Pellucid Pursuit

There may be rather numerous objects of grace, articles of elegance, that capture otherwise contradistinct hearts, and then there is one that all look up to - the moon. Undeniably splendid as it evokes a concoction of  varied emotion, it opens out in you the deepest love. Many a night she stood by the window as the delicate drapery fluttered in the gentle breeze of an oncoming pleasant spring night hoping for some insight, wondering whether the rays that shone so bright would bring with it a glimmer of hope for the much tormented soul of a poor mortal unable to handle the variables of her very existence. Every blossoming day brought with it a new angle to an already contorted situation making the simple prismatic effect rather a far cry and unpleasantly psychedelic. As your heart is leaping bounds in unspoken joy, there is a subconscious force pulling you back and is unallowing in proceeding fruther without killing the ego of uncertainty. The carte blanche may be hard to derive and every turn along the way has you anxious of what is to come, but at the end of the day, it is how you choose to move on, move along, how you choose to survive. Life brings with it a whole pallet of assorted problems and for some the package looms larger than it looks. In situ, what you do matters more than what you could have done or should do. The factors that influence your life lie in your hands alone and if a certain consequence ensues with relative respect, then that too is of your own making. It is for us to realize that nobody can bring about the change we want to see, for we've all been born different and if you want to see something happen, then go out there and make it happen. It doesn't help to further worry and analyze permutations and combinations. Follow your heart. You and only you know exactly where it is leading you and where it will. Second chances are fair for us to give another but whether we will be given one remains ambiguous. Every step forward is in pursuit of your dream and every action is only to fulfill it. Life itself happens just once. Don't think. Don't say. Don't feel. Just DO it.

Tempus Imperfectum

A dramatic flutter, in archaic splendor with stupendous fervour, and as I wonder - the breath taking, mystifying charm of it all. Surreal, enrapturing gaiety and the poised elegance make seem the ardous endeavour of the eversmiling artiste all but strivingly strenuous. A thousand gasps echo in absolute disbelief - a picture cannot capture to tell the beauty of sights seen as such. And then the curtain falls.

Life itself has evolved much as a stage play, whether small or big, the reification of character to not just bring out that touch of absolutist perfectionism but also a character that stands out, a character that the audience can't help but notice. We may, many of us, prefer to remain somewhere there, in the background, in quiet subjugation to the rhythm in tune, fearing to make a slight change - maybe a mere addition, a personalization that could only add a touch of further beauty to the presently colourful ensemble. It isn't the betterment of the present that matters as much as our perspectice to shape our predicament to voice what is our prerogative, without having prejudiced eyes upon us set, and without hassle, but in subtle appeasement make accepting to an audience that would probably be in expectance of something rather different. What to them seems perfect may just be ametric and the suggested change a probable shift in the regular order of existence.

A departure from the norm may come as a welcome surprise to those willing to welcome/accept such change but there is never a proposition that can be brought forth without opposition. It is the intriguing complexity of human nature that makes further interesting the trials and travails of those who set forth with a certain determination to enable them to see the benefits of change. It may not be a successful pursuit, but there is never harm in trying. Perseverence is by itself a rewarding virtue and if there is a certain something that you really desire, then these are just hurdles testing your finesse in bracing it all. 

(Tempus Imperfectum refers to imperfect time signature in music - a departure in a certain section from that time which is prescribed in general for the entire piece.)

Approaching Ambivalence

When all that you can see beyond is a mere blur - the future that you cannot read, the mist that you cannot trespass, a hazy shade of shadows in the deep obscurity of apprehensive incognizance, then there really isn't much reason in trying to permeate an unyielding wall when calm resignation to the present, a humble acceptance of the absolutist contemporaneous today, bound to garner greater peace of mind and a multitude of warmth as compared to strained hope?

Every blossom may not stay, yet to see the break of day, certain of transience, although a sight worthy of audience. The moment is now yours to change, to tweak, to twiddle and make that difference. Futuristic contemplation of what may and may not be is precisely a positive corruption of the essential now. Idealism prevails within our minds stoking a fire of hope, bringing the ardor and affection of love and a glow of undiminishing ever after. Whether there will be such a painted reality is inexplicable, but it isn't only the wand of fate playing the game in its creation - every spark of the human heart has an underlying ulterior emotive passion that surprisingly can turn your way, the direction of the wave upon the sand.

Life may seem to have brought with it umpteen problems, undecipherable, and yet its complexity is intriguing. There are many roads that lead you away from it, but to have the strength to brace it all and take that which is rocky is courage personified. As in the words of Ambrose Redmoon, courage is not the absense of fear but rather the belief that something else is more important than fear. It isn't in the blood of every man to yearn to traverse the untrodden. It is convenient to succumb to the evil of comfort and condescendingly dismiss the spirit of difference - to believe to have seen it all when you haven't turned a page.

The journey we began is long and the course unchartered. Every turn springs new dimension to what we thought complete, an explanation that may only await overleaf. Every event may seem incomprehensible, but there is a backbone of reason holding it all together, giving it the form that ultimately will show the truth of an awaiting destination justifying the heartburn, the pain, the trifles, the lost diversions and the tears shed, all in search, with a hope, of finding that one true love. Shakespeare did once say, a journey ends in lovers' meeting. And so it will, when every toil of today will bring to your tomorrow the cherished desire of a hopeful love. But till then, savour the moment and enable yourself to take it as it comes for the uncertainty of the future lies hither as is yonder. For now, just Live. Dream. Be.

A secret told

Acquaintance of one's thoughts is not as palpable a manifestation. There is no apparent visibility as the haze fades away. How far below are they submerged, to let your mind plunge into a bottomless crevasse, is intrinsically extraneous. Every sparkling blossom of intuitive musing lets you delve further within yourself, an element which subtly shows you as particular. Within the prosaic and mundane existence, the relief of your soul from what is commonplace lets you traverse lines untraced. The provenance of such profundity remains in the fascinating allure of the deepest secrets that are held in your innermost chest of treasured moments, moments woven into our lives through instances with people who hold in your heart a special place. Words have always been the perfect vent to enunciate what you truly behold beneath the pseudo realm of the bewitching dazzle of the eye. What is fondly embraced in a certain circumstance may, tomorrow, prove to be heart wrenching. Acquiescing to walk along the promenade of indelible memories, to want to kiss many of them goodbye and slowly edge forward, to experience ere long purely unquestionable passion, is what is best done to rekindle a spark that seems unwilling unless you set your heart in apple-pie order. Life brings with it a fair share of love and laughter and to be able to share its enchanting odyssey with someone who is uniquely distinguished in your life is a yearning wish I've made upon my wishing star that mystically sparkles within the precinct of the magical night sky.

I found my solace in a happening fortuitous, and for long after it seemed like words failed me. The incentive to write seemed to fade away. Life itself seemed, with a newfound essence, pretty perfect until I also realized that besides the zestful verve, a certain aspect of me was lost when a touch of it flitted away. The ability to bring out expressions that lie amidst the core and leave them without, to rest with an unburdened soul, as the notes play out in enrapturing harmony, feels complete - truly a love one cannot leave. 

Touchstone

I trudged along, up a hill, each resounding step stealing into the realm of silence. A warm sunny day, it was, one charmed to lure you out yonder. Each tiny leaf of grass and flower of weed wrapped with the mystic glow, reflecting the warmth of the sun. Isolated, the land of dreams - far removed from the bounds of every precipice and even of peripheral reality. 

Gaeity in stride, crushing beneath what was parasitically painful - I moved on. The walk was long but the dawn of day didn't seem to want to meet its better half and much rather seemed to be drawing away from the hazy warmth of dusk. The anonymous bliss of one who had shed a burden far too heavy - to walk away, indifferent, unmindful, free, sans a touchstone. 

Each step held greater renowned meaning. There was much to look forward to, as Pollyanna would have put it. What will tomorrow be? - I cannot say. But what is evident, 'beyond reasonable doubt', is the transient temporal cosmos within which our existence takes a new turn every living second. It is all very well when many a wise man will have tread paths untrodden and pass on words of wisdom but that which we unfortunately fail to imbibe. 

If we cannot live for the present, then what are we living for? - Reveling in dreams past will not make the ride ahead any easier, rather dream on, don't stop. Somewhere down the line, when you're running out of gasoline and hope is a word whose meaning doesn't hold anymore, from the midst of nowhere, that hand you've always waited for will bail you out.

Until then, trudge on and never look back. 

Enthusiastic Elan

It is that time in our life when arrivez le weekend and you dab that last shade of rouge, grab them sunglasses and head out. Out beyond, the social world is beckoning. We’re young and full of life and this is supposed to be the time where we’re having the time of our lives! The unwritten norm doesn’t allow you to resist. A sociologist or any professional in a related field would call this peer pressure but we would bear it out to disagree to it being more like our second nature.

But every theory will inherently incorporate the concept of the ‘level of satiety’ that wouldn’t take too long to attain – our invariable penchant to be only replaced by an unlikely distaste. A point beyond plain equilibrium after which no amount of coaxing would let you stir from not wanting to do the same things that lured you out but at a time before of the recent past. It varies from person to person, the reaching of such a point. But, it is more than certain that it wouldn’t take forever for us to keep going off on the same uncanny tangent.

There comes a time when all you could possibly care about, on those very same weekends, is the smile and shine in the kaleidoscopic eyes of innocent children who look up to you with renowned hope that was lost early. While not caring about those few winks of Sunday siesta and the cheer it brings to see their adorable innocent yearning, it is also wonderful to see the increasing number of people, especially those tenderly young and blessed with hearts of gold,  who oozing with oodles of enthusiasm are willing to give it all up for a cause noble. The veritable proof of our capability being seen in the genuine characteristic smile on a visage innocent.

An organization/enterprise/initiative of the youth – technicalities would associate different nomenclature to it – has seen many a member come, make a mark, linger on till time and circumstances permit, and then without option and much of a heavy heart, leave. As we bid tearful goodbyes to those whom we’ve grown much accustomed to, we also open our arms wide in welcoming our newbies, the ones with a new found enthusiasm and a quest for satisfaction. With the hope to connect with more people around the world in pursuance of a common cause, we open ourselves as a network, a platform to realize not just your dream but those of many a young one who could be your protégé. With tomorrow blossoms the tender leaves of hope. 

Tumultuous Thespians

Genuineness as naïve as ours, at a time ensconced within the era of uncouth, immoralistic, uncreditable corruption can sometimes scathe scars deep. Trust none, my mother, she told me, at a time when young, impressionable as a child, was I. Years hence, realization slowly creeps in to show the veritable honesty of a simple but wise statement. To grow up in atmospheres that teach you utopian values, the nudge and urge to lend an ear, to listen and to bear faith and not severe a second chance, was but inherent nature.

To err is human, to forgive divine is what the idiomatic phrase enunciates in simplistic terms and so is also what I believed. Mankind however, has the supernatural trend of assaying wrong most, if not all, of everything. Nature brings to fore at periodical intervals, tests that manifest and substantiate to us, the naivete, and gives much of a real shake up shock treatment.

Character, values, morals, ethics are all words which have long lost their haloic sheen and are best left buried in the ancient chest of virtue; the sanctity of definition to leave undisturbed, unchallenged. The absence of these little bagatelles of virtue governs the intricate framework of democratic organization. Rationality of any degree has taken a beating while pseudo flimsy reasons take up centre stage in passing the so-called ‘value judgments’ and imputing such unreasonable irrationality to their consensual notions leaving the innocent marred black. It is good upbringing on the one hand balanced by the inability to step down levels as low that leave us plain appalled and immobile – lacking the mere strength to raise an arm in opposition for we are rooted to the ground, paralyzed.

It is in small institutions like ours where it doth blossom young, the spiteful, vile and conniving basis of differentiation that place the very elements of sense and sensibility far outside the doorstep. Ugly is the scene that unfurls and plays out so dramatically to the tune of ludicrous venomosity and into the hands of truant tabloid appearance seeking ersatz spineless invertebrates.

It isn’t in my position to make utterances that, on the dawn of tomorrow, in all invariability, will turn contortedly controversial. Passionate responsibility with dignity of labour, in pursuance of causes and issues at hand have taken the inconspicuous back seat while riding upfront, loose and aloof, is the vice of power.

What we are is as much an issue in conflict as what we would be if we were not. Being apolitical is impassionate ignorance, or so it seems. At such a point in time what really comes to my mind is the one line from the soliloquy in ‘Hamlet’ by Shakespeare, that has become much renowned among literary architects of the day, and is now much relevant – ‘To be or not to be – that is the question’.

Aurora

The tender youthful ocean, mellow and wan, passing through the vicissitudes of passion and toiling with an unmirthful poignant growl, loftily rising in fainéant formation of a sharp, caustic tide – a transformation unwonted, grave in contrast to the tinsel shades of the incipient skyline as they met in mergence at the horizon. The fine granules of sand on the now deserted beach still felt warm from the heat of a dusky evening sun.

The woman, she sat there, a picture of quaint perfection but with much conflict at heart. Her life, like the convergence at shore of paradoxical wavelengths. Much had transpired, moments to live unforgettable, that she hoped with time would be withered away in tranquility by the gentle hush of a wave.

Yearning for that fortuitous feather like touch, hope tingling amidst angst, unsure of what was once vied, each tear embedded beneath the water, in the sand – evanishing transience.

The last rays of the sun streaking the realm of the ken over the jagged rocks beyond the water, far beyond, through the burgeoning twilight – in brilliance fugacious.

What tomorrow might bring is but always a surprise. The impressions left behind washed – a path anew to walk on, ahead, away. The morrow is, afterall, another day – a day to kiss off that mask she wore, to face them all with clairsentient view, to embrace the life she never lived to learn and love. The waves’ gentle caress against her delicate, effete feet wouldn’t stop her as she withdrew, stood up and trudged forward – the closure of a long chapter in endeavour of a new beginning, one to never bring back within the bounds of the future, the past, but leave crumbling and deliquesced on the coast of yesterday.

(By ancient Roman mythology, Aurora was the goddess of dawn.)

Ricochet

Much as I believed it to be all over, a hopeful star that lead me on, out and away from the overwrought wreck that I was, or so I thought. For you, I know, I hold no more of what I did or what I could have. Futility lead me on. Many a tear I may have shed on those everlasting sleepless nights, but I do now know for sure that at the end of it all, you mean no more than you once, long ago, did – a time that seems to figure in an epoch different. What it has been for you, I do not know and you do not seem to allow. Words fail me. You leave me plain dumbstruck not knowing whether taking a step forward would be inappropriate encroachment. Incomprehensive, speechless, bearing no locus, I feel but ludicrous.

The love, the care can never fade my dear and it isn’t that I would allow the first thought of it. You may not be my world but certainly shall always be a part. Of you, I worry many a day and manage you do to still hurt, to still glisten my eye with unshed tears and beat that little that is left of me. Am I not worthy enough to deserve a better answer?

I wonder now why I even stay. It wouldn’t take long to walk away, leave you behind with  them broken pieces, to have you pick them up on your own and figure for yourself what fits where. Sadly, I wasn’t born inhuman – virtuous I have been and otherwise, I cannot.

As the hurt of one wound seems to heal, the other now looms large as painful, each itching sting a stark reminder of my blindness. It doesn’t matter that no ordinary person would stand by but in the affirmative I say, I shall. In your present temperament, you must think me a fool but someday when sense comes knocking on your door, realization will strike you hard with reality. As they say, the truth, it always hurts.

And then I hope, when unknown, you would turn around and positively assert, with that innocently genuine smile, acceptance of the past, as you head out your way and I will mine.

Goodbye for the present, my dear one, for my presence or absence doth make but any difference.

Spirited Sally

One of many dull afternoons, where the much laden clouds, harbingers of rain long awaited, like a sea of woes, brought upon me a low sense of melancholy. Try, as I did, to rid my memory of moments stashed away never to throw – hard as it was, the shades of grey seemed to resonate and reflect, seemed to glare, from angles all along unnoticed.

The rain, it fell, its first tender droplets like the gentle kiss of a young child. Its soft caress had powers within reaching beyond, that I had but yet realized. To let yourself go, to open your arms, to sway a little to the rain dance can, and from true experience I say, genuinely wash away the frequent spells of anguish that furrow thy brow, those that seem to cling but strongly with and without love.

Soaked and drenched to the bone, as I was, and yet each step forward stepping slightly into those shallow puddles, on to a long promenade, the ripples my feet caused seemed to reverberate how slowly but surely it was all going away – the wounds of a hurt unhealed seemed to be being soothed and languidly drying away.

Much time spent wont in abandon’s abandon, that shroud, now slipping past, let me feel again the raison d’etre.

The mild colours of a faint rainbow shone yonder and from it I saw an array of hope, a promise that tomorrow held wrapped, invisible yet blossoming – the silver lining at the end of a dark cloud, the much needed respite after a thunderstorm, the ability to sweep out the broken pieces without picking them up and to walk on.

Maybe somewhere down the lane, I will find that yellow brick road to lead me on a path to where my heart lies for the journey, it never ends.

La vie

The potpourri like simplistic concoction of words that, when put together, in proverbial form, is much dismissed and contemned by us as a bouquet of axiomatic precepts, that only certain scenarios bring to you why and what they really mean.

Dishing out a smorgasbord-like array of situations, much different in its levels of palatability, the value we impute to all, from people to the inanimate, assume a very different standing. It may not be just through those many happy moments which though more likely than uncommon are quite inevitably shared in much vivacious joviality, but there comes a time when a shoulder to cry on is what you long for more than anything else. And it is during times like these when the reality of the meaning that others interpolate against your person comes to fore. Like many a passing cloud, we meet people, some acquaintances, some friends but among them is a further distinction of the genuine and not, of those would stand by and wouldn’t.

Are there a fixed set of applicable norms as to one’s relationships? A fine thinker of grandiose refinement might put together a theoretical thesis on how, why and what we are and should be. But isn’t that being a little too impassionate, inhuman? For afterall, the natural human tendencies don’t exactly function by a rulebook. There is so much heart and emotion in every action, every event, every happening, every love, every heartbreak that would take much endurance and more than many lifetimes to begin to decipher.

A plain, simple misunderstanding is not reason enough to pass value judgments and discuss one dear to you as anyone but he.

Live, love, forgive and forget for each new day is a new beginning, one afresh for you to paint your reality – of strokes gentle yet bold. It may be that some preferences didn’t work out favourably but behind each action is some fundamental reason that will sketch your tomorrow in tones more pleasant, heart warming and with much love. For after all, c’est la vie.  

Winter moonlight

Somewhere amidst this insipid aridity, trying to bridge the bottomless waterway that would otherwise in time consume her soul, to more than merely stay afloat, the pursuit of such strength to get across, to cherish the idle solitude where the faint shadow of the rainbow arrayed a glimmer of hope, the serene surrounds brought to her a new apprehension of reality.

Battling with her mind and heart and the reluctant knowledge of the existence of no other viable justification and after much groping and scrabbling in the dark, around the dead end of this much acquainted cul-de-sac, which unfrequented by most, she realized the walk back would be in absolute solitary loneness while trying to get back on with the hustle and bustle, in track with them many strangers - a much vapid option.

Each step brought back to her little moments, incoherent in the harmony of order, but quaint and quintessential like the many bric-a-brac that grace the aristocratic baroque. To admire and revel in each one of them and with unshed tears, now flowing with much undesirable spontaneity to favour her tremulous turmoil and slowly but hesitantly, for the will to let go had let gone, pushing them away, and each resonating step resounding in a million echoes of the past telling a story of the future that would not be, caused emotions that were quicksanding her. Lost to her was all the resolve with which she naively believed to make the insurmountable preposterity possible.

Confined with herself, with the incarcerated ennui, there she sits, beneath the willow as she weeps gingerly, and each tear glistens, with a shimmer of grey, by the shine of the winter moonlight. 

Eternelle evanescence

Through acrid days and arbid nights, thoughts of you fail to dissolve, fail to fade. What is it that you have been, are or done that maketh you one but indispensable? I writhe, I wallow, I cringe. Had you been a little less, my task, my burden would be much lighter. Or may be that you aren’t is the reason why it all did start.

Is it too much that I ask for? Too hard to give?

Wandering through an arbour too good to be, one today I cannot reach for the way is winded, the way is long and I am by far wholly and unconditionally lost and all I can is try be but strong.

The song of your being brings a tear to my eye and as each note transcends, and it traces its way down a mite, I struggle to evade thoughts that refuse to wane.

What we were and what we are today, like spring to autumn, so stark a change, that with angst I hope, all but in vain, for it to be a dream not meant to be.

It fails me to comprehend where all of this may lead, but this one thing I can assure – for you, there, I will always be. 

Chagrin de l’amour

The ravaging upsurge of the tide rose high and the pleasant tone of the breeze turned many a tune sharper. Dusk was setting in and it seemed like nature was casting her the signal to leave the abode of lighthearted insouciance she seemed to be engulfed in. Yet there she stood, calm and unfazed, oblivious to the world around her. Her stature clearly masked the feelings of her tormented soul. Life had dealt out the worst hand of cards and she didn't really play them well. Incomprehensive as to why it had to be her and no other, succumbing most often to these thoughts that dragged her to a complete state of nihilism, for hitherto was no such precedent. Portraying amazing sangfroid without but cringing and crumbling within. Was there a tip-off, a cue she was missing? If so, why would the communiqué of negative tidings need be sent with the intention of pulling at her hearts strings? Why fiddle with certain ingenuous pleasures of life? Was she not human after all? 

She was not bitter or querulous or disgruntled but only highly disconcerted. Every iota of ardour and altruistic affability dissolved from her effusive being as those thoughts got the better of her. Expression failed her and contemplation and inexpressible silence were her only soul mates from whom she sought solitude.

It was quite unlike her usual restricting and cautious self to let her guard down to someone who could well be termed a perfect stranger. And yet, she did. Why? I guess she followed her heart’s presentiment. He seemed the perfect man - genteel and kind with a weirdly interesting sense of humour and astonishingly attractive. Any girl in her right senses would have given him a second look with awe. So did she. Circumstances brought them together and a mere quaint acquaintance turned to a dear friendship which seemed to progress to a certain higher degree. Or did it? They did grow very close and she considered him the very equivalent of her own flesh and bone. It didn't seem that there were feelings to the contrary from his manner either. Well, one thing to learn - don't ever take such things for granted!

Only an ambiguous passage of time upon which a confrontation was struck led to the stark truth being realized. There really was nothing. Of course! How could she have been so blind and let her imagination run wild?!

The idiocy in his claims that not every action needed a positive ulterior motive and the dearth of sensitivity to the earnest confession, that required more than mere intrepid courage, she made were all too hard to take within the short span of time which fate willed it all to happen. It soon became the blame game. All the more easier to turn the tables and point fingers at the other accusatorily. We take such pains to earn the love of another, but it hardly takes a few seconds to lose it all and garner an absolutely opposite position in the others life. The hurt of the unfelt wounds would take time to heal. It wasn't just the hurt of being rejected but also that of embarrassment. Could she live with it?

It would be in her best interest to make herself able enough to come out of it as a stronger person. Questions ran through her head ceaselessly about herself. Was there something wrong with her? Had she done something wrong? Was there something lacking in her?

Nobody, and I mean not a soul, is worth any of this trouble. It is true. The natural human proclivity that drives one to another involuntarily steering him/her to do the right thing at the right time would very well pass off as a 'kind gesture'. As unnerving as this may be. It becomes meaningless when the truth is but realized. Emotions will, as it should, go on a roller coaster ride. Whether to feel angry or upset or self-pity or sorry for him. Greiving more would make her the weak hearted one. We have to face it. All cannot be lost. We should pick up the pieces. Move on.

A good friend once said, "Sometimes, some things just don't turn out the way we imagine. What we may dream to be perfect, fate may believe to be otherwise". If anything good has to happen, it will. Somewhere down the line. It really is a sheer waste of time looking out for it. It will not lead to a convergence mid-way. Right now, in all probability, it is just that the traffic is a little too heavy to handle. But its destination is set. You. And while it takes its time to reach you, there ain't no point in trying to settle for a package of lesser value than what is actually in store. No matter how much you convince yourself, that this is probably the perfect one, you would know within your heart of hearts, that it isn't. That zing and surge of energy and excitement, the spark and whatever else that goes with it will only be felt when it actually arrives. Till then. Patience. A true virtue.

The trampled rose must rise from the ashes like the phoenix and make her loss her lesson.

Beholden within the folds of tomorrow lies an intimately secret promise that, with its miraculously mystic hocus-pocus magic, would whip out the maelstrom of yesterday for a convalescent today and an unthinkably adventurous tomorrow filled with love.

(In dedication to the one person who taught me one of many important lessons in life – on the highway of love, you could be led onto a one way street out of which you must find a way to navigate for not everything falls in line with your  wants/needs/desires lest you be beguiled to wander along the same – a friend very dear, who has at times even been much in equivalent of a substitute dad. ) 

Naughty nineteen! ;)

(Here is a dedication to the nineteen amazing years I’ve lived, loved and cherished every moment of with all my heart.)

It seemed like only yesterday that I was celebrating my fifth birthday within the dingy and somber surrounds of my boarding school. Years have since flown past and I’ve moved much far from that immune and sheltered confine.

There have been experiences, that unless afflicted with Alzheimer’s, I could never forget. I’ve been to places, though not very far from the other, that have had a world of difference in appeal, been educated in schools that have followed starkly contrasting principles of learning, met people – many who still remain friends, some as acquaintances, and others as passing clouds, who in their passing have still played a pivotal role in understanding and absorbing life’s lessons.

There have been those many moments of investigative curiosity to gain access to the restricted bounds of the nonpareil adult world - those several games we played when dressed up as mom and dad, in their over-sized clothes and shoes that would house both our little feet, characterizing ourselves to do those things they did – smoking sweet cigarettes, sipping coke coquettishly out of quaint paper cups, applicating lipstick lollies all over our faces in the pretence of being made up, the thrill of stealing the ‘un-allowed’ food from the refrigerator and slyly carrying it out into the yard, climbing trees, sitting under tea bushes – Oh!..I could go on!

And all of a sudden, here we are, out in the ‘big bad world’, still finding our feet and hoping, as each day passes, to get, the proverbial, ‘wiser’. Every moment holds in it some essence that will leave pleasant flavours lingering and an occasional bitterness, that though unpalatable, is, but as always, only for the good. Slowly are we being inducted into the adult world – the one we ever so eagerly wanted to gain access to and yet, now we stand hesitantly as we are on the threshold.

Hoping to take the right leap forward and for many more brilliant years that would make every infinitesimally little moment of life ever special. Cheers to life!

Kismet

The soft lull of the evening breeze gently caresses the atmosphere as he stands there, feet seeming to have been consumed by the fine granules of white sand as the waves begin to lash harder, the tide in its steady rise. To withdraw from reality and embrace nature, to feel closer to himself, to search his soul in an attempt to find the other half, the better half and restore greater meaning to a life lost in the unscrupulous, pseudo and plastic existence. To walk down memory lane and to relive those momentous moments or to lie ensconced in pensiveness, imagining a future much bright has become what is our present. The unequivocal reality of the day doesn’t seem approachable. Who could be that little elf who would at sometime, when unknown, cross daintily across his path? Would he know she was the one?

A thousand miles away, there she is, alighted coyly on a window seat, looking out askance. Life hadn’t been harsh, rather she hadn’t had herself acquainted with it. Surrounded by every little ‘objet de joie’ that one could think of, she couldn’t have been a happier being; cheerier than the little blue bird that sang an ode to joy each morn, or so she thought. Years passed on, in clear oblivion of reality, in a world where she thought she had found everything to keep her heart content. Only time did go on to tell her that there was a little something that was missing – something, though little, would make a difference life altering, something that would teach her the meaning of love and of being loved, of life and of living it and finally of all its concomitant problems.

Destiny would lead their immortal souls…

Make a Difference

Here we are, standing on the threshold of  life, waiting for  the right moment to take flight, taking all precautions to ensure that the launch pad is perfect, warranting the clear absence of all aberrations and anomalies, to want to acquire that coveted pair of wings that will take us thus afar, the great ambition to attain perfection, in reverie of the perfect life, a better tomorrow – Isn’t this, though somehow farfetched, ‘les essentielles de reve’ of every young adult today?

How far is any of this going to get us? The mere fact that one’s pre flight plan is more perfect than perfect in itself doesn’t entail that it would be the smooth journey that we perceive it to be. A vacuum is not what we live in. A world of pain, hunger, strife and hardship surrounds us; a world, though pretentious, consumed by the paroxysm of intricate complexities; the world that we are born into; the world that they are born into.

They, the children of the prospective and inevitable future, who can and will make this place the star of the universe if only they were moulded and given the right opportunities and avenues to expand, expend and synergize their creative and intellectual energies. Their naïve little minds need to be carved out into perfect and clear-cut sculptures with the aid of that chisel by the right pair of hands. It is not yonder, not far beyond, where they lie.

Within the depths of our feeble and unwilling souls, moulded as it is in this world of inhumane and sadistic competition, we will find that there is still, hidden deep in covert existence, an element of humanity that remains. Through this irrational gamble of life, it is not envisaged, but we just keep upping the stakes, jeopardizing our prospects, make the wrong plunges and don’t really count our money or mind the losses because we believe that one day, someday, we will find what it takes to get us to that pot of gold at the end of the iridescent rainbow. It is not ‘name, fame and the dirty game’ but rather a certain value addition that brings greater inner satisfaction. It may seem a much convoluted conundrum.

Delve, explore and implore from the farthest niches and corners of your much enriched and enlightened self and you would be surprised to realize that you don’t have to go any farther. In your hands, you bear a commodity much in demand and far less in supply – knowledge. The uncertainty and beguiling nature of life will not allow us to proceed on that path that we chartered out, the smooth ride through the expressway. Instead, let yourself free of those preconceived notions of what life should be, could be, would be and embrace reality. It won’t take too long to realize that the expressway is monotonous, prone to accidents and not life in its true essence, lacking of human value. Traverse paths untrodden, taste the feel of reality, revel in true satisfaction and desert ignorance.

Lead them; those less fortunate, those hardly close to having been intellectually enriched and yet those most enthusiastic, amazingly talented and now, upon whom you shine a beacon of hope.

Let’s walk together, holding their hands, shining the light to make every step clear through this exotic journey, and hope to make a difference.

Turtle Doves

What remain are but hazy memories of the past gone by – I hardly seem to remember. There wasn’t much that really caught the mind’s eye, nothing that would hold on to later reminisce. It seemed like I was living la Vida Buena, all in utopian balance. I guess I wasn’t wrong, but I do know that I wasn’t right either. The tones of my canvas, that then prevailed, were subtle, flawless and somehow clear – at least those instances that are still enshrined in the fazed out hollows of my memory.

There was some fundamental ingredient that was missing – something that would highlight those tones that, though becalming and dulcifying were still dull and subdued. They needed the touch of some amazingly conjured up alchemy, something magical. Where would that come from? I hoped to find out soon.

Seasons had since changed; time had passed as I still waited with living hope. Will the silent footsteps of time lead me to the holder of that magic wand and license our paths to cross?

And there, caught unawares was I, when you came by. It didn’t take too long to recognize. I couldn’t have been wrong and as my conviction still grows, I knew when I saw the light glow dim above your left shoulder. But, did you see it over mine?

There you were, you held that clairvoyant brush, the one that would, if it braced my portrait with a stroke, add colour and place every tone in note. With hope I breathe, I move, I pass, but a hope much different – a hope to live through a cherished dream of love like the turtle doves of Christmas. I shall keep this one, will you shield the other?

Chromatic hues of spring

Born in the land of festivities but brought up much like royalty who didn’t partake in the little euphoric moments of life and who dismissed the casual, carefree and somehow effervescent existence of common man as the lack of civility– that was I, one who was far too ‘prim n proper',one who was debonairly. Almost nineteen years of living life this way and being tagged ‘Monica’ somewhere down the lane for the extreme case of compulsive obsessive disorder that I do apparently ‘suffer’ from but never once did I imagine myself to be any different – not until today, the jovial, vivacious and insouciant day of the spring festival celebrated to mark the end of dark and demonic forces by burning effigies on the one hand and the smearing of coloured powder topped by water being thrown on one another – Holi.

Much opposed to the idea of ‘playing’ holi, the prospect of taking a day off and going somewhere else, somewhere where I wouldn’t be targeted (for that I definitely was!) was playing in the back of my mind. But, unfortunately, circumstances commanded me to stay, and so I did, fearing for dear life. With immeasurable persuasion and substantial coaxing, I did finally go out there.

And my, oh my! The array of colours that shrouded everyone did indeed scare me. (The only thoughts that ran through my mind at that very precise moment were of the chemical content of those colours and how hard it would be to clean up!) Once you are out there, there is no escape route. Initially filled with inhibitions, I did resist. But somehow, the element of fun couldn’t be ignored and then was when I did loosen up. With countless colours smeared on my face creating a bizarre shade that was spectral and uniquely reminded me of the grinch when I took a closer look in the mirror, drenched in a few buckets of water, a strangely content heart and half an hour later, I returned, realizing two things – one, it is ok to let go and two, it is never too late.

Here I am, it’s been a few hours, and I have expended great efforts on scrubbing, and yet, I still have a tinge of the pink gulal on my face and my fingers glare at me with the shade as I type. At the end of it all, it definitely was a day to remember (my first holi!), a day to bring alive the chromatic hues that paint the days of spring.

Shades of sunset in a cup

Nostalgia hits me – the enigmatic notes of Chopin playing in the background, the creek that ran through the garden somehow resounding them while keeping with the time, the last song of the black bird as it was heading home – the music was all around in perfect harmonious symphony. All you had to do was tune in, listen.

There I was, perched on the window seat, lost deep in thought, with that steaming heavenly cup of coffee that did positively up my spirits on that quiet spring evening, as were the last few that did follow.

Life, as I had known it, wouldn’t be the same again. The time had come and I was heading out, away from home, out into that enthralling enchanted land beyond as I had always pictured it, anxious and excited, all at once, in search of greener pastures for sustenance. Why was home disregarded? Weren’t our folks happy enough? – I couldn’t conceive why. Oblivious to all, I have been – a picture that was charmingly picturesque; that is all that I had seen, or been shown rather. Reality was not something I had come across. It had probably dawned on someone to say, “Let go!” And so, there I was, going – leaving behind the only world I knew, the only people I loved. Right or wrong, for good or for bad – I didn’t know then as I do now.

To say goodbye, I couldn’t. The assurance that I would return was not good enough to refrain from the exercise. It was tearful but the drive to discover, to traverse paths untrodden held me through. With time and distance, I’ve finally moved on.

Even now, I’m here, perched on the window seat enjoying my cup of coffee, though in a setting much different, seeing things in a different light; change it seems has come. I shall, however, never hope to be anybody but me. Change for the better, maybe. Home is where the heart lies. The sights and sounds, the laughter and love that then seemed transient, and yet still remain etched in my memory, truly remind me of the shades of sunset captured in a cup.

Suburbs of our secrets

Life, they say, is not a bed of roses. For the longest time, I have dismissed this as pure nonsense. But with time and age, I guess, we realize that everything, in its own respect, has some implication, significance and purpose. I’d still, nevertheless, hold on to say that ‘life is in fact, a bed of roses’ – for after all, we must understand that roses too, have thorns.

This element called ‘profundity’ is somehow unconsciously installed in us, though not of our own accord or free will. All of a sudden, distant, disconnected and independent, it seems particularly wrong.

It is the heart, longing to liberate itself from the burden of having to be the soul secret keeper and the frustration and chagrin of the rest of our person from the general course of life.

A perfect avenue, I've found in this, to express, communicate and convey whatever little bouts of random profoundness that comes my way and to lead your minds through the suburbs of many secrets.

Take my hand, lead me on...

An existence, much normal, that’s what it was. There seemed like there was nothing that would beckon to this quiet humble soul that would indeed lead it to pause.

To think, I thought, why? – take my hand, lead me on. The path was clear, unmarred – nothing to lead me astray. Clear it was, indeed, but where was real life in that? My heart, it longed for adventure, to breakaway and run free on the golden sands of what lay beyond. But that iron hand, as it always did, pulled me back yet once again.

Much time has passed and I can no longer drift on with this soft wind that in its passing promises no harm – soothing it is, but to bare it all and embrace one much harsher, more real, and longing to be carefree, to wander through mindless meanderings rather than the idealism of the cocoon that surrounds us. There yonder it sits, tantalizing the soul – “Come hither, come take my hand, lead me on.” It was, but, monotonous, though life went on.

And then one day, amidst my much-accustomed surroundings that by then seemed so morose, a little knock, I heard. Though feeble it seemed, internal instinct said that that was the one that would make a difference. Overwhelmed, filled with hope, I tried, I reached out, and yet again, there was that something to hold me back. For years of a custom-made existence, to breakaway and embark on a journey filled with adventure is a touch too hard for the mind to correlate with the heart.

Follow your heart, they say and so I did. I reached out yet again, this time paying no heed to that iron hand, for I wanted you to take mine in yours – take my hand, lead me on.

My life, it was an empty page, before you came along - flawless, serene, dispassionate, peaceful - perfection personified. Somehow, somewhere deep inside, I knew you would unleash what was, even to myself, invisible, perplexing and profound.

There were times when the tide rose high and others when it fell low, but you, though not omnipresent, for you seem so near and yet are so far, touched my heart and took my hand to lead me on. Lead me on; indeed, you did, showed me what life really is, what it should be, what it could be.

Now, what remains is the question – will you be there to prolong this brief sojourn, to still hold my hand and lead me on?