A is for ..........

She liked how the unbiased arms glided smoothly across her nooks and corners. Soft, warm and so refreshing.

Hot showers were like unconditional lovers ( or is it blinded lovers? She couldn't decide).

They seeped into every imperfection, every flattering feature and those forgetful parts that fetishists seemed to remember (for the knowledge one learns in a Freudian course must of course never be forgotten, if it ever canbe easy to not notice 3rd degree burns on your own body) .

She let the torrents of water oil her with their purity (that comes with chlorine you didn't ask for). But as the droplets clustered on her skin, as she dried them off, she remembered the hour-glass figure which didn't exist, if it ever did for anyone except Barbie.

It wasn't a lack of self-esteem. Hardly.

It was Annoyance.

Because the bevy of ______ girls had arrived to force down some of their 'advice' amidst courtesy and vulnerability that confused her.

But it shouldn't of course.

Insecurity comes in many packages.

"Nazron ke teer mein"

These songs I hear-they're so young. I feel their dreams. I can catch whiffs of their hopes.

But we won't have that. Because we're busy living out what a cruel author had in mind.
Who'll make me ask myself one day, if losing all this was worth it?
And I already feel the doubt creep in.

The power, the freshness of youth. My skin tingles as these songs brush past and dance in the air around me. The young man's brazen deep, careless, loud, hollering note. I like it in a way you won't understand.

And I won't tell either.

Yes there is such a longing in these songs.

It's mine you know.

Just a fruit?

She looked at the fresh mangoes with unease. It had been 3 years- maybe she wasn't ready.
She picked an uncut piece and looked at it carefully.

You see, she had never known the names of the different varieties but she could tell them apart by their looks. This one's reddish tinge had not been native to that once-beloved-backyard.
So it seemed safe. Safe to have one that wouldn't ever taste like those did.
And that was fine.

Because they never will.

Return

I'm my past, present and future.I'm never only one but probably all at most times.

So my space was bound to get crowded. And it did.

But it's been tidied up again, the skeletons have been brushed back into the attic for closets are no longer private.

So I'm back.

An end to blogging

I won't be blogging for a while. Or orkutting . I can't say if I will reply to emails or comments right now but I will- eventually. I might be online on MSN but I can't guarantee there will be a conversation and I hope you'll understand, my friends.

This may last only a few days, but I can't say it won't be any more or less.

But for now, I'm just looking for some air, devoid of memories, wishes, hopes, life and me.

When Strangers Dance

Oh let's bow
a friendly stranger
'twas a delight

You and I

We floated on

Uncaring free kite

You and I

A light journey

We'd prophesied

Oh no we musn't

stagnate a second

Lest the flames alight

You and I

Know their eyes shall remain

jealousy-tinged

You and I

We've twirled back

back to a bend

Oh we'll meet

meet yet again

for such is this parting

You and I

We'll twinkle our eyes

We'll say a greeting

You and I

We'll forget names

despite cards we're exchanging

Oh it was to be

For such are

chance meetings

You and I

Our dance shall

Shall remain unbeaten

You and I

Our dance had to

Had to find this end

Who am I?

Adjectives surprise me.

Can a few alphabets summarize who we are? I don't think so.

So ticking those boxes in one of those personality tests/quizzes seems pointless. We want to know how to define ourself. Choose the precise words and yet.

Yet, we're all contradictions of ourselves at some point of time. And these adjectives are too small, too meagre to wrap our paradoxes within themselves. Adjectives are like black and white. Choose one. But we're grey, you and me.

Because none of us are any adjective in its absolute sense at all given times of our existence.

Edging towards the finish line

Her supply of paper is getting over. The ink has started to dry.
Soon her words will be empty impressions on paper. But she's not worried.

She had known the inevitable.

Trash can

She had been running out of diskspace and the RAM couldn't have supported her anymore at that rate.

"Sometimes we should also purge our unhappiness", she thought and hit "Delete" several times over the last hour.

Snipped

Snip Snip Snip
Our delicate red threads
They recklessly cut and pick
Like wrists without kalava*
Faith didn't cease
To tie us together
Cotton strings we didn't need
Said my mind
In my mistaken thought
Now you pass me by
Like strangers we always were
As They wanted us to be
But there was a time, loved one
When you and me
were more than just
forgotten blood


*kalava= thin red thread tied on the wrist of the right hand after the performance of a havan, prayers said beside a Hindu sacrificial fire, for all those present

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