Where are you?

Sometimes I look back on my life. In fact, these days this is the only thing I seem to do when I am not cooking, cleaning or spending time with Samyu. No books, movies or any conversations with adults seem to draw me in these days. 

I struggle to make sense of the journey as a whole and yet when I try to draw lines to join those dots of memories, minor epiphany moments burst out spreading the ephemeral joy of hope, optimism and sense of being alive. Alas, too many dots 

Random Rant

I think I have forgotten how it feels to long for something with tenacity. How strange it is to think that once upon a time, my whole being was encompassed with drive, desire, passion. Now, there is nothing disturbing my daily fabric of purpose. 

Nothing to say that I am alive as well. 

I want to be a nerd

What's behind this need to be a nerd? I think I am not confounded by the urge to be seen as one. I just want to be one.

You know the woman who knows about quarks, black holes and super string theory? The one who can understand the inner world of a psychotic criminal and the impact of a proposed solution for the Middle East issues? That's who I want to be.

I am not ashamed to admit it but want to truly try and understand what exactly about this pursuit of trivia caters to my self-image?

Listing potential causes of the "I love being the nerd" syndrome:

1) I want to be seen as a nerd and somehow that's cool

2) I just want to be a nerd because it makes me feel superior to others

3) I don't care about being a nerd - just can't help being one

4) Nerdiness gives a certain immunity to real life issues. Make that real life crises. Can't make it to the moms' coffee party in the park? Never mind - you are a nerd anyway stuck in some book or something. You get the idea.

5) It makes your boss think super high of you. So high that you will never be given charge of any real world issue.

6) You can pretend to not be bothered about the whole wide world in general and about makeup in particular 

7) You are allowed to forget birthdays especially the "tinker bell themed" kiddo ones (phew!)

8) You have a nerd of a life partner to bounce off nice nerdy thoughts on nothingness

9) Everything except 1 and 3

10)"I have no freaking clue" is never an option. 

So there! 

Stranger

Years between us and yet at times,

You seem such a stranger.

Countless nights when we were but one

And yet there are ways in which

I will never know you,

Nor can you ever touch me

Where I yearn to be touched.

In this space between truth and falsehood;

Where each day's companionship

transforms into a night full of loneliness;

Whose presence is this that stifles this room of togetherness? 

Is that your memory of an unshared past 

Or my dream of a never-to-be-future?

The music that claims your very being, 

Moving you to tears and absorption

Why does it fail to draw me in?

Those pages that draw me into the slow

current of an impassioned life

Why do you not see them as they are?

You say there is life beyond love and pining;

that the air I breathe in is not the same as I exhale

But love, my love, 

this insane urge to mingle every ounce of my being with you;

to sew my body and soul into yours

This defines my very being.

Ah how strong is love's hatred!

How passionate the green hues of

ego, rage and envy!

And yet, love, my love,

When the south wind blows,

Bringing wafts of yesteryear's fragrance;

I am drawn to you as you to me

In this space between apathy and ennui.

My Dearest Jasmine Moon

Won't to talk to me,

my dearest jasmine moon?

Will you not recount those incessant tales

of pranks, penitence and prayers;

Chattering silently in this breathing space;

Will you not help me build

our virtual nest of thoughts, words and lulls

to weather blizzards and blistering heat,

overcast afternoons and the love of being alone?

Won't to talk to me again

my dearest jasmine moon?

Wont you sing again to me

my dearest jasmine moon?

Will you not croon those magical tunes

that swirl gently down my veins?

striking chords with the deepest cog of my being

will you not set my blood on fire?

Can you not hear the sound that time makes,

When the cogs of its relentless wheels turn

Chasing eternity, destroying every moment of the present 

and calling out to aeons that are to come? 

Is it still called silence?

This turning, tossing, yearning and dissolving in tears? 

Have you lost your words yet again?

Won't to talk to me,

my dearest jasmine moon?

Packing Memories of Dubai

This afternoon too, like most ones in the kinder six months of the year that do not roast you to death, I went for a walk during the lunch hour. Watching people dressed in work wear chatting, talking on the phone, sipping coffee or just walking aimlessly like me on work day mornings always had a curiously calming effect on me no matter which part of the world I am in at that moment. Perhaps it stems from that image of a "regular" workday which reassures me that life is moving on predictable lines, that everything seems to be functional and that no matter how much of turmoil my mind seems to be in, everything is alright with the world.

This city has never once ceased to amaze me. You can experience the near hedonistic  Burj Khalifa and the most grounded conversations on earth all at once. As I write this I remember the taxi driver who was until three years ago a successful surgeon and a musician from Syria who had lost it all to the craziness that has taken over his land. He had told me he was lucky he is alive and that he is not afraid to start from scratch. After many months of restlessness with my career situation, it happened to be the afternoon that I signed my job offer.

What will I miss about this city? How many times have I packed my bags and left a city that I knew I would truly miss? Hyderabad, Vizag, Heidelberg, Basel, Singapore and now Dubai. How many goodbyes and memories do I carry within?

I try to gather today some memories for a future nostalgia. I will miss this slight nip in the air, this glorious sky and the most brilliant moon I have ever seen. Will miss feeling the soft carpet of the desert sand sinking with me into a cool womb of past lives lived in a desert perhaps? I will miss these unbelievable sky scrapers that bring back my childhood every time I crane my neck to see the top, miss seeing these men in impeccable white and the overwhelming perfume of the oud. I will miss my colleagues in the office whose effulgent, middle eastern way of raising one to the sky has done wonders to my ego (and I fear this too!). The coffee planet, soup at Bateel, lift-partner who wears a red shoe in his left foot and a blue one on his right, my beautiful gracious emirati students, the sheer variety of Indian food, taking an abra for 2 dirhams just for the heck of it, long road trips down the coast, global village with all its exotic stores, dances and music and oh all those midnight binge-eating trips to Karma (those glorious jilebis and a shop that sells only kulfi!): yes I will miss them all. Ambling along the road slightly overwhelmed by these thoughts, I curse silently the inconsiderate driver who ignores the zebra crossing and almost knocks me down. Perhaps I will miss this too? This recklessness and abandon?

That is when I saw the pigeon fall from a windowsill. About ten people rushed to it. One lifted her tenderly and another put a tissue to hold her. One of us bought some water to bathe her and give her a sip. In a few minutes, she was hopping around and the security guard assured us that he would take over. And so we walked back to wherever we belonged.Before leaving work, I went back to the pigeon. She has a little basket and a bandage for her leg. The security guard found a friend.

How can one miss this humanity. No matter which city one is in? Right? Not entirely. I remember a city in which I had to appeal the town council's order to throw a pigeon's nest out of my balcony. I lost that appeal. I am old enough not to judge that city but that makes me also appreciate the fact that this afternoon, ten strangers came together to help a bird.

I think once again of the surgeon from Syria who is saving so that he could take his exams to be able to practice and start from scratch in two years. I think of his friends who got him over, gave him a place to stay. And of his ineffable hope and beautiful singing.

It is this memory Dubai, that I will hold forever of you. You taught me that I need not be afraid to start from the scratch. Yet again.

Random Thoughts

What can I say? Sometimes it feels like there are so many things to say that words will possibly be not enough. And when I do get down to stringing those words into sentences, it doesn't feel right. Like something has gone missing and I am in a futile search that runs in circles. I wish I could stop this running and look at myself. I wish I could sit down and hold myself and let out all the troubling thoughts and let the unspoken grief of existence out. But silence stifles my words. And the mundane takes over. 

Fear

What if this comes crashing down

And sends me back to the deepest rim

Where nothing lives

Neither pleasure, nor desire,
Will nor aptitude, 

What if I fail then to surface?

And remain locked within

Bonded for life to despair?

Does fear hold life in her arms for long?

But then again, what if I fly

With these wings of hope?

Into that realm of curiosity, 

dreams and zest for life?

Does a caterpillar know 

She is to be a butterfly?

And still does it not go fearlessly

Into a deep dark cave with 

perhaps no tomorrow?

Can fear hold me in her arms for life?

It's Him Surely

As I see images of solar prominences,
Have I glimpsed the opening of another eye?
The unifying third that perceives and destroys it all?

In a trance I watch those dancing flames;
Looping onto themselves at times,
Jumping up with sheer abandon at others.

In the darkness that surrounds this brilliance,
I have seen the blue-throated one
And his consort wrapped in red too.

Melded in their eternal dance;
Balancing conception with annihilation,
and blending sustenance with genesis.

It is Him surely, is it not?
And then the dream broke.

It is a firmament of brilliance once more.
This time, the stars appear mellow
Glistening like rolling sand on a luminous beach

When I see the crescent moon, do I see him too?
bearing the milky river on his head
and smiling benevolence on my troubled soul.

In those tender wafting lilt of lilies
and silver shadows of the balmy night
in this unnamed ache that never fades

 It is Him surely, is it not?

And then the dream broke.

Come walk with me

Come walk with me and hold my hand.
I will meet you at the nook where history takes a turn. 
Do you remember that long journey out of the place we called home? 
I carry memories of that migration in my viscera.
They say some can peer down the microscope and trace your roots.

I can smell that in your embrace;
That fragrant forest clearing, warmth of bonfire and the starriest night before the dawn of humankind.
I walked with you and held your hand as we entered this world of myriad possibilities.

Come walk with me and hold my hand.
Those hoary rituals of life and death, music of a bygone era, pressed flowers of precious nothings;
Each of these is born again in you and me. 
Yes they are, each single day.
I can see them all every time I look into your eyes.

Come walk with me and hold my hand
Gathering each precious memory in my hand, 
let me count these pebbles on the seashore of lapsed time
Let me breathe life into each lost moment  when I taste your skin again

Come walk with me and hold my hand.
Do not turn away from that black hole of the future. 
Don't you know of the wormhole of memory? 
It will bring us back. The very DNA that set us on this path.

Do come and walk with me. 

Why does one write?

Perhaps all I try with my words is to fashion you in my image of love?
It’s a gloomy world out here.
Broken homes, lonely lives,
Planes lost midflight; children homeless, lost and stolen.
Games of power that can thrill only if you know how to be thrilled.
But as I write these lines on the dust-laden window of my soul,
I see some of them evanesce into your image
Oh how lucid these thoughts seem when I see you,
In that half-dreamy moon light!
It is your beauty that shines onto this world.
The soft yellow mellifluous glow of your image,
makes every moment worth capturing.
Triviality loses meaning then.

Thirst

Can you hear that laughter? 

By the stream around that corner?

Yes the one overflowing with ruddy flood waters.

It has been raining without a pause and I run with a whim;

to be drenched in those times of yonder,

when your shadow and mine merged into

this bliss of flood;

Where you began and I stopped to be;

And laughter tickled, chased and overwhelmed me.

I ran along the stream then, 

to escape that laughter.

I run now along this rain drenched path

And hear an echo of that mirth.

I am drenched yet again in you

But the thirst within remains.

These are a few of my favorite things #1

Read my blog after ages and realized  that of late, this space came to resemble a tribute to my "exaggerated yearning for expression of the unexpressed". This being not the state of mind perpetually, puzzling how this space has been monopolized by that ghost. 

Goes without saying my first post on my favorite things is an attempt to reclaim my space for my love letters to life. 

At the moment, I have this incredible cup of coffee, warm sunshine, the bluest of skies, and my five year old's chatter to be grateful for. That, and a book on Shiva by Ramesh Menon. This moment counts too, doesn't it? 

Memory

When you left, did I hear your footsteps?

I rack my memories to give me a hint. 

Running, sleeping, working, I see bits of you and me everywhere.  The song that brought me to you, temple bells, hot coffee, pens and papers never used.

In your arms, was I so much in awe of the lilting flavors of lust,

That I was blind to the the bright-orange flames of parting?

Perhaps I knew that if I turned to see, 

You would be looking at a road that was not mine

They say perception is but interwoven memories

If my reality is a memory, can we build memories to create truth? 

When I trace your footsteps, will I find you?

Or was the you that I knew another's memory? 

Alvida

When reality turns around and refuses to leave,

And half-forgotten dreams wave clumsily from afar

Which way does one turn? 

Two cups of lukewarm coffee

and a long-shadowed afternoon.

Overwhelmed with memories 

of longings and stirrings,

I barely speak; while you

remain serene, mirthful even;

Wishing to stretch the moment

and drag it into my night,

Insanely aware of the your urge to flee

fiercely holding on to a glimpse,

a brush of hand, people we know,

tastes, hobbies, relentless chatter;

How many words does one need
to recount the solitude of one's soul?

And when it is time to truly leave,
Which way do I turn?