipped in between these planes. Nonetheless, the old slumberous thing had finally managed to pull through. She was here. Time had come to touch the air, feel the spices, hear the northern twang in accents. Delhi, at last!

Naina scrambled down and stood on the platform taking it all in. It was strange to be back here after so long, oddly happy and yet equally fragile. Arush was coming to pick her up. He had texted her, surprised by her choice of a train. Who spends precious hours stuck in a railway carriage these days? Memories, she had said. He hadn’t pushed her beyond that.

As she stood there lost in thought, Naina felt a sudden sense of panic. As if, something inside of her was shifting, like a sense of gap that was closing with laborious pain. She snapped up and looked in front. And there he was, standing aloof in the middle of the commotion, looking at her, looking into her. They stood there motionless for a long time, looking at each other. I suppose 12 years of accumulated silt takes time to wash away. As the train pulled out, Veer walked up to her, picked up her bag and walked on ahead. Naina knew she was home at last. She did exactly what she had done that day. She looked at the train, and she looked at Veer. But this time she let her heart lead the way.

I will leave him be...

I find myself writing this on a sleepless night. On the edge of the mountains, staring into blank space. I often see myself making the same mistakes over and over again. I often see myself in love with the same person through the years. Just that his name seems to have changed, or his features seem to have altered a bit. I still seem to want to hold on, and he still seems to want to let go. Love is a strange concoction of emotions. On days one feels intoxicated with the idea of having met the one, or if there is a concept of the one. The heady feeling of falling into a tumble, reaching a peak and probably just downhill from there. Or is it my naivete to be calling it love? 
But come to think of it, why wouldn't you want to let the moment stand a while? If ever there was a moment of standing still and breathing in. Why wouldn't we just inhale? Why the rush to put labels on everything that seems to float by? Or seems to have fallen into our laps. Not that I haven't consistently struggled to let it flow past. But on moments such as these, on nights such as this, I will leave him be. As a memory of a forgone letter that I hurriedly scribbled on the back of a book cover and forgot to give it to him. He stays mixed with ether, nibbling at the back of my head. Maybe all my past and present encounters and walk ins are derived from a patchwork of his battered and bizzare persona.
And yet tonight I will probably just leave him be. Tonight as I sit staring across at the vast expanse of mountains, I will leave him in the confines of his crowded life. Among his myriad spreadsheets, his friends and acquaintances, his cravings and his passions. I will leave him to wake up one fine day, and think of me with a fond smile or a wishful thought. I will leave him to look for me in the pages of my favorite book or among the words of my long lost letter. I will leave him to remember me by the sound of my unspoken name.

The phenomenon of Urban Loneliness

Chronic loneliness is not an unheard of phenomenon in metropolitan cities, or rather in modern metropolitan Indian cities. Loneliness can often be mistakenly for depression. However, the two are quite distinct. agreed, that loneliness on more than one occasion tends towards depression, but the converse might not be true. I am not an expert on the topic, yet here, I will try to lay out a layman's perspective of the persistent problem of loneliness.

To start of with the why's of the subject, why loneliness is so prevalent in our society today? Simply because of the growth of the concept of individualism. Traditionally in an Indian society an individual is expected to always abide by the family wishes. The trend is gradually but definitively changing. Indian parents with their aspirational  motives generally send their children to colleges/universities in the metropolitan cities which is often a potpourri or an amalgamation of cultures. Exposed to the ideals of urbane mannerisms these children adapt and mold to ideas revolutionary to their parent's staid belief systems. Exceptions of open, liberal households are off course present, however they are unfortunately numbered. This gives rise to hitherto unheard of habits, likes and influences such as a cultivated affinity towards western content (in the form of TV shows/movies or more recently Netflix) music, lifestyle etc. Suddenly a young adult finds himself/herself facing or dealing with situations previously unheard of, quite possibly for which a sheltered upbringing had left him/her unprepared.

This cultural juxtaposition often acts as a two way traffic. On one hand metropolitan culture, lifestyle (generously peppered with urban upcoming trends like travel/fashion/blogging/photography etc) tends to expand the mind and help formulate opinions, involvement or drive passions. Contrarily this expansion or exultation often acts as an injection of isolation. As the years go by, and this young adult metamorphoses into a new breed of culturally refined, well read, opinionated and liberal citizen, but the itch of loneliness becomes increasingly pronounced. From the issue of forming everlasting bonds of friendships, to cultivating professional contacts, to the ever imminent question of finding love, every aspect of human interaction goes through several layers of scan or security check. The echo chambers we force ourselves into tend to hold our faculties in a tight grip.

Therefore, is the phenomenon of urban loneliness really a myth? Or is it just an issue evolved out of our so called pseudo intellectual progress? It is hard to say. Research suggests that, the possibility of facing loneliness picks up from the age of 30. Loneliness is often identifies with a general lack of purpose, dissatisfaction with life and living individually in a city almost doubles the risks. City dwellers are increasingly impacted by social fragmentation, noise, lack of control, stress at work, subordination and overcrowding. Loneliness if it persists over longer duration also leads to depression and tends towards self harm or suicidal tendencies. Despite the rapid rise of this phenomenon, loneliness is not diagnosed as a medical condition. Symptoms often help with identification while also mixing it up with depression, anxiety. However, the distinction is often evident.

In conclusion, the rise of this trend is fairly recent. I have often heard it spelled out as a gap or an issue persistent with our generation. Perhaps it is or perhaps it isn't. I believe that loneliness had always been present as an undercurrent in our society, however, it's foray into the mainstream media is probably credited to the information explosion which is a gift of our digitally connected generation. In an age of Facebook, Instagram, Twitter etc, sharing comes easy and the hunger for validation is more marked. The more digitally connected we seem to be, factual or humane aspects become more impaired. One can only imagine the societal structure in the times of the millennial or the Gen Z, coming of age. Nevertheless, society (not just Indian society) is in a state  of constant evolution and it largely does ensure survival of the fittest. What could we do to hold the trap doors open? Maybe quite simplistically form better or more meaningful relationships. We could dedicate some downtime to ourselves, disconnect from the clutter every once in a while and pursue an interest. Reach out, talk, meet, share. Maybe we could take a cue from our traditional Indian belief system and learn to believe in the concept of constructing a framework of exchange. This would definitely not only be family or relatives, but people whom we come to identify with, over a period of time. Maybe people with similar value system. After all, for us, association does come more naturally. And traditionally so does acceptance, assimilation, tolerance. One simply just needs to reach out.

I was trying to be brave

 I was trying to be brave. To rise above and do what I wanted to do. At that moment, in that time. Brave enough to give up. Brave enough to hold still. To find courage to make the choices I had been destined to make. Brave enough to be lead by hand into a dimlit cluster of doubts. I had wanted to be brave. Calm enough to write down the echoes in my mind. Poised enough to let others read and feel my words against their fingertips. I wanted to find courage to tell her, darling it's time to let him go. To hold her and say that there is life beyond. Trust me and walk on. I wanted to be bold enough to pluck out the tags they put on us. To scratch labels and be free. I wanted to not be defined by who I am, or where I come from. The language I speak, or the color of my skin. By what I do or by the souls I touch. I wanted to be brave enough to just be. I wanted to wander aimless amongst strangers in distant lands. I wanted to be that smiling monk at a button sized monastery far removed from horrors of our world. I wanted to find courage to feel attached and drown in a suspension of sub-optimal gravity. I longed to feel. And yet I wanted to scatter and run when it felt. For the brave really aren't brave. Courage is not to be who you are. The who's of identity are labels just as vague. To be brave, is just to feel. And for just this once, I wanted to feel.

Story of dormant desires

Today is one of those days when I want to write about birds and bees. Of chocolates and vanilla. Of ecstasy and desires. Of forbidden and unhinged. And why not of desires? Of all things frugal and feather light, desires shaped into longings over distances. Distances that melt into droplets frozen despite warmth of skin. The semi amorphous curtain of melancholic evenings fused into bustling cacophony of cocained, hungover carrefours. Why is it that desires remain unspoken of, uncared for, caged and dormant. Desires that graze, desires that nuzzle, brittle and pale. Today is one such day of uneventful outcomes, of uncharted whispers and unfinished mulling overs. A day when thoughts ran amok among the branches and leaves lost color in the burning sun. When dizzy junctions halted into hapless silences, distances expanded into delirious recklessness and contracted into expired ecstasies. Unhinged, unspoken, non repented, intoxicated and yet present. Story of dormant desires.

Uncertainties knocking at my door

There came a day when abject uncertainty knocked at my door. And what did I do? I closed it on his face. Before you jump to myriad imaginings of what came to pass, answer an irrelevant query. What is uncertainty for you? For me, uncertainties are when icy cold fingers clasp my hands and shake me out of my stupor, push me to see realities I would rather not see. Uncertainties are following my beaten down, weather withered instinct. Uncertainties are loosing track of should haves in could haves. When the screens turn a refined and opaque grey, what would you anticipate to retrieve from the debris of bygones? Uncertainties. Or maybe not. So I did close the door on his face. But just before walking away, there came this brief spell of what ifs. I did tiptoe back to where he was, still standing at the ramparts. Was it mystery or flamboyant lack of it that made me want to. I honestly couldn't say. Could I ever be certain of uncertainties that he would bring along? Moreover, would I wish to test the possibilities? Mayhaps, only time would tell. You know when the mountain breeze grazes the surface and spread the chill, it is then that the uncertainties are bound to spill.

Connecting the dots

Today in a roomful of strangers, with lights dimmed out, I connected the dots. The missing link of a question that has been gnawing at me ever since. The proposition that not everyone you meet in life is going to be the one relevant. It is perhaps simplistic, to say that there would be some who would rather spend their lives with irrelevance. What if today I question as to how many would really know me? If I had to write a phrase for my eulogy, what would it say? Would my tombstone just rather read, "In search of the elusive concept of happiness" or would it be in celebration of an existence well lived, paths well trodden, touches well felt. How many would know of your, "one that got away". Impact and stories are often intertwined like tireless attempts at shaping an outcome. For a lover of wordplay and allegory, meaning often bursts forth in the most unexpected corners. In the midst of a work session, in the arms of an abject stranger or intoxicated among the group of lost friends who swore by each other, once upon a time. And if you're fortunate meaning dwells in dropped phrases, stories reside in echo chambers.

Broken jar of salt peppers

A broken jar of salt peppers. An oversized suitcase of baggage. Melancholic and morbid. When I open my eyes, I would often want to shut them off. I transit from places or people, leaving behind shards. Incapable of drawing a straight line. I would blabber, incoherently or talk in circles when nervous. Those are my walls of glass that I build about my psyche of an adolescent mind. On occasions I would not make sense and on moments of clarity, everything would spring to a stark pattern of objectivity. Time often stops when one stands at a juncture of indecision. Seconds would morph into hours, and I would slow down into an unintelligible silence or would patter on to appear sound. As derelict as transit sounds, what does it entail really? Transit would be the idea of holding back and letting go. Of losing oneself in another. Of patterns and crayons. Transit would be perception and doubts. When I fade from one picture and fuse into another, my losing would be transit for another.

Simple joys in life

Today I thought I would think about the simple joys in life. Those once upon a time I had it in the palm of my hand moments. The simple pleasures of making paper boats and watching them float away in glory. Or the saturated afternoons, locked in a room reading the newly minted books, my father would buy for me. The oversized raincoats and strappy boots I would don to hopscotch around in muddy puddles. Or the tadpoles I would chase with the blunt end of a twig. I would think of how my humpty dumpty, happy child of a cousin, would blow the whistle every time I dozed off with my homework untouched, in a garden chair. Of how I loved wearing mismatched long socks in winters, put my feet up and cozy into the crumpled pages of my latest story. Sometimes I would read, sometimes I would write, sometimes I would sketch. The sky was still infinite, the horizons unscathed. I would listen to recitals of the impending storm or play dumb charades with my mother. Today I thought I would deviate from the mathematics of it all. Today I felt, I wouldn't calculate in anticipation.

Happy ecstasy

As the days go by, I tend to think about indecision and pause more and more. Not that I hadn't the day I met him. But even now as I contemplate to give him a fixture in my pages, I wait and trotter around the edges. Not that he warrants oblivion or deserves obscurity. He is too bold an image for my mind to erase. Yet still his mystery intrigues me. Unknown entities are not a part of my world, yet on odd days  of tempestuous vigor, I am known to take matter into my hands and plunge into the icy cold waters. Today as I pause to scrawl my scattered ramblings on the pages of my journal, I am uncertain, if I will ever see him again. And oddly enough I want to. I want to touch that skin again, run my fingers through his hair. Whisper my dormant desires into his ears and feel him move unconsciously in his  sleep. I want to see his droopy eyelids close in forgetfulness and then open in lazy ignorance to break into a relaxed yawn. He is wickedly conscious of the effect he has on me and the desires he arouses. If only wanting could end in happy ecstasy, each time my mind wanders, I would be in heaven by now.

All these years...

If I confess today that all these years and there is a tiny part of me that still misses him, I wouldn't be lying. I do. I don't know where he is, he is somewhere around but even after all this time, his yearning knocks against my chest. Like the first day I saw him, a zillion years ago. Like water flowing under the bridge, time has happened to flow away. So much of it, in such a broad gauge. But every time someone turns around and asks me, if he still exists. I say he does. In a heartbeat, in a blink of an eye. At that moment, in that space, he does. In my reality he always does. Life is moving at an unsteady trotter. Each time I see him now, he seems a little more faded. As if quantum of time is eating away at his particles. As if a bell is tolling at an impending ending. Maybe it is time to drift apart. Further still, more distant, into the emptiness of carefully crafted oblivion. I sometimes wonder, how would it be living in a cocoon of unknown. Living like polite acquaintances amidst cases of feather light voluminous history. To get up one day and remember him as an ache that fails to subside. To admit to him to be a bygone.

Frames to walk into

It is one of those evenings of unanticipated happychance. Those rare flashes of light in a thunderstorm. Of having stumbled upon a tiny sparkle of imagined light. Picture a rescue boat in lost whirlpools of torrid sea. I am rambling, am I not? Words don't come that easy. Sometimes thoughts would get interwined in the broad separations of my mind. And then I would often need someone to peel the layers off. One by one. Reason, question, argue and assimilate. Someone to anticipate the unfrequented possibilities. Those are rare occasions of discovering stillness in between a raging storm. It is not often easy to temper yourself to want to slow down. There are those who come to a screeching halt. And then there are those who chance upon a mirage once in a blue moon. What did he think he found, when he came upon her wandering about? Fated mischance or a curious anomaly of sorts? They say that sometimes you walk out of a frame only to walk into another. I often wonder, what if you cease to direct the direction that those walks would take. Maybe in rare cases, one could let the frames decide where not to draw the lines.

Elusive concept that is Love

Somedays I stare at a blank sheet, thinking about what I would like to put into words. There are so many things to talk about. So many stories that I have been a part of. Stories that I had started. Stories that I saw zipping past me. Now when I look at the vapours rising out if my coffee at an obsolete corner of the mountains, I wonder at the elusive concept of love. What is it exactly? Is it the anguish in an unfinished letter jotted stealthily, while waiting at a roadside cafe. Or is it the restlessness on a moonlit evening? Crammed in an overstuffed balcony. What if, it is like searching for a familiar face in a crowded hall. Is it that vague reminder of a forgotten song. The shuffle of stolen feet on a street littered with dried leaves. The whiff of air on a balmy beach. Is it knowing that there is another remembering your scent while flipping through the pages of a new edition. You know, there are forms of loving and leaving. And yet there is just one to stay. Stay put in a mind while the world labors in motions of entries and exits. Loving and leaving are like those solitary walks on an obscure sundowner. Saturated with questions but fulfilled in pauses.

Stuck in Grey

I had not been a believer in anything much. You could say my beliefs were that of an ordinary city bred individual. Until about that exceptionally bright day, when I turned around and sheepishly asked for a bottle of water. A quizzical expression and a disdainful snort. That was my first face off with what was to become imperative to me. To my experiences. My meanings. What would you call her? For me she has been a lot of things over the years. Her role has evolved, metamorphosed, been defined and re-defined. My friend. My confidante. The keeper of my darkest secrets. Basest instincts. You always need someone to make you see who you really are. She was that to me. For the longest time. It is true I have hated her on occasions with a passion I generally cannot evoke. And off course hated anyone who grew close to her, with a white hot rage. There are times when the lines fade between love and hate, and you're perpetually stuck in grey. I have been perpetually locked in grey. I realize that the years are ticking by. But I wonder if she is still there. Locked in my dystopian grey. Unable to move. Caught in the web.

Your window is gone

I was standing at the airport bookstore, in between layovers, trying to choose an interesting cover from the shelves, when I saw it lying there. The book she had said was worth reading a million times over. I didn't pick it up. No. The things she touched, sear through the membranes of my conscience. Like a brand that is only hers. She had come into my life like a raging hurricane. And disappeared like a meteor shower in the sky, with no traces left. I have nothing of hers with me. Yet I have everything of hers in floating whispers. The stories she read, and re-read to me. The chocolate she nibbled on when reading. All of it. And no, I do not touch them on neutral shelves in transit lounges. Lest they conjure her up at that very instant. Sometimes, I do not know whether I am more scared of my own reality or her window of perspectives. For once in my meticulously planned existence, something had felt real. So real that I wish I could frame pieces like postcards in neat little black frames. To be displayed, sprawled across my walls. Your window is gone you know, she used to say. I, like certain windows that stay irretrievably shuttered, jammed on rusted hinges. 

Droplets on my windshield

There were particles in the wind today. Droplets on my windshield. These long drives have curiously become a healing mechanism. And then there is him. I was thinking how lifeless, limbless loss feels. It's like that rotten tree leaf submerged under a puddle full of washed rain, the morning after. One who's shape and color is still vaguely discernible but it is gone nonetheless. As I turn on the wiper to clear my vision ahead, the flip flop with the clutter of fall tells me that in another chance, in another world probably he is doing that too. Or maybe he is, in this world itself. Particles in air that accumulate on my screen like the accumulation of silt on a riverbed. One can trace the path on their backs. Just like fate can be traced by feather light fingers on an open palm. Long drawn out summers, the humdrum of a faded life, distant echo of realities that would have been. Ought to have been. Like sitting cross legged and crystal ball gazing, under the voluminous clouds. Tell me your sorrows, and let me me give you light. I would. If only you could show me some light.

That which is lost - Empathy

Empathy. Pride yourself on the fact that you are tolerant, observant, opinionated. But somedays, maybe on just a handful of them, you are not really empathetic. In between brief interludes of conversations, you come out as someone overtly set in your ways. Too strong. Too condescending. Too patronizing. The world is not a collection of curios to choose from. How would you know the other is not in similar two minds about you? Do you hide behind the familiar warmth of unconscious? Where you bluntly state, you're not sure what you're looking for? The more success we have, the more others conform to us, the more adamant we become in interactions. Is the zeal to push our selves to the forefront and advocate supremacy so great that we forget to put ourselves in another's shoes and think for a second whether we are being needlessly harsh? Maybe something to think about on a spent up morning? There is just not your view point that is valid in the world.

Stranger in my Head

The elevator door was slamming shut as I desperately lunged and jammed my feet in it. A cocky smile, indolent eyes. Every morning, the same time, the same instant as I walk in, he strolls in too. Fate? Mischance? Nonetheless, there he is. A stranger yet I feel his eyes linger. There is a strange feeling of unsettled wounds in his eyes. As if he is lost in a crowd. Standing stiff lipped, mute, when the world around him is rushing past. Ans when he turns his steadfast gaze upon me, I squirm needlessly. What is it with this person that screams damage and yet I want to unravel his mystery. As if his eyes bore into my soul and slowly undress me as I move around fully clothed. His lips scream sin that I want to partake. His presence arouses nerve endings in me that I thought were lost beneath a sheath of exterior. Delectable, forbidden. But that which I want to devour. This stranger that I see everyday. Somehow I seem to know him. As if my heart is putting a tag on him, saying pay heed, this is the one who will be the ruin of you. Yet I can't seem to stop. Turning back is next to impossible, even if I fall off a cliff, I have to discover. This stranger in my head.

Early Oblivion

As dusk sets in I look into your eyes sometimes. I have grown used to sitting with you during these melancholic sunsets and watching the lights fade away into the distance. We don't talk on those occasions. Just sit. Assimilate. Feel. Drown. There are days I don't know what you're thinking. Lost. Withdrawn. Guarded.You know, I want to know. I want to get to discover. Probably, it's just a figment of my imagination but sometimes, I feel you're somewhere else, someplace else. As if you're looking for something, breathing for someone else. It is as if, you're not the person I know you to be, but someone else with a different soul altogether. I know I sound like a raving lunatic but there is a part within you that I cannot touch. And that is what terrifies me. I see that distance in your eyes and I stop dead in my tracks. It would not matter had I been a trifle unimaginative myself. But I am not that. I think and I feel. I sense each time you hide behind those walls and bolt the door. I am not allowed in. This is a strange relationship. If one can even call it that. There are so many trapdoors, vaults and secret chambers. Everyday is like an exercise of hunting for an exit. I know there is nothing overtly wrong with us but why do I feel that you're like a caged bird? As if you're swallowing a bitter pill every breathing second. As if you're suffocating yourself to an early oblivion. As if, for you, I am an early oblivion.

A Duel of wits

On those cold nights, he would often tell her stories. Stories of how he imagines it ends for  him. She used to protest in outrage at the morbidity of his imaginations. And yet he would insist on her listening to the descriptions of a long torturous fall of a face of a cliff. They would go on arguing till the wee hours of the night. One advocating how death has to be assimilated, the other fighting for the myriad reasons to live. It was a duel of wits which held them in conversation for ever. For nobody had challenged the other in a war of words quite so much like. Each of them loved debate furiously and they looked for a worthy opponent in every plain of existence. Someone who could rise up to the occasion and defend the case well. And unfortunately in this instance, the words had locked and matched. Neither had learned to concede well but the banter had won. What if arguments, opinions had ceased existing in modern world? How would you learn to love without the incessant sparring of razor sharp wit? So as the days went on, so did the blurriness of the lines between morbidity and zest for life. I suppose death did assimilate in a fiercely indomitable spirit. That's what debate does. It teaches, elevates but leaves traces of still, immovable ideas on paper.

It's complicated

Complicated is the state of affairs. When life begins to loose the edges, things or rather relationships wane and wilter, you call that complicated. But ever wonder why do things or emotions get so terribly mired into a haze or blurr. Maybe somewhere, someplace, you never gave words to the emotions that you felt. Once long back or still feel every once in a while. I believe expression is critical in every relationship. Even in friendships. If someone at some point in life meant the world, how many times do we gather enough thought to come out and say that, yes you did matter. Life changes. People leave and disappear. Often we are left with that nagging feeling of what if I had just said so. Asked them to wait. Just a bit till I could catch up. It really doesn't take much. Growing up and making peace with that which couldn't be, requires significant amount of effort and control. But every now and then, what if it could still be, if only you could acknowledge and express. Life is long and regret is the biggest tragedy. So please don't. One never knows if there is sunshine on the flip side. You just need to toss.

Airports on a Diameter

Airports make me sad. Invariably, every time. As I sit waiting in the passenger lounge, I wonder what airports stand for. Beginning and endings. Going back to someone who would urge to text the moment you land. Airports make me melancholy. The texts get lost with winds somehow. Or the sender does. As if the mists engulf him, he vanishes from reality, erasing every trace of his ever being present. Airports remind me of how people get lost in the whirlpool, get swallowed up and never surface again. Perhaps sometimes it heralds adventures, discovery, memories, present and past. Airports do stand for memories too. Not just broken ones. I sit here in a semi empty lounge, waiting for the gates to open. To swallow people in. Where would a lone traveler like me go? Are there messages waiting at the other end? Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Who could tell what a journey would yield. Beginning and endings run in loops sometimes. As people say, life comes full circles. Airport stand somewhere on that diameter. An empty gate and an equally empty outlet into the end.  

Your City

No, I don't want to come back. Not yet. To your city, once again. It was my city till you painted it a different shade. And now this kaleidoscope of colors hurt my sight, blind my eyes. Everything I touch  reminds me of your presence, every turn I take brings me closer to your voice. I am content here, in a distant land, far away from you at last. The idea of that flight I have to take scares me dead. I am not ready yet. Not now, not ever.
Do you know how sand sifts through fingers? My existence, my life, my gaiety has begun to fall away like the sand billowing in the screeching winds. There is off course the familiarity of known faces. People I call my home. My shelter in torrential rain. Yet all these assurances never could assuage my soul. That is your city now. The leaves shedding from the trees are tainted by your hands. I have lost the city, I called my home. While wandering aimlessly through the distant lands, I have pieced some of the shards together. Gluing them into a splintered frame. There was a picture in it too. I tore that apart in a moment of rage. I see it now. Your city from the window, as I descend. Beastly, unforgiving, inhuman. Lighted by thousand lights, yet dark like the pits of hell.

Rain brings her back

It's raining again today. Drops as if all hell has broken loose. Or maybe someone has left the faucet open somewhere. I always disliked rains. Always, till I met her. Water is inconvenient, temperamental, whimsical, tempestuous. It flows in a barrage of emotions. Just like her. The one instant that I saw her, on a windswept morning, when the temporary halt of a city was drenching in an ungodly downpour. I happened to look out of my window at a non moving signal, and there she was, right beside me, staring out of hers. All she had eyes for were the descending droplets while the world outside was in throes of utter chaos. An unruly head of dark curls and a set of dreamy, unfocused eyes. Whenever it rains now, I remember her telling me how much she loves the soaked greens on the drive here. Yes, she was like water. Almost like a constant that moves and cleanses along it's path. She cleansed and revived so much of my light. On rainy, dripping mornings, I stare out of my window at her droplets. Or sometimes roll it down, to feel them against my skin. Rain has her spirit intact. If I close my eyes, I can feel her laughter, the twinkle in her eyes, glimpse that head full of curls, even if for a moment. Rain brings her back. Back to me like nothing does.

Play of lights

Lights have always held a strange hypnotic allure. Photographing lights in a dark backdrop, still holds a charm of it's own. So it was one such evening in a breezy, balmy shore city, that answering that sudden urge, leaving behind some friends, I walked out to capture the play of lights in the french quarters. The length and breadth of the old town is littered with frames. The open restaurants, the slow music drifting out. Sometimes, I would stop, stand at the doors, and take a picture just to freeze the essence in that moment. In places such as these, you sometime want to show the canvas to someone. Tell them how childishly church arches fascinate you. The gilded doors, the high ceilings, the perfectly lined pews. And above all the multi colored glasses on the windows. The fading glow of lights playing hide and seek through them. Then suddenly the cell phone vibrates. Picking it out of a cluttered pocket, I open the window to read his words. So how do the churches look tonight? And there you stand rooted to the spot, wondering at the absurdity of it all. Absurdity that he would somehow know that I would invariably find my way into an isolated church by the sea, miles away from him. I pause, look around, inhale and respond, they look just fine. And then I showed him. 

A long lost dream

I woke up today with a long lost dream. To an obscure part of memory that I had relegated to my subconscious. I woke up with that feeling of having a set of eyes staring. The tent flaps fluttering in the wind. The sun fighting its way inside through the gaps. I turned and there you were, with a faint hint of a smile. Sometimes, you were a puzzle to me in those days. I couldn't read you. And that's what made me curious. I wanted to unravel the layers and find out the triggers. So I wordlessly asked what was it. All you did was nod. Silent, just a moment that remains suspended in the air, even today. Years later, when supposedly we have come to understand each other better, you still turn and nod. And it takes me back to those days when I first met you. When, despite our stark differences, we were growing up together. Shaping each other's thoughts and ideas. No, I didn't crack the code. Eerily my pieces still fit into yours. Only the glue is a bit lax. Yet, on mornings like these, I wake up in that tent by the river, and find you awake with a faint question in your eyes. Motionless. Conjuring answers out of my silence. 

A little bit of hope

And suddenly it rained. I had been sitting, staring at the unending water infront of me, wondering how infinite yet full of possibilities it seemed when I hear splatter on the surface. I would have missed it, had I been lost like I usually am. Those summer showers that fades as quickly as it comes. But it came nonetheless. I have been wishing for rain ever since I stepped into this secluded place. Nature rarely disappoints. May it be an untimely splurt of showers, or that clear sunset that you've been dying to see. In those moments, the alignment of these uncontrollable forces give you hope. Hope that perhaps something good is waiting for you somewhere. Hope that the days that stopped meaning, might just start making sense somehow. That is why maybe everyone should venture out alone once in a while. To find some meaning, some peace, to recover that respect that you had for your individuality, your choices, your decisions. To fall a little bit in love with yourself. A sudden downpour, an unsolicited smile, a sense of belonging among strangers. Darkness can wait for a bit. Not tonight. Tonight I found a little bit of hope. 

These nights every year

It is a graceful night. Tempered and quiet as the gulls glide down on the lake. The boats are floating past, like long silent dark shadows. As if the full moon has stories to tell. I am adrift in this drowsy seclusion, part of this play. Yet the water seems to send me back, back to that distant shore where you are speeding through the cluttered streets, making your way back home. A stranger in a street full of familiar faces. The mountains you are a part of, end and fuse into the murky green water lapping into my palms. Nature has a way of joining threads, weaving patterns, stitching back open pores. Familiarity has faded into a truce between the two of us. An unspoken agreement of burying that which ought not to be uprooted. Elements still compliment and complete the other, fill in the gaps and make the picture whole. The mountains offer the majesty of height and pride of expanse while the river marks motion and dignifies continuity. It is like one of those nights every year, when we meet to test the thread that vaguely binds our realities together.

Tonight we’re familiar

 The fireflies are glowing tonight. Amidst all this clatter of conversations, laughter, mirrors and stolen glances, I can feel your eyes following every movement of my hands. Your gaze is fixed on my eyes. Like a Hunter to the prey. Only, that this, isn’t a hunt. We are familiar. Or atleast the knowledge is sufficient enough in its history to warrant boredom. We are that common term that describes steadfast familiarity. We’re friends. Or that unease of something more or something less.
You’re that stranger I stumbled upon long ago, who stayed, lingered on the edges and slowly got under my skin. I am still familiar with that tilted head and droopy eyes. Reminders of the perfume you used to wear. Didn’t I say that we were familiar?  Then what makes you keep the glass down and stroll towards me? The fireflies, the muted lights, the place where we meet every year or certain memories both of us evade. This wasn’t ever easy. Yet we hangered on. What makes you linger on my words every time? Just my familiarity or the torment of unfinished desire? I would never know, as you choose never to tell. Yet on nights like tonight, you stay. Like you live for the memory of tonight and astonishingly somehow that is also a memory of me. Tonight we go back to our beginning every year and quietly wonder what if we had never met the other. Had we not touched the surface, how dispassionate would reality be? Would tonight ever matter?

Nightmare of your own choosing

I often wondered why I would walk into spaces and find them littered with fragments of memories. Half burnt letters, singed at the edges, sticky with soot. Letters that I had written. And later set on fire. Just like my soul, that seemed on fire. As if my innards were simming in a putrid yellow of disease. And oh it was rotten, smelly and putrid. My mind was like a labyrinth. Where the actual and imagination sometimes switched seats. If you're loose in that maze, could you trace yourself back? Safe from the demons of my created conscious. Only if it were that simple, I would have washed your laughter from my reality long back. The day the twisters caught hold of my thoughts were the worst. I was waking up with a bitter aftertaste in my mouth, not knowing if this pain I was feeling was indeed my own or maybe you, far off, were living a nightmare of your own choosing.

The expanse of the mountains

It was a late late evening, the bus painstakingly dragging itself along the mountainous roads. Nerve racking cold. So cold that I believe even my breadth was frozen. A group of strangers, braving a day long bus ride to this far off village, hidden somewhere along the dotted lines of the Indo-Chinese border. I fell in love with Chitkul. Not just because of the sheer expanse of the frame but because it was so strikingly, intricately brilliant. I had never seen the mountains this close. Every frame was enlarged. As if someone had stretched the margins delicately to include every inch of the white landscape. The largeness of it had caught my breadth then. Even now, one year after, I miss those days. Days when I just sat looking out of the window at the mountains. They answered so many of my questions in a heartbeat. I truly believe in the magic of the mountains. They do heal.

Did it heal me, you ask? Not so much. But the mountains are really not at fault for their incapacity.  Rather I am, for my persistence. There were days when we would just climb down the gorge and sit at the riverbed. Dozing, meditating, inhaling, just plain feeling. I think all of us had a story, a wound perhaps that we kept hidden in our hearts. Those ten days we were letting them loose. Not a lot of us would talk for extended periods of time. We would suddenly find ourselves in pin drop silence that stretched long and wide. Have you sat across a stranger in absolute silence for an hour?  I have. It is amazing how much silence speaks. Mountains teach you one thing for sure. They teach you the insignificance of human issues. When there are such sights at every corner you take, would you really want to go back to something or someone that you're having doubts about? Quite often not. Mountains make you stronger. Stronger to tolerate the irrelevance of the cities.

Do sins accumulate?

The vainglory of a reluctant sunset. Mixing unproductivity of lethargy with incessant clockwork of passing hours has never been ideal. The voices are screaming incoherent curses in my subconscious. Fighting to loosen the chains of frugality. The days are ticking away like the numb less buzz of a lone insect at my window. The question to be asked is, do we, or do we not believe and trust in the rebound of karma? Collected offenses of long dead misdeeds. How do you think sin accumulates? Drop by drop, trickle by trickle till the lid turns up and the accumulated pitch of sins explodes into space. 
But does the idea really function? Is there a law of nature that balances and evens out, the count of goods to the count of bads. Then why does every scripture sing verses on the criticality of a sinfree existence? If sin doesn't bring forth retribution then is there even a fraction of chance for the ideals to survive, into a world where the lines between black and white are starting to blurr. The boundaries of human conscious and guilt free deference are dwindling of late. The monsters roam unchained. Not long before dark singularities consume the virtues of life.

Women lost in translations

I always knew she had the courage it takes to soar. Soar above the ordinary, brave the shadows, the darkness. That's why we were friends. Correction. Are friends. I don't deny she's erratic. That, she probably is more than me. But she has the strength to defy. And that's what I have come to love about her, over the years. Should I say then, that I haven't disputed her choices in life? More than ever. But disputes and debates over the do's/ don'ts have shaped us up. I don't agree with most of what she says. Not because they don't translate into tangible outcomes. But because I know for a fact, somewhere we both are lost in translations. Sounds odd though. Women lost in translation. Yet undefinable meanings are lost in bounds of grammar. Rebellious women, like her, have to be given wings to glide. To tame the wilderness into snuggled dusks. They have to be given the breathless passion to love. Proverbial Icarus of my time.

Paper boats in rains

 The child in me used to love the rain. Drop by drop it accumulated in our garden. Forming puddles where I floated the paper boats. Squatting in the quelchy mud and hearing the crack and scream of thunder. These days the drops have acquired an alien quality in this mammoth of a city. Still I somehow love the wipers moving against the screen. The slippery road, erratic traffic and the smell of wet earth. My mother used to say rain brings life, brings fervour, it initiates, heralds new beginnings. Every time it rains in the city, I miss that nook that I carved for myself . The pretty little garden. The soaked plants that we planted in the long intervals of summer holidays, watered with a regularity of a station clock. I miss the simplicity of the mud castle that we built. It had disproportionately huge rooms with hardly any figurines. Who would have guessed someday the emptiness of the mud hut would echo the emptiness and purposelessness of the city existence. 

Roads that lead nowhere

I am traveling to this ancient land in a couple of days. The land that I viewed with a fragmented telescope the last time I was near. I didn’t quite take up to it back then. Yet I chose to come back to this melancholic squall. Tucked away in a far corner of a state infused with tradition and charm. Lately as life has started taking unexpected and jarring turns along the treacherous roads, the need for solitude has skyrocketed. The need to sit alone in a commoner seat and let the air waft in and out, as pictures unfold. There is a strange calmness in roads. Roads into the unknown. Zapping into the palm lit groves. Simmering in the summer heat. I often think how magnificent and luscious green the trees look. Perhaps one tends to view the world with a newfound awe once the flipside has been viewed. As I refuse to mute the noises in my head these days, the words appear lyrical, the strength of life more vivid. Irrelevance, insignificance shape into regularities. The roads whiten out. 

We did well

My fetishes with your smile never cease to end. Sitting in a roomful of people, I see you look at your hands, then at me. Like those ancient mornings of our frugal past. Light years ago. I have heard that you are happy now. Someone who adores you has found his way into your heart. The heart that I imploaded in a hailstorm of recklessness. The sense of loss will continue to itch the crevices of my soul. If you would only say that you forgave. Would you say that I suffered enough? But what is enough if it doesn’t guarantee dissipation.
You smile at someone and I watch in quiet contemplation. What is it exactly that still hurts? The knowledge that you smile with another, or that you don’t care anymore, or that you forgot me, lost in your air of tranquility? While I despite having it all, gave up the one that balanced my core. We did well. You and I. Till well stopped meaning. Till fissures showed and cracks expanded. We did well for a while.

Wolves are howling tonight

Wolves are howling tonight. There is a storm brewing. Infinite shadows playing in my hands. I need to escape this isolation somehow. Open the knots of this mess, this web. Untangle, unfurl, smoothen, stretch. Infuriating are his words. On days, he appears to see past me. Like piercing my halo of self and focusing on a point beyond me. Anger swells up, at such nonchalance. What if I shattered his curtain of indifference demanding attention? What if I showed that I cared? The wolves don't seem to stop. The howls, screeching me to attention. I said I need him to look into me, at me and not beyond, not further. Why is it so very hard? The wind is uprooting roots somewhere far. And one by one I am letting go of my fingers, clutching this farce of love. So tightly that the depressions are bleeding. Open wounds of rejection, inattention, disinterest and passivity. The ever expanding shadows of his absence from my reality. Shadows of a man I call my own yet who doesn't belong.