30x30: Sacred

I wonder sometimes,
if this could be,
Us no longer stealing time
Us unafraid in our love.

If I could wake up then,
to the echoes of your voice
before the night's sleep,
to the sound of joy
gliding broken
hearts.

I wonder if we could continue
to thaw?

And this could be us
alone and together
across highways
and dinner tables
and life, in general.

This could be, couldn't it?

Or would it be too much
to ask for, too much
yearning and too
easy. But, if you must know,
this too is uneasy.

I watch you then -
A star in a faraway sky.
A voice so distant.

If only.

(30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]

Monday Musings - 24

By the side of where I am currently staying, there is a charming open air market called Galleria Mall. I have succumbed to its many delights including the sprawling Lakme Salon and Depauls cold coffee; I have also given in to its local pronunciation, a watered down Indianised version of what really is a lovely French name. Galleria market is this delightful assortment of inexpensive and expensive stores. And, there are always a few more stores, each time I go around.

Vegetables, fruits, momos and handloom Indian wear surround a circular waterfall that lies in the centre of the marketplace. I love sitting by the fountain, catching my breath…catching up with a friend. Life here has been fast-paced, and it’s lovely to sit down and watch the water fall; allowing only the sound of local artisans to interrupt the rhythm of peace. As I watch people pass by, there are always a few familiar faces, each time the tickin’ clock goes around.

Sitting there, I think of the people I have encountered. I think of the talented artist from Assam, the high-energy Bombay man, the cook from Bengal. I think of children of the Army, children from the Doon school, and the man from Chandigarh. There is such a thing as Punjabi pride, I have discovered. And, there is such a thing as succulent kebabs cooked in a handi; cooked to perfection. There are newer stories, each time the sun goes around.

Could I say then I have learned to marvel at life’s unpredictability. Have I succumbed to its charming adventurous side? Have I let go off worry? Perhaps, that really is the only way to be. It is easy to think of things as they would be, when they go wrong. It is easy to fret about what will happen, at the worst. But it’s better still to not think about it. And, occasionally dream of how it would be, if all went off as hope allows. It’s easier to get by, as life goes around.

And so, I am thinking of faces old and new this Monday. I am eager to embrace familiar faces, and I am eager to welcome unfamiliar too. For unfamiliar will someday turn familiar …an adventure could some day turn routine too. Or, it could just be that…a little slice of life laced with what never has been, and what never will be. I do not know. But, I know, I’d rather be on the bright side…

Allows you to smile at the coincidences, laugh at the idiosyncrasies, take in the grating side of novelty as experiences…does it not?

[More Monday Musings here ]

Monday Musings - 23

I wish I had something to say this Monday. But the truth is I really don't know where to begin. On this chilly, rainy day that signifies the onslaught of winter in this alien city, I am bereft of words. I can think only of the rain. I can remember yesterday's skies part, the sun let out the clouds. I can remember the feel of a slight drizzle, of the wind playing truant. I can remember the sound of the music. So beautiful, it blended with the wind.

I can remember yesterday, for the joy in its air. I can remember saying thank-you. I was so thankful for what has been done, and what will be done. Imagine when the rain falls, and it is so beautiful, you know that tomorrow can only be what you hoped for. Today, is that tomorrow. I'm wondering what to make of this. I do not know. I do not know why words tremble out of my fingers. I do not know why I chose to write a musing every Monday. I do know why some days are so lonely, and others so beautiful. I do not know why I must be so childishly hopeful.

I realize this now, and I realized this yesterday, as I was strolling about the bustling Sarojini Nagar market that there are somethings we will never know. Even in retrospect, they fall into place...we will not know why they really happened. Perhaps, that is all that I can make sense of this Monday. I will never really know why the aeroplane danced onto the runway at the Domestic Airport, Delhi. Or why the days that followed were a string of uncanny coincidences.

I will not know why I found two long lost friends in Delhi, one in the same building as I am currently staying. I will not know why the only other girl in my team, shares the same beliefs as me. I will not know why it rained on the one day I knew no hope in Delhi. Why I love terraces, and why I was allowed the pleasure of looking down from one everyday for three weeks. I will not know why I happened often to be in the right place..at the right time. And, how I managed so easily through situations that would otherwise cause me to break down...

I can think only of these things this Monday. And, perhaps this is all I can write about too. That I have learnt, to sometimes live through the moment. It's hard...but when the rain comes down a drop at a time, I do not complain. Like the joy it overwhelms me with.. life too sometimes falls into place a drop at a time. And each drop is often painstakingly far apart. But, it falls...and the joy, the joy is just the same...if not evermore.

[More Monday Musings here ]

Monday Musings - 22

As I alight from the State Transport Bus from Delhi to Gurgaon, I am greeted by a shriveled-up, middle-aged man on a cycle-rickshaw. He takes me from the bus-stop to my area of residence, ten minutes away, for twenty rupees. I hand him thirty. Riding a cycle with a passenger and luggage, is no easy task. But these men have no other means of supporting their families. And, Gurgaon has no other means of public transport.

A city of paradoxes, is Gurgaon. Tall, looming, oddly-shaped glass buildings that bow down to sprawling concrete roads. Old rickety state transport buses that collide with paper-fragile cycle rickshaws. Cows that lazily align its highways. And delicately crafted, over grown houses...with small families. I cannot tell, if I like this city.

I cannot tell if I like Delhi too. If I like it for the police-man who lends a phone, when there is no other way to make a call. For the auto rickshawala who makes an honest, dishonest deal. For the pot-pourri of cultures it so beautifully holds. For the Koreans, the Chinese, and the English it welcomes. For the North-East Indians who crowd its marketplaces.

Or, the young students who find their streak of rebellion in its open spaces. Political enthusiasts, feminists and wastrels. I have encountered them in hordes. I cannot tell if I like Delhi for its men who whisper sweethearts in its winding lanes. And, I cannot tell if I like it for the parathawala who dishes out oily paneer parathas to hungry minds through the night. Or, the debauched who crowd its air with their greed.

Young, naive, wide-eyed girls who lie gazing into nothing in its bars. Old, white-skinned men watch on. I cannot tell if I like Delhi for the lust that hangs in its air. Amidst direction-less college going boys. Amidst high-heeled women falling to floors. And, young couples who just tipped of a bar-man.

Perhaps, I do not like it for its deceit...when a scoundrel asks for parking money in a no-parking zone. Or, for its anger that smokes out of fights in cars, and fights on roads. And, perhaps, I like it for its warm, friendly smiles. For its houses that are open, at all times. For its large heart, that often drives out silence.

And, then brings it back again. For humanity too, is laced with paradoxes, I reckon. Humanity is utterly disappointing. And, completely fascinating. People are wretched, and people are beautiful. And, I am thinking of them this Monday.

I am thinking of the smiles they bring, and the voids they leave. The tears they pull out, and the fulfilling they sing...


[More Monday Musings here ]

Untitled - 5

Words are flying out
of worlds
into air;
the table lamp shines
out their existence.

They hang like speckles
of dust in mid-air
they swirl with each turn
of the shadows
in the distance.
(The room is made in wood.)

They linger like
foam before it
melts, they stay
like love after it dies

And they fall upon
the chatai
joining layers of
memories left from
new and old feet
and lovers
and cold feet.

-X-

I ask them for their company,
I ask them to stay awhile.
I ask them to hold me
in the darkness.

To keep my sorrows
Unfurl my joys
(Like God himself)

Like blotted whitepaper
that reeks of old love,
and old hope;
I ask them to remind.

-X-

Words, they never disappoint.

Monday Musings - 21

As my conversation with her ended, her big bag spilled open, and out came a broken watch and bits of old silver paper. She began then to tell me her story of love, and the watch; I began to think of the things we never leave behind, the things we take with us everywhere we go. Like the smell of hot, burning Suleimani chai at the Prithvi cafe that smells of open hearts, and willing tongues.

Like the old, frayed picture of you and your sister clasping hands, brimming smiles. Like the smell of the city of Mumbai - forlorn, filthy and almost serene. Like images of stairways that lead up to once familiar hallways. Old offices, or houses, or lovers, perhaps.

Like ticket stubs from bus routes once familiar, like train tickets to far away. Like broken bangles you picked up with a once best-friend at the flee market. Like the smell of chlorine from your everyday swimming pool. Like the sound of your house in the morning. Quiet, melancholy? Bursting, bubbling. Like the sound of your house when you return. Like the brush of saltwater as it laces your aching feet.

Like that warm hug you sometimes come home to. Like the smile on your fathers' face. Like movie tickets from our first movie together. Like soiled tissue paper from last night's dinner. Like cement stuck to the soles of your favourite shoes. Like gallis you meander through each day, like laughter you couldn't stop.

Like Smses stored for tomorrow. Like a yellow diary you scribble in, like a tube of drying nail paint you keep, only because your best friend gifted it to you. Like your computer, or your camera, or your bag, or anything it took you awhile to own. Like your first pair of denims you never want to let go. Like your scrawny legs from school.

Like the sound of the arrival of a local train, like the recorded voice that stays in your head, long after. Like bhajji wali banter, like the purring Hello, like the view from your window. Like the slight graze of his hand that forever stays. Like the little pouch, somewhere within, where all lies safely tucked in.

To savour, to go over. Like Mondays with memories, and Mondays with quiet moments. Mondays that remind you of traversing time, of the things you don't let go, never leave behind...

[More Monday Musings here ]

Monday Musings -20

The Sunday before yesterday, a group of us made our way to Kihim near Alibaug, not too far away from the city of Mumbai. Amidst a picturesque house, sprawling sand and an endless sea we learned the art of speaking, we learned to challenge our writing. And, we listened intently to poetry, to prose, to the promise of the sea, and the sun as it melted into night. To the sound of mosquitoes, the play-swing swirling in mid-air, and sand as it rustled beneath weary feet.

As we took the narrow road back home, I contemplated talking versus listening. And, I decided to listen. I listened to the wind whispering through the trees. I listened as it transformed into blaring city horns, into music pouring out of rickety speakers, into rain as it splattered to the ground, meeting its fate.

I listened as I took the winding road home from the station. I listened to the story of the rickshawwalla , who wanted to talk. I discovered his tale of family woes. I learned of his cyber cafe business that shut down. I learned of why he took to the rickshaw. Because, he wasted away his college years, gambling and drinking.

And, I listened as my house-help lamented her family affairs. Little tales of how her scoundrel husband drinks beer, not alcohol. Loves his mother, not her, his wife.

And, on Saturday, I listened to the sound of an older India, of an older world at the Khadi Graham Udyog at Fountain, Mumbai. An archaic, immense store that sold little Indian treasures at prices from ten years ago. Khadi kurtas, and gemstone earrings, and herbal beauty secrets, and sandalwood art-pieces.

All sold through a rustic cash-register with a sound, that resounds. And, all packaged in handmade bags, and billed on recycled paper that glaze against purple bags, and mirror-work bags, and whatever have you bags.

This Monday too, I can hear the sound. I can hear the sound of paper against cloth, of waves against walls, of hearts against minds, and as Dylan would say of answers in the wind. And, this Monday too, I am learning to listen...

[More Monday Musings here ]