My Space.

What is a greater need than fulfillment? As I sit her, sipping this wondrously prepared filter coffee, and resting my arms on a symmetrically constructed recliner, my need for comfort in my carefully bounded space is quenched. And this space is home to a thousand mystical questions and answers about beauty, the right, the wrong, and the deserving. And music of course. Wonderfully noted, octaved and written, music is the not so silent vehicle that these questions travel in. And still, insipid and banal thoughts stir me up, like occurrences submerged long ago.
As I smell the spiced up curry the mother prepares, I am thrown back, a bit too perilously into the lost, lovelorn arms of home. A space that I construct thence again, of black hollow walls, and images that reek of questioned happenings, smelling like the sweet aroma of mother's perfume, reminding one of a nascent childhood, long gone. And lights slowly engulfing your space into one whole being of creation, and you lie, in the vacuum, dead with satisfaction.
And as I sift through work, I very acutely hear the siring noise of the train, vociferously going past. And I drench into a space, so chaotic, so absorbing, and weirdly small.Only, the focus is on me, and I cry and wail my heart out for space, more space, more my space, more space for the body, but the others, abysmally ignoring my very presence seem to ignore the pleas too.
And green meadows reek of death, and cemeteries scare.
Space is nothing but a small room, for me and me alone, of words and lights, of photographs and music. And it is, but that, that leads me into sweet sleep, almost as sweet as death itself.

Music Video. Yay.

So I conceptualised this music video as part of a college project, and me and my group mates executed this cute thing. The video's been made on 5 Years Time by Noah and The Whale. Hope you like it.

 

Your nudity

And the vision of your monochrome skin, still rests, nestled in my eyes, flashing by as long as I breathe.

And while I question the countless needs and desires springing in my mind, all I do, is sit with my camera, staring at your well carved out arms,and the chest, that’s generous in its movement. Your ordeal, carefully juggling between that of comfort and the astute sense of nudity, pleases the mediocrity in me. You and I are sailing on the same boat. That of insecurity with our greatest passion. In a parallel world, I am showing a chutzpah that enigmatises you, spiralling you to such crazy senses of unawareness of everything but my fixed gaze on you, which surprisingly puts you in an easy comfort. And as the sheets scream out for our presence, we are lost in a crazy world of you and I.

But that would be a parallel world. Nonetheless. None-the-less.

And conversations wouldn't hang in the air.

"Could you turn yourself towards the light a bit more, a little to the right, and tuck your stomach in a wee bit", i would ask.

You would reply by taking me in your arms, and unravelling all those unsaid words. Pictures will be taken. But the eyes will be the lens and the mind the camera. They will desperately try to take in every detail of your body, whatever the sparse room light would allow, anyway, registering your bones and yur curves, so generously chiseled. As the tongue will look for hidden answers to the countless doubts presented, the mind will make countless images, that can be said in words and that alone.

Images and words have a very sanctitious relationship. The words alone can mention the emotion behind every bland image.

And you are no bland image of mine.

And there shall exist another parallel world. No judgements passed on me spending all my nights with you, and no questions raised as to our definition. We shall survive by our own meagre means, and I shall be a scandalous wild beast with my camera acting as my sexual aide and my ukulele playing its own ugly tune, the story of my life, and you shall approve of it all with no questions raised. In some corner of the world, i shall still capture your nudity, celebrate its rawness, with you sprawled in front of me, to give me your all. The bedsheets will have us, eventually, alright. And the camera will sing its own story. You and I will make sense of Simon & Garfunkel songs, feast on their wilderness, and often run away from maddening eyes, into the wild that awaits our primal need to be asocial and uncivilised, thrive in dirt and bodily need.

The camera shall always follow in tow, with its sinking battery signalling the stress to get back to anomaly, to the city, that reeks of death and hypocrisy.

And under the glaring morning light, that silences even the wildest beast of them all, I shall proudly show you, you, through my camera. Your appreciation comes as a gentle caress on my nipple, and we run again, deeper into the forest, desperate to never get back, scared of losing our way, and gleeful for having lost our way, momentarily. And as your chest heaves with childlike adventurous pleasure, I start touching your body without giving you a moment’s rest. There is no camera this time, and the light, rushing through the narrow openings in the great dome of greenery, acts as a beautiful source of illumination, beautifying little specks of your skin, revealing, just what I want to see.  And a globe that makes the world look upside down is your prop, and your nudity is that erstwhile strength that binds our souls. And as star light slowly tries to fight for its presence, we realise it’s time to let our souls free, and dwell over the beauty of our own little life, that exists in our head.

In reality, we’re a job, you and I. We might just be coming with a termination letter. Or we might just stick around.

P. S. An image clicked by me. Not re-usable. 

Retort.

As I sit, every morning, carefully consuming every piece of article talking of regressively sexist assaults on women, I cannot help, but feel powerless and angry at the same time. The debate on which is the safer city can be put to rest, because the country, that so prides itself on respecting women is not safe for them, anymore.
While the government will fight over reservations and cartoons, and accuse abused women of political agendas, you may lose hope thinking that India's slowly shrinking to be a highly chauvinistic land of lost ideals.
So what do you do?
Must you sit back and let people trample you over?
So, must you look pained, when people accidentally brush past your breasts, or accidentally touch your ass, and look at you from top to bottom, as if you were a displayed mannequin? Or when they see you with a man, they give you the lewdest stares possible?
No, you fight back. Scream if you must, gather a crowd, hurl abuses. There is no need to be a lady when you aren't treated as one. Raise your hand. Have him arrested.
Retort.

Join the Wilson TYBMM campaign against eve-teasing.
Find the facebook page here!

What What?

Nothing, really.
Internship is over, projects are up, and unsatisfactory long spells of no-writing periods too.
Also, that has quelled a need to post photographs at least, and thus, the photography tumblr blog here - The Lens View. 
Also, have posted on the other blog, after a long time. Do check out here.
After this shameless bout of publicising, I shall leave, not without mentioning that I miss reading regularly here. Soon.

Sunlight.

The mouse squealed in delight.
It wasn't unusual for Aretha to have been happy that night. The night she was to surrender her body.
The woman and the mammal, sat next to each other in the dark, discussing the uncertainty of the future. While, one might reckon, having spent a good 8 years in the room, rendered Aretha a soft glow, allowing her to radiate her happiness in the dark, the mouse was anything but white.
It did not fail to note, that the sun rays would play games with Aretha too.
"We'll see", she rued.
But what worried Aretha the most, was not the sun at all, but the games of the world, that she had been a silent spectator to. Allowed to watch the TV, as little as once in a week, can render you powerless, and a mere audience to it all. "What if I cannot survive amidst the ways of the society, that's changing at a jet-neck speed. Hell, I am not educated, nor am I fully aware of want I want to do. We made a decision, you and I, but humans can be cruel, you know? What if I feel suppressed all over again?"
"Aretha, have you ever wondered, that society and all the components amalgamated into it, are but a human doing? Classes, sections, states, the trade is all what a human hath made, too weak to withstand his own survival. Aretha, you debauched young girl, don't you see? That, you and you alone, live your life, and you and you alone, must be able to regulate it. Objectify your life, Aretha, it's all you have. Treat it like an unpolished diamond, grate it, shapen it, polish it, combine it with the beautiful pearls of wisdom that you will pick along the way, and wear it on your tender neck, soft and alluring, as proudly, as that mettle that made you, you. You haven't grown to be the girl you are, for nothing."
That was one wise animal, that.
But to relish the sunlight, one must sleep through the dark.
And kill danger, or keep it at bay.
That was the night Aretha killed William, her father.
Her one and only family, who fingered her deepest recesses, last, two days back.

For the shore was widening, outwardly,
and the young girl, sat, blood smeared on her face.
The mouse let out a squeal of approval,
and William lay there, heart pounding.
The cruelty of man's actions, never return to haunt him back,
Karma, you little hypothesis, you do not exist.
Must she have laid her faith on you?
For you, who have been her faith's greatest undoing,
her tried and tested lover,
the one that drew his nails into her back,
as she screamed, "No father, don't."
You sat, laughing your senile smile.
"Let me see sunlight, dear father, I crave",
you let out a formal sigh.
And betrayal must always be followed up,
by an act of the greatest deed.
And so, sunlight shall be taken,
and carefully stored, amidst dilating pupils.
And loved, and endured.
But never hated.

Impending Gloom.

As someones loses himself to the deep thronged infection,
of pain and love, alike.
Pulling at your heart.
Burning incense, in a gleeful discretion,
you settle down to,
staying all apart.
Your hand, ceases to move, the cuts are too deep.
The feet point outwardly,
losing any chance of a recourse.
Your head just starts to spin,
leaving aside,
all chances to recoil, restart and rewind.
The ceedee player plays,
until exhausted of all its powers.
The sex games played,
help to tie you down.
The house is a mess, the bedsheets stained,
cigarette buds on the floor.
All you need is some warmth,
nowhere to be found,
to shield you from the increasing cold,
that consumes you, all right.
You smoke some more, but obviously,
unaware of the staunch disease.
Your body answers without a slight movement,
slowly lying low.
Slowly going back and coming in again.
I'm not sure you will survive, though.

Way past your prime.
You exude a sense of understated elegance as you walk past, amongst the growing herd of childish fervour. You devour your surrounding, well aware of the ticking seconds, and the gradual feeling of gloom that sets, deep inside your heart.
Would some small talk suffice?

She corners herself, scarred from the imposing figurines spitting across her path, mouthing lewdness and disrespect.
And this is the spate of the state that prides itself on heritage.
A fucking child, lying in the gutter with the insides annihilated, hurting from the spite, scorned for innocent banter, and none giving a fuck about what lay ahead of her.
Dirt, desperation and further assault.
Wherein a man gloats himself for overpowering his wife, wishes to fuck the girl he scorns at, looks down upon an independent and world-owning beauty, and drinks himself to frustration.
And a woman must see examples around her, reducing themselves to men-pleasers.
Why the fuck, she asks?
Why cannot she be a smoking, free-spirited child, earning her brain's worth, writing with a wild abandon, and living life, in her territory?
Must you, oh dear man, judge from your fucking self-appointed high-pedestal, gazing that, that you have no business understanding?
Your pitiful sense of criticism can bloody well fuck itself.
'Cause the child shall grow, hard as stone, and shall spite you soon after.
 So beware.

The Night.

As smoke curls into nothingness in the vast space of water ahead of us, you stare at me, with no hint of a smile. As I settle down into a peaceful revelry of a maze, with a glass of old monk, carefully structured mocking its origin, you look at me lovingly. The love, seeping from your eyes, and your face showing no trace of the peace that supersedes your heart.
At some point of the night, someone plays The Doors, and lackadaisically hands me a joint. As I pull the drug into me, you gaze at me, stern, watchful, careful of my every move.
I see you.
Which explains my waywardness and my total lack of control. I get up, only to tumble into your arms and laugh. Thence, I busy myself with my friends, while you embrace the music and the terrace. The terrace withholding the secrets of our sauntering kisses.
As I walk to you, in a trance unknown, here before, your quiet interlude has been interrupted. Brushed against, with no regard for space or peace.
You look away, slightly annoyed at my chutzpah, at my total lack of understanding. To make up for the same, I settle down, slowly onto you. You contest my  indiscipline, but give in as I slowly find my place on you, rocking to the rhythm of James Morrison's strums.
And as we look into each other eyes, me sipping my old monk, you thinking of the transgression I brought in,  we can't help but be consumed by the exponential growth of stillness in the air.
All there is to know, are a couple of answers hanging loose.
1) Did you cheat on me? No, I did not.
2) I'm so in love with you, I could die.
3) It's a little chilly in here, maybe, you should take me in.
And took me in, you did.
Into the arms, emanating a strong scent of familiarity and purpose.
And as I find you, all the way, from your eyes, to your hard chest, and the other places, waiting for my presence, you smile.
The smile of a deep sense of knowledge.
You know now. What lies in between,
and what doesn't.


P. S. The picture has been clicked by me. If you must use it, you take a permission, give credits, and do so.

Hysteria

She's an eccentric lover.
Laughing her way through salty rain drops making way from her eyes to her numb, cold, wanting lips.
Claustrophobic in an empty, barely furnished abode, nursing a fleeting slideshow of despair and guileless, pubescent love. Bursting out like victims of steadfastness from the jailed lock-horns of farce. Deep, senile love doing its frolic, in a smiling head, gleefully clapping her way through a room of dancing others. Diving aimlessly, head first, into a crevice knowing no bounds. And being upstaged by scorn.
Justlikethat.
An illusionary sorry figure transcends from hitherto a parallel gratifying scheme of events. Where love is nothing but a stream of bodies chalked out by the peripherals of their touch. Where love is happiness and grief alike surmounted onto an impenetrable wall of heroin addiction. And heroin being nothing but that, that beats in the blood of a fool, he being that. And two worlds create themselves, with a psychotic ease that nothing but addiction demanded.
While in one, every cry was met with an ignorant sigh, two naked bodies danced their way through a streaming flow of void, settling down, arms entwined, in the invisibility of the world set apart from the rest.
As she carelessly muttered helpless cries of a world that belonged to her head, he silently noted how big his thumb really was.
TchTch.
And her thought flow went on to have street bumps. That made little thought vehicles go plop! in the air. And the little yellow-knickered man cried for help. And he noticed how enormously black the sky inside really was. That there are no stars or moon in the head did not help him either.
And whilst his trivialization slowly killed the all-consuming despair, the yellow-knickered man jumped in awe at how close the sky really seemed to be coming in and how small the world inside really seemed to feel.
""If we could just escape into an all-seemingly delusional corner with our drapes enshrouding us from obscure views, it would be nice. I'd make love to you like there's no tomorrow, gasp with a feeling of self-worth and die in your arms, unable to put up with the ecstasy. And maybe, just perhaps, your sauntering kisses will spring me to life."
Do you like what I say?
No, you don't, you answer."
TchTch.

Hours.

Minutes seamlessly seep into hours and days. 

Yes, new internship takes up all my time, my social life is close to being dead, and blogging has taken a lazy backseat. But I'm not complaining, 'cause I love my work, not to mention my office and my colleagues friends. 

And music seems to be only and only about James Mercer.

The best part about working in a media house is the unlimited internet [read: facebook] access and music, all the time, through the headphones plopped in, every second.

I got my hand on the new shins album The Port of Morrow, and I plan to do a proper review for the same. 

I'm excited about it. It's been long I reviewed a band, and this time, it's more fun, 'cause I love The Shins, to an uncomprehending extent. So much that my love for James Mercer is unparalleled, and I might just tattoo the name of the band on me someday. You get the drift? 

Less Loving, the World.

The looks exchanged, were sealed with careful anonymity and tucked into the bosom, with a heaving heart.
And people parted, unaware that two hearts beat with sanctity that nudity commanded.

And then clouds merged, into one being with the thunder that scared normalcy enough to make them tuck into their covers and never peep out.
And two naked souls danced their passionate frolic, somewhere in the rains, the world seemed too busy to notice.
Too normal.
Too hateful.
Less loving.

"The choice is your's to be loved,
come away from it empty of but us"



  P. S. I clicked the above picture. And no, I didn't go to Paris.

The Mosquito God.

Of moon-lit mosquitoes,
leaving tiny bites,
on bare naked backs
not enamoured by the mystique of pleasure,
but clutching on to,
slippery bodies,
tight.
Stubborn hands,
letting go of
pleading fingers,
ready to appease,
dispassionate hearts.
And the enduring pain,
finding cracks,
permissible and aloof,
and neatly settling in,
almost welcomed.
Swamps alive,
buzzing with secrets,
of aching love.
And a vehicle drifts past,
not so discreetly,
afraid to put up with,
the grief,
that's oh so magnetic,
oh so difficult,
and ever present.
And thus, the night sets in,
just like that,
without much aplomb,
for the disillusioned lover.

Pink Bullets.

It is an indescribable feeling, the cannotbeputintowords frustration, that just eats into you, until tears seem to be the only way out.
And then only a strange pair of eyes look into nothing and seek peace.
And a strange song with abstract lyrics understands you like a mortal never could, it seeps into those inner recesses evoking pain, anger, love, passion, grief, leaving you deloused, in that haze where each of those said feelings remain just that, submerged.
And then booms, amidst those tears, a hysterical laughter, a sardonic, pitiful laughter at the irony of it all. At the failed words reflected through the lyrics, not sung, but whispered, between spasms of lost breadth.
And relationships will be spoiled, over that one song. And loneliness will be spent in the arms of its simple E minor chords.
Life works that way.

A life lived.

It was like a sullen awakening to an even dreamier existence. As seemingly happening, as if nothing happened. As if she had never slept. As if, she never stopped speaking. Even though, she pretty much had, but the words that remained absent didn't matter, not anymore. Her silence was welcome, almost a bit too appreciatively.
It was the winter of 92 that bought with it the sudden aroma of pain.
Not much like the restricted movement of the imposed curfew as with the asphyxiation of nothingness. Freedom seemed less important to fret about than the loss of life itself. With days losing themselves in minutes, that seemed to tick as fast as the will to survive, emotions were scattered beings.
It was then that the rules of life were broken and overstepped. As people worried themselves gray over changing dimensions and growing uncertainty, two wild beings overcame the laws of the land.
He and She.
Like two freckles of sand.
As separate as alike.
Sharing dreams, saliva, souls among many other things. Lost in the caricature of hatred their environment had gone on to be.
And as her fingers tastefully decorated his neck, and her tongue searched for those little spaces of pleasure on him, the world was reduced to be an abode to two lovelorn animals. Studying the wild intakes of love. Letting go of the hay from their sweaty backs, and rushing to leave as unassumingly as rushing into each other again.
And passion and love were never different. They came together, holding arms, whispering innocent nothings, and left together in the racing hearts of the two young animals, bonded, by dreams of a tomorrow that weren't tumultuous with hate but with deep rooted hope. Hope, finding it's resurrection in those secretive afternoons and summer hues.
Until man decided to unleash his rules of what is right and what is wrong onto the innocent. Rules of how life must be lived and how not. Of the ones to be loved and the ones not.
And once rules were laid out and enforced, people were separated and murdered.
Not once was a thought spared to the freedom of human mind. Not once to to self-made plans and hopes. And not once to love and its accompanying passion.
And as she sifted into silence, not once was a thought spared to a life lived.

Ben.

You induce the summer in the cold, and get away with the long lost smiles of the moments seized and carefully wrapped in those hidden blushes that surface when we look the other way.
And as our fingers effortlessly entwine, we give in to the cravings that try to push their way through the many nervous misgivings we hold. And then, love is held like a child, nurtured and taken care of, only to be given wing.
Having been corrupted by the senile attempts of the world gone by, I often find myself resting my head on your shoulders, strong and resilient, capable to upset any springing emotion of gloom. And as we walk hand in hand among faces, known and disturbed by our alarming sense of waywardness, the smiles notwithstanding, we seem not to notice. As I was beginning to question beliefs gone astray, you came and instilled what now seems like the heart of a young child.
You seem pleasant, like those bright summer evenings spent on grasslands, with the birds fluttering by cooing love in the hearts of the young. Exuding charm that sends ripples through the heart of the child in frocks, carefully nestled in the heart of mine.
In the night, as your strong arms find their path all around me, gone is the child-like pleasantness of the evening. As your veins transpire and travel through spaces, craving niches on my skin, we aren't the disarmed children we were, rather, we're crafting beauty on each other's capes. Beauty characterized by red screaming lines of love, that scream out in agony in separation. And once the storm subsides, we're left smiling that very same innocent smile of us.
And evenings spent, talking our own crazy language will be our's and our's only.
Not to be shared.
Not to be questioned.
Recurring evening, spent on us.

P. S. Also, this blog has been awarded by the very generous Ajay from The Shaded Shadows.

Sheds tears of happiness.
Thank you. :)

Fervently hope, she does.

Her eyes sift with a fervour that is yet to be understood.
By the man who has had painted her picture in his heart, keenly brushing with strokes of passion, love, indifference, hate, anger and senile pleads. And she, lost in the hues of her own unanswered questions, whirls her eyes, silently hoping constancy prevails.
She is not the girl that men gape at in awe.
She is the girl men fall in love with.
With the diffusing smiles, hidden beneath scars of misunderstood words, uttered and broken.
With the eyes losing themselves in a disarray of innocence, charm and maturity.
She moves with the grace of a cockerel on the go. Oh no, she's a charming little thing alright, with the assumed walk of a ballet dancer gone wrong. With the necessary drama that would put Liz Taylor to shame. And a cupboard that cannot wait to get rid of its bearings. With a colloquial twang that incites squeals of laughter from none but her own self. And a stubborn want to be proven right, aptly supported by the gadget she oh so fiercely guards.
But then, beyond the pleasant smiles and the friendly overbearing lies a mystic pathway to the hurdle of questions left unspecified and unattended. Of the numerous emotions felt and the hours spent in tending to what now seems like a gamut of tears shed. From the very same eyes, that has hath infused the pleasure of life and love in many. 

"But then, for once,
questions unanswered shall be aptly ignored,
and the growing wait,
shall be nursed,
with an array of words,
and touches galore.
And glances shall be stolen,
amidst the strangers present.
The questions shall come back,
nonetheless,
but the love will only grow. "

And she will smile, as her name resonates hope, and her eyes gleam love. 

P. S. Shettyman. :*

Imported sunglasses, Rs 99/-

Vizag.
I had quite forgotten how much I was in love with my native place.
You see, in the self-centered existences we sift through, there are some fragments one seriously choses to undermine.
The above realisation (the one above the above one, really) is one such figment.
I am a Telugu by birth. A Telugu Brahmin, as my mother would nod approvingly. And, in spite of the language and caste betrothed to me, I have never felt at place here. The feeling of passionate attachment never surfaced. It was an obligatory ritual to spend vacations here, something I never had a problem with. In fact, to be honest, have quite enjoyed. Thank you very much.
But yet, in spite of its brown-paper packaged happiness, I never once gave as much a thought to my fondness for the city of my birth.
But there happens to be, deep down , the base for senile love rooted in its imperfection. Imperfection that formed the crust of childhood.
Sugar-coated imperfection.
Of mango pulps being thrown about.
Of men, women and children alike, glaring at your jean-clad legs.
Of evenings spent discovering the wild mystique in touch-me-not plants.
Touch-me-not-else-I'd-wither plants.
Touch-me-not-else-I'd-grip-your-idle-evening-recollections plants.
There in its raw, crude nudity, lay the city of my birth battling old-world cynicism and new world construction with one go.
Staring awe-eyed at the plunging necklines available at Rs. 50 per seat.
And also at demureness and sanctity.
In hot humid afternoons losing themselves in the parched souls of the soothing wet earth.
Unflinchingly meandering from carnatic music to new techno-something-pop-something-folk-something tunes.
And yet, year after year, vacation after vacation, remaining painfully obstinate.
Oh, the empathy springing up for its bare-naked innocence, the empathy!

High Infidelity.

If it was only a subtle mention that took you back, it would have been fine.
Alright, even.
But it wasn't so.
Like the subtle chill rushing through your bones, and emotions as flustered as the waves ebbing their way through, and as the layers of unasked questions overlap the feeble mind, a mere touch would transport you back in time.
And a mere colour. An expression even. Everything that's present may take you back to past.
And almost each and every peculiar expression, emotion, possession is a reminder of one's moments, those buried underneath everyday shallowness.
'cause all the good in the world is never enough to eliminate the pain, that one always keeps rooted in those places visited in solitude.
Or maybe, I'm too naive to realise that someday niceties shall be magnified enough to shroud all the doubts of faith and honesty. And for now, as pain chooses to remain obstinate and the erstwhile would choose to indulge in vanities and mild obscenities as was demanded of him.
'Cause one can go on and on as to how faith is never to be lost.
As we lose ourselves in the currents of beguiling words and deceptive intentions.
And then questions are asked as to why I love The Shins the much I do. It's because they stir those very asleep thoughts, all at once, forcing the bluff to open itself and revel in its nudity.
And then again, some might ask why I love Fleetwood Mac the much I do, 'cause they serve an alternately important purpose, they are mine and mine alone, and they do not stir up a past.
Thank you for understanding, Nick Hornby, you beautiful thing.

I wish I could write blood,
and spew venom that's slowly forming base,
in those darkly coloured veins.
And as hysteria creeps in,
and pain is but an emotion stabbing at your heart,
Death is a sweeter medicine,
and love is but the evil.

Deceiving warmth.

'Cause reveries are short-lived, but only the warmth lives on. As the morning heat brings with it the vibrancies of purity and newness, I'm lost in thought of the faces dimmed out and mazed out and doped out and out there for me to search, with a pain that silences the tears and beats at your chest.
And as the familiarity of the situation, the been-there-felt-it feeling dawns on you, in a not so happy way, with a despair that's as perpetual as the warming glow that lights my cheek in those moments of cold when warmth is an exciting thing to live with. If only for an instant.

"But you can make me happy,
as only you can do"

I've had a confounding relationship with the colour yellow, with all its mysterious hues and dazes, it brings in loneliness that none but the lonely know. And as I hover about in the heat of the sunrise, only the unaccompanied hand tinges at the connecting veins, which go on to pull a plug at my mind, 'cause the heart only pumps blood, and I have shed the idiosyncrasies surrounding it, along with the childhood hopes.
And as I incessantly type with no cue of spaces, full stops and alterations or make-believes, I can only hope that these words flutter about in space and make a stop at your lips, the ones who's movement I was so accustomed to until yesterday. And all the while, I'll sit with a camera in my hand, trying to capture those hues of sunlight that come to me, staring at me in my face, desperately trying to convince me of conviction, and the irony of the credulousness will only make me shed a tear and move on.

P. S. My second last fantabulous february post! Sheds a silent tear.
Can check out Kanika's and the other posts here!

He was a sweet boy.

He was a sweet boy, with emotions seeping into his inner self, and resting mum on his lips.
He was considerate, in ways that deemed understanding improbable.
He was kind and innocent, with his innocence melting your heart enough to make you want to nurture it.
He loved, like a child, as ferociously and with unwavering passion.
Until, he grew up. Well, one could say there is nothing wrong with that. Growing up comes with its share of lessons, right?
But no, he grew up and outshone us all. Soon, we were small ants in his world of flickering lights, and ants are small, and are ignored.
Soon enough, he said the unexpected.
Soon enough, there was no more to hear of him again.

Kala Ghoda, this year.

I've been thinking, that this blog has been emo for a really long time, and its been a while I did a casual post, so I thought I''ll put up my favourite pictures that I clicked at Kala Ghoda'12 this year.
Honest criticism will be appreciated.

'cause life comes with its various facets. 

That's Bidyut Mama. A friend's uncle, who stays at Shantiniketan, he had a stall of beautiful ceramic pottery.
Such a beautiful face. 

The vehicle.

Its a ride I've been in for far too long. 

As the vehicle of hesitation wobbles along, 

I cannot help but smile 

at the irony and twisted fate. 

'Cause we aren't just two passengers in the trials of time.  

Would have been easier if we were. 

'Cause our souls are subliminally intertwined.

And as much as we writhe,

in the pangs of separation, 

we must often succumb to the hands of deals gone awry,

of plans failing to ensue,

and of vehicles wobbling their wobbled up existence.

P. S. My most favourite fantabulous february picture ever.
Sadly, my post couldn't do justice to its awesomeness. 

Nevertheless, Kanika's post.

As she dazed into those open spaces, where human minds seldom visit, she quickly formulated questions of things given and things acquired. Clearly, there was enough disintegration between the two, and if not always, one must at least sometimes appreciate the care of the giver and the callousness of the taker.
As instances were noted down, and quietly acknowledged, lessons were taught to self.
As lessons had life altering implications, and must be recalled in life more than once, she did realise that jotting them down in a handbook would perhaps induce likeness, in every sense.
Thus, notes were made.
But lessons were never learnt.
Years later, when questions would be reiterated over tears of solitude, and when the need for complacence and company would be intensely magnified, notes would never be consulted. Rather, pain shall be nurtured and cried over.
Perhaps, she now rues, it was meant to work like that.

Mazed out lights.

I lose you in the maze for outcasts,
and valiantly searching,
I embark onto a life utterly unknown,
that warrants wait
and delay.
And in your masked-out utterances,
I search for the truth,
loosing myself in the mesh.
As the uncertain puzzles,
fail to fit in,
I find myself disoriented
in the times to come.

P. S. The picture has been clicked by me. What do you guys think?

Ripples.

As I sifted through the endless seams of nonchalant whispers, I was encapsulated by the beauty of your serenity. Your austerely handsome face creating ripples of desire in those void spaces of my mind. And as I see how vain my desire for you makes me, I smile, resting my head on those steps of composure, while my mind was ticking away counting the moments of solitude. For it is no one but you, that makes the world beautiful to look at. For it is you, who makes me feel beautiful thus. And as I search for your reflection in the naughty flow of water, I'm left to touch your absence, but the beauty of those simmering yellow lights, that soak into my deep seeping thoughts.

P. S. My post for Fantabulous February again!
Kanika's post here
And Soumi's here.

Congenital.

We're as natural as they make it,

as crude,

as raw,

as in sync,

and as out of it. 

Our dots interconnect,

without losing themselves

in the gamut of people. 

We find our way, 

through telepathy,

and we are as natural as natural we can be. 

P. S. Have been missing my fantabulous february posts, 'cause have been doubly busy with projects. Could finally update today.
You can check out Kanika's post here. 

'Cause as everything seems to fall apart, happenings happen, and take a place in your heart.

Sang on stage in front of A R Rahman yesterday. And as my insides shivered with nervousness, and as I struggled to stand affront, with regular feelers of my throat drying up, and also forgetting the lyrics, and covering them up conveniently, I felt beautiful.

Closure- Fantabulous, day 2.

Closure is a funny conspiratorial word. And the human mind is a deceiving scumbag. It searches for contentment, albeit a temporary one in every sphere of life. Complacency of work, of friendship, and of love.
And love comes with its own temporary illusions,
and exciting perturbedness. 

"And as we tread the excluded lines,
and as we fluster with fear,
of what might be induced,
that obstructed feeling,
that we've tried being oblivious to. 
But then as we held hands tights,
and mustered incoherent words of amour,
we knew the world just comprised,
of us two."

And then, we concluded, the world was pretty small, after all. 

The inspiration behind the post

P. S. That was my second post for Fantabuous February!
You can read Kanika's post about it, here.

I think I can.

It isn't an overbearing grief,
well, it just tugs at your pillow,
when you're fighting sleep.
Not much to fret over,
just insides crying,
and resisting restraint.
I think I can overcome
this manipulation of affliction,
not much,
just some colours of rue,
that will soon disintegrate
into tomorrow.
I think I can,
while trying to forget your crimson lips,
and all your tribulation that came with it.
In the momentary pain that followed,
smiles were discovered
and nurtured,
and saved,
in the treasuries one holds to heart.
So, unearthing papers of doom,
I just chose to scribble,
hard determined words of wisdom.
and then chose to open up,
to a sunlight of deep contentment.
I knew I could.

 P. S. This article is for Kanika's Fantabulous February series.
I love that girl. I love her BLOG more.
Do check it out.
Also, I suggest you guys join Fantabulous February, just click here and butt in.

The Alteration.

It was the summer of '99 that changed the course of emotions and induced the ensuing silence.


She was a bright child, vivacious, zesty and everything nice. It was the era of grandma tales and their hidden promises, and their folklore. When innocence and truth prevailed, irrespective of the many manipulative schemes hidden from eight-year old eyes. 
When touch-me-not plants held more importance in the scheme of things.
When chocolates were taken, and not a thought was spared for how they were offered.
When swaying in the air, held to life by strong, trusting arms was the lone flight of adventure taken.
When only love was understood and interpreted.
Not lust.
Not. Lust.
Lust, what?
As the tiny skirt swayed with the winds of happiness, the eyes scrutinized innocence in a loathsome manner, a manner unheard of, and unseen, a manner that has absolutely no space in the scheme of things.
When the tiny feet made way amidst the tall trees that masqueraded many a hidden secrets, evil followed and decided that chastity must be enshrouded once and for all. 
And as the pearl-like eyes lost themselves in the maze of the mystic hues of nature, hands made their way up, up the legs, to the apex that exposed the hidden cruelty of human existence. As innocence was silenced, in awe and bewilderment of the things done, like I said, that were unheard of and unseen, as pain slowly found itself in the reality of mazed out emotions, innocence slowly crept out.
Like incoherent ripples losing themselves underwater.
Like sand from a desperate grip.
Like life ebbing out.
Eerily, with absolute perfection. 
The scheme of things were altered. Childhood was lost, and silence gripped her like the pain that returned on each one of those daunting nights that sleep was stubborn.
All that held life together now, was deep, induced pain.
All that was left of her, was her stoic existence and the same, questioning bewilderment. 

Subtle aggravation.

I've always been expected to be the stoic kind, sifting through men, as seamlessly as the waves, eerily expressionless.
They say that I carry myself with a mysterious sense of detachment, scampering along with a comfortable sense of isolation. My socialization is limited to my trysts in the bedroom, the aftermath happening with the guy slowly treading out, perturbed by my lack of emotion.
My aloof existence has sparked discussions of a perhaps abused childhood, and the likes. My apathetic solitude and the lack of aggravation pertaining to it, ruffles quite a few of those hopefuls trying to squeeze their hands between my legs.
This feeling of disengagement hasn't been developed overnight. A heartbreak, three deaths, and after having been lost in a trail of smoke, it wasn't hard to be stoic.
They say, I lack drama.
Why not see the world inside my head?

I love you so much because of our uncomprehending love for The Shins.

What do I do about you boy?

As I relentlessly tread around as to what to do about you boy, you settle yourself into the couch as lackadaisically as an uninterested spectator. As and if I ask you to leave, you shrug and make a move. If only my spirit was as strong, 'cause the sooner I say that, I'm tempted to pull you into a close embrace, and as your lips passionately close on mine, the world seems perfect, and at peace.
But yours, is a sauntering heart.
It scampers, to rest on me,
awhile.
only to cruise away.
What do I do about your vagabond spirit, boy.
Its appeasing,
wishful,
but only in the superficial retreats,
I wish you and I existed.
But then again, we do,
and we manage, pretty well.

If your fingers were to ever trace my spine, you'd perhaps fathom the love that's been induced in me for you, the goosebumps-inducing love that is slowly, but steadily augmenting. The love that's scared of being shunned. If your lips were to ever trace my smile, you'd perhaps comprehend that the smile spreads deep inside. If your hands were to ever trace my curves, you'd realise how they tense up with the expectation of our intimacy.
You do strange things to me without apprehending.

I'm a victim to the impact of these words.

Like a child isolated,
away from blissful existence,
and simplified chaos.
Searching for peace,
holding his hand,
resting her head
on his warm heart.
Peace, with his assuring words,
and simmering kisses,
and long, ever lasting hugs.
Of beautiful eyes,
and strong, worked on hands,
leaving drunk kisses
on her crimson cheeks.
Peace, who drew her like a magnet would,
like assertion would,
like love would,
only to leave her finding her way again.
and as she ran about in blue polka dotted knickers,
chasing Peace after,
he chose to play, wily games of hide and seek,
and as tears dried up in her insides,
and choked her from within,
with the words barely coming by,
he just sat aloof,
and chose to wonder why?

Caressing my wounds,
negotiating emotions,
missing you a little more,
and crying a little less,
'cause you see tears cease to fall,
as the pain augments,
and the insides hurt,
loneliness is all there is to appreciate,
and talk to.
Gaping emptiness,
notwithstanding,
one wonders,
if life could be a lollipop,
sugary sweet and nice,
simple.
And as my smoke
takes its twirls,
and loses itself in the fog,
I can't help but fall,
into the abyss of grief,
where little children
seek my company,
as imaginary as joy.
I let you go,
as you grew from a loving boy,
to a strange man,
stranger than unknown,
I let you go, my darling,
not realising,
that pain is all that will be.
And as I fall,
with counterfeiting tears,
and worthless living,
I finally see where I stand.

Winter winds.

"Its funny when you've claimed that you've moved on when you haven't really, but then you really should 'cause thats how normality rolls, but does normality find a place in the whole scheme of things?"

Someone like you.

"I'm so out of this."

The problem is we never can be, 

not you,

not I,

its like this constant reminder rushing through our veins,

and this figment of memory that we'll keep holding onto,

like little children lost in the sands of time,

holding on to lost and found pearls. 

You cut open those deep wounds that lay dormant for two whole years. The sad aroma of pain notwithstanding, you also stood aloof soaking in the sweet satisfaction of my wails. And as I got screwed over, for the unrequited trust and senile belief and the iterated affirmation of my feelings, you stood your ground, which was sliding off under my feet. Ah, such beguiling emotions!

Bound.

Like an eerie presence,
the child within me,
cried to sleep,
disheveled, with naked longing
for pacifism,
and everything sweet.
In depths of longing,
and prolonged agitation,
like a burning house,
upon an isolated hill,
like the misfit wailing out,
his dreams of fitting in.
Like the cluttering crevices,
abound with bottomless pain.
Inhaling a life of ashes,
this sleep does not amount to peace,
when thou hath said,
that distance is a sweeter gain,
the heart took its leap,
and sunk to affliction.
It took to the pen, thus,
"Distant dreams,
spewing grief,
of lovelorn tales
and violent mèlés."
And thus, the pain began to gather dust,
as another heart withered away.