the sound of silence

Every time I write it is about nostalgia.
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.

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.

Every time I write the light is maddham, life is maddham.
Every time I write, I think of you and You.
Every time I write I am looking for answers to questions I am too afraid to ask.
Every time I write I am looking for answers to questions that were ignored, forgotten, left to die.

Every time I write, my eyes are moist towards the end, the world turns blurry and Jal plays in the background telling me panchi hoon udne do...

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.

Let your fingers do the talking.

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.

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.

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. 

That was my eureka moment.

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.

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. 

check him out: 

Linger

Will doodling help? Maybe it will. Maybe not, I’ll draw some pictures for you. At least I can try.

It was something to be around him, to be his. Bliss? She knew she was home when she lay on his shoulder playing with that one lone strand of hair on his left arm. 

‘You snore!’ He complained every morning and then he’d embrace her and whisper quietly in her ears, ‘but you still are the cutest’.

They fought every night. They made love every morning. Bodies always found each other; translating the love that their minds weighed down upon. This was not going to last, it was obvious, a death knell could be heard softly just before the road turned; but they clung onto that last strand of laughter, that last meal together, that last walk by the beach, that last hug.

“You know I am working and then suddenly this need gets hold of me, I feel uneasy as if a certain part of me is missing, as if I am suddenly empty…I take a deep breath, feel my sweaty hands and realize I am longing for you…I miss you”

The Quest

This was a long comment on someone's blog a long time back, I still think the same way and it still is the same. 

I agree to us being prisoners.

Prisoners of our minds, of our egos, of our self contained prejudices. 

We are all prisoners here of our own device.
Holding us and curbing us at the same time.

I'd say, Love is over rated. All of it is.

I'd say forever is bullcrap. 

Yes we get attracted. Yes we fall. Yes we agonise, torment and vice-versa.

But then, just the same we move on. 

Moving on is undeniable because we as humans are medically fit for Love with a person only for 4 years (the effects of the chemical changes that occur in the body when one is attracted to the other stay only for a 4 years…the same then start to wane. True story!)

Love would not have been over rated if it was the ONE that we loved for life.

But we don't, do we? 

Why should one fight to be with that one and then regret saying - "you are completely different form the person that I settled for"?

We get attracted to a person because we think that he/she is perfect for us. Over the time, the person becomes more and more imperfect not entirely his own doing but more so because we see the reflections of our unrealized dreams, our imperfections in the person. The romantic projection of a God/Goddess at a point in time gives way to a normal, needy, erring human being that is almost just like you are, just as likely to fail/fall as you are. 

I believe that Love can be sustained when someone loves your flaws. Yes, it is the love for the virtue in a person that can initiate Love but it is only the keenness of the other to love the flaws that can sustain it.

Someone said once:

"I love your flaws, because they are only mine to love"

  

(But then again, this was a long time back, though that someone is nowhere to be found now, and eventually I realised that when that someone said that, that someone did not mean it; I still think however,if at all there is any, that is how Love should be.)

mind over matter

I think I have lost it.

It is an empty mind that I have.

Totally, completely, empty.

It likes peace. Wo kehte hain na zyada shor nahin pasand.  

I am a loner who is attracted to loners, sits in a corner and looks at people. I love stairs, any kinds, it is an innate desire to sit on the stairs, as opposed to the desire where people might want to climb them. I want to sit there and look, watch.

I can spend the entire life watching people.

Watching people with headphones on. I hate the noise. The clamor. I have enough noise in my head already. Empty mind creates a lot of demons like an empty house echoes every gasp.

An empty mind is impulsive, does not think.
Or sometimes it mulls over things at end and loses the track of time.

I am neither a fool nor wise; I am neither not a fool…neither not wise.

hush now, don't speak too loud. 

 ...

हुल्लड़

उनकी आँखों से चाहत बहती चली गई,

हमने न रोका उन्हें...कहते हैं वो फिर शाम के आते ही चल दिए;

हमने बाट देखि नहीं थी, मालूम था वो नहीं आएँगे...

...आंसूं अब आते नहीं, खाली आँखों में अब नींद भी कहाँ बची है...

रूह की खोज में चार कदम चले तो देखा वहां तो वो भी खड़ा है जिसको हमने कभी पत्थर दिल कहा था;

आज वो मुझे देख कर मुस्का रहा है, कहता है, तू भी वहीँ है जहाँ मैं था, तू भी वही है जो मैं हूँ. 

...वही तो नहीं हूँ मैं, वहीँ तो नहीं हूँ मैं. 

...तारों से अब बातें नहीं होती क्यूंकि मैंने चाँद की राह देखि थी...अब तो चाँद से भी बैर किया है. 

...आधे आधे पूरे नहीं होते, आँखें मूंदु भी तो क्या? नींद के शहर में ही सपनों का ठीकाना है. 

...वो मेरी नींदों का हिसाब रखने लगा है, पर सपनों के सौदागर तू रातों को कहाँ खोया रहता है? 

p.s. try not making sense of the lines above, it is gibberish at best.

well, all you had to do was run your fingers on my lips, look deep into my eyes, and kiss...


...yeah, that simple. 

English WINGLISH.

So your first language is your mother tongue?

What is the first language you choose to ask a question to another person when you travel in the first class?

English.

Yes, I write in English, I think in English and the language I am most comfortable in is English, no doubt, but when I have to ask what station I am on, I will ask the question in Hindi, it is just how it is. 

This lady in the train was reading a ‘gruhashobha’,  was wearing a purple lipstick, with gaudy eye makeup. I was trying to figure her out, she then turns around and with a thick Bihari accented English asks me what station it was and I was flabbergasted.

I couldn’t speak. She assumed I didn’t know the language. 

She got off anyways.

I am too shallow. meh!

...

Of the many ways of beating perfection, one is to stoop low. 
So low, so that you know, that you are not good enough for perfection any more.

Aïcha.

I wish I could draw.

I would have drawn for you her exact picture.

It was late in the night and she was sitting all by herself on the three-seat bench on the train. Draped in a laced orange burqa, this former beauty wore horn-rimmed glasses which went well with her wrinkles. Her skin shone, almost competing with her Swarovski bracelet that she wore with élan. I almost smiled at the vanity, one that I assumed.  But this was not why she caught my eye.

She was engrossed. Her crystal studded bracelet laden hand was holding this copy of the holy Quran, her lips mouthing her lord’s diktat. No this was not why she caught my eye.

Her other hand was slowly patting her bosom, right over her heart. Have you seen a mother patting a child’s forehead as she lulls him to sleep. Yes, just like that. She was slowly rhythmically thumping her heart.

She looked at me, saw me awed and as if she read my mind, she smiled at me in acknowledgement.

I wish I could draw. 

.......................................................

annihilation.

what should I look for when I look at you?

what face should I wear when I see yours?

am I more than a number?

I am not sure if I am even a name. 

trailing headlights

creased memories. 

biased hindsight

myopic prospicience.

...still rains...you still don't know.