Moon Songs

Midnight pen and paper love stories have been on a long humid vacation. Tonight, it's raining. I will write. The spiral in my head wants a rest, but it keeps on spinning, singing to the vanishing eye. My heart is palpitating like the pushing and pulling of tides in a vast ocean. The dim bulb is flickering, and humming: when what I cherish dies, love alone stays. For the miles we are apart and the trains that drag us closer to each other, there is a song. The moon usually sings it to us when we take a break from the road and sleep on the shore of our tides. The beat bellows into our deaf ears. Tonight, I am learning to listen to my tides, and the spiral in my head. I am learning to restart a childhood and eat mangoes in the middle of a night. I am learning to climb and fall off bunk-beds. I am feeling alive. I am breathing. I can hear the purple sky dance with the moon and the dark green mango leaves. I can sleep and snore. I can sigh. I can love. Lovely!

the song of solomon

pedestrian chronicle

The walk, the click of my heels and the thoughts that melted like old icecream into milk, took me home. We saw into each other's eyes, my shadow and I. The afternoon high was lowering itself to a simmer, still severely toasting foreheads. I drew out a small camera and decided to see the world move, spin and happen. With the feeling of owning the world, a part of it, with every image and thought that transpired in the time being the few minute walk seemed an hour. An eon long journey! Let this sink on you, colours fly. I forced a glass of rose milk on myself to taste some childhood again. I did, some memories rushed back as I swallowed pink. Pink milk! Rose milk! Milk! Neighbours and paati. The blueness took me over and swirled me out on to the road. Everyone seemed so nice and I seemed like the kid, the one who never understood the world and yet had all the answers.

Some men are creepy, women too. Some people are creepy. They have the weirdest things to say and do not care about appropriateness. Yesterday, I met a man, in the bus, who decided to talk about women's stuff (oh! he was apparently refering to breasts). He kept on telling me that I have good "stuff" and that guys would be following me around like ducks. Well, he even offered a talk over coffee and a transparent suggestion on him being my groom. Yuck! Going through this is not new, but to know people like this exist creeps me out. I am talking about those who are open talking about bodies and desires, but those who impose it on others with the hint or rather the highlight of pervertedness.

If this doesn't cause irritation, I don't know what else will. There are some people, even if you're compulsively nice to them, one never wishes to meet. This man met a category and for once I felt happy in stereotyping. The rest of the bus ride, after the man declared he was getting off the bus half-heartedly, I stared out of the window with a blank stare. The blankness stared back. The road grew wider and wider, more people seemed to crop up. A river of thoughts seemed to flow above my head. Money seems to feature a very big part of my life these days. It's sad and I don't know it kind of has this nice flavour of responsibility added to it.

No money has the ability of making you feel abandoned from yourself. Especially, after getting a taste of what that piece of promise note is capable of, one can't think further but for the want of more of it. It flies, and it makes you flies. Nothing to deny. With no money, I wouldn't write, blog, or take photos, or be what all I am about now. The essence itself, if created by the activities I indulge in, will disappear the minute my pockets go empty and lose the hope of getting filled. Such is the morbidity and materialism of life, and much ado about nothing to simply deny things and put on collared white coats. Goodness is far more than just morality, a personal ethics goes futher.

The ruggedness is a good thing to cultivate. One must allow themselves to watch the rugged messiah sleep under the tree with koels flying around him, sometimes in dreams and mostly in reality. Watch the messiah sleep and you will wake up. Wake up the messiah and you will sleep.

This is the problem with people. They forget they can fly and search for the wrong cliffs or just forget to search the last pocket, always the best. We end up settling, obsessively. What a world?

I sign off with just some sporadic images. Some studying has to happen in this world. I get this egoistic pleasure when I top my exams, more than competing with others (though, this emotion exists), I just like telling myself I'm smart. Muaahahahha. I am sad in many ways. I traumatize people. I laugh at people's plight when it doesn't really hurt them. I can incessantly argue about nonsense. I just need good sleep, lots of water, and proper food. I must add that Vasanth Vihar next to college, a small vegetarian hotel, does give a very nice meals for just Rs. 25. I am a compulsive eater. I eat food. And food has no barriers. It is the flavour of enjoyment, only surpassed by words, music, and colours. Bye.

Minstrels and Magic

On July 21st, I took the 29C bus and went to Top Storey, Alliance Francais (a place with memories), yet another pleasant weekend! Minstrels and Magic was a fabulous evening concert with songs from the Bhakti Movement, 13th to 17th Century. Two voices I adore , Vedanth Bharadwaj and Bindhu Malini, were fascinating. More eminent musicians like Neil Mukerjee and Anil Srinivasan were amazing. Sumirana Karle touched heights with Gurupriya's high-pitched voice. And I love Andrea Jeremia's rustic jazz voice. Since they were songs I knew, it became even more enjoyable. Music is beautiful - to sing, to play, to listen to, and to dance for.