Coffee.

The curtains flew a bright picture of yellow or orange or a mélange de deux against a small opening, a measly excuse for a window, lush green, now brightly lit by the descending sun’s orange. 

The brightness would have been the reason for my fixated gaze had you not walked in when you did, in the white shirt holding itself together amidst a criss-cross of wrinkles and beige pants that could camouflage with my skin. Your hair, dark brown, now interlocked with shiny strands of golden. The brightness making its way to every part of you, with the one half of your glistening unshaved visage perking up with glee, almost inviting its share of vitamin d. Your face descends to a length that carries with it the beads of a tribe we flaunt, with the beads themselves adapting to your noiseless demeanour. Your arms or whatever of them could be seen from the sleeves you must have folded so callously, intercepted with the veins, seem to possess the kind of strength your exterior plans not to reveal. Your fingers, long, graceful, casually mocking the not so aggressive beard your chin bears, not so happily.

You spot me too, albeit for a short second.
Theshortestsecondofmylife.

So short, that one minute you are sure to have seen it, but the very next, you doubt your own assumption. If someday I were to recount this story, and if someone would ask me, “But well, did HE see you?”, the only bereft response that would escape my lips would be, “HE did. I am not too sure, I have no way to prove it but I’m sure he did. Even though I did not experience a time lapse of any kind to prove my surety. But I do remember the smallest eye icons of mine gazing deeply, directly into his. Yes, HE saw me, I’m sure, I think.”

In spite of the rambling, the answer would make no sense, and my audience would immediately judge me stupid.

But at that moment, all I could think was of all the possible way I could get you to see me again without having to scream my lungs out to you.

So I did that what anyone else would have, not.
Ichangedthesong.
It was my way of measuring you to my yardsticks, I have no correct way of explaining this, but for me, for the sake of my knees that seemed incapable of being stationary that moment, you had to know the song that would play next. What that would establish and how I would find out for true if you indeed were aware of the song, is something I cannot answer. But what had to be, had to be.

The song began with its warning introductory rhythm riffs. Speaking of still life water colours and shadows in the room because of the sunlight rushing through the curtain lace but most of all sifting through the dangling conversation. I saw, with astute senses, your lips curl into the slightest twirl, so slight that everyone witness to it would swear it never happened. But I knew. If music could trigger a sensory nerve of knowing, loving and ease, I could swear at that moment, that you knew the song as I did. As well as I did.
For had I been in a small coffee house, aware of my solitude but silently appreciative of it too, and had ‘The Dangling Conversation’ made it to the talk of the room, I would have tried and succeeded, for most parts, to show my ignorance.

Because the music that you carry on your skin, every awake moment, you confess not to its seductiveness, at least never publicly. You could never bring yourself to celebrate it, discuss it or enjoy it outside the comfort of your own assumed space. You carry it on and within you, like a well-guarded secret that if revealed, would reveal your innermost space of sanctity that bore nest to thoughts you alone are privy too.

But just then, at my moment of immeasurable joy, Idiedinsidealittle.

Knowing fully well that this image of you is tagged to my song for life. That today, I could know you, love you and disappoint you, and refuse to acknowledge the song that brought me up, furthermore. Or I could never know what you could come up to be, fabricate you in my head, you reading your Robert Frost, as ‘we sit and drink our coffee’ and marginalise myself for an unrequited tale.

Whichever way, I had made the stupid mistake of attaching yet another darn recollection with a song, which it shall now conjoin with to eat up space on my skin. As I see you sip the coffee I prepared with a secret vendetta to avenge this acquisition, I decide that knowing you, loving you is my only road to redemption. The fact that our knowledge of each other would perhaps ruin this day at the coffee house, not striking me as strongly as you did, is an irony I would escape.

Tibet's 55 Words.

This is a 55 word story I wrote when I was in Dharamsala. Sort of gives a short opine on Tibet.

The charred remains of what once was skin, shines with opulent irony aided by beads of glistening sweat. The leg, now an object of abstract attention, brings to mind many horrific stories. 
Told. Retold. Some, untold.
Of a nine year old boy, crawling his way across border. 
And they dare to say, Freedom is overrated. 

Because Someone had to Say it.

It's a fucking paradox that all that you think will be, never, usually does. In the sense, it comes with a very wry sense of non-permanence, so as to speak, nothing really lasts.
And I speak for most elements, in life. Writing projects, sunglasses, subject notes, relationships, unseen entities like trust-Hard to get by, easy to lose.
And in most cases, what really fucks us over, and gets us at our weakest spots, is how naturally we assume that things will stay. We proceed to spend the money we saved aside for cigarettes, and generously barter it in exchange for the most bass-inducing-quality-music-transferring headphones ever. And just as quickly, we attach these banal, man-produced specters of growing commercialisation to our hearts, like they could mean more, than the orange hues the evening sky sometime produces.
And mean more, they do.
Albeit, a short while.
Because, like I whined fifteen sentences back, permanence or the very thought about it, is absolutely stupid. Considering, that we shall, at some point of time, be reduced to the same saw dust we were conceived from. Screw religion and the acts of Karma, and even re-incarnation for once. Speak science, and think logically.
Are we going to survive 100 years from now? Probably not, with its probability making as much sense as a unicorn being the national animal of Scotland. So why are we thwarting life's happy moments, and building a huge pile of crap? Why are we even, as a remote idea, considering the possibility of friends for ever, and relationships till death, when those are clearly uncontrollable facets, and rather spending our energy on finishing the one great novel of our lives, when in utmost unanimity, the talent in you will not only fetch fame and money, but a higher degree of life satisfaction.
Screw the nights that you spent worrying over a fight, or a friend you lost. What about those nights, when you almost abandoned your writing assignment, your pet project, your art masterpiece, your one great novel. Does that not pull at your guilt strings? Because if it doesn't, then clearly life priorities are not balanced in your mental sphere.
I will just spell it out for you, loud and crass- Permanence is a Paradox.
Friends come and go. They satisfy the sole purpose of social interaction, and physical needs also, more or less, get satisfied.Don't nurse the wounds of a heartbreak. Rather, nurse your mind to feel a great sense of loss everytime your level of intellect is questioned. Those are things that one must feel sorry for.
Because as nothing might be permanent, your work of brilliance shall always be respected.

The Ghost Inside.

As some of you may be aware, I was away, hauled up in Dharamsala for almost a month, whiling away time. Not. I was teaching English to Tibetan monks and refugees as part of an NGO, and soaking in the entire feeling of being away, on my own. So, while there, I naturally indulged in a lot of writing, which I will now put up bit by bit. Thank you. 

The electro-pop sounds start the playlist accompanied by James Mercer's soulfully morose voice, which in itself might seem an oxymoron; but it all seemed to fit in just about perfectly with the faintly heard Tibetan music from across the room.
The room is a space of mixed emotions. It would open into the vision of another door, understandably the washroom's, only to lead one to the well structured and largely sized bed [ the playlist is now playing Vaporize]. An antique wooden chair, a table and a narrow almirah, too narrow and unfit to contain a lot give the bed some much needed company. The window is large and pretty, well-designed and quite handy, but it opens into a small house and a dirty construction spot, so we can safely assume that she won't be spending any time gazing outside the window in a philosophically induced brazenness.
The Ghost Inside was the next track. Also her favourite. Whether it was Mercer's beautifully imperfect falsetto, or just what the song spoke to her, one could never tell.

'Can't love anything, till you can love yourself.'

Mcleodganj, Dharamsala.

The interim between making a decision and finally stepping up to fulfilling it is often full of cataclysmic problems. Only ever growing in magnitude. And here, I don't speak for all, but one, that's me. It has never been easy, to go ahead, and create something that's designed in the head. There are only ever unfulfilled doodles sprawled across the sheet of the mind.
And unrequited imaginations.
But this one time, just this one time, universe has literally conspired to take me by a pleasant surprise. Not without initial itches. Itches, more like major skin burns. Metaphor. But really, after scaling mountains as high as Mt. Everest, dying of sunburn, almost cancelling the idea, to going ahead, and cancelling midway, the original plan actually did work out. Albeit, wonderfully.
And here I am, away from home, all alone, for perhaps, the first time. In a place so far away, that far away doesn't even begin to describe it. Figuratively speaking, I'm five states away from home, which is a lot, in my head. My 40 hour journey from home will vouch for it.
And I am volunteering with an organisation that aims towards independence of Tibetan refugees residing in Dharamsala, which I think is an extremely noble initiative. I'm working as a teacher, taking three one hour classes throughout the day, working sometimes with groups, and also, helping hone the individual development, of one student. It's an extremely rewarding task, and there is nothing that lights up my day as much a student getting the spelling of a word right. Simple joys.
Also, I've been writing, reading, making images a lot more. And a part of me doesn't want to go back to the chaos of Mumbai. But what the hell, such is life.

I'm never one to base my trust on lost causes. It just fizzles out, as arbitrarily as it sets in. One moment it's there, and the other it's not, almost like a casual snap of fingers. But whatever the cause may be, my mind is much more at peace right now. Simply because, I'm slowly learning the art of walking out. It's also called the-meditative-state-of-no-fucks-given. But no, really, people can come and go. And then be whining cunts, consequently, but life goes on and all that.
Besides, what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.
*Says it to oneself, over and over again*

While you're at it, do give a hear to Could it be Another Change by The Samples. It's part of the The Perks of Being a Wallflower soundtrack. The song and the lyrics fit in so well with life, right now, that the song's been on loop for quite some time.

Also, to new entrants in life and old ones - Where would I have been without you all. I love you. You know who you are.

P. S. Post title courtesy to the song mentioned in it.

Because journey has no antonym.

Remember the awkwardness that ensues when you meet a friend after a ridiculously long time? That is exactly how I'm feeling right now. For this blog.
This blog's not getting any younger. And to top it, it isn't getting much attention either.
Certain events seemed to have sucked up every ounce of creativity I thought I had. I feel as if I've generally been skipping life, fleeting through college, projects and a haze of smoke. Remember that scene in movies where the world around the protagonist spirals in a great speed while she's just there, oblivious. That, exactly.
I wish I could run away, make a parallel world full of music I love and fairy lights.
Where I would need no fucking schedule that runs through monotony.

Also, fuck you pragmatism.

Besides that, I am officially done with people. Yes, they are pretty, but they sap your energy, not to mention any ounce of self-restraint you might want to keep. I hate people. And their clones. And their shiny toes. But most of all, I hate the universe for being such a troll.

People may come fucking call it a phase between drags of neatly rolled pretentiousness, but to them I say fuck you too.
I need to sit down, unclog ever piece of junk neatly piling into my brain, and collect it in a big box I shall call people and dump it in a far away land.
Until then.

Hello Fear.

I have never quite been able to embrace the origins of human emotion.
I am currently trying to figure out a project, for which I chose myself the topic- Navarasaas. For the unaware, it offers the basic premise of human emotions. Nava as in the number 9 in the sacred Hindu language and rasaas or bhaava mean aesthetics or emotions. The concept of Navarasaas offers a well thought out window into the world of the nine basic human emotions, that reside, normally, in every human being. Those being that of - Love, Joy, Anger, Disgust, Fear, Peace, Grief, Wonder and Bravery.
Which brings me back to the title.
Hello Fear.
Well, hello, scared cat.
I have been meaning to ask you about the very birth of your origination, in me. That you grow, so fastidiously, and travel, so stubbornly, occupying every hollow space in my already claustrophobic heart. You let me not speak, you let me not think, hell, you let me not write. The world and the words uttered seem to be a long continuous process of hesitation. Because there is constant fear for being let down, of my expectations being shattered, of being rejected.
You are that what stops me from being me.
I am in an endless spiral, that actively accelerates to spaces of unknown.
I do not want to know you.
Yet I do.