Oh! And a few ask why i don't address any "real" and "happening" issues in my blog.

This is the only space where i voice all my untolds and unheards. Here i can see my voice emerge free and loud. And this freedom too, i love. As virtual as it may seem, it's real to me and Real enough.

The issues around will be addressed in a different blog maybe sometime later or maybe never! Moreover, now that almost everybody and anybody are involved in real and happening issues , one can almost run into a person who has "seen it all happen",every other day.My opinions would simply voice what hundreds have been addressing and I choose not to add to the redundancy.They are loud and eloquent enough.

It's mostly luxury and luck , these days, to be safe and alive..And i would rather not spend much time blogging about the fortunes and misfortunes of people around..

This space is for me alone and issues my own!

Nothing like home

That big city,i noticed,has a shattered soul..
And I'm glad i can survive out there without really being a part of it.

As stoic as i may sound,i'm afraid i'm becoming one.

And everytime a lightning flashes,it all turns magically silver - the rain,the dimly lit streets,the rims of the umbrella,the raindrops dripping from its edges and those in my cupped hand - all colored silver..like the centaur blood.

And the very next moment things revert back to the colors reflecting the dimly lit street.

A distant vehicle colors it all again - golden orange.Golden orange colored everything for an instant.Much like relationships,i would say [maybe wrongly]..a quick flash of colors and then mostly ordinariness.

I live and relive my past in my mind..somewhere i feel like longing for those million things which went lacking..their presence which perhaps would never have made me feel their lack..which perhaps would never have made me long for their presence..

To much of my posts these days,i fail to give a title....like i've failed to give a name to this space thinking it would confine its essence..like i never could give a name to those few relationships which went dead much before they could grow deep..and to those hundred emotions that lie hidden somewhere within to surface every now and then..Maybe i've fancy for all unnamed things..or i don't name things fearing it would cease to mean its meaning sometime....or going the shakespearean way maybe there's nothing much in a name and this post is just much ado about nothing.. Whatever..

Despite all the sadistic grimness in solitude and endless cravings,there are always things which can bring back a smile....like the rains and the silver colored everything when the lightning flashes..the cupped raindrops and a grand delusion that it would turn into a pearl someday..

There are always a few moments which i will savour a lifetime..
There are always a few things which gets me singing again..

I hadn't realized you were long back dead till recently..till i saw how hollow your eyes look during those nights when you can't sleep and when i lie awake.I wonder why you were given such a beautiful face..if all that had to remain was this ghastly look on it..a face dead to itself..a face with such dead eyes that strive to see life only through mine..

I was too happy once,you see,to take notice..so too happy that i laughed whole days as i played and dreamily smiled whole nights as i slept..holding tight your arm with mine..feeling the warmth of your existence besides..of your life which i had then not known to exist only in mine..

I wasn't aware of what killed you..i didn't know of the many things that were lacking-those which supposedly make one unhappier..You never had given me a clue about it..Why!You had even let me spread joy in this bloody place..in this very place where cold blood springs and flourishes-thick and dirty red..here was where when i had once merrily leaped and smiled till it had made others smile too..

Yes! I was a kid once..always wholly happy and angelic..happy,without having to bother neither about the reasons nor the consequences of happiness..happy enough that i lived without any longings..

And then there had this transition to happen..Growing up,i'm told it was..and as taught.. growing up to be mature enough to reason out what pleasures i can allow for myself and what not..whom to hold close and whom not..of the rights and the wrongs..of bonuses and vengeances;fairy godmother and her tales vanished..along went all the angels-winged,white and clean..;i saw you'd started to bleed..

Its this,i know,the reason behind all my times of solitude..behind the sickness i feel when i see that i have not a thing to share with those who incessantly tell me their stories -long and dry..I know what made me forget my song and bury my voice..I know what left me mute and what left not a single vent..

My longings seem ceaseless..and I choke whenever i try to get it out of me..a lump gets struck and i suffocate..They tell me that i'm to blame no one for my unheard stories..what i say has gone unheard,they say its been left untold..Scared i'm of the litter it would cause..the litter that's orphaned the moment it's delivered..that moment when i cease to be its owner,it'll die,i know..
A "fabulous destiny" it has got,i should say..that it has been allowed to live and to grow within..nurturing it with shreds of pain..pain i feel when it burns my insides..when it makes a ghostly appearance and a futile attempt to spurt out..But,i've left no vent remain..it's hidden safe-zipped and sealed..

I know what killed you will kill me too,Ma..sooner or later.Yet,I pose to live.Looks are deceptive,they say..but,they all like it when a smile deceives them..a smile spread across lips - protruding and red..across the skin - soft and warm and that which leaves a dimple in my cheek.. I know i'll now let my hope die..a hope which longed for somebody to provide a vent.. I'll watch it die for i see there can never be one to own my body and its scars alike...impartial unlike the fire and as reasonable unlike it..

I know i'll never tell them my story and your's.
Sailors that they all are -'..You are an island,my dear lady!' they would say before they leave..It's by choice one sets foot on an island and taking it back is a choice again-a wiser choice perhaps..They have let me remain one..I smile and wave back..

Roy says in her book that the Love Laws lay down who should be Loved.And How.And how much..This place isn't for you and me,Ma..I know i'll now learn the lesson which you failed to..i know now it's time i learned to shrug..

Chitrakaley

[..and this time they colored]

All my shishyas at Prerana probably had too much fun last saturday at the painting competition i had organised in co-ordination with the IEEE Student branch of our college..their 'good-morning akka' since then has got a li'l too loud and their smiles broader too!


They had drawn what all kids usually draw - houses with windows and no doors,fans that are visible even from the outer wall,pots with flowers,blue,pink and yellow hills shown in perfect triangles..



...the sun bordered black,cartoons,trees and innumerous birds covering the whole sky,Indian flag colored with colors of their choice,streams starting nowhere and ending right in front of the houses..fish,kites,butterflies..and all..


Madhu had drawn all this too..
His painting was not so neat..one can find it almost too shabby..
But he had a story to tell- His own.



He gestured that the boy waiting for the car in the painting was him and it would take him home - his home which has a tree, a pot and a rain water ditch..hills, a sky with a lot of birds and a sun.

Maybe he misses his parents though he has spent very li'l of his 8 years with them..

P.S -
1. Many said that this whole idea of the painting competition was a "Taare Zamin Par idea".I think i'd have come up with the same idea even if there was no TZP. Well,whatever..But, now please don't start comparing madhu with ishan awasthi :)
2. Many asked what those who couldn't color did..the singing competition was for them all.
3. Thanks to all my juniors who helped in organising things well - specially to vijith,maya,rajath,pradhan and vivek.
4. Madhu won in the 5-10yr category.There were neater paintings than madhu's,but none with a story like his..

Ziddi

He beamed as he held her hands in his and looked at them..'An artist she really is..' he thought as he delved into the details of the fine curves and the crisp maroon-red lines running across..

Her hands were not as soft nor as delicate.She knew that he was distasteful of her hands..an aversion he had for they never looked as beautiful as her face. The too many lines that cris-crossed made them look almost ugly and old..but,she'd thought they were warm.Warm enough.

She could see he was happy with her hands..Today that her hands were colored.

'Put them all the time' he said and with childish pleasure,he looked out for all the letters their names had hidden in the geometry of lines.
In a Disguise the lines would not look as bad..
He was too occupied to take notice of her.A tear welled up and rolled down her cheek and She looked away.
                                                  
                                                        ----

Back home,she scrubs her hands.Harder each time.
They are adamant. Some song sings in her mind..
Ziddi hai armaan.Ziddi hai toofaan.
Ziddi hum bhi yahaan.

The color only fades a li'l..But,she knows that when it fades completely,it will be gone forever..and not a trace will it leave of its existence..much unlike the scars - deep and dark..

And redemption is sweet,they all say......
I tried a lot to fall asleep..i realised it was not going to be possible..
It's not that it doesn't let me sleep..only sometimes it pricks somewhere deep within to accept what lies ahead..some uncertain feeling that sinks deep inside one's hollows and churns.. In some article i read,sudhir mishra calls it a "Ghost Day"..when the past intrudes into your present,pushes aside the immediate and snarls."Talk to me" it says.. and after all the talk,all you are left with is a cold,empty feeling..try as you may not to let them make a comeback,memories rush in and pour forth..memories that dries one's throat and burns one's eyes..
A sin it is called..sin of stealth-of a life or its soul..My hands look bloody..and a few dirty stubborn stains mockingly establish themselves to remain and haunt.. But,I've only let lives live. I've let me live..
What regrets should i have?What sort of redemption should i await?
I look out of the window..and as the night sky pours down all night long,i only wonder if the rains are purgative..