interlude

ek puraana mausam lauta,  yaad bhari purvayi bhi.... aisa to kam hi hota hai, wo bhi ho tanhayee bhi.... khwaab tha shayad, khwaab hi hoga...

blank canvas and trails of ink always leave fascinating stories.  such  stories, create trails of happiness, surprise, lingering nostalgia and lasting impressions.  imaginations and concoct possibilities by the mark of ink are irreplaceable. laughter that resonates in such stories, contemplation of a quote, pensive tinkering of  destiny,  leaves a mark on everything it touches.  indian henna as ink , hand as canvas & five favorite quotes engraved on my soul are these beautiful lines, inked on my hand, they breathe; respond to every call that excites your soul.... the universe is made of stories.... the world is full of magical things, waiting for our senses to grow sharper.... let the beauty of what you love, be what you do... what you seek, is seeking you.... romance with ink always  yields  beautiful fruits....

Two tiny toes, Hopping, hoping to find respite... Puddle to the left, puddle to the right, Two tiny toes, look for respite... Muffled bundles of joy, Twitching, tip toeing, shaken... Rejoicing with the splashes of water, Two tiny toes, look for respite... Hiding under pink shades of silk, Treading in middle of puddles, Scared to disturb either side, Two tiny toes, look for respite... Pink silk cannot contain the storm, And sound from the rails, fails to cover blank noise... Two tiny toes walk alone, Two tiny toes, scared, look for respite... source

A week ago, I decided to take a small trip back home... It is always a planned trip with calendar marked with all the things to do in those 3-5 days.. It is march, the time of the year when the Northern part of this country play colours, every household is busy making sweet delicacies and air is filled with folk songs and spiritual music. You can see laughing kids on streets, running around with colors in hands, looking for their next prey...no one gets upset or angry and almost everyone has only the set of teeth visible as rest of their face is either pink or blue or a weird shade of green. Every soul on the streets breathe of spirit of this festival, called Holi. Celebrated on the day of full moon this festival calls for wilderness in each being. The nights are usually reserved for post celebration talks, multiple rounds of chai, special food and while staring at a mysterious creature in the mirror the struggle of recalling, what one must have looked like on the same morning... ...

On a sun-kissed March afternoon, as the city worked its way towards monotony, blissfully ignorant of the life passing by, I along with the other souls adopted by this city, was happily keying in my life into random wastefulness of this orchestrated motion. It was just another Thursday morning...twenty minutes spent checking on notes that have arrived from the parallel world over the time when this city sleeps...five minutes in getting the cup of tea to my desk, some ten seconds for plugging my ear-phones and most importantly ten patient minutes spent on picking the right tune for the day...Today, Beethoven is out to set the mood, playing Moonlight Sonata and I am scribbling as the monotony was broken by a visual from the past... ... a vague visual of folksy girl sitting under a tree, reading though the struggles of Bernini, hardships of Michelangelo, creation of David and his intense gaze on her as if he is standing right there mystified by her as she reads through him...

in the secret abode of fireflies...far away waiting with defiant calm and muffled desires are the evasive conversations... muted chirps of the birds on the tree, tell me to walk away, silently observing, pulling every bit of my existence... where each of my move is ticking off a stir... deliberate quietness, a blur... an orchestrated symphony of calculated notes, of stories, of hummed tunes and of rustled leaves, fierce, sterile and obscure... this untold story is my a mirage, it is my oasis.

I have an obsession for breakfast foods and on lazy weekends it extends to brunch. And it goes without saying that perfect setting plays a key role in making the experience extraordinary. Like That Only  is a beauteous neighborhood diner that has defined a creative way to be refreshing and charming with an experiential, comfortable yet exciting food. This place has many connotations and stands firm in the lexicon as an apt descriptor 'for lack of better word s' ~ Quoted by Like that only  Here food goes beyond daily routine. It is a piece of art, just like the parakeet door handles,  filigree  fireflies caressing chandeliers, green & yellow walls standing alongside antique cabinets adorned with fragrant herbs, passion fruit creepers and hints of bitter sweet aroma of spices and whimsical spring! it truly is wonderland setting!

Why is paper still alive? WHY??  because you and I are still alive... yes, it is as simple as that... Today we might choose to put our thought on blog than to maintain a diary & make our lists on a smart phone...might even confess our love over a text or e-mail...but honestly...can anything match up to the special touch of that piece of paper, that rustling sound when yo unfold it to read those sweet nothings...scribbled on one corner, little off center, may be in a really bad hand writing but only for you..? It might not be neat, messy rather and not even convenient...yet there is something about that handwritten note...the message on that crinkled paper, dabbed with ink and some finger prints...which says this bond is special... Message might be of utmost importance at any given occasion, but the medium of paper has been the priceless...be it a thank you note or facilitation, a wedding invite or some document for some boring meeting... paper has been at your serv...

It is raining outside...reassuring me that I am alive... Did i mention, I have an unfailing relationship with rain. Either of us is always there...mostly me, but then it comes to renew my soul, pouring everything...drenching me, consuming me... Pain is familiar, common...even normal...but the disturbing truth is that it is also non-existent these days...in those abstract moments of interlude between reality and dreams...when i see you settling on the window panes...i think of times which could have been...between the vapors of desire and impressions of confessions...soaking me, musing me...not only the conversations but the comfort of the stories we could tell each other in silence....

Bearing the demons of early 15 century of Florence and royalties of Dwapar yug..in a small, logical mind.... on a very very cold morning in Bangalore....in the dilemma of half asleep half awake...I sit sipping from a cup of tea (my only companion this morning)... contemplating the virtues I have imbibed from two very different tales of history..two completely contrast cultures...learning...their greatest strife is the same... More power... but to profess? More land..to keep &to forsake? More love...to alter destinies but for what?? ~dedicated to palace of illusions & da vinci' s demons... Credits: indiannerve.com credits: suas-series.blogspot.com

~ set in the grains of an old paper are the tales of times we can only imagine...times where mystics and myths were being compounded and breathed...The charm of its fragrance is poetic and poignant, reminding of the love and hardships it has experienced, how it has been cherished and then desolated... Reliving the marks of a paper, i realized that each fold had an impact on how I perceived the words squandered on it...and thus the texture started to speak...it's touch against the tip of fingers started unveiling an entirely different story....thus explorations began...sometimes with a fresh sheet, replicating the turmoils of an old paper....sometimes with old ones...trying to understand their destiny...as they unfolded mine!

It usually happens...hidden in the glamorous folds of happiness, sits the pain of unknown...quietly thriving on the hollow smiles, made-up conversations and bleak yet intentional innocence. But there is one thread that binds it all together..a thread not so feeble...a thread of grief, of fear and of joy..of beginnings and of endings. It is contradictory isn't it...but is it? The thread of stories, weaved like delicate lace, like freshly settled dew...compelling. Some speak of stories which made them what they are, some...of what they are not because of the stories never happened....& blessed are the storytellers, the ones with unspeakable power...intense and interesting to play God...thrilling yet dangerous but very satisfactory... it is interesting to notice how some glittery boxes of emotions can be used, it is all at the disposal of the narrator....how some strings when pulled bring the deepest, darkest hidden memories to shore and how some can make you weave the ...

 ...so many passerbys, so many empty souls,  so much pain, all in vain! but who am I...nothing but a victim of my own thoughts....  I made, what you are!

kuch unsune se shabd chunke, kuch bikhre se khwab bunke, sath main leke khamoshi, iss baar badal aayein hai... najaane iss baar kya kya baatein bujhange!?!

i am at loss of words...its time when  music is acting like a drug, love is acting as cure and loneliness is working as panache, but still the void which you tried to fill with everything is still wide open...gaping, glaring straight into my eyes. i look for peace...i look for hope.. i look in every nook.... for you.

~ the characters have lived in me, breathing them everyday i find and lose myself...

As a continuation of reunion meetings with a set of friends, we decided to explore a rather less traveled, less sought road. Settled with all humility, in posh locality is this store called Orange bicycle. The store is filled with all quirky, kitsch rather over priced but art pieces crated with heart and soul of the designer. Every nook is a blast of colors and every color tells a story, a story quoted and resonated in many niches set in the following path. The notes are different,  so are the sounds of strumming strings, birds chirp a little quietly a little more passionately here. Yes, it does assure you of happiness that can be found in small yet meaningful things which can't be brought  to you by million sparkling treasures. Orange bicycle :)

It amazes me, how often we choose to ignore the subtle, simpler things as they are overshadowed by more obvious more loud and more accepted notions of beauty. Innate desire to look at perfect things in perfect ways and assume that everything is in perfect order, is making us to walk away from those small imperfections which lay there so quietly, making perfection visible.

A bonnet ornament of Rolls Royce commissioned in early 1920's. Form of a woman leaning forward outstretching her arms behind, flanking a piece of cloth, billowing it as if she is ready to fly. Yes she is. She is the woman of spirit, minted in metal, sparkling with the zeal to let go all fears, smile and take over the sky. The Spirit of Ecstasy also known as Emily, silver lady or the flying lady was designed by an English sculptor, Charles Robinson Skyes, and carries with it a secret story of a love affair which continued even after all the obstacles. To me she truly is a symbol of passion...she is and will always be an inspiration to let go worries and spread the wings of desires sought & unsought but dreamt!