Walking through the forbidden lanes

Again.

Once again I walk through the forbidden lanes disguised as memories.
There is guilt in trespassing but greater is the joy in reliving.
There is pain in knowing but greater is the bliss of the wisdom beyond.

That last sentence!

I love reading her. Subtle and simple. So effortlessly she weaves in complex emotions into mere words we use everyday and so undoubtedly this blog by her is my favoritest!

I keep going back to this particular post and now, it has happened for substantial hundreds of time that I feel the need to borrow her brilliant words and mention them here: 

"We read sometimes with our eyes, sometimes with our imagination, we read with every fibre of our being. 

Sometimes we read as our lives get entangled in the characters. 

We don't read the same books, we don't flip the same pages, but our eyes, ears, the very fibre of our being read each other so well. 

There are many ways to read a novel but what can books do when you can't read each other."

That last sentence!  

Magic and revolutions

Everyone has words
But with it, only few can yield magic

Everyone has thoughts
But with it, only few can create revolutions

(Written for an awesomely inspiring friend!)

Someone's story

From where I am, I currently see this scene of Navy Pier in Chicago. And I am reminded of the story of the first man in Mitch Albom's 'Five People You will meet in Heaven'.
And while this reminds of someone's story, I know someone's story lies here too. 

when words become truth

At what point does numbness set in? Or even rebel?
When you do decide to let it go? Or take it in your hands?

How do you gauge enough of something? Never regretting about acting too soon. Not giving it a chance.

Why has science not progressed to give us an absolute threshold value of this? When we are just another element of this big scheme of universe, why cant we have absolute measures and characteristic like other elements?
Maybe we are not unique after all. Maybe we are exactly like each other.

Sometimes perspective is just a word. A shallow, meaningless one. For we are more alike than we'd like.  

The sand people

Always amazed at how there are these few people in life who are just there, effortlessly but willingly. With no compulsions and obligations. They are always quietly present on the whatsapp contact list, facebook feed, gtalk, a few emails in the inbox, wrapped in memories and stored in photographs, sometimes even encrypted in certain words, sometimes as rhythm of that song, sometimes as a doodle in a greeting card, sometimes as names scribbled on the last pages.

With them, it is not about the quantity of hours but quality. It is not about quantity of conversation but quality. Sometimes I find myself greedy for more of this quality time and conversation with them. It is exhilarating! Soon I wish having it always. And at times I know I try too hard. The rationale always is 'who knows. It might work' but it does not.

It is like that sand in palm story. Not everything precious needs to be protected. Sometimes its beauty lies in just letting it be. Just hearing those songs, looking at those pictures, re-reading those emails,smiling at the names :)

Two men

It is about where you stand
And what you seek
Two men standing on the bridge
One yearn for the skies and the other for the seas
Who is better
How do we tell?
Why do we tell?

Choice is all what we have

In this world or that? After all, it is always about 'making a choice', isn't it?

Like a heritage building being reinstalled

There are some lessons and some realizations you know you need in life but then you somehow always wait for it to catch you than embracing it the first time. Like how as a child we always did something repeatedly even when asked not to, and test mom's patience with it. But one day she loses it and holds your tightly by the shoulders and stares at you. It is discomforting but that is probably when you really understand something. That tight grip, that holding down, that strange sort of feeling, somewhat like passing through the furnace.

I feel that again, only this time it is life tightly gripping me, making me uncomfortable and trying to teach me a lesson that I have always refused to accept - that happiness is internal, that your best friend is you, that solitude can be beautiful, that trust is precious and should be wisely given to people, that patience is indispensable, that you can smile to yourself in the mirror, not to check how beautiful you are without but within, that not everyone deserves the best of you but there are a select few that always do, that success is not social but personal.

These are tough lessons. So many questions arise and the complicated answers to them give rise to more questions. Right now, I am caught up there. In this circle of questions and answers. I am not sure if I am to accept these lessons gracefully or critically but I realize I need to accept them anyways. 

I know one lesson that i have learnt - writing is a good way to become friends with yourself and this is the friend you will always need. 

Living in metaphors

Living in metaphors
Of life 'will be' and 'was'

Standing in the queue
For a ticket to happiness
For a journey of smiles
Coloured with love.

Re-reading an old diary
Of young dreams and virgin heart
Inked in bold words
With droll doodles in the margins

Funny how some people like to go through journeys, of train or life, alone while some just cannot and for the rest, it does not really matter.

I think latter is the best place to be. Or not?

A girl with yellow words

Have you thought of someone when you looked at yellow? The warm, nourshing, bright, happy colour reminds me of this girl in my college, who beautifully personifies yellow. Haven't ever been very close to her but not been a total stranger too. Funny how sometimes you  'know' someone so profoundly inspite of spending not longs hours in life.

For me, words by her appear in yellow too. When i read her writings, i dont see continous black texts holding an idea but i see her talk to me across the table over coffee, wearing a bright yellow kurta with an orange dupatta. She is wonderfully warm and stunningly generous.

And then there is one guy whose words always appear in gray to me, even if it was a poetry he wrote expressing his love. You might have guessed he wasn't the most  cheerful and happy someone to be with.

Explains why i always like to read the girl and i think i know her without really knowing her and could never read the guy, even if those poems were all for me.

Words. How powerful can they be!

Only if i could brighten my heart like a room with just a simple on-off switch
Only if i could lighten myself  like the skies right now through rains.
Only if i could dissolve this ache in my words.

Mocha and sitcom

My roommate has a bunny. Not the white ones like we often see in India but he is a brown fur ball, running across the rooms, often chasing nothing. His favourite spot is under the big bed or under our coffee table. He would just sit there, very still. I often think he is looking at me.

He has a big cage which houses his water, food and this small plastic tunnel sort, where he goes to sleep. The cage is big and airy and is kept near this large window, through which, every morning sunshine pours in. There is a tree right in front of our house and can be seen through this window. Since it fall here right now, the tree adorns beautiful warm colours. They often remind me of my mom's bright orange saree. She usually wore it on days when she went to the temple. Her big, red bindi, deep black kajal, hair neatly tied in a bun. She looked so pretty. My mom. Memories. What must these colours trigger in bunny? Anything at all?

The bunny's name is Mocha. We call him 'Bunny'. My roommate also calls him 'Handsome' while I like 'Baby' too. On days when we are both off to school, we let him out the cage. I let him out even on days when only I am at home. He runs around for a while and then goes off under the bed. It is right in the corner, the very corner, he sits still. He looks at peace. His cozy corner. 

Bunny has his nose continuously move in a manner that it looks like he is sniffing. I often imagine like he is saying something. How would his voice be like? I have never heard him make any sound. At times, when it is just Bunny and I in the house, while I lay lazily on the couch, he stretches himself flat on his stomach and always faces me. He just sits there and looks at me. I pet him between his eyes, he likes it, I know. 

My roommate takes good care of him. Only giving him the best food, regular vet check-ups, lots of 'carrot' love, grooming and petting. It looks like a happy place for him to be. I cannot think of anything amiss. He has the best of the world and in everyday language, 'things are perfect for him'. Except that it is not.

He is born to be free, running around in the woods, nibbling on whatever he feels like. He is meant to be running around that beautiful tree in front of our house while taking in the warm sunshine. Not watching it from the window. He is to make a burrow for himself, just big enough to accommodate him, no extra space. His cozy corner is below the earth, not above it. He is to sit and watch the beauty of nature with his other friends. Not lay still and observe the concrete walls of our house. Maybe he is saying something but we will never understand it. 

The other day, I had left the balcony open, worrying all the while that he would jump off from there but secretly hoping that he does too. He didn't. 

I feel like Bunny sometimes. 

There are moments when he lying on the carpet and I slumped in the sofa just keep looking at each other with the television sending out its funny one-liners. It is most often some sitcom.

Situation Comedy. 

mohabbat mein deewangi ke charche bahut sune hai

ab deewana banne ki baari meri...

kuch shabd bikhre hai mere aas-paas
aake inko aver do aur ek nazm bana do

Jaleel and I - A Story of stories

His eyes were happy but mysterious; welcoming and embracing; and became small when he smiled. They lit up like the brightest star in the night sky.

He was the brightest star for me that cold winter night.

Jaleel was an IT consultant and I met him at a newly opened Moroccon restaurant in Illinois. The restaurant wasn't particularly striking with pale yellow walls patched with apparently cheap, bright paintings on one side and small wrought iron mirrors on the other. It was primarily a take-away joint and probably explains the placement of only four tables with four plastic chairs each. Brightly coloured clay pots were arranged at the counter, behind which Jaleel stood working on the bills.
Placed alongside in a basket were colorful, apparently traditional shoes. I felt a story in the room within a few minutes of settling down at the table. I couldn't instantly figure out the narrative though. I grew curious but Jaleel was busy as he was the only one welcoming people, taking orders, serving food, cleaning tables, writing bills, collecting money and all the while, maintaining a warm demeanor with his steady smile and happy eyes.

I ordered a vegetarian combo. The food arrived quickly and was delicious, however, I could not savor it. I was growing restless and impatient to talk to him. I could then hold the musical chords wildly tugging at me and make a melody. Jaleel seemed welcoming, he wouldn't mind I speculated. I continued to reason and strategies my approach while I worked on my food.

In the very next moment, I found myself turning around to him and complimenting the food. He responded with the most genuine 'thank you' ever! Hereon, Jaleel only continued to fascinate me.

He always wanted to start a restaurant and so a few months back, when a Chinese restaurant was shutting down, he instantly grabbed on the opportunity. Then there was born 'Taste of Morroco'. I had read good reviews on Yelp! about it and so I informed him. He said there were others who had told him too but he was yet to read them. I could tell from his eyes and voice and smile that it meant a lot to him.

During the day, his wife along with a helper cooked all the items on the menu and Jaleel took over its serving in the evening. He said it was a passion they both shared. I could sense the excitement. The narrative was building. And while he kept describing a few more details about their operations, I grew heavy with my thoughts (about them) and floated on to another level. Second job for an IT consultant? It clearly wasn't for financial reasons.It was passion and I admired it. After all, the courage to follow one's heart is rare. For often this pursuit is sacrificed for the sake of practicality.

He went into the kitchen and asked us if we would like some mint green tea. He said it was on house. We nodded excitedly. Along with the tea, he offered us a Morrocon dessert, similar to a bread pudding, only better.

His generosity was humbling. His story too.
I have been thinking of him since that evening. There is so much more that I wanted to ask. I feel there is something for me to learn from him. I will visit him again. Hopefully, I get to meet his wife this time too. I wish I knew her name.

--
I love stories. Stories of individuals-- of their passion, love, conflicts and achievements. Of their fears, diligence, loyalty, careers and relationships.
I wanted to become a journalist since I was fourteen but I didn't really know why.
I guess I do now.

I dream Delhi ...

.. and there is a constant ache to experience it once again.
That city intoxicates me in a nice way.

Soon, I hope. 

Like coming back home

Coming back here to lighten myself after a long time, probably two months now. I guess this is how I would feel when I next come to India. I miss home!

The first three weeks here were a dream - happiness and love all day, everyday and I was in Chicago then and soon after that, I shifted to where I should belong - Bloomington, Indiana.

It isn't anything like I had imagined. It is pretty but the small town lacks the vigour and excitement of a city and I am such a city-person. Weird thing this life is, I always thought myself to be a country person, the quite hinterlands always charmed me but then looks like I am not made for that sort of life. Coming back to the first sentence, I don't remember what I had imagined after all and what expectations I had. Well, no one told it will be easy after all. So, guess I really can't complain but I do!

I can feel and sort of realize that a major shift in my priorities have happened sometime now. It messes me up to think of it sometimes but then ignoring it wouldn't be a wise thing to do too. Struggling to find that balance. It is hard.

And yes, miss home like crazy. I dreamt of Delhi last night! How I love that city!

I've made a very good friend here from the Netherlands. Always with a patient ear and a warm heart. Thank God for her and then I of course, have good "Indian friends" too and Oh! yes they are so important to keep sane.

But there is something amiss. I guess there always is and especially with me, I don't really understand why this feeling is so frequent. Happiness looks tough sometimes.

I am learning so much about myself and about others in my life at this point. It is a crazy realization of a million important things all at once! I fear it will kill me someday soon though!

I know I am being discreet about many things here and I wish I could just write down every single word that comes to my mind the first time but then not being instinctive is a part of my learning here.

Introspection happening BIG TIME. Crying happening BIG TIME. Realization (of a million things all together!) happening BIG TIME. Nostalgia happening BIG TIME. Hope happening BIG TIME.

Life is....
(I don't know anything anymore about it. Trying to figure out.)

A new blog

Its been three days since I landed here in Chicago and yes, America is overwhelming, especially with respect to food and shopping! 

I thought it would be interesting to start a new blog to record 'all things American'. Here is this link: http://postcardfromamerica.wordpress.com

:) 

*I dunno*

It is almost 1am and I cant sleep. Sitting in my living room, on the extremely comfortable black sofa I love with the tv playing some music. I have kept it on just for company. As a distraction, in case my crying becomes too loud to wake up my parents.

Why am I crying? Just a day more and almost two years without having my parents and my brother (half my life dwells in him) in vicinity is at the moment, unbearable. I have stayed away from home before at Australia, Delhi and Pune but Australia trip was short enough, just 6 weeks, and Delhi and Pune are within comfortable travel distance from Mumbai.

But this time, it is for a longer time and farther than any of these three places. A progression of sorts. I hope.
It will be tough, I know but I also know I will be fine and settle down fine and make peace with the arrangement. But right now, just a glance around the house makes me cry. It could never be easy. Going away.

I love my mom, dad and brother. They know it, I know and I will know just how much soon enough.

Just 'something'

I am pretty blank these days. Often find myself just sitting and staring at a particular, mostly insignificant, thing  acting like a point of convergence of all my energies and thoughts. Mind is buzzing with 'something'.

There are no questions really. Just a sense of 'something'. I don't know.

I guess it is the travel anxiety. Must be. What other convincing justification than the worries and fears of travelling to a foreign land? But I think there is something more too. I don't know. Maybe not.

One thing I've definitely realized -- I get angry looking at those large, black bags lying in my room with a million things around to be packed in it. Most of it I have but somehow and from somewhere, they just keep adding on! I am so irritated with it and the mess it creates! Either I go soon or not at all -- either of the two needs to happen and soon.

Another thing I find myself doing while just sitting is making a list of things I will miss. Morning coffee with mom. Evening news with dad. Sunday breakfasts with family. Lying on 'my bed' and reading a book. Sitting at the window and talking on the phone. Looking outside to a familiar scenery. Football with brother... And I must stop now! This so much of time on hand is making me miserable. I know I will miss all this and so much more but this constant feeling of I-am-going-to-miss makes me angry. I cannot even not do it because it is almost involuntary.

Baah..and I have started ranting again! I guess I am just preparing myself to be homesick! O homesick!

So then coming back to the point, I don't think I am blank. In fact I resemble a canvas of unharmonious colours running a riot. That didn't make sense, did it? I should probably just stop. 

Its here!

Excited. Restless. Homesick (already!). Tensed. Anxious. Happy.

It is the final countdown to the 'new beginning' now. Have been waiting for it since long and it feels good to be walking the path I have dreamt about for the past 1.5 years. Feels good to have achieved but then it is only the beginning. Gotta keep walking!

Cheers to all the new in store! 

*butterflies in the stomach*

Friend list, old style and new

I keep my old notebooks. At least the interesting ones with doodles almost on every page and scribbled thoughts on the last pages.

Going through some of them, I was reminded of this one habit I had as a child - of listing down the names of my closest friends. I remember it doing every year, sometimes sitting in the classroom, sometimes at home late at night. Sometimes even more than once a year. Helped me stay clear with who means what and why (although the why was usually unwritten). 

It was funny going through it. Refreshed so many names, ignited so many memories. Still in touch with most of them but a few important ones (at least then) lost somewhere. Strangely, given the me that I am, I feel no regrets. Eerily comforting. 

Tempted to try this listing exercise tonight too. However, might do it on the notepad on my phone. Friend list, new style!

Character of Power

Power resides where men believe it resides. It is a trick - a shadow on the wall. A very small man can cast a very large shadow.

                                           ~ Varys to Tyrion Lannister
                                              Game of Thrones (Season 2)


One thing I understand from this and the real life almost always confirms it is:


              Power knows no honour but it always made to deserve one.  

I received a Postcard!

I have always wanted to receive a postcard and my first one came today. And from a darling friend. :)

I am overwhelmed! 

          It feels beautiful (clicked by him at Australia) ...     

                                                 ... and it reads beautiful too! (Written by him) 

   PURE BLISS! 

Making of an artist

An empty stomach is better than a full one, Van Gogh and a broken heart is better than happiness, never forget that.

                   - Weissenbruch to Van Gogh (as quoted in The Lust for Life)
                         
'The Lust for Life' is among the few books which contains words so powerful and descriptions so moving that I desperately wished to go back to the Van Gogh era only to have witnessed the life of a man so inspirational. To see him in the physical form, only to note what in his appearance bore the hint of his genius - his eyes? his gait? his talks?

While reading the book, and specifically when I came across the above mentioned Weissenbruch's advice, I was instantly reminded of Beethoven and Mozart and their phenomenal passion to create music, fighting all odds.

Then-
Is pain and suffering a necessary ingredient in the making of a great artist?

While I was still figuring out the answer, I came across this today-

Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to hurt like hell before you can write seriously. 

                 -Hemingway to Fitzgerald in this letter 

There is a pattern here. Similar message from the greatest we have known in their respective fields.

At this point, I am reminded of Anurag Kashyap's life ( I am a big fan of his movies) too. Pain, suffering, heart break eventually led him to create such beautiful movies. I realize Kashyap is a rather strange mention amid Van Gogh, Beethoven & Hemingway but there is a common element between all.

While there are great lives seemingly giving us the message 'pain realizes the genius', there have been geniuses nurtured by happiness and recognition too.

I am still unsure of how I want to and should conclude this post but I have a strong urge to believe in and agree with Weissenbruch and Hemingway.

They make for a mighty source of inspiration in difficult times. And who does not have them?

In fate or in chaos?

Unless of course there is no such thing as chance;...in which case, we should either - optimistically- get up and cheer, because if everything is planned in advance, then we all have a meaning, and are spared the terror of knowing oursleves to be random, without a why; or else, of course, we might - as pessimists - give up right here and now, understanding the futility of thought decision action , since nothing we think makes any difference anyway; things will be as they will. Where, then, is optimism? In fate or in chaos?

- Saleem Sinai

(Midnight's Children)

Our little secret

Just like that one day we will become a story too.
Only untold by anyone.
Unwritten in any book.
Unplayed in any music.
Uncaptured in any image.
Undiscovered in time. 

Moments and wishes

There are moments I wish to pause and linger on a bit.

And then there are those, seemingly from an alternate universe, I wish to empower to redefine my life for good.

Guess this wish has been made by this stealthy fellow Regret, lurking in the labyrinths of, I think my subconscious.

That precious something

I believe that everyone has their Kohinoor. That precious something whose elusiveness and absence churns impatience and cultivates desperation. The thought of which illuminates the soul and contents the mind. Burns the imagination with passion and colours existence with a fury of lust and labour.

Ironically, it is easy and yet so difficult to recognize this Kohinoor in our story.

Happiness

Not always do we get to write the end of a story we are part of.

Maybe that is why, sometimes, happiness lies not in achieving but being discovered.

You Learn

After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning
And company doesn't mean security.


And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts
And presents aren't promises,


And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,


And you learn to build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.


After a while you learn...
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.


So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.


And you learn that you really can endure...

That you really are strong

And you really do have worth...

And you learn and learn...

With every good-bye you learn.

--- Jorge Luis Borges

Borrowed hopes

 

Growing up

I dont think growing up is about choosing or letting go. Or about mediocrity and excellence or even failures. Dont think it is about career and money or achievements. Or about marriage and families and children but about understanding the subtleties of life and being inspired, not dejected, by it. 

Sweet nothings

Someday I would:

- go to a small bar, the one with wooden interiors, cozy yellow lights and country music

- paint by the waterfall 

- explore a new city on my own 

- see the milky way in the night sky 

- bake a perfect cake

- drive on a rainy day
- watch an opera
- save more than spend
- watch a movie at a drive in theatre

My Visual Blog

Recently I have been hooked on to visual blogging at Pinterest. It is a beautiful world of images, colours and emotions. Perhaps the best part about this website is that it enables you to 'pin' (or save) any image you like on any website. You just need to have its tool in your browser's toolbar.

Anyways, I guess you will figure it out once you lurk on the site. It is fun!

You can view some pics (there arent many yet) on my page at http://pinterest.com/nams12/

Perfect memories

The gravity of some memories surprise me. In spite of firm resolve and promises, the heart still cheats and wanders towards the forbidden, forgotten. More than the evocation I am amused by the vividness of these memories. Precision of the smile lines. Clarity of the words. Tone of the message. Intensity of the moment. Often it defeats the desire to actualize them. After all, it wouldn't be fair to tamper with such perfection.

True that many worlds reside without us but many more within. 

Har raat teri tasveer dekh
Tujko yaad karte hai
Har raat aankhe bandh kar
Wohi shaam dhoondte hai

Tera ehsaas jab sapno mein yu kaid na tha
Chhu kar jab tuje mehsus karte the

Teri tasveer bana li hai
Aankho ke pardo par
Phir ek baar

Uske mittne se pehle
Rubaroo ho jaana

Pause, should I?

There is much to write. A need to express. A desire to discuss. To ask aloud the questions. To share my words. But the solitude of my thoughts right now is strangely comforting. Will halt awhile here.