December.

It was a long time back that I had finally encountered the realisation.

Over the following months, when the sky remained nonchalant about changing its hues and the season seemed to live in some sort of lackadaisical movement, I had prepared for the realisation to remain constant.
Until, I confronted you, of course.
Akea had an important observation to make about the entire situation. In her word, and strictly hers, "You have gone cuckoo over the games that man, ever so often, plays in the spirit of vengeance. And what bothers me more is your sternness to adhere to that very same emotion that you had withdrawn from, not so long ago."
My spirit animal rose in mock flutter, a little disenchanted with all the silliness and obscurity its host had subjected it to.

And now, while I furiously type and re-type at my system, I have an important analysis to conjure up. Your lack of perseverance has added, a rather dispassionate end to an otherwise sped up tale. Everything had rushed past so far ahead, that we stood, two lost animated children of ambiguity, with contradicting words, emotions and ends.

Which brings me to the goodbye.

I walk cowering under the morning sun. A stern lover of the night, I do not understand man's need to dispatch fluidity to his activities, during the day. And while I walk, in rhythmic monotony, I carry my spirit animal, fiercely stoic to the atrocities it witnesses. Because how are we to survive otherwise? The cosmos is trying real hard, at every possibly attempt to give us the shake of our lifetime. If I could have blinders over my existence, I would.
But I walk. And while I do, my spirit animal notes down furiously, your constant mention. It's a little troubling how passionately you are thought about. But that is for later times.

You never said goodbye.

We decided in apathetic vigour that we would concede. That your man, has been nothing but a practical, tedious bore. That the art that you gave birth to, was nothing but a mock excuse for your banality. And that the songs we shared were nothing, but my music exploited. Because you know, darn too well, how quickly I take songs to heart. And knowing thus, you conceded.
But you never said goodbye.

A couple of empyrean transgressions later, I shall think less of how you shook my realisation, albeit for a short while. I will choose to listen to the songs, with an indomitable spirit. And I will think of how enduringly small we measure in the largeness of the universe, and toss your memory to the side, in favour of chaos.
But whenever I will be forced to recount your tale, to an intimate audience, I shall be reminded of how you never said goodbye.

The Year.

Spaced out loves,
far too many,
but none, the extreme,
and most,
careless.
A noble lover,
lost to a virtuous cause,
guileless, nonetheless,
walking on,
walking on.
Drifty veils,
but none worn
in mock cover,
or closed pretense.
A rush of lights,
speeding past,
in a spaced out vacuum,
too spaced out to contain all,
yet,
containing little,
rushing past,
rushing past.
Mountains, you can touch,
stars, you can see,
water, you can drink,
and swim in too,
swimming naked thoughts away,
a childlike lover,
alone in peace.
A haze of smoke,
lost in a maze,
too mazed out to spot true love,
or true ambition.
A haze of smoke remains.
Eyes that see,
yet refuse to recognise,
the blood running the hearts of men,
out to kill,
the spirit young and wild,
and wilder away, she does,
the running thoughts,
the running thoughts that sleep,
and awaken the deepest desires,
fervently put to sleep,
by the ungrateful host,
a silly lover, is she.
And so it ends,
without as much as ending,
and began, thus,
without as much as beginning,
a start, looked forward to, not,
an end, not cared for.
If not a limbo,
where would she be?
Oh, where would she?

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.

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.