Negative

The last time we spoke, I forgot to say "bye". I think the doorbell rang or something, can't quite remember now. When Maya runs about the house looking for you, her silver anklets make the most delicate kind of music. Like paper thin bangles, just two of them, at a flirty young conversation. Or pale Christmas tree ornaments after the fire has died out. I only believed in fairies bacause they wear gauzy silver wings. Don't tell me they are not real, I know, ofcourse. But they are beautiful anyhow, aren't they?

Are you afraid to return because you think I'll ask you to stay? But I always knew that nothing could hold you. I never even tried. Your mind is a mass of confused unbridled silver wires. And you electrify everyone on the way as you go along. With your mad angry stories and your lost grey eyes. When I paint in a single colour, it makes me feel guilty. Like I'm insulting your memory. But i cannot paint in white. That's more your thing, isnt it? "I like you because you're a red cloud" you had said.
You're the sky. Blue, purple, grey, white. Always stormy, always quiet. And always free. I think the doorbell rang. What do you paint these days? Red roses white?

Ribbon streamers and Maharani

Some people, places and days are near perfect.
I took a near-perfect interview and a near-perfect walk. There's this near-perfect road bend where you get a near-perfect cup of tea. I attended a near-perfect aerobic session and walked another near-perfect mile.
Then i met some near-perfect people with near perfect dreams. We ate some near perfect muri and talked about this...these near-perfect dreams. And oddly enough...once we started walking away...something followed, like a determined mongrel that wouldnt be shooed of. And made itself at home in the little space between us, that wouldnt be enough for a person. And stayed put. While we walked on terribly conscious of this stubborn pup and yet oddly comforted by it, talking on as our near-perfect future rose like mist over our far-from-perfect present.

I bought a wedding gift, but i wish i could keep it.
And this wonderful, wonderful old man i met today from whom i bough a scrap of ribbon, upturned his tiny shop to search for a bit of cardboard i could wrap my gift in. And then he went all the way and wrapped it for me with a lot of enthusiasm "thik kore dhor. arre, oi deek ta dekhbi toh, beke jachhe, dara dara, ami korchhi" Oh, and did i mention? He has never seen me before today, and probably never will again? And at the end of the whole thing, he charged me Rs 2, for the ribbon. And threw in a huge grin as well. Gratis.
I...wish i could remember all the things i've been told that i want to remember. Sometimes the words return and crawl underneath my scalp, ever so lightly, so that you just know they are there, but you dont know what they are or who said them.
And when you have a series of near-perfect moments, like today, you come this close to thinking that its all going to be okay, perhaps. There shall be more nice music, and nice roadways and nice cups of tea. And there will be near-perfect people too. Just when you least expect them. If only one could teach the old dog some new tricks. But then, we all need our own security blankets, no?

Of little stories in between

Sometimes, when you’re least aware of it, you look back at the people you knew since the beginning of forever, only to realize how much you’ve painted them in rainbow colours to suit your own rainy day purposes. I once knew a little boy, wide eyed and sharp tongued. He wrote a little story everyday—the same story, very episodic, where he always played the hero. Occasionally I featured in it too, always a small subsidiary sub plot character, never important enough to turn the tide. I don’t think he ever stopped to consider me as a real character, or gave it a second thought whether I was in it or not. It meant something to me though, to see my name in one, after several dry chapters. Not a great, earth-shattering deal, but something, nevertheless.
Pretty soon, we went our separate ways. He moved along to change the world, or something equally important as that. Before leaving, he gave me a bunch of scrap paper filled with incomprehensible doodles. I took it, feeling terribly important, certain that they meant ‘something’. At the lonely, deserted station with its early morning smells, I saw his lean self bent almost double with the weight of his faithful red rucksack, walking towards the train, and out of my little coloured world, without a second look behind. My eyes shone with the possibilities he was capable of. I don’t think he could even remember if I wore glasses or not.

His crumpled parting gift was lost in transit when I changed houses. And so were his memories and curious stories as I flitted in and out of unsatisfied lives and people. I learnt singing and took up pottery. I met somebody amazing and lost him in transit too. I gave piano lessons to the girl next door and learned how to bake the most perfect carrot and cheese cake. Occasionally, and never to deeply, I allowed myself to ponder over roads not taken, and dreams not fulfilled. A little self-pity, a little self-loathing, a little looking back. I thought of all the people I used to know, and wondered if they were worse or better off than I was. All the crazy men and women with music in their laughs and stars in their eyes.
Sometimes when it rained and the world and its neighbour refused to open their doors, I ran along the sidewalk, counting every alternate square, until I reached a hundred. I was content that I had nothing to complain about—no immediate financial worries, the occasional date, the occasional music concert, a monthly visit to the parents, and life seemed to be in order. Thunder and lightning had never quite been my style.
At the cafe, on my way to work, I met a stranger scribbling away furiously on crumpled, ink stained tissue paper. I stopped to talk, because even years of saving the world hadn’t taken away the child like determination from his eyes. He accepted my coffee but refused my muffin. He said, he couldn’t take sweets. As I sat, reading the paper, amidst the hasty scratch of pen on paper, I remembered the little boy with never a special word for me, in whom I believed then, as much as I believed the sun would rise tomorrow. The waiters ignored him as he signalled them weakly—as he walked down the sidewalk, people from all sides seemed to walk through him. In the tube, he muttered furiously, clutching his threadbare jacket, crushing the tissue paper even further.
I confessed that I had lost his doodles somewhere in the flea bitten years. He didn’t blink twice. I doubt he remembered my last name. At the station, he handed me the crumpled manuscript, and asked me to keep it till he returned from the restroom. I waited three whole hours before I ventured to read it. It was the same little boy I had know a few lightyears ago, and the same story, only different chapter. He was still the hero, and I was still nowhere in it. I left the station only after the last train had gone.

Sometimes, on off-days I still go and sit there and watch the trains pass. Occasionally I think I see a dash of red and a proud weather-beaten face amidst a sea of nameless people. But the train leaves before I can be sure. In any case, the red backpack has been lost for years. And the face is off on another adventure, another story, another earth-changing mission. Where he plays the good cop, and I the nameless, faceless person in the sidewalk among thousand others.

Purple

Perhaps, just perhaps
Somewhere amidst the purple
There was a chance
A tiny chance
A little flower
Yellow. Crushed.
The sunlight not perfect
Too bright, too harsh
Wet shoes on the tracks
Muddy footprints
Strawberry jam
Finding shapes in clouds
A blue-black cap
Piles of friendly ice-cream
Nestled in the sky
Somewhere outside windows
Somewhere beyond doors
There was that tiny moment
Lost to all tomorrows
Perhaps, just perhaps
It is possible, after all
To be free.

Lucy

Perhaps…some blue
Some red, some gold
A formless identity
A shapeless force
Perhaps…some orange,
Some ochre, some green
Twirling the sunshine
In your fingers
Squinting, blinking
Laughing in leaps.
The last time I lost you,
I left you, I loved you
Drunk in the madness
Soaked in the sadness
Perhaps…some violet
Some black, some white
Perhaps your mad eyes
Were never meant to lie—
Rain washed eyelids
Sand washed souls
Lucy…who took you?
On a night without stars?
Creeping below the window
In clandestine chains
When the sky doesn’t answer?
What part of you remains?
Perhaps…some grey
Some purple, some blue
Perhaps they never understood
Somebody like you.

Swan Song

I try to refrain. But there are times when temptation must be given in to. You have to listen to this song if you haven't already. I cannot get it out of my head.

Cyrus Jones 1810 to 1913
Made his great grandchildren believe
You could live to a hundred and three
A hundred and three is forever when you're just a little kid
So Cyrus Jones lived forever

Gravedigger
Gravedigger
When you dig my grave
Could you make it shallow
So that I can feel the rain
Gravedigger

Muriel Stonewall1903 to 1954
She lost both of her babies in the second great war
Now you should never have to watch
Your only children lowered in the ground
I mean you should never have to bury your own babies

Gravedigger
Gravedigger
When you dig my grave
Could you make it shallow
So that I can feel the rain
Gravedigger

Ring around the rosey
Pocket full of posey
Ashes to ashes
We all fall down

Gravedigger
Gravedigger
When you dig my grave
Could you make it shallow
So that I can feel the rain
Gravedigger

Little Mikey Carson 67 to 75
He rode hisBike like the devil until the day he bike
When he grows up he wants to be Mr. Vertigo on the flying
Ohhh, 1940 to 1992

Gravedigger
Gravedigger
When you dig my grave
Could you make it shallow
So that I can feel the rain

-Dave Mathews Band

Craazy shit. I listen to some great music nowadays. Putting them all up is tedious. I shall put in other tedious stuff instead. Like the great deal of crap i seem to come up with every class. Invaluable crap, i tell you. Priceless. Maybe next time.

Painted Pinecones

I am painting pine cones silver and gold and playing out a few imaginary phone conversations in my head. You know the kind where you can say all you want to and not look stupid or needy? Like i said, imaginary.
There must be something about life on a higher altitude. I wish i was born on the hills. In some tea garden or some such. Picking tea leaves with that huge basket thing on my head. Physical, utterly fulfilling labour. Where I wouldn't have to pretend to think. I would be so much fitter, for one and not puff and pant after climbing a few stairs. Besides there would be long hill road walks, and early sunsets, and goats cheese (atleast I hope there would be goat cheese). I love it how perfectly people outside the city learn to adapt. I wonder where we lost ours.
Travelling always gives me a high, but there is just something special about hills. I think its the green. I could never get tired of it. And the roads. As much as i support 6-lane expressways, there is something so uber-exciting about those windy sharp bends, especially if you are driving at night, with pale headlights on. And the rains. There is nothing more to add in that.

I am a very bad storyteller of things that really happened. I can't tell you how my trip went, not even on this blog, because the moment factual details start coming in, its not me writing anymore. I haven't talked about it with my friends or the folks at home, whenever anybody asks, i have evaded it with my trademark i'm-busy-dont-bother-me look. Maybe a part of me is worried that you, being not there, will not understand it, and i will have to work hard at convincing you how beautiful it all really was. But maybe you will still not be convinced, maybe you will nod your head lamely and say something entirely inappropriate, maybe you will not break into the raptures i shall expect you to break into. And then i shall be in danger for hating you the rest of my life (or atleast the rest of the day).
I don't blame you. I know you try your best, I'm even willing to believe that you are genuinely interested and not just making conversation. But i still cannot tell you. It is the reason why I do not take photographs either. Because they never match up to the moment. (I am also not a very good photographer) Its me. I don't want you or anyone, animate or inaimate to take away from me what i cherish in my head. The feeling and all that. Which is why I can never tell you what exactly happened. And that does not mean I'm a snob or a recluse or anything of that sort. Alright, so maybe I am. But not for those reasons. Okay? Okay.
I do not think life in the city is for me. I have always been the slow sort. I prefer Cal over Bombay. I am not even remotely fascinated by New York or London (except for the architecture) and I will live there only if you make me an offer I cannot refuse. I will also run away as often as i can. I do love Paris, but the reasons are different. And because it has more character to it, besides its city life. I need a room with a view, one that is not of other rooms with views. I prefer small houses over apartments. I need green paths and fresh air, maybe a kind of place where everyone either walks or cycles to work. I need silence at night so that I can sleep. I do not need to be in touch with everyone all the time. You dont need it either, believe me.
Maybe I'll make enough money to buy a tea plantation and live there by myself, a modern Miss Havisham or some such sort. Do not get scared will you? I bake the most perfect pumpkin-and-hazelnut pies and sell them anonymously ofcourse, so that it may not tarnish my eh-keep-off-my-estate-you-bugger image. And yes, i brew the most perfect tea too. Come see me sometimes, when i'm not too lost in the greens. I'll make you some and we'll talk about far away worlds that do not have anything to do with reality.

Why is it so hard to tell people how much you're going to miss them? Its mammoth, and I wish i had a script. Which is ironic considering it would be one of those truly genuine things i want to say. Its so much easier to pretend to be busy. Unfortunately however, i haven't much time (oooh, doesnt that sound melodramatic?) And like a lot of things, like most things in fact, i am afraid that this too shall remain unsaid. I only hope you will understand and not think i am an insensitive ungrateful prick.
Instead I'll give you pine cones painted silver and gold. They looked much better in the original, but i cannot give you that, for they look too raw and you might wonder. And i will not have answers to that.

City Lights

I'm in love with the City. With its dust and traffic and pollution and aimlessness. With its 3-minute long signals and overstuffed buses bursting at the seams. I'm in love with B.B.D Bag and the Grand Eastern renovations. And Bowbazar and Bidhan Sarani and weird bus numbers from far north and the GPO and the grandfatherly tram conductors.
This has been the most glorious me-day ever. I did everything on my own, inspite of the day being unimaginably hot (this is all before the heavenly thunderstorm) Walked till the ends of College Street till bookstalls had been replaced by sari stalls. Looked through a few incredibly good art books. (Note to self: Go back.) Took a tram ride through the north, all randomly ofcourse, I had no clue what I was getting on and where it was going. North Cal is so picturesque, you can almost lean out and touch it. So anyway, I got off suddenly at a place where the tram stopped, walked around for a bit, looked at old baris, shops and people. Was actually looking for some food, but it was past 12 and they weren't frying kochuris anymore, and thats what I had to have. I did have sugarcane juice though, with lime and everything in a bhar.
Then I walked on some more, I really do not know in which direction, but bus names still seemed familiar, and that gave me confidence I suppose. Intentionally, I walked off the metro route, metros are too easy. I wanted to feel lost, if you know what I mean. Never mind if I had to ask for directions, or call up my dad, it was just the sense of, I don't know...oneness? And I realized that I could not get lost here, it was all too familiar, even though I have never been into these streets before.
How do I put it? It was a connection, one that I had been looking for since a long time with people, places anything. In spite of all irritants, I was really enjoying myself. Its like re-exploring a place you already know about, but its all in your memory, and you have to know it again. It was completing. All the way through unfamiliar to familiar landmarks, Park Street, Maidan, AJC et al, as I returned to my side of the town. Only there weren’t any sides anymore. The entire place was mine.
The City is hypnotic. Just fall in with its beats. Tram beats, dust footstep beats, Conductor chant beats, people, cycles, street food. This is my place. My own.

Irony

There is a strange parallel between my day tomorrow and the next two years of my life. It is sad indeed when you do out of pity, the things you did out of love. Or compromise that which was your pride.
I'm not trying to be cryptic. Sometimes you are manipulated into some things. But even after you realize the manipulation, you allow yourself to be led in further. Becasue you must. For someone or the other's sake. For an image of yourself that some people have. That you would rather not break. Would that make me a hypocrite? Perhaps, yes.

I have had a fairly uneventful and happy life. No abuse or trauma or abject poverty or messy divorces. Which is why I realize how shallow it sounds when I say, that all my life seems lived for other people. Not in a self-sacrificing way. Just in an accidental, non-interfering kind of way. I suppose I was gullible, or just plain uninterested. As long as things are going more or less the way they were supposed to, as long as I didn't feel cheated to the face, it was easy to go along.
But when you're young, specifics do not matter. As long as you are into something. Anything.
You know what I blame it on? Books. And films, and music and words that mean so much but amount to nothing. That can change your perspective on life and people for ever. And yet remain innocently guiltless. It is you who change. And you who have to live with that change.
I feel all words and quotes and characters sometimes. And I realize that I expect my life to work out like my favourite book. Or atleast be as dramatic. Everything that I have thought or wanted, can be credited to some perceptive writer or poet or artist. Literature has, in a way, taught me to think for myself. And as I find out, the hard way, it's not always a good thing.
My life isnt a movie. And there is no guarantee of a happy ending or a prince charming or a sweepstake win. And there are certain things that must be done, be it against my will, for others who expect it to be done. For the sake of...I don't know, sanity? Not disturbing the universe?
The world has its share of rebels and mad scientists, who did not have to pretend to make choices.
The worst is when you're told, that the choice is yours to make. That it is, after all, your life.
Don't kid yourself, or allow others to kid you. That, it never is. And there wasn't even a choice to begin it.
Just go with the tide, and try not to rock the boat too much. There are agents who wouldn't bat an eyelid while pushing you off it. And all for your own good, ofcourse.

The easiest things are so darn difficult sometimes. I don't want to sound like I'm quoting other people. But it is so hard to say your own thing. Like when someone is away on a flight of fancy, why the urgent desire to de-fancy him, to bring him down or to simply ignore? Is it because we know what hurts the most?
What is it with young people and loneliness? I thought that happened only when you stopped asking 'why'. Why have we stopped asking 'why'? What's there not to reach out if we are all feeling the same? If we all want different versions of the same thing?
And who am I to speak really? I'm definitely not distributing warm blankets. I don't have too many to give away, and even if i did, I would be shallow enough to ask you why you think you need one in the first place. A little selfishness is good, apparently. Rules, are always changing.
If i told you I'm okay with my books and films and music and paints, I wouldnt be too far from the truth. But just sometimes, when I'm really happy, its sad if there's no one to share it with. Anyone at all. I suppose one of our favourite things to say is that no one understands. Logically then, we don't either.
Well then, who does? And what then, is the purpose of this entire medium of language, and unspoken words, and books and films and music? If we are meant to be understood only by inanimate objects, that are incidentally written by real people, well, what is the point?
Or is there not supposed to be one? Pardon me. I don't quite understand.

L'Après-midi de la folie

Talking to a friend last night made me realize/accept/understand that i had got it all wrong. This isn't what it is about. What anything is about.
The reason for last few days' worth of madness had been a simple case of misappropriation of priorities. Oh, I don't blame myself. It is easy to get swept away when the tide is flowing only one way.
Truth is, that sometimes, we underrate ourselves too much. It's okay to set high goals, infact the higher the better. Just dont kill yourself trying to get that high. It is evidently, not worth it.
So what? I get a first-class degree, an education with some of the best names in the country and/or the world, a high-paying job, blah blah. Surely that cannot be it? It could be, if you are not willing to look beyond it. And in that case, all the best. I am sure you will be very happy.
What I received in all that restriction, was severe denial. Some things are so simple, you wonder why you dont know it. Its not about that vision, or any vision. Its about you. You make the vision, you break it, live it, decorate it or dismiss it.

Life so far has been spent in searching for inspiration. It isnt that elusive. I have spotted it in words, in music, in pictures, in colours, in dreams. Spotted a hint, a promise of something more. Maybe your inspiration lies in a plush corner office, in a small house by the sea, in your leatherbound diary. Truth is, you wont know unless you go look for it. Its one of those things that wont come looking for you.
Dont promise a road for yourself and then expect you dreams to fall in place. It doesnt work that way, even though uptil the last moment, i thought it did. And though this might seem like a last minute bubble of optimism, it isnt really.
I realize, that I can always travel and always read. That i can always meet new people who are like me, or unlike me, and i can still have thought-provoking conversation. That i can always watch films and make plays, learn pottery and listen to music. That there will always be lessons to learn, and I dont need classrooms for that. I dont need to to well because that is what one must do, as long as I am happy and learning something new each day.

After all it is literature, it's theatre, it's poetry, stories, books. It's life and it is limitless. I am not giving it up, because that is not even an option. Its a part of my being. It doesnt matter if i go on to become a nuclear physicist or a banker, it shall be there, in me, as me.
Maybe I wont find inspiration in my work. Maybe i will. Maybe i'll find it in a wayward conversation, in "one of those mad, insane moments of life". Maybe in my sleep or while taking a walk. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow. Maybe right now. Maybe where i'm going next, or maybe when i'm 40 at a cafe, solving sudoku puzzles.

I haven't given up on it, yet. It wont let me. Cheers to the dream, and to the last 10 years, especially the last three. And thank you. It wont be the last.