A tale thus narrated

A story needs to be told, no matter how short of words one gets
& that at times when ink and paper do no justice, one should let it drizzle over the tin roof, like an incomplete symphony,  flow along the dozen streams thus created , and to change its form naturally in the course.

It must be set afloat at times on a paper boat, with fragments of innocence, and a shroud of the dainty aromas from kitchen.

If you can't pen it anymore, you should release it to the sky with the merry notes of a carefree whistle & let it find its way through the clouds, only to be hummed again.

paste it on to the mirror with a sweet-lipglossy kiss, or lick it off the sides like bright candyfloss.

let it go , or make it yours, snuggle up to it while you sleep.
blow it off your books , smell it on the pages,
and maybe when you need to,
hide beneath it to shut off the world.

let it trickle down your forehead,
and pulse through your neck.
let it settle to the bottom, to the distant hum of a train passing on its tracks.
let it ransack your quarters with the sultry jasmine.

at times a tale needs you to tell itself,
with all your whims and fancies.
your short hushed breaths, the crow's feet by your eyes,
and your silence..

a whiff of something undefined

Its thoughts floating mid-air, some caught, some left to linger, and some newer ones launched. Its life churned to the crappiest detail and still relished, seldom facebooked, oft-feared, and secretly longed for.
Its inexpensive paperbacks, stacked in the dorm room. Buttery thick lassi at the highway dhaba, and maybe just maybe, sweaty palms and stolen kisses in totally ridiculous places.
The makeshift Louvre that the last page of notebook is, and the inspiration these lectures are.

Its despite sculpting a person out of words, a curious self-obsession that refuses to leave.
Chewed to its very end and stuck beneath afterwards, its making your stance,  marking your place, your zone, your territory.
Its the names perfectly in place while the kids are yet to arrive, and the interim children played by orphaned puppies.

Sexy tanned arms and fresh Parmesan discs, with a glorious ‘jungle-book’ song playing in your dreams.

Its Absolut vodka with jaljira and the true sense of belonging that comes with it.

Its the sheer fun in smelling voices, and hearing colors with gulp-ful of songs from the vividh bharti.

‘Sahib bibi aur ghulam’ , 2a.m , instant minestrone , king-size chocolate bar and the utmost delight at not wearing contacts.

Those undefined, overused, cliched words that somehow still make you weak at the knees. Adrenalin drunk, 7am residency park moments, poetic moments, ‘Rang de basanti’ moments, profanity moments, and the like.

It all hangs in the air, every amazing undefined bit of it, white noise for you and me to pick and some.

heresy..

Life is what I learned
on my forced sabbatical from nothingness
a vacuum of pre-conceived opinions, perceptions and half-baked ideals accepted either obsequiously, or conjured from thin air.
That happiness flows well beyond the brims of the proverbial cuppa hot chocolate,
and intrigue very outside the history textbooks,

that sometimes its grossly unfair to pen existence in a shroud of metaphors
when all it takes for a poetry to take form is flesh and blood,
an aching neck,
goosebumps on an old song,
circle of dark brown left behind by a coffee mug
patterns in the sand
etched upon by tiny fingers
& maybe
fireworks reflected in moist eyes.

sometimes, it appears that people lead two lives,
connected by a thin strand of words
across the chasm of the metaphysical reality they so strive to define.

One, of simple complications,
and another of complicated simplicities,

funny as it might sound,
but however deep I wander
in the process of soul-searching,
I stumble across shiny tokens
of extravagance, vanity and lies
floating like lumps
in the broth of my very being.

Its hard not to despise oneself
after surrendering to these continuous impulses,
of chicanery  that goes about , under the terms of 'being yourself'
and after all
Isn't individuality literally and figuratively
what 'they' define it to be..

They say its unwise to be a part of the herd
They say its foolish to stray
& while life be dictated by formless forces,
'they' always have the last laugh

I'm a bad pupil.
I choose not to learn,
but let my survival teach me,
in my very own ways.

the transient cravings of a fickle heart

what do I call this unrest,
and is giving it a name even fair,??
there is no possible vent,
I never defined one. Or is it that my definitions are irrelevant..?
Is my 'defining' these things unfair......?
why's that I never find myself fitting in any static, coherent, 'definable' definitions myself, so to speak.
Is it wrong being not who you were a few moments ago..?

I call it being myself, which is precisely not being constant in any particular point of time. I have been called everything , from spontaneous to fickle, but isn't the whole point of 'being yourself' comprise of being , respecting and justifying all your idiosyncrasies??

I change, for good or bad, I have no idea, but definitely to a clearer conscience.
and what if that very change hurts anybody in the bargain, is it fair?

I debate and defend myself.
I win and lose my personal battles.
I have my phases
spirituality, independence, nihilism and the likes.
I get over, I restart.
and behind me I leave questions, dilemmas, hatred, even vengeance.

I don't mean any harm.
and yet the white noise inside is never pacified..

on being 'mean'

'I solemnly swear I'm upto no good'..
I might have long grown out of the Harry Potter series,
but this still remains my favorite excerpt, catering to all my evil intentions. evolving in the process of time is physiological, maybe fun even, but I have had the extreme misfortune of having found my way out of huge craters, made in people's lives.


All of us have been there, that dark damp room in the fortress of our minds, wherein lie the memories of a different us, and if you ask me, visiting these places once in a while is more than an essential part of growing up.
The essential practice of calling up the ghosts from the past, which I would like to add is  totally distinct from remorse makes me the person I am today. Not that I am the president of the United States or the queen of Jordan for that matter, but still somehow am a girl with a past sans all the scars that should be accompanying them.

 I somehow don't buy the whole fuss about 'learning from one's mistakes'.people never learn, they just keep making the same mistakes albeit with a different justification to them ( and a few portions of cynicism thrown in).
The secret lies just in recognizing your shortcomings, and not be wary, no that would just take away the whole thrill about it(;)) and just stumbling on THE perfect scenario that u've ever dreamt of.

I'd be the last person on earth to be favoring the whole destiny apeshit thing, I'd rather take life headfirst, get bruised(stabbed, cut, burnt) an then wait for the next misadventure.

the force that connects us all....

saw the destruction in all of 10 seconds , following the tsunami in japan,
what followed next is a phenomenon which defies human understanding,
beyond the barriers of race, nationality & language people across the globe bowed their heads in prayer for the ones who lost their lives, their homes, their loved ones and finally for the ones who are supposedly the next in queue for the impending destruction.
agreed though, that the cynics might just reject all this as just another form of banality, superficial n possibly artificial reactions to yet another big calamity , under the shade of which, life will indeed just MOVE ON!!!
But I am speaking for the souls, unrelated , unconnected whatsoever to the victims,; who indeed felt that tug of pain, that physiological grieving that our whole system undergoes whenever we lose some1 we love...
I am speaking of The connection, which binds all the human souls together..
all the thinking, praying, grieving., forgiving souls of the world..
the souls that form the 'UNIVERSAL SOUL' as 1ce quoted by Paulo Coelho in his acclaimed novel 'the alchemist'
yes...we are united,
not even in death
but also in happiness,
freedom
and all form of emotional releases so to speak..
how can we forget the moment when a tyrant was captured,
scurrying beneath the soils of the very motherland whose citizens he slaughtered.,

or the moment in egypt , where the millions of souls rejoiced at the downfall of mubarak

I am speaking of the connection which Indeed is beyond all the divisions created by mankind or even God himself.....

behind d clown's mask...

Being funny comes at a price,
That u can never be that cranky, on-the-verge-of-tears, touchy little girl again!!
Not even if u r dying to be..;sometimes so desperately that u want to scream out to the world to get attention...
I'v been there,; countless times...
Like evry1 else.
As u cross dat particular threshold of being a child and a person,
U choose to keep the mundane grievances-of-nothings aside, n d only other option dan hiding ur fears, tears, repentence n expectations behind a clown's mask is being uptight, indifferent..,aloof.. Now this, interestingly, is far more difficult i believe...
No, i absolutely do not agree dat humans are different in this dimension; of being able to 'feel'...of all the wide world of creatures, we've been bestowed with d most developed hippocampus.,; the seat of emotions!!
The reason dat tears, smiles, n songs touch our hearts ,even beyond the barriers of language, race, caste, creed n diffrences galore!!
Then WHY must we not cry when we have to..?!
Because a fake smile is sadder than the grimmest of mournings,!
Not every voyage sees a smooth sail, evry1 has the right to feel dat life's been UNFAIR!!!
No wonder, clowns r the epitomes of silent suffering in many of my fellow soul-sisters' n brothers' hearts!!