Prologue.

"I was punched breathless with the strongest emotions I Have ever felt and they are now stored in my intuition as a writer."

- Amy Tan.

---

Chapter 1. The two peas in a pod.

Day *infinite*

This wasn't the plan. I arrived on the island a while back. Almost a year. Whirlpool of a year, I must take note to mention. That's besides the downpour that greeted the city alongside, apace with the close ones. It was beautiful in the eyes of the beholder. 

Something got lost immediately after. Time stopped and moved fast at the same time. Such loss, is long overdue. Not something to account for, but everything to shed a tear or two for. Heartbreaks- in place.

The guiding light, the north star- dimmed. Everything changed. Nothing was ever to be the same. 

Letting go of the pain is the right thing to do. Finders keepers. Lessons teach us to look forward, to let go and yet never give up. To put our hearts out there, to give it your all (DIVE IN)... to not live amongst shadows. 

"Sometimes... words go deep enough, to make you want to bleed; it's time (you know?) to let go; no matter how near or dear it is," she would teach me. For 9 years. All of childhood too.

~I walk with the candle burning still.

Tombstones.
"When words go deep enough,
to make you want to cry;
When knives go deep enough,
to make you want to die;
It's time (you know?),
to move on;
No matter how near or dear it is."

---

Chapter 2. The Student.

It's a rigorous regime. Remember the first day of school? I have a picture. Two pigtails, a blue and white pin stripped dress, with such an excited happy expression. Recall being so scared secretly, not knowing anyone in the new place, being the stranger.

PC: BoredPanda.

~Two decades is a long time ago. School changed around 5 times after. Adaptation was a part of the package. Excitement perpetually replaced fear and anxiety. The whole new town experience was too good to let anything get in the way. 

(Shh, there'll always come along a hand on your shoulder, a warm smile, an awkward joke, and soon enough, you'd be laughing. It's the thing about newness.)

48 cities, 25 years and counting. Ha. Personal record, I'm just starting.

The over-exceeding demand of the never-ending submissions in the ultra-cramped timeline is the headlines of the hour. You're either in the thick of it, or a little past it, recalling the times. Either ways, no way can you tell me it was not the best stage to be in. A reason or two will keep you going. The extra-curricular; the soccer tournaments, or was it cricket, or basketball; the madness of the sports day; the chaos of the annual functions; the warmth of the Christmas celebrations; the excitement about that School outing; don't forget the classified bunking, or the brigade of friends; we could go on. 

Isn't it, the reason for the flickering smile in the nostalgia?

That early morning of life- the sun just coming up, the dreams just beginning to peep into the horizon.

"Us giants are making whizzpoppers all the time! 

WHIZZPOPPING is a sign of happiness. It is music to our ears!

You surely is not telling me that a little

WhIzzPOppINg is forbidden among human bears?"

-Roald Dahl.

"A life is made up of a GREAT number of SMALL incidents, and a SMALL number of GREAT ones."

---

Chapter 3. The Monochrome Sparkle.

A little snigger crosses the mind, and it makes the slight tilt of lips into a smile. We don't pertain to settling down. We don't want nothing less than magic. It should fit, like how fingers get laced together within the gaps between each other. The subtle undertones of current, the skipped heartbeats, the stolen smiles, are too overwhelming to contain. Incredulous!

It's about knowing, and yet remaining unknown. It is the uncompromised deal of hands. The unmasked knowledge of standing along to see, to touch, to feel- the talking, the laughter, when he pulls you in to let you lean on his shoulder to sleep, how she lends an ear and cares,  or just how she will kick off her shoes and dance on the tables; is the reverie we're living for, the one we're living in. 

Don't have frivolous expectations from romance. Believe in the BIG LOVE. The all consuming kind of love, the kind you can't believe exists in this physical realm of the planet. 

The one that is yours.

It feels like an uncontrollable blaze. The ones you'll ever read about, maybe sing to, or even at times hear about. 

It is- the once in a lifetime fairytale. 

The starry wake.

We haven't met yet.

The young night, dressed on with pale moonlight,
And the music is fine,
like the bubbling sparkling wine.
The evening's starry breathtaking gown,
holding hands in the towne.

~We danced through the night,
Darling, we lit up like starlight.
I heard you smile over my shoulder,
The shiver sparked a snow-white stone colder.
And in the moment, I forget you're older.

Walking home, evening shine.
Nervous touch,
Staying up, and waking up- hand in hand.
Summer breeze across the floor.
Candle reflections in the door.

~I knew I'm so in love with you
I want to stay with you,
Until we're grey and old.
I hope you know.

Knots.

"In writing, habit seems to be a much stronger force than either willpower or inspiration."

.John Steinbeck-

Basking in the cold of the winter, sweetened by the warmth of morning sun- home is too far. There is an unattended pile of things to do; books to read, groceries to be bought, classes to be joined, places to be seen, friends to be called, family to be seen. Home is too far. 

Reminiscence is a part of the day to day chores. 

The smell of the roasting masalas. The pug marks on the edge of the bed. The little munchkin's chatter. Dad's bed-time tucks, just, making sure everyone got in okay. Mom's stories. 

Mindfulness, absentmindedly, clinging onto home. But home is too far.

Life in letters.

Change happens in little sniffles through the curtain of dawn. 

I'm abandoning and losing the idea of writing the 500 pages. Trying for that one page each day. At the finish of it, in the end, it's always a surprise. 

Distractions.

“Until science can explain

How this world began,

You, me and everything else

Will be magic.”

“How are you?” I enact to myself in front of the bathroom mirror trying to mimic a real-time conversation. As I flip through the daily ‘to do’s of my diary, I realize how soon time passed by. All of past 6 months, could they have gone by, so soon. Maybe in the rush of familiar routine, everyday regime- of waking up, getting to work, working the chaotic undertones of work and friendships, filling in the loose gaps with recreations.

Earlier this week, when I actually started writing this article, it talked a lot about liqueurs and placid music tones. About beautiful blue bays, sunny soccer fields, picnic tables, and rainy runaways.  The magnetism and fascination catches on. I got distracted.

A few days have passed since; the irenic collective playing still has me preoccupied.

Glittering quicksilver.

Suitcases.

"My dance is neither a philosophy nor a job; it is the way I am feeling emotionally. This is why I move."
- Olga Kuraeva.

It's awfully quiet nowadays. It gets dark sooner than usual.  When the sunshine breaks through the curtains, I'm still tired from the sleeplessness.

The flickering lights look beautiful at night from up so high. I should tell, my new current temp address is the 14th floor of a building. Facing the bay. With the Anzac bridge placed delicately over it. The crystal blue waters match the clear blue skies perfectly. Even the white floating yachts imitate the luscious clouds. It's scintillating, the view from here. The township on this side of the bay isn't too de rigueur. The paper mache browns of the buildings are well compensated by the greens and yellows of the winter season.

It's close to a scene out of a fairytale. 

In the current temp, it's still a little messy- the room, the luggage, the hair. The suitcases are all open. Yet to be unpacked. Don't know it's worth yet. The current temp validation is only until another day. And then the next one, for a week perhaps. Maybe a few juggles around, until.. until some time.

Learning the ways of nomadic fate. (living out of suitcases)

The stage never gives you second chance, so I prefer photos and videos. The camera is able to capture real and deep emotions. 

"It doesn't matter if I dance well or not- the most important thing is that it is real."

Work In Progress.

Probably the longest I've gone without blogging something. Not that I didn't scribble here and there from time to time, or at least I think.
Thinking if I should bother cooking up an excuse. Isn't it something we all look for in stories, 'answers'. I could probably talk about how I've been preoccupied with work (for 5 whole months, day in day out, what, are you kidding me!). Or maybe figuring a life plan, I am 24 after all, it is time I decide where to go here on, professionally, personally (could work, age beneficiary, and all of those 'what are you doing with your life' questions from ever concerned parents).

Honestly, I'd be shamming it. (epiphany post countless Friends and House MD episodes later)

I'm going to talk about how I was looking for some sort of of right kind of inspiration. (And that's my excuse of the millennium, you don't get you use it. Ha.)
Okay, 'nuff with the jokes.

For those of you who've missed out, I have made it to the news headlines. Look from afar, I have it all figured. I have the coolest job- working this awesome profile. Try topping that with getting to do your own room after a lifetime of planning. That's that. Let's see, job, house, I think I've covered it all. Almost.
Recent turn of randomness made me apply for masters. I started with Delhi...Mumbai maybe...considering other states, more cities, keep options open.

I won't bore you with the details. I am leaving soon. The continent. Barely 30 days to go.

All formalities done. Well, getting there.

Been super busy collecting stuff to take. I have a blue suitcase close by and a one-way ticket in hand. The pile of clothes to be packed in the corner of the room is a literal version of a mountain out of a molehill.

Suitcases and Jetplanes.

Ps. The need to write this one came while I was in a metro-train and found myself dancing to the music blaring in my headphones. I loved every bit it. 

Zeitgeist.

It’s dicey typing on laptop now. The screen keeps jiggling, apparently office madness made me plonk it around a few times. As exciting as it gets around here. Beat you, didn’t I.

Few things on mind.

Gentlemen, progress has never been a bargain. You got to pay for it. Sometimes I think there’s a man behind the counter who says, “All right, you can have the telephone; but you’ll have to give up the privacy, the charm of distance. Madam, you may vote; but at a price; you lose the right to retreat behind powderpuff or petticoat. Mister, you may conquer the air; but the birds will lose their wonder, and the clouds will smell of gasoline.”

Just as this character launches himself into this speech, it gets me wondering about the changes around. Take a second off my coffee table at the café, it’s a rare sight to see people talk amongst one another without lifting an eye from their tiny screens for a even a moment. The lost art of devouring books, or conversations on vacations.

Ps. I’m a wreck with technology. FYI, tonight I also learned I miscalculate the ‘right-left’ directions too.

That’s not what all this is supposed to be about.

Recently, had the urge to go off the face of the earth, socially, obviously. While deactivating facebook, it asked if I wanted to do the same for the blog page I created. Got me wondering why I created it in the first place. I remember my first publication. My first article. My blog wasn’t it. It was a dream come true. It was published. For people to read. Something I had written. Nightmare come true. Eventually as time passed, frequency of publications increased, I got a hang of the critiques’ taste. What I actually write is till date only up for selective few.

Don’t mind me. I am awed by the ones who can write when asked to, whatever asked to. Amazingly impressed with the ones who can cater to the taste of their audience and themselves. I think I've tried. I think I aspired for it secretly once. To impart that burning vision. To share the true brilliance of the truth.

You know? The ones, they are the ones who put thoughts to paper, and not start to wonder, ponder, scheme only when they face the blank canvas. I envy them. It’d be insane to have a market chase you for a book signing, to be a huge success. To be a writer?

Why do you write? Why do the others write?

What’s my, or anyone’s relation of writing to being a successful writer? Is that what’s the ultimate goal is?

Artistic bedlam.

I write, like I choose my music. Chaotic, erratic. Random. Experimental. Thoughtlessly flirting with words. Festival of jumping from one feeling to another mood. Tenor in some, alienated in the others. The freedom is thrilling. The rush is exhilarating. (I may often miss the sweet spot or two, but..freedom is petrifying).

As I think about the next blank paper, endless thoughts and questions fill my mindspace.

picture credits: Gauree Sharma

Study in blue.

I needed some simplicity. "Write about it", she said.

That was the thought in my head I woke up with. Last night's devilish Cosmopolitans still swaying soft around my lips. It was a pretty special night, last one at that. And now here I lay in my blanket-den with the remnant thoughts violating each breathing cell.
I knew I'd have to crawl out at one point or the other. Though I really didn't ever want to leave my blanket or even move for that matter. The hammer in my head breathing of restlessness. In flashes, I linked substances from the night before. Half-dazed, wondering about the ride back home. Pining away about the worthless excuse of a head or sense.

Something had changed over the past few hours. Hazily, I shifted a little in bed. A lilt of heartbeats. Flashes, about the fired passions. Don't know how long that'd go on for.

"I wish you would say something that doesn't bore me, dare you, to ask me something that'd make me stay." Was one of the morning calls before I jumped back into bed back home.
I found the courage to peek out of my blanket. My senses still nascent. Random checkered memories sneaked up to me. Apart of me besides me even so raw and soft, asleep. Tad bits that fortified the break of the sun through the glass.
There's this stage of beauty- the pretty, the praise, the attraction, the screeching scream to grab the eye. And then there's this arena of self-aware. The comfort. The strong, gentle lighting grace. Snuggling into the monster, inconsequentially, the sparks had infused to crystals. You get used to it no matter where you go, where you may travel to. The layer, the guard already distinctly shed. (spotless silver lines)
In trance, time warped me.

Incognito vex.

"When you are mad, mad like this, you don't know it. Reality is what you see. When what you see shifts, departing from anyone else's reality, it's still reality to you."
(madness, this mind of mine)


~Spaces filled in with the cool morning breeze.

Sketches in letters.

"I will find color in your darkness.

I will look through each door.

Put apart each house.

Dismantle each emotion.

But I will find your color

I will find you."

Words are lost. Words fade. You and I do too. (do we?)

The more I think, more the idea gets tangled up in my knotted head. They say I'm oblivious. I must be a little more obvious in my words. How beautiful is the game of expressions, how would I ever tell. The fury, the lull of a lover's quarrel, or the soars of a heartbeat under the star-night- write about it for me, won't you.

Brick walls are there for a reason. Brick walls are meant to be broken.

Mine are vulnerably monochrome.

Anywhere, and I will follow.

This isn't about me. This isn't about you either. Neither is it about the kids playing fire 'n ice on the terrace today. Nor did I start writing keeping the messages in mind. This isn't about my thoughts, or the pain.

Words over my head, I know nothing at all. Stumbling, falling, learning to walk, I'm breaking the habitual stability.

Expressions. (divenire)

*post script first. 

There's this soft tone playing in my head tonight. The slow curves of a sketched figurine on a paper caught my attention, all (only) just in my head. Inspired in my own passion, I retrieve all of lost essentials, with the fire ablaze, I move into the new turns.

Time passes by when I think of the last time, when was it, that we played our little game of catch a crook, or was it hide and seek around that old tree in the backyard. That childhood past, oh, how long has it been. Get a new hobby, they tell me now. Start something new, they advice. Learn a culture, they ask. What's new, they implore. Now, they question. I stare into the warehouse of my head- sparkling eyes, wandering souls, stolen smiles- I answer, as I pack my tools, there's so much for me to do.

The dreamers, my culture, as I stumble to answer.

The musical figurines, my new hobby to tell and paint and dance and sketch and turn wheels. The craft.

I don't come from this world of real.
~I grew up in glass castles and amongst hollow enchanted caves. It was somewhere around where dreams are made- oh, could be the golden pot at the end of a rainbow.
Silly, you called me. Dreams, still lead me on.
Just see my work station, you'd know what I'm talking about. (Of course I work). But I still secretly live in the notion of my need to fall asleep to let Amelia Jane roam about along with the other billion little elves.

I'm the misfit outsider. The weird writer. The wary dancer. The difference. The dreamer.

'she dances to the song in her head,
speaks with the rhythm of her heart,
and loves from the depth of her soul.'

Post Script.
Starting out as fiction, balancing on words and wires, it is something i'm growing to live in. The song is still playing, is what added to words rolling in. (Ludovici Einaudi- nuvole bianche)

Treehouses.

Hi.

You remember the treehouse we played in, don't you. Those childhood days out in the sun between bees and bumbles. Simpler times of counting stars while learning rhymes at night on the swing in the balcony. And the early morning runs and squash-squat terms, not to forget the swimming lessons, also the unarmed basketball sessions.

In my mind space even today, I find myself waking up every morning palpable with over-worked breathing, running around helter skelter to complete the day, keep clean just to slowly set into the dusk. Come back home. Back to my mind space, to the swing in the balcony under the night sky- near the treehouse.

When I put the sheets on to hide-away, you'd pull the sheets off my face and watch me sleep all day. And when I'd slam my fingers in the window, you'd kill all the pain away. Remember when I tripped off the staircase and scared you. You hugged me so close.

~When the rest of the world is asleep
Do you remember that night when you and me
Pulled down the steeple of ash
The rain was coming down, I was filthy and black?
(i was calling out for you)

The wind and the wave.

Tribute.

Alba.

"The winter has passed,

and the sun shines upon her."

Madrugada- it's that moment at dawn when the night greets the day. Did you hear about the alba at dawn, the poem about the separation of the lovers, a love song about parting at dawn. Taking them away from the night fall, the magic of the stars, the warmth of the bonfire and the blanket of the cold breeze. 

Think of love, the passion, the searing heat, the colors- oh, the covers, and the abandonment. And the pain following; the pain, leading.

A cry for help, an age old tear shed in mourning, an aubade for the night to stay without an end, for the beloved to never leave her arms, and the guard to kiss the daybreak. Oh, how soon it all ends. Just now was it that night fell upon them. Sheltered by the dark, the heat smeared through their veins. Like reignited amber, there they lay in one another's arms, safe in the cover of the night. With hands entwined, eyes locked with each others', breathing as one, their passions lay hidden from the daylight. It was the calm of their heartbeats. As he drank in her gracious breath, admiring her, he holds her one last time loyally in her arms. The fear of the pipe whistle haunts each. 

The day will break soon, and the bond must be broken. Separate lives must be assumed and followed in.

The space now fills the cool shadows of abandonment. Spreading away from the shadows, her bare-bruised shoulder now lies exposed in the break of dawn. The day is setting in, drawing unwelcome patterns over the covers. The eyes that stayed locked in the rumpled sheets with hands laced together through dark, now sense their cue of pale separation. 

With the light in their souls, he leans in to softly lay one last kiss goodbye as her eyes slink open to the tears now tying them together.

~This day the sun will rise

on a new intent

Choices, may they be wise,

To bring each a smile,

do one good deed

Take time to pray awhile

His words I'll heed.

walking over wet grass

At what point in life do we feel it's safe to say it's sorted. You know, we are good for life, life can't get any better. And that is the point you have achieved it all. Everything you will ever need and want is there, at arm's length.

Loved ones *touchwood* sitting all around, with the smile of content and giggle of secrets shared. 

Corporate slavery, doesn't seem so abysmal, opposite in fact. Where, at what age, is it all golden. 

Questions fill up my anyway cluttered head.   

I take off my slippers and stepped barefeet on the dewdropped grass. I lay there staring at the glaring moonlight in my face.   

I'm 23. And I'm golden. As I can be.  

I tilt my head. The dew shimmers in agreement.

Wanderlust.

I've lived my life in phases. To write a book, I'd write one of so many flavors and stories. 

~The night strung together, and the stars, so distant in the skies shiver, blue, twinkling. Slowly, the wind turned in my favour. It turns again, and sings softly in my ears. The magic recreates itself. Tonight, I held her in my arms. Close, not tight. Stroking the shadow of the eyes, not distant. The infinite starlit sky danced overhead in the harmony. 
And the morning came on in its ultimate glory, flawless.

Treading a subdued kiss on life, and it takes the path it was always meant to. My soul is content to have finally lost those whitened nights. Its autumn outside my window now. Unspoken heaven of golden leaves and the smug fog at dusk. 

"Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long.
Since, on these nights, I held her in my arms,

These are the last lines I will write for her.

I don’t love her, that’s certain, but perhaps I love her."

Shifting Aisle.

Someone should write a book where the main character slowly falls in love with the reader.

I'm someone- Wanderlust. 

Faceless Strangers.

We all have that dream. The one with our faceless stranger. At one time or another, that dream about you and her. That dream you so distinctly remember and yet, her face seems faded into your memories. This dream so symbolic, so intimidating. So tantalizingly mystical. Hidden, repressed, crooning in your dream about how each of us have that side we don't show- sometimes even ourselves. Living deep within, you'll find this faceless stranger.

This probably means more than I thought it would. Stories of untold smiles, unsaid tears, held back words; and a faceless stranger.

Its something so simple, so plain. That thought of meeting someone today. Randomly, think of the innumerable lives you touched today. What if you missed your perfect dream out there in the crowd.

~Maybe he sees her again. Maybe he doesn't.




"In the story's faceless lair."
-raw. emotional. me.

Windchimes.

I hear the wind ring the bells and chimes outside the window. Here, where the sunshine falls on the bordering clouds, is where I'm sitting writing today. 
Did you forget me already? So soon, is it. Or are you actually anticipating, wearing your heart on sleeve. That would be nice to hear once in a while rather than you seeing mine. Isn't it gloomy outside, or was that yesterday. I was still at this window looking down the path leading me out of here, anywhere. 
It mustn't have been really long, has it. Must be though. Changes show otherwise. 

~Its a long winding road,
Winds around me engulf the sound of the chimes.
I seek the path ahead- i think long;
leave me at the shore,
that day, that time..
I'd travel to another land.

That's the dream knit.. in the time being.

It's where I see the sunshine envelope rain and wind banners passing through life.

photo credits: SK.

Sand in my shoes.

I searched till the corners of the world, to look for you. But here you were, all along, right next to me. Ever since I learned my first steps.

I'd run to you, playing around that pillar. You always healed those wounds when I'd topple over the pebbles on the road. My first rhymes and the tales, of fairies and fables, you taught me word by word.
I'm growing up now. I play a different beat. I sing a disparate song. You stand by, defining my differential unconventionally for my ownself. You're still the personification of the pillar I need to run about to make a day.
I'm growing up now. You take steps forward with me.
Giving this and that, and all those unsaid dreams wings, keeping me grounded, I'd have been confused but makes sense with you. It's not all dreams and wishes and plans, but also a mixture of do's and don'ts, the links, the aim, the feelings, with just the adequate amount of pinch of reality.
I've learned, to walk with my head held high, no matter the destruction to mask. Your words, your presence, 'you' motivate that. 'You' inspire that. I see myself driven to be half as inspiring.
I'm growing up now. When I have, I hope to be able to scuffling through a lot of sand.

Ps. There are a million 'I's and 'You's out there. From me, it's to all those pillars in my life making it all possible. Life isn't a fairy tale, so we get these few for just the close resemblance. We fight, we throttle each other at times. We go out for decent dinners, we also sometimes are close enough to burning a place down. A child, a friend, a sister, a brother, a companion; they're in so many roles around you. Take a moment. Feel happy.
Pick up that phone, make that overdue call.

Boondein.

I heard that wave splashing off the shore today. Again.
Stepping right out of my clockwork, speckled across the face, were those driblets. Like heartbeats, the sounds of the slight piano paddles waddling through, the spatter of the cars passing by, carrying us over the winds till where those tiny droplets reside.

It's your calling.

Querencia.

Did you say it.

‘I love you.’

‘I don’t ever want to live without you.’

‘You changed my life.’

Did you say it?

~Make a plan. Set a goal. Work towards it. But every now and then, look around. Drink it in.

Because, this is it. It might all be gone tomorrow.

choices. chances. changes. 

Sculptures.

'Weathering the endless storms
 for rare glimpses of magic
each winter 

is both,
a blessing and a curse I relish.'

phoenix