of dates and other specifics

The specifics do not work for me. They are not my mapping tools. That said and out of the way, I ponder, what is it exactly that acts as a marker for me. How do I locate my origin and weave the rest of my reality around it? Some days, it’s the feel of it, on most days I think, it’s the feel. It  is my navigator, my compass. And then on other days, when the feel is lost and I am out on shallow, feel-less, flaky ground, I rely on the smell and the stench of it (after all, it would be safe to assume that a feel-less day can definitely not be smelling great). The stench of fear, anguish dot the entire expanse and guide me through the day. And then, there is the anticipation of tomorrow, that sometimes gets you past today and even a couple of days, months and years…the waiting for a day filled with feel and aroma, a day which does not require a guided tour, pointers…because you don’t wade past such days, you inhabit them, fully. You wear out and live in each moment, lest it pass by untouched. These days, they don’t add up to a journey, they are the destinations.

Saturdays and Sundays

Two of my favourite-st days of the week, any week. I get by from Mondays to Fridays day dreaming about the Saturday Sunday to follow. I cannot pin point the one quality that makes me long for them. Maybe it’s the nothing scribbled on my canvas for those two days, maybe it’s the sharing of that nothingness, the doused in nothing to do together-ness that appeals to me. These are bare and simple days, stripped off the everyday tasks that parade themselves in all important clothes and wear badges of seemingly utmost significance. But my days, well, they carry no tags, they are pointless in their existence and therefore, of utmost significance to me. I thrive on nothing, no pointers, drifting with the wind kind of navigatory rules steer me, wake me up and make me take interest. The not knowing about the next stop makes the journey thrilling and not just the destination intriguing. It is enjoying these empty days, bereft of purpose, that make me connect to myself. I like staying in touch with me. And all the noises of life and its chores, can drown my inner voice. I lose myself in the din. But, then on quieter days like these, the connection sometimes is re-established and I can hear you, the you inside of me. And I like that. 

aaj...jaane ki zid naa karo

The day today, filled to the brim and spilling. Do I like them this way or empty? Somedays this and the most days that.

Guitar strings sounding taut and crisp enough to bruise the ears and shed blood. From the eyes.

I inhabit Nazi Germany most afternoons. Or maybe, it inhabits me. I can taste it in my throat. It holds my hand and I can feel its pulse, or the lack of it, in my palm. Admist all the fear, death, cold bonfires, out of tune accordions, hunger, sleepless nights, workless days and all other frosted feelings, I can sniff out childhood, hope and innocence…and my eyes burn with the smell of them. Hope in the middle of dead feeling marshes can sound, smell and look like a crude, ugly indulgence. Not just out of place but completely unwarranted. And it is from this aberration, this dash of colour in an otherwise gloomy landscape..that the colours begin to dilute, mix and spread themselves across the canvas and a story blooms born from within overgrown shrubbery of despair and sadness.

And then, the kids wake up to the drizzle of rain in the mountain ranges of the cold, picturesque foothill town in the Himalayas..and to a dancing, bubbling blue umbrella.

From stealing apples from trees in a burning Germany to savouring leftover pickles hidden from all others, universally childhood is experienced wearing sun tainted glasses on the soul, all is beautiful and exaggerated, in a good way.