Timbre of voices
Half heard
Imaginations of far away unsaid conversations
Drone of meaningless fillers
Smile-laugh-mechanically respond
Think of what to say next
Not to leave
Not to stay
Beware of what you want, coz you might get it
Beware of what you proclaim, lest the bluff be called
Showing posts with label one of those days. Show all posts
Showing posts with label one of those days. Show all posts
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Monday, February 02, 2009
still
I Am The Silent Spectator
The wordless Audience
The Indifferent Timekeeper
Of That Which Passes By
That...Called, My Life
The wordless Audience
The Indifferent Timekeeper
Of That Which Passes By
That...Called, My Life
Sunday, September 28, 2008
@ A Happy Sunday
Regret, redefined:
Sanity realised when the damage is done
Realisation, redefined:
When the ego takes a back seat and misplaced pride is accepted
Stupidity, redefined:
When you don’t know how to go back when you have realised the right path
Loss, redefined:
When you don’t want to go back when you have realised the right path
Giving, redefined:
When you can surrender without losing yourself
Gift, redefined:
When you can give it to someone because you like it so much for yourself
Joy, redefined:
When you feel a tangible lift of something within you even when your life is not as you would have wanted it to be
Maturity, redefined:
When you can separate the good and the bad; build upon the good, understand the bad and work to make it good
Impulse, redefined:
When you would not act upon something in the light of the day
A good idea redefined:
When it would seem good, be it night or day
Imagination, redefined:
When you see things because you want them to be
Obsession, redefined:
When you start believing that your misplaced imagination is the reality
Faith, redefined:
When you know that even if the present is tough, good things are bound to happen to you
Avarice, redefined:
When you don’t know when to stop
Liking redefined:
When you can accept the negatives, yet feel great fondness and the wish to stay on
Love, redefined:
When giving does not depend on getting
Beer, redefined:
:)
Sanity realised when the damage is done
Realisation, redefined:
When the ego takes a back seat and misplaced pride is accepted
Stupidity, redefined:
When you don’t know how to go back when you have realised the right path
Loss, redefined:
When you don’t want to go back when you have realised the right path
Giving, redefined:
When you can surrender without losing yourself
Gift, redefined:
When you can give it to someone because you like it so much for yourself
Joy, redefined:
When you feel a tangible lift of something within you even when your life is not as you would have wanted it to be
Maturity, redefined:
When you can separate the good and the bad; build upon the good, understand the bad and work to make it good
Impulse, redefined:
When you would not act upon something in the light of the day
A good idea redefined:
When it would seem good, be it night or day
Imagination, redefined:
When you see things because you want them to be
Obsession, redefined:
When you start believing that your misplaced imagination is the reality
Faith, redefined:
When you know that even if the present is tough, good things are bound to happen to you
Avarice, redefined:
When you don’t know when to stop
Liking redefined:
When you can accept the negatives, yet feel great fondness and the wish to stay on
Love, redefined:
When giving does not depend on getting
Beer, redefined:
:)
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Bela
@ some village road beyond Khandala. (Here: Urmila and I).
This picture reminds me of Bela and Bahadur (God knows why). Bela of Indrajal Comics. Girlfriend of Bahadur. I remember liking Bahadur because he did not appear to be the type of man who would say or even think "Me Tarzan...You Jane"...
And Bela rode a bullet (if I remember correctly). Skilled in martial arts, she lay flat the dacoits and robbers. Tall, svelte and beautiful, she worked hand in hand with Bahadur to rid Jaigarh (I think) of its nefarious elements. In bell-bottoms and fitting tops (mostly green, I think), she did not need to wear high heels or show cleavage in order to look smart.
(I dunno how reading about her would feel now)
A picture of Bela copy pasted from someone's blog
(http://thecomicproject.blogspot.com/2005/07/comic-24-bahadur-dictates-of-destiny.html)
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
another time another place
I can feel the warmth of the rock on my back
The coolness of water on my feet
I look down to see the river bed rise up in brown cloud
While silver fishes tickle my toes
I can feel each pebble poke my feet
And I see my shadow disappear
Sunday, September 21, 2008
my calender and i
the highlights are mute
my pages dry
i dont dwell
yet pause from time to time
I look at the pink
and the green
at those marked dates that dont mock me
but show the plans undone
i pick it up often and run my fingers over
put it back yet again
and carry on
my pages dry
i dont dwell
yet pause from time to time
I look at the pink
and the green
at those marked dates that dont mock me
but show the plans undone
i pick it up often and run my fingers over
put it back yet again
and carry on
Friday, July 27, 2007
Absolute Nothingness
People draw inspiration from loss, from love. I draw, if inspiration it can be called from nothingness.
What is my purpose. I know not. Man without a purpose is the highest depravity of all, someone has said.
Process. Evolving.
These are words I relate to very well. I have lived it and will continue doin so. 'Coz that is how it is supposed to be. But the nothingness grows.
Here
Not a leaf shivers to give respite to this sultry heat in dry monsoons at 12 in the night in this far off village. The buzzing of mosquitoes and constant zing of jhingur and occasional barks in the dark is the only sound. And my tacking of the keys.
A lone lizard waits in the corner, my fearful eyes darting upwards after each minute. Its pitch dark here. On other noisy towns they sleep or chat with friends.
Its another night of stolen electricity for the villagers here. The women who were proudly showing what they can now read and write would also have slept by now. They will have to wake up at 4 and start their day in the cover of darkness. By 6 they will be done with their chores of cooking, cleaning and packing lunches. From 8 to 8 they will break their backs in the fields. At 930 they will come for night lessons in the dimly lit room with a blackboard and slogans of women empowerment.
How motivated they are to learn ka, kha, ga, gha….. The little children, some still in their blue school tunics, had promted their mothers when they faltered while reading the alphabets. Each one so proud to show what they had learnt. Guddi, the girl in blue (who accompanies her mother to the night school, daily) had recited a rhyme for me which I did not understand. The young teacher called Naina, daughter of one of the women of night school said how much satisfaction she gets out of teaching the women. “For the 1st 20 days, they could not even hold the chalk properly. Their hands would shake while writing. Partly out of feeling shy.”
“…….If my husband stops me from coming, I tell him that its only 2 hours that I spend on myself…..”, a valiant one had commented.
What motivates me? I know not. Nothing seems to matter. Not even appreciation for myself to have facilitated some kind of change in someone's life.
Now
Slight breeze lifts my red sequined dupatta which serves as a curtain for the night. Shit, the lizard has moved from its corner.
Something rattles outside my window. A lonely peacock also cries somewhere in the dark outside. The dogs seem to have slept off. I keep flashing my torch to check the movement of the lizard. And scratch mosquito bites.
I light another cigarette. My companion of the night.
And let my mind go blank. 1232 am.
What is my purpose. I know not. Man without a purpose is the highest depravity of all, someone has said.
Process. Evolving.
These are words I relate to very well. I have lived it and will continue doin so. 'Coz that is how it is supposed to be. But the nothingness grows.
Here
Not a leaf shivers to give respite to this sultry heat in dry monsoons at 12 in the night in this far off village. The buzzing of mosquitoes and constant zing of jhingur and occasional barks in the dark is the only sound. And my tacking of the keys.
A lone lizard waits in the corner, my fearful eyes darting upwards after each minute. Its pitch dark here. On other noisy towns they sleep or chat with friends.
Its another night of stolen electricity for the villagers here. The women who were proudly showing what they can now read and write would also have slept by now. They will have to wake up at 4 and start their day in the cover of darkness. By 6 they will be done with their chores of cooking, cleaning and packing lunches. From 8 to 8 they will break their backs in the fields. At 930 they will come for night lessons in the dimly lit room with a blackboard and slogans of women empowerment.
How motivated they are to learn ka, kha, ga, gha….. The little children, some still in their blue school tunics, had promted their mothers when they faltered while reading the alphabets. Each one so proud to show what they had learnt. Guddi, the girl in blue (who accompanies her mother to the night school, daily) had recited a rhyme for me which I did not understand. The young teacher called Naina, daughter of one of the women of night school said how much satisfaction she gets out of teaching the women. “For the 1st 20 days, they could not even hold the chalk properly. Their hands would shake while writing. Partly out of feeling shy.”
“…….If my husband stops me from coming, I tell him that its only 2 hours that I spend on myself…..”, a valiant one had commented.
What motivates me? I know not. Nothing seems to matter. Not even appreciation for myself to have facilitated some kind of change in someone's life.
Now
Slight breeze lifts my red sequined dupatta which serves as a curtain for the night. Shit, the lizard has moved from its corner.
Something rattles outside my window. A lonely peacock also cries somewhere in the dark outside. The dogs seem to have slept off. I keep flashing my torch to check the movement of the lizard. And scratch mosquito bites.
I light another cigarette. My companion of the night.
And let my mind go blank. 1232 am.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Heres to the Rains
A man in black another in blue, bent at their waists, valiantly pushing a white choked Maruti engine out of the choked Bandra roads.
Another monsoon…another period of camaraderie over clogged waters. Another day when we say, shit! I just had to go to office and mean it as well. Another day when mad Mumbaikers dive on three feet water- more splash than dive, actually.
When I was in the first standard or was it IInd?, I had to write a composition (thats what we used to call it) on any season. I wrote on the monsoons. But more than write, I watched and pondered and went out to experience what I later wrote about. My teacher, I do not remember, if she appreciated my piece, but I did have a great time, I remember.
Walking barefoot on the pavements with water rushing down the sloped roads. Back then the roads would be clean. We used to put salt on the earthworms and watch them squibble as they breathed their last slow breath. We would walk around with pouches of salt. Then when all the killing (killing…it was more entertainment for us!) would bore us…we would play mud splash in the play ground.
When I was in the first standard or was it IInd?, I had to write a composition (thats what we used to call it) on any season. I wrote on the monsoons. But more than write, I watched and pondered and went out to experience what I later wrote about. My teacher, I do not remember, if she appreciated my piece, but I did have a great time, I remember.
Walking barefoot on the pavements with water rushing down the sloped roads. Back then the roads would be clean. We used to put salt on the earthworms and watch them squibble as they breathed their last slow breath. We would walk around with pouches of salt. Then when all the killing (killing…it was more entertainment for us!) would bore us…we would play mud splash in the play ground.
Occasional cricket balls from brothers’ gang would hit us or we would be delegated to do fielding. Till we would have had enough of being screamed at. Big brothers are terrors and like to show off that little sisters are at their beck and call. And most times little sisters are. Even opinionated little sisters who hero worship them. Like on the dry days, I would have to hold the colourful kite and walk backwards with loud instructions simple to understand but impressive when shouted. I was a kite holder. I had the responsible job of holding the kite and giving it a push upwards as it precariously made its upward flight.
In my essay on my favourite season, I described my trudge from school to home - slow and many a times backwards, with our olive-green or khaki bags with golden buckles hidden under white and blue and pink flower patterned raincoats or bright yellow ones. We would stop and peer at puddles waiting for worms to squirm out. And jump across puddles, then on puddles.
I don't think my teacher was impressed.
I remember the greens.
The wild doob grass
which would line up
the pavements of Jamshedpur. And the huge trees with huge branches swaying to the beat of rains and splattering fat drops at the hint of a shake. It was a predictable move yet we would try and douse each other underneath the massive trees. Back then Moms used to let children go out to play and explore. There was mud and greens and open roads and huge grounds and friends who would not compete over gadgets but over who could run faster. Back then there was less concrete.
Yes, the greens! I have always been fascinated with greens. It depicts a sense of peace and open spaces to me. Walking barefoot on the green grass with tiny blades pricking lightly at different points on the foot…with the sudden giving away of wet mud underneath the foot.
I tried rolling off a green slope once as they do in movies. My elbows would come in the way and I had to push sideways. It hurt when I got up with skirt all twisted and a pattern with elbow dents trailing behind me.
Madonna is singing sensuously now on VH1. Yes rains and water take a different meaning as an adult.
Like washing off holi colour in river under the bridge of 1935, like taking a dip in river Betwa, like clutching onto someone’s sleeve on a swaying tree house over swollen river Ken, like walking on empty streets by the sea the first day on a new city never visited again, amid loud cracking thunder, like feeling fat drops on naked arms and holding tight. Like lying on white Pondi sands as rain hits the face.
If the clog clears from knee deep to shin deep I shall venture out to bandstand. There is something beautiful about Rain. To me it is the feeling that Rain brings about.
In my essay on my favourite season, I described my trudge from school to home - slow and many a times backwards, with our olive-green or khaki bags with golden buckles hidden under white and blue and pink flower patterned raincoats or bright yellow ones. We would stop and peer at puddles waiting for worms to squirm out. And jump across puddles, then on puddles.
I don't think my teacher was impressed.
I remember the greens.
The wild doob grass
which would line up
the pavements of Jamshedpur. And the huge trees with huge branches swaying to the beat of rains and splattering fat drops at the hint of a shake. It was a predictable move yet we would try and douse each other underneath the massive trees. Back then Moms used to let children go out to play and explore. There was mud and greens and open roads and huge grounds and friends who would not compete over gadgets but over who could run faster. Back then there was less concrete.
Yes, the greens! I have always been fascinated with greens. It depicts a sense of peace and open spaces to me. Walking barefoot on the green grass with tiny blades pricking lightly at different points on the foot…with the sudden giving away of wet mud underneath the foot.
I tried rolling off a green slope once as they do in movies. My elbows would come in the way and I had to push sideways. It hurt when I got up with skirt all twisted and a pattern with elbow dents trailing behind me.
Madonna is singing sensuously now on VH1. Yes rains and water take a different meaning as an adult.
Like washing off holi colour in river under the bridge of 1935, like taking a dip in river Betwa, like clutching onto someone’s sleeve on a swaying tree house over swollen river Ken, like walking on empty streets by the sea the first day on a new city never visited again, amid loud cracking thunder, like feeling fat drops on naked arms and holding tight. Like lying on white Pondi sands as rain hits the face.
If the clog clears from knee deep to shin deep I shall venture out to bandstand. There is something beautiful about Rain. To me it is the feeling that Rain brings about.
Friday, May 18, 2007
my lookalike
He still smiles at me even though his pink nails have fadedeven though its been six long years of having known me
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Wish or Conspiracy?
If you look at something continuously
It takes shape as u want it to….
This friend who made me happy and whom once I made happy…
…once did this artwork for some songs
One of his sketches look as if it has me in it.
Of an embrace so sweet and intimate
Of closeness-togetherness-warmth-trust-faith-companionship
Could it be … could it not be?
Am I seeing it or seeing it, Am I?
But it should not matter
Yet I cannot throw it away……
It takes shape as u want it to….
This friend who made me happy and whom once I made happy…
…once did this artwork for some songs
One of his sketches look as if it has me in it.
Of an embrace so sweet and intimate
Of closeness-togetherness-warmth-trust-faith-companionship
Could it be … could it not be?
Am I seeing it or seeing it, Am I?
But it should not matter
Yet I cannot throw it away……
Monday, February 19, 2007
No Title
Yesterday I did not look back
Yesterday I, after a long time again felt weak in the nerves
That Fluttery feeling
Yesterday I again day dreamed
Yesterday I wanted to blush and feel shy again
Yesterday when the old call came I was indifferent
Fond memories but that’s what it came down to- fond memories
Yesterday I once again wanted to grab the warmth of the sun
It no longer matters that I do not want to look back
Yesterday it did'nt matter that the way ahead is still lone.
Yesterday I, after a long time again felt weak in the nerves
That Fluttery feeling
Yesterday I again day dreamed
Yesterday I wanted to blush and feel shy again
Yesterday when the old call came I was indifferent
Fond memories but that’s what it came down to- fond memories
Yesterday I once again wanted to grab the warmth of the sun
It no longer matters that I do not want to look back
Yesterday it did'nt matter that the way ahead is still lone.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
six to 8
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
call
inspired
to burn
to move into nothingness
the smoke makes patterns
blows softly
silently
while cowboys with guns and noise make noise
while hunger calls
takes an effort to answer
time has not dulled
moments call
suddenly something reminds
and it begins all over again
put on a sham
a show
of carelessness
a show of false bravado
silly small talk
unsaid words so loud
drowning meaningless words
screaming out between the lines
all within me
u cant hear
i don’t say
but want you to hear
(do I hear what you don’t say?)
i don’t know
to burn
to move into nothingness
the smoke makes patterns
blows softly
silently
while cowboys with guns and noise make noise
while hunger calls
takes an effort to answer
time has not dulled
moments call
suddenly something reminds
and it begins all over again
put on a sham
a show
of carelessness
a show of false bravado
silly small talk
unsaid words so loud
drowning meaningless words
screaming out between the lines
all within me
u cant hear
i don’t say
but want you to hear
(do I hear what you don’t say?)
i don’t know
i tell I don’t care
but here I am
i am not fooling
i am living it
does living feel numb
or is numb, living
don’t care
walk away
slide away
dream different
words
like a low on art, script
like a song making sense only to me
“…waiting for the summer rain ……..
but here I am
i am not fooling
i am living it
does living feel numb
or is numb, living
don’t care
walk away
slide away
dream different
words
like a low on art, script
like a song making sense only to me
“…waiting for the summer rain ……..
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
probably probability
I have wondered since as far as I can remember. Why is it that some people are happy with what comes their way…some are happy till before they get it …some are never happy.
Is it our blood which defines it? Our environment? Or what? What ever it is, it is damn frustrating. Well, the world would be a boring place and not happening at all if every1 was alike. But why is orange an orange and not an apple? No, that’s an easy 1. If an orange would be an apple and we would know the orange as an apple I would still ask- why is an apple an apple and not an orange. Perhaps people like me love pondering and questioning for the sake of it. Perhaps.
Well, on gloomy days, it is not the orange and apple that has bothered me…but people..rather my friends, my cousins whom I have shared a lot with. Given the same environment…our chosen paths take us so afar. At times completely divergent ways…so far that there is nothing left to talk about.
I think the “happiness with one’s choice” lies with the acceptance factor. But on those gloomy and lonely evenings- I very pathetically wonder as to what will bring me happiness. I am so surprised at myself. What happened which slowly by slowly changed me? I distinctly remember thinking about a friend of mine- “she does not know how to enjoy” she does not know how to be happy”. That was 10 years back. Today, 10 years hence, that question or rather statement, befits me. How many off the road by-lanes did I take to move so far away.
When did those golden rays turn grey?
Is it our blood which defines it? Our environment? Or what? What ever it is, it is damn frustrating. Well, the world would be a boring place and not happening at all if every1 was alike. But why is orange an orange and not an apple? No, that’s an easy 1. If an orange would be an apple and we would know the orange as an apple I would still ask- why is an apple an apple and not an orange. Perhaps people like me love pondering and questioning for the sake of it. Perhaps.
Well, on gloomy days, it is not the orange and apple that has bothered me…but people..rather my friends, my cousins whom I have shared a lot with. Given the same environment…our chosen paths take us so afar. At times completely divergent ways…so far that there is nothing left to talk about.
I think the “happiness with one’s choice” lies with the acceptance factor. But on those gloomy and lonely evenings- I very pathetically wonder as to what will bring me happiness. I am so surprised at myself. What happened which slowly by slowly changed me? I distinctly remember thinking about a friend of mine- “she does not know how to enjoy” she does not know how to be happy”. That was 10 years back. Today, 10 years hence, that question or rather statement, befits me. How many off the road by-lanes did I take to move so far away.
When did those golden rays turn grey?
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
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