sweet ignorance

Admit me love
to the paradise of which
I hadn't bothered to dream

How snugly was I wrapped
in the feeble warmth
of the yellow star

To not have noticed
to have been oblivious
secure and unnaturally brave

Then came an eclipse,
swallowing me whole
Alas
all is lost, Again.

Mood in Music-(Ironically)- Sunrise Norah Jones

Black White and Grey

It was raining. It had rained that day as well. Four feet by six, too small pronounced the architect biting down hard on his slim toothpick. Never mind she has shrugged off, ‘It’ll be for storage’ and they had moved on to more important decisions.
A tiny room banished to suffer the ignominy of neglect for more than a decade she mused carefully tying a scarf around a severe bun. The sheer quantity of things that had accumulated took her breath away. There, pushed against the wall stood his first cricket bat. It had cost enough and he had begged her at age 7 to not throw it away. Even after his Papa has promised to buy him a ‘better’ one she thought smiling. On the left sat a metal trunk full of saris her mother has thoughtfully chosen, each one hand picked to anticipate multiple functions at her in-laws, paranoid about looking ‘small’.
Most had been worn once and then folded carefully for those suitable moments to present themselves. With effortless ease she had given up the hassle of her badly tied sari for the immeasurably more convenient salwaar-kurta. Each year, only making her resolve stronger and that metal case had gotten buried deeper under the bulk of yet more unwanted stuff. Things she now needed to give away she decided, giving the trunk one firm push out of the small door. It opened up a room of possibilities she realized surveying the brick floor with dust eating at its every corner. More and more things formed a pile outside the door as the maids giggled helplessly at the sight of their Memsahib struggling with cobwebs and firmly refusing any help. Dust mops, jhaadus, wet cloths and buckets of water were all sacrificed to that room. The rain splattering on the trees outside made for comforting background music as she scrubbed away at those bricks. Each battle won with the dust added to her sense of accomplishment, the like she hadn’t felt for years.
Inches away from complete exhaustion she finally looked up and found what she had forgotten existed, a tiny window near the top of the room. She stretched out her hands and pushed it open to breathe in the first intoxicating whiff of that rich metal smell mingled with fresh rain. She balanced herself on tip toe and her eyes met the world outside as light began to filter into the once dark room. She smiled to herself and knew in her heart that the architect wasn’t right. The room wasn’t too small at four feet by six; it was in fact just right.

My-Real-Post-Script---- Deeply indebted to Sh who took the picture, around which this story is spun. Here's hoping we all get that tiny room, sometime.

Lost

fingers of winter tighten their grip
the darkest hour before dawn
around me flits

In Freezing January
words are barely passing
with a 'D' on the scribbled score sheet
they fail me,
nearly tippin over the ledge
from the slippery point
where once, the moss used to rest
on its back, eyes fixed firmly ahead

colder with the breeze
and the river rushing past
over and around the steady black rocks
Oh Peter, you are an image of discomfort

i want the shawl and the welcoming fire
the cosy armchair i still desire
a canvas to paint
a thought to hold
to skip past the post
where thoughts are controlled

Fives miles down and then to the left
leaving all else behind
except that dead phone
a testament,
to the cord of connection snapped
by a once vulnerable
now firm and willing hand.
PEACE

Oh, plus a lil something i once wrote about Woolf. Purely Opinion based.

Out of the possible million things veiled in Woolf’s writing, one fantastic excerpt would be the thoughts of Peter as he walks away from Clarissa thinking “I can’t keep up with them…. Life, with its varieties, its irreticences, had been laid under a pavement of monuments and wreaths and drugged into a stiff yet staring corpse by discipline… One had to respect it.”

What I personally penned down (guided by A Ma’am) on a slim purple post-it was “History as exercising control over human beings. Cite tradition. Ironic- mind as controlled by strings. Choices are contained. (we)Assume we have youth and possibility.”

Yes, I can write a 10 mark answer using just that as a base, unfortunately we only have 15 and 20 mark answers… so will have to brush up on the other 155 pages as well. When people wonder what studying literature can possibly help with, I gargle out the possibility that information written centuries ago is not completely obsolete. What I really mean (and rarely articulate, barring class) is that it’s actually universally applicable and hides very current concerns. Through the thoughts of Peter, Woolf manages to talk about the fact that we all remain convinced that with youth and an apparent lack of obvious obstacles…we have, in us, the ability to make a choice and one that is not intruded upon by society. The illusion that we are ‘free’ when the word exists not, for each action that we decide to go forward with is already influenced by centuries of tradition weighing down upon us, so deeply internalized that it convinces one that the choice we finally pick is one that we innately want… not knowing that what we want has already been shaped for us before we could stammer out ‘momma’ aged a few months.

One had to respect it, thinks Peter… whether we think it consciously or not, we end up treading on the same worn out path time and again. Regardless of how many epiphanies we claim to have undergone, the crossroads are really not debatable. Hopelessly fatalistic is it? Or is it simply too uncomfortable a truth to accept immediately?

No one likes the pinch of the inevitable… I no longer wonder why Woolf ultimately killed herself… if the discomfort of acknowledging her thoughts as a possibility is so high… the pain of thinking them up only to write them out to feed to the prowling (ungrateful) masses must have given more strength to her stumbling journey towards that river which gurgled up to claim her.

In a fairly intense (even poetic) conversation with Jean, I happened to mention a dormant thought… one that I apparently felt very strongly for. I said to him, if you look at the essence of a person (their soul probably) as water or a flowing liquid that seems to travel over gravel and soil with experiences acting as the same… with each circumstance we go through being represented as the so called pollutants of the liquid- sand, soil, twigs, leaves. Then, and this is purely my opinion, the essence itself may carry these intruders on in life as the water keeps flowing to places new… however, the essence is not affected permanently by them but what they do manage to maneuver is how the past baggage allows us to stare at the new. Experiences of the essence as eventually affecting the perception of all that is to follow. The thing is, having always considered taking ones life a mortal ‘sin’ if the concept exists, how can I honestly let the word ‘strength’ rub shoulders with one who has willingly taken her own life? It’s possible, keeping in mind a belief of the essence and its journey, that the sheer weight of the discoveries Woolf made, was enough to push her over the edge, literally. Not advocating any form of massacring the self, but perhaps leaving a window open for Woolf and not condemning her totally… for in all fairness… the journey she undertook was littered perhaps with too many heavy branches and piles of mud that most would have crumpled under.

(Current in-mind Quote "a word after a word after a word is power")

Gordimer Re-interpreted

“I don’t believe in love… and give me a reason why I should
You left me for that skinny bitch…
The one who’s white and came to ‘help’ with our apartheid fight.
How gracious of her, how extremely nice...
To dirty her feet in the mud and in the bargain, get some heat free at night.

I’ve heard those stories of men leaving their women,
But you always professed that you would be ‘different’
You left me and the family,
Left us in the cold
When the fire went out,
Out, alone I had to go.

Like a character in those plays, they show once in a while
Or those obscure hindi movies,
Where dreams melt in the rain
But here, there was no rain
just the pellets of guns fired
and the smoke from what had transpired
but have no fear, I was told
‘your husband is committed’
Committed of course,
To pleasuring his whore.

Surprised at these words?
That I am so bitter?
But didn’t you want this?
To hear me pine?
To see me shiver?
To hear just how lonely sleeping alone gets at night?
Surely I should cry, so you feel more of a man.
And swell up with your own importance,
because thats a part of you I’ll understand?

But I’m no house cat or domesticated dog
You hold no chains to keep me to this house
I’ve survived so far and that too without ‘needing’ you
I’ve heard those whispers when I’m longing for sleep
Your breath only too clear in that half-awake mind
‘I need Hannah, not you… oh Aila if only it wasn’t for you’

So this Aila of ‘yours’, she doesn’t give a damn no more
And now sings a song that our Baby taught me
‘If I don’t believe in love’, but without the ‘if’ in between.
I sing just the first line but over and over again, just so that it’s all clear;
Crystal clear in my head.
You tore away my love and my faith in it lasting,
You snatched it away and crawled with it to her
With that precious gift I gave you
And you ask me now,
You ask me now!
With that look in your eyes…why I don’t believe in love.
And why things have changed so…”

Yours Truly :)

Context- Google, Gordimer 'My Sons Story'

Ps- Writing this, when i should be Studying! Sheesh! :P

Allegory Ignored

They say i should suspect, guard with a frown.
a frown so deep that it clearly spells out...
'hey you there trespasser, keep out! keep out!

you're no snowy bunny
nor an orange owl
not a ray of hope
bouncing off those clouds

not furry
not cuddly
not hug-prone
nor round

you're not those things
you're a suspect they've found
they said to be careful
they said be aware
they said you would sneak in
against all obstacles rare.

but you're not sneaky
or nasty
or even too proud

then why the warning?
why insist upon that guarding frown?
why demand all this secrecy
lest the world know you've escaped

they say you're what we fear
when we huddle closer in the dark
they say you'll disrupt
all thats been mellow in the past

so what? i ask
there has been change before
and scoff all i do, those who say no!

so i leave the door open
just a tiny bit...
just in case you're around
through it, you can fit

and on that very table
will be a cream coloured cup
and a brownie to go
and along with that,
will be a yellow note

a note with curly writing
and a request to not go...
so i too can face this fear
and heed not dusty myths, simply centuries old!

so listen to me now,
and listen to me good,
piffle to the warning
that i've been following
from people unknown.

they....they.... they're nobody but someone elses left toe!

Amen?

to belong

I wake up and my eyes widen. Something doesnt feel quite right i think fumbling for words.
There's N chasing his mutt Rhino. G hobbles on as always towards the seedy bar, his only companion in old age.
We were all scared that the town would flood says a voice behind me.
i jump. okay, its only Nat..and he talks to everyone.
It may seem normal but somewhere i just know that the unusual is prancing around.
waiting to pounce, like the tiger that escaped from the zoo last week. or was it last month?
i'm going to look around i decide. Yes, firm regulated footsteps towards each house.
Knocking on doors, windows. Pans?
oh wait. now my pants are soggy. its okay, just a little puddle. seems fairly large though.
distracted by a yellow light i look up. oh. its now time to sunbathe.
i go towards the camp. the camp where the others sit together.
and i apart.
Everyone ignores me. Relief. Yes, its all normal.
But wait, everyones pants are wet too.
Somehow they all stepped into the same large puddle.
finally, a sense of community. we all know what to ignore and what all to accidently step into.
i muse and some more water splashes on my pants.
ummm. it feels good to call these people a 'we', its me with them i think joyfully.
finally. i get to be like them. see, even my pants are getting more wet.
JUST LIKE THEIRS!
ah! finally, a sign from the big man up there.
we belong together. 'we'... 'together'
this water feels chilly. ah, my knees feel chilly.
they're shivering too.
Is this what friendship is? i wonder.
how instantaneous is the empathy!
no wonder we all want a 'we' in life.
who wouldnt? i hug myself.
ummhumm. i guess i must have slipped into the puddle completely.
look, my shirts wet too. and its getting harder to walk.
feels like im wading. but its all okay, they're all wading too.
i feel good. this is a good day. we have so much in common now.
There goes a fish right next to my ear.
for a second i'm alarmed and then i get it.
of course.
the fish have learnt to fly.
relieved, the others... my friends... they all nod in agreement.

--------

To whom i owe enough.

When i was still a 'performing-member' of my dramsoc, this was something i had written for my character. Its partly inspired by what may have been Begum Jaans thoughts in 'Lihaf' (by Ismat Chughtai)... At least my interpretation of the situation as it was.

Scene- A couple is dancing together

She Thinks "What is love? Is it the first glance you cast on me? The moment i knew i simply had to be yours. Hoping to one day feel your slender fingers brushing away stray hair from my face. Is it the warmth of your breath at night that i treasure so deeply? Sometimes, when you're asleep i tell myself that you're dreaming of me. That's why that smile crosses your face, right? I thought marriage would be the perfect union of bodies and souls. A pretty picture that grows only more beautiful with time. Each wrinkle adding grace to every passing year, and now the fairy tale has come true. I can hold you, claim your love. Display my devotion. But to what? A cold statue who performs his duties? Gives mechanical responses to my wails for attention. I can't leave you because i love you but why can't YOU end it? Must we dance this miserable waltz day in and out? I guess you don't see that your indifference hurts more than blatant rejection. But i love you still. So, what is love?"

(context- Trapped in a marriage with a homosexual man who she is in love with.)

I didnt really want to put this out into the vicious world.. frankly its far too precious to me. But this is my final act of vulnerability. With this, i finally say goodbye. I do not know if i will feel the urge to come back and continue my garbled version of life as i see it, here. I do not know if i will find some other way to 'vent it out'. But i DO know that this IS an end of sorts. There are very few moments when you are aware that things are changing at the exact moment that they are. Consider this my anagnorisis. Yes, after a long wait i've finally found one word to describe a vivid feeling, to the dot.

The beauty of the English language is remarkable.

No honey it aint PMS

"yeah.. each time a girl snarls at a guy...he mutters....'bloody PMS'
no babe. its actually not PMS. Its you. Uhoh. Yes, thats right. YOUR inconsistent attitude thats driving me up the wall and has my knickers in a twist. and in NOT a fun way.
Why do you think its SO amusing to fuck around with my feelings?
what kinda perverse asshole are you anyway?
if you like me...stick around and continue the fawning.
if not. take the next bus home to upthereville and rent a cabin. grow a beard. talk to a dog named ruby.
but dont hang around. dont call. dont text. dont say you 'miss' me.
im not bitter. im bored.
have been on the roundabout exactly 3000 times and now im going to be sick.
so do me a favour. and show yourself the door.
im too blinded by my own idiocy to point.
thank you very much.
so, no honey it isnt PMS."

Reality-Finally!

Wow...what a way to celebrate the 200th post...yes, nows your cue to cheer :D
Im back. Yup. The family holiday got over and honestly im in love. Not with the place...not with the people...not with anyone in particular. More like an idea. See, after years of putting it off (subconsciously saving the best for later i tell myself)...i read Ayn Rand' The Fountainhead. No i will not gush. I will not become a cliche'. I will not talk about the 5 pens i used up scribbling my thoughts on pages that never seemed to end..and that i almost clung to (i didnt even want it to end...cuz then there would be the resolution...and god help someone out there if it wasn't just bloody fantastic)...luckily..it was. but not in an obscene way. In a life-goes-on but lets-be-strong way. Okay, my way of expressing it is too poor but ...it changed stuff. It changed how i viewed stuff for the past few days. I think it may just have changed me for good. Oh damn. Ive never been a good adapter.

But lets talk about the weekend. Not in chronological order cuz that would just be an insult. Okay, not really. but ahhhhh. So bloody much to say/think/feel. One constant thought. Im in love. The sea...finalllyyyyy....im back to loving it in the same-yet-different way. It kinda pulls you in...(yes, i am aware of the scientific facts behind the tug..have had my basic education you know!)...and if you look at it from a certain angle (my angle)...it pulls away your negativity and swallows it up whole. A LOT of embarrassing stuff happened... i wore the wrong kinda shirt (ahem)....tore my Pjs (badlyyy!!)....kicked/punched someone really helpful (purely by accident)....it was all unplanned and messed up..but i had a blast. Went on a banana boat (which basically tosses you out into the ocean at regular painful intervals).....Jet Ski-eddddd....just wallowed in the water.....and gave-in. To what? Just thoughts. I dont know. Its been a strange 4 days (maybe 5). But im SO super glad i went. A lot of stuff has changed. For starters there is still tons of water in my ear! Im totally outta the loop )study wise. And i met a pal. Someone who i connected with...and that is super-rare. Thank you Sa (pal)...sorry for accidently punching+kicking you. :D i dont know why i added the smiley! But somehow...you made the trip 79% of what it was! :):):)

Not a typical post...but then..what is? :P
Im BACK!
ps-Will try and put up some snaps!
ps2- i feel like im in this bubble that cant be pierced...its not exactly happy-happy...cuz that would be temporary..more like a cushion...that even if stuff gets to me...it wont get to ME. like, there will always be a part that gets squashed...but also another part (in that same squashed part) who will be okay. And being okay is very important.

Gotta keep moving. :D

yapping

"i could care both less and more but to figure that out i'd need a century or maybe three. ah. now dont i wish i believed in reincarnation? that room of mine (what a word, 'mine')- its got green 'tones' a mother says. MY mother? i like sleeping in a heavy blanket even during summer. almost as though i have three-four of me piled up on me. the airconditioning can always be lowered a notch. but im generally warm. effusive almost. sometimes, even when i dont feel like being. a 'false note'? no its just about expectations. when people hear you say hello one day then they expect it the next day and the day after. the day they dont hear it, its disconcerting. so i do it for them. quite the philanthropist i know. romance? whats that? a heavy word people fling around. they coddle it, love it, fuck it and then crib. yak yak yak. yarns have been written about it. god knows how many trees died to fill your bookshelf with words you'll never read and things you wont 'get'. speaking of which, you also wont get happiness or joy or enlightenment. dont snicker. i know more than you. or less. really cant say. i hope you didnt read this thinking i would tell you something sensational or riveting. its not happening. you may as well shake your head right now and mourn those wasted minutes. i'd like to see you unhappy. yes, i know i would."

(Read tag)

Boy

So VP-an online newspaper, had this FlashFiction competition...The topic was a death note (unless im mistaken)...so here is what i THINK i would have written...(keep in mind the 'fiction' aspect)

"hi, its me...Boy
writing with a red pen that seems to crawl over the page....hesitant, knowing that once it stops its journey..something else will come to an end. It pauses frequently, buying time so as to leave behind something worthy of being read. I dont think i really want any tears splotching up this page, after all...its all that i'm giving to the world. My moment...my writing...a little bit of me...this is probably how picasso felt...or maybe im just being a romantic. No guy talks like this, at least no guy in his right mind. There are so many better things to be doing...like cricket, basketball, tennis...or so im told. Personally, have always preferred a good book or maybe a nice movie (with the really nice bits edited out...like the Rang De Basanti one...with that whole hue n cry over that animal...it gave me such a feeling of freedom...what did YOU think i was talking about?)...Mum, Dad..you were always scared of my becoming like those OTHER boys...the ones who did 'dirty' things....but yesterday you said that you wish i WAS like everyone else. Why?...How did you change your mind?....Did they become better or i deteriorate into something much worse?...Ive disappointed you, i know that but somehow it fails to make sense...so i like someone...someone my age...our religion...our community...my friend...Does that make me someone who needs a 'cure'?...That hurt me more than anything else...even more than grandma faking a heart attack......(probably cuz i saw right through her drama, she was clutching the wrong side after all)...So i guess im out to 'cure' myself of this 'insanity'...i wont tarnish your name anymore...will disappear like the snow in summer and will leave just a wet patch behind...but time will soon evaporate that too...maybe you can adopt later on and always pretend that had i stuck around..you would have done things 'differently'...This is not totally a sacrifice, i believe where im going will be better for me...no more expectations...yelling...tears...Tears unsettle me...they're completely uncalled for and serve no known purpose...maybe the salt levels are balanced out or something...Dad, you cried too yesterday....maybe i should stop talking too...it gets harder with every second...
Im going to go now...you wont find me and not only cuz you wont look hard enough.....
Accept these as my final words...i forgive you though you never asked for forgiveness
and love you as you have loved me all these years....
I know there is no 'cure' for what i have..for what i feel is love...
one last favour...do tell him that i loved him and not to worry
for life is long and there will be people to love plenty.
Your son,
Boy"