Sunday Morning

A coffee by her side,

Neatly placed on a coaster,

In fear of leaving circles:

Patterns best left for the pen.

Light beats, Noora Noor

Clear sky, save for the cottony clouds

Dancing with the glistening Khalifa

A little jewel delicately placed outside her window

Sunlight in her eyes

And a tune in her heart

Gone with the wind

Stocatto at her finger tips

It's that Sunday morning feeling

Watching shapes dancing

To that familiar beat

Conceding the present to pass

Fast cars and melodies

Chasing circles

Dedication

To a nugatory need

Trains

Like every evening , 

Greeted with speed

I step in

So many moods

Temperaments 

All those hours of toiling

Hidden behind busy eyebrows

Waiting for a seat?

This train has few to offer

You need to make your space

Or wait. Till the next hard stop

So many faces

Emotions

How has everyone's day been?

May be that expression gives it away

Or may be not

Should we ask them?

A Moment of Reflection

‘Speak to us of Friendship’

For the first time, I felt the presence of a hand. The invisible hand turning the pages, revealing thoughts and spurring emotions I did not want to feel, and certainly did not want to recount. A hand carrying the mastery of the blacksmith, smooth and knowing, an expert in his field. Reaching deep within the multiple knots of emotions, trying desperately to untangle.

Indeed it was a friendship to be cherished, and one that we had never worked towards, but allowed to blossom with grace. We grew up together after all. ‘Bum chums’ as they say. She knew everything about me, and I everything about her. Contemporary times demand contemporary emotions of ‘BFF’ and a selfie of remembrance. But we had none of those. We were just simple school girls, cycling together every evening, and sharing a thought or two. Music turned out to be an integral part of who we were. The essential ingredient in our bond of friendship. Innocence was the other. Simplicity kept us safe in happy spaces of childhood.

He’s right. She was my need answered. My confidant, partner and sister. She was always there. Always helping me out, always rescuing me. Playing the big sister. But also, the better sister. It never seemed to bother me then. She was still there. And I needed her.

But then, the joy was always claimed. She wanted the spot light, and enjoyed the spot light. She revelled in the attention when on stage and also when not. The credit, the claps, the encouragement the pat on the back. That was her motivation and that was her pride. The person seemed to matter little, and most often that person was me. It was all about rising, and all about the glory in reaching the top. And over the years, that’s all that seemed to matter. Like a silent beast by my side who grew larger in our friendship, while I stood by the corner.

And this began to reflect in our spirits. I grieved. Every time we parted, I grieved. Not out of longing, but out of anger and thirst. I needed her comfort and sympathy, while she was compelled to compete. Friendship was not a race. It was a bond. Or so I wanted it to be. There was a certain purity in childish innocence, one that seemed sufficient to keep us going till we were seventy. But, clearly not. We were growing up, and there were other people, situations and egos that demanded more.

And as we grew older, we grew more apart, and more distant. We didn’t speak, for words would only be a masquerade to the truth. There was little to say and little to dwell on.

And one day, the spirit in me spoke. It brought out the worst, the ugliest and beastly side that I hoped would live hidden and perish poor, deep within me. But it had swollen too wide and too wise for my containment, and out came the words spilling. There wasn’t much thought and neither much action. Simply cold hearted hatred. Hate so pure and deep rooted that there seemed to be no origin to this stream of ugliness. The words poured reflecting regret, anger, angst and bitterness. Emotions I would never want to associate with myself, let alone let her discover. She was precious. Was.

And it has been more than a year, of avoidance and regret. The colour has painted itself grey in our memories. For what took me one day to paint black could only fade so much. I was ashamed of who I had turned into that day. Ashamed of the words I had so comfortably let lose to ruin whatever little remained between us. Little did I know that I could push someone so precious and so close, so far away. There was no laughter, and there was no sharing of happiness. There was nothing. Nothing but cold bitterness.

And the hand turned the page. ‘Speak of Talking…You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts’

City Lights

"How do you like this view from the window?" she smiled.

"It is... absolutely... breath taking... ", gasped Ira.

"I know. Spent many a night cherishing this"

She really had. That fantastic horizon... with that extensive and all embracing sea kissing the shore so gently. And yet the necklace of soaring towers embellishing the expanse, reflecting her thoughts in resonance. Darkness cradling the scene lightly, announcing it's presence, and yet allowing the little beads of light to glow. And these little lights, emanating from giant buildings, in their stillness seemed to understand. Not judge, or plan or solve. But just understand. They were constant. Re assuring. And amazing. Always there, every time Maya stood by her window at night.

It had just been about two years for Maya. Away from home, adjusting to her new life. She had seen every other cliche that she had been warned about, come true. She was single, in a large city full of people. Alone and yet hardly every had the time to be on her own. Growing and still wanting to know more. Excelling at work but never really celebrating her success. The only time she was able to reflect, absorb and realise - was at that window. All these moments came alive, with a tune of nostalgia, when re counted. She lived in the moment, in recollection. And it was this view that had transformed her. Matured her and assured her, of her existence. The day came into being, at night, by the window. 

And every day she realised, how far she had come. How wide her horizon had grown, as though guided by the horizon right outside. She felt grateful about taking the decision to leave her home town and come so far - 'to see the world' as they say. And the world really was an astonishing place. She had challenged her beliefs, and stretched every bone in her body to grow and absorb everything she could from this world. And today, she was a combination of all the people she had met. So different from what she was two years ago.

Maya lit her cigarette as she gazed upon the magnificence outside. And in that long drag that followed, it hit upon her. Did she really want to be that different?

The Blogger in You

This has been a blog left quite in the dark. And now that I return to it, that is also what is lending to the charm of writing here again. It's like writing to myself, and yet, what if some lonely lost blogger comes upon it? What if she gets lost in her thought camp and lands on mine? And that's what brings us to the fundamental question - why do people blog?

My profession is such that it makes me question things. Attitudes, emotions, motivations and behaviour. Sounds fantastic doesn't it? Well let me not burst that bubble but instead reconfirm that it's quite an interesting place to be actually. It provides perspectives and always sets the lens right. But now I'm just rambling. The sole intention of telling you what the nature of my job is to technically justify why I would be thinking of such a fundamental question in an article with so emotional a title, in the first place.

So getting back to that. Why do people blog? Think about it. And if you don't blog. Why not? Is it too painstaking? Are you secretive? See all your actions would have an attitude fundamentally driving it. What drives YOU to behave the way you do?

See, from where I come from, people love talking. There are sessions for daily banter as I would call it, which locally is referred to as adda. They love talking about everything on earth - from the weather to the changing political weather and more. It is what keeps them breathing and refreshes them even after a long hard days work - shei parar adda.

But it was only at the end of an interview in Kolkata that I realised this, when my new acquaintance told me:

"It was so great talking to you... after a long while I really enjoyed talking to someone"

What did we talk about may you ask? Well it was a 2 hour interview in which I got a sneak peek into what he stood for, what his values in life were and what had gone into making him - the individual. Our conversation spanned years - from his childhood days to his college days to his boring work life. He expressed his frustrations and motivations and what kept him going. He spoke with pride about his son and the family he had made. In all, it was 2 hours of him telling me, about himself. And all I had to do, was listen.

And even though this man lives in a city where everyone loves to talk, where everyone has an opinion and a thought, and everyone listens... but seldom is it, just about them. People feel the need to be heard. They feel the need to express and to tell their story as after all, life is on  a fast track rail road with no halt button! So when does one stop and take a breather and reflect? Apparently this 2 hour interview let the man vent and reflect and for a second step back, and think about how things had unfolded in his life.

And it is this need, of wanting to be heard, of getting our opinions out there that makes us blog, and that makes us put this information out there, whether someone chances upon it or not.

May be this is obvious. 

His Eastern Skies

In "A Midsummer Night's Dream" during the performance of the play of "Pyramus and Thisbe," Moonshine (or Moon) is represented "with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn." Describing his own character, later in the play, Moonshine says:

"All that I have to say, is, to tell you that the lanthorn is the moon; I, the man in the moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog."

And yet, what makes this cheese like phenomenon so incredibly dubious and arcane? Countless nights of consideration has left me with little reason. The eastern skies garland his majestic presence leaving all else "Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse".

What is it that makes us worship? Is it when we're left in awe of a presence? The omnipotence of natural law? Or is it simply- beauty? May be it's a combination of both, and then again that depends on how one chooses to define it. This heavenly body, looking down upon us from within the eastern skies has left me in awe. No where else have I seen such beauty, changing colour and might, through the day- and night. His mysterious ways... amaze. But there's only so much one can do, apart from appreciate. observe and adore.

By the window

The view seemed to explain it all. Window panes framing tiny dots on a large landscape. The darkness accentuated the silence, and all we could see were the tiny city lights. Millions of them. We were sitting on the 28th floor of the building, which made things seem more insignificant than usual. Far far in the horizon, the gulf waters blended into the sky... It was serene. And something in the inconsequential scheme of things, made us feel at peace. Her tiny head bobbed onto my shoulder and we stared out into the empty sky. 

We imagined what the drop from the horizon would feel like if the world were flat. We imagined God with an eye patch. We imagined what it would be like to fly out of this sky scraper, and whether we'd use a broom to do that or not. May be we'd touch the clouds? But the desert that day had a clear sky. God's shining third eye gloating over miles of sand... is he really everywhere? She seemed to believe so, and she convinced me of the same with sincerity. At six, there's only so much you expect of God and Santa Clause.

But we were both, just sitting there. Perfectly at peace. The sheer massiveness of the inexplainable cosmos seemed to represent itself before us... with all those flickering city lights, and all engulfing horizon... just for that moment, I felt that sense of belonging to organised chaos, and incomprehensible mayhem. At least, that's how I'd attempt to quantify that sinking yet peaceful feeling. I wonder what it was in her, though.

                                             Here's a glimpse of the same view, at day time.