Words are all I have to make the hurt go away

Staring at a blank page in front of me,
I wonder what magic I can create on it.
Use colours, words, graphics or anything to ensure it’s not blank anymore.
I don’t like to leave it white.
It seems to be staring at me with an accusing glance,
Blaming me for God knows what.
Probably it’ trying to tell me how similar we both are...
Each a possibility,
Each with a lot of potential
And each wasted.
Yeah, there!
It looks more like me now.
With meaningless words scribbling on it.
The race continues between my mind and my hands,
To see who gets the better of whom
They seem to be coordinating well, but after a point,
I’m sure one will give up.
I’d rather it be my mind, coz who wants a hand that dictates the mind?
There, almost done. The page has no colours, just words and more words.
Each jostling with each other for space and sense
For a breath of sanity,
Reaching out to you through a blank canvas
Should I have left it that way?
A blank canvas? Full of potential and possibilities?
Where would it leave me then?
Unfulfilled, aimless and lost
Like my hand that’s typing this out
And like my mind that’s churning out these thoughts.
Dusting the cobwebs that have rested here for long.
It’s time to move on...to another blank canvas...called Life.

A miracle?

Conjoined twins
Joint at the torso
With one stomach, one pair of legs and one set of kidneys
But they have two hearts, two brains, and two radiant faces.
Are they two or one?
Will they always love each other?
Will one ever grow sick of his double?
Whose wishes will win?
If one wants to play in the garden and the other wants to sit and read in silence,
Which will they do?
More importantly, who will do what?
Will they teach the world tolerance
Or Pity?
Will they Live happily ever after
Or Die everyday?
Do they embody just one soul
Or a pair?
Are they both happy or does one’s emotions also get the better of the other’s?
Are they truly conjoined?
Or just disjointed in thought, action and belief?
A vagary of nature, crafted by it and forgotten soon after...

The Dream Palace

Rini was busy playing with her friend. The five-year-old loved to be the princess of her dream kingdom. And she loved it when the charming prince, her best friend, doted on her, like a slave rather than a prince. She would tell him all her secrets, all her adventures, her deepest fears and her recent exploits. He would listen, seldom interrupting, but always attentive, drinking in the details of her existence.
When mummy called, she would rush off, but not before hiding her prince in her doll cupboard, away from prying eyes and wagging tongues. Mummy never came to know about her dear friend and she never chose to tell mummy about it. Not because she was ashamed about her silent, docile friend, but because even she knew nobody would understand her friendship with the prince or would appreciate it.
Besides, as long as they understood each other, the world did not exist for them, at least it did not exist as long as they were together, and until mummy called her to check on her or ask her to fetch something for the baby or just to cuddle her.
But as she grew older, the prince seemed to become distant. Princess Rini wanted him to talk to her, to take her away on his white horse, to a land where mummy’s voice would not reach her. Where the baby’s cries would seem like a gurgling river, where daddy would not be able to pick her up and place her on his lap to hear about her day at school.
Rini wanted the prince to talk to her about the world he came from, for she knew it was different world. Different from the one she knew. She realised that she could no longer find her palace and the rows of beautiful girls who would help dress her up and the lovely gardens where she would play hide-and-seek with the prince.
The memories faded, but Rini kept going back to the old tin trunk in a corner of the store room — for that’s where the prince lived now.
She hoped he would speak to her the way he had ages ago. She looked again and again for the white palace, the green gardens, the blue sky and the sailing clouds. But they seemed very distant and unrecognisable. Over time, she forgot about the prince. He continued to live in the tin trunk and sometimes, when the world seemed irrational and insensitive, he would come into a corner of a mind and stand by her thoughts. Surprising, after all these years, he still listened in the same attentive way, understanding and supportive. She was always glad for his presence.
Then one day, she found her little daughter playing with the prince. For a second, a stab of jealousy gripped her heart. Then she realised that her prince had found another princess. And as she looked, she saw them running around the gardens of the marble palace, gay in their innocence. And with them, her heart ran, like an unbridled horse, galloping into the sailing clouds and the blue skies. And from her high perch, she never lost sight of her prince and her little princesses ever again, not even for a second.

Househaunting again

It's that time of year again, when a cloud-less sky breaks into showers right when you want to look at the next available house. House-hunting and bin badal barsaat go hand in hand. Their cosmic connection ensures that the more tired you are and the more helpless you feel, the more heavy is the downpour.
The rain gods have proved me right twice this time, but both times the showers, instead of dampening my spirits, lifted my soul to the skies so that I could personally thank the heavens for being there, and reducing the heat generated by the numerous disappointments.
I've seen all kinds of places this time, in all parts of Delhi...nope, I missed out on North Delhi I guess.
There were houses I looked for in the South, in the East and in the West, and each more unsuitable than the other. One was so cramped, there was no place even for my breath to rest. Another was one was so exorbitant, it was funny...and the broker showed me the house even though it was double my budget. He just wanted me to appreciate his sense of aesthetics and judgement! He's yet to show me the place he insists is the perfect one for me. There'll be another post on this blog once that revelation is made.
Oh! and of course, the number of property dealers who convinced me there are NO 1BHKs (one bedroom, hall, kitchen...and yes, the bathroom is also included) in Rajinder Nagar. Would like to locate at least ten just to spite them :)
And yes, the ringtones one encounters while househunting is amazing. There's always at least one Om Jai Jagdish Hare and one Gayathri mantra. But this time, there was a Hey! Mr Bomb too. And it belonged to this dealer, who I really wished lived up to his name — Lucky M. But unfortunately, he was quite unlucky for me.
And there was Amma, who was into this business so she could earn enough for davai-daru. This information shocked an Americanised South Indian also househunting with me...He tried to appear as discreet as possible when he enquired, "Does she mean she drinks liquor?"
That was something to keep me smiling through a hopeless round of looking at houses that were available until two days before my urgent need materialised.
But so it is with househunting as it is with everything in life. Things happen only when that wise guy up there wants it to happen. And for those who snigger and wonder why I'm going through all this trouble when I'll get the house only when I'm destined to, here's a piece of wisdom I've totally imbibed by now: God helps those who help themselves.
Maybe a few prayers would help hasten the miracle that I know is coming my way!

Bharatpur visited

Clap trap, clap trap
The tonga’s on its way
Breaking the silence of a forest of birds
Nesting, preying, in flight and in perch.
With binocs round the neck
And a bird book in hand,
The tourists look for the feathered tourists
Hoping to find a find.
Welcome to Bharatpur, two-legged ones all
And also welcome, you slithering beauties
That elude the vistor’s eye.
A treasure trove of nature,
Depleting by the year
All that may be left behind soon
May be feathers and the neelgai at the temple in the park
But before it’s all over
And the birds refuse to haunt their favourite haunt
Go to the bird watcher’s paradise
And take a tour on the tonga, going
Clap trap, clap trap

Brushstrokes

There’s a blank canvas in front of me
Urging me to colour it with my words.
I oblige
But I know not the hues that spill out onto it
Playing with the virgin whiteness in front of me
Staining it with thoughts that have no meaning
Scarring it with words that have no weight
I indulge
For the sake of this canvas
And for the sake of another canvas
That lies hidden somewhere deeper down,
I explore
Knowing not where this exercise is taking either of us…
The canvas
Or me.
But does it matter? After all when life and death doesn’t matter,
When love and loved ones don’t matter
Where intangible things called religion and caste matter more
Where honour has a price more dear than two living hearts and bodies
Where a death is worth a column of space and
And a celebrity wedding or kiss means more than The limbs a poor child lost for a measly Rs 50.
How does it matter if one more soul is moving along misguided and aimless
In search of eternal peace and eluding happiness
In faith that this is the best there is
For the canvas and the painter;
How then does anything matter beyond the here and now,
Beyond the meaningless words that have covered this vastness
Have clothed this naked page with their own inadequacies
Or does it matter?
The answer my friend isn’t blowin in the wind
It’s probably waiting to be painted on another eluding canvas
Where colour can penetrate thoughts and where dreams are not in black and white where life is not in grey and where paradise is closer to existence than reality is.
I succumb
To that dream
To that mirage
To that illusion
And I triumph for I exist beyond the rainbow and beyond the tiny letters stringed together on this line and hung out to dry.
And I live
And I love
And I lose
And I win.

Listen, someone's calling

Make God Your Guru
Let Him Tell You What To Do
Listen, He's Calling Clear and True
Take Time To Listen, Take Courage To Obey
The Inner Voice Is Calling Calling You

There's an echo all around me. People telling me what they think is the best thing; how they feel a predicament should be solved. They remind me without fail that it's ultimately my decision, probably afraid that they push me to believing something I don't think I believe in. But that's the vulnerability of an advice. It's so right for someone and could wreak havoc in someone else's life.
But at some point it so essential, at least for me, it's sacred. With all the voices around me growing from a distant hum into a cacophony, I begin to discern a whisper. With a little effort and introspection, this whisper emerges out of the shadow of my soul and becomes the most prominent strain in the music of decision making. It hangs around even when you try pushing it away and just grows louder until you can't deny its existence anymore. It forces you to listen to it and drums itself on the windowpane of your heart. It wants to come out into the world of reality and wants to be implemented. It's an insistent voice, and I believe, it's my inner voice. Sometimes I choose to follow it, sometimes I don't. But I can never ignore it. So, when I want to rebel, I simply acknowledge its presence and trick it, buying time or better still, justifying my actions. And it just slinks to a dark corner, waiting to reprimand me when my time has come, eager to tell me: See? I told you so.
And then, I just say thanx and let it rule me, trampling over my emotions, my sentiments and my very existence. But the thanx is also for being allowed to live my life as I pleased, to having chosen my boundaries and crossing them, to have let myself return when I chose and from where I thought was THE END.
And the thanx is due for all the voices that build the echo through which my inner voice struggles to make itself heard and followed, till THE VERY END.