Like a house on fire...

Dedications don't come easy. I particularly immortalise my chosen few in black and white just because they paint my life colourfully with shades that my own colour palette lies oblivious to.

23rd May, 2013
Hatia Station
Hatia
Ranchi

She fondly reminds me the date because there she was... pacing up and down the platform in the company of her siblings and her mom. Her goddess-like fair complexion and rich auburn ponytail sat such a misfit among the stinking crowd that the keen observer in me was compelled to turn around and take another look. Her inexplicable aura resonated so perfectly with mine that I instantly knew she deserved to be trapped in one of my future blogposts!

My blunts and schoolgirl-like demeanour might have prompted her to ask which class I studied in... while my mind felt like travelling through the various foramen of human skull and trying to instruct the Broca's area not to take offence and mess up with the speech! Offence - because she herself sported a baby-faced look, complete with chubby cheeks and attractively high cheekbones!

Not for a second did it feel like we'd never known each other. There was a connection that transcended my own understanding of trust and friendship. Some people just know you... along unfathomable lines. I knew she did. Amidst the unsettling noise of the magazine hawkers and the chaiwallahs, we stayed unperturbed, engulfed by the fact that how much we knew about each other and how much we mirrored each other without uttering a word! There was life in our conversation... something that had the intensity of touching every realm of existence with an unforgettable and indelible impact. And we got along like a house on fire... burning bright even under the scorching roof of the sleeper class!

There are people who you want to keep locked up in the closet of your heart forever. She became one. Though we never got a chance to meet again, I knew we were friends for life - separated by time and distance, tied by an unspoken string of credence.

mY aLiBi...

Drops of yore
trickle and seep.
A decade and a seven
hums
damp and deep.
When misty canopy
slept in leap,
a sunshine arose,
then yawned and peeped.

Fearless lashes
batted and heaved.
Dollops of love
with a pinch of peeve.
Years rolled by...
Baby shoes untied.
Lilac boots
now pronounce your stride.
Hair askew
then sat in wedge.
Jet black in hue,
now blunt in edge.
Finger that held yours in mine,
now wags at mum
when red in mime.
My lazy noons -
languid and sore,
dipped in dimples -
your tales galore.
Candid tattle,
unbridled smile,
laughters in rattle,
now away, a mile.
An angel in garb -
your pranks and winks -
I miss them all
in whole and chinks.

At the break of dawn,
I raise a toast
served with bliss
and crisp of roast.
At the break of dawn,
I chant a psalm
to shield you safe
in gale and harm.
Priceless a sis
my days alight.
This day I wish
aglow so bright!

Seriously, Dil se... ;)

It's pretty late. My books kept me hooked up tonight. Medicine is a poison. And you don't have an anti-dote. In the blanket of silence, you slowly succumb to its toxicity... and you don't know if you can ever fall in love with it... but what you do know is that once you are in, you're virtually trapped! Anyways, bade bade shehron mei aisi chhoti chhoti baatein hoti rehti hain! ;) And that's how life changes its course... what is important is to keep walking...

 

Those dimples are liberating! When you're exhausted...no matter what, you definitely fall for them over and over again... His wit is infectious... his humour exudes vibrance... his eloquence is sexy... his sad eyes are enchanting! An ardent fan who resides in my heart insists me on dedicating a post to him... for no good reason. Maybe because quite a lot of girls like me still carry with them the songs from his movies wherever they go... they still love to gorge on DDLJ whenever they can steal a chance - one would trade anything in exchange for that 'magical' guitar ... chak dhoom dhoom from Dil Toh Pagal Hai still has the old world charm that can make them break into jigs... they still go gaga over the bouncy haircut from Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham, the leather jacket from Veer-Zara and the adorable, irresistible Aman from Kal Ho Na Ho... Yeah! Believe it or not, we stay smitten! Even after those two long decades! Guys call it outrageousness... we call it addiction! :p

 

A big salute to the journey of longevity from a few pennies to an unthinkable 'stardom'... to a professional who is almost married to his work... to a man who knows and shows how to be a 'man'... and to an actor, who despite all the oddities of life, makes you believe in love, again and again... Dil Se ;) ;) ;)

The GIRL in BLUNTS...

I used to meet this girl everyday. She was awe-inspiring. But that was ages ago. We do not see each other anymore. She was the girl in blunts...

The girl who was placid outside... but turbulent inside. The girl who was reticent in conversations but articulate in actions... whose countenance wore a shroud of shyness but whose mind galloped a thousand miles a moment... The girl who would hardly see you in the eyes... but her eyes were the mirror of her soul. The girl who did mess up with a few people but never apologised because she didn't believe in shallow apologies and the hypocrisy of forgiveness. She was meticulous... she was a brave-heart... she hardly gave up on things... she was innocent! She would seldom pay heed to compliments and criticism... because those were outside her territory of interest. She was one girl who didn't mind being labelled 'arrogant'... feigning niceness was certainly not her way. But she was a really cool person... who left me one day, on the pretext that her non-existence would be the key to my survival.

That key opened the door to the breeze that kissed my tresses... and the locks brushed past across my face... My laughter would ring with merriment. They didn't need to peep into my eyes because I had my glasses perfectly in place... and all my nightmarish fears swept aside beneath the carpet of my smile. My mind would constantly be at work... but would choose to go places in tandem with my heart, which more often than not, ended up complicating the scenarios. I would readily apologize... accepting mistakes gracefully became the golden rule for a peaceful co-existence. I was vulnerable... driven to ecstacy and gloom... stirred by the ripples of praises and flak... People would drop by saying I am a nice girl. Somewhere down the line, I became two-faced... one of which was pretty. And that's how I became human.

I'd look forward to meeting that girl some day again. She was awe-inspiring. But that was ages ago. We do not see each other anymore. She was the girl in blunts...

On 'being judgemental'...

Alfred Lord Tennyson had once remarked,
''Once in a golden hour,
  I cast to earth a seed,
And up there grew a flower
That others called a weed.''

While this is a free-flowing satire on how the world is judgemental about you, it won't be less than apt if you say that people hasten to judge in order not to be judged themselves. The contexts in which I'm writing this down are infinite. However, it all boils down to just one thing - if for once, we all stop being catty and judgemental about the happenings in life and the people we bump into everyday, the existence could give out different vibes altogether. The better ones, that is.

The grim fact is that we all indulge into it... every second of our lives... The media pronounces it... the social network echoes it... and we enjoy it. Who doesn't have a hearty laugh in the afternoon after going through those Alia Bhatt trolls, that are so 'in' these days? Or the Sarthak Agrawal memes, which are currently the flavour of the season, thanks to his whopping 99.6%? But spare a second thought and you won't find it amusing, I tell you. Alia Bhatt isn't around in the industry to show off her general knowledge. Sarthak Agrawal is just a regular kid who delivered what others couldn't, despite the hardwork and intelligence... may be because the lad stayed afloat a bit longer when others had already given in! And if we have forgotten to draw the line between 'entertainment' and 'mockery' or 'constructive criticism' and 'being judgemental', then I must say, without fail, that we are being really nasty in our approach. Why we end up sizing others up stems, more often than not, from our own insecurities and shortcomings in life and sprouts from ''The grapes are sour'' tendency.

I remember Rahul Dravid telling one of his interviewers, ''You must know where you're coming from if you want to know where you are going.'',  thus underlining the role of personal and family history in every individual's life. Talking about Dravid, it is gratifying to know he hung up his boots before the era of trolls set in! Champions like him certainly do not deserve the dumb treatment we, the audience, dish out these days. Coming back to where I'd left, before we resort to passing judgments even about those in our vicinity, let us respect that there could be a lot of history engraved on the other side of the wall. What the world sees is just a blandly painted collection of bricks. And even before anyone could peep and look over the other side of the wall, the person realises that the massive crowd is already busy scribbling sh*t over this side! And while it does make the targeted one's life quite a bit of a struggle, it also distances our 'what we are looking at' from 'what we should be looking at'. Being judgemental seeps deep down into our mechanism of operation. To find ourselves in better spirits, we need to take a walk down the street of idealism because that is a kind of blueprint for our actions, which seldom do we bother to adhere to. People might say it doesn't work. But idealism, though a mirage, is a projection of our higher self which constantly tugs at us... nudges and whispers to us whenever the caravan isn't in the right gear!

Winding up in the context that I had begun with,
''Let us read, and let us dance; these two amusements will never do any harm to the world.''
                         - Voltaire.

DISINTEgration...

Seldom do the winds of change strike upon your face so torrentially. Seldom do I bump into grammatical errors in English. And she almost worships me in that context because she is so very proud of it. This nearly embarrasses me, at times because needless to say, my fetish for this unbelievably dynamic language fountains from my adulation for the gentleman’s game. And just as the fading final notes of your childhood love resonate with an inexplicable and unprecedented frequency before getting lost into the oblivion, maybe forever… the waning of your first love affair trebles your longing and eventually extinguishes a part of you!

She nods when I recount how far we have walked together. She smiles when I say how magically we lived it together. The gripping regret is that the international cricket now finds itself in a spot of bother and so do I. Heisenberg would have been gratified at his theory today for his much-celebrated ‘uncertainty’ looms larger over one of the most powerful and burgeoning fraternities of the modern era – the ICC. 

Let’s face it. It’s slam bang cricket. And I would trade all my money for stating that it’s just not cricket! The attack kills… the defence is quick… and before you’d do a certain research on who plays where, you realize they have switched sides. Overnight. There’s a certain gem called Unmukt Chand who fails to get an IPL game . The Indian cricket cuts a sorry figure because the ‘gem’ had left the Syed Mushtaq Ali Twenty20 tournament midway to join the Rajasthan Royals build-up camp in the UAE. Maybe, his shadow practice and throw-downs are well worth the freshly minted coloured papers… and his warming up the bench consistently ignites a certain fire for the selectors to take notice… seemingly, taking the ‘Ajinkya Rahane course’! But I’d say with conviction that the chagrin does enough to blur the status of the sport in the discerning eyes of a cricket fan, not an IPL fanatic. The smell of victories of an international face-off do not last… the ecstasy struggles to sink in. The encroaching schedule of the high-voltage club cricket leaves no breathing space to reflect upon the inadequacies in the strategy of a last-night battering. The lamentation of a defeat dissolves even before it could stir our hearts. Maxwell’s thunderstorm does seize the flavour of a certain Indian summer… maybe, threatening to muffle the roar of the desert storm of Sharjah. However, it dies out quick enough to place our safe bets on Virat Kohli – the only silver lining of Indian cricket at the moment. And I would go to the extent of saying that the BCCI owes him a great degree of reverence for keeping Indian cricket alive in this hour of crisis when the team is struggling to keep its head above the waters on foreign soil. An inconsistent playing eleven and an uncertain bench strength, which more often than not, relies on‘flash-in-a-pan’ performances compels me to reinstate that our domestic circuit needs to recharge its battery to prevent a bleak future – to save ourselves from the ominous clouds of the upcoming English summer and the sabotaging tunes of the chin-music Down Under in 2015. The curious case of Rohit Sharma adds another dimension to the already existing list of woes. I can vividly recall his international debut with an unbeaten 51 and then catalysing Justin Kemp’s run-out to ensure us a semi-final berth in The T20 WC’07. I thought the future has arrived. And so did the entire cricketing world. Well, it did arrive. But in the form of Virat Kohli! It is esoteric to see how our think-tank has invested every possible logic in persisting with this ‘promising phenomenon’. And it only indicates that the much-talked about IPL has failed to deliver the goods – to nurture young talent and help them cement a place in the national squad. Every year, a chunk of youngsters grab the limelight – some owing to a series of well-crafted performances while still others owing to sheer luck. However, most perish, remaining just a one-time wonder.

The IPL feeds the struggling cricketers, providing them with a safety net when the going gets tough. It feeds the audience. It brings in cash. But I have to state, ruefully, that cricket is losing its sheen… because all that glitters is not gold. When one of my favourite people on the planet stops keeping a track of the ‘irrelevant bilateral tournaments’ – as she prefers to call them – and I prefer catching up on some afternoon nap to asking who won the toss – you know it’s never going to be the same again.

                                                                                                                                                

A PaRADiGm ShiFT: of second chances and a second inspiration...

Repetition predisposes to redundancy; redundancy being an inevitable harbinger of ennui. While I am typing this, I might give an impression of savouring the opulence of an epidemic vocabulary, which is one of the pre-requisites of good writing … surely, not the only one.  On the highest rung of this ladder sits an idea. An idea that can flirt with your intellect, preoccupy your mind, divorce you from the infiltrating chunks of a hassled living and take you to the altar, constructing a spectacular piece, which is the product of this wedlock and can wow the audience. The conception of an idea is a craft that needs to be effortless. There is no perfect idea as such because the effortlessness lies in entertaining it into the expanse of your mind with its imperfections and frailties. And yet, the ‘idea’ happens to be the centrepiece of a creation.

You know you need to step down and step aside from the ‘inked’ pedestal if your pen fails to dramatize the unheard and the unseen. You know you need to seek retreat in the valleys if the bloom of your ‘idea’ ceases to flourish in the meadows. All this because it is the fragrance that entices a visitor… not the embellished carpet of flowers over the paddock! And when you are suffering from a dearth of ideas… falling back into a self-woven spiral of narcissism because concocting a new aroma feels like a far cry… you know you need to sprint back and drink from a fresh spring the waters of novelty.

Life’s not a dress rehearsal… it is, in fact, too short to repeat the colours of beads in your necklace.  Here was a moment of epiphany for me during a soul-talk with one of my favourite people on the planet, which, all of a sudden, engulfed the tides I was supposed to waltz with. Not because my waltz would be any less mesmerizing. But because the shores were too familiar and the harbours would treat me like their foster-child! Yes, I was now homeless… distraught… and insecure. Nevertheless, what appeared to be threatening me like a quagmire, turned out to be a deck of freedom. Freedom from an old school of thought. Freedom from a tight-roped walk. Freedom from a convincingly unconvinced voice of redemption. What I am learning is invaluable: it is sometimes alright to play a destitute. A destitute without the liabilities of possessions. A destitute who wanders in the valley of retreat… aspiring for second chances and a second inspiration from the mystic morning dew... in search of that ‘elusive’ spring whose elixir will satiate the parched throat of her pen and ignite a paradigm shift.

AND THE SEARCH CONTINUES…

An APoloGY

Maybe because all I need is an excuse. An excuse to write. A stuff, a situation or an event to trickle down and freeze into my writing. And that's why I choose the word 'sorry'.

A five-lettered present, festooned in a wrapper of 'caution', that the Brits left for us, can threaten to dwindle your existence big time! Caught up in a seemingly never-ending spiral, you're either sorry for not being sorry... or worse, it is the other way round! Then, you're sorry for being yourself... or sorry for not being yourself (in which case, they'll accuse you of hypocrisy). Either ways, the bottomline is : you're sorry. The gravity of the word is unquestionable... for you feel it every time you let it out of your mouth but its effectiveness becomes subjective... driving you helpless because you know 'SORRY' is your last resort - the last weapon in your arsenal that you're about to deploy. At that point, all you do is blame the 'big, fat Advanced Learner's Oxford Dictionary' for appearing listless in this regard!  :p

From the other end of the spectrum, I pity the word 'sorry' from the core of my heart... for having to juggle between multiple roles... because life doesn't provide us with an 'undo' option :p...  and also because the fate of this word lies at the heart of the receiver :D.  And before that fate turns sour and sorry, I'd pray for the 'sorry' soul to rest in peace!  :p
Anyways, I'm really sorry for making you go through this sorry experience!  :p

REMEMBERANCE...

It drizzles outside… and somewhere on a peaceful planet, the noise of the rain ebbs and flows with the rhythm of happy times entrapped in my lyrics of innocence.

A year later… as the day draws nearer, the ink in my pen decides to immortalize Her- not because She left the earthly confines a bit too early… not because the loss was so sudden and shattering that we all died a little death inside, in bits and pieces, that day… not because there remains a void along a beautiful road of fulfilled and unfulfilled dreams, spoken and unspoken words, said and unsaid desires, told and untold anecdotes… but because along this road, her was the journey of a woman with a clear conscience inside her bosom and who always wore her heart on her sleeve.

For Her, it never used to be about the silver coins but about the blessings that echoed with their jingles… Day-by-day and brick-by-brick, cementing them with compassion, while She carved out an existence larger than life and lived half a scoop more for each one of us; it sometimes belittles our own existence! When it came to choosing, I remember Her choosing for the betterment of everyone. Gracefully sweeping aside the everyday agonies and shortcomings behind those striking features, She would celebrate the goodness of life and enliven it with her love and spirit. She was a superwoman… glowing her brightest in the face of adversity… and growing from strength to strength. Unperturbed by the ugliness of humiliation and sarcasm, she would be seen finding her way to self-discovery for such was her audacity and unflinching faith in her deeds.

Memories- they flow effortlessly as I beckon them… struggling to materialize on a piece of paper for the tides are prodigious … but the lessons of life that She taught us will stay as priceless gems in our hearts…

AND SHE LIVES ON FOREVER…

A MERE SPECTATOR

A satirical sketch on the sporting culture in India.

The TRUTH that never lies...

Unpalatable,
thunderous in silence.
Once brushed and swept,
then screams with depth.
Like a fireball
on a somersault,
it sears and prances
without a halt.

Faded and forgotten,
once dyed in blue;
stale and rotten,
then breathes anew.
Like the whites of snow,
it twinkles on porch;
a scathing blow
without a scorch.

Pleads anonymity;
like wafts of steam,
yawn and rise
from a cup of tea.
Wandering above,
it finds those lips;
kisses with love,
then riffles and slips.

Unpalatable
once
the truth that was;
gratifying in tone,
now thrives with flaws.
Bitter and stark,
once clammy to touch;
the truth
unchains
and rescues from clutch.

PeNNeD d0Wn...

My last post dates back to 31st January, 2014: penned down within the enchanting realms of the monsoon showers of Ranchi, somewhere in mid-July and then published a lot later.  And while I engage myself in knitting a thread of tales, owing to this languid afternoon in Bilaspur, bereft of anything that would give you the feel of a day in March... the
keyword in the above said statement was 'penned'.
... And this transports me back to an age-old English adage - The 'pen' is mightier than the sword. Honestly, I have got nothing to do with a sword... may be a bit of 'something' with rifles and pistols while I flip a few pages of the 'firearm injuries'. The keyword still remains 'penned', mind you. I don't know if the pen I mentioned is 'mightier'. I'd rather go for the humble 'more useful' phrase. Let's reframe it: The pen is more useful than the sword. And I take my hats off in reverence and awe... not to Waterman who invented the priceless, the vintage fountain pen... not to Germany for scores of seasoned gel pens and ball-point pens... but to the unsung hero, your regular spot-boy working behind the scenes who brought into market the irreplaceable, the subservient 'likho-feko' pen - as the Subhashini Storewale Bhaiya(Vidyapati Nagar's stationery capital) prefers to call it! :p ; 'Use and throw' for the more sophisticated class of gentlemen and ladies!
Yes, it deserves our gratitude for being a companion in solitude... the desks we ruin everyday without burning a hole in our pockets... the enigmatic doodles along the margins of the books... the dare-and-truth games we play - absolutely no regrets about having lost the cap of the pen..., for its love saga with a modest piece of paper which dutifully crafts out a reflection of our mind..., for being so damn comfortable and efficient sans a 'techno-grip'! Had it not been for this stuff costing a meagre 3 Rupees, a last-bench idiot would never have mustered up enough grit to lift his pen and fill up his answersheet... that too with an unmatched sense of achievement and relief!
I reiterate. We must be grateful to it. It dances, kisses, runs, leaps and wriggles across our pages... empties itself while pouring our hearts out... waits with immense patience, without leaking, for the 'stuff' in our minds to solidify and materialise into existence... kindles an explosion beneath its veneer of silence... all in exchange for those 3 Rupees! :p

P. S. : The greatest irony - this piece has not been 'penned' down actually... but typed on the Blogger's app ;)  :p And yet, the 'pen' continues to be the hero.

Story of a paintbrush

Omission -  an art
she failed to master ;
the chalice so regal,
her bristles too dull
ducked and drowned
and seized to stir.

She drank decoy
soaked in him,
deathless spell filled to brim.
Besotted she stayed
entrapped in amour ;
hesitant to emerge
modest in manner.

Omission - an art
she failed to master ;
iridescence in him
drenched her brighter.
Pops out she,
tinted with shades ;
paints her dreams
unafraid ;
dotted and flaked
with reminiscence indelible,
chances infallible,
strokes insatiable,
a picture ineffable.

Omission - an art
she failed to master ;
arrested in rapture
aeons after.

The Voice of a medico

First of all,  I raise a toast to this : India has been declared a polio-free nation this year ; no new case been detected in the past 3 years!
This  Republic Day,  it is my earnest appeal to the Aam Aadmi, the fellow citizens, the presswallahs,  the school goers... and perhaps to every other bloke across the street for that matter - to spare a thought for the doctors,  the would-be doctors and the entire medical fraternity.
I tell you very honestly, that we work harder than we sleep... we delve deep into stuff that transcends the imagination of a common man... every minute of the day,  we fight against circumstances that demand enormous persistence and an iron-will... and we do every bit possible- only to secure this nation a pink health!  There are times when we are raised to the pedestal of a God... and then there are times when no stone is left unturned to defame us. Yet we believe in being like a duck :calm on the surface and  pedalling vigorously underneath. We are thick-skinned people and tough nuts to crack because burning the midnight oil is our way of life. Despite everything,  what we expect in return is a little more decency -  in language and in demeanour when you talk to us and talk about us... a second thought and an attempt to peep behind the curtains before you decide to tarnish the image of a doctor by labelling him/her 'irresponsible' for a case not taken or 'negligent' for a case gone wrong! A bit more empathy on everyone's part shall go a long way in strengthening the doctor-patient relationship in the community...and may be secure us better working conditions in the hospitals so that the nation doesn't suffer despite all the resources and the number of working hands.
Happy Republic Day everyone! Proud to be an Indian.