Away from home

Idly this morning I was sitting by my window turning the pages of the newspaper when my I caught the sight of an article on fratricide. Some liquor baron and his estranged brother have shot each other dead during a fight on some family estate. Disturbing as this news might appear it made the columnist cite how brittle our family values have become. It is common these days to find elders in the family fight it out for issues ranging from crucial to trivial. And in these times of dwindling faith such examples can only aggravate the evaporation of love and other tender feelings within us.

I f I would have rested the case there and concentrated on dancing geometrical shapes, about to take a toll on me on Tuesday, that would have been alright. Instead I travelled back in time to recollect what Sagarika Ghose wrote months ago.

We, the young Bengalis of today, have grown up in transitory times. We are part of a period in which mobile phones have transformed from being a rarity to common. We have witnessed the prowess of Kalpana Chawala or Sunita Williams and have rejoiced the night India lifted her World Cup. Yes there have been high moments. But moments trace their way back to memories and rest in peace there, coming up only in occasional conversations over salmon, wine and lemon soufflés. Ghose, in the couple of paragraphs she wrote, highlighted how the Bengalis have been stuck in a cage of senile nostalgia for the past few decades. The Renaissance of 19^th century, the fierce Rammohun, the versatile Tagore and the visionary Vivekananda are bygones now. And yes it is sad that we have done nothing about them apart from archiving their faces in the same old nostalgia which holds the black chapters of our petty family feuds. But why? Why did the air of my city fail to take a single mind after Tagore for a flight with the clouds to the distant horizons? As the peepal tree outside my window gave away few more dust-green leaves to the dry winter breeze I was burdened by heaps of why in my mind.

Growing in Calcutta brings with itself a handful of pre-defined values. I remember the eighth year of my life very vividly, more so because it was when a harmonium set its way to my room. Family legend has it that it belonged to my grandfather’s mother. Since then the eldest girl of every generation of my maternal family had to excel in Rabindra Sangeet. My grandfather’s sister and my mother’s sisters have maintained that ritual quite devotedly. However when the responsibility descended on me, I turned out to be unwilling to co-operate. Twelve years ago trams were still a heritage in Calcutta like they are now. And every Sunday morning my mother would take me out for a tram ride to Geetobitan, the Nalanda of Rabindra Sangeet in this city. Needless to say I hated early mornings as I continue to do that now. So my mother’s endless efforts to make me sing Tagore would result only in vain. I loved Tagore. I have adored Cabuliwallah, Amal and the ‘doi-wala’. I even remember his poem on the little river we had to read in second standard.

“amader choto nodi chole aake bake
boishakh mashe tar haatu jol thake”

But that was all about it. I loved Tagore for his simple poems and little stories that touched my heart even at that unripe age. But I could not love those songs which had lyrics well beyond the perception of my then eight year self. After six dismal years of untiring effort which hardly improved my chances of becoming a good singer, mother decided to let it go with a heavy sigh, moulded in disappointment. In the meantime I have reached foreign pastures of Doris Day, Frank Sinatra and Paul, Peter, Mary. Soon enough The Beatles, Floyd kept my mind so engaged that Rabindra Sangeet would only arrive at my doorsteps on ‘Poila Boishakh’.  Does that mean my love for Tagore was on the ebb? No, I just found a different way to love him unlike my other cousins who took the harmonium pretty seriously and mastered the same. Needless to say, I was never a hit at weddings or funerals where my other relatives would sing Tagore time and again proving my incapability at it, often suggesting me to start my lessons anew. Yes that is the clichéd Bengali lesson which made me uncomfortable for years till I wrote my first poem after reading Tagore. That day I knew I have loved him just enough to induce art in me. Shouldn’t that be the purpose on the first place?
We Bengalis fetch his reference in almost every matter we have to deal with. An entire race of his children have loved him and remembered him on every occasion, more recently at traffic signals courtesy the new government. Yet we failed to protect the best of the laurels he earned for his creations, The Nobel Prize.

The misery treads deeper as the state’s dilapidated villages get ruined every passing day in neglect and poverty while the urban dwellers can only engage themselves in heated political debates over cha as their children spend the nights mugging cryptic notes for mindless exams. Result is what we see now. The mind is too tired to fly and liberation is expected through divine intervention. The religious orthodox raises his voice and suggests us to perform endless worships of unknown deities. Rapes increase in number, students get frustrated staying unemployed and an entire race is engrossed in an afflicting slumber, one which does not rest but kills the mind. And this malady too, like charity, begins at home.

Ever since childhood we are taught to excel, to study and to be good at it. To learn Tagore and his songs like I just said, to paint, to dance to do what and what not. All that is good as excellence is exactly what the Bengalis lack today; an extraordinary vision that would help us rise and become the fierce legendary race which once was the front runner of the freedom movement. But excellence does not come with prolonged practice. It requires passion and a zeal to give everything for that one thing which strikes a chord with us among the many that we try to learn over the years. Sadly we often overlook this trait which helps us to identify our dreams. Though the Jack of all trades becomes the master of many, how many does he really care for after finishing the race? We are the ones who read a lot. Ever since childhood most of our mothers would tell us stories during bedtime or the afternoon nap. But how long do we retain this good habit of reading every day? At the face of an education which we hardly retain after writing the exam papers our good habits are in danger. A mind which has no room for words would never know how to jumble them and paint an imagination. That way it never sees the lands which Tagore used to see when he lived. That way it never feels the insatiable desire which led Vivekananda leave his home for a quest that made him conquer the world. Even if some might say Tagore’s family had their hereditary riches which gave him all the time to write all those verses what about Ramakrishna? In spite of coming from the poorest of poor family he provided our religion the much needed liberalism. Vivekananda had nothing but his unmatched oratory skill and an urge to better the society. It led him to go miles beyond the realm of possibility and bring radical changes in the mind of all and sundry. Once there was a time when women were encouraged to come out of kitchen and educate themselves. And today if a modern woman misses to perform fasts or pujas due to tiring office assignments her conjugal days often end briefly in miserable divorce. Worse is when a woman chooses to dress sexily and ends up being a feast to some hungry loins. The more sensible mothers and aunts will not spare criticising her dressing choices during some gossip at kitty parties. Our society is not ready to see its women choose such provocative apparels! Fair enough. But, is that the excuse for raping someone? How can rape be anything else than other than a sickening, heinous crime, an example of an ailing sexuality? With the women in despair and the youth in endless plight I wonder how the state will fare well in different fields in the years to come. Such is our condition that even our dreams have become restrained and meagre. With the thirst not being quenched for long I wonder how long can one remember the taste of rain? With the mind getting barren the dreams wilt in despair and the agonizing pain which crippled us all these years has shrunk the vistas of possibilities.

A change is required; a deep-rooted, deconstructing change that, like a violent storm, would upturn the foundations which are rusted now. Even if the new idea seems westernised we need to grab it and do the needful for what we do now neither preserves our oriental values nor help us reach greater heights. Once I heard someone wise saying, “When you have hit the bottom, you can only go up.” For us this time has arrived. Clearly the devoted religious endeavours or the stereotype education is not doing enough. Our religious customs are the hilarious example of a tug of war. At one end of it is the generation before, trying best to make the successors inculcate little bit of it as the disinterested younger ones would try to slip further away from the other end. If education was fulfilling enough there would have been a Beatles or an Ernest Hemingway even here, especially when there has already been a Tagore and many of his like. Growing up is itself painful. With the imperfections of the world becoming prominent with time, the transience of life, innumerable pathos through death and loss give everybody a hard time. What can be worse is the dissatisfaction we feel years later towards what we have become. And when one does that, he knows he is already away from home, by a distance much more than five hundred miles.

Our parents give us enough in our childhood; love, protection and everything we might need to survive in this ruthless world. But there can be things more than this. They need to give us a lesson of impossibility which is not as foreign as it sounds, rather achievable if we have the courage and the will to do it. It is okay if your teenage daughter falls in love in the years of her adolescence. She might receive heartbreak later but parents are not to protect their kids from every calamity. They are to imbibe that faith in them which promises to stay in difficult times and motivates them to come out of the deepest pit they fall into. The child might not solve fast calculus. But even if he cooks well there is an opportunity for him. One might not be good at singing Rabindra Sangeet but this too is fine. We need to learn and read. After a certain age we need to go out, travel and find that special thing which completes us. The world can be tough but it has many colours and above all it has hope. In every story of sadness that has a brighter end, in every streak of colour in the morning sunlight there is newness, there is a surprise. It is this which the mind needs to see. We might be blued now but with the slightest hint of discovery every direction becomes radiant and yellow. We need to discover and realize what our bet for excellence is. And once we do that, there cannot be a looking back. Travel is never pointless. It might ward you off to unknown lanes but you can always remember the way back. And one day you will not be away from home anymore. Therefore the family survives and reunites with its dreams being nourished and a happy family never gets indulged in ugly feuds. There has been an Ernesto Guevara this way so there can be many more.

The mind thus flies the way Tagore once wished as the singing lad brings impossibility to his doorsteps and finally settles by the riverside. In the many ripples then raised, the joy in this city rests in peace as a painter collages the scenery of an evening sunset and an author gives it deeper meaning. When happiness can never be enough hedonism does not seem to be a luxury.

Results of a fruitless morning

Before starting this note I was stranded in a weird abyss. It was a calm quiet September morning. It started with the usual chirping of birds, swaying of leaves then soaked in the first golden hues of daylight. The surrounding serenity was in perfect sync with the little activities going all around. A city morning is always like this, a shade between orange and grey to be precise.

My early morning experiences are countably few. I was in school, the one which made us believe,

Early to bed early to rise
makes a man, healthy and wise.

Somehow I very vividly remember those mornings of my schooldays. Like every little girl I would flock to the bus-stop with my mother, neatly dressed in white socks and red ribbons. Looking at those younger times one thing that keeps coming back to me is the newness in which the world was moulded back then. There was an omnipresent surprise in the little big things I saw around me. Starting from a friend’s new pencil box to some palatable food packed in another’s lunch box, there were so many things to look at and stay engrossed. The new songs of an unknown bird which sat on my window, the mild breeze spreading a milder pink in the early hours of the day and the remaining traces of previous night’s fog would make every morning bathe in a mystic charm which I somehow learned to appreciate. As the dawn slowly gained its lustre, the big blue bus arrived to take me to the abode of knowledge I then loved dearly. With sleep being a dear friend to most children, the bus would then carry an uncanny silence. Since I was always a talker, instead of sleeping like most of the kids I made the most out of those journeys to school. With the fresh fragrance coming from garden flowers I would see my world, my city and the same known faces in a renewed amazement that filled an endless corner of my heart afresh, every morning. The marigolds blooming in the houses we crossed every day, the strange uncles who stacked newspapers on the rear of their cycle and myriad faces which initiated little by little the chores they had to do, became my morning herald. Every morning these familiar sceneries filled me with the belief that the world was in its own peaceful state, that I would go to school learn something new and have fun with my friends. Yet there was something new to this sameness, a new pet arriving at one of those houses or an unknown song being played in the ancient radio which my school-bus owned. I felt happy and the world seemed perfect. At times the silence all around was dispelled by talking to myself. Speaking of my old habits I think this is the one which I miss the most now. But childhood was a bliss we all have savoured. It gave us joy, laughter, seasons and what I mentioned a while ago; it gave us pocketful of surprises. The world was beautiful and innocent. Though it led us nowhere, it took us everywhere we could ever think of going.

With the years going by, this place of my growing up became less unknown, less unseen and sadly much less surprising. It is not the world, I think at times, but me instead, who changed too much, moving to queer latitudes, so far away from sweet surprises that even the most bizarre things stopped making their mark down my heart. As my school going days reached their fag end I realise how poor a student I have been all along. That I have forgotten my nursery lores was painful but the fact that I could hardly find those surprises made me ashamed. The world stays wonderful even now for little kids of tender age, just that the child in me was gone and the warm pleasant simplicities which filled her life were lost in more difficult translations put forward by time.

I am no poet who will make her growing up a brilliant chapter of shining epiphanies and delightful adventures. I grew up like every other child, seeing a lot and retaining only a little. Of the few capabilities I have mastered over in these years, the most important is the one to remember. The ability to hold on to translucent episodes dating back to times which have now turned tangerine is the only satisfying part of growing up, especially for someone like me, with no parallax angle attached to her existence.

The best part of childhood was the endless faith which I attached to miracles back then. All the stories I heard, all the poetries I read appeared true, keeping behind an indelible impression which belongs to my memories now. That good faith has evaporated somewhere in thin air and all the wonders I had invented with it have turned ochre by now. The deities do not speak anymore; Christmas seems a little less interesting after Santa came out of his veils. Even now I wish mother kept that truth about Christmas disclosed from me. It did hurt back then, to set my belief on something for years, like an impenetrable sheath, undisturbed by random breeze and then suddenly the cloak was removed as the faith was left to rot, naked beneath the sun. The poetries written in the soggy pages of my old diaries rhyme no more as many a musings gathered from a dead poet’s pen go in futility.

If it is thought that the surprises in a little girl’s life were only happy ones bringing in Turkish delights for her, it will be wrong. As much as she knew to be amazed in utter glee at the many instances which called for such expression, pain also had its share in it. Pain and bewilderment together made her adaptable to the harsh facets of life. There was learning in it and a lucid explanation of how to cope with things which fall on us uninvited. These lessons have rooted themselves in the little girl’s being, at depths she can possibly fathom. Every blow which life threw at her back then would keep her agape for a while and then slowly sink in leaving behind trails of further contemplation. The many facts of life which came before her that way were priceless and unforgettable. However in an effort to memorize these facts she let go the trouble of being surprised. Even now, when the face before her in the mirror looks older, she receives pain, a lot of it. However that feeling of an innovative recovery which came before, as she would get up from a pit every time, has now vanished. Everything has become too much poignant by now. There is no monotony to blame for this, just a missing sense of surprise and the healing touch of a discovery.

As these wandering thoughts came and went by on that unsuspecting morning, I suddenly realised how idly I have travelled by the old memoirs of childhood. The surrounding nature which was then beneath a veil of gentle vagueness in its beginning had become prominent by then. I was surprised to find myself in such an unbreakable trance for so long, forgetful of everything around me. Yes I was surprised to find an unsettling enigma in me with all these thoughts and after a long time I got back a little part of my childhood that morning, fruitless as it always was, yet very very fulfilling.

Thoughts from a debate

Even the most mundane of our days can surprise us. A day stuck within the shackles of schedule and sameness with a moist depression in its air yet a day which threw a debate, churned questions from my mind and finally sent me to write while the voices inside me kept calling ‘the city of joy’.

On a seemingly different note, few days back seated on my balcony as I looked at my city a whole gamut of thoughts came running down the mind’s alley, each unique in its colour. The city and I are more like childhood sweethearts; growing with each other, growing in each other.  

My earliest memories with the city day back to the times when, as a little kid, I would see off my father prior to his impending voyage. At a tender age when my hands would reach only a few limited inches, the miles that rapidly grew between me and dad as I returned back from airport would sadden me. Thus I would climb up the backseat of the cab with my face nested on my hands and try to measure the growing meters. Then as the tiny tears would blur my vision sketching the last traces of my father’s smiling face, I would look at the city dressed in evening trying to realize a flurry of activities. The little lights shimmering in all the brightness which a handful of watts provided would reflect the image of a metropolis busy in itself; its people running errands, engaged in esoteric talks, coming and going with the many waves in the river.  As I would keep watching the city, my own salty water would sink down my throat with something heavy tied to it. Perhaps it was my first experience of missing a loved one around me, that of pain which comes from tired eyes that long to see someone you love unconditionally, someone you are born to love. But I was just a kid with my mind being a constant toy to me. Thus due to its own fickle behaviour the heavy thoughts would slide down after appointing the eyes to observe the surrounding events. The orange sky, the backward view growing till far away as the car would pace through the roads, dimming lights, noisy people together formed a vivacious background thereby introducing Calcutta to me, as it was known then.

Changes are inevitable; the truth itself being a cliché now, owing to its repetitive usage. As I grew through the ages to become who I am the city also changed. This was a city of bridges but flyovers were laid upon it. It had little houses with green windows of stained glass. Now there stand high-rises scraping the sky as their heads point to stars high above in a steady acclivity. The city used to be happy in little, contented in mediocrity even though excellence was not a scarce thing. Once a city to recline and suddenly with one rotation of the earth round the sun everything changed; the city began to run. Lives which once intersected to connect now tend to grow apart and live discrete. With families falling and the layers of moss over Sir Charnock’s mausoleum becoming thicker every monsoon, the city grew up one day altogether, unannounced. She became Kolkata.
But this was the city of lucid ponds with white swans floating in it beneath the pale moonlight. And though it is on a mission to deplete potholes from its roads; the broken banks of Ganges still now has plenty of old stories gathered by the dust and rain and Nor’westers after a sultry summer afternoon. As the wind brings in the fresh fragrance of seasons’ loom my mind would unfold its many layers, taking in every little bit of nature that the city sends at my doorsteps.
The city built its flyovers yet a man chose to climb up the Howrah Bridge one busy morning reminding it where the essence lies.

I grew up in the nineties and with mobile phones coming to an affordable reach since a time much less than a decade I can remember the days when people chose to visit relatives over socializing with myriad faces through Facebook. I cannot say why, but I always felt it was in the city air, something which brings together people and binds them in ties of mutual fondness, hospitability and heartfelt amity. Goodness is overrated, even fellow feelings send us warmth, make us feel wanted and loved by friends and family, thereby turning us to people likeable by all and sundry. Thus all those countless afternoons drenched in absolute serenity when I sat beside my sleeping mother to read poetry, the city would distract me by telling its birds to crow. And as the sound would break my mind’s sauna, it would fly away with her to far-off friends and long lost relatives. I believe there was something addictive in the heat outside, not letting me to catch a sleep. It dragged me aside and told me to walk and visit people who remain only in the submissive part of conscience. I remember I would search them in the sky, then white in the heat of a glowing sun and finally the intricate patterns of clouds would descend to my vision drawing faces I may or may not know. Those were my days of pastel colours and drawing books with poetries being murmured all the time. Santiago would sit beside the sea shores to narrate his tales of fishing while I would ponder in awe about Atticus Finch, to become a little more like him. The hours I travelled with the city, in spirit, from one lane to another, were the ones spent in serendipity. In those innumerable rendezvous the city moulded my being with tenderness never lose no matter what; for the breeze which soothes a scorching afternoon works the best and the longest.

Occasionally, during the monsoons my family would visit my uncle’s place in the suburbs. My friendship with the city roads started this way and they gained conclusion in my romance with the bridge. This journey I mentioned used to be an elongated exhaustive procedure and though I never mind hitting off the road, one thing which I despise about the city is its miserable traffic life. Motion gives me a sense of accomplishment; like I have covered few miles to reach a place better than where I was, both in body and soul. Thus it is always easier to flutter in imagination while inside a speeding car than being suspended timelessly in stagnant traffic jams. I hate waiting in time. It feels much like an abeyance with every moment giving the feel that something is about to happen, perhaps a hint of epiphany or the sweet kiss of lovely memory, but the waiting continues with every up and down breath. The concrete roads packed with beast like vehicles are never fascinating but when time stops you at Howrah Bridge be sure to enjoy the moment while it lasts. Most of the people around me had a purpose and destination with them as they mounted the bridge. May be they got too carried away in those more important issues of life to savour the moist smell of the river. Their eyes then blued by the tension faced all day fail to appreciate the display of colours up in the sky. But I sat in those claustrophobic buses at most once in many months as if to encourage some queer fantasy, and so it was. For above those ashes blowing out of the many gifts of industries there is a crimson hue inviting the silver crescent inclined at a constant angle looking at me. There is nothing new in the moon, it stares like it does every day, pointlessly, disappearing in the morning and then return to regression the next night. However seeing it slide between the flexible aluminium grills which hold the bridge was more like a funny play.  I cannot say for sure whether they were my own efforts to see the dark side of moon but as a matter of fact I did hear a lot of Floyds during those random journeys. The best thing about Floyd and poetry is that they accompany you in times when nothing else seems to be suitable enough to sit beside melancholy. They descend while you traverse through the bylanes of senility; encircle you with brittle moments acquiring a sense of fulfilment through pleasures and plights of yesterday. And in subtle sensations as Floyd would take me from one to road to another the moments in which I then sat useless appear to be precious. Finally as the bridge ends the music faints away and I look back at it for one last time. Suddenly there in the grilled vision of shining white rods, would appear the face of that unknown man hanging from this massive structure in cantilevers. I believe I feel something for him, the only person among the mass of many who was not disgusted by the many woes of urban transportation as he climbed up the bridge. To be frank he is the man I want, one who will choose a structure of nostalgia rather than catchy flyovers. And in a way he achieved what I could not. He conquered the place where the city leaves its soul, climbed up its height and felt that moment in which time was suspended below because of him, the only one man to see the city from a point where the city failed to mirror itself.

Autumns are always pleasant. Probably it is more like a general rule round the globe, the one which makes us love this season and stay happy while it lasts. Autumn is more like a charming song which relaxes the mind after its laborious days are gone. More so for the city as the festivals start in this time. The city induces the happiness in its breeze into us. Does it succeed?
Tolstoy believed ‘happiness is an allegory’ and the wise man he was, many would agree to his prized thoughts. Honestly, happiness to some extent is ornamental, exemplified. The rarity of it within the boundaries of our daily routine prompts us to make it all the more gorgeous than its original form. I mean we put in an effort, to show that we are in joy, trying to make it as vivid and conspicuous as possible. When I was young and often indulged in the frivolous measures to attain happiness, this thought did not cross my head. Like most other people I would wander about considering my new attires as an important mean to boast about the joyous moment then set in me. But one July morning, a lot of rain washed away every earthly remain of my brother from me and everything changed drastically. I grew up overnight, became a lot older, crossing the milestones of a couple of years together. Coming to think of it now it wonders me thinking how much of a simpleton I was before. Not knowing, not realising most of the truths of life. Little by little the house of cards which my childhood was fell apart. The lust for golden earrings or fancy toys shattered in one blow of destiny as Tolstoy’s famous saying became the poignant fact of my life,
“Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story.”
And the city, which used to be the playground of my games, became my companion in this story. Pain is precious, I have always felt since that day; the pain of loss which has triggered so much sensibility in me. It ended my brief sojourn beneath the blanket of imbecility and commenced the sacred journey which I am continuing now. The day I lost my brother became wet and blurred out in tears. But the next morning as the city welcome the new sunlight to dry the foggy windows of my heart, I felt thankful to the soul which I always though it possessed. Since that day it became easier to touch my inside. Little things would perhaps etch lines deeper than required on me. But this city always taught me to light my neighbour’s house along with my own. The pleasure of sharing, of giving and receiving was a great lesson which I learnt from her. The city has shared its grace since time immemorial, even given it to the promising New Delhi (the present capital of the country), thereby ensuring its own fall from it. The jolts of emotions which would easily stir the foundations of my inside corridors often made me weak, gave me sadness. But it is the story of growth, for one who has not been sad can never possibly imagine what happiness feels like.
I never started my essay with the tale of a July morning as my memories are not restricted to it only. The autumn months and the November wind invite the Goddess to descend to our hearts. The city glistens and glitters, as a loud merriment casts its spell over her. She opens up every gate as the celebrations pave their way through them. And amidst this loud sensation of mirth she secretly passes her annual gift to me. This feeling is exhilarating, it keeps me thrilled. As the deities would arrive at the human portals I start to feel they have brought news from my dead brother. The memories I was speaking about before, the tangerine pictures come alive one by one. My possible pasts were still alive somewhere deep down. This thought itself has such a utopic aftertaste that it makes me jubilant, finally taking me beyond the shallow ponds of material pleasures. From the hour of departure begins the hour of waiting for a new year, a new autumn and a fresh display of memories. Of course I do not fail to mention the Goddess to tell my brother that I love him, before she goes miles away. I am satisfied even within the existing traces of grief. Since the little I get from the festivities means a lot to me, I never leave the city for more scenic venues during the Pujas.

This city has given me much more than sorrows, joys or commonly describable experiences. Thus as the debate questioned her essence, I recalled all that I have written till now in a breath. If I attempt to fathom what the city has been to me, I will anyway fall short of words. I cannot measure what she did for me using units of industrial opportunities, medical facilities or other practical terms. Words are poor translators of the mind and they have summarised their inability by coining the term inscrutable. So is this city to me and the essence of her. Then again, as a mysterious guitarist strums a Led Zeppelin song in his guitar I feel heavy inside.

“I don’t know how I’m gonna tell you,
I can’t play with you no more”

My tryst with the city is coming to an end. The selfish friend I am, I have to desert her to grab more attractive opportunities. She who has flourished me with Tagore novels and rock music will stay behind as my golden aspirations would drag me to the banks of Thames. Do you remember your first friend from school? I guess most of us do, like there are few things we are meant to remember. The city was one of my first friends who in time became the guide and the philosopher as well. But like the first friend in school, I need not remember her, as she travels with me wherever I go. With the much knowledge it has given me the most prominent is the one which tells me to return to her after savouring the western delights. Once I myself wrote ‘everything lasts, but not much longer.’ Now I feel otherwise. Some things remain even without your feeling that they do. Some things just soar in your being like the air which fills you through every breath. I have lived, laughed cried and fallen in love here. Everything which means anything to me finds its roots by the bridge of cantilevers as the ships and steamers start singing the homecoming song from the minute they start going away from it.

When in July, and after that

Dear lover,

I wanted to share a queer experience I have been having lately. It is an experience indeed, novel in kind, something that will rarely happen to me or anybody else. I have been feeling a lot more than usual these days.

It is difficult to span these happenings within a framework of time. But if I am to give you an estimate I'd say it started by the end of July. Well, when in July a lot happens to me and this time I had you to rejoice with. The idea of being born in that month and then to have this wonderful life which in turn has you makes me beam up and feel grateful to the deities if there are any. With the rains and the cloudy sky July always brings stories to me, stories which only i can hear and this very thought makes me feel gifted, enchanted. But July nights are difficult. The redness in sky after a heavy shower reminds me of tired eyes draining out their own grief due to loss, despair and a sadness only I know. What has perished and rotten and turned to ash will never rise up, I understand; then again it is the empty space inside which rattles the most and the loudest of all that I am able to hear. In short July makes me see much more than the other months. It has always been this way. This time I have had my fair share of happiness. The evenings I spent with you were romantic. They have made me grow and bloom as well. I have lived the best I know as with you I have gained a certainty that I can do it. Thus between little tears and trembling laughter I have drifted and swayed.

Before I proceed, I'd like to mention another thing. If I can remember some faint excerpts of a previous conversation with you, I suppose I have mentioned my longing for travels there. To be honest the desires were not exactly for innocent roaming around-s. They were more similar to a feeling of homelessness stirred from within by an intolerable restlessness. As if I was summoned during this time of the year, by friends living far away, by faces whom I have not met but who are seemingly important. In fact the thought brought with it an invite to conjectures in which I was required. Maybe it is a delirium of a puerile, imaginative mind which has wished to wander lonely for a long long time. But I have not been that troublesome to wake up one morning and slip away from everything I was a part of. A sense of responsibility, a fear of unsurity and an array of known faces have always dragged me away from the door. Then again as Rushdie once correctly wrote,                                          

~"Travel was pointless. It removed you from the place in which you had a meaning, and to which you gave meaning in return by dedicating your life to it, and it spirited you away into fairylands where you were, and looked, frankly absurd."~

I have always tried to find and make meaning out of everything beneath the sun. At times it appears like a fun game but always it is not that easy, that probable, that predictable to make inferences. if journey to conquer vices and voices would lead me to darker alleys of hapless soul searching and indifferent junctures of a previously decided destiny, I will appear to be nothing but imbecile. Thus travel has always lived at bay, far from approachable vicinity.

With travel gone, vision becomes my stronger sense. This, coupled with an inner sensibility, has tried to reduce my zeal for running away to more possible visits, brief and mute to frivolous desires but sure to provide a latent realization. And these realizations make the real journey from the zenith of ecstasy to deeper chasms of despondence. Faith has always been my stronghold. The faith in good, the faith in friends, the faith to rise from a fall and a faith to win everything I have ever wanted; my faith is indisputable. Probably that is a cause for me getting hurt frequently. And on this note I'd go back to what I started writing. 

I have been feeling a lot more than usual these days. Little things plunge me down to myriad realms of an endless blue. That little child who was turned down while she was begging for alms, her sad eyes are imprinted in my mind since then. That sight of her, standing timidly with all the humility of world and a promise to demand the slightest share of my penny, it not only saddens me but keeps me awake. The knowledge that my old country home is falling down constantly pains some part of my being now carrying a huge burden of remembrance. How surprising I find that even its distant existence mattered so much to me unknowingly and now that standing at its doors once again has a shadow of impossibility over it, I cannot be any less heartbroken. Just days ago my neighbor lost her unborn child while another one is about to arrive in my own family. The variety of events along with the extremities of antonyms make me stand befuddled as life moves on. Bemused and not knowing what to do I turn to you. The light in your eyes gives the tacit indication that I should do what I am good at, I should write. This has perhaps been my most liberating experience of writing. The dreamer I am, the little thoughts brought in many a word with itself, from Rushdie to my own. But with the 'dimming of the day' everything seems to have settled down. The vast pasture before my sight has become befitting to all the opposites which exist. And with the many colors of life, death and merry, the absurd dreams and vague ideas become brighter and more realistic.

Yours truly

Random Scribbles

~Few years back I longed for many things in life. Little by little as they came to me I gained a closure towards them. I saw and felt what they look like and soon I found a steady incision running down to separate what I now have and what I now want. Funny that the gritty roads we have covered with great efforts had their own vicious purpose. They were abrasive to those precious dreams we made sure, were with us, all the time we were walking. The dreams made the rucksack heavy and weighed it down. Gradually the pebbles have withered them. Like a wilted flower in yellow they smell stale now. Our will gave us the strength to put in effort but took from us the eyes to admire wealth when we recline. The gorge now formed is relentlessly deep. And in all the lusterless sordid forms which the gold has now taken, I place my hand and move it listlessly. Tangibility is the only good thing in these fading hues. It reminds that these are something even if nothing. Meaning is transient and variable. Fortunately it has forbidden itself from being abstract.  With the little sand held in our fist we all resolve to take the tests again. If folly was a felony, I guess we all would have been a lot less tired.~





~For once journey was not pointless. It took me out of a place where vision was sacrificed and brought me before a sunset of rare clarity. The cacophony left behind is faint now. I feel saner, more at peace. The people at my old abode speak loudly of how selfish I have been. They hardly forgive and never forget. But the vices they have piled up for me now stand stupefied before a rare delight I am about to approach. Accuses never help and more often they build tricky getaways beside them. I have found them. So I can only advance now.~

To a friend

Tell me the last time you have gazed at a rainbow. It is true rains and rainbows have gone extinct a little too fast than they were supposed to. We run a lot these days. Treading through thick and thin we see but take nothing inside. We dodge and race to become just another human being. And all we do after that is just breathe. But the reds and blues? They keep on waiting for us, to be appreciated and remembered.

As we walk through the alleys and ashes, we meet and greet people. Some we remember and some we forget. It is nobody’s fault. We are too frail to make promises. As Dylan said once, “tomorrow is a long time.” We know not what awaits us in what we call the next. May be we live to become a happy man or a sad man, a healthy man or a sick man, only till we all become the dead man. The end is cold indeed. Thus we should not bludgeon the warmth, the little we receive while we are still alive.

Years are meant to go away. As the adage says, time will never wait. However it won’t mind if you walk with it. Where would you go? Of course, you’ll go to become happy. And what is happiness for real?  That nobody knows. I can just tell you that it is all yours, wherever you find it. Maybe in your mother’s eye or in your brother’s heart, or maybe in the air. There is a lot of it, ready to respond to your call, like I said about the red (flower) or the blue (sky).

We are misers but we are fluids. We love to flow rather we are born to flow towards the unknown. And as we try to get hold of what we have not seen, we change our course. No offence, the lightness in our being has been inherited from the deity who sleeps within us.

Friends they appear make us smile and then they leave. I am a friend too. I won’t make promises I cannot keep. I will go when I’ll find my time is sliding by me. You cannot stop the friends, you cannot stop me. But you can stop yourself, knowing when and where to inhale what you want, nature, love, laughter, mirth and oh yes sorrow. There is a hollow inside us. Little by little we fill it up with all that we take in from life. Keep moving as you make the empty pail heavy and contented.

As I said I won’t stay forever. I’ll fly away but it does not mean you will not find this friend ever again. Deserting you is never my call. Come to a green meadow walking down the lane of memory. You’ll find me lying there witnessing a sunny afternoon, looking for stars even though the sky is white from the sun. True you will always find me waving at you, just from a few miles away.

Pearl Jam once sang,

“More than friends, I always pledged
Cause friends they come and go
People change, as does everything
I wanted to grow old
I just want to grow old”

Now you know what you need to do, you have to grow, old but strong. Grow through the joy and sadness, grow as the seasons change. Grow with the song you sing or the poetry you love. Grow when the snow is hard or when the rain breaks them. And then at a juncture you will find him, someone greater than friends or everything that meant something to you. Since then you grow with him as you reach the end to slide down it. Never let him go as it becomes a lot easier to find someone who likes to see the dreams you weave and once he is lost nothing will make the melody again. Tell him, “I heart you”. He will believe. And then you smile gently. Behind you the stars would make the perfect backdrop of a silver night.

Tribute

Dear Tagore,

In you I have found a friend through times thick and thin. Today as I write the song which helped my boat to sail through many a storm, I find myself at a little corner of the magnanimity which belongs to you. You have taught me to smile and teach the world, to take less and to give more. You were a giver. Through these words that you once wrote, I gained vision. As I write them again, I wish to touch you.

Yours in dreams and daylight.....

O dear friend of mine, have you known those thoughts of yours? That silent pain?

The love you raise day and night, does it bring down a grief with the morning rain?

Does it fetch the tears in plenty or a bait for up-down breaths of mourning?

But you my dear friend saw what bright happiness between this sorrowful warning?

In my eyes grows the beautiful, the new, and all that which is unsullied

A sky in blue with the green swaying below,nectar in yellow on which the birds feed

They all seem to live like me

Laughing and singing in endless glee

As they smile, they play with fear

Slowly calling death to come near

Mute to pathos, not knowing how to cry

They deal with your precious pain,cold and dry....

A flower I knew once, wilted bravely, with a grin spread far and wide

The silver at night obliviates itself when the sun comes up from the tide

The star would twinkle giving all its light

As a dawn wipes away the dark navy night

And nowhere is a soul as happy as mine

Come to me dear friend, following its shine

The song inside soothes, and heals through a cheer

As a heart then wretched,sleeps amidst peace and care

The tears know no bar, they flow everyday

For once seek laughter, forgetting the grey

Then we all can glitter in glory as the wings take us to what lies fore

We all tune in to a warm harmony as sadness becomes our yesterday's lore....

O dear friend of mine, take the pain with the thought that belongs to you

The love you give to the seasons has a black with a pain lying in its vitue....

With cakes and coffee

With cakes and coffee on a mild afternoon
I closed my eyes and thought
Kevin and I
have walked a long way
together in fun, holding hands
Till he went away to grab the silver spoon.

Seeing darkness within golden yellow
I searched for past memories
ochre in colour
creak when turned over
few have faded, few seem fresh
And few are dead beneath the winter snow.

Kevin, I think, had eyes that were like mine
They like to wander through
lands and rivers
unknown like tomorrow
yet within the reach of knowledge
They stop at night, only when the stars shine.

He took me once to a large green meadow
to see a crimson sun setting down
a blue horizon
to a river that brought
a ship saying him, “Fight for thy land”
He left like a soldier with his grey shadow.

Next Christmas came a present with a man now
 elder to the boy who was away
footprints of time
were clear on his face
which looked tired and lived for months
without the cakes I made him. I wonder how?

The homecoming days soon flew to the sky
and before he was done with his
cup of coffee
the afternoon called him
to march and be the saviour he was.
A teary face bade him adieu with smile that was dry.

The ships brought him back and took him away
for years that brought me
letters and postcards
from countries waging war.
I knew he was brave and till then safe.
The papers relieved me as down my fears would sway.

And then one year there came a bad flood in Italy.
The ship took him there but
brought no more
as on the lush field of play
stood little Kevin and a frail crooked me
beside his coffin which had on it a moist red lily.

Time is our pet, but nasty and disobedient
seeking young blood in his game.
Silly and puerile,
it will just not listen.
And when you send back the yesterday
it punctures your heart giving a deep aching dent.

But the hairs I have are old but in wisdom. Hence
I found a way that never let him go.
With crumbling cake
and coffee that soon turns cold
I sit at the porch to look far and find
my son and grandson come in little steps to stand by the fence.

Fantasy seems like an old lady’s only wealth remaining.
What was I without Kevin?
I raised him
but he kept me young.
As the autumn birds would chirp after fall
I knew from them his breaths could be heard, I would sing.

Yes till I live I would cook and sing.
Only for him I would cook and sing.

To Alejandro, with love

To Alejandro,

My Spanish king, where did you depart on a night of spring?
Young it was with a cold wind and a sky full of stars glittering.
My cello has stopped playing the tune on an hour I know not when
But I remember the flower you gave me, I have kept on it since then

Hope you recall the evening you took my glance through the books of library
The next I saw your face on the glass of a Greco painting at an art gallery
Our eyes met then in pairs of two, bringing a wide smile from the west
Country songs have bored me enough till you brought a rock ‘n roll quest

That French café round the fifth corner still keep glowing that red paper light
And the couple next door are loud even now, over politics they like to fight
The debate over Dante and Mr. Roosevelt still don’t seem to be too old
Alejandro remember the pendant you gave me had my name etched in gold

I wrote to you taking words from Spain that thing those times have left behind
The moments I have spent with you those days showed how life to me was kind
They gave me frolic to the brim with an elegance, that was subtle yet wild
Beaming in its glory I danced at midnight, in the rain, like a little child

It was autumn, the season of fall, but for me nature seemed to be growing
You closed my eyes and took me there, by the river and came that spring
I opened my eyes and you were gone as the wind blew a sea of faces in
I was lost in a land I knew not, without a house, a friend or a kin

I always knew the crowd was scary, I cried as they walked over me
Stooped down with head hung low I could see yesterday in all its glee
Alejandro it was never your fault, you made no promises that were broken
Yet I saw them written in your eyes, deceiving by nature, they left me shaken

Before this poetry turns lousy and heavy, I’d say a good friend you have been
I have kids now, three to number, so I tell you with a heart that is very keen
To see you, from whom I’ve learned the stories I tell them in our childish prattle
And often on a lonely noon I smile seeing the girl next door on a prolonged rattle

The years speak of a lore now, it tells what I shared with a guy and his horse
That raced past the country woods to an island by the beach, dry and coarse
I was happy and I am, you taught the way. Oh! Yes, you can take a bow
Alejandro lets meet all these years later, like the friends we were, then and now.

How sad are we, really?

Tagore dared to write a long long time ago,

"আমার মতো সুখী কে আছে

আয় সখী আয় আমার কাছে"

Today, as the lovely evening wind hummed the song in my ears, the thought struck me. Oh well it’s all about Tagore. The man with such intense eyes can no doubt reach the daunting heights of such bold thoughts. I have been his loyal lover since time immemorial and even in times when adultery seems to be a pardonable offence, I am proud to keep my feelings for him unsullied. Then again love is such amazing thing. Like happiness it grows when we share it. We all have met love, haven’t we? We have come across it by peeping into a mother’s eyes, felt it in a father’s warm embrace or touched it through a lover’s intense kiss. And happiness, it is that precious thing we all wish to protect. Happiness is everywhere, intangible but in no way abstract.

“All the merry birds which sing
And enter into the sunny horizon
Fearless they are, of the fiery orange
they only wish to meet the sun”

The couplet brings to my mind a familiar vision. A common leisure I share with my friend is to observe these birds enjoying their flight in seemingly endless patterns. Delighted as they sound chirping through their aerial journey, often they strike a chord. They remind me of the wonderful people who surround me and mould my living. Friendship has been a constant companion. Though “change be thy name, woman” fits perfectly when it comes to me, my friends have never complained. They have loved me through my good and they have bore with me through my bad. As I upturn the different chapters of life now, there benevolence only touches me deeper and deeper.
Just then, as I’d feel the warmth of a growing radiance within me, a bird would fly away from the flock leaving behind a white trail of despondence over the cloud. A single odd bird, its sudden departure invites a creepy solitude. Have I felt it before? Of course I have. The nights that came following my brother’s demise still seem to be young and melancholic would be the adjective making an understatement to describe them. I won’t elucidate that further as the harrowing memories would then arrive to knock my heart’s chamber in no time. To sum up in a line I was sad then apart from being wounded. We all feel that way when a loved one is removed. And in spite of being poor comforters themselves, words are what the dead man leaves behind; words that shape up the memories to some yellow picture the mind finds easier to place in it. The lonely bird flies off to some unknown island where it was destined to travel. Often it loses its previous direction even without realizing. Fate always executes its operations unhindered and the other birds can only observe her loss for a few moments. The journey drags them forwards. Destiny, so be it.

“What pain was there in the last wind of night
that walked through my blurry eye sight?
It drank my tears in a thirst endless
and gave me strength through gentle caress.”

I was sad then, really. But how long could it linger? Life does stop for a moment when you stumble down on the way, only to help you get up and walk the remaining road. And in every little tremor with which the pathos arrive, one by one, we are offered latent realizations. The sky turns black to give us the bliss of rain. Even the plants let their flowers wither with a smile. The fruits grow in the loom and grass sways in a lush green. Finally a fall comes with a certain brown to wash away everything like yesterday’s lore leaving behind certain emptiness, coarse and dry. Nature teaches us through its vicious cycle to take the hand which stoops down to help us.

Once we were in disdain and then came the wind from the west, rich in the laughter of yesterday. It brought with it a wine and as I drenched myself in the dark red the voice in the air spoke. Bit by bit it recalled me of everything his presence has attached to me till then. Enthralled I was to live through that moment. How could I be sad anymore? I knew I was already walking.

In the many facets of life, we often pour our heart on many people. Some stay and some leave. Goodbyes were never easy to be spelled. Then again, if we were blinded every time by painful segregation, the beauty and lustre were surely to be missed. In the little time we are given to breathe, life stays honest to its virtue of keeping us happy. We are happy to spend silver nights of moonlit romance. We are happy to play with friends on a vast meadow on a noon of spring. And as long as the dove keeps flying light years above, we can keep alive the hope of happiness.

Like many I have found love again, in someone who has found his love in me. I have found love in all those beautiful places where I have been with him. And though I might not see the best in me now, I have a newfound belief. It states, if we be together for a time long enough I might be able to witness myself the way in which he sees me. Then only I can love myself truly and reiterate Tagore like I wish to do. Once that faith comes, along with the glory in which you find another yourself, how sad can you be, really?

Dear Tagore,
You have educated me like it should be, like the filling of a pail, like the lighting of a candle.
Your faithful lover

Epiphany? So be it.

That thing called Rock 'n Roll

The very name pushes a whole gamut of thought up your throat, thoughts jostling together on their way up the vocal alley, to set themselves free as words. Rock ’n Roll, the thing which surpasses all definitions and boundaries….. Those ‘drum-rolls’ which came with the winds from distant Ohio, changed the very notion of who you are. Oh wait, can’t speak about you but at least for me it did.

Down the memory lane as I go through the brittle yellow pages of life, the tryst with rock seems to have become an ancient one now. Just that the lustre stays anew forever and ever. Speaking of the genre, some will say about The Beatles, Pink Floyd; some will bring the iconic Jimmy Page with the Led Zeppelin holding his hands. With Pearl Jam, Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, Doors, Freddie Mercury, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Cream the queue will grow rather long. Then again are these legendary bands playing with two guitars, a bass and drum kit all about the genre? Those who know and love that thing, called Rock ‘n Roll, are already shaking their heads in a no.

My days with rock started within muddy pits of disdain. Dark times those were when I’d sit at one abysmal corner of my room letting the hours of plight to pass. Then appeared one crimson evening when an English guy sang “Wish you were here” thereby giving me some way to express how badly I yearned for my brother’s presence. That was David Gilmour for the rest of the world. The song came with a feeling which calmed my tumultuous inside. It soothed and healed and before leaving it filled a lot of void within me. As if there was a strange stoned woman breathing deep down me and suddenly the Rapunzel she had trapped for quite a while was released. Then again it is how my life has planned the rendezvous with Rock ‘n Roll. Am sure there are other stories of the like and they are happier ones.

Rock ‘n Roll is dynamic. It twists and turns like a meandering river and gets younger with the years. It screams and shouts and turns you on. And as you groove into the music, it touches you. It has its golden bygones that have led to its magnanimous presence defeating the race with age and time. Like you mould yourself as you grow, it has grown too giving birth to one way and the other. Yes, at the end of a very long road you can see the sun. It is waiting for you and it will go down in a bright red shine. That is where you have to reach; the horizon will be your limit. This journey you travel with the lyrics and they hum at your ears the many secrets of life.

When I was young, I remember I’d attach my omens to it. Inviting darkness to my room, I’d light a candle and hold it facing the east to find that ‘Stairway to heaven’. It never showed itself before me but then explained the theory of making it myself. To move on, walk ahead and get what is mine. Suddenly, in its own journey, progressive rock made it all so literal. Often I’d find myself sailing in a boat holding a lamp with a frail glow, all alone in a dark navy ocean with gigantic tides. Jugband blues indeed showed its true colours that way. Psychedelic you see!!

Oh yes I have loved Rock ‘n Roll more than all my teenage boyfriends and though my puerile adventures with romance would end after a brief whirlpool of emotions, that thing called Rock ‘n Roll would just keep coming closer to me. It would paint all sorts of pictures to me. From Norwegian Woods to Tangerine all what grows in distant lands would pass by my sight leaving me astonished. The Tambourine Man would sing to me during lonely nights as pathos of Yesterday would gently rejuvenate. For one they will not hurt me rather they would mildly caress my heart giving a feel of what it was like to be with all that I’ve lost. The tears would fall on the ground and glitter in the silver moon which laid herself down in my room through the open windows. As the water would dry up leaving behind long trails of contemplation, the silence would speak to me, in whispers. It would recall me of promises I might have made once, those which are due to be fulfilled. As I just wrote, this pain is different. It tells you gently what you are capable of, those little things yet to be done and then build up one golden moment. As the wise hour would go, I’d hold the dusty portrait of my brother to my heart for one last time. The apple would faintly cease to play its songs and his smile would tell me that the prince was to come to me, surely. I was a folly to love till then. But when I did make an effort to hold it right, I saw I’ve already learnt a few good things about it. Sweet surprise?? Rock ‘n Roll the name would say.
I once made a journey with rock on a swing. To and fro I'll move as the songs kept ringing to my ears unfolding paradoxes that have baffled me before. And as the tangles open you feel that lightness of being in the air. A certain weight from you is fetched down by gravity and all of a sudden you break free from a shackle. its more like a freedom from being anyone or rather it is the feeling of being a no-one. Then again you are someone right? Who are you? Are there voices in the wind to tell you that? Just when this paradox itself appears intriguing, Rock 'n roll will spare you a dilemma by providing the necessary distraction. You are happy being no-one in spite of being someone. In short, you are just happy.

The songs make us stay delighted. Carefree, we ride over waves after waves in a joyful sea. Happiness is wealth and the world is a miser when it comes to it. Often we rejoice by living in a bowl. The bowl is our arena and we move there unhindered by any worldly force. Just one thing seems like a glitch, the bowl is placed as the edge of a table and even a slight push of wind might upturn it. You know what I’m talking about, that scare of losing a loved one, that fright to feel a scarcity of love within the apparent perfection of our daily lives. But the songs would pay no heed to that. Beyond the supervision of regulations, there is a small island of wishes. The songs take you there while you keep hearing them like a one last time before you go to meet your heart. You live, you imagine, you want and then you conquer. And when imagination is out for a vacation, Rock ‘n Roll will introduce the enigma to you. While there are people rushing and racing to make it big in the bad world as they say, the music will make you recline closing your eyes and have a lazy day. There will be people becoming doctors and engineers and all that big names while all you become is passionate. You get hold a love you can live and die for. Oh yes, it teaches you to live weird and make the most out of it. It makes you valiant enough to trade everything for that one love with which you can die happily beneath the stars. The glorious people, bright stage lights and the undying cheers of thousand fresh spirits who dance to their sounds are the apparent about the big life we all aspire. But what if you turn that to inspiration? Well, maybe the veil of untouchability which forms a transparent sheath over them does not dispel but you do learn to live like yourself, unadulterated by exterior influences. The destinations and prejudices you make are your original thoughts and in a way, the world becomes your cup of tea. What you share is an undying fervour for a single thing which happens to fit your entity in one line. And you start loving it so much that all your pain and mirth encircles it. You become, as I would name a song here, a ‘Simple Man’.

No, the world is not a stringent jailhouse. Those who were austere with their ideas can keep it to themselves. The birds fly, flowers bloom, trees grow and storms make noise whenever they feel like. And Rock ‘n Roll shows you a way to emancipate yourself, letting you be exactly who you are. Yes it has its dark alleys, smeared with pigments of drugs and promiscuous scandals. But Rock ‘n Roll was never about sex and alcohol. It is about Pete Townshend who looks for ‘The Who’ in you. It is about growing young gracefully as you meet your destiny with that one special thing or person who makes the journey worthwhile. The sun is waiting for you showing its orange hues and it will go down only with you. For once, talking and thinking about yourself is not selfish. Rock ‘n Roll spares that conviction. Peace. Now move yourself with the faith in you being unperturbed. Write your name in diamonds on the night sky. Why worry? Be sure, one day all those wishes made by your taciturn mind will come to your abode in little boxes. Well you must know, “good things come in small packages”. And remember, Rock ‘n Roll is one of those things which will not desert you even as you grow old. 
Till then here is Jimmy Page saying to you,
~"Tangerine, tangerine
Living reflections of a dream"~

Colours

Oh yes I am shamelessly taking the cue of other people who have already written about it. Then again we never usually bother to spend a thought for most of the things we do, to frame it better the same things which even the other people do.

Speaking of colours what does exactly come to your mind? A brilliant rainbow occupying the view at the horizon or the mirth which lingers as you smear the pigments on your friend's face. Or is it just the white hibiscus blooming in your porch at night? The blue of sky with the green of grass; the yellow of sun and the red of Rose beneath it all mingled together wrestling towards a certain contrast which says the understatement of life.

And when I speak to you about my days

Happy and sad put together

Hand in hand they sway after

The trembling wind shows them its ways

Subtlety is what I prefer, both in thoughts and actions. Keeping sync with that I'd choose my colours. Colours which etch my life, paint the vistas, seen and unseen. The red I find in the wine of love oozes towards a brighter yellow which illuminates a field of green. Suddenly there is a white amidst the leaves, the white which scatters out from the sunshine creating the edge where vision gets lost. Oh!! Am I seeing the bright ones? Just then you find a random violet hidden somewhere down the dense foliage. Look for it else it will not appear before your eyes. And when you hold it gently, you see the streaks of navy near its bosom. Yes, the darker side of blue from the cold depths of sea. The blue, which being dragged out by one random tide, falls on the sand only to fade away. And if this sounds like oblivion, I'll bring the grey to you. The grey of steel rails or wretched walls brings with it the depression of being led to certain nowhere. Often that nowhere ends at crossroads which together hold the immense of black. Black is mighty and it alludes to those mysteries of life unearthed from the bygones. Bit by bit it spreads its impervious veil to blind the mind’s eye overpowering nostalgia and all the prudence clogged there. Then again is this all about grey and black? Won’t the optimist get over the gloom to mix both of them on his palette and then paint the endless sky when the clouds up there become moist and heavy? Close your eyes for a while and you can let go your body in the inebriety which flows in the maddening winds then. And when you wake up from the aerial slumber you can find the little orange patches towards the west, the very west where the sun has gone down. Smile at them and they would come to touch your soul with letters from the window pane by which your beloved sits to remember you, in a country, oceans apart. As his face sings out “Remember Me Lover” the moon appears in its ‘silver shoon’ adjacent to the orange. The moon adds to the intoxication around. It sprouts out desire in you from the portals of romance embedded in you. Much like a wild eroticism you will wish to make love to nature, to the tranquillity in which the moon treads, to him seated thousand miles away. And as the night of passion dies drawing a cobwebby picture of cherished memories, the eastern sky welcomes a faint pink, a message of goodwill and hope that turns the bad man good. The beginning arrives to set forth the vicious cycle for the umpteenth time as the breaths are spent to reach the inevitable end. Death? Yes, death. The demise coloured in Sepia ochre that runs beneath the veins of dried leaves. Life goes on as the embryo within the mother’s womb takes a yawn before waking up and death exists as a part of life, not as it’s opposite. Thanking Murakami for the wise words I’d let the colours shine on their own, undisturbed and unadulterated….

Why did I cry this time in the rain

Why did I cry this time in the rain?

Am sure when I lied I was seventeen then.

Reading the very title of this piece people who know me will laugh. I'm a bit prodigal when it comes to my tears. What new can there be if I cry, only this time when it rained?

Today was like any other day. With the heat surging this morning discomfort was etched on every human face visible around. We all waited for the clouds to darken. A brief meeting with friends and the usual fun that comes with it was subtly refreshing. The gleeful Amrita and funny Jb can always make me laugh in spite of the lingering torture that the weather imposed. Then again what are friends for, if not this? The evening came putting stillness within the leaves. I wondered as if a certain senility has gripped the surrounding nature. Something needed to be released. Unsure of the what, I retraced my way back home. The journey was accompanied by those questions of tomorrow which have become prosaic by now. Their regularity in attendance has made me take them for granted. As if it did not bother anymore, the great dilemma between what I am doing and what I am meant to do. The quest for who I am appeared tiring for a while. It too did not matter. And much like the trail of polluted air behind a moving vehicle, all of them followed me, making the wind a wee more heavy.

Darkness arrived when the thoughts were wiped off along with the oppressive languor. For a change black brought hope to my eyes. I was exhilarated because I knew it would rain. Seated at the balcony I revised an old habit, stretching my hand out of the grilled apertures to welcome the first showers of the season. The wind has gone crazy by then and its random blows immersed me into an inebriety of a kind I am scared of. Just when everything was reaching the acme of perfection along a steady acclivity, I realized that it was not raining yet. The vagueness of mild drizzle failed to soothe a thirsty crow. I kept on stretching my hand in a broken expectation. It was then that I felt the pain and cried.

Initially it would show itself through slight tremors and then it churned my inside which sounded much like an empty vessel. The memoirs I have written till yesterday creaked open their yellow pages. The faces I have loved and lost were drawn on them. They smiled at me. I know I can never outgrow them, I wish not to. And there was a wretched stack of what I knew and what I knew not. Memory and oblivion displayed the virgin dreams and the deeper I trod through them, the road would just keep growing. The apparitions appeared soon enough to wipe the gush of water flowing down my eyes. Lassitude I suppose was what held me then. The pain had taken a definite turn by that time as it brought before me the things that ended ages ago. The last game of chess with my brother opened a field of thorns before the bosom full of void and as my legs bled due to their sting a paper boat sailed to me. It took me to the afternoon she lost the light in her eyes. But then my grandmother was right there with the smile which evened out her wrinkles. And when the sweeping imageries made the wait unbearable,

“The rain fell slow, down on all the roofs of uncertainty
I thought of you and the years and all the sadness fell away from me”

Thank God my life is not ‘Floyd’-less or whatever, you know what I mean. The monsoon drenched every vista spread before sight as it gave the surrounding a longed serenity, whose need even I failed to fathom. The years went away and so did the sadness. Suddenly the music which came from the constant downpour had an uncanny similarity to the one which strummed out of the chords of his guitar. He whose love I would never lose in spite of failing to promises made to me. The rains were mystic. Though my oneness to a certain deity seated light years above can be debatable, I did feel united to my love. The brittle faith will be reformed soon I knew. With the fragrance of wet soil enriching my senses, I found a reason to rejoice. I had a love that supports me through emancipation. It reminds me of friendships which embrace the flawed human deep down. What it gave me was not just shelter to my puerile mistakes but fortitude to endure these crippling maladies. I knew I could go on when he was by my side. As the clouds over my cup of tea dispelled, the rain finally ceased to cry.

The sky had a redness of wine mingled with the usual black. Then as silence filled the space that was vacant a thrill touched me. It was a pain indeed, what I felt all the while. No, I will not give it a sudden transformation to pleasure. It came from the depths of the blue skies to ache every corner of my heart not to indulge in sadism at my plight but to relieve me from an unseen bondage. As if, it was a latent epiphany which rejuvenated not for its own sake but to wake me up. Sometimes it is good to get hurt.

Yes I cried this time in the rain

And I did that as I was in pain

The pendulum in my room kept swinging between past and present.