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. 

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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.