the day the music died.....

I love songs and all that they stand for. For the creator, for the listeners. The stories, the characters, the landscapes, the pauses filled with music, words and breaths. I love it all. The songs seep inside me, from the air I breathe, from the water that balances itself on my pores, the songs they float and find their way in, inside me. They shake me from within, blend in my bloodstream, like red wine would and intoxicate me, like a deep, old bodied red wine would. I feel their stories in their rhythms, I breathe in and out with their pauses. My soul wraps itself around the shape of the words and they rock me to sleep,  crying, laughing, watching, still, dancing…however. I fall in the abyss of their resonance, the notes they carry me down, inside..towards their light, their glow, my glow. I glow like a crazy diamond, I am on fire. 

A movie, all by myself

I soaked it all in. After a long, long time. The mood, the colours, the eyes and the shadows in them. Old world stories hold a charm of their own. They sound sturdy, solid. A piece that has weathered it all, stood the test of time and emerged, wrinkled and real. And the scraps of fear left back on the plate after the meal is devoured are real too. You feel their burnt taste on your tongue. His fears become yours’, fears of the unfathomable, to ingest the loss and come to terms with the darkness and its dark, deep shadows which are blacker than black itself. And then, a blinking, fading darkness of light shines dimly..flickering. You are pulled to it. It raises its flame in your eyes and glows bright on your soul. Daybreak might be a possibility, after all. The inky, sluggish black night may pass and the red sun will rise in our window, our piece of the world. Magic or witch craft? Surely, magic all the way! The magic of cinema, of storytelling, of last frame smiles that reach the eyes and linger on, long after the end credits have rolled by. 

Happy Holidays

The baddeee chhutteeee is here. And then, an odd 60 days isn’t baddeee enough for them. That’s not a really big number, they reason. Come to think of it, it isn’t. What would a measly 60 days, 2-ish months amount to in the larger scheme of things?

 60 days, sun-kissed, leisure-filled…with the sand clock tricking dull-ly, or maybe even not. Lying around, listless, drenched in your own sweat earned whilst doing absolutely nothing. The laziness to move a limb, the luxury of it too. Long conversations, in whispers, with your animals. Soft voices, lest you wake up the world outside the jungle. Sluggish you, carrying truckloads of dreams in your heart. Dreams of wild safaris, having chicken yet again for dinner, the new Doreamon water bottle to be acquired from the top shelf, yellow mangoes at the end of the day, swimming in cold water with sdolphons and sharks and of course, with my Papa, cycling to far away destinations with the little one perched behind, holding on tightly with her claws, like life depended on it. Webs of stories being spun all through the day and then, some more in the night time reverie. The changing shapes of the moon, the changing of the cars parked across the compound, colour-ful clothes to be worn, oreo-s for friends to be carried with us, and in the middle of these mundane chores, let us not forget the importance of rendezvous messages. A day filled with these and then, some colours, fruits, toys, tears, chalks, shrieks, buttons, torches, laughter, shampoo bottles, story books, shadows, walks, eyes, touch, runs, falling, bathing, dancing, music, and more conversations that spill over. An un-labeled jar crammed with all of this, the top not willing to thread itself around the opening. The jar that heaves, breathes and dreams. Life filled with stuff. The stuff summer holidays are made up of.  Worth sweating over.

After Murakami

There should be no phase about it. There isn’t any after or before Murakami. There is not even a blimp in your life when you read him, for the very first time…or for that matter, for any number of times. The life-feel indicator shows no graphic deviation in your functioning, thinking, feeling. He mixes into your bloodstream, as smoothly as alcohol, the laced one. No discernible altering of the settings. At all. And that’s why you own him like he belongs, you gobble him up, and he slides down inside of you, effortlessly and stays there. And that’s that. You now know him, like you know yourself.

Filled to the brim

That’s the mood of me today, maybe even the feel of me. I feel swollen with emotions – varying in shapes and sizes, all cramped together inside of me, not quite fitting together to the tee. The blank spaces within breathing, heaving with hope and desire to be free of the burden of these crumpled, laden emotions. I feel bloated with the humid dreams that come crashing to me the moment I shut my heavy, sleep filled eyelids on my moist, sweaty eyes. The excessive feels flow out of my pores soaking me wet, creasing my soul, crumpling my skin. The tears, they don’t stop. I want to plug all outlets. To stop it all from draining out of me onto the arterial pathways that lead away from me, my heart. I want to chew on them, ingest them all…and grow heavier with their wisdom and strength inside of me. And then, I want you to know about all of the inmates of my being.. I want you to know and recognize them.. I want for them to flow into you from my touch of you, from my gaze of you and from all of my spacious silences. And then, maybe someday, we shall co-exist. 

Mixed up - the book and I

The book keeps pulling me towards it and you keep pulling me away. You, my life, my mish mashed priorities, my upside down outer world and my inside out inner one…all of you. And yes, I want to run to the book and hide behind the veil of it’s words. I want to drown in the sea of vowels and consonants, unseen. I want to disappear inside the tapestry of the plot and seep it all in, till the book becomes me and I, the book. And, then, I have lived it all right up till the very end, I want to rest, inclined on my spine with my weight against other stories…and close my eyes. THE END.