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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
And then, maybe, I will start taking pictures again.

Photo: Ria and I, on her last morning in JNU. Taken by Atrayee.

On Leaving Home.

If you listen carefully enough, you'll hear nothing.
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.
even the smallest of rooms have stories to tell; ours probably has epics to narrate. or maybe not.
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.
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.
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.

this one's for ria, for 231...without whom not a day in the last two years would've made sense.

p.s: i wish this was better written but right now, words fail me and this is all i can manage.

Nausea

I hate it when people say that life comes a full circle, I hate it when I say it too.
Well, not when I say it but later on.
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.
I do not want the familiar, the habitual or the regular. Give me a new.
A new something, a new anything. For everyday. For any day.
These circles make me giddy and I vomit.
Right here- in the same place I vomited yesterday, right where I'll come to vomit tomorrow.

I'll write to you of my days here-

How I ration out a little of myself to the dust everyday,

And how I master the art of staring at these red walls.

I'll write to you about the rains-

How they break and make

And how they break again.

I'll write to you of these songs-

How they stay stuck to my head

And how they all have no words.

I'll write to you of the poetry these men write-

How they sometimes lack in metre,

And how they sometimes make sense.

I'll write you of the women here-

How safe they feel behind their layers of Khadi

And with their heads of unkempt hair.

I'll also write to you of the voices in my head-

How they tell tales in unknown tongues

And sing long forgotten songs.

I'll write to you...

One of these days.

the smiling woman on the hoarding today reminded me i should love you.and buy the stack of cards peeping through her carefully curled locks.

also that i should have bought you a rose yesterday.

sigh.

god alone knows why you love me.

there are things i will remember of this year and things i shall try and forget.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

because too much movement always spoils the mise en scene.

if the coming year is to be an end, then it better be a beautiful one.

a very happy new year to each one of you.

i have always believed in the concept of comfort food. and it is never the same as one's favourite food.

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.

or is too lazy to wake up on a winter morning.

so picture this.

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.

now, if you could get a person and ask him/her to make you ONE (only one) kind of food. what would it be?

that 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.

for me, generally, it is sheddho bhaat and/or a glass of cold milk with bournvita :)

(sheddho bhaat 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.

my friends of course have a varied list. while one thinks it is buttered toast with sugar, another sticks to black coffee.

and then i have two friends who are characterised by their love for soggy food.they share their love for this thing they call makha, which is a very gooey and soggy mix of curd/milk with rice/ muri and (wait for it) bananas with lots of sugar.

as you can tell by now, comfort foods are extremely personal choices and often invite the disdain of your larger social circle.

if you still havent figured out what yours is, think about it now.

because they've been known to lend smiles to faces in the darkest times.

Booky Love

There are very few joys that surpass the joy of a new book.

And it has been years since I received a book wrapped in fancy paper and delivered.

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.

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!

Sigh, I love days like these.

p.s: it is true that such a love inspires silly artwork :P

We become stories with every little thing we do.

With my walk to the Godavari bus stop, I begin with my cover photograph.

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.

The Nilgiri is for the fancy dedication.

A lovely set of carefully chosen words manicured and pedicured to fit within the brackets of fancy calligraphy.

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.

I turn back and cringe at the litter and heave a sigh of relief when the sweeper's broom brushes them all aside.

I see how all the words stick to the thin sticks of the broom-all held together with a light electrostatic force.

The kind that lets the comb touch the strands of hair for a few seconds more before parting.

I hear a stranger's radio sing,

"...Sheher sunsaan hai, kidhar jaye,

Khaq hokar kahi bikhar jaye..."

It is funny how every little thing we do becomes a story.

Post Writers' Block Post

Here I am.

These days have been good.

I have taken buses to places I had perhaps seen before but had no memory of.

I have seen whole cities built on sandstone and heard stories of the stones.

I have spent a day on a new toothpaste alone and no change of clothes.

And I have seen Gods become soggy lumps of clay on sticks.

Yet, I have lived. And I have loved.

Photo: Pushkar, 2011

Don’t be scared of the forceps, child

Although the knives have been sharpened well.

The needle will only prick for a second,

And you will only bleed for a while.

The steel may pinch your unformed toes

And bring a soft cringe on your slimy forehead.

It’s only a few hours’ doing, child-

Don’t let all the blood scare you.

Your mother will probably heave a sigh

Because this was the way you had to die;

Only from the clanging of metal claws,

Cocooned in mists of injected anaesthetics-

Faraway from the wars we adults fight.

Don’t cry dear child, you’ll be alright.