Merry Xmas :)

A deep sense of void fills me. I haven't been writing. Zilch. Except the monotonous MBA papers, there is nothing that I manage to write. The irony is that an year back, I used to love writing. Has the love waned?
Today when festival songs echo in my campus and I seem like a misfit to this festivity with 2 books in my hand and nothing related in my head, I wonder why did I stop writing? How difficult it was to shell out half an hour of my day and write about the thing that made it a good one, or maybe a bad one. This love for life seems to have retreated. Or maybe I have stopped giving enough time to things I once loved. I loved acting neurotic , being human, cracking poorest of jokes, gifting people chocolates and doing random stuff for them to make their days. I haven't been acting myself. Lost? Yes, I am.

This sense of loss fills me with rage to fight back. For every love is worth fighting for. I unnecessarily blink my eyes to console myself of my overwhelming loss, the kind that even refuses to squeeze out as tears. The point is that everything can change in some trivial moments but what matters is that how we lived before that moment arrived. So make goodbyes lovelier, greetings affectionate and times worth remembering. Every moment you spend, should be worth your time on earth. God Bless! Merry Xmas :)

Broken lines and dreams

How do we manage to pick a broken quote from a book and love it so intensely? This book that I am reading is filled of lines that will complete themselves before I sleep. Such is the nature of innocence in these sentences. The silence well defined, the noise well controlled. Every feeling measured against rationality, every feeling melting and crossing its boundary towards the end of the chapter. Today, when I am on the last page, I feel I could have written different stories about every line. Stories that I will recite to myself years later. Stories that will say, how the half moon decides to complete itself, how a rude guy makes a soft decision, how we get those butterflies when love happens and how we always hold onto, our broken lines and dreams.

Red

I like this colour of love. I like the insanity in this colour- the tinge of isolation and the need of love this colour shows. This colour is not a shade of mere colour, but a transformation of mood: from dependence to independence, from curses to immunity from etc to beyond etc. I have seen and worn every colour, but nothing like red. The air around you tells you that you are present where you are, important where you exist and noticeable in every manner; when in red. That's why I say, its not a colour. Red is a state of agony wrapped in art of love. Because all that you say, turns into plain red. The red that bounces between love and hate.

Liking it? 

Type ?

How we are connected is a different story all together. Sometimes, amidst of the noise around me, I am reminded of your laughter. The cheesy grin that runs through your face and covers a huge part of your facial geography. I like to imagine you this way: smiling. I pick up a means of technology and start punching my fingers, writing what could, perhaps, sound perfect. Perfect enough to match your smile. I fail a lot of times in my attempts to make you smile. Sometimes the conversation is interrupted by people who are nowhere involved in it. At times it is interrupted by the network that connects us and at times by our dilemma to make the first move. Sometimes, in between these interruptions , I predict what you are likely to say. And I smile when you later say the same.

Is it the technology that really connects ? Or are we connected beyond it's scope ? 

The story of an introvert

The story of an introvert has to be a little secretive. For the introvert does not accept so easily that he is one of a kind. Today , I met an introvert. Eyes constantly searching for topics that could hide this nature of his , concentrating on details and asking silly questions. He and his kind are filled with an intense void of knowing no one, not even self. The are plain uncomfortable among a lot of people. Their voice level , a little above low , makes you wonder if they will ever speak to you in the usual frank way. They sometimes make you insecure for letting people know indiscriminately about yourself all this while . They , instead , can decide to whom and what to reveal. Quite a power that is. The introvert by your side is playful with eyes , calm in movements and diplomatic in choices. For he never wishes to be reveal.

Another esoteric phenomenon? Perhaps , yes! 

My name is T

I wonder if a place can ever be strange to me. My name is T and  I can't get enough of Tea. I confess my jokes are as void as my name mentioned here . But you have to know that I am a subtly anonymous person. Subtly because I gave you a hint of my name. I am, anyway, a photographer. My journey is a random one. I am never done with a place . There is always a corner left untouched by my lens , people and their life uncovered . Somehow places I visit after a long time give me a fulfilling feeling of having lived longer enough to have made it back .  Places I visit often , the popular ones , the nukkads known to everyone here and there , joints that have made it to silent magazines and violent newspapers and so on make me uncomfortable. They change so fast , they seem unknown to me every now and then. I wonder if people understand what it is to preserve a place , a lost random feeling.

But then a disconnect is dangerous for a person like me. After all places and people make my picture perfect.

Say cheese *grins* 

The other side: Part 1

I ) How I hate her long nails. It feels like being loved by a cat. Now I  understand why my mother used to run after me every week with a nail cutter when I was young . Long nails are annoying. She complains about her nail paint waning , kajal splitting and her old rings unwilling to settle again in her fingers.
I wonder why she doesn't understand that she doesn't need all this to look prettier. She has a soul that suffices.
A conversation she left last night in the bed, while attempting to leave a scar on my torso with her long nail, still lingers in my mind. I wonder what she thinks of me , when reveal  my uncordial relationship with her nail to her .

II) The love for my story takes over her. She scribbles the names and characters on her tiny pink diary. Her pen needs another refill, she likes to risk being without a pen , having to apply the sweet girl tactics to borrow it from someone - a stranger . She likes to risk certain things in life. On roads with a little petrol in the car , without drinking water while she travels in slums and without courage when she leaves her Delhi office late (risk it is). If you compare her with me , I will say I love her audacity as I am a little weak. I don't like her risking herself for her dozes of adrenalin rush. In turn , it turns out to be a couple on adrenalin rush.
I wish she understands , the yin yang of being possessive.

Some of us are desert people

Some of us are desert people

Strained by heat , tanned in disgust

Raised eyebrows and swollen feet

With a work which drains , a work which feeds

Men and their faces , cut by moustache

Women and their nose , bound by rings

Drunk in merry , at a godly place

Drunk in pain , drunk in grace

Like sand , our fate struggles under our feet

Some of us are , after all , desert people.

To existence :)

Everything requires appreciation . The most important thing which perhaps must be appreciated daily is existence . I am here , on my desk , I can write and tell you what all is on my mind , I appreciate your presence here and you must appreciate mine . That's the thing about existence . Its a vicious circle of persona and aura ; your effect on the people around you . Its necessary , universal and yet not easily understandable .

The movie “Zindagi milegi na dobara” did not inspire this post so don't judge me before I tell you my story .

I am S . I am a punjabi girl. Yes I have known this for last 21 years and 11 months ( my birthday arrives next month ) but there is a very special thing about this day which I wish to share with all of you.

Its my Grandfather's birthday today . He is the most wise man I have seen . Some of you must be wondering why ? Why my grandfather and why not someone from the TIME magazine's most influential people ? I will let you know why.

In the morning one of his old friends Captain X called to wish him . Both of them are doctors by profession and hence share a lot of common subjects ( not patients ) to talk about . He was elated by the fact that Captain Sir remembered his birthday and hence invited him to the family gathering at our place in the evening. Captain X felt obliged and joined us. My grandfather's birthday is celebrated at our home because he is a simple man . He does not like to go out very much .

The evening arrived and my Buaa(aunt) and her husband were there too. Topicas picked up pace and were ranging from whiskey to movies to old songs and who will sing on this fine evening and to who will not. Everyone in my family (adults) is a doctor . They enjoy music like anything so singing goes hand in hand with every occasion .

My grandfather graced his whiskey today after a long time . He was happy to celebrate his life going hail and hearty . He wanted to sing , hear his daughter sing ( my buaa ) and his son sing ( my dad ) . I was getting the rest of the people soft drinks when I heard my Bua's voice that she believes in the mantra of "kal ho na ho"(tomorrow may never happen)  and likes to live the moment passing by. Everyone joins in with the fact that this was the motto of Zindagi na milegi dobara too. But she denies . She says that it’s not the same. One is about existence and the other about the way you lead your life.

The topic shifted to girls , when she read aloud a text saying , "A girl might never be a queen for his husband but will always remain a princess for his father " . A lot of sentiments jumped here and there and Captain X took the conversation up the sentimental level by singing two lines of a Punjabi song for daughters .

My grandmother being a  very emotional person ( I have never seen someone so emotional ) started crying. She is certainly very attached to me and my buaa and hence  the song triggered her . Just when she was wiping her tears my grandfather cracked a joke to which she laughed and stopped crying . "CHEERS! " was what he next said.

The cake was cut and the Birthday song , one version after the other ,  sung by all of us. The most amazing part was that he was singing the song himself too , inspiring creation of versions and then clapped after the entire epic series ended . He relished the cake , asked for more . He even discussed that Winston Churchill was a great man and enjoyed getting drunk .

I have seen people grow old and become gloomy , irritating and giving up on life . I am extremely happy that this is not the case with anyone in my family. They are very much young at heart . My grandmother even gossips with me about my friends and their boy  friends and I love the way she warns me not to have one .

I wish the same for everyone  . May they drink like a fish and stay spirited .

In the mean time the theme of bollywood movies will keep hitting this idea . Zip your moments always.

" maine har shaam par chaand ka intzaar kia hai...aur har subh suraj ki talaash ki haii ..
  mujhe pata hai hawaon ko thikana maloom hai mera...
  unhe pata hai maine zindagi mei har cheez ko ibaadat samjha hai
  jaise mai hi shaam aur wo ubhartaa suraj hu
  jo apni duniya m roshni bharta hai "

This entry is a part of the contest at BlogAdda.com in association with imlee.com

Era's or not ?

I don’t remember the last time I rested in the narcotic scent of this bidi . This very indian thing has helped me survive the agony that age brings . With it , the truths become a little milder and the very thin line between acceptance and denial disappears. Sometimes age brings you to the brink of being broken . Crooked nose and shaky legs, the very own agile body hurts and causes pain from within. The turbulence of age is chained in a life span and released only by death . All I could ask is , when will my time come Allah. Is the moment of my salvation near ? My story is different. I was a so called era . My name is Amjad.

-*-
Amjad Ali Khan was a dancer. Like your hands melt while you touch velvet , in the same way the music melted when it touched him. I am Rehan and I am assigned to cover his last performance. They say he will no longer perform now and will pass the legacy of his dancing empire to his sons . His sons do not match the grandeur he had in his shows . One of them is rumoured to run after young women and the other is an alcohol addict . But that cannot be the basis of judgment of who is right and who is wrong. After all in a democracy , they can do what they feel like. Nevertheless today it’s not about page 3 stories , it is about an era that will recur and pass . Amjad’s era. His dance is like river . He touches lives , pours emotions and washes the audience of its dirt. For he has been blessed to emote very well. The fact that he does it in a very simple way is astonishing ; as simple is hardly found in this fake world. A world that revives in thunder of claps and shatters your confidence at every fall. It is not the world that we were supposed to live in , where moments are at war and conscience is constantly stirred. I am here to respect this artist who faced the world with childlike ignorance. He had no qualms about the clamour that exists , but was immune , innocent and untouched. It all reflected in his dance.

-*-
I stand masked at the centre of the stage. The stage that has treated me with all its love. It has consumed me in bits and in my entirety . Silence surrounds just before the moment the spotlight is intended to fall. The audience, like the performers, is punctual. As the dim spotlight falls over me I feel young again. As it grows bright , I command my limbs to respond and they happily do so. The music takes over and we, me and my weak limbs, connect again. The agony is released , without the arrival of death , and I feel free again. I hear applause from all over the places : left , right , corners and the balcony. It is after all my last show. Will they accept , will they understand ? Will I be judged , like I was when I first performed on stage? Is this the way an artist has to leave? I tip-toe , emote and allow more performers to take the stage. The stage is now full , like my life. I have been in the place of every performer. The ones at the corners wish to be at the center , the ones in the center are haughty and egoistic of where they are placed (more because of why they are placed). So I understand the cold war on stage , it is much like life again.
My pain abandons me and I continue to dance in grace. As my lungs hunger for some air , I decide to make a precise exit out of stage , it is about time I retreat to make place for new ones.

-*-

He dances like smoke. Omnipresent in it’s aura. His smoothness charms me . Even at this age he is looked upto . No one asked him to retire , but it was his choice. Amidst all this he was calm, composed , aware of this world; still ignorant of its nuances. He never finds it hard to shift from one corner of the stage to another. As I write about Amjad , I feel he is like a skyline, which disappears from one place to occur at another. Such is his impact. You cannot really point out if he did his moves right or wrong , for you are always in his awe. He is respected for his endless search of the reality of excelling at stage and making an impact, without knowing he has it all. But that’s his best point - that he has been a learner throughout. I occupy the green room as I notice him bidding good bye to the stage. He offers me a seat while he attempts finding water. I had a bottle in my bag which I gave him, he obliged. There was only one question I wished to ask him, how does he expect people to respond when he retires today.

-*-

I thought for a moment this guy Rehan read my mind. May be my agony reached out to him while the lights were dim at the stage . I lit up my bidi to hide that I am unnerved by his act of judgement. But I chose to answer this one. It was the most important question of my life. Rehan Sahib , I wish to retire without being judged. Without people calling this a gimmick to promote my in-house academy , without any discussions about whether my choice of retirement is good enough or not. We are all made of clay and we melt like sunlight when the sun of love rises . I am no different. Entire life an artist or a celebrity is judged by every move , as if he is God, or maybe even more perfect than him. I am not God. I am mortal , old and death nears me more with these random judgements around. I want people to know that my art is more to me than any Page3 news. It is my second wife , my first child and my cradle of memories . I chose it for a lifetime. And everyone here knows how close things are , which are chosen for a lifetime. I have been judged and praised a lot , all because of the gift of God in the form of dance and theatre. But I wish to retire like this summer, casually, without making much noise.

Like nothing but a season , not an era . This is what I wish for. Possible ?

-*-

Eye-O-Eye

The melted love that waits in vain

They wander , when free ,  here and there

They look intense , when vision is war

They pour pain , when heart is torn

Eye-O-Eye

You are the mirror I seek.

Open or Closed

Teary or froze

Eye-O-Eye

Still chase dreams 

Love .. and loved

Dear Love

It is painful to know some people regret you. For life is so empty without having you to cherish by side. There is nothing more beautiful than watching a nose you love , the eyes you can die for , the skin that refreshes you , the fragrance that you recognize and the reason that your search for the perfect someone has ended. . I always thought love gives you another chance on it. Once you lose someone you love , you can have them in some other form. Life comes a full circle after all . It is disappointing some people engage in fights which are very trivial in front of love. Love never ends . It can never turn into hatred either. There can be reasons to pause your love for someone, but none to stop loving someone. After all you hardly meet people who are worth all your time.

Strange that some people don't value it , knowing very well how lucky it is to grow old with someone. Someone who does not weigh you in terms of right or wrong, rather tells you how to shift in between these sides. Someone who knows what a loss it is to lose you. Someone who can hear all your bad jokes and still manage to laugh. Someone who can feel your agony , pain , relief and happiness. Someone who is your second life.

Soul picked

A little cluttered painting on the wall 

Picks the broken pieces of my soul

And I connect to it

Driven towards those empty painted eyes

How does it attracts over the years 

How does it love the seeker , beyond time , beyond reform

My eyes feel I have been here

Maybe I reincarnated

Or maybe I am the divided heart of the painter

This blue , red painting on the white wall

Reminds me of several moments I lost 

While trying to hold sand in my hands 

Torn

As he tears apart pieces of her attire
Her mind travels her entire world
Her happiness shrinks and fear takes over
She begins witnessing the moments that will destroy her life

To stand again will never be easy
Like poison a moment comes and stings the soul
Of what is empty and what is full
Dreams , all dreaded ones come real

The clock ticks away some naked moments
But for her this never passes
A crime that moves her earth and heaven
A crime beyond forgiveness .

Campaigning for crime against women .

God bless ! :)

Two parts

The biased world is divided. And the division is irksome. Two parts it has - People who respect women , people who do not.

With Women's day approaching. I wish all crimes against women stop. Period.

They have suffered a lot - rapes , domestic violence , child marriage and the gruesome act of killing a female child at birth. 

Spread love ..not division :) 

It is lovely to have a woman in your life .The more you love her , the more she loves you back. 

In advance , wishes to all my friends :)

Quoted

“She imagines him imagining her. This is her salvation.

In spirit she walks the city, traces its labyrinths, its dingy mazes: each assignation, each rendezvous, each door 


and stair and bed. What he said, what she said, what they did, what they did then. Even the times they argued, 
fought, parted, agonized, rejoined. How they’d loved to cut themselves on each other, taste their own blood. 


We were ruinous together, she thinks. But how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin?”

~ Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

The door

Sometimes you don't recognize the doors. They are implicit , not evident. This door was for real though. Not like the opportunistic doors of life, which we miss and catch. It was camouflaged with algae and hence I could not see it in between the bushes. It turned out to be a low roof house. I could see the backyard from a little window and could sense motion there . I moved to that side of the house and found an old man with a prayer wheel. He did not mind my sudden entry into his house . Rather he gave me a welcoming smile and asked me to have a seat. While he took his time to complete his prayer , I saw the ornate walls and the omnipresent culture. Religion was not a part of people's life in Ladakh , it was their art , their routine, something by which they connect the most.

Ladakh is one place which runs in a different time zone. Time moves slowly, or may be you feel it so. The warmth of sun did not reach my feet , which were covered by snow. It did help though, a little. This place is not an amalgam of cultures. Mostly people there are Tibetan Buddhists . They like spending time in remembering their Lord(in my terms) . Unlike the other parts of India , this place is silent and vocal at the same time. It talks more about things that connected us from our past. The disparity in development is visible. When you land there from Delhi , you feel you are in a different world all together. The people have no shortage of the basic things that are needed. But imagine yourself in this position , you need growth along with peace too. May be this is one of the causes while people don't connect with the main land . A city as beautiful as this one has gone unnoticed. You will find tourists and photographers , but their exhibitions are done in the metros and other benefiting areas. The same is the case with the North -Eastern States.

Why isn't the Republic Day celebrated in Ladakh like the way it is done in the capital of India. After all it is the Republic of India and not of New Delhi. Somewhere our policies and priorities are biased , even in the name of democracy , our actions does not bring conviction to ideas.

Is this the camouflage on the door  ?
The algae that is stopping us from recognizing something that is our own ? 

I can't write a poem

The swinging shoes , they are thinking something
The water touching the pebble , it cuts
The sunlight trembling because of crawling clouds
They all hear - the words , the pauses

When I ink the words in blue
The eye blinks
The finger bites the nail in disgust
The teeth chews the subjugated lip
It turns red , I turn pink

I penned the birth of my illegitimate poem
And my lust to write the new and  few
But , of everything this tempted me the most
A poem on - I can't write a poem .

Can I ? 

Of longings

The sky looks big enough from this chair. This chair made of Jute , with mirrors hanging by the sides , decorated with threads red in colour and in between Bougainvillea branches . A flower here and there hits my head at times . I feel a sense of deja vu. I have been to this place a long while ago , a reality that seems blur now . The hairband in my hair stares me unknowingly . As if it refutes arrival over my head , it pains while I try to fit it, so I leave it as it is. I adjust myself into the chair. The time is different. This was my favourite spot as a child. With a loose thread onto which I used to loosely tie my balloon I played here as a toddler. I loved breaking the long thread , I think as a child it gave me a vague sense of power . Vague because the destruction caused was meager.  The candy man on his cart passes by , I notice him from the balcony. He is different , may be the son of the man who used to come when I was small. 
As a child the failures that strike us are smaller in magnitude to those that we encounter now. I had my own share of failures . I could not keep a bubble gum balloon alive for more than 10 seconds , I could never run in the street and loot kites that fell from the sky . my mom never made sandwiches for me in lunch and hence not many drooled over my lunch box and I was an unnoticed tomboy till 8th grade . I could never whistle and I remember how badly as a child I wanted to eve tease boys. All failures.  The toy in my hand often fell , now the cell phone falls and I pick it up with the same  guilt with which I  picked my toy. If ever you compare a childhood day from a day you spend today , you will feel a lull and a longing. Lull because the days were not eventful enough, longing because you want that lull back. 
All I need is to break a thread and feel I can do what I want even today :) 

Old

I am 90 today. A decade younger to 100. Sachin is yet to score his epic 100 and so am I . The world will be different when I will die . It's population will be least affected by my demise , it will adjust. The corners will fill soon , occupations will take another dimension , my age will stop adoring me and I will soon become a picture on the most neglected ignored wall of my house.
I heard once , a quote by a genius - "Only the paranoid survive" . Now what if paranoia struck me in my 90's , will I live another 100 years ?
Early morning I pen my diary with all the thoughts crossing my brain . My wife looks beautiful in her 80's . When we first met, there were no telephones . Now , even the thought seems absurd. She looks in the mirror and adjusts her round bindi . A little to the left , a little to the right and I wonder is it really that difficult to align things which are round ? I never asked her this , it could be an intriguing question.
Meet Rama- my wife.
It was the alumini meet of my college . We had come down all the way from Shimla to Jaipur to attend this meet. I was elated to be there with my wife.
Rama was a beautiful noise . Mostly she remained silent. She was a perfect listener . Her early teachings of dancing helped her emote feelings through her eyes . Her eye lashes that were long and curled towards the end. She never wore make up , she never needed it . Her innocent face read everyone . She knew the mean , the weird , the caring and the harmful soul of our locality . Sometimes I thought what was behind her innocent face. She wasn't her face , she was her eyes - those beautiful talking eyes . And the best part was they talked only to me . I was in love with her as soon as I saw her. She was my second love , the first one being "Jalebi's" her mom cooked for me , when I first went to see her.
As we entered the alumini party all eyes were on Rama. She tried to mingle with other women around , but all the stares made her feel uncomfortable . We went to bed early that day , I was tired of talking and she was tired of being observed .
Most of the places we went , she was the center of attention . How brutally honest I was to tell her this and how cutely she dismissed her beauty and told me "I am only beautiful for you."
Today , I wanted to hear this from her . It has been ages since she last told me this . In between raising our kids , their marriages , our grandchildren , I lost her talking eyes . The only time her eyes talked was when she gave me my morning tea.
Over years Rama became decent . She replaced calling my name with "Aap" , she touched my feet on the festivals and prayed to God . Imagine an atheist praying to God , only to be called a mother of faith . She wanted to instill some values in her children and show them how bonds work , how science can only help heal soul , but can never give it life . She wanted them to learn , time and age don't grey your hair , experiences do . How values can become rare , if you don't pass them on. I often questioned her why she changed . And it took me so long to know the answer .
Early this morning when I told her , I want to live the last few years of my life with her only , with my Rama - the talker , listener , dancer ; she denied .
I again saw her eyes talking .
Denials were beautiful again , or may be I missed their beauty all this while . When you stop appreciating changes , you get disconnected with things that were once yours. She has always been mine .
How I wish the paranoid survives !

Temptations

The toddler star
The target of million wishes
From every corner of this round earth

She waited 10 years
For the young wish to come true
Just when the moment was to arrive
Another toddler star
Tempted her to change her wish.