~Untitled~

The stars receded into the background, 

The clouds rolled over,

Words receded into oblivion,

As eyes brimmed over.

She said the same thing over and over again,

Till her very existence constricted to it,

For what she was and is and will always be,

Counted for naught in the face of what she might be.

Pleading words turned into cruel words,

And cutting words turned pleading,

For he thought of how he felt,

And she thought of how he felt,

But nobody thought of her.

The Window

She had always wondered if everyone in the world lived inside the same bubble or if it was just her. The bubble dictated by society, the copybook lifestyle that was deemed socially desirable. People around her seemed to be having so much fun! Was it all a charade? Were all of them also dying slowly inside everytime they breathed? Was a copybook life the only way to be happy? If it was, then why wasn't she happy inspite of having done everything the socially desirable way? First, her parents explained to her the dictates of society and she followed. Later these dictates became so ingrained in her that she followed them instinctively even after her parents had long since stopped controlling her life decisions. A coveted job, an eligible husband, beautiful children-she had them all! Then why did she not remember even being happy? 

Her mother used to tell her when she was a child- "The most you can hope for is to not be terribly sad, Asma. Happiness exists only in theory, as a concept. But it is elusive at best and non-existent at worst. No one is ever happy, my child. They are just fooled into believing that they are happy. But it's all a trap. For the things that make one happy are always beyond the boundaries that society sets for every individual. No one can be allowed to be extremely happy, my child, for that will disturb the balance of the universe. People when they are happy will be content in life. And being content is the enemy of mankind, for discontentment is what propels people in a continuous search for happiness. Discontentment is what keeps people going." 

Was this an accurate description of the ways of the world? Did the discontentment that killed her everyday also propel her in life? Or was this how people thought when they had never known better in life? Had her mother not known better in life? Or had she known it for so brief a span and the heartbreak over the loss of it was so great that she would have rather not known it at all? Was this her  mother's way of protecting her from the terrible heartache that is the other side of happiness? But was happiness always conditional? Terrible heartache happened in any case, with our without happiness. Asma laughed hysterically. She was a poster child for terrible heartache without any memories of happiness. What was even worse was the fact that she couldn't pinpoint a single thing that was wrong in her life- she had everything that society values! Then why was she always so unhappy, dammit! Why were these thoughts her only companion when everyday she stood infront of the window in her bedroom in the half an hour of free time she got between coming back from working and dinner? Should she have taken chances in life? Maybe, atleast once, should she have gone beyond the boundaries that society had set for her even before she knew what boundaries meant? Should she have taken chances when the consequences of her impulsiveness were only hers to deal with? Was this just midlife crisis? That's what her mother had told her, hadn't she? But then wasn't a mid life crisis by definition something that happened in mid life? In that case, how did she not remember being happy even in her youth?

'Mom! Can we please have dinner? I'm starving!", Asma's fourteen year old daughter yelled. Snapping out of her reverie, Asma stepped away from the window and walked back to the life that she had built for herself. Another day had come to an end.

I think of you

In the twilight between sleep and wakefulness,

When a slight breeze blows,

The stars twinkle in the background,

And fragrant white flowers fall to the ground,

I think of you.

In the twilight between light and darkness,

When the moon disappears behind shadows,

The birds softly coo in their nests,

And the night comes alive with its sounds,

I think of you.

In the twilight between consciousness and desire, 

When the eyes brim over with yearning,

The soul longs for completion,

And the mind craves companionship,

I think of you.

Moonshine

I see you from across the room,

Eyes dancing, lips smiling, 

I have waited for you the whole night,

And now I drink in your sight,

For you are like moonshine to me.

It's been years since I saw you last,

I no longer remember the reasons that led us to part,

Not a single day has gone by when I haven't yearned for you,

And now I can't stop looking,

For you are like moonshine to me.

I will follow you to the end of the world and beyond,

All you have to do is ask,

I can see you make your way towards me,

Your eyes promising dreams of a lifetime past,

But I can't stop drowning in them,

For you are like moonshine to me.

Fifteen Minutes

Who would have thought that the shower stall would be so conducive to crying? Heartrending passionate sobs that racked the length of her body. Soft tears of disappointment that cut a silent course along her face. Eyes that had exhausted their ability to cry, and now vacant, stared at the wall. Fifteen minutes was all it took. Fifteen minutes of solitude when she could give free reign to her emotions. Fifteen minutes, at the end of which, out she stepped, with bright eyes, a smile playing on her lips and a spring in her steps. Fifteen minutes for which the mask slipped. Fifteen minutes was all it took.

Of Winter Evenings and Loneliness

I love winter. I love the feel of the cold still air on my skin. I hate winter evenings. I don't know what it is about the stillness that pervades winter evenings that is unpleasant. By all accounts, it is probably a figment of an overactive imagination. But it's been long since I have reconciled to being in a constant state of mental turmoil, not the bad kind of turmoil, just a state of constant flux. And somehow the shorter the days get towards the end of the year and the stiller the nights get, the more agitated my thoughts get, again not necessarily the unpleasant kind of agitation but far from any semblance of peace. 

I remember this evening spent in Kullu, Himachal Pradesh in late April, 2010. It was right after my board exams. It was quite late, actually, and I was sitting in the balcony with my parents asleep in the room. It was a beautiful night, the moon full and the soft sound of the Beas flowing nearby faintly audible. There was a song playing somewhere. I don't remember what the song was. But I remember how I felt at that instant, a feeling so potent that I haven't forgotten about it even four years hence. It was an extreme sense of yearning for something that felt like it was just at the edge of my fingertips yet definitively beyond grasp. This was not an yearning for something tangible. It wasn't even aspirational. It was for that elusive thing that would somehow make make everything in life fall into place. Yes, I know how unreal this sounds like, hence the use of the word elusive. And with the yearning came a certain sense of loneliness. A kind of loneliness that has nothing to do with lack of people one loves or is loved by. It has nothing to do with sadness either. It is in fact an acknowledgement of the fact that irrespective of how many people one holds close to oneself, they can only do so much. One still remains the sole protagonist in ones life story. The journey is ultimately lonesome.

This memory of what I felt at that moment in time is the best way in which I can describe the reason behind my distaste for winter evenings. The feeling is not saddening, no. It is  humbling because with it also comes the realisation that one occupies only but a miniscule space in the grand scheme of things in the world.

Of Sea. Of Memories. Of Love.

I can see the sea, the waves crashing against the shore. I can hear it, I can breathe it. There’s faint music playing in the background. The moon is half hidden behind the clouds. There’s a slight breeze, which picks up at times. It’s teasing my hair, playing with it. It’s been sometime since I have felt my hair fly, behind me, all over my face, in every direction. The caress of the wind is oddly intimate. The moon’s out. It’s weirdly shaped today, neither half nor full. The blemish on it is clearly visible. It is beautiful. I can see a lone figure walking along the shore,

staring out at the sea. A woman, I presume. I can see her hair flying. It’s late in the night. Why is she there, all alone? Is she happy? Is she sad? Is she yearning for somebody? A loved one, maybe? Or a bygone era? Happier times? Or maybe she is letting go of something? Someone? The wind has picked up. She is walking back. I feel like an intruder, suddenly. Like I can feel her innermost thoughts unfold even though I don’t know what or who she is thinking about. Someone’s whistling. A cop just getting off duty? A lifeguard signalling to some wayward straggler? A lover calling out to his beloved? The moon is behind the clouds. I can see the lone woman again. She is hurrying back now, almost running. She looks back at the sea, almost fearfully, as if whatever she has left there, buried in the waves, will come back to her. The same song is playing on the loop in the background. It’s about yearning for a loved one, about fearing for the loss of a loved one. Love and loss. Such potent emotions. Emotions difficult to live with and difficult to live without. What is love, in anycase? Why do the songs make sense? Why is it accompanied by a gripping fear of loss? Ever present, ever looming. Why is it that the stronger love is, the more fragile one is? There are no stars visible today. Just the moon, sometimes shining brightly, staring down at the sea, caressing the waves and at other times dormant behind the clouds, a dull reflection of its exuberant self. There’s a tree right in front of me. Broad leaves. The leaves are moving with the breeze, too much in its grip to stop, too far gone to turn back. 

There’s a lone figure sitting in a lighted balcony. Her chin is resting on her left hand as she writes something in a piece of paper in front of her.

There’s a certain strange sense of urgency in her, even though she is sitting perfectly still. Her hair has a life of its own, whipping across her face in tandem with a sudden gust of wind. She has been playing the same song over and over again. She looks up, suddenly. Her eyes are searching for something. It’s dark. Her eyes bore into the empty space in front of her, piercing, yearning, young and old. Her lips twist into a wry smile. She is staring at her phone. Her fingers curl into themselves and then uncurl. She types out something in her phone and smiles again. She tips her head back and looks at the sea. There’s a strange calmness to her expression now, even with the remnants of some unknown fear warring for space with a lingering wistfulness. She weaves her hand through her hair, and, stops midway. Her eyes bear a faraway look as she stares at the dark frothing sea. It’s as if she is reliving a memory, long past. A wayward tear slips past her eye as a look of extreme tenderness smoothens her expression. She turns and heads back to the room. The balcony reverts back to darkness. 

[P.S. If the recurring references to the song playing in the background have piqued your curiosity, here goes! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2uX0_9ST3cw#  :) ]

This is what happiness looks like...

Almost 3 months back, when I had started this blog, I had written an article about how I had become tired of trying to make good things happen to me. Especially when I met with failure every time I tried. Life had become all about reaching the milestones that were considered desirable by society, or by my peer group. And I had lost the ability to live in the moment, to appreciate the ‘every-day’ good things, because I kept waiting for the ‘big’ good things to happen.

This trimester I had resolved to sit back and savour what I already had. And to wait for the ‘big’ good things to find their way towards me. And they did. Good things happened to me, least when I expected them to happen. And what made them all the more special was the fact that I wasn’t waiting in anticipation for them to happen. Allow me to explain. I was fine before they happened to me, really. I wasn’t waiting for them to happen to change my life. No. Before they happened, I was just fine, my life was just fine. And then they happened. In fact, they crept in to my life so stealthily that I wasn’t aware of them until they were well into the process of happening. And when they happened, my life didn’t change around its axis. No. I wasn’t sad before but for a very very long time, I had forgotten what being happy felt like. The kind of happiness that made you giddy and breathless had proved elusive for so long! The kind of happiness that you just can’t regret even if things go awfully downhill later.

I have always believed that happiness is not a phase in life. If asked, I can very easily point out the sad/trying phases in my life. But I have been the happiest in my life in moments. Yes, I am a firm believer in the theory that happiness lies in moments. Tiny fleeting moments which often don’t register when they are happening. But on a long lonely evening, when one gets the opportunity to sit back and take stock of life, these are the moments that stand out. Moments, which, if could be crystallized would be like old photographs, the kind which were probably taken without one's knowledge but which somehow managed to capture that tiny part of one's soul that one never knew existed. Moments that are like twinkling fairy lights in a dark room. Or like a wash of stars in a moonless night. Yes, those are the moments that one will always look for in retrospect, not the long endless nights when sleep had proved elusive nor the never ending listless days when things had not gone the way one wanted them to go.

How can one grudge oneself such moments when they are so few and far between and difficult to come by? For in long lonely cold nights, what will keep one company are not doubts and insecurities. No. The only source of comfort will be these moments in time when one had felt warm and comfortable. Safe and content. Happy. And one can never be thankful enough when one gets the privilege to add some such moments to the collage of life’s memories.

Ephemeral

Ephemeral is the world,

The Sun, the stars and the earth. 

Ephemeral is fate,

Time, memories and faith.

Ephemeral is love,

Longing, desire and stealth.

Emotions. Words. Souls. Promises. Intentions. Whispers.

Ephemeral are the eyes.

Starry, vulnerable and expressive.

Ephemeral is life,

Fleeting, unknowable and finite. 

Two roads diverged in the woods and I took the one less travelled by

"I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, 

And I took the one less travelled by.

And that has made all the difference"

-The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost

This stanza from Robert Frost's iconic poem has probably single handedly defined my life choices. Whenever I have felt the need to do something out of the ordinary and have been apprehensive about possible backlash, this has been my guiding force.

It is of course interesting to note that while Frost talks about the difference that taking the unknown road has made to his life, he does not specify whether they have been positive or not. And it is only reasonable to conclude that all life experiences, irrespective of the path taken, cannot be positive. So is it our endeavour in life to accumulate only positive experiences? Should we be consequently afraid of any possible negative experiences? For even though the road oft travelled does not guarantee positive results, there is some semblance of regularity to it, a certain degree of familiarity to it, which while comforting, can also prove to be quite revolting at times.

While self preservation is instinctive, what is it that makes us yearn to break out of the set path of life? Especially when one knows that there is nothing certain about an unknown path and an unforeseen destiny. When every sane influence in our life cautions us to tread carefully. When it is so much easier to tread the familiar path even if it does not give one any happiness?

Is it the fact that questions like what might have been, what could have been, what should have been and what will not be are too haunting to be left unanswered? Or is it because that the set patterns of one's life are not necessarily suited to one's happiness? 

And what after all is happiness? Are moments of happiness worth enough to risk possible sorrow in the future? Or is it more logical to just live in a plateau where there is neither happiness nor sorrow, where life is dominated by grey and not colours?

Questions galore and answers to none.

The Memory of Love

I have in the past mentioned a couple of books in my posts in passing without going into any of them in much detail. One of the books I have read in the recent past was 'The Memory of Love' by Aminatta Forna. Though the book in itself was quite interesting, the part that has stuck with me since the first time I read about it is the very name of the book-The Memory of Love. To be honest, I am not quite sure what about this particular turn of words stayed with me. Was it the palpable yearning associated with it? Or was it the intense desire on part of the protagonist to go back to the times when love was not a mere memory, when love was the reality, when love was the present and not the past. There is something hauntingly beautiful about the title (though it could only be just me considering my tendency to over analyze and find meanings in everything). Hauntingly beautiful and hauntingly painful, as well, I would imagine. For how does one deal with the memory of love when it is but only a memory of what was, what could have been, what should have been and what is not. How does one reconcile the listlessness, the rootlessness of the present with the tantalizing pull of the past. And what happens to the future- dark, unknown and unpredictable as it is-for when enmeshed in the memory of love, does one look forward to the future or envy the charms of the past?

Shadows of Moonlight

[This is more a collection of random thoughts than a put together piece of writing. It is also probably one of my most pretentious efforts at writing, yet. But I didn't know how else to put my thoughts into words that make sense (hopefully they do! :P ) ]

Ever heard the leaves rustling at night when all else is silent? When the keening noise of of crickets fills your ears and the never ending expanse of the dark sky overwhelms your senses. When the moon peeps in through the floating clouds, illuminating the emerald expanse and throwing shadows on the lighted window. Two heads bend together, whispering animatedly. Sweet nothings. Uncertainty. A blooming happiness accompanied by traces of lingering doubts lurking in the corners. Superfluous words that leave more unsaid than said. A slight breeze wafts through stirring memories of dreams long forgotten, hopes long relinquished. Ruffled hair. Sleepy eyes, strangely alert yet decidedly content. Below the canopy of twinkling stars unfolds a new story, almost as ancient as the fate that nourishes it, yet cherished differently in each manifestation. As the earth continues its long, arduous journey and time pursues its destiny, words morph into nothingness and silence reigns supreme.

Summer Girl-Part III

[Apologies for the long gap between parts II and III. The only justification I have is a writers block. :P ]

Paridhi woke up with a start, disoriented, and with her heart beating frantically. For a few minutes, she wasn't sure as to what woke her up. Then, as it suddenly came back to her, she shook off her covers violently and ran towards the locked door that separated her room from Kabir's. There had been a loud crash from his room and the sound had woken her. As she fumbled with the lock in vain, she could hear Kabir cursing faintly in the other room. A few frantic attempts later, she gave up and called out his name through the door. "Kabir! Kabir, can you hear me? What was that noise? Are you alright?" Suddenly, the room went completely silent. All Paridhi could hear was the sea raging  nearby. There was no answer. "Kabir!", she called again. She could hear him pacing in the next room, but, there was still no reply. Just when she had given up all hopes of him answering, a quiet voice called out, "I am fine. Everything is okay. Go back to sleep." But there was something in his voice that wasn't quite convincing. Paridhi sighed. Kabir had always been like that. Even as a child, the truth about this thoughts had to be cajoled out of him and Paridhi had always proved to be quite inept at the act of cajoling. It had always been Anushka who could convince him to spill his secrets. But Anushka was no longer there and years' worth of friendship prevented Paridhi from abandoning Kabir when something was patently wrong. She sagged against the door and called out again, "I am not going anywhere till you tell me what's wrong, Kabir". "Go away, Paridhi. I don't want to talk to anybody right now. And definitely not to you!" Stunned and perplexed, Paridhi stared at the locked door. What in the world had she done to merit that response? "Kabir?", she called out softly. There was no response. A agonized pacing continued in the adjacent room. And then, it suddenly stopped. Paridhi could feel Kabir hovering near the door from the other side. After some time, his shoes scraped the floor as he sat down on the other side of the door.

A heartbeat later, Paridhi asked again. "Kabir, what's wrong?". "You", said the quiet voice from the other room.

Karnamania

[I have no clue if I have actually managed to convey what I wanted to convey through this piece. So please feel free to comment if some part doesn't make sense.]

I am going to deviate a little, a lot actually, from what I have been writing about and focus on something I have been pretty much obsessed with for the past few days. It's not an actual person, or well, he might have been an actual person at some point in time. But I stumbled upon a book written on his life and then yet another book and then an actual television series, all of which fed my obsession about his character which has finally culminated in me trying to put to writing my thoughts about him. Let me not keep you guys waiting any longer- the man I am talking about is 'Karna'. Yes, the famous anti-hero (hero?) from the Indian epic, Mahabharata, Karna.

Now, I am definitely not the first person who has been deeply fascinated by his character. But what is it about him that inexplicably draws people to him inspite of the epic otherwise brimming with ostensible heroes. It is only logical that the first person who comes to mind when one thinks about Karna is Arjuna, the hero (anti-hero? He was the reason, even if not intentionally and definitely not explicitly, for Eklavya losing his thumb and Karna's repeated humiliation.) of the epic-both brilliant archers, both born of the same mother and yet destined to hate each other till the hatred ultimately consumes one. Arjuna was the blessed one, even gods went out of their way to help him and Karna was the cursed one, cursed three times over for actions done in good faith- Arjuna, the ostensible egomaniac, and Karna, with the chronic low self esteem-Arjuna, on the side of virtue, and Karna, the virtuous one, for yes, there is a difference between the two. In a nutshell, with everything favouring Arjuna, why has Karna's character been the fountainhead of extensive literature, and extensive speculation? Is it because he is the eternal tragic hero-a man of noble origins and strong principles who was destined to suffer in life with death being the only liberator and the horrible romance associated with such a situation? Or is it because he, inspite of siding with the 'evil' was the only one who did not indulge in treachery and unnecessary unkindness? Detractors will immediately point at his role in Draupadi's 'vastraharan' or his participation in the brutal murder of Arjuna's 16 year old son Abhimanyu. This, I think, forms the very crux of the epic that is Mahabharata-the fact that all of it's characters are grey.

What, then, is special about Karna? I have always thought that the characters of Karna and Arjuna are both startlingly similar. It is not difficult to envisage a situation where, if, the life situations of Karna and Arjuna are reversed, they would act in the exact same way. The fact that we have a very clear image of how Karna's life would have been had he been rightfully recognized by Kunti makes the magnitude of his misfortunes even more stark. And therein, I believe, lies the draw to Karna's character as empathy for Karna is ultimately our way of dealing with our own life situations, of consoling ourselves by putting the blame of our failures on the wrongdoing of others. But wasn't that also the ultimate reason for Karna's downfall? Didn't his staunch belief that all his misfortunes were the consequences of other peoples actions ultimately prevent him from taking responsibility for his own transgressions? Questions to which there can be so many possible answers all of which serve to compound the one undeniable truth-One person's story is never only his own-and therein lies the paradox for Karna, saintly as he is, is not faultless and that is what strikes a chord with all his admirers.

Summer Girl-Part II

[Yep. The second part of the Summer Girl series is here! :) ]

Paridhi lied down on the bed in the right-corner room of the twin cottages her parents had rented for the vacation-one cottage for her family and one for Kabir's. It was well past midnight but her thoughts wouldn't quiten down enough to let her sleep. The woodwork in the room creaked as the sea raged outside. But, other than the sound of the wood settling and that of the waves crashing against the shore, it was achingly quiet. More so, because Paridhi could hear every movement from the adjacent room in the neighbouring cottage, Kabir's room. He hadn't wanted the room initially. No. He had wanted the room in the opposite end of the cottage, a room now occupied by his younger sister, secured after a well-timed tantrum she had been witness to after dinner. 

Dinner had been a raucous affair as it always was when they dined with Kabir's family. Their siblings had become inseparable since both of them had joined the same school. Their parents had known each other since college. And thus it usually happened that the only two silent people in the room since Anushka left had always been Kabir and Paridhi. Yes, in spite of knowing each other all their lives and despite having been ostensibly friends for most of it, Kabir and Paridhi did not talk. Oh, they spoke for sure. But they never talked. The gap in their 'friendship' had always existed, but Anushka's sudden exit from their lives had exacerbated it. Before Anushka left, there had been times when that gap had been breached, instances when she had been startled with the realisation that she and Kabir had managed to have a meaningful conversation. But they had always been brief snatches away from the whirlwind that was Anushka. If Anushka was a whirlwind, what was she, Paridhi? Restive? Not at all. The whirlwind had always been in her mind. And what about Kabir? With a start, she realised that she had know idea. She did not know him at all. But back to the tantrum. It had happened after dinner when everyone had settled down with cups of coffee. Kabir had announced that he was too tired to sit any longer and wanted to shift his stuff to the room of his choice. And Rita, his sister, had announced adamantly that she wanted that room too. A round of tears later, alarmed at the direction in which the stalemate was going, Kabir agreed to take the room adjacent to mine. And then inexplicably, he had stared at me, frustration rolling off him in waves. His eyes had been piercing. Unfathomable. Caught off guard, I had turned to look behind me to ascertain what he was looking at. But there was nothing behind me to look at, unless he had somehow acquired a passionate interest in the wall. Yep. He was looking at me with his inscrutable brown eyes and a frown set around his mouth. It had almost looked like he was angry with me. I had not known why and I was all too aware of it as I heard him move about in his room.

Summer Girl-Part I

[Watching the short youtube series 'Kissing in the rain' that portrays the same set of actors enacting various scenes from iconic movies and books, all culminating with them kissing in the rain, got me thinking about a short series of prose depicting the thoughts of a young girl at various points of a vacation during the summers. It's purely fictional. More of an experiment, really. Readers (it's probably only just Sam. Hi Sam! :) ), let me know if it's working in the comments (please Sam? :P ).]

Paridhi stood on the shore staring at the wide expanse of the sea in front of her. Vacation, at last. Long awaited. Long due. Vacation. Life for the past year had been a confusing whirlwind. College. Of course, most of the blame lay with college. Yes, the college of her dreams was different from what she had imagined it to be. Not bad, just different. And exhausting. A vacation was just what she wanted though she would have preferred to spend time with her family alone. Instead she was sharing them with Kabir and his family. They were family friends. Kabir has been a constant and in recent times, a somewhat confusing, presence in her life. They have known each other since forever. Considering they were only one year apart, Kabir being older, and knowing their mothers, they had probably shared a crib together at moment. He had been a consisent playmate during childhood. For a long time, it had been Paridhi, Kabir and Anushka. Kabir and Anushka had always been closer, first as children and then as young adolescents. Nothing very apparent, really. The three of them were always together in whatever they did. But within their group of three was a clique of two. What was the reason for this closeness, you ask? Paridhi didn't have the slightest clue. She wasn't very envious either. Truth be told, she started noticing Kabir as more than a permanent fixture in her life, as different than her own parents and brother, only when Anushka left. For one day, four years back, Anushka and her family just upped and left for the USA. And that is when Paridhi saw Kabir, actually looked at him, for what he was and not as the second half of the Anushka-Kabir duo. Infact, she still remembered the day she along with Kabir stood and watched Anushka leave. They were 14. To say that she had been upset that day would be an understatement. Yeah, nothing out of the ordinary there. What had come as a surprise to even her, was the reason for the same. The image that had haunted her then was that of Kabir, as he stood there with a look of complete and utter bafflement and betrayal in her face. That she hadn't known about Anushka's abrupt departure was not out of ordinary. Though she and Anushka had been constant friends, they hadn't been particularly close. But the fact that Kabir hadn't known either had been surprising to say the least.

"Paridhi"! She turned at the sound of her name and saw Kabir walking towards her. The years had been kind to him. He had always been tall and thin. Even as a child, he had been distinctive to look at. But the years lent a certain maturity to his face, depth to his eyes. Those deep set dark eyes were now positively piercing. And uncomfortably discerning. "So this is where you have been for the past one hour. Everyone has been looking for you. It's time for dinner. Ready to come in?", he adds with an easy smile. "Yes, let's go. I'm starving!" And they walked back to their cottage.

Under the Magnolia Tree

[This is the last post in this series. Hope ya’ll have enjoyed reading it as much as I have liked writing it.]

When I thought of writing this piece, I was under a Magnolia tree. Now, I am sitting in the Delhi Airport waiting for a flight back home. A day has passed in the interim. I have been unable to marshal my thoughts adequately enough to coherently express what is in my mind. I am a child of the mid 1990’s and early 2000’s. I have been witness to the escalating conflict in the Kashmir valley, albeit from a distance and arguably from an un-breachable one. Even though tourism never completely stopped in the valley barring brief interruptions when the violence could not be negotiated around, I had never seriously contemplated visiting the valley for an actual vacation. The extreme state of unrest in the valley in 2010 had almost sealed the decision. However, here I was in 2014, on my way to the valley for a much needed vacation. Excitement interspersed with apprehension scoured through my veins while I was waiting for my flight to Srinagar. And now at almost the fag end of my vacation, I think I can safely say that the Kashmir experience has been like no other experience I have ever had.

In my previous posts, I have time and again tried to juxtapose the breath taking beauty of the valley with the tragedy of epic proportions that it has been forced to endure. Kashmir is not the only region in India that has been plagued with unrest. Much of the North-East and large tracts of central India have been dealing with insurgency and naxalism respectively since quite some time now. I have visited the North-East in the past and happen to hail from a naxal-affected state. What, then, makes my perception of Kashmir different from all the other kinds of violence I have been privy to?

I am yet to come up with a convincing answer to this question, a question that has plagued me throughout the entire duration of this trip. Is it the stark contrast between the bewitching beauty of the valley and the rundown shabby houses that break the magnificent scenery? Or is it the fact that a state that has a population of almost 1 Crore 25 Lakhs has more security personnel visible than civilians? Or is it the palpable restlessness evident from my interactions with the local population coupled with an almost intriguing sense of surface-level normalcy that pervades the valley? Is there more to the valley than what meets the eye or is all of this a figment of my over active imagination? I seem to have left the valley with questions galore but answers to none.

Enchanted

This is the second post that I am commencing with a name which is doing the rounds in popular culture in recent times, but I can’t seem to help myself! Though, to describe what I am about to write, ‘Frozen’ would work just as well. :P

When I woke up and looked at my itinerary today, my heart leaped to my mouth. The schedule just mentioned one word- ‘Gulmarg’!  Oh, how much had I heard about Gulmarg! It has been described variously by different people but the common thread that runs through all descriptions is the undisputable fact that if heaven could be brought on earth, it will probably pale in comparison to Gulmarg. Flanked by snow covered mountains on all sides, even in the midst of the scorching heat of the Indian summer, all that meets the eye is endless rolling meadows and rows and rows of tall coniferous trees. Who know there are so many shades of green! *_*

For someone like me who has lived her entire life near the sea, mountains hold a special appeal. Snow, even more so! But considering I have come to the valley in the peak of summer, I did not have much hope of watching the snow within touching distance. I had convinced myself to be contented with a distant view of the snow-covered peaks. Never was I so wrong! :D The handy cable service at Gulmarg, bafflingly called ‘Gondola’ came to my rescue and helped me land straight on the very snow-covered peak I had been admiring from a distance. A weird sledging experience, a wardrobe malfunction and a horse mishap later, here I am, grinning nine to a dozen, happier than ever before in my life, bewitched by the mysterious hold that the mountains have always had on me and continues to do so.

P.S. All I could think of when driving through the, for lack of a more fitting word, beautiful meadows, was the many Heidi episodes I had devoured as a child. A re-run seems to be in order. Till then, ta-da!

The Inheritance Of Loss*

No, I am not writing a review of the well known book by Kiran Desai of the same name. Neither am I just going to copy the book here. But the turn of phrase that the author has used here, brilliant as she is, applies to so many different experiences in life.

Today, I am at Srinagar. At the heart of the Kashmir valley, nestled amidst beautiful mountains, flanked by innumerable lakes most noticeable of which is the Dal Lake, lies this city. Home to the Mughal Gardens which had at one point reduced the great emperor Jahangir to tears with its pristine beauty, it has been a premier tourist spot for quite some time now. Strife-torn though it is, its popularity in the tourist circles has continued to remain undiminished. Ironically enough, the tourist season is probably the most peaceful part of the year for the inhabitants of the valley. From what I saw today, the local economy seems to rest almost totally on the copious amounts spent by tourists on various attractions, delicacies and handicrafts Kashmir has to offer. Kashmiri sarees have always been my personal favourite and this visit has only reinforced my preference for the same.

However, the stark contrast between what nature has to offer and the general state of the city is heartbreaking. Driving through the by-lanes of the city, I saw innumerable half-built and almost destroyed houses, nestled amidst glamorous shops selling trinkets to tourists and a few palatial houses that speak volumes about what the valley has been witnessed to in the last few decades. Caught in the cross fire between groups with different vested interests of their own, the valley has remained an almost mute yet constant spectator to the near systematic violence that has been inflicted on it. The glorious past that the valley boasts of in the echelons of Indian history when juxtaposed with the acute poverty that prevails here now is a living testimony to how times change and how the destiny of a place changes with it. And yet the city trudges on. With all its beauty, all its desperation and manifest sadness, all the burdens that have been placed on it, all the discontent that simmers just below its surface, the city and its people live on. How true this phenomenon is of human life as well! For when one is blessed with an inheritance of only unforgettable and unforgivable loss, loss that transverses the length and breadth of the horizons of one’s life till it becomes the be all and end all of one’s existence, the only thing one can do is live on, for not only is it one’s only means of survival, it is also the only way out of one’s predicament.

*As has been constantly reinforced by the legal education that my parents spend enormous amounts on, I have to emphatically state that the title to this post is not a product of my creativity. All credits for that particular turn of words goes solely to Ms. Kiran Desai and her book by the same name (I recommend it highly, by the way, and no, I am not paid for it. :P)

P.S. All views in the post are purely my own and are not meant to be representative of tourists in general or the inhabitants of the valley in particular. Any mischaracterization/exaggeration can be blamed on my hyper-active imagination and excessive sensitivity. :D

Gar firdaus rue zameen asto, hameen asto hameen asto hameen asto.

[Hi all. This is the first post in a short series chronicling my thoughts in my vacation at Jammu and Kashmir. Please read on for the rest!]

Clichéd? I know I know. But it’s so damn true that I can’t help myself. Thinking of a better name when there is so much of nature’s bounty awaiting me seems like a criminal waste of time. I am at Pahalgam at the moment and have stolen a few minutes from the hectic day to pen down a few words that have been swirling in my head all day long! This isn’t the first time I have come to the hills (Kashmir is a valley, I know I know! But you get the gist of it, don’t you?) I have been to quite a few arrestingly beautiful places before. Some worth mentioning are Shillong, Darjeeling, Gangtok, Kalimpong, Kullu, Manali, and Shimla. All of these places are as enchanting as the next. Mountain streams, swift flowing rivers, hillocks, mountains, snow, clouds, flowers, trees-take your pick for all of these hill stations boast of these in abundance. Kashmir is nothing different in what it offers. Everything is the same. Everything is different. What makes it different? I am still trying to put a finger on that. Is it the general strife-torn environment in the valley that lends it the feel of a forbidden fruit? Is it the illustrious space that the valley and the associated areas hold in Indian history? Or is it the fact that the Himalayas become so much more wild and daunting in this part of the country? Majestic, the Himalayas always are. Imposing, yes. But they take on an almost haunting quality that is difficult to describe. It is not uncommon to feel small and unimportant when faced with nature at it best. But what I felt today is something I have never felt before amidst plain, raw nature- a sense of complete belonging, a fleeting belief that I am part of something bigger and better, that there is a grand scale of things in the universe and I am but a small part of it.

I’ll be signing off now for I have much better things to do than stare at my laptop. But I couldn’t resist putting my thoughts into words. I will come back for more, later.

P.S. I know this is blatant objectification and will probably be considered inappropriate in certain circles and contexts, but I have never seen so many good looking men in one sweep of the eye. *_*

P.P.S. This is going to be a part of the small series that I am going to write cataloguing my vacation at Jammu and Kashmir. I will not be able to post these as and when I write because I don’t have access to internet. But I’ll write this in order so that there is some semblance of order for the reader. (Yes, I am just going to assume that I have readers. I know for a fact that Sam reads (Yay!). I believe that there are others too! ^_^ )

But right now, my raging hormones and I bid you adieu!

American Summer

[ The realisations mentioned in this post were accelerated by a quote I came across recently. Not only does it capture my predominant emotional state, it probably applies to our entire generation at large. The quote is a simple two-line verse written by Mirza Ghalib and is part of a bigger poem popularly known as 'Koi Umeed Bar Nahi Aati' and is reproduced here:

"Marte hain marne ki arzoo main, 

Maut aati hai par nahin aati."

[I die in the hope of dying,

Death arrives and then never arrives.]

P.S. Signing off with a song that has been stuck in my head for the past few days, you can listen to it here->

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRxmgHdpXYA

P.P.S Pay special attention to the verse sung before the actual song starts. It's beautiful.]

Folks, this has been a summer of realisations. Foremost among them is that you cannot make life happen to you. An upside of this is that you don't need to convince/cajole it to happen to you. If this sentiment sounds outrageous to you, stop right there. Let me complete and then form your opinions. I believe in 'making my own destiny' as much as the next other reasonably optimistic person though I have always found the term to be a bit of a misnomer. What would life be if we didn't have the ability to pave our way through it at our own tiny, inconsequential level? However, there is a difference between equipping yourself to living life your way and highjacking the very scheme of life itself. We live in a very goal-heavy world. Everything we do has to conform to a time span. Unfortunately, this time span is immensely susceptible to societal pressures. In the mad rush of ensuring and cataloguing 'life experiences' or rather socially desired 'life experiences', we seem to have lost the ability to actually 'live' these experiences. This is of course just one aspect of it. The other aspect lies in accepting the fact that certain things happen only when they are meant to happen. Making efforts to force/cajole them to happen is more often than not a recipe for disaster. This is probably most accurately manifested in how today's generation looks at love and lust. There is not only a timeline for falling in love/lust, there also seems to be one for falling out of it too! And probably the least rewarding task is to make 'people' happen to you. Human beings, while being entirely wonderful, are also the most capable of causing heartbreak ( :P )! We are, but, a trifle in the grand scheme of things in the world. While it is commendable and indeed desirable to make efforts to make our lives worthy, an incessant effort to make this better/amass experiences shifts our focus from the very crux of efforts itself-actually 'living' the tiny seemingly inconsequential everyday experiences that more often than not build up to form larger life experiences that we crave to make happen.

At this stage, if you are wondering why I named a post about my protracted ramblings on life 'American Summer', let me clarify. It took at unexpected interaction with a bunch of American Students to had come my university for a short study tour to jolt me out of complicity in believing that I could 'make life happen to me'. While at some level I could and still can, this summer has taught me that at a deeper and more important level, I would rather sit back and take things as they come for things long anticipated and untampered with are often the best things that happen to one!

What is it about rain that makes you remember?

[In re  the heavy rains that lashed my city yesterday. 

P.S. This is not the first time this has been put up on a blog since I didn't have one when I wrote it. Just saying.]

 I am sitting by the window. It is raining and I can feel the drops of water on my face. A drop trickles down my face and falls on my hand. Memories of a time long forgotten, a childhood, not that far back yet so unreachable, flood my mind. A sudden flashback of running through the front garden and getting drenched in the rain in one of the many old British-style houses that I lived in fills my mind vividly. Then another image, of my mother shouting at me, asking me to come back.

What is it about rain that always makes you sift through all those past memories that in the humdrum of daily life become repressed in your subconscious?

Hailstones! The initial excitement of listening to the exaggerated pitter-patter on the roof as tiny lumps of ice fall on the ground. Running to the front verandah to collect the ice faster than my brother. Images after images of those days, long past. Of innocence, long gone. Of hope, long forgotten. Memories.

A song comes to my mind. The song that was playing in the background when I shared an umbrella with my first crush. I can almost feel my heart thundering, the way it had thundered for those few precious stolen moments. Anticipation tugs at my heart. And a certain melancholy. A sudden yearning to go back into those days of sweet innocence, of glorious horizons and endless possibilities, of happy dreams. Falling asleep near my mother. Playing with my brother. Not knowing the feeling of apprehension. Where future is a bright happy place.

What is it about rain that makes you remember?

New Beginnings And Some Realisations

[Hey everyone( Yes, I am just going to assume that I actually have readers)! I hadn't really intended my first post to be a protracted rambling on my 'feelings' but here I am doing exactly that owing to an inherent urgent need to put my thoughts in writing. Do bear with me. Okaybye.]

"Mamihlapinatapai -This word captures that special look shared between two people, when both are wishing that the other would do something that they both want, but neither want to do."

Who would have thought there's a word for this often complex and all too common feeling. There is probably nothing more romantic than missed chances. I know this sounds weird but do hear me out. Think back to that one time where a fleeting moment shared with that one person was worth more than hours spent with others, when that one passing look was enough to make your skin tingle, when a few stolen words were more meaningful than your entire existence, when a single touch seared through your skin. The one moment that encapsulated what what you are and always wanted to be, a moment where you were as alive as you ever could be. A single moment which felt like an indication of things to come, not necessarily with the same person, but coloured with the same emotions, the same awareness of self, the same sense of just being. Can anything be more romantic than this? Skeptics would probably dismiss all of this as utter tosh. A couple of days back, I would have too. I have always believed that romance is a state mind, that the presence of another person in the picture does not necessarily add anything to it. But a chance meeting with a person which turned out to be not quite what I wanted but so much more than what I needed, has taught me better. I will never meet him again and in due course of time, my memories of him will recede to the background. And his will too. But every time I laugh with someone, every time I see seasons change, every time the wind teases my hair, every time I hear a love song, in the recesses of my mind, I would catch a glimpse of the dark haired boy as he looks intently at me, a slight smile at the edge of his lips, a little uncertain, a little shy, a little vulnerable. And that would suffice.