tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17029274344550189932024-03-07T10:16:27.333+05:30Buckets of Rain......buckets of rain, buckets of tears, got all them buckets comin' out of my ears.little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.comBlogger180125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-84822642370017985512015-06-04T16:00:00.001+05:302015-06-04T16:04:17.212+05:30To Farewells.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">You, who left with</span><br />
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Dots on your laces</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">From all the colours</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Spilled on our faces.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">You, with who I</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Walked a night</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">And watched cars</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Become lines of light.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">You, whose gravel voice</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Fell and rose</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">With an old love song</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">From phones clutched close.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">You, who left with </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">All my rainclouds, </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Still play with the rain</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">In roads of strange crowds.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">You, who still writes</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Rhymes to past winters' chills,</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Still can't do much to heal</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">This summer's burns</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">And heart spills.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">P.S: Though I haven't updated the blog in very long, I have been writing on and off. I don't really know why I didn't publish any of them here. But here is one and I hope I will keep coming back to this blog and writing into this comforting space of radio silence.</span></div>
</div>
little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-21094891831723773372014-11-07T15:34:00.002+05:302014-11-07T15:50:41.892+05:30Rant<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I don't know what in my days has lead me to read and write less these days.<br />
I don't know if it's the doing of that devil called age but I do feel a constant weight of fatigue. Maybe it is being ill for months now that is taking a toll. Small things. A fever that keeps coming back, a cough that won't go, puffed eyes in the morning, a back that misbehaves.<br />
But they all add up and at the end of the day, when I am finally back home, I feel like every ounce of air has been sucked out of me.A nap may help, I think and I get onto my hard bed. I stopped using pillows because of the back. So I hug a bolster and sleep-often through dinner time, often in work clothes and wake up feeling like I've just finished walking a mile.<br />
Fatigue is cyclical, I have discovered and it feeds on itself to remain alive.<br />
I, too, have stopped fighting it these days and I am afraid this is what I have become.<br />
Sometimes when I look at the mirror I imagine the skin around my eyes to be darker than my cheeks.I also feel the circle around my mouth is turning darker. Twenty-five is no age at all, I tell myself and a small part of me acknowledges the sinking feeling that drive women to try out tubes and bottles of foul smelling creams.<br />
I don't know what it is that is doing this. If it is age, fatigue, disinterest or just plain laziness.<br />
Truth be told, I don't like it one bit. I miss cooking and I miss going to run.I miss being active.<br />
And I hate the feeling of sitting at a party and realising that I don't like parties.</div>
little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-44007909179247985802014-09-11T09:45:00.002+05:302014-09-11T09:46:21.817+05:30City (or In which I try to write again)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Someday, maybe, I'll stand and look back</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">At this city, at this time where you and I</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Made stories out of cardboard boxes</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">And laid them bare under rainy skies.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">This dusty city of dustier bylanes where</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I saw traffic lights change colour in your eyes</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">And this time when we drank rum</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">In paper cups; the air littered with fireflies.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">This city of melting roads bursting at their seams</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Will always be ours to sigh over, and cry over</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">In spite of all the roads that wait to be walked</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">And all the maps your feet need to cover.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Of course it floods under ten minute rains</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">And burns under the stench of old tyres</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">But it has seen us lean in midnight stupors</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">And watched us blow off, and burn in our domestic fires.</span></span></div>
</div>
little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-17655191815133645452014-05-30T11:04:00.000+05:302014-05-30T11:48:34.821+05:30Losing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There is a time when one gives up. Admits defeat.<br />
You stand in the middle of a square and you take your armour off. Leave your sword on the ground and take off your helmet. A layer of powdery brown coating the old grey.<br />
Your hair matted with mud and sweat comes rolling down your neck but stops right before it reaches the back, and sticks to the grime on your skin. You cringe from the mud on your cheek-eating into the scars.<br />
You have the sun in your eyes and you blink very fast to avoid the inevitable. And then your tongue licks off the blood from the corner of your lips.<br />
You are blinking very fast. You think it's the dust and you squint and look for the person you were fighting-with, against, for.<br />
Only it isnt a person anymore- only a patch. A charcoal sketch of a person with a curtain of dust between your shadows. The shadows get longer and your knees fail you.<br />
Your nose hits the dust and you bleed in drops. Maroon circles on dry brown.<br />
You would cry but the salt would sting your wounds, the winds would drown your sobs. You remember your mother's voice and stories of phoenixes and fires.<br />
<br />
You lie there under a blanket of dust-sticking to every bit of body you have. The sun burning lines down your back. You put your shield down. And let out that last ounce of wind in you. The fight's kisses shine bright on your neck and shoulders and they burn in the sun. You force out a sigh as they begin to prick while the maroons become one with the brown.<br />
<br />
The time would be apt for a soundtrack to cue in-violins with strings fuming against the furtive brushing of the bow, bass drums erupting with blows interjected by the soft mocking of an oboe. But nothing plays and nothing moves. This isn't your matinee dose of the improbable.<br />
<br />
This is you. Bare bodied, bruised, bent.<br />
The wind has stopped. The fight is over.<br />
<br /></div>
little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-13907013067443951222014-04-09T12:53:00.001+05:302014-04-09T12:54:08.564+05:30Bokeh<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Did you come to see me the night I ran?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When you, your head swimming in stars, walked through the gate?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Did I come to you with my eyes full of winter,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Asking how many fireflies souls eat to stay up late?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Was it me who sang with the keyboard taps that morning-</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After the night they danced under blinking fairylights?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Did you stand still when I held my lenses to your face,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The sunlight bokeh-d on the wall with the stuck on kites?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I forget if it was you or I who blinked first</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When rainclouds descended upon your brown eyes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And the night when the rain finally flew down all the drains and pipes,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't remember if it was your sleep I broke with all my sighs.</span></div>
little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-81590884503118724182014-02-08T19:41:00.000+05:302014-02-08T19:41:19.995+05:30For two people<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You and I spent a lifetime sitting<div>
On parts of stairs untouched by feet</div>
<div>
Looking at sunsets spilling into cups</div>
<div>
Brimming with tea- never milked </div>
<div>
And always too sweet.</div>
<div>
We have spent our years on roads</div>
<div>
Pulling the seats bending low</div>
<div>
And listened to ceaseless chatter on the radio</div>
<div>
With the fiddle of impatient fingertips</div>
<div>
The songs always too loud for us to know.</div>
<div>
You and I spent weeks planning</div>
<div>
Colours of curtains and widths of doors</div>
<div>
Huffing up furniture over stairways</div>
<div>
And setting up tables on laundry boxes </div>
<div>
Spilling cola on linen, and gravy on the floor.</div>
<div>
You and I have walked a lot</div>
<div>
Through clots and fevers without much care</div>
<div>
On bad backs and failing wills</div>
<div>
Buying impulsive bangles, but never earrings</div>
<div>
Never having to worry about another incomplete pair.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-7906050674886875192013-12-23T12:27:00.002+05:302013-12-23T13:01:06.163+05:30Alprazolam<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There was a day two weeks back when I was told some forms of love are illegal; I thought what it'd be like to love someone, to touch him or her for years in secret places and feeling shivering magic run through one's veins and then being told one day that no one wants you to love that way, that people will tell you how to touch him or her, how to place your head on the side of his/her neck, how to look at him/ her after you are spent from hours of lovemaking on sticky afternoons...and when you have done what they have told you, just the way they want it; like it's not your body and his/hers but all of their bodies forcing themselves on yours, all their voices being pushed down your throats in long forced kisses down reluctant loveless mouths. Only then will they say you have loved, only then will you have really loved. I didn't have an answer to how it would feel, I don't know what it feels to be pushed to the other side of law because of loving, because of having one's own way to love.<br />
I cant think of a thing more violent.<br />
There is a library in Calcutta I went to and didn't know about the existence of its Delhi branch. Someone told me they are shutting down and selling off their stock. There is nothing sadder than seeing shelves of books with gaping vacant spaces in between stacks. This is a library that loved its books- neatly wrapping each book in clear covers, stamps that don't go overboard and issue slips that are cut to size and pasted without any damage. To see them parting with these just because too many people in this city have too little time to waste on reading, is perhaps the deepest pain I have felt in a very long time.<br />
All books have stories that go beyond the print. In libraries one can literally hear them breathe; you touch them and you feel someone else's fingerprints on the leaves- left behind perhaps on a rainy evening beside fogged windows when there was nowhere to go, imprinted over tea with a little bit of the milk tea brown on the pages, as a keepsake. You turn each page and there are sounds of busy roads, terrible traffic jams braved through by casting one's eyes on the printed word, all dealt with from one seat in one corner- settled within canopies of permanent black, bubbled amidst the buzzing of the intoxicating fill of the vanilla like smell we have rubbed our noses against.<br />
And to think that all this will go, into boxes and bags- shredded, torn and glued to hold grocery, to bleed into machines so that they can be rolled back into being nothing again, creates this mist between one's eyelashes that descends and pours out in silence. Some drops find their way into the letters- making love like there is no end after all, becoming at once the smell of vanilla and the taste of salt. Seeping into dog eared skin, locked in a kiss in its bid to be immortal and eternal.<br />
And all I can do is say nothing when I hold my stack between my frozen palms, my shoulders drooping from the weight of stories.<br />
I have known nothing sadder.<br />
<br /></div>
little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-59075444540960357842013-11-13T17:16:00.004+05:302013-11-13T17:16:43.763+05:30The First Born<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">To Pat and the other first born</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The tug came first and then the kick<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Melting everything into that one long
morning retch;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You saw first with your new eyes and even
newer lashes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Her insides red and dark like waves, rising
and falling within its raw stretch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">She held in her a sea that moved<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Taking you in its quiet, measured tides; <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">All her world that came rushing to you
which you ate up in your gulps-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Dancing among the crests and troughs,
moving as she moved sides.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There is dance that began in her and ended
in you; <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Breathed in bits of sky that came out in
quaint little tunes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A long hurried wave of frenzies and tunes
washed down by her waves-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">She sang out low and sang out loud as your
reds danced into her blue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">One day her song was too loud and the dance
too wild<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You shivered and opened out your digits she
planned to touch and count.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Your mouth opened wide and spat out her
blue-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ears locked, eyes shut, feet refusing to
dance around to that sound. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The sound blue makes when it misses its
red,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The sound red makes when its blue parts
ways<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The sound of retches, the sound of cries;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Sounds clocking the end of nights, sounds
timing the start of days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You tumbled through the dark no one had
seen;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Glimmering in your all your reds- fresh and
bright,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">While bits of blue floated around lost<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And leaked into feeding her nights.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Tears live on saltwater, on every bit she
drinks;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Tears are meant to be held in seas and
never seen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And tides are meant to keep moving forever
slinking in their own shade of blue-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Always managing a little dance danced to
the reds that have been, reds bathed in her own hue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-4751270743876765602013-06-05T20:46:00.002+05:302013-06-05T22:17:01.374+05:30All characters insufferably imaginary.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
She didnt have her camera that afternoon so she decided to memorise all of it.So she did.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The wall was the brightest shade of yellow and the curtains a dark green-failing miserably to keep the Delhi afternoon sun out. There were little beads of sweat lining his new haircut- his otherwise black eyes shone a translucent brown in the sun. There were old beer bottles kept on the windowpane- the green glass glowing in the sun and bursting out into the tendrils of moneyplants. "Epipremnum aureum", she remembered reading off the blackboard sitting sweating in a classroom a few thousand moons back- under a whirring ceiling fan, amidst the bustle of Tollygunge. The leaves-more green than yellow- tried climbing up the wall standing at a sharp contrast to the yellow. She missed her camera.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
He read the menu with his eyebrows bunched together-like he'd be tested on his knowledge of it.She stared straight at his face noticing the dark circles.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Vodka Lemonade," she thought.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Vodka Lemonade. And you?", he asked.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Pineapple Juice with White Rum."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The ugly bit was done away with while they waited for their drinks. Not very surprisingly, she didn't cry.She never did once the worst was over. He knew it was only when she feared the worst that the tears came and the fights got bad. Past that, there was only the tapping of finger nails on the touchscreen and the occasional cough punctuating the radio silence she was capable of gutting people's beings out with.On bad days, he'd do just about anything to dig a word out of her mouth. He remembered her telling him of the times her grandmother would tell her that she'd be a pauper if the government ever levied taxes on words. He wanted to ask her if the bulb in her staircase got replaced.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
She had only begun to fidget when he asked her if she'd mind a smoke, he had forgotten his cigarettes in the car. They walked to the little balcony that overlooked the market- she lit one in silence, looking down at the cars that came in and went out in queues managed by the whistling of the attendants in orange caps. He noticed her chipped finger nails when she passed on the cigarette and she noticed how their skins touched for the last time. "A Parenthesis in Eternity,"she had called it when she described their first meeting. On someone's balcony, sharing a light one sweaty summer night because he couldn't find his lighter.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
She took in the smell while they drank. That weird concoction of aftershave, iron, tea leaves,cologne and sweat laced with the tang of cigarettes. She will remember this more than anything else, she thought. Well, apart from the time he held the blower to the back of her head because her sprained shoulder wouldn't allow her arms to reach there, and maybe the time when he tried massaging the back of her neck and she exclaimed how bad he was. He remembered the way she'd move her lips in sleep- like she couldn't shut up even in her dreams. And he remembered the way she twisted her hair into a bun and threatened to cut it all off if it got any hotter.He never believed that she would. But that she didnt need to know.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
She left very suddenly, almost as if she had forgotten something very important back at home. She said no to the constant offers of being dropped and drove back with a slight headache from all the drinking, and rushed to her cupboard the moment she reached. Running her urgent fingers through the pile of clothes, she found the CDs and the plates.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The only proof of the life that had burnt inside her in silence three months back-buried under layers of skin and blood, sometimes shrieking out in bursts of pain. She put them all in a big manila envelope.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
This he didn't need to know.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<br /></div>
little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-69004568042914968112013-04-27T13:11:00.002+05:302013-04-27T13:11:33.449+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"What will you get me?", he had asked months back over one of those called-in meals of thick curried chicken and fat rotis.<br />
She snapped back saying something he couldn't decipher with her mouth full, while licking her fingertips."Shit", he probably assumed.<br />
<br />
Over the months, the meals grew lesser and snapping increased-only this time, it didn't end in bad druken jokes and his silly inebriated giggle but with either one slamming the phone on the other's face or with one spending nights staring at the ceiling waiting for the phone to buzz. The silence eventually got filled in with time and its usual melodrama- there were tears of course, and a lot of shouting till it was realised that there was nothing left to fight for, fight about or fight against. Everything was lost by then, everything was decided upon- that was your fault, this was mine; this is your shirt and that book is mine; this was much how much I owed you and you should pay me back for that. Life was being written off under columns again, distributed in sturdy boxes neatly labelled with a clear hand.<br />
Traffic sounds, wedding party laughs, drunken crying, washing machine whirring, egg beating- they all took turns in filling up the radio silence that followed. Each doing its best to assure the person that there was really no silence left.<br />
Her plane departed on time. The tears were really unnecessary, she thought. She landed in the new city and roamed around for days-stopping at a coffee shop here and eating a plate of Fish and Chips there. Then there was that bookshop which was nothing like what she had seen before- nothing like the sanitised ones with vacuum cleaned carpets and freshener scented air she was used to. This was a conglomerate of only shelves-with books living on them. Not books scrubbed clean to live their lives in alphabetical order, but books that breathed, lived and had time leaving behind its dust on them. They didn't smell of dead canned flowers this time but that musty smell that rides up your nose and and becomes one with every inch of your being- that one that tiptoes into your brain and reminds you of log cabins, rainy afternoons and cups of tea. She drew a line in the dust with the tip of her index finger and felt her blood rush to her brain. Her face was flushed and the hair on her arms stood on their ends as she felt a tingle ride down the nape of her neck.<br />
<br />
And then she smiled. "This", she whispered.<br />
<br /></div>
little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-61203212800929210612013-02-26T11:46:00.002+05:302013-02-26T11:46:26.632+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I don't remember being this scared in my life. Of Everything and of nothing at the same time.<br />
It is becoming progressively difficult for me to walk down a road- I am scared a truck will run me down, or I will receive another of those texts or maybe a phone call from someone who will say something I am scared of hearing.<br />
Hurt is essential but I have realised that a lot of hurt is actually fear. Hurt is actually nothing but being scared with something you didn't expect. If I have cried the past week over one conversation, it is essentially because I was scared to face the consequences of it.<br />
One believes because one is scared to be left alone, one talks because one is scared to be called socially awkward, one keeps shut because one is scared one will never be understood.<br />
When exactly does all of life become a part of that scare?<br />
When exactly did I stop running<i> for</i> something rather than <i>from</i> it? And when exactly did I let this sense of constant fear take over all of me.<br />
When did all tears become about what I will lose and not about what I stand to gain.</div>
little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-5702268025160763442013-01-25T20:00:00.002+05:302013-01-25T20:00:32.486+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This corner suited her fine.<div>
Especially now that the rum was beginning to run its course not just through her veins but through the feet of the people whose heads moved together in a feverish unison to that song that would remain stuck inside her head for the rest of the night, or whatever little that was left of it.</div>
<div>
Socially awkward would be a wrong term to use. She just did not enjoy being drunk with everyone, or so she liked to believe. She remembered a few nights with a secret smile- nights that danced into mornings without the hostel warden coming to know, nights lit with fairy lights shining yellow over their flushed cheeks.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Someone had finally changed the song- the feet had decided to go easy for a while, while two people tried their efforts at really close slow dancing and at blocking out the inherent cacophony of life around.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thanks to the alcohol, she hadn't even realised when she had started singing along-more to herself than anyone else, the times when it feels like you're quizzing yourself on the lyrics of a song.</div>
<div>
"Simon and Garfunkel fan?", he asked suddenly with an awkward tilt of head as he was walking past.</div>
<div>
"Is that a rhetorical question?", she asked with a smile.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And right then, thanks to some wicked twist of fate ordained by some God with a pathetic sense of humour, some idiot changed the song.</div>
<div>
They laughed. </div>
<div>
In a way only two people with too much rum in them, and each looking for their own corners can.</div>
</div>
little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-70532019553133225002012-12-13T16:33:00.000+05:302012-12-13T16:36:05.739+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>"The only truth I know is you..."</i><i><br /></i><i>Simon and Garfunkel, Kathy's Song</i></span></h3>
<div>
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></div>
Getting lost is easy I've been told<br />
One only needs to walk into somewhere faraway.<br />
I walked into walls this morning<br />
Spotless, and naked in their bareness;<br />
And reels of negatives flashed in my head<br />
Waiting to be born into frames nailed to this emptiness.<br />
Too many walls in too many places<br />
Wait for too many of these frames,<br />
I tried getting lost into the lanes with no names.<br />
Every road is really a blanket-<br />
Straining to contain every memory waiting to be born,<br />
They tear at their seams while the tongues grow louder<br />
All telling tales you and I have forever known.<br />
I lose nothing in getting lost, all I am is with you<br />
Where do I get lost into<br />
When you are everywhere I go to.<br />
Getting lost is easy they say<br />
Now I believe them too.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-39159577672890467032012-11-20T13:36:00.000+05:302012-11-20T13:36:55.300+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have dealt with people changing, so that really isn't one of my problems. The problem really is dealing with a changed self and when I say this, I am not talking of a change that age puts you through; not the change from frocks to kurtas or bob cuts to joodas. what has really frightened me and perplexed me is the change in me as a being- the changes that have made silent alterations to the cognitive whole that I was.<br />
It sounds dramatic but it seems like I am living in pieces- it's like a disintegration which is absurd. I have stopped being a whole and have swapped my self for a jigsaw puzzle whose pieces I remember seeing but have now lost. And honestly, I don't have the energy to look.<br />
<br />
I was a different person- I used to take photographs and not lock my camera up in my cupboard. I used to run and not sleep because I had more running to do. Now I don't sleep because I don't get sleep or sometimes I sleep through the day. I used to laugh so hard that I used to roll off the bed , now I don't laugh because I think I have ugly teeth.<br />
I am not quite sure what I miss or what I long for. I am not quite sure if I believe that I can do anything to bring myself some clarity.<br />
Yet I like this life- this head full of memories of the sun seeping through my window and the slight taste of your cigarette in my tongue and that sharp twang of your perfume in my nostrils.<br />
I will live. I think.</div>
little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-55722445345860247092012-08-15T14:54:00.003+05:302012-08-15T14:58:46.869+05:30One<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Childhood rote learning has taught me ponds dissolve into streams, streams into rivers, rivers into seas and seas into oceans...ocean waters become clouds and fill in the streams and it is one unending cycle of losing one's self and being born again.<br />
I'd like my body to dissolve into yours, my being becoming one with your being-these limbs would melt into water and stream into the water that your limbs become. Seamlessly. Without making too much sound barring the faint gurgling only attentive ears can detect. The water will seep through the pores on your fingers, elbows and ankles and flow through the cacophony of your veins.<br />
It'll be me in your head, in your feet and inside your throbbing fingertips.<br />
The water will drip from the tips of my hair and dip into my back running in thin rivulets before they finally disappear.<br />
It'll be you in my head, in my feet and inside my throbbing fingertips.<br />
My tongue shall envelop the few stray drops and it'll be you once again-within the darkness of my voice and the redness of my throat.<br />
In me you shall be lost, in me you'll be found again. As a wordless song my lips will utter one rainy morning in bed.<br />
In you I shall be lost, in you I'll be found again. As a string of words your fingers will breathe out one still humid night when not a leaf will move.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-13151451791886180222012-07-10T15:36:00.000+05:302012-07-10T15:54:45.130+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVbvxA4ptB2mQVgXVK3OI4MqPiT20m89KDhUHTH7uD9s2tmr0OHcXE9NJLae_n4FaOyOyJuB2zWJUqIHCwjt1faoU2eayG-zf3RP7LlQtixA2__V_uhoRQGX8lAQmyA0-Mpd1j55bSPL4/s1600/485667_10150774577735988_1126966594_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVbvxA4ptB2mQVgXVK3OI4MqPiT20m89KDhUHTH7uD9s2tmr0OHcXE9NJLae_n4FaOyOyJuB2zWJUqIHCwjt1faoU2eayG-zf3RP7LlQtixA2__V_uhoRQGX8lAQmyA0-Mpd1j55bSPL4/s320/485667_10150774577735988_1126966594_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Years later, I'll probably look back at these days and amaze myself with what I've been capable of. It's nothing special- people are doing it all the time, but somewhere in this whole hurried process, there has been quite a bit of growing up done and that will always amaze me.<br />
This city I have lived in for a little over five years- laughed in, cried in, looked around with wide eyes, shouted at its heartlessness-suddenly became a stranger city. I realised that it's not so much the places as it is about the people.<br />
The city has been about the people I've been with- the ones I talked to under skies torn apart by the roar of airplanes, the ones who never refused the chance to have a 2 am feast of poached eggs and lemon tea and the ones who almost never paid for their tea. With them gone, it's like a part of me disappeared.<br />
And these days have been a long drawn, incessant process of trying to deal with the missing bits and yet trying and emerging with enough strength to cook, clean and sweep.<br />
This place will probably become home again- quietly when I cook the next morning's breakfast, when I walk around these strange new shops with unfamiliar names or maybe when I push my way into a bus which runs on a route I have never walked.<br />
And then, maybe, I will start taking pictures again.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo: Ria and I, on her last morning in JNU. Taken by Atrayee.</span></div>
</div>little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-60027434674127194772012-05-22T13:32:00.001+05:302012-05-22T13:38:45.896+05:30On Leaving Home.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMc5WdJZH4Xp-aM3xptMJXdV2W8UdhRVO3pZRYUW2m8YTYdMLkaADcxG4GY8r-hIybxbDI274UmZPQsUgCGz_KAuKmdB1pSC_lY_mYO8ptKd6qzaeTPPFVqDo5RMwrSGrhT24HY26SXws/s1600/room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMc5WdJZH4Xp-aM3xptMJXdV2W8UdhRVO3pZRYUW2m8YTYdMLkaADcxG4GY8r-hIybxbDI274UmZPQsUgCGz_KAuKmdB1pSC_lY_mYO8ptKd6qzaeTPPFVqDo5RMwrSGrhT24HY26SXws/s400/room.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
If you listen carefully enough, you'll hear nothing.<br />
Because growing up doesn't make too much of a noise. It just happens in its own sweet time- perhaps when two girls spend an entire afternoon listening to old hindi film songs or maybe when they sleep hugging their four pillows on a bed made of the creakiest of all wood, on cheap pink mattresses printed with yellow flowers.<br />
even the smallest of rooms have stories to tell; ours probably has epics to narrate. or maybe not.<br />
maybe it chooses to keep to itself the beauty of seeing those fairy lights light up and the fragility of that moment when we could see both our heads crowned with the lights reflected on the glass of the poster. the walls will still probably breathe out the words our fingers scribbled on them with blunt pencils and pens with lost caps, and whisper how loudly we laughed.<br />
we have kept bits of us in the mess of newspapers that we left back and took back bits off the wall stuck to the duct tape behind the posters.<br />
and our lives will continue to be this way-- a bit of us in that dust and a bit of 231 that we brought back.<br />
<br />
this one's for ria, for 231...without whom not a day in the last two years would've made sense.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">p.s: i wish this was better written but right now, words fail me and this is all i can manage.</span><br />
<br /></div>little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-42991917575381860562012-04-23T20:39:00.001+05:302012-04-23T21:11:03.052+05:30Nausea<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I hate it when people say that life comes a full circle, I hate it when I say it too.<br />
Well, not when I say it but later on.<br />
I mean, I'd rather not run around in circles. Sometimes I just want to run to the circumference and give it a sharp jolt and get out of this thing that pushes me into myself. Even if it throws me out into an eternity of darkness, even if it pains, even if it means that I am ejected with a force that makes my head hit against something hard; leaving me to splatter all over. I'd rather splatter than remain.<br />
I do not want the familiar, the habitual or the regular. Give me a new.<br />
A new something, a new anything. For everyday. For any day.<br />
These circles make me giddy and I vomit.<br />
Right here- in the same place I vomited yesterday, right where I'll come to vomit tomorrow.</div>little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-24441469001090442662012-03-11T11:34:00.003+05:302012-03-11T12:16:40.858+05:30I'll write to you of my days here-<div>How I ration out a little of myself to the dust everyday,</div><div>And how I master the art of staring at these red walls.</div><div>I'll write to you about the rains-</div><div>How they break and make</div><div>And how they break again.</div><div>I'll write to you of these songs-</div><div>How they stay stuck to my head</div><div>And how they all have no words.</div><div>I'll write to you of the poetry these men write-</div><div>How they sometimes lack in metre,</div><div>And how they sometimes make sense.</div><div>I'll write you of the women here-</div><div>How safe they feel behind their layers of Khadi</div><div>And with their heads of unkempt hair.</div><div>I'll also write to you o<span style="font-size: 100%; ">f the voices in my head-</span></div><div>How they tell tales in unknown tongues</div><div>And sing long forgotten songs.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll write to you...</div><div>One of these days.</div>little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-78524076941394172052012-02-08T19:41:00.002+05:302012-02-08T20:06:17.148+05:30the smiling woman on the hoarding today reminded me i should love you.and buy the stack of cards peeping through her carefully curled locks.<div>also that i should have bought you a rose yesterday.</div><div>sigh.</div><div>god alone knows why you love me.</div>little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-5083219149625986882011-12-31T11:16:00.009+05:302011-12-31T11:52:12.334+05:30there are things i will remember of this year and things i shall try and forget.<div>but most importantly, i will remember this year as a year that taught me too many things, perhaps a little more than what i am even capable of learning.</div><div>one of the worst and the ugliest fallouts of my life happened this year over something so petty that i dont even remember details any more. what i learnt from it however is that some things are not meant to last, and it is better that way. but most importantly, i should never look back and call it a mistake because i loved the friendship while it lasted and will cherish the good things that came out of it.</div><div><br /></div><div>losing people is like losing bits of you. so when amma left us this year i felt like a piece of me burnt with her and left behind a very deep scar.but then i figured that one lives with such scars and these scars are finally what you remember people by.i realised you never use "was" when talking of people because they always "are". at least, for sure, i know she is always with me.looking out for me- smiling when i do well, cringing when i eat beef but loving me all the same and still praying that i dont marry out of my religion.</div><div><br /></div><div>a very long relationship came to a close but it has given me a friend who probably knows me better than anyone else-like the back of his hand. knows that i like postcards and fridge magnets more than chocolates and perfumes. </div><div>i met new people this year-people who crept in very quietly and settled themselves comfortably within the leaves of my books, the space between my fingers, the fold of my neck and the gaps within my head. they made up the bits of the year i'll try remembering when i talk of forts and palaces and autos in a desert town.</div><div><br /></div><div>then there have been the people who i wish to keep with me forever-those faces that i see everyday, the habits i plan my days around, the favourites i have begun to love.these people are like the men in the studios who ask you to sit still, move your head from here to there and help you smile so that the picture doesnt get too blurry. </div><div>because too much movement always spoils the <i>mise en scene.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>if the coming year is to be an end, then it better be a beautiful one.</div><div>a very happy new year to each one of you.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-77492309251795337462011-12-19T11:42:00.006+05:302011-12-19T12:21:14.108+05:30i have always believed in the concept of comfort food. and it is never the same as one's favourite food.<div>i, for example, love my sugar. so my favourite food generally arrives at the end of every meal. but my comfort food almost never has sugar in it. one could say that comfort food is basically the food one craves for when one groans with fever.</div><div>or is too lazy to wake up on a winter morning.</div><div>so picture this.</div><div>december morning. you know you have overslept so it does not make sense to hurry up and get out of the loving embrace of your blanket.but your your stomach's groaning and you know you need food.and you happen to be living out of your city and may have a bad cold and a blocked nose to go with it.</div><div>now, if you could get a person and ask him/her to make you ONE (only one) kind of food. what would it be?</div><div><i>that </i>food, ladies and gentlemen, would (under most circumstances) be your comfort food.of course the food might change depending on the situations you are in, but it is generally ONE food.</div><div><br /></div><div>for me, generally, it is <i>sheddho bhaat </i>and/or a glass of cold milk with bournvita :)</div><div>(<i>sheddho bhaat </i>is basically rice boiled with potatoes and other vegetables) this is of course strange given that i hardly ever eat rice voluntarily. there are other times when it changes to a bar of 5 Star or a bowl or chicken "stew" (the way my ayah made it when i had measles). as you can tell, more often than not, comfort food has to be prepared very specifically- complete with minute details. for example, i will never settle for a 5 Star with nuts in it. it just cant be any stew but that one which she made and served in a plastic blue bowl.</div><div>my friends of course have a varied list. while one thinks it is buttered toast with sugar, another sticks to black coffee.</div><div>and then i have two friends who are characterised by their love for soggy food.they share their love for this thing they call <i>makha</i>, which is a very gooey and soggy mix of curd/milk with rice/ <i>muri </i>and (wait for it) bananas with lots of sugar.</div><div>as you can tell by now, comfort foods are extremely personal choices and often invite the disdain of your larger social circle.</div><div><br /></div><div>if you still havent figured out what yours is, think about it now. </div><div>because they've been known to lend smiles to faces in the darkest times.</div>little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-72879496376448271452011-11-15T16:21:00.005+05:302011-11-15T16:30:19.250+05:30Booky Love<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjINgcOb-6AiNy0k6xlud0C1-JOgN3kiICA8TXg1mxVbrnVaQ29RR4SfrLsgjzFpSVuphgUC9bI7Mqgoy45UJs18ZIfngu2Fx1y7vHzX1Tuaj4a_eMf216haW9K4WMy6jnuV85Y3EotvGo/s1600/IMG_4905.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjINgcOb-6AiNy0k6xlud0C1-JOgN3kiICA8TXg1mxVbrnVaQ29RR4SfrLsgjzFpSVuphgUC9bI7Mqgoy45UJs18ZIfngu2Fx1y7vHzX1Tuaj4a_eMf216haW9K4WMy6jnuV85Y3EotvGo/s400/IMG_4905.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675175227711859442" /></a><br />There are very few joys that surpass the joy of a new book. <div>And it has been years since I received a book wrapped in fancy paper and delivered.<div>Though Flipkart didnt really gift it to me or wrap it up with fancy heart printed paper, the joy of a new book remained unchanged.</div><div>Add to that, a cute blue bookmark, a generous discount and that ethereal moment when the nose touches the papery heart of the pages-the moment when you breathe in words and let them swim through the bloody canals of your heart and brain!</div><div>Sigh, I love days like these.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >p.s: it is true that such a love inspires silly artwork :P</span></div></div>little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-38040704103412288572011-11-02T13:37:00.006+05:302011-11-02T22:03:12.359+05:30We become stories with every little thing we do.<div>With my walk to the Godavari bus stop, I begin with my cover photograph. </div><div>Girl in clothes put together in two minutes-crushed kurta with yesterday's perfume on it and churidars marked with ink stains.A hurried line of kohl in her eyes.</div><div>The Nilgiri is for the fancy dedication. </div><div>A lovely set of carefully chosen words manicured and pedicured to fit within the brackets of fancy calligraphy.</div><div>By the time I have crossed the Kaveri tank and taken the right from the Nehru statue, the roads lay littered with the string of words that my footsteps sing to the road I tread upon.</div><div>I turn back and cringe at the litter and heave a sigh of relief when the sweeper's broom brushes them all aside.</div><div>I see how all the words stick to the thin sticks of the broom-all held together with a light electrostatic force.</div><div>The kind that lets the comb touch the strands of hair for a few seconds more before parting.</div><div>I hear a stranger's radio sing,</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><i></i></span></div><span><span><i>"...Sheher sunsaan hai, kidhar jaye,</i></span></span><div><i>Khaq hokar kahi bikhar jaye..."</i><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><i></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><br /></span></div><div>It is funny how every little thing we do becomes a story. </div><div><br /></div></div></div>little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1702927434455018993.post-55469433104630618672011-10-16T11:19:00.004+05:302011-10-16T11:55:19.604+05:30Post Writers' Block Post<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGC8Z33eC2-Hfc4fSfeIC9bwyLsZi7w-zi_3w2pa0aOQw2u3Jgwd9qZxczT5QyK2a6w9fH2tB8l7T2Qj3jVLp-T9LJ_UF057oSKaoaYHEfInbiRstrxxlnIBqD_gSJn8gN3FOA9Sh4es/s1600/IMG_3267.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGC8Z33eC2-Hfc4fSfeIC9bwyLsZi7w-zi_3w2pa0aOQw2u3Jgwd9qZxczT5QyK2a6w9fH2tB8l7T2Qj3jVLp-T9LJ_UF057oSKaoaYHEfInbiRstrxxlnIBqD_gSJn8gN3FOA9Sh4es/s400/IMG_3267.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663968847519403186" /></a><br />Here I am.<div>These days have been good.</div><div>I have taken buses to places I had perhaps seen before but had no memory of.</div><div>I have seen whole cities built on sandstone and heard stories of the stones.</div><div>I have spent a day on a new toothpaste alone and no change of clothes.</div><div>And I have seen Gods become soggy lumps of clay on sticks.</div><div>Yet, I have lived. And I have loved.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span">Photo: Pushkar, 2011</span></i></div>little boxeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07011839933124378047noreply@blogger.com3