quirkyblue

Empty pages I stand before you yet again My fingers timid and trembling Will you let me in? To be a human is to try and try again and again until you transcend or  you're humbled Like Goggins Got to be in love with the pain Can't love the dopamine trough At the end of the journey No matter how tough So fall in love with the pain Because that's the only truth Fall in love with the path Because that's all that exists Fall in love with change Fall in love with instability Fall in love with the moment And you'll be okay

It's quiet. In the pit of the stomach, the last of the memories churn Hear the levers disengage one by one. There's no yard sale, no listings, Just a disengaged observer, Amused at what was, Peering at the sticky tendrils still weakly stretching out  to ensnare what was left of her A whiff of agony flutters around looking for a place to land Dreams, no longer clutched closely, float around, like torn pieces of paper descending to the ground. Colours - crimson and blue - paint time, Shucks, it's losing colour. Falling, falling, falling, with nothing to hold on to, The blast of change rushing through the hair Forcing the eyes shut Nothing to hold on to, nothing to fall on. There. That's it.

And then there was pain Searing pain That cut through the Red hot lividness that was her breath and throttled it midway She choked Unable to decide between The desire to obfuscate her world And the temptation of perennial oblivion Both offered completion. Buddha or Shiva? Surrender or annihilation? Giving up or taking up? Too many questions Serpentine thoughts with sinewy claws  enmeshed her endearingly sweetly and surely  and hopefully (for them), forever. Except for time There's no forever Who are you kidding?! Just here and now The only possessions At any moment That's all.

The hum of the refrigerator clickety-click of the keyboard The misplaced notes of a piano A distant bark, and then another A knock– far away Muffled slamming of a door Padded footsteps A whirr of a truck driving past Carried within the wave of time Sounds of the moment Perceived in the limited Circle of light Of this lamp in the living room Hushed sounds of the night Withheld, whispered sometimes whimpered Complete silence eludes Night, unlike day, goes on A show behind the curtains.

Heaving, aching, exhausted Yearning to have control, nay, not possible Not over the world, I pray, Just this tiny inconsequential thing in the scheme of the universe also known as the heart But how can that be? Poison births life, it does Even if only to kill No, not kill, but strangle, carve out, control Lift, only to shatter Embrace, only to toss away Support, only to withdraw when over a chasm Alone Lone and lonely I drift down down down "Stop screaming, stupid!" What's the point? Meaning, meaningfulness, purpose heavy words I'm but an idiot who gets triggered "Snap out of it!" Sure, your majesty. Addictive? Egoistic? Perhaps. Who knows what's real, what isn't. To borrow from the bard, "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players..." So play shall I, be stupid, be the fool And I shall snap out of it And smile And keep going Because if life's a play, The show must go...

She soared above the clearing. The grass below was a striking green. She watched as the individual blades merged together into a stunning green carpet. The clearing was surrounded by plantations. On one side was bamboo and on the other, eucalyptus. The air rushing past was redolent with the fragrances of both, a heady mixture she couldn't quite describe. But it was extremely refreshing, nevertheless. She thrust forward and upward and watched in glee as her feet skimmed above the treetops.  She tilted lightly to her left and circled back towards the edge of the clearing. The treetops rushed underneath her. But she wanted details. There, someone stood among the tall grass – she knew not who. She went low, just high enough not to scrape against an occasional tree. It wasn't easy. She was still going too fast. There were thin branches, not visible from afar, that kept getting in her way. But she zigzagged her way forward. The sharp turns were thrilling, but also tiresome....

The afternoon sun shone into the dense expanse of lantana bushes. Two young girls nimbly stepped over the spiky twigs, doubling down where the undergrowth turned into a canopy with an opening, just big enough for a small goat to go through. They had been going on like this for a while. Their legs were scratched, seeds of wild grass clinging on to their dresses, palms itching from having touched undomesticated shrubs. The elder one, a 12-year-old, led the way. Her hair was tied in a long ponytail, beads of sweat accumulated over clearly drawn brows, thin lips slightly parted. The one behind her was younger by around 3 years, with shoulder length hair clipped up to keep it from coming on to her face. She kept looking ahead and back in measured glances, taking in the terrain, the signs and everything else in between, her eyes shining with the excitement of discovering a new trail. Once in a while her sister would make a remark – about the peculiar shape of a bush, or something – a bott...

Alright. So it is time to write. It had always been But the words were a tad shy. In the chaotic green room A noun would nod her head A jumpy little preposition Would whisper, “You go ahead!” The adjectives would line up Enthusiastically The editor would tut-tut And drive them willy-nilly An edgy pronoun, ‘I’ to be specific Would peer around the curtain, heave a sigh Look down, ponder, and wonder ‘why?’ Why does it have to be so tough To just talk To just express To just be oneself and not obsess With accuracy, with detail With what words really entail Is it not possible to just let them flow Let them decide where they want to go? Back in the greenroom Getting crowded, it was “Let us out, let us out Too many stories trapped here about!” Finally ‘Me’ sauntered in and looked around An objective avatar of ‘I’ She was abstract, not proud. With a flick of her wrist, she pulled the curtain apart.  She winked at the words, wh...

When Yami Gautam looks back at her career graph, she’ll definitely regret her decision to endorse Fair & Lovely. What her conscience couldn’t, perhaps the recent torrent of Twitter jokes will hopefully achieve. In case you missed the fun, here are some samples! I was heartened to see people ripping apart the concept of conceived fairness! After all, it is a promising beginning for a nation that associates fairness with beauty, success and esteem. I just wish that the sarcasm wasn’t just directed towards the brand ambassador, but towards our own inherent bias towards fairness. While this bias affects all women, the ones from the lower economic strata have the most to lose. Mostly illiterate, enmeshed in a patriarchal society, struggling to make ends meet, these women are easy prey to corporate mind-games. To think that they unnecessarily spend a portion of their earnings every month on buying fairness creams that hardly make any difference to their complexion, but make the...

Did you know that you cannot clap with one hand? Or that a rape is akin to a clap? Don’t ask me. Ask Asaram Bapu who has said that the Delhi gang rape victim is as much to blame as the rapists for the rape. To be honest, it is beyond my capacity to apply the dynamics of a clap to a rape. But His Holiness might know more!   If nothing else, the infamous Delhi gang rape is exposing the reality of our leaders – political, social or spiritual. For you and me, it is incredulous that someone can harbour such absurd notions about rape. You and I need not be told that a rape is not a clap. It is a punch. It is a deathly punch that kills the spirit, not just the victim. That it is a tool for an ego trip, an instrument for subjugation, a weapon of war. And yet, day after day, we hear statements such as, “She should have surrendered,” “Women’s outfits are to blame,” and of course, “ Taali ek haath se nahi bajati! ”  India is an old country. The term ‘ancient’ can ...

Often, I attract flak for trampling over the 'Traditional' in my quest for the 'Wise'. Let me explain.  Tradition, Knowledge, Wisdom. Unfortunately, these three are often used interchangeably by well-meaning people. If I were to draw a Venn diagram, there would definitely be common areas amongst their three corresponding circles. How large or small these areas of intersection would be, depend upon the knowledge of the person we are deliberating. However, what we can definitely be sure of is that there would be three circles, not one. What is Tradition? The dictionary definition reads as follows: the handing down of statements, beliefs, legends, customs, information, etc., from generation to generation, especially by word of mouth or by practice. So, even if a practice emerged from observing facts and rational action, there is ample scope for deviation or corruption of the practice while it was being passed "from generation to gener...

My new workplace is quite far away by Bangalore standards, which is a combination of distance and traffic. With Vijay's office also not being close to where we live presently, it made sense to move to some place closer. Therefore for a series of weekends we went around the city, scouting for a more suitable accommodation. Alas! It wasn't as simple as I thought it would turn out to be! Aside from the rates, which, by the way shot up in areas that we preferred, something or the other was never right. Either the ventilation wasn't good or the parking wasn't spacious enough. If both these factors were taken care of, the locality was not to our liking. But the one factor that eventually changed my mind and made me stay put in our current apartment is the greenery - and the friendly, furry neighbours that reside in it. You see, I live at the top floor of a stand-alone apartment block. It is open from two sides ensuring free flowing breeze and ample sunlight. Since the Ma...

It is difficult to let go of something, of which one is perversely proud. I have often come across people who, when asked where do they belong to, gently, but proudly slip their caste into the answer.  "No, I don't belong to Bangalore. I am a Kumauni Brahmin", or, "Oh! We have to be very particular about the match. We are Saryupani Brahmins you see..." and so on so forth. Yes, I admit, only Brahmins, and occasionally Rajputs, proclaim their caste with such impunity, at a day and age when casteism is looked down upon, at least by the educated and the 'informed'. Honestly, I find this attitude thoughtless and embarrassing. What do you expect your audience, who perhaps is not a Brahmin or a Kshatriya (the so-called higher castes) to say? Something like, "Oh I understand. Fortunately I am a Shudra so I can marry whichever kind gentleman comes my way."? I can understand that people take pride in their roots. But is it really necessary to an...

A chance conversation with my mother yesterday brought up an interesting, and potentially important, issue. I had asked her if she enjoyed watching 'Three Idiots', and was surprised by her negative critique. Amongst other points, to which I don't agree to, she complained about the thoughtless usage of the word ' balatkar' which is the Hindi word for 'rape'. I am a 21st century woman living in one of the most cosmopolitan cities of India. I am a liberal and broad minded non-feminist, and can digest a good joke, even when it's on me. Though I don't agree with my mother often, in this case I have to admit that she is correct. My mother said that 'balatkar' is one of the few words, that cannot be used in just any context. It carries a lot of weight and many serious connotations. 'Balatkar' - The word generally elicits deep emotions such as shock and pain. The word conveys the alleged victim's misfortune, the sense of being viola...

Be still pause linger for a moment catch the magic in a falling raindrop capture the miracle of the first sunray celebrate the smell of morning tea. Talk to the wandering clouds Chase a rainbow Tweet back to the birds Let a butterfly alight on your shoulder live love laugh Bring back the magic the wonderment the wow

How I yearn for the lonesome sea rushing, roaring, rolling perpetually What does it ponder? what does it pray? Is there hope or just dismay? Alive n' kicking or plain frustrated Are its dramatics authentic or narrated? Is the blue sky its only audience? Colouring it with its own moods and vibrance? How I wish I were lost in the breeze No voice, no murmur, no 'thanks you', no 'please' Dance if I could with all that is me Joining the sea and the sky, break free! Languages abound but I want no words Just want to drown in a sense of purpose...

I miss Dehradun . Labeling it as home-sickness wouldn't be fair. Because it isn't just my home that I miss, but the entire city, the air, the roads, the bakeries and most of all, the mountains. For around 24 years, every morning that I woke up, I would be greeted by the austere presence of the silent giants. Sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes gray, and innumerable mishmashed shapes in between... forever playing withe their misty companions, the clouds. In the summers the peaks would turn grey, and there would be no sight of clouds. The vivid blue sky would provide a stark contrast to the heat wave beneath. The breeze would transform into, what we call, the loo - which in the vernacular lingo means hot wind, not the restroom! And the mountains would stand stoically day in and day out. At nights however, one could often see the stark lines of forest fires in the distance, as if the heat really did become unbearable for the rocky giants and they are venting their f...

I had a fantastic Saturday morning watching a group of spirited, determined and charming girls put on a great show on the telly. No, I'm not referring to the Miss World/Universe/Earth/Asia/whatuwill contest, or the sloppy Indian version of 'So you think You Can Dance', but the ICC Women's World Cup 2009. Well, I must confess that I didn't know that women's cricket had a World Cup too. But then again, I'm not a cricket fan. That said, I didn't continue watching the game because the players were women, but because it was a good game! In fact, it seemed like a slightly different replay of last thirty minutes of 'Chak De', with Indian kudis facing off Australian babes. India scored an impressive 234 for five and beat the hosts by 16 runs! Be it Anjum Chopra's cool 76, Mithali Raj's impeccable fielding, Jhulan Goswami's tightly controlled run rate or wickets taken by Gauhar and reema, these girls knew how to kick ***! I specially lo...

Alone, I stand Looking ahead, and back Trails travelled and unknown. Behind are the woods - wistful, grateful, sorrowful can't just leave them behind, can I? And yet, the sky ahead is turquoise. A blissful wind slaps my cheeks, the sun burns me a rich brown. It stings... and feels alive. What is it at the horizon? A gathering storm, I must say, as I get drawn towards its. Crazy? Ah... yes. Passion is crazy. Being alive is being crazy. Being happy is being crazy. I laugh, and move ahead as the tear drops behind...

A glance by chance at the list of articles by Shashi Tharoor led me to this article, also incidentally named - 'The Idea of India'. While I put my thoughts about the same subject in the earlier blog entry in an elementary way, here's an intellectual giant elaborating the same in a much more engaging and pursuasive write-up. Enjoy!