Pause.
Play!
Pause.
Why can't I just hit the stop button!
The same reel going over and over…
Not jaded, yet.

Dodging through the busses, cars and autos
Unscathed, not sure how,
For fatalism has just one drawback,
It leaves one on the driver’s seat, but with no control.
Pause…

…a few hours later
‘The General’ shoves me into my suit and latches on my seatbelt.
Cruising past the same ol’ beggars
Through the same lanes and potholes,
Tears over the same grievances
And laughter too seems simply so forced.

Not jaded, yet.
Hopefully just need to hit the eject button,
And throw in
An unused cassette.


* ‘The General’ is the song on my alarm :)

No black feathered ravens, but white feathered birds
Stoically perched, before the threshold
Of mourning mortals, and silent souls.
Stood long with my head bowed,
Until invited inside…

Soaking in the Grief,
Instinctively initiating chants in my head
Of a lord long ignored.

A day of endings this,
Of reminders and silent tears,
Ironically some for those not even known
And then some more,
For those who once meant all the world to me…
Misunderstandings, regrets,
And an unwilling acceptance
Of how all will now always be.

Aye, been a while since I rambled… soumabh, mate, I hate to see my blog rust away too, just not allowed myself the time to think and relax and indulge in the little things of life… but today, is just not the same as usual… its cooler, there's a soft breeze in the air, and… a smile in place of the etchings of tense determined lines… aye, blue be do, come ramble on with me…

A little beggar girl and an even littler babe, cart-wheeling at the centre of the road and then the show winded up by the elder sitting down and playing the dholki as the other dirty lil cherub continued to go round and round… one minute it's the hard earth under her head, and then the cool blue sky…

We sunk out together today once again, not to the gates of Bacchus this time though, but to the less intoxicating getaways of city life – the movies. Alas! The newspaper had mislead us and not a single watchable flick was on at that time : ( but then… it was all for the best, for what could two girls possibly like more than the next idea that struck us next– shopping! And so we went right ahead! … and bought a pair of slippers, two stoles, a sweater and several pairs of ear rings between the two of us, a lunch of American chopsuey and soup, and our wallets lighter by way too much for me to dare to count…. : ) aye me be happy! Blue be do, I love my sadu : P no… trust me I really didn't go get drunk... just feel light…

Wrote the above two days ago...while sitting at office waiting for the clock to strike six. Rushed home and then got dressed up to party! had fun. good fun. dressed up all pretty making full use of the goodies from my afternoon shopping spree : ) ...and the evening was purely divine... i let the music take me away... and the rest well was just very very cool : )

Got a rude shock last evening. three blasts in my own dear city- Delhi. One in a market where my sadu was shopping just about an hour before. aye.. lots of people, all gone.. and yet i hear crackers outside. I agree we've got to get back to normalcy and not let the terrorists gleefully grin away at a city robbed of its happiness, yet crackers- already?? the show goes on I guess...

My guess is the Kashmir terrorists might be behind it- what with the recent earth quake their suffering would have only increased. They did not like the sight of a nation celebrating and revelling in the joys of life... probably wanted us to feel, experience all that they do, day after day... since decades.

...been growing, way too fast for my liking...

A sweltering hot afternoon, the sun’s rays makes us flinch a step back. A little poem hidden away amidst the criss-crossed bands, safety pins, combs, notes…, peals of unfamiliar laughter replacing the old loved ones ring in my ear, yet another pair of moist eyes spill into mine own, whilst the all too familiar songs play on while older boys look upto me… Experiences, yes…the world spilling into my little cup…period.

Glistening eyes looking through the slightly smudged glasses, tufts of hair on either side of his temples. A dark goblin like man sitting opposite to me, a small stuffy canteen…my cup absorbing his beads of sorrow, at first trickling, and then gushing out… twice my age, looking for momentary peace, atleast. A long tale and a short hour later, rubbing his eyes in disbelief, a little lighter, yes?

Suffering from two days of silence, light headed me and one more quite so like me, stepped out of the factory of words for, a simple, slightly silly, little date with Bacchus. Aye, I was an old though not too familiar guest at his courts, and took it completely upon my two shoulders to introduce her to this world of spirits, at 2 in the afternoon, with fingers crossed that none would miss the two pixies missing from their machines. After a lie and a ride on a noisy three wheeler leaving us 15 bucks lighter, we got onto the asphalt road of the cottage that promised to be the tavern of spirits we’d come seeking.

Accustoming to the dim lights we made our way to a table, past the odd middle aged couple and settled into the sofas. On the far end another couple queerer to my eyes as they assiduously avoided their child left in the care of an ayah. Stretching my hand for the menu and asking the waiter for the drinks menu while I followed the trained polite eyes for the thoughts squirming beneath the uniform. In the ensuing hour, two or maybe three (what was it!?) vodkas and a trembling breathing heart, poured into my cup, whilst an absolutely absurd selection of music from Abba to Avril whispered away at the back. Out of the doors of the tavern we drew back blinking as the sun sore at the shoddy ladies shoved us into the shadows of the plank above. Mustering up courage, hand in hand, laughing, dizzy, happy, crossing the road, talking, we made our way back….topping the silliness (now I can say it all here right?) I reached back absolutely straight faced only to realize that all through the way back my fly had been …. (LOL) (somebody shut (atleast) me up!)

Seems to be my gift (or curse?) at how my cup just keeps taking in all else’s weight. No wonder then how little poems come into being that I refuse to call my own, and lie wrinkled in the crevices of my handbags. Or when the littlest thing makes me fear the worst. Paranoid? Or just a bit too sensitive? Yet to figure this one out.

The golden haired witch with a heart of gold living with me, can apparently heal a person, no matter how far he/she might me. She’s gonna climb onto her little broom and fly into floots’s world (Scotland, yes?) once again, in a very short while…

just because... i still can't get over this song!

BULLA KI JAANA

A Kafi written by Sufi Saint Bulla Shah, sometime in the 18th century

Bulla1 ki Jaana main kaun

Bulla ki Jaana main lkaun

(Bulla! I know not who I am)

(Bulla! I know not who I am)

Na main moman2 vich maseetan3

Na main vich kufar4 dian reetan5

Na main pakan6 vich paleetan7

(Nor am I the believer in mosque)

(Nor am I in the rituals of the infidel)

(Nor am I the pure in the impure)

Na main andar bed-kitiban8

Na main rehnda bhang-sharaban9

Na main rehnda mast-kharaban

(Nor am I inherent in the Vedas)

(Nor am I present in intoxicants)

(Nor am I lost nor the corrupt)

Na main shadi na gamnaki10

Na main vich paleetan pakeen

Na main aabi na main khaki

(Nor am I union nor grief)

(Nor am I intrinsic in the pure/impure)

(Nor am I of the water nor of the land)

Na main aatish na main paun

Bulla ki Jaana main kaun

(Nor am I fire nor air)

(Bulla! I know not what I am)

Na main arabi na lahouri

Na main hindi shahar nagouri

Na hindu na turk pashouri

(Nor am I Arabic nor from Lahore)

(Nor am I the Indian City of Nagaur)

(Nor a Hindu nor a Peshawri turk)

Na main bhet mazhab da paya

Na main aadam-havva jaya

Na koi apna naam dharaya

(Nor did I create the difference of faith)

(Nor did I create adam-eve)

(Nor did I name myself)

Avval-akhar aap nu Jaana

Na koi duja hor pachhana

Maithon na koi har syana

(Beginning or end I know just the self)

(Do not acknowledge duality)

(There's none wiser than I)

Bulla shauh Kharha hai kaun

Bulla ki Jaana main kaun

(Who is this Bulla Shah)

(Bulla! I know not who I am)

Meanings of words in the song: 1 Bulla - Bulla Shah, sufi saint2 Moman - muslim3 Maseetan - mosques4 Kufar - idolatry5 Reetan - rituals6 Pakan - the pure7 Paleetan - the impure8 Bed-kitaban -- Vedas & Islamic scriptures9 Bhang-sharaban -- opium & liquor10 Gamnaki -- funeral

Hush now, you don’t want to startle it, do you?
Perched on the lowest branch,
It's magnificent feathers almost touching the ground.
The bark would peel off if we try,
Rich brown, moistened by the season’s first monsoon.
Careful, we mustn’t frighten it!
Deep Blue, as though the azure Delhi sky
Had dripped into it's skin.
Proud, as the lineage of rulers
Who once strutted on this soil.
Hush! Listen to them calling out!

Pursue the sight of this enchanting bird I must,
Sighing, for this is all that remains
Of a once fascinating life
Donne the clothes of a lady I must
But for one passion to legally own,
To scamper into the wild,
For the prize of a token left behind,
In the flight of
The first lady of our nation’s birds.

First, I was blazing with rage. Then I was left simply dumfounded. And now I'm having difficulty arranging my scattered thoughts. I think I've reached one of those points in my life again when I'm letting my parents down again. Come to think of it in personal matters I moved away from the ‘ideal’ image a while ago, and now I’ve let them down professionally as well. “So it's a business magazine you’re writing for, then why don’t you write articles on economic issues as well? When are you going to put the MBA knowledge to use?” My dad despondently attempting at altering my professional course. In my head I recall the time when in 10th grade my marks were good, but not great, and listening to dad’s silence at the other end of the phone had completely broken me down. Responsibility. I have a warped idea that I need to perform well, for my parents, if not for myself. And there that day I felt like a looser who had only one primary responsibility and was not competent enough to fulfil that one role properly. Subsequent years I went on to perform well enough, except this morning the conversation with my dad made me feel like I was back in 10th grade on the other end of that phone. The pace at which I've been running at, did not allow me the luxury to spare a few tears to pamper myself with, and there that comment’s been rotting in my head until this evening’s events.

It's the first time I'm listening to my heart. I'm writing. I'm doing what I dreamt of as a little girl. Except the hitch is of the doubts in my head, afterall I'm not trained to write for magazines. Plus my dad will probably never show my relatives what his girl writes. I write for the back pages of the magazine where my headlines are about dipping cleavage lines and silicon implants. If that was not bad enough, the copy team has added and subtracted seemingly according to the fancy of a nine year old, where meanings are fumbled up, writing style is ravaged and the entire course of the story is severely mutilated! I am scared of reading my article once again, it's an absolute catastrophe!

So I'm this lil girl who knows squat about media or journalism, and from one end am being led to believe I'm good enough to be in the editorial team, and from the other end that perhaps I’m just a blue-eyed girl better fitted in any place but here!

Tabloids. The thought scares me.

No matter how hard you try, you just don’t find a place to belong to. Like a tempest, never to settle down. Raging. Raging.