Dichotomy

When the Sun sets

On the unconsciousness 

Where does the soul look

What does it see

What does it seek?

A glass of mistakes posing as pinot noir

An accompanying warm plate of toasted nuts

Insisting that there are no mistakes - just lessons!

Down below at the sea level

A plethora of things 

That let go of you 

Whether you let go of them. Or not!

A faint ghost of an ego

Lingering around or perhaps dissolving into nothing

When the Sun Rises

On an elevation, an evolution, an ascension.

When endorphins become a store brand

Made in house

Chuck that glass of mistakes

Down the drain.

Why let a spirit taint the spiritual?

The elixir that’s there, just for asking!

Let the Sun never rise

On that unconsciousness again.

Let it just usher the being into the white light of bliss.

That unfolds beneath the noise in the mind.

Version

Sometimes the elements play along

Spraying droplets on the windshield

While they mimic and manifest

The tucked away insides.

The little rhythm lets out a sigh

One that precariously hangs

In between a shatter and a shelter 

“Are you mending a broken heart?”

One hears voices.

Heartbreaks are supposed to make one hallucinate

And hear the unsaid 

The misty glass dons a symbolic guise

And a little voice that questions 

Goes speechless 

In a Good way, one can guess.

An arch of color springs up in the greys ahead

Just when the soul was supposed to shrink and shatter

It soars like a falcon

Spreading its wings.

Sometimes the cracks let in mysterious miracles 

And what has to contract magically expands.

What’s an existence that didn’t love, didn’t lose?

What’s an existence that didn’t shatter?

The other turn of turmoil could transform into treasures 

Meant to share, let go and revel.

So, listen up little voice that questions 

It’s not broken. It is a breakthrough.

Pinky and Salman

Behold! That’s indeed Salman Khan’s mug shot on my blog space! Just when life gets predictable and boring, such occurrences happen. So the eternal “most eligible bachelor” of Bollywood that made his debut when your truly was an awkward kid on Puberty lane, stays put in his desirability long after the said awkward preteen settles into her “stray grey middle aged  mother of two” tag. Some things don’t change. Isn’t that wonderful??

There’s another thing that didn’t change across all these years apart from Salman’s stardom. And that happens to be my friendship with Pinky. Now Pinky and Salman exist on the same plane for me, though the former is a super dear, very special fixture in my life. In the virtue of being Pinky’s favorite actor, Salman somehow became a permanent fixture in my life as well. Cause every time I think of Pinky, Salman appears from behind like the Genie from
The Magic Lamp. Now yours truly never had favorite actors growing up, Ofcourse until a certain Mr. Damon showed up on the horizon and she isn’t really sure if Matt appeals to her as a person or a professional anyway. So without much digress, I’ll admit that my eighth, ninth and tenth grade’s recesses and free times were spent in listening to Pinky’s carefully curated Salman trivia. The other day  when I over heard Pinky on phone, baby talking to her alleged “puppy” Mr. Tiger ( who’s a full blown, true blue German Shepherd btw) I heard her ask me in her baby talking glory if I knew of anyone handsomer than Salman Khan.  Before I asked her  if she was referencing her husband (Sorry Mr.Pinky, It isn't you. Truths are bitter ;)) in the same baby voice, She told me that I didn’t meet Mr. Tiger in person, or in this case,I didn’t meet him in Canine. (Grin) So that goes to say, how much Pinky the Salman lover, is a bigger and better animal lover. Yes, Thank God for little blessings. Spouses need not apply, just in case you are wondering ;)

Pinky wasn’t your average star struck teen mind you. Though, I have to admit that after discovering Salman’s taste in women as I grew up, I always thought Pinky was his type, If you know what I mean. Pinky preceded the vision of Miss Kaif in her teen years though I was kind of surprised to discover Pinky as a very traditional, old fashioned home maker avatar  after we parted ways n lost touch post our tenth grade. Back in the day, Pinky was my window to the world, with special reference to Bhai of Bollywood. She would catch all Salman moves that made a tardy and sometimes painfully dubbed appearances on the screens of our modest little town and come back to school amd relate every bit of the plot to me, with spoilers in tow. So deep was Pinky’s admiration for Salman, that I secretly wished that I could meet Salman and get him to sign an expressly addressed autograph for pinky. Now, talk about the lengths we go in the name of love ;) Now that ‘meeting salman’ and making him sign an autograph for my bestie didn’t happen so far, but thanks again to huge blessings that  I  actually got reunited with  Pinky after a long gap,  thanks again to the magic of the modern day communication and the world wide web.

Pinky and I get along like peas in the same pod. We didn’t see each other in the longest time, make that 28 years. Whaat? 28 *insert expletive* years?? By God, I should admit that I did a double and triple take on that! Now did Salman freeze himself on the collective psyche of the Indian movie goer for so long?

Wait! Is this becoming about Salman seriously? Well, it should in all fairness. When it is about Pinky it has to be about Salman. But the real catch, ye August brethren, is this! It isn’t as much about Salman as it is about Pinky and in all honesty it isn’t as much about Pinky as it is about my love for Pinky and all things Pinky loves, cause I love her :)

And what if we didn’t meet in 28 years? I can bet my last dollar that we are as thick today as we were all those years ago. For true love, dearies, prevails. Full stop.

So my count up, in my little space that reflects my little heart and it’s little joys, is thrilled to feature Pinky alongside that lucky actor named Salman. I don’t know much about his track record but being on Pinky’s nice list is all it takes to get his presence felt in my sacred little bit of this cyber space.

So, the catch ye all ...this is actually about my attention span, that goes to super human lengths in the name of love. Three cheers to undying love and friendship. If that’s three cheers to Salman, so be it.

All is fair in Love. They say.
That - They cannot say it any righter ;)

“ “

Verse

What if Hearts were sold
By the sidewalk
Suspended into air
Defying the norms.
One for everyone
That seeks to love!
Or be loved.
Flying high in the human jungle
Above the hustle and bustle
Of betrayals and breaks.
What if hearts were priced to go..
Affordable, reliable
Where they come crossing our paths
For sale.
 With iron clad warranties
And fool proof service
That talks listens and nurtures.
What if hearts were hawked
Would that bankrupt many businesses
Of therapies, spirits and substances??
All one needs to do, is exchange a few pennies
For eternal peace and belonging.
What if Hearts were actual gadgets
Existing out of the flawed human bodies?
Out of selfish ends and prejudices.
Would the world be a better place
If hearts were for sale?
Or would it just make the irony
A tad more ironical??

Inspired by the hawker of hearts I spotted recently, somewhere out there.

Wordless

Well, almost!
My favorite quotes with pictures to boot!

Life of Pi is a book that imprinted itself on my heart ever since I first read it in 2003 :)

Take a bow Yann Martel.

Maya - The Parrot

It was a beautiful day in the valley. Chilly and overcast. It looked like the world around me was filtered through making every hue appear deeper, every detail appear more intricate. The kid duo prompted me to drive up the hill and drive down upon picking them up - so the influence is slow, but utterly sure. They look for the placement of the sun and the landscape basking underneath. "Look" the first born pointed out - "I see such finer detail and more homes up the faraway hills. I think they are washed out in the brightness on a sunny day" 
There's a saying in my native tongue - about Parrots and the way they speak - It loosely translates to "To which ever nest the parrot belongs, that language it speaks" 

I know, There's no trace of the topic Of Maya the parrot as yet, except this random, useless incident of my day, and this random useless capture I did on my smartphone - but what's a woman to do? I feel compelled to hand hold you through the silliest of my thoughts with the silliest of props.

Yeah, we'll get there momentarily, but to get to Maya the parrot- I need to do a prologue that dates back to my third grade. This was the time when my love for color and painting was emerging. The brand Camlin made a watercolor palette for kids, that was called "Camlin Cadet, students' watercolor cakes" - It had this assortment of fifteen water color tablets and those were my best friends in that day and age up until the day I found a loose wooden bird that fell off of a knick knack that was on my father's working desk in his office. I tinkered with the bird - which was carved out of unlacqured/ unpainted plain wood. So the bird in question that got estranged from her clique had species ambiguity. I got her with me and painted her a few saturated coats of parrot green with the watercolors giving it a crimson beak and collar- the results weren't vibrant and glossy but the easy to please kid was pleased nevertheless. Thus, her new pet Mynah the parrot came into being. Now please do not ask an eight year old why she would call a parrot a Mynah and no, the parrot didn't have an identity crisis. I assure. 

Mynah came with me to school, tucked safely into my pencil box. Yeah, she was tiny. But she packed a big punch of joy with her. On retrospect, I realize I had such rich imagination. I used to speak to Mynah - tell her random things about me and my life. Like I tell this scroll even today - Old habit and all that wisdom, case in point, it is so true :)
So anyway, right there was my yearning to somehow have a parrot for a friend. To hold one, to pet one, to speak to one and like Uncle Cohelo says 


"When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you achieve it."

Surely indeed, the universe took close to a couple decades to materialize this yearning. What you are seeking, is seeking you - Right? right!

Enter Maya.

Maya was a Indian rose ringed parakeet, The exact one I tried to model my Mynah after, years ago. She was the pet of our friend and neighbor's five year old son. When I first learned of Maya and her entry into this household, I couldn't stop myself from paying her a visit. The day I actually got to meet her wasn't sooner as I yearned. So when I went, the family had stories and stories about her quirks, how shy she is and how it is better I enjoy her from a safe distance. 

Who'd have thunk that Maya would make an eye contact with me - an intense 'there you are' kindaa one. And before I knew or someone stopped me, I opened the door of her cage and offered her my hand as a perch. 

Maya came hopping and landed right on my wrist and to the utter surprise of our audience, I find myself settled in the family's easy chair with Maya settled snugly in my lap. As she made herself comfortable, she found a button on my shirt and started pecking at it, punctuating her chore with looking up at me every now and then. Maya felt hollow and was extremely agile - she stomped up and down my torso pecking at the buttons and looking at me as if to watch for my reaction. she and I spent a chunk of time while her family wondered in the background.

"She never does this. Trust us she is so shy"

(I kind of related to what they had to say as my own five year old toddler did the same thing to me once in a while. "She has stranger anxiety" I once told the stranger in the railways station back home when they offered to carry her - and my little baby decided to smile at them and offer her hands to be carried"  Talk about life's little speed breakers ;))

I didn't have much to say to what they said. I was in the middle of feeling like Potter that had discovered that he was a parsletongue. Ever since, Maya and I had our frequent hangouts. Every opportunity I got, I used to sneak out and pay her a visit. In the process of bonding with Maya, I did useless research about parrots and found trivia that is fascinating. No, I won't share any here. Rest assured. I do not want to up the bore-o-meter of this ponder.Or may be it would make this banter interesting - But we'll let it be :)

One day, Maya flew away. Phew....she just made it into the backyard and poof...gone! Domesticated birds aren't supposed to do that. The grandma of the five year old was mighty pleased. She thought it was a torture to have birds as pets. But according to my research, the domesticated birds cannot make it on their own in the wild. Maya metaphorically lived her name. She was here, and then she wasn't. Even till date, I wonder what had happened to her. May be she's one of those oddities that defied norms - that's possibly why she chose to fly away.

"So I love you because the entire universe conspired to help me find you"


My thoughts drift to Maya every now and then. She's made a very intense childhood dream of mine into a reality. I hope, she's out there somewhere livin it up in her own terms, making her own dreams come true. 

One nought two

The little yellow rascals 

Bloom in bunches

Popping up here and there

Like sparks from

The camp fire

Accenting a bed of green.

I let them be. 

What if they aren’t planted?

How cool actually 

That they spring up on their own.

What grit! What inner drive

To sprout and survive.

Weeds!

That condescending sound

Their name makes..

Would feel

Challenged don’t you think?

Once it spots itself 

Labeling a dandelion in full bloom

Looking like a feather ball

A halo 

A wishing prop!

A wand of bubbles

Waiting to be blown

In the party of sunshine.

We pluck one. And another 

“I want to blow them”

She squeals

Chasing after the specks 

Once they unravel in her gentle exhale.

Weeds. 

The ones that need to be uprooted

Morph and melt into meager miracles

Making wishes out of 

Something so disdained!

101. And counting.

I had been hit by the block lately, Eversince the recording of the hundredth blog for the year, there's a mental slack that kicked in despite desperate measures to keep at punching the key board to take the tally a notch up. I have about seven to 8 blogs marinating on random topics that might or might not see the light of the screen. This morning, I had wiled a chunky portion of my productive morning hours squinting at the screen, nodding my head in disbelief at the kind of stuff I was typing out and holding the backspace to make it run a reverse marathon to obliterate the said horrors of the said musings.

Some still wait in hope to be salvaged and published but we'll see....

In the afternoon, being the screen nazi that I am, I didn't let the second born watch any tv. It's veterans day and a long weekend for the rugrats. While the first born paced the entry way, looking every bit like a Ted talker and practising her mock 'Ted talk' for a language art credit which kept her busy and off my back (Don't ask me if she sounded like a Ted talker as well. The talk is about "being present" by the way - yeah - Charity, clarity and all that mighty lofty stuff begins at home, or I hope they began at home in this case atleast ;)) the second born found novel ways to keep herself busy, once in a wile pouting and begging for some screen time.The pleas were promptly dismissed.  Around after lunch I started feeling bad for her when she was entertaining herself talking to the fresh white mums in the vase. It occured to me that I'd never really hung out with the second born by herself - so Her and I decided to go have some ice cream at the nearby plaza and wile some more time, but ofcourse in a funner way than raking head over passable ponderable musings.

The usually independent and "I can take care of everything by myself" Kiddo came and held my hand in a firm grip once we parked our car and got out to walk to the ice cream shop. "Let me hold your hand amma, cars can come and scratch people in parking spaces" she offered her wisdom and caution.I took this moment to hold her small, warm hand gently in mine. I was suddenly pondering about the comfort and security a simple holding of hands could offer. As if the universe wanted to resonate and validate my thoughts, I saw people holding hands everywhere - a young father walked past us, holding both of his daughters' hands and a teen couple crossed our paths with entwined hands, to a point where they looked conjoined. I let out a smile thinking of the manifestation of this simple, loving gesture. But the hand holding that really caught my eye was the senior couple's. These beautiful people were walking just a couple of feet before us. I saw the interlaced fingers, the way they stepped forward in unison - wondering if the choice of their red and blue outfits is in some way meant to commemorate the Veterans today. Just as I swooped my phone out to capture that tenderness on my lens, the lady stopped and turned back. She put up her foot on a nearby fowerpot and restrapped her sandals. We made eye contact and she smiled. 

For a second, I was disappointed that the hand holding came undone and wasn't sure if they would resume again. Sure enough, the gentleman waited by his lady, with a eager hand out. She quickly grabbed it again on off they went on their unified stroll. 

I grinned. And then did a hasty click fest on the cam, making sure to filter through the outcome to choose the one capture that would preserve their privacy but freeze their affection all the same on my ponering space here in this virtual cosmos. 

I looked at them till they disappeared into the nearby coffee shop. And as the second born and I walked back to the car, I smiled at the tinyness and the warmth of that little hand in mine, as she gripped my hand tight and firm. I quickly snapped a picture of our hand holding, of the long skewed evening shadows ofcourse, in a selfie of sorts.

As I walked, I remembered a mystic's words I'd heard in the past - words that spoke about the power of joined hands in the "Namaskaram" pose the hindus make as a greeting. In the same speech, he spoke about how when we hold our own hands together, would connect and balance our own divine masculine and feminie within. 

"Do the right things with these control panels" he offered.

And what more can be righter than holding another person's hand - in love, companionship and security!

Thoughtless

Thursdays

The ones that are supposed to be thoughtless.

Submerged in spirit, removed from identity.

The day that the Guru loves -

Occurring mid way, like crisis' contra-entry

Thursdays make everything special

That scoop of ice cream tastes creamier

A new scarf wrapped around the neck

lends a special flair.

That phone call to a dearest,

Wait, even a heart wrenching loss

Becomes soul drenching on this day.

Morning sun filtered through blinds

Catching a gleam on the china

Making the cup transform into a work of art!
It’s got to be the day!
"Wow" I gasp.

The bystander offspring makes an eye roll

"Mother, you are an abuser of Wows"

"On top of being an abuser of that phone cam"

"Why would you click pics of critters and cups?"

"Of the boring and the blah??"
The teen didn’t get the memo looks like!
It’s a Thursday.
It’s like putting a monkey on substance
When you put her Mom in a Thursday.
And what better day to complete a one hundred?
Here goes the century
The celebration.
The supposedly thoughtless
Meditative, non contemplative
Irony’s lost child
Yelling in triumph that
It’s a Thursday.
And on this day,
Blah should sound like Bliss.
And a teacup should look like the Taj!
It should, it should. It has no choice.

This and That

It was some kind of a maze

Grown to make one get lost

That was the whole purpose..

The lost, lonely, panicky feeling;

The thrill it offers.

The relief, the triumph 

When you steam through
The dead ends, 

The bare walls

That stand and greet you

Only to deceit you.

But he marched along, nevertheless

Holding the sister's hand, firmly, gently.

Trotting in a way 

His Four years on the planet

Kind of step back and wonder,

If they had counted themselves right!

I follow him armed with my DSLR

Trying to aid my heart's capture 

With supporting visuals.

He removes his shoes

And jumps into the corn pit

And stomps away.

I stop, to look at him

Wait till the eyes lock.

He holds the gaze a second longer.

Don't these kernels hurt your feet?

He looks at me and smiles

And looks through me, with a dusty gaze

Like I am a piece of glass, a sheet of paper.

He holds his sister's hand again

And replies 

"They hurt my feet, but not my walking"

I freeze.

And I gasp and sigh

on a piece of my screen

The depth of those words!!

Pictured - The Corn maze by the pumpkin patch. Somewhere in the Golden state.