Basket Full Of Happiness.

Did you know that every man standing on every street tucked into a nondescript part of every city of every country in this delightful world has an extra-ordinary story to tell?

Did you know that that rundown building with its mossy cloak of crusty, slimy green was once a magnificient building redolent with the aroma of luxury? Did you know that that little sturdy oak table that sits pretty in your parlor with its inlaid work of twinkling gems and murals of twittering birds was carved by an old lady from Bhutan? That pretty little lass with her flaxen hair tied with a dupatta drenching herself in the honey warm sunshine is actually a woman who has fought valiantly a battle of cancer? Those halogen lamps that cast those luminious pools of light on the street was erected by a twelve year old electrician? That stranger who bumped into you with his oversized satchel? Well, he's a budding photographer. The waiter who handed you the steaming, roasted plate of wok..he? He studies at the night school. But would you ever know that? Did you glance at him twice, that pimple prickled lad with his greasy apron and oil tinctured scalp and dark circles under his eyes? You sip the cup of tea, sprinkled with just the perfect dash of crinkly pepper. It was made by a woman who can spell the alphabet backwards! And that man sitting inside the purple coven of a Cafe Coffee Day outlet, lifting his cappuchino which had left the rings of foamy brown coffee on the translucent glass? See his tiny tiny smile? Well he has just recieved a text from that girl he was wooing saying that she loved him? Did you know?

Sunshine, a pocket full of sunshine falls like softened butter every morning on a landscape woven of interwining, intermingling stories. Appolonian stories burbling a happy song with the tiny twist of a pain stained tale. Stories of love, tales riddled with hate, memoirs of a war, wanderings of the wanderlust.Everywhere, flying everywhere with their minisicule wings are stories.

Me and Kyra? This summer? We are out to collect these stories that fly around and hover like teasing butterflies everywhere. Bottle them, pin them and share them. What are we if nothing but our stories?

The pellucid waters with their crowns of foamy waves, those amber sands that twinkle shy in the yellow sun. That breeze that bullies our rubber bands into giving up and the tresses fall loose, wet and fragrant. Me and Kyra, dressed in the colors of a demure palette printed with whimsical burgeonings of lilies and primroses. Our feet clad in Osho's, the sand playing peek-a-boo with our toes. Colorful flowers tucked behind ourr ears. And in our hands? A tiny goblet. To collect stories. Because what are we, if nothing but our stories?

Approach that man sitting under a shack. Ask him, just one simple question and show him one tiny gesture. "What makes you happy?" and tell him that you have all the time to listen to his tale. We will tell it to the man who takes us banana boat riding, we shall smile our smiles and whisper it to the lady who sells those pretty trinkets by the street. We will coax and cajole a smile out of the most mutinous man, the hotel keeper, the ticket seller at the movie hall. "What makes you happy".

And oh the tales, those delightful tales!  Some will talk about a song, that makes them traipse down the memory altar, some will talk about that scribble on a tissue paper that started generations of stories. Some will talk about the gummy taste of chocolate, some will go on in lengths about the heady feeling of wine. Some will talk about a cold water bath on a hot summer's day, some will talk about the thud the father's briefcase made when he reached home. Some will talk about sitting by mother's side and giggling at the serials, some will talk about scandalous secrets shared with a sibling. Some will talk about a cafe bar decked with the most parroty colors and how it made her heart sing with delight. Some will talk about that cute stranger whose smile just settled a bad hair day. Some will talk about those counter strike nights, some will talk about morning chais by the tapori the day of an exam. We shall give each man we ask a little purple badge that says " I am happy struck! " for what man can remain mawkish if he recalls what once made his lips show his 32 teeth?

Me and Kyra, we are the sun bleached, floppy hat wearing and red nail paint flaunting messiah's of happiness. 

We will take along with us a little basket- out own big pocket. Ask them to pen down their names and in a single line conch down that happy moment that they forever cherish. We will give them a badge, and we will leave them with a smile eclipsing on their faces. Me and Kyra? Yeah. Summer project? Make this world, a happier place to be. Go collect, some extra-ordinary stories.

Don't be in a hurry, lest you miss a pretty pretty story. 

http://www.facebook.com/ilovelakme

The Alternate Love Story of an Old Man( Part 5)

 The tea cup sat woebegone at his side, the creamy milk having condensed to a flaky, coarse brown. He was slouched on the wooden chair,listless- a bag of bones assembled untidily. Vacuous eyes, supported by dunes of withered ancient skin. A rancid stench; of hair oil, vomit, stale daal and June's dried, pasty sweat emanated from him. The jowls were more prominent, the skin papery,decaying with more of black, livery spots. Like an old,crusty yellowing parchment. His eyes were vacuous in a face bleached of all emotions save one. Grief. Growing, glowing, stabbing grief. Like a dove being tormented, its button pink eyes ravaged with fear screeching and yawking; blood curling cries and a final pain stained cry before falling limp. His silence reeked of wails; of hair raising mourns of agony. Even the sky weeped, a diahrrea of water. 

It was now five days.She was dead.

A white morning, the sun rays plasticky; turning even the juicest green into a fake neon color. June summer sky at its best. They had put her body in a stretcher- a bored young man and an equally drugged wife. They had cast a white shroud on her and shelled peanuts while hired men with their black skin hoisted the stretcher on their firm shoulders. Even in death she looked beaitiful, in the somnolent heat, she looked placid, almost in bliss. At first, he wasnt worried, when the curtains dint fall open in the morning, infact, an adoring smile creeped on his face at the thought of her sleeping in late. When the dimunitive orange had washed over the skyline and her familiar pacing wasnt visible, he wasnt worried again. Maybe she had a cold, she often caught a cold in the summers. On the those days, she would tie a towel across her head and sniff some concotion from a bowl. But when night time dawned and the veil of sputtering pinpricks fell over one half of the world, a small fire of terror started brimming in his heart. It turned into a full fledged forest fire by the next day and when at 9am he saw a sudden flurry of people breaking in her door- a vulpine faced man, the excited milkman, he knew that his chapter was over. She was dead.

A clap of thunder shook him out of his grief stained torpor. Slowly he lifted an ancient hand and fished the newspaper from the stand. Let his colorless eyes wash over the headlines before flipping slowly to the obituary section, a habit ingrained without the need of a thought. The newspaper crackled. The thunder boomed again. 

" My Mother, Miss Anamika Basumatary expired of a heart attack in the evening of June 26th, in her apartment at G7, Chowringee street. She led a peaceful, graceful life and we hope God carves a little place for her in his sublime palace called Heaven.

                                                                      Ma, we shall miss you. Rest in beautiful peace.

                                                                                                                                               Your son and daughter-in-law,

                                                                                                                                                                Sonnu and Shweta"

Th fake words scrawled across the paper in black- jolted him, jarred him. A sudden wave of nausea, a sudden spasm, another clap of thunder.Cataract eyes pooling with water and shamelessly, they traveled down the length of his withered face. Shaking his head in irony, at the quixotic ways of life, his lips parted at the faintest hint of a smile; showing yellowed, broken teeth.

Anamika. Her name was Anamika. The nameless. His nameless wisp of hope, his nameless garland of happiness. She had woven herself, into his dull dreary life, flushing it with trembling, innocent Shakespearean love. She hovered, a nameless seraph in his dreams in his daily life. Anamika.

In death,she was finally his. His tongue, spittled with saliva, his eyes limpid with love, his hand on his heart, for the first time, he whispered the name of his wife ,now dead.. Anamika.

Stuck on you.

I plugged in my earphones, those little white buds fixed themselves tightly like bed bugs into my ears. Laid down on the bed, my back arched against the little mountain of multicolored pillows. Pressed the play button with my fully-bitten raw red thumb ( One of my bad habits).

Just two single chords, married together in the most hallowed nuptials of symphony and the most sublime song wisped into my ears; in heartwarming tufts of notes and syllables. Stuck on you. Lionel Richie.

How beautiful is the song? Imagine that hot, sticky furious day when you were  sitting listlessly, while sweat swam in stinking rivulets down your breasts? Your skin is glutnious and the tee shirt has damp patches all over it?  And then there is that sudden breeze. Shakes the tee shirt off your body, shakes it off its clingy self and you get this scrumptious, delightful feeling as the wind tickles your balmy skin and has playful baby-soft hands powdering the sweat off you?  Your messiah in that nickel heat it was. 

Oh, I am stuck on you, I got this feeling down deep in the soul that I just cant lose, Guess I am on my way! 

Maybe its his voice. That gives you those ineffable shivers. Down there, down there in the pit of the stomach. It makes you want to enact that song, makes you dream about yourself- coiffed hair and a sheer white flower kissed dress and a man, a gorgeous  man stringing the guitar just for you. You feel yourself blush, a pink as deep as your tongue stains your cheeks, you unwittingly curl your toes and the blanket gets scrunched by them. 

You know, everytime I have heard the song? I have nodded my head to certain paragraphs, smiled and did that crinkly thing I do only when I am so happy that balloons are popping inside me. Pop, pop, POP. You see,I do this quick crinkle and purse my eyes into cute little almond slits, bite my lips and blow my cheeks  to form mongoloid rasogulla's. And then I feel like doing that slow motion dance, where you slice the air with your outstretched arm and you tiptoe, not walk in small, jumpy steps and do the pirouette. You almost believe you have an audience. 

Ok, I am done. I am in heart with the song! Give it a hear, everyone! 

Much, much ballooney Love! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h6MgcBvl3SY

The Alternate Love Story of an Old Man (Part IV)

Like a wayward drunk; bloated beyond consciousnes and tramping in untidy,anyhow directions, he scrawled on that paper. Stilted strokes, almost graceless. Tiny pools of black here and there, places where he had placed the nib on the paper and had drifted off in his mind; while the pen bled puddles of black ink. Syllables were dragged; the curve of the "a"-brute, the dot of the "i"- far flung, the slash of the "t"- merciless. Some words glared bold and huge and black, some were dwarflike and almost unreadable. It was a tiny black leather book, with some rough pages hewn together. And each page, there were scribbles. Cuts, hashes, underlines and ferocious darkenings. They were names." Her " names. 

Aasha. Maybe her name was Aasha. Her face looked mellow, luscious like a ripe, squishy pear,luschious like hope. In the mild, maudlin evenings, when the geese would fly home, the V shaped formation streaked across the horizon, she would stand by her window and watch them scud across the cloudless sky.. her face shone like hope. Hope, that tiny fluttering bird in every heart that wants to dream. Hope, like in a baby's first cry, like a beggar's first dime. Aasha. Hope.

Laxmi. Maybe her name was Laxmi. Maybe when she was born, wealth rained like a hailstorm on their family; from plates made of banana leaves, they started eating from porelain cutlery. Maybe when her shy mother wrapped her in her cotton blankets, her harried father got his first deal. Maybe his frown froze over to a sweat dripped smile, annoyance gone in having a girl in the family; he touched her for the first time. And when she wrapped one stubborn finger along his calloused thumb,eyes still caked shut, he kissed and christened her "Laxmi". 

Aabha. He opened his mouth, toncils showing for the"AA" and then rough skinned lips kissed for the "BHA". Brilliant brown eyes on a face white as an eggshell and the lips as pink as the underside of the tongue. Beautiful. Aabha. For him, she was almost as beautiful as an "Aabha".

One day, he had read an obituary about a little girl called Hoor. Leukaemia had put her underneath wooden logs blazing an irridescent tumultous orange, at a tender age of 7.He was fascinated by the name- angel. A seraph with her gauzy white wings. Hoor, an angel. Hoor, he had traced in that book, the pen scratching against that granular brown surface. Hoor, his wife. How exquisite his sounded. An eternity, and a life with his Hoor.

Maybe they had named her after a bird. Something as delicate as "Koel".A  quivery, twittery bird warbling songs, so mellifluous and soul plucking. Like her. Her careful steps, her carefully braided hair, the carefully tied window shades.  Precocious, deliberate. Dainty, like a Koel.

It crossed him, it tired him. Often he was crestfallen, looked like a bereaved man. He was ok, not knowing her stories- the dreams she had woven as a girl, the sacrifices she had done as a woman. He was ok, not knowing about her siblings- the sister whose hand me down's she wore and the brother in front of whom, she timidly pulled over a duppatta. He was ok, not knowing about the children she bore and the way her flesh had hurt her, leaving her alone inside the corpse of a concrete building. But her name, he was not ok..no knowing her name. Helpless, tied to the arthritis of old age and inability to use technology, he would sit, silent and sad. Sometimes, when the mornings would dawn like a sonnet and it would seem like God was inspired by her to craft those tresses of golden sun, he would wish, and wish with all his heart. If, if he only knew her name. To be able to say it, caress those carefully chosen syllablles by her parents.. give it the love and respect which he wanted to bestow it. But alas. He knew her address, he knew her habits, he knew her fondness for which brand of incense, and yet he did not know her name.

Something, Extra-Ordinary.

Someday's you fall asleep to an ordinary night and wake up to an extraordinary morning.

For some Love happened. A soft wet kiss and tousled hair. Syllables inside the mouth, feelings sputtering like fire works. A bird has started crooning inside your heart, the eyes are all smiles. In the melting darkness, two souls fused; in the welcoming arms of the morning sun, they did not regret. He wont sleep alone again; and yes, for them Love happened. 

Death struck someone else. She kissed her brother to sleep, pinching his pimple, tweaking his ear lobe. Ran a disapproving eye over his fiendishly cut hair and that rebel ear ring. And what an extra-ordinary morning to wake up to his listless body spread by the sidewalk, hit by a car, the spikes in his hair now a dull red from the blood. She would'nt ever back slap him anymore. 

She gave birth to a baby girl that morning. Endless hours of labor and sweat. 9months of swollen feet, nausea and a growing feeling of ugliness. Clothes that did not fit, hideous maternity patterns covering her ever growing belly. A husband who had left her to knit memories of loneliness every night. And suddenly over night it changed. She woke up to an extraodinary morning of a little life snuggled amidt her breast, suckling her milk. Her life wont be the same again.

He had gone to sleep, an insouciant young man. Pictures of young models plastered along the walls and stretching their nimble legs in his dream. Brazen talks, brazen walks. And he woke up to a morning where he fails his finals. Dreams strangulated.

They had all gone to sleep, worried, tired, broken. Morning they woke up to a call that a liver donor has been found. Their toddler with her lisping "Mummy" and her coconut-atop-her-head ponytail will now live. 

There is no moral to this note. There is just a simple message. You must be thinking how death could be extra-ordinary, or..broken dreams. Right? Well. Someone had to die to give that organ, someone had to fail to realize their true potential. You have to be left to be found, broken to be healed.  Extra-ordinary is not beautiful, extra-ordinary is different. One day you will own a difference, be a difference or learn from a difference.

Till then live Life, brilliantly.

P.S: Share if you like.

When was the last time you did something for the first time?

Facebook is ofcourse still the entertainment. You ogle at friends who suddenly look hot, exquisite dainties of yesteryears looking like washed out socks, someone's increasing need to harp about the orgasmic delights of Mexican food while someone doodles about heart break' and that over-rated thing called love. Though friend requests dont really perk you like before, that shiny little snazzy icon of "one new notification" still makes you tingle with( albeit a little less) excitement. And ofcourse there are those pics which are shared and liked and hawwed and hooed and commented on.

One such black and white shingle that totally caught my attention was this : " When was the last time you did something for the first time? ".

Now that totally smacked me right on my presently pimple riddled face and I have been sitting gobsmacked and a little dazed like those cows on rampant chewing sessions on hardly green fields. I really dont know! I sincerely cannot come up with anything that I can do for the first time and being me, that's something cus I have a repertoire of weird things that I do. AND have DONE! There were some amazing firsts, there was some extraordinary firsts, there were humor laced firsts, there were ones that still crack me up with laughter. And there were the ones that can still pool my eyes. But all said and done..Hello?! None cease to exist. Whaaa............aaaat? 

And hence.

Time to get a tattoo/ nose piercing/ sky dive. Period.

I am Tired.

I am not tired of forgiving, but I am tired of not being forgived.

I am not tired of finding excuses for you, but I am tired of finding flaws in me.

I will never tire of being a door mat;a punchbag, but I am tired of not finding one to let my grief out.

I am not tired of never judging, but I am tired of being judged. All the time.

I am not tired of justifying every wrong action and make it right, I am tired of not having someone to justify mine in the right way for me.

I am not tired of finding the beauty in the beast, but I am tired of people finding the beast in me.

I am not tired of understanding, but I am tired of being misunderstood.

I am not tired of wearing my heart on my sleeve, but I am tired of having it trampled.

I am not tired of doing a million things, but I am tired of being found fault for one.

I am not tired of Life, but I am tired of life trying me out, to my very end.

April Madness.

A fellow blogger( who by her name seems akin to a hummingbird, all fiery colors and lot of passion) has decked up April with the word Awesome and has asked everyone to come up with some delightful piece about this chortling old month( Nasty, if you ask. I can have a piece of tissue stuck to the middle of my nose and even hurricane Irene cannot dislodge it! ).

Well, I have something random. 

And its just a thought.

When you call someone/ something " The best I've ever had" AND " The best I'll ever have".. there is always a difference. 

When its the former, then it means.. you have learned from your past. You've learned that the reason you sailed in turbulent waters is so that you can anchor in this lagoon of tranquility and contentment. The past is a unreadable blur, the present is sitting firmly like a cocky mottled-brown sparrow on your wrist, not shackled by force but sitting pretty by its own want. When the day is achingly beautiful, someone had just dimmed the April sun and the sky is as pink as the inside of your nails.. you mouth a silent prayer for the past rocks, for they have built you a road to happiness. And its the best time you have ever had. Till now.

And if it is the latter. Remember that you have set foot in the mysterious eden. For if in the present, you can discern that your future will be pointless without that thing/ someone in it, it means, happiness, pretty as a butterfly has fluttered down, in its dew studded wings and has poised dainty feet right on your nose. Keep it safe, if you let it go, you'll live with the regret of finding the pot at the end  at the end of the rainbow only to have lost it again..

Life will never be the same again.

Take the High Road.

 The thing is. People don't know how to take the high road. Everyone has got their own bundle of problems to handle but sometimes, you gotta know to when to stop and pamper the other one's ego by accepting that his problem is larger. Let him crib, let her cry, let him scream out of frustration, let her abuse out of desperation. At that point in his life, when the boy can't cry because he has been taught not to.. all he can do is hurl insults or maybe roar. Don't pump yourself up and decide to scream back. Abuse back. You haven't tamed him down. You have hurt him even further and dint they always say..Boy's cant cry? She is in paroxysms of pain. They called her a whore from the street walks, or maybe she just lost a job. Her parents ask her to keep getting married and she doesn't want to wear that ring. Let her shriek. Don't call her an attention seeker, don't hang up on her. She just needs to let it out, or else the pain gets too much to bear.

Sometimes, not doing the right thing, is the right thing to do. Sometimes, not teaching the manners, is the best manner to dress up in. They all say do not take out your frustration at people you care the most, but then if people really cared, they would allow you to do that. 

Trust me, it helps. Sometimes all a person needs is a punching bag. Offer to be one without causing drama yourself.. Let it be, let it go. Sometimes, you can save a life. 

Always, a fool for love.

I am smart, but I am not strong. I know how to word-play, but I cannot lie. You'll see me smart, sassy and a little peak of decollete but remember I am still vulnerable. I can give you fantastic advise but I still lay on the bathroom floor and let the water mingle with my tears. I say it doesnt bother me, but that very night, I suffer from insomnia and have dreams injected with macabre memories. I scream not because I am angry, but because I am hurt. I can say a fuck off, but what you dont know is that I silently add a "to me" after it. I want to cry, but a voice inside my head says I am seeking attention. I wont keep running behind you, because I dont believe I have the privilege to pester you. I am so cute, that yout think of strawberry lolipop's when I am at my cutest-best. But then, you dont know the demons which assault me. Anyone can make me happy. All I need is a pair of soothing arms and some good words. I am easy not because I am loose on morals but because I never see the the grey in a person. It's always white for me, with just maybe the tiniest dash of a bored, tainted brown.

And I might be intelligent, but I'd always be a fool for Love.

Written in not first person perspective but on behalf of most of woman kind.

Remember When?

This started as a status update but romanced to a numb lull by wee hours of the night and the lusty wet strands of hair sticking to my neck, I sit to write this.

Remember, care to remember? Those drives when you were five and still had a darling lisp and fashion was not really much of an issue. Sitting on your daddy's lap as he would drive the car along the crowded stretch of macadam, letting your tiny thumb pitter patter on the black steering? And how along the ride you would raise your voice and lilt out the new rhyme that you had just recently memorized?  

The funny part is, I dont think anyone remembers. Maybe it is this rickety fan thats whirring with so much noise, or maybe it is just the stifling heat that has infused in me, a curious sad sense of amnesia.. But I cant remember much. Tidbits. Flashes. And sometimes, fair-faced toddler's with a tiny stubborn finger's curled around the father's take me back to those days when sadness meant limpid eyes and tears falling down. And happiness meant rosebud lips pouted to form a heart-felt smile.

What's happened now? Sadness now means swirling alcohol down a glass and plastering a fake smile. Happiness, comes with its own complications. Be cautious when you greet, for they might say, you are way too lose. Dont be nice, because if you are, it means you want a favor back. Remember when you would gallivant and gallop like a horse and jump and give a tight bear hug? Shh. Dont do that now anymore. Remember, those days, when a smile could start a conversation? Now it starts manipulations. You think people care, for they smile at you and crack a lame little joke which you laugh at? The world has changed my friend. It seems complications are the fashion statement of the moment. Where you need to play mind games before you can say an I miss you. Were you need to read between lines. Where you need to stop yourself from loving.

Where is honesty? And if there IS honesty, why is not appreciated? Why cant we be man enough to be a man? Accept that we can be loved just the way we are, what with the messy hair, the disfigured toe, the ugly past and the imroper english? Because for someone, its that fake accent that you have and that facial hair that you loathe.. is what makes you special. 

Circumstances define you, make you. You cant stop the circumstances from happening, but you can sure not allow them to make you bitter for better. This world us bad, but you can make it good if u try. If you have faith. And if you let innocence linger. You were cheated on once, doesnt mean you will cheated twice. She was molested once, but she's still got to believe that love exists. He lost his parents to a bomb blast, but hes still got to accept that somewhere, a guardian awaits him.A mother gave birth to a stillborn, yet she's got to hope the next one will be the Sachin of the century. The father was embezzeled but he has to believe he will get his stand back. Dont be bitter, dont be scared, dont hate God.

We were all born angels, dont let something unfortunate turn you into a devil. 

A prayer.

Ever heard of a story which has broken your heart into smithereens? A disease that cannot be cured, an affliction that has no remedy? Just a victim breaking down to dust in front of you?

Ever heard of death in a family that was so unfair? Bike rides gone awry. One small step on a landmine. Gun point massacre. A soft colored pearl necklace that caught a goon's fancy and the 18 year old girl who was found dead because she was wearing it? The 8 month foetus covered in gummy blood lying in the ditch?

Sometimes, you cannot help. No money, no listening heart, no heart-felt hug can ease the pain. 

Times like that, close your eyes, fold your hands and pray. If nothing, say a prayer..a soft call of help to the Almighty above to give strength to the ones affected to get over it. 

An honest heart, an honest prayer. 

HE and SHE.

She was sprawled on the bed.Like the careless spilling of black ink on white paper, thin messy spidery crawls in caustic lines all over, she was sprawled. There was a definitive manner, in the way she had let herself sink into the mattress, in the way, her hand had gathered a part of the patterned cloth, pulling it from the sides of the bed where it had been meticulously tucked. now the pink and blue flowered bed spread had collected around her.like water collecting in depressions on a pavement, it formed small valleys and mountains on the bed.
He lay straight on the bed. like a piece of immovable log that had been lying on the roadside since centuries. His face was upwards towards the ceiling, his eyes,focussed indifferently on an insignificant crack running across the wall. His breathing was soft, so light, so very light. So like the warm color yellow, it could soothe you, if you lay next to him and heard him breathe.
They both laid together. Careless,carefree,casual.There was a weird harmony in their lying together. she was untidy even in her sleep, he was like the perfect rectangle drawn for a geometry paper.she slept in very alarming positions, he never had any position-save for one:straight. but there was peace, even in the mismatch.
Her hand inched up, carefully, beautifully, and traced that one singularly attractive mole on his neck. then her head inched up, and she carefully placed herself against his neck,like a dog nuzzling his master, seeking for affection. her nose touched his jaw,her hair fell loosely on his arm. his breathing became softer,more beautiful,more peaceful,more calming. he turned, and smiled. closed his long lashes and placed one protective kiss on her pimpled forehead.that did it. for one second,for her, every good feeling,ran and rushed,rushed like the heavy screaming happy winds teasing the leaves,ran like the free horse in god's free own, pure land..it rushed and ran and collected into one large, trembling drop.quivered for a second in the thin,evening air and then it broke. that beautiful cocktail of feelings touched her head, her hair, her nose, her chin, her neck, her hands, her nails and washed her slowly,beautifully to her toes. the happiness, the feeling, she could never describe and never tried, never put to justice.nobody ever did. when it came to love, you leave it at that, coz you cant really find the correct words.the correct expressions.

As the sun dipped, and the evening embraced the black veil of the night,they both fell asleep. under the fake neon stars that glowed dim from the ceiling, they fell asleep, fingers laced.his long and her short linked together, beautifully.


An old note, I wanted it to be on my blog :)

Twiddle.FLOP- Alternately, I have a cold and I feel GOOD.

Twiddle. Flop. Twiddle. Flop.

You look at your toes. Twiddle. Thumb flex out, tiny toe struggling to curl in. They look like blue webbed feet of a duck shod in those old, frumpy pair of socks. They are a goofy blue with a blanket of grinning yellow daisies blooming all over. Frequent washing had left tight ,woolly balls on them.Nothing to do, you languidly fiddle with the curly little drops and then with the twitchy shrewdness of a Labrador with its pink sandpaper tongue falling out, you tug at them out. Then with utmost flourish, you place them, line by line, dot by dot ,meticulously on the bed and try forming a doodle heart. 10 minutes of that and you get bored. Disinterested - like a fat mosquito who had sucked his fill of blood-you look at your soles. Dirty brown with that long whoosh of Henna on the right one. Suddenly you remember THAT day when you had gulped down 5 ice tea's. Blistering hot. And the way you had galloped like a road runner on the highway to the bathroom and slipped on the henna bowl Mummy had left on the floor. A sore bum then and a slight smile now, at the memory.

Floppy. Your fingers look floppy. Like if they were made of play-dough. Wearing Daddy's age old mittens which are so loose for you that your black, woolen finger's were flexible. There was this tiny little hole right along the edge of the thumb. Once again, you play a dismal, mindless game of flop and then stare disconsolately at the ceiling, swathed in furry blankets and ugly looking pills strewn on the table next to you.

You hate this cold and cough! Your nose twitches all the time like their were a million ants wearing custom made invisible suits and dragging their feet through the walls of your nose. Or maybe doing acrobatics. Your tongue seemed to have stubbornly stuck itself with sand and refusing to let Mummy's most succinct and spicy woo it off its ungainly robe. Your nose crinkles in distaste and you pick through your plate till Mummy jabs the spoon in your mouth and the warm daal trickles through your throat.Your head feels brain deep in mucus and thinking seems to be such an arduous task! Like plowing through slimy swamps and bogey filled ponds. You stink of dried sweat due to that nasty analgesic and lying in bed is not at all fun when you are forced to! 

Oh God help you till 6pm! 

6.10pm. Your room, inside blankets.

Daddy: " So. You are unwell. Again."

 I nod. My head is partially swathed with muffler's so I think I must look like a bandaged mummy tilting her head  to him.

Daddy: " You are such a headache.I'll just marry you off so that you can ruin your husband's life not mine"

I pretend to feel tired, fake a sigh and then peer up, clandestinely to see if his beard was twitching or not. You see twitching beard means that Daddy dearest is trying very hard to hide a smile.

It was not.

I look up, suddenly all drowsiness gone. Just about how could Daddy NOT be nice to me when I was so unwell? How mean! My eyes tear up, I dive under the blanket further. I probably looked like an onion to him that time.

Suddenly the bed creaks. Someone is sitting next to me. I peek out. Anndddddd....

Dad hugs me. Gives me a kiss, his bushy beard scratching me all over. I don't mind. He puts his strong warm hand on my forehead and looks worried at the feel of my burning skin. Somehow the look of worry on his face makes me tango inwardly inside. I milk the situation and snuggle up to his neck. He smells so good. Brut and Nycil powder all these years. He fishes into his trouser pocket and pulls out a packet of nuts for me. The biggest smile breaks out on my face. We both sit together and crack open those nuts and he pops them in my mouth one by one. He brushes my hair gently, and arranges the blankets properly around my frame. And keeps patting me, till sleep over comes me till I glide off to a twinkling dream.

Having a cold never felt so good! :D 

Loss and Hurt ( Alternately, I HATE Facebook)

Isnt life full of surprises?  Some sweet, like that solid block of Cadbury’s which leaves brown doughy stains on your pearly whites. Or maybe even that quick,shy smile from that handsome stranger who crosses your path as you plod back home after a long, punishing day. Some painful, like death. Cold smote of death. Or a sharp word, abysmal marks, an abominable cold that has your nose looking like a huge dollop of red jam and making you miss your best friend's birthday party. 

Some time's Life decides to purse her lips into a thin mean line , pull her hair back into a spartan bun punishing every straying strand with a tight slap to the scalp, wipe out the pretty paint off her nails and sit straight-backed on an unforgiving steel chair before whisking out her black diary from the pits of her elephantine purse. She then raises the monocle to one eye, peers at the black scribbles with the barely dotted i's and the t's crossed as a vague afterthought, running all across the soft, white page. She lifts her finger majestically, and then places it just about anywhere on the page where she wants to. A slight smirk and then she rearranges her face back to its prim, tight lipped contours.

She has found her next victim. The one she will would ply with the weirdest luck and the craziest hurdles just because it was fun seeing someone squirm. And anyways, it was boring being all good all the time. And didn't someone on that big blob of blue, green, humans and waste say- Life teaches through its experiences and through time?

This time it was ME.

I will spare you the details and jump right to the latest "little" misfortune.

I have always found Facebook.. how do I put it..well, comforting. It felt like home. Blue curtains and a quilt of familiar faces. Brightly colored memos of everyday news and pictures whooshed into my screen every few minutes. Best friend's, boyfriend's, cousins, castaway's, that celebrity whom you once met in a party and she added you to her list of growing fans. They were all there. Someone was depressed, I dropped in a kind word. Someone whooped out her words, I shared in his joy of landing a job. That kid commented that he thought I was cute and I in turn just wanted to pinch his cheeks for it lit a warm little fire in me that a 12 year old could find a 22year old "hot". Chat windows popped in right, left, center- a hail storm of green buttons and rectangular slots; friend's welcoming me for yet another mindless tete-tete , yet another afternoon.

Of course, I wore my heart on my sleeve on Facebook. You see, as per basic psychological tests and those times I amused myself by studying myself- I am an attention seeker. Apparently. Maybe not, but enough to pose and preen and try a million clothes and pout with winsome eyes. Have a hostel-mate knock on my door well past little kid's bed time and the sudden deluge of clothes on the floor and make up on our faces. For the Facebook heck of it.

And yes, I wrote. Pain, Love, Lust, Anger, Despair.. Pimple,practicals,clinking vodka glasses and that redolent shampoo I have stopped using; I wrote. Into the night and typing furiously into yet another pale dawn, brushing aside tear or hardly able to contain my ebullience, I wrote. I am not that great a writer, but it comforts my soul. Just like in a way, it is comforting now. Even when, my heart is paining so badly- excruciating, hemorrhaging pain. I feel like a 10 ft giant picked me up and thrashed me onto the ground studded with cruel nails. A million times over. Over and again. THRASH, THRASH, Oh bloody thrash.

Why? You see. I never saved my Facebook notes. 

And there were 40 of them.

Silly, happy, masochist some, vindictive, childish. But they were there. And now I have lost them. For good.

For the people out there in the real world, they will shake their heads in a sympathetic way, cluck and coo-" Child, you shall write again and even better." How do I explain that each word that was typed down related only to that instant of time? How can I recreate the moments, those little sliver's of time gamut with trembling emotions? Maybe you fellow blogger's will understand? That..

I had to be on that dace floor, to feel the that fluttering, restlessness need to sweat out and dance.I have to be damaged with pain, to write about hesitant gazelle's. I had to hurt someone to hurt myself and write that note laced with dark humor and words of unbounded sarcasm. I had to suffer nights of insomnia, terrifying nights at that to be able to feverishly grasp that fleeting wisp of a happy thought and put it on the screen. Some were accidents, a need to entertain myself with words and play with the letters of the alphabet and juggle them without caring where they would fall.

I have lost of them. 40 of them. I cried like a colicky baby, like a widowed bride, like a mother who has lost her child. I howled like the proverbial wolves on a full moon's night- their snouts embossed against the startlingly white moon, standing up above a lonesome hill. But what good did it do, save boring more circles of black under my eyes? I wont get those back. Dad hugged me, mum cradled me.. but can any of you bring back my smudged canvas?It feels like.. Water tippled down and in almost Machiavellian humor decided to drench my diary, washing away every painstakingly inked entry. 

Yes, Life. I understand. I should have saved them in a pen drive, maybe mailed them to my own address. I did not. Sorry. But you dint have to do that.

I feel like someone has scooped out my heart. And the body still is making epileptic, dying jerks of pain.

Help :(

Child.

What is more innocent than a child? Their uncorrupted souls and their searching, candid questions? Endless love towards everything uncomplicated and their lamb-like smiles ? And yet, society has plunged itself into the deepest abyss of shame with the way it has treated these little angels. 

So what if his parents live in a hovel? Does that mean that he too should grow up in the shadow of poverty and never nurse a dream? So what if his parents could not afford his education- is it his fault that the sullen father spent all his money on the cheap alcohol? The teenage mother left him, in the carcasses of human garbage; and yet does this mean he should live like a mongrel with the mongrel? The dictators waged a war- does this mean that these dove-like children should suffer ? While countries brewed phials of hatred; it is these children who suffered the most. With no food to nurture their body and no education to nurture their minds, they live to rot or grow up to hate and follow footsteps of violence or ill.

Let us become responsible. For if child indeed is the father of man- as the famous adage goes, then we have a duty towards molding them into future adults. Furnish them with education so that they can distinguish right and wrong on their own. Provide them with food so that they can rest in peaceful slumber at night. Allow them to dream, for if nothing- this world sustains on dreams and hopes. Let us not distinguish between the poor and the rich.. for a child is the child of the world. He deserves to grow up with respect and in surroundings that let him cultivate a good soul. Let them not be victims of lineage or circumstance or a war but be given a fair chance to grow up in this world

If nothing, let us preserve Innocence. 

A child of time.

Felt hurt? Broken. Misunderstood? Lost. Clueless. Lifeless. Listeless. Vicious?

Ever felt that if you were asked to answer one more question you will just silently lift yourself and walk out of the door?

Ever wanted to make faces and laugh right out at their faces because the pain is so deep and so profound that if you did not do something, your head might explode?

Ever wanted to slit your hands and ram your head till the veins rupture and leave stains of purple on your tiny forehead because..otherwise, people do not take you seriously? Maybe then, maybe then they would. You know? Stop preaching. Stop advising. Stop looking at you with eyes that silently say " Isn't she a child, how immature d are her wants! ". You hate those eyes. They make u feel so insignificant. 

Ever felt like doing something so evil, so demonic because then at least the ones who think good about you will stop doing so? And you can peacefully go back to hating yourself looking at those who now hate you, with eyes that are soft with love for them? It is all right. It is ok. Why should they suffer because of your inadequacies? 

I am neither black, nor am I white. I stand at the border of both and only instances tell me which way to bend or sway. 

I am not a child of earth. I am a child of time.