Tagged by lost poet.
Here goes my best-test effort : P
heh.
1. Pick out a scar you have, and explain how you got it.
Near my right elbow. Fell down while playing badminton.
Erm, actually was pushed by someone who was playing badminton. (I was loitering around).
2. What does your phone look like?
It is black and golden. Looks very nice. Though some say it looks awful, I say it is sexy and wunnerful.
*applauds and cheers the 6080*
3. What is on the walls of your bedroom?
Blue and red paint. There used to be a few framed paintings- brilliantly done, by Dada.
4. What is your current desktop picture?
Dancers waltzing, in black and white. Finished doing it a few nights ago on 'Paint'. It is kinda nice.
: )
5. Do you believe in gay marriage?
Yes, I do. There is no reason not to.
6. What do you want more than anything right now?
Peace of mind, coherence and colours.
Sigh.
7. What time were you born?
Maybe at 2.10 am. I'm not sure. Had a fight with Maa right now, so cannot ask.
: |
8. Are your parents still together?
O yes. Definitely!
9. Last person who made you cry?
Myself, I think. Actually some old letters, not a person.
10. What is your favourite perfume / cologne?
Hugo Red.
11. What kind of hair/eye color do you like in the opposite sex?
Groomed hair, doesn't matter whether long or short. Oh yes, and floppy too :-D
And eyes? Dreamy! Maddeningly dreamy...eyes that speak of blue lagoons and charming twilights...
12. What are you listening to?
Leonard Cohen. 'Famous Blue Raincoat'
13. Do you get scared of the dark?
I rather like it these days. It ain't that scary when one is used to it. Even when it is within.
14. Do you like painkillers?
I do not 'like' them, but I DO take them if necessary.
15. Are you too shy to ask someone out?
Um. Yes.
16. If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?
Chocolate fudge and ginger ale. : D
And I do have the ginger ale now. Yeay!
17. Who was the last person who made you mad?
Maa.
: x
18. Who was the last person who made you smile?
Maa again. ; )
This tag goes out to anyone who wants to do this.
At times I wish the pen would run away with my soul.
Sit in the shade of green apple trees and conspire to write stories. Hundreds of them, thousands of them! And bring them back to me to read in this very little room that now encases absolute emptiness… carrying them in the guise of shadows during thunderstorms, bringing along lemon tea and rain. It would not have mattered to me if those stories had been only about the sea and the moon or gilt edged paintings and waltzes. It still would have been a part of me, a slice of my spirit.
Sometimes I wish the pen would run away with my soul and visit the life of paintings, it should seep into a Picasso or a Dali and proceed to tell silk-spun tales of melting clocks and sleeping girls, or picnics under greenish skies. I would not want honest answers. Never! There must be speculation and fabrication and spinning of the silk and clocks till the pen should tire awhile. And the soul shall write of hissing bonfires too and tales that were strung around them, of the charm of a chance reflection in a mirror, of murmurs and of puddles in summer and coloured umbrellas…
But now I travel back to this room, dislodged from the mental escapes that open eyes dream about. There is nothing that should inspire art here, it is small and shabby and distastefully furnished in yellows and oranges by the lady who lived here and then rent it out. I wonder whether it is this very room that stifles the art I so often dream of, whether the very smell of desolation shrinks my soul to nothing more than a pulsating beat that does not skip.
On mornings after a hard night’s toil at this wooden desk, I silently creep up to the huge window on the opposite wall that opens out to reveal a view of the grey sleeping city. The sight remains the same almost always. The street lamps yet to be turned off and the roads glistening from last night’s fog. The huge chimneys lining the sky, not yet pouring out the dismal fumes of grey to add to the dismal city that slept... Slept when it lay at night, slept when it woke- slept through a thousand stillbirths at one go.
From my window on the second floor one could look down to see the neighbourhood of some poor dears- living in the kind of poverty that is defined by wealth, or the lack of it. They seemed rather satisfied with their hard wrought fate. Happy in their smog brushed faces, in their dirty rags, in their empty bowls which if clean reflected their smog brushed faces in turn. Crumbling roofs and crumbling walls mattered not to them, they were happy in their belief that their own roof shall never fall.
It was while inspecting the gathering pigeons on one such roof that I first saw them both.
She gathered her skirt around her knee like a princess and broke her loaf of bread in two. To the boy she gave her larger piece and urged, “Eat”. The boy’s face must have lit up I believed (for I could not see very clearly from my window- just the back of his head when he accepted the piece). He broke the larger piece in two, and fed one half to the pigeons that had gathered with the morn around them.
She looked accusingly, first at him- then at the pigeons that gobbled up greedily all that was tenderly given by that small soft palm, before breaking her already halved piece in two. And again she handed the larger share to the boy, saying, “You eat!” with a look of extreme indignation. The little boy gurgled with innocent laughter and ate his bread happily, with occasioned sips at some tea from a clay pot which he shared with the girl. She seemed happy too.
The pigeons rested on their roof, pecking at minuscule crumbs that had slipped from their fingers, while their laughter shooed away the assembled gloom. The morning felt blue for the first time in ages, even brighter when the streetlamps eventually went off. The white breasted pigeons too perhaps smiled before flying away to a clear summer morning.
While music merges with wilderness and hills
and cries in caves of scattered light…
where distant seas churn songs and winter
in the moist cradle of blue recesses…
there we might search for you in specks of
stealthily disappearing spirits…
And your fingers now gleam
with untamed imaginings-
of buried souls and restless colours.
We sleep while you dream…
For you shall rise like the moonlit mist
on the wings of perfumed nights,
and embrace miracles…
(This was originally written for Inam. Poet and Friend.)
