scar tissue

the day arrives but my thoughts are still in pajamas; words typed on notepad, -not now....later.
The sky is snatched from darkness, in a moment of brillance, a bit like the volt charge when you crinkle your eyes. the wind carries the salt from the ocean and my tounge seeks the taste... will lick it off like a knife scraping butter. little stuff counts... this counted... that didn't... if only i wasn't so consious of myself... i wish i could abandon myself completely...i would then have been the scar tissue around your heart.

sunday 3 pm

there is no equality in relationships, be it any relationship whatsoever. if you were to keep a fair statement of balance, you'd go nuts with the taste of bile in your mouth. somebody needs to take and somebody needs to give but it should make you feel good about yourself but even that is often compromised. is it only for needs that we seek each other? self-sufficiency definitely eases up a lot of heartburn and the other is managing expectations. managing expectations is vital. you only have one mother and no body else will give you that love and unfortunate souls don't even get that. I know of people who have curdled relationships, for years they have tended to their festering sores, proudly displaying their hurt vanities and misdeeds done against them. those relationships are kept alive for the pain they have given each other. they are never buried, they are never laid to rest. they are kept alive by keeping an up-to-date account of who-did-what-to-whom- brilliant fact-keepers, pathetic story tellers. perhaps they wait for a confrontation were they will prove their hurt innocence and their aggrieved hearts will be assuaged by the other's tearful repentance; in their minds as well as to willing ears they play out their broken hearts but what is the endgame, i wonder. what does it matter if you were right? yes it is a pain to forgive and yea letting go is a rip in the heart but its your heart that you have to mend and festering wounds are best healed. This strange beast we have within us, the ego, it holds us captive to grudges and never lets us heal ouerselves. worrying about being loved and cherished or not being loved and cherished enough will only drive the nail in deeper. mistakes are made and words are said. hurts are glorified and wounds are fed. but again what is the point? if you are in a relationship with another human being, whatever nature that relationship is, it has to be for love and in love you have to fall on your knees and accept the other as your master. in love, it hurts like hell. in love, we can cut deeper than any sword. and yes we lie in love and yes we go a bit mad in love.

by way of explanation, this came about as a result of recuperating on a blistering hot Sunday afternoon which tends to bring out the rambling thinker in me. The thinker twists my insides and plays with my mind. It makes me think of strange things and makes me react strangely to things.

outside there is a patch of cloud, all the billions of dust motes in their collective strength have dimmed the sun just that tiny bit. or maybe we'll get lucky and get some much needed showers to break the heat wave. it remains to be seen. will i learn and grow from my lessons, it remains to be seen.

impressions of a delhi afternoon whilst stuck in a long ride - a metaphor for life.

Mercifully I am spared the daily commute that most people have to make from home to their work space as my studio is only a short while from home, often I walk the distance which is just fine by me as I am a distracted soul who walks in her own thoughts most of the time, so often people and places are merely backdrop for my thoughts, its easier then if the setting is familiar, more space for thoughts, no intrusion of mindspace.

However on those rare days when I have to step out into this crazy crawl of traffic in this amazing city, i can't decide if i am a vouyer or a tourist but today after staying in this city for over two years now, not as a traveller, I had a moment of epiphany; I realized that so much of me is like this amazing, amazing city. This city which I put in as mine on innumerable forms; this city which is still not home. She witholds from me as I do; she gives me as I give to others, at times with an open heart and at times with gruding resentment. Just as it is littered with too many cars and people, so is often my mind with thoughts. Bottlenecks and landfills, crows and kids scavenging for the best bits though rubbish and refuse. Is that not me, looking for pieces of lost gold in the dark, musty corners of my mind.

Stuck in a traffic listening to the RJ cheering me up about it being a Tuesday and suddenly on the horizon I spot the tall minaret of the Qutub, quiet and majestic amidst construction, chaos and clutter. Is there not a sense of us, somewhere deep down inside, an anchoring thought which holds us back when we teether too close to the precipice? Been there, done that my child, softly whisper the ancient ghosts of this city. I am its new avatar. A million I's; a million cliches, each a throbbing wound. Constant new improvemnts, flyovers, make-overs and half-baked schemes are they not me somewhere, somewhere struggling to find myself, somewhere struggling to become the woman i dreamt of once?

Charlatans and fakirs roam this city as new deals are brokered all over; opportunities are sought, the buzz is thick, the spiel never-ending, oh this is definitely a city swarming thick with dreams.... the buzz mightier than mosquitoes at dusk. This is me, born years ago and today back, claiming it and still unsure if its home. I see myself in restoration schemes, in city projects; i see myself in the crazy guy in tatters staring at the gate, not begging for alms. I see pieces of myself reflected all around me as in the broken shards of a mirror. I see it in the beauty around me. I see it in the neglect. The cityscape changes every few kilometers. The address marks your station in life but it is fluid.

A fat man crossed the road in a dainty run, arms stuck to his side, pinky sticking out. A traditionally dressed middle aged woman leisurely rode past on an ageing scooter, bun and bindi in place. A slick gentleman in a fancy car never even looked up even once, reading up on his agreement i guess before he signs the merger. A Japanese woman recording the traffic jam, on her neat camcorder; a nun out for some shopping; the child on the asphalt, fleeting impressions ; each scene contains a story, a story too long, oft repeated, barely remembered but sadder still with no listeners. The play of life is same regardless of address, the flavor albeit hits it mark and sucks you in.

Spring is bursting all over the city, like barely contained lust. Its only a few more lovely days before the sun scorches out the skies and then we will have the Indian summer laying itself out prone and parched for the monsoons to have its way with her. Its a continum of hope and anguish of waiting and wanting.

In it and by it, I discover aspects of self in my recognition of those aspects in the people around me. I am not seperate. I am a part of this, good and bad. a speck. a tiny flutter of the butterfly. a mood of my maker. facades and apperances drop their veil and I am stunned at the fragility of egos, at the vulnerability of the grandness of our lives. If ugliness of small minds is a common denominatior than the largesse of the big blue sky is a singular shroud.

I am you my brother. You are me my sister. The pain that isolates us is the the thread that binds us. Without me your story is untold and without you I don't have a story.

sullied waters ...for now

sunshine has been not been washed lately ; oh these muddied, sullied days!

this endless road lined with dark heavy clouds; oh let the waters wash us clean! neptune and venus will play out their madness. in our garden, untended, uncared for, wild and overgrown, we will sit under a knotted gnarled tree; as our heart will beat to the clamor of our love. desire and pride will wash their clammy hands with tears

a search of a lifetime, the scents of springtimes and god alone knows if patience is a freshly painted door with daisies smiling guard. if i make it to the door of patience, there would be a thousand kisses and each kiss will beget another. bliss is a drunken soul and truth is its mead. the shroud of deception will be shorn to shreds and the veiled one will sing to me songs that led us there. his face i will wash with neptune's kisses as the sun will dazzle in the skies.

on days like this

frost dripping off green leaves like candy from christmas trees.

any takers for loopy desires/ any takers for love trimmings?

he does the invisible man move again.

the dew drops seek him...

...i am the walking fool

...or not...

happy 2010!!