Transitory Dreams

Sleep, sleep..Go to sleep... Soon you'll be on your journey...

Mirabilis : "The Journey"

Transit Passengers at Amsterdam Airport

On work-bound train to New York

At Penn Station

Resprout!

Salad days, "when I was green in judgment;"
Sensible days, ideals tucked into the backmost pocket
of my purse and discretion the better part
Scarlet days when my blood boiled over
To paint my sky crimson and carroty
And then days when I was saintly
When it was all self-pity and righteous piety
My Sinner days, decidedly the happiest
When all lines were grey and delicious
corners darkly mysterious
My blue days, when copious tears drenched seas
And sunshine days when my nerves tingled in silent music

Take away my salad days and the scarlet ones
The blue days and the yellow ones
Give me a clean slate
Give me sheets of emptiness with no edges
Whiteness where I can redefine my hues

Take away the memories of days sensible and sinful
Erase my footprints until the last one moment
Give me a bare canvas, a blank window

So that I can begin again with no ado
And engrave a better story for tomorrow
If...there is a tomorrow

Stranger in My Mirror

Thank You Note

Picture this photographer. A photographer who not only goes click click with his camera but also clicks with his subjects like they have known each other always.
Knowing colleagues closely rarely throws up anything more than typical, predictable encounters. Finding a chance to work with someone non-temperamental, perceptive, receptive and professional is a pleasure that is surpassed by few things in working life.
My honour to meet Harsha – one such professional. He does not complain about heat or hunger or lack of sleep. Or miles to walk or bumpy, sweaty rides across rough terrain. Not crowded trains or shabby hotel rooms. He sits patiently through long-winded interviews, boring presentations and issues that are virtually greek and latin to him. He impassively yet kindly responds to weirdos of all hues and shapes, enthusiastically shoots the remotely interesting ones and passionately absorbs the beautiful ones.
A walk on a winding hill road, lined by cashew trees; A ride in a sarkari jeep through mountains, steamy one moment and lustrous the other as a gentle shower picks out the rocks among the satiny trees; An evening spent watching sun-kissed Godavari and languid fishing boats delving idly into the waters; fragrance of jasmines colouring the breeze from the river and attuned by chatter of women, gossiping without sting. Midnight chat on a train, congested with snoring men and bawling babies, as it chugs through the bridge on the river; Eating a spicy snack on the riverbank - a chunk from childhood nostalgia - a burnt breakfast in a ramshackle café in a small town, a bus ride on a straight-line highway, squeezing into low huts, spreading into sprawling forests – the journey is made up of many vintage snapshots and Harsha shares it and makes it even more memorable.
His subjects are as charmed by him as he is curious of their context. They pose for him - - bare-bottomed kids, toothless grandmothers, synthetically made-up sex workers, innocent villagers, strait-jacketed officials, young men and women - as he orders them to and he gives them solemn advice.
Attentive companion, sensitive friend. Intelligent researcher, interesting conversationalist. A worthy opponent in quibbles. Someone who sieves through every moment of life, without missing the details. Open to ideas, adamant on functionalities. Firm on principles, malleable to situations.
Working in tandem with a thorough professional is a pleasure that is rarely surpassed in working life. Thank you, Harsha, for agreeing to be on that trip.

Lost Warrior

The fight seems so important. Each syllable aimed and flung like a bullet, the words are intended to wound. The tone is poison sprayed over the opponent. Winning an argument is of paramount importance and vanquishing the other, life’s sole purpose. Small fights, big fights, issueless ones, righteous ones – fights seem the essence. Life is dialectic and conflict the essential.
But as the barb strikes the mark, I flinch. The blood that oozes out is my own. The expression of defeat on that face hits me in the solar plexus and I am crushed in victory. I win the battle every time. I am strong, invincible. Yet, I lose.
In the last few months, I lost people close to me. Some to death. Some to time and then some more to anger. And all that remains at the end of the day is the fights that I had with them. Harsh words uttered and crystallized. Angry whiplashes. Nasty shots.
I won every time. But none of the moments spent in happiness remains. When I run my tongue on the rim of my memory, all I taste is bitterness. And there is no way I can undo my victories.
I am a warrior who never learnt the rules of war. My battles are with my people, my homegrown plants, my little dreams, my ill-defined, ill-found loves. And against myself.
I am a warrior who never learnt the rules of revenge. I lash out with all might at my foes, writhing in waking nightmares and sleeping agonies. And, when I wake up, the scars are all on me. I am a restless fighter. And an eternal loser.

Into the Storm

You walk the streets. Aimlessly but in the garb of purposeful busyness. Your eyes dart from light to shadows, never meeting other eyes. You never look back but your eyeballs shoot back into your head to gaze fearfully backwards, to check if someone is following. You cross squares, turn corners but your flights always end in circles, reaching where you started. And when you walk back in, pain pounces on you from where it has been hiding.

Your sleep fights sleeplessness but always loses. You cry, laugh. Hit out at everything that moves. And those that don’t budge. You cover your ears, shut eyes. Your desperation slides down your throat as white drops of inducers.

I run but abruptly turn back and ram straight into my pain. It is a red light that sucks me in. It pricks, pierces. It is a high-pitched scream inside my head, a drill down each of my teeth. It is a needle that stitches my pores close together so that my breath is trapped writhing inside me. And I hit back. I strike out until the clouds of pain disperse. I plunge into the whirlpool, I fly into the turbulence. I catch pain and terrify it into flight. I bleed but exhale through a zillion free pores.

I fight pain, you suppress it. Your blood runs cold, I simmer in maniacal challenge. You wear blinds over your eyes, in monotones. I crush tragedies under my feet, into multi-coloured pieces of transparent glass.

I am battle-scarred but proud to be alive. You are pure as a petal but stink of escapism. Who is the loser?