Wednesday, January 30, 2008

winter comes

In the wintertime,

Feel the sun glow...and watch the stars like never before.

In the wintertime,

with that pleasant pink glow
feel like Rudolph's very close kin.

S m e l l

those oranges,
touch the grass.
warm your numb fingers on somebody's belly....

Yes, winter does mean many odd things
winter could sometimes well spell gray
Its really just a matter of say.

But of winters come and winters gone,
while you still can - just once think of those many little things.

Because "evermore" doesn't really mean a thing.

Thursday, January 24, 2008


Who? I can't seem to remember again. I'm lost in a crowd. Shackles, they circle my being. I cannot run, I never said I cared to...but stay I didn't say I would. I frown but I don't know why....every now and then I cannot breathe... but then swim in the atmosphere, filling my lungs, I feel alive ... so very alive.
Its a big world out there, but sometimes it gets just a little too small. I cannot move, I've been stung by the sun.
My mind was racing, still my body was limp. I traveled, to the world I truly belong. I did nothing...I'm sorry I didn't. I was just...stung by the sun.

Monday, January 21, 2008

Lives and times

Sarojini Naidu's poem "In the Bazaar's of Hyderabad" would quite aptly describe the picture that springs to mind when I think of the life around and the purpose of these structures built centuries ago. They now stand weeping for the past, mauled by the present- ebbing away just a little everyday.

Within these structures that once housed the vermilion and kohl to enhance the delicate beauty of the genteel ladies; our experience had really a different flavour altogether. More rotations of this earth than I can count later, "genteel" is the last word that this place could possibly spell. All around this place, selling western clothes from foreign places that have lived many a life, hawkers call out the qualities of their goods. Making every effort to out-shout the other, they resulted in quite an unruly orchestra. We walked around, ignoring some calls and succumbing to others, stopping to see if anything caught our eye.
Once we actually walked in though, everything was subdued compared to the banter outside. It was as if someone had turned a knob to turn the volume down a few notches.As we walked through the narrow gullies, there seemed to be a million people present there- People from near, people from far, people lost and people found, some broken some strong, some young and yet others old. In Fact though, there were actually only a few hundreds.We managed to ignore the overwhelming presence of these unseen people and went about our winter shopping. Finding things that one would never suspect could be found in such a place.However, as we walked away with our loot, even though it was just the two of us, I had a curious feeling that we were in fact walking in a large group of people.Back home, we excitedly emptied out our loot and started to try them on one by one.
But when we stood in front of the bathroom mirror something strange happened....

I walked in, and we stared at each other in surprise and awe. We were no longer ourselves, but had turned into the people who wore these clothes before us. Whose lives these clothes had been a part of.
It was a crazy whirlwind of people and faces and personalities, of lives and stories, of drama and tragedy and joy...... It was much too overwhelming. I held my face tight, a feeble attempt to stop it head spun into a dizzy.

Finally we peeled our jackets away and dumped them into a bucket of detergent. Soaked them until every last soul had disappeared. When they were dry and ironed and ready to wear, with a little apprehension I slipped into the green jacket again and was relieved to find that this time there was no other face but my own. The detergent had clearly erased all the memories off the jacket. It was just me now.
I wonder though, if this jacket were to find a life with someone else after its stint with me, would all its past memories(mine included) come rushing back?

Sunday, January 20, 2008

About them mazes

I haven't posted anything for a while now because I often seem to be in a dilemma about which angle to tell my story from. Every incident, every event has so many facets to it, at so many different stages that the images move faster in my head than I can even put an alphabet to them, let alone words. So by the time I can actually tell them in words, I have a lot many stories that seem unrelated even though they actually are.
I've mulled over the piece I'm going to next post, and hopefully it'll have some semblance of a story and not appear to be a mishmash, but even if it does I hope its fun to read anyway!
No, no don't get me wrong I'm not being apologetic in anyway, I'm just buying time and preparing the ground for what's to come. And......I'm done, so vamos.

Tuesday, January 8, 2008


No amount of stories could actually prepare me for the Hampi experience.
I knew that Hampi is a temple town, has coracles plying across the river and Nutella pancakes served in its various restaurants. But to really know what Hampi is like, you have to see it for yourself.

Within the walls of the natural fortress that guard this town, diverse cultures and systems and beings quietly seem to mix together...but they never truly "mix", they bob alongside each other, the sides of each blurring into the next to form a different something.
There’s the straight jacketed, orthodox Kannadiga culture that follows every last rule in the book. Then there are the free spirited, free bodied, free minded flower children of the Hippy culture. And of course in a mix like this there have to be the in-betweens. The people whored by the confusion and consumerism that descends on any place that attracts tourists from far and wide. “Dollar Guru”, our auto guy and travel agent mediator; like a happy chameleon, changed his entire take on life depending on the company he presented himself to! The not even two year old kids who knew the exact expression they should have on their faces to earn themselves their favourite croissant off a German Bakery. The gypsies of Bhuj who drip exoticism and hence are present in every sought after tourist destination in the country. The white tourists who are dressed in flamboyant balloon pants while in India, who back home are probably seldom seen without a tie, dark blue being the extent of their adventure as far as colour goes. Above and beyond all this, the shadows of the glorious, mysterious past are cast in every nook. So much history and still so much ambiguity.

Finally, the omnipresent landscape was beyond words….enormous scales, stark yet soothing, imposing yet subtle. The effect it had on everyone made people bow their heads in respect. And this unspoken respect is what brings all the elements come to rest on each other forming a delicate sculpture, so precariously placed, it seems that the slightest breeze could cause them to topple. Yet they are never moved, not by earthquakes not by storms, just as the rocks that sit atop the hills of Hampi.