Friday, December 27, 2013


'I don't know what's happening to me, I have lost all my words.'

She just looked at me silently. I knew she knew what I was saying.

'It's almost as if, what I most enjoyed doing isn't something I really enjoy anymore. Despite that realization, though, I really want to.'

She looked at the sky. She sighed.

'I want to write. But it is rather like, writing doesn't want to be bothered anymore. Even if I want to bother it, it's resisting. I can feel it, or rather hear it, telling me to go away. It's sending out vibrations at me, telepathically telling me to get lost. I'm not sure if I should be sad or relieved. That's what confuses me.'

The corner of her mouth turned wryly. She knew exactly what I felt. And despite the frustrating silence, I didn't want it to be anything else. This is how it was with us. We just understood.

'I always feel that writing was my passion. But how could it be a passion if I let it go so easily? That would indicate I don't really want it, right? That I don't really care? Or maybe not. Maybe it's because I care too much, and I know I can't force it to happen. It would be like forcing someone you loved to serve you at every whim and fancy, always at your beck and call. Maybe.'

She giggled. Shrugged. Maybe yes, maybe no. May be. May. Spring.

'Well, yeah. Sure. Maybe you're right. I guess it's just a season where I can let the cold cover me down, where my thoughts buried over with snow can find its roots again, maybe let my thoughts simmer and stew, find itself anew. I'll always love writing, but writing needs time to nurture itself as well. I guess we'll find out.'

She, with her bare branches, seemed to nod. She loved her leaves, and would wait for them too.

Saturday, December 14, 2013


On the bus, homeward bound. Nain Parinde floating through the quiet sense of peace settled upon the other commuters on a half-filled bus in the dark evening speckled with twinkling evening lights. Somehow, suddenly, I realized I had been smiling. Smiling to myself, yes, but that simple quiet smile that is less a smile of facial musculature and more of the type surfacing from deep within. My sense of self was imbued with a great contentment.

It occurred to me that half my sense of being might be attributed to the music creating the right mod, and even more beautiful was the sheer coincidence of that exact song playing at that very moment, accompanying my skimming of pages of the old and well-thumbed notebook wherein I write these thoughts; reading old memories of a past self that had been waiting, longing, and dreaming...

The juxtaposition further heightened this sense of tranquility: the longing of the past superimposed on its fulfillment in present. That is when it occurred to me, in gauging the credibility of my mellowed euphoria, that while I was exquisitely content for various wonderful reasons, I could not yet say that I was entirely satisfied on all counts; lingering on periphery was still yet a great void that stretched on to a distance immeasurable, a lingering longing in hopes of reunion, a pause of bated breath -- it occurred to me, that this was contentment. This balance, so precarious, teetering, yet maintained, this acceptance, this gratitude, this pervading sense of self, in all ways possible, past, present and future, all threaded together through, within and extending beyond all sense of measure, yes, this was contentment.


Saturday, November 23, 2013

Blank Unity of Uniqueness

Tonight it snowed. A wind howling through the corridors of streets -- racing, searching, or running away from something else altogether? Then the skies opened up and the white began to fall. Tonight, indeed, it snowed.

Earlier, it seemed a tentative entity. A light dusting that trickled down almost, seemingly, by accident. Perhaps like a new cook in the kitchen unsure about how much salt to add, and hesitant to add more, for fear or ruining what has already become a work well done. The wind quickly swept away the new addition, almost so that you weren’t quite sure if it had really fallen.

But if one stopped and looked closely, the evidence was clear. In the chiselling lines of the street edges, between the flat of the road and the slight rise at the curb, white lines gleamed. Like ruler lines of cocaine ready to be inhaled, the white dusting beckoned, attempting to tempt to the other side.

The other side of winter, where we must bid adieu to the lasting rays of warmth residue of months gone by. Before the sun sank with aplomb, and before the wind chuckled its way through the streets gloating over its solitary reign, daylight held us back from crossing the line. The sun came in when it seemed we were about to take the other side, each time pulling back the clouds to announce its presence, in case we might have forgotten.

Could we have forgotten you, whom we most miss before you are gone? The question echoes upon the blanketed white that now adorns the forlorn asphalt. Forsaken we have been, but we cannot cry; we know this abandonment well for it is the routine shift of day and night. We know that for the brevity of cold darkness, we have yet that solace of morning light.

This is the quietude of winter’s cacophony. Amidst the thunder of wind in the trees, silence pervades. Silence the deletion of noise, accompanying the deletion of colour, represented by the stretching horizon of white. Blank.

Keep still for a moment. Do you hear it? Feel it? The chorus of a thousand million tiny voices, as they are shovelled away without another thought, a miracle in itself for each snowflake has never existed before and shall never be again. How do we know? We cannot count each that falls, as unable are we to trace each tear that ever had been shed, or count each star that ever blinked, or remember each dream that floated away beyond unmoving eyelashes. Should we not try? Tonight it snowed.

Friday, October 11, 2013

No Moral of the Story

It was just about twilight, that time when the day met the night and embraced, where the one could not be distinguished from the other, because they had so become one, just for that moment, when the rest of the world seemed oblivious to this reunion, busy with their own.

Across the sky tinted with fading magenta and blushing peach upon the darkening blues, separating from the circling above, the silhouette approached and with a flutter of wings, the dove was at the windowsill.

Quietly, the flame flickered a welcome, observing how her eyes seemed to shine with an exuberance imbued from her adventures in the sky, reflecting the light of the flame.

The flame said to the dove, 'Tell me, O Dove, why do you return here each night?'

The exuberance in the dove's eyes dimmed. Her heart seemed to have stopped breathing, the smallest flicker of doubt, as the memory of another time when her heart had seemed beyond repair returned, a time when he had asked the same question.

The flame quietly said, 'I wish for you so much more than I can give. I hold you down, I cannot fly.  I am wingless, bound to the earth by my reality. I am not able to soar with you, see the same dreams from the height at which you dance happily upon the clouds.  Tell me, Dove, why should you be also shackled to my reality? With the winds, you rise high, and yet in the same one gust, I extinguish and am lost.'

The dove had stilled, her heart brimming with emotion. Her beak, she opened, yet knew not what to say. The flame flickered, for he knew her heart, had known it even while he had given her his own.

'You come here each day happy after spending hours with your friends, laughing, flying, with stars in your eyes. I cannot be like them, I am not like them. I am element; you are creature. For all our love, we cannot be. Why do you want to come here to me, why do you wish to be with me? Surely you know this: we are different, we cannot be.'

The dove refused to look at him, instead looked upon the sky. Her sky. The sky where she danced with joy at the pure joy of the knowledge of the one she had to call her own. The sky where she soared high and far, glimpsing the beauty of colours which burst upon the horizon, bright and orange, reminding her of the one in her heart. Where her fellow birds teased her, making her blush and laugh, for they knew not who her special one was, but knew it made her fly higher, stronger, faster, putting a light and confidence in her that never existed before. Where in dark times, stormy nights, charcoal clouds and gusty winds, she had only to look down to see his constant reassurance alight below; her oasis of calm, her sanity. The skies where her fate had assigned her but where she had always felt lost within and alone. Always alone. Before him.

The dove turned her gaze from the inky indigo, whispered, 'Shall I go then? Is that what you wish?'

The flame stilled. Why should want be distinguished and so different from what was practical? Why had the questions of their differences come up to spoil their little time together, and more so, why had he voiced them? He hesitated.

'I cannot be with you because I have so little to give. I am who I am and it is beyond my ability to change. Everything I touch becomes ruined, destroyed. Surely you, O Dove, you of all most know this best, you the one I have hurt already once with who I am.'

'Once?' The dove whispered, with her eyes glistening.

 'Once surely you recall that time I burnt you - I should never forget, for I regret it each and every day. It makes me pause each day when I consider you soaring above, so free, why I am in every way wrong for you.'

'Not only once, dear flame. Not only once you have hurt me, and the pain of your fire is the least of them all. You do so now; you have so much that you give me, so much more within you that you dare not show. And tonight, you pain me most.'

'See, dove, how then I am not for you. I say not what you wish to hear. I cannot soar with you upon the clouds to join with you in the dreams you embroider.'

A silence fell, like no other before. Bittersweet, filled with unspoken words, falling hopes. Without another moment, she took off from the sill, and disappeared in the night.

The day had dawned, yet the flame shone on
Its wick still yet alight
It scanned the skies with tired eyes
Looking for his love in flight

Nothing passed, as hours passed
Only a passing cloud
And he sighed, for he knew 
His beloved was too proud

But soon had gone too many a day
And worry made him grim
my foolish dove, though I love
Without her I grow dim

In the distance, a keening call
Echoed as dusk fell
A mourning song, of love's lament
The dove had yet to tell

Written in continuation to Moral of the Story, posted here.

Tuesday, October 01, 2013


They say that it's love that makes one feel beautiful. To be loved. But what happens when you suddenly see yourself through the eyes of the person who loves you, and you don't like what you see?

Wednesday, July 24, 2013


In the idle minutes between turning off the night light and actually succumbing to sleep, I found myself in that strange world of grey. Thoughts abound, and so often as not, they did so subconsciously, sneaking upon the threshold of my mindscape to dance and flitter like fairylights. And as often said with coming upon fairylights on a stray path at twilight, you will not know where they lead you and where you end up falling asleep. Somewhere in that drowsy state I came upon the surface of consciousness severally, and surviving with a memory to put down my experience in words.

The day before comprised of several elements of philosophy – which to one other person reading this would be understood as an ironic pun that cannot be explained to others – that which was built upon by moments of introspection and retrospection. Some days ago I again stumbled upon this quote that read along the lines of how we learn the most from those who are most different from us. And perhaps that answers the long radio silence present upon this blog since the last few months. My words have fallen heavily upon the ground before they reached formative development in words.

I intend not to seem alieniloquent, though I realize I often do. Forgive me and stay with me, for my point is forthcoming, I promise.

Introspection has its boundary when one remains an island. Governed by the concepts of our experience, we often see the same picture despite revisiting the scene repeatedly. For our perspective is such that it is seen through our minds eye in the manner we recorded it the first time around. New elements are added with cognitive growth, yes, but often new paths to an experience are discouragingly less frequent as we plateau in our mental graph.

One might take an instance of a horrifying memory. As a child placed upon a towering wall that caused the knees to tremble and the lower lip as well, so inasmuch that we have been traumatized by the experience of being up so high and instilled with this fear of falling from huge heights. We remember, somewhat vaguely, the teasing jeers of our parents and siblings, perhaps, as they who had placed us up there told us to jump and they would catch us. But we are locked in place by this fear. And throughout the years, this memory is made concrete not by the physical memory, but by our emotional memory. We recall firsthand the feelings. Though we might have been but a small child as much as 4 years, we may take with us this concrete knowledge that we are factually altophobic. And yet, perhaps 30 years later, we may one day visit that ailing parent and take their hand to go to the local park for a daily walk for the elderly legs, and sitting upon a bench, reminisce as one does. The parent might point to a low wall or fence nearby, and chuckling say how cute we were standing upon that wall and crying for our life, when to our astonishment, that wall might not be even 2 feet high. Our reality is only perception.

A friend sharing a personal history lent an air of reminiscence that I hadn’t indulged in for some time. Doing so for oneself often leads to disgustingly morbid phases of self-pity. When we begin from inside and extrapolate it to our environment, most often we tend to become disillusioned because we have created our binoculars to view our surroundings – not just physical, but our place in life – biased with lenses of “me, me, me”. We eliminate our ability to accept through seeing positive patterns long-term. Often, remember I say, not always.

When another person, dear to oneself, comes to you with a problem, however, we remove those blinds of bias. Because we want to give them a solution, we want them to ease their pain. We take off the blindfolds to positivity and show them, by shining the lights brightly, everything that’s good about what they have. That’s why it is often so better to use that perception and shine it upon our own memory, for we might not know what we have been missing by looking into our closet in the dark.

I came across a memory that existed in the grey, and took it out and dusted it off last night. It is, in actuality, the point of all this I have written. This memory took me back to a memory I threw off, since it involved a bad judgement in personal relations. What I discovered rather was that these things, though seemingly regretful, often just happen like a stepping stone in a pond. Maybe that stone was a bit slippery, slimy with moss, as you tried to navigate the treacherous waters to the other side – or wherever you may have been going, if, as in my case, you had not even known where your destination was to be. But still that rock was there just as you were losing your balance, and desperately, you might have decided that it was better to land your foot on the rock, however risky it looked, than give up entirely and fall into the rushing waters. So you put your foot forward and let yourself lean on the rock, and though it proved to be a temporary mistake – for it really was horribly slippery, and made you again lose your balance, you then fell forward and, serendipitously, landed upon another rock which took you right to the shores where you were meant to be.

Let me tell you, I am so glad to be on these shores today. So much that, despite all the aggravation of the memory that I let this person do this, or trusted the wrong person, I understand that had I not, I perhaps would not actually be where I am today. It’s more a beautiful realization when I remember that I had not realized that I would. I acknowledge that I am still searching, so many other elements to satisfaction remain unattained as yet, or they come and go to provide me with a continuous task, but, today, for this moment, it’s as if I have paused a moment on the climb up the precipice of the tallest mountain, to look behind me and beyond, to that which I have encountered, experienced and conquered, achieve the wondrous expanse before me stretching far and wide. An experience does not have to be right now and up close. Seeing that distance that is so far and vast isn’t only for tomorrow, experiencing it now and today - that is what life is now.

Monday, June 24, 2013


What makes a person who has dedicated every moment of their life to the one they love decide that death is actually the only way to make that person appreciate it?

They say that whoever it is, who'd compel such an action, isn't worth it. Perhaps not. What is it in love that makes a person unable to cope without the other? Is sadness then another indicator for our capacity to survive as a living entity, like fear? Is sadness a red light that tells us that it's time to cut loose, to move on, to remove the shackles which tie us together? Because if that is true, why has love itself become synonymous with love? It defies understanding.

But sadness doesn't mean red light - stop. It isn't black or white. Sadness as an emotion becomes a mode of communication. A sign held up to the one who should care: "please care". Please be the one who cares enough when I cry. Please be the one who'd hold my hand when I need you. Please.

Since when did love go from want to need? Since when was need and want mutually exclusive? They intermingle, inexplicably. Inexplicable is what defines love. It defies understanding, it defies measure. Escaping the breadth of scientific postulate, philosophical principle. Beyond common sense.

Is this insanity, then?

Monday, April 29, 2013


On a lonely walk through a despairing evening, I finally reached the final peg of travel on my journey homeward bound. It was a lonely day, filled with abstract tasks of work, all the more catering to that lonely remoteness of precariously teetering on the brink of some unknown fissure in the substance of something which was somehow dissolving the more I tried to hold onto it, lonely in ways that coldness wafts biting and bitter inside out, in the fragility of glass ready to shatter at a single breathe, or the way a flame goes out without a final tendril of smoke, goes out, despite every effort to save it.

A bus pulling away, taking the last of light, humanity with it. Alone, on a dark street, a lonely night, a wet, grey world, and a world that was entirely mine, or rather, a world that felt like it would go on without me, a world that I felt disparate from, and therefore not mine.

What were the guitar strums that faded out? The sounds of feeling that pluck from the very heart, very soul? In a world where emotions fluctuated in and out, where mouths moved without being heard, where heartbeats beat for someone who wouldn't listen, where tears were shed only to be dismissed the way rain frequently falling was unseen, unappreciated, what was a vacuum to the heart?

Memories, suddenly and immediately, a song blossomed out into fifty million colours, a voluptuous growing of vines and life, a stray laugh, a happy moment, a moment of amazement at sharing, of similarity, of love. A love that would blossom the way the song blossomed out into tendrils of memories. And suddenly, I realized

Was it possible to remember the future? It was - for a song so curiously possessive I became, a song which had every hue of grey of sorrow, a sorrow yet inexperienced, yet so absolutely my own. How was it possible that years before I was able to make it mine, that familiarity of knowing the feelings, and yet never having had felt them, nor heard it before? Like a stepping stone onto a path where I wasn't sure I was going to go - where did it take me? A lonely ambition to steadfastly follow the path alone, a path wherein I lost nights of sleep, not even really sure why, where somehow I was awake that night I was going to come face to face with my fate.

What is the feeling of watching your life come alive in front of you, of feeling that amazing feeling of two parts becoming whole? That feeling of never being me, until I met you? Of learning who I am because of who I never was without you? How was it possible to lock a door that didn't exist and yet find that someone had the key all so long? There are so many possibilities that could occur in every instant, how was it possible that at that moment, that instant, that place, that time, that mood, that moment, the dice, the roulette, the stars all aligned to be exactly what they were for this to have happened?

In a second I realized that never more so was this song I was walking home to ever so apt, in a moment I forgot the pavement of the sidewalk, the sighing of the trees, the rustle of grass growing greenly, and suddenly it seemed like all those moments of backwards deja vu were all me remembering the future of this moment, because never before had I felt the need to feel it with all of the me that was feeling it because, this time it meant losing you would be losing the key to the door through which only you and only I, and only you and I together could enter because that portal would only exist as long as we existed together.

Friday, April 26, 2013


I knew this would have happened: the insistent longing, tugging at me, pulling at me. It's why I avoided  it, evaded it, tried pretending it wasn't there. For the longest time, I thought digging my heels into the ground to slow down where I knew it was taking me would somehow work. Oh, and it has, but with that trail of upturned soil left behind, if I look, I can see how far I have come, and now I am here.

Where am I, I don't know. I knew I would reach here one day, and here I am, at a place so instinctively familiar, a place I have only seen in dreams, in nightmares, in that dark alley existing when I close my eyes so tightly making that secret wish. But when I look at where I am and what has brought me here, I am overwhelmed by a sensation that pulls me in every direction, I am blinded by a light so bright, I lose every sense, even of who I am.

But I am not here alone. In this spiralling deluge that drowns me, in the torment and  torrent pulling every which way, in the feeling of endlessness, in the perpetual fall of motion, there is constancy, calm. I would not be here, if not for having been alone. But I am here, a bittersweet anguish, a torment, a sadness that amazingly is inexplicably intertwined with this happiness.

Thursday, April 18, 2013


The seat before me is bare. The gentle jostling of the train upon the tracks as it ascends a hill to pull into the next station distracts me briefly from my absentminded reverie. The pages in the book left long neglected flips over lazily in my hands.

The seat before me is bare. Sometimes, though, it isn't. Sometimes the seat beside me is - and when it is, sometimes even then, it is not.

You've always been there, sitting across from me, or at my side. Quietly, yet consciously. Sometimes I look over, unfocused, sometimes I forget to breathe. Sometimes you're there in a pause, and peripherally.

You've always been there, where the seat has been empty. You've always been there, before we even met.

A moment all alone, suddenly I sense you. A whisper by my ear, a warmth behind me, at my shoulder. On a crowded bus, a sudden happy thought. In every moment I needed you, in each moment all alone, somehow there I found you, even before you were my own.

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

A Sigh

It's been the coldest yet for this winter;  it hadn't stopped snowing all day. At 4.30 in the afternoon, I take a spin in my chair and glance out the window, and I am mesmerized.

It's stopped snowing. The sky is that beautifully deep hue of blue, that's only found in the twilight sky. The sun's not completely set, but the vivid blue spans the entire sky far and wide, without a single cloud to meet the eye. Words can do no justice to this vision. The purity of the blue beckons, catching the eye of the unaware, magnetically drawing a cursory glance out into a prolonged stare.

And right there, shining so emphatically proud and gracefully, the moon. Not quite half, not quite full. A transition that promises more to be revealed, asking without hesitation for that patience that must be maintained to attain that future.

That future of what? Of attainment, of satisfaction, of contentment, of fulfillment. A future where all the waiting now is sated and completed.

In one glance at this vision, I am filled with a feeling, nostalgic, bittersweet, of a realization that I have spent enough moments to smell the roses, in contemplating and dreaming, to simply revel in being.

Perhaps, simply, it is a waiting. A waiting that continues, a waiting that may perhaps have no end, for in being do we not exist in constant longing? A longing that exists beyond the mere wants and fulfillment of worldly desires, that exists simply as the quintessence of the emotion itself, a river of desire that streams continuously into which we splash or dip a hand into now and again.

And I shall wait for the moon to blossom, for the snows to melt, the cold to dissipate, for a fulfillment of sort.