Wednesday, January 17, 2024
Memories
Thursday, January 11, 2024
My Dream World
I belong to only to you, my dream world- not to the place that I
have left as a child, or to my native place, to my father's place which
I have left as a child. I do not feel that I belong to my father's
family as he is dead and gone long back and what I have left of him are a
few scattered bones in a graveyard and some books and diaries that he
left behind.
I do not belong to the place I grew up as a child
beside the River Green, where it was always fun playing in the river yet
I never belonged to my mother's family for there were rightful
inheritors who belonged more rightful than me. I do not belong to my
extended family for I have blindly followed their traditions and values
without questioning them and created a tradition of handing over the
acquired culture.
I belong only to you, my dream world and my
twin flame, who knows my ups and downs, my feminine spirit and
tenderness, my occasional clownishness in trying to belong to some name,
some family, some tribe,where I do not belong. Yet in the realm of
unreality, it is you who define me, in the sacred space of our
togetherness,in the melting down of the barriers between you and me, and
the all engulfing tenderness that follows, that is the space where I
see myself, as yours having a name that you call me when no one is
around and being yours other beloging to any place, tribe or family.
Rain Chants
The chants
reverbrated in the blazing summers and were offered to the gods of the sky and
the wind and the people remembered all the occasions when the land was blessed
with rain following the rituals. The children from the village played by the
dried up temple pond, thinking of the days where they splashed in the cool
water, sat idly in the cool recesses of the rocks, or chattering with the juice
of ripe mangoes oozing on their hands and faces.
The ancient chanting went on incessantly, in a land of purity, where none could
wash or bathe except in the muddy pond waters and the summer blazed along with the hot afternoons, when
none could sleep, for the heat numbed and scorched the earth.
The ancient
chants went on praising the rains: oh you rain; much awaited, the boon of
heavens,
that brings joy to the earth, wealth to its people,oh you rain, come with
thunder and lightning,
and soak our brown skins with delight. Oh rain, the fulfillment of forecasts
and incessant prayers,
I invoke you in the names of the barren earth, the dried up rivers and lakes,
the animals and birds,the silent trees and the people on earth.
The rains were awaited after the prayers to end the blazing afternoons of
summer heat with the first drops of summer rain and you set the warm smell of
earth rising and you bedeck trees with jewels like brides, from furnace hot
afternoons to nights of restless pace. It is for the rains, incense is burnt
and prayers chanted and it is for you, the comforter on hot summer days. The land
and the people waited for the comfort offered by the summer rains.
However, on the third day of endless repentance and prayers, grey and white
dappled clouds rose to silhouette the sky, with hints of a sudden outburst. With
the advent of the rain clouds, the entire city rejoiced as the wait was
over. The days of drought are finally
over and the soft rain slushed over the crowd with bolts of thunder and lightning.
The people received in open hands stretched to skies what the heavens granted
as comfort from the scorching heat of Indian summer.
The rain fell over the blazing holy fire, with the land and the people soaked in
the rain and the beaming children screamed at delight when the droplets of rain
drenched their bodies. Finally, the prayers of the people were answered and the
land was blessed with rain.
Desires
Grand Rising
Friday, December 29, 2023
A December full moon
Thursday, December 28, 2023
Female Icarus
Thursday, December 21, 2023
Thursday, December 14, 2023
Wednesday, December 13, 2023
The Wanderers
Monday, December 11, 2023
Dreams
Us
In a way, each story that we tell has the same kernel in it- our dreams, hopes and longing all lost and found again in a smile that can light up a fire inside or bring joy. You and I have become wordsmiths who try to bring all our liquid pain into the art of telling pleasing stories.
The stories that we write are not what really happened or events that could really happen. These come from an imagination that loves to wander and see what would have happened if we were together and not apart as was willed in life.
Sometimes, it is sunshine and laughter outside; depends on the state of this mercurial soul. The reality imposes on us, at times taking away everything and at times giving blessings unasked for.
Your stories reveal the joy of finding happiness in new things, which are in fact, new ways to name the old likes and loves while I harp on change and about moving on but have stayed in the same year where I stopped learning. The year that I write in my mind is often the one I lost you in life.
The fire of a smile still burns in these kernel stories of love, longing and loss and we have become like straight lines that run along parallel throughout the many lives.
Daily
Thursday, November 30, 2023
A Life of Purpose
Evenings at the coffee house
But when I reached this milestone all I have is a history of losses- the disappointment of a broken love that almost came to fruition, the years spent trying to pull yourself back together the indifference of your loved ones, the absence of real friends and the lacks that are spelt so clearly and in bold letters everyday. It has been years since you called anyone a friend as you have only acquiantances and you never offer a shoulder to cry as you used to do before nor ask solace from anyone despite of being miserable and broken. You wear a brave face in the crowds and break down miserably in your solitude as you plod on with your busy everyday life.
Then in the evenings and weekends you form a bond with your workmate and share the same sense of joy at the aroma of freshly ground coffee and piping hot Masala dosa at your favourite haunt, the old Coffee House in the city. On some busy days, you have to scream to make your companion understand what you are trying to say, all amidst the hustle and bustle of the staff in the old Coffeehouse, full of life.
Over a period of months, we form a unique bond, minus our histories and sad luggage, looking forward to what is served on the menu only with a common love shared for solitary hangouts be it an evening by the seashore or a quiet swim in the nearby river. Gradually, your sad face attains a brightness of being loved in return without knowing any of your past wounds and your time is spent in tasting the old brew of hot coffee and eating the same Masala dosas. We write a life of being in the moment with you and I, looking forward to our days of favourite comfort food at our old hangout.
Sunday, November 26, 2023
Thunderstorm
Friday, November 24, 2023
Strength
Thursday, November 23, 2023
The serious and the trivial
In the midst of this summer tedium, we meet once again in the same old park that we used to spend our young days. In those days, you and I w...