tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18622691051480130472024-03-14T21:03:38.245+05:30in-betweenVagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.comBlogger389125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-49676658880880408552023-12-10T18:23:00.007+05:302023-12-11T11:29:12.647+05:30...<span id="docs-internal-guid-63431135-7fff-5303-0d57-05ae17393abc"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Roboto Mono", monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>As I settle in the evening with my cup of tea, trying to paint a picture of what I felt, to record it, so that I can come back to it again, I can feel it slipping away.</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Roboto Mono", monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Roboto Mono", monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">It is a rare occurrence when I am not able to gauge what I feel. I can pinpoint exactly what stage I am at, what malady is knocking on my door. But it was different this afternoon, a quiet and pleasant afternoon in the ‘summer-y’ winter of Mumbai, where it's neither hot nor cool. A sweet, but not jarringly so, controlled happiness flooded my chest as I lay with the room-darkening curtains drawn, eyes closed while my daughter lay beside me, pretending to eat a rainbow which her beloved Horton had brought in for her.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Roboto Mono", monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Imagine a tiny fissure in an airtight compartment—that minuscule hole where the air just gushes in, slowly but surely. My heart filled with a feeling that I had not experienced in some time, in a long time, </span><span style="font-family: "Roboto Mono", monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">ever?</span><span style="font-family: "Roboto Mono", monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">. It was contentment enveloped in quiet happiness—nonchalant happiness. It was a busy morning, like most weekend mornings, and I was looking forward to a nap which got pushed to early evening (late afternoon). I took my eight intentional deep breaths trying to fall asleep, and it kept coming in. Eyes shut, I could feel my lips curve into a smile. I am not superstitious, but I am afraid of happiness; somehow it is always the calm before the storm. This time around it did not stop and I resisted fighting that feeling, it kept gushing in. Now my heart is filled. <i>For now.</i></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Roboto Mono", monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">It is not better to have loved and lost because the knowledge of the feelings felt and the truth of now, where one is living without them, is unbearable.
I am looking for words, trying to make this ‘deep’ but I have none.
How is it possible to be nostalgic for the feeling that you are feeling right now? How does one hold on to it? It does what all moments do, slip through your fingers. How does one now hit pause and stop and not let anything come on it? - leave it pristine untouched as is? How can I effectively - successfully take a photograph of a moment that I want to hold onto for a little while longer while it is slipping away as fast as it came in? </span></p><br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-81497743793423297972022-04-08T18:16:00.006+05:302022-04-08T18:26:05.324+05:30peeking in. <p data-pm-slice="0 0 []">I am an avid <a href="https://seenunseen.in/" rel="noopener noreferrer nofollow" target="_blank">The Seen and the Unseen</a> listener. I listen to most of their episodes, Amit Varma has a way of letting a tale spin, he listens while nudging the guest to talk and talk some more. This <a href="https://seenunseen.in/episodes/2022/2/21/episode-265-amitava-kumar-finds-the-breath-of-life/" rel="noopener noreferrer nofollow" target="_blank">episode </a>was a nudge for me more than the guest there, a nudge to journal and record life. I remember a chapter of my life more than anything else because I used to journal - everyday <em>(almost)</em> every thought. It slowly became my entire life, because that is all I had to refer to, read back to. Nostalgia affects you. I tried to put in an analogy relating nostalgia with the Van der Waals forces but stopped midway, I do not know much about it to attempt it here without a chance of error. So did not, but you get the point don’t you?<br /></p><hr /><p><br />My daughter has started going to school. I wept the first time I dropped her. <br />I have been a working mom since before she turned one, I did not weep when I first left her at home. Yes, my heart did break into a million pieces then, but this time around she was leaving me and I was left outside waving goodbye. <br />I have a confession, on the second day of school when I went to drop her, she cried - my first reaction to that was that of relief, she does not want to let me go. I was reassured before returning back to the reality of consoling her kissing her, telling her I will be back. <br /></p><hr /><p><br />Three years have passed since this chapter of my life started. I was born so many times in this period…I was born when I conceived her, born again with her and then again when she said <em>mumma </em>for the first time. Yes, that is the name she has chosen for me and I am letting it stay. She can say my name now and it sounds like she is calling for someone resembling me, someone who is better than me, someone I am in the process of becoming. </p><hr /><p>The final nudge in the entire series of nudges that led me to this was listening to this <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6EP91uX2tPs" rel="noopener noreferrer nofollow" target="_blank">interview of Mr. Kaul.</a> I am jealous of the gamut of emotions he feels. </p><p>also, Babaji is getting married, we are all growing up…</p><hr /><p>Guess, will be back here again after a few more nudges. </p>Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-49279790014351774082019-03-03T22:33:00.002+05:302019-03-05T22:49:40.502+05:30Patterns. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
patterns</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
indecipherable, indescribable patterns. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
constant patterns. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
longer wavelengths, shorter pitches</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
a low constant cosmic hum. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I seem to never break this bubble </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
pulled back below before I can touch the edges. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
my insipid mind the singularity </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
of my black hole. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>'oh my God do I try, </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I try all the time'.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I do not pray though. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
a revolution never comes, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I accept, bow my head and walk </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
keep walking, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
chasing my own tail. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
this dogless bone, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
never loved and was never beloved. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
walk, run, jog and fall</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the same muddy roads.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
they curve, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
you can stall but not for long. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
like the loop - hell loop. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
there is no coherence here you can see, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
it is a long winding road - re-reaching for the beginning, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
something that never gets a chance to end. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Why do I self destruct before I can fire up the keyboard.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I do not even need you to touch me to break into a thousand molecules, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I am dissolving in my own organic soup, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
dissolving myself in me </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
see how I make no sense, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
looped patterned organised existence. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
living in my own head, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
eating and shitting and going at it all over again. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
disgusted already?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
welcome to the loop. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
....</div>
</div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-11417047532807292152018-06-03T19:54:00.001+05:302019-03-04T20:25:33.636+05:30Mental Maps<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I read mental maps of the house we never built.<br />
Waltzing to the tune that was never heard;<br />
Up on my feet, through the night, that never was;<br />
I relish meals you never cooked for me.<br />
I end conversations we never had,<br />
answering all the questions you were too cowardly to ask.<br />
<br />
I draw pictures with words,<br />
Of vast landscapes with trees bearing fruits, we will never eat.<br />
I walk on roads we thought we would plant saplings along;<br />
Leading up to the steps of your neighborhood library;<br />
I stand at the window, quoting poems you'll never read.<br />
<br />
Existing through the years of this life without you;<br />
I have treasured the minutes you were there.<br />
<br />
<br />
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Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-69608739302999642032018-05-15T12:01:00.001+05:302019-03-04T21:06:48.466+05:30Disgust. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
I like this disgust swelling in me, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Pulsating like heartbeats; steady and sure. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Burning up my insides akin to a volcano waiting to erupt. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I like this turbulence</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I like how I am jolted back to reality. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Like walking out of the theater after 'Gravity'</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
No, it is not bad, if you come to think of it. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I have given flesh and bones to this mythical drama. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I have worked on the cast, written the story; </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Rehearsed the script. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I like this disgust that is swelling inside of me; </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
because this is not the event, it is the after-after party.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The aftermath, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Walking the walk of shame the morning after. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I am waiting for water to spill over; </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I will blame the glass for its limitations. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I am waiting for the volcano to erupt. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I will then blame my heart for its cowardice. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-16033252832432190352018-05-13T11:14:00.001+05:302018-05-13T11:14:29.686+05:30to what end?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
I hate it when I have to make words rhyme<br />It seems forced and false</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I hate it when I have to justify my text; </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I think right, left or middle aligned works just fine </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I hate it when I have to hate you when I don't want to </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I hate it when I do</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I hate it when I do not. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I hate it when I do not know my limits, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I hate it when I do not know where you end and I begin. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I hate how I feel when you look at me, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I hate it when you don't </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I hate this hatred more than I hate hating you </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I hate you more than I hate loving you. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /></div>
</div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-15661285027610358952018-05-02T22:57:00.001+05:302018-05-02T23:15:48.927+05:30strange<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Let us meet in a stranger's dream. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A little strange you and a strange little me. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
For you, I think I'll make a garland of memories</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You'll get me a bouquet of joy. You, my bouquet of joy. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A happy little heart sings a happy little tune </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A heavy little heart in a strange little dream. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
-----</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">PS - I am NOT a fan of Karan Johar movies; but the line - 'jaise dil ka pet bhar gaya ho..' has stayed with me. </span></i></div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-54328376838847885312018-04-28T23:43:00.000+05:302018-04-28T23:43:21.873+05:30the sound of silence<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Every time I write it is about nostalgia.<br />
Every time I write, I have inadvertently travelled to that sweet spot on youtube where my playlist lines up, each song better than the other complimenting the song before it, completing the thought. Have no doubts I am a fan of eclectic playlists where NFAK leads to Freddie Mercury which breaks Damien Rice free. But this consistency, that sweet spot is like a ride into the sunset, on a road with no potholes or breakers.<br />
<br />
Every time I write it is because I am craving conversation, and no one will do, when I don't want to jinx the delicate muslin feel of the breeze with a jagged conversation about chores/bills/work.<br />
<br />
Every time I write the light is maddham, life is maddham.<br />
Every time I write, I think of you and You.<br />
Every time I write I am looking for answers to questions I am too afraid to ask.<br />
Every time I write I am looking for answers to questions that were ignored, forgotten, left to die.<br />
<br />
Every time I write, my eyes are moist towards the end, the world turns blurry and Jal plays in the background telling me <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4HCdGGag3no" target="_blank">panchi hoon udne do</a>...<br />
<br />
Every time I write it is like I am talking to you, letting you on on an intimate detail, out in the public. Like that couple that holds hands in packed malls oblivious to the people around, like I live through life with headphones on, oblivious to people around, looking for a particular face while all other things, people, are somewhat hazy in the background.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-39045003960364718762017-12-16T14:10:00.000+05:302017-12-16T14:11:41.134+05:30out of the blue. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">it is the </span><span style="color: #222222;">darndest</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> thing, when you want something/someone but not quite. well almost..</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>
"And one day..when the world doesn't matter to me anymore. I may just wanna keep you for myself forever.. even if I have to kill you and stuff you "</i></span></div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-27816017039211897022017-11-16T11:28:00.002+05:302017-11-16T11:28:41.709+05:30a murder. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
//</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I had all and then most of you; </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Some and now none of you. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtlgYxa6BMU" target="_blank"><i>Take me back to the night we met</i></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
//</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
to hunt a witch they gather<br />the pleasure-fiends grappling your insides;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
as friends and lovers and parrots they disguise.<br />
<br />
"she spoke too freely but said very little" -<br />
"she always woke up with a start, and never slept soundly"<br />
<br />
"oh look there she comes, emotions up her sleeves<br />
unkempt hair and loose clothes,<br />
how do you let her walk free?"<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
a book in her bag, a song on her lips<br />
a spring in her steps she strutted by;<br />
<br />
"she did not even look, that self-conceited bitch;<br />
you are right my friend she indeed is a witch. "<br />
<br />
the harp flew a 100 yards,<br />
struck her on her spine<br />
<br />
she fell on the spot, covered in her blood<br />
the winds picked up her song.<br /><br />she was a dreamer dreaming of a lullaby;<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
an insomniac up until the crack of dawn.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-66220346888422125072017-07-19T11:28:00.001+05:302017-07-19T11:28:59.634+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="Image result for letting go" height="539" src="http://ashleyneese.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/letgo.jpg" width="640" /></div>
</div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-20142327793842760782017-05-28T21:48:00.002+05:302017-05-28T21:57:39.671+05:30The Introvert’s dilemma <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You have changed houses , schools , cities towns villages and in time lost 'friends ' , 'almost friends ' (?) All of this done so many times so that the entire cycle of making friends and holding onto them tires you out.<br />
<div>
So you stop trying at all . Nothing feels permanent as nothing is permanent. </div>
<div>
The cities you once called 'your own ' have now changed beyond recognition . </div>
<div>
<i>What is home after all ? </i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
An amalgamation of all the small towns you grew up in? Your subconscious mind combines them all together to form one giant mega-city which is an ever growing weed ridden farmland because you haven't settled any where yet; you haven't put in roots.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What is a home city ? </div>
<div>
A place where you have worked/are working in . A place where you may stay in as long as works keeps you and then you cut ties and are kicked out. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Which is your home city ? A place where your parents live ? The place you called home once and you spent the better part of your student life in? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That was years ago now . You are not the same, the city is not the same; both of you grown up and grown apart. No one knows your name there , the streets have turned into wide roads and the charm has given way for chaos . </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How sad it is to get lost in a city you once , less than a decade ago owned. <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Or did you?</span></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What is home ? A place where you park yourself for a few years only to leave again , or that place where you go after leaving everything behind . Go for a fresh start go to get out of a rut. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Where is home ? Is it where you are, or where your heart is ? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Which is 'your ' city after-all ? Or all we are doing - rather all I am doing is passing through . </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It is true that that the city does not belong to you ; you belong to the city . If that is true who and where do you actually belong ? And does anyone really want you there ? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Will anyone want you ?</div>
</div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-88949375101012216012017-04-10T01:27:00.006+05:302017-04-10T01:27:53.517+05:30no point of this point.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><br />Hello there, you seem new here. Have not seen you around before. Are you revisiting? <br /><br />Make yourself comfortable. Viki is asleep right now.<br /></span><div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am Viki's soul. A twisted, convoluted, whisky soaked, rum glazed, crazed and unfazed jealous soul. I am her, she is me; I am him and Him. <br /><br />I am an asexual, non-entity. Her ‘point’ if you may. Her emotional center of gravity. <br /><br />Sometimes functioning as the Narad muni between her analytical skills and her emotional standing. Sometimes am the light bearer and other times her confidence beater. I am deep seated inside her. Sometimes in her gut, her fatigued bowel turning round and about die to her anxieties. <br /><br />It is not easy; melancholia has claimed lives of many good times, every big day clouded by a dark grey cloud bearing doubt. Mistakes are pointed out and noted while the applause goes out of focus. Well in all these years the applause has died down and she has let go. Friends have reduced from a trickle to none at all. I don’t blame them you know. She was never a keeper, always brooding, pointing out mistakes and then losing interest midway leaving herself in the lurch without even realising it. <br /><br />It is rude to talk about yourself but I guess when no one is listening it does not really matter. </span></div>
</div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-42083546846915160512017-01-06T11:01:00.003+05:302017-03-12T11:55:40.030+05:30Nevermind. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<i>He had a volcano inside him, waiting to erupt...his blemishes - the heat waves that escaped. She ran a finger over his blemished skin; it was not unknown territory. <br /> They have both been there before. Sharing a bed, memories; more was unsaid than said. More in-satiation than bliss. He was tired of caring too much for her. She needed him more than she ever had before. <br />His skin didn't twitch anymore on her touch. He had gotten used to her, a little too much maybe.<br />She ran a finger on his blemished skin, claiming him almost. If not for real, maybe for that night. Or maybe even for that tiny bit of a second when her finger left a faint impression on his skin. Each impression on his skin turned into a tear in her eyes. She was comforting him, his eyes reluctantly heavy with sleep that had been eluding him; she was in turn comforting herself with those tiny victories. <br />Time was not to wait anymore. He had moved on, not needing her by his side. Used to the fact that she was going home to someone else. A little too used to maybe. She never had time for him before, now she made that time; sadly time was not theirs. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
Strangely enough, one can fake for a day or two at max. The hurt and insecurities; the aching need to go out and lay claim on that person does not go. Like the sea returns everything you throw in it; the hurt and the pain is returned back with more fervor than ever before. </div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-32479175947273975142016-09-28T13:52:00.001+05:302016-09-28T14:13:35.846+05:30खोज<p dir="ltr">गर तुझे ये लगे के तू ज़िंदा है, तो तू है ज़िंदा। <br>
गर ये तेरा सवाल है, तो तू है नही।</p>
<p dir="ltr">मुझसे न पूछ तू तेरी तलाश में कहाँ भटके।<br>
तेरे मंज़िल का रास्ता तेरी परिस्थिति के बाध्य नहीं।</p>
<p dir="ltr">तू ढूँढ उस आवाज़ को, जो कहे तुझे है अब चलना।<br>
इन पहाड़ों में नहीं, तुझे अपने अन्तः मन में है उसे खोजना।</p>
<p dir="ltr">तू निकल अब वहाँ जहाँ जाने की किसी को इजाज़त नहीं।<br>
तू लौट के आ वहां से जिसके बगैर तेरी कोई पहचान नहीं।</p>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-43615404535829545482016-09-24T16:57:00.001+05:302016-09-24T16:57:22.922+05:30...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>" keep writing, please?"</i><div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>" I can't, I need a muse. "</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>" But you had one, didn't you?"</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
Well.</div>
</div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-44985924428004412082016-08-27T21:08:00.001+05:302016-10-03T11:08:56.770+05:30your.ghost.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's the blaze across my night gown</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's the phone's ring</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I think last night (you were in my dreams)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">You were driving circles around me</span><br />
<br />
<img height="259" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" width="320" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
So what I do is, turn off the light. Turn the table lamp on, put my headphones on and blast melancholy music, close my eyes and weep; pretend I am on a sea beach, alone in the middle of the night. feeling sand beneath my feet, smelling the misty-salty winds, feeling my misty salty cheeks. I dance a little-like in a trance, realize what i am doing, laugh at my silliness and lay down. <br />
<br />
I come back to my senses the morning after.<br />
<br />
<img height="259" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" width="320" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<img height="259" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" width="320" /><br />
<img height="259" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" width="320" /><br />
Crawling back to you<br />
<br /></div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-63975294468359660242016-07-26T15:06:00.002+05:302016-07-26T15:06:53.684+05:30of favourite things<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">“Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I can not live without my life! I can not live without my soul!”<br /><br /><br />Wuthering Heights. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-78737672178348416892016-07-22T11:01:00.003+05:302016-07-26T15:09:48.652+05:30a song for my heart.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"What if I fall?"</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"Oh my darling...what if you fly!"</i></div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />-Erin Hanson</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
pure bliss is when a relationship can be surmised by these two sentences. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-17181775683292884452016-05-25T14:30:00.000+05:302016-05-26T11:21:30.266+05:30Let your fingers do the talking. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have you ever forgotten your ATM pin? I did once. I have had
been using the same combination for ages now, so I didn't need to put it now ,
I had thought I was immune, that I would never forget it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On second thoughts, the thought of forgetting about it never
crossed my mind. Like the thought of forgetting your mother's name never crosses your mind,
you never forget it you never put it down somewhere to remember it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I called up my dad and
asked him if he had the original docs and if he could help me with it. He told
me it will come to me, to not hasten it. He told me to allow my fingers to
remember it, go to the ATMs and try punching in the sequence. I laughed him off
at first but my unrelenting trust on my father's way of life took over and I did it, once/twice a week and
one day, it just came to me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was my eureka moment. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We live life like this, being used to things, getting
comfortable. Letting our bodies, learn our language. Letting our bodies speak
our language. Makes me scared, makes me think, how important it is to be
mindful, how important it is to be aware of what language we are speaking, and
what language our bodies in turn are.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In other news, discovered Paolo Nutini last week, told a friend about it and he says he has been listening to him since a long time. late bloomer me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
check him out: </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/0nkFq1hv6L8/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0nkFq1hv6L8?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-73938314790094074062016-05-10T13:55:00.001+05:302016-05-10T13:55:04.371+05:30forgotten<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
in anticipated anxiety,<br /> the need to cry. forgotten<br /> alive and awake,<br /> the need to be seen and heard . forgotten<br /> existing, pretending, coaxing, stifling, hiding.<br /> FORGOTTEN.<br /> like a rolling stone I'll walk alongside,<br /> like a vagabond I'll leave you surprised.<br /> a penny for each thought unsaid,<br /> a penny for every memory that fades.<br /> every single penny you earned,<br /> don't forget, that is for every notion I burnt.<br />in ashes are those memories, those fantasies soot.<br />every desire famished, every lover moot.<br /> the need to prove yourself myself;<br /> writing in third person. forgotten.<br /> <br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">forgotten for what is ever gotten<br />the desire to make sense. forgotten. </span>
<br />
<div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">................</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I came across this list of cues for poems. I am trying to do all of them.. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">this is one from the list (Write a poem about Forgetting) </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Maybe by the end of the list, I'll be better =)</span></div>
</div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-82136703815444638492016-03-19T00:15:00.003+05:302016-05-26T11:23:32.078+05:30tICK-tOCK<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr">
How much and how little has the time passed? <i>tick-tock</i><i>-tick</i><i> it whiles away.</i><br />
There is an urgency to live and and urgency to die, but all that is to be done on my sweet time. <br />
Tick-tock-tick it messes with my brain; <i>staring, straying, hounding and barking, forever and ever.</i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">P.S.was sitting in drafts too long, had to be out. incomplete, but there it is.</span></div>
</div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-48500607023151314102016-03-19T00:12:00.002+05:302016-03-19T14:02:37.815+05:30whatever it takes. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Planning, shielding walking or rafting</i>. <br /><b><i>Whatever it takes. </i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Finding a sweet spot in your own life where you can comfortably sink in and watch the world go by is difficult. It is not the finding that is difficult, it is, it is difficult, but it is not the only thing that is difficult. <br />It is also difficult to keep it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
It is not difficult to keep it because of the obvious reasons, it is difficult to keep because you don't know how to stay in the place. You are not used to doing the right thing; not used to being nice, not used to being happy in the right place at the right time.<br />
<br />
You are not used to being happy, not used to being content.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Trying. TRYING.</i><br />
<i>whatever it takes.</i><br />
<br /></div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-3001587507450691402015-12-30T17:18:00.000+05:302015-12-30T18:03:42.403+05:30sing me a happy song and I wont turn you away.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When you are happy the happy songs make sense.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
You like the
beats, the drum roll and the bass. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sing me a happy song and I wont turn you away. <i>At-least for now</i> =) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am not jumping-on-a-trampoline happy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, I am not in the most
‘perfect’ stage of my personal or work life. I could do with a better paying
job, a lean-toned body, but that’s only so much wishing can do. I know I can do
with a lot of things different; but, I am in a place where I know that I couldn’t
have done without the things I have now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe, that’s what quiet satisfaction
is (no, I have not given up on controlling things, yet) It is just that, I don’t
have difficulty sleeping and my mornings are nicer, crisp almost. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The broody, intense, passionate man with Jesus hair and song
in his fingers is absent. I have instead a tall-ish, lank-ish, goofy man, who
always smiles when he looks at me, hums a song when he is happy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He doesn’t make me weak in my loins with his looks; but yes,
his embrace is my spot, <b>in everywhere</b>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He doesn’t make my emptiness go away, I still withdraw at
times, cry and feel less than I should. He cannot fill me in ways I want…but he
fills certain empty cold places with a warm glow, he holds the light up,
un-knowingly most times but earnestly. He doesn’t want to search me, he is
waiting, patiently, for me to come around. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He is the <a href="http://www.shmoop.com/far-from-the-madding-crowd/gabriel-oak.html" target="_blank">Oak</a> to an undeserving Bathsheba.<br />
<br />
.....<br />
<br />
On a different note, I don't know what it means to say exactly, but I am in love with this song :<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/mCHUw7ACS8o/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/mCHUw7ACS8o?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Hope you have a happier 2016! </div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862269105148013047.post-76197254964050358062015-12-18T17:31:00.004+05:302015-12-18T17:35:38.879+05:30connect.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We do things that keep us connected. My husband reads the newspaper, even if he gets only 10mins to do so, while he brushes his teeth; I cook, even if I do that in the only 'free' time I have aside from the working and traveling-to-work hours. It keeps us connected, connected to our homes and thus to our mothers, while we make a home of our own. </div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17100112139851859630noreply@blogger.com1