Wabi-Sabi

...When the phone rings, I put it to my I know she’s used up all her words, so I slowly whisper I love you thirty-two and a third times. After that, we just sit on the line and listen to each other breathe.  

We grow up and forget what we should hold on to, remembering only everything bitter. That's how we destroy ourselves.  

Up in the loft, the worn-out suitcase gathers dust, packed with cobblestone lanes, a merry street musician, a checklist.

Life  passes by. What if  remains.

Is it the endless conversations, the childish prattle and pranks, hopping on bikes and raring to go on a long-awaited holiday, sharing drinks and cigarettes- choosing them over a long evening of conversation, checking off items on the mile-long shopping list or generously showering love or pulling each other's leg over Facebook page(s), that makes for a good friend these days? Good Question. Rhetorical to an extent. The reason being that not many would find any fault with the above mentioned definition of a friend. Yeah, surely the above mentioned endeavours are fun and the 'in' thing to do. But, after a long day of getting a thrill from rides and meandering on unknown lanes, one cannot easily switch off the countless thoughts running in one's mind- fears, jealousy, love, pain, complexes and insecurities. Everyone of us has a continuously nagging set of questions buzzing in the mind and trying to swat them with our so-called group of companions, may work...

    As I sit down in my study and turn on my laptop, I end up staring at the wallpaper for a while.  It is the first photograph clicked in college, in the canteen- chairs stacked up on the open terrace as hungry students are yet to start pouring in.  Then, I begin rummaging through the drawers in my cabinet, I come across a stack of photographs captured and hidden on many a happiest days of the past few years.      Hidden in the crevices of my mind are the days when a curious child embarked upon a mission to search for shapes amidst the cotton candies of the clouds. The one who used to extend his hand to catch the stars that twinkled in the night sky and preserve them in the twinkle of his eye. The same child grew up and begun taking ample interest in the realms of photography.      I wish to have the power to hold the attention of the contestants in the blind race that has no end. What could be better than pausing for a whil...

    There is repair work going on at home and through the crevices of the door of my room, light is sneaking in to form interesting patterns on a wall right opposite to the door. I see the light dancing in front of my eyes and the monotony of my room as well as my thoughts, is broken for a while. The repairmen are welding outside, nothing particularly attractive about the process.     I cannot help but remember the time when as a little girl I used to pass by construction sites and stop for a fleeting moment, amazed by the sparks falling apart and vanishing into thin air. I used to wonder how these iridescent sparks could fall apart from a massive fountain of light and weld two surfaces together at the same time. It seemed ironical for a child.     It is fascinating how we can draw so many examples from everything happening around us. Now I am wise enough – well not very sure about that, there is a lot of gibberish that the soci...

A photograph is a fraction of a second, captured on film. It is that particular moment which was captured from the womb of time along with eternity. It is a silently expressive medium of visual art that allows one to explore and interpret through keen observation. In the process, visuals give way to thoughts, which conceive written word. Photograph is a window to the past and opens to a forgotten world of old days, people and memories. Every photograph from the olden days invokes an emotion, whether positive or negative. Things change, grow, deplete but the intent with which a moment was once captured, does not get affected. Pictures give us a sneak-peak into the lives of a character or characters, even a different side of us. This rebuilds many interlinked stories and brings out numerous emotions from the stagnant state of hibernation. This in turn gets the creative juices flowing and the resultant stream of contemplation can be directed towards other media of visual ar...

Nothing is perfect. Knowing that the people whom we love truly, love us back with all their heart, the feeling that follows the realization is surely close to perfect. Misgivings occur, things go wrong and many a times we do not know whom to turn to. But the people close to our heart will never step back or go away, they would only turn their face away hoping for you to sit beside them, hold them close even if they act invincible under your gaze and see the tears welling up in their eyes. Catch hold of their hand, cry a river, build a bridge and cross over to the other side. It may take time but eventually you would know that sharing such heart wrenching moments with them has brought you closer in an unexplainable way.  Yes, we cry and we laugh. We sit beside a window when it rains, relishing our favourite mug of coffee, smiling sheepishly, warm in the patchwork blanket of memories sewn together only for us, for a fulfilling day like this. We fight wit...

I romance the pressed flowers of a woebegone time, bygone. A woebegone time? Was it or is it now? I wonder if the gaeity lies on a rug all alone By the fireplace in deep slumber? The pressed flowers in the scrapbook play a fragrant melody. The words that lay dead to the world caress the ashes of the roses Spring into a song, unabashedly With a fuschia pink rouge. The musty walls of a room that I think about often Is a room splendidly imagined; Where the perfume from a cold evening lingers. I pick it up on my fingertips deftly to savour the scent of today. The room shatters as I lift the burden of yesterday From my fragile eyelashes. On my mantlepiece is a candle that lights up the face of today; The candle that once was the drowsy fireplace.

I have never sat down with a pen in my hand to scribble down the most happiest moments of my life. The ones that I would cherish and remember fondly. Maybe because I felt that if I would do that then the story of joy will remain bound to a particular incident that lingers in  my memory.  But today when I was told to scribble it down, it gave me immense happiness as I walked down the memory lane of nostalgia. The first thing that comes to my mind is my countless evening walks with my father, as a child and even now, though less frequently than before. Amidst the myriad hues of nature, holding his hand firmly gave me immense comfort and strength to move on with my head held high as long as I intend to embark upon the path of righteousness. I miss talking to him about everything under the sun, spotting constellations, pointing out the moon that played peek-a-boo from behind the tall eucalyptus trees near our house and asking him umpteen number of questions. I am not able to...

Let us run the race back from the days of our childhood. Where it was never about winning or losing from the other. Only about chasing the wind as we ran free. Where eventually we would run along, laugh together. Let us learn to fall in love with the track, as we run side by side in the summer heat. In the playground of childhood, let us try to find ourselves once again in an innocent game of hide and seek.

Swimming in a sea of faces is a memory. A memory of the first day. Hesitant smiles of many. Few grins, restless to play. A celebration, a fete. The exuberance, the colours. Within the four walls many a rooms awaiting the curious shuffle of feet. Many a questions, varied answers. Awake then asleep from time to time. discovering companions on the way, yet to be called friends. A drink called life, seldom sweet with the sourness of lime. A place unpredictable, where every rule bends.  Restless come for a stroll. Bored, for a change. Dedicated play their role. Explore every new terrain.Hunger attacks in between. With a drive to kick away the sleep. Lead us all to the canteen. Scattered in groups with promises to keep. Back at class, enthusiastic hands scribble the present. Many ponder over the future. Mind boggling ideas with competetion to resent. Many a spoilsports, many brains present to tutor. Painted faces, many behind the mask. Only a few behind the stage. As we ...

The pots and planters that lined the red bricked walls. The carnations with a colourful song on the lips. The warm sunlight that crawled upon the porch steps. The terrace where we basked away the winter sun. The sparrows that danced beside us oblivious of any companion. Only promises, conditions none. Endless days of unforgettable fun. Our long gone days under the sun. The rustle of the leaves under our feet. The barren branches of autumn. The carefree race in the heat. Each early morning stroll with a new story spun. The never ending mockery of the songs we sung. Only promises, conditions none. Endless days of unforgettable fun. The lanes where we walked and walked. The setting sun that we loved to spot. The smiles that we smiled, the tears that we stopped. The evening walk in the rains with a wish for it to never stop. We were once together, we still are one. Our friendship never lost,since the day it begun. Only promises, conditi...

The cherub in the orb of agony, flutters the wings as it peeps in, through the window from behind the lemon tree. I am lifted up and away from the roots of my kin, as the wings of the cherub form a hot air baloon. The orb appears as a miniscule speck, from up ubove in the lustrous blue room. I gorge on the cotton candies chosen from the deck. I wake up with the lingering sweetness upon my tongue. The cherub, being a dream of childhood flies away. I lift up my eyelids as from the morning sky the sun is hung  I run, delirious, to my window on yet another day.

I bend down to trace their path under the bed. I decide to crawl on my knees to search for them instead. Hidden in the corner are the hideous little brats. Torn black shoes that have been there somewhere on the racks, since I was a brat too. I have grown up with time that is true. No longer I struggle to tie my shoelaces, having greater struggles in store the world of ruthless faces. While tying the laces a tune once danced on the lips of a child, in anticipation of a sunny game of football in the wild. The tune still descends down my lips to walk with me once again, when I remember those good old sunny days in the blue days of the rain. Today with tears of nostalgia I take out the shoes from their hiding place. Once again I play with the memories of the good old days. I could run many a races in the shoes of mine but I am left behind in the bigger race. A derisive laugher escapes my throat as I fiddle with the shoelace. 

The memory of the smile brought a smile to my face as I sit by the window. The sunrays poured over my face rescuing me from exile. The clocked seemed to be pacing strangely slow. I escaped from the prison of monotony as I caught hold of a day of my kin from my memory lane that led me to see that I had never lost hold of the memories within. My days of the past have been held in the fist as sand where every memory still flutters as a firefly, leaving behind a light in my hand that breathe life into me before they die to be reborn once again. Maybe not on a sunny day like today but on a green day of the rain, as the raindrops tempt me to play. I still hold the hand of every person as a memory. I never lost the smiles I never lost the pain. I dance the dance of happiness as I run free on my memory lane.