I want to be a speck of dust


I want to forget myself- the accumulated knowledge, the quest for love and self inquiry, the meaning of god and everything else. I want to drop all books- spiritual and non spiritual and delve into the world of fantasy and irrationality. I want to hide my vulnerability in the silence of the night and cry away in isolation as I seek emotional validation. I want to lose this endless battle of learning and unlearning. I want sweet repose.

I want to forget all dimensions of space. I want to erase time- past and future and be in the now. If you asked me what the now meant, I would probably not know. And I would know it too. But I don’t want to know anymore. I am tired of reasoning and rationalizing. I want to forget what it is to be alive. I want to forget the touch, tastes and sounds of the world. I want to lose love, approval, acceptance and desire. I want to kill passion and keep moving in this endless flow of existence.

If you were to be driving down a long winding road, you would find me hidden in the crevice of a rock, in a speck of dust. I want to be a speck of dust. I want to erase myself. Be nothing, feel nothing and know nothing.I want to be a robot- unaffected by emotions, events and thoughts. I want to live a life of utter ignorance. I want to drop this jaded skin. I want unconsciousness and suspension in this limbo- formless, thoughtless, nameless…

I am the most tired woman in the world. I am tired when I get up. Life requires an effort I cannot make. Please give me that heavy book. I need to put something heavy like that on top of my head. I have to place my feet under the pillows always, so as to be able to stay on earth. Otherwise I feel myself going away, going away at a tremendous speed, on account of my lightness. I know that I am dead. As soon as I utter a phrase my sincerity dies, becomes a lie whose coldness chills me. Don’t say anything, because I see that you understand me, and I am afraid of your understanding. I have such a fear of finding another like myself, and such a desire to find one! I am so utterly lonely, but I also have such a fear that my isolation be broken through, and I no longer be the head and ruler of my universe. I am in great terror of your understanding by which you penetrate into my world; and then I stand revealed and I have to share my kingdom with you.

― Anaïs Nin

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The day I met the God of Love


It was a clear, bright noon. When walking home, I found myself to be alone, the entire street suddenly deserted, and light to be fast fading. As the sun hid completely, I saw a figure descend from above. My mind knew inexplicably, that it was a God, the God of Love.

My jaw dropped open at the sight of him. I stared at him blankly. I was astounded not out of awe, but out of surprise. He wasn’t anything like I had pictured. Clad in a simple white robe, he looked at me with gentle eyes. There was no divine light or halo over his head. Much like his clothing, his appearance was simple.

“Not what you had expected, eh?” he said, with a knowing twinkle in his eyes.

“No,” I said stupidly. What was I supposed to say? That I was expecting to see a glowing cherub with heart shaped arrows and bows?

Laughing heartily, he said to me, “It’s funny how your mind works. Love is not always flowers and hearts you see.”

“But…but..bu-t…” I stuttered. “But if love isn’t like that, then what is?” he said finishing my unuttered question. I simply nodded. “Come, I’ll show you,” he said taking me by the hand.

We walked along the street stopping at the side of a river. I saw a painter at work, painting the stream. It was a fairly small one, with a few plants growing by its side.

“Why does this stream fascinate you so much?” I asked him. “It’ a small stream,” I said.

Looking up from his work for the first time, the painter said, “Here you see the stream twisting and flowing around a few rocks, and disappearing into the distance. But I see the glacier it melted from, the mountain it flowed down from, the boulders it twisted and curved around, the way it changed from a mountain spring to a bubbling brook, the river it became, the trees that swayed on its bank, the farmers ploughing their fields along its borders, the fish swimming in it, the boats let into its waters by children and the lovers that sat along its bank, gazing into each other’s depths. Yet to you, it is only a stream.”

“It must take tremendous practice and work to do this,” I commented, impressed by his little talk. “Nah, it only takes love.” And with that, he resumed his painting.

The God signaled me to walk ahead. As we walked into the street, I saw an old woman, bending over with age, distributing food to urchins.

“Why do you do this?” I said, “Have you seen their nubile bodies? They look like they have rolled in the mud. Do not touch them, you will contract their diseases.” She smiled up at me from her half rimmed spectacles and said, “I lost my only grandson in the spring. Since then, life has never been the same. I have taken up the task to feed as many mouths as I can while I live. Often times, I see their little eyes shining with gratitude and I feel my grandson back with me again. It’s my way of keeping him close.”

“But don’t you feel the pain of his loss gnawing at your heart?” I asked. “Of course, I do,” she said. “But isn’t that the only way you learn to love?”

And again, the God lead me by the hand and ushered me to walk. We reached a hilltop where a young couple sat looking out into the sunset. My footfalls disturbed their moment. Yet, they seemed unperturbed. They beckoned me with their hands and offered me a seat on their bench.

“Sit,” said the God, sensing my reluctance on intruding their privacy. “Where are you from?” I asked the man. “London,” he said. “And she’s from Paris.”

“Does she speak English?” I asked gesturing towards the young lady. “No, and neither do I speak French.”

“But how do you communicate?” I asked, shocked.

“We understand each other better than anyone else. We don’t need words to communicate. It’s funny how love doesn’t need a language,” he said, turning towards the setting sun.

I sat on the hilltop with the two strangers I had just met and started to cry. I was overwhelmed. The tears flowed freely of their own accord. I saw myself in the blazing sun, in the pink glow that tinted the sky, in the trees that swayed on the hillside, in the painter, in the stream that he painted, in the old lady, in the urchins and in the two lovers. The tears flowed faster. Try as I might, I couldn’t stop crying. I was crying not because I was sad, but because for the first time in my life, I was alive.  I was love. I was infinite love.

“It’s time to go,” said the God, jerking me out of my reverie.

I followed his footsteps and we arrived at the street we had started from.  “You might be wondering why I did not give you any jargon on love. It was because I wanted you to experience and feel it for yourself. It can be quite overwhelming sometimes, eh?” he said, referring to my moment at the hilltop.

“Yes. But why is that I feel this void, this emptiness of love in my life at times?”

“It’s because you never knew how to ask for it,” he said, slowly ascending into the clouds.

“So all I need to do is ask?” I shouted as I saw him vanishing into the heavens.

As he disappeared into the sky, he said, “Ask, and ye shall receive.”

Hmm….


I’m sitting in the balcony, legs stretched out over the parapet with a book in my hand. I gaze absent mindedly at the view outside. Hmm. It’s rather scenic.
It has started to rain. From a slight drizzle it has picked up speed and is going into a full blown torrent mode.
There is a knock on the door. My brother barges in with his dirty shoes and football with my parents at his heels. I return to my spot and resume my gazing.
The rain has slowed down now. I can hear sparrows chirping in the trees. In the distance, I can see smoke spiraling out of the kitchen window. It rides along with the smell of the wet earth and reaches my nostrils. Mmm…I can smell something tangy and delicious.
Far away, I can see the rolling green hills disappearing behind moisture laden clouds. My attention is diverted back to the lunchroom where I hear the clinking of several plates. There is soft music playing downstairs. A car horn is sounded by a frantic driver somewhere.
I see a stone pathway winding away to some road. I wonder where it leads.
It has stopped raining now.

All men are the same



All men, tall or short, arrogant or unassuming, friendly or cold, have one characteristic in common: when they come to the club, they are afraid. The more experienced amongst them hide their fear by talking loudly, the more inhibited hide their feelings and start drinking to see if they can drive the fear away. But I am convinced that, with a few very rare exceptions- the ‘special clients’ to whom Milan has not yet introduced me- they are all afraid.
Afraid of what? I’m the one who should be shaking, I’m the one who leaves the club and goes off to a strange hotel, and I’m not the one with the superior physical strength or the weapons. Men are very strange, and I don’t just mean the ones who come to Copacabana, but all the men I’ve ever met. They can beat you up, shout at you, threaten you, and yet they’re scared to death of women really. Perhaps not the woman they married, but there’s always one woman who frightens them and forces them to submit to their caprices. Even if it’s their own mother.

– From Paulo Coelho’s Eleven Minutes- a book chronicling the adventures of a prostitute in search of love, adventure and happiness.

A clear sky


As I look outside my window, I notice the blurry red and yellow car lights flashing their way through the torrential showers. I see children wading across pools of murky waters. I hear the whistling policeman as he jostles the ever growing traffic. And I see myself, standing by the window, wishing for a clear starlit night.

I wish for a lot of things. I wish for the romantic love, the best friends, the attractive beauty, and the perfect life. I wish for a lot of things unsaid and unheard. Each of these wishes forms a twinkling star, illuminating the deep blue sky. I long to see these diamonds as I stand day after day by the window wishing and hoping for a clear sky.

But something dawns on me. I can sit and hope forever and watch as the rain washes away sparkle after sparkle. Or I can listen to another voice, another tiny being that whispers in the recesses of my heart and mind.

Often as I lie in bed, I hear it singing songs of joy and love. I hear it whooping in victory as it celebrates the world. And in the absolute quiet of the night, I hear its slow steady breathing.

And all of a sudden, the darkness seems to be filled with a warm glow. My ears buzz with a music that strums to the beat of my heart. And I smell an aroma, a fresh aroma that spirals out of the soft moist earth.

I run to window, rejoicing in the way the droplets caress my face washing away all traces of tiredness. I watch the sparrow as she flutters from one branch to another, ruffling her wings and shaking out drops of rainwater.

I watch the car lights move in and out of focus through the torrents, the kids making their way home as they splash through the puddles and the policeman as he tries to jostle the ever growing traffic.

I look towards the stormy grey sky as I see the clouds rolling in. Astonishingly, I don’t want a clear sky anymore.


This is an account of my brother’s trip to Japan! 😀

Goofiness Unlimited!

Hey guys I’m back again from my trip to Japan and today I’m going to tell you about it. Well you see in Japan we had lots of fun. But we had to train 5 hours a day on a regular basis. Sundays were off for us so we could have a break from karate.

Well you know we went to many places called ‘Harajuku’ ;Shinjuku’ ‘Akihabara’, the electronic city, the very famous Disneyland and Sudobashi amusement parks. We were staying in an apartment in a place called ‘Akasaka’. There was also a place named ‘Asakusa’ temple which was a very crowded place and the Japanese festival was going on. There was also a place named ‘Okachimachi’ which was a huge shopping center with everything available.

Well as I told you we trained 5 hours a day and the grandmaster of karate, Hanshi Goshi Yamaguchi taught us. It was a…

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The extra and the ordinary


As I walk down the station, I can’t help but notice the bullock straining under the weight of the blocks of ice as its master delivers a slab to the wailing fisherwomen. The cats which have been gorging on the morsels of tuna and Bombay duck in the dark alleys beyond the field of human vision salivate as another batch of fresh salmon makes its way into the bustling market.

I smile at the coconut man who smiles in return as he passes me a tender coconut drink on a hot day. With grateful eyes, I lap up its sweet white contents as I quench my thirst.  I love the animals that squeal and chirp at the oil seller’s store. I love the parrot with his humorous anecdotes, swishing his broken green tail in the customers’ face as the tiny squirrel darts its way through the mounds of dried coconuts to its master.  I love the ruckus created by their dog that wanders off on its own never too far, crossing roads and bringing back bits of news from the streets as soon as he sees the boys returning from school.

In the evenings, I love sitting by the sea watching the dark pall of twilight fall over the city that never sleeps. The twinkling lights of the advertisement hoardings and the cacophony of the horns with the occasional band baaja never fail to make me marvel at the undying spirit of the people.

Clutching a mug of hot chocolate, I gaze in amazement at the sparkling stars as they shine their way through the night. They possess an indescribable beauty about them. A beauty beyond words, a beauty I can’t yet fathom. Till this day, I wonder at their mystifying magic that keeps me encapsulated. I love falling asleep to the soft melodies of my favorite songs as I snuggle under the covers of my warm fluffy bed.

My heart races at the thrill of seeing the gold rays of the sun piercing their way through the lavender sky in the morning. My daily routine somehow always seems to be interrupted by the chirping of the mynahs and the smell of simmering coffee. The silvery sheen of the dragonfly wings create rainbow patterns in the sunlight as I watch thousands of them buzzing over the newly blossomed gulmohars.

A good laugh on my way to college is always provided by the urchins along the station who sit with their mats spread out over the cobbled pavements; a perfect picture of pity. Their pleading eyes and despairing demeanor soon vanish as they whisk  into thin air when the heels of the occasional policeman make their appearance.

I continue my walk to the whistling trains, with a satisfied smile on my face as I go over another day with its picturesque stories and hidden magic. ‘Cause I know that in the mundane humdrum of my daily life, I’ve managed to find that extra in the ordinary.

Playmate


The train rattled past the purple cabbage farms that lined the tracks as it made its way towards Sherganj. Between the towns of Sherganj and Mansard lay a small village called Pukri. Pukri was known for its purple cabbages. Apart from that, it was just like any other village. Small thatched roofs dotted its criss crossing dirt tracks. It didn’t have any roads. People traveled everywhere by foot. There was one trail in particular that wound around the Sewri creek and led into the woods. No one knew where the trail ended. No one had dared to find out.

Manu wondered what lay beyond the winding trail as he made his way to school. He had been told it led to a haunted mansion. He trudged along, thinking about the homework he had done last night. He hoped his teacher would like it.

                                                                     ***

“Care to explain what this is all about?” spat Ramprasad. Manu cowered behind his desk as he looked over the menacing form of his teacher. Ramprasad was a strict man who had little tolerance for children like Manu. His gaunt features turned gaunter as his paan stained lips stretched into a toothy grin. Manu hated that grin. It often spelt trouble. “Children in our days were obedient. When the elders said something had to be done, it had to be done. There were no questions or explanations. When we were told to work, we worked. When we were told to sleep, we slept. And when we were told to study, we studied,” said Ramprasad waggling a finger at Manu’s painting. “If I remember correctly, I told you to write an essay about the national bird, not paint it. Now what part of that did you not understand?” sneered Ramprasad. “Put out your hand!” he bellowed spraying red paan all over Manu’s face. Reluctantly, Manu raised a small hand and waited for the blows. They hurt more than they ever had. Ramprasad smacked the ruler on Manu’s knuckles till they turned red. “There. That should teach you not to disobey rules.”

Silently cursing his teacher, Manu walked home. “Stupid teacher,” he muttered. “He doesn’t know a thing about creativity.”

“I’m home!” announced Manu as he pushed open the door of his hut. “Go help your father in the shed!” came his mother’s reply. Sighing, Manu ran to the shed behind the house. The shed housed thirty buffaloes. To Manu, all of them looked the same. Big, fat and black. “Start on the cakes,” said his father emerging from within. The cakes were flat pancakes made of buffalo dung. They helped light the stove and when plastered to the walls, kept the hut cool in summers.

Manu made his way to the back and started rolling out small balls from the dung. “I should be out in the woods, having fun” he thought as he flattened them into pancakes. He collected a few pancakes and made his way to his fort. His ‘fort’ was an old run down cottage in the woods. It was hidden from view by the broad-leaved Palmyra trees that grew all around it. A flight of stairs led to the roof of the cottage.  Close to the cottage, was a small teepee like shack built of dung cakes.It was Manu’s favorite place. It was his safety spot. He would hide there for hours and hours when he sensed danger lurking around the fort.

“Yes! It’s complete!” yelled Manu as he placed two pancakes over the roof of the incomplete shack. But his joy was short-lived as he saw a foot flying towards his shack. Like a slow motion scene, he watched his safety shack crumble to dust. “I told you to make piles, not igloos!” yelled Manu’s father. “Do you even know the value of this dung? And you chose to waste it on this useless piece of architecture?” said his father twisting Manu’s ear. “Now go to your room and study!”

That night Manu lay on his bed thinking about the events of the day. Lifting himself up, he walked to his window and emptied his glass of milk outside till it formed a white puddle on the ground. It was only a few minutes before he heard a slurping sound.

“Tibbles,” Manu said climbing out of his window as he saw a kitten lapping greedily at the milk. He lowered himself and sat cross-legged beside Tibbles. Tibbles was the closest thing Manu had ever had. She was far better than the grown ups in his life. She did not complain, merely listened and licked her paws. Life was easy when you were a cat. No one complained if you left muddy footprints, no one cared if you failed your grade; no one bothered you if you did whatever you felt like.

Manu wished he could be more like Tibbles. She did not have to please anyone. Nor did she have to study. She did not care about grown ups and their stupid ways or about feeling lonely. Yes, Manu was heartbroken. He was lonely. He wished he had someone to play with. Someone who would be more like him. Someone who hated grown ups as much as he did. “I wish I had a playmate, you know,” he said scratching the back of Tibbles’ ears. But Tibbles did not respond. She had fallen asleep.

Sighing, Manu rubbed his eyes and he looked into the bushes. He was sure he had seen some movement. “Who is it?” he asked sleepily. The bushes parted and out stepped a boy.

“Shyam,” whispered the stranger.

To be continued…

“If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you: I am here to live out loud.”


There are some weird things I do. And a post like this is testimony to this fact. I have a habit of complimenting my acquaintances. I don’t know why, but the kindness and randomness of strangers overwhelms me and makes me feel something that I haven’t felt in ages: love.

Since a long, long time, I have felt a gnawing at my heart. It isn’t the melodramatic hole in the heart earth shattering gnawing. It is more like an inward coil… a constraint…that pulls me back from enjoyment and glee.

That constricting feeling is still there in my heart. Maybe because I am afraid that if I let go, I will fall into nothingness. Although lately, I have started to unclench. I have let myself be beaten and bruised. I have let myself feel alone and unloved. I have let myself be hurt and terrified. And I have let myself fail.

I repeat these words and feelings over and over again, and might do so again. I know some of these words hold no meaning at all and some speak mountains about my faith.  But isn’t that why we all write, draw, sing or create? It is to bring forth the happenings of the world and life and the sweet spot that rests in between. We bring it forth in different shades, in different strokes and in different words. It is in this sweet spot that even the most revolting sight can evoke wonder and the most breathtaking sight can evoke apathy. It is in knowing this sweet spot as your face to the world and as your personal haven to your inner being. The inner being that craves to be a child again. The being that wishes for magic and fairy tales. The being longs to be cradled and loved.

It is in each one of us. It maybe repressed, suppressed, forgotten or ignored, but present and breathing like a living creature. It speaks and understands only one language, one word and one emotion: love. And it is with this unconditional and irrevocable love that I write this post to all of you.

I realize that I can’t be so cynical anymore. If there is one thing that I can do, it is to give. Give my love and joy with hugs and smiles. And with each smile that I give, the gnawing at my heart gradually starts to lessen.

Life isn’t all harsh on me these days. Nor is it all sunshine and daisies. But I have chosen to love everything and anything in its total form and way. As I let this love grow, the grass seems greener, the stars shine brighter and the sorrow seems lighter.

There are many things that I have come to know and understand. I have come to know that there is a wonderful world out there. A world of love and abundance. A world of carefree laughter and ice creams. A world of witchcraft and wizardry. A world that never ceases to whisper five letters-

Magic.

I wish…


I wish somewhere over the rainbow to watch bluebirds fly

I wish somewhere in the depths to see fish swim by

I wish somewhere among the dark blanket to swirl with the stars

I wish somewhere along the road to break all bars

I wish sometime someday to hear that voice again

That makes hearts flutter, soothes all pain.

I wish sometime someday to dance with the leaves

Sing with the birds, whistle with the breeze.

I wish somewhere someday it doesn’t remain sometime anymore

I want to feel, I want to dance, I want to soar…