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. 

Snippets from the innocent yesteryear's

Snippet from the yesteryears.

Sunday. Dad in his home clothes- a faded teeshirt, the loose shorts; the knot done up in a perfectly manly bow. Black meshed plastered all over his hair- some of them dripping around his neck; boggy colored streams that smell like wet leaves and manure. His bushy mustache speckled and painted with Godrej-color black; mummy painstakingly coating each bristly, untamed strand with the creamy paste.

The Fridge stands woebegone and forlornly in the dining hall. It's red and the pain has chipped off from many places- it now seems more like a duet between a dejected maroon and rust. Today is it's doctor's appointment. Doctor Dad will yank open his door and pull off its power supply. It would then be rudely dragged out of its hiding place and a grim looking doctor would shake his head at the cobwebs and black dust that grinned maliciously at him. The veins of copper were afflicted with 'cobweb fever'. Unflinching, the Doctor would take up the towel from his table and unceremoniously dust out and beat the poor fridge's behind. Only when he was satisfied at the sight of the mutilated spider veins and grime staining the now -slowly- turning- coal black cloth, would he stop.

Nurse Mummy - in her freshly pressed sunday salwar and her face shining sticky with the paste of glycerine and rosewater would appear next to the good Doctor, ready to help him out with the next task. Poor fridge was afflicted with a bad case of 'stalagcities'. In the cold recesses of his freezer, sharp , translucent icicles had formed. It looked like a frozen expanse of bubbles- snowy white and flakey at some places; cruel cold and jagged pieces dropping down like unwanted canine teeth from the top.

Fridge flinched. The sight of the steel spoon always unnerved him. He knew the Doctor would, with all his strength jab at him, his entire body would shudder at the strength of the drive. Unrelenting at first but slowly the ice would melt and the canines would be reduced to the milky small teeth of a baby. Water would loop around its feet in a growing pool. Madam Nurse would mop it out vigorously and carefully- her dainty gold bangles bleating and clinking shyly.

One hour. Fridge would stare at the big, prim Ajanta clock sitting atop the kitchen counter-serenely munching at the minutes in his own unhurried pace. Such a long time it seemed! One hour seemed like an eternity. He couldn't even fidget and fret- the doctor had a surprisingly strong grip on him. All he could do was whirr and whine-and even that the doctor would turn a deaf ear!

*This was a sunday scene in my family when I was a pesty kid of 10. Always a happy thought :)*.

PS- I would love to hear about your childhood memories and maybe if u let me, I'll write something about it. :D.

Happy Bihu and Makar Sankranti!

How do you put a 'title' to your thoughts ?

As you grow up, the dictionary reassembles itself for you.

Certain words place snuggle in the first page, some trudge dejected to the last.

The dictionary almost has a passionate extra marital affair with the real world- each word entwined with an experience, each softly spelled syllable wrapped serpentine around a harsh, jarring image of life. Red is no longer the color of santa's hat or a sliver of the spectrum; but the color of spilled blood. Love is no longer a childish heart-shaped doodle but a terrifying roller-coaster ride of unfathomable emotions. Hate ceases being just an emotion- it is dead bodies, ripping pistol shots and warring countries. Venus isn't a planet but aphrodisiac beauty. It is no longer a dictionary but a thesaurus. Flooded. Over pouring. Burgeoning. With synonyms.

Sefish, my friends.. is not only your unwillingness to share. Selfish, in this constantly confusing world, is also the need to share too much.

Ever wondered what happens to your parents when you cry? When your eyes become a lagoon of tears? Ever wondered what goes through them, what stabs their heart? Your tears will dry- your adorable best friend will crack a joke about that funny boy who lives next door and you will soon be rolling in the delightful tickle of laughter. Ever wondered what happens your parents?

When you keep quiet-morose and mawkish; not eating only sleeping and curt words gathering wings here and there.. Have you thought about what goes through your parents ? All you have done is arranged for them a disturbing, pictorial sketch of your unhappiness.. Something that lacerates them. They don't know what to do, how to help.. They are torn, tossed into their turgid whirlpool of thoughts... Their precious child in agony and they are nothing but helpless.

Definitions are no longer stagnant- with each forward-going tick, there is a change.

Lost can either be 'clueless' or an 'adventure'. You can chose to sob out an SOS from the middle of the scary forest chuckling with wildness or you can dress your face in a goofy grin and set foot on your very own adventure. Your call. :)

XXXXXX.

P.S- Its a confusing piece, I know!

When your world comes crashing down.

Exquisite is the feeling of pain. Warm blankets, cold skin. Clammy hands, throbbing temple. Pounding headache. Like iron fingers that have your brain in a vice like grip, the poor slimy grey cells squeezed out,pus sliding all over.

And as you sit in the car, watch the buildings, beggars and the buses glide over another in a incomprehensible haze. And then he catches ur attention. The beggar. In the carcasses of the rich man's throw-away's.. The jeans out of fashion, the sandwich that dint suit the taste buds, the books that have served their time of the year.. He sits there. Dead eyes, dead skin. And you suddenly understand. Pain. You passed him everyday, he was always a part of the scenery. Now he stands, the most definite silhouette in the bustling landscape. In your eyes, the opulence of the malls fade, the liquid of the mercedes dries, the food gets slung with cobwebs...and only he remains distinct and decorated. From being an ant, he en gorges to be a giant- the broken epitome of injustice. In his soul-less eyes, You understand the unfairness of life-of not being given a chance. You - your back against the plush brown leather and he-his back against the cold, cruel stone of the flyover.. You both feel the same. Pain. You in your coiffed hair and the little gold smiling pretty on your earlobes.. He in his matted tresses and the ornamental markings of scabies and rashes.. Both of you , impaled with the same feeling. Pain.

Once upon a time when there was a smile on your lips and a happy song doing the tango inside your ears , did you once stop to think about him? Did you once stop to understand ? All you did was scorn. Or maybe shy. Or run past, eyes averted, mitten ed hands covering up that oh-so dainty nose. All he was a leper and stinking with the foul smell of the netherlands.

Happiness liberates you. Pain humbles you. You can be born in a room dressed in satin and chandeliers but all it takes is one feeling to become one of the lesser mortals. You no longer see the brown skin that is peeling away and the gangrene riddled foot.. You see what could have been eyes of the hopeful. You no longer see lice infested hair and the goitre neck, you see the heartbreaking way he still tries to make his living by singing songs decorated with glories for the Lord. A rat nibbles on his black, hardened ankles but all you see is that pathetic mongrel with its sticky thin legs and flea infested tail sharing that torn, paan speckled, blanket with him.

No one teaches humility better than pain and the poor.

Bear pain. Learn humility.

For if you don't you will learn it the hard way.

That Written Off's become Kings. The prized and the precious become would have been's.

A thought.

Freedom - It is not being allowed to do what you want to do. Freedom is when they understand why it is you have to do what you have been allowed to do. Only then can you be truly be free of  the obligation to explain and the necessity to lie. 

A thought.

Freedom is not being allowed to do what you want to do. Freedom is when they understand why it is you have to do what you have been allowed to do. Only then can you be truly be free of  the obligation to explain and the necessity to lie. 

The Alternate Love Story Of an Old Man( Part III).

As the anemic gold of the morning slowly nurtured itself to a cheeky carmine flush, and his wife slowly disappeared within the folds of her faded curtains,Hariprasad went about his medley of duties.   

The mornings were untroubled and as restful as the mysterious runes. Tea time over, Hariprasad would shuffle across to his kitchen, and wash his tea-cup meticulously with the tiny stream of water that flowed from the tap. The saucer he would position at the exact same angle, near the shredded blue ledge, a perfect hundred twenty degrees- sunlight bouncing off ,as water slowly whimpered and trickled down its curvature. 

Obituaries. Eulogies. Black and white pics and a elegy to the departed. Hunched over his one table, back baking in the unquenchable suttee of the ten-o-clock sun, Hariprasad perused the obituaries in the local paper devotedly. Place, time, date, nature, cause of death. If the obituary was written by the family or by a friend.At first, it was painful. Sometimes it was a person he knew, from work. Memories marched in like enemy soldier's, shooting stinging darts of the old times. A joke shared, the bland coffees in the canteen, the general back-slapping. The jokes familial life, conversations he never participated but was attentive to-of nights of alcoholic exuberance.Slowly, it became more of a curiosity. A mild smile would snake up his lips as his eyes would lose focus and a dry chuckle would escape. The wilting blue of the walls would become a landscape of vagueness as his mind painted a mural of colorful memories. A breath of a prayer to the friend and a silent thank you that it was not him, or his..Wife.

Evenings were quixotic. The wine from the God's feast would spill into the sky, intoxicating vermilion trembling and cascading down the landscape.. silent and soothing. Like every man who went back to his wife when the shadows shortened, Hariprasad walked the short distance from his bed to the window, stubby old man finger's drumming a random beat on the window pane, waiting.

And she would appear at around 5- the creaking doors announcing her ,heralding her. Lock the door, gently place key on ledge. A white saree with a faint strip of black on the sides. A handkerchief neatly folded to a prim triangle dangling from her flaccid waist. In the crepuscular evening light, her skin looked like softened tea cakes, dusted with powder. A single indulgence of gold knitted itself to her neck. Her hair was sparse on her scalp, the oil glistened in the light. A simple ribbon of cotton laced itself like poetry around her feeble bun.

For Hariprasad, she looked like a painting in gentle motion. Her little habits amused him, gladdened him. As he would watch her pace the terrace, in simple, unhurried steps- sometimes in cadence to the song that whistled gladly through the radio, head bowed down; it struck him, how much he loved her. He knew not her name, except her address; G7, Block 42, Chowringee street. He did not know her parentage, neither her birthplace. He did know whether she liked the smell of lilies or the velvet of a rose. He would never know her stories from her life, or stories she wished was hers.

But for some inexplicable reason, he loved her. He worried over her. If the delivery guy who came every Saturday did not turn up, he spent anxious hours for he knew it would mean that she would not be having her cup of milk before sleeping. If she was a little late in pulling open the blinds in the morning, a dull, nauseating throb would pulsate through him. If love meant caring, If love meant knowing what was not being told, He knew he LOVED her, truly and honestly.

Black stained the sky- gliding and roller-blading like an imp. First a spot here, a curl of purple cloud there.He could only faintly make out the patches of sweat on her underarms now. The street-lights sprang to life like a phoenix- glowing halos of halogen. Her pace had slackened, the pallu had slipped out of her waist. Her hand inched up to lift the key from the ledge, she slowly walked to the door, unlatched and went inside.

But it was not adieu yet.

He stayed there by his window, black light raining all over him. He knew she would show herself just once more. She- the wife whose name he not knew. And sure enough, some minute's later, the curtain parted one last time. An incense stick was placed in a tiny shriveled brown skinned vegetable - the smoke curled in wispy ropes, melting into the balmy night. Moonlight kissed the serene, just washed face, eyes shut close in fervent prayer. A smile. A gesture. He touched his hand to his forehead, looked at her and whispered "Good Night".

P.S: A very short part 4 follows :)

Also forgive me for the abruptness of the story. 

Little thoughts that enamor me :)

I cannot write all the time. Thought's are like an inchoate mass inside my head, tangled like the gossamer  strands clinging silkily to that stout little prickly bush which you pass by everyday on your way to school. 

However, sometimes, when the satin purple embraces the milky color of gold and there is this brilliant nip in the air- chilly but bracing, the messy strands, unwind, albeit a little to give me some little clarity in life.

I'd like to share a few. I hope you agree to them :)

1. "If you have chosen not to LOVE- Man or a Dream, you have chosen not to LIVE but merely to Exist."

You need to have courage to love, to allow the hot flushes of passion and heart-pain. Your dream will break you, or make you and you will be burdened by the thought of it, the unending years of struggle and toil. But dont let go. Gather up the guts, fellow soldier's. Its worth it.

2. Life is like this gorgeous museum of gloves. You got to keep trying till you get the perfect fit. Some settle, some keep going on. The ones who settle, over a period of time get accustomed to the pinch in their thumb coz their pair dint fit well, or get used to the color which they never like. The ones who indomitably strove forward, basked in the halo of perfect bliss staring at the glove of their choice, their dream- the perfect fit.

P.S- The above thought is once again based on the need to find your "true love" in terms of your career and partner :)

3. Faith waters hope. If you hope for something then you need to have faith in whatever that you have hoped for. Most people "hope" to become a better man. But if they dont have faith in that man, then seriously, it would beget nothing.

4. It is easy to con the world , but try conning your conscience for it is what you sleep with at night. 

5. If you want to act, act your age. You cannot be 50 without being a 20.

Okay. Stop. This is an incredibly weird post, but I am going to put it up anyways.

One of my new year resolutions was to pick up writing again :)